by Nancy Carson
‘I’m not sure whether I should set much store by such gossip. That’s all it is, surely. Besides, it doesn’t put my own father in a very good light. Nor your mother, Lizzie.’
‘Even so, I think you’ll find there’s no doubt about it,’ Lizzie said.
‘The two best kept secrets on Kates Hill, Sylvia,’ Jesse remarked. ‘My father, and your father.’
‘But I’m flabbergasted. If it’s true, it means you and I are sisters, Lizzie.’
‘I had worked that out, Sylvia. And that Stanley’s my brother.’ She glanced at Jesse.
‘The point is, Sylvia,’ Jesse said, ‘I’d be surprised if you wanted every Tom, Dick and Harry to know, eh? The scandal, I mean. I respect that you might not want such a scandal about your father to be common knowledge. So as far as we’re concerned there’s nobody else need know. I’m thinking particularly about your poor old mother, and Kenneth … And Edgar, for that matter.’
‘Yes,’ Sylvia replied thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t want them to know any such thing. Edgar would have to know, of course, but I’d appreciate it if you could make sure that as few people as possible know – that I could count on your discretion, Jesse. I’d be very grateful.’
‘I take it you’ve said nothing about last Sunday night to anybody else?’
‘Well of course not,’ Sylvia was very eager to confirm. ‘Edgar and I would never breathe a word. We gave you that assurance.’
Jesse smiled. ‘Good. The wedding’s on the twenty-eighth. You and Edgar are welcome to come. Bring Kenneth as well. You needn’t let us know for sure as you’re coming till the week before.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Jesse – Lizzie. I’m sure that … yes. Thank you. I accept.’
Jesse stood up. ‘Right. Well we’d better be off. There’s a lot to do, Sylvia.’
So they left, and laughed together at Sylvia’s stunned reaction.
‘Why did you invite her to the wedding?’ Lizzie asked when they were out in the privacy of the street again.
‘Because it’ll be nice to see her looking bloody humble for a change. And she will, after all that’s transpired.’
*
The following Friday Jesse Clancey finished his milk round early. He called at the Kites’ house to see Lizzie, who had come home during her dinner break to put a stew in the oven so it would be ready for their tea when they all returned home.
‘Why are you back so early?’ she said when she saw him.
‘I fancy a pint at The Shoulder. I want to try and catch Donald Clark. I thought you might like to come with me.’
‘But you know I’ve got to go back to work.’
‘No, you haven’t. I want you to pack it in as soon as we’re wed. You’d have to pack it in anyway afore long.’
‘But I get my wages this afternoon.’
‘Get ’em Monday. Come on.’
Lizzie didn’t need much persuading. She closed the oven door in the grate, and donned her hat and coat.
The Shoulder of Mutton was their favourite public house these days. The beer was home brewed, noted for its flavour, the company was good, and it was always immaculately clean. One of the things Jesse liked about it was the Tap Room. There was no bar counter; beer was served from pumps on one side of the room and Patty, the resident barmaid, served it directly to the table without the patrons having to stand and wait. All you had to do was call her and she would attend to you as soon as she could. Beyond the arrangement which housed the beer pumps there was a hatch for service to a tiny snug, and a smoke room, both of which looked out onto Dixons Green, and there was always a welcoming fire in each room.
‘A pint of bitter, Jesse?’ Patty asked politely as he entered. She was a pretty girl, about twenty, with auburn hair. Personable and always smartly dressed, she was one of the reasons why many hopeful young men frequented the place.
‘If you don’t mind, Patty, and a half for Lizzie.’ He saw that Donald Clark was in residence, as expected. ‘Put a double in for the doctor as well, and have one yourself.’
Donald duly raised his glass.
‘Come and join us, Donald. We’ve come here specially to see you.’
The doctor pulled a stool from an adjoining table and sat with them.
Talk at first was about Emmie’s funeral, then Donald asked how Ezme had been this week. Jesse replied that she seemed much better.
‘Yes, I thought she was better when I called in this morning. All that worry from last week is behind her, that’s why.’
Before long the conversation centred on the wedding and inevitably, Lizzie’s condition.
‘We’ll have to keep an eye on you, you know, Lizzie,’ Donald said in a low voice. ‘Having a child at your age can present problems you don’t get at twenty-two. We’ll have to make sure you’re well all through.’ Lizzie looked a little concerned, and he at once realised he’d alarmed her. ‘Just a precaution, Lizzie. I doubt if there’ll be anything to worry about, but it pays to err on the side of caution.’
‘It’d have paid Jesse to err on the side of caution last Christmas,’ she said sardonically, though Jesse saw the humour in her eyes. ‘It’ll cost a mint of money to have the house knocked about to make it comfortable.’
Donald Clark smiled. ‘You’re having the house altered?’
‘Oh, yes. A bathroom with a proper water closet upstairs, and a proper kitchen where the scullery is at present. It’ll be like a palace once it’s done.’
‘That’s going to cost you a bob or two, Jesse.’
‘What else have I got to spend my money on, Donald, apart from Lizzie here? She’s worth it. She’s worth every penny.’ He smiled at her.
‘So what date’s the wedding?’
‘Twenty-eighth of April. A Sunday. I’ve come here today specially to ask you, Donald. Since I’ve known you all me life, would you be me best man?’
Donald laughed. ‘Delighted, Jesse. Cor, what a privilege, eh? Here, Patty, can we have another round of drinks, please?’
Chapter 29
Right up till the day before the wedding the dairy house was alive with the hustle and bustle of tradesmen. Bert Foxall, the local plumber, worked furiously with his mate to have the new bathroom and kitchen sink ready. He employed a navvy to dig a trench to accommodate the new waste pipe that had to run through the yard from the old scullery to the field behind. Ivor Whistle, so called because he was a football referee in his spare time, was the local dab-hand at paper-hanging and he, together with a gas fitter from the gas company, darted about like swifts building a nest, sometimes climbing over each other to get their work finished. But just in time everything was ready, and Lizzie was delighted.
It had taken her a while to come to terms with the information about her parentage. She spent a long time recalling the past, her relationships with her mother and with Tom Dando; and with Isaac, the man she’d always assumed was her father. She and Jesse discussed it at some length, and at first were in two minds whether to inform her brothers and sister. But as Jesse suggested, such a revelation might cause them to doubt their own pedigree.
Beccy had been the soul of discretion, keeping all this to herself for forty years, and only then revealing the truth for the sake of Lizzie’s happiness. Even when Lizzie told her she was planning to join Stanley in Southern Rhodesia she hadn’t let on. There was no reason to suppose she would divulge anything to anyone else. And Sylvia was unlikely to tell anyone and risk upsetting her mother. It also ensured that she would regard Lizzie with some respect now, not just because she was her sister, but because she didn’t want Lizzie to broadcast the truth.
So their secret was safe. The only professional man to know was Donald Clark, and he was ethically bound to say nothing. The Reverend Mr John Mainwaring was none the wiser. He knew nothing of the crisis that had plagued them. Their birth certificates gave nothing away; in the furore the banns of marriage were never withdrawn; the original wedding date was never cancelled. As far as the vicar was concerned it was a pe
rfectly normal, happy event. They would have to see whether he raised his eyebrows when Lizzie went to be churched only six months or so after her wedding.
But more than once Lizzie contemplated her escape from Stanley Dando. They’d been ardent lovers, yet he was her brother. She’d even had his child. Often she’d wondered who the child would have been like. Now she wondered more than ever. And the irony of her carrying another child now, which, for a few days she’d believed to be incestuous, was not lost on her. Thank God for Beccy.
Ezme, too, was by this time acclimatised to the facts. She even apologised to Lizzie for being so outrageously unkind and unfeeling, especially on the night she had revealed who Jesse’s father was in front of Sylvia and Edgar. Lizzie, of course, forgave her. She also knew what it was like to have a child out of wedlock, and the anguish it wrought. Lizzie and Ezme tolerated each other equably now.
Lizzie gave the landlord plenty of notice that they wanted to vacate their house by the 4th of May, thus giving them time to shift everything over to their new home. Henzey was also quick to point out to her brother and sisters that for the first few days after the wedding, they, the children, should continue to sleep in the old house for a day or two, giving their mother and Jesse a brief honeymoon alone; except for Ezme, of course, who was hardly likely to intrude. They were all happy to comply, even though they were keen to move.
Just a few close friends and relatives were invited to the wedding. It was never intended to be a lavish affair, but they wanted to make certain that they provided a good spread after the ceremony.
Getting their mother ready was by far the most important event of the day for Henzey and Alice. They fussed her, and took great pains to see that her make-up was perfect, that not a hair on her head was out of place. When they struggled to fasten Lizzie’s wedding dress Henzey couldn’t help noticing that her mother was definitely gaining weight.
‘It looks like you’ll be slimming after the wedding, Mom,’ she advised. ‘You’re starting to get podgy. You’ll regret it.’
‘I know,’ Lizzie answered evasively. She would not be able to disguise it for long, but this was not the time to confess her condition.
And so the wedding took place at St. John’s at twelve noon, after matins. Lizzie wore a short cream satin dress with a fashionable, uneven hem line. She looked significantly younger than her years, and quite radiant. Maxine was the only bridesmaid. Henzey wore a short, straight dress in cinnabar red with a row of pearls, and Alice, a beige, flouncey dress and a borrowed fox fur. They all looked exquisite, enhancing their reputation as the best-looking girls in the parish, though that elite group also included Lizzie in the eyes of a great many. Jesse and Herbert each wore a new three piece suit, new shoes and new shirts. Donald Clark, having treated himself to a haircut especially for the occasion, looked resplendent, as did his nose.
For May and Joe Bishop the day brought some welcome laughter into their lives, seeing again the relatives they seldom saw. Lucy and her husband Jim travelled from Manchester, and Lucy was puzzled when they all, in their turn, asked if she was better. They were due to return by train that night so that Jim could go to work next day. He was at pains to remind Herbert that he built locomotives at Peacock’s works. Brother Ted, his wife and family, and brother Grenville, with his incumbents, were all made welcome. Dear old Beccy Crump was guest of honour. Many well-wishers, friends, acquaintances and customers of Jesse also turned up at the church to witness the event and offer their congratulations afterwards, while the photographer set up his camera and tripod, and organised his plates.
It was commonly accepted that John Mainwaring did not approve of the throwing of confetti outside in the church grounds, since it had to be swept up. Rice, however, was perfectly in order, since it softened in the rain, and the birds would eat it.
While guests and well-wishers flung grains of rice over the newly weds, Beccy Crump turned to Joe Bishop and said, ‘This throwin’ good rice is criminal, Joe. It’d make a grand puddin’.’
‘Maybe we should’ve waited till it was a pudding, Beccy, and then throwed it,’ he replied dryly.
Back at the dairy house, everybody, especially Sylvia, was amazed at the transformation that had taken place, and she actually complimented Lizzie on a magnificent achievement in getting Jesse to part with some of his money. Lizzie smiled generously and thanked her. ‘If I’d known he’d got any money, Sylvia, I wouldn’t have offered to pay towards it myself,’ she said.
During the morning Herbert had transferred all the available chairs from their own house and Joe’s. With the new furniture Jesse and Lizzie had bought there were just enough seats. They borrowed sufficient crockery, glassware and cutlery to make up the numbers, and asked Iky Bottlebrush’s wife, Hilda, to organise the catering. She did so with enthusiasm and expertise.
John Mainwaring was invited to the party after the ceremony and he graciously accepted. At two o’ clock the informal feast began and everyone set to eating and drinking. They sat in groups, eating from their laps in the big front room, and at the table in the refurbished sitting room that was now a dining room. Donald Clark had kindly delivered, in his black Morris, a firkin of best home-brewed bitter that Jesse had ordered from The Shoulder of Mutton. With it were two bottles of gin, three bottles of whisky, one of which Donald guarded possessively, and two bottles of sherry. The vicar himself polished off nearly a whole bottle of sherry. Henzey and Alice took it in turns to tend to the needs of Ezme Clancey upstairs, though there was a steady procession of people taking food up to her, along with their good wishes, including Donald Clark, who took her a glass of stout. Sylvia Atkinson and Edgar made themselves comfortable, but kept a low profile, and Sylvia watched with unease as her son befriended Lizzie’s daughters. Kenneth seemed quite taken with them, especially with Maxine. None of them knew Sylvia, apart from Herbert, but Henzey recognised her, not realising who she was, because she often called into George Mason’s for groceries.
When everybody had finished eating, Donald Clark got to his feet and asked for their attention. His whisky glass was in his hand, his ample nose was shining like a hurricane lamp and his greying ginger hair was still typically tousled, despite the recent attention to it.
‘It has been my privilege,’ he began, with no evidence in his speech of how much whisky he’d drunk, ‘to know Jesse and Lizzie Clancey for a good many years …’ There was a cheer as they all acknowledged Lizzie’s new surname. ‘Both families, the Bishops and the Clanceys, have been good to me in the past, and I shall always be grateful for it. I hold them all dear to my heart. Yet there’s been a sort of reciprocal arrangement too, for while Jesse’s been delivering milk to me over the years, I’ve delivered of Lizzie a family. A family for him, as it now turns out, ready made, in the form of three beautiful daughters and a handsome son.’ Another cheer went up, and the Kite girls and Herbert looked at each other and giggled. ‘And who’s to say that I shan’t deliver Lizzie of more children now that she’s tied the knot with this handsome fellow, who was always Kates Hill’s most eligible bachelor?’
A roar of approval and laughter went up at the suggestion, and Lizzie blushed – the first time for a long time.
‘And here I should add, that Jesse must be complimented on his choice of bride, for Lizzie always used to be the prettiest girl on the Hill, with absolutely hordes of admirers.’
Lizzie glanced at Sylvia. This was not the most tactful thing Donald could have said, but Sylvia caught Lizzie’s apprehensive glance, and smiled forgivingly, raising an amused eyebrow.
Donald continued, oblivious to his gaffe. ‘I recall how I used to visit the Bishops’ home with Ted, my old pal there, before he married Ada from Gornal. Lizzie, in her Sunday best, was always a sight to behold. So it’s not surprising that when her first husband, Ben, whom we all respected and admired, sadly passed away, she should become a very alluring young widow.’
There were murmurs of approval that Ben had not been forgotten, and Lizzie cast her eyes
down so as not to meet anyone’s glance. She was not certain it was the appropriate moment for Donald to mention her late husband either, but Jesse took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘And I’m sure you’ll all agree that Jesse’s just the man to make Lizzie a deservedly very happy woman. Jesse and I have been friends for years, and I know of no one more down to earth and more honest. Moreover, I know of nobody else who’s totally unflappable. Never have I known him get flustered. But I do know that his steadying influence, his considered advice, his always having time for people, has helped many a poor soul over difficult times. I believe that these two fine people deserve each other.
‘So I propose a toast … I give you the health, future happiness and prosperity of Lizzie and Jesse.’
‘Lizzie and Jesse,’ came the reply, and everybody drank.
Jesse replied, thanking Donald for his kind words, and the rest of them for attending and witnessing the happiest occasion of his life. He said how much he was looking forward to married life, and settling down with his ready made family. ‘I love ’em all as if they were my own.’
Everybody cheered and, after another toast, they all fell into general conversation. One or two guests drifted back to the sitting room and Joe started playing the pianola. Some began singing, feeling sentimental after the speeches, full of beer or gin. A few ditties that were none too savoury could be heard coming from Lizzie’s brothers, before they started on the more serious stuff.
Lizzie was happy, but the mention of Ben earlier was a poignant moment for her. However, she smiled and looked at Jesse adoringly as their guests came up in their turn to speak with them while the singing continued.
By five o’ clock the vicar had departed to sober up for evensong and, by six, Hilda Bottlebrush had cleared away and washed up all the crockery and cutlery from the dinnertime feast, and had brought out tea and cakes. Many ceased their drinking, by virtue of sleep imposing itself upon them. But those whom sleep side-stepped continued raucously, sometimes hushed by the more abstemious wives who were afeared of them upsetting others with doubtful language. Come eight o’ clock, the relatives who lived furthest away had also left, as had Sylvia, Edgar and Kenneth, together with Donald Clark. Donald had some serious solo drinking to do at home, where every glass was not being counted by fearful patients. Beccy Crump said goodnight shortly after nine, since she had to rise early in the morning to light the boiler in the brewhouse, now that she was going to do her bit of washing on a Monday instead of a Tuesday.