He had sat that first evening of meeting her, his own deep brown eyes gleaming softly, his tone quiet almost reverential as he described the place he had come from, a place so different from Wednesbury. And now he had said he would be proud to take her there, except for its causing her the pain of parting from her home, of leaving the town she had grown up in. But what was there to grieve over by leaving Wednesbury? Glancing again over the assortment of market stalls huddled beneath smoke palled skies, skies made darker by threat of leaden snow, Becky knew her question needed no answer; leaving this town for Miami, exchanging her home for that which Earl would give would cause her no pain at all.
She would take such delight in telling him so tonight. He would ask her tonight, he would say, those few precious words which he would have said last week had Alice not called her to leave.
‘Be you a’ listenin’!’
Laced with aggravation, her mother’s irate question snatched at the dream, scattering it like snowflakes on the wind.
‘. . . Twice I spoke to you, twice, an’ no answer neither time, where be that head o’ your’n I’d like to know!’
Taking the extra shopping bag thrust at her, Becky followed the figure darting with the certainty of an arrow toward O’Connel’s greengrocer stall. Should she tell her mother where her head had been? Tell her where the rest of her daughter would be in a few weeks’ time? Tell her of the man who tonight would ask her to be his wife?
The past few weeks had been fortunate in her and Alice being able to swap late evening shift on Saturday for double shift on Sunday. But she would not be doing that much longer, she would be spending all of her Saturdays and Sundays, every single weekend of the year, lying with Earl on the sun drenched beaches of Miami.
‘That were a stroke o’ luck, another couple o’ minutes an’ there would ’ave been none left.’ Stuffing several onions and a swede into the bag Becky held, her mother gloated triumph. ‘Go nice wi’ that bit o’ liver I got from the butcher, that be supposin’ I can find it, be that little; but I wouldn’t have got even that hadn’t I seen him slip a packet across the counter to that fancy piece along o’ Russell Street. He thinks folk don’t know what be goin’ on ’tween ’im an’ that one, but we ain’t everyone o’ we blind and we ain’t dumb neither.’
Thoughts warm and golden as the imagined sun, Becky’s glance fell on the window of Boot’s Chemist shop. Maybe, just maybe, she would be lucky enough to find a lipstick or even a bottle of Amami Wave setting lotion.
Daydreaming had caught her off guard. Her mother wanted to know why Becky hoped to buy cosmetics. ‘I . . .’ she faltered under the questioning stare, ‘I . . . told Kate I would try to get some for her, and take them with me when I went to her house tonight.’
‘Won’t be no goin’ along of the Hawleys’ tonight, I needs you to sit along o’ the little ’uns!’
18
‘I needs you to sit along o’ the little ’uns.’
The bell of doom rang in Becky’s’ head, sounding the end of everything, of hopes and dreams.
Tears of disappointment gathered thick in her throat. Earl would think her not turning up at the dance was because she didn’t want to see him. But she did! She wanted to be with him more than she had ever wanted anything in her whole life! The cry loud in her heart, Becky bit it back from her tongue. Her mother would not understand, she would not believe a couple could fall in love so quickly; but Becky knew it was the real thing and Earl’s eyes, whenever he looked at her, showed he knew it too. They loved each other, it wasn’t fair they be kept apart, that the few precious hours they could be together was taken from them so she could child-mind. She had waited all week! She thought of it the whole time at the factory, talked of it with Alice as they ate their sandwiches in the canteen, and again while they made their way home together. That was nearly as much a delight as actually being there in the dance hall, both of them giggling at the charade played out before ever arriving. They had to make it look as though there was no more to the evening than passing it with Kate Hawley, which meant leaving Cross Street with faces scrubbed clean, best dress hidden beneath an everyday one, almost irreplaceable rouge, face powder, lipstick and eyebrow pencil and her cherished nylons secreted in a brown paper shopping bag and dropped into the yard from a rear bedroom window to be collected as they left the house, then dart quick as their legs would carry them away along the Holyhead Road. But the transformation had to wait until the safety of the Ladies room allowed for everyday dresses to be removed, make-up applied and finally hair (which had spent the day tightly bound in steel curling pins beneath turbans) to be combed and coaxed into a preferred style. Becky brushed hers to fall long and loose to her shoulder with one deep wave sweeping down over the brow, seductively half covering one eye exactly as worn by the American film star Veronica Lake. But it was the dresses they dreamed of most, dresses they imagined themselves wearing, gowns beautiful as any those screen stars wore but which she and Alice could only dream of. Becky sniffed back tears. That was all it could ever be so long as she remained here in Wednesbury, imagination and broken dreams.
She could refuse to babysit! She could follow Alice’s example and flatly refuse, give her own mother the same ultimatum that had been given Mrs Butler.
But Alice had not been subjected to the restrictions of church.
Becky felt the surge of resolve melt away.
It would have been much easier for Alice to deny her mother, to tell her ‘no’ for Mrs Butler did not have the reinforcement enjoyed by Mary Turner, that of a priest backing her every word.
‘It is the duty of the child to obey the parent.’
She had heard those same words from earliest childhood, heard them with each weekly visit the Father made to the house, listened to them every Sunday in Saint Mary’s Church, it had even been given as a reminder upon completion of her Confession though all she had felt the need of owning to had been the fact she had nothing at all to confess.
But what of now!
Guilt poured fresh waves of colour on Becky’s cheeks. What of the deceit she was practising? The pretence of spending Saturday evenings at the Hawley house when in truth she was visiting a dance hall, and more than that – she shivered against the cold touch of sinfulness suddenly fingering her spine – she spent those hours with a man, a man who kissed her, a man whose emotions, whose affection for her spoke in his every smile, the tenderness of his feelings glowed soft in his eyes, and the love, the love she felt throb strong and hard when he drew her close in the privacy of those dark obscured corners.
Was this what she should ask forgiveness for?
Was this what life demanded . . . forgiveness for being in love?
‘Hello luv, ’ow you keepin’? Eh I was so sorry to hear of your mother, bad do were that, it be sad enough when folk goes natural but a bomb . . . an’ on a church! Lord, what do the world be a’ comin’ to!’
It had taken a moment for her mother’s voice to penetrate the cloak of thought Becky had drawn about herself. As she looked to the person addressed, alarm flashed like electricity sparking from every nerve ending; Kate Hawley! She caught her breath. Oh Lord! Don’t let her mention those Saturday evenings.
‘It be ’ard for you, wench, I knows ’cos I’ve bin through it, seems your ’eart won’t never know the mendin’ . . . but God’s good, though we might not always think it . . .’
Let Him be good to me, please let Him be good to me. Becky’s soundless prayer added fervour to the statement.
‘. . . He sends His comfort one road or another. But what o’ your father? Eh ’ow he must miss ’er . . .’
A shake of the head emphasising her feelings for the loss father and daughter had suffered, the older woman continued.
‘. . . he ’as my sympathy, tell ’im that, wench, tell your father he ’as the sympathy o’ the Turners.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Turner,’ Katrin replied politely. ‘That is most kind, I know my father would wish me to thank you on his be
half also.’
‘Ar well,’ Mary Turner’s head swung again, ‘ain’t much a body can do ’cept sympathise but you tell that father o’ your’n, you tell Jacob ’Awley be there aught the Turners can ’elp with then it need only be asked.’
They could move on now. Her mother had given her condolence now she would say goodbye.
Becky met Katrin’s glance in mute appeal.
She was afraid! Deep inside, Katrin Hawley laughed. Becky Turner was afraid her secret would be revealed for her mother to see. Should she do that? Should she take her revenge now, see the girl shamed before her mother? It would be entertaining to see her squirm. But it would be a pity to bring the curtain down before the play ended, and going by the accounts both girls shared with her after each Saturday night entertainment, the confidences concerning those covert moments they whispered in the factory canteen, then it was certain this particular production had not run its length; there would be several Acts yet to come. Katrin basked in the sense of power coursing like flame. Several Acts! She would watch them all.
‘What be all the to-do over your way? I ’ear the police moved everybody outta their ’ouses.’ As she sat with several women enjoying the ten-minute teabreak, Miriam Carson’s nerves jumped at the query. So it had happened!
‘You ’eard right,’ a second woman replied. ‘Wouldn’t tek no for an answer; bloody thoughtless I calls it turfin’ folk out, not givin’ ’em a minute to collect so much as a pair ’o bloomers.’
Easing her bottom on a hard wooden crate that served as a seat, one more woman joined the conversation, asking loudly, ‘An’ why would you be wantin’ of a clean pair o’ bloomers, Elsie Partridge, be it a fella you was meetin’?’
‘Ask him!’ Elsie laughed, ‘Ask Simeon Cartwright about my bloomers, he’s had the seein’ of ’em near as often as my old man.’
‘Be that right, Simeon?’
‘Be what right?’ Simeon Cartwright’s lined face lifted over the rim of the large container half filled with cartridge cases.
‘What Elsie ’ere just said.’
‘An’ what be that?’ Obviously knowing he was to be the subject of some good natured tease, Simeon played along.
Coyly lowering her gaze to the tin mug in her hands the woman continued the pretence. ‘Elsie says as how you gets to see her bloomers near as often as her old man.’
‘Eh Elsie!’ The lined face frowned mock distress though rheumy eyes twinkled. ‘You said as nobody’d ever know, you said as ’ow it were our secret, what’ll I do should my Sarah find out?’
‘You can come stay wi’ me.’ It was the woman who had first questioned Elsie. ‘I could do wi’ a few nights of ’ows ya father, tek me mind off this bloody war.’
‘Careful, Maude,’ Elsie’s turbaned head shook warningly, ‘there be a lot more to Simeon Cartwright than you be seein’ at this moment.’
‘That’s what I be countin’ on.’ Maude’s laugh rang out. ‘Seein’ a lot more. You be ready forra night o’ passion, does you, Simeon?’
Pushing flat cap back from his brow Simeon scratched thoughtfully at his head. ‘Passion?’ He pulled a wry grin.
‘Yeah passion, I wouldn’t ’ave thought a fella like y’self to go a’ forgettin’ o’ what passion be.’
‘Forget! I’ve not only forgot what it be, I forgets ’ow I comes to get it.’
‘Well, I can put that right quick as I can mek one o’ them bullet cases, you just come outside wi’ me along o’ finishing time.’
‘I’ll do that Maude,’ Simeon’s wicked smile spread wide, ‘but only if I gets to bring Elsie’s bloomers.’
Glancing conspiratorially about the workshop Simeon leaned closer, whispering, ‘Passes ’em to me every time her comes into work, they be vital to defence. Old Hitler knows about our guns, our ships an’ about our aeroplanes but he don’t know about Elsie Partridge’s bloomers; they be our secret weapon; should them Germans invade then we waves Elsie’s bloomers an’ they’ll run like buggery all the way back to Berlin.’
The old man’s chuckle echoed behind him as he shuffled further along the line of machinery. The conversation returned to its starting point.
Pouring more tea into the cap of her large vacuum flask Elsie sipped several times before speaking. ‘I was wonderin’ the same meself, I means it be expected you come out when them bombers calls a payin’ o’ their respects, but when they ain’t . . . well it ’ad me fair flummoxed I don’t mind tellin’ you.’
‘But they must ’ave said a reason,’ Maude chipped in.
‘Oh they said all right. They said as ’ow it were a fractured gas main, that they couldn’t be tekin’ a chance on its explodin’, though I never smelled no gas and neither did anybody else shoved along to wait in the church hall or in them school rooms; you ask me I says it be a load o’ codswallop, there ain’t no broken gas pipe.’
‘Well they must ’ave believed summat!’
‘Ar they believed!’ Elsie answered disparagingly. ‘They believed as we all ’ave brains like coddled eggs, soft enough to swallow what they tells wi’out the thinkin’, but Elsie Partridge be no noggy’ead, her be sharp enough to know that lot all be bigger liars than old leatherin’ arse an’ he got kicked out o’ hell for tellin’ lies.’
‘Well it be no lie my sayin’ you lot will be short in the pay packet if you don’t get them machines goin’.’
Casting a calculating wink at her companions, Elsie turned to the man come to stand beside them. ‘Eh Fred, you looks done in; why don’t you find a corner down the end o’ the shop an’ ’ave y’self a quiet hour?’
Well used to banter, the foreman smiled good humouredly. ‘I would Elsie, but I knows how much you wenches would miss me.’
‘Oh Lord!’ Maude groaned, ‘’ere we go again!’ Rising as one the group of women looked to the roof, as the blare of sirens sounded an air raid.
She could have told them. Miriam returned to her work, ignoring the alarm as did all of the others. She could have said what Philip Conroy had told herself and her father.
‘We will say the constant vibration of bombs hitting the ground may have resulted in an underground gas pipe becoming cracked; that in the interest of safety the area has to be vacated until it can be dealt with.’
Until it could be dealt with! Miriam worked the spinning bar of brass with uncomprehending mind. When would that be? When would this be over? When could she be sure her son was safe from . . . ?
Safe! Hands becoming still, she stared at the rapidly turning bar, seeing nothing of the golden darts glancing from beneath the play of overhead electric lights. Reuben could be safe now, she could forbid him to go through with what Philip Conroy asked, it wasn’t too late.
‘Be you all right, Miriam, wench? You looks like you seen a ghost.’
‘I . . .’ Miriam tried to answer but tears were suddenly in the way.
Reaching for the stop button, the foreman cut the power to the machine then gently drew Miriam aside.
‘Get y’self a few minutes.’ He lowered her to sit on an upturned box. ‘Don’t do no good tryin’ to carry on while you be feelin’ poorly, accidents won’t ’elp win no war.’
‘Her needs to be at ’ome.’ Elsie Partridge observed over her own machine. ‘The wench be near to breakin’, any but the blind can see that; what wi’ losin’ ’er man to this bloody war then seein’ ’er father bein’ sacked from Prodor for what be no reason, it be a marvel ’er ain’t broke afore now: you teks my advice, Fred, you’ll send ’er ’ome, ain’t like her will be mekin’ many more cartridge cases afore knockin’ off time anyway, not wi’ the state ’er be in.’
Glancing toward the large wall-mounted clock, the foreman thought quickly. Less than an hour to shift change, he could work the machine until the next woman clocked on, that way there would be no loss of production.
‘Reckon Elsie be right.’ He returned his glance to Miriam. ‘You get along ’ome and rest.’
‘But I can’t leave before the end of m
y shift!’
‘You let me worry about that.’ The foreman smiled at the protest. ‘There’ll be no shortfall in the number o’ cases, you ’ave my word. Now will you be all right on your own or does you want I get somebody from First Aid to go along of you?’
She had not wanted any person to walk home with her.
Tying a cotton paisley-patterned scarf beneath her chin, Miriam glanced along the street. Houses she had known from childhood, tiny, smoke-caked homes huddled together in friendship as in structure, now watched like strangers beneath the dank grey sky.
‘You get along ’ome and rest.’
But it was not home she wanted, nor was it rest; she wanted her son safe in her arms. That was how it was going to be! Miriam’s mouth set in a determined line . . . and not all the Philip Conroys in the world would prevent it.
Resolution marking her steps, Miriam turned swiftly from the Alma Tube Works toward the High Bullen, where she paused, looking at the clock tower of the ancient soot-blackened spire of Saint Bartholomew’s Church. Its clock showed ten minutes to four o’ clock. Forty more minutes and the schools would empty for the day. Should she wait? Miriam hesitated. Had she let worry get the best of her? Hadn’t Philip Conroy promised he would let no harm befall her son? But that man could not be with Reuben every minute of the day, he was not with him now, so what good was that promise! Argument ebbing and flowing, reason countered by reason running through her mind, Miriam mumbled an apology to a drab, harassed-looking woman attempting to steer a deep bodied pram around her. She brought it to an irate halt in front of the low window of a small shop, tutting loudly about ‘life bein’ ’ard enough what wi’ shops empty o’ anythin’ wi’out ’aving to work your way about folk who ’ave naught better to do that stand a’ gawpin’!’
Miriam struggled with the uncertainty growing in her mind.
Reuben had not hesitated, he had simply agreed to all Philip Conroy had requested . . . and she had allowed it! She . . . and no one else . . . she had sent Reuben into danger, for without her consent none of this could have taken place.
A Step Too Far Page 14