A Step Too Far

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘I doubt you ever will again, he won’t chance his hand a second time, not with Jack Butler wise to his game,’ Becky chipped in.

  ‘He . . . Alice’s brother . . . he didn’t . . .’

  ‘Like hell he didn’t!’ Alice touched the tip of a finger to her partly healed lip. ‘Not even one of them Churchill tanks would ’ave had the stoppin’ of him once he clapped eyes on what that toerag Slater did to my face; our Jack went after him that same night.’

  Becky changed her mind about taking a further bite of her sandwich. ‘I can’t say as to how much be truth an’ how much be a bit of icin’ on the cake, but as I heard tell Jim Slater won’t be botherin’ nobody for a long time. I were hangin’ out the washin’ . . .’ glancing each side for possible eavesdroppers, Becky lowered her voice before going on, ‘and next door’s husband were standin’ at his pigeon loft talkin’ with a fella from higher up the street; I paid no heed until the name Slater were mentioned an’ . . . well, after what had ’appened between him an’ we three . . . well, it were only natural I would listen. Somebody’s belloiled ’im all right, got a fizzog a dog would be feared to lick . . .’

  Katrin interpreted the local vernacular to determine Jim Slater had received a beating which had left his face severely cut and bruised.

  ‘. . . said it were every shade o’ the rainbow,’ Becky was continuing, ‘an’ judgin’ by the way ’e be a’ walkin’ seems ’is ribs be caved in.’

  ‘Did they say who ’ad done it?’

  ‘No.’ Becky pulled at the turban that covered the curlers fastening her hair. ‘But the fella doin’ the tellin’ said, there be a good few in Wednesbury would ’ave liked to do what were done an’ good luck to whoever it be; Slater be a crafty fossack, he be so crooked he couldn’t lie straight in a bed, not that he’ll be able to do that for a week or two even were he innocent as a babe.’

  ‘But if the man is so injured, will he not go to the police, have his attacker arrested?’ Katrin judged her moment.

  ‘Not Slater.’ Alice’s reply was confident. ‘He knows he’s only ’ad a taste of our Jack, same as he knows goin’ to the police will mean his bein’ treated to the full meal next time. No,’ she shook her head, ‘Jim Slater’s sly but he ain’t daft, the police won’t be hearin’ from him.’

  The police would not be hearing! Katrin bathed in satisfaction. Should every shell find its target with the efficiency of the bullet fired from Katrin Hawley’s arsenal then war might last no more than a week!

  ‘It’s all settled, the go-ahead for the new plant and the site ’as been approved, so Arthur Whitman informs me an’ Jacob.’

  ‘Should you be telling me this, dad, shouldn’t it be kept secret?’

  ‘What’d be the use o’ that?’ Isaac Eldon looked across at his daughter as she set a wicker basket of freshly dried laundry on the floor beside the living room table.

  ‘It’s just . . . well, you know what it can lead to when secrets are leaked.’

  Yes, he knew, he knew only too well. Silent with the thought, Isaac stared into the glow of the fire. Miriam knew the threat to this town had that spy managed to pass information regarding a supposed factory beneath the golf links, but she did not know fully the danger her son had been in, nor must she ever know. That had been the promise extracted by Philip Carson. The man had wrestled with his own conscience, fought in his own mind the rights and wrongs of breaking a promise. He had promised Reuben on that final visit he would say nothing to his mother – but he had not given any word regarding his grandfather.

  They had stood together in the shrouding darkness, the door of the house closed to prevent any chink of escaping light. He had felt the hesitation in that normally confident figure, an uncertainty Conroy had not shown on any previous visit to Cross Street. Had there been something else, something he was keeping back? The arrest? Had it after all been too late? Had something of what von Braun had wanted to divulge been already transmitted? All of these questions had raced in his mind as he had wished Conroy goodbye. The man had not turned immediately away, but stood, face upturned, playing a long look over a star-filled, frost-bitten sky; then he had said quietly, ‘I wish to share something with you, Mr Eldon. It is not a professional thing to do but right now I think professionalism can take a back seat. Maybe,’ he had turned his glance from the sky, ‘seeing I, myself, am breaking a confidence I should not request you hold this conversation as private between us, yet that is what I am doing. I ask that you say nothing of it to your daughter, principally because Reuben desires I should not.’

  ‘Reuben! He’ll do nowt else so don’t ask, this time I puts my foot down!’

  Isaac had felt rather than seen the quick smile, heard it when Conroy had spoken again.

  ‘It is to do with your grandson, Mr Eldon, though not in the way you are thinking.’ Conroy had paused, drawing on his gloves before resuming in that quiet voice, ‘I gave Reuben a promise, a promise I am about to break.’

  ‘Mr Conroy.’ Staring into the crimson glow, Isaac recalled his reply. ‘It’s ever been my way to respect another man’s rights an’ I hold the same to my own. What you do wi’ regard to promises be your concern, break or keep ’em as you feels you must, but any promise Isaac Eldon gives be kept, an’ supposin’ this be naught as will put my wench an’ her lad to any risk, then you ’ave my word.’

  Overhead the large bodies of several barrage balloons hovered like ships caught on a windless sea, their bulk blotting out the stars. It had been so still, so calm, a world where war was not even a memory; then Conroy had spoken of what had transpired in that headmaster’s room, of Reuben’s brush with death. Shaking hands prior to walking away, he said, ‘Your grandson deserved his lieutenant’s insignia; I only wish it had been awarded.’

  ‘Dad, you say this new plant has been approved, is that all there is to it – for you, I mean?’ Taking the heated flat iron from the trivet drawn close against the fire to smooth creases from the shirt she was ironing, Miriam glanced at her father.

  Isaac shook his head, trying to drive away from his mind pictures of a boy lying dead, a black hole where his temple should have been.

  ‘Eh?’ he frowned.

  Miriam spat on the hot iron. The resulting sizzle testifying to its readiness, she took it to the table. ‘This new factory, will it mean changes for you?’

  ‘’Ow d’you mean, wench . . . changes?’ Isaac frowned more deeply.

  ‘I mean who will be running the place? Arthur Whitman can’t be in both and you . . . well, you hated being in the position of manager. If anybody deserves to be in charge then it’s you, but I wouldn’t want you with that worry again.’

  ‘Won’t be me tekin’ the job on so you sets your mind to rest.’

  ‘But refusing will mean keeping you down, spending the rest of your working days on the factory floor, I shouldn’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘The choosin’ don’t be your’n.’ Isaac smiled into eyes filled with concern for him. ‘The work place be where I’m ’appiest an’ that be where I’ll stay; you don’t fret y’self, Arthur Whitman be already advised o’ that decision, and that be atwixt Hawley and Whitman.’

  Changing irons, testing the heat before setting it to a nightgown worn almost to a thread, Miriam smiled. ‘But you think he’s the man for the job?’

  ‘Stop your ferretin’!’ Isaac set aside his newspaper. ‘It were the same when you were a little ’un, kept on ’til you got what you wanted.’

  ‘But you do, don’t you?’

  Isaac felt the familiar surge of his heart. She was so like her mother; that smile, that quiet gentle way of asking, a way that could fetch the ducks off the water.

  ‘Ar.’ He nodded. ‘Ar wench, I thinks that Jacob Hawley be deservin’ o’ the job.’

  ‘Mr Hawley is a nice man.’

  Miriam’s next words echoed in Isaac’s mind as he left the house to take his turn at fire watch. Hawley had always been a decent chap, he deserved more than life had dished up for him;
he should have had a wife who had married him for love and not solely to suit her own ends. Yet . . . ! The age-old query returned, haunting him as so many times in the past. Was Violet the only one to have availed herself of Jacob Hawley’s good nature?

  She had thought several times during the course of the afternoon, ought she to make some excuse? Tell Becky and Alice not to come to the house, that she would bring the dresses to the factory for them to look at? Yet each time some inner voice had seemed to warn that would be the backward step. So she had let Alice’s self-invitation ride and now they were here.

  ‘It’s real good o’ you, Kate, offerin’ to give Becky a frock.’

  Forcing a smile as the girls stepped inside the hall, Katrin answered lightly, ‘Wait to see what is offered before saying thanks, you might well think the dress should have been thrown out – not just when the old king died, but with his great grandmother’s passing.’

  ‘Old Queen Victoria.’ Alice grinned impishly. ‘I think it were one o’ her frocks me mother bought last week from a jumble sale.’

  Joining in the laughter, Katrin took their coats and hung them on bright brass pegs set beside the door.

  ‘Eeh! I’ve often wondered what these houses be like inside, you know, whether the insides matched the outside.’

  It couldn’t have been made more plain had Alice asked for a tour of the house. Biting down on her chagrin, Katrin issued the invitation. Showing them briefly into sitting room and kitchen, their oohs and aahs clucking like excited hens, Katrin felt an inward smile. Whatever would Violet Hawley and her precious pride have made of having factory workers parade through the house? Girls who still carried a faint odour of slurry oil.

  ‘They do match, don’t they Alice, the inside an’ the outside?’

  ‘Match? What do you mean Becky?’

  ‘Huh!’ Alice laughed cynically, ‘You’d know right enough if you lived in Cross Street, them houses matches alright, the insides don’t ’ave room enough to swing a cat and outside be little better, houses joined in a row, their brickwork black from smoke and soot! Oh yes, Kate, you’d know the difference if you lived in one o’ them.’

  Making no reply, Katrin led the way upstairs. She bypassed her father’s bedroom using the shaded light of the landing to guide them through the darkness of her own room and drew the blackout curtains across the window, covering them in turn with the pretty chintz so beloved of her mother before switching on the bedside lamp. With another bevy of ‘oohs’ sounding behind, she turned toward the wardrobe her mother had lavished so much time and care on polishing; but then she had doted on every stick of furniture in the house as if they were the Crown Jewels. Katrin returned to the jest made downstairs. ‘Your mother bought you just one of Victoria’s cast offs, Alice, my mother bought the rest.’

  ‘I doubts that,’ Alice said quietly. ‘I remembers you from our bein’ in the babbies class and on right through to our leavin’ school. I remembers the way your mother had you turned out, you was always the best dressed kid at Saint James’.’

  Katrin effected a tight swallow before replying. ‘My parents did not have other children to feed and clothe.’

  ‘That must ’ave been as much a heartache for them as it was for you.’

  Katrin almost laughed aloud. Becky’s answer had held true sympathy. But then they were both so easily deceived. They swallowed lies like cats swallowing cream, they had believed that lie as they would believe those yet to come. She had been contemplating the next, the one which would say she had no idea how Nora Bates had found out about those Saturday night jaunts to Wolverhampton, about Alice Butler and Becky Turner dancing with foreign men at that Civic Ballroom.

  It would be so easy. A word said a little too loudly in the works’ canteen or the ladies’ toilets, a word taken back to the workshop and repeated within earshot of Nosy Nora, that would see it spread like chaff on the wind, reaching Mary Turner in less time than it took to tell. Yes, it would be easy. A dress in her hand, Katrin paused on the thought. Angry as that would make Becky’s mother, would it be revenge enough? Talk of Becky Turner’s liaison would last only until the next juicy bit of gossip hit the collective tongue, then it would be over and forgotten. Katrin’s fingers tightened. Easy, but not satisfying for Katrin Hawley!

  ‘Eh Kate, you don’t know how lucky you be havin’ such a lovely home,’ Alice was enthusing again. ‘You’ve so many nice things – and a room all to y’self. Lord, what wouldn’t I give to ’ave a bedroom all to meself!’

  Katrin’s sad smile highlighted her lie. ‘You have brothers and sisters, that is what I call lucky. What wouldn’t I give to have a sister to share this room.’

  ‘Be careful what you wishes, Katrin!’ Alice retorted ironically. ‘You could ’ave been like me, saddled wi’ too many brothers and sisters, I’d swap any one of mine for a tanner!’

  ‘Sixpence!’ Becky laughed. ‘You don’t do things on the cheap, d’you?’

  ‘A girl has to keep up appearances!’

  The quip struck a chord with Katrin. Keeping up appearances was exactly what she was assisting Becky Turner in doing.

  It had been during the lunch break. Talk of Jim Slater had waned as both girls lost interest and she, herself, had made no attempt to revive the topic, letting it appear that she had laid that business to rest.

  ‘It would be this week Mrs Haywood has to be taken poorly. Doreen says it means her lookin’ after the kids, so that knocks my Saturday night on the head unless I can find somebody else willing to trade shifts with me; if I can’t . . .’ she had shrugged ruefully, ‘. . . then I just won’t be able to make it to Wolverhampton. I didn’t really want to go on Saturday anyway.’

  It had been patently obvious from the way Becky’s glance had dropped to the thick pottery mug twisting in her hands that what she had said was untrue. Her back toward the girls, Katrin’s inner smile deepened. Instinct kicked in. For the keen student of jitterbug, for the girl so smitten with her American dance partner to say she really didn’t want to attend the looked-forward-to Saturday evening dance, then something was wrong.

  It had not taken long to emerge. This coming Saturday was to be a special evening. Some of the men were moving on to different units and others in the camp had decided to give them a special send off and Earl had said he so much wanted Becky to be there.

  ‘So then, why do you not want to go?’

  Her enquiry had sounded innocent enough but there had been none of that virtue beneath the asking. Becky had tried to hide her embarrassment but her cheeks had blushed a deep shade of pink. It had been left to Alice to explain. ‘It’s her frock, her’s worn it every time we’ve gone to that dance hall. Like meself, Becky has to take a back seat where clothes be concerned, it takes all the money and all the coupons to keep the little ’uns clothed, and well . . . with this bein’ a special do, Becky don’t want to be seen wearin’ the same old frock.’

  ‘Ain’t just a special do for the men that’s leavin’.’ Becky had tried to keep disappointment at bay but tears had glistened in her eyes. ‘Earl said there were somethin’ he wanted to ask me, somethin’ he said he’d wanted to ask for some time but had needed to get permission from his C.O. first.’

  Permission of a Commanding Officer! Katrin’s instinct had deepened by several degrees, but none of it had shown in her reply.

  ‘But if Earl has something he wants to ask, something he has already implied to be of importance, won’t it be hurtful to him if you don’t turn up?’

  ‘Not near as hurtful as a smack in the face,’ Alice had replied, ‘and that’s how it’ll feel supposin’ Earl don’t say anythin’ and Becky feels he won’t once he sees her in that frock her’s worn every time they’ve met, her fears he’ll not want her after realisin’ just how rich her family ain’t.’

  ‘But surely if he loves Becky, lack of money will have no influence?’

  Becky had retorted. ‘And I love him, I love him too much to humiliate him in front of his friends, probably in
front of that C.O. he talked of; I won’t ’ave him shamed by my wearin’ a frock that has more years to it than me mother has.’

  A deep primeval feeling surged its message through Katrin’s veins. This moment must not be ignored!

  She had leaned across the table, touching a hand to the red-faced Becky. ‘Please,’ she had murmured, ‘please don’t take this the wrong way, it is not meant as a slight in any way, but I have several dresses I’m about to send to the Welfare Centre, perhaps . . . well, perhaps one of them . . .’

  The rest had been submerged beneath the blare of a klaxon recalling both girls to work but as they had left the table Alice had called back, ‘We’ll come up to your place tonight if that’s okay.’

  ‘I’ll be keepin’ up appearances and no mistake.’ Becky’s comment recalled Katrin to the present. ‘Come next month I’ll be livin’ in a big house, it’ll have its own garden and even a pool you can swim in, Earl says . . .’

  ‘Earl says a lot o’ things!’ Alice snapped. ‘I’ve told you, Becky Turner, you wants to be very careful where that one be concerned, y’ shouldn’t take every word he says as gospel!’

  Becky snapped back, ‘An’ I’ve told you, Alice Butler, you don’t know Earl the way I do!’

  ‘Yes, you ’ave told me, so now p’raps you’ll tell me what it is I be missin’, what is it I don’t know about Earl Feldman?’

  ‘You don’t know how gentle he can be, how tender he was when we . . .’

  Alice was not about to relent. ‘How tender when you what?’

  Glancing over her shoulder, seeing the bloom of pink becoming a high tide of scarlet, the lowered eyes and twisting fingers, Katrin put her own question. Was Becky Turner playing the game she herself intended to play with Arthur Whitman, given half a chance? Had Becky Turner already succeeded? If so, then she might well be leaving for America next month as she claimed. Where then would be Katrin Hawley’s long-desired revenge?

  Katrin carried the dresses to the bed, placing them beside Becky.

  ‘These are what I had sorted to go to the Welfare Centre.’ She forced a smile. ‘But remember, I said they are far from new so don’t feel you have to accept any of them.’