The Wives’ Revenge

by Lindsey Hutchinson

  *

  Time slipped by in the Clancy house and in Wednesbury. The passing years had seen the ‘Wives’ deal with relatively few cases. A wife beater had been threatened with a thrashing himself which had curtailed the physical abuse doled out to his wife. Another who had been accused of raping a young woman on the heath had admitted it when faced with the ‘Wives’. His crime had shown him named and shamed and fear of a jail sentence had him leave the town sharpish.

  Each time justice was served, there was a risk of the ‘Wives’ being discovered. But the secret grapevine of the women of the town knew that to divulge any information to the local constabulary of their identities or intentions would see many more women in peril. The women of Wednesbury would band together in a crisis and the secret was kept on pain of their own possible suffering in the future.

  Once more summer gave way to autumn and the leaves began their annual cycle of turning colour. It promised to be an ‘Indian summer’, the good weather lasting well into the autumnal months.

  Walking up Union Street after shopping in the Shambles, a small market at the centre of the town, Violet heard a horse trotting on the cobblestones behind her. Turning, she saw the rider. Black hair blowing from his face by the wind, with strong legs and arms guiding his mount, he pulled up beside her. Dark eyes sparkled as he jumped down from his horse.

  Fear swept over her as he approached. Other than Geordie, Jim and Charlie, Violet had no dealings with men at all other than those the Wives doled out justice to, which merely fuelled her anxiety and her fear of them. After Sligo, she wanted nothing to do with them. She was afraid they might all be like he was. She would shy away from any man who looked as if he might speak to her.

  The man’s wide smile showed white even teeth. Looking around her, Violet searched for a means of escape.

  ‘Hello there!’ His voice had a deep timbre. ‘How are you this fine morning?’ Cultured too. Receiving no reply, he went on, ‘My apologies, where are my manners?’ Bowing deeply, he grinned, saying, ‘My name is Spencer Gittins. My father is Joshua Gittins of Gittins’ Nails in Wednesbury.’

  Still receiving no word from Violet as she turned to continue her journey, he placed his hand on her arm, saying, ‘Don’t go, stay and talk awhile.’

  Snatching her arm from his hand, Violet hissed, ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

  ‘I apologise, Miss,’ he said in surprise and moved back a step, ‘I meant no offence.’

  ‘Did your father, Joshua Gittins of Gittins’ Nails never teach you that you do not accost women out on the street?’ Venom swam like a river through her words. This was the first time she had been touched by a man since Sligo, and it stirred all the old anger in her again.

  Standing with his mouth open, he stared as Violet continued acerbically.

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way and I’ll thank you to move aside and let me pass!’ Her whole body was shaking as her anger and fear suffused.

  As he took another step back, Violet hurried away from him, her heart beating nineteen to the dozen. She arrived home in double quick time all of a fluster.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Kath asked, moving to her daughter who was shivering despite the good weather.

  Violet explained in halting words about the man in the street. ‘Oh Mum, I was so frightened!’

  Kath gave the girl a warm hug. ‘I can see that, love. Sit down, I’ll make some tea then you can tell me all about it again.’ Kath began to wonder if Violet would ever get over her experience with Sligo. Would she ever be able to associate with a man in the future? Kath hoped with all her heart her daughter would someday come to the realisation that not all men were like her late husband.

  Joyce on her wage as a nail maker, was unable to save enough money to rent a place of her own and so had remained living with Kath and Violet. It was a happy arrangement, and all were in agreement of it.

  Joyce had arrived back from her work and hearing what was being discussed, she said, ‘Oh him, that’s Spencer Gittins, the gaffer’s son. Nice lad, bit headstrong, but a lovely kid. Just him and his dad now, his mother died giving birth some years ago. Child died too as I recall. Shame… nice family. It’s Gittins I work for, Violet.’

  Violet remembered once Joyce had jogged her memory. What she couldn’t remember was ever seeing Spencer Gittins before, but then they hardly moved in the same social circles.

  *

  Violet thought a lot over the next few days about the young man in Union Street. In her mind’s eye she saw the dark hair and brown eyes that twinkled. She heard again the cultured voice that made her stare into space for minutes at a time. She found herself daydreaming about him a lot before snapping herself out of it to return to whatever task she was undertaking.

  Violet was laying the table for another meeting of the ‘Wives’, all but Joyce who was still at work, and realised some considerable time had elapsed since the last gathering. Who would be coming? What would it be about? Although she knew it to be important, she prayed it would not end with someone’s death. It had been some years and other cases since they had killed only one man, but the fear was always there that the next case would call on them to do something similar.

  Everyone sat around Kath’s kitchen table and Annie walked through the kitchen door looking like she was dressed for an evening out. A thin girl followed behind her.

  The girl spoke quietly, ‘Hello Violet.’

  Shock took her as Violet looked into the eyes of her childhood arch-enemy. Primrose Berry.

  Given tea, she sat down as Violet stared at her. Barely recognisable, she had all but wasted away. Her once bouncing blonde curls had given way to thinning hair; sparkling eyes now looked almost dead in her gaunt face. Violet couldn’t believe the difference a few short years had made and found herself wondering if she still had her spiteful streak.

  Primrose held her cup with both hands as if stealing the heat to warm her cadaverous frame. Violet found herself watching the bird-like movements; eyes that darted this way and that, fear wrapping itself around the girl who sat opposite her. Violet had heard that Primrose’s mother had died the previous year and had felt a twinge of sorrow for the girl, although she was still wary of her.

  She watched intently as Primrose bolted the bread and cheese offered, eating as though she’d never been fed. Whatever had happened to bring her to this?

  While everyone ate, they chatted about everyday things, putting Primrose at her ease somewhat, and Violet cast her mind back.

  The marketplace was the fount of all knowledge, where gossip was rife, messages could be passed safely, and help could be sought and given. It was here she’d learned of Mrs Berry’s death and of Primrose’s marriage. The girl had been married off to a man much older than herself and Violet winced, thinking the spiteful streak obviously ran through her mother too. Primrose’s marriage was an acquisitive one: no love there, only the worship of money and the prestige it brought with it. Primrose had married Francis Woolley, the owner of a nail-making business – Woolley’s Nails. The making of nails in the Black Country town was big business and they were transported all over the country. The two firms had always been friendly rivals for contracts.

  Bringing herself back to the present, Violet took in the now Mrs Primrose Woolley. The same age as herself, she looked older than any of the women who sat at the table. Sunken cheeks stretched into the ghost of a smile in thanks for her food. Primrose’s eyes could not meet Violet’s and she knew the girl’s mind was also reliving the spite she had shown Violet as they were growing up.

  Pouring more tea into her cup, Violet said, ‘Drink up, Primrose, you’re safe here with us.’

  Violet saw the pride emanate from her mother which made her blush. Whatever was ailing Primrose Woolley, Violet felt sure the ‘Wives’ could resolve it.

  Ten

  Primrose sat at the table looking at each face in turn but seeing only her life of the last year.

  Her mother had come to the last o
f the money left to them by her father on his death: It was time for Primrose to marry, she’d said.

  Francis Woolley had shown an interest in the girl and he was a self-made man. Owning Woolley’s Nails, he had built up his company and was now a successful businessman, albeit known to be ruthless. He cared for no one save Francis Woolley.

  Frank, as he preferred to be called, was a rough man and twenty years Primrose’s senior. Her protest at being married off to a man so much older than herself had fallen on the deaf ears of her mother… he had money, and lots of it!

  Frank Woolley was short in stature and fat, with a red nose, from the constant drinking of alcohol, taking centre stage on his round face. His small piggy eyes would squint at the columns of figures laid before him at the end of each day’s trading. Anyone found to be short on their tally of making nails would be given the sack and found themselves out on the street with no job regardless of their circumstances. These vacancies weren’t vacant for long – someone was always looking for work in Wednesbury. The ‘bread line’ of people out of work standing at the corner of the market grew longer each day.

  The women around the table where Primrose now sat waited patiently as if they too were seeing the events that had shaped her life.

  Primrose had worn her mother’s wedding gown on the day of her marriage to Frank Woolley but there had been no joy in the wearing of it. The ferocity with which he took her on the wedding night compounded his rough nature. She was left bruised and bleeding. Badly wanting a son to succeed him, Frank had abused her body in an effort to make her pregnant. His efforts were thwarted however, and she had not conceived; beatings followed in the wake of his anger and frustration. He felt he had married a barren woman and now he was stuck with her. Although not practising, Frank was a Catholic, and divorce for him was not an option.

  Her mind snapped to attention as she heard Violet’s words again: you’re safe here with us…

  She blurted out, ‘He beats me!’

  Martha said, ‘Well, gel, there’s a lot that gets beaten hereabouts.’

  Feeling her stomach sink, Primrose felt sure she was not going to find help here with these women. She remembered how she had plagued Violet mercilessly in their childhood, so why would they help her now? Standing up, she mumbled her apologies for disturbing them and walked towards the back door.

  Annie Green caught her arm gently, saying, ‘Sit down, girl, and tell us what the problem is.’

  Resuming her seat at the table, Primrose drew in a breath like it was the last of the oxygen on the planet. ‘He beats me because I can’t give him a son! He says I’m barren and now he’s stuck with me! Although I’ve begged him he won’t divorce me because he’s a Catholic, but he never goes to Church. And…’ she went on, ‘I’m sure Frank Woolley killed my mother!’

  A collective intake of breath stole air from the room before being released through clenched teeth. She watched the looks pass from face to face as horror turned to puzzlement.

  Martha asked, ‘How do you work that one out? I thought your mother died of the influenza last winter that took a lot of others along with it.’

  ‘That’s what the doctor said when Frank eventually paid his fee to visit my mother. She starved to death, Martha, she starved because Frank refused to help with food or money!’

  ‘So,’ said Mary Forbes, ‘in her weakened state the influenza caught her and carried her off.’ It was not a question, more a statement of fact.

  The women looked at her as Primrose burst out, ‘Frank Woolley deliberately starved my mother to death knowing her impecunious lifestyle! It was premeditated murder!’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ said Martha, ‘but Frank Woolley is a big name in this town and it’s not like an accident could befall him with no suspicion laid.’

  ‘Martha,’ Primrose said calmly, her emotions once more under control, ‘you misunderstand me, I don’t want Frank to have an accident.’

  Kath Clancy asked, ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I want…’ she said, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward, ‘I want Frank Woolley ruined! I want to see his business go down the drain! I want to see him penniless and starving… before I leave him!’

  Gasps sounded in the tiny kitchen as Violet said, ‘That’s a big ask, Primrose.’

  ‘I understand that, Violet, and anything I can do to help bring about the downfall of my husband I will do!’

  Violet looked at the girl she had once hated and she asked, ‘What about you, Primrose, what will happen to you if Frank’s business is ruined?’

  Unable to hold back her tears any longer, Primrose let them fall freely, ‘I don’t know and I don’t care, but I swear to you ladies here, if he tries to beat me one more time I’ll knife him where he stands and hang the consequences!’

  ‘Christ, girl, you can’t do that!’ Mary muttered.

  ‘Right,’ Martha began in her chairwoman’s voice, ‘let’s see what can be done to help Primrose. But, my girl…’ She paused looking directly at her, ‘… you utter one word of this to anyone and it won’t be Frank Woolley’s downfall you’ll see… but the downfall of every woman in Wednesbury!’

  Swearing her oath of silence and allegiance to the ‘Wives’, Primrose listened to the verbal exchanges across the kitchen table.

  Agreeing a plan could be constructed, and knowing this would take time to formulate and execute in the utmost safety, she reluctantly agreed to return home and ‘put up’ with her husband’s abuse until the time came when she would no longer have to.

  The women knew time was of the essence as Primrose said the beatings were getting worse; Primrose could avoid Frank at times but there would still be occasions when he was drunk that he would be trying, yet again, for the son he so desperately sought.

  Walking back to her house in Church Hill, her thoughts returned to Violet Clancy and of all the nasty situations Violet had found herself in, all of Primrose’s doing. Now here she was, along with those other women, trying to help. She felt the warmth of shame colour her cheeks as she trudged wearily homeward.

  Walking up Ethelfleda Terrace, past St. Bartholomew’s Church, Primrose continued up Church Hill. Rose Hill House, Frank’s house where she too now lived, stood in its own grounds and was backed onto by the Vicarage. Three stone steps led up to the front door which was flanked by stone columns. The gardens were extensive but in need of help from a gardener: Primrose had lost interest in it. Entering the huge house, Primrose heard Frank’s voice boom out, ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

  ‘The market,’ Primrose said quietly, hanging her shawl on the coat stand in the hall.

  Frank continued, ‘And you ain’t bought nothing?’

  ‘No,’ her answer was short and simple; the less she said to him the better she liked it.

  He shot another barb with, ‘Not like your mother for that, thank God! That woman could spend my money like water gushing down a drain!’

  ‘What money?’ The words were out of her mouth before Primrose could stop them. ‘You never gave her any money!’ Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound – the thought made her smile as she turned away from him.

  ‘You bloody ingrate!’ Storming towards her, he swung her to face him, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm. ‘I looked after your grasping mother the same as I look after you!’

  Looking down at her thin body and her worn-out clothing, Primrose shot back, ‘I hope that shouldn’t be for too much longer then!’

  Slapping her across the face, his words intermingled with little bells in her ears. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  No answer was the stern reply which he took as her being timorous.

  ‘Oh never mind,’ he said nastily, ‘just get up those bloody stairs… I mean to beget me a son!’

  Dread filled her whole being as he dragged her up the staircase and threw her onto the bed.

  ‘Now then, woman,’ he hissed, removing his clothes before they burst their buttons of their own accord,
‘get your clothes off and let’s get to it!’

  As Frank Woolley’s body pumped on top of her thin frame and he puffed his exertion in her ear, Primrose tried to ignore the pain by turning her thoughts to the help about to be given to her by the Wednesbury Wives. She hoped it would come sooner rather than later.

  Eleven

  How on earth could the women bring down one of the wealthiest and well-known industrialists of Wednesbury?

  They had to know more about Frank Woolley, of his business, who he dealt with, and what his business associates thought of him.

  Somehow they had to shut down his operations, but this was something that would affect his workers – badly. They would find themselves out of work and having families to feed with no money coming in…

  Listening to the women’s banter in the tiny kitchen, Violet’s mind whirled. This latest task given to the ‘Wives’ seemed impossible to complete without adverse effects on the town and the people in it.

  Excusing herself, she decided to go for a walk on the heath to clear her mind. She strode out along the streets of the town before they met the bridge of the canal. Suppressing a shudder as she was reminded of the last time she was there with Joyce and the others, she walked onto the heath. The sun was still warm on her back as she lazily strolled alone. She stopped occasionally to pick the wild flowers, arranging them in a small bunch. She was admiring them when she heard the sound of hoof beats. The blood quickened in her veins as the horse stopped beside her and the rider jumped down. Her heart beat faster as she looked into the dark eyes of Spencer Gittins. Pushing his unruly black hair back, he gave a small bow.

  ‘Miss Clancy,’ he said formally as he kept his distance from her this time, ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance once more.’

  ‘Mr Gittins,’ she said, nodding once before turning away from him to walk back towards her home. She could not deny he sparked her interest. Before she knew it he was walking beside her.

  ‘You are not surprised I know your name?’ he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Ignoring him, Violet walked on. ‘Please Miss Clancy,’ he intoned, ‘I ask only to be your friend.’