The Factory Girl

by Nancy Carson

  Chapter 22

  It was the first week of Birmingham’s annual shutdown. Just after nine o’ clock on the Tuesday evening, Neville Worthington had been hovering around Daisy Road, wearing a black two-piece suit and a trilby hat, in half a mind to call on Henzey on some as yet undecided pretext. Will Parish, he was well aware, would be on a night shift, working through the shutdown on the Worthington Commercials project. One consideration above all others, however, was holding Neville back: Henzey might not welcome him. She might even take exception to his calling if she thought he was unheroically trying to force his attentions on her while Will was at work. And of course, if she saw him now that he was clean shaven and sporting a new haircut like Will’s, she would know at once that her husband was his missing twin brother and there would be no prospect at all of any romantic liaison. And deep in his heart that was what he wanted more than anything else in the world – a romantic liaison.

  His mouth was bone dry at the prospect of seeing her, of being so close that he could actually touch her, actually smell her beautiful sweet self. Just to see her fabulous smile and feast his eyes on her would brighten his tormented, heart-aching day. But at the prospect of both a certain rebuff and ultimately making himself look a bigger fool, he decided that it was not a good time. He could always use the cottage by the sea as his excuse, but even that would seem too contrived right now. He would devise some better reason at a more appropriate time.

  He was utterly obsessed, and this obsession, he knew, had already made him look a fool in Henzey’s eyes. God knows how he would appear to Will if he ever discovered how he felt. It did not bear thinking about. Thus he convinced himself to reconsider what he was doing. Instead of all these pie-in-the-sky dreams of being Henzey’s lover, might it not be better to do the noble thing after all, and see through his original intention of acknowledging Will, welcoming him into his family and ultimately offering him a seat on the board of Worthington Commercials? He turned away from Daisy Road with the intention of walking back home in the still warm dusk, content that this was the right thing to do, that this action would also ease his troubled conscience.

  But it was going to be extremely difficult to simply shut Henzey from his mind, and he wondered if he could ever be that self-willed. He only had to think of her skin, her lips, her body, her smile, her voice, and his mind was in a whirl. And even under these nobler arrangements he envisaged, she would be around him frequently. It would take, therefore, a massive amount of self-control, which he knew he did not possess.

  He was so thirsty. His racy thoughts had rendered his mouth dry, prompting him to do something he would never normally have done: enter a public house. The one he entered was The Reservoir. Just a quick pint of shandy would help slake his thirst before he returned home.

  A door on one side of the passage was marked ‘Public Bar’, the one on the other side, ‘Smoke Room’. He went into the latter where three other men were sitting round a table playing three card brag. Both rooms were serviced by the same servery.

  ‘I’ll have a pint of shandy, please, landlord,’ he said with an unwitting superiority to the man who was evidently the licensee.

  ‘Shandy?’ he queried.

  Neville nodded.

  The man pulled at the beer pump. ‘Gorra thairst on or summat? There’s sod all wrong with the bitter.’

  Neville mopped his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Thirsty. It’s so close, this weather. Uncomfortably close.’

  The landlord held the glass up to ascertain that it was approximately half filled with beer, then flipped the top off a bottle of lemonade. ‘Close? If it gets any closer it’ll be bleedin’ touchin’.’ Froth was oozing over the top of the glass and Neville waited, anxious to feel its cool bite at the back of his throat. ‘E’y’am, mate.’

  Neville handed him a shilling and put the change in the blind box while the landlord went to serve in the bar. As he quaffed his drink with relish he heard the landlord say, ‘Will’s in the smoke room, Sidney.’ At once Neville froze. He had failed to spot that Will Parish was one of the three other men in the room. He turned around slowly to look. They were engrossed in their cards. But none of them was Will Parish. One smiled familiarly and said, ‘Warm enough for yer, mate?’ Suddenly the door opened and the man he recognised as Sidney Joel, whom he had been introduced to at Lucas’s, was standing before him.

  ‘Will,’ he greeted. ‘What yer doin’ in ’ere? I thought yer was at wairk tonight. Come on in the bar. I’ll gi’ yer a gaime o’ darts. Three hundred an’ one up, eh?’

  Neville was tempted to turn round again to see which of the three men Sidney was talking to, till he realised it was himself. God above! Were they so much alike that even Sidney Joel could mistake him for Will? Neville decided to play along with it. It could be an interesting adventure.

  He picked up his drink from the counter and followed Sidney into the other room. The smell of stale beer and smoke permeated the place.

  ‘Bloimey, where yer bin, Will? After another job? Yer look as if yer’ve jus’ fell out o’ the Fifty Shillin’ Tailor’s winda.’

  ‘No, I just thought it would be a nice change to come out in a suit,’ he said experimentally.

  ‘An’ no need to sound so bleedin’ lah-di-dah, neither,’ Sidney said. ‘You’m with us now, not them toffs at Lucas’s.’

  Neville realised his more refined cadences did not sound like Will Parish. Will spoke with a local accent; not marked, but certainly enough to make the difference noticeable. He must try and emulate Will’s speech for this to work.

  ‘Got yer darts wi’ yer, Will?’

  ‘Sorry, Sidney. Never thought to bring ’em.’

  ‘Never mind, use mine. Middle for diddle, eh?’

  Neville was confused. He had never played darts in a public bar before. What the rules or rituals were he had no idea. What the hell was middle for diddle? ‘You go first, Sidney.’

  Sidney shrugged and threw one dart at the bull’s-eye. It landed in the small ring around it. Then he handed a dart to Neville.

  Presuming the idea was to get a dart in the centre Neville threw it. It wobbled on its trajectory, missed the board, and landed in the felt that surrounded it.

  ‘Yer never could throw with these darts,’ Sidney crowed. ‘Looks like I’ll skin yer. Go on. Mugs away.’ He handed him the set.

  What the hell happens now? Is there some pattern or sequence of numbers you have to follow, or do you throw the darts anywhere in the board? No. Aim for that section with the number one. It’s logical to start at one and proceed till you get to twenty. Steady. Concentrate. Neville threw the dart.

  ‘Oh, bostin’ shot, Will. Double top fairst try. You’m away already.’

  Neville felt like asking what he was supposed to do next after his first lucky throw. He was wet with sweat, and trembling slightly. What was he doing in this charade anyway? He stood, ready to throw his next dart. It missed the board again. He cursed under his breath, but at least it was a safe thing to do. The last dart; he aimed and threw. In the board it went, but outside the scoring area, just below the nineteen.

  ‘Forty,’ said Sidney, more to himself than to Neville. Neville leaned against the bar while Sidney strode over to the board to pick two darts from it and one off the floor. ‘’Kin’ ’ell, Will. Do I ’ave to fetch me own darts back an’ all?’ he complained, ‘An’ ain’t ya gonna chalk up ya score?’

  ‘Sorry, Sidney. I was miles away.’ He walked over to the board and grabbed a piece of chalk. ‘What did I score? I’ve forgotten.’

  Sidney shook his head slowly and grinned. ‘Come on, Will, lad. Pull yerself tergetha. Yer scored forty, din’t ya?’

  ‘Right. Forty.’ He wrote 40 on the board.

  ‘From three hundred an’ one, yer great twerp. Jesus. I reckon that young missis o’ yourn’s killin’ ya, Will,’ he chuckled. ‘But wharra way to goo, eh?’

  Neville smiled in acknowledgement of the irony of Sidney’s last comment. If only, he thought.
If only. He took another draft from his shandy and emptied the glass. Sidney was throwing his darts now, interspersed with damns and blasts. Neville heard him say ‘Double five,’ then he chalked up his score.

  ‘What do you want to drink, Sidney?’ he asked. ‘I’m about to re-order.’

  ‘Re-order? Christ, ’ark at him, Arthur. Re-order! It’s funny what wearin’ a suit does to your ord’n’ry langwidge, in’t it? I’ll have a pint o’ the usual if ya mean you’m gerrin’ ’em in.’

  ‘A pint for Sidney and a pint of shandy for me,’ Neville said to the landlord.

  ‘Shandy?’ Sidney queried. ‘You flippin’ well hate the sight o’ shandy. Wha’s wrong with the bitter?’

  ‘I wondered what was up with him when he come in the smoke an’ asked for a pint o’ shandy,’ the landlord remarked.

  ‘He’s in a funny mood, Arthur,’ Sid said. ‘It’s that Henzey.’

  ‘Well, if her’s too much for ya, ya can alw’ys send her round here, Will,’ Arthur guffawed.

  Neville smiled, uncertain what his reaction should be to such outrageous familiarity. Banter it was, and coarse, but presumably Will would be inclined to take it in good part.

  ‘It’s time he babbied her,’ Sid remarked. ‘Everybody’s sayin’ as he’s got no lead in his pencil.’

  Neville smiled inadequately and, as they all laughed, another man walked in.

  ‘Evenin’ George,’ Arthur said. ‘Will’s in the chair. Usual?’

  ‘Goo on, then.’

  Neville was glad when he had finished his second pint and his game of darts, in which he made some serious errors. He decided he should leave, so he made his excuses. It had not been a successful experiment at all.

  ‘What about the next match, Will?’ Sidney enquired. ‘D’ya still wanna play after tonight’s performance?’

  ‘Oh, of course. I’ll be all right. I’ve had things on my mind tonight, that’s all. Do me a favour, though, Sidney, will you?’

  ‘O’ course.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of this night. Ever. I mean it. Especially not in front of Henzey.’

  ‘Oh, o’ course not, old shoe. Not a word. I know as ya wun’t want nobody else to know ’ow bad ya played.’

  At half past nine on the last Wednesday evening of July, Henzey handed Will his pack of sandwiches and a flask of tea and kissed him goodnight as he left for his shift. It felt little different to the times when he went out to play darts on a normal Wednesday night, except that tonight she would lie in bed alone and remain there till about half past six next morning. But she did not mind.

  She settled down to read both the morning’s and the evening’s papers, with the wireless on quietly in the background for company. The heat of the day was subsiding and the sky, pregnant with dark clouds, threatened a storm. She had finished her chores: the bed was made, the washing-up was done, as was the remaining ironing. The windows needed cleaning inside but they could wait till tomorrow. It was time to relax.

  The newspapers told of nothing that interested her: all was doom and gloom. Henzey walked to the kitchen and put some milk in a pan to make herself a mug of Ovaltine, which she took upstairs to drink while she was getting ready for bed. First she went into the back bedroom to gaze through the window over the reservoir. The swollen red sun had dipped below the line of trees on the opposite side, leaving a ribbon of magenta and cyan between them and the black clouds that hung like heavy bags, dominating the rest of the sky. A few lights twinkled and the open window admitted the far-off hum of an occasional motor vehicle as it sped up Hagley Road beyond the trees – past Wessex House. The cluster on the near bank beyond their tiny back garden began to rustle as if stirred by some warm wind, and she realised that it was rain she could hear falling on the leaves. A flash of lightening, followed by a distant rumble of thunder, confirmed the change in the weather.

  She was about to go into her own bedroom when she heard a knock at the door. Still holding her mug of Ovaltine, she picked her way downstairs in the darkness. Before going to see who it was, she went into the kitchen and found the matches, struck one and lit the gaslight in the sitting room. The clock said quarter past ten…Whoever it was knocked the door again. It must be Mrs Fothergill wanting to borrow a cup of sugar or a few teaspoons of tea. Henzey took her key, unlocked the door and opened it gingerly. It was dark outside but there was enough light for her to discern that it was Will.

  ‘What are you doing back here?’

  ‘Hello, my love. I didn’t startle you did I? I realised I’d forgotten to take my key, so I decided to come back for it now to save having to wake you early in the morning.’

  ‘Hurry up inside. You’ll get soaked standing there. You should’ve taken your raincoat.’

  He stepped inside the hallway, looking at her in the half light, and followed her into the kitchen.

  ‘Make yourself a drink while I have a look for them,’ she suggested.

  ‘No, I’d better get back as quick as I can.’

  In the sitting room she looked in the fruit bowl where Will usually kept his keys; on the mantelpiece and in the sideboard; even in the coal-scuttle. They were not there. There was no sign of them.

  She turned to him. ‘I can’t see them anywhere. Maybe you put them in your desk after all, without realising it.’

  ‘I bet that’s what I’ve done – put them in my desk without thinking.’

  ‘It’s unlike you, Will. You ought to be more careful. Look at the time you’ve wasted.’

  He laughed dismissively. ‘I know. You can smack my backside if you want.’ He gazed at her.

  ‘Take the spare key just in case.’ She felt in one of the drawers and fished out a key on a leather fob which she handed to him.

  ‘Thanks…I’d best be getting back to work before Sidney misses me.’

  They moved to the hallway.

  ‘I thought Sidney was on the afternoon shift. That’s what you said.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I forgot.’

  ‘Will, you’re getting forgetful in your old age,’ she teased.

  ‘Yes, a moment of senility. Pressure of work.’

  She stopped and looked at him for a few seconds. How tense he seemed. She reached for his raincoat. ‘Here, take this, else you’ll get soaked.’

  ‘I don’t need it, Henzey.’

  ‘But it’s pouring.’

  He took it reluctantly and while he put it on he saw a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Will, I could have sworn you went out in your blue shirt tonight.’

  ‘Er…No, my love. I had the white one on. Must have been a trick of the light…See you in the morning.’

  She reached out to him, and he wrapped her enthusiastically in his arms. It was so good to feel her body against him. He held on to her tightly, as if she might float up to the ceiling if he didn’t, and thought his heart would burst through his chest as he bent his head to feel those succulent red lips on his, so soft, so yielding.

  ‘I love you so much, Henzey,’ he breathed. ‘But I must go.’

  Neville Worthington pulled up the collar of Will Parish’s raincoat, the rain lashing him mercilessly as he ambled in a daze down Reservoir Road on his way home. After his adventure in The Reservoir public house he could scarcely believe how easy it had been to pass himself off yet again as Will Parish; but this time, significantly, he had fooled even Henzey. He had deftly side-stepped the issue of the colour of his shirt, blaming the light. She had even given him a spare door key; an unexpected bonus. But could he be so bold as to use it? Did he possess the brass-bound nerve to let himself into the house in Daisy Road and pass himself off yet again? In the middle of the night, say, when she was lying in bed alone, with Will safely working the night shift? He shrank from the idea. No, that would be taking things too far. He’d got away with tonight’s little raid, a raid he had been driven to by sheer despair, just so he could cast his eyes on her again; and even that had drained him of every ounce of courage he possessed. To believe he c
ould pull it off again would be really pushing his luck. What if Will actually returned home while he was there? Murder might be committed.

  Thunder cracked overhead and rivers of lightning split the sky in a dozen places. The heavy rain hitting the street formed butterflies, frozen like crystal clear ice with each flash of lightning. Rain was running through Neville’s hair, tracking down his neck, off the end of his nose and under his chin; but he did not mind. His world-weary blood was surging through his veins with renewed vigour at what he had achieved this night. If only he could muster the gall to use this key, which Henzey had so innocently handed him.

  He pondered her with a deep and abiding love in his heart as he stepped nonchalantly through swirling puddles and gutters running swift and wide with water. The streets were deserted. Only somebody obsessed with a woman would consider venturing out on such a night. He must be mad. Not even a dog, crazed with the scent of a bitch on heat, would go to this trouble; yet he had; and the object of his desire was certainly not on heat for him.

  If he carried on with this longing, with these lunatic ideas of entering her home pretending to be her husband, nothing but disaster lay ahead. That, he knew. It was rational to think that way. But he could hardly be rational. He was in no fit state to be rational. He was overwhelmed, overwrought, beguiled, infatuated, plagued, utterly bewitched and totally preoccupied.

  Next morning when Henzey awoke, Will was at the foot of the bed in his underpants. His suit was already hanging in the wardrobe and his shirt and socks were in the dirty washing basket. He sensed her peering at him. Smiling, he pointed towards the bedside table at a cup of tea he had brought upstairs for her, and brightly wished her good morning.

  ‘You’d got your key then, love?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘My key? Of course I’d got my key,’ he replied with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Did you get wet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you caught the tram, then?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. Just as I walked by the stop one came, so I hopped on. Lucky, that. Saved my legs at least.’ He stretched and yawned, then pulled the bedclothes back. ‘I’ll get into bed with you, love. Give us a cuddle, eh? Give your poor husband, who’s been out at work all night, a nice cuddle.’