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‘Go on, else you’ll catch your death. I’ll be back in a minute. Sylvia thinks I’ve gone up the yard.’
‘Sylvia thought you’d gone up the yard,’ a woman’s voice said.
They both turned. There was no mistaking that tall, willowy frame even in the darkness. Sylvia’s face was in shadow, the street lamp behind her, and they could not see the stony contempt in her eyes. Her tone of voice, however, was cold as frozen marble, and her diction, so prim and correct these days, lent it a colder edge, even frostier than the weather. Lizzie and Jesse instantly, guiltily, let go of each other. They looked at her, then at each other. It was exactly the sort of confrontation neither wanted. They wondered how much she’d heard; but however much, she had seen them embrace, perhaps even witnessed their lingering kiss.
‘So this is what’s been going on behind my back, is it? This is why you only want to see me three nights a week, is it, Jesse Clancey?’
‘Nothing’s been going on behind your back, Sylvia.’
‘It doesn’t seem like it. Well, our Lizzie, you can have him and welcome, and I hope to God as I never see either of you again as long as I live.’ She burst into tears and fished in the pocket of her coat for a handkerchief. ‘I’m disgusted at you, Lizzie, I really am. But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Not the way I’ve seen you looking at him.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘And to think you’re leading that other poor lad on in there as well. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, you’re no better than a common harlot … and everybody thinks butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’
Lizzie was annoyed at this slur on her innocence. Until now she’d hung her head in sheer embarrassment at being caught in this compromising situation. But why should she feel guilty? She had nothing to hide. It was all innocent enough from her own point of view. She understood how it must have looked to Sylvia, though, so she tempered her pique.
Sylvia turned to go.
‘Sylvia, no matter what it looked like, we were just standing here talking …’
‘Yes, in each other’s arms. And I heard what you were saying.’ Sylvia turned to face her again with increasing scorn. ‘I heard him tell you to keep it quiet in case I found out.’ Although she tensed with vehement anger and frustration, her emotions were surprisingly well under control.
‘For Christ’s sake, Sylvia,’ Jesse said. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. You’ve got nothing at all to blame Lizzie for. She was trying to protect you.’
‘Protect me? Holding you like that? Protect me from what? Do you think I’m completely stupid?’
‘Lizzie, you’d best get back inside as you were about to. Leave me and Sylvia to sort this out between us. She might as well know the rest of it.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything from either of you,’ Sylvia said, contemptuous of being scolded like a disobedient child. ‘My eyes have never deceived me yet.’
‘Well, whether you want to hear or no, you’re going to listen. You can either listen here, or you can listen while I walk you back home, ’cause there’s no way you’re going back into Joe’s house till I’ve told you the truth.’
Lizzie was about to wish them a happy new year as she walked away, but stopped herself; neither the moment, nor the sentiment were appropriate.
‘Lizzie!’ Sylvia called icily. ‘Be sure that after this I shall get my own back. If it takes the rest of my life I’ll get my revenge. No woman steals my man and gets away with it.’
‘Sylvia, I haven’t stolen your man. I haven’t even tried.’
She turned and hurried away, never more glad to be out of an awkward situation. The noise as she passed by the window drowned out any conversation Jesse and Sylvia were now having. Joe was playing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, and most of the guests were singing along to it. Lizzie realised that Sylvia couldn’t have heard very much of what Jesse had said, from that distance at any rate. But seeing her in his arms was enough.
Back in the house Lizzie shuddered as the warm air enveloped her, displacing the cold. She headed straight for the fire and held her cold hands over it, still reeling from the encounter.
‘Every time that door opens the damned cold wafts in,’ Eve complained to Sarah. ‘We might as well be sittin’ up the yard in the privy as sittin’ here. Me belly’s roasted like a bit o’ brisket, and me back’s like ice. It serves me barbarous.’
As she stood by the fire, thinking, Lizzie didn’t know which experience was having the most profound effect on her: Jesse Clancey’s confession; his scrumptious kisses; or Sylvia’s cold hostility. None should have come as any great surprise. She recalled how Jesse always used to ogle her and smile; and Sylvia had shown signs of resentment then, come to think of it. After her little outburst tonight, though, Lizzie decided she wouldn’t be troubled any more at the thought of going out with Jesse. She resented Sylvia’s accusations to the point where she would welcome the chance to get her own back. If her name was going to be blackened it might as well be justified. Yet she knew she would not do it, not even out of revenge. She couldn’t, for she was not of a vindictive nature; and deep down she understood Sylvia’s possessiveness.
‘Lizzie. You’re back.’ It was Ben, standing at her side. She had not noticed him as she gazed into the fire. ‘I went to look for you.’
She smiled at him absently, politely, as though it were the first time she had ever caught sight of him. Then she strove to shake off the fetters of preoccupation. ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said, her eyes wide, happier now, relieved he hadn’t spotted her with Jesse. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a while.’
‘Are you all right? Shall I get you a drink?’
‘I should already have one somewhere. You poured me some lemonade before I went out, didn’t you? I think I fancy something stronger now though. Something to warm me up a bit.’
‘I’ll get you a glass of port, eh?’
The piano playing and the singing stopped momentarily, at which point Lizzie heard Joe calling May to fetch the Hardwicks. May acknowledged him and duly disappeared through the back door. Eve and Sarah, still occupying the scullery and their guardianship of the drinks, shivered again and flashed looks of cold discontent at each other. Sarah finally suggested they take up occupation of the front room where there was only the draught under the front door to contend with; surely somebody would be gentleman enough to offer them a seat. So there was a temporary disruption and rustling of long skirts while they shifted. Meanwhile Joe had begun playing the piano again – a tune called ‘I Wouldn’t Leave My Little Wooden Hut for You’. Amidst the laughing and the general chatter they heard a solitary voice rise, singing along to the piano. It was Beccy Crump who, when she’d had a drink or two, was noted for her uninhibited renditions of this and other songs.
Lizzie, warmer now, sat down on the bottom stair next to the grate, and Ben joined her, bearing her a glass of port and his own pint of beer. She took the port and sipped it, savouring its intensity as it slid down her throat. The back door opened and she looked up with apprehension, expecting to see Sylvia and Jesse, but it was May, who had returned with Jack and Maria Hardwick and Jack’s father and mother. May issued them drinks and they, too, disappeared into the front room, with Maria heavily pregnant, laughing, pretending to conduct the music as they went.
‘When you went outside I was intending to come with you,’ Ben commented when they were alone again. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘When I couldn’t find you I came back inside.’
‘Sorry,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I wish you had found me in time.’
‘Why? What’s up, Lizzie?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you later, when I’ve stopped shivering.’
‘Look, I fancy a walk outside myself. When you’ve warmed up a bit shall we go out for five or ten minutes? Then you can tell me what’s up.’
‘It’s bitter cold out there, Ben. I don’t mind, though – as long as I’m wrapped up warm next time.’ The idea of being alone with Ben on this cold night was starting to appeal again, not just to get away from the atmosphere that was bound to prevail if Jesse and Sylvia returned.
Beccy Crump reached the end of her song and predictably commenced singing, ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’. Lizzie turned and smiled at Ben.
‘He fancies you, Lizzie – that Jesse,’ Ben remarked trenchantly and drew on his cigarette.
‘Oh? D’you think so?’ She was hardly thrilled to be reminded of it after the trouble it had caused.
‘Judging by the way he was looking at you earlier, and the way he followed you outside. D’you fancy him?’
‘I suppose I do,’ she said, teasing him with the truth, but absolving herself because she could not lie easily. ‘I always used to, anyway.’
‘Don’t you think he’s a bit old for you?’
‘Not really … Oh, Ben, don’t let’s talk about Jesse.’
‘Why? Has he upset you? Tell me what’s up.’
She looked around. If Jesse and Sylvia walked in now, or even just the one of them, she would want the floor to open up and swallow her.
‘Let’s go for that walk now and I’ll tell you. Not in here where other folks can hear.’
Ben looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wanted twenty-five minutes to eleven.
‘Don’t forget your hat and coat this time, then,’ he said, reaching his own from the back of the cellar door. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’
A group of people entered The Sailor’s Return, all done up in their best clothes, and another group left. Ben could hear Joe playing his piano and it sounded as though everybody in the room was singing their hearts out. He looked up at the north sky, cloudless, clear, and drew on his cigarette. His mind was full of Lizzie. Daisy had assured him Lizzie had no romantic attachment, and whenever he’d seen her out she was never with a lad; but what was happening with this Jesse? Should he back off for fear of upsetting some other arrangement? He would be loath to do so. Before all this he thought he had a chance. Now he was confused.
Ben liked things clear cut. He liked to know where he was going long before he got there. There was no ambiguity in his own mind as to the likely outcome of a liaison with Lizzie; nor in his feelings, once he was on a given course. He was straightforward and everything had to be above board. He was forthright and if he had anything to say he said it. He was not one for skirting round a problem when he could meet it head on. Neither was he one for flannelling; what he said, he meant.
He heard Lizzie’s footsteps in the entry and turned to see her emerge in her pale coloured coat, her collar turned up to keep out the cold. The street lamp thirty yards away picked out her fine features and he thought she looked so beautiful, yet so preoccupied. He remembered the way Jesse had been looking at her; it was hardly surprising; how could he reasonably expect this girl to have no other admirers? They must surely be falling over each other in the rush.
‘Which way should we go?’ he asked.
‘Uphill’s best.’ Lizzie clutched the collar of her coat to her neck.
‘Go on, then. Tell me what’s upset you.’
She made no response at first, searching for an appropriate way to begin.
‘Tell me what it was, Lizzie. I like things out in the open. I’m not one for secrets and bottling things up.’
Another couple walked towards them. They said nothing more till they’d bid them season’s greetings and gone past.
Then she told him the truth, exactly as it happened. She told him precisely what Jesse had said, and her response, almost word for word. She told him how utterly surprised she was to learn how he felt about her, and assured Ben that she’d never ever tried to lure him away from Sylvia. She told him how they fell unpremeditated into each others’ arms. She told him how Sylvia found them thus and totally misjudged the situation, expressing her concern that such a mistake, however it looked to Sylvia, could open up a needless rift between the two families. But she did not tell him Jesse had kissed her, nor how much she’d enjoyed it.
They turned the corner at The Junction public house. A latch squeaked and clattered, then a door banged and a man wearing a cloth cap and white muffler stumbled out onto the footpath, the worse for drink. There was raucous laughter from within, and somebody played the first few bars of ‘Wait till the Sun Shines Nellie’ on an accordion. Singing began as the couple crossed the street towards Percy Collins’s shop on the opposite corner. It seemed that the whole world was partying.
‘Do you believe me, Ben?’ Lizzie asked intently. This evening had promised so much, but so far it had yielded nothing but trouble. She prayed he would believe her.
‘Yes, I believe you, Lizzie.’
‘That’s a blessing. Especially since I told Jesse I was already seeing you regular. That was presuming a bit, I know. Do you forgive me?’
‘Forgive you? I’d like to start seeing you regular anyway, Lizzie. You’re my sort of girl.’
Lizzie smiled, barely able to conceal her elation. ‘I’d like that, Ben,’ she said softly. ‘I barely know you, though. What if we don’t get on?’
‘I’m willing to take a chance if you are. I’m willing to bet as we’d get on like house a-fire.’ As he spoke he felt for her gloved hand at her side. It startled her when he held it. ‘Would I be able to trust you, though, with that Jesse about?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, Ben. If we’re going to start courting, I can promise you that.’
They walked on in silence for a while, hand in hand, enjoying the moment, turning to smile at each other every few seconds, squeezing each other’s fingers. Lizzie felt warm now from the glow within her, and she felt the tension of her previous encounter with Jesse drain away. Neither the bitter cold, nor the frost crunching beneath her frozen feet, could overcome the warmth of this joy and relief.
‘It was five and twenty to eleven when we come out,’ Ben said at last. ‘Perhaps we’d better get back.’
‘No, not yet. Let’s just walk to the top of the hill. We’ll be able to see for miles from there, it’s so clear. It’s not far.’
Presently they reached the top of Hill Street where the road levelled out. They crossed to the other side and found themselves overlooking a steep embankment. Allotments and an array of rotting old sheds lay immediately below, and a little further away the head gear and buildings of the old Springfield Pit. Beyond that was a vast industrial plain sweeping before them to the north and north east; a landscape randomly pock-marked with quarries and slag heaps.
The light from the moon and the stars enabled them to see much more than they might on any other night; even features of the terrain. Lights twinkled as far as the eye could see, and the red glow of furnaces and ironworks in the distance, still toiling on this festive night, bloomed and faded according to their mode of activity. Products of all descriptions, from all sorts of materials, for practically every purpose under the sun, were being manufactured within sight, even tonight, for the use of mankind the world over.
From this vantage point Lizzie and Ben overlooked Tipton, West Bromwich, Oldbury and Smethwick; a massive expanse of factories. Countless red brick chimney stacks bristled up, spewing out endless columns of grey smoke that were visible even now. The dark, skeletal structures of the pit headgear of scores of collieries visible against the frosted landscape were no relief from the tedious acres of dismal pit banks and cheerless slate roofs, shimmering now with frost as the moonlight glinted off them. During the day the wind had cleared the dust and smoke from the atmosphere; now they could see for miles.
‘It’s so still up here,’ Ben remarked. ‘Listen. You can actually hear the sounds from the factories in the distance.’
They listened intently. It was true. Here and there they heard the sibilant clang of metal against metal as a furnace was charged, the thrum, permanently embedded in the air, of a thousand steam engines, the far-off thuds of forging hammers, intermittent and barely discernible; but it was there; all the industrial sounds ever created by man were there, like a distant abstract symphony, in the silence.
Lizzie snuggled up to Ben as if she had known him years, and he put his arms around her. But it was not the same as when Jesse had embraced her. This was easier. There was no guilt. She did not have to consider Sylvia. She did not have to consider Fern. She did not have to consider anybody, except Ben and herself. She could melt into his arms with utter contentment. No one was about to break in on them and mar their comfortable intimacy. There seemed to be such peace between them. It was such luxury.
‘Look at the stars,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never seen so many stars.’
‘Lizzie?’ She looked into his eyes. ‘I want to ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘Can I kiss you? I’ve been dying to kiss you.’
‘But Ben … What would you think of me if I let you?’
‘No less than I already do. If we’re gunna see each other regular then we’ll end up kissing sooner or later.’
‘And if I let you kiss me you won’t think I’m cheap?’
‘Cheap? ’Course not. I already know you’re decent and respectable.’
He planted a kiss gently on her cheek, as soft as a butterfly landing on a blossom, lingering for a second. Then his lips slowly brushed across her face, moving inexorably to her mouth. She did not resist; rather she waited excitedly, her lips sensually parted; ready for him. It seemed like an age, but in a few seconds she felt his mouth on hers, soft, searching, hungry for contact. Inevitably she compared it to Jesse’s kiss: it was different because Ben had no moustache, but it was no less pleasant. But with this kiss she could respond whole-heartedly; wring full pleasure from it. She felt her skin running with warmth. It was so pleasant she thought it must be utterly wicked, and broke off, panting a little, feeling guilty after all, her breath hot in the cold, night air.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she sighed. But she wanted to experience him more; much, much more. He made her toes curl; he sent tingles up and down her spine. Kissing him was far too pleasant to avoid.
He drew her closer. When he felt no resistance he searched for her lips again and found them waiting for him as if she was expecting it. For the first time ever he felt her body against him, and he ran his hands down the back of her coat to better appreciate her slenderness, while his lips enjoyed the taste of her.
Lizzie’s pulse raced and her mind raced with it. She sensed an unforeseen reaction deep, deep within her, ruthlessly churning up her emotions, tearing anarchically at her very soul, like nothing she had ever known before. Parts of her seemed to come alive that she never expected could. She was longing to be touched, longing to be caressed, and it was a revelation. Her breathing came faster, because these new, sudden sensations were exhilarating, tearing her breath away; her legs were like jelly; her head seemed to spin.
It was some minutes before she became acclimatised to all this delight. She broke off casually, reluctantly, to get her breath back and muster her thoughts. She rested her head on Ben’s shoulder. Would it always be like this? Could it always be like this? Then, strangely, just for a moment, she noticed the cold again, yet infinitely more intense than before and she shuddered. Was this fleeting sensation that penetrated through to her very bones an omen? He sensed her sudden angst and squeezed her affectionately, protectively, rubbing his cheek against her lush brown hair.
‘I’ve been dying to do that for ages,’ Ben whispered. ‘I’ve often wondered what it’d be like, kissing you.’
She sighed, looked up into his eyes and smiled, for the awful, ominous chill left her as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I’ve wondered the same about you, Ben, but I don’t suppose you’ll believe it.’
‘Oh, Lizzie, I’d like to believe it. I want to believe it.’
‘It’s true … I swear it’s true.’
He held her a while longer, savouring the emotions and this other unworldly atmosphere.
‘Come on,’ he said at last. ‘We’d better get back. They’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
‘Oh, let ’em wonder. Come on. Let’s carry on with our walk. As long as we’re back before midnight so you can let the new year in for us …’
Chapter 7 (#u87c75096-38ed-536b-87b5-2b4e26d82dba)
January saw Ben Kite and Lizzie Bishop meeting three or four times a week when he was not working the night shift. Even when the weather was too inclement to venture out Ben would make the uphill trek from Tividale to Kates Hill and spend the evening at Cromwell Street with Lizzie, content with a lingering, goodnight kiss at the back door before he returned home. To be alone they would take a stroll, either through Oakham’s quiet lanes, or into the town where they could gaze into shop windows and weave their dreams.
Eve took to Ben at once. She would have no qualms if things progressed to marriage; he was all she had hoped for in a son-in-law.
And Ben was eager to show off his lovely new sweetheart to his mother and his brothers. So one cold, crisp night, when snow was lying a couple of inches thick, he persuaded Lizzie to walk with him to Tividale to meet them. He had four brothers, but on this first visit she met only two, since the other two were married and lived elsewhere. Ben’s mother, Charlotte, pale, thin and withdrawn, had sought solace in Methodism. His father was the reason.
‘I can remember even when I was a babby, Lizzie, how my father used to come home blind drunk of a night,’ Ben told her as they sauntered hand-in-hand past the old brick works, towards Kates Hill. ‘He used to set about me and my brothers, and then our mother. Mother always had a black eye in those days. He served her barbarous. We hated the sight of him … Still do … If I thought I was going to turn out like him, I’d do away with myself. By the time he came back home of a Friday night, all his money had gone on drink and betting. Mother seldom had any money to feed us and we’d never got backsides in our trousers, nor soles on our shoes. If it hadn’t been for other Methodists my mother knew, and our Cedric and David bringing some money in, we’d have starved. I got no respect for him. No respect at all.’
‘It must be terrible to have no respect for your father.’ Lizzie’s breath hung like mist.
