The Dressmaker’s Daughter. Nancy Carson

raised an eyebrow. ‘Not to mention Stanley.’

      Lizzie glanced guiltily at her mother, but Eve had heard nothing. It was then that they heard footsteps in the entry, and Lizzie’s heart started to pound.

      ‘Aye up. Sounds like they’m here now,’ Joe said, disappearing into the cellar with the coal bucket.

      The back door opened and in walked Tom and Sarah. Tom sat himself in the armchair and Sarah sat on its arm, her back towards her husband while they talked. Joe returned from the cellar, heaving the bucket of coal. He set it down on the hearth and made up the fire while Lizzie waited for Stanley to come in. But there were no more footsteps in the entry. No more opening of the back door. The flutter of excitement under her rib cage became an ache. Usually, either Stanley or Sylvia accompanied their mother and father. Tonight, there was neither. Lizzie felt a fervent desire to cry out. Where was Stanley? Why hadn’t he come? But conversation about May’s and Joe’s plans was already in full spate, so she let it be.

      ‘Well, I reckon as we should go and have a drink on it,’ Tom suggested. ‘Let’s pop up The Junction and celebrate.’

      ‘That’s all you think about,’ Sarah complained. ‘Beer, beer, beer. I wonder as you don’t drown in it.’

      ‘No, that’s a bostin’ idea, Tom,’ Joe agreed. ‘Gi’ me a minute to wash me hands. Come on, Mother. Get your lid on. We’m off for a drink to celebrate.’

      So everybody, except Lizzie, began sprucing themselves up and smoothing the creases from their clothes. When they were about to leave, Tom asked her why she wasn’t joining them.

      ‘I’m not old enough to sit drinking in public houses.’ She felt desperately sorry for herself.

      ‘You can sit in the children’s room, my darlin’. I’ll bring you some pop.’

      ‘The children’s room? No thanks, Uncle Tom.’

      ‘But it’s a celebration.’

      Lizzie preferred to stay at home. Stanley was sure to arrive sooner or later. After all, he’d promised. She would wait, and be alone with him when he did arrive.

      *

      But Stanley broke his promise. He did not come to see her that evening; nor the following Sunday evening at church; nor on the Wednesday after that when his parents came visiting again. Stanley wasn’t even mentioned. His continued absence stung Lizzie. If he cared anything at all he would surely have appeared by this time and apologised for not being able to see her before. His feelings on that first Sunday evening of July were too obvious for her to be mistaken. And yet she must have been mistaken. She must have misinterpreted his signals. Something did not add up. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t fathom it out. Had he been merely stringing her along? Was he practising on the nearest girl to see how she might respond to his advances? Perhaps he was. But she could have sworn …

      Lizzie decided that next Wednesday when the Dandos came round she would be out. She would be out returning the compliment, visiting their house in the hope that Stanley would be at home. She had to see him; this not knowing was driving her mad. The least she deserved was an explanation. Besides, she knew Stanley well enough to be able to visit him uninvited.

      Or did she? This intimacy, which had befallen them so easily, had changed everything. Somehow, it complicated their accessibility to each other, which they could have freely enjoyed before. Lizzie was no longer sure of her ground. But she just had to know whether he loved her.

      By the time Wednesday came round again, the weather was uncomfortably hot and humid. The whole country was sweltering in the grip of an intense heat-wave. Lizzie wore a cotton shirt and light cotton skirt. Her long underskirt seemed to stick to her moist, bare legs in the heat, and she wished the day would come when cooler, shorter skirts might be considered seemly. In this sort of weather they would certainly be more comfortable. She stood talking to Gert Hudson and Ida Wassall in Cromwell Street, her hair elegantly done, while she discreetly awaited the arrival of Tom and Sarah. When she saw them she waved but, as she’d anticipated, neither Stanley nor Sylvia accompanied them. So she took her leave of Gert and Ida, and made her way to the Dando’s house.

      Certain that this contrived meeting would sort things out and thus settle her mind, Lizzie strode purposefully on. As she turned into Pitfield Street, where Phyllis Fat lived, half a dozen small children were playing in the gutter, throwing stones at a passing cat. One of them was naked, the rest in rags, their faces grubby, their hair matted with filth. The street was long and narrow, with a long line of crumbling back-to-back terraced houses on each side. Chimneys leaned precariously, slates were missing from the roofs, and paint peeled from faded front doors and window frames. A few people, mostly elderly, sat on the steps of their open front doors in open-mouthed, toothless silence. In some houses the floor was dirt – no quarries, no floorboards, no linoleum. Coal was heaped under the table in those houses that had a table. Often, Eve had warned Lizzie not to venture down Pitfield Street alone, but no ill had ever befallen her. It cheered her to see the occasional house with sparkling windows bedecked with pretty curtains and a bunch of fresh flowers, and a front step conscientiously whitened at those houses where respectability defied poverty.

      As she left it all behind her and walked on to Dixons Green Road, the contrast was marked. Dixons Green was where the well-to-do merchants of the town had established substantial homes. And, although there was a malthouse opposite The Shoulder of Mutton, it did not intrude.

      Lizzie walked on, past The Bush Inn, an old public house with a wooden porch on the front that reminded her of a pigeon loft. Men wearing collarless shirts and braces were leaning against the wall and railings outside, drinking beer, laughing, swearing, enjoying the warm weather, and several of them whistled and hooted after her. From here you could look west and, on a clear day, see the green Clent Hills, but the humidity and stillness of the last few days meant that the atmosphere was thick and hazy now. You could see no further than the old mine workings and pit mounds of Mudhall Colliery, grey and foreboding against the reddening sky; and the old Buffery Clay Pit at the bottom of the hill. And this scarred and barren landscape, relieved only by the tower of St. Peter’s church, a hazy silhouette in distant Netherton, was overlooked by the Dandos.

      As she turned into Grainger Street, Lizzie’s pulse was racing. She had arrived. The Dando’s home was fairly new, built only in 1903. The windows gleamed and an aspidistra sat majestically in a shining, brass pot in the centre of the front room window. They had their own gate at the top of the entry and a private back yard, too, with a garden and flowers that Sarah tended with loving care. Nervously, Lizzie tip-toed through the entry, quietly opened the gate on the right, and walked onto the foreyard. She tapped tentatively on the back door, feeling weak at the knees, wishing now she hadn’t come and hoping that even though she had, Stanley would not after all be at home. After all, there was still Jesse Clancey. She could always turn her attentions to Jesse.

      She waited, and was just about to turn tail and run, when the door opened a fraction. Sylvia’s flushed face appeared, bearing a sheen of perspiration.

      ‘Lizzie!’ She stepped outside and Lizzie could see that her hair was untypically ruffled. She held her stomach in to tuck her blouse into her skirt. ‘What brings you here? Mother and Father have gone up to your house. Is there anything wrong, Lizzie? D’you want to come in?’

      ‘No, no, Sylvia.’ She was retreating backwards slowly down the entry. ‘I … I just thought I might see Stanley, that’s all … If he’s not in, it doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Our Stanley went out, Lizzie. I expect he’s out with his mates for a last drink. Can I give him a message?’

      Still retreating, Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, it’s all right, Sylvia …’

      At that moment, a man appeared at Sylvia’s side, and peered intently into the entry. Lizzie gasped. It was Jesse Clancey. His blonde hair was tousled also, his shirt crumpled. As soon as he could make out Lizzie in the dimness of the entry, he ran his fingers through his hair to try and smarten it up.

      ‘Oh, it’s Lizzie Bishop,’ he said. ‘How