The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

too, and Billy sprawled over her, kissing her thighs?

      It was then, with thankfulness and relief, that she remembered there need be no guilt any more. She had been freed of it. There could be no more threats. Her mother had condoned this sort of thing by her own example. Her mother had behaved like this, also lured by love and by desire; by her own admission; before she was married.

      So could she.

      She sighed vocally at both the realisation and the astounding sensations Billy was inducing.

      ‘My angel,’ he breathed, pushing himself up the bed to face her and to lie alongside her again. ‘Have I shocked you?’

      ‘Shock me a bit more,’ she breathed. ‘Shock me a bit more.’

      ‘Henzey, I want you.’ His voice was as soft and warm as his kisses. ‘God, how I want you.’

      She sighed at the clean, manly smell of his skin. She sighed even more as he slid her knickers down her legs. ‘Oh, Billy, I love you so much.’

      As she lay there afterwards she did not know how she felt. Maybe she had expected too much. Maybe she was expecting some magnificent, automatic fireworks display or something, but none came. Billy lay beside her, quiet, still. She could feel the sweat on his forehead as she stroked it while he fought against sleep. She began to feel cold so she pulled up the bedclothes. Her emotions were half delight that she had given herself, that she had committed herself fully to the man she loved so much, but they were also half disappointment. Billy seemed content but where was the satisfaction for her? Still she felt unfulfilled, hungry after what should have been a feast. She was still aching to be loved, still tingling inside. She turned to Billy and he opened his eyes. They kissed briefly and he smiled, his arm going around her, his hand gently squeezing a cheek of her naked bottom. She loved him beyond her wildest imaginings. The feel of his skin against hers was a delight she had never known before, never properly imagined.

      ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

      ‘About nine, judging by the light. We don’t have to get up yet, do we?’

      ‘Alice and Maxi won’t be back before half past ten.’

      He kissed her again, more fervently this time. ‘Jesus Christ, I love you, Henzey Kite. I didn’t know how much till just.’

      She pushed herself against him. Within a few minutes he wanted her again.

      There was a fireworks display after all. Her eyes were closed but she saw bright lights, dancing, shooting everywhere, cascading in plumes, soaring, bursting, lighting her up, making her smile and gasp and sigh profoundly at the beauty of it all.

      At last she understood. At last she knew what total pleasure was, what real love was. At last she understood why she had always felt so empty and unfulfilled when they had merely kissed passionately before. At last she was a woman, utter and complete. At last she understood why her mother, and so many others like her, had so easily fallen into the oldest of nature’s traps. Who could blame them? Never had she experienced anything like this. Never had she dreamed that there could be anything so sublime. It was a revelation. And she knew already that she was addicted.

      Outside, the light of that first day of June had dimmed. All was quiet except for the sound of a distant motor car and the plaintive barking of a dog on Cawney Hill. She got out of bed, picked up her clothes from the floor, and got dressed. She woke Billy. He, too, slid out of bed and stood, holding her tight before she rearranged the sheets and blankets. While he dressed she tiptoed into Ezme’s room. The curtains were still open and the grey dusk afforded just enough light to see that the old lady still lay undisturbed, exactly as they had left her before they went to bed. Henzey took a match and lit the oil lamp on the bedside table, for Jesse had not seen fit to disturb her with having gas lights fitted in her room while she was so unwell.

      In its glow Ezme’s complexion was like wax. Henzey touched her face with the backs of her fingers, half expecting her to react. But there was no reaction. Ezme’s face felt cold as clay. She was dead.

       Chapter 6

      Ezme Clancey was buried on the 7th June 1929, the same day that Ramsay MacDonald announced the Cabinet that was to form the country’s second only Labour Government. The very same day, Jesse tactfully explained to Herbert that Lizzie was going to have his baby, though Herbert had guessed as much, since his mother’s belly was swelling appreciably. At first he was piqued and told Jesse that it was indecent at their age, but he accepted it well enough when Henzey asked him why on earth he should resent it at all. Lizzie told Alice and Maxine, but they were predictably excited.

      Billy celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday the day afterwards, a Saturday, by taking Henzey out to dinner at The Grand Hotel in Colmore Row, Birmingham. They were joined by some business friends, Harvey and Gladys Tennant, a couple in their late forties, and Neville Worthington with his very attractive wife, Eunice, who was in her late twenties. Henzey estimated that Neville was in his mid-thirties. The event was a double celebration. Billy had just invested five thousand pounds in the firm that belonged to Harvey, Tennant Electrics, which manufactured small electric motors. The investment meant that the firm could expand by broadening their range, to meet the new demand for small electric motors to drive windscreen wipers. Billy was to become a sleeping partner, and he would have a greater incentive to sell their products to the big motor manufacturers. He could not fail to make even more money.

      Neville Worthington was the eccentric owner of a family firm producing commercial vehicles, and Billy had recently won a contract to supply Tennant Electric’s wiper motors to him. He thus felt inclined to nurture the relationship with this new client, and saw this occasion as an ideal opportunity. It turned out to be a very successful and interesting evening for Billy. Henzey, however, was overawed by the extravagance of their guests, by the way they spoke so beautifully, and by the obvious trappings of wealth. She was all of a sudden immersed in another world, far removed from the whitewashed scullery walls, the blackleaded grates and the dilapidated brewhouses of Cromwell Street. But her outward appearance would have fooled anybody; she was wearing an expensive, red, silk pyjama suit that Billy had chosen and paid for; and she looked the very epitome of young feminine beauty and sophistication.

      She was, however, a little subdued. Seated at Billy’s right, with Neville Worthington to her own right, she gazed with eager interest at the haddock with shrimp sauce that had been set before her. She watched Eunice Worthington, waiting for her to take the lead, to ascertain what cutlery she should use for this course.

      Talk at first was about Ramsay MacDonald’s new Labour cabinet.

      ‘The only glimmer of hope,’ said Neville, ‘is that there are no radical extremists there. At least he seems to be attempting to maintain some credulity.’

      ‘Except for that woman he’s appointed Minister of Labour,’ Harvey Tennant scoffed. ‘I mean, a woman in the Cabinet, for God’s sake…’

      ‘You mean Margaret Bondfield,’ Eunice said evenly.

      ‘That’s her. I mean, really! She’s a damned trade unionist.’

      ‘Yes, she’s the chairman of the TUC,’ Eunice added.

      ‘Precisely. What does she know about government? What does she know about the problems facing employers and factory owners like ourselves, eh, Neville? She’s a trouble maker, mark my words. Neither your business nor mine will prosper while the likes of her are in such elevated positions. Baldwin should have held on to the reins, I maintain, and parleyed with Lloyd George for the Liberals’ support. Frankly, I rue the day women were given the vote.’

      Billy astutely perceived tension arising from this political discussion. Eunice Worthington had said little, but he could tell she was a suffragette in spirit and would be at odds with Harvey if the debate allowed to progress. He wished to avert trouble. ‘How did you do at Epsom, Neville?’ he asked astutely. ‘Did you back the winner?’

      ‘Trigo?’