The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

I think.’

      Billy smiled to himself. What little he’d seen of this girl he liked. She was not sophisticated like Nellie, but she was no less beautiful. There was something refreshing about her, even in her distressed state. He perceived within her an earthy passion, something indefinably basic, elemental. She had no airs and graces, yet she possessed undeniable self-esteem. She was like him; a born survivor with the potential to be a cut above the rest. There was hidden promise in her clear blue eyes, her red lips, so kissable, and her long, shapely legs. He changed to a lower gear as they turned into the Market Place, and glimpsed the few tantalising inches of her thighs that were visible as her short dress rode up her legs in the seat next to him. Pity she was so young. But with such potential all she needed was the rough edges knocking off her. She could be moulded into something really special.

      The town was deserted. Henzey peered through the car window now at George Mason’s shop, and tried to push to the back of her mind all the questions her workmates would ask on Monday about the party. They were expecting her to be practically engaged to this wealthy Andrew Dewsbury she’d told them so much about. Now she would look such a fool. They were expecting a love affair at the very least. They had even called her Cinderella when she told them she had to be home by midnight.

      ‘I’m not looking forward to work on Monday,’ she said absently.

      ‘What on earth’s made you think of work?’ Billy asked.

      ‘ ’Cause we’ve just gone past the place where she works,’ Alice proclaimed, pointing. ‘At George Mason’s just there,’

      ‘You have to turn right here up Hall Street,’ Henzey said. ‘Anyway, how come you don’t sound like the Dewsburys and all that crowd, Billy? The first time I caught sight of you I thought you’d talk really posh, like them.’

      ‘I’m just an ordinary chap, who happens to be courting somebody who does talk posh. I can put it on when I have to.’

      They travelled on in silence, listening to the thrum of the big Vauxhall engine as it reverberated between the red brick terraces in Kates Hill’s narrow, inclined streets. Eventually they turned into Cromwell Street.

      ‘Is this where you live?’

      Henzey peered out. Iky Bottlebrush was mopping round the floor of his fish and chip shop before he went to bed. ‘Here’s fine, thanks. It’s very nice of you, Billy.’

      ‘It’s the least I could do. Andrew was in no fit state to bring you back, was he? And I should hate you to think all blokes are the same. By the way – what did you say your name was?’

      ‘Henzey.’

      ‘And your surname?’

      ‘Kite.’

      He flashed her a broad smile. ‘See you around sometime, Henzey Kite.’

      They clambered out of the car, shut the doors behind them, and crossed the street to walk the last few yards, stepping over the inky puddles that punctuated the pattern of damp cobbles. Smoke was curling into the dark, navy sky from the rows of chimneys that were lined up like soldiers on the slate roofs of the terraced houses. A dog barked in the next street, and a key turned in a lock, shutting out the night for someone. Under the light of the gas street lamp, Henzey stopped to inspect Alice again, and tried to smooth away the creases in her dress with the flat of her hand.

      ‘Hope and pray Mother’s not back yet,’ she told Alice as they walked on. ‘Hope and pray she’s still out with Jesse.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t care, Henzey. We din’t do anythin’…More’s the pity.’

      ‘What do you mean, more’s the pity? You ought to be ashamed. Would you have let him?’

      ‘I let him kiss me.’ She shrugged. It was of little significance to Alice. ‘We kissed with our mouths open…And he stuck his tongue in me mouth.’

      Henzey shook her head in disgust. ‘Yuk!’

      ‘It was nice…I let ’im feel me Phyllis and Floss as well.’

      ‘Oh, Alice, you didn’t!’ She stopped walking, both for effect and to allow this alarming piece of information to sink in.

      ‘Why not? What’s wrong with that?…Come on, slowcoach. What yer stopped for?’

      ‘It’s just not right, Alice. A girl your age. You should think more of yourself. What if you got into trouble?’

      ‘We din’t do that, if that’s what you’m thinkin’.’

      ‘Well, the way you’re talking, nothing would surprise me.’

      ‘No, I only let ’im feel me Phyllis and Floss – only for a minute or two. Nothin’ else.’

      Henzey sighed heavily, more troubled than Alice could appreciate, but resumed walking. ‘I blame myself. I should never have let you out of my sight. I should’ve known they might try to get us drunk…God, my head’s spinning again now…Oh, I hope I’m not going to be sick again.’

      ‘Mine is a bit now as well, an’ I only had two. Is that how drink makes you feel?’

      ‘Oh, Alice, I despair of you…’

      They turned into the entry on tiptoe, lest their footsteps announced their return. The door to the brewhouse was shut and the house was in darkness. At least Herbert, and Maxine their younger sister, had gone to bed. Henzey lifted the door latch and entered. Embers slipped in the blackleaded grate, prompting a flurry of sparks to shoot up the chimney, but affording sufficient light for her to see where she was going. She felt on the mantelpiece for a spill, and kindled it in what remained of the fire. As it flared, she reached for the oil lamp that resided on the windowsill and lit it, trimming the wick to give less smoke. The old black marble clock said five to twelve. She turned and saw that the door to the cellar was shut. She rounded the old horsehair sofa her father always used to lie on, reached out and lifted the latch as quietly as she could. Her mother’s coat was not hanging there. She breathed a sigh of relief.

      ‘Upstairs, quick,’ she whispered. ‘She’s not back yet. And, in the morning, when she asks how we got on, say we had a smashing time.’

      ‘I had a smashin’ time anyway.’

       Chapter 2

      The back room at George Mason’s grocery store in Dudley Market Place was where the female staff ate their sandwiches and made pots of tea. It was small and whitewashed. The glass on the outside of the tiny iron-framed window, that afforded it some daylight, had not been cleaned in two decades, but a pair of second-hand chenille curtains had been hung at it years ago. A couple of creaky chairs with fraying squabs furnished it, along with a torn seat lifted from a charabanc that had been involved in a road accident. A brass tap rhythmically dripped cold water into a stone sink and, on top of a scrubbed wooden draining board, stood a gas ring, a black enamelled kettle and a selection of odd cups and saucers. In this room, secrets were revealed, souls were bared and an infinite amount of gossip was examined and disseminated.

      Talk was usually about men. Henzey wondered how some of these girls she worked with got themselves into the cumbersome situations they confessed to, and decided they must be as immature as the boys they associated with. For instance, poor Rosie Frost, one of her workmates, had become involved with a young lad who was wanted by the police for burglary. He was lodging with Rosie and her widowed mother, using it as a safe house, abusing their good nature. At one of their dinnertime discussions, Rosie confessed she was having his child.

      ‘And do you love him?’ Clara Maitland asked. Clara was thirty, a childless widow, and a fine-looking woman, who was indifferent to the advances of optimistic suitors. She was well-fleshed but not overweight, her figure unsuited to the will-o’-the-wisp, boyish look that was in vogue; Clara had feminine curves and wore affordable