The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

him. When he smiled, his eyes creased and twinkled, and she felt she would be able to trust him with her life. He was about twenty-four, she reckoned. Funny, though, but every new man she fancied seemed to be significantly older than the one before.

      Seeing Billy Witts, so unexpectedly, lifted Henzey from her melancholy over Jack Harper and clarified the murkiness. But it also stirred up the loathing she felt for Nellie Dewsbury.

      That feeling was intensified when one Tuesday – it was the 16th of October – Henzey and Clara Maitland went to join the crowds for the official opening of Dudley’s new Town Hall. Stanley Baldwin, the Prime Minister was there to perform the opening ceremony. All the local dignitaries were present, and the two friends had insinuated themselves into a good place to view the proceedings, lining the steps to the new entrance. Over the heads of the crowds they could see a cavalcade of cars approaching. There was a buzz of excitement as, one by one, the cars pulled up. At last Mr Baldwin stepped out with the Mayor of Dudley and Lady Mayoress, to some cheers and, predictably, some jeers. Four cars later, a man with a ruddy complexion alighted with his wife and another, younger, trim-looking girl. Henzey saw, to her great surprise, that it was Nellie Dewsbury.

      Henzey nudged Clara urgently. ‘Look! There’s that Nellie Dewsbury I told you about,’ she whispered. ‘That must be her mother and father.’

      As she swanked up the steps, Nellie caught sight of Henzey just a few feet away and gave her a look that would have withered a lesser mortal. Then she stuck her nose in the air and strutted uppishly into the Town Hall.

      ‘I see what you mean,’ Clara remarked. ‘Snotty devil, isn’t she?’

      ‘I hate her. Oh, I hate her. Did you see her? Did you see how snooty she was?’

      ‘She’ll get her comeuppance, Henzey. That sort always do.’

      Henzey smiled, her annoyance abating. ‘I wish I could let her know that her Billy’s been to see me. That’d nark her good and proper.’

      Billy began calling regularly. At first it was no more than once a fortnight, but soon his visits became more frequent. They would chat for only a few minutes, then he would depart. It seemed to Henzey that they were becoming good friends, yet he rarely spoke about Nellie, inclining her to believe there was something amiss with that relationship. Why else would he keep calling on her? Yet he never once asked her out. She was dying to be asked; not least because of the opportunity it presented to wreak revenge on Nellie, whose unkind words at the party still haunted and hurt her, especially as she’d previously admired the girl so much.

      Henzey looked forward to Billy’s visits and, as each one approached, she would make a special effort to look good. If he was a day or two late she would fret, forever glancing through the front windows of the store, and would smile with pleasure and relief when she saw him arrive outside. Her workmates recognised her infatuation, and she suffered endless teasing.

      ‘Nice frock you’m wearin’ today, Henzey,’ Edie Soap commented one morning in December as she was restocking shelves with blue bags of sugar. ‘Billy due?’

      ‘How should I know?’ she answered sheepishly. She had just struggled in from the stockroom with a fresh tub of cheese and was cutting it, ready for it to be displayed. ‘I never know if or when he’s coming. He just turns up.’

      ‘I reckon ’er’s took with ’im,’ Edie said to Rosie and Clara. They were making neat parcels of groceries for those customers whose orders were to be delivered.

      ‘I’d be took with ’im, an’ all,’ Rosie answered. ‘I wish ’e’d come an’ see me.’

      ‘Come on, Rosie,’ Edie said. ‘He’d have no truck wi’ you and your big belly.’

      Henzey smiled, and wished she could assume some claim over Billy. But she could not. He only ever came and talked to her. She could not say he was hers, and it was looking as though she never would.

      Clara picked up a Christmas pudding from the shelf behind her and nestled it into the box she was packing. ‘What’s he do for a living, Henzey? He always looks smart. His suits aren’t cheap, are they? And you only have to look at his shoes to know he spends a lot of money on his things.’

      Henzey shrugged. ‘He works for himself.’

      ‘Not as a chimdey sweep,’ Rosie said.

      ‘Nor as an iron puddler,’ Phoebe Mantle offered.

      ‘He’s an agent,’ Henzey informed them nonchalantly. ‘He sells things. To the motor car factories. Things like electric motors for windscreen wipers…and things with adenoids in…’

      ‘You mean solenoids?’ corrected Wally Bibb with a chuckle. Wally was the manager and, while trade was quiet, he had no objection to their chatter.

      Henzey laughed with the others at her mistake. ‘Oh, all right. Solenoids…He sells things with solenoids in to the car firms, like Morris and Austin and Clyno…and Vauxhall.’ Henzey thought the list sounded impressive.

      ‘He must make a tidy penny,’ Clara said.

      ‘I think he’s quite well-off,’ Henzey remarked with satisfaction. ‘He told me once he’d got a fortune put by in stocks and shares.’

      ‘Trying to impress you, was he?’ Wally suggested cynically, sharpening the blade of his carving knife.

      ‘I don’t think so, Mister Bibb. Why should he want to impress me? I’m nothing to him.’

      ‘He’s got no side on him, I’ll grant you that,’ Clara said. ‘He’s not one of those snooty toffs.’

      ‘He’s not a toff, Clara. Well not born a toff, at any rate. He comes from one of those terraced houses in Abberley Street up by Top Church. His family are just ordinary folk. But he’s done well for himself in the motor industry from what I hear of it.’

      ‘And the best of luck to him,’ said Clara. ‘How old is he? Twenty-five?’

      ‘Twenty-four.’

      ‘Young to have done so well. He’ll end up a millionaire at that rate.’

      ‘Or a bleedin’ pauper,’ Wally muttered cynically. ‘Anyway, I thought you said he’d got a fancy bit. I thought you said he was knockin’ off Councillor Dewsbury’s daughter.’

      ‘Oh, her,’ Henzey replied with disdain. ‘He’s courting her for the time being, yes. But I don’t think it’ll be for much longer. He doesn’t seem that taken with her.’

      Wally scoffed. ‘That’s what he tells you, Henzey. Whatever he tells you, take it with a pinch of salt.’

      Wally annoyed her sometimes. It seemed as if he was jealous of any man she was interested in. Adding fuel to these beliefs, she often caught him staring at her, which made her feel uncomfortable. Sometimes she could sense he was looking at her; at her breasts, at her hips, her legs, her waist. It was most disconcerting. But she could never be interested in Wally. He was in his mid-thirties, married, with several children; she wasn’t sure how many. He had short, stubby fingers, a big droopy moustache and greasy hair that smelled of rancid lard; and the hem of his long apron dusted his shoes when he walked. He was interested in photography and, once, he had asked Henzey if he could take some pictures of her on the Clent Hills, but she refused. The idea of him gawping at her through the back plate of his field camera while she posed, not knowing what dirty thoughts he might be thinking, did not appeal.

      ‘Well, I don’t really expect anything, Mister Bibb,’ Henzey replied, trying not to show her indignation. ‘I can never expect to have the likes of him, so I don’t suppose I’ll be too disappointed.’

      ‘But you can dream, Henzey,’ Clara encouraged. ‘You can certainly dream.’

      Billy Witts was no academic, and his repartee was rarely sparkling, but he exuded a presence that was sufficient to compensate. This was especially so in business, where he proved to himself that it was no detriment to