The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

he had nurtured many contacts in the trade and had fared remarkably well. Recently he had obtained contracts for all his agencies. Morris Motors had contracted to buy a new American type of window-winding mechanism, and Austin a new headlight that used a solenoid to dip the reflector. Vauxhall were fitting a high-frequency electric horn from a continental firm he represented, instead of the usual hand-operated bulb horns. A company from Birmingham with whom he had connections, called Worthington Commercials, which had recently gone into the business of producing three-wheeled vans, were promising to place orders. All this business netted him a tidy sum and would continue to do so for as long as the equipment was purchased. The motor trade was thriving, he told Henzey and, judging by the ever-increasing numbers of cars on the roads, she reckoned it must be true. Billy still lived with his mother and father but he had notions of changing all that soon enough.

      Billy Witts was quietly taken with Henzey. She was an enigma; different to all the others. Whenever he saw her he couldn’t take his eyes off her lovely face. It was amazing that a girl so young, and with such exquisite looks, was so modest; she was not in the least conceited. If anything she underestimated her potential, yet at the same time she possessed tremendous self-esteem. Every time he saw her he expected her to say that she had started courting and he knew that, when that day arrived, he would kick himself for not being the lucky one to have snapped her up.

      Just yet, though, he could not quite fit her in. Ideally, he would need to sever relations with Nellie and, even though things with her were at a critical stage, he was loath to do it just yet. Nellie was sullen, self-centred and demanding, and Billy was finding her possessiveness increasingly stifling, for he enjoyed other women besides her from time to time; but her family was rich. At first, of course, he found it flattering that the lovely daughter of a wealthy industrialist and town councillor was head over heels in love with him. Gradually, however, her shortcomings were eclipsing her virtues. Compared to Henzey, she had no virtues at all.

      But one thing ensured his continuing interest in Nellie, and that was sex. It had become their mutual obsession; an art form; the only enduring feature of their liaison. It was like a drug, and his other women paled in comparison. Such a situation was not unique in the liberal atmosphere following the Great War, when torrid affairs were more readily accepted, especially among the wealthy. But he was actually growing to dislike Nellie, and yet he could not keep his hands off her. The relationship was thus rendered tolerable, but as unstable as nitro-glycerine.

      His heart, however, was with Henzey. But, because she had to be lacking in sexual experience, he hesitated to involve himself. Whenever he encountered her he was entirely confused: he would behold her girlish innocence, study her striking face, her youthful figure, her wholesome demeanour and end up telling himself that she was as close to perfection as he would ever find. So after weeks of soul-searching, convincing himself that there was no future with Nellie, he finally made up his mind that somebody in his position really ought to have a girl as lovely and unspoiled as Henzey Kite on his arm, for all to admire.

       Chapter 3

      On Wednesday the 27th of March Henzey waited eagerly for early closing. Billy Witts had arranged to meet her at last, and promised to take her to The Station Hotel to celebrate her seventeenth birthday, which was tomorrow. She was wearing her best coat, and had taken a new skirt and blouse to work to change into. When the shop closed, she had duly changed, made up her face and gone out eagerly to meet him.

      The fact that he continued to call on her – always during working hours – had been tormenting her. He was patently interested in her, and it had spawned her greater interest in him. Every time he appeared she would think that this must certainly be the day he would ask her out, but every time he left her, saying: ‘See you soon, then, Henzey.’ This relentless teasing was driving her mad and fuelling her fixation. She cared deeply for him now; her infatuation and curiosity had matured into love; but that love remained frustrated, unexpressed, because he’d allowed no outlet for it. It was unthinkable that love of such intensity as hers might be ignored. So she dared to hope that this one occasion – this sole dinnertime tryst – might just be the trigger to fire him into romance. He was so cool and collected, self-confident

      At ten minutes past one, the appointed time, Henzey and Billy met by his rakish 1926 Vauxhall sports tourer parked in the Market Place outside Boots the Chemist. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek – the first time ever – which made her tingle inside, and he told her how lovely she looked. As the swish motor-car pulled away, envious passers-by witnessed her happy, smiling face that was hiding a deal of nervousness.

      ‘So how’s it feel to be on your last day of being sixteen, Henzey?’ Billy asked as they drove past the open market.

      She turned to look at his handsome face, scarcely able to believe that she had him all to herself, in the privacy of his car, without the staff of George Mason’s winking and nudging each other as they looked on. ‘Well, it’s year closer to being twenty-one.’

      They pulled up on the front apron of the mock Tudor building known as The Station Hotel, an imposing structure, overlooking the railway station in the cutting below. Evidently Billy believed she looked old enough to take into a public bar.

      He took her hand and led her into a comfortable and well-furnished saloon. There were men in there, businessmen, she presumed, by the look of their fine suits and starched white collars and cuffs. Some spoke to Billy, and some merely nodded, but she noticed how they all watched her. She sat on a settle that was finely upholstered in dark green moquette and Billy went to the bar, returning with a bottle of champagne and two lead crystal flutes.

      Henzey flinched as the cork popped and hit the ornately plastered ceiling, and she laughed at her own nervousness. With a practised skill he filled the two glasses slowly, allowing the bubbles to subside.

      ‘I expect you’ve done that lots of times,’ she suggested.

      ‘But never before with you, Henzey. This is just our own private little celebration, and a chance to talk to you properly. I’ve been meaning to for ages. Bottoms up! Happy birthday for tomorrow.’ He raised his glass.

      She did the same, sipped the liquid and the bubbles tickled the end of her nose. ‘You’re not trying to get me drunk, like your daft brother-in-law, are you, Billy?’

      ‘Hey, hang on a bit. Let’s get this straight. First, I ain’t trying to get you drunk – that’s not my style – and second, Andrew ain’t me brother-in-law. Nor ever likely to be.’

      Her curiosity at his latter comment set her pulse racing.

      Billy casually took a Black Cat from his silver cigarette case, tapped the end down, put it between his lips and lit it. When he had exhaled his first cloud of smoke he began twirling the champagne flute on the table, gazing into it, pondering Nellie a moment. Nellie was becoming insufferable when she had her clothes on; hard work these days. It was even worth considering forfeiting her share of the Dewsbury fortune; worth considering forfeiting the possibility of a seat on the board of the Castle Iron Foundry. Henzey was far more agreeable. Her lack of sophistication and unassuming manner were refreshing, and far more suited to his own temperament.

      ‘Me an’ Nellie have been going through a bit of a rough patch,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve decided to finish with her – give her up. We couldn’t go on like we have been. It was a waste of time.’

      Henzey looked into her glass, too, watching the bubbles, like tiny stars, rise to the surface. She said, ‘I bet she’s heartbroken.’ She wanted to say more – a lot more – and a thousand questions begged to be asked.

      ‘Heartbroken? Maybe she is, maybe she ain’t. She’ll get over it, whether or no.’

      ‘How do you get on with her mom and dad, Billy?’

      ‘All right, I suppose. Her mother gets a bit above herself sometimes, but old Walter Dewsbury’s a down to earth Black Countryman.’

      ‘It’s funny, I imagined him to be ever so