The Factory Girl Read online

  As she walked unsteadily past the kitchen, something clicked ominously in her mind. Something. She wasn’t sure what. It had some vital significance, but she could not pinpoint it in her perplexity. In the hall, she sat on the stairs and put her head in her hands trying to remember, trying to overcome the unaccountable swimming sensation in her mind.

  Andrew said, ‘I’ll get you another glass of lemonade, shall I?’

  She wanted water, but she was finding it difficult to form the words to say so. Lemonade would have to do. She closed her eyes and her head seemed to spin. With a start she stared around her and shook her head violently in an attempt to stem the awful sensation of giddiness. But she was so thirsty as well. Something was radically wrong. She must be ill. Andrew returned from the kitchen with another full glass and handed it to her. She quaffed the lemonade, staring vacantly.

  ‘I say! Are you all right? You look jolly pale.’

  ‘Oh Andrew, I feel terrible. I’ll have to get some fresh air. I think I’ll have to go home.’

  He took her glass, put it down on the telephone table and helped her to her feet, as well as he was able in his own inebriated state. ‘Not yet. Come on, I’ve got a better idea. You can lie down on my bed and I’ll open the windows for you.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t go to your bedroom. What would people think?’

  But she was incapable of further resistance. Andrew held on to the bannister with one hand and, with his other arm around Henzey’s waist, they lumbered awkwardly upstairs. He struggled to open the door to his bedroom. When at last he did, they entered and both slumped onto the bed. It finally dawned on her that she must be drunk. But she was by no means certain. She’d never been drunk before.

  ‘Have you put shomethin’ in me drinks, Andrew?’ she asked, not without some impediment to her speech. ‘Andrew, have you put anythin’ in me drinks?’

  ‘Oh, just a drop of Russian vodka.’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘Just a teensy-weensy drop. George and I thought it would looshen you up a bit…help you enjoy the party.’

  ‘Oh, what you do that for?’ She sounded so disappointed. ‘I promished my mother…’

  She passed out.

  In her dream she was turning, revolving, spinning in a black velvet sky. Stars whizzed round her at a fantastic rate making her dizzy, and all she could hear was a high-pitched whistling in her head. She was searching, searching, but for what? She could not remember. The shrill whistling grew louder the dizzier she got. A burden of responsibility was hanging heavy upon her, she was aware. But the spinning, the endless turning, the stars racing by, the searching…this anxiety. If only she knew what she was seeking. It was making her feel sick.

  An overwhelming need to vomit forced her to consciousness again and she sat up. She was surprised to see the hem of her dress round her waist and Andrew lying beside her, his hand stroking the bare flesh of her thighs between the tops of her stockings and her knickers.

  ‘Let’s have your clothes off, there’s a sport,’ he was saying. ‘Let’s shee you in the buff.’

  She slapped his face with as much indignation as she could muster and, with an extraordinary effort, staggered off the bed. She opened the door and lurched from the room, stumbling. Just in time she found the bathroom, vacant for once, and retched into the lavatory. She shuddered at the awful bitter taste in her mouth. Almost at once, her head cleared. Again she heaved…And again. Her eyes were streaming…yet miraculously she felt better. But the spark of anger she’d felt was being fanned into a roaring flame by the thought of Andrew’s stupidity. What a downright cad to even think of lacing a girl’s drinks with vodka when she believed all along it was just lemonade? Had he and George done it just so they could take advantage of her and Alice?

  Alice!

  It was then she realised why she was so racked with anxiety.

  She stood up. Her mind was clear. She washed her mouth and wiped the tears from her eyes, then cursed her own slowness of mind. ‘Alice! Oh, Alice!’ If anything had happened to Alice…She thrust open the bathroom door and stormed out. The door to Nellie’s room, the ladies powder room for the evening, was shut. Seeking Alice, she shoved it open angrily. It almost hit Nellie, who was just coming out.

  ‘Hey, I think “excuse me” is the expression you’re looking for, Miss.’

  Henzey ignored her only because she had something more important to attend to. She rushed to the next door on the landing and thrust it open. In the darkness of the room she could just make out two people in bed. Instantly, they parted.

  ‘Is that you, Alice?’

  A girl’s voice answered warily, ‘Hello, Henzey,’

  ‘Alice, you damn fool! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Just talking.’ There was annoyance in her voice.

  ‘Get up, for God’s sake!’ But the sight of George in bed with her sister was too much. Henzey burst into tears, shaking with anger and disappointment at this lesson in human nature. ‘George, George! D’you know how old she is?…Do you?’

  ‘Sixteen, she told me. You were there, at the roller skating rink.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how old she is,’ she sobbed. ‘She’s fourteen. D’you hear what I said? Fourteen.’ Tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘Christ, I had absolutely no idea. She said she was sixteen. You heard her.’ He turned to Alice. ‘You told me you were sixteen, didn’t you? I distinctly remember.’

  Alice shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  Henzey was weeping copiously, tired, and drained of emotion. But she marshalled enough ardour to tell George what she thought of him. ‘Fourteen, sixteen, what’s the difference? Neither makes you any better. Neither makes you a knight in shining armour, specially after you’ve deliberately tried to get her drunk. I bet you think you’re really clever. I bet you and your stupid pals will have a good laugh over this, won’t you?’ She took a deep breath to help regain her composure. ‘Alice, come on. We’re going home.’

  While Henzey waited outside the door, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, Billy Witts appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Somebody says there’s trouble up here.’

  Henzey burst into tears again.

  ‘What’s the matter, my flower?’ He sounded genuinely concerned. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s my sister…in there with that…that swine George…I’m taking her home. What time is it, please? We’re supposed to be home by twelve.’

  ‘It’s about half past eleven. Andrew brought you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did, and some use he is, as well. He’s as bad as that George. He’s as drunk as a rat. Look at him in there.’ They both peered through the open door into Andrew’s bedroom. He was sprawled out on the bed, oblivious to the world. ‘If he’s supposed to be a gentleman, give me a rough miner any day of the week.’

  At that moment, Alice appeared at the bedroom door bleary-eyed, her best dress crumpled, her hair tousled.

  Billy said, ‘I’ll take you home. How far is it?’

  ‘Not far. But we wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with her ladyship.’

  ‘I said I’ll take you home.’

  Henzey shrugged, feigning indifference, but he took it as her acceptance. Once outside, he led them to his car, which was parked in the street, and they drove off.

  ‘So what happened back there? I could see there was something wrong. What was all the fuss about?’

  Henzey explained more fully what had happened at the hands of Andrew and George.

  ‘Did George put anything in your drink, Alice?’ she asked.

  ‘I dunno. Maybe he did,’ she answered. ‘I only had two. I feel all right – I think.’

  ‘I’m livid at that George, Billy. He must have tried to get her drunk. He took her to that bedroom, and she’s only fourteen. I daren’t begin to think what went on.’

  ‘Nothin’ went on.’

  ‘Something went on,
Alice. I could tell by the state of you.’

  ‘Nothin’ went on worth mentionin’. We was kissin’, that’s all. What’s wrong wi’ kissin’?’

  ‘You said you were talking. Either way, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Your frock looks as if it’s been put through the mangle all crooked and you should see your hair. ’Tis to be hoped Mother doesn’t catch sight of you.’

  Billy said, ‘Course, he don’t come from round here, that George. He came up from Windsor with his sister and her young man, just for Andrew’s party. He’s one of his university mates at Oxford.’

  ‘Well the sooner he clears off back, the better.’

  Nobody spoke for a while, till Henzey said, ‘So how long have you been courting Nellie, Billy?’

  ‘About two years,’ he replied.

  ‘Mmm…I like her hair. Where does she get it done?’

  ‘That hairdresser in Union Street, 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 wido
wed 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 clothes that tastefully accentuated them.

  ‘No, can’t say as I do,’ was Rosie’s half-hearted reply.

  ‘Then you’re a very silly girl, Rosie. Does your poor mother know you’re pregnant?’

  Rosie shook her head and looked guiltily into her lap.

  ‘How do you girls get yourselves into such awful trouble? You must want your head looking, Rosie. Get rid of him; that’s my advice. Get rid of him…How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Eighteen, and pregnant by a wanted criminal. My God! Wake up, child, and make something of yourself, and do it while you’ve still got the chance. Then when you’ve done that, try and find yourself somebody decent. Life’ll be a lot easier, take it from me. A lot easier.’

  Rosie sighed heavily. ‘It’s easy to say find somebody decent. But who? Anyway, if I am pregnant, it’s me own fault.’

  ‘Your fault? I’d have thought he’d had a part in it, Rosie,’ Clara suggested wryly. ‘It takes two, you know. Some men are all too keen to take advantage of girls. They promise you the earth. You should’ve been firmer with him. You should have said no. You should’ve told him you’d have no truck with doing things you ought not to be doing unless you’re wed. You should’ve told him – if he wanted that, he should give up his burgling and make a decent, honest living by working, like the rest of us have to, and then marry you. Good God, what’s the world coming to?’

  Clara was in full flow, but she took another bite from her sandwich and munched it while she waited for the reaction of her younger workmates.