A Daughter's Disgrace (3 page)

‘I know I’m too tall,’ Alison began, ‘but I can’t help …’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ cut in the woman. ‘Your height is an asset. Many would love to be as tall as you. But when you round your shoulders and stare at your feet all the time you ruin the whole effect. You must project style and poise. Style and poise.’

Alison looked at her as if she was speaking another language.

‘So you see, my dear,’ said the woman, moving towards the door, ‘until you understand what I’m talking about, and I can see that you don’t, this is not the place for you. I must detain you no longer. I wish you luck in your search for more suitable employment.’ With that, she ushered Alison back onto the freezing pavement and shut the door firmly behind her.

Alison was totally humiliated. It was one thing to be insulted by her family, the local children and the men at the factory. That was bad, but she was used to it. This felt different. She couldn’t help her height. She couldn’t help having ugly, worn-out clothes. Staring ahead up the hill, she knew she’d have no choice but to drag herself back up to the top, in the useless shoes that weren’t made for walking, and which had been a waste of time.

Close to despair, Alison knew that she should see if any other places around here had cards in the window advertising jobs, as she wasn’t down Wandsworth way very often, but she’d lost the will to search. She knew she couldn’t go straight home – even if Cora was still at work, her mother would be bound to hear from someone that her youngest had been in all afternoon and then there’d be a huge row and she’d be accused of not trying. Her mother and sister had a point – she was as useless as they said, and without the kind women at the factory nobody was going to make her believe otherwise. She couldn’t go to a café – she dared not spend the money for a cup of tea or a bun. There was nothing for it but to walk the chilly streets until it grew dark, and then she would have to face Hazel’s anger when she told her there’d be no cut-price wedding dress after all.

‘Drink up, Nev!’

The news had got out about his engagement and all his mates from the paint factory who weren’t on the late shift had insisted on taking Neville to the pub to celebrate.

‘Commiserate, more like,’ said Dennis Banks, one of the older ones, who loved to tell them all about his success with different women every weekend. Neville grinned. He didn’t believe half the tales – some of them sounded physically impossible. But he wasn’t going to turn down the offer of a free pint.

‘Yeah, what d’you want to get yourself shackled for so young?’ demanded Nobby. Nobby was prematurely bald and had slightly bulging eyes, so Neville reckoned he hadn’t had too many chances of being shackled himself.

‘Nobby, ain’t you seen her?’ said Bill Stevens. ‘You should be so lucky. She’s a real looker, is Nev’s bird. Oh, she’ll tire him out, she will. He’ll be a shadow of his former self. But he’ll be happy with it. Won’t you, Nev?’

‘Never happier,’ beamed Neville. It was true. He’d had two and a half pints, he was engaged to the most beautiful woman in Battersea, and here were all his mates, wishing him well. They were in the smoky public bar, and things were just beginning to get raucous, but he didn’t mind. He felt as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Do you know what to do on the big night?’ Dennis went on. ‘Shall I give you some tips? I got lots of those …’

‘Yeah, like don’t let your sister go down a dark alley with Dennis,’ interrupted Bill, setting down his glass on the worn wooden counter. ‘Another, young Nev?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Nev ignored all the nudging and tried to focus on the pint before him as all the lights from the bar and brass from the surrounds seemed to be shining extra brightly. He wasn’t really worried about his wedding night, even though he hadn’t had much experience. His mates assumed because he was a good-looking bloke that he’d had plenty of women but it wasn’t true. He’d been cooped up sharing a bedroom with his younger brother for most of his life and there hadn’t exactly been many opportunities to break away, and God alone knew there wasn’t a spare inch of space at Hazel’s house. Even though she had a room to herself there was no chance of a bit of slap and tickle with her mother and sister living in such close quarters. Still, he loved her and she loved him, so what could go wrong? He certainly wasn’t going to be asking Dennis for tips.

‘Not in a hurry to get married, are you?’ Nobby asked. ‘No big rush, is there? You ain’t expecting the patter of tiny feet?’

‘Get away, Nobby.’ Nev pretended to be offended. ‘My Hazel’s a respectable girl. There won’t be no hurried wedding for her. She wants the best. And I’m going to give it to her.’

‘Oh, we’d all give it to her,’ Bill laughed. Some of the others joined in, especially those who appreciated Hazel’s finer points.

‘That’s enough, boys,’ said Frank Dalby, their foreman. ‘Leave the lad to have his drink. No call for insulting the lady. Time enough for insults when you’re married, and I should know.’

Frank’s wife was famous for giving as good as she got, but nobody really had a bad word to say about Marian Dalby, who had been known to bake fruit cakes for her husband to take in to the lads on late shift, in case they got hungry as the hours of the night wore on. Nev thought that if his marriage was as happy as Frank’s then he’d have no cause for complaint. Even so, he couldn’t quite see Hazel cooking for his workmates.

But that didn’t matter. Here was Dennis giving him a new pint, there were all his friends raising their glasses to him, and Hazel was going to be his wife. Neville Parrot was on top of the world.

Hazel was on her lunch break from the café where she worked. She wasn’t really hungry, as she’d had a huge bacon sandwich after the breakfast rush had died down. ‘Can’t have you wasting away before your big day,’ her boss had said. Not much danger of that, thought Hazel. Still, she knew Neville liked her curves, and it was up to her to make the most of them.

Now she found herself wandering towards the street market, which was busy with shoppers out for a bargain. Housewives crowded round the food stalls, some with small children. One boy, whose socks were falling down, reached for an apple and his mother immediately smacked him on the ear. ‘I’ve told you before,’ she shouted. ‘Put that down now.’

Hazel shook her head and walked on. She hadn’t had many apples as a kid, or at least not ones to eat as a treat when they were out shopping. Cora made apple crumble, eking out the fruit with lots of oats, but there hadn’t been the money to spare for much else. Not that there had been much else available, thanks to the war and food rationing. She hurried away as the boy began to cry.

There were several stalls selling clothing and bolts of material, and she couldn’t help but be drawn to one of them. ‘Morning, Hazel,’ said the stallholder. It was Joe Philpott, who’d known her family for years. ‘Is the good news true, then? You and Neville are getting hitched?’ He was a big man with a round face, and she’d never seen him anything other than smiling. How he did it, she couldn’t imagine, standing out here in all weathers, dealing with grumpy customers, half of which were always trying to get something for nothing. It was bad enough in the café but at least you were indoors, and always had the kitchen to escape to. Out here, there was no avoiding anyone.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He popped the question and I said yes.’

‘Has he given you a ring then?’ Joe wanted to know.

‘Not yet, we’re going to choose something together,’ Hazel said hurriedly. She didn’t want anyone thinking Neville was too cheap to buy her one. ‘He didn’t want to risk getting the wrong size. I’d have been really disappointed if he’d done that.’

‘Quite right too,’ Joe agreed. He stamped his feet on the cold ground. ‘Will you be looking to do a spot of dressmaking before the day itself? Who’s doing your dress? Are you having bridesmaids?’

Hazel bit back her irritation at his persistence. She was careful to keep her temper in check in public and liked to present a respectable front. There was no point in being rude to Joe, particularly if she might have to come to him for cut-price material in the near future. She desperately wanted a proper long white dress from a shop but since Alison had failed to get that blasted job, letting them all down, she knew it might not happen. Yet again she cursed her sister for being so useless.

‘Not sure yet,’ she said blithely. ‘We only just got engaged. We haven’t decided on many of the details. But I expect we’ll be needing something. Will you keep your eyes out if anything good comes along?’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ Joe assured her, smiling more widely than ever. He watched as Hazel turned and made her way further along the market. What a fine-looking young woman she was. That Neville was one lucky sod. He’d better treat her right. God knows that family had been through terrible times when the girls were little. Still, look at Hazel now. It just showed that even if life dealt you an unfair hand, you could still come out fighting. That’s what he believed himself. It’s what kept him coming back to his stall on the coldest days of the year.

Hazel paused at the hardware stall, trying to remember if her mother needed anything for the kitchen. A familiar face looked at her and she had to think for a moment who it was. Then it came to her – it was one of Neville’s colleagues from the paint factory. Bill, that was his name. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Congratulations, Hazel,’ said Bill, putting down the toolkit he’d been inspecting. ‘Good to know you’re making an honest man of that Neville at last.’

‘Someone’s got to do it,’ she said. ‘Not at work today, then?’

‘I’m on the late shift,’ Bill explained. ‘Pay’s better. Not so many distractions either. Cuts into your social life but I reckon it’s worth it.’

‘Good idea,’ said Hazel. She pushed back a wave of her auburn hair. ‘Neville’s going to do more late shifts and overtime so we can save up.’

‘Yes, he told me he was thinking of doing that,’ said Bill. He glanced at his watch. ‘Nice to see you but must be going.’ He waved and moved on. If he had a woman like Hazel to go home to he wouldn’t be working lates. Neville must be mad, leaving a bird like that to amuse herself every evening. Still, it wasn’t his worry.

Hazel noticed a set of knives going cheap and reached across to take a better look at them. They seemed like decent quality for the bargain price and she knew their old ones at home were in a sorry state, with loose handles and blades worn thin from years of sharpening. She’d take them back as a peace offering to her mum for having lost her temper in front of her niece. She was sorry about that now, and hadn’t wanted to frighten the little girl. Bringing these home would show she could think of others, not just of herself. Pleased at having such a clever idea, Hazel got the stallholder to round the price down still further and set off back to the café, carrying her bargain.

Someone pushed open the door to the shop and set the bell ringing. Cora hurriedly looked up from the counter, where she’d been reading the
Daily Mail
. She’d been enjoying the story of the new princess in Monaco. She’d always been a Grace Kelly fan and now the former film star had a daughter who was born a princess. Sighing, Cora put from her mind her worries about her own family.

Then she realised she recognised the figure who’d just walked in.

‘Fred Chapman!’ she exclaimed. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. Where’ve you been hidin’ yourself?’

‘Cora Butler, as I live and breathe,’ said Fred, wheezing as the warm air hit him. He was a short man with a balding head and a face red from the chilly January weather. His hands were large and coarse, from heavy lifting and hard work, but his smile was genuine and lit up his plain face. ‘Didn’t realise you worked here. You don’t look a day older than when I last saw you.’

‘Couldn’t have been that long ago then, Fred.’ Cora gave him a straight look. ‘But how have you been keeping? Have you still got that butcher’s shop on Falcon Road? And how’s your mother?’

Fred’s expression changed. ‘That’ll be why you haven’t seen me in a while,’ he said. ‘Mother died last year and I’ve been trying to get things sorted ever since. It hasn’t been easy, what with it being just me to do everything and keep the shop going too. But she hadn’t been well for ages so I couldn’t have wanted her to go on the way she was.’

‘A blessing, then,’ said Cora. Privately she thought it was just as well. Old Mrs Chapman had been a proper harridan, bullying her mild-mannered son and taking out her disappointments on anybody stupid enough to go near her. Cora remembered many years ago, when her husband had still been alive, going round to the flat above the shop and getting her head bitten off for nothing more than saying hello. Jack Butler had been good friends with Fred Chapman before the war, despite being a few years older, but that had made no difference to the spiteful old woman. Looking at Fred, she wondered where the time had gone, realising that he must be in his early forties now.

‘Maybe,’ said Fred, rubbing his hands and looking around. ‘So how long you been here, then, Cora?’

‘The job came up just when me back got too stiff to take in the laundry, and I have to say it suits me down to the ground,’ beamed Cora. ‘And how’s business these days?’

‘Not so bad,’ said Fred, who was never keen to talk shop when he was away from work. He didn’t like to blow his own trumpet for fear it would change his luck – his business had flourished in the years since rationing ended. The reason he was away from the premises now was that he was having some new fridges installed, the very latest models, but he didn’t imagine anyone would be very interested in that. ‘You should stop by sometime, Cora. Are you still getting your meat from the market? You should come to me instead. I won’t charge you the earth, you being an old friend and everything.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Fred,’ said Cora, delighted at the thought of a bargain piece of good-quality meat. ‘My girls eat me out of house and home. I’ve got a day off early next week so maybe I’ll come and see you then.’

‘I shall look forward to it.’ Fred reached into his pocket for his change. ‘I only came in here for a pack of Lucky Strikes. So bumping into you again is an unexpected bonus.’ He took the cigarettes and offered one to Cora.

‘No thanks, can’t stand the things,’ she replied. There had been no money for luxuries like tobacco for many years and now she’d got out of the habit. Besides, she didn’t want to end up wheezing like Fred. Shaking her head as he went through the door, she wondered how someone as sour and bitter as Mrs Chapman could have such a friendly son. Pity he looked the way he did. Then again, she should know all about children who didn’t resemble their parents. She turned back to the story of Princess Grace with her new daughter, a world away from the overcrowded house and the useless out-of-work girl in it.

Alison had forced herself to have another attempt to find work. She’d gone up and down all the roads around Clapham Junction, trying the shops, the offices, even the station itself. It wouldn’t be so bad to be behind the scenes somewhere, in a back room where she didn’t have to face the public. She had her reference from the factory and it said she was a reliable worker, but it did no good. Nobody was hiring, or that’s what they said as soon as they saw her. ‘Try again in a few weeks, love,’ said the woman in the ticket office. ‘You never know. Don’t give up.’

Easy for her to say, thought Alison. She had a warm office, friendly people to chat to and she probably had a loving family at home as well. Why did some people have all the luck? When she’d been younger she’d thought all families were like her own but now she knew differently. She wished her mother and Hazel would stop picking on her and yet she knew she was so awkward she probably deserved it all.

Rounding a corner she was dismayed to find two of the paperboys from the newsagent’s coming towards her. ‘Look, it’s horse face!’ shouted one, pulling his hand out of his pocket to point at her. A shower of coins fell onto the pavement.

‘Horse face, horse face!’ called his friend, pretending to gallop. ‘Imagine seeing that when you look in the mirror! Nay-y-y-y!’

‘Why aren’t you at school?’ demanded Alison, too fed up to ignore them. ‘What’s all that money? Have you been stealing from my mum’s shop? She’ll get the police on you if you do that.’ Even though Cora wouldn’t care about them teasing her daughter, she’d be down like a ton of bricks if any of them had been putting their hands in the till.

‘No we ain’t. We won the money in the penny arcade and don’t go telling your mum any different,’ said one boy menacingly as he shoved her against a wall, while the other one scooped up the coins.

Alison pushed him away and grimly turned for home. Her sleeve had ripped where the boy had gripped it but she already knew that she wouldn’t say anything – not because she was frightened, it was far from the worst thing that had happened to her, but because she was ashamed. Being pushed around by a boy half her size and half her age – she didn’t want anyone to know about it. All it had done was make a miserable day even worse. But the most worrying thing was, she couldn’t see how her life could ever get any better.