The Factory Girl (13 page)

‘What're you talking about?' challenged Geraldine. ‘
If
I marry him?'

Her mother continued straight on, ignoring it. ‘Yer won't want to come round 'ere ter see us. We won't be good enough for yer then, like we ain't good enough fer 'im now.'

‘What did you mean, Mum?' she challenged again, ‘
If
I marry him? What about the wedding?'

Her mother gave a smirk. ‘Are yer sure yer want us to your weddin'? Might we not be good enough?'

‘It's being held here, Mum, in the church hall.'

‘Yes, the church 'all, not 'ere in the house like your sister's was, where it should be – at 'ome. No, it 'as ter be in an 'all, proper posh. What d'yer think people will say? “Look at 'er,” they'll say. And me in me cheap frock goin' to a wedding like that.'

Geraldine had begged her to let her buy her something better, Tony having given her money for extras. Mum had guessed that and up had gone her back. ‘I'll pay me own way,' she'd said mildly, at that time not yet having reached the stage she was at now since Tony's offer to help Dad.

‘In fact I wonder if yer really want us at yer wedding,' she added now. ‘If yer do get married to 'im, it might be that we might not be there and yer could change yer mind about goin' through with it – makin' enemies of yer own family so ter speak.'

Fear gripped at Geraldine. ‘Of course I want you, Mum. I want you all. What would I do without any of you there? I'll always want you.'

Her entreaty was thrust aside with a wet hand and the voice became saddened. ‘That's what you say now, Gel. But you wait. You'll see. It's your choice, this weddin' of yours.'

‘That's blackmail, Mum. You can't do things like that.' She waited but was met by silence, her mother apparently engrossed with her washing.

When she spoke again her voice was small and pleading. ‘All he did was offer to help Dad get good hospital treatment if it came to that. His heart was in the right place, Mum. He only wanted to help because he could afford it.'

‘And we can't.'

‘Isn't that what you've been worrying yourself nearly into the grave about all this time? I just don't want you to have any more worries.'

Her mother turned to her, and the look Geraldine saw on her face took her breath away. It was a smirk, pure intentional derision.

‘An' you can do that, can you?' she said with deliberate slowness. ‘Yer can prevent your father being laid off because 'e 'as ter go into 'ospital and can't work, no money coming into the 'ouse? Not all your precious Tony's money can stop that 'appening. How long will your precious Tony be 'appy ter pay our rent and our food and all our other outgoings what can't be covered by what Fred and Wally and Evie can bring in until yer dad gets a job again – if ever 'e does, 'im being off work all that time being in 'ospital? You tell me that, miss! Men 'ave been laid off for less than that, what 'ave accidents through no fault of theirs but the docks' workin' conditions, and not a penny given to 'elp 'em but what their mates 'ave collected for 'em. An' that don't last five minutes with mouths ter feed. Tell me, is your Tony ready ter support us all the time yer dad's out of work?'

‘That's unfair, Mum,' Geraldine blurted.

There seemed nothing she could do to persuade her, even less her father to see Tony in a better light. They were against his wealth and that was that. Nothing would change their attitude. In fact it seemed Dad would rather be an invalid, would rather die than accept help from someone like Tony. The people of the East End were a proud lot, a resilient lot, this she had to admit. They might steal, cheat, fiddle, but offer them a handout and it was like death to them. She came away wishing to God that she had never tried to tackle Mum.

‘Why is he always at your parents' house?'

Alan Presley had been there all this Sunday evening, probably with nothing better to do, and Tony had sat in brooding silence for most of the evening. The atmosphere had been one quite capable of being cut with a knife even though Alan had chatted the time away in his usual loquacious manner, but she had put Tony's quietness down to the fact that he and her parents were not exactly on social terms – nothing at all to do with Alan.

She had been glad to come away from that strained atmosphere and spend some time alone with Tony. Now she held on to his arm, still down at heart, thinking of her parents and the wedding and how it would go with them being so hostile towards Tony when he'd done nothing to them except try to be generous and helpful. She was angry with them for their reaction and now all she wanted to do was to get married and live her own life.

They'd live above his shop at first, because of his work, he said, but after a while would move to a far nicer place. After all, he had the money.

Brightening, she glanced at him in amusement at his question as to why Alan Presley had to be at her parents so often. It was obvious he was jealous, this with only two weeks to go to their wedding, and in a way she felt flattered that he should be so jealous.

‘Alan doesn't have many places to go these days other than his own family,' she said lightly, but Tony glowered.

‘Alan, is it?'

Her amusement faded a fraction. ‘I can hardly call him Mr Presley. We've known each other since we were youngsters. His family has known mine for years. They don't actually live in each other's laps – don't go round for tea or anything, but they're friends, like everyone around here. And now he's no longer with his wife, I expect he's lonely.'

‘Lonely!' It sounded like scoffing and her back went up.

‘Yes, lonely. Most people his age are married and it can't be easy for him on his own to intrude on old mates who have wives, can it?'

He didn't answer but she could see he was still displeased. There was no need to be. He knew of course that she had gone out with Alan Presley a few times before him, but she had promised herself to Tony and that should have been enough for him. He had no right to get all possessive.

A small feeling of rebellion came over her and her tone grew obdurate. ‘He's my friend, Tony, and I'm not going to ignore him just because you and me are getting married.'

‘You and
I
,' he corrected sharply, making her allow herself a small, irritated explosion of breath.

‘You and I, then,' she said huffily, each lapsing into silence.

Geraldine thought about Alan. If Tony hadn't come along she and Alan might have become closer, though thinking about it there wouldn't have been any future in it. Alan had since discovered how expensive divorcing someone was, way above his means at present even if he was doing well in his line of work. If he had the money divorce itself would be simple.

She sighed. It seemed so unfair that good, decent, hard-working men like Alan who had fought for their country should be denied the processes that to the wealthy were normal, should one or other spouse be caught playing around. If there were no grounds then they could afford to pay for hotel evidence and the divorce court turned a blind eye, but it cost money. For people like Alan, all they could do was grin and bear it, go their separate ways and if in love with someone else be forced to live in sin. Who could say even in her neighbourhood who was married and who wasn't, how many children were born within a marriage and who weren't, other than by the birth certificate kept tucked well out of sight?

Poor Alan, what girl would want to take that on, and not even his fault? Geraldine too felt a little guilty knowing she'd more or less made that the true reason not to further their association. Thinking about it, she forgot to be angry with Tony and cuddled close to him as they walked to his shop.

Up in his flat they would snuggle up close, not for too long because Mum would be watching the clock and if she hadn't returned home in twenty minutes she would want to know why, and stand her ground until she received some sort of plausible excuse. It made things very awkward and she couldn't wait for these next two weeks to pass and her life finally to be her own.

Only two weeks to go. Geraldine shivered deliciously against Tony's arm as they walked. Mrs Anthony Hanford – how wonderful that sounded. The Friday prior to her wedding day she would ask for her cards and never again have to cycle off to work every morning in rain, snow, fog, wind or even sunshine when she always begrudged having to spend the day under a dull roof, bent over a machine while outside the sun shone. She'd be a married woman and no longer expected to work.

The wedding was so close – ten days to go. Tony sat in the back room of his shop, staring down at the almost blank sheet of notepaper. ‘Dear Mother and Father.' That was all he had written so far and that at least ten minutes ago. How did one tell parents that one is about to marry a girl they have never met?

He had told them about Geraldine the moment their courting had become serious. His mother had written immediately, excited, inviting him to bring her to meet them straight away. Then his father had written telling him not to continue being a damned fool, to come home and stop playing blasted shops, to knuckle down to law, a profession he was intended to follow in the first place. No mention whatsoever of Geraldine. Anthony's back had gone up and he hadn't replied to either letter. He should have, but had been too angry and would have upset them more than not replying.

His mother had written several more letters, apologising for his father. ‘He has always been brusque, you know that,' she wrote in one. ‘You must forgive him. He is still so hurt by what you did. To turn yourself into a low shopkeeper after all the money spent on your education. I can see why you did it, my dear. The war, possibly shell shock turned your mind a little, but to cut us off as you did. And surely after two years you are recovered.'

She had gone on excusing his father. ‘He hasn't been the same since the war took your poor brother. Frederick was your father's hope and joy, so easy-going, so different from you, my dear, who always did tend to kick over the traces. He feels his loss so deeply and is so bitter. If you were here, it would so make up for his loss. Please, my dear, I beg of you, come home.'

Another letter, again pleading for him to come home, had also asked to meet this girl he seemed keen on. But he knew his parents too well. They would immediately make her feel uncomfortable, especially his father, still of the old school and class-conscious to the last degree. Her upbringing flung in her face, not in so many words but by their very mannerisms, would be plain enough to her to interpret. It might even cause her to back out of their relationship at the eleventh hour – a term used these days to signify any abrupt, last-minute decision, stemming from that eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month when the Armistice was signed and the Great War brought to an abrupt end.

He had almost been tempted to tell Geraldine of his mother's request, thinking she had a right to make up her own mind. He would forewarn her, explain the sort of people they were. He'd very much come to know Geraldine too – that she wasn't the sort to shrink from the harshness of others but stare them straight in the eye and say her piece. He'd found this was the way of the cockney – chirpy, as others like to call them, but in reality pure bravado, a refusal to be put down, a way to combat any barrier of disdain.

Geraldine possessed that trait too, would face his parents adequately enough, dealing blow for blow, but how would she feel inside? He couldn't put her through that. So he'd told her that he wrote regularly to them, that he'd told them all about her and that they had asked to meet her. He made much out of promising to take her to meet them, but let the time go on and whenever she'd brought up the subject he'd managed to put her off, saying his shop kept him so busy but that they would get around to it in time.

As time had gone on, even his parents had become impatient, for a while bewildered, then annoyed, asking to be given a reason as to why he hadn't introduced her, his father thus allowed no opportunity to approve or disapprove of her. As though he would promptly give up Geraldine on his father's decision anyway, just as he hadn't taken up the law to his wishes. That wish had become even more prevalent after Frederick had been killed, as though all his hopes for the older son's future had transferred themselves to his younger one, no matter what he wanted.

His parents' mounting frustration at not being allowed to view this girl he'd got himself entangled with brought demands to know what was wrong with her, phrased as though suspecting him of hobnobbing with some prostitute. Threats to come here themselves were the worst to deal with, at times making him scared of his own shadow or that he would see them drawing up outside his shop, but fortunately they never did, his mother being a bad traveller and not trusting motor cars.

When he'd finally plucked up courage to tell them of his engagement – he hadn't forewarned them lest his father came storming down demanding it be broken off – there had been entreaties from his mother as to why they hadn't been consulted or at least informed of his intentions. His father had penned a terse note to say that he had his suspicions of this person as being some sort of gold-digger, while his mother had clamoured to know why he hadn't given them any opportunity to organise any social celebration of his engagement as protocol demanded and that his reluctance to introduce her was arousing their suspicions fourfold as to her respectability.

Outraged, he had refused to reply to either until his father threatened to come himself to the East End to see this girl at first hand. He'd sent a letter and photo of Geraldine in a lovely dress and hat to match her lovely smile against a background of Hyde Park so as to appear utterly genteel.

It was a lie he'd soon be asked to face when they finally discovered where and how she really lived. That he'd soon be taking her away from it would cut no ice with his people – they'd forever see her as a working-class girl who had clawed her way out of poverty, using their son for a stepladder. Compounding it all would be his lying, though why should he care? All his life he'd had so little to do with his family – sent away to an expensive prep school as was the custom with the upper middle class before the war, then away to board at college, then on to university, then off to war. He and they had nothing in common. Geraldine was closer to her family than he had ever been to his. But soon she would be his life and they'd be together, always.