The Factory Girl (6 page)

Feeling for him, she kept away from enquiring about his divorce, but he seemed ready to talk.

‘Don't know whether to go back ter me parents or stay in me flat. She's gorn, me ole woman. Orf with 'er fancy man. So I'm on me own. It's only a couple of rooms we 'ad. I don't know whether to 'ang on to it or not.'

‘I'd hang on to it if I was you,' advised Geraldine as they turned down her road. ‘Nothing like independence. You can always go round to see your people when you want. If you go back and live with them you mightn't find leaving so easy.'

‘That's true,' he admitted. ‘It's just that I don't go out much. I seem to've got out of the habit of asking girls out. It ain't much fun goin' ter the pictures or standin' in a pub all by yerself.'

‘Ain't yer got no friends yer can go with?'

‘They're all married. They go out with their wives, and I ain't no hanger on.' For a second his step faltered, then he came to an abrupt stop. She stopped too and found him looking at her.

‘What?' she challenged.

‘It's just, I was wonderin'.'

‘What?' she asked again.

‘If yer'd like ter go to the pictures with me, say this Saturday?'

It was her turn to hesitate. She'd always liked Alan, in fact had once had a crush on him. Nor could she put any faith in Anthony Hanford taking a serious interest in her. She'd been a fool to imagine he would.

Alan, with his regular features, rugged, handsome, his chin strong, his mouth firm, a resolute mouth – she'd kissed those lips years ago and had found the experience enjoyable. He was tall, a good six feet, lean, muscles strengthened by army training and his experiences in France – he'd been in the thick of it, she'd heard. Yet he'd always had such a nice and easy nature. Maybe why his wife had taken advantage of him, thinking he'd take her back after her fling. Giving his wife her marching orders proved an inner strength that brought admiration flooding into Geraldine's eyes as she looked at him in the gloom of a street lamp.

It was no good pining after what she couldn't have – a husband with money. Here was an offer staring her right in the face in the shape of a modest bricklayer, and she was getting slightly desperate for a boyfriend. Not that she couldn't get one but she'd always been too choosy. It was time she stopped looking for that perfect someone and before she could give it another thought she'd said yes – yes she wouldn't mind going to see the pictures.

She'd seen Alan Presley four Saturdays running, going with him to the local picture house and once to the People's Palace to see a show, insisting on paying for her own seat because he wasn't that well off – well, neither was she, and also she didn't want him thinking she was his girl, not yet anyway; not until she could put Anthony Hanford from her mind, which was still proving a problem.

She hadn't told Alan about him. It wasn't any of his business. And besides, she still felt more than a bit embarrassed by the whole thing. Looking back on it, how she could have walked into his shop thinking he'd fall head over heels for her, or even dream that he would give her a second glance, was enough to screw her insides up with shame. Yet he had seemed to be taken by her, or was that just his stock in trade?

She still didn't know what to think, in fact preferred not to think about it at all if that was possible, mortified as she was by her behaviour. She could imagine him smirking over it, if he still remembered it enough to smirk – accepting Alan's invitation for a date had taken some of the sting out of it and it had gone on from there. She'd always been keen on Alan but felt nervous of getting too serious for the moment. For one thing he might see her as a handy convenience after his unhappy marriage, and for another, was she ready to get involved, also being on the rebound, so to speak, now that her own silly hopes had been nipped in the bud?

‘Where'd yer like to go next Saturday?' Alan had asked her as they said goodnight to each other the previous Saturday. She had let him kiss her on leaving him at the end of her street. A light sort of kiss – she wasn't allowing it to get too serious, even though it sent a tingle up her spine. She was in a dilemma of uncertainty, part of her still yearning for the more sophisticated Anthony Hanford even as she chided herself for her silliness.

‘I don't really know,' she replied. ‘But if we go to the pictures again I want to pay for meself. You can't keep spending out.'

He leaned back from her. ‘What, d'yer think I can't afford ter pay for yer? I ain't poverty stricken, y'know.'

‘I know you ain't. But I'd prefer to pay for meself, that's all.'

‘At least I got a job. Thousands ain't. I can turn me 'and to anythink. I'm a bricklayer, decorator, carpenter, plumber, you name it, I can do it. Jack of all trades, me. And if I get any spare time I go up ter West London where the posh lot live and do a spot of decoratin' or a bit of carpentry fer them, an' they pay well, I can tell yer. So I do 'ave dosh in me pocket.'

Gabbling on, he sounded just a little offended and she was sorry she'd mentioned paying her way.

‘If I was laid off termorrer,' he continued, ‘I could still keep me 'and in doing odd jobs like that. One day I'm goin' ter 'ave me own business. But time ain't right yet, not with all this uncertainty since the Armistice – no one's going ter put their 'and in their pocket to finance me and I ain't got sufficient readies ter take chances settin' up in business. But it'll come in time when things settle down.'

Carried away by his own plans he gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘She'll be the loser when she sees me getting on in the world and 'er stuck with that crummy bugger I caught 'er in bed with. She wants ter marry 'im, what ain't got two brass farthings ter rub tergether from what I 'ear. Well, it serves 'er right, the tart! I'll show 'er when I'm rollin' in dough with me own business.'

It was his wife he was referring to, and that was another thing – she didn't particularly relish hearing the man she was supposed to be going out with talking about the wife, even if he had slung her out and was going through a divorce. After all, he was still married to all intents and purposes. A divorce took years, and it gave her a funny feeling about being with him – another reason she was worried about the goodnight kisses getting too serious. But she did like him, very much. It was a pity so many things got in the way.

In her bridal gown but no headdress as yet, Mavis was getting herself in a two-and-eight.

‘Look, can't everyone stop milling about all over the place? I can't think straight.'

‘Yer best place is upstairs gettin' the rest of yerself ready,' Mum told her in no uncertain terms. ‘The wedding is in 'alf an hour and you ain't 'alf way proper dressed yet.'

‘Then come up and help me put me headdress on.'

‘'Ow can I wiv everyone comin' in? I'll come in a minute.'

She'd been up there with Mavis most of the morning listening to her moans and groans as she helped her get into her gown and combed out her hair, which had been in cloth rollers all night so as to allow the curls to set tighter; the process of sleeping in them had deprived Mavis of what little sleep the prospect of the big day allowed.

She'd been tossing and turning all night, keeping Geraldine awake, though Evie had slept like a log despite the bouncing bed. So Geraldine felt as tired as Mavis in the morning.

‘I need 'elp now, Mum,' flounced Mavis, ‘not
in a minute
!'

‘I'll come up with yer,' said Geraldine. As chief bridesmaid it was her place anyway. Mum had her hands full with the guests.

‘I'd sooner Mum,' snapped Mavis. ‘She knows just what ter do.'

‘And I don't, I suppose!' Geraldine flared. ‘I ain't daft, I know 'ow to put a veil and 'eaddress on someone. I could of made the entire thing, dress an' all, if you'd let—'

‘Will you two pack up arguing. It's yer wedding, love – yer special day. Don't go spoiling it.'

‘I ain't spoiling it. It's 'er.'

‘Then let 'er sort yer wedding veil out. She knows what she's doin'.'

In a huff, Mavis dashed up the stairs as fast as her tight-skirted gown allowed, closely followed by Geraldine, equally irascible. Why was Mavis like this towards her? They'd never been what people would call close. Right from tiny tots Mavis had snapped at her, found fault and shunned any offer of friendship. ‘Sometimes I wonder why she's my sister at all,' Geraldine would tell friends when she went on about her.

With Mavis plopping ungraciously down on an upright before the little dressing mirror to suffer her headdress and veil to be arranged by her sister, Geraldine bet that Tom and his brother Sydney, his best man, weren't arguing like this as they got ready for the church.

There was certainly no reason for Mavis to be so tetchy. Everything was going fine so far. The day was sunny and cloudy in turns and as moderately warm as March could ever be. True, the house was in turmoil, food still being laid out for the wedding breakfast and people milling about getting under each other's feet as they prepared to leave for the walk to the church. Mavis would lead on the arm of Dad, followed by her bridesmaids. This was the old style of East End weddings. Few had the wherewithal for conveying a bride to the church and the Glover family was no exception. A girl just prayed for it not to rain. At least she had people all along the route coming to their doors to see her pass and to send their best wishes after her, though Mavis wasn't so happy about the usual troupe of urchins following at a distance, whistling and catcalling, but there was nothing anyone could do about that – they'd follow anything, fire engines, water carts, brass bands, and of course anything resembling a procession. All Mavis could do was to grin and bear it. But Geraldine thought it did add to the general excitement of the day.

The whole day went off with no hitches and hardly any nasty moments at the wedding reception with drunken differences of opinion. The kitchen became jam-packed with regular journeys to the beer barrel – a wedding present clubbed together from Dad's mates, him back in his old gang again – on the stone copper, sorties to the sandwiches, jellies and cake on the board next to it, and later for a piece of wedding cake and a sobering cup of tea just before people began wending their way home, some straight, some slightly more uncertain.

Around six o'clock the newly-weds, who'd done little but gaze adoringly into each other's eyes all afternoon, were finally seen off on their honeymoon to catch their train to Eastbourne, a couple of the men helping them with their cases to the bus taking them to Victoria Station.

This was the moment Geraldine was waiting for. Dashing upstairs the moment the two had gone, she dragged off the horrid bridesmaid's dress and with great care got into her beautiful creation. The gasps as she glided down the stairs and into the back room where most of the remaining guests were gathered, apart from those back to boozing in the kitchen or stuffing what was left of the food, did Geraldine credit.

‘My Gawd!' came the cry from her Aunt Violet, one of Dad's three sisters. ‘What you got up as? You look like yer've just stepped out of society. What she want ter dress up like that for?'

‘She didn't like'er bridesmaid's dress much,' excused Mum to her credit and Geraldine felt like hugging her as pride came into Mum's voice. ‘Made that all 'erself, Vi.'

Aunt Vi's tone turned to admiration. ‘She could make my Edna a dress like that.' Edna was the eldest of her three daughters, the other two already married, and three sons, all of whom were in the kitchen swigging the beer before it ran out.

At the suggestion, Geraldine bit her lip. She hadn't counted on admiration turning to hints of hiring her talents, and hurried away before she was required to reply that, yes, she'd be overjoyed to make Edna a dress like hers, and most likely for love.

Dad's other sisters, Lydia and Jessie, merely looked at her as though she'd dressed herself up like a dog's dinner and was not worthy of comment. Several of her male cousins did raise their eyebrows in avid appreciation and said she looked smashing, while her female ones looked aside in jealousy, pretending not to notice. She was soon wondering if this had not been such a good idea after all.

‘That's ever so pretty, love.'

She turned with gratitude towards the voice of her mum's sister Lizzie, and glanced modestly down at herself. ‘D'you think so?'

‘Oh, yes.' Aunt Lizzie nibbled a piece of cake. ‘Where d'yer buy it?'

The tone suggested it must have cost a fortune, ringing with both envy of her having so much money and censure that the money would have been better spent on something more suitable.

It was confirmed by her adding, ‘But where're yer going ter wear it, love?' indicating the uselessness of such a dress.

Geraldine was compelled to admit that she'd made it to lessen the sense of her being too well off or overlavish, at the same time putting herself in danger of another offer to have her make something similar for her two girls.

But all Aunt Lizzie said was, ‘Well, I think you're very clever, love. But you shouldn't of made it look so 'igh class.'

Which in a way annoyed her that people like her should be expected to keep to their station in life. Silly, old-fashioned ideas, held before the war. Well, things were different now. The war had done away with a lot of the old class distinction and women had proved they could do anything having done men's jobs all through those four years and could go on doing them. Soon it would be the start of a new decade – 1920 – and already society women were wearing Bohemian clothes with impunity and shortening skirts. So why shouldn't she be fashionable? She thought again of Anthony Hanford. She could be as good as him any day, learn to speak nice, behave like a lady, dress like one, especially if she could make clothes like this one that had already drawn comments, good and bad but none against the dress itself and its workmanship. She was aware of the looks of appraisal that even her uncles were giving her, as were the young men here, Tom's brother and best man, for instance.