The Favourite Child (32 page)

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’

The idea of living on her own was at first daunting but, as with all the streets in the neighbourhood, the front door would stand open from dawn to dusk so that anybody could walk in, as they frequently did. Neighbours would ask to borrow a pinch of sugar or cup of milk to get them through the week, knowing that Bella would never refuse them even though she’d rather go hungry than ask for help in return.

Violet would frequently breeze in and comfortably dispose herself in the only chair to have a bit of a ‘chin-wag’ and offer her opinion on the kitchen table that Bella had acquired or the latest bit of gossip from the clinic. Aunt Edie would pop by every Monday evening with a few Eccles cakes or a bit of currant sad cake, ‘just to keep yer strength up, love’, and could easily be persuaded to stop long enough for a cuppa and to share one with her. Even the tough talking Mrs Blundell had been known to drop by, just to see how she was fettling.

Bella found this all rather comforting and began to feel accepted, as if she were one of them now and the bridge between them was shrinking. Except that the wall between herself and Dan remained as solid as ever.

He never came to her house which saddened and depressed her far more than she cared to admit. Deep in the secret depths of her heart, Bella grieved for the loss of his friendship. And all because he thought the gulf between them too wide. What utter nonsense! It didn’t trouble his mother or Bella’s other friends, so why should it bother Dan? It didn’t surprise her that Dan disapproved of her friendship with Billy Quinn for all he’d done nothing to prevent it. Why hadn’t this love he supposedly felt for her allowed him to overcome his prejudice? Because he didn’t really love her at all? Because he cared about his own pride more? Bella didn’t know, couldn’t understand this evident sense of inferiority he suffered from.

Sometimes as she watched the children flying their kites out on Dawney’s Hill she’d be reminded of their walks together and would think sadly of their fractured friendship. She studiously avoided the gloomy expressions of sadness and sidelong glances of disapproval she saw in his eyes whenever she called on Violet. Though more often than not, he’d reach for his cap and walk out the door the moment she arrived.

But if ever she began to feel too sorry for him, Bella sternly berated herself to pay no attention to his hurt looks and childish sulks. Dan Howarth had been given ample opportunity to ask her out again but had never done so. So blow him! If he didn’t care for her, no more did she care a jot about him. She was happy, wasn’t she? Of course she was. She must be. Didn’t she have her work at the clinic, as well as all her friends. Didn’t she have Jinnie and Edward, Violet and Cyril and their family to call on whenever she felt in need of a bit of company?

And if sometimes she sat in her little house worrying over where her liaison with Quinn might lead, Bella would tilt up her chin, summon up her rebellious spirit and congratulate herself on being at least free to live her life exactly as she pleased. What went on between herself and Billy Quinn was her own business and nobody else’s, certainly not Dan Howarth’s.

Quinn never came to the house either, of course. Bella had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that she valued her privacy and didn’t want him coming round. Ever! He wasn’t pleased by her decision but appeared to accept it. What she didn’t tell him was that he was the last person she wanted in her home because how would she ever trust herself to resist him if he did come?

By November, however, as the days grew colder, she began to notice a slight shift in his attitude. He grew increasingly demanding, less patient, constantly reminding her that he was no young lad and she no chit of a girl.

‘It’s damned cold out here on Dawney’s Hill. Why don’t we go to my house? Isn’t this the daftest place to meet when at home I’ve a good fire going and a warm bed to offer?’

‘That’s the reason I won’t go.’

Again that laconic smile, which had a chilling effect upon his clear blue eyes, making them glitter like ice. ‘And I’m still waiting for that invitation to tea. I reckon it’s mean and unfriendly of ye not to ask. Will I come round tomorrow and ye can give me the guided tour?’

‘No!’

His irritability suddenly spilled over into anger at her refusal. ‘Hell’s teeth, Bella. Why won’t you get something from that damned clinic of yours?’

‘Because it’s for married women to plan their families, not for single girls to take their pleasure.’

‘Are you saying that tis wrong to give pleasure? You think sex is a sin?’

‘N- no, of course not. It’s p-perfectly normal and healthy.’ Bella could have kicked herself for the stutter but that was the effect he had upon her.

‘Well then, isn’t it time that ye set aside yer maidenly blushes and let us make love like two mature adults?’

She felt caught, trapped by her own desires, longing to succumb to his demands and yet anxious to hold on to her scruples. It was a conflict Bella felt quite unable to deal with and, following this discussion, she avoided seeing him for several weeks before again, driven by a need she could neither deny nor admit to, she finally hurried back to their place of rendezvous.

As on so many previous occasions following one of their quarrels as he wasn’t there waiting for her, she visited each of his favourite haunts, one by one. She hovered at the door of the Railway, then on to the Hare and Hounds in the hope of catching sight of him. She went to the greyhound track, walked along the canal towpath, searched anywhere he could possibly be and, in the end, found and went to him like a homing pigeon.

He didn’t ask how she was, or where she had been. He stood and gazed at her for a long, silent moment, that familiar smile of arrogant satisfaction curving those full lips, his sleepy-eyed gaze quietly assessing her. Then he grasped her by the arm, told whoever he was with that he had business to attend to, and marched her smartly away.

She knew what to expect for this show of independence. As on many previous occasions he led her down some filthy back entry and made love to her with casual disdain. Sometimes it might be up against a tree in the park, behind the band stand or under a canal bridge. He really didn’t care so long as he made her cry out in her need for him. These were the only times he never asked for more than she was willing to give. As punishment for her neglect of him he would take her to the brink, making Bella beg for more before releasing her and calmly walking away with a smug snarl of satisfaction on his handsome face, leaving her raw and shaking with emotion, guilt and shame.

Their strange, on - off relationship continued in a madcap, roller-coaster ride of sensation. Whenever they met she would go to him without hesitation, fall into his arms, offering her mouth hungrily to his. Only when her passion was temporarily sated would she manage to let him go, flushed with embarrassment for revealing the rawness of her need.

‘When can I see you, Quinn? Tonight?’ She always felt giddy and light headed just looking at him, as wickedly handsome as ever.

Revelling in the effect he had upon her, he would laugh softly, deep in his throat. ‘Why don’t ye come round to my place on Bromley Street. It’s no more’n a step away.’ He gave a sideways jerk of his head and a lock of hair flopped down over his brow. Bella had great difficulty in restraining herself from reaching up and smoothing it back into place.

‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’ There was the familiar tightness in her breast as she struggled to hold herself in check.

Quinn shrugged, thrust his hands into his pockets and turning on his heel, began to stroll away, whistling softly.

‘
Quinn!’
She called after him, devastated by his indifference.

‘Think about it, Isabella. Let me know when yer ready to stop playing games.’ Then he turned the corner into Liverpool Street and vanished from view. Bella stood rooted to the spot, watching him go, longing to run after him. Yet she did not. She held fast to her principles and let him go.

Billy Quinn’s anger was growing. He hadn’t expected it to be this difficult to win over Isabella Ashton. The woman was surely the most obstinate he’d ever met. No other had ever held out against him so long. The worst of it was that he genuinely did fancy her. He itched to get her into his bed. There was no question of anything permanent between them, like love or such sentimental twaddle but he wanted her all the same.

He no longer had Jinnie to keep him amused, now that she was wed and studiously avoiding him. Though he hadn’t given up all hope in that direction. Matters could very easily turn in his favour again one fine day. Not least because young Jinnie would do anything to prevent that milksop of a husband from being taught the lesson he deserved for causing him such inconvenience.

In the meantime, the tarts Quinn made regular use of didn’t fulfil him half as well as Bella Ashton would. But what could he do to persuade the dratted woman to succumb? He’d used every ploy he could think of, every art of sensual persuasion of which he was capable to make her need him, yet still she resisted. What possible trick could he try next? He wondered at times why he wasted so much time and effort on her.

Not that he was considering giving up. Oh dear me no. Perhaps the time for tricks and persuasion was over. Mebbe he’d been too soft with her, and it was time he showed her who was the boss. If ever he made up his mind to have her, what could she do? She might try to hold him off but it’d be like trying to stop the tide. He deserved to have her, did he not, if only for his exemplary patience. And make no mistake he would. Who else had the gall to stand up to him? No one in Salford, that was for sure. Only his pappy when he’d been a boy in Ireland. Hadn’t he taken the strap to the young Billy more often than he cared to recall. No wonder he’d run away. But those days were long past. Quinn was in control now.

And wasn’t he running out of patience with the damn woman? He’d give her a few weeks more to come to her senses. But if he had to take what was due to him by force, it would be a day that would make her regret her obstinacy, so it would. He’d make sure of it. Isabella Ashton had to be shown that, as always, Billy Quinn was the one in charge.

In January 1929 the Prince of Wales toured the mining communities of North Wales, expressing his concern at their living conditions and poor pay. In May the Tories regained office but although the labour party might have gained fewer votes, they held more seats, aided by the ‘flapper vote’ now that women could vote at twenty-one. The balance of power lay in the hands of Lloyd George who wasted no time in exercising it. By early June, Baldwin had been forced to resign and Labour took office for the second time in history. They even appointed a woman as Minister of Labour, the first ever to sit in Cabinet.

Throughout that long summer in Salford, though jobs remained hard to come by, labour popularity soared and it seemed that the workers’ troubles would soon be over.

In Seedley Park Road Edward and Jinnie were settling happily to married life. Edward bought Jinnie a blue taffeta dress and took her to the Empress Ballroom and to Tea Dances at the Midland Hotel in Manchester, often purchasing her a buttonhole of violets or freesia from the flower sellers on Salford Market. On Saturday afternoons they would call at a shop on Bury New Road which seemed to be stocked from floor to ceiling with braids, buttons, rickrack, lace trimmings and ribbons of every hue. Jinnie would agonise for an age over which to buy while Edward would sit on a bentwood chair set by the counter specifically for this purpose and patiently wait for her to choose.

The following week she would spend a happy afternoon brightening up some hat or frock, ready to wear for the next dance or for one of their regular trips to the Ambassador Cinema. Edward always insisted on paying for the best seats, sometimes as much as half-a-crown, for all Jinnie protested that if they went early in the afternoon and not be so fussy, they could get in for sixpence. They saw Mary Pickford in
My Best Girl
; Buster Keaton in
The General
and a new Disney cartoon,
Steamboat Willy
, which delighted them both.

By October, Manchester folk were expressing sympathy for their comrades in America who’d been made unemployed because their rich employers had lost a fortune on the Stock Exchange crash. Hearing of these catastrophic events from the safety of the opposite side of a great ocean lulled many into a false sense of security.