Connie’s Courage. Annie Groves
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so hard to buy. She had fallen in love with the Herrick’s cotton the minute she had seen it, and not just because the familiar name had reminded her of Preston where the company owned a large mill; the white background with its dainty sprigging of tiny pink flowers on green stems, suited her colouring perfectly, and she had enough of an eye for such things to have immediately changed the original pink ribbon trim for a much softer green – even if her sewing skills were such that she had stabbed her finger a dozen times, at least, whilst sewing on the new ribbon.
Vera, in contrast, was wearing a much fancier dress in blue silk ornamented with bunches of flowers.
‘Blacking on your eyelashes!’ Josie exclaimed. ‘But what if it rains? You’ll end up with awful smudges!’
‘Do you think I need a bit more rouge on my cheeks, Connie?’ Vera asked her self-critically, after giving Josie a withering look.
‘Rouge! You’re wearing make-up!’ Josie exclaimed in shock. ‘But, Vera, that’s ever so fast.’
‘No, it’s not. All the nobs are doing it!’ Vera told her. ‘Do you want some, Connie?’
Cautiously Connie dipped her fingertip in the proffered cream powder and rubbed it carefully into her skin.
‘Connie’s looks better than yours,’ Josie pronounced judiciously. ‘She’s not used as much as you, Vera.’
Finally they were ready to leave, but not before Vera had insisted on adding another smear of Vaseline to her carefully rouged lips, and demanding to know if her hair looked all right.
Ten minutes later, they were standing at the bus stop, arm in arm, Connie’s eyes bright with excitement, as they waited for the bus that would take them to the city centre.
Since it was a warm, late summer evening, there was no need for them to wear heavy coats over their summer dresses.
‘If you ask me, it’s a good thing we’re both fair,’ Vera commented smugly as they climbed on the bus. ‘I mean, that way we go together, don’t we? I’d hate to have red hair like poor Josie’s, or brown like plain Mavis.’
‘She isn’t really plain,’ Connie objected. ‘She’s quite pretty.’
Vera gave her a sharp-eyed look but didn’t say anything, turning her attention instead to trying to persuade the bus conductor to reduce their fare.
‘We’re poor probationer nurses,’ she wheedled. ‘You never know, one day you might have a horrible accident and we could be the ones to look after you.’
The conductor’s heartfelt, ‘I’d rather be dead,’ made them both giggle as they hurried to their seats.
They got off the bus in Bold Street, and Vera complained, ‘Oh, my poor feet. These shoes are crippling me!’
‘I told you they would be too tight,’ Connie reminded her promptly. Unlike Vera, she had no special new shoes to wear, and had had to make do with her summer shoes from the previous year. Not that she minded too much. As she had already told Vera, being on their feet so much and for such long hours tended to make them swell, which in turn made new shoes uncomfortable.
‘It’s all right for you. You only take size two and a half. My feet have gone huge since I started at the Infirmary,’ Vera retorted.
Connie gave her dainty feet a discreetly smug look. Her mother had always said that dainty feet were the hallmark of gentility, and that no lady ever admitted to requiring a shoe size above a three.
‘I take after my mother,’ Connie responded automatically. ‘She had small feet.’
Her mother! Connie’s eyes clouded.
‘What’s wrong?’ Vera demanded sharply, watching her.
‘I was just thinking about my mother,’ Connie told her honestly.
Immediately Vera gave her a brief hug. ‘Oh law', I forget sometimes about you and Josie losing your mas.’ She wrinkled her pert nose. ‘You must miss her, Connie.’
‘I do,’ Connie admitted truthfully, sadness clouding her expression. ‘Nothing was the same after she died.’
Vera gave her a sympathetic look. ‘My mam and dad might have their barneys, but me mam can wind me dad round her little finger. When I get married it’s going to be to someone as does as I tell him!’ Vera announced firmly. ‘And he won’t be some jumped-up Johnny either, nor one who tries to take too many favours, if you know what I mean. I know me worth and any lad who walks out with me is going to know it as well.’
Her words touched a place inside Connie that hurt, and made her feel not just afraid, but also as though she and Vera stood on different sides of a hidden divide.
Once she had been like Vera, happily confident about her own future and the man who would share it – a man who would love her as her father had loved her mother. The reality of her relationship with Kieron had been bitterly painful, but of course she could never admit to the knowledge she had gained or how she had gained it.
‘Oh, look at that pretty crêpe-de-Chine blouse, Connie,’ Vera demanded, losing interest in the subject of men. Dutifully Connie gave her attention to the window display Vera was admiring. ‘It would go a treat with my new twill skirt. It’s a bit pricey though.’ Vera heaved a big sigh, ‘I think I’ll go in mind, and ask them to put the blouse to one side. I’ve got a birthday coming up and me mam and dad can get it for me.
A little enviously, Connie followed her friend into the shop. A brand new crêpe-de-Chine blouse was a luxury she could not afford.
‘There, I ll telephone me mam and tell her that me birthday present is all sorted out for her, Vera announced triumphantly as they left the shop, the blouse having been put to one side after the payment of a small holding deposit.
‘We’re going to be late for the dance,’ Connie warned Vera.
‘Oh, we’ll get there in time if we hurry, and if we do miss anything it will only be the supper, that’s all. I can’t wait to see that George Lashwood again. I’ve never seen anyone so handsome or so smart. When he was singing, my heart fair turned over inside me chest,’ Vera sighed.
Because of the popularity of the weekly dance, the entrance to the dance hall was thronged with people, and once they had bought their tickets, Vera and Connie had to squeeze past a group of young men in obvious high spirits, laughing and telling one another jokes.
‘By, but me throat’s dry. I wish we’d thought to get ourselves a glass of porter.’ Vera told Connie, nudging her as one of the young men winked broadly at them, and swept them a bow.
‘Looking for a seat, ladies?’ he invited, indicating the seat from which he had just removed his own hat.
‘We want a seat where we can see the dance floor,’ Vera told him chirpily, whilst one of his companions gave them a bold stare and exclaimed, ‘You two are a pretty pair, and no mistake.’
Vera stuck her nose up in the air and pretended to be offended, but Connie noticed that she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to walk away.
‘Not walking out with anyone then, or meeting up with someone here?’
The question was directed at both of them, but it was Vera who answered it, tossing her head and saying, coquettishly, ‘And what business of yours might that be then?’
‘Just the business of a normal red-blooded man who’s seen a real beauty of a girl,’ he quipped back. ‘Two right beauties they are, eh, Charlie?’ he added, nudging his friend in the ribs and winking.
‘Well, for your information, we’ve come here to listen to Mr George Lashwood singing, and not to listen to no impertinence from the likes of you!’ Vera told him firmly.
But she was still lingering near to their table, and when one of them asked if she would like a glass of porter, she pretended to hesitate and then announced, ‘Well, I’m