The Dressmaker’s Daughter. Nancy Carson
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never forget it, Jesse.’ She blushed at the memory of Jesse’s stolen kisses.
‘Well, when she calmed down, I walked her back home. I told her then as I didn’t love her, and there was no point in carrying on. And that was that, really. I’ve neither seen her, nor heard from her since.’
‘I guessed you must’ve broken it off, Jesse, but I hope you told her I was innocent of everything.’
‘Oh, I did. I made that plain.’
‘Well, maybe you didn’t make it plain enough. There’s none of the Dandos been a-nigh our house since that night. Something’s been said and they must’ve taken the hump, but there’s no need for my Uncle Tom and Aunt Sarah to stop calling to see my mother. She had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘I’m sorry if it’s caused her any trouble. I really am.’
‘It’s caused her no trouble in that sense, Jesse. She knows nothing about it. They haven’t been to church since, either. I guessed Sylvia must’ve told them what had happened, and I knew they’d blame me if she did. I suppose Mother’s all part of the conspiracy in their eyes. They’re bound to avoid her. It’s a shame, though, Jesse, a crying shame … So what does your mother think of it all?’
‘She went mad. Mother liked Sylvia. She liked her a lot. And Sylvia liked Mother. Matter of fact, Sylvia’s been up to our house since to see her – when I’ve been out, of course, as you might expect.’
‘I bet my name’s mud …’
‘Does that bother you, Lizzie? You know in your own mind as you weren’t to blame.’
‘Your mother never speaks to me as it is. I don’t see why I should appear the worse for being accused of something I haven’t done.’
‘I told Mother as you had nothing to do with it, Lizzie.’
Jack Hardwick was just sweeping sawdust out of his little butcher’s shop as they were walking past and he hailed Jesse. Jesse paused to pass the time of day and Lizzie took advantage of the opportunity to bid him cheerio. As she went indoors the aroma of lamb stew met her. Eve was tending it on the hob, but greeted Lizzie when she entered. Lizzie took off her coat and hung it on a nail at the back of the cellar door. It was time to inform her mother that she had seen Jesse; time to break the news that he and Sylvia were no longer courting; time to explain how it had all come about. And Eve was not so stupid that she could not put two and two together. She would soon conclude that this was the reason she had not seen Tom and Sarah.
Eve was very understanding, however. She accepted that none of the blame was Lizzie’s, but explained why Sylvia would perceive it differently, since she was hardly likely to blame herself. It was in Sylvia’s own interest, Eve said, to remain the injured party.
*
On 4th of March, a Wednesday, Lizzie overheard two men who’d stepped off the West Bromwich tram talking about two dozen miners that were said to be trapped underground at the Hamstead Colliery at Great Barr. The thought of such a catastrophe, if it was true, horrified her. Ben was certain to know about it but, as he was working the night shift, she was unlikely to see him; unless he called for her at dinnertime, as he sometimes did if he rose early from his bed.
Next day she gleaned other snippets from customers and there was no doubt that what she’d heard was true. But, again, Ben failed to meet her at dinnertime to verify it. So she went out to buy a newspaper to try and find out more. It turned out that a fire was raging underground at the colliery, and rescuers were doing all they could to get twenty-eight missing men out.
*
It was the first Friday in March 1908 that Tom Dando decided that much of what he’d been hearing about Jesse Clancey and Lizzie Bishop was supposition. On his way home from work he would call in to see Eve, to try and discover the truth. He was wound up with guilt at not having seen his old friend since New Year. And all because of what Sylvia had told her mother. But what Sylvia had told Sarah did not ring true.
As he trudged through the dark, dilapidated streets of Dudley, he realised that it was almost six years since Isaac Bishop had been killed. He recalled how they used to walk home together chatting like two old biddies. Isaac would talk about whatever came into his head. But Tom was different; he was more reserved and could not make small talk that readily so, even though he did not altogether admire Isaac, he found him easy company because he did most of the talking. And Isaac, Tom was sure, was not aware of the contempt he held for him; he was oblivious to it.
Tom could picture Isaac now, in his baggy cord trousers and the oil-stained jacket to his old suit that was elbowless and rumpled. Round his neck he always wore a grubby muffler that used to be white before it was relegated to working attire, and an old bowler hat that many a time was irreverently used as a bucket to fetch coal from the cellar, when his back was turned. The family, including Tom, often laughed about that.
Six years. Lord, how the time had fled. That fateful day Isaac was killed had been like any other Saturday. Except for the wind. That damned, biting wind had been howling through the narrow streets, snatching the very breath from their mouths as they speculated on Kitchener’s endeavours, and how soon it would be before the Boers finally surrendered. The howling of the wind had prevented Isaac hearing Jack Clancey’s runaway horse and float careering fatally towards him along Brown Street.
Isaac had had other women, but how many, and who they were Tom might never know. Who was to know? Isaac would never admit to anything. Rumours surfaced with the persistence of a cork bobbing up and down in a flooded stream. But Isaac would never divulge what he wanted no one else to know. He never talked about his indiscretions. Of course there had been other women; there must have been. Just as long as Sarah had not fallen prey. That possibility had plagued Tom for a good many years. Sarah, though, was never noted for her beauty; she was plain and on the skinny side; whereas Isaac liked his women well-fleshed and handsome; and the way they used to be attracted to him he could pick and choose. Isaac had loved Eve in his way, but could never remain faithful while other women were prepared to risk his attentions. Women were like a drug. One was never enough; twenty never too many.
Eve had deserved better. She’d always been a fine-looking woman. She was getting old now and deaf as a post since Lizzie was born. Even in her forties, after all those children, she was a handsome-fleshed woman but, as a young woman, she really had been the pick of the bunch.
Tom had always carried a torch for her, yet it was Isaac who’d won her.
When Tom reached the house in Cromwell Street he ceased his daydreaming and walked straight in.
‘Tom!’ Eve exclaimed, putting her hand to her breast. ‘You frightened me to death.’
‘Sorry, my darlin’.’ He bent down and kissed her on the cheek like a long lost brother.
‘Where’s our Lizzie?’
‘Not back from work yet. I’m waiting for her to come before I start boiling these two pieces of cod I’ve bought … Sit you down, Tom, and I’ll make you a cup o’ tea.’ She got up from her chair slowly. Her diabetes, though stabilised, left her feeling tired much of the time. She no longer had the energy she used to have, and moving required effort. ‘Where’ve you been hiding all this time? It’s been weeks since I last clapped eyes on you.’ She nestled the kettle on to the coals and reached for the japanned tea-caddy on the mantel shelf, where it stood next to a vignetted photograph of Isaac aged forty-two, posing formally, wearing a stand-up starched collar and his usual arrogant expression.
Tom did not sit down. ‘Here, I can do that, my flower.’ He reached the caddy for her. ‘Just you tek it easy. How’ve you been keeping?’
‘Oh, well enough.’
‘An’ our Lizzie?’
‘Lizzie’s happy. She’s courting now, Tom. But I suppose you didn’t know.’
‘Who’s she courtin’? Jesse Clancey?’
She