‘This is nice, Con. D’yer remember when we used ter sit an’ chat fer hours about all sorts o’ fings?’ Molly asked her with a coy smile.
‘Yeah I do. It was nice, wasn’t it? I’m sorry I’ve neglected yer, Molly.’
‘It’s okay, Con. I know yer got it bad,’ Molly said giggling.
‘I do love ’im, Molly. ’E makes me feel ever so good.’
‘Will yer marry ’im one day?’
‘I dunno. Maybe I will – one day.’
‘Don’t it worry yer, sleepin’ wiv Robert an’ yer ain’t even engaged?’
‘It did at first, but it don’t seem that important now. The problem is Robert’s family. I’m sure they don’t like ’im goin’ out wiv me. I s’pose Robert wants ter let fings settle a bit before ’e springs an engagement on ’em.’
‘Sounds like ’is family are real snobs, Con. They should be glad fer ’im. You’re better than any o’ them upper-class girls.’
Connie smiled and wriggled her toes. Molly seemed more cheerful than she had for a long time, and Connie was glad of the chance to sit talking intimately with her. She glanced at her cousin and saw how pale she was. Her short, thick body seemed to have become more misshapen and her head appeared to be resting directly on her hunched shoulders. As Connie studied her she noticed how Molly’s eyes had grown larger in her thin face. They appeared to glow darkly with a sad defiance and as she stared into the fire they reflected the flames.
‘It don’t worry me all that much,’ Connie said, placing her hands behind her head. ‘I s’pose Robert’s family will get used ter me in time.’
There was silence for a while, then Molly said, ‘D’yer fink I’ll ever get a fella, Con?’
‘’Course yer will.’
‘I don’t fink so. I’ve come ter realise it jus’ won’t ’appen. I know I’m different an’ there’s nufink can change it. When I was younger I used ter cry meself ter sleep some nights, wishin’ I was like you. You’re nice-lookin’ an’ yer can always get a fella. I used ter be jealous of yer, Con. Is it wicked ter be jealous of yer best friend?’
Connie felt a lump rising in her throat. ‘’Course it ain’t wicked. I fink yer very brave, Molly,’ she said, her voice faltering.
‘I’m not brave. I’m jus’ resigned ter the way fings are. I know I can’t change the way I look. It used ter upset me when people stared, but it don’t worry me now. I’ve got used to it.’Ere. D’yer remember when we worked in the bottlin’ stores? Michael Donovan always smiled at me an’ I really wanted ter get talkin’ to ’im. I jus’ couldn’t though. I tried ter kid meself’e fancied me, but I knew ’e was only bein’ nice. I was glad when ’e started chattin’ you up, Con. Really I was. Sounds funny don’t it?’
Connie could find nothing to say. She puckered her lips and stared into the fire, reminded of her time with the young sailor.
‘’Ave yer seen anyfing of ’im since yer split up, Con?’ her cousin asked after a while.
Connie shook her head. ‘No. I’d like ter see ’im, jus’ fer ole time’s sake. I don’t fink I’d be able ter talk to ’im though. I’d be too embarrassed.’
The fire had started to die and Molly shovelled more coal on to the embers. Outside the wind was getting up and the windows rattled. The two sat in silence for a while, watching the violet-coloured flames spurt from the smoking coals. Presently Molly got up to poke at the fire and when she had settled herself once more she said, ‘You lookin’ forward ter meetin’ ’is family, Connie?’
‘Not really. I’m gonna feel terrible, ’specially the way fings are. I expect they fink I’m a right little tart.’
‘Why should they fink that?’
‘Well, they must know why their son got ’is own flat. It stan’s ter reason.’
‘Let ’em fink what they like, Con. Yer as good as them. All right, yer might not speak wiv a plum in yer mouth, but it ain’t the talkin’ what counts, it’s the doin’.’
Connie laughed aloud as she saw the look on Molly’s flat round face. ‘You’re gettin’ ter be a proper little philosopher. It’s all those books yer bin readin’.’
Molly grinned. ‘Well, it makes me so mad. Me dad’s always goin’ on about fings like that. ’E reckons we’re as good as anybody.’
‘’Ere, Molly. Talkin’ about yer dad. ’Ow’s fings wiv ’im an’ yer mum?’
Molly held her crossed fingers out in front of her. ‘Since me dad got that job ’e’s bin much better. I ain’t ’eard ’im an’ mum arguin’ at all lately. They even went ter the flicks tergevver. They ain’t done that fer ages.’
‘What about you, Molly? D’yer feel better fer workin’?’
‘Yeah, sort of. It’s not a bad job. It gets a bit monotonous at times, but they’re a nice crowd o’ girls there. One or two of’em are even worse than me. Poor Barbara comes ter work in a wheelchair. At least I can walk ter work. I ’eard that the guv’nor gets money from the gover’ment ter take on people like us. By the way, ’ow’s yer barmaid’s job goin’?’
‘Oh, it’s okay. I’m gettin’ used ter servin’ beer an’ chattin’ all the customers up. Jennie’s mum an’ dad are pretty decent too.’
‘D’ yer get asked out a lot, Con?’
‘Not really. They’re all too drunk ter notice me ’alf the time.’
Molly yawned and Connie got up to stretch her legs. She crossed to the window and eased the curtains aside. Down below in the empty street a white blanket of snow covered the cobblestones and the grey slated roofs. A full moon shone down into the little turning, giving the snow a bluish tint. Long shadows reached out from the factory gates and climbed up the yellow brick walls of the houses opposite. The cold glow from the lone gaslamp flickered up and then faded, its light paling in the radiance of the bright round moon high up in the heavens. For a time the ugly looking factory held the young woman’s gaze. How many secrets were locked away behind those ugly iron gates? she wondered. How many ghosts were roaming around inside the darkness of that old red-brick building?
The Christmas Eve train chugged through the white countryside and finally slid noisily into Kelstowe station. Outside in the station forecourt Connie and Robert climbed into a waiting taxi-cab and were driven the couple of miles to the Armitage home. Connie was feeling apprehensive about meeting Robert’s mother for the first time. Her stomach knotted up and she shivered. Robert took her hand in his, aware of her feelings. It was something that had to be done. His parents had to be made aware that he was serious about the girl. He felt uneasy about the confrontation but he gave her an easy grin as he looked into her blue eyes.
‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ he said reassuringly.
When they reached the house Robert paid the driver and took her small case. Connie slipped her arm through his as they walked up the snow-cleared path to the front door. Robert’s knock was immediately answered by his father. He smiled as he beckoned them in, and the warmth made Connie’s face glow red as she slipped out of her coat and straightened her dress.
‘Have a good journey down?’ Peter asked them.
‘We had a carriage to ourselves,’ Robert answered.
Peter took their coats and hung them on the tall coatstand. Claudette appeared from the lounge and smiled graciously.
‘So this is Connie,’ she purred, taking the young woman’s hand in a limp grasp. ‘Do go in.’
Connie followed Robert into the large lounge and glanced quickly around, her eyes wide with surprise. Everything seemed so perfectly placed, she thought. The giant fireplace caught her eye and she could smell the bubbling pine resin. Robert took her hand and steered her into the long settee, seating himself beside her.
Peter Armitage walked over to a cabinet and picked up a bottle. ‘Right. Now what about a sherry, Connie?’
‘Yes, please,’ she answered, giving Robert a brief glance.
‘I’d love a Scotch and soda, Father. Easy on the soda. It’s a cold night out there,’ Robert said, winking at Connie.
Claudette had left the room, saying she wanted to check all was well in the kitchen. Peter brought over the drinks and sat down in his favourite armchair, his eyes on Connie as she sipped the sherry.
‘How’s the new job?’ Peter asked presently.
‘It’s all right fank you, Mr Armitage. I’ve got used to it now,’ she replied.
‘You can always come back you know,’ he said, grinning.
Connie began to settle down and her stomach eased. The factory owner had always been courteous to her when she worked in the canteen and now he was trying to encourage her to relax. His wife had seemed very starchy and formal, however. Her smile had seemed forced, although it might just have been her way. Connie decided she would just have to see how things developed.
Out in the kitchen Claudette fussed around Mrs Goodyear. ‘We’ll sit down at eight, Amy. Is that all right?’
Mrs Goodyear took the Dover sole from beneath the grill and gently prodded it with a fork. ‘It’ll be ready by then, Mrs A. I’ll just check the pudding.’
Claudette watched thoughtfully as Mrs Goodyear took a large china bowl from the steamer. Her mind was on other things. She had been taken aback when she first saw the young woman who was holding on to her son’s arm. She had to concede she was very pretty. Her hair shone in the light and her eyes had a sparkle. Claudette could see why her son had been attracted to the girl.
‘That’s it. Everything’s ready,’ Amy said, glancing at Claudette and noticing the faraway expression on her face.
The meal passed smoothly. Connie had become used to eating out with Robert and she managed to use the correct spoon for the soup. The fish course was followed by steamed pudding and, during the whole of the meal, Peter talked lightly about the weather, the factory output, and the recent visit of the Prime Minister to Germany. It seemed to Connie that he was attempting to monopolise the conversation, preventing his wife from saying very much. Connie was pleased. She could sense the hostility in Claudette, although on the surface she was polite and attentive. When Amy had cleared the last of the plates Peter leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Robert declined the proffered cigar box, preferring a Craven A which he took from his silver cigarette case. Amy brought in coffee and then went back into the kitchen to face the huge pile of soiled crockery.
The two men had left the dining room to go to Peter’s study for a brandy or two. Connie sat at the table with Claudette, watching her hostess as she poured out fresh coffee from a tall china pot into minute cups.
‘One or two, dear?’ Claudette asked, holding the sugar tongs delicately between her thumb and forefinger.
‘Two, please.’
Claudette passed the cup to Connie and leaned forward on the table, her arms making a bridge and her fingertips touching. ‘Tell me, Connie. How long have you known Robert?’ she asked, looking at her intently.
‘We’ve bin tergevver for about a year now,’ Connie replied.
‘Robert tells me you live in Bermondsey. Quite near the factory, I understand.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I live in Jubilee Dwellings. Next door ter the factory.’
‘It doesn’t sound a very nice place to live. What are the dwellings like? Do you have electricity?’
‘The street’s gas-lit. There’s no electricity, except in the factory.’
‘Good God! It must be terrible,’ Claudette said, pulling a face. ‘Are they very old, these dwellings?’
Connie’s mind went back to the time the men came into the Bartletts’ flat to fit an extra gaslamp. When they lifted the floorboards to lay the piping Molly had pointed out the carved signature of the original carpenter. Beneath the name Isaac Smith was a date. ‘Yes, they are old,’ Connie answered. ‘The dwellings were built in 1862. That was the year of Queen Victoria’s Silver Jubilee. I s’pose that was why they called ’em Jubilee Dwellin’s.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Claudette, taken off guard by the unexpected answer. ‘Do you study history?’
‘I read quite a lot,’ Connie replied, remembering that it was Molly who had told her about Queen Victoria’s Silver Jubilee. She hoped that Robert would hurry back soon.
Claudette toyed with her cup for a while. Suddenly she said, ‘Are you and Robert going steady? I mean, are you planning to get married one day?’
‘I can’t say. Robert ’asn’t asked me – yet,’ Connie said quickly.
The woman of the house studied her fingernails. ‘I understand from Peter that your mother once worked at the factory?’
Connie felt her stomach knot. ‘Yes, she did.’
Claudette fiddled with her spoon, removing an imaginary coffee dreg from her cup. ‘Peter was telling me about the arrangement made between Robert’s grandfather and your mother. You know about that, of course?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Connie was surprised at Claudette’s frankness.
‘You know why the money was paid to your mother?’
‘No. When I asked me mum I was told it was from me dad,’ Connie replied.
Claudette’s mouth parted in a ghost of a smile and it did not go unnoticed by Connie. She felt sure that the woman knew the reason for the payments and her mind started to race. Maybe it was the right moment to try a little bluff, she thought, fixing Claudette with her eyes.
‘Robert told me ’e doesn’t know anyfink about the money, but I’ll know pretty soon. As a matter o’ fact I’m goin’ ter see somebody who worked at the factory the same time as me mum. She was a good friend of ’ers. I know she’ll be able ter tell me what I want ter know.’
The older woman leaned forward as though she was about to say something when Robert and his father walked back into the dining room.
‘Hello. You two still here?’ Peter remarked. ‘I would have thought you’d have taken your coffee into the lounge.’
‘We were having a cosy chat,’ Claudette purred, glancing at Connie, who was silent.
The cold winter moon shone through the parted curtains into the bedroom and played on the pink counterpane. Connie lay on her back with her hands clasped behind her head. She could see the snow-covered branches of the cedar tree through the leaded window and distant stars peeping through the moving clouds. It had been a tiring evening, with Peter continuing to talk away lightheartedly. It was after midnight when Claudette had pointed out that Connie looked tired and suggested that maybe she might like to go to bed. Sleep would not come, however, and as she watched the swaying branches of the cedar tree and saw its shadow dancing on the ceiling Connie felt wide awake. She was certain in her mind that Claudette knew the reason for the payments. The truth was written on her face, and Connie felt that she would have learned something had their conversation not been interrupted. It Claudette knew, then it was almost certain the rest of the family knew, too. That would mean Robert had either lied to her or he had been kept in the dark by his parents. Connie’s mind went back to the meeting she had had with Alice Jones. She had doubted that the payments had anything to do with her father. If she was right then it could only mean that the money had bought her mother’s silence. But for what? It had either been offered or demanded and the thought troubled Connie. Her mother might have been a bit wild in her young days, but she had been a proud woman. It seemed unthinkable she would have demanded money from the firm without a very good reason. Maybe there would be an opportunity to carry on the conversation with Claudette. The woman obviously knew something.