The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson
Meanwhile, the public houses fared remarkably well out of it.
Billy collected Henzey at about half past eight that evening after taking his mother and father to vote. The weather was picking up encouragingly and, because of the lighter evenings, they decided to go for a ride out to Baggeridge Wood where it would be peaceful and quiet, away from the palaver of electioneering. Henzey was looking forward to having Billy all to herself for a while. He was feeling guilty, however; he wanted to take her home early, and told her so as they sat in the car under a tree watching the sun go down over Wolverhampton.
‘Oh, Billy, why?’ she said, with bitter disappointment. ‘I thought we might go to the Town Hall after to hear whether Cyril Lloyd or Oliver Baldwin won the Dudley seat.’
‘I can’t, my sweetheart, sorry. I’ll have to pick my father up from The Gypsy’s Tent just after ten. He’ll be legless. He’s the same every polling day.’
‘But I can wait in the car while you fetch him. Then we can take him home together.’
Billy sighed inwardly, wishing to show neither his frustration nor his guilt. ‘No, I’d best drop you at home first. God knows what sort of state he’ll be in. I don’t want you to see him like that. His language will be foul, especially if he’s had a rough time with his Labour mates – he’s ever likely to spew up in the car. I’m sorry, my angel, but it’s for the best. Besides, I suppose I’ll have to stop and have a drink myself. I won’t be able to get away that quick.’
‘Well, it’s hardly been worth seeing you. If you’d said so before I wouldn’t have bothered. I could’ve gone to the Town Hall with Florrie Shuker, or our Alice. Or even with Jesse.’
‘And how long have you been so interested in politics?’ There was sarcasm in his voice.
‘I’m not particularly interested in the politics,’ she said, ‘but it’s a nice atmosphere, with all those people late at night waiting to hear who got in. I just thought it’d be nice to be a part of it – with you, Billy. Still, it doesn’t matter.’ She sighed disconsolately. ‘Your family comes first.’
Henzey was acutely hurt. The men at work had been talking about going to the Town Hall later. It was a lovely idea and she’d been certain she could persuade Billy to take her, too.
‘Henzey, if I don’t get my dad home he’ll probably be set upon, just for wearing a red, white and blue rosette. It’s a rough area and, besides, when he’s had a drink he wants to fight every bugger, especially Labour folks.’
That bit was true. But it was only half the story. The other half he had no intention of confessing. Billy still possessed a jacket belonging to Nellie Dewsbury and he had already arranged to return it to her that night. Earlier, she had called at his house to see him, to ask when he could return it. He was not at home, but his mother innocently agreed an arrangement for him to deliver it to her on the night of polling day, as Nellie had suggested. Billy knew that Walter Dewsbury and his wife would be involved in the electioneering, so they would not be at home, and he recognised at once the intention in Nellie’s scheming. He was unable to resist what was a very tempting offer, especially as he had been celibate for so long.
Henzey saw little profit in arguing. In accepting his excuses she resigned herself to losing that battle and Billy delivered her home. After a quick goodnight kiss, off he went. She entered the house forlorn, pouting and disheartened, but never doubting his fidelity. The thing that upset her most was that it would be another two whole days before she would be with him again. Now she would not see him till Saturday night when they went dancing.
Henzey opened the door to the dairy house.
Something was wrong. Whether it was a manifestation of her discontent or her cheerless mood playing tricks, she could not tell; but there was a strange atmosphere. Normally this new home of theirs was vibrant since they moved in, embracing them like a benign, old uncle, who had once lost them and suddenly found them again. It was a happy house, but now it felt cold, empty and peculiarly sad. It was something she could never have defined. Just a feeling, but a weird feeling.
She heard lowered voices upstairs, and called out, ‘Yoo-hoo!’
Lizzie answered. ‘Henzey? Is that you?’ She came to the head of the stairs, looking anxious. ‘Thank God. Is Billy with you?’
‘No, he’s gone.’
‘Damn. We could have done with him to fetch the doctor. Looks like Ezme’s had another stroke.’ She walked downstairs towards Henzey, her voice still low. ‘She’s in a bad way, Henzey.’
‘I can fetch Donald. It’s only five to ten. I’ll be all right.’
‘Let’s hope he’s still sober. I’d ask our Herbert to go, but he’s out God knows where. Alice and Maxine should be back any minute. You’d better go, our Henzey. But be quick. And be careful. You know what they’re like on election night. If you see any fights walk on the other side of the horse road.’
So Henzey went out again. As she rushed down Cromwell Street, she saw Alice and Maxine coming the other way with two boys. She explained what had happened, that she was on her way to fetch the doctor. Seeing it as a way of staying out later, Alice agreed to accompany Henzey. Maxine said she would let their mother know where Alice was.
‘How come you’m ’ome so early?’ Alice enquired.
‘Billy had to go early to fetch his father from the pub.’ Henzey tried not to sound concerned.
‘Oh…An’ ’ave a drink ’imself, I daresay.’ Alice’s tone was tinged with cynicism.
‘I daresay. That’s up to him. I can’t dictate what he should or shouldn’t do.’
‘Yer can try. I would. If he tried to get rid o’ me early I’d play hell up. You’m too soft with ’im, Henzey. Yer let ’im boss yer about an’ everythin’.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, yer do. Just ’cause he’s got a motor and a pocketful o’ money. He thinks he’s everybody.’
‘I think you’ve got a tainted view, Alice,’ Henzey said, ruffled by Alice’s observations, even though she recognised that there was an element of truth in what she said. ‘He doesn’t think he’s everybody at all, and he certainly doesn’t own me.’
‘Have yer slept with ’im yet?’
‘Alice! ’Course I haven’t slept with him. What do you think I am?’
‘Nor let ’im do anythin’ to yer?’
‘Course not!’
‘Huh! You’m a bit slow. I thought you was potty about ’im…Or is it ’im what’s slow? Mind yer, I’d want ’im slow. I wun’t want ’im to touch me. I think he’s a smarmy sod. He gives me the creeps.’
‘Good,’ Henzey replied indignantly. ‘For goodness sake, Alice, if you can’t say anything nice about him don’t say anything at all. Keep your opinions to yourself…Quick – let’s cross over the road…’
Two grown men, the worse for drink, tumbled out of The Fountain public house fighting. Had they been sober they would merely have agreed to differ. As fists flew the pub emptied as all the patrons followed the men outside, cheering and jeering, inflaming the situation. Somebody smashed a glass, and in an instant, most of the other men seemed to be involved, flailing their arms like persons drowning.
‘Quick, let’s get out of the way,’ Henzey said to Alice, and they both ran, diffusing their argument.
Soon, they were back home, riding into the yard in Dr Donald Clark’s Morris. Henzey could smell drink on him. Even she could tell that it was a bad time to call Donald Clark out when he’d had three or more hours of solo drinking. Yet his brain and his body seemed immune to the effects of whisky. He drove his car capably enough and his speech, though limited to just a few monosyllables, did not sound slurred. Henzey felt sorry for him.