The Dressmaker’s Daughter

‘Go on, else you’ll catch your death. I’ll be back in a minute. Sylvia thinks I’ve gone up the yard.’

‘Sylvia thought you’d gone up the yard,’ a woman’s voice said.

They both turned. There was no mistaking that tall, willowy frame even in the darkness. Sylvia’s face was in shadow, the street lamp behind her, and they could not see the stony contempt in her eyes. Her tone of voice, however, was cold as frozen marble, and her diction, so prim and correct these days, lent it a colder edge, even frostier than the weather. Lizzie and Jesse instantly, guiltily, let go of each other. They looked at her, then at each other. It was exactly the sort of confrontation neither wanted. They wondered how much she’d heard; but however much, she had seen them embrace, perhaps even witnessed their lingering kiss.

‘So this is what’s been going on behind my back, is it? This is why you only want to see me three nights a week, is it, Jesse Clancey?’

‘Nothing’s been going on behind your back, Sylvia.’

‘It doesn’t seem like it. Well, our Lizzie, you can have him and welcome, and I hope to God as I never see either of you again as long as I live.’ She burst into tears and fished in the pocket of her coat for a handkerchief. ‘I’m disgusted at you, Lizzie, I really am. But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Not the way I’ve seen you looking at him.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘And to think you’re leading that other poor lad on in there as well. You really ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, you’re no better than a common harlot … and everybody thinks butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’

Lizzie was annoyed at this slur on her innocence. Until now she’d hung her head in sheer embarrassment at being caught in this compromising situation. But why should she feel guilty? She had nothing to hide. It was all innocent enough from her own point of view. She understood how it must have looked to Sylvia, though, so she tempered her pique.

Sylvia turned to go.

‘Sylvia, no matter what it looked like, we were just standing here talking …’

‘Yes, in each other’s arms. And I heard what you were saying.’ Sylvia turned to face her again with increasing scorn. ‘I heard him tell you to keep it quiet in case I found out.’ Although she tensed with vehement anger and frustration, her emotions were surprisingly well under control.

‘For Christ’s sake, Sylvia,’ Jesse said. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. You’ve got nothing at all to blame Lizzie for. She was trying to protect you.’

‘Protect me? Holding you like that? Protect me from what? Do you think I’m completely stupid?’

‘Lizzie, you’d best get back inside as you were about to. Leave me and Sylvia to sort this out between us. She might as well know the rest of it.’

‘I don’t want to hear anything from either of you,’ Sylvia said, contemptuous of being scolded like a disobedient child. ‘My eyes have never deceived me yet.’

‘Well, whether you want to hear or no, you’re going to listen. You can either listen here, or you can listen while I walk you back home, ’cause there’s no way you’re going back into Joe’s house till I’ve told you the truth.’

Lizzie was about to wish them a happy new year as she walked away, but stopped herself; neither the moment, nor the sentiment were appropriate.

‘Lizzie!’ Sylvia called icily. ‘Be sure that after this I shall get my own back. If it takes the rest of my life I’ll get my revenge. No woman steals my man and gets away with it.’

‘Sylvia, I haven’t stolen your man. I haven’t even tried.’

She turned and hurried away, never more glad to be out of an awkward situation. The noise as she passed by the window drowned out any conversation Jesse and Sylvia were now having. Joe was playing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, and most of the guests were singing along to it. Lizzie realised that Sylvia couldn’t have heard very much of what Jesse had said, from that distance at any rate. But seeing her in his arms was enough.

Back in the house Lizzie shuddered as the warm air enveloped her, displacing the cold. She headed straight for the fire and held her cold hands over it, still reeling from the encounter.

‘Every time that door opens the damned cold wafts in,’ Eve complained to Sarah. ‘We might as well be sittin’ up the yard in the privy as sittin’ here. Me belly’s roasted like a bit o’ brisket, and me back’s like ice. It serves me barbarous.’

As she stood by the fire, thinking, Lizzie didn’t know which experience was having the most profound effect on her: Jesse Clancey’s confession; his scrumptious kisses; or Sylvia’s cold hostility. None should have come as any great surprise. She recalled how Jesse always used to ogle her and smile; and Sylvia had shown signs of resentment then, come to think of it. After her little outburst tonight, though, Lizzie decided she wouldn’t be troubled any more at the thought of going out with Jesse. She resented Sylvia’s accusations to the point where she would welcome the chance to get her own back. If her name was going to be blackened it might as well be justified. Yet she knew she would not do it, not even out of revenge. She couldn’t, for she was not of a vindictive nature; and deep down she understood Sylvia’s possessiveness.

‘Lizzie. You’re back.’ It was Ben, standing at her side. She had not noticed him as she gazed into the fire. ‘I went to look for you.’

She smiled at him absently, politely, as though it were the first time she had ever caught sight of him. Then she strove to shake off the fetters of preoccupation. ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said, her eyes wide, happier now, relieved he hadn’t spotted her with Jesse. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a while.’

‘Are you all right? Shall I get you a drink?’

‘I should already have one somewhere. You poured me some lemonade before I went out, didn’t you? I think I fancy something stronger now though. Something to warm me up a bit.’

‘I’ll get you a glass of port, eh?’

The piano playing and the singing stopped momentarily, at which point Lizzie heard Joe calling May to fetch the Hardwicks. May acknowledged him and duly disappeared through the back door. Eve and Sarah, still occupying the scullery and their guardianship of the drinks, shivered again and flashed looks of cold discontent at each other. Sarah finally suggested they take up occupation of the front room where there was only the draught under the front door to contend with; surely somebody would be gentleman enough to offer them a seat. So there was a temporary disruption and rustling of long skirts while they shifted. Meanwhile Joe had begun playing the piano again – a tune called ‘I Wouldn’t Leave My Little Wooden Hut for You’. Amidst the laughing and the general chatter they heard a solitary voice rise, singing along to the piano. It was Beccy Crump who, when she’d had a drink or two, was noted for her uninhibited renditions of this and other songs.

Lizzie, warmer now, sat down on the bottom stair next to the grate, and Ben joined her, bearing her a glass of port and his own pint of beer. She took the port and sipped it, savouring its intensity as it slid down her throat. The back door opened and she looked up with apprehension, expecting to see Sylvia and Jesse, but it was May, who had returned with Jack and Maria Hardwick and Jack’s father and mother. May issued them drinks and they, too, disappeared into the front room, with Maria heavily pregnant, laughing, pretending to conduct the music as they went.

‘When you went outside I was intending to come with you,’ Ben commented when they were alone again. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘When I couldn’t find you I came back inside.’

‘Sorry,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I wish you had found me in time.’

‘Why? What’s up, Lizzie?’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you later, when I’ve stopped shivering.’

‘Look, I fancy a walk outside myself. When you’ve warmed up a bit shall we go out for five or ten minutes? Then you can tell me what’s up.’

‘It’s bitter cold out there, Ben. I don’t mind, though – as long as I’m wrapped up warm next time.’ The idea of being alone with Ben on this cold night was starting to appeal again, not just to get away from the atmosphere that was bound to prevail if Jesse and Sylvia returned.

Beccy Crump reached the end of her song and predictably commenced singing, ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’. Lizzie turned and smiled at Ben.

‘He fancies you, Lizzie – that Jesse,’ Ben remarked trenchantly and drew on his cigarette.

‘Oh? D’you think so?’ She was hardly thrilled to be reminded of it after the trouble it had caused.

‘Judging by the way he was looking at you earlier, and the way he followed you outside. D’you fancy him?’

‘I suppose I do,’ she said, teasing him with the truth, but absolving herself because she could not lie easily. ‘I always used to, anyway.’

‘Don’t you think he’s a bit old for you?’

‘Not really … Oh, Ben, don’t let’s talk about Jesse.’

‘Why? Has he upset you? Tell me what’s up.’

She looked around. If Jesse and Sylvia walked in now, or even just the one of them, she would want the floor to open up and swallow her.

‘Let’s go for that walk now and I’ll tell you. Not in here where other folks can hear.’

Ben looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wanted twenty-five minutes to eleven.

‘Don’t forget your hat and coat this time, then,’ he said, reaching his own from the back of the cellar door. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’

A group of people entered The Sailor’s Return, all done up in their best clothes, and another group left. Ben could hear Joe playing his piano and it sounded as though everybody in the room was singing their hearts out. He looked up at the north sky, cloudless, clear, and drew on his cigarette. His mind was full of Lizzie. Daisy had assured him Lizzie had no romantic attachment, and whenever he’d seen her out she was never with a lad; but what was happening with this Jesse? Should he back off for fear of upsetting some other arrangement? He would be loath to do so. Before all this he thought he had a chance. Now he was confused.

Ben liked things clear cut. He liked to know where he was going long before he got there. There was no ambiguity in his own mind as to the likely outcome of a liaison with Lizzie; nor in his feelings, once he was on a given course. He was straightforward and everything had to be above board. He was forthright and if he had anything to say he said it. He was not one for skirting round a problem when he could meet it head on. Neither was he one for flannelling; what he said, he meant.

He heard Lizzie’s footsteps in the entry and turned to see her emerge in her pale coloured coat, her collar turned up to keep out the cold. The street lamp thirty yards away picked out her fine features and he thought she looked so beautiful, yet so preoccupied. He remembered the way Jesse had been looking at her; it was hardly surprising; how could he reasonably expect this girl to have no other admirers? They must surely be falling over each other in the rush.