The Dressmaker’s Daughter

*

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 put her hand to her ear.

‘I said, is she courtin’ Jesse?’

Eve calmly spooned tea into the brown, enamelled teapot, then set it down on the hob to warm. ‘That’s what I thought you said.’ Their eyes met. ‘What makes you think as she’s a-courting that Jesse? He ain’t the only fish in the sea you know. No, she’s courting a lovely lad from Tividale. A chap called Ben Kite.’

‘Oh? Am yer sure?’

‘Sure? ’Course I’m sure. He’s been here often enough. He was at our Joe’s with her on New Year’s Eve. You must’ve seen him.’

‘No, I don’t remember.’

‘Why? Who says different?’ She put her hand to her ear in anticipation of his reply.

‘Jesse called it off with our Sylvia. You must’ve heard. Sarah thinks it’s Lizzie’s fault.’

‘Well tell Sarah from me as it ain’t Lizzie’s fault. Whatever cock ’n’ bull story Sylvia’s told her, it ain’t Lizzie’s fault, take it from me. I suppose that’s why you ain’t been a-nigh?’

He nodded glumly.

‘Then you ought to be ashamed – especially you, Tom – judging our Lizzie like that. You know very well she wouldn’t do a thing like that – pinching another woman’s chap. Especially somebody she’s close to, like our Sylvia.’

‘It’s as I thought, Eve. Sarah’s got the wrong end o’ the stick, then … but it’s only what our Sylvia’s told her. Don’t fret. I’ll sort it out.’

‘Whether or no, the damage is done.’

‘Well they’ve both always been jealous of Lizzie, you know that as well as I do. It don’t surprise me as either of ’em should grab the first chance to show her up in a bad light.’

‘I know all about that, Tom. But afore they spread wicked gossip they ought to get their story right.’

He put his hand in the pocket of his cord working trousers and fished out a half sovereign. ‘Here, I’ve got a bit o’ widow’s pension I’ve been savin’ up.’ He pressed it on her.

Eve gave it back. ‘I don’t want it. You won’t get round me like that … And you can stop your laughing.’

‘I ain’t trying to get round you, yer saft madam. After everything we’ve been to each other I hardly feel as I have to get round yer. I’m trying to help.’

‘If you’m determined to give it away, then give it our Lizzie this time.’

Tom picked up the oven glove from the table and lifted the boiling kettle from the fire, then filled the teapot.

‘I’ll leave it for our Lizzie, then.’

*

On the Saturday evening when Lizzie left work Ben was waiting for her. She was so glad to see him. It was the first time she’d seen him for nearly a week.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

He took her hand and they started to walk down High Street towards the Market Place. ‘No fear of that, my flower. I’ve been thinking about you all the while.’

‘Flannel!’

He laughed. ‘I never flannel, Lizzie.’

‘Except when you think I’m vexed at you.’

‘And are you vexed at me?’

She shook her head and smiled.

‘Good. Thinking about you has been the only pleasure I’ve had this week. Have you heard about the fire at the Hamstead Colliery?’

She said of course she had.