Читать книгу The Factory Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 5

The moment Henzey Kite’s clear blue eyes alighted on him she regretted it. Never in her young life had she seen a man so immaculate, so handsome, so desirable. His eyes, when he smiled, made her legs wobble like aspic. He oozed a calm self-assurance and a dangerous allure that compelled her heart and soul to sing out to him as wilfully as a nightingale calls its mate through bluebell woods. But he heard not her heart’s call. In any case, he was unattainable – as unattainable as the moon. Yet having seen him, no one else would do; and therein lay her regret.

The girl at his side matched him perfectly. She was strikingly beautiful. Henzey had spotted her once before, a week ago, on the evening she had first met Andrew. She was called Nellie, and she was Andrew’s sister; but Andrew had not introduced them. Everything about Nellie was exquisite, especially her dark hair, which was impeccably styled and framed her lovely face. Her skin was flawless, her clothes fitted to a stitch and her figure was inspiring. Yet everything about her was sublimely understated to the point of rendering her demure. Men would die for Nellie Dewsbury. She stood out like a fine cut diamond in a tray of gaudy baubles.

And Henzey wanted to be just like her.

Realising that she was staring at them both, Henzey turned away to appraise the fine set of framed water-colours that hung on the wall behind her. She must find time to do more water-colours; it would make a change from the pen and ink and charcoal drawings she’d been doing lately. Just fancy, if she were in a position to paint him and capture his calm self-assurance! The thought sent a warm flush of blood through her veins. But then she would spend her time just looking at him, ogling him, and doubtless get little painting done.

Standing unaccompanied, holding a glass of lemonade Andrew had brought her earlier, she noted how many people in that elegant drawing room were in fancy dress. One young man arrived dressed like Rudolph Valentino as The Sheik, another like Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer, and one masqueraded as an ancient pharaoh, obviously influenced by the recent excavations of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Couples began dancing to the strident sounds of a jazz band emanating from a gramophone standing in a corner. Henzey looked doubtfully at the highly-polished wood block floor, which was at the mercy of so many skidding, twisting, leather-soled shoes.

Sipping her drink, Henzey was aware that the party was growing noisier. All around her, people were shrieking with laughter. Clipped accents proliferated, sounding as foreign to her as the strange, rolling American cadences she’d heard in the talkies. She’d often imagined that people who spoke ‘posh’ would be stand-offish, so she was surprised at how friendly they were, towards each other at any rate. They were totally uninhibited, prepared to do things to make fools of themselves that she would never contemplate. Three young men took everybody’s attention when they held an impromptu competition between themselves to see who could dance ragtime best to a scratchy version of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’. A diminutive young thing in a long, blue dress elected herself both partner and judge for each. Henzey watched their tomfoolery and laughed.

‘Who’s this raven-haired girl here?’ she overheard somebody behind her say. ‘The one with the Egyptian bob. She’s absolutely too divine.’

His chum replied, ‘Sorry, old man. Never seen her before.’

She turned to see who had spoken, naturally believing they must be referring to Nellie. When it was obvious that the two young men were discussing herself, Henzey smiled, flattered. Blushing, she cast her eyes down.

‘Wouldn’t mind having a tilt at her. Love her dress.’

The dress had been bought specially for the party; black, with a low waist, short and straight. Save for the low back, it gave her a boyish appearance; the height of fashion. A matching headband and a row of long, black beads afforded the finishing touch. She looked beautiful, and respectable enough to be visiting the home of a wealthy family, her mother had affirmed with pride.

‘See how it falls over the cheeks of her backside? She’s an absolute peach.’

‘Faint heart ne’er won a fair lady,’ said the first. ‘Introduce yourself, man…Go on, before somebody else snaps her up. Sweep her off her feet.’

Henzey wished fervently that Andrew would return to her side. But the young man’s approach was thwarted nonetheless: a tall, willowy girl had been edging towards her, and overheard the boys’ comments. She was wearing an expensive-looking sleeveless, white pyjama suit with a green snake embroidered on the front, poised to strike. She carried a long black cigarette holder in one hand and a half-empty champagne flute in the other. Her head was wrapped in an unusual cloche hat, styled like a turban.

‘At the risk of ultimately dying a spinster,’ she articulated close to Henzey’s ear, as if to impart a great secret, ‘I would go so far as to say that some of these young men have a tendency to over-rate their own merit.’

‘Oh?’ Henzey replied with an interested smile.

‘You must have heard what they said just now?…They must believe they are some sort of rare species. Frankly, I blame their mothers. They’ve doubtless drummed into them that they’re worth their weight in gold. Such sentiments should have been directed at their elder brothers, surely? Those spared by the war.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Henzey could hear Andrew’s voice booming boisterously on the other side of the room, and she was trying to listen to him at the same time. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’

‘I said, these boys have such high opinions of themselves.’

‘Oh, some of them, maybe,’ nodded Henzey. ‘One of my friends made me laugh the other day. She reckons all they’re interested in is getting their hands up your frock. I wouldn’t know, myself. I’ve only ever had a couple of boyfriends, and I certainly wouldn’t let anybody do that.’

The girl was already laughing. ‘I say! I wouldn’t have put it quite like that personally, but your synopsis has a ring of truth. You a local gel?’

‘Born and bred. My name’s Henzey Kite. I’m with Andrew, and he’s getting more drunk by the minute, by the looks of him.’

‘Margot Hartford-Giles.’ She offered her hand, and they shook. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Henzey. So you’re with Andrew?’

‘If I ever get to see him again. My sister Alice is here as well somewhere, with Andrew’s friend, George. Do you know George?’

‘Know George? George is my brother, though that’s not something I should be crowing about. So, that little girl I saw him plying with drink is your sister, eh? She looks very young.’

‘She is. I’m supposed to keep my eye on her.’

‘It’s George you should keep an eye on, my dear – Andrew too. They’re like all the rest. They believe they’re a species of rare bird that should be kept in a gilded cage and have their feathers perpetually preened. If only they could rid themselves of this pitiful delusion.’

‘If only they could see themselves, some of them.’

Margot drew herself closer to Henzey’s ear and lowered her voice. ‘Frankly, you wouldn’t believe some of the things my friends say about men.’

‘But they’re not all as bad as you say, are they, Margot?’ She risked another glance at him with the fascinating allure, in time to see him leaving the drawing-room with the equally fascinating Nellie. ‘My brother’s all right,’ she continued, her eyes following them. ‘He’s fifteen and never had a girlfriend. He’s good to our mom, though, and kind to his horse…’

‘Oh, does he ride?’

‘Ride? Oh, no. He’s a milkman. The horse pulls his float.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Margot turned her head to conceal her amusement.

‘Mind you,’ Henzey continued, uninhibited by their cultural distance, ‘sometimes he tries to make everybody think as he’s better at everything than me and our Alice and our Maxine, but his brain ain’t quick enough. He thinks too slow.’

‘Like all men.’

‘He’s all right really, though.’

‘But it proves my point, Henzey.’

Margot took a gulp of champagne and Henzey swigged her lemonade. Increasingly, it seemed as if she was not part of her surroundings; a peculiar sensation, as if she were in a dream and observing, but detached from the party.

‘They’re all different, I suppose,’ Henzey said chattily, and smiled.

‘Oh, they fall into all sorts of categories. Do you know – in London, those on the social scene go out to dances practically every night of the season? Not any dance, mark you. Only very carefully selected ones. They owe it to themselves, you see, to be seen only at the right places. They get to know everybody on the social circuit, get to know everything about them – how much money they have, whom they hope to marry, even whom they’ve slept with.’

‘Slept with? You don’t mean…?’

‘Oh, please, don’t be shocked. That sort of thing’s par for the course these days, my dear. Whilst they’ll sleep with absolutely anybody, these socialites only fall in love with heiresses. But at least they are polite, which these days has to be admired. Immaculately dressed too. Most wear pristine white gloves so as not to mark your best silk dress with sweaty hands. Very commendable, what? Even their socks are beyond criticism, I’m told.

‘Then there’s the academic. Utterly boring. Can you imagine anything more tedious than discussing a collection of specialist books on the impact of treacle on furry worms, for instance?’

Henzey chuckled. ‘What a lark, Margot! You must get about a bit. What other sorts are there?’ She was beginning to enjoy Margot’s dissertation on today’s young men.

‘Well, I suspect the nightclub goon is worthy of mention.’

Henzey laughed. ‘The nightclub goon?’

‘You know the type. Tries to make himself look exactly like Ramon Novarro, or Ronald Colman. Hair sleeked down with hair-oil, perfumed like the inside of a whore’s handbag. Frankly, I fail to understand this fixation for emulating such people. Mind you, Henzey, the nightclub goon was doing the Charleston long before the rest of us had even heard of it. I must confess, I’ve panted with nightclub goons on many a dance floor.’

‘What about those with cars?’ Henzey asked out of self-interest, for Andrew had a car.

A man nudged Margot, placed a cigarette in her cigarette holder, and deftly lit it with a silver lighter as she put it to her lips. He smiled, looked Henzey up and down, and just as deftly moved on without a word. She drew on the cigarette as though her life depended on it, exhaling smoke in great billows. Henzey was reminded of a fiery dragon.

‘Frankly, the youth with a motor car is the worst of the lot. Absolutely reeks of engine oil. Usually got a horrid, grubby bandage on at least one finger. Conversation’s rather limited too – to carburettors and magnetos usually. And the only thing he’ll ever drive you to is drink. All he ever reads is motoring magazines, and his favourite pastime is to disappear into a smelly garage for hours on end with an equally smelly chum to hot the blessed vehicle up.’

‘What about his girlfriend?’

Margot sucked earnestly at her cigarette holder again. ‘I should say the jolly old girlfriend has to be rather slim to fit in the damn thing – like you. But whatever car he’s got, he’ll scare you rigid with his driving.’

At that, Andrew came along with a fresh pint of beer in his hand. ‘Ah, I shee you two have met,’ he said with some difficulty. ‘Margot is George’s shishter, you know. Up from Windsor for the weekend.’ He went to put his glass to his lips and slopped some over himself, which he tried to pat away with the flat of his hand.

‘Charming gel you have here, Andrew,’ Margot said. ‘Henzey and I are confidantes. Her opinion of men concurs generally with my own. What was it you said, my dear? Men are only interested in getting their oily hands up our frocks. That was it, more or less, was it not? I trust it’s not true of you, Andrew.’

Margot laughed like a donkey, and Henzey chuckled at her infectious sense of humour.

‘I’ve come to drag her away from you, Margot,’ Andrew said, a little wobbly on his legs. ‘I want to show her off to Nellie.’

‘Ah, Nellie. So be it. I’ll circulate.’

Henzey was still laughing, but stiffened a little at hearing Nellie’s name. She was longing to get a closer look at her hair, how she applied her make-up. Still holding her empty glass, she turned to follow Andrew. He led her into the breakfast room, and there she saw Nellie and her godlike companion talking and laughing with a group of people, some of whom she recognised from the roller skating rink.

But Henzey was feeling hot and light-headed. Her thoughts were becoming unfocused. ‘Andrew, would you get me some more lemonade first, please? I’m feeling a bit peculiar.’

He took her glass biddably, and was soon back at her side with a refill. She took a long drink, hoping it would clear her head. The last thing she wanted was to go down with a bout of flu.

‘Are you ready now?’

‘Yes, I’m ready.’

‘Helen, I’d like you to meet Henzey. Henzey…Helen.’

‘Nice to meet you, Henzey,’ she said with a smile.

Henzey smiled back. ‘Nice to meet you, too, Nellie.’ She tried to take in Nellie’s technique with make-up, but the handsome companion was proving a greater attraction. Her eyes swivelled towards him, and she smiled coyly in anticipation of the introduction. His eyes lit up in response, and Nellie witnessed the exchange.

‘Excuse me,’ she said severely, drawing Henzey’s attention again. ‘Was I not introduced as Helen?’

‘Helen?…Oh, sorry. I thought everybody called you Nellie.’ She blushed deeply at her blunder.

Nellie smiled, but too sweetly for it to be sincere. ‘Only family and close friends call me Nellie.’ Then her expression changed to frozen marble. ‘You’ve reached the status of neither…nor are you ever likely to, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

Henzey’s head was swimming, and Nellie’s aggressive attitude unnerved her. It seemed so unnecessary. She began trembling with embarrassment and disappointment.

He looked at Henzey with some sympathy. ‘That’s a bit unkind, Nell.’

‘Oh, er…this is Billy Witts. Nellie’s…er, Helen’s boyfriend,’ Andrew said meekly.

She looked at Billy Witts again, but this time in bewilderment. Her smile had disappeared, her blue eyes told of the hurt and humiliation she felt inside. Floundering, she looked to Andrew for support. But none came. He was too drunk to think straight. People were milling past Henzey, and the noise from the party seemed strangely overpowering. She was feeling queasy, hot, and her legs were shaking now.

‘Please excuse me.’ She turned away and heard Billy remonstrate with Nellie.

Andrew caught up with her. ‘Take no notice of her, Henzey. She’s probably jealous of you.’

‘Why should she be jealous of me? I’ve done nothing. All I did was call her by the name everybody else calls her by. She’s rude, your sister, and I thought she was so nice.’ Tears flooded her eyes. ‘I don’t feel very well, either.’

As she walked unsteadily past the kitchen, something clicked ominously in her mind. Something. She wasn’t sure what. It had some vital significance, but she could not pinpoint it in her perplexity. In the hall, she sat on the stairs and put her head in her hands trying to remember, trying to overcome the unaccountable swimming sensation in her mind.

Andrew said, ‘I’ll get you another glass of lemonade, shall I?’

She wanted water, but she was finding it difficult to form the words to say so. Lemonade would have to do. She closed her eyes and her head seemed to spin. With a start she stared around her and shook her head violently in an attempt to stem the awful sensation of giddiness. But she was so thirsty as well. Something was radically wrong. She must be ill. Andrew returned from the kitchen with another full glass and handed it to her. She quaffed the lemonade, staring vacantly.

‘I say! Are you all right? You look jolly pale.’

‘Oh Andrew, I feel terrible. I’ll have to get some fresh air. I think I’ll have to go home.’

He took her glass, put it down on the telephone table and helped her to her feet, as well as he was able in his own inebriated state. ‘Not yet. Come on, I’ve got a better idea. You can lie down on my bed and I’ll open the windows for you.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t go to your bedroom. What would people think?’

But she was incapable of further resistance. Andrew held on to the bannister with one hand and, with his other arm around Henzey’s waist, they lumbered awkwardly upstairs. He struggled to open the door to his bedroom. When at last he did, they entered and both slumped onto the bed. It finally dawned on her that she must be drunk. But she was by no means certain. She’d never been drunk before.

‘Have you put shomethin’ in me drinks, Andrew?’ she asked, not without some impediment to her speech. ‘Andrew, have you put anythin’ in me drinks?’

‘Oh, just a drop of Russian vodka.’ He sounded pleased with himself. ‘Just a teensy-weensy drop. George and I thought it would looshen you up a bit…help you enjoy the party.’

‘Oh, what you do that for?’ She sounded so disappointed. ‘I promished my mother…’

She passed out.

In her dream she was turning, revolving, spinning in a black velvet sky. Stars whizzed round her at a fantastic rate making her dizzy, and all she could hear was a high-pitched whistling in her head. She was searching, searching, but for what? She could not remember. The shrill whistling grew louder the dizzier she got. A burden of responsibility was hanging heavy upon her, she was aware. But the spinning, the endless turning, the stars racing by, the searching…this anxiety. If only she knew what she was seeking. It was making her feel sick.

An overwhelming need to vomit forced her to consciousness again and she sat up. She was surprised to see the hem of her dress round her waist and Andrew lying beside her, his hand stroking the bare flesh of her thighs between the tops of her stockings and her knickers.

‘Let’s have your clothes off, there’s a sport,’ he was saying. ‘Let’s shee you in the buff.’

She slapped his face with as much indignation as she could muster and, with an extraordinary effort, staggered off the bed. She opened the door and lurched from the room, stumbling. Just in time she found the bathroom, vacant for once, and retched into the lavatory. She shuddered at the awful bitter taste in her mouth. Almost at once, her head cleared. Again she heaved…And again. Her eyes were streaming…yet miraculously she felt better. But the spark of anger she’d felt was being fanned into a roaring flame by the thought of Andrew’s stupidity. What a downright cad to even think of lacing a girl’s drinks with vodka when she believed all along it was just lemonade? Had he and George done it just so they could take advantage of her and Alice?

Alice!

It was then she realised why she was so racked with anxiety.

She stood up. Her mind was clear. She washed her mouth and wiped the tears from her eyes, then cursed her own slowness of mind. ‘Alice! Oh, Alice!’ If anything had happened to Alice…She thrust open the bathroom door and stormed out. The door to Nellie’s room, the ladies powder room for the evening, was shut. Seeking Alice, she shoved it open angrily. It almost hit Nellie, who was just coming out.

‘Hey, I think “excuse me” is the expression you’re looking for, Miss.’

Henzey ignored her only because she had something more important to attend to. She rushed to the next door on the landing and thrust it open. In the darkness of the room she could just make out two people in bed. Instantly, they parted.

‘Is that you, Alice?’

A girl’s voice answered warily, ‘Hello, Henzey,’

‘Alice, you damn fool! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

‘Just talking.’ There was annoyance in her voice.

‘Get up, for God’s sake!’ But the sight of George in bed with her sister was too much. Henzey burst into tears, shaking with anger and disappointment at this lesson in human nature. ‘George, George! D’you know how old she is?…Do you?’

‘Sixteen, she told me. You were there, at the roller skating rink.’

‘I’ll tell you how old she is,’ she sobbed. ‘She’s fourteen. D’you hear what I said? Fourteen.’ Tears were streaming down her face.

‘Christ, I had absolutely no idea. She said she was sixteen. You heard her.’ He turned to Alice. ‘You told me you were sixteen, didn’t you? I distinctly remember.’

Alice shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

Henzey was weeping copiously, tired, and drained of emotion. But she marshalled enough ardour to tell George what she thought of him. ‘Fourteen, sixteen, what’s the difference? Neither makes you any better. Neither makes you a knight in shining armour, specially after you’ve deliberately tried to get her drunk. I bet you think you’re really clever. I bet you and your stupid pals will have a good laugh over this, won’t you?’ She took a deep breath to help regain her composure. ‘Alice, come on. We’re going home.’

While Henzey waited outside the door, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, Billy Witts appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Somebody says there’s trouble up here.’

Henzey burst into tears again.

‘What’s the matter, my flower?’ He sounded genuinely concerned. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s my sister…in there with that…that swine George…I’m taking her home. What time is it, please? We’re supposed to be home by twelve.’

‘It’s about half past eleven. Andrew brought you, didn’t he?’

‘He did, and some use he is, as well. He’s as bad as that George. He’s as drunk as a rat. Look at him in there.’ They both peered through the open door into Andrew’s bedroom. He was sprawled out on the bed, oblivious to the world. ‘If he’s supposed to be a gentleman, give me a rough miner any day of the week.’

At that moment, Alice appeared at the bedroom door bleary-eyed, her best dress crumpled, her hair tousled.

Billy said, ‘I’ll take you home. How far is it?’

‘Not far. But we wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with her ladyship.’

‘I said I’ll take you home.’

Henzey shrugged, feigning indifference, but he took it as her acceptance. Once outside, he led them to his car, which was parked in the street, and they drove off.

‘So what happened back there? I could see there was something wrong. What was all the fuss about?’

Henzey explained more fully what had happened at the hands of Andrew and George.

‘Did George put anything in your drink, Alice?’ she asked.

‘I dunno. Maybe he did,’ she answered. ‘I only had two. I feel all right – I think.’

‘I’m livid at that George, Billy. He must have tried to get her drunk. He took her to that bedroom, and she’s only fourteen. I daren’t begin to think what went on.’

‘Nothin’ went on.’

‘Something went on, Alice. I could tell by the state of you.’

‘Nothin’ went on worth mentionin’. We was kissin’, that’s all. What’s wrong wi’ kissin’?’

‘You said you were talking. Either way, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Your frock looks as if it’s been put through the mangle all crooked and you should see your hair. ’Tis to be hoped Mother doesn’t catch sight of you.’

Billy said, ‘Course, he don’t come from round here, that George. He came up from Windsor with his sister and her young man, just for Andrew’s party. He’s one of his university mates at Oxford.’

‘Well the sooner he clears off back, the better.’

Nobody spoke for a while, till Henzey said, ‘So how long have you been courting Nellie, Billy?’

‘About two years,’ he replied.

‘Mmm…I like her hair. Where does she get it done?’

‘That hairdresser in Union Street, I think.’

Billy smiled to himself. What little he’d seen of this girl he liked. She was not sophisticated like Nellie, but she was no less beautiful. There was something refreshing about her, even in her distressed state. He perceived within her an earthy passion, something indefinably basic, elemental. She had no airs and graces, yet she possessed undeniable self-esteem. She was like him; a born survivor with the potential to be a cut above the rest. There was hidden promise in her clear blue eyes, her red lips, so kissable, and her long, shapely legs. He changed to a lower gear as they turned into the Market Place, and glimpsed the few tantalising inches of her thighs that were visible as her short dress rode up her legs in the seat next to him. Pity she was so young. But with such potential all she needed was the rough edges knocking off her. She could be moulded into something really special.

The town was deserted. Henzey peered through the car window now at George Mason’s shop, and tried to push to the back of her mind all the questions her workmates would ask on Monday about the party. They were expecting her to be practically engaged to this wealthy Andrew Dewsbury she’d told them so much about. Now she would look such a fool. They were expecting a love affair at the very least. They had even called her Cinderella when she told them she had to be home by midnight.

‘I’m not looking forward to work on Monday,’ she said absently.

‘What on earth’s made you think of work?’ Billy asked.

‘ ’Cause we’ve just gone past the place where she works,’ Alice proclaimed, pointing. ‘At George Mason’s just there,’

‘You have to turn right here up Hall Street,’ Henzey said. ‘Anyway, how come you don’t sound like the Dewsburys and all that crowd, Billy? The first time I caught sight of you I thought you’d talk really posh, like them.’

‘I’m just an ordinary chap, who happens to be courting somebody who does talk posh. I can put it on when I have to.’

They travelled on in silence, listening to the thrum of the big Vauxhall engine as it reverberated between the red brick terraces in Kates Hill’s narrow, inclined streets. Eventually they turned into Cromwell Street.

‘Is this where you live?’

Henzey peered out. Iky Bottlebrush was mopping round the floor of his fish and chip shop before he went to bed. ‘Here’s fine, thanks. It’s very nice of you, Billy.’

‘It’s the least I could do. Andrew was in no fit state to bring you back, was he? And I should hate you to think all blokes are the same. By the way – what did you say your name was?’

‘Henzey.’

‘And your surname?’

‘Kite.’

He flashed her a broad smile. ‘See you around sometime, Henzey Kite.’

They clambered out of the car, shut the doors behind them, and crossed the street to walk the last few yards, stepping over the inky puddles that punctuated the pattern of damp cobbles. Smoke was curling into the dark, navy sky from the rows of chimneys that were lined up like soldiers on the slate roofs of the terraced houses. A dog barked in the next street, and a key turned in a lock, shutting out the night for someone. Under the light of the gas street lamp, Henzey stopped to inspect Alice again, and tried to smooth away the creases in her dress with the flat of her hand.

‘Hope and pray Mother’s not back yet,’ she told Alice as they walked on. ‘Hope and pray she’s still out with Jesse.’

‘Oh, I don’t care, Henzey. We din’t do anythin’…More’s the pity.’

‘What do you mean, more’s the pity? You ought to be ashamed. Would you have let him?’

‘I let him kiss me.’ She shrugged. It was of little significance to Alice. ‘We kissed with our mouths open…And he stuck his tongue in me mouth.’

Henzey shook her head in disgust. ‘Yuk!’

‘It was nice…I let ’im feel me Phyllis and Floss as well.’

‘Oh, Alice, you didn’t!’ She stopped walking, both for effect and to allow this alarming piece of information to sink in.

‘Why not? What’s wrong with that?…Come on, slowcoach. What yer stopped for?’

‘It’s just not right, Alice. A girl your age. You should think more of yourself. What if you got into trouble?’

‘We din’t do that, if that’s what you’m thinkin’.’

‘Well, the way you’re talking, nothing would surprise me.’

‘No, I only let ’im feel me Phyllis and Floss – only for a minute or two. Nothin’ else.’

Henzey sighed heavily, more troubled than Alice could appreciate, but resumed walking. ‘I blame myself. I should never have let you out of my sight. I should’ve known they might try to get us drunk…God, my head’s spinning again now…Oh, I hope I’m not going to be sick again.’

‘Mine is a bit now as well, an’ I only had two. Is that how drink makes you feel?’

‘Oh, Alice, I despair of you…’

They turned into the entry on tiptoe, lest their footsteps announced their return. The door to the brewhouse was shut and the house was in darkness. At least Herbert, and Maxine their younger sister, had gone to bed. Henzey lifted the door latch and entered. Embers slipped in the blackleaded grate, prompting a flurry of sparks to shoot up the chimney, but affording sufficient light for her to see where she was going. She felt on the mantelpiece for a spill, and kindled it in what remained of the fire. As it flared, she reached for the oil lamp that resided on the windowsill and lit it, trimming the wick to give less smoke. The old black marble clock said five to twelve. She turned and saw that the door to the cellar was shut. She rounded the old horsehair sofa her father always used to lie on, reached out and lifted the latch as quietly as she could. Her mother’s coat was not hanging there. She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Upstairs, quick,’ she whispered. ‘She’s not back yet. And, in the morning, when she asks how we got on, say we had a smashing time.’

‘I had a smashin’ time anyway.’