Читать книгу The Factory Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 6

The back room at George Mason’s grocery store in Dudley Market Place was where the female staff ate their sandwiches and made pots of tea. It was small and whitewashed. The glass on the outside of the tiny iron-framed window, that afforded it some daylight, had not been cleaned in two decades, but a pair of second-hand chenille curtains had been hung at it years ago. A couple of creaky chairs with fraying squabs furnished it, along with a torn seat lifted from a charabanc that had been involved in a road accident. A brass tap rhythmically dripped cold water into a stone sink and, on top of a scrubbed wooden draining board, stood a gas ring, a black enamelled kettle and a selection of odd cups and saucers. In this room, secrets were revealed, souls were bared and an infinite amount of gossip was examined and disseminated.

Talk was usually about men. Henzey wondered how some of these girls she worked with got themselves into the cumbersome situations they confessed to, and decided they must be as immature as the boys they associated with. For instance, poor Rosie Frost, one of her workmates, had become involved with a young lad who was wanted by the police for burglary. He was lodging with Rosie and her widowed mother, using it as a safe house, abusing their good nature. At one of their dinnertime discussions, Rosie confessed she was having his child.

‘And do you love him?’ Clara Maitland asked. Clara was thirty, a childless widow, and a fine-looking woman, who was indifferent to the advances of optimistic suitors. She was well-fleshed but not overweight, her figure unsuited to the will-o’-the-wisp, boyish look that was in vogue; Clara had feminine curves and wore affordable clothes that tastefully accentuated them.

‘No, can’t say as I do,’ was Rosie’s half-hearted reply.

‘Then you’re a very silly girl, Rosie. Does your poor mother know you’re pregnant?’

Rosie shook her head and looked guiltily into her lap.

‘How do you girls get yourselves into such awful trouble? You must want your head looking, Rosie. Get rid of him; that’s my advice. Get rid of him…How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen, and pregnant by a wanted criminal. My God! Wake up, child, and make something of yourself, and do it while you’ve still got the chance. Then when you’ve done that, try and find yourself somebody decent. Life’ll be a lot easier, take it from me. A lot easier.’

Rosie sighed heavily. ‘It’s easy to say find somebody decent. But who? Anyway, if I am pregnant, it’s me own fault.’

‘Your fault? I’d have thought he’d had a part in it, Rosie,’ Clara suggested wryly. ‘It takes two, you know. Some men are all too keen to take advantage of girls. They promise you the earth. You should’ve been firmer with him. You should have said no. You should’ve told him you’d have no truck with doing things you ought not to be doing unless you’re wed. You should’ve told him – if he wanted that, he should give up his burgling and make a decent, honest living by working, like the rest of us have to, and then marry you. Good God, what’s the world coming to?’

Clara was in full flow, but she took another bite from her sandwich and munched it while she waited for the reaction of her younger workmates.

‘I’d never marry ’im, Clara,’ Rosie said, and licked jam off her fingers. ‘I’ve been a proper fool, but I’m stuck with it now.’

Clara flicked breadcrumbs from her apron. ‘Well the doctor can’t get rid of it for you. It’d be more than his life’s worth. But I daresay there’s some old women who know how, if that’s what you wanted. It’s always risky though.’

‘No, I’m gunna have the child, Clara.’

Edie Soap, whose real name was Edie Hudson, had been listening while she filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring to boil. She sat down on the charabanc seat.

‘And you, Edie,’ Clara said, ‘just mind what you’re doing with that Arnold Jennings.’

Edie adjusted the fall of her apron and opened her sandwich tin. ‘Doh thee fret, Clara,’ she returned, in her deep voice. ‘I’n sid enough o’ that Rosie’s plight. I’m keepin’ me legs crossed an’ me drawers on. Me fairther’d kill me if ’e thought I was lettin’ any chap interfere wi’ me. Besides, I’m afeared. Our Araminta says it ’urts vile the fust time. ’Er says it doh ’alf mek yer yowk.’

Clara smothered a chuckle. ‘It can be a lot of pleasure with somebody you love.’

‘Arnold’s younger than you, isn’t he, Edie?’ Henzey commented, as she stood up to stir the tea in the pot.

‘By a year. I’ve took to ’im a treat, but the trouble is, I doh think I can stand ’is moods for long.’

‘What makes him moody?’ Henzey asked.

‘Sayin’ no to ’im,’ Edie answered. ‘He’s like a bear with sore arse.’

‘Well, you know what some of these young men are like,’ Clara warned. ‘They only care about themselves. Things are different now to how they were before the war. A lot different. There are more girls than boys now, so to some extent boys can take their pick. Trouble is, because of it, the boys expect the girls to be easy. Well don’t be…You mustn’t be.

‘I remember years ago my mother telling me about one of her friends, Bessie Hipkiss. She was in service at a really well-to-do house in Birmingham. Anyway, she fell in love with the master’s son, and they had an illicit affair for a while. Long enough for him to put her in the family way, anyway. But when poor Bessie asked him what they should do about it, he said the child couldn’t possibly be his and sacked her for her trouble. She was broken hearted. All she’d got were the wages they sent her away with and the clothes on her back – and nowhere to live. As it happens, she remembered my grandfather and came straight to him for help. Her parents knew him well when they were alive, you see. She didn’t want to be a burden, though. She just wanted the chance to make her own way. It turned out that he’d got an empty house – he was quite well off and owned some property – and he let Bessie have it for nothing. It was only a little back-to-back in Flood Street, and you know what a slum it is down there. Damp as the Dudley Tunnel, it was, and overrun with vermin. But she was glad of it. The trouble was, when she gave birth, she didn’t have just one child, did she? Oh, no, not Bessie. She had twins – both boys, and like peas in a pod, my mother always said.’

‘Twins?’ Henzey exclaimed. ‘Just imagine being in all that trouble, then having twins.’

Clara nodded. ‘She did her best to rear them, but she was poverty-stricken. Anyway, she fell ill and, when they were just two years old, Bessie died of consumption, poor soul.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible. All because the father denied all knowledge…What a rogue! So what happened to the poor little lads?’

‘As it happens, Henzey, they were all right. My grandfather, being well respected in Methodist circles, found a nice family who took in one of them. Trouble was, they were poor, and they could only afford to take the one.’

‘You mean they were split up?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘So what happened to the other?’ Henzey’s eyes were misty with tears by this time. She was deeply touched by the story.

Clara shook her head. ‘We never knew for sure. My grandfather took him away, but he wouldn’t say where, though we’d got a good idea. He reckoned he was sworn to secrecy. He just said the boy was going to be all right. My mother was certain sure he took him back to the house Bessie came from – to the boys’ father – to make him face up to his responsibilities. Bessie had told him who the father was. But I never heard anything else about either of those two children since. Sad isn’t it?’

‘When did all this happen, Clara?’ Henzey asked. ‘How long ago?’

‘Well I was only a child meself when Bessie died. It’d be about 1902. Those twins would be about twenty-eight now if they’re still alive.’

‘Grown men. It’d be interesting to know what happened to them, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’d dearly love to know…But listen, I’ve told you girls this story to point out what can happen if you’re easy. Men will always take what they want, and then, when they’ve took it, they’ll be off like a shot unless you handle them right. Keep your man interested by being just a little bit elusive. That’s what I always say. Before you give yourself to a man be sure he’s in love with you. Or better still, wait till you’re married.’

‘“Elusive”?’ Edie queried. ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s that mean?’

‘It means, be a bit mysterious, Edie. Don’t be at his beck and call. Let him worry about what you’re up to. Let him think you’re up to no good sometimes when he’s not around. Give him a hint occasionally that you might be interested in somebody else. It works wonders.’

Henzey glanced from one to the other, trying to gauge the girls’ reaction to Clara’s sage advice. ‘You do seem to know a lot about men, Clara,’ she said. ‘I wish I did.’

‘I’m thirty, Henzey, and I know what I’m talking about. I’m not sixteen, like you. I’ve been married and I enjoyed married life, and no man will ever replace my husband. I loved him dearly – I still do.’

‘Are you saying we’re all too young to be messing about with chaps, Clara?’

‘No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying you’re too young to be doing what you do in the marriage bed, but see as many young men as you like. Have some fun, but save yourself for one.’

Henzey said reverently, ‘Oh, Clara, you are sensible.’

‘I try to be. But what about you, Henzey? Have you seen that Jack Harper since you told him you were going to that party?’

‘I’ve seen him, but only from a distance. He doesn’t speak to me now…Has he been in the shop?’

‘Why? You missin’ ’im?’

Henzey nodded glumly. It had been more than two weeks since that party; two weeks during which she had all but forgotten Billy Witts, dismissed Andrew Dewsbury and his petulant sister from her mind, and started thinking again about Jack Harper.

‘No, we ain’t seen ’im,’ Rosie said. ‘I’d ’ave noticed ’im. I think ’e’s bostin’. I think you’m daft, Henzey, for givin’ ’im up, just for the chance o’ goin’ to a party with some lads you didn’t even know. Just ’cause they was well-to-do.’

‘Yes, yer know what well-to-do lads’m like,’ Edie agreed. ‘Just remember the story Clara just told we about that Bessie and her twins. He was a well-to-do chap what got ’er into trouble.’

Clara bit into an apple, then said, ‘The tea’ll be cold. Who’s going to pour it?’

‘I’ll do it,’ Henzey volunteered, and got up from the charabanc seat.

Henzey had made a sad error of judgement in allowing Andrew Dewsbury to take her to his party. It had been as much to the detriment of Jack Harper too, her regular escort, as to herself. Jack had always mooned over her like a lovesick fool, but she’d been prepared to put up with that, since he was generally pleasant company. Maybe she should make the first move towards reconciliation. His absence was feeding her guilt, and her guilt was clouding her true emotions, like disturbed sediment muddies clear water. She was starting to believe she was in love with Jack. Her mood was cheerless, disconsolate. Evidently he was upset with her, and she could hardly blame him. And she missed him more than she thought possible.

‘Yo’ could always goo round to the Midland Shoe shop and try and catch ’is eye,’ Edie suggested. ‘He wun’t ignore yer there. Specially if ’e thought yo’ was gunna buy a pair o’ shoes off ’im.’

The others laughed at that.

‘Never,’ Clara said decisively. ‘Never run after a man, no matter how much your heart might be aching. Promise me you won’t, Henzey.’

Henzey shrugged, and handed the first cup of tea to Clara. ‘I just think it’s my fault. I think I was rotten to him…I think the first move should come from me.’ She turned away again to serve the second cup to Rosie.

‘I’m sure he’ll get over it. In no time he’ll…’

The door opened unexpectedly, and Arnold Jenning’s face appeared. ‘Henzey, there’s a chap outside askin’ to see yer.’

At once her heart jumped and she coloured up. ‘To see me?’ It was too much to hope that it might be Jack.

‘Talk of the devil…’ Clara said confidently.

‘A stroke o’ luck, if yer like,’ Rosie affirmed. ‘Save yer runnin’ after ’im, eh?’

Henzey put her cup of tea down on the draining board and stood up, smoothing the creases out of her apron. She flicked her hair out of her eyes, and smiled with anticipation at the others, her heart pounding now. It was a God-sent opportunity to make it up with Jack, just as they’d been discussing. She walked through the door and through the stockroom, her heart in her throat. When she entered the shop Phoebe Mantle, one of the other girls, nudged her.

‘Here, Henzey. That’s the chap out there.’ She pointed outside to a man who had his back towards them. ‘He came in askin’ for yer. He said he’d wait outside. He’s a bit of all right, I can tell yer. Who is he?’

Henzey looked up and peered through the window. ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. Her feelings a mixture of apprehension and delight, she went to the door, suddenly conscious of her working clothes.

In the street the cold October air clung to her. It was a grey day and threatened rain. The red brick façades of the buildings around her looked shabby under their film of grime, the legacy of more than a century’s emissions from the foundries, forges and ironworks. People were ambling along unhurriedly from store to store, gazing covetously into shop windows; some stood and gossiped; a woman tugged impatiently at the hand of a grizzling, unwilling child, and scolded him.

‘Fancy seeing you,’ Henzey said, smiling. ‘This is a surprise. What brings you here?’

Billy Witts scratched the back of his neck casually. ‘Just passing. I thought I’d call to see if you were all right after your spot of bother at the party the other week.’ His voice was rich and mellow, and his easy drawl, neither broad, nor particularly cultured, sounded attractive to Henzey.

She felt herself blushing. ‘Oh, don’t remind me.’ She rolled her eyes sheepishly. ‘We were both all right, thanks. It’s nice of you to come and ask, though. Did it go off all right after?’

‘I believe so. To tell you the truth I didn’t go back after I dropped you off. I went home. Nellie was in one of her moods and she’s best left alone when she’s like that. I’m not really one for parties meself, specially the sort that Andrew and his mates throw. Course, he’s gone back to Oxford now. And so’s George.’

‘God help Oxford, that’s all I can say. So how’s Nellie? Or should I say Helen, since I’m neither close friend, nor family?’

He smiled at her jibe and shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s all right.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

He gave an evasive little laugh. ‘Yes, she’s as all right as she’ll ever be. I was concerned about you and your sister, though. She looked a bit the worse for wear, your sister. You both did, to tell you the truth. Did you get into trouble with your mom and dad?’

A black and white mongrel appeared and sniffed at her apron. She bent down and stroked its neck, and it trotted away contentedly across the street to the market stalls. ‘We were lucky, Billy. Our mom always goes out on a Saturday night and, by the time she got back, me and Alice were in bed. As far as she was concerned, we had a great night.’

‘And your dad? Was he still up?’

‘We haven’t got a dad, Billy.’

‘Oh. Sorry for mentioning it, Henzey. Trust me to put me foot in it. Really, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, it’s all right. You weren’t to know.’

‘Anyway, fancy those two gawbies spiking your drinks. You’re best off without the likes of Andrew and George.’

She tutted diffidently. ‘I know that now, but when somebody asks you out, you expect them to behave like gentlemen. You expect to be able to trust them a little bit. Or am I just being naïve?’

‘I think you were unlucky. Haven’t you got a regular sweetheart, Henzey?’

‘Not since the party.’

‘Get away with you! I can scarcely believe that. Somebody as lovely as you? Men must be falling at your feet.’

She gave a dispirited little laugh. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Billy. I was going out with somebody but, because I wouldn’t go to the Palais with him on the night of that party, I haven’t seen him since. Shame really. I wish I’d gone with him now. I expect he thought I was mucking him about.’

‘Never mind, Henzey. Just keep smiling. You’ve got a lovely smile, you know. It’s your fortune, believe me.’ His eyes lingered on her face for a second or two. ‘Ah well, I’d best be off. Give me regards to your Alice, will you? You never know, I might pop and see you again sometime.’

‘Oh, anytime, Billy. Any time you’re passing. It’s grand to see you again.’

Henzey could hardly believe Billy Witts had actually called on her. She could hardly believe he remembered her at all. Her heart danced, wondering why. Could he be interested in her? If not, why had he called? As he walked away, she admired his physique. He was tall, slim and athletic-looking. Henzey liked tall men. At five feet six in her stockings, an inch or two taller in her heels, she was bound to. She especially liked tall men who were clean shaven, devoid of moustaches, tattoos and other adornments she considered superfluous. Billy Witts qualified nicely. Always he was immaculate. He was courteous, too – to her at least – and that implied far more masculinity than brashness or well-developed muscles. Any woman would fancy him. When he smiled, his eyes creased and twinkled, and she felt she would be able to trust him with her life. He was about twenty-four, she reckoned. Funny, though, but every new man she fancied seemed to be significantly older than the one before.

Seeing Billy Witts, so unexpectedly, lifted Henzey from her melancholy over Jack Harper and clarified the murkiness. But it also stirred up the loathing she felt for Nellie Dewsbury.

That feeling was intensified when one Tuesday – it was the 16th of October – Henzey and Clara Maitland went to join the crowds for the official opening of Dudley’s new Town Hall. Stanley Baldwin, the Prime Minister was there to perform the opening ceremony. All the local dignitaries were present, and the two friends had insinuated themselves into a good place to view the proceedings, lining the steps to the new entrance. Over the heads of the crowds they could see a cavalcade of cars approaching. There was a buzz of excitement as, one by one, the cars pulled up. At last Mr Baldwin stepped out with the Mayor of Dudley and Lady Mayoress, to some cheers and, predictably, some jeers. Four cars later, a man with a ruddy complexion alighted with his wife and another, younger, trim-looking girl. Henzey saw, to her great surprise, that it was Nellie Dewsbury.

Henzey nudged Clara urgently. ‘Look! There’s that Nellie Dewsbury I told you about,’ she whispered. ‘That must be her mother and father.’

As she swanked up the steps, Nellie caught sight of Henzey just a few feet away and gave her a look that would have withered a lesser mortal. Then she stuck her nose in the air and strutted uppishly into the Town Hall.

‘I see what you mean,’ Clara remarked. ‘Snotty devil, isn’t she?’

‘I hate her. Oh, I hate her. Did you see her? Did you see how snooty she was?’

‘She’ll get her comeuppance, Henzey. That sort always do.’

Henzey smiled, her annoyance abating. ‘I wish I could let her know that her Billy’s been to see me. That’d nark her good and proper.’

Billy began calling regularly. At first it was no more than once a fortnight, but soon his visits became more frequent. They would chat for only a few minutes, then he would depart. It seemed to Henzey that they were becoming good friends, yet he rarely spoke about Nellie, inclining her to believe there was something amiss with that relationship. Why else would he keep calling on her? Yet he never once asked her out. She was dying to be asked; not least because of the opportunity it presented to wreak revenge on Nellie, whose unkind words at the party still haunted and hurt her, especially as she’d previously admired the girl so much.

Henzey looked forward to Billy’s visits and, as each one approached, she would make a special effort to look good. If he was a day or two late she would fret, forever glancing through the front windows of the store, and would smile with pleasure and relief when she saw him arrive outside. Her workmates recognised her infatuation, and she suffered endless teasing.

‘Nice frock you’m wearin’ today, Henzey,’ Edie Soap commented one morning in December as she was restocking shelves with blue bags of sugar. ‘Billy due?’

‘How should I know?’ she answered sheepishly. She had just struggled in from the stockroom with a fresh tub of cheese and was cutting it, ready for it to be displayed. ‘I never know if or when he’s coming. He just turns up.’

‘I reckon ’er’s took with ’im,’ Edie said to Rosie and Clara. They were making neat parcels of groceries for those customers whose orders were to be delivered.

‘I’d be took with ’im, an’ all,’ Rosie answered. ‘I wish ’e’d come an’ see me.’

‘Come on, Rosie,’ Edie said. ‘He’d have no truck wi’ you and your big belly.’

Henzey smiled, and wished she could assume some claim over Billy. But she could not. He only ever came and talked to her. She could not say he was hers, and it was looking as though she never would.

Clara picked up a Christmas pudding from the shelf behind her and nestled it into the box she was packing. ‘What’s he do for a living, Henzey? He always looks smart. His suits aren’t cheap, are they? And you only have to look at his shoes to know he spends a lot of money on his things.’

Henzey shrugged. ‘He works for himself.’

‘Not as a chimdey sweep,’ Rosie said.

‘Nor as an iron puddler,’ Phoebe Mantle offered.

‘He’s an agent,’ Henzey informed them nonchalantly. ‘He sells things. To the motor car factories. Things like electric motors for windscreen wipers…and things with adenoids in…’

‘You mean solenoids?’ corrected Wally Bibb with a chuckle. Wally was the manager and, while trade was quiet, he had no objection to their chatter.

Henzey laughed with the others at her mistake. ‘Oh, all right. Solenoids…He sells things with solenoids in to the car firms, like Morris and Austin and Clyno…and Vauxhall.’ Henzey thought the list sounded impressive.

‘He must make a tidy penny,’ Clara said.

‘I think he’s quite well-off,’ Henzey remarked with satisfaction. ‘He told me once he’d got a fortune put by in stocks and shares.’

‘Trying to impress you, was he?’ Wally suggested cynically, sharpening the blade of his carving knife.

‘I don’t think so, Mister Bibb. Why should he want to impress me? I’m nothing to him.’

‘He’s got no side on him, I’ll grant you that,’ Clara said. ‘He’s not one of those snooty toffs.’

‘He’s not a toff, Clara. Well not born a toff, at any rate. He comes from one of those terraced houses in Abberley Street up by Top Church. His family are just ordinary folk. But he’s done well for himself in the motor industry from what I hear of it.’

‘And the best of luck to him,’ said Clara. ‘How old is he? Twenty-five?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Young to have done so well. He’ll end up a millionaire at that rate.’

‘Or a bleedin’ pauper,’ Wally muttered cynically. ‘Anyway, I thought you said he’d got a fancy bit. I thought you said he was knockin’ off Councillor Dewsbury’s daughter.’

‘Oh, her,’ Henzey replied with disdain. ‘He’s courting her for the time being, yes. But I don’t think it’ll be for much longer. He doesn’t seem that taken with her.’

Wally scoffed. ‘That’s what he tells you, Henzey. Whatever he tells you, take it with a pinch of salt.’

Wally annoyed her sometimes. It seemed as if he was jealous of any man she was interested in. Adding fuel to these beliefs, she often caught him staring at her, which made her feel uncomfortable. Sometimes she could sense he was looking at her; at her breasts, at her hips, her legs, her waist. It was most disconcerting. But she could never be interested in Wally. He was in his mid-thirties, married, with several children; she wasn’t sure how many. He had short, stubby fingers, a big droopy moustache and greasy hair that smelled of rancid lard; and the hem of his long apron dusted his shoes when he walked. He was interested in photography and, once, he had asked Henzey if he could take some pictures of her on the Clent Hills, but she refused. The idea of him gawping at her through the back plate of his field camera while she posed, not knowing what dirty thoughts he might be thinking, did not appeal.

‘Well, I don’t really expect anything, Mister Bibb,’ Henzey replied, trying not to show her indignation. ‘I can never expect to have the likes of him, so I don’t suppose I’ll be too disappointed.’

‘But you can dream, Henzey,’ Clara encouraged. ‘You can certainly dream.’

Billy Witts was no academic, and his repartee was rarely sparkling, but he exuded a presence that was sufficient to compensate. This was especially so in business, where he proved to himself that it was no detriment to be endowed with more brawn than brain. As a freelance sales agent for manufacturers of motor car parts and accessories, he had nurtured many contacts in the trade and had fared remarkably well. Recently he had obtained contracts for all his agencies. Morris Motors had contracted to buy a new American type of window-winding mechanism, and Austin a new headlight that used a solenoid to dip the reflector. Vauxhall were fitting a high-frequency electric horn from a continental firm he represented, instead of the usual hand-operated bulb horns. A company from Birmingham with whom he had connections, called Worthington Commercials, which had recently gone into the business of producing three-wheeled vans, were promising to place orders. All this business netted him a tidy sum and would continue to do so for as long as the equipment was purchased. The motor trade was thriving, he told Henzey and, judging by the ever-increasing numbers of cars on the roads, she reckoned it must be true. Billy still lived with his mother and father but he had notions of changing all that soon enough.

Billy Witts was quietly taken with Henzey. She was an enigma; different to all the others. Whenever he saw her he couldn’t take his eyes off her lovely face. It was amazing that a girl so young, and with such exquisite looks, was so modest; she was not in the least conceited. If anything she underestimated her potential, yet at the same time she possessed tremendous self-esteem. Every time he saw her he expected her to say that she had started courting and he knew that, when that day arrived, he would kick himself for not being the lucky one to have snapped her up.

Just yet, though, he could not quite fit her in. Ideally, he would need to sever relations with Nellie and, even though things with her were at a critical stage, he was loath to do it just yet. Nellie was sullen, self-centred and demanding, and Billy was finding her possessiveness increasingly stifling, for he enjoyed other women besides her from time to time; but her family was rich. At first, of course, he found it flattering that the lovely daughter of a wealthy industrialist and town councillor was head over heels in love with him. Gradually, however, her shortcomings were eclipsing her virtues. Compared to Henzey, she had no virtues at all.

But one thing ensured his continuing interest in Nellie, and that was sex. It had become their mutual obsession; an art form; the only enduring feature of their liaison. It was like a drug, and his other women paled in comparison. Such a situation was not unique in the liberal atmosphere following the Great War, when torrid affairs were more readily accepted, especially among the wealthy. But he was actually growing to dislike Nellie, and yet he could not keep his hands off her. The relationship was thus rendered tolerable, but as unstable as nitro-glycerine.

His heart, however, was with Henzey. But, because she had to be lacking in sexual experience, he hesitated to involve himself. Whenever he encountered her he was entirely confused: he would behold her girlish innocence, study her striking face, her youthful figure, her wholesome demeanour and end up telling himself that she was as close to perfection as he would ever find. So after weeks of soul-searching, convincing himself that there was no future with Nellie, he finally made up his mind that somebody in his position really ought to have a girl as lovely and unspoiled as Henzey Kite on his arm, for all to admire.