One Step at a Time (4 page)

Howard shot his friend a speculative look. ‘You’re getting poetic. Did you ask the girl about her life?’

‘No, if I’d tried that she would have run away, and I didn’t want to lose her until I’d finished the sketches. I knew that sitting beside me was something special. Someone special.’

Continuing to study the paintings, Howard pursed his lips in concentration. ‘Got a bit of a gypsy look about her, but she isn’t conventionally beautiful.’

‘I agree.’ Ben didn’t look up from cleaning his
hands with white spirit. ‘But what a fascinating face.’

‘I know this is only the first laying down of paint, but are the eyes really that colour?’

Ben squinted, visualizing the young girl when she had looked at him. ‘Slightly darker, but I haven’t finished yet.’

Excitement lighting his face, Howard shoved his hands in his pockets and began pacing. ‘I think you’ve really got something here. I’ll ask Thomas from the Summerfield Gallery to come and have a look.’

‘No.’ Ben spoke sharply, making Howard frown. ‘That’s kind of you, but I don’t want anyone to see these until they’re finished.’

‘All right, if that’s how you feel.’

‘I do.’ Ben smiled. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m happy with them. Now I suppose I’d better get ready for this damned party. How the hell did we get invited, anyway?’

‘They know our respective parents.’ Howard’s face broke into a grin. ‘You’re an unsociable devil when your mind’s on painting, which is nearly all the time. I hope you’ve remembered to get a present for Sheila?’

‘I did this for her.’ Ben picked up a small painting of a single yellow rose, holding it out for Howard to see.

‘Oh, very pretty.’ His friend’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Not your best work.’

‘Agreed, but it’s how I pay my rent. For some strange reason this kind of thing sells.’ Ben shoved
the painting in a bag. ‘I look forward to the day when I can just paint what I like, but that isn’t possible when we’re short of money.’

Howard nodded, perched back on the stool again and stared at the portrait. ‘Does rather stifle the artistic talent, doesn’t it? I’m making awful things like jam pots and biscuit barrels. God, how I hate it, but we’ve got to eat – sometimes.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Ben knew what a tough time Howard was having. He rented the basement of this house and it was often a struggle to find enough money to pay his rent. Ben helped when he could, but it wasn’t easy. The two of them never turned down an invitation, in the hope of getting a free meal. That showed just how bad things were at times.

Like Ben, Howard Palmer came from a middle-class family, but because he had chosen to become a sculptor, they had refused to give him any financial help – until he had come to his senses, as they put it. Howard was a brilliant sculptor and had been a good friend of Ben since childhood. They had both dropped out of university at the same time to pursue their dream of having a gallery of their own one day.

Ben realized they had both fallen silent, lost in thought as they stared at the portrait, dreaming of a successful future. ‘And what are you giving Sheila?’

Howard started. When he looked up his eyes were unfocused for a moment, then they gleamed in amusement. ‘I’ve made her a vase.’

‘I’m sure it’s very pretty.’

They burst into hoots of laughter, their introspective mood disappearing.

Howard stood up and slapped Ben on the back. ‘She’s going to get two unusual and unique presents. Get cleaned up. Hope there’s plenty of food, because I haven’t had a decent meal all week.’

Sheila Winslow lived in a charming house in Richmond, right by the river. The place was already crowded when Ben and Howard arrived, and as it was a lovely evening the guests had spilt out into the garden. They had been at university with quite a few of them, so they said hello before going to find Sheila.

She saw them and came over, arms open wide, to kiss them on the cheek, gushing enough to make everyone turn and watch her. ‘Oh, good, you made it. I couldn’t have a party without my two favourite artists.’

Ben groaned deep in his throat. For some peculiar reason Sheila seemed to think it was clever to be friends with two struggling artists. Not that he had ever considered her a friend, more of an acquaintance really.

Howard had managed to keep his smile in place as they gave her their presents.

Ripping open the packages she held each one up for everyone to see. ‘How quaint. You are such clever boys,’ she simpered. ‘Do go and get yourselves a glass of champagne.’

Without a moment’s hesitation they headed for the dining room and the food.

‘I’d rather have a pint,’ Howard said, still grinning. ‘She’s gone overboard with her dress tonight.’

Ben eyed her critically as she laughed with a group of her friends. ‘Hmm.’

‘It’s the latest fashion. You don’t approve?’

‘A bit too glittery and revealing for my taste. I like a touch of mystery about a girl.’

‘Like the girl you met today?’

‘Yes.’ Ben gazed into space, remembering, and wishing he were back in his studio. Then his stomach growled and reminded him why they were here. ‘Let’s get at the food.’

The large dining-room table was loaded with all kinds of tempting things, so they grabbed plates and piled them high. For several minutes they just munched away, not speaking.

When Howard’s plate was nearly empty, he rolled his eyes in appreciation. ‘Mrs Winslow certainly knows how to cater for a party.’

‘Well, it is her daughter’s twenty-first.’ Ben eyed the table, trying to decide what to sample next.

‘Is it?’ Howard helped himself to another two slices of ham. ‘This is wonderful.’

They were about to fill their plates again when Mrs Winslow sailed up to them, a tight smile on her face.

‘You boys look as if you haven’t had a decent meal for a week.’

‘Longer than that, Mrs Winslow.’ Ben smiled with good humour as the woman made a disapproving sound. The way they lived was a fact of life to them,
and as long as they could practise their art, then every sacrifice was worthwhile.

‘I don’t know what your parents were doing, allowing you to throw away your education and become starving artists.’

‘They’ll be proud of us when we’re famous and making lots of money.’ Ben studied his empty plate and thought a large slice of strawberry cake would look good on there.

‘You are both living in a dream.’ She almost snorted, but she was far too well brought up to do any such thing. ‘It will never happen. Howard, you come from an affluent family and yet you have cast it all away. And what for? So you can make pots and statues.’

‘But they are very good pots and statues.’ Howard was not at all put out by the criticism; he’d heard it all before.

‘And you, Benjamin.’ Mrs Winslow turned on him now. ‘What is your poor father going to do? You should be training to take over the family business, not wasting your time painting pictures no one will ever want. You are the only child, so what will happen when your father can no longer work?’

‘He said he would sell the shops.’

She tossed her head in disgust. ‘Neither of you has any sense of responsibility. Well, do carry on eating. I’ll get Cook to make you up a parcel of food to take away with you.’

As soon as she walked away Howard made a dive
for the food again. ‘That’s her act of charity for the day. Feeding two disobedient sons.’

A huge slice of strawberry cake slid on to Ben’s plate. ‘I’m not too proud to take it.’

‘Nor me.’

They grinned at each other, knowing full well that many people considered them mad. It didn’t bother them one tiny bit.

When they couldn’t eat another mouthful they went back to the party. Sheila made a great show of dancing with them, but she soon lost interest when she found they didn’t know all the latest dances.

As soon as it was polite to do so, they left, carrying a large parcel from the cook.

Ben didn’t give a damn what anyone thought or said about him. He was a good artist and one day his talent would be recognized. And one day, too, he and Howard would have their own gallery as a showcase for their work.

Curled up in the armchair like a contented kitten, Amy listened to her mother reading. Dolly often stumbled or hesitated over words, but Amy didn’t mind as she always lost herself in the story. One day she was going to be able to sit and read to herself. She was determined. Her mum was doing well this evening; she’d been reading for a long time.

‘That’s enough for tonight.’ Her mother closed the book. ‘I’m tired now and think I’ll go to bed.’

Amy stretched and stood up. It was only half past
eight, but her mum was pale, her hands shaking slightly. ‘Thanks for reading to me, Mum. Would you like a cup of cocoa or something? I’ll bring it in to you if you like?’

‘That would be nice. I’ll have tea please, Amy.’ Dolly stood up and began to cough, holding on to the table for support.

Filling a glass with water, Amy gave it to her, watching her sip it until the coughing stopped.

‘Shall I help you to bed, Mum?’

‘I’m all right now.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘Read for too long, I expect.’

‘Oh, that was my fault. I’m sorry.’ Amy felt guilty about asking her mother to read so much.

‘No it isn’t.’ She straightened up and faced her daughter. ‘Nothing’s your fault, Amy. You’ve been dealt some rotten cards in life and you’re not to blame for that. You did well today finding work when there’s so much unemployment around.’

Amy watched her mother go to the bedroom and glowed with pride over the rare compliment. She was glad now that she wasn’t going back to school and having to face the other children’s cruelty. Where she was going no one knew she couldn’t read properly, and they never would. It was going to be her carefully guarded secret from now on.

She made her mother the tea, pouring one for herself before she went to bed. She mustn’t be late on her first day.

After taking the tea in to her mother, she went
back to the scullery to drink her own, feeling happier than she had ever done. Her mum said she was going to look after herself now Amy wouldn’t be able to spend so much time at home. If she ate properly and rested when she was tired, she would soon get better. And when her dad came home her mum would be happy again.

4

It was twenty minutes past seven when Amy arrived at the factory for her first day, but there was already a crowd of women and girls waiting for the boss to come and open the doors. Amy was nervous about starting work and hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast. She had put extra in her lunch box though, knowing she would be starving by the time they had a break.

Hanging back shyly, not daring to speak to anyone, she waited, hoping she wasn’t going to be sick with worry. If they wanted her to read something perhaps she could say her eyes were bad? That might work.

‘You starting here today?’

The girl in front of her had turned and smiled. She was slightly older than Amy, had dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She was also about three inches taller than Amy, who was no more than five feet one. Her smile was bright though, making Amy smile back at her.

‘Yes.’ It had come as a shock to be spoken to in that friendly way, and she blushed uncomfortably.

‘My name’s Gladys.’ The girl pointed to the lunch box Amy was clutching. ‘Brought your own grub, I see. We can eat together. I know a nice spot.’

‘Thank you.’ Amy could hardly believe her ears.
This stranger was offering to spend time with her. Such a thing had never happened before. ‘My name’s Amy.’

All chance to talk stopped then, as the boss arrived and opened the door to let everyone in.

Gladys winked as they streamed in. ‘See you at one o’clock, Amy.’

Amy watched in amazement as the women rushed to their benches and began work immediately, heads bent and fingers flying as if their very life depended upon it.

‘Don’t just stand there, girl.’ The man who had taken her to see the boss yesterday glowered at her. ‘Come with me.’

Remembering his name was Jim, she followed, trotting to keep up with him as he made for a long bench in the middle, which was piled high with cutout garments. Next to it was another table and standing around it were two men and three women with scissors in their hands, cutting around patterns at great speed. She couldn’t help wondering what all the rush was?

‘Right, now your job will be to keep all the workers supplied. They must not run out of sewing and have to wait while you bring them more.’

Her gaze swept around the room. The women appeared to be working in groups, and there were lots of them. Some were on machines and others sewing by hand. With eyes wide, she asked, ‘How will I know when they need more?’

‘I’ll tell you.’ He picked up a pile of cut-out items
from the table and thrust it into her hands. ‘Take this to blouses.’

‘Er… where are they?’

His irritated mutter showed that he had little patience. ‘They’ve all got big notices on poles by the benches.’ Spinning her round to the left he gave her a push. ‘Move yourself!’

Her heart was thudding as she walked forward, scanning the signs above the benches. She was in a panic now, and when that happened words became meaningless squiggles. She continued walking, hoping she was going in the right direction. What was she going to do? They would see she couldn’t read and throw her out.

‘Amy,’ Gladys whispered. ‘They’re for me.’

She stopped and nearly cried in relief, handing over the material with shaking hands. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’ Gladys carried on with her sewing.

I can’t do it
. Amy wanted to cry out in despair as she struggled to calm herself down. It was then she noticed that every bench was working on different material. On Gladys’s they were all sewing identical white blouses; next to them the women had navy blue skirts. She let out a huge huff of relief. That’s how she would be able to tell where to deliver the next lot of work.

Feeling a little calmer now she hurried back to the cutting table.

‘You’ll have to move quicker than this.’ The foreman gave her a harassed glare as he thrust another
armful of material at her. ‘Take this to the petticoats.’