Our Lizzie (30 page)

*   *   *

In Redley House, the Pilby family had friends round to dinner, which made a lot of extra work for the servants. Polly pitched in as cheerfully as ever, but wished they wouldn't sit drinking until so late. The second Mrs. Pilby was a social butterfly and had no idea that some people had to get up early for work.
She
never lifted a finger in the house, not even to pick up a handkerchief she'd dropped in her bedroom, and it wouldn't even occur to her to give her staff a later start after such a late night.

Still, Mrs. Frost had given Polly the whole day off tomorrow for her sister's wedding, so she'd be able to take her time dressing. She shivered as the wind rattled the panes of her attic bedroom's dormer window. It looked like the stormy weather was going to continue. Poor Lizzie. Every bride wanted a sunny wedding day. And if it was pouring with rain, how would they get any decent photos taken?

Polly sighed as she snuggled down in bed with her earthenware hot water pig wrapped in its flannel holder. She hoped Lizzie would be happy, she really did. But she could not help wishing the husband were someone else. Sam was always pleasant enough to his fiancée's sisters, but his smile didn't reach his eyes, somehow, and the way he watched Lizzie's every move, the way he bossed her around, upset Polly.

She knew she was being fanciful, that most men wanted to be in charge, but she couldn't help it. She didn't want Lizzie to get into a situation where someone could hurt her again. “It's all Mam's fault,” she told the darkness. “She's spoiled Lizzie's whole life.” But she felt as helpless now to do anything for her beloved sister as she always had been.

*   *   *

In her cosy bed in Bobbin Lane, Meg lay and exulted. Her earlier softening towards her elder daughter had quite vanished by now, because she was sick of the fuss everyone was making of Lizzie. Still, not long and that nuisance would be gone, then they'd move to the new house in Carter Terrace, a nice enough place, she had to admit. Percy had told her to leave the moving to him, and she would. Well, most things, anyway. She'd pack up her own things and her good china, but he could deal with the rest.

She frowned and sucked thoughtfully at a hole in one tooth, which was giving her a lot of trouble lately. She hoped the dress she'd chosen didn't wrinkle too badly. It was such a pretty navy tunic, with a peg-top skirt which would make the neighbours stare it was so fashionable, and a pink blouse underneath to brighten it up. Pink had always been her colour.

It had not even occurred to her that the pink of the blouse, which would have suited her in her youth, now contrasted badly with her sallow complexion, or that the fullness of the gathered top of the skirt only emphasised the bony torso above it. It was the nicest outfit she'd ever had and she was quite determined to outshine her daughter, show folk how cheap Lizzie was in everything. Even the hat was special, a felt cloche shape with a wide band of navy ribbon and a new pink pom-pom at one side, which she'd added to match the blouse.

Percy had stared when she'd tried them on for him. And folk would stare the next day, too. Lizzie's dress was nothing in comparison, nothing.

*   *   *

In the boys' room, Percy slipped into bed and heaved a sigh of sheer exhaustion. He'd had a hell of a week, with Lizzie jittery and on edge, and his mother exuding veiled triumph one minute, making nasty comments about her daughter's appearance the next. To top it all off, he'd had to start the packing for the move, which was to take place in a week's time, and he'd unearthed some of his father's things, which had made him feel really low and depressed. His dad should have been the one to give Lizzie away tomorrow, not him. Eeh, his dad had had such a short life. But at least he'd had children to carry on his name.

Beside Percy, his little brother, who at nine was not so little any more, kicked out and tugged the covers off him. That settled it, Percy decided. Even if it was an extravagance, he was getting them two single beds for the new house. Whatever else fate had denied him, he'd have his own bloody bed, at least.

He lay there and let himself slide into sleep. It was a relief sometimes to close the world off.

*   *   *

Emma sat on for a long time by the fire after Blanche had gone upstairs, staring unseeingly into the glowing embers. She'd passed Sam Thoxby in the street again tonight and his eyes had lingered on her body in a quite disgusting way. His presence in Maidham Street was the only blot on their horizon, for they loved this house and Blanche was proving quite a good cook, given the chance to practise.

Emma had seen Lizzie in the street the other day and tried to stop for a chat, but the girl had cast a nervous glance around and whispered quickly, “I can't stop. Sam's in a bit of a mood lately and he doesn't want me to talk to you. I'm so sorry.” And had hurried on.

Emma had been sizzling with fury about this, but there was nothing she could do. Lizzie was going to be Sam's wife. “When I see men like him, bullying their wives, I'm glad I never married,” she told the winking embers.

Only she wished it wasn't Lizzie he was bullying. That girl didn't deserve it. And Emma could have done with a friend to chat to now and then. It got very quiet sometimes.

*   *   *

On the Thursday, which was Lizzie's last day at Dearden's, the shop was going to close half an hour early and the staff were all staying behind after work for a drink and sandwiches.

“We're sending that lass off in style,” Sally told everyone.

“She's making a mistake,” Peter said to his mother as he passed over the orders he'd taken in the big houses. He'd been saying the same thing for a few months, ever since someone had noticed Lizzie walking out with Sam Thoxby.

“Well, it's her mistake, not yours.” Sally frowned at him. “And I don't know why you're taking on so.”

He shook his head. “I don't know, either. Only—she's such a nice lass, and such a willing worker. And he's such a mean ba— er, devil.”

“Her brother says Sam's had his eye on Lizzie for years, so he must be fond of her. That'll make a difference to how he treats her, I'm sure.” But even so, there was something about Sam's smug expression and small, beady eyes that put her hackles up. And Lizzie looked so tiny next to him.

Eeh, she was borrowing trouble! She'd better stop thinking and start getting things ready for the party.

*   *   *

When Sam picked Lizzie up on the Thursday night, she had her arms full of parcels and was in tears. He watched her blub on Mrs. Dearden's shoulder, shaking his head in disapproval. She was so damned trusting, Lizzie was. She thought the Deardens were all wonderful. And they weren't. Most folk were rotten inside. If you gave them half a chance, they tried to get the better of you. Which was why he didn't give them even half a chance, why he felt no compunction about taking stuff from rich folk's houses.

After a bit, he got fed up of waiting and stepped forward, taking Lizzie's arm and pulling her away. “Come on, love. Let everyone get to bed. Have you got everything?”

“Yes. Oh, Sam, look at all the presents and—”

“We'll look at them when we get back.” He tipped his hat to Mrs. Dearden and marched Lizzie off, carrying a couple of the bigger parcels and striding along so quickly she had to run to keep up.

At the new house, he inspected the presents, nodding approval. You might as well get what you could out of folk. “They'll come in handy,” he allowed. “Very nice.”

“Oh, Sam, I'm going to miss them all so much—”

He leaned forward. “No, you're not. You'll have me to look after and,” he leered at her, “I intend to keep you very busy.” If he didn't get a baby on her within the first year, it'd be her fault, not his.

He leaned back again, yawning. “Well, better get you home, I suppose.” He had a little job to do later. A “back-gate job,” he called them to himself now that he was living in Maidham Street. One of his mates had some stuff for sale.

Lizzie lay wakeful that night. She'd be glad when this fuss was all over, and she could settle down in her own home. Her expression softened. It was such a lovely house. She'd enjoy keeping it nice for her and Sam. This was just last-minute nerves.

But what are you going to do with yourself all day? a little voice asked inside her head, as it had been asking all week. You're not one for embroidery and knitting and that sort of thing. What you like is meeting people, talking to them.

She lay there for a while worrying, then fell abruptly asleep, lying curled up in a tight ball in the middle of the big double bed.

Chapter Seventeen

On Lizzie's wedding day it rained non-stop and an icy wind scoured sodden litter and the remains of long-dead leaves from the nearly deserted streets, dumping them in muddy heaps in sheltered corners.

Just after noon, Sam got himself a scratch dinner of bread and jam, eating it standing in the kitchen of Maidham Street, staring glumly out of the window at the rain pelting down into the back yard. He'd been alone in the chill of the half-furnished new house for the past week, ever since he'd taken possession of it from Cardwell's, and he was fed up of it. Somehow, he didn't feel at ease in the quiet streets of this part of town. He was used to the sounds of other people nearby—swearing, shouting, laughing, playing—not silence and polite nods from an occasional passer-by. And the next-door neighbours were an older couple who kept themselves to themselves and hardly even nodded as they passed him.

“Soddin' weather. What rotten bloody luck! Waste of time payin' for flowers and stuff in this. No one's going to see them.” And he'd wanted folk to see them walking to church finely dressed, had wanted to show the world how well Lizzie Kershaw was doing for herself.

His head was still thumping from last night's drunken party with a group of very particular friends, a group which did not include Percy Kershaw. Squinting at the small square of mirror and wishing it were larger, he belched suddenly and cut himself shaving. Blood splashed down the front of his new woollen, long-sleeved vest, making him grunt in annoyance. While he was trying to dab the stains off with the towel, more drops fell on to the vest, so he took it off and used it to staunch the blood, after which he hurled it on the floor of the fancy new bathroom with its black and white linoleum. As he waited for the blood to stop flowing, he went across to piss out his frustration in the lavatory pan. It still felt wrong to him to piss inside a house, unnatural somehow. But you couldn't deny it was convenient in this weather.

He went into the bedroom and peered into the dressing-table mirror. Yes, the cut had stopped bleeding now. He fumbled through the chest of drawers for his other new vest and pulled it on, followed by his new woollen knee-length drawers. That was a bit warmer. By hell, it was a rotten day!

Pulling on his trousers, he smiled at the unmade bed. “Not long now an' we'll christen you properly.” It was brand-new, that bed, with a good sprung frame under the mattress, and headboard and footboard of dark oak. He'd been tempted to bring Lizzie up here a couple of times, when she was round sorting things out in the house, but had held back because he was going to marry a virgin and that was that.

Suddenly he wished Gran were here to see him getting wed in style. Eeh, she'd have enjoyed it, the old bugger would. She'd have drunk too much, then smacked a kiss on his cheek as she only ever did when she was sozzled.

Breathing deeply, he concentrated on knotting his tie, but had to have three goes before he could get the bloody thing right. Then he pulled on his jacket, sighing in relief, and looked critically in the mirror. Yes, he looked a right toff today. New suit. New shirt. New everything. He grinned and patted his crotch—well, not quite everything.

He clumped downstairs, cut off another thick slice of bread and spread it lavishly with butter and jam, eating it leaning over the table so the crumbs dropped on the cloth and not on him. He'd got eggs and bacon in the pantry and tomorrow Lizzie would be here to cook them for him. Tomorrow and all the other mornings to come.

When he'd finished, he wiped his sticky fingers on the damp dishcloth, dropped that on the table as well and looked out again at the rain, which was still pelting down. “Bleedin' weather!”

After a final cup of the tepid stewed tea left in the pot on the hearth, he found his headache subsiding and let out a satisfied growl of a burp. That felt a bit more like. Ignoring the mess on the table, he went to get his overcoat, bowler hat and umbrella.

By the time he reached the church, he was chilled through and his trouser bottoms were soaking. He grunted a greeting to his mate Josh, nodded approval of the other man's unusually smart appearance, “Got your suit out of pawn, I see!” and slumped down beside him in the vestibule. “Let's hope they're not late. It's bloody freezing.”

“We could go inside. Not that it's a lot warmer there. Makes you wonder why folk bother to come to church in the winter.” Josh made as if to get up.

Sam dragged him back. “No, stay here. I want to see her arrive.” He wasn't going to stand at the front of that church until he knew Lizzie was waiting at the back to join him.

*   *   *

In Bobbin Lane, Lizzie dressed slowly, with the help of her two sisters, who had shared the bed with her for a last time the night before. She slipped into her new underwear—daring French knickers cut in a pilch shape, made of fine cotton lawn, and a lace-trimmed princess petticoat—then put on the dark green skirt of her new suit, looking down at it in admiration. It was a copy of a fashionable hobble skirt, such as Mrs. Pilby wore, and had cost Sam a lot of money. Its hem was definitely too tight to stride out in, but it was not quite as narrow round the ankles as those of really fashionable ladies. She buttoned up her ivory blouse and then put on the jacket. Lapels and pockets were in a lighter green to match the bands of matching material round her skirt at knee and hem.