The Factory Girl (4 page)

He looked up suddenly, catching her in the very act of gazing at his head. Almost as though divining her thoughts, he smiled.

‘I've seen you in here before, haven't I?'

She stared at him. ‘I love looking at jewellery,' was all she could think to say. It sounded so inane and she was sure her voice had trembled. She needed to say something else, but sound more confident.

‘I'm really glad you've opened up here. I live round the corner. Well, a couple of streets away. It's so convenient coming here.' She was trying to put on the nice talk, but she was gabbling on. He didn't seem put off.

‘I've noticed you several times looking in the window.' He spoke well and had a nice accent that put her efforts to shame.

‘They fascinate me. I think it's ever so clever being able ter … to make lovely things like you do. Did you 'ave … have to learn how to do it at school or something, or is it just a sort of talent?' Trying so hard to sound nice she was making a mess of it, but if he noticed he gave no indication.

‘Thanks for calling it a talent. People usually come in here and never give a thought to the joy I get from making these things. No, I never went to school for it. I've read plenty of books on it, and when I came home from the war I started experimenting, as a sort of hobby.'

Geraldine was nodding to every word, her eyes trained on his face, taking in every movement, every small contour. She still had hold of the pieces of material and was conscious of the faint pull of his fingers also still clinging on to it. He was smiling, a crooked sort of smile that made the right corner of his lips tilt upwards a little.

‘My father wanted me to continue practising law with him when I came home,' he went on, speaking as though he had known her for years. ‘He's a solicitor with a good practice. I didn't wish to upset him but I find law boring. It didn't seem so when I started back in 1913 but since the war I just couldn't settle. I took up this as a kind of hobby, a healing process, I suppose, being that I was a bit … well, they called it shell shock. Not too bad but I decided on this as a way of settling myself down and I became absorbed by it. My father wasn't too pleased when I told him what I really wanted to—'

He broke off abruptly, a look of apology in the dark-grey eyes that, so close up, were like velvet. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go on so.'

Abruptly he let go of the piece of material, the release making her start. On an impulse she leapt at what threatened to be a lost opportunity.

‘I'm Geraldine Glover,' she burst out, instantly feeling an idiot. People didn't normally introduce themselves to shopkeepers, but his response was far from discouraging.

‘My name's Hanford. Anthony. Tony to my friends, but since leaving my parents' home in Berkshire I've lost touch with friends.'

He sounded suddenly very lonely. ‘But you've got friends here?' she asked in an effort to comfort him.

‘Not really. I've lived above the shop since opening up. Most evenings I keep occupied making this stuff.' He glanced around with a proud, somewhat loving glow in his eyes, then brought them back to her, the glow fading. ‘To be truthful I make more than I can sell. It's become an obsession.'

‘It must be very absorbing.' She felt pleased with the word absorbing, it sounded learned. She hoped he thought so too. Anthony – Tony – such an attractive name, for an attractive man, a young, unattached, attractive man. Having mentioned living with parents told her that much. And telling her all about himself was encouraging – he must like her. Thoughts were pounding in her head like an express train. ‘You must have a real gift for it,' she said.

He shrugged briefly. ‘None of it is expensive stuff. I don't think I'd be clever or brave enough to use expensive materials. This way if I make errors I haven't wasted much. But I'm learning all the time and one day, who knows, I may hit the big time – a jewellers in the West End. That's what I'd like.'

Geraldine fixed her eyes on him. She wanted to hear more but time was rushing on. She suddenly hated her work, not just because it would take her from the conversation they were having but that what she did was humdrum and repetitive and demeaning compared to his, having studied law while she was just a machinist on piecework in a clothing factory.

‘I've got to go soon,' she cut in, hating to. ‘Do you do necklaces?' He became business-like, put in his place. She'd spoiled everything.

‘Sorry, I've been taking up your time talking about everything but what you came in for,' he was saying formally. ‘Now, let me see.' He looked again at the material she held. ‘Something dark blue.'

She watched him retreat behind the counter to survey the rows of beads hanging on hooks behind him. She could see the time on the large clock over the door. Angry again, she knew she must cut this trip short and would now have to explain why to him, or otherwise look churlish. And that was the last thing she wanted, creating a bad impression.

‘Perhaps if I come back,' she said feebly and had him turn to look at her. Did he detect the regret in her eyes? Perhaps he did for he gave her a bright, friendly smile.

‘I tell you what, Miss …'

‘Gerry,' she broke in, unable to curb the sudden impulse.

His smile seemed to light up the shop. ‘Gerry. Tell you what. I'll spend this evening fashioning something for you. I'll have it ready by tomorrow – lunchtime? You don't have to have it, but I'm sure you'll like it. How about that? Would that suit you?'

‘Oh, yes.' Despite all her efforts, the words gushed out of her in a sort of feeling of relief and ecstacy. ‘I'll come in around twelve or just after.' It would only take her eight minutes if she cycled fast.

‘I'll be open,' he called after her as she rushed out to reclaim her bicycle propped against the shop front, her heart pounding fit to bust.

Her mother, not in the best of moods at the moment, looked up from darning one of Dad's socks to glare at Geraldine wandering aimlessly about the room.

‘Why don't you sit down and find somethink ter do? Honestly, you've bin moping around the 'ouse ever since you got 'ome from work. What is it, someone at work upset yer or ain't yer got nowhere ter go tonight?'

‘No one's upset me,' returned Geraldine. ‘And I've me dress ter make.' Somehow interest in finishing it had waned, unable to get her mind off Anthony Hanford and the way she had interrupted their conversation. It had probably squashed her chances for all he had been so nice about it, apologising and all that. But it had clutched at her heart, him apologising.

‘Then go up and get on wiv it,' continued Mum. ‘I don't want you 'anging around us all night with that face long as a kite. Life's miserable enough without you adding to it. Weather's making us all more fed up than we already are, blooming freezing draught coming through all the blooming cracks, and now yer dad laid off work again.'

Mum, leading off, looked older than her years in a wide, brown skirt to her ankles dating back to an earlier decade, her once flaming auburn hair, now streaked grey, scraped back into a bun. The brown, full-sleeved blouse too was dated, high collar fastened by a jet brooch that had been her mother's and which she wore day in day out, enough to make Geraldine swear it must be fastened to her flesh as well. Her hands were red from her usual Monday washday. In fact the whole house smelled of washday.

She had once been exceedingly pretty, judging by photos of her. She still retained traces of that prettiness and spruced up in something a bit more fashionable, her hair bobbed in the current style and with a dab of face powder on her cheeks, she'd look half her age. But money to spruce herself up was needed to feed a family and even if she could have afforded it she wouldn't have. Women like her abounded in the East End. Marrying meant the end of gaiety; raising a family was a responsibility, it made them old before their time, and that was that.

As she spoke Mum glanced at her husband sitting staring into the fire but he didn't respond to her words, his mind no doubt on tomorrow, ‘on the stones' as waiting to be called for dock work was termed. At present he had no gang. A gang would always be selected above men on their own and it was every docker's quest to be in one, the ganger being an expert at keeping his nose to the ground to sniff out anything going before others did. A man in a gang got good work and food in his family's stomachs even if ships coming into dock were a bit thin on the water since the end of the war. Every nation had been pulled down by it, every nation struggling to recover, the working man along with them.

Being without work since last week was Dad's fault this time. He'd had a shouting match in the pub where dockers would gather for breakfast and a pint while waiting to find out any news of a ship coming in. A mate had chuckled at the times Dad had gone off to the carsie. Sensitive about his affliction, Dad had almost come to blows and when his ganger had tried to reason with him he'd told him he could stuff his bloody gang. So now he was on his own until the wounds healed, but meanwhile he had come home seething and full of complaint. He'd been going on about it since teatime until a few minutes earlier when Mum snapped that she too wasn't in the best frame of mind with no money coming in.

Her darning needle had fairly flown across the hole in the heel of his sock. ‘I ain't runnin' an 'ome fer moanin' minnies, y'know. What with Evie moaning about 'ow much she hates that new job she's got. She's lucky to 'ave one, gettin' it straight after leavin' school. But now she wants ter find somethink else!' Mum waggled her head in sarcasm. ‘Fred's gone off in a temper 'cos 'is mates ain't knocked for 'im, and Mavis is upstairs staring all moony-eyed at her Tom's picture 'cos he don't see 'er on Monday nights. That just leaves Wally. He ain't 'ome yet, but there's still time.'

She continued to hold Geraldine in her glare. ‘So what's up with you?'

How could she tell Mum what was up with her? She was sure Mum's eyes wouldn't light up all that much at the mention of her falling head over heels for some shop owner, someone right out of their class. She knew exactly what Mum would say: ‘Aiming a bit 'igh, ain't yer, yer silly bitch, making eyes at a bloke what ain't going ter give yer the time of day? Why don't yer find a proper bloke what's got 'is feet on the ground?'

No, she wouldn't tell anyone about him, not even her best friend. Not until he responded. Even then she'd have to give it some thought because they'd still poke fun, calling her a jumped-up snob, thinking herself above everyone else.

‘Nothink's got into me,' she told her waspishly and more in defiance than anger took herself off to her bedroom to finish the rest of her dress. It would at least help take away this wistful feeling.

Mavis was sitting on the edge of their bed. In her hand was the framed photo of her husband-to-be. She was all dewy-eyed as she gazed at it. But now, with her self-imposed solitude shattered – she had plenty of friends she could have gone to see but of course she preferred her little drama – by her sister bursting in on her, she turned on Geraldine in anger.

‘Can't any of you leave me alone? What d'yer want?'

‘I want to finish me dress,' Geraldine snapped back. ‘It's my bedroom as well. You ain't got first claim on it.'

For an answer, Mavis threw Tom's picture onto the eiderdown and leapt up as though the bedsprings had broken through under her bottom and made for the door. ‘There ain't never no peace in this rotten 'ouse! I'm going round ter see my Tom's mum and dad. I might find some peace there!'

‘I thought you don't see each other on Monday nights.'

‘Well, tonight's different, ain't it?' came the parting shot.

Left to her own devices, Geraldine began clearing the clutter from the top of the sewing machine stand, that when not in use served as a dressing table, lifted off the mirror and opened the top flap to ease the heavy machine into its position. With the bed as a seat, she sat down to refill the shuttle with blue cotton and threaded the needle.

All else forgotten, she worked steadily for the rest of the evening with no interruptions, thank goodness. By the time Mavis came home looking a little more disposed and eager to get to bed and dream of her Tom, the dress was more or less finished. All that was needed was a final pressing but, with no chance of going downstairs to press it on the kitchen table with everyone about to go to bed, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow gripped her with excitement the second she opened her eyes to realise it was today. For once she actually looked forward to going to work, but especially to lunchtime.

The moment the buzzer went she was up from her bench, rushing to the grubby, smelly little cloakroom for her coat and handbag. It was always a jumble of coats, bags, wet boots if the weather was bad and a variety of shopping bags holding food for lunch. It was a scramble to find her own things from among it all, with other girls coming in to get theirs, having first rushed into the single, somewhat mucky lavatory before anyone else could to empty out before leaving. Needing to go would spoil even the briefest chat with Anthony Hanford and she would have rather died than ask to use his toilet.

‘You ain't off out again!' admonished Eileen who had followed her in to pick up her flask and sandwiches. ‘Yesterday, now today – where d'yer go?'

Geraldine gave her a grin. ‘Tell you later, but not now, I'm in a hurry.' Already she was guarding her diction, preparing for her conversation with Anthony Hanford.

Eileen began to grin too. ‘Secret, eh? Seein' a boyfriend?'

‘Tell you later,' Geraldine shouted over the babble of voices around them and hurried away before any more questions could be asked.

‘Don't be late back,' Eileen called after her as Geraldine squeezed herself out of the door between several other girls coming in. ‘Greenaway'll 'ave your guts for garters if you are!' Mrs Greenaway was their forelady, those beady eyes behind her pince-nez never missing a trick.