Family of Women (3 page)

In the next street, though, they came to a factory called Vicars which made brass hinges, and this time, while Violet prepared herself for being called a skinny mare again or something worse, in fact the middle-aged man who opened up to them looked kinder. He was certainly more polite.

‘Er’s got a good character,’ Bessie said, thrusting the School Leaving Certificate at the man, which said that Violet was reliable and capable of hard work.

The man stroked his face as if he had a beard, although he didn’t.

‘You’re young, but we can use you,’ he said. ‘You can start tomorrow. Seven and six a week.’ He introduced himself as Mr Riddle.

It was only then that it really dawned on Violet that when she went out to work she would be earning her own money. Seven and six! It wasn’t a princely sum, not by a long way, but it was still more than she’d ever earned before. She found herself beaming at the man, and Bessie said, ‘Yes, she’ll take it.’

On the way home, she said, ‘You needn’t get any grand ideas about your wages – you’ll be handing them over to me, for your keep.’

The inside of Vicars was one big workshop, with long, grimy windows all along one side, a loud, dirty, stinking place with all sorts of different machines working at once to turn out brass hinges of a whole variety of sizes. However, Violet rather liked the atmosphere, especially as the first morning she heard someone singing ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas!’ in a cheery voice over the racket of the machines.

Mr Riddle came to Violet that first morning and handed her an overall.

‘Don’t worry, love – no one’s going to bite you.’ He smiled at her anxious expression. ‘I’ll start you off over here – in at the deep end, sort of thing. You look like a sensible sort of wench and I need someone with a bit of dexterity. Lil who normally works there’s been taken poorly.’

He instructed her in the use of a drilling machine, set to drilling screwholes into tiny brass hinges which one of the other girls told her were for jewellery boxes. Though it took concentration because of the size, she found the work quite straightforward and after a few misalining th>On ttakes she settled in well. Over the next few days she learned about all the machines, for milling, drilling and countersinking, the capstan lathes and a big stamping machine for carriage door hinges. And she also got to know the faces behind them, some friendlier than others. She was relieved to find there was a jolly-looking girl called Jo who was not much older than her. And she also identified the source of a lot of the singing – a stocky lad of eighteen with shiny b
lack hair and a laughing, jaunty air about him, called Harry Martin.

Marigold watched sparks flying from the knifegrinder’s stone. Narrowing her eyes, she made the dots of light come into better focus. She didn’t know she was a bit short-sighted, so it seemed normal to her that the gas lamps round the Bull Ring, the naphtha flares on the traders’ stalls, even the match struck by a man close to her to light his cigarette were a soft-edged outburst of light and colour. Standing amid all the shouting as the traders vied to sell off Saturday night’s cheap cuts of meat and fruit and veg, the glowing lights made her feel nice. A smile lit up her normally vacant expression.

‘Want one?’

At first, she had no idea that he was talking to her. People hardly ever did talk to Marigold directly, except to give her orders. They talked round her and about her.
Marigold won’t want one of them. Marigold doesn’t do things like that
. . .

A few days ago she had turned sixteen. Under her old tweed coat she wore a muddy-grey frock from the pawn shop. Rosina, at eleven, wore the prettiest clothes because she had the nerve to keep on and get what she wanted. Violet was far too mousy to talk back to their mother, but at least she could save for bits and pieces with what was left of her wages. Bessie had relented and let her keep two bob a week now. But she wouldn’t let Marigold go out to work. Oh no – she was needed at home. So Charlie and Violet were bringing in a wage, but not her. She never had any money to call her own. Marigold didn’t complain because no one heard her if she did.

She was a frumpy sight in her old woman’s clothes and flat shoes, wide as boats, her black hair chopped chin-length and kirby-gripped. Weighing her down were the carriers of meat and fruit.
Marigold’ll go into town for the meat auction – she likes it
. For once Mom was right – she did like it. It was Marigold’s one taste of freedom. But she didn’t think foramoment that any man would bother talking to her or that her ripe, solid shape and dark brown eyes might be of interest to anyone.

‘I said d’you want one?’

Marigold jumped, alarmed by the attention. He’d come close and was holding out a single cigarette. The face that looked out from under his cap was gaunt, tired-looking, but his pale eyes were friendly.

‘All right.’ She’d never smoked a fag before.

He leaned closer and pushed the end of the cigarette between her lips.

‘Here you go.’

She saw that he opened the box of matches with one hand and then leaned down and struck the match on thsaio;tee ground, bringing the little flame carefully up towards her.

‘Good job it ain’t windy.’

She saw his left arm was missing, or part of it, and the sleeve of his jacket pinned.

Marigold was about to speak, but she breathed in a great chestful of the smoke without meaning to and coughed and retched until her eyes ran.

‘First one, is it?’ the man asked, grinning, once she’d stopped gagging.

Marigold nodded, gulping. She took another cautious puff on the cigarette without breathing in. That worked better.

‘What happened to your arm?’ Her throat was stinging.

‘Wipers, that’s what “happened,”’ he said sourly. She saw the muscles in his cheek clench for a moment. ‘No one wants a bloody cripple working for ’em.’

‘Oh,’ Marigold said.

He seemed amused at her lack of pity. ‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

Marigold shrugged and puffed on the cigarette again.

‘Tastes like tar,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘Does a bit.’

There was a pause. Sounds of the market surrounded them. The air was full of smells of smoke and cooked meat, mild ale and crushed oranges.

‘Where’re you going then?’

‘Get a chicken,’ Marigold said.

‘Come on then.’

He told her his name was Tommy Kay.

‘Tommy Kay,’ Marigold said in wonder. ‘You look quite old.’

‘Old as the hills,’ he teased. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Marigold.’

She giggled with him this time, bubbly and excited. ‘Violet, my sister, says it’s a cow’s name.’

He didn’t ask her age.

Together they walked through the crowds to where a group were gathered round a chubby, red-cheeked man in a blood-smeared overall. There was a lot of pushing and jostling and shouting wisecracks. Tommy helped her buy a chicken, holding it up with laughing eyes.

‘Look at the state of that – looks as if someone’s sat on it!’

The chicken did look flat and dejected. Marigold giggled again. Everything seemed funny with Tommy Kay.

Tommy asked her where she lived.

‘I live up Lozells. I’ll walk up with you.’

Bessie always told Marigold to use a penny for the tram, but Tommy was insistent.

‘No need – it ain’t far. Give us one of your bags.’

‘All right,’ Marigold said, suddenly feeling shy and overwhelmed by the thought of walking all the way home with him. What she wanted now was to get on the tram and remember his smile, safely, like a picture from the front of those
Peg’s Papers
that Mom liked Violet to read out to her, not have to go on with him. Why did he want to walk with her, daft old Marigold?

As they left the crowded Bull Ring she saw that Tommy walked with a limp. He didn’t say much. Once or twice he whistled scraps of a tune she hadn’t heard before.

‘You’re a nice girl,’ he said suddenly. They were in a street with houses and factories, noise coming from the pubs.

Marigold giggled.

They crossed over a dark street and there was a factory with an alley down the side. Tommy stopped.

‘Come and put your bag down a minute.’ He was speaking softly suddenly. ‘We’ll have a rest.’

Marigold did as she was told. There was a lamp outside the front of the factory, and Tommy took her hand and pulled her into the deep shadow of the alley. Marigold thought it was a funny thing to do.

‘You’re nice, you are.’ His voice had gone queer, low and tight. He wrapped his good arm round her and pressed her close to him.

‘We’re having a cuddle,’ Marigold said. It was strange, but she found she liked it. It gave her an excited feeling in the bottom of her tummy. It was so dark she could barely see him, only feel him pressed against her.

Then Tommy started sucking at her lips and Marigold drew back, disgusted.

‘What you doing?’

‘Kissing you, silly.’

‘That ain’t kissing – that’s dirty!’

‘You never had a kiss before? I’ll show you what it’s like.’

The kissing was all right when she got used to it and it gave her all sorts of other feelings.

‘Unbutton your coat for me,’ Tommy breathed. ‘And your other bits. This flaming arm – takes me an age to do buttons.’

She obeyed, not sure what was happening. It was frightening but exciting. The night wasn’t too cold but she felt funny, undoing everything outside. Her large breasts lolled free under her threadbare old camisole and Tommy gave a groan of pleasure, running his hand over them. He teased up the edge of her vest and Marigold felt him reaching for her nipples.

‘Ooh,’ she heard herself say. Her body was flooded with feelings such as she’d never had before. She squirmed with pleasure and pressed against Tommy. It had an em"" wiarih; theffect on him that she wasn’t expecting. He pulled back and fumbled at his clothes.

‘
Christ
. . .’ He sounded angry. Marigold was confused.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m a cripple, that’s what! Get your bloomers off for me – quick!’

‘My
bloomers?
’ She was giggling. ‘What for?’

‘Just get ’em off – you’ll soon see . . .’

She never did see anything, in the dark, could only feel. Tommy groped at her skirt, trying to hoik it up, once she’d obediently removed her bloomers. He was panting and cursing, his breaths hot and frantic against her neck. Then she felt something jabbing at her thighs.

‘Open your legs!’

There were a few moments of frustrated confusion and she heard him cursing, trying with one arm to find his way to her, to control himself. Then he was jabbing up between her legs.

‘Christ!’ he said again. ‘Let me in . . .’

And she felt a burning and a hard thing up inside her and it ached and glowed with sensation and his jabbing in and out of her set something off in her body that started to rise and spread. It was the loveliest feeling she’d ever had and she didn’t want it to stop. But it did stop, abruptly, because Tommy shoved into her very hard for the last time, gave a long grunt, and then all the urgent moving stopped and he pulled away.

‘You can put your bloomers on again,’ he said out of the darkness, and she fumbled to find them, confused by the warm burn of her feelings.

Tommy came up close again.

‘Like that, did you, wench?’

Marigold decided she had liked it. ‘Yes, ta,’ she said.

‘D’you come down here every Saturday?’

‘I come for my mom – for the meat.’

‘Well – I’ll be here again.’ He steered her out to the road and picked up the bag. ‘How about it, Marigold?’

Marigold?’ ‘All right,’ she said.

She was met back home with a slap across the face.

‘Where the hell’ve you been, you stupid good-for-nothing?’ Bessie roared. ‘How’m I s’posed to cook the tea if you don’t bring the bleeding shopping home? Can’t do the simplest thing, can you, you bonehead! Where’ve you been?’

‘Nowhere,’ Marigold’s eyes were stinging from the slap. She felt wet and sore between her legs.

‘Took you a bloody long time to go nowhere then,’ Claret,&to tikeo;snce observed. He was kneeling by the fire with his boot stuck on the end of a piece of wood, trying to fix the heel back on with weedy hammer blows. Violet and Rosina were sitting quiet, out of the way. There was no sign of Charlie. The room was full of steam and as usual a line of washing was strung across the ceiling so that they had to keep ducking under it to get around.

Marigold put the bags down wearily on the table, waiting for Mom’s usual complaints about the stuff she’d bought and she didn’t know why she didn’t go herself. Bessie loomed over the bags of shopping.

‘Is that the best you could do – look at that!’ Bessie scoffed. The crushed-looking chicken hung limp in her hands. ‘Looks as if a cartwheel’s been over it!’

Marigold took no notice. She thought of Tommy’s hands moving
inside her clothes. She had a secret that was
hers
. Mom was never going to know that, however much she kept on.

Violet liked working at Vicars. As the months passed she learned to operate the different kinds of machines, turning out brass hinges of all different sizes. It was very noisy and dirty, but the gaffer Mr Riddle was a quiet, fair-minded man and she found the other people friendly.

One of the girls, who had given her a cheerful smile when she arrived, was called Josephine Snell. Josephine was closer to Marigold’s age than Violet’s but they were the two ‘babbies’ of the works and ended up sticking together. Josephine had wild brown hair which she tied into a thick plait, and lively grey eyes. Her house was only round the corner from Vicars and she started asking Violet back for a bit after work sometimes.

‘I can’t stay long,’ Violet said nervously, the first time. ‘Mom’ll go mad. I have to get home and help.’

‘Just have a cuppa,’ Josephine said. ‘She won’t mind that, will she?’

You don’t know our mom, Violet thought, but she desperately wanted to go with Josephine. She was so happy that Jo was prepared to befriend her.

The Snells lived in a front house that opened on to the street, though in every other way it was almost identical to the one Violet lived in. What went on in that house compared to her own, though, was a revelation to Violet. She would never have taken Josephine back to her house, because of Mom.