Courage by Malachi Whitaker. Part 1.
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Go to Part 2
Isabel Allat was twenty, plump, pleasant, and usually smiling. She had bright, very blue eyes, and small hands with soft palms. There were many things she did not understand, such as people biting their nails, or really liking beer or black coffee, or spitting in the streets; even though she pondered over these things for a long time, she got no nearer to understanding.
The day was a January one, light-skied but piercingly cold, yet she wore a thin navy coat and skirt and a small purple silk hat. Her underclothes were thick and cheap, without abiding warmth, but she had on a good pair of dark wool stockings. She had had to put on these new spring things because she had got a job at last, and the old – the very old thick coat which had been good enough for the eight ơ’clock job was certainly not good enough for the nine o’clock one.
She walked along, through Forster Square, looking about her, taking everything in. Because it was the first morning, she was a quarter of an hour early. Her stomach felt unquiet, she had had too little breakfast, had walked too soon, had slept too spasmodically. It had been alright to say jokingly the night before, ‘if you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear’, but that made for thoughts like chasms.
Supposing mother should be late? Why mother should be late, with the two other girls still setting off at twenty to eight, she did not know. No, she was just terrified. Why had she left her old job for this new one full of perils?
She kept on walking dreamily along, glad that she was no longer to use her hands for making senseless paper ornaments.
‘Who’s going to buy these awful things?’ she used to cry to Jem the foreman. ‘I wouldn’t!’
Yet for some reason, she made the things better and more quickly than anyone else.
There had been something fascinating in the long, close room, in the bent heads of the other girls and women, in the ceaseless chatter that went on in undertones. Now and then, everybody would sing, not very tunefully, but good-naturedly and happily. It depended on Jem’s mood as to how long this went on. Sometimes he would scowl and grimace, and the song would drop dead. Other times, he would join in with apparent indifference.
‘Oh, Jem,’ thought Isabel, ‘I shall miss you terribly’ How could the world go on without Jem, without Mrs Holroyd, without Minnie Parkinson, and Beryl? (They all called Beryl Barrel, because she was so fat, yet Beryl was a lovely name.) The sun went behind an early morning cloud, and the keen wind struck through the thin costume and made gooselumps rise on the girl’s skin. Her steps had slowed, she was afraid to go any further. Abruptly, she turned and walked back into the square again.
Surely if she walked along Swaine Street and down Leeds Road, she could go into the old door, up the old steps and slip into her old chair, gather up her old stock of paper and scent and gum, and just go on with her work where she had left off? But it was twelve minutes to nine. The girls would have been there over three quarters of an hour.
They were always early because Jem’s train got down early, and anybody arriving at five minutes to eight had a chance of talking to Jem for a little while.
Jem was married, and had two little boys, yet none of the girls except Mrs Holroyd has ever seen his family. The others just didn’t believe in it. Jem was Jem, and he existed in this dreamy, scent-laden atmosphere. He was dark, and thick, and short – almost Italian-looking, with bluish teeth and a strong, nicotine-full breath. The thought of the roomful of girls hovered about him. Even the little fifteen-year-olds would seize any excuse to go up to him.
‘Help me, Jem. I don’t know how to finish this.’
‘Get Mrs Holroyd to help you. Am I a wet-nurse? You young tarts give me a pain in the neck!
‘Young tarts!’ The fifteen-year-old would sidle back, blushing.
Didn’t ‘tart’ mean ‘sweetheart’? But Jem had spoken.
Go to Part 2