Free Pure as the Lily by Catherine Cookson Page B

had really enjoyed herself, but her mother had found out, and that was that. Her mother couldn’t stand the Hewitts because they were Catholics; but then her mother couldn’t stand any of the families in the street, because she considered they were all common, except of course Mr. Tollett.
    She had never been able to keep a real girl friend because she couldn’t invite her into the house; everybody in Cornice and Benbow Streets were below her ma’s notice. She wondered if her ma knew what the neighbours said about her because when she was having one of her yelling matches she sounded as common as muck herself.
    Da-da-d’dah, d’dah, d’dah! Oh, this was lovely: a big warm room lit by a pink-shaded light, and wonderful music, and a chocolate cream whirl.
    She licked her fingers, then ran swiftly into the kitchen and wiped them on a flannel, and ran back into the room just as the record was finishing.
    She played four records and danced to them all, even to A Monastery Garden. Then, her legs feeling tired, she decided to have a bit read. The bookcase presented an assortment of literature. The top shelf showed her books by Ethel M. Dell, Elinor Glynn, Ruby M. Ayres and many others. The next two shelves, the books were thicker and heavier looking.
    There was some by Dickens. She knew about Dickens, she had learned about him at school. She didn’t care much for Dickens;
    it was the pictures in the book that put her off. The other names were new to her: Thackeray, Conrad, Conan Doyle, Edgar Wallace. Oh, she had heard of him. But she didn’t think she’d like to read any of these.
    She reached up to the top shelf and picked out The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell. Then she settled herself in the armchair with the dish of sweets to her side, and she was just getting interested in the story when suddenly, the book dropped from her hand, and she put her head back in the corner of the chair, and slept. , It was a noise from the street that woke her, boys running and yelling as they kicked a tin. She sat up with a start and looked at the clock.
    Half past ten. Eeh! she must have fallen asleep. She felt very tired.
    She stretched and yawned, then got up and replenished the fire, after which she made herself a strong cup of tea. She didn’t want to be asleep when Mr. Tollett came back, he would think it had all been too much for her. She dabbed her face with cold water, nipped her cheeks to bring more colour to them, which was unnecessary, put a comb through her hair, then went back into the room and put on another record. She had picked The Blue Danube Waltz again.
    Slowly now she began to dance, but just backwards and forwards in front of the gramophone.
    When the arms came about her and she was swung round and into the waltz, she stifled her scream.
    Then, to the beat of the music, she gulped, “Oh! Mister Toll-ett. Mister Tollett!” Da-dad’dah, d’dah, d’dah! “ Ben sang as he waltzed her round the couch, in between the chairs, around the occasional table and back towards the couch, and when the record ground to a halt she gasped again as his arms tightened round her in a vice-like grip, and for a second she was pressed close to him, her cheek to his cheek, his lips near her ear. Then she was standing an arm’s length from him, where he had thrust her, and, her breath almost choking her, she gaped at him. He ... he was tight, she told herself, he was tight.
    “Oh Mary! I’m sorry, b-but, you see you’re to blame. I did what you told me, I got tight, I’m, I’m not drunk, not real drunk, I... I didn’t stay long enough, I thought I’d better get back while... while I could.”
    “Did... did you enjoy it, Mr. Tollett?”
    “Yes, and no, Mary. Yes and no. And Mary.” He lurched towards her now and caught hold of her hands again and stared into her face.
    “Don’t call me Mr. Tollett. I’ve wanted to tell you for, for weeks not to call me Mr. Tollett. Ben, call me Ben. Go on, say Ben.”
    “Oh