Rory stood before the desk and looked down at Charlotte Kean and said, ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father.’
‘It’s a severe chill, but he’ll soon be about again. As I told you, you are to take Armstrong’s place and you will naturally receive the same wage as he was getting . . . You don’t look fully recovered yourself, Mr Connor. Are you feeling quite well?’
‘Yes. Yes, miss, I’m quite all right.’
‘I think you had better sit down.’ She pointed with an imperious finger towards a chair, and he looked at her in surprise for a moment before taking the seat and muttering, ‘Thank you.’
‘As I told you, we took on a new man.’
He noticed that she said ‘we’ as if she, too, were running the business.
‘He was the best of those who applied; with so many people out of work in the town you would have thought there would have been a better selection. If it had been for the working-class trades I suppose we would have been swamped.’
He was surprised to know that rent collecting didn’t come under the heading of working-class trade, yet on the other hand he knew that if they had been living in the town, in either Tyne Dock or Shields, he wouldn’t have been able to hob-nob with neighbours such as the Learys or the Waggetts; the distinction between the white collar and the muffler was sharply defined in the towns.
‘My father suggests that you take over the Shields area completely. Mr Taylor can do the Jarrow district, particularly the Saturday morning collection.’ She smiled thinly at him now. ‘As he says, it’s a shame to waste a good man there . . . He has a high opinion of your expertise, Mr Connor.’
Well, this was news to him. Shock upon shock. If things had been different he would have been roaring inside, and later he would have told John George and . . . Like a steel trap a shutter came down on his thinking and he forced himself to say, ‘That’s very nice to know, miss.’
She was still smiling at him, and as he looked at her he thought, as Lizzie had said, God! but she’s plain. It didn’t seem fair somehow that a woman looking like her should have been given all the chances. Education, money, the lot. Now if Janie had been to a fine school, and could have afforded to dress like this one did, well, there would’ve been no one to touch her.
As he stared across the desk at the bowed head and the thin moving hand—she was writing out his district—he commented to himself that everything she had on matched, from her fancy hat that was a dull red colour to the stiff ribboned bow on the neck of her dress. Her green coat was open and showed a woollen dress that took its tone from the hat, but had a row of green buttons down to her waist. He could see the bustle of the dress pushing out the deep pleats of the coat. It took money to dress in colours and style like that. The old man seemingly didn’t keep her short of cash.
When she rose to her feet he stood up, and when she came round the desk she said, ‘I can leave everything in your hands then, Mr Connor?’ She handed him a sheet of paper.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘I’ve got to go now. Mr Taylor should be in at any moment.’ She turned the face of the fob watch that was pinned to the breast of her dress and looked at it. ‘It isn’t quite nine yet, make yourself known to him. And this evening, and until my father is fully recovered, I would like you to bring the takings to the house. You know where it is?’
‘Yes, I know where it is.’
Yes, he knew where it was. He had caught a glimpse of it from the gates. He knew that it had been occupied by Kean’s father and his grandfather, but that’s all he knew about it, for he had never been asked to call there on any pretext. But what he did know was that all the Keans had been men who had made money and that the present one was a bully. More than once, when he had stood in this office and been spoken to like a dog, he’d had the desire to ram his fist into his employer’s podgy face.
‘Good morning then, Mr Connor.’
‘Good morning, miss.’
He went before her and opened the outer door, then stood for a second watching her walking down the alley towards the street. She carried herself as straight as a soldier; her step was more of a march than a walk, and she swung her arms; she didn’t walk at all like women in her position usually did, or should.
He closed the door, then looked around the office and through into the inner room. Then walking slowly into it, he sat in the chair behind the desk, cocked his head to the side and, speaking to an imaginary figure sitting opposite, he said, ‘Now, Mr Taylor, I will assign you to the Jarrow district.’ Oh yes, he would always speak civilly to subordinates because, after all, he was a subordinate himself once, wasn’t he? A mere rent collector. But now. He looked round the office. He was master of all he surveyed.
Huh! This was the time to laugh, if only he had someone to laugh with.
When he heard the outer door open he got quickly to his feet and went round the desk.
He looked at the clean but shabbily dressed figure standing, hat in hand, before him, and he said quietly, ‘You, Mr Taylor?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The old man inclined his head, and Rory, now making a derogatory sound in his throat, said, ‘You needn’t sir me, Mr Taylor, I’m just like yourself, a roundsman. Me name’s Connor. The old man—Mr Kean—is in bed with a cold. His daughter’s just been along. She says you’re to take my district.’
‘Anything you say, Mr Connor. Anything you say.’
God! had he sounded as servile as this when he was confronted by Kean? There should be a law of some kind against bringing men to their knees.
As he stared at the old man it came to him that everything in his life had changed. And it was to go on changing. How, he didn’t know, he only knew that things would never again be as they were.
It was half-past five when he made his way from the office to Birchingham House in Westoe, and it was raining, a fine chilling soaking rain.
The house was not in what was usually called the village, nor did it stand among those that had sprung up to run parallel with that part of Shields that lay along the river, nor was it one of a small number that remained aloof in their vast grounds. But it was of that section the social standing of which was determined by its size, the number of servants it supported, and whether its owner hired or owned his carriages.
And Birchingham House had another distinction. Although it stood in only two acres of ground it was situated on the side road that led off the main road to Harton and to two substantial estates, one belonging to a mine owner, the other to a gentleman who was known to own at least six iron ships that plied their trade from the Tyne.
The histories of the houses of the notabilities of the town were known to the nobodies of the town; and the notabilities themselves formed a topic of gossip, not only in the bars that lined the river-front, but also in the superior clubs and societies that flourished in the town.
But the situation of his master’s house or of his master himself had not up till this moment impressed Rory with any significance. Kean, to him, had been just a money-grabbing skinflint who owned rows of property, particularly in Jarrow, which should have been pulled down years ago, and streets in Shields that were fast dropping into decay for want of repair. Yet in this respect he admitted Kean was no worse than any of the landlords he represented.
Now, as he neared the house in the dark and saw the front steps leading to it lighted by two bracket lamps, he stopped for a moment and peered at it through the rain. It was big. There were ten windows along the front of it alone. Moreover, it was three- storey. He couldn’t quite make out the top one, only that there was a gleam of glass up there. Likely attics. There was a carriage standing on the drive at the foot of the steps and he paused near it to look up at the driver sitting huddled deep in a cloaked coat. The man hadn’t noticed him; he seemed to be asleep.
He hesitated. Should he go to the front door or the back door? Damn it all, why not the front! Why not!
He went up the steps and pulled the bell.
The door was answered by a maid. She was wearing a starched apron over a black alpaca dress. The bib of the apron had a wide, stiff frill that continued over the straps on her shoulders. She had a starched cap on her head and the strings from it looked as stiff as the cap itself and were tied under her chin in a bow. She was evidently flustered and said, ‘Yes, yes. Who is it?’
‘I’m Mr Connor. Miss Kean told me to come. I’ve brought the takings.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ She looked from one side to the other, then said, ‘Well, you’d better come in.’ And she stood aside and let him pass her into the small lobby, then opened another door into a hall, which he noted immediately was as big as the kitchen at home.
‘Stay there,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll tell her, that’s if she can come, the master’s had a turn. They’ve had to send for the doctor again. He’s right bad.’ She nodded at him, then made for the stairs that led from the hallway in a half spiral and disappeared from view.
He stood looking around him, frankly amazed at what he saw. To the right of the staircase was a side table with a lamp on it. He noted that it was oil, not gas. Yet they had gas outside. The soft light from it illuminated a large oil painting on the wall showing the head and shoulders of a man: he had a broad, flat face, and the high collar was wedged into the jowls below his chin; he had a white fringe of hair above his ears, the rest of his head was bald; his eyes were round and bright and seemed to be looking with stern condemnation at the visitor. Rory did not need to guess that this was an ancestor of Mr Kean, and also that the lamp was there as a sort of illuminated commemoration to do him honour.
A cabinet stood against the wall at the far side of the stairs. He had never seen the like of it before, not even in a picture. It was glass-fronted and made of yellowish wood picked out in gold; the legs were spindly with fancy cross-bars connecting the four of them. It had two shelves. The top one held figures, some single, some in groups; the lower shelf had glass goblets standing on it. From what he could see at this distance they were etched with paintings.
There were a number of doors going off all round the hall, and the thick red carpet he was standing on reached to the walls on all sides except where one door was deeply inset in an alcove and had a step down to it.
He felt his mouth closing when he heard the rustle of a gown on the stairs and saw Charlotte Kean coming down towards him. Her face wore a worried expression. She said immediately, ‘My father has taken a turn for the worse, we are very concerned. Will you come this way?’
Without a word he followed her down the step and through the door that was set in the alcove and found himself in an office, but an office very different from the one in Tangard Street. The room in a way was a pattern of the hall, thick carpet, highly polished desk, the top strewn with papers and ledgers. There were paintings on all the walls except that which was taken up with two long windows over which the curtains had not been drawn.
He watched her turn up the gas light; the mantle, encased in its fancy globe gave out a soft light and set the room in a warm glow.
He couldn’t understand the feeling he was experiencing. He didn’t know whether it was envy, admiration, or respect, that kind of grudging respect the symbols of wealth evoke. He only knew that the feeling was making him feel all arms and legs.
‘Sit down, Mr Connor.’
This was the second time in one day she had invited him to be seated.
He hesitated to take the leather chair that she had proffered; instead, looking down at the bag he had placed on the desk, he opened it for her and took out a number of smaller bags and the two pocket ledgers, which he placed before her, saying, ‘I’ve counted everything, it’s in order.’
She glanced up at him, saying, ‘Thank you.’ Then with her hand she indicated the chair again. And now he sat down and watched her as she emptied each bag and counted the money, then checked it against the books.
In the gaslight and with her expression troubled as it was, she looked different from what she had done in the stark grey light this morning, softer somehow.
The money counted, she returned the books to the bag; then rising, she stood looking at him for a moment before saying, ‘I’m sure I can trust you, Mr Connor, to see to things in the office until my father is better. I . . . I may not be able to get along. You see’—she waved her hand over the desk—’there is so much other business to see to. And he wants me with him all the time.’
‘Don’t worry about the office, miss, everything will be all right there. And . . . and Mr Taylor seems a steady enough man.’
‘Thank you, Mr Connor.’
‘I’m sorry about your father.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
He stared back into her face. There was that something in her tone. Another time he would have said to himself, Now how does she mean that?
He opened the door to let her pass out into the hall, and there she turned to him and asked, ‘Is it still raining?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was when I came in.’
‘You have a long walk home. Go into the kitchen and they will give you something to drink.’
Crumbs from the rich man’s table. Soup kitchens run by lady bountifuls. Clogs for the barefoot. Why was he thinking like this? She only meant to be kind, and he answered as if he thought she was. ‘Thank you, miss, but I’d rather get home.’
‘But you don’t look too well yourself, Mr Connor.’
‘I’m all right, miss. Thank you all the same. Good night, miss.’
‘Good night, Mr Connor.’
The maid appeared from the shadows and let him out. He walked down the steps and along the curving drive into the road, feeling like some beggar who had been given alms. He felt deflated, insignificant, sort of lost. It was that house.
He walked through the rain all the way back to the beginning of Westoe, down through Laygate and on to Tyne Dock, through the arches and the last long trek up Simonside Bank into the country and the cottage.
Opening the door, he staggered in and dropped into a chair without taking off his sodden coat, and he made no protest when Lizzie tugged his boots from his feet while Ruth loosened his scarf and coat and held him up while she pulled them from him. He had no need to pretend tonight that he was ill, at least physically, for the first day’s work had taken it out of him, and the trail back from Westoe had been the last straw.
When later in the evening Jimmy, by way of comfort, whispered to him, ‘When we go to the yard it’ll be easier for you, you could cut from the office to the boatyard in five minutes,’ he nodded at him while at the same time thinking, not without scorn, The boatyard! With thirty-five pounds he could have got himself a mortgage on a decent house. Slowly it came to him the reason why he had allowed himself to become saddled with the boatyard. It wasn’t only because he wanted to kill two birds with one stone: marry Janie and give Jimmy something of his own to live and work for; it was because he wanted to get away from here, from the kitchen; and now from their concern for his mental state, which must be bad, so they thought, when he still wouldn’t go and see his best friend, and him in prison.
Only last night when he said good-bye to Janie the rooms over the boatyard had appeared to him like a haven. And later, as he lay awake staring into the blackness listening to Jimmy’s untroubled breathing, he had thought, Once we get there, once I’m married, I’ll see it all differently. Then like a child and with no semblance of Rory Connor, he had buried his face in the pillow and cried from deep within him, ‘I’ll make it up to him when he comes out. I’ll make him understand. He’ll see I could do nothing about it at the time ’cos I was too bad. He’ll understand. Being John George, he’ll understand. And I’ll make it up to him, I will. I will.’
But now, after his visit to Birchingham House, he was seeing the boat house for what it was, a tumbledown riverside shack, and he thought, I must have been mad to pay thirty-five pounds for the goodwill of that. Look where it’s landed me. And the gate shut once again on his thinking as an inner voice said, ‘Aye; and John George.’
They were married on the Saturday after Easter. It was a quiet affair in that they hadn’t a big ceilidh. They went by brake to the Catholic church in Jarrow, together with Ruth, Paddy, Lizzie, Jimmy, and Bill Waggett. A great deal of tact and persuasion had to be used on Gran Waggett in order that she should stay behind. Who was going to help Kathleen Leary with the tables? And anyway, Kathleen being who she was needed somebody to direct her, and who better than Gran herself?
Janie’s wedding finery was plain but good, for her flounced grey coat had once belonged to her mistress, as had also the blue flowered cotton dress she wore underneath. Her blue straw hat she had bought herself, and her new brown buttoned boots too.
She was trembling as she knelt at the altar rails, but then the church was icy cold and the priest himself looked blue in the face and weary into the bargain. He mumbled the questions: Wilt thou have this man? Wilt thou have this woman? And they in turn mumbled back.
After they had signed their names and Rory had kissed her in front of them all they left the church and got into the brake again, which was now surrounded by a crowd of screaming children shouting ‘Hoy a ha’penny oot! Hoy a ha’penny oot!’
They had come prepared with ha’pennies. Ruth and Lizzie and Jimmy threw them out from both sides of the brake; but they were soon finished and when there were no more forthcoming the shouts that followed them now were, ‘Shabby weddin’ . . . shabby weddin’,’ and then the concerted chorus of:
The fathers laughed and Ruth clicked her tongue and Lizzie said, ‘If I was out there I’d skite the hunger off them. By God! I would.’ But Janie and Rory just smiled, and Jimmy, sitting silently at the top end of the brake, his hands dangling between his knees, looked at them, and part of him was happy, and part of him, a deep hidden part, was aching.
Out of decency Jimmy did not immediately go down to the yard. The young married couple were to have the place to themselves until Monday, and on Monday morning the new pattern of life was to begin, for Janie had had her way and was continuing to go daily to the Buckhams’.
Of course, in the back of her mind she knew that the three shillings had been a great inducement to Rory seeing her side of the matter, for now that he wasn’t gaming there was no way to supplement his income, and what was more, as she had pointed out, he would be expected to give a bit of help at home since he was depriving them of both his own and Jimmy’s money. So the arrangement was that, until Jimmy got some orders, for his sculler was almost finished, then she would continue to go daily to her place . . .
Having clambered up the steps in the dark and unlocked the door and dropped their bundles and a bass hamper on to the floor, they clung to each other in the darkness, gasping and laughing after the exertion of humping the baggage from where the cart had dropped them at the far end of the road.
‘Where’s the candle?’
‘On the mantelpiece of course.’ She was still laughing.
He struck a match and lit the candle, then held it up as he looked towards the table on which the lamp stood.
When the lamp was lit he said, ‘Well, there you are now, home sweet home.’
Janie stood and looked about her. ‘I’ll have to get stuck in here at nights,’ she said.
‘Well, if you will go working in the day-time, Mrs Connor.’ He pulled her to him again and they stood pressed close looking silently now into each other’s face. ‘Happy?’
She smiled softly, ‘Ever so.’
‘It’s not going to be an easy life.’
‘Huh! what do I care about that as long as we’re together. Easy life?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d go fish guttin’ if I could help you, an’ you know how I hate guttin’ fish, even when we used to get them for practically nowt from the quay. Do you remember walkin’ all the way down into Shields and getting a huge basketful for threepence?’
‘Only because they were on the point of going rotten.’
‘Ger-away with you . . . Do you want something to eat?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not hungry?’
‘Not for food.’
Her lips pressed tightly together; she closed her eyes and bowed her head.
He now put his hands up to her hair and unpinned her hat and throwing it aside, unbuttoned her coat.
‘I’ll have to get these bundles unpacked and . . . and tidied up.’
He went on undoing the buttons. ‘There’s all day the morrow and the next day and the next day and the next, all our life to undo bundles . . .’
‘Hie! what’re you doin’? That’s me good coat. Look, it’s on the floor.’
‘Leave it on the floor; there’s more to follow.’
‘Rory! Rory! the bed isn’t made up.’
‘The bed is made up, I saw to it.’
‘Oh Rory! . . . An’ I’m cold, I’m cold, I’m cold. I’ll have to get me nightie.’
‘You’re not going to need a nightie.’
‘Aw, Rory! . . . Eeh!’ She let out a squeal as, dressed only in her knickers and shift, he swung her up into his arms and carried her through into the bedroom and dropped her on to the bed. She lay there just where he had dropped her and in the dim light reflected from the kitchen she watched him throw off his clothes.
When he jumped on to the bed beside her she squealed and said, ‘Eeh! the lamp.’
‘The lamp can wait.’
They were pressed close, but she was protesting slightly, she didn’t want to be rushed. She was a bit afraid of this thing. If she could only make him take it quietly—lead up to it sort of. Her grannie had said it hurt like hell. His lips were moving round her face when she murmured, in a futile effort to stem his ardour, ‘Oh Rory, Rory, I’ll never be happier than I am at this minute. It’s been a wonderful day, hasn’t it? . . . They were all so good, an’ they enjoyed themselves, didn’t they? I bet they’ll keep up the jollification all night.’ She moaned softly as his hands moved over her; then, her voice trailing weakly away, she ended, ‘If-only-John-George-had-been-there . . .’
His hands ceased their groping, his lips became still on her breast and she screamed out now as he actually pushed her from him with such force that her shoulders hit the wall as he yelled at her, ‘God Almighty! can’t you give him a rest? What’ve you got to bring him up now for, at this minute? You did it on purpose. You did!’
In the silence that followed he listened to her gasping. Then she was in his arms again and he was rocking her. ‘Oh lass, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It was only, well, you know, I’ve waited so long . . . And, and . . .’
When she didn’t answer him, or make any sound, he said softly, ‘Janie. Janie. Say something.’ What she said was, ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’
‘I love you. I love you, Janie. Aw, I love you. If I lost you I’d go mad, barmy.’
‘It’s all right. It’s all right, you won’t lose me.’
‘Will you always love me?’
‘Always.’
‘You promise?’
‘Aye, I promise.’
‘I’ll never love anybody in me life but you, I couldn’t. Aw, Janie, Janie . . .’
Later in the night when the light was out and he was asleep she lay still in his arms but wide awake. It hadn’t been like she had expected, not in any way. Perhaps she wasn’t goin’ to like that kind of thing after all. Her grannie said some didn’t, while others couldn’t get enough. Well she’d never be one of those, she was sure of that already. Perhaps it was spoiled for her when he threw her against the wall because she had mentioned John George.
It was most strange how he reacted now whenever John George’s name was mentioned. She could understand him not wanting to go to the prison, him having this feeling about being shut in, but she couldn’t work out in her own mind why he never spoke of John George. And when the name was mentioned by anybody else he would remain silent. But to act like he had done the night just because . . . Well, she was flabbergasted.
Her grannie, as part of the advice she had given her on marriage last Sunday, had said, ‘If he wants any funny business, out of the ordinary like, and some of them do, you never know till the door’s closed on you, you have none of it. An’ if he raises his hand to you, go for the poker. Always leave it handy. Start the way you mean to go on ’cos with the best of them, butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths afore they get you in that room. But once there, it’s like Adam and Eve racing around the Garden of Eden every night. An’ if you cross your fingers and say skinch, or in other words, hold your horses, lad, I’ve had enough, they bring the priest to you, an’ he reads the riot act. “Supply your man’s needs,” he says, “or it’s Hell fire and brimstone for you.” So off you gallop again, even when your belly’s hangin’ down to your knees.’
She had laughed at her grannie and with her grannie. She had put her arms around the old woman and they had rocked together until the tears had run down their faces, and the last words she had said to her were, ‘Don’t worry, Gran, nowt like that’ll happen to me. It’s Rory I’m marrying, and I know Rory. I should do, there’s only a thin wall divided us for years.’
But now they hadn’t been hours married afore he had tossed her against a wall, and tossed her he had because he had hurt her shoulder and it was still paining. Life was funny . . . odd.
Septimus Kean died, and Rory continued to take the day’s collections to the house for some four weeks after Mr Kean had been buried, and each time Miss Kean received him in what she called the office. But on this particular Friday night she met him in the hall and said to him, ‘Just leave the bag on the office table, Mr Connor, we’ll see to that later. By the way, are you in a hurry?’
He was in a hurry, he was in a hurry to get home to Janie, to sit before the fire and put his feet up and talk with Jimmy, and hear if he had managed to get an order, and to find out if any of the Pitties had been about again . . . The Pitties. He’d give his right arm, literally, if he could get his own back on the Pitties. There was a deep acid hate in him for the Pitties. And it would appear they hadn’t finished with him for they had been spying about the place. He knew that to get a start on the river Jimmy would have to take the droppings, but if it lay with the Pitties he wouldn’t get even the droppings. They were beasts, dangerous beasts. By God he’d give anything to get one over on them.
He answered her, ‘Oh no, not at all.’
‘There is something I wish to discuss with you. I’m about to have a cup of tea, would you care to join me?’
Old Kean’s daughter asking him to join her in a cup of tea! Well! Well! He could scarcely believe his ears. Things were looking up. By lad, they were.
In the hall she said to the maid, ‘Take Mr Connor’s coat and hat.’
Then he was following her to the end of the hall, and into a long room. There was a big fire blazing in the grate to the right of them. It was a fancy grate with a black iron basket. It had a marble mantelpiece with, at each end, an urn-shaped vase standing on it, and above the mantelpiece was another large oil painting of yet another past Kean.
At first glance the prominent colour of the room seemed to be brown. The couch drawn up before the fire and the two big side chairs were covered with a brown corded material. The furniture was a shining brown. There were three small tables with knick-knacks on them. A piece of furniture that looked like a sideboard but like no sideboard he’d ever seen before had silver candlesticks on it. The velvet curtains hanging at the windows were green with a brown bobble fringe and were supported from a cornice pole as thick as his upper arm.
‘Sit down, Mr Connor.’ She motioned him towards one of the big chairs and he sat down, then watched her pull a handbell to the side of the fireplace.
When the door opened she turned to the maid, not the same one who had opened the door to him, and said, ‘I’ll have tea now, Jessie; please bring two cups.’
The girl bent her knee, then went out. He noticed that although her tone was uppish, as always, she had said ‘Please.’
He watched her as she sat back in the corner of the couch. She made a movement with her legs and for a moment he thought that she was actually going to cross them. But what she did was cross her feet, and as she did so her black skirt rode above her ankles and he saw the bones pressing through what must have been silk stockings . . . She certainly looked after herself in the way of dress did this one. She was in mourning but her mourning was silk.
‘I will come to the point, Mr Connor. I have a proposition to make to you.’
‘A proposition?’ His eyes widened slightly.
‘I don’t know whether you are aware that property dealing was only one of my father’s interests.’ She did not wait for him to comment on this but went on, ‘Among other things, he had interests in a number of growing concerns and, since my grandfather died, other small businesses have come into the family. Do you know the Wrighton Tallow Works?’
‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Well, my grandfather owned the works and naturally they fell to my father, and unfortunately, I say unfortunately, because of the loss of my father they are now my concern . . . How far have you advanced in book-keeping Mr Connor?’
‘Advanced?’ He blinked at her. ‘What . . . what do you rightly mean, miss?’
‘What I mean is, have you studied any further than that which is required to tot up rent accounts? Have you thought of your own advancement in this line, such as that of becoming a fully fledged clerk in a bank, or to a solicitor, say?’
‘No, miss.’ The answer was curt, his tone cold. ‘The opportunities didn’t provide themselves.’ He knew too late that he should have said present, not provide.
‘Opportunities are there for the taking, Mr Connor. This town offers great opportunities to those who are willing to take advantage of them. It isn’t only the shipyards and the boat builders and such who offer apprenticeships in particular crafts; there are the arts.’
The arts! He narrowed his eyes at her. What was she getting at? Was she having him on, trying to get a bit of amusement out of him? The arts! Why didn’t she come to the point?
She came to the point by saying, ‘I have in mind that I need a manager, Mr Connor, someone who is capable not only of taking charge of the property side of my affairs but who could assist me in the running of my other businesses. There are places that need to be visited, books to be gone over. Of course I have my accountant and my solicitor but these are there only for the final totalling at the year’s end, and for advice should I need it. But there is so much to be seen to in between times and my father used to attend to this side of affairs, for you know, if a warehouse or business is not visited regularly those in charge become slack.’ She stared at him without speaking for almost a full minute before saying, ‘Would you consider taking on this post if, and when, you became qualified to do so? You would, of course, need a little training.’
His heart was thumping against his ribs causing his breath to catch in his throat. He couldn’t take it in. She was proposing that he should be her manager. He was peering at her through the narrow slits of his eyes now, he was puzzled. Why wasn’t she advertising for somebody right away if the burden of the businesses was so great on her?
As if she were reading his thoughts she said, ‘I have no doubt I could get someone to fill this post almost immediately, but then the person would be strange to me, and . . . and I don’t mix easily. What I mean is, I take a long time in getting to know people.’
They were staring at each other through the fading light, and in silence again. It was she who broke it, her voice low now, ordinary sounding, no uppishness to it. ‘I . . . I have known you for some time, Mr Connor, and have always thought that you should be capable of much better things than mere rent collecting.’
Before he could answer the door opened and the maid entered pushing a tea trolley.
When the trolley was by the side of the couch she looked at the maid and said, ‘I’ll see to it, Jessie. I’ll ring when I need you.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Again the dip of the knee.
‘Do you take sugar, Mr Connor?’
‘No. No, thank you.’
‘That is unusual; men usually like a lot of sugar.’
He watched her pour the weak-looking tea from a small silver teapot and add milk to it from a matching jug, and when a few minutes later he sipped at it he thought, My God! dish-water.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask what tea you preferred. You see, they’re so used to bringing me China; I’ll ring and get some . . .’
‘Oh no, please don’t. It’s nice, it’s only different. And’—he grinned now at her—’you can understand I’m not used to havin’ China tea.’
She actually laughed now, and he noticed that it changed her face and made her almost pleasant-looking, except that her nose remained just as sharp. ‘I hope it will be a taste you will learn to acquire in the future.’
He doubted it but he nodded at her, smiling in return.
He took the buttered scone she proffered him and found it good, and had another, and by the time he had eaten a cake that melted in his mouth he was laughing inside, thinking, By gum! they just want to see me now, all them in the kitchen. They just want to see me now. And wait till I tell Janie. My! who would believe it? She had asked if he was willing to learn to manage her affairs. God! just give him the chance. By lad! he had fallen on his feet at last. It wouldn’t matter now if the boatyard never made a go of it. But he hoped it would, for Jimmy’s sake. He mentioned the boatyard to her now. It was when she said, ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer, Mr Connor, you have a long walk home. But I will leave you to think over my proposition. Perhaps tomorrow evening you will tell me what you have decided. If your answer is favourable I can put you in touch with a man who would teach you book-keeping and the rudiments of management. And perhaps you could attend night school. But we can discuss that later.’
He rose to his feet, saying, ‘I’m not more than ten minutes’ hard tramp from my home now; I’m . . . I’m on the waterfront.’
She raised her eyebrows as she repeated, ‘The waterfront?’
‘Yes.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I became interested in a boatyard, a very small one mind.’ He smiled as he nodded at her. ‘A pocket handkerchief, some folks would call it, but nevertheless it’s big enough to make a keel and scullers and such like. There’s a house of sorts attached. I . . . I took it for my brother. He’s served his time in boat building, small boats that is, the same line, scullers, wherries and such, and it’s always been his dream to have a place of his own where he could build. So I heard of this concern. The man had died, and . . . and it was going reasonable, so I took a chance.’
Her face was stretching into a wide smile, her lips were apart showing a set of strong white teeth. ‘Well, well!’ She inclined her head towards him. ‘I wasn’t wrong, was I? You do have business acumen. Where is this place?’
‘Oh, it’s yon side of the mill dam. It’s so small you wouldn’t be able to see it, not among all the other yards along there. It used to belong to a Mr. Kilpatrick.’
‘Kilpatrick?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t recall hearing the name. But . . . but I’m very interested in your enterprise. I must come and see it some time.’
‘Yes, yes, do that.’
She walked with him to the door and although the maid was standing ready to open it she herself let him out, saying, ‘Good night, Mr Connor. We will reopen this subject tomorrow evening.’
‘Yes, as you say, miss. Good night.’
He was walking down the drive . . . no, marching down the drive.
‘We will reopen this subject tomorrow evening.’
Indeed, indeed, we will.
Would you believe it?
They said the age of miracles was past.
Would he go to night school?
He’d go to hell and sit on a hot gridiron to please her.
But on the road he slowed his pace and again asked himself why she had picked him. And he gave himself her own answer. She didn’t mix and it took her a long time to get to know people. Aye. Aye well, he could understand that. She wasn’t the kind that most people would take to. No looks and too smart up top for most men, he supposed, for he had the idea she’d be brainy. And that would apply to her effect on women an’ all.
Hip-hip-hooray! He wanted to throw his hat in the air. Things were happening. They were happening all the time. Janie! Here I come . . . A manager!
What wage would he get?
He’d have to leave that to her of course but he’d know the morrow night.
Janie left the Buckhams’ with the mistress’s words racing round in her mind. ‘Well, you have a month to think it over, Janie,’ she had said. It would be wonderful for you and it’ll only be for three weeks. And just think, in all your life you might never have the opportunity to go abroad again. And the children would love to have you with them, you know that.’
Yes, Janie knew that, but she also knew that she was being asked to go to keep the children out of the way and let the master and mistress enjoy their holiday in France.
She had said she would talk to her husband about it, but she already knew what his answer would be. He hated the idea of her being out every day and if it wasn’t that he had needed her wages he would have put his foot down before now. But with this new development and Miss Kean offering to make him manager, well, she knew that her days at the Buckhams’ were numbered; in fact, she could have given in her notice this morning.
There was something else on her mind. She had promised John George she would go and see that lass of his, but with one thing and another she had never had time. But tonight Rory would be late, for even now he’d be in Westoe clinching the matter, and so she told herself why not clear her conscience and go round and see that girl. She must be all of six months’ gone.
When she reached the end of the road she did not, automatically, turn right and cut down to the river but went into a jumble of side streets and towards Horsley Terrace.
They were, she considered, nice houses in the terrace, respectable. It was number twenty-four; it had three steps up to the front door and an iron railing cutting off four feet of garden. She went up the steps and rapped on the door with the knocker. When it was opened she stared at the young woman in front of her. She wasn’t pregnant. ‘Could . . . could I speak with Miss Maggie Ridley please?’
The young woman cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then stepped towards her, pulling the door half closed behind her.
‘She’s not here.’
‘Oh, I had a message for her.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘A message? Who from?’
‘Well, he’s . . . he’s a friend of hers.’
The young woman stared at her for a moment, then poked her face forward, hissing, ‘Well, if it’s the friend I think it is you can tell him that she’s married. Tell him that.’
‘Married?’ That’s what I said.’
‘Oh, well’—Janie was nodding her head now—In a way I’m glad to hear it. I . . . I hope she’ll be happy.’
The face looking into hers seemed to crumple and now the whispered tone was soft and laden with sadness as she said, ‘He . . . he was a friend of, of my father’s, he’s a widower with a grown-up family.’
In the look they exchanged there was no need to say any more.
Janie now nodded towards the young woman and said, ‘Thank you, I’ll . . . I’ll tell him,’ then turned and went down the steps. Poor John George! And the poor lass. A dead old man likely. The very thought of it was mucky, nasty.
Rory hadn’t returned when she got in, but Jimmy was there with the kettle boiling and the table set, and immediately he said, ‘Sit down and put your feet up.’
‘I’m not tired.’
‘Well, you should be. And you will be afore the night’s out, I’ve put the washing in soak.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy. Any news?’
‘Aye, Mr Pearson, you know Pearson’s Warehouse, I went in and asked him the day. I said I’d carry anything. He joked at first and said he had heard they were wantin’ a battleship towed from Palmer’s. And then he said there were one or two bits he wanted sending across to Norway.’ He laughed, then went on excitedly, ‘But after that he said, “Well, lad, I’ll see what I can do for you.” He said he believed in passing work around, there was too many monopolies gettin’ a hold in the town. I’ve got to look in the morrow.’
‘Oh Jimmy, that’s grand.’ She took hold of his hand. ‘Eeh! you just want a start. And when I’m home all day I could give you a hand, I could, I’m good at lumpin’ stuff. And I could learn to steer an’ all . . . But I’d better learn to swim afore that.’ She pushed at him and he laughed with her, saying, ‘Aye, but if they had to learn to swim afore they learned to row a boat on this river it would be empty; hardly any sailors swim.’
‘Go on!’
‘It’s a fact.’
‘Eeh! well, I’ll chance it, I’ll steer for you, or hoist the sail, ’cos have you thought you’ll need another hand?’ At the sound of footsteps she turned her head quickly away from him and towards the door, and she was on her feet when Rory entered the room, and she saw immediately that he was in great high fettle.
‘It’s settled then?’
‘Out of me way, Mrs Connor.’ He struck a pose and marched down the room as if he were carrying a swagger stick, and when he reached Jimmy he slapped the top of his own hat, saying, ‘Touch yer peak, boy. Touch yer peak.’
Then they were all clinging together laughing, and he swung them round in a circle, shouting:
‘But we’re all going up!’ He pulled them to a stop and, looking into Janie’s laughing face, he added, ‘Up! Up! We’re going up, lass; nothing’s going to stop us. She’s for me, why God only knows, but she’s the ladder on which we’re going to climb. You take that from me. All of us’—he punched Jimmy on the head—’all of us . . . She’s got influence, fingers in all pies, and that includes this river an’ all. We’re going up, lad.’
Later, when in bed together and closely wrapped against each other, he said to her, ‘You haven’t seemed as over the moon as I thought you would be. There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?’
She didn’t answer, and when he insisted, ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘There’s two things on me mind, Rory, but if I mention them they’ll both cause rows, so I’d better not, had I?’
He was quiet for a moment before saying, ‘Go on, tell me. I won’t go off the deep end, whatever they are . . . I promise, whatever they are.’
It was a long moment before she said, ‘Well mind, don’t forget what you said.’
He waited, and then her voice a whisper she began, ‘The missis, she wants me to go with them to France for a holiday. Of course, it’s only to keep the bairns out of the way, I know, but she keeps tellin’ me that I won’t get the chance again . . .’
‘Who says you won’t get the chance again? They’re not the only ones who can go to France. You’re not goin’. You told her you’re not going? All right, all right, I’m not going to get me neb up about it, but you did tell her you weren’t goin’?’
‘I said I didn’t think you would hear of it.’
‘That’s right I won’t. And you can also tell her when you’re on, that you’re putting your notice in . . . Well now, the other thing?’ He waited.
‘I went the night to take a message to . . . to John George’s lass. She’s . . . she’s married.’
‘Married!’
‘Yes, to an old man, a widower with a grown-up family.’
It’s . . . it’s the best thing.’ She could hardly hear his voice but she was relieved that he had kept his promise and hadn’t gone for her for mentioning John George or his affairs. And now, a minute later, he was mumbling into her neck, ‘When he comes out I’ll set him up. I’ve . . . I’ve always meant to do something for him but now I can, I’ll set him up properly in something.’
‘Oh, Rory, Rory. Aw, that’s . . . that’s my Rory. I knew you would. Aw ta, thanks, lad, thanks. I’ll tell the missis the morrow straight out, I’ll tell her me husband’s put his foot down and said no France and that I’ll have to be givin’ in me notice shortly. Oh, Rory, Rory . . .’
In the middle of the night she was wakened by him crying out. His arms were flaying about and when she put her hand on his head it came away wet with sweat and she cried at him, ‘Rory! Rory! wake up,’ but he continued to thrash about in the bed, gabbling out words from which she could distinguish bits of the conversation that they’d had last night. ‘I’ll make it up to John George, I will, I will. I always meant to.’ Then he began to shout, ‘’Twas being shut in, ’twas being shut in.’
When she finally managed to wake him he spluttered, ‘What’s it? What’s-the-matter?’ Then putting his hand to his head, he added, I was dreamin’ . . . Was I talking?’
‘Just jabbering. It was all the excitement.’
‘Aye, yes,’ he said, ’all the excitement. By! I’m wringing.’
‘Yes, you are. Lie down, right down under the clothes here.’ She drew him towards her and held him closely, soothing him as if he were a child, until he went to sleep again.
On three afternoons and three evenings of each of the next three weeks Rory visited Mr Dryden, to be coached in the matter of accountancy and business management.
Mr Dryden had in his early years been in accountancy, and later had become a solicitors clerk, and the reports he gave to Miss Kean on the progress of his pupil were most encouraging. ‘He shows great acumen,’ he told her. ‘I think you have made a wise choice,’ he told her. But he also told his friends with a smirk that old Kean’s daughter had taken on a protege. ‘Ha! Ha! they said. Well, she wasn’t likely to get a husband, so she had to resort to a pastime. Yet, as some of them remarked, she ought to have known her place and picked her pastime from a grade higher than that of rent collectors, and this one by all accounts wasn’t a skin away from a common labouring man. If it wasn’t that the fellow was already married you could put another version to it, for as had already been demonstrated in one or two instances she was a strong-headed young woman who took little heed of people’s opinions. Look what she was like on committees. She had got herself talked about more than once for openly defying the male opinion. Of course, this was due to the type of education she’d been given. She had been sent away, hadn’t she? To the south somewhere, hadn’t she? That was her mother’s doing. So . . . well, what could you expect?
Rory was not unaware of Mr Dryden’s personal opinion of him. He gauged it in the condescending tone the old man used when speaking to him. But what did it matter, he could put up with that.
He was now receiving the handsome sum of twenty-five shillings a week, with the promise of it being raised when he should finally take over his duties. He’d had glimpses into what these would be during the past few days when he had seen the number of properties in Hexham and Gateshead, and the haberdashery and hatters shops that had been left by Grandfather Kean. All this besides the business old Kean himself had had on the side.
He became more and more amazed when he thought of what his late employer must have been worth. Yet never a night had he missed, winter or summer, coming to the office to pick up the takings, except when he was called away to visit his father. He had never, not to his knowledge, taken a holiday all the time he had been there, and yet he was rolling in money.
He wondered what she would be worth altogether. If she ever married, some man would come in for a packet. But apart from her not being the kind to take a man’s fancy he thought she was too independent to think that way. No one, he considered, could be as business-like as her without having the abilities of a man in her make-up . . .
It was Saturday morning and he had brought the takings from his two men—he thought of them as his now. She had allowed him to choose the-second man himself. This fellow was young and hadn’t done any rent collecting before but he had been to school continuously up till he was fourteen, and that was something to start on. Moreover, he was bright and eager and in need of work. He felt he had made a good choice. And he told her so. ‘Patterson’s doing well,’ he said. ‘Gettin’ round quickly. And so far he’s allowed nobody to take advantage of him, you know, soft-soap him.’
‘Good.’ She smiled at him from across the desk; then she said, ‘I would like you to accompany me to Hexham on Monday.’
‘Hexham?’ He moved his head downwards while keeping his eyes on her. ‘Very well.’ He sometimes omitted to say miss, but she had never pulled him up for it.
‘I think it’s time you saw the places you’re going to be responsible for.’
‘Aye, yes, of course.’ He’d have to stop himself saying aye.
‘By the way—’ she was still smiling at him—’I should like to come and see your boatyard. I’m very interested in it. I may be of some assistance in supplying freight—in a small way. Would this afternoon be convenient?’
He thought quickly. What was the place like, was it tidy? Was there any washing hanging about? No, Janie had cleared the ironing up last night and scrubbed out last thing.
He nodded at her, saying, ‘Yes, that’ll be all right with me. Me wife won’t be in because she works until four on a Saturday, she’s nursemaid at the Buckhams in Westoe, but you’ll be welcome to see . . .’
‘Your ! . . wife?’ The words came from deep within her chest and were separate as if they were strange and she had never spoken them before.
‘Yes. Yes, miss, me wife . . .’ His voice trailed off for he was amazed to see the colour flooding up over her face like a great blush.
‘I . . . I wasn’t aware that you were married, Mr Connor ! . . Since when?’
‘Well, well—’ he moved uneasily in the chair— ‘just recently, miss. I didn’t like to mention it to you at the time because the date was fixed for shortly after your father’s funeral. I couldn’t change it, but it didn’t seem proper to . . .’
Her eyes were shaded now as she looked down towards the desk and on to her hands which were lying flat on the blotter, one on each side of the ledger that he had placed before her. Her back was straight, her body looked rigid. She said coolly, ‘You should have informed me of your change of situation, Mr Connor.’
‘I . . . I didn’t think it was of any importance.’
‘No importance!’ She did not look at him, but now her eyes flicked over the table as if searching for some paper or other. ‘A married man cannot give the attention to business that the single man can, for instance, he hasn’t the time.’
‘Oh, I have all the time . . .’
‘Or the interest.’ She had raised her eyes to his now. The colour had seeped from her face leaving it moist and grey. This alters matters, Mr Connor.’
He stared at her, his voice gruff now as he said, ‘I don’t understand, I can’t see why.’
‘You can’t? Well then, if you can’t then I am mistaken in the intelligence I credited you with.’
His back was as straight as hers now, his face grim.
As she held his gaze he thought, No, no, I’d be barmy to think that. I haven’t got such a bloody big head on me as that. No I No! Yet it was pretty evident that the fact that he was married had upset her. She was likely one of these people who didn’t believe in marriage, there were such about; there was one lived in the end house down the lane. She dressed like a man and it was said that she handled a horse and a boat as well as any man, but she looked half man. This one didn’t. Although she had a business head on her shoulders she dressed very much as a woman of fashion might. He couldn’t make her out. No, by God! he couldn’t.
He said now, ‘I can assure you, miss, me being married won’t make any difference to my work. I’ll give you my time and loyalty . . .’
‘But as I have indicated, Mr Connor, only a certain amount of time and an equal amount of your loyalty . . . a married man has responsibilities. We can discuss the matter later. Mr Dryden has been paid in advance for your quarter’s tuition, you will continue to go to him. That’ll be all at present, Mr Connor. Good day.’
He rose stiffly from the chair. ‘Good day . . . miss.’
The maid let him out; she smiled at him broadly. ‘Good day, sir,’ she said.
He had acquired the title of sir since it was known Miss Kean was sending him for training to be her manager and there was a significant deference in the servants’ manners towards him now. She kept six altogether, with the gardener-cum-coachman. He answered her civilly, saying, ‘Good day,’ but as usual he did not address her by name. His position wasn’t such that he felt he could do so yet.
Out on the drive he walked slowly, and at one point he actually stopped and said to himself, No! No! And before he entered the main thoroughfare he again slowed his walk and exclaimed aloud now, ‘Don’t be a fool!’
He had no false modesty about his personal attraction. He knew that many a back door would have been left open for him if he had just raised an eyebrow or answered a gleam in a hungry woman’s eyes. He didn’t class himself as particularly handsome but was aware that he had something which was of greater appeal. If he had been asked to define it he would have found it impossible; he only knew that women were aware of him. And he had liked the knowledge, it gave him what he called a lift. But at the same time he knew there was but one woman for him.
But he couldn’t get away from the fact that she had done what she had for him because she thought he was single. Now the question was, why? Why?
Yet again he shook his head at himself and said no, no. Why, the woman must be worth a fortune, and although she was as plain as a pikestaff there were men in the town who, he thought, would more than likely overlook such a minor handicap in order to get their hands on what she owned. Doubtless, some were already trying, for twice of late there had been carriages on the drive and he had seen sombre-clothed gentlemen descending towards them as he approached the house. And he recalled now, they had looked at him pretty hard.
But coming to know her as he had done over the past weeks, he imagined she would have all her wits about her with regard to such suitors who would be only after the main chance. She was the kind of woman who would do the choosing rather than be chosen, and apart from her face she had a lot on her side to enable her to do the choosing . . . Had she been going to choose him?
He didn’t answer himself this time with, ‘No! No!’ but walked on, muttering instead, ‘God Almighty! it’s unbelievable.’
‘You’re quiet the night. Nothing wrong is there? And what made you go back to the office this afternoon?’
‘Oh, I had some work to get through. It’s been a heavy week, and I’ve got that Pittie mob on me mind. Did he say he’d seen them around the day?’
‘No. He only stayed in for a few minutes after I got home, I told you. He said he was goin’ down to collect some wood he had roped together.’
‘But that was this afternoon. It’s dark, he should be back by now. I’d better take a walk out and see if he’s comin’.’
He looked towards her where she was kneading dough in a brown earthenware dish, then went out and down the steps into the yard. There was a moon riding high, raced by white scudding clouds. He walked to the end of the little jetty and looked along each side of the river where boats large and small were moored. He liked the river at night when it was quiet like this, but he had made up his mind, at least he had done until this morning, that it wouldn’t be long before he moved Janie away from this quarter and into a decent house in the town. He had thought Jimmy could stay on here, Jimmy wouldn’t mind living on his own, for he was self-sufficient was Jimmy. But now things had changed. This morning’s business had blown his schemes away into dust.
He’d had the feeling of late that he was galloping towards some place but he didn’t know where. So many strange things had happened over the past months. He wasn’t even wearing the same kind of clothes he wore a few weeks ago for she had hinted not only that he should get a new suit but where he should go to buy it. However, he hadn’t patronised the shop she suggested; he hadn’t, he told himself, enough money as yet for that kind of tailoring. Nevertheless, he had got himself a decent suit, with a high waistcoat and the jacket flared, and the very cut of it had lifted him out of the rent collector’s class. But now the rosy future had suddenly died on him. What would she say on Monday? . . . Well, he’d have to wait and see, that’s all he could do.
He heard a soft splash and saw the minute figure of Jimmy steering the boat towards the jetty. He bent down and grabbed the rope that Jimmy threw to him, then said, ‘You all right? Where you been all day? What’s taken you so long?’
‘The wood I’d had piled up, it was scattered, some back in the river, all over. I had a job collectin’ it again.’
‘The Pitties?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t think it could be bairns, it would have been too heavy for them.’
‘Well, leave it where it is till the mornin’, we’ll sort it out then.’
When Jimmy had made fast his boat and was standing on the quay he peered at Rory saying, ‘What’s up? You look as if you’d lost a tanner and found a threepenny bit. Anything wrong?’
‘No, no, nothing. How about you?’
‘Oh well, they were around early on in the mornin’ again, two of them. They moored just opposite and sat lookin’ across, just starin’. But I went on with me work, and I stood for a time and stared back. Then they went off.’ And he added, ‘If they try anything I’ll go straight and tell the river polis.’
‘It’ll likely be too late then. The only thing is be careful and don’t be such a bloody fool stayin’ out in the dark. They’re not likely to try anything in the daylight, but give them a chance in the dark, and you’re asking for it.’
All Jimmy replied to this was, ‘Aye. By! I’m hungry,’ and ran up the steps, and when he opened the door he sniffed loudly and said, ‘Ooh! that smells good.’
Janie turned to him from the table, saying, ‘Aye well, now you’ll have to wait a bit, we’ve had to wait for you.’
‘I’m hungry, woman.’
‘Are you ever anything else?’ she laughed at him. ‘Well, there’s some fresh teacakes there, tuck into them.’
As he broke a hot teacake in two, he asked, ‘What’s for supper?’
‘Finny haddy.’
‘Good, and hurry up with it.’
She thrust out her arm to clip his ear, but he dodged the blow and went and sat himself on the steel fender with his back to the oven and laughed and chatted as he ate.
Looking at him, Rory knew a sudden spasm of envy as he thought, he was born bowed, but he was born happy. Why can’t I be like him? But then the answer to that one was, they had different mothers. He hadn’t thought along these lines for some time now; it was odd but it was only when he was faced with trouble that he let his bitterness against Lizzie have rein.
Of a sudden he said to neither of them in particular, ‘Will we have to go home the morrow again?’
Both Janie and Jimmy turned a quick glance on him and it was Janie who said, ‘Of course we’ll have to go home the morrow. We always do, don’t we? It’s Sunday.’
‘That’s it, that’s what I mean, we always do. Couldn’t we do something different, take a trip up the river or something? We’ve got our own boat.’
‘But they’ll be expectin’ us. It won’t be Sunday for them if we don’t go up; they’ll all be there.’
‘Aye, they’ll all be there.’ His voice trailed away on a sigh and he turned and went into the bedroom while Janie and Jimmy exchanged another look and Jimmy said under his breath, ‘Something’s wrong. I twigged it right away.’
‘You think so?’ Janie whispered back.
‘Aye, don’t you?’
‘Well, I did think he was a bit quiet, but when I asked him he said everything was all right.’
‘Aye, that’s what he says, but there’s something up. I’m tellin’ you, there’s something up.’
When, in the middle of the night, Janie was again woken from her sleep by Rory’s voice, not mumbling this time but shouting, she hissed at him, ‘Ssh! ssh! Wake up. What is it?’
But he went on, louder now, ‘I’ll make it up to you, I will . . . I know . . . I know, but I couldn’t.’
‘Rory! Rory! wake up.’
‘Five pounds. I had it, I had it. You’re to blame.’
‘Rory! do you hear me?’ She was trying to shake him.
‘Wha’? Wha’?’ He half woke and grabbed at her hands, then almost at the same time threw her aside, crying, ‘What was the good of two of us doin’ time! I’m not goin’ in there, so don’t keep on. You won’t get me in there, not for five pounds, or fifty. Five clarty pounds. Five clarty pounds. If I’d had the chance I’d have put it back, I would. I . . . would . . .’ His voice trailed away and he fell back on the pillows.
Janie sat bolt upright in the bed staring down through the darkness, not on to Rory but towards where her hands were gripping the quilt . . . That was it then. That was it! It should have been as clear as daylight from the beginning.
She saw John George’s face through the grid saying, ‘Tell Rory that, will you? Tell him I didn’t take the five pounds.’ And what John George was actually saying was, ‘Tell him to own up.’ She couldn’t believe it, yet she knew it was true. He had let John George, his good friend, go to that stinking place alone. It was true he couldn’t have done much about it at first, but after he regained consciousness in hospital he must have known. That’s why he hadn’t asked for John George. It should have been one of the first things he mentioned. ‘What’s the matter with John George?’ he should have said. ‘Why hasn’t he come to see me?’
No, she couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t. But she had to. She now turned her head towards the bulk lying beside her and instinctively hitched herself away from it towards the wall. But the next move she made was almost like that of an animal, for she pounced on him and, her hands gripping his shoulders, she cried, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’
‘Wha’? What’s-it? What’s-up? What’s wrong?’
‘Get up. Get up.’
As he pulled himself up in the bed she climbed over him, grabbed the matches from the table and lit the candle, and all the while he was repeating, ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
The candle lit, she held it upwards and gazed down into his blinking eyes.
‘What’s up with you? You gone mad or something?’
‘Aye, I’ve gone mad, flamin’ mad; bloody well flamin’ mad.’
She sounded like Lizzie and her grannie rolled into one. He pushed the clothes back from the bed but didn’t get up, he just peered at her. ‘What the hell’s up with you, woman?’
‘You ask me that! Well, you’ve just had a nightmare an’ you’ve just cleared up somethin’ that’s been puzzling me for a long time. You! Do you know what I could do to you this minute? I could spit in your eye, Rory Connor. I could spit in your eye.’
He now leant his stiff body back against the wall. He’d had a nightmare, he’d been talking. He was sweating, yet cold, it was always cold on the river at night. With a thrust of his arm he pushed her aside and got out of the bed and pulled his trousers on over his linings, but didn’t speak; and neither did she. But when he went towards the door to go into the other room she followed him, holding the candle high, and she watched him grab the matches from the mantelpiece and light the lamp. When it was aflame he turned and looked at her and said quietly, ‘Well, now you know.’
‘Aye, I know. And how you can stand there and say it like that God alone knows. My God! to think you let John George take the rap for you . . .’
He turned on her. His voice low and angry, he said, ‘He didn’t take the rap for me, he took it for himself. He’d have been caught out sooner or later; he’d been at it for months.’
‘Aye, he might have, but only for a few shillings at a time not five pounds.’
‘No, not for a few shillings, a pound and more. I’d warned him.’
‘You warned him!’ Her voice was full of scorn. ‘But you went and did the same, and for no little sum either. It was for your five pounds he got put away for the year, not for the little bits.’
‘It wasn’t. I tell you it wasn’t’
‘Oh, shut up! Don’t try to stuff me like you’ve been doin’ yourself. That’s what you’ve been tellin’ yourself all along, isn’t it, to ease your conscience? But your conscience wouldn’t be eased, would it? Remember our first night in this place. You nearly knocked me through the wall ’cos I mentioned his name. I should have twigged then.’
‘Aye, yes, you should.’ His tone was flat now, weary-sounding. ‘And if you had, it would have been over and done with, I’d have gone through less.’
‘Gone through less! You talkin’ about goin’ through anything, what about John George?’
‘Damn John George!’ He was shouting now. ‘I tell you he would have gone along the line in any case.’
‘You’ll keep tellin’ yourself that till the day you die, yet you don’t believe it because the other night you promised to set him up when he came out. Eeh!—’ she now shook her head mockingly at him —’that was kind of you, wasn’t it? And I nearly went on me knees to you for it.’
‘Janie—’ he came towards her—’try to understand. You . . . you know how I feel about being locked in, and I was bad at the time. I was bad. God! I nearly died. And that was no make game, I couldn’t think clearly not for weeks after.’
As his hand came out towards her she sprang back from it, saying, ‘Don’t touch me, Rory Connor. Don’t touch me, not until you get yourself down to that station and tell them the truth.’
‘What!’ The word carried a high surprised note of utter astonishment. ‘You’d have me go along the line now?’
‘Aye, I would, and be able to live with you when you came out. It isn’t the pinchin’ of the five pounds that worries me, an’ if nobody had suffered through it I would have said, “Good for you if you can get off with it,” but not now, not the way things are; not when that lad’s back there. And you know something? When I think of it he could have potched you, he could have said you were the only other one who had a key. He could have said you were a gambling man and would sell your own mother. Oh aye—’ she wagged her head now—’you would sell your real mother for less than five pounds any day in the week, wouldn’t you? Poor Lizzie . . .’
The blow that caught her across the mouth sent her staggering, and at the same moment Jimmy came rushing down the ladder. Without a word he went to her where she was leaning against the chest-of-drawers, her back arched, her hand across her mouth, and he put his arm around her waist as he looked towards Rory and said, ‘You’ll regret that, our Rory. There’ll come a day when you’ll be sorry for that.’
‘You mind your own bloody business. And get out of this.’
‘I’ll not. I’ve heard enough to make me as sick as she is. I can’t believe it of you, I just can’t. And to John George of all people. He’d have laid down his life for you.’
Rory turned from the pair and stumbled to the mantelpiece and, gripping its edge, he stared down into the banked-down fire. That he was more upset by Jimmy’s reactions than by Janie’s didn’t surprise him, for he knew he represented a sort of hero to his brother. He had never done one outstanding thing to deserve it but he had accepted his worship over the years, and found comfort in it, but now Jimmy had turned on him.
God Almighty! why did everything happen to him at once? Her, yesterday, blaming him for being married, now this with Janie; and not only Janie, Jimmy. Yet he knew that if, come daylight, he took himself along to the polis station they’d both be with him every inch of the road. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t go and tell them the truth. Apart from his fear of imprisonment look what he stood to lose, his job; and not only that but the good name that would help him to get another. Never again would he be allowed to handle money once he had been along the line. And this place would go, Jimmy’s yard. Had he thought of that? He swung round now, crying at them, ‘All right, if I was to give meself up, what would happen? No more yard for you, Jimmy boy, your dream gone up in smoke. Did you think of that?’
‘No, but now you mention it, it wouldn’t be the end of me, I could always get me other job back. And I can always go home again. Don’t let that stop you. Don’t you try to use me in that way, our Rory.’
‘And her, what’s gona happen to her then?’ He was speaking of Janie as if she weren’t sitting by the table with her face buried in her hands, and Jimmy answered, ‘She won’t be any worse off than she was afore, she’s always got her place.’
‘Aw, to hell’s flames with the lot of you!’ He flung his arm wide as if sweeping them out of the room. ‘What do you know about anything? Own up and be a good boy and I’ll stand by you. You know nowt, the pair of you, the lot of you, you’re ignorant, you can’t see beyond your bloody noses. There’s swindlin’ going on every day. Respectable men, men looked up to in this town twisting with every breath. And you’d have me ruin meself for five pounds.’
‘It’s not the five . . .’
‘Be quiet, Jimmy! Be quiet!’ Janie’s voice was low. ‘You won’t get anywhere with him ’cos he’ll keep on about the five pounds, he’ll try to hoodwink you like he’s hoodwinked himself. Well—’ she rose from the table—’I know what I’m gona do.’ She walked slowly into the bedroom and they both gazed after her. When the door banged behind her Jimmy made for the ladder and without another word mounted it and disappeared through the trap door.
Rory stared about the empty room for a moment, then turning towards the mantelshelf again he bowed his head on it and slowly beat his fist against the rough wall above it.
‘Why, lass, it’s the chance in a lifetime. In a boat cruising? My! my! round France. By! the master’s brother must have plenty of money to own a boat like that.’
‘I think it’s his wife who has the money, he married a French lady.’
‘And you tell us it’s a sort of castle they live in?’
‘Yes, that’s what the missis says.’
‘We’ll miss you, lass.’ Lizzie sat back on her heels from where she had been kneeling sweeping the fallen cinders underneath the grate and she looked hard at Janie as she said, ‘I know it’s only for three weeks, but what puzzles me is him lettin’ you go at all. Didn’t he kick up a shindy?’
Janie turned away and looked towards Ruth where she was coming out of the scullery carrying plates of thickly cut bread, and she answered, ‘Yes, a bit. But then he’s taken up with his new position an’ such, and . . . and often doesn’t get in till late.’
‘Aye.’ Lizzie pulled her bulk upright and bent to her sweeping once again. ‘His new position. By! he’s fallen on his feet if anybody has. It was a whole day’s blessin’ when old Kean died, you could say.’
‘You’re off first thing in the mornin’ then, lass?’
Janie nodded towards Ruth and said, ‘Yes, we’ve got to be in Newcastle by eight o’clock; we’re goin’ up by carriage.’
‘Then all the way to London by train.’ Ruth shook her head, ‘It’s amazing, wonderful; the sights you’ll see. It would have been a great pity if you hadn’t taken the opportunity; such a thing as this only comes once in a lifetime . . . And you won’t stay for a bite to eat?’
‘I can’t, thanks all the same, there’s so much to do, to see to you know. And that reminds me. I needn’t ask you, need I, to see to me grannie?’
‘Aw, lass—’ Ruth pulled a face at her—’you know that goes without sayin’. At least you should.’
‘Aye, I know. And thanks, thanks to both of you.’ She cast her glance between them, then looking at Lizzie, who had now risen to her feet, she said, ‘Well, I’d better say ta-rah,’ and the next moment she was hugging Lizzie, and Lizzie was holding her tight and saying brokenly, ‘Now don’t cry, there’s nowt to cry about, goin’ on a holiday . . . Don’t. Don’t lass.’
‘There, there.’ She was enfolded in Ruth’s arms now and Lizzie was patting her shoulder. Then swiftly pulling herself away from them, she grabbed up her bag from a chair and ran out of the cottage.
It was Ruth who, having closed the door after her, came back to the centre of the room and looking at Lizzie said, ‘Well, what do you make of it?’
‘What can I make of it? There’s somethin’ wrong, and has been for weeks past, if you ask me. He’s hardly been across the door. And Jimmy, look what he was like the last time he was here, no high-falutin’ talk of boats and cargoes and contracts an’ such like.’
Whatever it is, it doesn’t lie just atween the both of them, not when Jimmy’s concerned in it.’
‘No, you’re right there.’ Lizzie nodded. ‘And it couldn’t be just marriage rows. Jimmy would take those in his stride, havin’ been brought up on them.’ She smiled faintly. ‘No, whatever it is, it’s somethin’ big and bad. I’m worried.’
‘In a couple of days’ time we could take a walk down and tidy up and do a bit of baking and such like. What do you say, Lizzie?’
‘That’s a sensible idea. Aye, we could do that, and we might winkle out something while we’re there.’
‘It could be. It could be.’
‘Things are changin’, Ruth. Folks and places, everything.’
Ruth came to her now and, tapping her arm gently, said, ‘Don’t worry about him, he’ll straighten things out. Whatever trouble there is he’ll straighten things out. He’s your own son, and being such he’s bound to be sensible at bottom.’
‘You’re a good woman, Ruth, none better.’
They turned sadly away from each other now and went about their respective duties in the kitchen.
Janie had been gone ten days and his world was empty. If she were to appear before him at this minute he would say to her, ‘All right, I’ll go, I’ll go now, as long as I know you’ll be here, the old Janie, waiting for me when I come out.’ His mind was like a battlefield, he was fighting love and hate, and recrimination and bitterness.
The recrimination was mostly against his employer. He had seen her only twice in the past three weeks. He still took the takings to the house in the evenings but his orders were to leave them in the study and to call for the books the next morning.
During their two meetings there had been no discussion about future plans of any kind. Her manner had been cool and formal, her tone one that he recalled from her visits to the office years ago. It was the one in which orders were issued and brooked no questions.
But although in one breath he was telling himself that if Janie were here now he would do what she asked, in the next he was asking himself what was going to happen when she did return. After the night of the show-down she had slept up in the loft, and Jimmy had slept on a shaky-down in the kitchen. Would it go on like that until he gave in? He could have asserted his rights as many a man before him had done by well-directed blows, but the fact that he had hit her once was enough; that alone had created a barrier between them. She wasn’t the type of girl who would stand knocking about, she had too much spirit, and he was ashamed, deeply ashamed of having struck her. He had acted no better than his father whom, at bottom, he despised.
It was Saturday again. He hated Saturdays, Sundays more so. He hadn’t gone up home since she had left, but they had been down here, at least Ruth and she had. They had cleaned up and cooked, and spoken to each other as if they were back in the kitchen. They hadn’t asked any questions regarding how he felt about her going away, which pointed more forcibly than words to the fact that they were aware that something was wrong.
Then there was Jimmy. Jimmy was making him wild, sitting for hours at night scratching away with a pencil on bits of paper and never opening his mouth. He had turned on him the other night and cried, ‘If anyone’s to blame for this business it’s you. Who pestered me into buying this bloody ramshackle affair, eh? Who?’ and snatching up a miniature wooden ship’s wheel from the mantelshelf he had flung it against the far wall, where it had splintered into a dozen pieces, and Jimmy, after looking down on the fragments with a sort of tearful sadness, had gone up the ladder, leaving him to increased misery.
He stood at the window now looking down on to the yard. The sun was glinting on the water; there were boats plying up and down the river; on the slipway Jimmy had set the keel of a new boat in the small stocks and he was working on it now. In the ordinary way he would have been down there helping him, they would have been exchanging jokes about what they would do when they had the monopoly of the river, or grinding their teeth at the Pitties and their tactics.
As he looked down on Jimmy’s fair head, he was suddenly brought forward with a jerk, for there, coming round the side of the building, was Ruth and his da and Lizzie. It wasn’t the fact that they’d all turned up together to visit him, it was the expression on their faces that was riveting his attention for both Lizzie and Ruth were crying, openly crying as they talked rapidly to Jimmy, and his da was now holding out a paper to Jimmy. He watched Jimmy reading it, shake his head, then put his hand to his brow before turning and looking up at the window. Then they were all looking up at the window.
He didn’t step back but stared down at them as they remained still, their postures seemingly frozen into a group of statuary. He noticed that Lizzie was wearing her old shawl, and old it was, green in parts. And Ruth too was in a shawl; she nearly always wore a bonnet. And they both still had their aprons on.
He moved from the window and went to the door and, having opened it, looked down the steps at them. They came towards him. It was his father who mounted first, and he said to him, ‘What’s up?’ But Paddy didn’t answer, he just walked into the room, followed by Ruth and Lizzie and, lastly, Jimmy.
Rory’s gaze travelled from one to the other, then came to rest on Jimmy who was gripping the paper with both hands and staring at him.
He did not repeat his question to Jimmy, but took the paper from him and began to read.
‘It is with deep regret that we hear of the terrible tragedy that has overtaken a Shields family on holiday on the coast of France. Mr Charles Buckham, his wife, three children, and their nursemaid Mrs Jane Connor, together with Mr Buckham’s brother, are feared lost, after their yacht was caught in a great storm. Mrs Buckham’s body and that of one child were washed ashore, together with pieces of wreckage from the boat. There is little hope of any survivors. Two other boats were wrecked at the same time, with a total loss of twenty-six lives. Mr Charles Buckham was a prominent member . . .’
Someone must have brought a chair forward for him to sit on because when next he looked at them they were standing in a half-circle before him and they were all crying, even his da. His own eyes were dry; his whole body was dry, he was being shrivelled up; his mind had stopped working except for a section which oozed pain and ran like a burning acid down into his heart, and there it was etching out her name: Janie. Janie.
‘Janie. Janie’ he said the name aloud and turned and saw Lizzie lift up her white apron and fling it over her head, and when she began to moan like a banshee he made no protest because the sound was finding an echo within himself. ‘Janie. Janie. Aw, Janie, don’t go, Janie. Don’t be dead, Janie. Come back to me, Janie. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I’ll see about John George, honest to God I promise, now, right now. Oh, Janie.’
‘Give him a drop out of the bottle.’
Paddy put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out a flat flask of whisky and, picking up a cup, he almost half-filled it. Then handing it to Rory, he said, ‘Get it down you, lad. Get it down you. You need to be fortified. God knows you need to be fortified.’
When Lizzie suddenly cried, ‘Why does God bring disasters like this to us? What have we ever done to Him?’ Paddy turned on her, hissing, ‘Whist! woman. It’s questions like that that bring on disasters.’
Her wailing increased, and she cried, ‘It’s the third thing. I said there would be three, didn’t I? Didn’t I? An’ I told Andrews the polis when he brought the paper up, didn’t I, didn’t I?’
‘Oh Janie, Janie. Come back, Janie. Just let me look on you once more.’ It was sayings like that that brought disaster his da had just said. He was ignorant. They were all ignorant. That’s what he had said to Janie, they were all ignorant. And he had compared their talk, their ways, and their dwelling, the dwelling that he had known since birth, with Charlotte Kean and her fine house. Yet their ignorance was a warm ignorance, it was something you didn’t have to live up to; pretence fell through it like water through a sieve. Their ignorance was a solid foundation on which he could lean. He was leaning against it now, his head tucked against warm, thick flesh, nor when he realized it was Lizzie’s flesh, his mother’s flesh, did he push it away. In this moment he needed ignorance, he needed love, he needed warmth, he needed so many things to make up for the loss of Janie.
‘Aw, Janie, Janie. I’m sorry, Janie. I’m sorry, Janie.’
Charlotte Kean did not read the paper until late on the Saturday evening. She had returned from Hexham about seven o’clock feeling tired, irritable and lonely. After a meal she had gone into the office with the intention of doing some work on the mass of papers that always awaited her on the desk, but after sitting down she stared in front of her for a moment before closing her eyes and letting her body slump into the depths of the leather chair.
How much longer could she go on like this? She’d asked herself the same question numbers of times over the past weeks. There was a remedy, in fact two. But the cure offered by either Mr Henry Bolton or Mr George Pearson was worse, she imagined, than her present disease. Henry Bolton was forty-eight and a widower. George Pearson would never see fifty again. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that either of them had fallen in love with her. She would go as far as to say that they didn’t even like her, considering her ways too advanced by half, having heard her opinions from across a committee table. But since the death of both her father and her grandfather they had almost raced each other to the house.
No. No. Never.
She rose from the desk. She was a spinster and she’d remain a spinster. The wild fantastic dream she’d had was only that, a wild fantastic dream. She had humiliated herself because of her dream; she had been willing to be publicly humiliated because of her dream.
She went from the office and upstairs to her room, the room that until a few weeks ago had been her father’s. It was the largest bedroom in the house and faced the garden and shortly after he died she had it completely redecorated and had made it her own. She knew that the servants had been slightly shocked by such seeming lack of respect for the dead but she didn’t care what servants thought, or anyone else for that matter.
It was very odd, she mused, as she slowly took off her day clothes and got into a housegown, a new acquisition and another thing that had shocked the servants, for it wasn’t black or brown, or even grey, but a startling pink, and its material was velvet. Yes, it was very odd, but there was no one for whose opinion she cared one jot. And more sadly still, there was no one who cared one jot about what happened to her. She hadn’t a close relative left in the world, nor had she a close friend. There were those in the town who would claim her as a friend, more so now, but to her they were no more than acquaintances.
She sat before the mirror and unpinned her hair and the two dark, shining plaits fell down over her shoulders and almost to her waist. As her fingers undid each twist the hair seemed to spring into a life of its own and when, taking a brush, she stroked it from the crown down to its ends it covered her like a cloak.
The brush poised to the side of her face, she stared at herself in the mirror. It was a waste on her; it should have been doled out to some pretty woman and it would have made her beautiful, whereas on her head it only seemed to emphasize the plainness of her features. She leant forward and stared at her reflection. How was it that two eyes, a nose, and a mouth could transform one face into attractiveness while leaving another desolate of any appeal? She was not misshapen in any way, yet look at her. She dressed well, she had a taste for dress, she knew the right things to wear but the impression they afforded stopped at her neck. She had even resorted to the artifice of toilet powder, and in secret had applied rouge to her lips and cheeks with the result that she looked nothing better, she imagined, than a street woman.
She rose and glanced towards the bed. Were she to go to bed now she wouldn’t sleep. She couldn’t read in bed at all. This was the outcome, she supposed, of being taught to read while sitting in a straight-backed chair. Her father had enforced this rule and the teachers at the school to which her mother had sent her were of a like mind too. When she was young her idea of heaven had been to curl up on the rug before the fire and read a book, but when finally she had returned home from school she had found no pleasure in this form of relaxation.
She decided to go down to the drawing-room and play the piano for a while. This often had the power to soothe her nerves. Then she would take a bath, after which she might get to sleep without thinking.
It was as she was crossing the hall that she noticed the local paper neatly folded, together with a magazine, lying on a salver on the side table. She picked up both and went on into the drawing-room. But before laying them down she glanced at the news papers headlines: Shields Family Lost at Sea.
‘It is with deep regret that we hear of the terrible tragedy that has overtaken a Shields family on holiday on the coast of France. Mr Charles Buckham, his wife, three children and their nursemaid, Mrs Jane Connor, together with Mr Buckham’s brother are feared lost, after their yacht was caught in a great storm. Mrs Buckham’s body and that of one child were washed ashore, together with pieces of wreckage from the boat. There is little hope of any survivors . . .’
Mrs Jane Connor, nursemaid.
Mrs Jane Connor, nursemaid.
He had said she was nursemaid to the Buckhams. Yes, yes, it was the Buckhams of Westoe. She knew him, Charles Buckham, and she had met his wife a number of times, and . . . and there couldn’t be two nursemaids by the name of Jane Connor.
He hadn’t said his wife had gone away, but then she hadn’t spoken to him for weeks, not since he had startled her by saying he was married. She was sorry, very sorry . . .
Was she?
Of course she was, it was a terrible thing. Could she go to him now and tell him? What time was it? She swung round and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Quarter-to-nine. It was still light, yet she didn’t know exactly where the place was; but it was on the waterfront and would be dark by the time she got there.
She found herself walking up and down the room. Her stomach was churning with excitement. She said again, ‘What a tragedy! A terrible tragedy. And those poor young children.’
She suddenly stopped her pacing and, dropping into a chair, bent her body forward until her breasts were almost touching her knees. She mustn’t make herself ridiculous; nothing had altered, things stood as they had done a few minutes earlier.
Slowly she drew herself up and, taking in deep draughts of air, said to herself, ‘You can call tomorrow morning. It will be quite in order then for you to go and offer your condolences. He’s in your employ and naturally you have his concern at heart. Go and have a bath now and go to bed; you can do nothing until tomorrow.’
She had a bath and she went to bed, but it was almost dawn before she finally fell asleep. And she was still asleep when the maid came in with her early morning tea at eight o’clock.
She hardly gave herself time to drink the tea before she was out of bed dressing, and at nine o’clock she left the house, presumably to go to an early service. She had informed Jessie that she wouldn’t need the carriage, it was a fine morning and she preferred to walk.
The only answer Jessie could give to this was ‘Yes, miss,’ but the expression on her face told Charlotte that she considered that by breaking yet another rule she was letting the prestige of the family down; no one of any importance in this district went to church on foot.
Because the occasion demanded sobriety she had dressed in the black outfit she had worn to her father’s funeral and so she wasn’t conspicuous as she made her way from the residential quarter of Westoe to the long district lining the waterfront. Yet she did not pass without notice for she was tall and slim and her walk was purposeful as if she knew where she was going. But on this occasion she didn’t, at least not precisely.
Having almost reached the Lawe she stopped an old riverside man and asked him if he could direct her to Mr Connor’s boatyard.
‘Connor’s boatyard? Never knew no boatyard by that name along this stretch, ma’am. No Connor’s boatyard along here.’
‘It’s . . . it’s a small yard, I understand.’
‘Big or small, ma’am, none of that name.’
‘Mr Connor has only recently taken the yard over.’ Small yard, taken it over?’ The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin and said, ‘Oh aye, now I come to think of it, it’s old Barney Kilpatrick’s place. Oh aye, I heard tell of a young ’un startin’ up there. Takes some grit and guts to start on your own along this stretch. Well now, ma’am, you turn yourself round and go back yonder till you pass a space full of lumber, bits of boats . . . odds and ends. There’s cut at yon side atween a set of pailings, the gate Into Kilpatrick’s place is but a few steps down there.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome, ma’am. You’re welcome.’
She walked swiftly back along the potholed road, followed the directions the old man had given her and within a few minutes found herself opposite a wooden gate in a high fence of black sleepers.
The gate opened at a touch and she went through and stood for a moment looking at the ramshackle building before her. There were steps leading up to a door and, having mounted them, she knocked gently and waited. After a short interval she knocked again, harder now, and after knocking a third time she tried the handle and found the door locked.
She descended the steps and looked about her. There was evidence of a small boat being built. She walked into the slipway, then out again and stood looking up at the windows. She could see the place as a boatyard, even though it was very small, but as a residence, never. She gave a slight shudder. Being almost on the river’s edge it would be overrun with rats and so damp. And he lived here and had spoken of it with enthusiasm!
Where was he now? Most likely at his parents’ house. Of course, that’s where he would be. Well, she couldn’t go there . . . or could she?
‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t.’
She walked out of the yard, closing the gate behind her, and again she chastised herself, sternly now. ‘You mustn’t. You mustn’t. Please retain some sense of decorum.’
But it was such a long time until tomorrow. Would he come to work? Well, the only thing she could do was to wait and see, and if he didn’t put in an appearance, then she would go to his home. It would seem quite in order to do so then.
She walked slowly back through the town. People were making their way to the churches. There were a number of carriages in the market place adjacent to St. Hilda’s. She wondered for a moment whether she should go in there, then decided not to. What would she pray for? She mustn’t be a hypocrite. She’d always prided herself on being honest, at least to herself. She went to church, but she was no church-woman. She knew why more than half the congregation attended her own particular church. Their reasons were various, but had nothing to do with God and worship: to see and be seen; to make connections. It was an established fact that it did one no harm in the business world to belong to a congregation, especially if you paid substantially for your pew and had your name inscribed on a silver name-plate.
In her loneliest moments she warned herself against cynicism knowing that if she didn’t want to lose those few people who termed themselves her friends she must keep her radical opinions to herself. But oh, she had thought so often how wonderful it would be, how comforting to have someone with whom she could talk plainly. A male. Oh, yes a male, someone like . . .
When had she first thought of him in that way? All her life seemingly. Don’t be ridiculous. Well, four and a half years was a lifetime.
Sunday was a long day, and on Monday morning she was awake early and dressed for outdoors by eight o’clock, and by a quarter to nine she was seated behind the desk in the inner office in Tangard Street.
If he were coming to work he would come here to see to the men. If he didn’t put in an appearance, well she must see to them, and once they were settled she would go on to Simonside and offer her condolences . . .
He came into the office at ten minutes to nine and she was shocked at the sight of him, and sad, truly sad; yet at the same time envious of a woman who, by her going, could pile the years almost overnight on a man.
She rose swiftly from the chair, then came round the desk and stood in front of him, saying, and with sincere feeling, ‘I’m so sorry. Now you shouldn’t have come, I didn’t expect you. You . . . you must go home and stay there as long as you feel it is necessary; there’s no hurry, I can see to things . . .’
She watched him wet his lips before saying in a voice so unlike his own in that it was quiet, like that of a sick man bereft of strength, ‘I’d . . . I’d much rather be at work, if you don’t mind.’
‘Well—’ she shook her head slowly—’it’s as you wish. But . . . but you don’t look well. And . . . and haven’t you got . . . ? Well, aren’t there things you must see to officially?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We . . . I went on Saturday. The police said they’d let me know if they heard anything further. Mr . . . Mr Buckham’s father has gone over, I’m to see him when he comes back.’
‘Oh.’ She stared into his face. It was grey, lifeless. She realized as she looked at him that his appeal did not come from his looks at all, as one might imagine, as she herself had imagined years ago, but from the vitality within, from the bumptiousness and the arrogance that was part of his nature. At the moment there was no life either in his face or in his body. But, of course, it was to be understood this was only temporary; he was under shock, he would revive . . . she would see that he revived. The decision he had taken to come straight to work was the best possible thing he could have done.
She said now, ‘Then I can leave you?’
‘Yes.’
She picked up her bag and gloves from the desk, and turning to him again, she said, ‘If you wish you may send Mr Taylor with the collection.’
‘Thanks.’ He inclined his head towards her.
‘Are you staying with your parents?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, ‘I’ve been with them over the weekend but I’m going back to the boatyard.’
She said with some concern now, ‘Do you think it wise for you to be alone at this time?’
‘My brother will be with me.’
‘Oh.’ She stared at him; then again she said, ‘I’m deeply sorry.’
He made no reply but turned from her and she had to stop herself from going to him for she imagined he was about to cry, and if she were to see him cry . . . She turned hastily and went out.
Alone now he stood staring down at the desk as if he had never seen it before, as if he were surprised to find it there; then going behind it, he sat down and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it quickly round his face before blowing his nose. He had said he’d be better at work. He’d never be better anywhere, anytime, but being here was better than remaining in the kitchen. He’d go mad if he had to listen to any more talk of Janie. Since Saturday night they had talked about her, wailed about her, cried about her, and he too had cried and wailed, but inside. To them it was as if she were lying in the coffin in the corner of the room. They had drunk their beer and had their tots of whisky as if they were holding a wake. They had sat up all night, the Learys and her da and grannie, and his own father and Ruth and Jimmy . . . and her. Nellie had come and her husband with her. And that had been another thing that had nearly driven him mad, when Nellie announced through her tears that she was pregnant at last, and her, his big slob of a slavering mother, had cried, ‘That’s God’s way. That’s God’s way, when He shuts one door He opens another.’ Another day among them and he would have gone out of his mind.
There was only one good thing that had come out of it, he and Jimmy were back where they were before. Nothing had been said but Jimmy hadn’t left his side since Saturday, not even during the night, the longest night of his life. All Saturday night he had sat by his side up in the loft, and last night too, and it was he who had said early this morning, ‘Let’s get back away home, eh?’ It was odd that Jimmy should think of the boatyard as home rather than the place in which he had been brought up. But Janie had made it home.
He thought with shame and guilt of how he had begun to compare it with Charlotte Kean’s place. God, he wouldn’t swop it for a palace decked with diamonds at this moment if Janie was in it.
Aw Janie. Janie. Oh! God, and they had parted like strangers. The last words he spoke to her were, ‘You are hard. I said it afore in this very house and I say it again, there’s a hard streak in you.’
She had gazed at him and replied, ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right.’
Then she was gone, and when the door closed on her he had beaten his fists against his head.
Why the hell was he standing there! Why didn’t he go after her and drag her back by the scruff of the neck? He was her husband, wasn’t he? He had his rights—was he a man? No other bloody man in the town would have put up with what he had these past two weeks, they would have knocked the daylights out of her. Why was he standing here?
Back in the cottages they referred to him, behind his back, as ‘the big fella,’ and he had come to think of himself, and not without pride as ‘a gambling man.’ But what in effect was he? He . . . he was nothing more than a nowt who couldn’t keep his wife, a nowt who had let a little chit of a lass best him. Had it happened to John George he would have said, ‘Well, what do you expect?’
. . . John George!
This morning he had taken up a jug and hurled it almost at the same place at which he had thrown the ship’s wheel. It was because of him he was in this pickle.
Janie! Janie! How am I to go on?
There was a knock on the door and Mr Taylor entered and provided him with the answer . . . work. It was either that or the river.