The Collier’s Wife
Page 30
‘It wasn’t broken when I locked-up this evening,’ said Jude, noticing the smashed pane for the first time.
The dousing administered and the building declared safe, Jude and Amy climbed the steps to the street to be met by Noah, his hair on end and a coat over his pyjamas. ‘Thank the Lord you’re safe,’ he gasped. ‘Is the damage bad?’
‘It could have been worse,’ Jude said, thinking how easily it could have spread to Noah’s living quarters, ‘but nobody was harmed, thank God, just the books.’ The horror of what could have been, and the loss of his beloved books suddenly hit him and he staggered visibly.
Amy caught him. Devastated though she was by the damage to the shop she was more concerned for Jude’s peace of mind. Shell shock had impaired him, his temperament fragile. Although his outbursts were rare, he was still beset by bouts of bitter depression and occasional nightmares. Was this setback about to revive the dark days of the war?
The crowd of onlookers, held back by two burly policemen, cheered when Amy and Jude appeared at the top of the basement steps. They mingled with their neighbours, all of whom were anxious to hear every detail. Lurking at the edge of the crowd, his hooded coat hiding his face, Hubert looked on. He enjoyed watching the results of his destruction. In St Patrick’s Catholic Church in Melborough he’d sat for an hour admiring the defiled altar and broken stained-glass windows, and he had laughed uproariously as he slashed the suits in the Jewish tailor’s shop in Wenbury before setting the premises alight – and getting away with it. However, tonight he felt somewhat deflated; he had expected a roaring inferno that destroyed both the bookshop and the house above, where the evil, old Jew lived. But he hadn’t reckoned on that arrogant, hard-faced bookseller’s interference. Now, as he watched Amy approach, he gave a satisfied smirk; he’d caused enough damage to let them know he meant business.
Amy was coming to enquire if old Mrs Booth who lived opposite the shop had seen or heard anything – she was an inveterate nosy parker, awake at all hours – when she caught a distinct, strong whiff of paraffin. Mrs Booth forgotten, she dashed to find Jude.
‘Over there,’ she hissed, ‘the one with the hood. He reeks of it.’ As she ran to alert the policemen, Jude lunged through the crowd. Coming up behind the man Amy had pointed out, his nose told him that she had not been mistaken. He swung the man round to face him and pulled off the hood.
‘You bastard! You miserable, bigoted bastard.’ Jude’s roar had his neighbours turning as one as he grappled with Hubert.
Amy and Noah and the policemen closed in. ‘Leave this to us, sir,’ said a beefy constable wresting Hubert Crank from Jude’s clutches and then holding onto him whilst his colleague frisked Hubert down. A paraffin-soaked rag and a box of matches and an iron bar in his pockets were proof enough.
‘How could you?’ Amy’s expression was one of utter revulsion.
Hubert, his eyes alight with a demonic zeal, sneered. ‘It’s my duty to destroy Jews and all the other filth that thinks it rules this world.’
The policemen dragged him away.
*
Later that morning they all gathered in Noah’s sitting room. ‘Now I know what it means to see dreams turn to ashes,’ Amy said.
‘I never for one moment thought that my religion would harm you or your business,’ said Noah apologetically. He looked positively shaken.
‘You can buy more books, Dad,’ said Kezia.
Jude smiled ruefully. ‘We might be able to sell off some of the smoke-damaged stuff but it’ll cost a fortune to replace what we had. I think we’re done for.’ He buried his head in his hands to hide his tears.
Noah chuckled wryly. ‘Don’t despair, Jude. Kezia is right, as usual. We have the money – insurance money.’
Jude looked at Amy, his eyes hopeless. ‘We weren’t insured,’ she said softly. ‘You see, Noah, for all your teaching we’re still rotten businessmen.’
Noah’s eyes twinkled. ‘But I’m not. We Jews have great faith in insurance. Everything will be replaced at no cost to you, other than the sweat of your brow when you come to refurbish the place.’
*
The garden at the rear of the house in Bankside Street was bathed in glorious sunshine and the people in it flitted like butterflies or soporific honeybees as they celebrated the day. Flashes of pink zigzagged across the lawn as, like a pair of pretty flamingos, Kezia and Mary chased after Henry and John and Hadley Jr. ‘Those bridesmaid dresses are going to be ruined,’ Bessie remarked dryly to Freda.
Freda bounced Thomas Jr on her knee and agreed, but Raffy said, ‘It’s a wedding, Bessie, they be having fun.’ He drained his glass and turned to Samuel. ‘It’ll be no time afore this boy’ll be racing round like his brother and cousins. Time flies, so you be there to make the most of it.’ He didn’t say, ‘not like me’ although he thought it.
Bessie gave him a knowing glance and Samuel, his eyes brimming with love and pride said, ‘Give him here, Freda,’ and taking his younger son into his arms he wandered over to introduce him to Stephen’s parents, holding him aloft and calling out to Maggie and Stephen, ‘It’ll be your turn next.’
Maggie laughed raucously, a laugh that seemed at odds with the beautiful vision she presented. Wearing white silk, and her magnificent red tresses accentuating her creamy complexion she was the picture of loveliness. By her side, Stephen looked like the proudest man on earth. ‘She’s a beautiful bride,’ said Mrs Netherwood dreamily, gazing from Maggie and Stephen to Thomas Jr and imagining being a grandmother before adding, ‘It might not be long till we have one as handsome as this little chap. He’s a credit to you.’ Samuel beamed.
Albert and Fred, serious in their first proper suits, talked with Stephen’s brothers and Noah, the conversation flitting from farming to mining and selling books. Dr and Mrs Hargreaves kept company with Stephen’s grandparents and Maggie’s Uncle Ben and Aunt Dora. Maggie had insisted that she couldn’t possibly get married if Mary wasn’t a bridesmaid along with Kezia, and Henry, John and Hadley Jr pageboys.
At the doorway leading down into the garden, Amy and Jude paused. They were on their way into the house to replenish plates and glasses for their guests but, as one, they were drawn to observe the assembled company. Amy’s gaze and thoughts lingered on the beautiful bride and her siblings. Looking up into the clear, blue sheet of sky she silently said, I kept my promise, Bert; I hope you can see them now.
Jude lovingly watched Kezia running hand in hand with John and then rested his gaze on Amy. She was still the same beautiful girl he’d fallen in love with at a dance in the village hall, the girl whose constant love had brought him back from the brink of hell and helped him to achieve his dream.
Yesterday had seen the opening of the newly refurbished bookshop, a grand affair attended by local dignitaries, family members and faithful customers, and some who came for nothing more than free tea and buns. Without this girl at his side none of it would have been possible, thought Jude. He placed his arm around her waist and pulled her close.
Amy gazed up into his dark eyes, her own alight with love, a love so deep she could barely breathe. Here was her man, strong in arm and sound in mind; in the garden, happy and healthy, were the fruits of their enduring love. And further down the street was the Book Cellar. She had kept her promise.
About the Author
Born and raised in West Yorkshire, CHRISSIE WALSH trained to be a singer and cellist before becoming a teacher. When she married her trawler skipper husband, they moved to a little fishing village in N. Ireland. Chrissie is passionate about history and that passion and knowledge shine through in her writing.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost I thank my agent, Judith Murdoch. She works tirelessly on my behalf and her sound advice and encouragement keeps me going. I am also extremely grateful to the wonderful team at HoZ/Aria for their friendly guidance, particularly the fantastic Rhea Kurlen and Dushi Horti; as usual, their sharp eyes and broad vocabularies improve any story. Thanks al
so to Vicky Joss and Holly Domney for the beautiful cover and the work they do in promoting my novels.
As always, my sincere thanks to my son, Charles, and his wife, Martina, and Paul and Annemarie Downey and Andrew and Sharon Downey. Their daily love and support make my life worthwhile. To Helen Oldroyd for her friendship and the interest she takes in my writing, and to Marie Duffy another loyal reader always willing to talk about my stories and encourage me. Thanks also to Tom Duffy for promoting my books locally.
I am indebted to David S Halstead of Cudworth, a guide at the Yorkshire Mining Museum, Caphouse Colliery, for his wealth of knowledge about the working lives of coal miners and the dangers that they face in the hewing of every bucket of coal I throw on my fire. I hope I got the facts right, David. Thanks also to the Tolson Museum, Dalton, Huddersfield for its wealth of WW1 information.
Writing is one of my greatest pleasures and it’s a privilege to have my stories published so I send a huge thank you to all those who have read my novels The Girl from the Mill and The Child from the Ash Pits and given such encouraging feedback; your support is invaluable. I look forward to hearing what you think of The Collier’s Wife.
Finally, thanks to my grandson Harry Walsh and the Downey boys, Jack, Matthew, Lewis and Alex for making me a proud and happy grandmother.
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