Lucy wasn’t sure why she’d mentioned them being strong but it didn’t matter. She supposed she would find out soon enough. Myrtle led the way along the road, informing them Stan’s health wasn’t too good and she hoped the pair of them were prepared to help entertain him. Lucy had a vision of herself doing the Shimmy and bit back a giggle. This grandmother was very different from the way she remembered her and also different from the sad pleading woman who had written that pathetic letter.
They did not have to walk very far before turning up a road full of large houses. They passed several hotels and guest houses. ‘Not much business for them at this time of year,’ said Myrtle, ‘but come Easter they’ll be busy. I’ve been telling Stan we should take in lodgers but he said he doesn’t need the money and besides he’d have to be polite to people – that when he dies then I can turn it back into a guest house.’
‘Is he rich?’ said Timmy, looking surprised.
Myrtle chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t think so to look at him and me. He made his money in the wool trade… married young but his wife died when she was only a lass, leaving him with a son to rear. The woman who looked after him decided she’d had enough when she heard about Stan and I getting wed so now Wesley lives with us.’
‘Wesley’s Uncle Stan’s son?’ asked Timmy.
And what kind of name is Wesley? thought Lucy.
Myrtle gave a brisk nod. ‘Aye! And you’ll understand all about him when you see him, Tim, although that could be today or tomorrow. He’s difficult to pin down is Wesley.’
She stopped in front of a house with bay windows to either side of a green door. It didn’t have much in the way of a garden and what there was didn’t amount to much. Myrtle opened the door and ushered them inside a narrow dark lobby.
‘Do you have electricity?’ asked Timmy, peering for a switch.
‘Good Lord, lad, no. That would cost money to put in and there’s only one thing Stan’ll spend money on. Come on and meet him.’ She passed a door on their right and then another on their left before opening a third door and flinging it open.
‘Stan, they’re here!’
The room was as least as large as the music room in Barney’s house but lit by several gas lamps on walls and ceiling. There were several small tables in it but very few chairs. The tables all had something on them but Lucy couldn’t make out what exactly. She could hear music.
‘Stan, turn off that wireless!’ ordered Myrtle. ‘You’re going deaf in your old age. Say hello to our Larry’s children, Timmy and Lucy.’
Lucy looked over to a man sitting in a chair in front of the table nearest the fireplace. He turned his white head, which was wreathed in smoke from a large-bowled pipe. She approached him and noticed the chair he was sitting on had wheels. ‘Hello there, Lucy and Timmy! Come and tell me what kind of journey you had. Did the train break down?’ he said loudly.
‘No,’ said Lucy, unable to resist a smile.
‘The last train I went on broke down.’ He held out his hand. The sleeve of his jacket slid back to reveal a bony wrist and frayed cuff. She looked into his face and his eyes seemed very bright, reflecting the firelight as they did. His whiskers were streaked with nicotine stains while his neck had the appearance of a turkey’s.
She shook his hand and he winked at her, tapping his cheek with one finger. In a flash of recollection she remembered her father and grandfather doing the very same thing so she kissed Stan’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re poorly.’
‘It’s just my legs, lass. They let me down just when I need them to hold me up. I’ll be wanting you and the boy to be taking me out for a ride now and again while you’re here.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Lucy and Timmy at the same time. The youth had brushed his way past Lucy to shake the old man’s hand.
‘The fresh air does him good as long as the wind’s blowing in the right direction,’ said Myrtle, taking off her coat and hat. ‘Now you sit down and talk to him while I see to the supper.’
‘D’you want any help?’ asked Lucy.
‘No, lass.’ Myrtle smiled. ‘It’s all prepared.’
‘I remember you used to make lovely cakes.’
Her grandmother nodded. ‘I still do.’
When the meal was served, Lucy had never tasted fish like it and said so. She was told it had been caught that morning, and informed if the pair of them were early risers and it wasn’t raining or blowing a gale, tomorrow they could take Stan down to the harbour and watch the fishing boats come in. The old man said he would be their navigator.
Washing the dishes, Lucy found herself in a dreamlike state. She had not imagined it being like this. She could hear Stan’s loud voice explaining to her brother about Standard Dragon loudspeakers and battery valve receivers. Both apparently had only recently been developed and the loudspeaker enabled a whole family to listen to the wireless at the same time. She now knew that on the other tables were packs of cards and board games: Snakes and Ladders, draughts and chess. A gramophone stood in one corner of the room and there were lots of records. She wondered what her mother would have made of it all and felt near to tears.
‘Stanley used to be such an active man,’ said Myrtle as she wiped a dish. ‘That wireless took a lot of brass but it’s made my life more bearable. He was that down in the mouth when we first came to this house. He had a factory in Bradford but a doctor’d told him if he didn’t take it easier and retire he’d pop off in no time.’
‘But he’s OK now?’ said Lucy, glancing up from the sink.
‘Well, he’s not going to get better, lass, but then he hasn’t gone any worse for a while.’
When all the dishes were put away Myrtle took Lucy and Timmy upstairs. ‘You can have your pick of rooms. This used to be a guest house so they’re all furnished. Only the room at the top of the house is taken up by Wesley and he doesn’t like anyone going up there uninvited.’
‘What about the beds being aired?’ asked Lucy.
Her grandmother told her that was easily done. Plenty of hot water bottles and several cupboards full of bedding. As Lucy went into one room after another she couldn’t help thinking there was money to be made here if Stanley could be persuaded. At last she and Timmy made their choice and her grandmother fetched hot water bottles and helped her to make up the beds.
Then the old woman watched as Lucy unpacked her suitcase and hung her clothes in the wardrobe. Myrtle asked if Barney was a warm man.
Lucy stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Has he brass, lass? A bob or two.’
‘Oh, yes. He owns property.’ She shook out a frock.
‘Your mother fell on her feet then. Has nice clothes like yours, I suppose? Big house?’
‘I don’t think inside it’s quite as big as this,’ said Lucy, wanting to change the subject. She hadn’t told her grandmother Maureen was missing, only that she had remarried.
‘Well, whatever your mother’s got she should bottle it,’ said Myrtle, a mite tartly. ‘Wanted you out of the house, I suppose. New husband and a nice-looking girl like you.’
Lucy only smiled, thinking it wasn’t surprising her grandmother should feel a touch bitter about Maureen. After all, she had stolen Myrtle’s only son and kept her grandchildren away, too.
Lucy had not expected to sleep well that first night but in fact slept better than expected. Even so she was up early, remembering what her grandmother had said about seeing the fishing boats. She pulled back the curtain and gazed out on the street below. It was quiet, no hustle and bustle like St Domingo Road, only a marauding seagull picking at something on the road.
There was a bowl and jug on a stand in her room. The water was cold but she didn’t let that bother her. She washed quickly and dressed in several layers, guessing it was going to be cold outside. Then she knocked on her brother’s door and hurried downstairs.
Chapter Seventeen
Stan slept on the ground floor and when Lucy tapped on his door he shouted for her to put the kettle on and ma
ke porridge and bring it to the recreation room where they’d sat last evening. Then she could send the lad to come and wheel him in. There was a gas stove in the kitchen which was simplicity itself to work and in no time at all Lucy placed three bowls of steaming porridge on one of the tables. She called upstairs to her brother but need not have bothered because Timmy was on his way down. His hair was tousled but he looked bright-eyed enough.
She told him what Stan had said and as she sat at a table and picked up her spoon, heard their great-uncle saying behind her, ‘Go test the wind, lad! Although if you haven’t heard it rattling the windows then I think our little outing’s on.’
A few minutes later Timmy was back. ‘It’s fair to middling,’ he said with a grin.
‘You’ll have to speak up, lad,’ said Stan, holding a hand behind his ear. Timmy repeated his weather report and the old man said, ‘Then I’ll wear my hat with the earflaps. You’ll have to be having one, too, if you’re going to be staying here long.’
Timmy looked like he’d rather die than wear the head gear which was produced ten minutes later; hat, gloves, muffler, a thick overcoat and a rug to cover Stan’s legs and they were ready to go. It was a bit of a performance getting him off the step but soon they were heading for the sea and already Lucy was realising why her grandmother had wanted to know how strong they were. It was no easy task getting the wheelchair on and off pavements and it took both Timmy and Lucy to manage the thing, especially as one wheel seemed to have a life of its own.
‘Easy now, don’t let me fall! Stick to the road. This early we shouldn’t have any trouble with the traffic,’ said Stan.
They didn’t, but on being directed to cross the road they went and got a wheel jammed in a tram line. ‘Oh, hell!’ groaned Timmy as they struggled to free it.
‘Watch your language, lad,’ gasped Stan, gripping an arm rest of the chair as it tilted sideways. ‘You’ll have me over if you’re not careful.’
Lucy was about to suggest he should get out and lean on her while Timmy freed the wheel when a man appeared and without saying a word did the trick somehow. Before she could thank him he ran off.
‘He’s got no shoes and socks on,’ said Timmy, staring after him. ‘I thought you only saw children like that in Liverpool.’
‘He must be freezing,’ said Lucy, not having expected to see such poverty in Bridlington.
‘That’s my son Wesley,’ said Stan gloomily. ‘He has perfectly good shoes with rubber soles but he won’t keep them on. I can’t comprehend it at all.’ He shook his head dolefully.
Lucy couldn’t understand it either but after exchanging puzzled glances with her brother over Stan’s head, she continued down the road towards the parade. Soon the sweep of the bay lay before them and they came to a halt to take in the view. The sun had not long risen and the surface of the sea was touched lightly with gold.
‘Time to get moving,’ said Stan loudly after a couple of minutes, rubbing his gloved hands together. ‘Head north along the parade. In 1888,’ he continued, ‘Prince Albert Victor, our King’s elder brother, opened the Alexandra Sea Wall. I was there, you know… with your granddad. Prince Albert would have been king if he hadn’t caught inflammation of the lung.’
‘Wasn’t he going to marry the queen?’ said Lucy, remembering something from a history lesson at school.
‘That’s right, lass. Instead his brother married her. It was remembering that which gave me the idea of marrying Myrtle, her being my brother William’s widow. She’s a good woman and it meant I had someone to help keep an eye on Wesley. It’s worked out all right. We both had something to give which the other needed.’
Lucy didn’t know whether she was expected to say something in response to that but she couldn’t think of anything. There was silence except for the lapping of the sea against the shore and the screeching of gulls. She wondered if that was the secret of a happy marriage, having something to give which the other needed? She wondered what Blodwen had to give to Rob besides a pretty face and a nice body. Surely he couldn’t be happy with just that? So she must have something Lucy knew nothing about, she thought enviously.
‘Now look at Wesley!’ Stan’s voice startled Lucy out of her reverie. He pointed to the shore where a man was throwing bread up to the gulls. ‘Go down and see if he’ll come here, Timmy. He needs to know who you two are. It was no use trying to explain before you arrived and he was out off somewhere last night.’
Timmy dropped down on to the beach and ran across the sands. Lucy wondered what was wrong with Stan’s son. She couldn’t remember her father ever mentioning him.
Wesley came bounding towards them with Timmy running to keep up with him. Now Lucy had a chance to look at him properly. He was only a few inches taller than her but with a strong, bullish neck and shoulders. His face was ruddy and his nose like a large round button. His hair was the colour of old rope and straggled about his ears. He stood in front of them, chest rising and falling, looking at her with the unwavering yet incurious gaze of a child.
‘Wesley, these are my nephew’s children. Do you remember your cousin Larry? This is Lucy.’ Stan placed a hand on her arm. ‘And the lad is Timmy.’
‘Lucy!’ said Wesley, pointing first at her and then at her brother. ‘Timmy!’
So he wasn’t deaf and dumb, thought Lucy. ‘Hello, Wesley!’ she said, smiling and holding out her hand.
He seized it and swung on it. ‘Like to play with me?’
‘No. Wesley! Not now, lad,’ said Stan hastily. ‘I’m showing them the harbour.’
‘Want to play on the sands,’ said Wesley, scowling and keeping hold of Lucy’s wrist. ‘She can come with me. I’ll show her things.’
‘No, Wesley,’ repeated his father firmly. ‘Let her go!’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Won’t be long.’
Lucy decided to intervene. ‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘Understand that, Wesley?’ she said, looking straight at him, thinking, Tuppence short of a shilling, poor thing.
He laughed gleefully and off they went. They hadn’t gone far when he stopped, pulling her down on to the sand where the tide had left its mark in a sweeping line of shells and debris. He picked up a handful of cockle shells and dropped them on her palm. ‘Mary, Mary,’ he said.
‘Quite contrary,’ responded Lucy with a smile.
‘Garden grow?’ He gave her a look of enquiry, head tilted to one side. She nodded. He laughed and, still on his hands and knees, began to crawl and pick up more shells.
Convinced he would soon forget about her, she rose to her feet and made her way back to the promenade.
They resumed their walk. ‘You see what’s wrong with Wesley?’ said Stan gruffly.
‘I’m sure he’s harmless,’ said Lucy.
‘Has the brain of a child of five but the body of a man,’ muttered Stan. ‘It’s not easy. I’ve worked hard, and for what? I had to sell the factory instead of having my son take it over. I worry about who’ll take care of him when Myrtle and I go. I don’t want him put in an institution. He enjoys life as he is now.’
‘No use in worrying about it,’ said Lucy, not quite sure what else to say. ‘He might die before you. Lots of people die young.’
‘Not Wesley. He’s as strong as an ox.’
Lucy did not argue but she had seen TB destroy a fifteen-stone docker in no time at all.
The fishing fleet was already in and the harbour was alive with activity. Stan directed them to a spot where they wouldn’t be in the way and they watched as keels of gleaming silvery fish were unloaded along with crabs and lobsters. Herring gulls wheeled overhead, staining the quayside white with their droppings. Lucy thought how different it was from being down at the Pierhead watching the liners and steamers coming and going. Quite a few people came over to have a word with Stan, speaking so fast in their Yorkshire dialect that Lucy understood only the odd word. With a smile she realised her great-uncle, like their grandmother, was bilingual, speaking the local dialect whi
le also able to converse with Lucy and Timmy so they could understand them. She was warmed by people’s smiles and just as Stan said he was ready to go, was handed a newspaper parcel and told it was for their breakfast.
They arrived home to find Myrtle up and about. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ she asked, fussing over Stan and taking off his hat and muffler.
‘Yes!’ Lucy told her about being given the fish and about seeing Wesley.
Myrtle darted her a glance and as soon as Stan and Timmy were settled in chairs and the wireless switched on, the old woman beckoned her to come into the kitchen with her. ‘Wesley’s not a bad lad,’ she said, as she washed the fish before sprinkling flour on a table and putting on the frying pan. ‘He’s just difficult at times like any child. He’s partly the reason why Stan won’t let me take in paying guests.’
‘I’m sure he’d be no trouble,’ said Lucy, wanting to reassure her grandmother. ‘You should try and persuade Uncle Stan. I’d help you with the guests. I had to give up my job before I came away and so did Timmy. If you want us to stay for any length of time we’ll have to find work. I’ve a little money but it’ll soon go if I start spending it and I don’t want to sponge off you.’
‘Get away with you!’ said Myrtle, flouring the tiny whitebait before lying them side by side like sardines in the sizzling fat. ‘It’s not sponging when I’ve asked you here. You and Timmy’ll be entertaining Stan and taking him out, and you’ll be helping me in the house and with the shopping. If you really want to do something extra then you can help me on my stall on market day. I used to do all the farm baking years ago and I pride myself on my range of cakes and scones and bread.’
‘I’d love to do that,’ said Lucy enthusiastically, gripping the table. ‘Perhaps I could make some sweets and toffee apples to sell? I haven’t mentioned yet but I did a bit of that to make money a few years back.’
Myrtle looked pleased enough at the idea. ‘You can give it a try,’ she said. ‘Now butter some bread, and I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about sponging. What’s family for if it’s not to help each other?’
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