The Lock-Keeper's Son

by Nancy Carson

  She stirred the tea in the pot and poured out two cups without waiting for his response.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks …’ He stirred the tea and took a drink. ‘I feel such a fool, you know, Aurelia.’

  ‘Don’t … Please … You have nothing to feel foolish about where I’m concerned.’

  He felt tempted to tell Aurelia that he had been diverted by her, and had paid Marigold less heed as a result, but thought better of it. It might be information she did not want to hear and would not welcome; she was a respectable married woman after all. He finished the tea quickly.

  ‘I’d best go. My mother will be anxious if I’m not back soon. Especially in her state.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He put down his cup and saucer and stood up. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’

  She detected that he was embarrassed still. ‘You’re perfectly welcome,’ she reassured him, laying a hand gently on his arm. ‘Think nothing of it. I hope to see you again some time. In happier circumstances.’

  He put on a smile. ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  She accompanied him to the front door, bid him goodbye and, with a sigh, waved as she watched him put on his cycle clips and ride away on his bicycle.

  The Stokes’ household was up and about its business early on the Monday morning. It was a grey November day, hardly yet light. Algie, unable to resist the temptation to look at his father, went into the bedroom where he was still lying in state. He brushed the backs of his fingers over Will’s face. It was cold and clammy, but the previous stiffness of his skin seemed to have softened. Algie noticed his whiskers had grown since yesterday, yet he was supposed to be dead. Oh, there was no question that he was dead. Yet Algie felt no horror, no revulsion, a fact that surprised him. On those rare occasions when he had actually contemplated death, he’d imagined that he would find it impossible to look at a corpse for fear it contaminated him. But his father was lying there as if asleep, looking more at peace than if he were sleeping, and he half expected to hear a snore. He wondered whether his spirit had risen and was watching him unseen from some corner of the room, but still he was not troubled.

  He went over to the window and glanced out. The canal looked like molten lead in the early morning greyness. Several canal boats were moored in the series of locks and basins that descended like liquid steps towards Wordsley, but not Seth Bingham’s narrowboats. If only the Binghams had not left with Marigold so suddenly yesterday. If only they had waited till today, as they had originally planned, all would be well with her now. She would be supportive through his grief, she would help him overcome it in her gentle, loving way. And he needed her support, desperately. He needed to feel the soft, easy warmth of her love to steer him through this, the most traumatic time of his life.

  He returned to his own room and dressed, then went down for breakfast.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked his mother as she placed his breakfast before him.

  ‘Not much. I seem to have been awake most of the night, but I reckon I must’ve drifted off. How about you?’

  ‘I dropped off eventually.’

  Clara sighed mournfully. ‘The boatmen will have to sort out their own salvation if there’s any problems with the locks on our stretch today. What time will you go to the canal company’s offices to tell them about your poor father?’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as they open.’

  ‘Get them to let us stay here as long as we can, Algie.’

  ‘I know, Mother.’ He popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. ‘But, in the meantime, we shall have to look for somewhere to rent. If you hear of anything …’

  ‘When am I likely to hear of anything?’

  ‘When you go shopping up the town. Have a look in Mr Green’s window. He advertises houses to rent in his shop window.’

  Clara sighed again. ‘I never thought as I’d ever have to flit, our Algie. I always thought I’d spend the rest of my days here in this house.’

  ‘There’s one thing the last few days have taught me, you know, Mother …’

  ‘What’s that, my son?’

  ‘That you can take nothing for granted … Ever …’

  After his breakfast, Algie sped off on his bicycle to the offices of the Stourbridge Canal Company, overlooked at the end of the Stourbridge arm of the canal by a large bonded warehouse and on the opposite side of the street by a tavern. He rested his bicycle against the front wall of the office building and went inside. A young woman sitting at a high desk, seemingly swamped under chits of paper that he recognised as toll slips, asked if she could help him.

  ‘Could I see Mr Munslow?’ he asked. ‘It’s about my father, Will Stokes, the lock-keeper at Buckpool.’

  The woman slid off her high stool and asked him to wait a moment. Presently Mr Munslow appeared. He was wearing a white India rubber collar and necktie that was tucked behind his waistcoat, a formal tailed jacket, and striped trousers.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he asked, scrutinising Algie.

  ‘Yes, Mr Munslow,’ Algie responded politely. ‘I’m Will Stokes’s son from Buckpool Locks.’

  ‘D’you know, I thought I recognised you, but I couldn’t place you. So what brings you here? Got a complaint about the old man, have you?’ He uttered a short laugh, since he evidently considered his comment amusing.

  ‘Not really, Mr Munslow. My father passed away suddenly Saturday night. I came to let you know.’

  Mr Munslow stood open-mouthed at the news. ‘Will Stokes?’ he said, aghast. ‘But he was fit as a fiddle. So what ailed him?’

  Algie told him.

  ‘You’d better step into my office, Mr Stokes.’

  Algie followed the official into a small room that seemed to be all wooden partition and panelling, covered in ageing cream-coloured paint and glazed with heavily frosted glass. Framed sepia photographs of various canal scenes adorned the walls. Mr Munslow motioned Algie to sit on the chair in front of the desk, while he sat in a squeaking, commodious, swivelling, leather-clad, wooden chair behind it.

  ‘This has come as a complete shock, Mr Stokes.’

  ‘Imagine how we feel, Mr Munslow.’

  ‘I can’t even begin to. Please accept my sincere personal condolences and the condolences of the Company also … which I trust you will pass on to your good mother the moment you see her.’

  ‘Course I will. Thank you.’

  ‘Have you any idea yet when the funeral will take place?’

  ‘The undertaker in Brierley Hill is my next call, Mr Munslow.’

  ‘But please let us know when it’s arranged. Just drop us a note. Naturally, at least one representative – certainly myself at any rate – will wish to attend to pay our last respects to a servant of the Company who has always been regarded very highly.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Munslow … But there is another delicate question which I have to ask …’

  ‘Please, ask it.’

  ‘It concerns the house we live in, which belongs to the Company. How much longer will we be allowed to stay in it?’

  Mr Munslow scratched his clean-shaven chin. ‘Hmm … Of course … You appreciate, of course, that we shall have to appoint another lock-keeper as soon as is practically possible?’

  ‘Yes, we understand that,’ Algie replied.

  ‘We have no wish to inflict hardship upon you and the rest of your family by eviction, naturally, but, since the house is tied to the job, we really have little alternative.’

  ‘Yes, I know we’ll have to find somewhere else to live, Mr Munslow, but what I really need to know is how long you can give us.’

  ‘It depends. We shall have to appoint a person to replace your father, Mr Stokes, as I say. If you could see your way clear to vacating the house by the end of this month, say, I imagine we could accommodate that.’

  ‘The end of the month …’ Algie ruminated.

  ‘That gives you four weeks. I would’ve thought it was generously ample time …
’

  Chapter 17

  On Monday the 10th of November Algie watched his father’s coffin being steered carefully down the winding narrow stairs. Later, he followed the hearse, with his mother and sister facing him, in the only carriage that followed it through the industrial wilderness of Brierley Hill, to the old red-brick Church of St Michael. It was hardly a grand funeral. Clara and her daughter had hired the long black dresses that custom dictated, from Eli Meese’s drapery and mourning wear emporium. Clara was also heavily veiled in crepe, to hide her sadness from the collective gaze of curious onlookers, while Kate’s unveiled face was white and expressionless, a far cry from the image she’d portrayed only a few days earlier as the fascinating and exotic Pocahontas. The family did not speak, the only sounds the clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs and the rumble of the iron tyres on the uneven road. Algie watched his mother and his sister, curious as to how they both felt deep in their hearts. He was sure his mother was grieving more than she showed, but Kate? He was not so sure about Kate. Her face was inscrutable, her composure rigid. Was this pale, tearless face a mask? What were her thoughts?

  Murdoch Osborne was at the church. Harriet Meese, too, had slipped the watchful eye of her father, but with his grudging consent as long as she was accompanied by her sister Priss, who had taken the morning off from her teaching, and because the Stokeses had spent money with him on mourning dresses. Mr Munslow from the canal company was there, but the absence of Clarence Froggatt was noticeable, and a further twist of the knife for Kate.

  There were some strangers too, mostly officials of the Stourbridge Canal Company, though not many other mourners in a town and district where the deceased was not particularly well-known to anybody but folk connected with the canal. But one elegant and very handsome young woman was at the back of the church and afterwards, watching the group surrounding the grave from a discreet distance. Algie did not see her, for he was very near breakdown and could hardly raise his puffy eyes to see anyone; but Harriet saw her and recognised her at once. She said nothing to Priss, but she thought to speak to Algie privately afterwards if the opportunity presented itself. However, she looked around at the end of the committal, and the young woman was gone.

  Algie had arranged that after the funeral there was to be a small wake at the Bell Hotel, with sandwiches and beer laid on, which he paid for out of his own savings. This went on until after two, by which time all the not-so-closely related had left, except for one or two more hardened drinkers. Relatives and close friends congregated together and speculated about the future. Still present was Murdoch Osborne, holding court with the Meese girls.

  The conversation between them beat backwards and forwards over the problems that the widow would have to face, how much money Will Stokes might have left, if anything at all, and how long Clara and her family would be allowed to remain in the lock-keeper’s cottage while they sought and found a suitable alternative.

  ‘I’m sure they will have got some sort of respite from the canal company,’ Murdoch conjectured.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Algernon will have organised that,’ Harriet said, keen to promote his sense of responsibility.

  ‘It might well have been better if Kate had seen to it, if it meant discussing it with men, ha?’ Murdoch replied. ‘She’d have been able to win them a three-month stay, I’ll wager, a girl of her charm.’

  ‘We shall never know,’ Priss commented sourly, envious of the approbation Kate stimulated.

  Algie approached, and Harriet left the group to intercept him. It would be the first opportunity to speak to him since the fateful Saturday night after the performance of the play in the town hall.

  ‘Oh, Algie, what can I say?’ she said earnestly, laying a gloved, sympathetic hand on his arm. ‘I am so sorry about your father. His death must have come as a complete shock. You must be devastated, all of you.’

  He tried to smile. ‘We are, but we’ll get used to it. It’ll be a bit easier now he’s gone. I mean, while he was still lying in the house, I half expected him to get up and ask for his breakfast.’

  Harriet touched his arm again and telegraphed her high regard with a warm smile. ‘I’m so glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, despite all.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ he said glumly. ‘I’m not so sure …’

  ‘Well, this might put a smile on your face … Did you know that Aurelia Sampson put in an appearance?’

  ‘Aurelia?’ He was patently surprised. ‘No, I didn’t see her.’

  ‘I thought not. You were too engrossed in the service and your thoughts to notice anybody. But yes, she was there. She left very soon after the committal.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed. Fancy …’ His thoughts wandered to last Sunday morning when he had visited the Sampsons; her caring kindness.

  ‘So how is Marigold, Algie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged resignedly. ‘I haven’t seen her since the night of the play.’

  ‘Oh? Off on her travels, is she?’

  ‘She got it into her head that I’d been seeing you regular while she was away. Nothing would persuade her otherwise.’ He rolled his eyes, reconciled now to his fate.

  ‘But why should she think that? Was it something I said?’

  ‘Partly,’ he replied. ‘But it was my own fault, not yours. I made the stupid mistake of not telling her I took you to the Sampsons’.’

  ‘Oh, Algie … You should have told her. And now you miss her.’

  ‘Course I miss her. I love her. I need her …’specially now, with my poor father suddenly gone.’

  ‘Algie, I am so sorry,’ Harriet said softly, lowering her eyes, feeling chastised and deflated. ‘Whatever I said that made her suspicious, please don’t imagine for a minute that it was deliberate. I would never do a thing like that knowingly. I’m sure she’ll be back.’ Harriet was anxious to redeem herself. ‘Especially when she knows about your father. No woman could be that callous.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Aurelia said.’

  ‘You’ve seen Aurelia?’

  ‘Last Sunday. I went to tell Mr Sampson I wouldn’t be at work to start my new job on Monday.’

  ‘I see … So when shall you start this new job?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘And when do you have to vacate your house?’

  ‘By the end of the month.’

  ‘It’s just that Mr Osborne was wondering.’

  He glanced towards Murdoch Osborne and caught his eye. Maybe he ought to go over and thank him for taking the trouble to attend the funeral.

  So both Algie and Harriet joined the small group that contained Murdoch Osborne.

  ‘How’s your mother taking it?’ Murdoch asked Algie.

  ‘As well as can be expected, Mr Osborne. She puts a brave face on it, but she’s grieving all the same.’

  ‘Only natural,’ Murdoch said. ‘So how long afore you’ve gotta leave the house?’

  Algie told him.

  ‘Aye, well there seems plenty houses to rent. And you’ve got your work, young Algie, so you won’t starve, ha?’

  ‘No, we won’t starve.’

  ‘And how’s young Kate taking it?’

  ‘Hard to say, Mr Osborne. She and Clarence Froggatt have parted company. I think that’s upset her as well.’

  ‘Fancy … I didn’t know … Ah, look. There’s your mother now, Algie. I’ll just go over and pay me respects.’

  Algie returned to work next day. To his disappointment, the office he’d been promised was not ready and he wondered why Mr Sampson had said it would be if he had no clear intention of getting it done.

  ‘Share with Mr Moody,’ Benjamin Sampson pronounced. ‘Meanwhile, you can paint it yourself and switch desks in your spare moments. We’ve got a new draughtsman starting Monday. Have you got your designs ready so we can discuss them and get them drawn up properly?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sampson.’

  ‘While you’ve been away I’ve been looking into the question of tyres and wheels,
you know.’ Algie thought he detected a look of disdain. ‘Did you know that Dunlop, the firm that make the pneumatic tyres, also make the spoked wheels?’

  ‘I didn’t know that, Mr Sampson.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’ He threw his chest out with superb pride in having discovered it. ‘It didn’t take much finding out. I’ve also sourced equipment for the welding process we’ll be using.’

  ‘Resistance welding equipment?’ Algie queried.

  ‘Exactly. Resistance welding equipment. The first machine will be delivered late next week. I’d like to have a prototype bicycle ready by Christmas. Do you think that’s possible, Algie? You must have some idea.’

  ‘I … I … reckon so—’

  ‘No reckon about it, we must,’ Benjamin declared icily. ‘Time is money. The sooner I can bring Sampson bicycles to the market, the sooner the firm will be making money from them. Elementary logic, Algie. So let’s all knuckle down to it. I trust you’ve got no more need of time off?’

  ‘No, sir … Oh! Except maybe when we have to move our house. I’ll maybe need a day off then.’

  ‘You’re moving house?’

  Evidently Aurelia had not discussed it with him. Algie explained.

  ‘Of course,’ Benjamin responded with measured scorn, ‘I would have thought you could manage a move like that in half a day. You surely can’t have that many chattels. A lock-keeper’s house is hardly a stately home. So I’d expect you at work in the afternoon.’

  Another week passed, and Will Stokes had been dead a little more than a fortnight. Clara, Kate and Algie had cleared up after their meal and were sitting in the scullery. Algie was browsing the Brierley Hill Advertiser for a house to rent, when there was a knock on the back door. Kate got up to answer it, hoping it might be Clarence Froggatt come to make amends, which would give her the opportunity to tell him in no uncertain terms to bugger off. Two weeks into this upheaval and she was feeling angry at the way he’d treated her, especially at such a sensitive time as her father’s illness and his subsequent death.