The Lock-Keeper's Son

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Mr Osborne!’ she declared pleasantly when she saw him standing there in the wind and the rain. ‘This is a surprise. Come in out the wet.’

  ‘Thanks, Kate, lass.’ He took off his hat as he entered the little house and shook the rain off it onto the floor quarries. ‘I just thought I’d come and see how you’re all faring after your father’s demise, ha?’ he said. ‘How are you doing, Clara?’

  ‘Bearing up, thank you, Murdoch. It’s nice of you to call, ’specially on a night like this.’

  ‘I said I would when I saw you at the funeral, didn’t I?’

  ‘Our Kate, take Mr Osborne’s cape … I bet you’d like a cup of tea. A drop of summat in it would be nice, eh? ’Specially if you’ve walked all this way in the rain.’

  ‘No, I come in me gig, to tell you the truth,’ he said, doffing his wet cape and handing it to Kate, who somewhat resented being treated like a maid. ‘But a drop of summat warming in it would be welcome, Clara.’

  ‘Sit you down, Murdoch.’ Clara got up from her chair and rummaged in the cupboard at the side of the stairs, retrieving a half-full bottle of whisky which she put on the table. ‘My husband liked a drop of whisky in his tea afore he went to bed at night, you know, Murdoch. It helped him get off to sleep, he always reckoned.’

  ‘Very nice,’ Murdoch concurred. ‘A drop of whisky never hurt nobody, ha?’

  ‘Have you decided what our next production for the Amateur Dramatics Society is going to be, Mr Osborne?’ Kate enquired, sensing an oncoming lull in the conversation.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have, Kate. We’ll be doing a thing called The Three Temptations. It’s a burlesque about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It should be very funny, and there’s music and dance in it, so we’ll need a damned good pianist – or even a band, ha? If we can find one as is capable of doing it.’

  ‘Is there a part in it for me?’

  ‘Oh, I should say so. La Belle Isolde. A beautiful young woman. Daughter of Sir Agravaine.’

  Kate bridled with satisfaction and smiled. ‘I can’t wait to read it, Mr Osborne.’

  ‘Call me Murdoch when we’m intimate like this, ha?’ he said. ‘I don’t see the sense being formal when we’re all sitting in the same house together like a family. What say you, Clara?’

  ‘It’s very nice of you to be so amenable with my son and daughter, Murdoch. I’m sure they appreciate it.’

  ‘I got Clarence Froggatt marked down for the part of Sir Lionel, Knight of the Silver Shield, an admirer, Kate.’

  ‘He ain’t an admirer no more, Murdoch,’ Kate informed him dryly. ‘Not of me anyway. I’m finished with Clarence Froggatt. He can fizz up and burst as far as I’m concerned. And he won’t be a member of the society no more, either. He reckoned he’d got too much studying to do for his architecting.’

  ‘Well, it was nice of him to let me know, ha?’ he said sarcastically. ‘Ah, well, there’s others as can fit the bill. It’s a pity you won’t join us, young Algie, a good-looking lad like you. You’d have all the young women after you.’

  ‘I have enough trouble with young women as it is,’ Algie declared, thinking of the tribulations with Marigold and Harriet. ‘What with one thing and another.’

  Murdoch roared, and even Clara smiled. ‘He reminds me of meself when I was his age, ha, Clara?’

  ‘Well, there was always plenty young women around you in them days,’ Clara admitted.

  ‘All except the one that got away, ha? The one as fancied somebody else more, ha?’

  Algie noticed how his mother lowered her eyes at that remark, and it set him wondering.

  ‘So how are you faring, Clara?’ Murdoch went on. ‘Are you all right for money? Do you want for anything?’

  ‘We’re managing. Course, Algie lost wages when his father died, but Kate was still at work, so we’re managing.’

  ‘Don’t go short or get yourself into debt. If there’s anything you need, tell me. If ever you need any help, let me know, and I’ll fix it.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Murdoch,’ Clara replied graciously. ‘But, like I said, we’re managing.’

  Murdoch’s visit was on the Monday evening. On the following Wednesday morning, Mr Munslow from the canal company paid Clara a visit. Algie and Kate were both at work, and she received him in the scullery, drying her hands on a towel that was riddled with holes.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Munslow?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Stokes. My visit will be brief, as I’m anxious to get back to my office.’

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve brought money for you, Mrs Stokes. The exact amount of your husband’s weekly wage.’ He handed her a sealed envelope. ‘The company has decided, in its wisdom and generosity to pay a full week’s wages, even after his death, as a token of our respect and thanks for the years of service he had put in with the company. There will also follow a small annuity to which your husband contributed each week. I don’t have details yet as to the amount you will get back, but rest assured it will be paid as soon as we can arrange it, so please keep in touch.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Munslow,’ Clara said graciously. ‘It’ll come in useful and no mistake. It’ll go towards the cost of having to flit.’

  ‘Yes … er … About the house, Mrs Stokes …’

  ‘What about it?’ Clara asked apprehensively, sensing that she had just accepted a sweetener to get them out of the house quickly.

  ‘Well … I realise that I gave your son the impression that you would be able to stay here till the end of the month …’

  Clara eyed him suspiciously. ‘That you did. But …?’

  ‘But circumstances have changed, Mrs Stokes – as circumstances often do – and we find ourselves – unexpectedly, I should add – in need of it by Saturday. It means, I’m afraid, that you must vacate this house by Friday of this week at the very latest. If you don’t agree voluntarily, we can of course apply to the courts for an eviction order.’

  ‘But, Mr Munslow,’ Clara gasped, ‘we’ve got nowhere to go. We haven’t been able to find a suitable house to rent yet.’

  ‘I can’t help you there, Mrs Stokes. This house is the property of the canal company, and you must appreciate that as landlords we have the right to do as we please with it. I am authorised to explain that a new lock-keeper has been chosen, and he wishes to move in with his family on Saturday, or else we lose him. He has the offer of two jobs, you see, and we’d very much like to engage him. But it is dependent upon vacant possession of this property.’

  ‘I see,’ Clara said, trying to remain unruffled. ‘It sounds as if we haven’t got a leg to stand on, doesn’t it? It sounds as if we haven’t got a choice.’

  ‘I do appreciate your cooperation, Mrs Stokes. So you’ll be gone by Friday. I thank you most heartily. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.’

  ‘Heartless devils!’ Algie exclaimed when he learnt of the canal company’s decision. ‘After all the years of faithful toil my dad put in, now they go back on their promise and want us out by Friday. Well, we don’t need their charity, Mother. We’ll get by. I shall make sure we find somewhere to live, and soon.’

  ‘But what shall we do if we don’t find anywhere by Friday?’

  The urgent quest for a new home, this basic priority, was suddenly preoccupying them and eclipsing, for the time being, their grief over Will’s death.

  Algie shrugged. ‘We’ll put up at the Bell for a few days.’

  ‘But we’ll have to put our furniture and things in store. Where are we going to store it?’

  ‘Lord knows. But I’ll find somewhere.’

  Harry Whitehouse, Algie’s chum from work, had an uncle who owned a warehouse. By Thursday evening, they had received permission to store their goods and chattels in a corner of it for however long it took, at the exploitative rate of two shillings and sixpence a week. Into the bargain, however, he loaned them a horse and cart with a driver, who turned out to be useful l
ifting heavy furniture out of the house and onto the cart with Algie.

  Stripping the house was a poignant occupation. Every item which they shifted, or cast aside to throw away, elicited some deep-seated memory of his father. It struck Algie how young his father must have been when he began life as a lock-keeper in this house, not vastly older than himself now. Will had seemed to be of an eternal, never-changing age. Although the years rolled by relentlessly, his father had never seemed any older – nor even any younger – and he searched his memory for mental images of him as a gentle, younger man.

  His thoughts turned inevitably and sadly to Marigold. Since that fateful Saturday night he had heard nothing of her, no news, no sight of her. His mother hadn’t seen or heard anything of the Binghams either. If they had passed through their locks they had done it stealthily. Yet it seemed extremely unlikely, for somebody would have seen them and reported the fact. Algie had asked several folk for news, including the gaffer of the Bottle and Glass, where Seth was ever likely to call for beer, if only to have a jug filled that he could sup on his way to some other mooring. But nobody had seen the Binghams. It was obvious they had not been along that stretch of the canal since. However, that fact alone was hardly conclusive evidence that they were avoiding the place, Algie realised; their work could take them anywhere in the vast network of canals that criss-crossed the country. So he remained hopeful.

  But now he was about to leave this house, and it was here that Marigold would expect to find him. He must leave her some message as to where he had gone, in the hope that she would find it, otherwise he might never see her again. The appalling thought brought a chill to his bones. Never see Marigold again? But he loved her, he ached for her. Could life ever be so cruel as to deny him sight of her lovely face again? Of course, it couldn’t. If need be, he’d scour every towpath, every winding hole, every lock on every canal in the country to find her. He would be sure to find her someday.

  Until he realised he could be chasing around forever.

  What if, on the very day he chose to scour the length of the Shropshire Union, for instance, the Binghams were at Oxford or Banbury, or even Northampton? It could go on like that forever. He could waste no end of time and energy, and cause himself no end of heartache in the process. The best way was to leave messages with as many people as he could. And he could start by leaving one pinned to the door of the cottage. Maybe the new lock-keeper would be so good as to either leave it there for her, or pass it on if ever she came enquiring.

  Algie realised that his best bet would be to meet the new lock-keeper, explain his situation and ask him to pass on a message. He could hand him a letter to give her, and although she couldn’t read or write, at least she would have the gumption to find somebody to read the letter to her. Perhaps her mother could read a little.

  But what if she came tonight, or tomorrow?

  No, he’d better write the letter now, and pin it to the back door, addressed to Marigold Bingham of the Sultan and the Odyssey, care of the new lock-keeper.

  He was careful not to pack away their writing pad and envelopes and, just before they left the house, he wrote these few lines in indelible pencil, against the door that would be locked to them forever thereafter.

  Friday 21st November 1890

  Dearest Marigold,

  If you had not already heard, my father died suddenly on the last night that I saw you. Because of it we’ve had to move from this house. As I write this letter I don’t know where we shall end up living, because we haven’t found a house yet, but I shall have asked the new lock-keeper to let you know, once I know who he is.

  It has been very hard losing my father, but it has been just as hard without you. I hope you realise how much I love you and miss you, and I hope you still feel the same. I am truly sorry for what I did, not letting you know I had seen Harriet, but I promise you on my honour that it was the only time and I would much rather have taken you to Mr Sampson’s house that night instead of her. I hope you have already found it in your heart to forgive me my foolishness.

  Please get a message to me somehow, perhaps through Mr Simpson, the publican at the Bottle and Glass, as soon as you get this note. I am waiting for you, my angel.

  Yours eternally,

  Algie.

  He placed the note in an envelope and pinned it to the back door, in the hope that she would receive it sooner or later.

  Chapter 18

  The 3rd of December was the first Wednesday the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society met after their roaring success with The Forest Princess, and the company was assembled in the Drill Hall for its introduction to their next programme. Murdoch Osborne handed out copies of the short comedy called The Three Temptations, described as ‘A Masque for the Moderns; novel, allegorical, musical, and spectacular,’ and written by E. L. Blanchard. There were never enough copies to go round, which meant several people sharing. Kate Stokes was blessed with sharing with Priss Meese.

  ‘This is a short burlesque,’ Murdoch announced, ‘which will be the first part of our programme for next spring. It’s very funny, but requires some clever acting by those I’ve chosen to participate.’ He looked around, scanning the faces that formed a wide circle around him. ‘Mr Mobberley, I would like you to read the part of King Arthur – “once a King of England, now a subject of Burlesque”,’ he read theatrically. ‘Mr Carter, please be Sir Lionel, Knight of the Silver Shield, ha? And you, Mr Coates, Sir Tristram, his rival, Knight of the Brazen Mug.’

  Everybody laughed, which Murdoch, with a grin, interpreted as a good sign.

  ‘Now, Mr Homfray, I think the part of Sir Agravaine of the Rueful Countenance would suit you, seeing as you’re such a poker-faced man of the law, ha?’ This observation elicited a few titters among the ladies. ‘Mr Grafton, you can be Bruno, a servant, and Miss Kate Stokes …’ He looked up at her expectantly and received a grateful smile. ‘I’d like you to be La Belle Isolde, the beautiful daughter of Sir Agravaine of the Rueful Countenance. I shall play the part of Merlin … the Enchanter …’ He took a mock bow. ‘And the part of Morgana La Faye, the Welsh fairy, I would like our dear Miss Richards to play.’

  He glanced at Katie Richards, and was pleased to see an agreeable smile on her pretty face, pushed out as it had been lately by her prettier namesake Kate Stokes.

  ‘Mr Hartshorne, would you please be The Phantom Bill, a dangerous fiend … ha?’

  ‘It depends how dangerous I’m required to be,’ Mr Hartshorne jested.

  ‘Oh, not half as dangerous as you can be, I don’t doubt,’ Murdoch replied good-humouredly. He scanned the group again. ‘The rest of you will be in the chorus and required to sing, I’m afraid … and you have first go, since you open the proceedings with a little ditty, as you can see from your scripts …’

  ‘What tune should we sing this to?’ one of them asked. ‘Does it say?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. We’ll have to find a tune that fits. I fancy a hymn tune myself. Using a hymn tune should be suitably irreverent.’

  ‘And, believe it or not, I’m all for that,’ Priss whispered to Kate.

  The group spent a long time trying to decide on what tune to use for the first song, but didn’t hit on any that fitted neatly with its metre. So they read the play through, amused by its comedy, and were confident by the end that it would be a great success. Mr Osborne had evidently chosen their material well. The rehearsal ended with everybody humming hymn tunes to themselves and each other for the opening refrain, in a desperate race to be first with a suitable one, with Murdoch asking each to come up with something in the week ahead.

  As the group broke up, people were still trying various hymn tunes, including Priss and Harriet Meese who had their heads together with Kate … Until Harriet thought it opportune to mention a piece of very important gossip …

  ‘Kate, I heard that you and Clarence Froggatt have parted.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about him,’ Kate responded acidly. ‘If I ever see him again I’ll spit
in his eye.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Harriet said. ‘It was an acrimonious parting, was it?’

  ‘Not particularly. But he could’ve chosen a better time.’

  Harriet immediately wondered whether Kate might be inferring that she was pregnant from the liaison. Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh, you mean it coinciding with the death of your father?’

  ‘Course. What did you think I meant?’

  ‘Oh, nothing at all. I was just a bit slow there, wasn’t I? How stupid of me … Yes, I agree, it was not very considerate of him.’ She was about to enquire about Algie’s health and the latest on Marigold, when Murdoch Osborne sidled up to Kate.

  ‘A moment, Kate?’

  Kate withdrew from Harriet and Priss and stood before him.

  ‘Can I give you a lift in me gig, Kate, ha?’

  ‘What? To the Bell?’

  ‘The Bell? What do you mean, the Bell? Are you meeting somebody at the Bell then?’

  ‘Only me mother and our Algie. We’ve put up there, ’cause they turned us out of our house early.’

  ‘They turned you out of your house and you’re putting up at the Bell?’ He sounded appalled.

  ‘Only till we find a house we like. There was nowhere else to go.’

  ‘There must be scores of houses.’

  ‘None we like, Murdoch. None of us will put up with something we don’t like.’

  ‘Well, I don’t blame you for being fussy. So how’s your mother coping?’

  ‘Not too bad. I think she’s taking it all well, considering.’

  ‘Good, good … Well, come on, then, ha? I’ll drop you off at the Bell.’

  Kate said goodnight to Harriet and Priss, who looked at each other questioningly as she followed Murdoch outside.

  ‘She’ll get her teeth into anybody,’ Priss remarked. ‘No wonder she always gets the plum parts and the best-looking men.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so catty, Priss. Mr Osborne is hardly a good-looking man.’