The Lock-Keeper's Son
Page 33
‘With Harriet? He gets about a bit, ha? Is that why you’re so glum?’
‘I ain’t glum,’ she protested. ‘They’re welcome to each other.’
‘Well, she can’t hold a candle to you, can she?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ Kate puffed herself up, feeling very superior.
‘Maybe he’s one of them fellers what like plain women. There are some, you know, believe it or not, though the Lord knows what the hell they see in plain women. Mind you, she has got a good figure, ha? She wouldn’t be so bad with a bag over her head.’
‘So you fancy her as well, then?’
‘Like I say, she’s got a very passable figure. That’s all some men are worried about. Even young Algie seemed took with her for some time.’
‘Pooh! Only because nobody else would look at him,’ she said disparagingly. ‘Let’s face it, who’d want to look at our Algie twice?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Murdoch said. ‘He ain’t a bad-looking lad. That young filly he used to see not long ago had got some handsome flanks on her. She must’ve looked at him and liked what she saw, ha?’
‘Marigold,’ Kate said with a shrug. ‘Yes, she was quite pretty, I admit.’
‘Quite? I thought she was lovely.’
‘You think Marigold’s lovely?’ she queried.
‘Aye, I do.’
‘But she’s got nothing about her. D’you fancy her as well?’
He chuckled like a drain. ‘If I thought I’d got any chance with her … I’m only human, Kate. I ain’t no saint.’
‘D’you think I’m lovely, Murdoch?’ she asked softly.
They were passing a public house in Wellington Road. A boisterous gang of youths was making its way up the hill on the other side of the road, noisy, the worse for drink. Murdoch astutely flicked the reins and the horse broke into a trot.
‘Well?’ Kate prompted. ‘Do you think I’m lovely?’
‘I do, yes. When you put a smile on it, at any rate.’
She turned, realising she must be appearing sullen after all, and gave him a dazzling smile. ‘That better?’
He grinned. ‘Oh, aye, that’s much better. Now you’re beautiful, ha?’
Algie returned home that night after seeing Harry Whitehouse. They had been drinking in the Four Furnaces in Pensnett, a place they had agreed was roughly halfway between Kingswinford and Brierley Hill, although Algie believed he still had the better part of the deal when it came to distance, especially as his return home was all downhill.
He went to the kitchen to find something to eat, fancying a little bread and cheese. The chink of glasses greeted him.
‘You just got in then, our Kate?’
‘Yes, how do you know?’ She reached for a whisky bottle and unscrewed the cap.
‘You and Murdoch passed me about a quarter of a mile back.’
‘Didn’t see you,’ she said curtly. ‘And even if we had, we couldn’t have give you a lift … What’re you after in here?’
‘I’m hungry. I was gunna do myself a cheese sandwich.’
‘Clear off and I’ll do it.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me. I’m quite capable, you know.’
‘Just so long as you don’t lace it with arsenic.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ she said. ‘Shall I pour you a glass of whisky as well?’
He looked at her with some astonishment. Such benevolence was alien. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ve had a drink. I’ve been drinking since eight o’ clock.’
‘Go and keep Mother company, our Algie. I’ll bring you your cheese sandwich.’
He did as she bid him and strolled along to the sitting room via the hallway, pondering Kate’s unprecedented magnanimity. Murdoch came in. As he acknowledged Algie, the cold of outside seemed to radiate from his greatcoat as he took it off and hung it up.
‘Chilly, ha?’
‘Vile,’ Algie replied economically.
‘There seems no end to it.’
Both went into the sitting room. Murdoch greeted his wife and sat down.
‘Where’s Kate, ha?’
‘In the scullery,’ Algie informed him. ‘Pouring you a whisky.’
He nodded and stood in front of the fire warming his hands.
‘Was the play good?’ Clara enquired, putting her knitting back into a large brown paper bag, ready for a conversation.
‘All right, Clara. Not as good as our efforts, but not too bad.’
Algie watched his mother. She looked at Murdoch expectantly, but he said nothing more; he merely sat in one of the armchairs and rested his head, seeming preoccupied. He took out his pipe, inspected the bowl, changed his mind about smoking, and then returned it to his pocket without filling it. He shut his eyes again. It seemed to Algie that Murdoch hardly wished to be bothered with talking to his wife.
‘What are you knitting, Mother?’
‘A nice warm scarf for your stepfather. He needs it in this weather.’
‘Well, there seems to be no let-up, like I say.’
Kate pushed the door open with her foot and entered carrying a tray. Four glasses of whisky adorned it, and a plate of cheese sandwiches. She offered a glass to her mother, turning the tray so that the glass she intended her to have was nearest to her.
‘Ooh, I say. A tot of whisky. Well, I never. Ta, our Kate.’
Then she offered Murdoch a glass and he took the one she presented to him by turning the tray.
‘Cheers!’ he said.
‘Our Algie …’
‘I said I didn’t want whisky,’ Algie protested mildly.
‘Well, I’ve poured you one anyway, so drink it.’
He took it, and the cheese sandwich, which he began munching. He watched his mother sip the whisky. Nobody said much; a strange atmosphere seemed suddenly to have fallen over the household.
‘I saw Clarence Froggatt at the Public Hall,’ Kate suddenly announced for want of something to say, as if aware of the silence and embarrassed by it. ‘He wants to start seeing me again.’
Murdoch stirred in his chair and sat upright. ‘Have nothing to do with him, Kate,’ he said protectively. ‘Once bitten, ha?’
‘Oh, he’s got no chance with me anymore,’ she declared. ‘The way he treated me.’
Murdoch seemed to relax again at Kate’s assertion.
Algie finished his sandwich, swigged the last of the whisky and announced he was going to bed. He undressed, put on his nightshirt and slumped into bed. As soon as his head touched the pillow he was fast asleep, and he had the sweetest, most erotic dream of Marigold.
Chapter 22
On the 18th of January, a Sunday, Algie took an extended ride. His route was along the canals, set hard with ice, like frozen veins in the Black Country’s bruised and pock-marked skin. It seemed colder than ever that day. A savage, searing chill bit into his skin and penetrated his clothing, despite the several layers he wore. The winter was already remarkable for its bleakness. Since the last week in November the temperature had been well below freezing over the whole of England and Wales, even harsher in East Anglia and the south-east Midlands. Algie had read in one of the newssheets that folk were skating regularly on the lake in Regent’s Park, London, where the thickness of the ice exceeded nine inches. If it was as thick along the canals, the Binghams would of course be frozen up, unable to work, and losing money at a rapid rate. So the chances of his seeing Marigold for quite some time were exceedingly remote.
It had already been more than two months since he’d seen her, and even though she might have taken the letter he’d attached to the door of their old house, there was still no word from her, no message. The landlord of the Bottle and Glass had seen none of the Binghams since, only those boat families who were frozen up on the Stourbridge Canal and were stuck there. He suggested, logically, that wherever the Binghams were, they were bound to remain until the thaw, for they would be frozen up as well.
Feeling miserable, Algie freewheeled down the hill fro
m Pensnett to Kingswinford, his fingers aching with cold despite his gloves, his ears stinging from the cold. It was dusk and he must be careful not to skid on any patches of ice which, in the gloaming, were difficult to see. If only it would snow, and break this seemingly endless cycle of grey, desolate, clammy cold. If only the thaw would come so that Marigold could be on the move and the Binghams find their way to the Stourbridge Canal again, and leave a message somewhere for him as to where he could find her … Always presuming she still wanted him to find her.
This nagging doubt was depressing Algie. The longer they went without seeing each other, the more each would fade from the other’s thoughts. He was finding this already, yet he resisted it loyally, and tried to keep focussed on Marigold. Erotic dreams helped, trying to find her regularly helped. She was right for him. He did not want to forget her. His only hope was that she felt the same and that soon he would be able to claim her. But the longer this protracted separation prevailed, the more permanent it seemed destined to be. Maybe Marigold had even met and fallen in love with somebody else by now; she would never be short of admirers, and there were plenty of randy, glib-talking young bucks working on the canals who would be easily taken with her.
As he rode, Algie realised he needed a woman’s company more than anything. In Marigold’s absence, Aurelia would be first choice, if only she were available. Yet he must cast Aurelia from his mind. His position with Benjamin Sampson, and thus his livelihood, seemed precarious enough already without inviting more trouble by presenting himself at his door, gracing his lovely wife with unwarranted attention.
In this crisis of tenderness even Harriet would do. Good old Harriet. At least he was easy in her company. She was, for the most part, undemanding. She understood him as well as anybody did. It might be an idea to go to church that evening and surprise her. He could sit with her and Priss, then amble home with them afterwards. It bothered him that Harriet had seen Clarence Froggatt. He did not actually dislike Clarence, but he certainly resented him paying attention to Harriet. Maybe that in itself was a selfish attitude, the dog in the manger; he did not particularly want Harriet for himself, but neither did he want Clarence to have her. Harriet was not the sort of girl Clarence wanted in any case. Clarence evidently wanted women for sexual pleasure only; he would doubtless try and have his way with Harriet.
And what if he succeeded, where Algie had failed? If Clarence seduced her he would only lose interest. Poor Harriet, though, was the sort of girl who would only commit herself like that if she was deeply in love, and she would inevitably suffer a broken heart as a consequence. She must not be so foolish as to give herself wholeheartedly, only to be cast aside as just another of his conquests.
He had tea with the family, preoccupied and contributing little in the way of conversation. Just lately they seemed to have little to say to each other anyway, apart from ‘pass the jam’, or ‘is there any more tea in the pot?’. A strange atmosphere. He was glad to get away from it.
He took the tram to church, rather than ride there on his bicycle. In any case, it was too cold to cycle there and back. As he entered the church, he saw that Harriet and Priss were already seated in the churchwarden’s pew with others of their family, and there was no room there for him. He noticed how Priss turned her head and nudged Harriet, surprised to see him as he walked down the aisle, carrying The Book of Common Prayer and Hymns Ancient and Modern that was handed him at the door. He nodded and smiled a greeting at them, then sat in a pew some way towards the front, knelt and said an impromptu prayer for Marigold.
The service seemed to drag on, especially so as Algie had no interest in it, save for it coming to an early end. During the hymns and the psalms he could pick out Harriet’s voice amongst the others as the congregation sang; a pleasant voice.
At last, the service was over, and Algie breathed a sigh of relief. Choir and clergy trooped out to the vestry in solemn procession and the congregation drifted into the aisles and shuffled slowly towards the main door.
Harriet, considerately, waited at the churchwarden’s pew for Algie to reach her. She had an inkling as to why he might have come to church, and it was by no means to worship, for she was as aware as anybody of his lack of religious fervour. She smiled as he approached.
‘What brings you here on a night like this?’
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Nothing else to do,’ he said.
‘Goodness, you must be bored. For a minute I flattered myself that you might have come to see me.’
‘It crossed my mind that I might see you.’
‘What’s wrong? Still no sign of Marigold to keep you company?’
‘She’ll be iced up anyway, stuck wherever she is till the thaw.’ He shrugged, to give the illusion that it was of little importance. ‘Anyway, how about you?’
‘Me? I’m very well.’
‘Good. I’ve been a bit concerned about you.’
‘You?’ She cocked an eyebrow in amusement, able to guess why. ‘Concerned about me?’
‘You and Clarence Froggatt …’
They were speaking in low tones as they moved slowly, en masse with others of the congregation who were queuing optimistically for the obligatory handshake and benign smile from the vicar to see them through the rest of the week, before their exit for home and their warm fires.
‘I’m a big girl now, Algie,’ Harriet replied. ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself. As well you know.’
‘Just so long as your heart doesn’t rule your head.’
‘Oh, you can be sure my head rules my heart, Algie.’
They were close to the vicar and the curate now and postponed their conversation. Priss blushed as the young curate bid her good evening in front of them. A few seconds later they were shaking the hands of both clergymen in turn and the vicar was expressing his appreciation for their attendance. The rest of the Meese family had already been favoured with this rigmarole and were waiting outside while the vicar asked Algie why he hadn’t attended for such a long time.
In the porch there was a good-humoured donning of mantles and galoshes. Outside it was snowing. In the light of the solitary gas lamp Algie could see the snowflakes chasing each other around in the wind. The congregation were pulling up their collars in their exodus, peering up into the doubtful sky and hurriedly putting up their umbrellas, the women fastening their bonnets and toques tighter to keep out this most recent and most feared hibernal punishment.
‘Are you two coming with us, Harriet?’ Priss enquired when Algie finally reached them, knowing full well what the response would be.
‘No, I’ll walk back with Algie.’ She turned to him. ‘If you’ll walk me back home, that is?’
Of course, there was no question of it. It was the only reason he’d gone to church. ‘If you’ll be nice and sensible,’ he answered with sham nonchalance.
‘Maybe I’m not always very nice, but I always try to be sensible,’ she said.
‘Funny that. You generally seem to end up being very nice, but not in the least bit sensible.’
‘Well, thank you, Algie,’ she replied with mock courtesy. ‘I believe it’s always better to be nice than to be sensible. You yourself are a shining example of the truth of it.’
The other Meese girls, with the exception of Priss, walked behind their mother, in a brisk scurry home to escape the snow as quickly as possible. Priss, however, glided alongside her, balancing that unsteady bulk lest she slip in the snow, but finding it difficult to get close due to the girth of her mother’s skirts. Their father, meanwhile, entered the Bell Hotel for his customary two pints of India pale.
‘So have you seen him more than the once?’ Algie asked, resuming their topic as they sauntered slowly behind the family to put some space between them.
‘Seen who?’ Harriet queried irritatingly.
‘You know who.’
‘Oh, Clarence, yes.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Sorry … I’ve seen him twice, as a matter of fact.’
&nbs
p; Algie’s heart sank. ‘Twice? And how—? I mean, are you going to see him again?’
‘Well, he’s asked me … And I said I would.’
‘So it’s getting to be a regular thing then?’
‘He’s nice. I like him very much … I always have.’
‘Have you …? I hope you haven’t …’
‘Hope I haven’t what?’
‘I hope you haven’t … well … allowed him any liberties.’
‘And what’s it to you if I have, Algie?’ Harriet was enjoying this. Funny how the tables seemed to have turned so unexpectedly. Funny how the appearance of somebody else in her life could make such a difference to him, after all the months of self-doubt and anguish she had suffered because of him and that girl Marigold.
‘I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.’
‘Clarence is a perfect gentleman … But it’s very gallant of you to care, considering it was all right for you to hurt me, but not for anybody else, evidently.’
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘People never do, do they? But somebody always ends up getting hurt. You were hurt when Marigold gave you up. You said so yourself.’
‘Well, I think Marigold is a part of the past now,’ he said, beginning to believe his own words. ‘Because she’s out of the frame, I just thought it would be nice if we could see each other again … Not to start courting again, I mean. Not that. But just to see each other. To go out with each other from time to time.’
He wanted her friendship, her warmth, somebody to talk to. He needed her company, her understanding. A heartening cuddle every now and again would be pleasant, but with no strings attached. Serious courting was the last thing he intended. He’d allowed himself to become involved with Harriet before and had grown disenchanted, even bored. Harriet was not like Marigold. He did not feel the same things for her as he felt for Marigold. Yet how else could he protect her from Clarence Froggatt’s clutches? How else could he save her from herself and Clarence’s smooth but potentially devastating enticements?
‘So what makes you think I want to be at your beck and call, Algie? Because that’s what it would amount to. What if I say yes and I grow attached to you all over again, and Marigold shows up? Would you leave me high and dry once more, and hurry off to be at her side?’