The Lock-Keeper's Son

by Nancy Carson

  He shrugged. Of course, that’s exactly what would happen. It was Marigold he loved, not Harriet. Harriet was more astute than he gave her credit for.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, Harriet.’

  ‘I know I’m right. The trouble with you, Algernon Stokes, is that you are suffering a broken heart, and are in mortal fear of being hurt on the rebound. Besides, I’d be no substitute for Marigold. So stop trying to be a dog in a manger over Clarence, because that’s all it is … And, don’t dawdle,’ she said impatiently. ‘Clarence is calling for me at half past eight.’

  ‘In this snow?’

  ‘Why should the snow make any difference? I’m sure it will be very romantic walking in the snow … with him.’

  It did not snow greatly. On Monday morning there was still a covering, but it was not deep, which was just as well, since it had not thawed either. The intense cold persisted, however.

  Algie cycled to work and the exertion of pedalling hard, all the way up to Dudley, warmed him. At the Sampson Fender and Bedstead Works, he made his way to the small office he’d been allotted, took off his coat and his cap, and hung them up. He reached down to remove his cycle clips, which he put in the pocket of his coat.

  He picked up a bent and tapered tube that somebody had deposited on his desk and scrutinised it, wondering why he had been blessed with receiving the item. He recognised it as one side of the front forks that would hold in place the front wheel of the new Sampson ‘Lion’ bicycle he’d designed.

  He heard footsteps in the corridor outside and turned to see who it was through his open door. Benjamin Sampson had planted himself in the door frame.

  ‘Ah, Stokes.’ He’d taken to calling him ‘Stokes’ lately; Algie assumed it was to put some metaphoric distance between them. ‘Those front forks. They ain’t strong enough to give reliable service. One has broken on the prototype already. Got any ideas how we could improve them?’

  Ideas. Benjamin was after his ideas again.

  ‘Yes, we could keep the tube diameter and section thickness constant, instead of tapering it down,’ Algie replied genuinely. ‘We could weld a lug to it, as well, to house the wheel.’

  Benjamin nodded, serious, tight-lipped. ‘Good. I’ll get it drawn up and the jigs altered. I want the second prototype bike ready tomorrow with that modification on it. I shall be showing it to some wholesalers at the end of the week, and I want it fitted and tested by then.’

  ‘I could test it, Mr Sampson,’ Algie suggested. ‘I’d like to try the new prototype, ’specially since I never tried the first. I could compare it with—’

  ‘It’s unlikely you’ll have the time, Algie,’ Benjamin interrupted. ‘Harry Whitehouse hasn’t shown up today. I want you to take his place for a while building bedsteads.’

  ‘Doing my old job?’ Algie looked at his employer with incredulity and bitter disappointment. ‘You want me back down there?’

  ‘You’re the only man I have who knows that job as well as Whitehouse.’

  ‘But what if he’s off for some time?’

  Benjamin shrugged. ‘Then you’ll be expected to cover his work for as long as he’s off … Your wages will be adjusted accordingly.’

  Yes, downwards, Algie thought, grossly humbled.

  Harry Whitehouse, it transpired, had contracted influenza. There was another epidemic of it about, no doubt aggravated by the continuing cold weather. Algie, thankfully, had so far missed it, and hoped he would continue to remain well. He would rather be fit and healthy, working at his old bench, than be laid up in bed bored to tears in Kingswinford, suffering from influenza.

  But he was deeply disillusioned, hurt even, that Benjamin Sampson should continue to treat him so shabbily, especially after it was he, Algie Stokes, who had set him on the road to greater riches with his ideas of manufacturing bicycles. As he worked constructing bedsteads, a job he thought he’d seen the last of, he silently seethed. Why should he have to suffer the ignominy of his old workmates making jibes about him falling out of favour, and being made to do this monotonous work? It was bad enough having to suffer a drop in wages without any word of regret from Mr Sampson or sign of sympathy from colleagues, let alone the stigma that went with it.

  Friday came. Algie was becoming increasingly obsessed and angry. He made up his mind to go to the office and tackle Mr Sampson. He was determined to have it out with him, to try and get him to see his point of view.

  ‘Mr Sampson is out today,’ Violet, his middle-aged secretary told him. ‘Would you like to make an appointment to see him next week?’

  ‘No,’ Algie replied sullenly.

  If Mr Sampson was out, he was certain to be at home on a Friday evening. Algie felt so strongly that he decided he would call there when he left work and express his displeasure. Such an appearance there might make Benjamin Sampson realise just how discontented he was. He might not be made welcome, but he was determined to make his point. He was being treated unfairly, was being humiliated. He, Algie, was the man with the ideas, good ideas, but not only was he being used, but also disparaged. Benjamin Sampson had deceived him about his intentions; all Benjamin had ever wanted was to steal his ideas. Algie had been ruthlessly exploited and it was time to let Mr Benjamin Sampson know that he did not appreciate it, and was not going to take it lying down.

  So, at six o’clock when he left the factory he made his way on his bike to the house of his employer.

  He pulled on the bell and felt its scrape of resistance. A few seconds later the maid, who he remembered was called Mary, answered the door. She looked at him condescendingly in his working clothes, his cap, cycle clips swathing his trouser legs to his ankles.

  ‘I’m Algie Stokes,’ he said, trying to hide his impatience with her. ‘I work for Mr Sampson and I want to see him.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Mary said, almost familiarly. ‘Mr Sampson’s away on business. I woulda thought you woulda knowed, seeing as how you work for him … same as me.’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, suddenly deflated.

  ‘Shall I see if Mrs Sampson will see you instead?’

  He hesitated. He did not wish to burden Aurelia with his gripe. He could hardly reveal his anger and frustration to her. On the other hand, she might think it rude if he turned down the possibility of at least saying hello. She had, after all, been very kind and understanding when he was grieving over his father, and Marigold ending their love affair.

  ‘Well?’ Mary queried impatiently. ‘Make your mind up, Algie Stokes, it’s chilly standing here. D’you want me to ask if she’ll see you, or not?’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he answered. ‘If she’s not busy. If she is busy, tell her it can wait till I see Mr Sampson next week.’

  Mary left him standing at the front door for some time, huddling inside his coat to keep warm. Eventually Mrs Sampson appeared.

  ‘Algie. How lovely to see you. Won’t you come inside out of the cold? I can’t imagine why Mary left you standing there.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble, Aurelia,’ he said, instantly brightening up at the sight of her. She looked as lovely as ever, her eyes clear and blue, with that warm smile she always seemed to have for him, and his anger seemed to dissipate like steam in a soft, warm breeze. ‘I called to see Mr Sampson, to tell you the truth,’ he said as he stepped inside.

  ‘Benjamin is away, Algie. We’re not expecting him back till next Thursday. Do sit down.’

  ‘Next Thursday?’

  ‘You must surely have known?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. He doesn’t tell me his arrangements.’

  ‘He left last night for Yorkshire. I understand he has appointments in Leeds, Halifax, Hull and York. He said he might be going to Lincoln as well.’

  ‘You mean he will be away tomorrow and Sunday?’ Algie was amazed at this news. Who in his right mind …?

  ‘It’s the way it’s worked out. Oh, I don’t mind. It’s not as if we are love’s young dream.’ />
  ‘Aren’t you?’ he queried, surprised she should admit as much.

  ‘Well, hardly … But that’s another matter. How are you, Algie? Let’s see … How long has it been since I last saw you?’

  ‘It’s getting on for three months now. It was the time of my father’s death.’

  ‘Of course. I imagine the pain is becoming a little easier to bear … At least, I hope so.’

  ‘Yes, I admit, it is,’ he affirmed, with a nod.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He grinned affably. ‘A cup of tea would go down a treat, if it’s no trouble.’

  Aurelia smiled, and rang for Mary. ‘Would you like something warming in it? It is rather cold still, isn’t it?’

  ‘That sounds just the ticket for a cold winter’s night.’

  ‘So what about your young lady? Marigold’s her name, isn’t it? I suppose you’ve sorted out all your problems there by now.’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing at all of Marigold,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that’s such a pity,’ she said sincerely.

  ‘It’s a great pity,’ he agreed.

  ‘So how is your mother faring now?’

  ‘Oh, she’s got over things very well, thank you, Aurelia.’ He was about to mention that his mother had remarried already, but felt ashamed of the fact. Aurelia would most likely view its incomprehensible alacrity as a scandal, and he did not want her to regard him in the same bad light as his wantonly errant mother. So he didn’t mention it, and enquired about her son, little Benjamin, instead.

  ‘He’s having supper, bless him. I like to keep him to a strict routine. We all know where we are then. The problem with small children is that they can rule your life completely. The trick is to rule theirs – in a kindly way of course.’

  Algie nodded and smiled.

  At that, Mary answered the bell and entered the room. Aurelia ordered tea and a small measure of whisky for her visitor Mr Stokes.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you, Algie,’ she said unaffectedly when Mary had left them. ‘I often think about you. I pondered you a great deal after I saw you last. I do wish I could have helped you more to get over your grief.’

  Why did he dislike Benjamin Sampson so vehemently, and yet admire his wife with an equal and opposite fervour? And because he despised Benjamin so much, so abhorred the way the man treated him, he felt all the more justified in wallowing in the warm friendship his beautiful wife offered.

  ‘I think you did help, Aurelia,’ he replied. ‘But, when it comes to losing somebody, I must be the most easily hurt person in the world. Oh, I’ll stand my ground gladly in a fight or an argument, but when feelings and emotions come into it, I’m as soft as tuppence.’

  ‘I know, Algie …’ She lowered her eyes as if reticent to look into his lest she give too much away. ‘You are very sensitive, aren’t you? It shines through. Too many men are not …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But I think I’ve said as much before, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ he said softly.

  ‘So it goes without saying how much I admire that in you, Algie … But not only that …’

  He thought she was being rather forward for a woman in her position and did not know how to respond. Thus, they remained unspeaking for long seconds, silent seconds which served only one mischievous purpose; to afford both of them time to allude to the words which remained unspoken. And those undeclared words seemed to emphasise the weight of their attraction for each other, daring both to wonder whether the unthinkable might actually be possible.

  Algie sighed profoundly and Aurelia looked at him expectantly with her large blue eyes.

  ‘Oh, Aurelia,’ he said at last. ‘If only you knew … There’s so much I’d like to say to you …’

  ‘What?’ she asked simply. ‘Say it.’

  He shrugged and shook his head, for he had no idea how to tell this young married woman how much he admired her, the effect she had on him, how much he wanted to protect her from her husband whom he had grown to detest so intensely. And it would be utterly stupid to tell her that he desired her, how much he desired her. She would certainly regret having heard that once he said it.

  ‘If you have something to say, please say it,’ she urged gently, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘What is it, Algie?’

  He shook his head again and smiled self-consciously. ‘I can’t … I daren’t … I don’t know how anyway … I don’t know that you’d welcome it either.’

  ‘Go on, Algie. Please try.’

  ‘No, Aurelia. It’s best not said … Somethings I have no right to say … I esteem you far too much to presume … I think maybe I’d better go before I do say something, ’cause if I do I’m sure to regret it … And you might be angry as well.’ He got up to go, unwilling, but confident it was the honourable thing to do.

  ‘Does it have anything to do with Benjamin?’ she said, rising with him.

  ‘I can’t say any more, Aurelia.’

  ‘You’re noble as well as sensitive, I see.’

  ‘Please don’t mock me.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not mocking you, Algie, believe me. You are being noble … but quite unnecessarily.’

  ‘Noble or not, I’m really only thinking of sparing my own emotions.’

  ‘So you don’t consider other people’s? Mine, for instance.’

  ‘Yours, Aurelia?’ He regarded her wistfully. ‘That’s just the point. What have I to do with your emotions? What right do I have to even ponder them?’

  ‘On the face of it, no right at all, I concede,’ she said soulfully.

  ‘So there’s no point in me saying what was in my mind anyway, and making myself look a bigger fool than the one I’ve already presented to you. I’ll go, Aurelia, if you don’t mind.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Honest, it’s for the best. Thank you very much for the offer of tea.’

  ‘Algie, don’t think—you mustn’t think—’

  He forced a smile; a smile of sadness, a smile that manifested his melancholy. ‘I can let myself out.’

  With deep regret she watched him go. His gloomy smile had cut her to the quick, but her inability to say what was on her mind was on a par with his. Maybe that had been the trouble with her marriage; the inability to talk things over, the tendency to let things slide without halting them by a mere discussion …

  Mary entered carrying a tray laden with a pot of tea, two cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, a small jug of milk and a smaller jug containing whisky.

  ‘Mr Stokes couldn’t wait, Mary, unfortunately.’

  ‘Oh, I thought I heard the front door shut, ma’am. Did I take too long over the tea?’

  ‘No, not at all. He simply had to go … I’ll have mine, however. That will be all, Mary, thank you.’

  Chapter 23

  Algie found it difficult to get to sleep that night. Over and over in his mind he relived his conversation with Aurelia. Had he done the right thing by shying away from admitting how he felt? His conscience told him he had, but he felt sorely frustrated because of it. She was sensitive, he imagined she was as sensitive as himself, easily hurt, and he hoped he had not upset her by leaving so abruptly. The last thing he wanted was to upset her.

  He heard the faint creak of floorboards and the click of a door catch on the landing. Murdoch must have been mooching about downstairs, maybe to collar another slug of whisky. Funny how they had all taken to drinking whisky regularly just before bedtime, his mother among them. Funny how she was so keen to accept it these days, when she barely used to touch the stuff. Still, if it made her sleep as soundly as she said it did.

  Algie rolled over onto his other side. Oh, he wanted Aurelia. The problem was he could so easily fall head over heels in love with her. In the absence of Marigold he longed for another girl who could cure his heartache, but convention decreed he would have to learn to live without that particular one.

  He heard a bed creaking, the regular, rhythmic tweak of a bedstead. Murdoch, engaged in his nightly
exercise upon his mother. Algie would be glad when the novelty wore off. But it was taking time; much longer than Algie had envisaged. Just lately there seemed to be an unaccountable spurt of activity in their unsavoury nocturnal antics. And at Murdoch’s and his mother’s age it was nothing short of shameful. He dreaded to think to what perverse depths his previously spotless mother had sunk in her dotage, stimulated by the whisky.

  A little more snow fell in the night and that Saturday morning Algie cycled gingerly to work. He went directly to his old workbench, warmed from his arduous ride, rekindled the stove, and began doing the job he had been so used to doing before. Maybe he should think about finding employment elsewhere, a place where they would appreciate him, where his talents could be used and not abused. After all, Sampson’s was not the only factory in the area making bicycles. Bicycles were big business. Another manufacturer, James Parkes, conducted a business at Newhall Street in Dudley. When he finished today he would take a ride up there to see if there was a vacancy. He had experience with the manufacture of bikes; he would be an asset to any firm engaged in that business. He could learn even more about the business, which would stand him in good stead when he came to start his own firm eventually.

  One o’ clock arrived and Algie put down his tools and tidied the workbench. He cleaned his hands with the mixture of sawdust and powdered soap that resided in a bucket near the sink in the obnoxious, distempered latrines provided for the workers’ convenience. He put on his coat, scarf and cap, went outside to where his bicycle was standing, and rode down the alley at the side of the factory to the road. There, he saw an elegant young woman evidently waiting for somebody. She was wearing a cape and bonnet and a scarf around the lower part of her face as protection from the cold, rendering it impossible to see who she was. There was something achingly familiar about the way she stood, and his heart lurched thinking it might be Marigold. As the woman became alerted by the rattle of the bicycle over the cobbles, she turned to look. At sight of Algie she stepped forward, waving her arms to gain his attention.