The Lock-Keeper's Son

by Nancy Carson

  If his mother found out, that would be the end of her marriage. In a way, that might not be a bad thing. With this madness going on she was living in cloud cuckoo land anyway. She could kiss goodbye to the comfortable existence she’d begun to enjoy, the security she’d expected to benefit from for the rest of her days. She would be a laughing stock besides, for folk would wag their fingers and say, ‘I told you that nothing but bad would come of marrying in such haste’.

  Everything must surely collapse around them. Those two stupid people. His sister and his stepfather. Kate, he knew, was hopelessly wanton. But Murdoch … Well, he thought that Murdoch might have a bit more sense at his age.

  Algie’s faith in human nature was in utter crisis. He had lived in the same house as Kate too long not to know her faults and her weaknesses. His happening upon her and Reggie Hodgetts as they copulated against the shed that spring night last year manifested a monumental clue as to her lack of virtue, and Clarence’s comments merely confirmed it. But here, at the heart of this reprehensible business was not merely the simple principle of trust, but that of basic decency. A young woman simply did not sleep with her stepfather.

  He began to wonder what had really possessed his mother to marry Murdoch in the first place. All right, they had been a courting couple when they were younger, no different perhaps to himself and Marigold … Then a thought struck him. A vile, monstrous thought. What if he, Algie, was the son of Murdoch Osborne? He hoped to God it was not true. He loved his mother, admired everything about her. There was little about Murdoch that he admired, however, and he hated to think she might have been tainted by him all those years ago. If only it was daylight and he could study himself in the mirror, try and discern any facial similarities between him and his wayward stepfather.

  Up until the time his mother had expressed a wish to marry Murdoch he had believed her to be spotless. But that very eagerness, which she had tried to conceal, had made him question her virtue. Now he questioned it more. Just what had gone on in the past between her and Murdoch? Just how deeply had they gotten involved all those years ago? Had they been as deeply, as intimately involved as he had been with Marigold?

  That illicit, inglorious affair, unwittingly discovered by Algie, had begun when Murdoch and Kate had left the Public Hall in Dudley, where the Netherton Amateur Dramatics Society had staged a play. They’d been discussing Harriet Meese and Algie. Marigold’s name had cropped up, and Murdoch had said he thought the girl was quite lovely, prompting Kate to ask him if he thought she, Kate, was lovely too. He replied that he did.

  ‘So do you fancy me, Murdoch?’ she asked, keen to wring as much out of his admission as she could.

  ‘Oh, aye. No question.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Especially when you smile at me like that. But I’m married to your mother, ha? For better or worse. That puts a different slant on it altogether.’

  ‘Do you fancy my mother?’ Kate’s large eyes were clear and challenging, even by the sparse light the street lamps and carriage lamps afforded.

  ‘Now what sort of question is that for her own daughter to ask, ha?’

  ‘It’s a question what needs answering, Murdoch. I mean, has she lived up to what you would’ve expected when you were both young?’

  The horse was going at a steady trot. Murdoch had privately decided that the poor animal needed the exercise to warm him through after standing tethered to that lamp post for nigh on two hours in the freezing cold.

  ‘Your mother’s in her forties, Kate,’ he replied with seriousness over the rattle of the wheels and the horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. ‘And she’s bore two children between times. She ain’t quite how I imagined her to be when she was eighteen. How could she be?’

  ‘So you don’t fancy her now? You’re disappointed in her?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you straight, just between we two, ha? Any man, ’specially one of my age if he’s still got any spark o’ life left in him, would rather his bed partner was a bit younger with fresh, smooth skin, ha?’

  ‘So you’d rather have somebody young … like me …?’

  ‘Bugger me, Kate …’ His pulse was suddenly racing. ‘Are you suggesting something, by any chance?’

  His astonishment amused Kate. ‘It’s a serious question, Murdoch. Favour me with a serious answer.’

  He paused, wishing to choose the right words, dangerously anxious not to put a damper on what could be a very interesting development. ‘Well …’ he began carefully, ‘from the point of view of having a bit of fun between the sheets, I can see the advantage in having somebody like you there. What man wouldn’t, ha?’ He grinned self-consciously as he spoke. ‘I bet you’d be a heap o’ fun in bed, ha? Your mother ain’t that much fun at all, is she, let’s face it? It didn’t take me long to find that out. Won’t go out at night, don’t want to do anything other than sit in front o’ the fire with her knitting or sewing …’

  ‘I know …’

  They remained silent for a few long minutes, each digesting and analysing what the other had said, and the tantalising suggestions each had implied. Before they knew it they had reached Badger House. The horse, out of habit, turned into the driveway and headed straight for its stable.

  ‘You know, Murdoch, you married the wrong woman,’ Kate declared with a finality that defied argument.

  He looked at her with utter astonishment. ‘Oh, aye? Would you have had me then, if I’d asked you instead?’

  She smiled at him coquettishly. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have needed to marry me, Murdoch …’

  The horse, its breath rising in clouds of steam, scraped its hoofs in the gravel impatiently, waiting to be unharnessed. Murdoch, meanwhile, looked at Kate with a perilous mixture of disbelief and longing.

  ‘I take it you’ve got bags of experience already of what goes on in bed between a man and a woman?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, and without all the baggage of marriage.’

  ‘Clarence Froggatt, ha?’

  Kate shrugged, and an unfathomable smile flickered across her lovely face. Already she knew she had Murdoch on the hook like some great slobbering fish. She also knew she was playing a very dangerous game, but its very danger was exhilarating. Dangerous games were not alien to her. She thrived on them. They stimulated her. And Murdoch, for all the difference in their years, was not unattractive. He bore his years well, he was clean, presentable, and personable, not marred by an unsightly beer belly. He must have enjoyed a decent measure of success with women over the years if Clarence’s comments about him joining the amateur dramatics society, just to meet available young women, were true. Besides, and just as relevantly, she would be getting one over on Clarence, wouldn’t she?

  ‘If you fancy trying me for size, come to my room tonight while my mother’s asleep.’

  Neither Kate nor Murdoch moved, for her challenge was not yet accepted, no arrangement yet ratified. She might yet be winding him up.

  ‘Bugger me, Kate …’ Murdoch gulped. ‘Are you serious, ha?’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious.’ She looked provocatively into his eyes by the light of the gig’s flickering lamps. ‘It’s all yours, Murdoch.’

  ‘Then let’s get to it,’ he said eagerly, ready to jump down from the gig.

  ‘Hang on, hang on … I ain’t doing it for nothing, you know. You have to earn it.’

  ‘Earn it?’ he queried. ‘So there’s a catch …’

  ‘You know I intend to be a professional actress no matter what anybody thinks. Well, you have to promise me that you’ll write to one of them great impresarios you know in London and help to get me on the stage there.’

  He sighed ruefully. This glorious chance was slipping through his fingers. ‘But you know very well that your mother wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Who cares about my mother anyway? You don’t.’

  ‘That ain’t quite true, Kate. Whether or no … I don’t approve of you becoming an actress either.’

  She cuddled up to him. ‘It’s worth it, ai
n’t it, Murdoch?… Ain’t it? A night or two between the sheets with me instead of her? Just for writing to one of them great London impresarios? Promise me you’ll do it, Murdoch, and I promise you your reward.’

  He’d sighed longingly and decided, in a flash, to take her at her word, weighing up the pros and cons, the odds of being found out, and considered that it was too good an offer to turn down.

  ‘Aye. All right. I promise.’

  Kate grinned, flushed with self-satisfaction at negotiating what she deemed a fair trade, and left him with the horse.

  Murdoch fumbled like a novice groom as he unharnessed the horse and tacked down. He was charged with exhilaration, coupled with a strange sense of foreboding, the likes of which he had not experienced before. As he settled the horse into the stable with some fresh straw and a bucket of grain, he pondered the enormity of what he was getting drawn into. It was madness, total madness. He could jeopardise everything he’d ever had, all he’d worked for during his entire life. But he had neither the willpower nor the desire to turn his back on this unbelievable offer. Of course they would get away with it if they were careful and discreet.

  Ever since that night when she presented herself to him after the Amateur Dramatics Society’s efforts last spring, he had wanted her. Never in the world of pigs’ pudding, though, did he ever think it likely he would have her. Never would he have believed that a man of his age would have any chance at all with Clara Stokes’s nineteen-year-old daughter, whose desirability made him ache with longing. She reminded him so much of Clara at the same age, and his sentimentality for Clara in those bygone days had driven him, too recklessly it now appeared, to seek her hand in marriage as soon as she became available. It was strange, he thought, how the prize he would have considered so marvellous then could turn out to be hardly worth the having now. He could never have believed he could ever suffer such a disappointment.

  Kate, however, was about to redeem him, was about to make it all worthwhile. Fair enough, if she wanted to go on the stage and make a strumpet of herself, he could go along with it. But he would dilly-dally, string her along. Why rush to make any arrangement with any impresario who would end up having all the fun? He would tell Kate he’d written, and keep her believing it until such time as he had to make a move, or she forgot all about it.

  He entered the house, took off his cape and his tall hat, and hung them on the stand in the hallway. As he went into the sitting room, Clara greeted him with a smile. She was sitting with Algie. Soon, they were clutching a glass of whisky each. Neither Algie nor his mother, however, had the least notion that Kate, who had poured it, had laced both measures with laudanum to ensure they slept very soundly.

  Algie cycled to work tired, dispirited and feeling completely useless. His head was muzzy, but his mind was nevertheless full of what he had discovered during the night. The trouble was, he had no idea what he should or could do with the knowledge. Maybe nothing. Perhaps it would be better for everybody if he were to say nothing, but simply leave it be. He wished he could make a decision. He wished there was somebody he could turn to for guidance, but what he had discovered was too shocking a thing to discuss with anybody.

  ‘What’s up wi’ you?’ Harry Whitehouse asked when they had been at work for half an hour, unspeaking.

  ‘Nothing,’ Algie said morosely.

  ‘You look as if you’ve lost a sovereign and found a threepenny bit. Cheer up, man. Have you heard from that Marigold saying as she don’t want yer after all, or summat?’

  Algie shook his head and forced a smile.

  ‘Well, summat’s upset yer.’

  ‘I just got a funny head, Harry,’ he lied. ‘It’ll go off soon.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go up the office and ask Violet if she’s got summat as you can take for it?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Harry. Don’t fuss.’

  ‘Strikes me you got that influenza coming. It took me like that at first. Headaches, and feeling miserable. D’you feel miserable, Algie?’

  ‘I do, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘You look as miserable as sin. I’d go and ask Violet for summat if I was you, if it was only summat as would put a smile of your face … Go on …’

  ‘Mr Sampson will only want to know why I ain’t at my station,’ Algie said.

  ‘D’you reckon? I know he thinks he’s clever, but he ain’t that clever.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, he ain’t here today, by all accounts. And while the cat’s away …’

  Algie instantly perked up at this news. If he went to the office he could find out for certain. He left Harry, and rushed to the office to verify the claim. He tapped on Violet’s door and entered.

  ‘Hello, Algie. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve got a vile head, Miss Pugh. Have you got something I could take for it?’

  Violet Pugh, stout and in her mid-fifties, had been a faithful employee and dogsbody since the days of Benjamin Sampson Senior. The poor, overworked woman was often asked for remedies to common ailments, and kept a stock of pills, ointments, powders and syrups at hand for such emergencies. She got up from her chair and rummaged in a wall cupboard above an antiquated and dusty bookcase that contained rows of business directories and files. She pulled out a bottle of Dr Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne, and a spoon.

  ‘Best thing for headaches, this,’ she proclaimed. ‘I swear by it.’ She uncorked the bottle and poured the liquid into the spoon. ‘Open up.’

  Algie stood there with his mouth open while Miss Pugh stood on tiptoe and poured it into his mouth. He screwed up his face as he tasted it.

  ‘Best thing for anything, Dr Collis Browne’s,’ she said. ‘Diarrhoea, rheumatics, lumbago, ague … even childbirth, I shouldn’t wonder. Give it half an hour and you’ll feel a new man.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Sampson?’

  ‘Bristol today and Taunton tomorrow. He’s a busy man these days, what with this new bike to sell and everything. It’s given him a new lease of life.’

  Algie couldn’t help but smile at hearing it confirmed, despite all his worries.

  ‘There, you got a smile back on your face already, young Algie. See? I told you it’d work in no time.’

  As Algie passed the house of Benjamin Sampson on his way home, he peered intently towards it to see if there was a signal. His heart leapt when he saw the light spilling through Aurelia’s bedroom window, and the red vase with the yellow paper flowers as bright as a beacon, announcing just what he longed to know. If nothing else, it gave him a reason to be out of the house and so not have to put up with the company of his perverse family.

  When he arrived home he could not look his mother in the eye lest she could read in them the truth about Murdoch, and if he never saw Kate again in his whole life it would not bother him.

  But he had to see his mother. He had to tell her he would not be staying to dinner.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Oh? Are you going on your bike?’

  ‘No, the tram,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I shall eat while I’m out. I might not be back tonight either, so you needn’t wait up for me. If I do come back I’ve got my key.’

  She regarded him with suspicion in her expression ‘You’re doing this regular. Is it a woman?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he answered, failing to look at her. ‘I’m done with women.’

  It was partly true in any case. He was done with his sister anyway, he was done with Marigold – or, rather, she was done with him, which amounted to the same thing – he was done with Harriet Meese now that she and Clarence Froggatt were courting.

  ‘So I’ll be on my own again tonight,’ Clara said, with self-pity evident in her tone. ‘Murdoch and our Kate will be going to the Drill Hall later for rehearsal.’

  ‘Then it’s your own fault, Mother,’ he said harshly. He had no sympathy with her illogical phobia about runaway horses. She’d brought on this looming cr
isis, of which she knew nothing as yet, by her own reticence to accompany her new husband anywhere. ‘You have the chances to go out, why don’t you take them? Your husband has offered to take you out more than once to my knowledge, yet you never go because of your stupid fears. I bet he thinks you’re a real stick-in-the-mud. You could even join the amateur dramatics group, if only to help with the costumes, but you won’t. You’d rather stay here and rot.’

  He wanted to say more. He could say more. He felt like telling her that her attitude made her marriage extremely vulnerable. He felt like saying that her refusal to accompany Murdoch had even stimulated his interest in other women, or had at least given him the opportunity. But he could not bring himself to do so. It would be too cruel, especially since it was the truth.

  Clara sighed and nodded. ‘Don’t be so hard on me, our Algie,’ she called after him. ‘I always thought it was our Kate who was the hard one, not you.’

  He turned his back on her. Of course, he blamed her for what had happened. It was entirely her own fault.

  ‘I’m going up to have a good wash and to change into some clean clothes,’ he said over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll be gone as soon as I’m ready.’

  Chapter 27

  Aurelia was already awaiting Algie when he arrived at Dudley Market Place. The elaborate marble fountain which stood majestically before it was a rendezvous point for many of the town’s citizens. So as not to look as though she was waiting for somebody and so allay any suspicion, Aurelia browsed in the shop windows nearby, affecting a distinct air of interest in the merchandise on display. When the tram arrived, Algie saw her, her back towards him, looking deliciously elegant in her long dark skirt, her mantle and fashionable hat. There was something enigmatic about her demeanour; part the little-girl-lost, part the unhappily married woman who had no chance of permanent escape, but was partly resigned to her lot so long as she could steal a couple of illicit hours in the arms of the man she loved. Algie wanted to take her in his arms there and then, and hug her protectively. Instead, he tapped her gently on the shoulder.