The Lock-Keeper's Son

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Laudanum!’ he pronounced, and looked at her aghast. ‘You’re lacing mother’s whisky with laudanum?’ At once he understood her motive. ‘And I know why, you dirty little whore!’

  ‘Don’t call me a dirty little whore,’ she screeched, half in anger at his resentment, half in frustration for getting caught.

  ‘But that’s just what you are, Kate, a dirty little whore. I know exactly what you’re up to.’

  Hearing the commotion, his mother and Murdoch stood together at the doorway looking perplexed.

  ‘What’s going on in here, ha?’ Murdoch enquired sternly.

  ‘D’you really want me to say, with my mother standing behind you?’

  ‘Has he hurt you, Kate?’

  ‘Hurt her? I ought to bloody-well kill her.’

  ‘Don’t swear like that, our Algie,’ his mother interjected, her delicacy offended, but also trying to remain calm under these disagreeable circumstances.

  Algie sighed in frustration. He could contain his pent-up emotions no longer; he was at bursting point. ‘Never mind my swearing, Mother. That’s just a bit petty compared to what your daughter does. Isn’t that right, sweet Kate?’

  Kate made no reply, merely glowering at him from under a furrowed brow and rolling her big brown eyes resentfully.

  ‘See this, Mother?’ He held up the small green bottle. ‘It’s laudanum. Well, your delightful, precious daughter has just put a few drops of it in your whisky. Something she’s been doing every night to make you sleep.’

  ‘Laudanum? Lord, I thought it was knocking me out,’ Clara admitted, still not aware of the greater relevance.

  ‘And you know why?’

  ‘Why?’ Clara enquired, obviously puzzled.

  ‘Tell her, Kate. Tell your mother why you want her knocked out every night.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Kate scoffed. ‘You’re losing your wool.’

  ‘Shall I tell her, Kate?… But it’d be better coming straight from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘You’re mad, Algie Stokes,’ Kate cried haughtily. ‘You’ve lost your mind.’

  ‘I know I lost it the night you spiked my whisky with laudanum, but since then I’ve woken up …’

  ‘I think you ought to apologise to your sister for making such stupid accusations, Algie,’ Murdoch said vehemently, with a threat unmistakable in his tone. ‘Say you’re sorry, lad, and we’ll all get to bed and forget about it, ha?’

  ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Murdoch? It’d conveniently take the heat off you, ha?’ said Algie, disdainfully mimicking Murdoch’s tedious habit of speech. ‘You think I should apologise, do you? That’s rich coming from you.’

  ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to, ha? You cheeky young whelp. Hold your tongue, lad, else I’ll beat the living daylights out of yer.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love you to try, Stepfather. I really would.’

  ‘Stop this senseless arguing at once, both of you,’ Clara butted in, staring in wide-eyed disbelief and shame at this unanticipated flare-up in her family. ‘I never heard anything like it in my life. Have you been drinking, Algie? Are you drunk?’

  ‘He must be drunk,’ Murdoch agreed.

  ‘No, I’m not drunk. I haven’t touched a drop all night. I’m stone cold sober as a matter of fact, and I want you to hear why Kate’s been spiking your whisky … Go on, Kate, tell her …’

  Kate remained sullenly silent.

  The new maid appeared and hovered, to all intents and purposes on her way up to bed. Murdoch spotted her out of the corner of his eye and shooed her away impatiently. Algie didn’t care whether the maid heard what the argument was all about or not.

  ‘Right. Then I’ll tell you, Mother,’ he went on regardless, unable to keep quiet about the scandalous shenanigans any longer. ‘It’s to knock you out so that you sleep all night, while Murdoch visits her room and gets into her bed … You can imagine the goings-on.’

  Clara looked at her son with wide-eyed incredulity, then at Murdoch, then at Kate.

  ‘I never heard anything so damned preposterous in my life,’ Murdoch protested fervently, looking with apprehension at his wife. ‘This is slander. Out and out slander, ha?’

  ‘I’ve seen you, Murdoch,’ Algie countered. ‘I’ve stood outside Kate’s room and listened. I’ve heard her giggling and you grunting, and I’ve heard the bloody bed springs creaking as well. Then I’ve watched you stagger back to my mother’s room, she none the wiser for having been knocked out by the laudanum in her whisky.’ He turned to his mother, an agonised look on his face. ‘Mother, I’m so sorry I have to put you through this,’ he said earnestly, tears in his eyes at this shameful revelation. ‘But it’s the truth, I swear it. I didn’t want to have to tell you, but I’d have been betraying you as well if I hadn’t.’

  His shoulders seemed to slump, and he shook his head as if he was drained of all strength and emotion; the effects of enduring this heavy burden, coupled with the absolute necessity of having to release it.

  ‘Is this true, Murdoch?’ Clara asked simply.

  ‘Course not. It’s a ridiculous lie from start to finish. It’s nothing less than slander, I tell you.’

  ‘Our Kate?… Is it true?’

  Kate turned away from her mother guiltily. That simple movement spoke louder than any words could have done. Then her inborn defiance bubbled to the fore, overriding any feelings of shame, guilt or blame. She would not go down without a word of justification for her deeds.

  ‘All right, it’s true, Mother,’ she cried. ‘But I don’t regret it. Not one bit. And you know something? Murdoch was easy to pinch from you, and you know why? Because you’re a dreary old stick-in-the-mud. You bore him to tears already. You won’t go out, you won’t do anything. All you’re interested in is stopping in the house with your feet up, sewing and mending. What company is that for a man? You don’t deserve to keep him.’

  Clara felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach, a horrible, sickly, gut-churning feeling, and her legs suddenly felt weak beneath her. She looked at her daughter with an expression of incredulity that the girl could stoop so low and yet show no inclination to repent. She then looked at Murdoch with utter contempt, before turning to Algie.

  ‘I don’t think I want him, if all this is true,’ she said quietly, finding her voice at last. To Kate, she said coldly, ‘Keep him, Kate, and welcome.’ Her heart was by now thumping with the unbearable pain that accompanied the awful realisation of how callously she had been betrayed by those who professed to love her. Again she looked at her daughter, with a deeply hurt expression. ‘I pray to God that I never see either you or him again, so long as I live.’ She turned to Murdoch. ‘Now, you rat, will you please afford me the courtesy of being alone while I gather my belongings together?’ Then to Algie. ‘Algie, you and me have got some packing to do. We’re leaving this house tonight.’

  He heard his mother’s shuddering sigh at the same time that he heard the stairs creak, as the new young maid crept up them.

  Chapter 29

  A tear ran down Clara’s cheek which she stemmed with her tiny handkerchief. How could she continue to live in this house now under the crushing pressure of this disastrous knowledge? How could either Murdoch or Kate ever summon the gall to face her again, even if she wanted to stay? Such carryings on as she had been told of were utterly alien, bizarre, depraved. It was impossible, after such an outlandish union, that either of them could ever be a part of her life again. They could tread their own path from now on. She had neither lain with, nor known her new husband long enough to be aware of his weaknesses and his faults, but the trust was gone anyway. Her own limited experience, her innate naïvety, made it impossible to understand why or how this despicable perversity had happened. She could not excuse it, she could not countenance it, nor could she forgive it.

  She blamed herself. She had managed to drag everybody into this quagmire of sin by marrying Murdoch. Because of it Algie’s life was in turm
oil, and through no fault of his own. Her own life was also in shreds, and all because of the promise of care and affection, which she had desperately needed to allay her grief over Will.

  Dear, dear Will …

  Clara sighed at the recollection of him. What would he say if he could see her now? How utterly foolish she had been for a grown woman.

  Kate, on the other hand … What demon had they spawned, she and Will? She had no sympathy with Kate; the girl had engineered her own disgrace, bolstered only by Murdoch. It was the ultimate betrayal. What they had done was unthinkable and unforgivable. She meant it when she’d said that she never wanted to see either of them again.

  As far as Clara was concerned there was only one thing for it; to leave at once, and Algie must leave with her. Not that she thought for a minute that Algie would want to stay. Not in Murdoch’s house. Despite his immaturity in so many things, Algie was constant. He was, not least, her son. Without doubt, she could depend on him.

  Without further ado, she pulled a large canvas bag from inside the wardrobe. They would find a room at an inn for the night. There was one up the road, the Old Court House. She could not stay here in this house of sin and condone her daughter’s and her husband’s reckless, wanton behaviour. Whatever had Murdoch been thinking, to imagine for a moment that he could get away with something as abhorrent as this, under his own roof with his own wife just across the landing, his stepson just along it, and two maids and a cook sleeping in the bedrooms above him?

  She rummaged through the drawers of her dressing table and through her wardrobe, and hurriedly threw as many things as she could into her bag. Anything she had forgotten or could not carry would have to remain where she had left it. Awkwardly, she lugged the bag downstairs and placed it in the hall by the front door. There she waited for Algie. She was aware of Murdoch and Kate in the sitting room, talking in hushed tones, discussing, no doubt, the best way for them to redeem themselves, to lessen or mitigate their sin in the eyes of the society in which they existed, for this sin would doubtless destroy the reputations of both.

  Algie emerged from upstairs carrying another canvas bag containing all his worldly goods. He saw his mother looking forlorn and agitated in the hall, and went to her. Smiling sympathetically he put his arm around her and gave her a hug.

  ‘Are you ready then?’

  ‘I am,’ she answered solemnly.

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want to do?’

  ‘It’s not what I would’ve chosen, Algie, but there’s nothing else for it.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to leave tonight? Wouldn’t you rather leave in the morning?’

  ‘No, I’m not staying in this house another minute.’

  He nodded. ‘I agree. Come on then.’

  He opened the front door, and the howling wind blew in a rain of snowflakes. They turned their backs on the house and walked away without a word to the remaining occupants. Even a goodbye would have been more than they deserved.

  ‘Let me carry your bag and you can have mine,’ he said considerately. ‘Mine’s lighter for you … Hang on, though. I’m not leaving my bike here, just to have to come back and fetch it tomorrow. I don’t want to see that pair ever again. I’ll get it now.’

  He put down the bag and rushed round to the rear of the house to retrieve his bicycle from the outbuilding where he kept it. Clara waited, huddled under her mantle, shivering from shock and the bitter cold. She was not used to going out at night, especially a night like this. When Algie returned, wheeling his bike alongside him, he picked up the larger bag and lugged it into the night, not knowing where they would end up.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get rooms at the Old Court House,’ he suggested.

  ‘I thought that,’ Clara said.

  ‘At least we can try. If they’ve got nothing we’ll go to the Bell, like we did before.’

  ‘No, not the Bell, Algie. They’ll think it’s proper queer if me and you show up there. We had the wedding party there only a few weeks ago.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘And tomorrow we’ll find a house to rent somewhere.’

  ‘I have to work tomorrow, Mother.’

  ‘It won’t hurt either you or Mr Sampson if you take a day off to find us a house,’ Clara responded matter-of-factly. ‘It’s a question of getting your priorities right.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. He had no wish to gainsay her. She had put up with enough lately. Algie accepted that he must humour her.

  ‘How long have you known about the two of them?’ she asked outright.

  ‘Not long, Mother. Not to be certain at any rate. I knew something was going on a week or two back, but it was only the other night that I watched and listened, and I saw him coming out of her room. She’s always been wayward. You might not have realised it, but I know it for a fact. She’s a trollop. I could make your hair curl with stories about her and her antics.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to hear them. But fancy her lacing my drink with laudanum, that’s what I can’t get over. Mind you, it worked wonders. It was like being in heaven.’ Clara even managed a smile.

  ‘It’s habit-forming, they say. You’re getting none off me, whether or no.’

  ‘No, not if you don’t know what day it is once you’ve had it.’

  She asked nothing more, seeming to accept the situation for what it was with a resignation that took Algie by surprise. She seemed calm; as if she was glad the whole episode of her second marriage was at an end.

  And at least it had got her out of the house at night …

  They were successful in renting rooms at the Old Court House and, as planned, they sought somewhere permanent to live the next day. An advertisement in the Brierley Hill Advertiser led them to a lettings agent in Dudley who had on his books a furnished house in Abberley Street, near Top Church. They inspected the property, were satisfied, accepted it and paid a deposit. The following day, Friday, they moved in.

  On Saturday morning, Algie rode to work. His journey there from Dudley did not take him past the house of Benjamin and Aurelia Sampson, which was in the opposite direction, but that was hardly a worry yet. The problem was that neither Marigold nor Aurelia would have a clue as to his whereabouts any longer. Not that Marigold was such a concern anymore. Somehow, though, he must let Aurelia know; a letter, if all else failed.

  He arrived on time and went to his workbench. He raked out the stove, laid a fire and was lighting it when Harry Whitehouse arrived, puffing and panting.

  ‘How come you ain’t been at work the last couple o’ days?’ Harry enquired as he hung his coat up on a hand-made brass hook they’d fixed to the whitewashed wall.

  ‘It’s a long story, Harry,’ he answered evasively.

  ‘Well, let me warn you that Mr Sampson’s hopping mad ’cause you ain’t been here.’

  ‘He can go and play with himself for all I care,’ Algie replied. ‘I’m just about ready for him. If he thinks he can upset me he’s got another think coming. Anyway, I’ll have the last laugh on him and no mistake.’

  ‘The last laugh? How d’you mean?’ Harry was intrigued.

  ‘Never mind.’ Algie had no wish to compromise Aurelia by gloating.

  Before long, Benjamin Sampson was doing his rounds of the factory. He spotted Algie and beckoned him, looking fittingly grim. Algie approached resignedly.

  ‘Where the hell d’you think you’ve been the last two days, Stokes, without so much as a by-your-leave?’ he asked, well away from Algie’s workbench.

  ‘My mother and me suddenly found ourselves in a bit of a pickle, Mr Sampson,’ he said evenly, controlling his resentment, and wishing to give away as little as possible. ‘We had to find new rented accommodation as a matter of urgency. I couldn’t leave her to her own devices – she’s recently widowed, you may remember. We moved to another house and we’re settled now. It shouldn’t be necessary for me to have any more time off, Mr Sampson.’

  ‘Necessary or not, Stokes, your personal l
ife is your own affair, not mine,’ Benjamin said, lacking any sympathy whatsoever. ‘So I see no reason to either subsidise it or put up with it. I’ve had enough of your having time off, your unreliability. You’re sacked. Collect your belongings and go.’

  Algie shrugged nonchalantly, which Mr Sampson interpreted as impertinence.

  ‘When I speak to you, Stokes, do me the courtesy of a verbal reply and not an insolent shrug.’

  ‘Do me the courtesy of not speaking to me in such a tone, Mr Sampson,’ Algie replied calmly. ‘I’m not your lackey. And what makes you think you’re a better man than me anyway? What makes you think you have the right to talk down to me?’

  ‘Because I employ you,’ he sneered. ‘I pay your damned wages. Therefore, by definition you are my servant.’

  ‘You did employ me till two minutes ago, but by your own announcement you don’t anymore, so I’m no longer your servant. But whether or no,’ he went on coolly, ‘you still owe me my wages.’

  ‘Which you’ll have in full come payday.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sampson. I can’t wait till payday, nor do I intend to. You have a legal obligation, I believe, to pay me now. I’ll take my wages before I leave.’

  ‘I want you off the premises right away.’

  ‘And I want my wages …’

  ‘They will have to be worked out and put up.’

  ‘Then work them out and put them up. I’ll wait.’ Then he had an idea, an idea that could serve two purposes. ‘I’ll compromise, Mr Sampson. As a favour. I’ll leave the premises now, as you wish, and I’ll collect my wages from your house this afternoon.’

  Benjamin pondered the proposition momentarily. Such an arrangement would give him time to work out what he owed and get rid of the impudent scallywag at once. Even if Stokes called at the house, he needn’t see him; he would instruct the maid to hand him his wages, and good riddance.