Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  ‘Ah, dear Edward. We were all sorry to learn of his death.’

  Lucy smiles and continued. ‘The rates and taxes have been paid each year, but the place has been left for a long time without a regular tenant. Unfortunately, the so-called resident staff either died or absconded and the property has been completely overrun by squatters.’

  The colonel shook his head sympathetically.

  Lucy explained that when the agent had showed her the building she had estimated over 200 people were living in it. ‘They have taken over every room, upstairs and downstairs, the attic, the bathroom, the pantries, even the closets. The toilets aren’t working; there’s no running water; the place is filthy and it’s infested with rats and cockroaches. I’m afraid the stench almost made me sick. It was unbelievable.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And if that is not bad enough, the gardens which I imagine were once sculptured and ornamental, have been replaced by a shamble of shelters made from bits of cardboard and canvas.’

  The colonel puffed on his cigar allowing Lucy to continue. She told him she had instructed the agent not to advertise the property until the squatters were evicted and the place cleaned. The company’s representative had promised he would attend to the matter personally, but advised that it would incur additional expenses which would need to be paid in advance.

  After handing over the fee demanded, and after several letters, frustrating phone calls and two rather perilous excursions to the property, Lucy had come to the conclusion that absolutely no effort was being made to evict the residents. Though she felt sorry for the people who were to be made homeless, she nevertheless had to conduct her business.

  ‘While the house remains the way it is,’ she said, ‘no one in his right mind would even consider buying it.’

  Colonel Winters laid his cigar in the alabaster ashtray.

  ‘I will require the address of the property and the name of the agent. This business may take a little time and involve some expense.’ He looked at Lucy quizzically.

  ‘Cost is no object,’ she assured him. ‘And even if it were, any expenses would be offset by the sale once it goes through.’

  ‘As I thought. Leave the matter with me.’

  ‘May I ask how you hope to remove all the people and when you do, how you will keep them out?’

  ‘That I cannot answer as I have not yet worked out a strategy. Speaking from experience, I can say dealing with some of the local government bodies is a long and painstaking procedure, and those tactics would get us nowhere in a hurry. In this instance what we need is a more dynamic approach. The first move will be the erection of a high fence around the grounds and the installation of a squad of security guards. If necessary I will call on my friends in the police department.’ He paused. ‘In fact, I will speak with the recently retired commissioner who is, right this moment, within these walls. Once the vagrants are evicted and the house is empty, I suggest you refurbish it before presenting it on the market.’

  Lucy found it hard to thank him enough.

  ‘It is my pleasure, madam. Not only does it give me the opportunity to help you and return a favour to an old friend, but it gives me something to get my teeth into. One gets bored here with the same routine day in and day out. I have played so many games of chess in the last few years it is a wonder I do not walk diagonally across our checkerboard floor.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel Winters,’ Lucy said, as she shook hands with him.

  ‘My dear lady,’ he said holding her hand in his. ‘I will enjoy this exercise immensely. And when the house sells, you may treat me to a box of those rather fine imported cigars.’

  It was a long time since James had wandered over the moors alone. Sitting on a rock, he gazed across Wharfedale to the grey-green hills in the distance. He had always loved the countryside especially the open moors. It had a peacefulness he found nowhere else. Below, in the valley, the river snaked lazily through verdant fields. Downstream the clusters of smoke-blackened houses blemished the natural landscape. The thought of working in a dirty city was repugnant.

  But James knew his mother had always wanted him to improve himself and to go to university. So had Edward. He had even left money in trust for that purpose. But Edward was dead, and James now found himself torn between his desire not to disappoint his mentor and his wish to work on the land. He sighed, knowing full well that study and professional qualifications were not what he wanted out of life.

  But time was running out. He had to make a choice. His car was getting older and would not run forever. He was living on the interest from his savings, but that was rapidly diminishing as he was eating into his capital. One day he would likely inherit most of his mother’s money. But she was fit and only fifty years of age. Even though James knew she was a wealthy woman, he would never ask her for money. Besides, the trip to India, on which she had taken him, had not been cheap.

  But what his mother had said was true, for several years he had had neither job nor income. He had done repairs to the cottages and pottered about with the horses, grown a few crops on the meadow and helped raise a few calves and hens, he had read many books, learned a lot, but earned nothing. He had been thoroughly self-indulgent. And all that time Grace had worked like a navvy, no doubt observing him. What on earth did she think of him?

  Here he was, twenty five years of age with no trade, no job and little income, at a time when the queues of men seeking work were growing daily throughout the length and breadth of England.

  If Mr Fothergill were to advertise for help, he would have no difficulty finding men eager to work on the farm. Men were becoming desperate. Some would work just for the milk to feed their bairns. Milk was essential and always would be. Being part of a dairy farm was a damn good proposition.

  It was a good offer and James knew it, but since he had first mentioned the idea of farming, the price of land had risen and his capital was being depleted. Now, when he really wanted to buy some land, he didn’t have enough money. If there was no other way, he could ask his mother for a loan, but he didn’t know when she would return to England. It might be weeks or months and Mr Fothergill was waiting for an answer. Summer was round the corner and the fields were still lying fallow.

  As he sat pondering his decision a sparrow hawk dropped vertically into the heather. After a few moments it flew up, its prey gripped tightly in its talons.

  James knew instantly, he must grab the opportunity while it was available. But he also knew that if he was to accept Mr Fothergill’s offer, he would have to find some other way of getting the money.

  Chapter 23

  Cyril Street

  The white-clad waiter was a tall willowy man and his turban made him appear even taller. Lucy took a sandwich from the tray and thanked him.

  ‘You don’t mind this heat here?’ The question came from a man drinking tea at the next table. He flipped the crumbs from his lap and turned to face her.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Lucy replied. ‘It’s the moisture in the air, I hate. Makes everything feel permanently damp.’

  ‘You might like Australia then.’

  ‘Might I?’

  ‘Maybe. Hot there, but not as humid they tell me.’

  ‘You are travelling on, are you, Mr—?’

  ‘Street. Cyril Harley Street.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds more like an address than a name, don’t you think?’

  ‘Lucy Oldfield,’ she replied offering her hand. ‘Mrs,’ she said, ‘but actually it’s, Miss.’

  ‘You are very forthright! I like that.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said, inviting him to join her. ‘I’ve become accustomed to that title over the years. I think, because I was single and had a child, people called me, missus, out of politeness. For a long time I was happy to accept it, preferred it, I suppose, to being thought of as a loose woman.’

  ‘And were you?’ he said, with twinkle in his eye.

  Lucy grinned. ‘That, I am not telling, Mr Street.’

  ‘Call me Cyril,’ he said. ‘Care to
walk out on the terrace? I think there might be a little breeze outside.’

  The hotel’s dining room was open on all sides but neither the balmy breeze blowing in from the ocean nor the ceiling fans provided any relief from the sultry atmosphere. The air on the terrace was as moist as it was inside.

  ‘Are you staying in Bombay long?’ Cyril asked.

  ‘Not much longer. I’m waiting to conclude some matters which have taken considerably longer than I expected. It’s been interesting to see how business is conducted in the colonies.’ Lucy dabbed sweat from her brow. ‘It’s over six months since I left England and it’s about time I was heading home.’

  ‘Because you have been in no hurry, might I assume you have enjoyed your stay, and that you have no one back home desperately awaiting your return.’

  ‘You could be correct.’

  ‘In that case, would you care to dine with me this evening?’

  ‘You do not waste any time, do you?’

  ‘At my age, madam, my adage is waste not, want not!’

  ‘All right, Mr Street, you have won me over for a meal. But a meal only.’

  ‘Well at least it’s a start,’ he said. ‘Shall we say seven?’

  ‘Seven on the dot. I will look forward to it.’

  ‘For you,’ James said, handing Grace a large bunch of pink carnations.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, as she sniffed the flowers and smiled. ‘I thought we were here to look at the stalls?’

  ‘We are.’

  The Leeds market was crowded with shoppers. Under the glass-domed roof, the still air echoed with the raucous voices of traders competing to sell their wares. The individual shops looked the same as James remembered from his childhood: books, toys, drapery, and shoe shops set amidst the aroma of freshly baked bread and the scent of the cut flowers. The city market stocked almost everything from pots and pans, polishes, brooms and buckets, to dusters and dishcloths.

  James and Grace ambled through the maze of assorted stalls, to the lane consisting entirely of butchers’ shops. Outside each establishment, chalkboards advertised tripe, dripping and kidneys. Inside, butchers smelling of blood and mutton fat, chopped bone and cartilage with sharpened cleavers. A hungry dog sniffed at the doorways, but instead of scraps received cries of abuse.

  The fish-market had a very different smell but James didn’t notice as they wandered through. He was looking for stalls selling second-hand goods and, whenever he spotted one, he scanned the wares hoping to recognize something familiar – an item which had once belonged to his mother or Edward. Not knowing exactly what had been stolen, Grace wandered along beside him.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, as they left the indoor market and wandered outside to the stalls which mostly sold fruit and vegetables.

  ‘Lovely apples! Granny Smiths! Cox’s! Pick your own.’

  ‘’Ere ’ave a taste,’ a leathery-faced lady yelled, thrusting a segment of orange into Grace’s hand. ‘Don’t come no sweeter than that!’

  Grace sucked on the fruit, the juice running between her fingers.

  The sun had disappeared and a chill wind had whipped up while they were indoors. Cloth canopies flapped. A tin tray clattered, when it blew over and skidded along the ground in front of them. James retrieved it and returned it to the stallholder. It had come from a second-hand stall neither of them had noticed. Amongst the items on display was a teapot. It was a common white pot, stained inside and with a web of clay-coloured cracks running right through it. James remembered seeing a similar pot in Alice’s kitchen. He remembered the time she had scalded her wrist when the steam had escaped through a chip in the lid. This pot had a chip in the same place.

  ‘How much for the teapot?’ James asked.

  ‘Tanner to you, Guv.’

  James replaced it and looked around.

  ‘’Ave a look,’ the man said. ‘Come on missus, I got all sorts of stuff.’

  Most of the items were damaged or stained. There were odd cups and saucers, bottles, books, tins, biscuit boxes, single serviette rings, certainly nothing of value. James scrutinized every item till he was satisfied, that apart from the teapot, there was nothing else he recognized.

  ‘Any idea where this came from?’ he said, holding the pot at arm’s length.

  The man shook his head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Any other things came with it?’

  The man shook his head cautiously and turned his back.

  ‘Would a pound jog your memory?’

  The man shuffled around. ‘Might do.’

  ‘I’m not interested how you got it or who you got it from, I just want to know if there was anything else came with it.’

  ‘Might have been.’

  James reached in his pocket and took out a bank note.

  The man looked around furtively.

  ‘Well,’ said James rubbing the paper between his fingers.

  ‘There was quite a bit of stuff.’

  ‘If it’s what I am looking for I’m prepared to buy it off you at a reasonable price. Where is it?’

  ‘Sold it,’ the stallholder sniffed. ‘Not my sort of stuff. Good stuff, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Tell me who bought it and the money’s yours.’

  ‘No idea, Guv! Honest! Sold it to a bloke who came looking. Seen him before. Bit of a toff. Fancy dresser. Only wants quality. Don’t think he’s a collector. Reckon he’s got a shop ’cause he bought the lot.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That’s my business, Guv! I bought it fair and square.’

  ‘Who from?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Fella comes round at times. Brings me stuff by the sack-load.’

  ‘Is it stolen?’

  ‘I don’t ask questions. Just gives him a price.’

  ‘And this other man who came and bought the stuff, the toff – would you know him again?’

  ‘I’d know him if I saw him. Never forget a face.’

  James took out a paper and pencil. ‘Can you write?’

  ‘Of course I can write, I’m not stupid!’

  ‘Good. This is my address and here’s your money. And there’s another quid for you if you can get the name of the man who bought the rest of the stuff from you.’

  ‘And what about the fella I got it off in the first place.’

  ‘You get his name and address and I’ll give you the same again.’

  The man pushed the piece of paper into an inside pocket. ‘You’ll be hearing from me, governor.’

  James nodded and took Grace’s arm. They had only gone a few yards when the man shouted after them.

  ‘Hey, Guv!’ The man was beckoning. ‘I got a pile of odds and ends the toff didn’t want. He said it was rubbish. That’s where the pot came from. Want to have a look?’

  James nodded.

  Dragging a Hessian sack from under his counter the man unravelled the twine tied around the top. Reaching his hand in to the bag, James brought out various items and laid them on the ground.

  ‘You won’t find anything of value in there!’ the man said.

  He was right. The clock’s face was broken. The glass vase was badly cracked. The stitched pages of the book had become separated from the binding. There was a pile of old sheet music but some pages were missing or torn. There was a posy of dried flowers and an umbrella with bent spokes. A tortoiseshell hair- brush and a broken picture frame. James looked at the sepia photograph behind the broken glass. It was faded and slightly scratched but he recognized the face of the girl in nurse’s uniform. ‘Alice,’ he murmured.

  ‘Is that some of Lucy’s stuff,’ Grace whispered.

  James nodded.

  ‘You can have the sack for a quid,’ the man offered.

  ‘Your customer was right,’ James said. ‘This lot’s worth nothing.’

  ‘All right! Ten bob to you, Guv.’

  ‘I’ll give you five bob for the lot including the teapot.’

  ‘Done!’ said the man.

  ‘And don�
�t forget, those two names. Addresses too if you can get them.’

  ‘Please come in Mr Oldfield and take a seat.’

  James thanked the solicitor and sat down opposite the two elderly gentlemen.

  ‘How is your mother?’ Mr Armitage asked.

  ‘I understand she is well and enjoying her time in India, despite everything not going quite as she would have wished.’

  ‘Ah! Yes,’ he said. ‘We received a letter from our contact in Bombay. He said there were some problems. Legal matters have a habit of becoming tedious. I hope the delay will not cause your mother too much inconvenience.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think she welcomed the opportunity to extend her stay, although I don’t know how she will cope with the heat of the tropical summer.’

  ‘How right you are,’ the elder of the two solicitors said.

  ‘Now, Mr Oldfield, regarding the matter you put to us last week.’ Mr Proctor took a file from his desk drawer and leafed though the papers. Selecting one item, he held it at arm’s length, read it and passed it to his partner. From the coat of arms embossed on the top of the cream paper, James knew it was from Lord Farnley.

  ‘This is a very commendable character reference you have provided.’ He picked out another letter. ‘And also this one from Captain Wainwright.’ He cleared his throat and leaned forward. ‘As trustees of any estate we are obliged to carry out the terms of the will according to the wishes of our clients. But we must consider any request which deviates from these terms very carefully, as our client would have done, if he were still alive.’

  James nodded.

  ‘In this submission, you are asking that the money, which Mr Carrington set aside for your tertiary education, is paid to you as a lump sum. That you intend to use the money to purchase some land.’ He turned the page and examined the title deeds of John Fothergill’s farm. After re-reading James’s proposal, he continued.

  ‘Mr Oldfield, my partner and I have arrived at the following conclusions. Had the money been required for the purchase of a vehicle, or a holiday, or suchlike, we would have declined your request. However, the purchase of land is regarded as a good investment, possibly sounder than leaving the money in the bank which is where it is at the moment. However,’ he added, ‘once you have invested the money we cannot stop you from selling the asset in a year’s time.’