She thought again of the hastily scribbled address she’d left with their old landlady, and found herself biting hard on her lip as she opened the back door and walked across the small yard to the wash-house. By, if Oliver Hogarth followed them here she’d get it in the neck from her sister. Gertie wasn’t sure if she wanted the agent to persist or not now.
Chapter Nine
Owing to the opening of London’s Hippodrome Theatre in Charing Cross Road on 15 January 1900, it was over ten days before Oliver Hogarth made his way north again. He had been a member of a party which included lords and ladies of the highest rank, and an invitation to a house-party the following weekend after the prestigious opening - which had included none other than the Prince of Wales himself - had meant a further delay before he could legitimately leave London.
He had also had other, less welcome matters to attend to; matters which he had procrastinated about long enough, but which had proved to be every bit as unpleasant as he’d expected. Damn it, women were the very devil. Oliver stared out of the window of the train, scowling at the snowy vista outside the luxurious first-class carriage.
He would have thought Stella had quite enough to occupy her without kicking up about his departure from her life, or to be more precise, her bed. Since she had married Stratton she’d acquired all the social privileges she’d ever wanted, and the man was clearly besotted with his beautiful wife. Seven large trunks she’d brought on that last weekend, and he had noticed half-a-dozen changes of clothing on the first day alone. With Godfrey Stratton being a member of the Prince of Wales’s inner circle, Stella now dined out or entertained every night, and last year alone the Strattons had spent a short time in Paris, several weeks in Biarritz, and several more cruising in the Mediterranean before returning to London at the beginning of May for the Season. Then there had been the move to Ascot in June for the races, their stay with the Duke of Richmond for the racing at Goodwood in July and then the regatta at Cowes. A month’s cure at Marienbad; Balmoral for the grouse and deer throughout October, and then the whirl of Christmas parties at which the entertaining had been more relentless than ever. Why the hell did she think she needed him?
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the thickly upholstered seat and letting his breath escape in a long slow sigh. That scene she’d created, it had been wearying. But then he had to confess that for some long time now he had become weary of the lady herself. Stella had been a novelty when he’d first got involved with her some five years ago, he admitted it, but the attraction of having a cultured, charming mistress with the right family history, who behaved like the worst bawdy whore he’d ever had in private, had soured on him this last year. Perhaps even the last two. Her passions had become like her rages, exhausting and distasteful. He didn’t like displays of jealousy, in a man or a woman, and Stella was jealous to the core.
Still it was done now. He understood Godfrey had business in Madrid and that Stella was going with him. When she returned in a few weeks’ time, he hoped she would be calmer. Whatever, the affair was finished.
He stretched his long legs, settled himself more comfortably in the seat, and put his ex-mistress out of his mind with a ruthlessness that was typical of the man himself. Born of aristocratic parentage but to a father who had gambled away a vast country estate before killing himself and his wife in a yachting accident, Oliver Hogarth had found himself penniless and homeless at the tender age of twenty. The benefits of a first-class education and influential friends had proved invaluable however, and Oliver had found he was adept at making full use of both. He also discovered a leaning towards anything theatrical, and a natural flair for knowing what the common - and not so common - man liked. By the age of twenty-five he was well on the way to making his own fortune, and by the age of thirty had secured some of the biggest stars on the music-hall stage in his own net.
However, the trait which had ruined the father was in the son, and although Oliver was a more proficient and skilful gambler than the late Squire Hogarth, he also had a weakness for the fairer sex - which had proved just as expensive a vice as the gambling. Nevertheless, Oliver was able to indulge in a lavish way of life that had made him, at the age of thirty-eight, a wealthy, attractive but deeply cynical man.
So what was it, he asked himself now, straightening in his seat and calling one of the waiters to bring him a double brandy, what was it that had captured him about this young girl, this Josie Burns? True, she was beautiful, and had a presence to go with the exceptional voice, but then so did half the artistes in the music hall. She appeared intelligent enough on brief acquaintance, and not too forward. The promiscuous ones were entertaining enough, but he avoided taking them on his books, knowing such women created difficulties at some stage.
The brandy came and he swallowed half the glass immediately. If he told anyone he was chasing off up the country again after some chit of a girl who had refused him once before, they wouldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure if he believed it himself. She might have talent but it was raw at the moment; she needed moulding and shaping if she were to compete with the likes of Marie Lloyd, Marie Kendall, Vesta Tilley and the rest of them. But the potential was there.
His guts contracted as the same excitement he’d felt on that night in Hartlepool gripped him once again. It’d been a long time since he’d felt like this, and even longer since he’d considered taking on the task of grooming an artiste himself. He had others he could call on for that. But this time . . . this time he just might indulge himself. A picture of a young sweet face and wide, startled, heavily lashed brown eyes flashed before him and he swallowed the rest of the brandy, his mouth curving slightly in a wry smile. Yes, he just might make an exception for Josie Burns.
It was snowing again when the train pulled into Sunderland Central, and as Oliver alighted and glanced about him, he sighed irritably. Damn gloomy place. How he hated visiting the provinces! It was only just after two in the afternoon and already the lantern oil lamps, placed strategically every few yards along the platforms, were burning of necessity.
He had only brought a small portmanteau with him for his planned overnight stay, and after declining the assistance of a porter he strode out of the station before hailing a horse-drawn cab. After asking the driver to recommend a good place to stay, he dropped off the small travelling bag at the hotel in Fawcett Street, then told the man to take him to Northumberland Place, at which point he settled back in his seat and contemplated the forthcoming meeting with the young woman called Josie Burns.
‘It always comes in threes. Didn’t I say to you just t’other night it always comes in threes, lass, after Horace had that fall? But I didn’t expect this. By, I didn’t. How’s Betty takin’ it, lad?’
‘Bad.’ The monosyllable carried a wealth of feeling.
Vera nodded slowly. ‘First Shirley, then Horace nearly breakin’ his neck, an’ now your da. What we’ve done to deserve this packet I don’t know. An’ you say Reg an’ Neville’ll be off for a few weeks?’
This was directed to the man sitting next to Barney at the kitchen table. ‘Aye.’ Amos, Barney’s elder brother, was very like Barney in appearance, or had been a few years ago. Now his face - although clean and scrubbed - carried the unmistakable stamp of the pit. His brow and nose were marked with small blue indentations from the coal he worked, and his eyes were rheumy and pink-rimmed. ‘Reg’s arm is broken an’ our Neville copped it on his legs. Right mess, the left ’un is, but Nev’s not sayin’ much. After what happened to me da, it’s nowt.’
Vera nodded again, glancing at Josie who was sitting at the side of her. In Josie’s face she saw reflected her own shock and distress.
A fall of the roof at the coal face had taken two miners’ lives - Frank being one of them - and injured six more. Not an uncommon occurrence in the precarious labyrinth of low tunnels where hundreds of men worked six days out of every seven, hemmed in below millions of tons of rock, slate and coal, but nevertheless, devastating to the families concern
ed. Labouring long, exhausting hours in the darkness, often soaked to the skin or crouched hewing narrow seams, it wasn’t always possible to swiftly obey the warning that the tell-tale creaks and groans in the roof gave to the colliers. Explosions, foul air and accidents involving the props and equipment took a heavy toll, and suffocation and poisoning were among the swifter deaths the mine could inflict.
Vera spoke to Amos again as she said, ‘Was . . . was it quick?’
‘Aye, lass, it were. If nowt else, that’s summat to thank God for.’
Thank God? Barney shifted restlessly in his seat. He wouldn’t be thanking Amos’s God for any of this, by, he wouldn’t, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that his brother had meant exactly what he’d said. Reg and Neville played in the colliery’s brass band in their spare time, but Amos’s bent was in quite a different direction. Right from a young lad he’d had religion, had Amos, Barney reflected silently. The rest of them had played the wag from Sunday school when they’d had the chance, but not Amos. He’d met his wife through the church and she was as bad as him; he still did a bit of lay preaching on the odd Sunday according to their da. Da. Oh Da, Da, Da . . .
He forced his mind away from the mental image of his da’s broken, twisted body which had been in his head ever since he had heard about the accident at the pit, and returned to the issue of Amos’s God as his brother talked on to Vera. Maybe there was something in this religion thing after all, he thought bitterly; of his da and three brothers, Amos was the only one who had emerged from the pit whole and unhurt. Mind, he’d heard Amos preach once, and his brother had said something which had stuck with him somehow. ‘The sun shines on the righteous and the unrighteous,’ that’s what he’d preached, and Amos had maintained God had no favourites.
He’d pulled Amos’s leg after, about the sun bit. ‘Not much sun on you most days, man,’ he’d said. And Amos had looked at him with the Robson green eyes, and answered, ‘There’s nowt else but the pit round here for most of us, lad, an’ I thank God I’ve got work, good honest work, an’ with a bunch of right good mates an’ all. There’s worse things than bein’ underground, an’ worse worries than whether the props’ll hold.’
He hadn’t been down into the bowels of hell then, being in his last year at school, but within the year he had known he couldn’t agree with Amos. Nothing, nothing was as bad as that netherworld. The panic and fear he’d felt as he’d descended in the cage on the first day he’d gone down, and the physical reaction of his body, had made him feel as though he was dying. He’d stood it nigh on a week, passing out three times in the process, until the day when - according to his da because he couldn’t remember anything for a full twenty-four hours - he’d not come round. They’d got him up top and called the quack, and Dr Winter had diagnosed claustrophobia. An abnormal fear of confined places, the good doctor had told his da. But his da had only heard the word ‘fear’, nothing else. From that day on, Frank had never looked at him without the shame and disappointment showing in his face.
Whisht. Barney shut his eyes for a second, angry with himself for thinking the way he was. None of that mattered and now was not the time to think about it. He’d come to terms with how his da saw him years ago. It was being here within sight and sound of Josie that had him thinking this way, because at the back of his mind he’d wondered for years now how she saw him. Did she think he was a coward, a weakling for not mastering his fear and following his da and brothers down the pit? She hadn’t seemed to, when he’d first confided in her before he was married, but she’d been nowt but a bairn then and bairns accepted things adults questioned. She must know he got the job at Ginnett’s through Pearl’s family. Did she despise him for that as well?
He glanced across the room and at the same moment Josie turned her head slightly and met his gaze, her eyes sympathetic at the tragedy which had befallen the family. Their gaze held for a moment before she looked away, but it was the expression on her face which stayed with him as he half listened to the others talking. Josie and Gertie had stayed with his family probably a year in all, but Pearl had known the Robsons since she was a little bairn, and had been made welcome in his da’s home for that long. As a child she’d fairly lived in their house, having tea with them all, tagging along with Prudence when he and his brothers let the two lasses join the lads; she’d even called Betty and his da Aunty and Uncle for a time. And yet she’d had a job to say she was sorry about his da. Aye, she had. And it hadn’t rung true when she had managed to force the words out. And yet Josie had looked as though she was heartsore for them all.
By, he’d been a fool to ask for Pearl. Why hadn’t he seen what she was really like afore they were wed? But he had thought he knew her, that was the thing. In fact he’d have bet his life he knew her inside out, but it just showed. Aye, it showed all right. Living with someone was a darn sight different to Sunday tea at her parents’ house or visiting in the evening and sitting on the sofa with her parents fluttering in and out. Even when they’d joined the other courting couples for the ritual walk round the park when it was fine, or tea at one of the tea houses in town when it was wet, it had all been artificial. Aye, that was the word. Artificial.
He’d looked at Pearl and he’d seen the pretty, petite, smiling lass she’d wanted him to see, but beneath the sweet face and childish manner had been a cast-iron selfish woman who was a replica of her mother. And now, when she acted girlish and skittish in front of other people it had the effect of making him feel sick.
He hadn’t thought she’d like the intimate side of marriage; women didn’t, did they, but he’d told himself if he was gentle and patient to start with she’d come round eventually. Come round! The thought was bitter. But it wasn’t even that she made him feel like some sort of depraved debauché if he so much as touched her; he might have been able to cope with the lack of physical love if everything else was all right. No, it was the cold-blooded alienation from his family she’d set out to achieve from day one; the nagging from morning to night and the fierce, even obsessional desire she had to climb socially. She consulted with her mother about everything before she talked to him; she insisted on seeing to the finances and gave him pocket money like a bairn - or she had done until this last year when he’d suddenly realised he was daft, mental to put up with it. He’d put his foot down then with the result that they’d had a bitter exchange of words and he had moved into one of the spare bedrooms.
Strangely, in a funny sort of a way, it had been a relief to physically remove himself from her. Ever since they had been married she had insisted he eat his main meal of the day at a café near his place of work, refusing, as she put it, to slave over a hot stove just for the two of them. His evening meal would invariably be cold meat and cheese, even the bread was shop bought, and very often she was out when he got home. At her mother’s. The only time they really ate together was when she invited friends round for what she liked to call dinner-parties. Her friends, not his. So all in all, the physical removal of himself from the faint possibility of any bodily contact had just been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.
He often wondered these days how many other couples lived separate lives once the front door was shut and they were alone. More than he’d ever dreamed of before he was wed, he’d bet. He knew now he’d been a young lad still wet behind the ears when he’d got married - gormless and as naive as they come with regard to women. But then unless you went with a lass who’d got a bit of a name for herself - and who’d want to be seen out with a girl like that? - there was no other option.
‘. . . if that’s all right, Barney?’
The sound of his name jerked him out of the black morass of his thoughts and he spoke quietly, saying, ‘I’m sorry, Vera?’
‘I asked if it’s all right if I come back with you an’ Amos today? Horace is on the mend after that fall on the ice, he went back to work the day, an’ the lassies’ll see to his meals. I’d like to see our Bett through the funeral if nowt else.’
‘Of course it’s all right, we expected nothing else. It’s one of the reasons I accompanied Amos when he said he was coming, me having the use of Pearl’s uncle’s carriage. It’ll make it easier with whatever luggage you want to bring with you. Your place is with your sister at a time like this and I know Betty is longing to see you.’
‘Aye, I’d like to see her through the worst,’ Vera repeated somewhat dazedly. By, for this to happen now. She’d been wondering about looking for work now Shirley was gone, but had decided to stay her hand until Josie had finished at the Avenue and the Palace so she could see a bit of the lass while she was here. They had said they’d have her back at the corn mill, and after the last few years of looking to Shirley’s every need, she would go stark staring barmy if she sat on her backside all day. She had given up her job at the mill within a few months of her old friend moving in, recognising there was going to be a period of intensive nursing involved, and she’d been glad to do it. Mind, with what Josie had insisted on sending she’d been better off than working.
The last thought prompted her to rise, saying, ‘I’ll just go an’ pull me things together then. You lads help yourself to a bit more gingerbread an’ jam roll, now then, else I’ll think I’m losin’ me touch. Josie, come with me, lass, an’ I’ll fill you in as to what wants doin’ while I’m gone.’
However, once the two women were in Vera’s bedroom, Vera said softly, in what could be termed a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Look, lass, I don’t know how long I’ll be with our Bett or what’s goin’ to happen about the house an’ everythin’. I can’t see Bett managin’ the rent an’ all on her own with her lot to feed an’ clothe.’
The Urchin's Song Page 16