However, one aspect of it all had caused Josie great heart-searching, if only Timothy knew. The tour, followed by the trip to Europe, would mean she was away from England for many months - possibly even a year or two - and both Vera and Lily were in poor health. She’d discussed her plans with them individually and they had both urged her to go. Vera had Horace and more especially Prudence’s bairns to shower her time and attention on, and Lily was surrounded by friends in the home. ‘Follow your heart, lass,’ Vera had said bracingly. ‘Life’s too short for regrets.’
Josie agreed with the sentiment but, probably because she was still worried about her two dear friends, she told herself, night after night she had begun to dream the old nightmare again. The dark sea, the overwhelming sense of fear and panic and everyone drowning, the screams and cries as relentless waters closed over their heads . . . When she awoke, gasping and damp with perspiration, she couldn’t sleep for hours. But it was just a dream, it wasn’t real; not like Oliver’s death and her losing Barney. And she had lost him, he was gone from her as surely as Oliver. If he’d been inclined to offer anything more than friendship years ago, her behaviour in the aftermath of Oliver’s death had convinced him otherwise.
She’d finally come straight out with it and made it plain to Vera a couple of Christmases ago that she didn’t wish to hear what Barney was doing - and with whom. Vera invariably mentioned Betty’s stepson, and Josie knew she was curious as to why the two of them had ‘fallen out’ as Vera had put it more than once.
‘There was no falling out,’ Josie had insisted over Christmas dinner. ‘How could there be? There was nothing to fall out over. But Barney has his own life which he obviously enjoys very much and I have mine. That is all, Vera. And I would much prefer that we didn’t mention Barney and the whole scenario again. All right?’
Vera had pressed her lips together and thrust her chin into her neck but at least she hadn’t related further stories from that point regarding Barney’s meteoric rise in the world of business on Josie’s subsequent visits. As far as Josie was concerned that was all that mattered. Not that she’d minded hearing about that side of Barney’s life in actual fact - she’d been glad of every success which had come his way - but Vera never had stopped there. Invariably the current girl - all ‘good Sunderland lasses’ according to Vera - was brought up. If her old friend was to be believed, they were all apparently besotted with Barney; in fact, she led one to assume there was scarcely one female heart in the north which didn’t beat a little faster when Barney Robson put in an appearance.
Five years ago Barney had entered into a partnership with one of the most highly respected businessmen in the town, and this man had had the vision to build a fine new theatre purely for the purpose of moving pictures which were becoming more and more popular with every year which passed.
According to Vera it had all been a great success, the building, which held a thousand patrons and had cost £4000 to build, being full to capacity every night. Consequently Barney and his partner had gone on to build two more theatres in Newcastle on the same lines, so sure were they that this ‘passing fancy’, as moving pictures had been labelled, was the entertainment of the future. The last Josie had heard before she had had her little talk with Vera, Barney had more projects further afield and the money was rolling in.
So, Josie thought now as the horse clip-clopped its way home, Barney had everything he wanted out of life. A different lass for every day of the week - and the prestige of being a wealthy and influential businessman. And that was fine. Just fine. If that’s what he wanted, she really didn’t care. Which was why her mind continued to probe at the matter right until she descended from the carriage and paid the driver what she owed him.
So intent was she on her thoughts that she didn’t notice the tall, well-built man standing across the other side of the road until he called her name, and then she turned and Barney was there in front of her. But a different Barney from the last time she’d seen him five years ago. Now the powerful-looking and strikingly handsome man in front of her was familiar only by the vivid clear green eyes. He seemed taller, broader somehow, and gone was the northern cap and working-class persona. His suit looked to be of the finest tweed; his shoes of highly polished brown leather, and he was wearing his bowler hat confidently, as though he was used to the feel and fit of it.
Josie stared at him, her heart pounding so hard it constricted her breathing. For the life of her she couldn’t say a word. Gone was the experienced and cosmopolitan lady who was equally at home in the most stately mansion or mean wretched hovel, and who knew exactly what to say to put those about her at their ease in both situations. The years had melted away, and Josie was back in Betty’s scullery staring into the face of a handsome young man with startlingly green eyes, and she was as tongue-tied and shy as she’d been then.
‘Hello, Josie.’
His voice was the same, just the same, and she had to swallow hard before she could say, ‘Barney, what a surprise,’ in as natural a voice as she could manage with the blood singing through her veins like a torrent. Then, as a sudden thought struck, she said quickly, ‘Vera? Is everything all right at home?’
‘Yes, yes. Vera’s fine, as far as I know.’ This was not said soothingly as one might have expected, but in a tone which carried more than a touch of impatience. Josie watched him take a deep breath and his voice was more moderate when he said, ‘Of course I should have expected you might think the worst. I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me.’
Talk. Say something. Act normal, for goodness’ sake. The commands were there in her brain but she was utterly unable to obey them. She stared at him, her eyes wide, and it was with some effort that she said, ‘You’re . . . you’re visiting London?’
It was a stupid remark in the circumstances and he made her doubly aware of this when he replied, ‘Yes, Josie. As you can see, I am indeed visiting London.’
The spring weather was mild but not over-warm, but Josie felt herself beginning to perspire when, in the next instant, he reached out and took her hand, saying, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m nervous.’
He was nervous? This big, vigorous, commanding individual that was Barney and yet not Barney was nervous? This man who had had women galore according to Vera, and who had not tried to hide the fact? This last thought put a welcome shot of adrenalin where there had only been weakness and turmoil, and now Josie’s voice was studiously polite. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘Can we go inside?’
She suddenly became aware that they were standing in the street and he was still holding her hand and, her cheeks flushing still more at what she had allowed, she said quickly, ‘Oh of course, I’m sorry. Yes, do come in. I’ll get Mrs Wilde to serve us some tea.’
Mrs Wilde came into the hall from the kitchen as they entered by the front door, and although she might have been extremely interested in Josie’s visitor she didn’t betray the fact as Josie introduced her to Barney.
Barney remained silent for a moment after they had walked into the sitting room and the door was shut behind them, Mrs Wilde scurrying away to make a tray of tea. He glanced about him, his green eyes narrowed, and Josie couldn’t read anything in his face, so it surprised her when he said suddenly, ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
‘No?’ She didn’t quite know how to take that and it must have showed, because he smiled slowly.
‘The way you’ve got on, I suppose I expected . . .’ He paused, considering his words. ‘Something grander.’
‘You are as bad as my agent.’ And then she bit hard on her lip as the word brought Oliver into the room as surely as if he had materialised in front of them.
‘But you do have a housekeeper.’ His tone was flat, harder, and she knew he had sensed the spectre too.
‘Mrs Wilde is a friend,’ Josie returned steadily, ‘and with the hours I work and the amount of time I spend away each year touring the provinces and so on, it’s good to have someone here taking care of
things.’ And then she forced herself to say, and as casually as if he was an ordinary visitor, ‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘I don’t want to sit down.’ It was abrupt, almost hostile.
She blinked but then her back straightened as she thought, How dare he! How dare he turn up here after all this time and act as though he has a right to behave however he likes. And if he had intended a criticism regarding her employment of a housekeeper then he could jolly well mind his own business. And it was a follow-on to this thought when she said, ‘Are you visiting the capital alone or have you brought a . . . friend with you?’
She’d allowed just the merest of deliberate pauses before the word ‘friend’, but the tightness in her chest which always accompanied thoughts of Barney with another woman must have come over in her voice despite all her efforts to the contrary, because he said, his voice suddenly very quiet, ‘My friends bother you?’
She tried to sound airy as she said, ‘Bother me? Of course not.’
‘Because most of them were only that - friends.’
Most of them.
‘Do you still blame me?’
‘Blame you?’ Her brow wrinkled.
‘Because he died and I’m still alive.’
‘Oh, Barney.’ She stared at him, utterly aghast. Had he been thinking that, all these years? ‘I’ve never blamed you, never,’ she protested quickly. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Then what was it like, Josie? You were grieving and I could understand that - contrary to what you might think I do have some finer feelings - but you were ruthless in removing me from even the perimeter of your life. And now you’re planning to go across to the other side of the world without even saying goodbye.’
‘But . . .’ She stared at him, too taken aback to try to hide her feelings. ‘I didn’t think you’d care.’
‘You didn’t think I’d--’ He was shouting, and he must have become aware of it because he stopped abruptly, walking over to her and taking her forearms in his hands whereupon he shook her slightly. ‘There hasn’t been a day in the last seven years when you haven’t filled my mind and my heart,’ he said roughly, the harsh tone of his voice belying the content of his words. ‘What do you think those other women were about, if not to forget you? But it didn’t work, nothing worked, how could it? You’re locked into the essence of my bones, don’t you know that? You’re the air I breathe and the food I eat, and the last couple of years I haven’t even bothered seeing anyone because there was no point.’
When Oliver had asked her to marry him he had called her his beautiful angel and told her he adored her. She had thought then that Barney would never pay those sorts of compliments to a woman; that his love would express itself in more earthy ways, but she had been wrong. She had been wrong about all sorts of things. She had been so lonely the last years surrounded by people all the time, fêted, adored - it had meant nothing without this man who had just paid her the most beautiful compliments in her life whilst glaring at her the whole time.
‘Do you understand what I am saying to you, Josie?’ His voice had changed; it was calmer, quieter. ‘I’m not putting it very well because I’m so worked up I don’t know if I’m on foot or horseback, and I know you’ve got your career and your life in the theatre but I had to tell you. I had to say how I felt or else there’d have always been a part of me that wondered if you would have stayed in England if I’d spoken. You looked at me once, oh years ago now. You wouldn’t remember it . . .’
‘At Vera’s. When you came about your da.’ Her voice was very soft.
He was perfectly still now, his eyes unblinking, and his voice was even softer than Josie’s had been when he said, ‘You looked at me as though you loved me then.’
‘I did - I do love you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve always loved you but there was Pearl, and then when you were free . . .’
‘There was Oliver.’ He touched her face gently, his voice still low. ‘We didn’t plan things very well, did we?’
She shook her head, utterly unable to speak.
‘And now you are going to move across the other side of the world.’ It was a statement but there was a question in the green eyes, and she answered it with, ‘I . . . I don’t have to go. I don’t really want to. I was going to do a tour of New York and Washington but I always intended to come back to England.’
‘You did?’ His brow wrinkled. ‘But Vera spoke as if you were planning to settle in America for good.’
Oh thank you, Vera. Thank you. Wise old Vera.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice was cut off as he pulled her in to him, his mouth falling on hers with a passion that was beyond anything she had ever known before. Even Oliver, with all his experience and at the height of his lovemaking had never kissed her like this, and it was wonderful, intoxicating, heady . . .
‘Stay with me.’ His voice was husky against her mouth.
‘Don’t go on the tour; marry me instead. And soon. Special licence soon. I can’t wait another week or month or year.’
‘Neither can I.’ She heard herself murmur the words with a little dart of surprise at her forwardness but then, as his mouth closed over hers again, she let herself melt into the kiss.
Her head spinning, she returned his kisses with a hunger that matched Barney’s. Timothy wouldn’t like it when she said she was pulling out of the tour and not going to New York, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this man holding her so tightly she could hear his heartbeat.
‘Follow your heart,’ Vera had said. ‘Life’s too short for regrets.’ If she went to New York she would be miserable. Timothy would soon get someone else to take her place; who wouldn’t want a chance like that - and with the added inducement of travelling on the Titanic? She would never let herself be separated from Barney again, not ever. Her old life was behind her and the new was just beginning, and in the new life there would be no crowds and performances and applause, but there would be songs.
Songs in the night, songs for babies’ ears, and for her love. Songs enough to last them a lifetime.
The Urchin's Song Page 44