Collected Stories

by Beryl Bainbridge

  Father died tonight. Received a letter from Martin Andromikey asking me once more to lend him money.

  He turned nearer to the back of the book.

  Am to be married next week.

  Then he returned to the 1851 entry again. ‘Martin seems very embittered but he is a good lad or seemingly is,’ he wrote firmly. He then closed his big diary, shut it in his desk and shut his eyes.

  Little did Old Andrew know that Martin Andromikey had found out about his money and that he was ignorant of the conditions. Little did he know that Martin was really dead, and had died with a curse on his lips which was directed against him. Little did he know that Richard Soleway was to be the instrument that was to break his heart. Little did he know that Francis was to end his days as a petty thief and that Ernest was to be ruined.

  At that moment Ernest came into the room and, on seeing his father so preoccupied, tiptoed cautiously up to him and kissed the withered old forehead so marked by time. Old Andrew started. He laid his hand on his son’s head and seated him on the stool on which his younger sisters often did their sewing.

  ‘Well, Ernest,’ he said softly. ‘Are you happy?’

  Ernest flushed. ‘Papa,’ he said painfully, ‘I have something I would wish you to help me about. That is, the fact of the matter is, sir, I have been strongly attracted to the daughter of your friend Rubin Mansall.’

  The father smiled.

  ‘Go on, Ernest,’ he bade.

  ‘Well, Papa, that’s all I have to say – except that I venture to guess Anna loves me too.’ On the word ‘loves’ the young man coloured hotly and swept his hair from his forehead with a ‘now it’s over’ gesture.

  Old Andrew could not suppress a smile. ‘But Ernest, you are but a little over 20.’

  ‘I have a good job now, sir, and can well keep Anna in the comfort she is used to,’ protested his son.

  Andrew leaned forward. ‘Let us wait till you are both older and more wise,’ he said carefully. ‘Anna is little more than a girl and you no more than a boy. Let me talk to your mother about it.’

  ‘I am sure it must be love, Papa,’ he said plaintively, ‘for it hurts here,’ and he laid his hand upon his heart.

  This time Old Andrew laughed, without restraint. When his son had left him he lay with his feet on the fender and closed his eyes. The fire’s ruddy colour made his eyeballs burn. He had not betrayed his displeasure when Ernest had told him of his love for Anna Mansall. He had nothing against Anna herself: she was a sweet girl, and a pretty one. But her father was another matter. Rubin had, at the death of Peter Andromikey, gone into the business with him. All had gone well for a matter of 18 years, till quite by chance Andrew had discovered he was systematically robbing his firm every year. On the pretence of retiring – for Old Ledwhistle liked and respected Mansall’s wife – Rubin had been dismissed and the partnership dissolved. If indeed Ernest did have any real affection for the girl and one day wished to make her his wife, things would grow very awkward. No, Old Ledwhistle told himself, Anna shall never marry my boy. It will only bring unhappiness to both of them. Then he thought of Ruby Clacy whom he had married in 1811, and of the age he had been at the time. ‘Yes,’ he thought chuckling, ‘I’ve been very lucky in marriage. Ruby was a good woman, and so is Mary.’

  He rose to his feet, took the candles from the mantelpiece and pulled up the blind. Down Terence Street a cab moved, the cabby sitting like a sentinel on top. Below, in the house opposite, he could see Rachel Molson and her husband sitting before their fire, with the grey cat on the latter’s knee.

  ‘Jonathan Molson was always a fool about cats,’ he mumbled, as he pulled the blind into place again.

  CHAPTER 6

  Richard sat on his high chair, his partner Ernest opposite him. The latter was diligently working. Jacob Steinhouse and Westbury were poring over a bundle of dry-looking deeds. The three looked so solemn and owl-like, especially Jacob Steinhouse, with his big eyes and quivering side-whiskers, that Richard wondered if he dared cough. He cleared his throat loudly. Three heads and three pairs of eyes were raised. Ernest’s showed veiled approval, Westbury’s irritated alarm, and Jacob Steinhouse’s plainly told Richard what they thought of him. Immediately the heads were lowered. Richard wondered what would happen if he started whistling. He did so, and the scandalised eyes of Steinhouse leapt to meet him.

  Richard got to his feet, yawned and said loudly, ‘Coming for a drink, Ernest?’

  Westbury gasped audibly.

  Before the horror-stricken eyes of the two clerks, Richard walked out, his hand on Ernest’s arm.

  ‘I say,’ said Ernest breathlessly, ‘I’ve forgotten my hat.’

  ‘You don’t need one,’ replied his friend.

  ‘But I do, Martin, I do,’ gasped Ernest, in distress as he was hurried along Talcorth Road. ‘Where are we going?’ he added, a note of interest creeping into his voice.

  ‘To Comrades Street,’ answered Richard with impatience.

  ‘But Martin,’ said Ernest in a whisper, ‘that road consists mostly of gin-shops and opium palaces.’

  ‘My dear Ernest,’ said Richard, highly amused, ‘it’s plain to me you’ve led a very sheltered life. When one goes out for a drink, the right place to go is Comrades Street.’

  In silence they entered one such shop. The young were absent, working their backs off them, for a paltry pittance. But the old were there – men and women whose very age made them indecent. Life held no more for them but gin and gin. The eyes were lifeless, their skin purple, their brains senile.

  The two young partners made a queer contrast. Richard with his gay clothes looked more at home, but Ernest in his sombre black suit and high collar, his very face pink with embarrassment, looked strange, like a daffodil against a warehouse building.

  Ernest shuddered. ‘Why are these people allowed to mix with others?’ he whispered in Richard’s ear.

  Any other time his friend would have grown heated and violent, but now he answered without passion. ‘Because there are no graves for them to lie in.’

  Ernest was silent for a space, but when an old man with looped and yellow-flecked eyes mouthed horribly and spat at him, he grasped Richard’s arm and said, ‘For God’s sake, Martin, let’s go back to the office. I can’t stand this.’

  So they went.

  When they were once more seated at their desks, Richard began thinking over the plan that was to ruin the firm of Andromikey and Ledwhistle. Ledwhistle, he had found out, invested money on the Stock Exchange. He was a good and shrewd investor, and held many shares. Richard meant to bankrupt the firm, but he must have money to do it. He did not know how long it would take him to do what he planned, but on his solemn oath he knew he had given his promise to a dying man.

  As the day finished and the time came to leave the books and manuscripts for another day, Richard’s heart grew heavy. He was unwittingly beginning to enjoy life for the first time. He said goodbye to Ernest and travelled into Billingsgate market. It had not yet closed and the scene was glaring and humorous. A man was sitting on a tub by a stall drawing. He alternately told the crowd of the excellence of his fish, and then drew them to the delight of the people, swimming in their natural element. Farther away another woman in a bright fringed shawl sold haddock while blessing all and sundry. Over everything hung the smell of fish. A salty, cold, icy smell one minute and a fierce, sickly one the next. There were all kinds of fish to be had. Big ones, little ones, round ones, flat ones, fish with spots on, fish with stripes, some fish with rings, and just fish. The laughter of humour was everywhere. Here was the lighter side of life; here at least men were equal.

  The night was early and Richard did not feel disposed to go to his bed. So he wandered round. At London Street, he stopped suddenly. Two men were fighting. One was tall and lithe, one thin and short. Richard would have passed if the desperate face of the short one had not been raised in earnest pleading towards him. The tall man was a rough-looking fellow, with ugly eyes and la
rge hands. They were very out of proportion with his body, which was trim and wiry. He hit out harshly with one flabby fist, and the white-faced victim had his chin jerked back with a crack.

  Richard stepped forward quickly. ‘Heh,’ he said impetuously, ‘stop this.’ He turned to the big-handed fighter. ‘Your opponent’s hungry, he’s starving.’

  The man grinned stupidly. ‘I’m not exactly overfed meself.’

  The white-faced youngster hung onto his arm. Richard pulled a couple of shillings out of his pocket and handed it to the man who had last spoken. He moved away, his hand on the other lad’s elbow.

  ‘Give us a few bob, mate, please,’ the boy whispered.

  ‘You need a meal first,’ answered Richard, piloting his acquaintance into a bar.

  Silently the youth followed him to the parlour at the back. Richard ordered a tureen of thick soup and a plate of chipped potatoes and beef. To add to its completion, a mug of warm ale was set down.

  The boy ate ravenously, never looking at his benefactor once.

  Richard watched him cautiously. His eyes noted the sunken cheeks, the bright eyes and the threadbare clothes. Afterwards as the boy leaned back in the oaken bench, he ventured to ask him his name.

  ‘It’s Robert,’ was the reply that came in faint accents, ‘Robert Straffordson.’

  Richard forbore to ask him any more questions. He took him that night to his hut and gave him a few blankets.

  The boy did not thank him, but several times he saw the glittering eyes rest on his countenance.

  When the morning came, Robert Straffordson had gone. With him had gone the first £5 note Richard had ever received. Richard did not feel vexed: he felt as if life was hopeless. Everything was so bitter and twisted. Little did he know what part Robert Straffordson was to play in the drama of his life.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sir Phillip Hobart, Chairman of the London Stock Exchange, was a thin, prominently-nosed man of about 58 or so. He had risen to the top of his ladder by sheer hard work, but not a little dishonesty. He was a man who was well pleased with life, but he was known to keep very much to himself. Not even his greatest friends knew of the old background of Phillip Hobart. He had no relatives, or seemingly not: if he did, he never visited them. As he walked briskly down Piccadilly and passed the Strand, many people stopped and bowed to him. Many a young society lad would gaze enviously after the prosperous knight.

  Richard, it so happened, was walking in the opposite direction of that gentleman. He turned a corner. There was an angry shout and Richard saw Hobart sprawled on the ground, his hand to his head. A drab-coated youth was running in the direction he had just come from.

  Richard raced in pursuit. He soon outran his quarry and grasped him by the collar. As his prisoner turned, he came face to face with Robert Straffordson. Richard felt himself go limp. By this time Phillip Hobart had reached them and quite a crowd had gathered. A withered constable came up to them in haste. Hobart stated his case and a charge was drawn up against the youth. Richard refrained from making any statement: he felt only pity for the degenerate boy beside him. He became aware that the group of people had been dispelled and found his hand being shaken by Hobart.

  ‘I can never thank you enough, young sir,’ he was told, while a pair of glowing grey eyes searched his countenance. ‘If you are ever in need of help, come to me.’ A card was thrust into his hand, and the knight walked off.

  Richard looked at the card blankly. ‘Sir Phillip Hobart, Knight. ‘The Garrat’, Bayswater, London.’ Sir Phillip Hobart? Richard’s mind revolved round and round. Surely – yes, it must be. He was the present Chairman of the Stock Exchange. Fate had introduced him to the very man he wished to know. He could have laughed, if not that the eddying mass of people were moving by. A horse-drawn bus passed him, and he saw his partner, Ernest. Ernest glimpsed him and waved his hand. He clambered aboard and climbed the stairs to the open roof.

  As he was talking to the young Ledwhistle, Richard dropped the card that Hobart had presented him.

  ‘I say,’ said Ernest eagerly, ‘do you know Sir Phillip?’

  ‘Well, I had the honour of doing him some slight service a minute ago,’ replied Richard. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t myself,’ volunteered Ernest, ‘but he and Papa hate each other, I know. Father accused him of being dishonest one time when he had just been appointed, and they never speak nowadays.’

  Ah, thought Richard. So Phillip and Old Andrew dislike each other, do they? Nothing could be better. I must further my acquaintance with Sir Phillip. Richard Soleway was one step on his way on the tragedy staircase of Andrew Ledwhistle and, though he did not know it, one step further to his own ruin.

  CHAPTER 8

  Anna Mansall sat demurely in the sitting-room awaiting the arrival of her lover, Ernest Ledwhistle. She was a striking girl of some 18 years of age, with thick black hair which rested in a loose coil on the nape of her neck. Her eyes were grey and set wide apart, her nose long and straight, her mouth large and generous. She was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but she was arresting and pretty. She wore a gown of soft blue, and it was becomingly edged with lace.

  The door opened and Eliza, the maid, entered bearing a tray. ‘Master Ernest is here, Miss Anna,’ she told her mistress. ‘Shall I show him in?’

  Anna nodded her assent, as she busied herself setting the cups out.

  A moment later Ernest hurried into the room. ‘Anna, my dearest,’ he said as he touched her hand with his lips. He would have drawn her into his arms if Anna had not put her fingers to his mouth in urgency.

  ‘No, Ernest, not now. Listen. I hear Mama on the stairs.’

  Ernest sat down quickly in the chair opposite his love, and began making polite conversation.

  He was rewarded for his prudence, for the door opened and Mrs Mansall entered the room. She was a stout woman in her late fifties. She was arrayed in an elaborate silk cap and a large quantity of petticoats. Her eyes were all but lost in a swelling of very red flesh, and what was glimpsed of them was unremarkable. Her mouth was thin and bloodless, her nose short and squat, wide and flared at the nostrils.

  ‘My dear Ernest,’ she fluttered, as she held out her hand. The flesh here too bulged round the rings and Ernest nerved himself as he bent over it. ‘I hope you will be present at the ball I am giving for dear Anna’s 19th birthday,’ she said coyly. ‘And I hear that your partner Martin Andromikey is in town.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’m,’ answered Ernest dutifully.

  ‘Then we shall be delighted to invite him as well, shan’t we, Anna dear?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mama,’ answered Anna. She tried to convey to Ernest that she would try and get her mother out of the room for an instant.

  ‘Mama,’ she said a minute later, ‘will you entertain Ernest while I lie down? I don’t feel well.’ Before her mother could reply she darted out of the room.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ cried Mrs Mansall. ‘Excuse me, won’t you, Ernest. I must look after the dear child.’ And, still calling out ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she closed the door.

  Hardly had Ernest sat down than the door opened and Anna darted in.

  ‘She’s chasing my ghost right to the top of the house,’ she laughed merrily.

  This time there was no staying Ernest. He seized her, and his lips found hers.

  They were thus occupied – and a very good occupation I say – when Mrs Mansall came upon them.

  ‘Oh, dearie me,’ she wailed. ‘Anna, my only child.’ She sat down quickly and turned to the scarlet-complexioned Ernest. ‘You, you scoundrel, Ernest Ledwhistle, putting this shock to me.’

  Both Anna and Ernest looked in concentration at each other. ‘You don’t mind, Mama?’ said Anna at length.

  ‘Mind, my loves?’ cried her mother. ‘Love will find a way, you know. When will you be married? Of course, I shall have to get Papa to talk to Ernest’s.’ She gabbled on, almost incoherently.

  Ernest could have jumped with joy. H
e turned to Anna. ‘Come back with me now, dearest, and see Mama. I know she’ll love you.’

  ‘And I shall come too,’ fussed Mrs Mansall. ‘I’ll just get my bonnet. Oh, but my only daughter, my darling little girl. But I must remember, I have not lost her, I have gained a son.’ She could be heard reasoning in the hall outside.

  Anna squeezed Ernest’s arm. ‘Dear Mama,’ she said softly, ‘and dear Ernest.’

  This gave dear Ernest a chance to prove how dear he was and they were only brought to earth by a discreet and forced cough by Mrs Mansall, who looked more ludicrous than ever in an enormous flowered bonnet.

  A cab drove them all to Andrew Ledwhistle’s and as they climbed out, the first realisation of what he had really done swept over Ernest. He remembered how his father had looked upon it rather lightly and seemed to consider him but a boy. As he led them to his mother he felt braver. They can’t help liking her though, he reasoned. And besides it was his life.

  The family were having afternoon tea.

  ‘My dear Claire,’ cried Mrs Ledwhistle affectionately as she kissed her old friend on the cheek, ‘I haven’t seen you for years. How are you? And, my dear, how Anna has grown!’

  Andrew looked up from his old partner’s wife’s hand, and caught his son’s eye.

  Ernest slipped forward. ‘Papa,’ he said, and stopped.

  ‘Yes, Ernest,’ replied his father. ‘Go on.’

  Ernest began to flounder.

  ‘The dear boy’s shy,’ cried Mrs Mansall in ecstasy. ‘You see, Andrew, he loves my daughter as much as Anna loves him.’