‘I reckon I’ll go over to the quarry, there might be summat there. Are ’ee cornin’?’ asked his companion, Georgie Hannaford.
Joey shook his head. ‘It would only be a waste of good boot leather, there’s nothing going there. Things are so slack Pa was sent home this morning. I’m going back indoors, in the warm.’
He knew he was being optimistic, seeking any warmth in the cottage; when he had left the fire had been a poor, miserable affair that could only send out the most meagre thread of smoke. Still, he’d be out of the wind and the rain, that had to be some improvement.
He heard raised voices long before he reached the door.
‘You’m a thieving old hag, that’s what ’ee be! Twasn’t meant just for ’ee! ’Twas for all of us!’
It was rare to hear his timorous mother so incensed, so he hurried in to find out what had upset her. One glance at the scene in the kitchen and he needed no further explanation. A letter bearing Mercy’s handwriting lay on the table. It was open, and standing over it, her arms clasping no fewer than three bottles of gin, stood a triumphant Blanche.
‘Where does it say so?’ she was demanding. ‘Point to the exact phrase in the letter where it says that the money was intended for everyone.’
For a moment Ma looked confused; whatever learning that had been thrust her way had long since been forgotten, and she knew she would be doing well to pick out the occasional word in Mercy’s letter, let alone a whole phrase.
‘’Cos it always is!’ she declared eventually. ‘My Mercy ’er’m a good li’le maid! ’Er knows ’ow ’ard things be. ’Er sends summat reglar to ’elp us out! ’Er don’t need to put it in fancy writin’.’
Blanche glared at her contemptuously. ‘Your Mercy? When have you ever done anything for the girl, other than to bring her into the world? Without me behind her she would never have married so well! That is why she sent me the money.’ She cradled the bottles in her arms like babies.
Joey groaned. Not for the first time he wished that Mercy had never left. She would have found some way of keeping the peace, one way or another; and he tried to think what she might have done.
‘So there’s a letter from Mercy?’ he said.
His mother looked up, registering his presence for the first time.
‘Yes, there be. And that old slummick got to un first and took all the money, ’er did!’ she exclaimed, close to tears.
‘You should get up earlier in the morning, then you would meet the postman first!’ Blanche gave a toss of her head and stalked up to her room.
Ma made to follow her but Joey held her back.
‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘She’ll be asleep by the time she’s finished one bottle, and when she is I’ll nip in and take the rest from her. Harry Dawe’ll give me the money back for them, never fear. Once she’s well and truly off we’ll see if she’s got any cash left. Only, you’ll have to do that bit. Mercy always said she kept her money up her bloomer-leg; it wouldn’t be proper for me to go rummaging about there, would it?’
A smile flickered across Ma’s face. ‘You’m goin’ to get your ears boxed, bein’ so saucy,’ she chuckled. ‘But ’ow you’m come ’ome so soon? No work?’
‘None at all.’
‘Oh well, never mind, us’ll ’ave to manage. Shall I make us a cup o’ tea? And ’ee can read Mercy’s letter to un.’
Sipping the tepid, grey tea Joey read out Mercy’s account of life in London, to the accompaniment of Ma’s exclamations of: ‘Well, I never!’ and ‘My dear days!’
Mercy’s letter served to stir up Joey’s smouldering discontent; he spent the rest of the day trying to work out what sort of future lay ahead of him. As far as he could see it was a permanent place on Sam Prout’s payroll if he were lucky or else breaking his back in the stone quarry, and these prospects held no attraction for him at all. To get away from the village seemed the only solution to his problem. Mercy had done it, why shouldn’t he?
Next morning he rose unusually early and packed his few belongings into a canvas bag.
‘My, you’m sure to be ’ead o’ the line this mornin’,’ his mother remarked, pushing the bread and dripping in his direction. ‘Sam Prout’ll die o’ shock, most likely.’
‘I’m not going to Prout’s farm, Ma. I’ve made my mind up, I’m going to try and get something better. I’m going to start in Torquay. If I don’t find anything there I’ll move on. But I’ve got to try.’ Joey spoke defiantly, bracing himself for the protests he felt sure were to come.
His mother just looked at him sadly. ‘Reckon, you’m right, boy,’ she said at last. ‘You’m like our Mercy. You’m got too much about ’ee to spend your life clearin’ stones from Sam Prout’s fields. You’m be sure to let us know ’ow you’m getting on, though, won’t ’ee?’
‘Of course I will. And if I find anything close to home I’ll be back to see you soon.’
‘Then you go, boy, an’ good luck to ’ee.’
Joey was glad to leave the house before Blanche or Lizzie were awake. Saying goodbye to Ma was bad enough. He wiped his eyes vigorously on the sleeve of his jacket as he went up the lane. True, he was only going to Torquay, at least, for now, but it wasn’t the distance that counted, it was the fact he was leaving home which gave him such a lump in the throat.
By the time he had reached the Newton road excitement was beginning to overcome his sadness. Ma had insisted upon him taking some bread and cheese with him, as well as a couple of the precious shillings salvaged from Mercy’s money. As he strode towards the town Joey’s spirits rose with every step.
The morning was not fruitful. He had decided to start his search in the harbour area, perhaps helping with the fishing boats or unloading the larger craft which moored at Haldon Pier, but his luck was out. He tried again at every building site he came across, and on the railway, where the line between Torquay and Paignton was being widened. There were no jobs available for an unskilled boy of fourteen. Shopkeepers took one look at his country boots and shabby appearance and chased him away. The coal merchants pronounced him too puny to be of use to them. He trailed back and forth across the town, trying everything he could think of without finding a job.
It was as he was leaving yet another building site that a little cafe caught his eye. It was a modest place, no more than the front room of one of the terraced houses, but on that chilly, dark afternoon it looked warm and inviting. It had a notice in the window: ‘Tea and a slice of bread 2d.’
Joey went in. The tea was strong and the bread spread with margarine, but to him it was very welcome. The woman who poured his tea observed him curiously.
‘You’m not from round ’ere?’ she said conversationally.
He curled his fingers round the thick pottery mug, luxuriating in the warmth.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to look for work. I suppose you haven’t anything?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Sorry, my lover,’ she said kindly. ‘I’d take ’ee on and welcome if I could, but I scarce makes enough to keep me! You knows what ’ee should do? Try they ’otels! They takes on plenty of casual folk this time of year.’
‘Hotels?’ Joey looked at her incredulously. ‘I’d never be taken on there!’
‘Don’t ’ee be too sure! ’Tis only some ’otel workers who ’as to be done up like a dog’s dinner. There’s plenty more who works out the back, in the kitchens and such. ’Im next door’ – with a jerk of her head she indicated her neighbour’s house – ‘’e’s a kitchen-porter down the Grand, and ’e idn’t nothin’ fancy, I can tell ’ee. Give it a try, boy. They can’t ’ang ’ee for askin’.’
Thanking the woman Joey left. Working in an hotel had never entered his mind, but it was worth a try. At least, that was what he thought until he saw the imposing facades of some of them, then his courage almost failed him. It was desperation that drove him on, along with the discovery that no matter how impressive the edifice somewhere or another it had a more humble entrance labelled ‘Tradesmen’. In
the darkness it was not always easy to find his way to the back door; once there the response was heartening. The ‘Sorry, not at the moment’ and ‘I’ve just taken on a new lad this morning’ were considerably more cheering than any other comments he had received that day.
Then, at his fourth attempt, success!
‘Washing-up! Live in! Start now!’
The man who answered his request seemed so harassed by his responsibilities that Joey was convinced he must be the owner of the Devonshire Hall Hotel.
‘And the wages… ?’ he asked hesitantly.
The man glared at him. ‘Wages? When you’re all found?’ Then he relented. ‘We’ll give you a week’s trial, then we’ll see. Go down those steps and tell Arthur I sent you. Quick boy, I haven’t got time to hang about.’ Joey did as he was told, and found himself in a steamy subterranean chamber lined with plain, wooden tables and racks. Along one side was ranged a row of huge stone sinks at which an old man and a boy were washing-up. The old man had the most remarkable feet Joey had ever seen. Splayed out at ten-to-two they were encased in laceless boots which had been cut into an incredible lattice-work to make room for innumerable corns and bunions. He saw him staring and gave a grin, showing large yellow teeth.
‘It’s the standing on these stone floors. It plays merry hell with my feet,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Joey Seaton. Please, are you Arthur? ’Cos if so, I’ve come to do the washing-up.’
‘The washing-up, eh? So Mafeking’s relieved at last! Yes, I’m Arthur.’
‘The owner said I was to tell you he sent me.’
‘The owner?’ For a moment Arthur looked nonplussed, then he grinned again. ‘Fussy little blighter with a red nose, fidgets a lot? He’s not the owner, though he’s so full of his own importance. No, he’s just the undermanager, Mr Matthew A. Bell.’ Arthur dropped his voice conspiratorially so that the boy at the sink could not hear. ‘Otherwise known as Mabel for more reasons than one!’
Joey chuckled.
‘Right then, young ’un. Stow your bag in that corner out of the wet, get yourself an apron out of the cupboard, take a drying-cloth off the line, and you’re in business. Oh, I nearly forgot our companion in crime here! Come and say hello to Barty.’
The boy at the sink turned a cherubic face towards them. He seemed to be about Joey’s age but was so small he had to stand on a box to reach the sink.
‘My name is Bartholomew,’ he said primly, and turned back to his work.
‘That’s put me in my place,’ chuckled Arthur, giving Joey a friendly nudge. ‘Well, come on, my friend, let’s get to work.’
Compared to potato-picking his new job seemed like a holiday to Joey. Dirty cups, saucers, and plates were sent down from above in a creaky lift, stacked on the tables, then when they were clean they were put into another lift and sent upwards. He quite enjoyed the novelty of working the pulleys, and said so.
‘It’s a good job, this. Nice and warm and not too hard.’
Arthur gave a snort. ‘Nice and warm and not too hard? Just you wait until later, my lad! These are only the tea things, a pleasant little occupation to keep us out of mischief. When they start serving dinner upstairs then life gets really hectic.’
Joey didn’t quite believe him, only he was too polite to say so. He soon found out Arthur had not exaggerated. As dinner-time approached the tempo in both the kitchens above and the scullery below quickened. Pots, pans, and bowls came down in increasing numbers, then came plates and glasses, cutlery and serving dishes, all needing sorting and scraping before washing; as Arthur said: ‘The glasses can’t go with the cutlery, and the cutlery can’t go with the china.’ He was astonished that anyone should use so much stuff just to eat; more than that he was astounded by the amount of food which was wasted.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it!’ he protested, watching bread being tipped into the slop-bins.
‘It’s beneath some folks’ dignity to eat bread; it’s just put out for show,’ said Arthur. He looked keenly at Joey. ‘Are you hungry?’
Joey had to admit that he was.
Arthur surveyed the latest delivery of washing-up.
‘There’s a roll there which hasn’t been touched, you have it,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what there is to go with it. Ah yes, a slice of fresh beef, just the way the customers get it.’
‘That’s not allowed!’ said Bartholomew.
‘You shut your mouth! If you go telling tales I’ll shut it for you!’ said Arthur with surprising savagery. Then he added in an undertone, ‘Not that he isn’t right, mind. You can throw food away but not take it away…’
‘Unless you can do it without being found out,’ supplemented Joey, eyeing the beef roll with eager anticipation.
‘That’s right. I can see we’re going to get on a treat.’ Arthur beamed delightedly.
‘We have supper at eight,’ Bartholomew put in, determined to spoil things. ‘You won’t want it after eating all that.’
Joey gave him a scornful look. ‘Just you watch me,’ he said with his mouth full.
It was late when they finished work. Joey could not work out why the gentry wanted to go on eating so late at night, it seemed against the rules of nature to him; but while they ate the washing-up continued. There was no finishing until the last item had been washed, wiped and put away, the sinks and draining-boards scrubbed and the cloths washed out. Only then was he allowed to limp, bone weary to bed. As he lay in his narrow bed in the male staffs dormitory above what had once been the stables and was now grandly rechristened the motor garage Joey was utterly content. He might be aching in every limb, with hands stinging from immersion in hot water and soda, but his stomach was full, something he had rarely experienced. More than that, he had broken away from the drudgery of farmwork and now a new life stretched before him. For the first time since he could remember Joey fell asleep thinking of the future with happy anticipation.
Chapter Five
Mercy rubbed her forehead to dispel a slight ache, and laid aside her book with a sigh. Not so long ago she would never have believed that she could grow tired of reading; not so long ago she could never have imagined that she would have little else to do. It was incredible the way her life had changed so dramatically. Sometimes she still had doubts, wondering if she had ruined Peter’s future by marrying him. Doubts he always kissed away when she expressed them. To him the differences in their backgrounds were completely unimportant, and this made her love him all the more. She felt extremely lucky to have married a man who was so indifferent to the divisions of class.
Outside, the street slumbered under the oppressive heat of a city June, making her long for the freshness of a sea-breeze, for not even the lightest of gusts disturbed the dust and straw which had accumulated in the gutters. It seemed an age since she had last breathed sweet Devon air. Suddenly she longed to go back just to see Ma and Joey and Blanche. She wondered how they were getting on without her.
Feeling restless, Mercy leapt to her feet and strode about the room, pausing to run a critical finger over the furniture. Nelly’s dusting left much to be desired, and there was a gritty rim round each of the ornaments. Almost gleefully she opened a drawer and took out a cloth. Keeping an ear open for the unexpected arrival of Nelly or Poole, she began dusting, chuckling at her own furtiveness. She had heard of secret drinkers but never secret cleaners. All the same, the simple activity gave her satisfaction.
She had just finished and returned the duster to the drawer when the sound of a cab in the street below announced the return of Peter. Running to the window she was in time to see him striding across the pavement. She watched him, cherishing the neat elegance of his movements; so much love welled up inside her that for a moment she felt quite breathless. No matter how much boredom and loneliness she had to endure she knew it was worth it to be married to Peter. As she watched, a small man in a crumpled alpaca jacket detached himself from the shadow of the area steps. He headed directly towards Pete
r who side-stepped him with agility and hurried indoors, leaving the man to retreat into the shadows once more. Mercy found the scene disturbing. When Peter entered the drawing-room, after he had given her his customary long lingering kiss, she asked, ‘Who is that man?’
‘What man?’ Peter pressed his face against her hair, smelling her fragrance.
Mercy was determined not to be diverted. ‘You know very well what man! I know enough to recognize a tallyman when I see one.’
‘A tallyman?’ His surprise was genuine.
‘A debt-collector, then. We’ve got money troubles, haven’t we?’
‘If you knew, why didn’t you say so?’ He looked almost sulky.
The discovery did not come as a complete surprise; she had begun to suspect something was wrong from the way Peter frowned at his mail each morning then discarded half the letters unread. There had been a daunting similarity about the handwriting on those – angular, decisive, official – as if all accounts clerks had attended the same calligraphy class.
‘Oh sweetheart!’ she said. ‘You should have told me!’
‘What, and have you worry? Besides, it would have spoiled your fun getting new things – and mine in buying them for you.’
His generosity was so overwhelming that at first she could do nothing but cling to him.
Then she asked, ‘Are things very bad? How much do we owe?’
‘Not much – just a few thousand.’
‘A few thousand!’ Mercy pulled away from him aghast. ‘How many is a few?’
‘Three, four… I’m not sure.’
She felt sick, too anxious even to be angry; things were far worse than she had suspected.
‘Don’t you think you should find out?’ she demanded. ‘So that we know how much we owe.’
‘That would be very depressing.’
‘Even so, it must be done, otherwise how are we ever to start repaying? What had you planned to do?’
To Dream Again Page 10