‘Oh, him,’ nodded Dickie, and moved on. In his pacing about he noticed an unfinished letter on the dressing table and casually picked it up. ‘Dear Rupert,’ he began, then broke into rude laughter. ‘Rupert! Oh, God help us! Dear Rupert, I arr… arrived home sqf… safely,’ – Dickie’s reading was not very good and he tackled the letter with great difficulty – ‘after a wearisome journey of almost five hours. I find that I am missing your company already and there are still ten more days to go brfore we meet again … ’ He broke off again. ‘Eh, I’m beginning to think Grandad was right about you.’ He winked and went back to the letter. ‘I trust your arrival at Greensleeves found your family in good health … where’s Greensleeves?’ Sonny told him it was the name of Rupert’s house. ‘Bloody stupid names these people have … in good health, especially Agatha.’ Here the letter finished and Dickie waved it at his brother. ‘Hello, what’s all this? Has me baby brother got himself a little mopsy tucked away an’ never a word to me?’
Sonny, instead of flying into a rage as he might once have done, remained calm and aloof. If the college had taught him one thing it was how to control his temper. He had made the discovery on his first day that one could not fight everybody. ‘What a way you have with words, brother. Agatha, for your information, is the sister of my best friend. I was introduced to her when Rupert kindly invited me to visit his home last year.’
Dickie scowled. ‘Ye never said anything to me about it’
Not revealing the immense pleasure he derived from getting one over on his brother Sonny shrugged. ‘Why should I?’
‘What’s this sister of his like then?’
‘She’s charming,’ smiled Sonny, a warm look in his eye.
‘She’s certainly got you at it,’ observed his brother. ‘Did ye get anything?’
Sonny’s placidity was short-lived. He began to rise menacingly from the bed. ‘I’ll not have you speak that way about Agatha, or any of my friends. They’re decent, respectable people, something you wouldn’t understand. One more word in that direction and you’re in for a hammering.’
‘All right, keep your hair on! Just ’cause she’s tight there’s no need to take it out on me.’
– He’s irreclaimable, thought Sonny, settling back against the carved oak headboard. He truly believes that all females are the same. But Agatha was different, her mind unsullied by the thoughts that occupied the heads of working class girls. She was a lady.
Dickie turned the letter over. ‘What else are ye goin’ to write? How about: “My handsome brother has expressed his desire to meet with your ravishing sister … ” ’
Sonny grew tired of lying there listening to his brother’s prating. He leapt out of bed and began to dress. ‘Or more fittingly: “Dear Rupert, it is such a bore being at home and not having anyone of your intellect to converse with. My brother, who imagines himself to be God’s gift to women, is a total philistine. His manners are atrocious, his language gross in the extreme. It is a great pity that he does not have as much between his ears as he imagines is between his legs … ” ’
Dickie tossed the letter back onto the dressing table, crossed his arms and watched his brother tug a comb through his unruly red hair. He had laughed at Sonny’s remark but now his tone was serious. ‘Ye know, ye’ve changed, our kid,’ he said pensively.
‘Why, because I refuse to be party to your dirty conversations any more?’
‘No, it’s not that – ye’ve never taken much gorm of anything I’ve said anyway – if ye had ye’d not still be a virgin.’
‘I don’t remember saying anything about that,’ snapped Sonny.
‘Oh, so ye did get something after all.’
‘No! I meant …’
‘D’ye know how many women I’ve had since last we met?’ asked his brother suddenly. ‘Twenty-four. Ye’d do well to take a leaf out o’ my book, Son. Remember that plump little bird I got lined up for ye last time ye came home? If ye’d’ve only listened to what I said an’ given her a bit o’ the old blarney, but no, you had to go at her like a bull at a cow, an’ where did it get ye?’
Sonny had no wish to be reminded of the sordid venture. ‘Go to Hell!’
Dickie waved his hand. ‘Ah, it’s nothin’ to do with that anyway; ’tis more the way ye talk to us – snobby like – as though you’re too good for us now.’
Sonny turned from the mirror to examine his brother for some seconds before his face split into a conciliatory grin. ‘I suppose I must sound that way to you – I don’t mean to. It’s just that when I first went to Cravenshill the others treated me as something of an oaf for the way I spoke and my lack of manners. They goaded me when I showed my ignorance over which piece of cutlery to use, or mopped my plate like I would at home. At first I got into lots of fights, had to defend my origins, you see. I saw no reason to alter my outlook or speech just to fit in with them.’
‘Yet ye have changed all the same,’ said Dickie.
‘Yes,’ frowned Sonny. ‘I can’t say when it happened, because I haven’t consciously made an effort – I wouldn’t’ve given them the satisfaction of knowing their prodding got to me. It’s possible that rubbing shoulders with them for so long has taken the edge off my accent without my being aware of it happening.’ He clutched Dickie’s arm in a fraternal gesture. ‘I was only joking, you know, about you being a philistine. You’re not mad at me, are you?’
‘Why – I am one, aren’t I? Aren’t ye always tellin’ me so? Just ’cause ye’ve altered your voice doesn’t mean to say I set any greater store by your words than before.’
‘Of course not,’ said Sonny, turning back to the mirror. ‘It was bloody stupid to think that anything I said would have the slightest effect on you.’
‘Now to more important issues,’ said Dickie, uncrossing his arms and bringing his hands together in a loud clap. ‘How about you an’ me having a saunter down to the Cattle Market this morning? Ye know, like the old days.’
‘I was thinking to help at the shop,’ answered Sonny. ‘Besides, I understood you had your grocery round to attend to.’
‘So I have, but if I whip round quick I can be done for nine o’clock or so.’
‘And what will you tell Mother?’
‘Ah, I can always get round Mam. Come on, our kid, what d’ye say? Let’s have a laugh like we used to – auction old Bacon Neck off at the fatstock mart.’
Sonny laughingly agreed and suddenly began to feel at home again. His brother could always be relied upon to provide the amusements, even if they were usually at someone else’s expense. Later in the morning, with Thomasin’s permission, they set off down Goodramgate towards their old haunt. Although Dickie professed to have risen above the inhabitants of Walmgate here was where he was most at home. Both had dressed in their best attire – Dickie in a navy-blue serge suit, Sonny in checked worsted jacket and brown trousers – which seemed rather foolhardy to Sonny in retrospect, but the sartorially-minded Dickie insisted that his brother was not going to let the side down by dressing like a tramp.
Instead of going directly there, Dickie expressed his wish to watch the cattle’s journey to the market, so they positioned themselves beside the Barbican on Walmgate Bar. To their right running parallel to the city walls, was a row of pens already occupied by bleating, wild-eyed sheep which jostled and baahed, their dainty hooves skittering on the urine-soaked floor. Several interested buyers toured the row of pens, poking and prodding at a fleecy rump with a gnarled stick or crook, sometimes climbing into the pen to grasp a sheep by the nose and roughly examine its teeth.
Soon, a cloud of dust hovering above the buildings foretold the arrival of another herd being driven in from the outlying pastures. The two boys leaned with their backs to the limestone wall, idly watching the dustcloud get nearer. Fifty yards’ progress and added to the cloud was the sound of a far-off storm, a low rumbling, and soon too could be heard the faint yelps of the drovers’ dogs and the harsh ‘Goo ahn!’ of the drovers themselves.
&n
bsp; The wind was blowing in their faces; it carried the rich smell of dung. Another fifty yards and instead of a dustcloud came a many-legged beast that lowed and echoed a mournful song. Now each beast became discernible – red and white with long, curving horns, their eyes rolling in terror as they were herded towards an unknown fate, their hooves lost beneath the swirling sea of dust. They filled the entire street, those at the flanks stumbling on the cobblestones that edged the road. The dogs yapped and snarled at their heels, darting, tongues slavering, in and out of the threshing heave of limbs. Now and then an excited steer would rear up to break the rippling pattern and attempt to mount the beast in front, then fail back, rewarded only by a jarring blow to its chin from the other beast’s rump. Their hocks were caked with dung. Festoons of saliva dangled from pink, slimy muzzles, swinging like frail elastic to cling to stumbling forelegs. One could almost smell their breath, fetid in its terror.
Sonny was laughingly trying to fight his brother off. Dickie had stolen a hat that one of the farmers had hung on a post and was now imitating its owner, talking gibberish whilst trying to force Sonny’s jaws apart to examine his teeth. The herd was almost on them, when Sonny to his horror realised there was something else in the road – a tiny child.
‘Jesus Christ Dickie – d’ye see there!’ He lanced a finger at the tow-haired infant who was playing happily with a pile of pebbles right in the cattle’s path.
Dickie voiced concern, but made no attempt to move. At his side Sonny swayed agitatedly from one foot to the other. The child had seen the cattle now and had risen excitedly to his feet, jumping up and down and pointing a stubby finger at the clamorous mob that was bearing down on him. Sonny looked frantically to right and left. No one else appeared to have noticed, too engrossed in their business. And the cattle were still coming.
The child was perhaps twenty-five yards away from where the boys stood and an equal distance from an horrific crushing death. With no regard for his own safety or for his best clothes, Sonny dashed out into the road, shouting and calling to the child. He could hear his brother issuing words of encouragement from the safety of the footwalk. ‘Go on, Son, you’re nearly there!’
Sonny hailed the child again and this time the infant turned. His smile inverted when he saw the man running towards him. To him the flaming red hair and determined expression spelt one thing – trouble. He too started to run – towards the herd.
‘Come back, ye stupid little tick!’ Sonny tore breathlessly after him. The cattle were very near now. He could hear the rasping of their breath, smelt it, imagined its rancid heat on his face. The boy fell, rose to his feet, and then suddenly he realised his danger as the beasts bore down on him. They looked bigger from here. In the instant he turned Sonny swept him up, spun round and wheeled away from the danger, pelting back to his brother as if the very Devil were on his heels.
‘Mother o’ God, I thought I was gonna have to scrape y’up with a shovel!’ Dickie prised the struggling child from Sonny’s rigor mortis-like grip and pinioned it firmly under his arm.
Sonny warily opened his eyes and stared at his brother as if at a stranger. His heart had somehow shifted position and now beat furiously in his throat. His mouth was bone-dry and filled with the acrid taste of fear. He swallowed and gradually his heart began to descend to its natural habitat. A look at his suit produced a groan; it was ruined. The clean shirt, too, bore signs of the hostilities, smeared by the grubby hands and mouth of the infant.
He took a deep breath and blinked at the perpetrator of the disaster who was now inquisitively quiet under Dickie’s arm and returned his scrutiny with undisguised ill-feeling, the ungrateful wretch. Paradoxically, a sparkling white handkerchief still stood to attention in Sonny’s top pocket. He shook it out and ran it over his sweating face. Looking around him he noted with sinking spirits that everything was as it had been five minutes before. No one, apart from his brother, had noticed his heroism. ‘God, I could do with a drink!’ He crumpled the handkerchief and rammed it tetchily into his trouser pocket.
Dickie fished into his own pocket and pulled out a silver threepence. ‘Here, nip into that pub an’ have a drink on me. Ye deserve it after such a deed. Wait till I tell Mam her son’s a hero.’
‘She’ll not be too pleased about the suit,’ replied Sonny unhappily. He refused the coin from his brother, saying he had enough. ‘What about the mawk?’
‘Sure, don’t worry your head none about him,’ answered Dickie. ‘I’ll go see if I can find its mother. You get yourself a dram an’ brush yourself up.’
When the other had retired to the tavern Dickie set the child on the footwalk and said, ‘Now then, young spadger, an’ where would you be livin’?’
The infant’s response was to turn down his mouth and start to snivel, just as his not unattractive mother arrived. She had, in fact, just vacated the very tavern into which Sonny had gone and now demanded to know what Dickie had been doing to upset her son. He hastily explained the situation: how the child had been snatched from the jaws of death, supplanting his brother’s part in the rescue with his own. Here was a woman who looked as if she would show her gratitude.
When Sonny stepped out into the sunlight some ten minutes later, his brother – like the will o’ the wisp he was – had disappeared.
* * *
The auctioneer’s magnetism was beginning to fade. Sonny elbowed his way through the crowd of ruddy-faced Yorkshiremen and strolled back to the road. He wondered briefly what had befallen his brother and the child, then leapt aside as two drovers manhandled a protesting ewe from a pen. It fell at his feet and was bleeding heavily from beneath its tail, the wool around its haunches pink. The men grabbed fistfuls of fleece and hauled it away. Sonny lingered sympathetically and shouted to the men to take more care with their charge, then went on his way. The place abounded with life. His ears were crammed with bellows and bleats and grunts, plus the often unintelligible dialect of the farmers; his nose with the overpowering stench of ammonia and excrement. He sliced a passage through the final cluster of farmhands with their linen smocks and dung-streaked gaiters then turned homewards via Fishergate Bar.
He was preoccupied with ridding himself of the rusty iron parings that his clothes had attracted whilst leaning over the pens, and examining his ruined jacket when, with half an eye, he observed a young girl sitting at the kerb. She was hunched dejectedly, head in hands, her drab skirt bunched untidily around her thighs. He saw on drawing closer that there were pink channels down each dusty cheek.
He halted close to where she was sitting. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’
She snatched a tear-stained glance, then hid her face once more. ‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you’ve got half a crown goin’ spare.’ The dullness of her tone implied her pessimistic assessment of the untidy youth. ‘Me da’s gonna kill me when I see him.’
Sonny smoothed back his red hair and deliberated. She was very pretty, even the tattered dress could not hide that. He wanted to help her. He hated to see anyone so unhappy. Yet half a crown was an awful lot of money. His fingers strayed to his pocket and played with the coins he had saved from the money his parents had forwarded while he was at college. Apart from his paints there was little else he needed and he had accumulated a fair amount He had felt rather guilty at his reluctance to leave his savings at home but his brother, sad to say, could not be trusted. Thoughtfully, he stroked the milled edge of a coin with his thumbnail. She was very pretty. Surrendering to compassion he took out a florin and a sixpence and squatted down beside her.
She stared at the coins on his palm, then quickly snatched them up and tucked them into the warm cleft that disappeared into her bodice. ‘You needn’t expect any reward,’ she accused.
Deeply offended he blushed and rose swiftly. ‘I want none! If that’s your gratitude, madam, I’ll be off!’ He had taken four strides before her voice called him back.
‘I’m sorry!’ He turned and gl
owered as she added: ‘It’s just the way you were lookin’ at me. I thought…’
‘I was admiring your prettiness, that’s all.’ Sonny reddened again at his own forwardness.
‘Thank you … and thanks for your generosity also. I can’t say when I’ll be able to repay it.’
He waved aside any question of reimbursement. She rose and came to stand beside him, her head level with his shoulder. ‘Are you always so trusting? I mean, you don’t even know me … neither did you ask me why I needed that money.’
‘You said your father would kill you when you saw him,’ answered Sonny. ‘That seemed good enough reason to me. A pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve such a fate.’
She grimaced. ‘Aye, well it weren’t just a figure o’ speech neither, I’m afraid. If I’d’ve gone home without that egg money he’d’ve taken me to wipe the floor with.’ She curled her lip to display a gap in her teeth. ‘See that?
He did that ’cause I was too long in fetching his ale from the tavern – badtempered cove he is.’
Sonny expressed his disgust, then asked what had happened to the egg money.
‘Uh?’ She seemed miles away. ‘Oh, that. I never got it in the first place. Got as far as Fishergate Bar an’ this little arab comes harum scarum knocks the basket right outta me hand an’ smashed the blinkin’ lot. I’ve been sat here worrying summat awful – ’til you came along.’ She smiled happily and, hooking her arm through the empty basket, added, ‘It’ll be ages before me da gets finished selling his porkers. Shall I walk with you awhile?’
Sonny replied that it would be his pleasure to continue his journey in her charming company. He walked slowly, so that his dream might not be over too fast. She asked his name; he asked hers. By the time they reached the end of George Street Sonny was hopelessly in love with her. Gone were all thoughts of Agatha. Agatha didn’t even exist any more.
Annie was from out Naburn way. She often came into York, she told him, to sell her eggs or to visit the market. She was Sonny’s age – sixteen. She had three brothers. Her mother was dead. Her father was frequently drunk. No, she answered Sonny’s question, he wasn’t always violent, it was only after her mother had died that the beatings had started.
For My Brother’s Sins Page 19