To Catch a Dream

by Mary Wood

  Before Bruiser could answer, a door latch clicked behind her. A voice, not dissimilar to Beth’s, made her jump, ‘Eeh, ’ark at her! You’ve brought a reet one with you in that one, Beth, love. Eeh, come here. Where did you come from? I’ve never been so surprised!’

  Bridie watched the person she assumed was Agnes put her arms out to Beth. There was nothing about her that fitted the mental picture she’d built up. The man who’d followed her down called out just before he closed the front door, ‘See you next week, Aggie, love.’

  Smoke billowed from Agnes’s thin, painted red lips. It curled up in front of her pretty face with its tiny features and huge brown eyes. Bridie took in her slim body, with its ample bosom swelling out over the top of the tight-fitting basque she wore.

  With Beth enclosed in her arms, Agnes spoke to Albert Armitage: ‘Eeh, useless bugger, that one. It took him bloody ages. I were reet fed up.’

  Albert laughed. ‘He pays well, so you put up with it. There’s not many like him.’

  Agnes snorted and eased herself back from Beth. ‘Well, love, it’s good to see yer. Eeh, give us another cuddle. You got out, then?’ Turning Beth to face Bruiser, she said, ‘Bruiser, this is Beth, as I told you of. She knows the score, and I reckon as she’ll be a good asset to yer, but I don’t know who this is standing there trying to give the flies a home, but she looks like trouble to me.’

  ‘I’m not for being trouble.’

  ‘Eeh, I’m only funning, lass.’

  ‘This is, Bridie, Agnes. We met in the convent. She helped me. She’s a good mate.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Bridie. Any mate of Beth’s is a mate of mine an’ all.’

  The smile on her touched Bridie’s heart, and she was sure it was sincere. She knew she would be for liking Agnes. Before she could speak, Bruiser gave a nod of his head and Agnes, in response, took hold of Beth’s hand and led her through the door. As the door closed, Bridie knew an excitement rise in her. Once more the feeling confused her, for shouldn’t she have been experiencing fear?

  Bruiser stood up and came over to her. ‘I don’t think you are going to be trouble, now, are you? I’m going to look after you. No one will touch you. You are mine.’ His warm breath on her face and the look in his eyes rekindled the trembling of the nerves in her stomach. When she looked away he laughed. ‘Come on, sit next to me. Let’s get to know one another better. You’ll be reet with me. No one messes with Bruiser Armitage, and no one touches owt as belongs to me, without my say-so.’

  ‘And who was for saying as I belonged to you? ’Tis arrogant as you are to presume.’

  ‘Ha, I like the spirit in you. It lights up your eyes. Stop fighting it. You felt it, as I did. I’ve a fancy for you, and I reckon as you have one for me. Here, have a drink; I’ve a good bottle of gin. It’ll warm yer and make you relax.’

  Why was she for ignoring the voice inside telling her she shouldn’t? Instead she took the glass.

  ‘Now swallow it down in one; it’s the only way for your first one. That’s reet, lass.’

  The liquid burned her throat and spasms of coughing took her. He laughed as she mopped her streaming eyes. The fire of it hit her stomach, filling her with a wonderful feeling, for didn’t a welcome heat spread through her body and a glow of happiness fill the empty spaces in her, giving her a powerful urge to giggle.

  ‘I knew as you’d like it. Have another, but take it slower – get used to the taste. Here, let me have your cloak, you don’t need it any more. Your cheeks are reet rosy.’

  Taking her cloak first, he then gently pulled the ribbon of her bonnet and removed it, releasing her hair. The strands of it brushed her skin as he lifted it and let it run through his fingers. Throwing her outdoor clothes onto one of the couches, he took hold of her. No resistance came into her as he guided her to the sofa. Inside she had a feeling that she didn’t care any more. Why was it that she should? Beth was speaking the truth when she said as they were spoiled goods. Another sip of the gin and she was for having an eagerness in her, and knowing she would not be at the fighting of it.

  Putting her hands down to steady herself, her fingers glided over the velvet cushions. The touch of them heightened feelings within her that she tried to deny. Bruiser sat beside her and brushed a ringlet from her forehead. ‘By, I’ve never seen anyone lovelier.’

  She tried to dispel the shyness that crept into her. Sipping the gin helped. Bruiser leaned over her, his face so near that his breath fanned her. She leaned back, the soft cushion accepting her like comforting arms. The glass clinked as he rested it on the table beside her, stretching over her body to do so. As he came back over her, he stopped and once more put his face close to hers. Deep in his eyes she saw a need in him. It matched the one in her, and she knew she wouldn’t be for denying it.

  She closed her eyes. His lips brushed hers, and his tongue probed its way into her mouth. The sensation curled everything within her into a tight knot of expectation. It splintered her emotions, sending urges through her that she wasn’t for understanding, but that made her want to beg him to release her from their grip – so sweet and so violent was the force sizzling through her at his caress of her breasts.

  The taking-off of her garments was hurried. Desperate to be out of them, she helped: she peeled off her underskirts, untied her bustle and slipped off her pantaloons, but he stayed her hand when it came to her bodice. Taking the cord, he threaded it out through the eyelets, then opened it with care, setting each breast free in a slow, controlled movement. Standing back, he looked at her, his eyes making slow progress over her body, burning a desire into every part of her. Nothing in her conflicted or resisted. The need in her flamed in its intensity. His words, telling her how beautiful she was and how her skin had the texture of silk, sang in her ears.

  The dampness of his lips moistened her cheek. They reached her lips and sucked them in, nibbling them until, without her bidding it to, she thrust her body towards his. The gesture felt natural and was for telling her that this was what she was made for – wasn’t that what Mrs Finney had said? ‘You will find a burning need in you for what men have to offer.’ Now she understood. This all-consuming need that this man had awoken in her was her: the very core of her. When at last he entered her, her whole body let go. It took her over. She screamed her joy. His every move sent shivers of thrills racing through her. He didn’t stop. He pounded his pleasure from her, filling her with ecstasy that built and built until the whole world burst around her and delicious, violent spasms took her. Then she begged him to hold still, let her keep the fragile pulsating of her very being, which threatened to slip away from her if he carried on. He did as she bid and she clenched her muscles hard onto him, and then she was drowning . . . drowning . . .

  When at last a calm feeling came to her, she relaxed back. Tears, the cause of which she did not know, wet her face, and total peace warmed its way through her. Not even his deep thrusting in and out of her disturbed her; she had ridden her crest. Her body had given its all. At last she felt his movements take on a new urgency. His groan became deeper, then he suddenly left her and rolled off her. His cry told her this was his moment.

  The silence didn’t give her questions. She lay content in his arms, thinking. Inside her she knew she was for wanting to do what they’d just done as often as possible – now, even. For didn’t the fire still burn inside her? And wouldn’t she be longing to do it with Seamus, as cross as she was with him? Imagine taking Seamus to her in that way; or Will Hadler . . . Would you listen to me! What was it that had made me think of him? A stranger I’ve only ever met the once, and for such a short time? But then, whatever had brought Will to her mind, she was for knowing that he did figure on her list of men she could lie with and take pleasure with. Was it sinful that she was?

  Bruiser stirred. He took his arm from around her and sat up, wiping his hands on a handkerchief he’d pulled from the pocket of his trousers, before turning to her. ‘So, you’ve had it afore, then? You’re good. I’v
e had plenty – I live for it at times – but what you gave me were best ever. Now, what to do with you, lass, that’s the thing. I could sell you for a good price. I know a few pimps . . .’

  ‘Sell me? Wasn’t I just telling you, you are not for owning me, and I’m not something to be sold, either! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you fecking talk as though I’m a sack of potatoes.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not – you’re anything but that. You’re beautiful in every way, and with the core of a real woman. Here, put your things on. We have to talk.’

  The wonderful feeling that had settled in her had gone, and there was a pit of rage in its place. Just who was he thinking he was? As she dressed she asked, ‘And what is a pimp anyway?’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t learn what you know from being on the game, then? Have you a man in your life, someone who learned you your skills?’

  ‘What skills is it you are speaking of? How is it you can do what you did just now, and then talk as if it was a business thing, or something? Didn’t you be for . . . ?’

  ‘It was business. Nice – in fact very special – but business all the same. Though, having tasted what you have, I am tempted to keep it all to meself. But then you could be worth a packet to me.’ He explained what a pimp did.

  Bridie sat down. She swallowed hard to keep her temper locked inside. Something told her this was a dangerous man. The need of her was gone from his eyes; they now glinted with a cruel light. A warning conveyed itself to her. Oh, holy Mary, Mother of God, what had she done? But then she was for not being able to help herself, and she knew the truth of it – she would be for doing it again, if he asked . . .

  PART TWO

  Warts and All

  1880–93

  15

  Andrew

  Breckton, 1880

  A change in fortune

  Andrew’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. How much more could they bear? He smoothed the stray strands of Dvina’s hair, trying to soothe her with the gesture, but knowing it was futile. Her sobbing continued and he thought it best not to stop her, and just held her until she could come to a place of calmness. He felt her agony. God knows they had plenty to cry about, but this latest news, coming as it did after her losing yet another baby – their third in the five years since they were married, was too much for her. As it was for him, but as ever he had to keep strong. He’d liked his father-in-law very much and would miss him. His passing had been a blow to them both.

  ‘My poor darling, you have so much on your shoulders. You have been very brave and have shown a remarkable strength.’

  ‘Oh, Andrew, what would I do without you?’ Dvina lifted her face to his, her misery clutching at him.

  He brushed her wet cheek with his hand. ‘Come, dear, let me help you to your bed. You need to rest. I will get Jane to help you.’

  She didn’t resist. Once in her room, she asked, ‘Will you come to see me in about an hour or so? I will feel better then, but I’m just so tired. Maybe we could ride out later – that always makes me feel better.’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling. I will bring you up some of the lovely chocolate drink the new girl in the kitchen makes. You love that.’ He kissed her tenderly and went in search of Jane, her maid.

  Once back in his study, he thought over the implications of his father-in-law’s sudden death. It wasn’t a huge mine, but Tacker’s Mine would now belong to him, along with all of its assets. It was his nearest rival, though he had lately been in talks with his father-in-law about joining up the two. The engineers had done a survey and had found that it was a viable proposition. The seams of Tacker’s Mine were rich, and not mined to their full capacity. If he went ahead with the plans to amalgamate – or even if he didn’t – he would need more of a workforce to make sure the mine reached its potential. He pondered this. Where would he get the men he would need?

  With this question came the awful memory of the tragic disaster of nearly four and a half years ago, which had taken almost his entire workforce and left a gulf filled with an agony of grief that was still felt to this day. He recalled how replacing those skilled men hadn’t been easy, and how he’d had to go as far as Ireland to make up the shortfall. Even if he did manage to get over the recruitment problem this time, he would need more housing. That wouldn’t be too difficult, as there was land available. The fields he leased out for grazing at the top of the lane would be ideal, and he had the funds to finance such a plan.

  He’d have to talk it all over with Dvina. Thinking about it, maybe it was time to sort out the Irish a bit better. Their accommodation wasn’t really suitable and hadn’t been intended as permanent homes. It might be an idea to build enough cottages to move workers who had been with him a long time from the Miners’ Row into the new, bigger houses. He could then move the Irish into the present cottages. Yes, he thought Dvina would go along with that – she’d taken him to task in the past about the conditions in which the Irish community lived.

  He sat back and thought of how Dvina had made a difference to every aspect of his life. They shared everything and he discussed everything with her, including his business worries, and her advice was often invaluable. And then there was the other side to her: as a wife and lover, she had all he could wish for – except, well, he still found it difficult on social occasions, and more often than not he turned down invitations. God, what has put this stupid pride – this fear of humiliation – into me, where my peers are concerned? And was it the same bravado that kept him seeking the excitements that Lilly offered him? Because, to his shame, he’d long since resumed his visits to her, and they had become more frequent with time. But why? Why?

  He struggled to explain it to himself, because Dvina more than satisfied him. Even thinking about the pleasure she gave provoked a twitch in his groin. His hand sank deep into his pocket and he felt the throb of an erection pending.

  Standing and walking over to the window, he tried to decipher what it was that he needed from Lilly. He could only think it was the stimulation of the illicit nature of having sex with her, and her raw approach to it. No loving feelings, just animal-like coupling, with nothing barred. He flushed, thinking of some of the more bizarre sexual practices she enjoyed and the pleasure they gave him.

  A walk would be the thing. To calm himself. He was behaving like a young whippersnapper, with nothing other than sex to think about. Good God, with everything that was happening, he felt ashamed of himself.

  The garden looked lovely. The hazy, early July sun drenched it in light, and made the colours of the many flowers more vivid: reds, golds, pinks and whites danced before him. He’d remembered to pick Jeremy’s letter up off his desk and had it in his pocket. He hadn’t had time to read it yet, though he’d had it a couple of days now. Of course the news in it would be out of date, as it took weeks or months for Jeremy’s mail to arrive from Africa. Andrew knew the reports from that quarter were not good, so in some ways he had been putting off reading it.

  Sitting on his favourite bench under the ancient oak tree, he tore open what had started life as a crisp brown envelope, but – after much handling on its journey of thousands of miles – was now crumpled and a little grubby:

  My dear stepbrother – Jeremy had called him that from the moment his mother had married Jeremy’s father, even before the official adoption – I haven’t anything promising to tell you. Things here are escalating and we are suffering many losses against the fiercely independent Boers, even though they have no regular army. The farmers form military units and call themselves commandos. They elect officers as they need them. Their uniform is non-existent, but their dress is effective, as they don everyday dark-grey or earth-toned farming clothes, whereas we stick out against the African landscape in our red jackets and black trousers with a red stripe down each side. They are not very well equipped, but lethal with their single-shot Westley Richards rifles. As natural hunting men, they have learned over the years to fire from cover and make the first shot count, knowing that, if they missed, the game wo
uld be long gone.

  We are no match for them. They can draw on years of experience of fighting frontier skirmishes with numerous and indigenous African tribes. They rely more on mobility, stealth, marksmanship and initiative, while we British emphasize the traditional military values of command, discipline, formation and synchronized firepower. We fire volleys on command, which is useless against an unseen enemy, but we haven’t had training in the art of marksmanship. They are just picking us off.

  The Irish have suffered heavy losses, and their leader – a friend of mine, Lieutenant-Colonel Anstruther – lost his life. This devastating event has prompted me to write in such detail to you about what is going on, because: one, writing it all down helps me come to terms with it; and two, I fear I will not make it home.

  I want you to know, my dear stepbrother, that if that happens you are to take the inheritance my father spoke to you about, without any compunction. I know you will be a worthy owner and keeper of Hensal Grange. Look on it that in some ways fate has taken a hand and brought you back to your destiny, because but for mistakes made in the past, it would all belong to you anyway. Besides, I chose to do what I do: my life is the Army, and fighting for my country is an honour. Should I lose my life doing so, then I would have given my all for my beliefs and my principles.

  Just in case: goodbye, my brother. Live a happy life and prosper.

  By the way, I received your letter. I am so sorry you still have no heir and I feel the pain of your losses, but it will happen, I am sure.

  Give my fondest love to my dearest cousin Dvina, and God bless you both. Take care of my father, if what I fear happens, and of course your beautiful mother. I am so happy to have seen them find such a deep love together, as it seems you and Dvina have.

  My love and very best wishes, Jeremy.

  Once more the tears threatened. Something told him Jeremy was gone. How could he survive? As an officer, he would lead from the front, and if the Boers were that accurate, what chance did he stand? My God, he didn’t realize how much he thought of Jeremy. But then they had always found a common ground, and the marriage and the adoption had cemented their friendship. Andrew had been saddened when Jeremy did go into the Army. He’d hoped it had been a whim, but was glad Jeremy was doing something he’d wanted to do. Such a pity this bloody war with the Boers had happened.