The house was no riverfront house either … there were Axminster carpets on the floor, and good solid mahogany furniture, and glass and china ornaments adorned every surface. Carrie felt her heart sink, remembering how she had invited John home on that first day, thinking him as lowly as herself. And lending him Wilf’s clobber too … he must have thought he’d gone down in the world.
She lifted her chin as Oswald Travis shook her hand, and tried not to show how awkward she felt. The woman behind him looked her over, and nodded as if she approved of what she saw. Though Carrie had no idea of knowing whether the approval was at the sight of herself, or of Miss Helen Barclay’s silk frock that she wore. She despised herself for feeling so class-aware, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
John should have warned her, she thought, in a fit of pique, though quite what she would have expected him to say, she didn’t know. All this would be normal and natural to him. He’d take for granted all the elegant chinaware and cutlery laid out on the table for tea, the dainty cut sandwiches, and the fruit cake topped with cream that had a hint of brandy to flavour it.
‘You must tell us all about yourself, Carrie,’ Mrs Ryan said grandly, an hour or so later. By then, they had all eaten their fill and were sitting out in the garden, where the balmy summer breezes wafted the lovely evening scents of the roses all around them. It was all so genteel, Carrie thought, unable to get the wretched word out of her head for more than minutes at a time.
And there was nothing more guaranteed to set her thoughts in a spin than responding to Mrs Ryan’s request.
‘There’s nothing much to tell. I live with Ma — with my parents and my two older brothers, and my small brother Billy.’
‘Is that the little rascal who fell into the river?’
‘That’s right.’
She stopped. She had summed up their lives in the briefest of sentences, and a right boring mess she had made of it. Why couldn’t she have said something lively, about her brother Frank always having had a yen to go to sea … ? Or about her own fascination with Mr Brunel and his great works … ? Or even about Billy being so good with his letters already … ?
‘And what does your family do? John has said hardly anything about you at all, which makes you something of a mystery to his uncle and me.’
Carrie didn’t think Uncle Oswald could have cared a jot about what she or her family did, and it was only Mrs Ryan’s sharp eyes that wanted to bore right into her soul.
‘Pa and my brothers are carpenters, and real craftsmen at that,’ she said quickly. ‘They did some of the work on the Great Britain while she was in dry dock, and they made every stick of furniture in our house.’
‘Fancy!’ Mrs Ryan said.
Carrie gritted her teeth, hoping it didn’t sound as if they couldn’t afford to have someone else make their furniture for them. It wasn’t that at all. There was no need, when the Stuckey men turned out as fine a piece of work as could be bought in any workshop.
‘Carrie’s father should start up his own workshop,’ John said, unconsciously echoing her thoughts. ‘He’d do a brisk trade with his sons to assist him.’
‘I daresay he would, but you need money to set up such a place,’ Carrie said smartly. ‘And Pa’s never been a man to save his money.’
She blushed, wishing the talk would move away from her family. Nor did she want to convey the fact that once the meagre housekeeping money was put away, whatever money Pa had left went out just as quickly into one of the riverside taverns. But Mrs Ryan wasn’t done with her yet.
‘And what about you, my dear? What work do you do?’
It was obvious to anyone that Carrie wasn’t a lady who sat around all day and did nothing. She had never been ashamed of the work she did before these last weeks, and she wasn’t ashamed now, she thought defiantly. But the sparky little devil inside her made her refuse to give a direct answer.
‘I have a special arrangement with Miss Helen Barclay of Clifton as a lady’s helper,’ she said.
It was stretching the truth considerably, yet she persuaded herself that it wasn’t quite a lie either. She definitely helped Miss Barclay to look her best on all occasions, and her well-lanolined hands still felt squidgy and damp, but at least for the moment they didn’t bear the reddened marks of the washer-woman.
‘A lady’s helper, indeed. The young lady in question must think very highly of you, Carrie,’ Mrs Ryan said in some admiration.
‘I believe she does, ma’am,’ Carrie said demurely.
* * *
The ordeal was finally over, and an ordeal it had been. If there had just been John and his uncle in the house, Carrie thought she would have felt more relaxed. But the widowed Mrs Ryan was keeping a very proprietorial eye on the house on Bedminster Hill, and Carrie thought she knew very well why. When John married, he would presumably bring his wife to live there, and the matronly lady already had her sights set on ruling it.
She let out her breath in a long sigh of relief as they left the house at last, and began the walk back down the hill. The grass was already damp with the evening dew settling on it with a diamond-bright sheen, but she didn’t worry about the dampness seeping through her thin shoes. She felt like a child let out of charity school, or a bird set free from a cage, and it showed.
‘Was it so bad?’ John said in amusement.
‘In some ways, yes!’ she burst out, unable to hide her feelings. ‘But only because of that awful woman! I liked your uncle, but if he marries her, he’ll be under petticoat rule quicker than blinking.’
‘I always thought they were well-matched.’
Carrie shook her head decisively. ‘That’s probably because you want to see your uncle settled,’ she said, with insight. ‘I’m sure a man doesn’t always want a woman fussing around him, and clearing up after him before he’s even had time to enjoy making a mess in his own home.’
‘You’re quite the little philosopher, aren’t you?’
He had taken her arm to stop her sliding on the damp grass. It was very slippery in places, and she was glad of his support, but she didn’t miss the edge in his voice.
‘Well, I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that your uncle hasn’t got a mind of his own. But you did ask!’
‘I’m sorry I did, now, if it’s got you so riled up. It doesn’t take much, does it?’
‘And what about you? Now that I’ve seen you at home, I’d have thought you were far too genteel to be brawling in the street with my brother.’
She bit her lip as that damnable word slipped out of her lips again. Truth to tell, she hated fighting, and she hated street fighting above all, since it invariably involved a crowd and the constables.
‘I’m not too keen on it myself,’ John said. ‘I much prefer to keep my pugilistic activities confined to the ring.’
For a second, Carrie couldn’t follow the long words. When she did, she stopped abruptly, but as John strode on down the slippery hill, she found her feet sliding after him. Eventually they both managed to stop, and she faced him furiously.
‘Are you telling me you fight for money?’
His eyes flashed ominously at the accusation in her voice. ‘It’s an honest sport when it’s properly organised.’
‘Sport! You might have killed our Wilf, and you call that sport!’
He was gripping her arms now, as she bristled like a fire-cracker with rage.
‘Come on now, Carrie, you’re getting this out of all proportion. It was your brother who started it, and I didn’t really hurt him. Believe me, if I’d wanted to, he’d have come off far worse than he did.’
The sheer arrogance of the statement left her gasping. She shook him off, and stepped back a pace.
‘I don’t think I want to know you any more. And you needn’t escort me any farther. I’m quite capable of finding my own way home,’ she said in a freezing tone.
She slid on down the hill, praying that she wouldn’t fall head over backside a
nd look a complete fool. She thought he would follow her, but he didn’t, and her eyes stung when she glanced back and saw him still standing there, his arms folded implacably. His uncle may be the sort to be manipulated by a woman’s wiles, but John Travis clearly was not.
When she reached the bottom of the hill, she turned to the right with her head in the air, and hurried along the cobbled road until she could cross the river by one of the city bridges.
This lovely day had all turned sour, and she couldn’t help thinking bitterly that it wouldn’t have mattered a tuppenny toss to Elsie that a man earned extra money as a bare-knuckle fighter — which was also about as far from being genteel as she could imagine. But then, Elsie didn’t have her standards — or her bloody saintly sense of pride, either.
Chapter 7
For long moments, John Travis remained standing quite still with his arms folded. An onlooker might have thought he was contemplating the spectacular scarlet glory of the sunset on the river, but instead, he was watching the stiff-shouldered figure of Carrie Stuckey diminish from sight as she marched along the waterfront towards the city bridges.
Women! John thought savagely. They were a breed apart, and this one in particular, as sweet to look at as a rose in bloom, was as hot-headed as they came. Never giving him a chance to explain … just going off half-cocked at the mere mention of bare-knuckle fighting, as if it was akin to doing bloody murder.
He swore aloud, vehemently and satisfactorily, as the arrogant Miss Carrie Stuckey’s reaction sent his thoughts right back to the days when it had been a desperate necessity for him to learn to fight, or go under.
* * *
‘It was your grandpa’s dying wish to send you to be eddicated, John, and it’ll make a man of you,’ his Uncle Oswald had said on that gloomy winter’s day long ago, when the boy had done his unmanly crying over the burying of the old man he’d adored. ‘There’s nobody left but we two now, and I’m to see that his wishes are carried out with what he saved for you.’
‘I never knew he had any money,’ John had mumbled, shocked at the thought. ‘He never acted rich.’
‘Ah well, that’s because he never made no fuss about it. And he weren’t rich like they toffs up Clifton, mind, but what he had was always meant for you, so there’s to be no arguing, now. You’re to go to this here decent school, like your grandpa wanted, and make summat of yourself. You don’t want to end up ferrying folk about on the river like me.’
‘But that’s just what I do want,’ John had almost sobbed then. ‘I love the river, and I don’t want to go away. Don’t send me, Uncle — please.’
But his pleading had been futile, and he’d gone away to the all-boys school to be educated. In the end, he had cause to be thankful for his education, because it enabled him to be completely at ease with all kinds of folk now, including the university students who came down to the river for a day’s excursion.
But there were other things he had learned that weren’t so savoury. He discovered that for those who wanted it, there was more than the basics of reading and writing, and the higher advantages of a foreign language and the sciences on offer. In that cloistered school world, John had been rudely initiated into the dark side of human nature by boys who were older than he, who wanted far more than he was prepared to give, and who took an instant fancy to the sturdy new boy with the handsome dark eyes and the interestingly earthy accent.
He was revolted by their lewd suggestions, and it was then that he took up the optional lessons of boxing, its name elevated to that of noble art by the muscular and totally masculine tutor. He had discovered a natural talent for the sport, and when one or another of the nancy boys had slyly approached him, he was smartly put in his place with a bloodied nose and bruised ribs. Word quickly got around, until the small obnoxious clique had finally got his message, and from then on, he was left strictly alone.
So, Miss Purity Stuckey, he thought viciously now, if you had been prepared to listen, and I’d been prepared to relate the details of such practices into your delicate ears, you might have learned that it had been no lust for violence that had led me into fighting, but to keep off the unwanted attentions of the bum boys.
When his schooldays were over, he’d been tempted by the occasional advertising posters inviting contestants to try their bare-knuckle skills against a professional opponent, either up on Clifton Downs, or in one of the hastily erected arenas in one of the city parks. It kept his hand in, should he ever need it, and it was a useful way of earning a bit of extra money towards that boat he intended buying one day. But he certainly wasn’t any lover of fighting for fighting’s sake, and he did it strictly as a sideline.
He was satisfied that he had lived out his grandpa’s dream of educating him, and the rough edges of his accent had been moderately smoothed out. But it did more for his self-respect than all the schooling he received, to know he could fend off anyone he chose, especially the likes of the pansies he could spot a mile off by their scents and postures.
In the end, it was still the river that he chose for his livelihood, just as he had always promised himself. In the end, a man had to follow his own dream … He had no wish to be known as a bare-knuckle fighter, and he was still cursing himself for letting the words slip out when he was walking out with Carrie Stuckey. But maybe it was as well he’d seen the prim side of her before it was too late. As her Pa had said, there was a long way to go between walking out and the marriage stakes.
* * *
‘Well, you look in a fine old state. What bee’s got into your bonnet?’ Elsie Miller puffed, running inelegantly across the bridge to catch up with the friend she’d glimpsed in the distance. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be having tea with your young man today?’
Carrie stopped stalking along with her head in the air, causing Elsie to cannon right into her. Elsie looked decidedly flushed, and Carrie guessed she’d been up to no good, and probably with some boy. It didn’t make her own scratchy feelings towards John any more agreeable.
‘I was, and I did,’ she said crossly.
Elsie stared at her. ‘Why didn’t he walk you home then? You haven’t fallen out with him already, have you? Did he try something on? I bet he did, and you got all tight-arsed about it!’
Carrie gave her a freezing look. Even for Elsie, this was going too far. ‘Sometimes you can be so coarse!’
She got a sudden whiff of something coming from the other girl, and she spoke suspiciously. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Elsie tossed her head. ‘What if I have? ’S’no crime, is it? And it helps me sleep at night, instead of listening to me granpa moaning and spitting.’
She lurched against Carrie as a lady and gentleman went to pass them on the bridge, and Carrie held her firmly, flashing an apologetic smile at the disapproving pair. It was clear that in their eyes she was tarred with the same unsavoury brush as Elsie at that moment.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ she said sharply.
‘Not before you tell me what happened between you and the lovely John,’ she slurred. ‘Did he kiss you?’
Already, to Carrie, it seemed like a very long time ago, and the memory of those sweet, intoxicating moments on the hillside were frighteningly fading. And it was all her fault. All her own bloody, stupid, self-righteous fault! Just because she’d got up on her high horse about John’s interest in fighting … she shivered, because if she had lost him because of it, that was her own fault too.
And now that she’d had time to cool down a little, she knew that it wasn’t even so much the actual fighting that had offended her. It was the shock of knowing that someone she’d thought so far above herself, could be capable of enjoying such a sweaty, disgusting, and downright cruel pursuit. If he’d said he indulged in cock-fighting, she couldn’t have been more shocked, and that was the truth of it.
But it hadn’t been anything like so repugnant, and some folk even called it an honourable and masculine sport.
She was already regretting her ha
sty retorts …
‘Well?’ Elsie demanded, still swaying dreamily back and forth.
Carrie’s self-righteousness suddenly vanished, and she felt her face crumple. ‘Oh Elsie, I’ve been such a fool!’
‘Good God, what have you done?’ Elsie squealed. ‘You ain’t let him do it to you already, have you? You could have made ’im wait a coupla weeks, girl, and you’re a bloody dark horse if you haven’t, that’s all I can say!’
For a moment, Carrie looked at her blankly, and then her face went a fiery red, as she realised what her friend meant. More than that, she realised there was a look of excited admiration on Elsie’s face, and she knew Elsie was waiting to relish every lascivious little detail of what she imagined had happened.
‘You’ve got it all wrong as usual,’ she snapped. ‘But I’m not going to say another word, so you can either take my arm and try to walk upright, or I’ll go on without you. And if you end up in the river, just see if I care!’
For a moment, the two of them glared at one another, and then Elsie capitulated, clinging to Carrie’s arm as if she was a very old woman. If Carrie had needed to clear her head before she went home and faced her family with news of John’s home and his uncle, and the fine tea they’d had, then so did Elsie need to clear her head before she went to bed that night. She’d have a roaring headache tomorrow.
But since neither Elsie nor her granpa spent Sunday mornings regularly in church like the Stuckeys did, it probably wouldn’t matter. Elsie would just sleep the morning away, and her granpa would wait patiently until she was fit to grope around and get him some soup, which was all he seemed to eat nowadays.
For a moment, Carrie’s mouth watered at the thought. The Stuckeys never ate hot food on Sundays, not even soup. Sunday was a day of rest and contemplation, and no cooking was done in the house. Carrie had often thought irreverently that God surely wouldn’t object to folk putting a bit of hot nourishment in their bellies on His special day, but Ma’s word on the subject was law, and there was no changing it.
Hidden Currents Page 11