A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  John ran over the conversation he’d had with Skelton two nights ago as he glanced again at the two men. After the game had finished, Skelton had showed himself, paying off his stooge who’d immediately made himself scarce. ‘It’s me you owe now, John,’ Skelton had murmured. ‘But don’t fret, I know a bright lad like you won’t keep me waiting overly long.’

  The soft voice had been mild, even amiable, as he’d gone on. ‘Course, there’s more ways of settling this than you stomping up with the money. You’re the best boxer I’ve seen in a while, lad. You could have been at the top of the game if you hadn’t thrown in your lot with them fair folk years back. But then I understand a lady was involved, eh? Aye, we’ve all been young and had the sap running high. But things are different now, and at your age you can do better than having every bright spark who fancies himself as a hard ’un trying to knock ten bells out of you every day in the ring. And let’s face it, you’re not one of them travellers, John. You’re an East End lad, born and bred, an’ we breed ’em tough, an’ I’d say you’re tougher than most. I like a man who can take care of himself, and others, if you get my drift.’

  He’d mumbled something about getting the money then, and Skelton’s voice had changed, the pally note absent when he next spoke. ‘Aye, well, if that’s the way you want to play it, I’ll give you a couple of days to come up with the readies, all right? But think on about what I’ve said. You’re missing an opportunity here and I took you for an intelligent bloke. You could earn more working for me in a month than six grubbing an existence with them travellers.’

  Skelton’s tone had changed again, becoming nauseatingly benevolent when he continued. ‘I understand you’ve got a bit bairn an’ all, is that right? Aye, I’ve got a family meself so I know what it is to look to the future with them in mind. And these are hard times we’re in, and they’re only going to get harder by the day. My old mam, God rest her soul, used to say that the good Lord helps them that helps themselves, and she was right.’

  Skelton had smiled, showing yellow pointed teeth. John had thought the man resembled nothing so much as a giant rat.

  ‘Throw in your lot with me an’ you’ll be well looked after, lad. A house rent-free for you and the bairn and plenty of cash in your pocket, and that’s just for starters. There’s many a bloke who’d bite my hand off for half what I’m offering you, and that’s a fact.’

  He had thanked Skelton then, saying he appreciated the chance and that he would think about it, whilst knowing he had no intention of working for him. He hadn’t met many men in his life he was afraid of – perhaps just the master at the orphanage and one of the teachers at school who’d been a sadistic brute and had had everyone quaking in their shoes – but there was something about Skelton that made his blood run cold, even when the man was being matey. Or perhaps especially then.

  John surfaced from his thoughts to find the other players waiting for him to make his move. There was nothing else for it but to show his dud hand. Disgustedly he flung the cards down on the table and stood up. His money was gone, he still owed Skelton a small fortune, and there was no hope of retrieving Louisa’s jewellery from the pawnbroker unless . . .

  Knowing he had been backed into a corner by his own crass stupidity and weakness, he made his way across the room. The two men stared at him impassively. He didn’t prevaricate. ‘I need to speak to Mr Skelton.’

  ‘. . . So that’s it in a nutshell, John. You show me what you’re made of by doing this little job for me tonight, and if I’m satisfied, you’re on the payroll. And we’ll wipe the slate clean regarding what you owe me. But once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no going back, not when you work for me. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, Mr Skelton.’

  ‘I’ve got plans for you, lad. I’ve been looking for a right-hand man for a while – I can’t be everywhere at once. I had a good bloke seeing to things at the docks but he met with an accident. I dealt with the scum responsible –’ Skelton’s voice left John in no doubt as to what had befallen the unfortunates concerned – ‘and the example I made of them will serve as a warning to others, but Stan still needs to be replaced. Stan had brains as well as brawn, like you, and he was loyal. You’ll be loyal, won’t you? Aye, course you will. You’ve got a bairn and you wouldn’t want her to grow up without her da, would you now? So let’s go and get this spot of business over and done with, and then we can talk some more over a bottle of the hard stuff.’

  Skelton hadn’t told him what the business was, merely that he happened to have a little job that needed taking care of and that would be right up his alley, but as John followed the narrow-shouldered, slight figure of his new boss with the two henchmen making up the rear, he found his guts had turned to water. It was a short walk from the East End pub where Skelton had been waiting for him to the dockside, and being a Saturday night the gin and pie shops were doing a roaring trade, as were the blowsy prostitutes waiting on every street corner. It was noticeable to John that not one of the women called out to them as they passed – one look at Skelton and they either turned away or lowered their eyes. The warm night was ripe with the stink of fish and other pungent smells but John was used to that; he’d been born in Low Street close to the docks, and filth and disease were no strangers to him.

  A grimy East End twilight was falling as they walked along Thornhill Quay, passing a couple of fishermen’s boats that had been pulled up out of the water. The terraced houses that bordered the rough cobbles leading to the side of the quay and the river were mostly three-storey, and in their heyday had been fine residences. Now they were tenement slums with whole families living in one room along with the rats and the bugs, and as many as thirty men, women and children sharing one outside privy and water tap.

  It was a hell of a way to live, John thought, especially for some families who were decent enough but had found themselves poverty-stricken through no fault of their own. There were some who said that once you reached rock bottom the only way was up, but he hadn’t seen much evidence of that in life.

  ‘Now, lad, let me explain what I want you to do.’ Skelton’s eyes could have been chips of black ice. ‘There’s a bloke living on the second floor in a room at the back of the house who thinks he can take the mickey outta me by all accounts. Out of the goodness of me heart I put a bit of work his way, unloading some merchandise from this boat and that, you know how it is.’

  John nodded. He knew how it was all right.

  ‘And the next thing I hear is that this same bloke is after selling a few bottles of brandy cheap in the Golden Lion. I can’t have that, lad, for two reasons. One, it’ll be after giving the rest of ’em ideas, and two, no one does the dirty on Patrick Skelton and doesn’t live to regret it. Now, you go up there and bring him down to me so we can take him somewhere nice and quiet and point out the folly of his ways, all right?’

  It wasn’t all right, it was far from all right. ‘What – what are you going to do with him?’

  ‘Me? Nowt.’ The thin mouth smiled, showing the pointed yellow teeth. ‘But you and them –’ Patrick nodded to his two henchmen – ‘are going to break every bone in his treacherous thieving body.’

  John swallowed. ‘But –’

  ‘No buts.’ Patrick stepped closer, so close John could smell his fetid breath when he softly said, ‘You do exactly as you’re told.’

  He’d sold himself, soul, mind and body. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Walton. Robert Walton.’

  The front door to the house was ajar and even from outside the smell was foul. John walked into the dank hallway and in the fading light he saw great holes in the skirting boards where rats lurked. Striking a match, he saw lice crawling on the rotten walls and more bugs on the floor. He had thought his childhood days in this area had been bad enough, before his father was lost at sea and his mother and baby brother died of the fever, and he’d been carted off to the East End Orphan Asylum that had been founded for the children of seafarers, but this was a hund
red times worse. His mother might have been poor, but she’d kept their two rooms in a house in Long Row as clean as carbolic soap and plenty of scrubbing allowed.

  Gingerly he climbed the stairs that creaked and rocked ominously to the first floor. The landing was as filthy as the hall, and in the rooms above his head a baby was wailing and a man was shouting. His stomach churning, he stood for a moment in the semi-darkness. He didn’t light another match; some things were best consigned to the shadows.

  There were two rooms on the first floor and he forced himself to knock on the nearest door. He had to knock again before it opened a crack. A skinny young lad who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen peered at him. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Does Robert Walton live here?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there. Does he live here?’

  ‘No.’

  Even before a voice from within the room called, ‘Robert? Who’s there?’ John knew the boy was lying and his boot was already in the gap to prevent the door from closing when the lad tried to shut it. Thinking that there must be a father with the same Christian name, John said, ‘I need to speak to your da, sonny.’

  ‘Me da’s dead.’

  ‘Now don’t give me that.’

  ‘He is.’

  It took little effort to shove the boy aside and fling the door wide open. He had been about to force his way into the room if necessary but now John stood on the threshold, the wind taken out of his sails. His voice quiet, he said, ‘Mrs Walton?’

  ‘Aye, I’m Mrs Walton.’ A woman had risen from where she had been sitting in a battered armchair in front of the small fire in the tiny grate, and was now facing him. She had obviously been making toast when the knock had come at the door and still held the toasting fork in her hand with a slice of bread attached to it. In amazing contrast to what he’d seen of the rest of the house the room was spotlessly clean, but apart from the armchair and another hard-backed chair, the only furniture consisted of a rickety-looking construction of two platforms, one above the other and forming a unit, on which straw mattresses and thin grey blankets reposed. A black kettle and a saucepan and a few other utensils stood on a shelf fixed to the wall, and next to this was a framed certificate of honour stating that Mr Robert Walton had given his life for his country.

  The woman saw John looking at this and her voice was quiet but proud when she said, ‘My husband died in the war.’

  ‘So you’re Robert Walton?’ John spoke to the boy, and when he nodded, added, ‘It’s just you and your mam?’

  It was Mrs Walton who answered him. ‘I’ve a daughter but she married a Newcastle man.’ She spoke as though Newcastle was a hundred miles away but then it probably seemed like that to her. ‘What can we do for you, Mr . . . ?’

  John didn’t reply to this. Looking at the boy again, he said, ‘Did you do some work for Mr Skelton?’

  He had his answer when the colour drained from the youth’s thin face.

  Hell’s bells. Vitally conscious of the three men waiting in the street below, John said quietly, ‘How old are you, laddie?’

  Again it was the mother who replied, her voice now holding fear. ‘He’ll be seventeen come Christmas.’

  He wouldn’t see another Christmas if Skelton had anything to do with it. Coming to a decision, John stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘Listen to me. Skelton knows you took some stuff –’ When the boy went to protest, John said urgently, ‘He knows, so save your breath. He sent me to fetch you and he’s waiting downstairs with a couple of bruisers. Is there another way out of here?’

  Mrs Walton put her hand to her throat and sank back into the armchair as though her legs wouldn’t hold her. ‘Skelton?’ she whispered. ‘No, Rob. You told me you got some work from that innkeeper in town.’

  ‘There is no work, Mam, and anything that comes up goes to married men with families. We were weeks behind with the rent and I thought . . .’ He turned to John. ‘I can’t leave her.’

  ‘Believe me, lad, you’ll be leaving her one way or another,’ John said grimly. ‘This way you can come back when the dust settles or better still send for her to join you.’

  Mrs Walton had grasped the severity of the situation. ‘Our Phyllis would take me in, she’s said before, but I’ve never wanted to leave me home – you know how it is.’

  John stared into the lined face. He had no idea how old the woman was – probably umpteen years younger than she looked because poverty, disease, damp and malnutrition took a heavy toll on body and soul – but surely any time she had left to her would be better spent away from this pitiful room. Yet she clearly didn’t see it that way. Turning to the boy, he said again, ‘Is there another way out of here besides the stairs?’

  ‘Only the roof. I’ve got a pal who lives in one of the rooms above in the attics and there’s a little window that opens in the middle of the roof with the drainpipe running below it. I could try and shinny up from there.’

  ‘Do it. Get as far away from here as you can, and if your mam’s going to your sister’s in Newcastle I wouldn’t show your face again round these parts. Skelton’s got long fingers.’

  ‘Why are you doing this? Helping us, I mean?’

  John looked down into the young face. He must be getting on for a foot taller than the boy, whose legs were badly bowed; most of the East End bairns were bandy-legged to a greater or lesser extent. ‘You haven’t got time for questions. Say your goodbyes, lad.’

  Mrs Walton’s eyes were dry but her face was working as she embraced her son. ‘Look after yourself, you hear me?’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Mam, an’ I’ll see you again, I promise.’

  ‘I know you will, me bairn.’ Mrs Walton held him close for a moment before pushing him away. ‘Ta, lad,’ she said softly to John who nodded awkwardly.

  They opened the door and stepped onto the landing just as Skelton’s men walked up the stairs. One of them started to say, ‘Taking your time, aren’t you? Mr Skelton thought –’

  John never heard what Mr Skelton had thought because his fist, full into the other man’s face, sent him crashing down the stairs, taking his companion with him.

  ‘Go! Now!’ Robert had frozen in fear and John pushed the boy so hard he nearly sent him sprawling. ‘Get away from here.’

  As Robert disappeared up the stairs, John turned to face Skelton’s men. They had picked themselves up and were now coming for him, swearing and cursing. In the seconds before they reached him, regret raced through his mind, but then he was fighting for his life and the only things that were real were the fists and great hobnailed boots and searing pain . . .

  Chapter Four

  Nelly sat looking at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, and after a moment she wiped away the tears trickling down her cheeks. She wasn’t ugly, she told herself – in fact, lots of men had told her she was beautiful – so why was it that the one person in the world she cared about seemed oblivious to her as a woman? ‘A dear friend’, John had called her that afternoon, and both his tone and the look on his face had stated plainly that that was all she could ever be to him, even before he had mumbled something about Louisa and how much he still missed her.

  Was it possible to hate someone who had never done you any harm and who had been dead for nine years? And then she answered herself with a bitter little laugh. Oh yes, she was living proof of it.

  Shutting her eyes tightly, she rocked back and forth a number of times before becoming still. Taking up her mother-of-pearl hairbrush, she brought it through the thick golden hair that reached to below her waist. It was engraved with the initials E. H., and was one of the few possessions that she had brought with her from her old life; it had been a gift from her maternal grandmother and as such was precious to her.

  Eleanor Harper. Putting the brush back into the mother-of-pearl box in which it reposed with a comb and small hand mirror, she stared at it. She no longer thought of herself as Eleanor Harp
er, youngest daughter of Mr Lionel Harper, wealthy landowner who had a vast estate in Durham. She couldn’t remember when she had first become aware that their magnificent house and manicured grounds, which took umpteen inside and outside servants to tend to it, was the result of men toiling their lives away underground in her father’s mine. And then there was the chemical works he owned, along with a paper mill and other business interests. But the realization had come after her mother had engaged a governess for her when she was eight years old. Miss Norton had only lasted eighteen months before her mother had discovered what she called the governess’s ‘subversive and wicked views’, but the seeds had been sown and Nelly’s eyes, even though they were still the eyes of a child, had been opened.

  She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the box as she let her mind wander back down the years. The fair was quiet now. It was past one o’clock in the morning, and the only sound was the occasional neigh from one of the horses outside, along with the mixed snores of her six dogs lying on their blankets at one end of the main living space.

  She had been approaching her seventeenth birthday when her parents had announced their intention of sending her to the same exclusive finishing school her two sisters had attended. Her brother, Archibald, only son and heir, had been at university, her two sisters had been married off to suitable husbands of equal social standing, and suddenly it had dawned on her that as far as her parents were concerned, her life had been mapped out from the day she was born. She had looked at her family and realized that there was not one of them she liked or had anything in common with. The only person she had been close to had been her maternal grandmother who had died the year before. Grandmama had been something of a free spirit too. For the first time since her grandmother had died, it had occurred to Nelly that the reason the old lady had singled her out among her grandchildren for a small inheritance was because Grandmama had known the day would come when this particular granddaughter would rebel against her place in society. A suffragette in her youth, Grandmama had been full of the sort of radical ideas about independence for women that Miss Norton had had, and she couldn’t be dismissed by the family like the unfortunate governess.