Scarborough Fair (Scarborough Fair series Book 1)

by Margarita Morris

  I have a splendid view of the sea and the ruined castle on the headland and am looking out over the bay now as I write these words to you. Tomorrow, Mary and I will explore this charming town and I will write and tell you all about it.

  Your ever loving sister,

  Alice.

  ~~~

  Grand Hotel,

  Scarborough,

  7pm, 12th, August 1899

  Dear Ma,

  Well we got here at last, no thanks to the steam engine that broke down outside of Peterborough. We had to wait for a new engine to arrive which delayed us over an hour so we missed our connection in York. Changing trains at York was a right palaver what with all the bags and everything. Alice has packed enough clothes for the rest of the year! Goodness knows how long she intends to stay here.

  The hotel is very grand although a bit gaudy in places. Alice has a nice room with a sea view but mine is rather cramped and looks out onto the inner courtyard where the kitchen staff sit gossiping. Anyway, mustn’t complain. At least I’ve got a room to myself for once and won’t have to share with the scullery maid whilst we’re here.

  I expect you’re wanting to hear what the sea is like. Well we haven’t seen much of it yet, but it looked pretty cold and wet to me. And the gulls! Blimey, they don’t half make a racket. You never heard such a screeching in all your life. One of them tried to peck at my bonnet when we arrived at the hotel, but I gave it a whack with the handle of my umbrella and sent it off. Ruddy birds!

  Between you and me, though, I do think Alice looks a bit perkier already and we’ve only been here an hour or so. I’m glad for her sake that Dr Bradshaw advised a trip to the seaside. It’ll give her time to think about her engagement to that Henry Blackwood. If she’s got any sense she’ll break it off. I’ve never trusted him. I reckon he’s a gold digger and only wants to marry her for her inheritance. Best keep that to yourself, though. I don’t want to get into trouble!

  You look after yourself Ma. I’ll write each day to let you know what we’re doing.

  Love,

  Mary.

  ~~~

  The man calling himself Jackson alighted from the last train of the night onto the platform at Scarborough. A solitary figure dressed in plain black trousers, black jacket and a bowler hat that had seen better days, he carried one small suitcase. When the porter came forward to assist him, Jackson dismissed the man with a wave of his hand and, head down, strode briskly towards the exit.

  Outside the station, there was one horse and carriage still waiting. The driver greeted Jackson with a cheery Evening Sir, obviously keen to earn one last fare before retiring for the night, but Jackson turned his collar up and walked past the horse and carriage without so much as a sideways glance. He wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable conversation about why he was here and would he be visiting the spa during his stay? In his experience carriage drivers were all too keen to ingratiate themselves with visitors in the hope of receiving more business. Jackson wasn’t here to provide the locals with a living.

  As he walked down the hill towards the town, Jackson reflected on the rather curious job he had been given which had resulted in his purchasing a last-minute ticket from the station at King’s Cross and boarding the northbound train. His master, the formidable Sir Henry Blackwood, had called him into his club at St James’s and given him his instructions. Jackson had served as valet and general dogsbody to Sir Henry for the last two years after Henry had seen him win a boxing fight in Shoreditch and had offered him a position in his household. If Jackson had thought that being valet to Sir Henry would mean just starching collars and dressing him for dinner, then he was quickly disabused of that idea. The work was much more varied and suited to Jackson’s particular skill set. If Henry desired the services of a lady at any time of the day or night, Jackson would procure the said lady (although ladies were definitely not what Jackson would have called them.) If Henry required opium, a drug to which he was increasingly addicted, Jackson knew a particular corner of East London where it could be had for half the going rate if you knew how to negotiate. If Henry got into debt, which he frequently did through gambling, Jackson would dust off his boxing skills to ensure that the creditor stopped demanding his money back and never bothered them again. Oh yes, being valet to Sir Henry was an interesting and varied business.

  By contrast to the usual jobs he undertook for his master, this assignment would be laughably genteel. He was to keep an eye on Henry’s future bride, the charming Miss Alice Hawthorne, and report back to Henry on all her comings and goings. “Keep a close watch on her,” Henry had demanded. “I don’t like the idea of her going off on her own like this, but Doctor Bradshaw insists it is necessary for her health. Poppycock! I want you to report to me daily on her activities and bring her back to London if I tell you to.”

  Jackson was happy to oblige. He had started to grow tired of Henry’s ever-increasing demands for whores and opium. A week or two by the seaside spying on a lady and her maid would make a pleasant change and give him time to reflect on his own future. He’d almost saved enough to make a clean break and set himself up in business. But he mustn’t fail in his duty to Sir Henry or Henry would see to it that all Jackson’s plans came to nothing.

  He found a boarding house with a sign in the window advertising vacancies. It was located conveniently close to the Grand Hotel, in a row of four-storey brick terraces. The sign above the door read Sea-View Villa even though the sea was nowhere in sight. Jackson straightened his hat, marched up to the front door and knocked. A few moments later the door was opened by a stout landlady who looked him up and down before admitting him into the hallway. She demanded a week’s rent in advance and then showed him to his room at the top of the house, making it clear in no uncertain terms that she would not tolerate the entertaining of young ladies on her premises.

  “Of course not, Madam,” said Jackson, bowing slightly and offering her his best gentlemanly smile. The landlady, softening at once, asked if she could bring him anything, a slice of pie perhaps or a mug of ale? Jackson declined politely.

  He waited until the house was quiet and then he crept down the stairs and out into the night. It was not quite ten thirty. He would find an inn where they served good beer and pies. Then he would go and see what entertainment and female company were to be had at the theatre. He intended to enjoy himself on this job. After all, Sir Henry was footing the bill so he might as well make the most of it. In the morning he would begin spying on Alice and Mary.

  ~~~

  The boy I love is up in the gallery,

  The boy I love is looking now at me,

  There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,

  As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.

  The audience erupted into a frenzy of clapping and cheering. That song, or at least the way Kitty sang it, always brought the house down. She smiled and curtsied, lifting up her skirt to reveal just enough ankle so that the male members of the audience would clap even harder. Enthusiastic punters threw roses onto the stage and Kitty bent down to pick them up, making a show of holding each one to her nose and breathing in its musky scent. Cries of “Kiss me” were shouted from the gallery. Kitty blew a stream of kisses to her admirers in the audience, causing another wave of excitement to ripple through the audience, then she skipped off the stage. Always leave them wanting more, that was what she had learnt. Then they would come back the next night and the night after that, and she would keep her job. She went back to her dressing room and shut the door.

  She laid the roses on her dressing table beside the faded blooms of the previous night, sat down in front of the mirror and started to unpin her hair. She frowned. Was that a grey hair amid her rich, auburn locks? Surely not. She was only twenty-three. She pulled the offending hair out and let it fall to the floor. If she lost her looks the theatre manager would sack her on the spot and hire in a younger, prettier girl to take her place. Someone more suited to singing about boys in the gallery.


  Kitty sighed. If only there really was a boy, or better still a man, in the gallery that she loved and who loved her, but there never was. Most of the men she met at the show had wives tucked up in bed at the Grand Hotel. They were looking for a quick fling, nothing more. If only someone more serious would show up for a change, then she might be interested. He didn’t have to be perfect, she wasn’t that fussy. Heaven knows, Kitty herself hadn’t got this far in life without making the occasional compromise with a man capable of furthering her career. But she wanted someone whose heart was in the right place.

  There was a knock at the door. Three short raps followed by a final, decisive knock.

  “Yes?” called Kitty.

  The door opened and Alfie, the young lad employed by the theatre to run errands and do odd jobs, stood on the threshold, a card in his grubby fingers.

  “Please Miss, sorry to bother you Miss, but a gentleman left this for you.”

  Kitty sighed and took the proffered card from Alfie.

  “Who’s it from?” asked Kitty. “Anyone you’ve seen before?”

  Alfie shook his head. “He was new, Miss. I ain’t seen ’im before.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “He didn’t stay, Miss.”

  That’s strange, thought Kitty. Normally gentlemen insisted on waiting for her by the stage door. She turned the card over and read the hastily scribbled note. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help wondering about the identity of the man who had sent her this communication.

  Very much enjoyed your show tonight. Will return tomorrow evening. I would be honoured if Madam would accompany me on the promenade one day.

  The card was signed with a single letter “J.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rose lay in bed in the converted loft room at the top of her gran’s house and listened to the screeching of the seagulls. It was only eight o’clock and normally she wouldn’t even be awake at this time in the holidays, but the birds had woken her an hour ago and it was impossible to get back to sleep with that racket going on. Through the sky-light she could see the birds circling overhead. Like vultures, she thought. One of them landed on the roof and started pecking at the glass. Rose groaned. At least the previous day’s rain had cleared and the sky was a bright, startling blue. Would it be warm enough for sunbathing? Just about. What about swimming in the sea? You had to be pretty brave to try that, but Rose thought she might give it a go.

  The smell of frying bacon wafted its way up to her bedroom. That did it. She pushed back the covers and swung her legs out of bed. If the gulls hadn’t persuaded her to get up, the smell of bacon was too much to resist.

  Downstairs her mother had commandeered the tiny kitchen and was in mass-catering mode. Her grandmother was sitting at the dining table eating toast and drinking coffee.

  “I’ve been banned from my own kitchen,” she said as Rose sat down at the table.

  “Not banned,” called Andrea from the stove. “I just think you should take it easy whilst you’re still recovering.”

  Her grandmother rolled her eyes at Rose. “Your mother thinks I don’t eat enough,” she said conspiratorially. “She’s determined to get a cooked breakfast down me.”

  “She’s the same at home,” said Rose in a whisper.

  Andrea bustled into the room carrying a plate of bacon and fried eggs and started to serve everyone with generous helpings. “I’m taking Gran to the optician’s this morning,” she said to Rose, “and then this afternoon I’ve made an appointment with the solicitor to go through her will.”

  “She thinks I’m about to drop dead,” said her grandmother, winking at Rose.

  “Mum, honestly!” Andrea glared at her mother. “It just makes sense to do these things whilst I’ve got the car here and can drive you around.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting the bus.”

  “You were hurrying for the bus when you tripped and fell,” countered Andrea. She turned to Rose. “Do you think you can entertain yourself today? I’ll give you some money for fish and chips.”

  “Sure,” said Rose. She had no idea what she was going to do on her own all day, but anything was better than listening to her mum going on all the time.

  ~~~

  Dan pulled his bicycle out of the shed and checked the tyres. He’d decided this morning to cycle into town, partly because he preferred the independence and partly in the interests of self-preservation. The way his dad was driving these days, Dan didn’t rate his chances of survival very highly. Plus he’d just about had enough of his dad’s odd behaviour. Ryan had been in a funny mood all yesterday evening, hardly talking to anyone at the dinner table and snapping at Fiona, Dan’s mum, when she brought out her latest batch of home improvement magazines and suggested that what they really needed in their lives was a new kitchen. The discussion at the dinner table had rapidly descended into a slanging match about the ludicrous expense of granite worktops (Ryan) and the folly of owning a Ferrari (Fiona.) Dan had retreated to his room and played his favourite music very loudly to drown out the increasingly hysterical voices.

  Free-wheeling down the hill with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair felt good. He sped under Spa Bridge and turned onto the sea-front. It was low-tide and the bay was a vast stretch of golden sand, not yet packed with holidaymakers. On days like this the North Yorkshire coast beat the Mediterranean hands down in his opinion. He still had half an hour before the amusement arcade opened, so he decided to supplement his hasty breakfast with an ice cream from one of the vendors along the front. Biting into a chocolate flake, he pushed his bike in the direction of the harbour.

  Lobster cages and fishing nets were piled high along the water’s edge, giving off a stale fishy smell. Docked alongside the fishing boats, its Jolly Roger fluttering in the breeze, was the pirate ship, the Hispaniola. It was one of Scarborough’s most popular tourist attractions, taking holidaymakers on trips around the South Bay. Dan walked down to the water’s edge to get a better look. It really was a fine ship, a replica of an eighteenth-century galleon complete with sails and rigging. He had loved going for trips on that boat when he was a little kid, feeling the surge of the waves beneath the hull and imagining that he was Captain Jack Sparrow. He should have tried to get a summer job on board the boat. It would have been more fun than being stuck in a booth at the amusement arcade all day.

  Next to the pirate ship was a sleek, white yacht that looked like it should have been moored in St Tropez but had drifted off course and wound up here by mistake. It was the water-borne equivalent of a luxury sports car, with its elongated prow and dark-tinted windows.

  A door on the yacht opened and two figures appeared on deck. Dan did a double-take. It was the two men who’d come into the amusement arcade yesterday asking for his dad. Bulldog and Tattoo-face was how Dan thought of them. What on earth were they up to now? He squinted into the sun to try and see what they were doing. They appeared to be carrying boxes out of the hold and onto the deck, piling them up in neat rows. It was broad daylight so presumably they were engaged in legitimate business, but there was something about those two that made Dan think of pirates. Oh well, as long as they don’t pay another visit to the arcade, he thought as he started pushing his bike back towards the centre of town.

  ~~~

  By a quarter to nine, Rose was on the sea-front, this time with her laptop in her backpack. Yesterday, just before being almost run over, she’d spotted a café with Internet access next to the amusement arcade. Crossing the road with extra care (who’d have thought that Scarborough was more dangerous than central London?) she went into the café, ordered a large hot chocolate with cream and settled herself in a window seat.

  Ten minutes later Rose had liked dozens of holiday photos, sent loads of LOLs and smiley faces and was feeling utterly miserable. Kate was looking tanned and happy in Italy, eating gelato with a guy called Angelo; Holly had indeed posted a selfie from the top of the Empire State Building and had been shopping in Madison Avenue
; and Joe was having a wicked time in London, going to parties and live music events. No wonder he was too busy to send a text. Rose had not liked his posts. If he was ignoring her, she wasn’t going to bolster his ego by mindlessly clicking the like button. She considered updating her own status but couldn’t think of anything remotely interesting or funny to say.

  She warmed her hands on the mug of hot chocolate and stared out of the window. Across the street, the deckchair attendant was pulling the tarpaulins off the stacks of blue and white striped deckchairs; a queue was already forming at the ice cream vendor; families with little children were making their way down to the beach, laden with buckets, spades, picnic cool boxes, wind breakers, beach mats and enough survival equipment for a week of camping. Rose sipped her chocolate and, not for the first time, wondered how on earth she was going to fill six whole weeks here. She was gazing out of the window when a teenage boy pushing a bicycle along the pavement suddenly stopped, walked back a few paces and stared at her through the window. Rose shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Why was he staring at her like that? Did he think she was someone else? She turned back to her laptop and started scrolling up and down her news feed without properly seeing anything.

  Go away, she thought.

  He was still there, though, she could see him out of the corner of her eye. She stared back at him, giving him her best what’s-your-problem stare. That usually got rid of unwanted attention. Unbelievably he smiled at her, propped his bicycle against the café window and came inside.