The Rag Nymph

by Catherine Cookson

  'No ... no, ma'am. I thought she was here. She hasn't come home. I . . . I've come for her.'

  'Oh, dear me, dear me. She's a naughty girl, and so silly. Don't you think so, Fanny? She was so silly.

  Everything was arranged.'

  The maid broke in now, saying, 'It's a great pity.

  It's a great pity.'

  'What is a great pity, miss?'

  'Oh. Well, that all arrangements have been...'

  But her voice was cut off by the little creature chirping in, 'That's why I came, you see. That's why I came. Dear Bernard had it all arranged.

  There would have been no scandal, no scandal. He explained it all to me and I understood the situation.

  Yes, I did. And she should have; he made it plain.

  Oh, yes, he made it plain. How could she imagine otherwise? He couldn't marry her, now could he?

  He couldn't marry her. But she was to come as my nurse, and it would have been all very discreet.'

  Ben's mouth had grown into a much larger gape, and his head had dropped forward, his chin pulled into his neck. He had been right. He had been right.

  Dear God! And she had thought he meant marriage.

  And Aggie? Oh, Aggie had been sure of it. And all he wanted was a mistress. He wouldn't take a whore for a mistress. Oh no; it would have to be

  someone untouched, like his Millie. Where was the fella? If he were here he would throttle him. Oh yes, without the slightest compunction, he would throttle him. The thought struck him that he had used the word compunction. He was learning, wasn't he? Oh, yes, he was learning all right, but more things than English and a better way of speaking. Oh, yes, he was learning; and yet it was something that he had known all along.

  The little creature was still chirping: 'Bernard was so distressed. He ran after her, right down the road, and he was without his hat or coat, and even his walking stick, but she was gone. Then he met Mr Tyler's carriage. Mr Tyler lives in the next house, you know, and he said he had passed a hired cab; in fact, he was annoyed that his carriage had had to go practically into the hedge to let the cab pass. And he remembered seeing Millie hurrying along the road.

  At least, he didn't know it was Millie, now did he?

  he just knew it was a young lady. But his footman, who was also with his coachman, said he happened to turn round because he thought it was surprising to see a young lady hurrying along the road in the dark. He naturally thought she had stopped and hired the cab.'

  She had hired a cab. She should have been home by now. Which cab?

  'Where is he?' he asked the little woman.

  'Bernard?'

  'Yes, Bernard.'

  'Oh, Geoff packed his night bag and they went off together. Geoff was taking him to the train. Would you like to wait and talk to Geoff?'

  He did not reply either yes or no, but with a withering glance he turned from her and, addressing the maid, said, 'When he comes back, tell him I'm goin' to call and see him, will you? And tell him something else. Remember this: tell him to be ready for me.'

  'Yes. Yes, I'll do that.' Fanny's face was without a smile for once. And as he went out of the door the bell-like voice from the little woman came at him, saying, 'You are a very rude young man. I couldn't be fond of you.'

  And he thought, My God! And that was part of the plan for Millie, to look after that one.

  It took him until ten o'clock to visit the various ostlers, the hostelries, and the plain stables along the way, but not one could remember any of their men bringing back a young lass. In fact, as one proprietor said on a laugh, 'When the cabs come back, they're empty, lad. The customers don't live here.'

  When Ben arrived back, Aggie was up and pacing the floor, every step bringing a wheeze from her chest, and the first words she said were, 'My God!

  Where've you been? I thought you were lost an' all.'

  'Sit down.'

  'I've sat down long enough. Tell me.'

  'Sit down, will you? 'Cos I'll have to.'

  She dropped back on to the couch, and he sat in his usual place on the settle, and bending forward, he leant his forearms on his knees and said, 'She's gone.

  Get it into your head straightaway; it's no use beatin'

  about the bush, she's gone. How she's gone and where she's gone, I don't know, but she's gone.'

  'Ben, look; tell me and quietly, tell me what you know.'

  'I'll put it briefly, Aggie. She found out that your dear friend Mr Thompson didn't want to marry her; he wanted her for a mistress. He had it all planned out with a barmy little woman there whom Millie was to be nurse to as a cover-up. Apparently, from the beginning he'd had no intention of marryin' her.

  He bought that house and planned it all, your dear Mr Bernard Thompson.'

  Aggie did not say a word, but she heaved herself up on the couch, lifted one leg after the other on to it, then lay back. It seemed a long time before she said, 'And she's gone off with him?'

  He sprang up from the couch, saying, 'Bloody hell, no! We'd know where she was if she'd gone off with him. She ran away from him, apparently.

  An' from what I can gather, she hired a passing cab of some sort.'

  A cab ... of some sort. She turned her head towards him now, saying, 'Well, cabs have to be housed. Have you...?'

  'I've been around about here where she might have got off. Nobody's had a cab that brought any young lass back; nor do they remember picking one up. And as I've worked it out, whatever cab came into the town from that district would be nearly sure to come through the market. And she would know where she was then, and would have got out if she could. Aye, if she could.'

  Looking at the mountain of flesh heaving on the couch, Ben wanted to cry out, 'Oh, Aggie! Don't cry. For God's sake, don't cry.' He had never seen her cry, not during all the long years he had been with her. Her lips trembled, aye, but never a tear.

  But wasn't that what he wanted to do himself? He wanted to lie on the mat there and beat his head on the ground and cry. Oh aye, cry out with love and his loss, the loss that had happened before tonight.

  For weeks and months now he had been striving to better himself in his mind so that he would come up to her, or even surpass her so that she would be able to learn from him; and if it should never come to anything else, they'd be able to sit and talk ...

  or walk and talk. And that was as far as the dream went, because his mind was sensible enough to know that he couldn't finish it, even to himself, and lie in bed and talk.

  What were they going to do? What were they going to do without her? Of course, if there had been marriage in the air they would have had to do without her. But marriage and what she might be going through now was a different thing... What she might be going through now.

  He sprang up from his seat and went over to the couch, and kneeling down by the side of it, he took Aggie's hand in his and said brokenly, 'Come on. Come on.'

  She took a none-too-clean piece of rag from the pocket of her apron and rubbed her face with it, and, her voice breaking, she said, 'From somewhere in the Bible, I once heard it read out that the things you fear come upon you. An' God Himself knows that I've feared her being' picked up all these years.

  Whoever's hands she's fallen into, God help her this night. But I pray to Him that it's not Slim Boswell's.'

  She now looked at him pityingly as she said, 'Is there anything more you can do, lad?'

  'Well, as I've said, I've raked most of the town where she might have landed if she'd been in a hired cab, so I think it was likely a private carriage that picked her up. A lot of the moneyed blokes have ordinary-looking cabs; they use them for business.

  But there's still that one quarter I haven't been to yet. Anyway, it's half past ten now and it would be near on eleven when I got there. And what's more, the place would likely be swarming with drunks; and with only those street lasses hanging around who had been told off to clean out the pockets of them lying in the gutters, probably tripped up by their pimps. I can't see us doin' anythi
ng till mornin', Aggie,

  . anyway. Then I'll make for the polis station.'

  Neither of them said, 'If she doesn't turn up before then,' for they both knew it to be a fruitless hope.

  After a moment Aggie said, 'If you could see the sergeant.'

  'Aye, if he's anywhere about I'll talk to him. But no matter which one of them I talk to, I know the answer will be the same: What do I think they can do? There's bairns being' picked up every day. They all know it, but they do little or nowt about it. Look; are you goin' to manage the stairs?'

  'No, lad, no, I couldn't. I feel I must stay down here tonight. You go on up to your bed; you'll need it.'

  'No. I feel the same as you, so I'll bring a chair in from next door, and I'll keep the fire goin'.'

  She put out her hand and gripped his, saying,

  'What I did, Ben, I did for the best, in lettin' her go with him. Before me and God I never thought... '

  'It'll be all right. It'll be all right. Somehow, it sort of had to happen; she was fated right from the first. That's why we tried to protect her. She was like her mother.' He stopped here, for the thought had entered his head that, rather than go through with it, she might take the same way out as her mother had.

  On this he swung about and hurried into the other room, and lifted up an old armchair as if it were only a featherweight and returned with it to the kitchen.

  Then, with the riker, he drew some pieces of coal from the back of the grate and on to the fire. He then dusted his hands, sat back in the chair, put his feet on the fender, and closed his eyes, telling himself that if he pretended sleep she would soon go off, too.

  In any case, it was going to be a long night, and one in which he knew his imagination would run riot.

  NINE

  It was still dark when he went into the police station.

  The constable on duty blinked at him, yawned, and said, 'Aye, well, what's your trouble?'

  'I... I want to report a missing person.'

  'Oh. Well, give me details.' He pulled a book towards him, wet the end of a pencil in his mouth, then said, 'Go ahead.'

  'She is sixteen years old; she is Mrs Winkowski's ward.' The constable looked up now, and the tiredness seeming to go from his face for a moment, he said, 'Oh, her? When was this?'

  'Last night. She had been to a friend's house. She was walkin' back. Somebody saw her gettin' into what they thought was a paid cab. That was the last that was heard of her. I was waitin' for her she was to be back at five o'clock. I went round all the ostlers; but nobody's seen hilt nor hair of her.'

  'That's the fair lass, isn't it?'

  'Yes. Yes, she is, she is very fair.'

  'Oh. And you say she stays with Mrs Winkowski, better known as...?'

  'Aye, I know what she's better known as, but her name is Mrs Winkowski.'

  The tone brought the constable's chin up. 'Very well then,' he conceded, 'she's the daughter of...'

  'No. The ward.'

  'The ward. All right; she is the ward of Mrs Winkowski.' He took a long time to write the name, his lips spelling out what he thought the letters might be; then he said, 'She could have gone to friends or anything; I mean, that's after she left the house where she had been visitin'? What was the name of the house, sir? And where was it situated?'

  Ben looked at the hand holding the pencil; then he looked up into the man's face. It was expressing enquiry. 'It was a house on the outskirts of the town: Elm Road, number seven,' he said.

  So the constable repeated, 'On the outskirts, Elm Road, number seven. And it was from there she was leaving when she was last seen. Is that what you mean, sir?'

  'That's what I mean.' They exchanged a hard look.

  Ben now asked, 'When will Sergeant Fenwick be in?'

  'About nine o'clock, I would say.'

  'Well, would you mind telling him about this case

  'I'll do that. Certainly, I'll do that. As soon as he comes through that door I will inform him.'

  'There's nothin' funny about this.'

  The constable's manner quickly changed, and he said, 'I'm aware there's nothin' funny about this.

  And I would warn you to keep a civil tongue in your head. I don't like your attitude.'

  'Nor me yours. And when I see the sergeant I will relate to him the substance of our conversation, and ask him if it is usual for his officers to use a mocking manner to members of the public reporting serious cases.' For a moment, Ben had taken on the manner and voice of Mr Sponge; in fact, he had imagined himself to be Mr Sponge.

  Following this, he inclined his head towards the astonished man, then abruptly left.

  He began to walk the streets: first in the vicinity of Reilly's Meat House; but everyone could have been dead, for there was no movement, not even of a cleaner. He then went as far as Bale Street, and as he passed Slim Boswell's place he could not help but question whether she would be there. But no; he couldn't see Slim Boswell riding in a carriage or even a cab in that area where Mr Bernard Thompson resided.

  At the end of the street he turned into the short lane which led into a back lane. This, too, was broad, unusually so, and showed that there were gates to most of the houses on both sides of the lane. And the place was clean, with no excrement or litter lying about.

  Seeing the hatches in the walls, he realised these were the newer innovation of dry closets. They would be half-filled with ash, and the scavengers would come and clean them out once a week. What a pity, he thought, they didn't put them in The Courts.

  But, of course, it would require twenty or so in one of the square yards.

  He emerged from the alleyway, feeling desperate.

  There seemed to be no way he could plan ahead, but just go on aimlessly searching.

  At twelve o'clock he returned home. Aggie was up. Her chest, she said, was a little easier. She had put on a pan of broth and heated some pies left over from the previous day. When she set it before him, he said, 'I'm sorry, Aggie, it would choke me, I can't get a bite down. I'll have a drink of beer.'

  'What have you done?' she asked him.

  'I've travelled the town,' he said; 'but there's hardly anybody out this mornin'. Being' Sunday, I suppose. I've been up and down the workin' street, but it's too early for the lasses to come out. In fact, there's not many make an appearance till dark on a Sunday... any Sunday. Odd that.'

  'Well, what d'you intend to do now?'

  'I think I'll hire the cart again and drive out an'

  see if that fella's man has come back, and hear what he's got to say.'

  'Don't do anything that's goin' to cause more trouble. If he can only help to get her back I'll forgive him everything. Ben' - her voice was low - 'I've had some rough times in me life.

  You could say that all

  me life has been rough. There were times, when I was a young lass, that I ached physically almost daily from what work I had to do, but the hardest was to accept the inside bit and what I looked like.

  But all the years of pain combined couldn't come up to what I've gone through since six o'clock yesterday.

  And you an' all. Oh yes, you an' all. Our lives will never be the same again, lad. D'you know that?'

  He took his coat from where it was lying over the back of the settle, put it on, and picking up his cap from the seat, he pulled it tight on his head, before saying, 'I'm off. Look after yourself.

  I'll lock the gate.'

  After the door closed on him she looked at the table. She couldn't be bothered clearing it, so she returned to the couch and lay down.

  Closing her eyes and joining her hands together, she began to mutter prayers.

  It would have been about two o'clock when she heard the gate bell ring, and she turned her head towards the door, saying aloud, 'Get on with it! Get on with it!' But when the ringing went on continually for almost ten minutes, she pulled herself up, saying, 'Oh! my God, they never let up.' They could keep ringing; she wasn't fit to go out there. If she crossed that yard the cold would kill h
er.

  How long after it was when she was almost startled out of her wits by somebody knocking on the kitchen window, she didn't know. The back of the couch faced the window and she pulled herself up and peered towards it. There was someone out there beckoning to her, a woman.

  She lumbered to her feet, walked round the couch and, stopping, she looked at the face that was close to the pane and the hand that was beckoning to her.

  It was Annie Blackett. What did she want? How had she got in?

  She shambled down the room and into the scullery and to the side door that led into what had once been the garden. And when Annie came running towards her, she called to her, 'What's the matter? How did you get in?'

  'I... Oh, Agg... I mean, Mrs Winkowski, I've been ringin' the bell but couldn't make you hear, an' so I came round the back here. I had to climb over the wall.'

  'You climbed over the wall? Come in. What is it?

  What's the matter?'

  'Ben mustn't be in else he would have opened the gate, wouldn't he? Well, I've... I've got news, I...

  I mean.., er... can I sit down?'

  'Aye, yes, of course.' Aggie led the way back into the kitchen, and there she pointed to the settle, inviting Annie Blackett to sit down.

  Nervously, Annie did so, but at the end of the seat, for she felt she had really bearded the lion in its den; it was the first time she had stepped foot in this house and she didn't know what to make of it.

  It was a muddle and it wasn't clean. But she must tell her what she had come about. She said, 'It's...

  it's about Millie.'

  'What about her? You know something?'

  'Well, it's like this, Mrs Winkowski. You know my cousin... I mean, I've got a cousin. She's Nellie Pratt, an' I'm not proud of her, but she's not a bad sort. Sometimes she looks in on me when she can.

  It isn't very often 'cos... 'cos they are kept down to that quarter, you know. Well... well, she came in like a devil in a gale of wind not half an hour gone, and she wasn't there two minutes; I tell you, she wasn't there two minutes, an' she was gabblin'.

  An' what she said was, tell Ben that Millie is in the middle house in Bale Street, upstairs in the end room. But he can't get in that way; he would have to come in through number one. She said, being Sunday, there won't be many kickin' about, but Slim will be there in number one. That's where he lives. Number two's the middle house and it's been proofed against noise. An' she went on and on and I didn't get half of it. She said she'd be there till half-past six; then she would have to leave. But if Ben came in the end one' - she now put her hand to her head - 'I don't know whether she meant the first one or the third one; I don't know, but she said, the end one, and got over the wall, she'd try to leave the kitchen door open. But what she seemed so firm about was not to go to the polis, 'cos they've got ways and means of scarperin'. There's a hidden cellar there. Take him unawares, she said, if he's there. That's the only way. She was in a state,