The Harrogate Secret (aka The Secret)

by Catherine Cookson

  So when he had woken up to the fact that he would be helpless for the rest of his life and that he couldn’t walk or move from the house unless he was lifted into the bogie and wheeled down to the town, he realised he still had a trade of sorts, he could make things out of wood. But then it didn’t take long for him also to realise that there were carpenters in the town, and it was their living, and that they resented a chippie from the boats muzzling in. So he had concentrated his skill on replacing the cheap stuff with which they had first set up house.

  What was more, he had fathered ten children. Nell, his firstborn, was sixteen now and married these two months. They had lost Mary, Joe and Harry with the smallpox. Then had followed John. John was the steady one. Then Nancy had come. Nancy, beautiful, big, dark-haired Nancy, like her mother in everything but her eyes, for she had been stone blind from birth. Yet strangely Nancy had more light about her than any of his brood, and was indeed the happiest of the lot of them. Next came Freddie, Freddie who now at ten years old could be taken for seven or eight, in fact it was his smallness and babyish look that denied all that was in his head and which had saved him so far from the customs men, and the chimney sweeps and such.

  Billy had followed Freddie, but he too had died, again with the smallpox. There hadn’t been another until Jessie came. He turned his head slightly to the side and looked at his four-year-old fair-haired daughter with a face as plain as a pikestaff. She was playing with his latest effort Lily who, at two years old, was making up for Jessie’s plainness, being pretty and curly-haired.

  ‘That’s Nancy.’ Jinny nudged his shoulder with her knee, and they both listened; then they looked towards the steps that led downwards just beyond the adjoining cottage, and slowly through the deepening twilight there emerged onto the rough cinder path that fronted the cottages an eleven-year-old girl.

  ‘You’re late, lass.’

  ‘I got talkin’, Ma.’

  Robert gave a small laugh now as he said, ‘You spend your life talkin’.’

  ‘And listenin’, Da. An’ listenin’.’

  ‘Aye; aye, you’re right there. You’ve got a pair of ears on you like a cuddy’s lugs. I’ve said it afore and I’ll say it again, you should hire them out.’

  Jinny now backed from the door, saying, ‘Come on in, both of you; Freddie will be here when he comes, not afore an’ not after.’

  ‘He hasn’t come back yet, Ma?’

  ‘No. And I suppose you haven’t seen anything of him the night?’

  It didn’t seem odd to them that they should ask a blind girl if she had seen anything of her brother for her ears were her eyes and she seemed to observe through them things that escaped the sighted.

  ‘I knew he had gone across the water earlier the day, an’ when I got to Nell’s she and Joe had just got in and Joe said when he was loading salt on a ship he saw him goin’ over…Ma.’

  ‘Yes, pet?’

  ‘Nell made me laugh although she was very tired. She’d been wheeling coal all day and feeding the fires. But she told me there’d been a fight atween two women: one was after the other’s man, she said, and they rolled into the river. She said it must have taken some of the steam out of them…Ma’—her voice changed—‘she doesn’t seem to like workin’ there in all that steam.’

  ‘No; but who does, pet? There’s one good thing about it, though, lass, them that work on the salt rarely get the plague. It’s been proved again an’ again, so she’s lucky in that way. And so’s Joe.’ And now Jinny added on a yell, ‘You, Jessie! Leave Nancy alone; let her get settled. All right. All right, take her stick and put it in the corner, an’ mind the ram’s head doesn’t bite you.’

  The small child laughed, saying now, ‘Can’t bite, Ma, ’tis wood.’

  ‘Oh, ’tis amazin’ what wood can do. Which reminds me, it’s about time we had a light on the subject. Bring a candle, Jessie, and give it to your da.’

  The child dutifully went to a square painted tin that stood on the end of a piece of furniture doing duty both as a long chest of drawers and as a sideboard and, taking from it a tallow candle, brought it to her father and he, sitting now on the mat to the side of the fireplace, took a spill from the hearth and, handing it to her, said, ‘Light it an’ give it to the candle.’ And when the child had done this she said, ‘You want your pipe lit up an’ all, Da?’

  ‘No; not the night, lass, not the night.’

  Not tonight because he had no baccy. Perhaps come the weekend one of his friends would drop in a twist or a small bag of snuff; not that he liked snuff, that usually went across the water to Jinny’s mother. But there had been no handouts for the last two or three weeks, the customs blokes were on the watch. What must it be like to be hated as that Mr Taggart was?. To look at him he seemed a decent enough fella; but he was out to get you, get anybody, one an’ all, even the occupant of Storey’s Hall over at Low Lights wasn’t above suspicion. Wasn’t there hell to pay when Taggart appeared at that front door and asked questions?

  He turned now and looked at his wife who was saying to Nancy, ‘Could you eat a griddle?’ And his daughter answered with a smile, ‘Oh, aye, Ma, any time I could eat a griddle,’ which prompted him to ask her, ‘Didn’t you get a bite along at Nell’s?’

  ‘No, Da, no. ’Cos they were both harassed and had to clean up, and Nell was dead on her feet, she sounded it.’

  ‘Can I have a griddle, Ma?’

  ‘No, you can’t, our Jessie; you had your supper not an hour gone. Now get off to bed, and take Lily with you. Take her clothes off, all but her last petticoat. An’ you do the same. If you get into bed with them on I’ll come in there an’ pull the lot off you, mind.’ Jessie laughed with her mother, then went over to her father and, her face almost on a level with his as he sat with his back against the wall, she kissed his stubbly cheek, saying, ‘Goodnight, Da.’

  ‘Goodnight, pet. Sleep tight, an’ mind the bugs don’t bite.’

  The two small children gone from the room, Robert now asked, ‘Did you hear any crack the day, Nancy?’

  ‘Odds and ends, Da, odds and ends.’ She cocked her head to the side and added, ‘Oh, here’s John.’

  Within a few seconds the door opened and there stood her twelve-year-old brother, nothing distinguishing him from a black boy except his eyes and the red gap of his mouth as he opened it, saying wearily, ‘Hello there.’

  ‘Hello, lad,’ said his father.

  ‘Tired, lad?’ asked Jinny.

  ‘Same as usual. It’s a nice night though, stars out an’ a nip in the air. It’s lovely an’ cool, the air.’

  The daily sadness descended on Jinny as she made her way to the fire and lifted from a chain hanging there a round iron pot full of boiling water which she then carried out through a side door into a small lean-to, saying over her shoulder, ‘Will you have an all-over-one?’

  ‘Aye, Ma; I want it off me back.’ He now turned and looked down at his father and asked, ‘What d’you think, Da? It’s balderdash, isn’t it, them saying it weakens your back to wash it?’

  ‘I agree with you, lad, it’s balderdash.’

  As the young boy passed his sister he asked quietly, ‘All right, Nancy?’

  ‘Aye, John, fine. You know somethin’, John?’

  ‘No, Nancy; what’s that?’ He was divesting himself of his coat and muffler as he looked down at her, and she said, ‘Mrs Twaite is gettin’ up a concert and it’s gona be held at the George. She asked me to go and sing.’

  There were gasps now from her mother and father, both exclaiming together, ‘You never told us!’

  ‘Well, I’ve just got in, Ma.’ She was laughing. ‘And I was keepin’ it until Freddie came in to tell you all together.’

  ‘What’ll they pay you?’

  ‘A shilling at least, Ma.’

  ‘My! My!’ Her father screwed himself round from the wall and grabbed her hand, saying, ‘Could be a start, hinny. Could be a real start.’

  John was now in the scullery where
his mother was cooling down the boiled water with a bucket of seawater she had brought in from outside the front door, and as he unloosened his short leather trousers he said to her, ‘I hear there’s a man in Newcastle who trains voices.’

  ‘Trains voices! She doesn’t need her voice trained; it’s as clear as a bell.’

  ‘Aye, Ma; but there’s different ways of singin’ like.’

  ‘How d’you know? Who’ve you been talkin’ to?’

  ‘Oh, different ones. We get on talkin’ at bait time. You know Mr Knight, Billy Knight, he’s in the Methodist Chapel choir, he sings, but he said you can’t get anywhere, not proper, unless you’re trained. He took lessons when he was a lad, that’s of course when his people had a shop in Newcastle. They’ve come down since that.’

  ‘Aye; how the mighty have fallen! Well, get your wash. And there’s mutton soup an’ some griddles. Then the best thing you can do is to get yourself to bed; no walkin’ along the quays or the hills the night.’

  He turned his back on her and his voice was soft as he said, ‘It’s the only time I see the sky, Ma, ’cept Sunday.’

  Her head slightly lowered, she went back into the kitchen. What she would give if she could get that lad out of that pit. She would do anything, anything…except whoring.

  She had just finished laying five plates around the table when the door opened and there entered a ten-year-old boy. His fair hair was sticking out from both sides of a black greasy peaked cap. He was wearing boots and his legs were bare to the ragged bottom of his calf length trousers; his short jacket at one time must have been grey, and was so long in the sleeves the cuffs were rolled back.

  ‘As usual, you’ve turned up like the bad penny.’ His mother’s look was soft, belying the harshness of her words. And he responded brightly, saying, ‘Aye, like a bad penny, Ma. I passed one the day, foreign it was. Wait till Pratt looks in his till the night.’

  ‘Where did you get a bad penny, lad?’

  ‘I found it on the sands just as I got to yon side, Da. I looked down and there it was sticking up. It had a funny head on it. I didn’t only find one, I found a bunch of ’em together. Look.’ He thrust his hand into his trouser pocket and brought out about ten coins, saying, ‘I’ll just have to pass them now and again else somebody’ll twig.’

  In the light from the fire and the tallow candle, Robert squinted down at the coin he was holding up before his face and after a moment he said, ‘Bad pennies? These could be Roman coins, lad. It could be a find.’

  ‘Oh, well, Da, that makes the offence worse in passing ’em. Anything you find like that you’ve got to hand over to the authorities in Newcastle. They said so last year when that fella found that mug.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Jinny nodded at her husband, thinking, How that boy remembers things, then saying, ‘Best not traffic with those; put them back where you found them, I’d say.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Ma, ’cos the tide’ll be up by now.’

  He laughed, then said, ‘Hello there, Nancy,’ and even as she was answering, ‘Hello Freddie,’ he was already addressing his mother again: ‘John in?’

  ‘Aye, he’s having his wash.’

  The small figure now darted to the lean-to scullery and, putting his head round the door, he said in a surprisingly deep voice for one of such slight form and years, ‘Wotcher, big fella. How ya feelin’?’

  ‘As well as can be expected in my condition until I see the doctor, ’cos I’ve washed me back.’

  Freddie laughed, and like his voice, the sound didn’t match his size or age; and turning again to his father, he said, but softly now, ‘Did you hear that? He made a joke.’

  ‘Aye, I heard.’ His father grinned back at him, then asked, ‘What’s your news?’

  ‘Aw! Things are movin’. I’ll tell you when I’ve had me supper ’cos me belly thinks me throat’s cut.’

  ‘Had nothing today, lad?’

  ‘Well, I called at me granny’s an’ she gave me some broth, but it was so weak I had to help it out of the basin; an’ she didn’t offer me a bit of bread with it. Eeh, she’s a mean scrub! Sorry, Ma! Sorry, Ma.’

  ‘You might be ten and consider yourself a very important individual,’ Jinny said to him, ‘but to me you’re still in knickerbockers and your ears are askin’ for it, understand?’

  ‘As clear as Christchurch bell, Ma. But you must admit your ma’s niggly an’ more than a bit on the…’

  ‘I’ve told you mind!’

  Robert was laughing, Nancy was laughing, Freddie was laughing; it was a happy atmosphere, and Jinny, ladling out the mutton stew, thought as she often did, I’ve got a lot to thank the Almighty for…

  The meal over, the plates washed in another bucket of heated seawater, they were gathered round the fire: Robert in his usual position with his back against the wall, Jinny on a low cracket next to him—she always sat on a low cracket so her breadth and height wouldn’t emphasise his position and condition—John sat next to his mother, Nancy next to him, and Freddie at the other side of the fireplace. Impatient for news, Jinny looked towards Freddie, saying, ‘Well, let’s have it. What’s happened the day?’

  ‘Well—’ Freddie drew in a long breath, paused, as a true storyteller would be apt to do, then addressing his father, said, ‘There’s one thing sure, you won’t get any baccy this weekend nor snuff nor a drop of the hard stuff either.’

  ‘They’re not runnin’?’

  ‘No, they’re not runnin’. But Taggart thinks they are. Somebody’s split.’

  ‘Any idea who?’ John asked.

  ‘Could be one, two, or three, only time’ll tell,’ he said. ‘You see, Mr Blaze, Mr Johnson, and Alec Crighton were to take a sculler out and pick up some kegs that was dumped on the last run. And also Mr smarty keelman’—Freddie thumbed towards the wall to the side of him—‘He and his mate and their Mick were to make the run down from Newcastle on the full tide later the night. ’Twas all set. Then I was on the quay and I saw the faggot man. I was expectin’ him. An’ I followed him to the tavern. He always goes in the best end and stays at least half an hour. But he was out within a few minutes again. He must have just had one drink, an’ as he passed me he tossed me the usual penny. “Faggot-face, you here again?” he said. “Well, that’s the last you’ll get for some time. You’ve got me broke with your beggin’. If you don’t work you don’t eat.” It was that last bit, if you don’t work you don’t eat, that told me. And then he laughed and cuffed me ear an’ nearly knocked me on me back. And there was Mr Johnson the cobbler and Ned Tiller from the brewery, they laughed as I went away holdin’ me ear. It didn’t really hurt but I made on.’

  ‘Then what did you do, I mean just from that, what did you learn?’

  ‘Well, that the trip was off and I had to let them know, that was, our lot, I mean those down in shore cottages. He’d likely got word to t’others.’

  ‘What about the fella across the river, the one that comes on horseback to the Shields front that you meet at times? They store stuff there, don’t they? You’ve been to his house.’

  ‘Oh, they’d never be on to him; he’s a big pot, Mr Gallagher, an’ he would get to know in some way. If he’d been expecting a run the night he’d have come along through the market an’ down to the shore. Anyway, I went over on spec and he wasn’t there. If there’s anything on he times it for slack tide so I can skip across.’

  ‘Skip across?’ Jinny shook her head. ‘One of these days you’ll be too late in your skipping in that little shell; you’ll be caught.’

  ‘Well, Ma, if I do, there’ll be lots of others caught at the same time.’

  ‘They’re not as foolhardy as you, leavin’ it till the last minute.’

  ‘Well, if the tide came on me, Ma, unknowingst like, I’d just use me wings an’ fly.’

  ‘Don’t be too clever, boy.’

  ‘I’m not, Ma.’ Then his tone becoming deep and serious now he said, ‘I’m never too clever. I work things out, more so now since th
at day Mr Taggart thought he was bein’ funny an’ took me down into the cellar of his house an’ showed me the neck manacles they tie smugglers to. Then he started to pump me about one an’ another and I played dumb, daft like. No, Ma, I never act too clever. But I can be funny in me own home, can’t I?’

  His mother didn’t answer, and a silence seemed to build up until his father said quietly, ‘Aye lad, you can be funny in your own home. If you can’t be funny here, where can you be funny?’

  ‘I heard something funny today, Ma. I couldn’t understand it.’

  ‘What did you hear, hinny?’ They were all looking at Nancy now.

  ‘Well, I saw two men. It was just after Mrs Twaite had spoken to me about the singing. They were coming out of the inn. They weren’t from around here…well, not the usual ones that are on the main street.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ John had turned to her.

  ‘Well, by their smell, John…you know, I know everybody by their smell.’

  ‘Well, you know lots of people by their smell, but you can’t really know everybody by their smell.’

  ‘Well, I know if I haven’t smelt anything like them afore, John.’

  ‘What did they smell like?’

  ‘Different: not sweaty, not fishy, not from the saltpans, nor from the brewery, nor did they smell of the ships or from the top houses in the town. One smelt of snuff like we take to Grandma, but different, a stronger smell; the other one, he smelt of—’ She paused, then went on, ‘It wasn’t scent; like onions, but not onions. Anyway, they were both different from what I had smelt afore except that time when the carriage stopped. Do you remember, Ma, when we walked to the high road that day after we had been through the fields and that carriage stopped and you pulled me back to let the ladies out and pass us? That was a beautiful smell. I liked their smell better than I liked their voices!’