The Harrogate Secret (aka The Secret)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘You didn’t get much sleep then?’

  ‘No…no, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, if that’s how you feel you’re not doin’ any butchering this mornin’.’ It was his mother speaking now. ‘You can get yourself to bed for a couple of hours. Tommy Preston called in earlier on. He said Mr Aynsley might take you on half-days ’cos Mrs Bing’s takin’ their Georgie away. She’s sendin’ him half-day to the Jubilee School. He was snobbin’ boots for Fluts in Bedford Street an’ she took him away from there, you remember? No prospects for her son, she said, in snobbin’ boots. He hadn’t been there but a couple of years, an’ she expected Mr Flut to have put him on to ladies’ slippers, silk lined at that.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, you seem to get on if you’re a Methodist. But, lad, there’s a full half-day for you ready an’ waitin’ if you want it…Do you want it?’

  He stared up into his mother’s face for a moment before saying softly, ‘I’m not taken with butchery, Ma, never was. I…I wouldn’t mind goin’ into boots an’ snobbin’.’

  His father pulled him round towards him again. ‘But there’s nothin’ in it, lad,’ he said; ‘they tell me the town’s full of boot an’ shoe makers these days. You trip over them wherever you go. They even beat the butchers, an’ they run the shipowners neck and neck. And that’s saying something.’

  ‘Eeh!’ his mother now put in, ‘My gall rises when I pass the Dock Inn or the Duke of Bedford, or one or other of them bars that swarm the town an’ see them comin’ out with their peaked caps an’ their brass buttons an’ their bellies pokin’ their trousers ready to burst. And the air of them. My God! I don’t know about the Duke of Bedford, you’d think they were all descended from the Duke of Wellington.’

  Robert laughed now, saying, ‘Aw, lass, they’re not all alike. There’s good an’ bad…’

  ‘Few and far atween with that lot, an’ what they make on the side in the bottom of their holds. Why doesn’t the excise collar them?’

  ‘They do, lass, they do. They all have to take their turn. What d’you say, boy?’ He pushed Freddie gently, expecting his son to laugh. But when there was no response except an almost blank stare from this lad whom he imagined was so full of spirit that nothing could get him down, he said gently, ‘Go and rest yersel’, lad. Go on. And thank you for bringin’ this grub. We’ll have a beanfeast the night. Go on now.’

  Without hesitation Freddie went into the other room. There was no-one occupying any of the three shakedowns on the floor. Nancy, he knew, would be on the shore pushing the bogie which held Lily, and the driftwood Jessie was picking up. He went to the bed farthest from the door and which he shared with John and, sitting down on its edge, he pulled off his boots and his coat but kept on his breeches; then he crept under the patchwork pad and buried his head in the striped pillow tick.

  It was only then that he remembered he hadn’t mentioned the small fortune that reposed in the pocket in the lining of his trousers, and as his hand instinctively felt for the coins he wondered why he hadn’t handed them straight to his mother. There must be a reason; he didn’t forget things, at least where money was concerned. There must be a reason, and deep down he knew that part of the reason was fear, fear of not being able to keep his mouth shut, because in his ma’s and da’s eyes that lot of food on the table out there should have been payment enough for any night’s work. They would reckon he had done something big or even something bad to be paid a whole sovereign, when John worked six days down the pit for four shillings, and he himself only got a shilling a week for sorting out bloody entrails. The thought of such work, as usual, upset him; and yet he was always thankful that the animal had been killed before he got there. Even so, the flesh was still warm, especially the heart. And his ma wanted him to work the full half-day there. Just because he might then be paid one an’ six a week.

  Of a sudden he felt sick. He didn’t want to go back to the butcher’s shop. For a moment he had the wild idea he could run away to sea and that would solve all problems. Mr Gallagher could hardly do anything to him then—could he?—if he was at sea. But that would mean he would have to go off to Newcastle, and who would sign him on at ten years old; especially when he only looked eight?

  It was funny, but he didn’t feel ten years old. In fact, he felt older than Mick Harper up the street, and he was fourteen; certainly older than Ernie Blaze or Tom Crighton, an’ they were over twelve. Two of them worked in the brewery and one went out fishing, deep sea, but they talked daft, well not exactly daft, silly though. But even that wasn’t the right word to describe the difference between him and them. The only thing he knew was that they didn’t think about things like he did. They were slow on the uptake. Aye yes, that was it, they were slow on the uptake.

  But what was he going to do about the money? How many one and sixpences were there in twenty shillings? He reckoned on his fingers: thirteen and a bit. He could stay away from the butcher’s for thirteen weeks and still give his mother his pay…He discarded the idea, it was too complicated. What would he do when he wasn’t at the butcher’s? And Tommy Preston would certainly be here the first day he didn’t put in an appearance…It was a daft idea.

  He could save the money. But only rich people saved, and Methodists. Well, most of them. The Prestons were Methodists. His mother always reckoned that Mr Preston was a warm man on the side ’cos he neither drank nor smoked so he must have money.

  But where could he save?…He could hide it. Where? There was no place in the house or out of it.

  Maggie Hewitt. Eeh! But his ma didn’t like Maggie Hewitt ’cos she made money out of lending it. But some liked her: the men from the boats who wanted to change their money did. And another thing: Maggie Hewitt liked him. She always joked with him when they met on the quay. She would pull his hair or his ear and call him funny names. Jack-the-giant-killer, she said he was, or Fearless Freddie.

  Fearless! She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Of a sudden he wanted to cry, but he knew he mustn’t ’cos that would bring his ma in, and he hadn’t cried since Billy died. He jumped from the bed, dragged on his boots and coat, then went into the kitchen. The door was open and his da was sitting on the front step and he looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Where’s me ma?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s gone to the pipe for some water.’

  If his ma had gone to the standpipe in the main street for some clean water that would mean she wouldn’t be back for an hour, ’cos that was her treat for the day when she met up with other women and they jabbered, argued, and even fought. It was a known thing that the men kept clear when the women were round the standpipe. Men who had been foolhardy enough to try to enter their conclave had come away with broken heads and faces. So he said to his father, ‘I can’t sleep, Da; and…and I’m not goin’ to the shop this mornin’; I’m gona take a walk.’

  ‘Somethin’ troublin’ you, lad? There is, isn’t there?’ Robert’s arm went out in a curve inviting his son to come into the comfort of it, but Freddie sidled past him, saying, ‘I’ll be all right, Da; I’ll just walk it off.’

  As he ran along the path towards the steps his father called after him, ‘Look up Nancy an’ the bairns; help them with the wood. That’s a good lad.’

  When he reached the shore he turned in the opposite direction from where he knew his sisters would be gathering and hurried towards the main quay. There would be bustle there, men milling about, and boats that had managed to avoid the sandbanks on the way down from Newcastle waiting hopefully to put out to sea; others unloading some of their cargo in order to lighten the load to help them up the river to Newcastle to clear their cargo and pay their dues to that hated city. But his mind’s eye would always follow these boats leaving the river on their hazardous journey across the Black Middens that claimed so many ships and lives, and out into the German Ocean.

  He stood on the quay looking at the Africaine. She was quite a big ship and new, a three-hundred tonner. She had been built in Jarrow, and was owned by the Coxon company who ha
d their office along the quay there. His eyes travelled beyond the ship to another lying at anchor. She was a whopper that one, a five-hundred tonner likely. She was a Newcastle one. Nobody liked the Newcastle boats; they always tended to be better and bigger than anybody else’s along the river. For himself he fancied the smaller ones, like the Anna, the North Shields Anna. There were lots of boats called Anne and Anna, some from Newcastle, some from South Shields, and there were two from here; all with the same name, but belonging to different owners. What would it be like to own a boat? He’d rather own a boot shop.

  The smells on the waterfront stung his nostrils: tar, fish, hides, baccy, wood. The wood came from the prop boats. He liked the smell of these. The props came from Norway. What was Norway like? Was it full of big men, like the ones who docked here with fair hair and ruddy faces? He knew one thing, they were nearly always big drinkers and big fighters, very pally and nice when they were sober but they raised hell outside the bars, especially the night before they sailed. Would he like to be a sailor? No, he didn’t think so now. Anyway, he had been through that.

  ‘And where is Jack-the-giant-killer off to this morning?’

  He came to himself as if from a daydream and blinked at the woman who was now walking at his side.

  ‘Nowhere, Miss Hewitt,’ he said.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at Mr Aynsley’s?’

  How did she know he worked for Aynsley?

  ‘Ah, you’re wondering how I know you work at the butcher’s? For the simple reason, young man, that I deal with Mr Aynsley and I’ve seen you through in the back shop, your grubby little hands tearing at the entrails. How many hours do you work?’

  ‘Three a day.’

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘A shilling a week.’

  ‘Eighteen hours for one shilling…twelve pence. What’s eighteen into twelve?’

  He tried to work it out but couldn’t. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t know, and you can’t read or write, but you think you’re a big fellow, don’t you?’

  He slanted his glance at her. What was she up to?

  ‘Did you enjoy your trip across the water last night? You were late going and early coming back.’

  He actually stopped and gazed at her. How did she know? She could have seen him coming back; but who could have seen him going?

  ‘How do I know? I know lots of things, young fellow-me-lad, that would surprise you. Well, what did you do across there?’

  ‘I minded me own business.’ It came out before he could check it; and her reply was a short laugh and a thrust from her hand and, ‘You cheeky monkey!’

  The push she gave him brought him against a stack of barrels and although they shook just the slightest a voice bawled, ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to! Tryin’ to climb on top?’

  The man had come from behind the pile, his glare fixed on Freddie, but his tone changed immediately when he saw the woman, and his voice was a greeting, saying, ‘Oh, hello there, Maggie.’

  She didn’t answer him but, looking at Freddie, she said, ‘Come on, you.’

  He felt embarrassed and slightly defiant. He wanted to say, ‘I’m goin’ back,’ but then he had thought about her earlier on—hadn’t he?—and the fortune in his pocket. So, apparently obediently, he walked by her side.

  ‘Your father’s a cripple, isn’t he?’

  He looked up at her but didn’t answer. She wasn’t very big, not like his mother. He reckoned she was just over five feet; and although she wasn’t dressed ordinary ’cos she was wearing a black straw hat, she wasn’t turned out like the ladies from yon end of the town. Her skirt was grey but it wasn’t very full, and she had a three-quarter-length coat on. It was tight into her waist. She was skinny. He said, ‘You seem to know a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, young man. And I could say the same to you, and to my mind too much for your own good.’

  He had heard those words before. When he shivered visibly, she said, ‘You cold?’ her tone expressing surprise, and he answered, ‘Aye, a bit.’

  ‘Well, you must be in for something because it isn’t cold this morning. What did you do last night?’

  He jerked his head and looked at her in some alarm, and she said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, it’s all right. You went across to Gallagher’s, but it was all a set-up job. You should have been over here; there was some fun. I don’t know who Robert Leitch hates most, your lot or those two from Newcastle.’

  She had said your lot; she must know about Mister Blaze and the rest.

  ‘Damn and blast it!’ She stepped quickly to the side, shaking the excrement from her foot, and she glared at him as she said, ‘Do you know what I’d like to bet, and I wouldn’t lose on it, this is the filthiest town in the country. They’re sitting on their bloody committees debating whether they should have a tunnel or a bridge across the bloody river that will vie with anything in Newcastle, while the pigs are still running the streets, instead of sweepers. By God! I’ll do something about this, I will! I will!’ and she stepped briskly towards some rotting hay lying against a coil of chain and, swishing her foot, she cleaned the mess from it. ‘You know something, boy? Pigs are cleaner than people.’

  She hurried on, picking her way now until they left the quay, past the row of one-roomed cottages that looked like hovels and which also came in for her disdain as she thumbed towards them, saying, ‘You know nothing about statistics, boy, but you’ll know that practically every working man’s house in this town and along the coast contains only one room.’

  ‘We have two.’

  She turned her head and looked down on him. ‘You’re lucky then.’

  ‘And the other cottages in our row have two.’

  ‘You’re all very lucky then.’ She bounced her head with each word, and they walked on again, up a cindery bank now and onto a narrow road. And as he continued to walk by her side he wondered why he was staying with her. Yet he knew why. But they’d soon be out in the country.

  They walked on in silence for some way until she said, ‘What are your plans for this morning, young sir, may I ask?’

  She seemed to be laughing at him now, but his answer brought her to a halt when he said, ‘To see you, to talk to you.’

  ‘Really? You mean our meeting was not unintentional or accidental?’

  He didn’t quite get the gist of her words but his answer was, ‘Well, I thought about you when I was lying in bed.’

  The laugh she let out was, strangely, a nice laugh: it was high and sort of tinkling; different altogether from her face that looked leathery and old, older than his mother’s.

  ‘So you had been thinking of me in bed? Well, well! All I can say to you is that your appearance is very deceptive and that you are starting early on a downward trail.’

  He couldn’t follow her now, but he said, ‘I want to talk to you about money.’

  ‘Ah!’ Her mouth opened wide. ‘So now we know…money. You want a loan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I want you to keep some money for me.’

  She remained silent, staring down at him. Then she said, ‘You want to do business? Well, if that’s the case, let us go on and quickly.’

  They walked on. She didn’t speak any more until she turned from the road onto a bridle path. And as he walked up it, slightly behind her, he wondered why he had never been along this way before. But then he very rarely left the town, there was never any time, except on a Sunday. And he always had a long sleep on a Sunday and afterwards he would do whatever John wanted to do.

  His open mouth showed surprise when her hand guided him through a white painted gate, then up the gravel path towards a house with green shutters. It was a real house, like those on the top of the bank in the town. He took in immediately it had actually eight windows; no…nine, there was one in the roof. The heavy door, he noticed, was of black oak, and when she inserted a big key into the lock and turned it and there was no grating
sound, he knew it must have been well oiled. And, now he was as surprised as he had been when he first stood in the hall of The Towers: this one was smaller, but as grand; well, not grand but better in a way, interesting. His eyes took in the wheels of two ships hanging on the wall right opposite the door and in between them a painting of a sailing ship, full blown. It was so real he could even imagine the wind in the sails.

  She had taken off her hat and coat and was saying, ‘Come along,’ as she pushed him gently in the back and through one of a number of doors that went off the hall, and into a room that looked like one of the ship’s offices along the quay, only a bit more comfortable. She pointed to a leather chair, saying, ‘Sit down. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, no; ta…thanks.’

  ‘Like something to eat?’

  ‘No; no thanks.’

  ‘You want to get down to business, is that it?’

  He said nothing; and so she walked over to the chair behind an oak desk placed in front of the window, and having sat down, she leaned forward with her forearms on the desk and said, ‘Well now, if it’s business you want to talk about, let’s talk business.’

  He stood up, put his hand down inside his breeches and into the lining pocket and pulled out a piece of rag and, placing it on the desk, he unfolded it and exposed the two half-sovereigns.

  She now leant further forward and looked at them. She seemed to look at them for a long time before she raised her head and asked, ‘What had you to do to get that amount?’

  He could have answered simply, ‘Keep me mouth shut,’ but he said nothing, just stared at her.

  And now she asked, ‘Did you get more than this?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then why didn’t you give it to your mother? You’re in straits along there, aren’t you? She has her hands full, so I understand. Your father being like he is, and with a blind daughter, she could do with this.’