The Harrogate Secret (aka The Secret)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why—in the name of the Almighty!—haven’t you given it to her?’

  ‘’Cos…’cos it would make her worry; and she would ask the same questions as you, what did I get it for?’

  ‘Then I ask again, what did you get it for? Did you do something bad?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was loud now, almost a yell. ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘All right. All right. Don’t blow your cap off. Well now, we’ve got to talk, you and me, haven’t we? Why have you come to me? I could give you away, you know I could, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Aye, you could…suppose.’

  ‘But you don’t think I will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a funny one. Frank said you had a head on your shoulders that would fit your granny.’

  Who was Frank? And he wasn’t pleased at being associated with his granny because she was a crabby old scut. She didn’t like him and he didn’t like her.

  ‘What do you want me to do with your money?’

  ‘Keep it for me till I want it. I’ll pay you.’

  She chuckled now, saying, ‘If I keep your money, laddie, it’s me that will be paying you. Have you heard of anything like interest?’

  ‘No. I just thought you charged.’

  ‘Well, for your information’—her face was now grim, as was her voice—‘I am no money-lender, I am not a penny in the shilling woman. Do you understand what I mean?’

  Yes, he understood her all right now, ’cos some of the old wives charged a penny a week for lending you a shilling, so his da said. And he had thought she was one of them.

  Her voice still grim, she said, ‘I don’t deal in pennies, cents or sous, I’m what you call a commission agent for various things…miscellaneous. A commission agent you could say without a licence, for I am not registered in Newcastle, and I’m a thorn in the flesh of many males in this town, those who consider women fit only for bed and breeding.’

  She was talking angrily now, walking about the room, and it wasn’t as if she was addressing him: ‘They don’t know the difference between an American and a Spanish dollar, although it’s only a penny at the present time, four and tuppence to four and threepence.’ She now stopped in her walking and stabbed her finger at him; then went on, ‘In one day I can deal with riels, eight to the dollar, sixpence ha’penny at best, or a gold rupee. And you know, how much a gold rupee can bring? The last one I had through my hands brought twenty-eight and ninepence. And why am I talking to you, telling you this?’ She stopped in front of him again. ‘Because if you understood half of what I’ve said I could be in the soup. Your sideline is being a runner, my main sideline is exchanging money, but not ripping the poor sods off like Johnson and Rickmore up in the city or Tate along in the town there.’ She bent over him, her hands on her hips, her body leaning forward. ‘Now you know my secret, tell me yours.’

  What secret? He didn’t understand anything she had been saying except that she changed the sailors’ money. Well, lots of people did that, so he understood. There was an office along the quay. And they could get it changed in the shipping company too. So he didn’t really know what she was at; but he reckoned she was sly. Even so he felt tempted to tell her exactly what had happened. He didn’t really know why except he was sure that he could trust her, she wouldn’t give him away.

  He recalled how whenever he’d heard her name mentioned it was always associated with…what was the word? Not fear, no; he supposed it was what his ma called respect. She was always saying, you can respect this one or that one, or on the other hand, this one or that one breeds no respect. But still he daren’t, for the life of him, tell everything, so he said, ‘I…I warned the master that the excise were on to him, and…and he was glad I did.’

  ‘As far as I can gather you’ve warned others that the excise were on to them, but did they give you a sovereign?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did they give you?’

  ‘Some baccy for me da and a draw-off of rum.’

  ‘No white powder for your da?’

  He screwed up his eyes at her. ‘White powder? No.’

  ‘Well’—she straightened up—‘that would likely do him more good than the rum, help him to blot out life. Still, every man to his taste. You take the powder across the river though, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t take no powder across the river. What kind of powder?’

  He watched her face soften. She came towards him and put her hand on his head, and her smile was sweet and her voice soft as she said, ‘No matter what they say you’re still just ten, and one of these days that little shell of yours will be taken out on the tide if you’re not careful…Well, I’m going to have a drink of cocoa. You like cocoa?’

  ‘Never had it.’

  ‘Aw, well, we’ll have to see if we can tempt your palate, and also with a raisin bun. But first of all let us decide on our business association. You have, young man, this day, pledged with me two half-sovereigns which I’m to keep for you for an unknown time. That’s right, isn’t it?’ His head bobbed again. ‘Well, as long as the half-sovereigns remain with me you will receive some interest. Usually interest is paid every six months, or once a year. Now at two and a half per cent you will be entitled to sixpence at the end of the year and I will be entitled to say, well, a penny of that sixpence for looking after it for you. You see what I mean?’

  His eyes flicked from her to a side table on which there were a number of photographs, then to the desk, then to the fireplace to the right of him where a wood fire was still smouldering, and then, looking at her, he said, ‘The penny would be your cut?’

  He saw her close her eyes, put her lips tight together and swallow before answering: ‘Right, partner. Right.’

  She was laughing at him again. He knew this, and he smiled at her. But the stiff expression returned to her countenance again as she said, ‘Of course, that’s if you leave your money for a year. Are you going to?’

  ‘I don’t know. If…if things get bad I might have to take a bit out at a time; or if I decide to leave the butcher’s, ’cos I don’t like it there, I might take me wage out.’

  ‘Oh’—her face stretched—‘I can see this is going to be a difficult proposition. Still, it is my job to face difficulties. Well now, sit where you are’—and she pointed at him—‘and don’t touch a thing on my desk. You understand?’

  He had the desire to answer her back but he didn’t. And when she had left the room he let out a long breath and sank into the soft leather of the chair for a moment, telling himself that all this business was nearly as queer as last night, only not so frightening. She was a funny card, but he liked her. She was cute in a kind of way. His mother would have said she was as fly as a box of monkeys.

  He turned his head to look at the paintings on the wall opposite the window and desk. One seemed to be of the same ship as in the hall, only smaller; and to one side of it there was a painting of a sailor with a beard and brass buttons, with a young lass by his side; and to the other, a painting of a young clean-shaven sailor, also with brass buttons and the same lass by his side. He looked at them for a long time trying to work out who they were. Likely her da and her ma. Her ma looked bonny. He got up and walked over to look at them more closely when the door was pushed open abruptly and she came in carrying a tray and on it two steaming mugs and a plate of buns. She paused a moment watching him as he looked, startled, back at her as though he had been caught out, and he stammered, ‘I…I…I was only…look…lookin’.’

  ‘Well, I won’t charge you for looking,’ she said and walked over to her desk.

  He followed her, and as she placed the tray down he, seeming to have regained his usual composure, nodded backwards and said, ‘They’re nice. Is that your ma and da?’

  ‘No, young sir, that isn’t me ma and da. That is my father and me.’

  His mouth dropped slightly open as he looked from her weather-beaten face to the pretty girl. And when she said, �
��Oh, yes, yes, I have changed. Thirty years and salt spray and wind and—’ She stopped, swung round and picked up a mug of cocoa and, handing it to him, she said, ‘Taste that and see if you like it.’

  He tasted the thick brown stuff. It was hot and sweet and the only thing he could couple the taste with was cinder toffee. ‘’Tis nice,’ he said.

  ‘I’m pleased you like it.’ Then she said, ‘Try a bun and see if you like that too.’

  As he took a bun she walked back to the paintings, to the one of the girl and the young man. And she stared at it for a moment before, pointing now to the ship, she said, ‘That was my father’s boat.’

  Her eyes were fixed tightly on the painting as she went on quietly now, ‘She went down on the Black Middens and he with it, and Sam too.’ She turned towards him. ‘That is Sam.’ She pointed to the young man. She didn’t go on to explain who Sam was but said, ‘We lived on The Lawe, you know, across the water in Shields. I was born there, almost within sight of the Middens.’

  Having taken a long drink from the mug, she suddenly leaned towards him and, wagging her finger in his face, said, ‘Never go to sea. Do anything: clean guts in the back of a butcher’s shop, swill middens, anything, but don’t go to sea. Of all the treacherous bitches in the world, she’s the biggest, for she takes men from their wives and grooms from their brides; she deprives children of fathers; and even when she’s kind she cripples men and makes women old before their time. Don’t ever go to sea, boy.’

  The next moment she was out of the room and he was left alone, a half-eaten bun in one hand, a half-full mug of cocoa in the other, staring towards the door. Was she potty? Bats? Up the lum? Well, there was something the matter with her. He looked at the bun. It was a nice bun. He’d never tasted one like it. And this cocoa was nice an’ all, warming. But he’d better go. It had been a funny morning…it had been a funny night. Everything had been funny since he crossed the river last night.

  But here she was, coming back into the room. And her voice was soft again as she said, ‘I got a bit carried away, didn’t I, about the sea? But I don’t often have visitors, especially in this room. In fact, I don’t do business here at all. My office is on the quay, you know. Well, I call it my office but it’s known as Maggie Hewitt’s house, isn’t it, because there’s no brass-plated plaque outside. Anyway, finish your cocoa and your bun and then we’ll put our business in writing, eh?’

  ‘I…I can’t write.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you could, but I can. And if you can’t write you can’t read, I suppose. Is that it?’

  ‘No; I can’t read.’

  ‘Well, there’s a school of sorts in the town; why don’t you go there instead of skittering up and down the quays? What do you get for your skittering anyway?’

  ‘Oh, sometimes a bit of fruit, an orange or some lemons, or when they’re revictuallin’ I get the old stuff.’

  ‘Is that as far as you think, getting the garbage from the boats?’

  ‘It…it helps at home.’

  ‘Aye, it might. But what when you grow up? And you’ll be grown up, you know; you won’t always remain that size. What are you going to do then?’

  ‘I would like to go in for a shoe shop. Well, I mean, not a shoe shop, just make shoes.’

  She nodded at him now, saying, ‘Well, there should be money in that, but not in this town. They’re falling over each other here.’

  ‘That’s what me da says.’

  ‘Then you have discussed your future?’

  ‘Well, I’ve told them I don’t want the butcher’s.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then there’s hope for you.’ She turned to the desk, pulled a book towards her, flicked over a number of leaves, then dipped a quill pen into an inkwell and began to write. She hadn’t sat down but was bending over the desk; and now she turned her head and said, ‘See what I’ve written here?’ He went round the desk and looked on the page and saw some squiggles and she said, ‘It says, “Deposited with me on the first of September, eighteen forty-three.”’ Then stopping and turning her head towards him, she said, ‘I’m dating it from the first: I’m being kind to you,’ before going on, ‘“the sum of two half-sovereigns to be invested at two and a half per cent per annum. Interest to be half-yearly if so required. Signed this day, Margaret Hewitt, spinster, and Freddie Musgrave.”’

  ‘It should be Frederick.’

  She glared sharply at him and started writing again, then said, ‘“Frederick Musgrave.” Here’—she handed the pen to him—‘put a cross there where I’m pointing to.’

  His hand shaking, he made a cross. She now took a rocker blotter and dried the ink before, pointing to the writing again, she said, ‘You have this day, Frederick Musgrave, done your first business deal. And I don’t think it’ll be the last one. What do you say?’

  ‘I…I don’t think I’ll get any more half-sovereigns.’

  ‘Oh’—she wagged her head—‘you never know. And Frederick’—she stressed his name as she brought her face down to his—‘you haven’t hoodwinked me. Get that into your head. Do you hear? You haven’t hoodwinked me this morning. Because you didn’t get those half-sovereigns for carrying a message to Mr Gallagher, not just for carrying a message; but you’ll tell me some day. Oh yes you will, you’ll tell me some day. Or perhaps I’ll be able to tell you before you tell me. What do you think of that?’

  What he thought was, she would never be able to tell him what had happened last night or what had happened this morning, ’cos not even the staff knew what the master had said to him, although they knew what he intended to do with the bairn. Oh, that poor bairn.

  At the door she said, ‘Go on now; and if I were you I’d make up my mind quickly between the butcher’s and the boots’, because, let me tell you, you’ll come to no good running the quay all day. You might be too young to be picked up by the press gang but there are still other ways to disappear, laddie. So get yourself into a settled job. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘And one last thing: if you get worried about anything, anything at all, just make your way here or to the house on the quay. I’m either in one place or the other, except on a Thursday afternoon and a Saturday morning when I’m in Newcastle.’

  ‘Thanks, miss. Aye, I will. And ta for the cocoa an’…an’ for puttin’ me name in your book.’

  Her face relaxed and she smiled now and, her voice low again, she said, ‘Go on with you. You’ll do…’

  Before descending the cinder hill towards the beach he stood still for a moment and looked along the river as far as he could see both ways. It seemed packed with boats, large ones and small ones. In the far distance he made out a keelman sculling coal from the staithes to a boat in the middle of the river. It was one of those too big to come inshore the way the tide was at present. And from where he stood he could see over the other end of the town and the steam rising from the saltpans. And the noise of the town and the river merged and rose to him, and it was like the sound of bees swarming, punctuated every now and again by the banging of hammers in rhythmic flow as if from a forge. And a voice rising above the rest and conveying to him that it would be carrying an oath from someone on the quay to someone on board ship, or the other way round.

  It was said there were well over eight thousand people in the town. How many was eight thousand? He could count up to a hundred and that was a fair amount, but he couldn’t visualise eight thousand.

  What was he going to do now? Go to the butcher’s and get his lugs clipped and his backside kicked, or go and see if he could be set on in a boot shop? But that would mean a full day, six days a week from seven in the morning till six at night, and then if he was lucky. And it would be mostly cobbling. Oh, he’d better go home first and talk it over with his da. But he wouldn’t go the way of the quayside, or by the market and the main street, he would skirt the town ’cos it wasn’t so mucky on the outskirts. But why was he bothering about it being mucky? It had never struck him until she had men
tioned it. He could see her angrily wiping the muck from her boot. Aw, he was thinkin’ daft. He would go the way he always went.

  And so he ran down the hill and along the road to the quay. There was a fruit boat in at one place and he picked up a partly squashed orange that had got wedged between two crates, and as he did so there was a shout from the deck of the ship, and he looked up and saw two oranges come flying towards him. He managed to catch one and quickly retrieved the other; then turning, his face bright, he shouted, ‘Ta, mister,’ and the orange thrower laughed and answered in a foreign language. Minutes later he had reached the end of the quay where it merged into the beach when he saw Mr Tommy Johnson coming round from behind his boat. He was humping a creel of herring and he called to him, ‘Hi there, Freddie!’ then waved him forward.

  He hesitated a moment before approaching him because he knew there would be more questions. But when he reached the fisherman all Tommy said was, ‘Take them to your ma,’ and handed him four big herrings on a hook. Then he added, ‘Tell your da I’ll be popping in to see him later. Understand?’

  Yes, he understood. ‘Ta, Mr Johnson. Ta.’ As he turned away and climbed to the road above the beach, he thought, That’s funny. Mr Johnson rarely came empty-handed to see his da, so there must have been a run of some kind last night; or perhaps Mr Johnson was just bringing something from his own store. And he likely did have a store because he was a sober man was Mr Johnson; after a run he didn’t get totally bottled like the rest.

  Before he reached the house he knew they had company, and when he entered the room he stood in amazement looking at his granny. His granny never came across the water, she was frightened to be in a sculler or the ferry, but there she was, and a strange lass with her. His mother said, ‘Look what the wind’s blown in. And this is your cousin Lizzie from Darlington.’

  He was looking at a young lass. She had a face like a full moon, or more like a turnip lantern that the lads made when they wanted a bit of carry-on at night to scare folks. But the face that he was looking at wouldn’t scare anyone, he thought it was too dull. And she was nursing a bundle on her knee. He didn’t know what made him step forward and look at the baby without giving a greeting to his granny or this new cousin. The thing was swaddled up to the eyes and it stank of pee. Last night’s baby had looked clean and bonny this morning. What he could see of this one’s face was red and puffed; it looked dull like its mother.