The Harrogate Secret (aka The Secret)

by Catherine Cookson

  Travelled! she had said. It was pitiful in a way how the lack of education stunted the mind. God, that did sound pompous, and against his own mother.

  ‘Tell me how I really look, Freddie?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, Nancy, you look really, really, beautiful. I’ve never seen you in a dress like that before and it…what is the word? Enhances. Yes, it enhances you. But you were beautiful before you put it on.’

  ‘Oh, Freddie.’ She put out a hand towards him. ‘You were always kind.’

  ‘I’m not being kind; don’t be so daft, you’re a beautiful woman. But that dress…velvet. I suppose you’d call it plum?’

  ‘The lady in the shop called it pale magenta.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what it is? Anyway in local jargon, you’re a bonny lass. Yes, I’d say, a real bonny lass.’

  ‘I wish you were coming, Freddie. I always feel…well, different when you’re with me. And it’s such a nice place.’

  ‘What kind of place, a cross between the George and the Methodist Chapel?’

  ‘Dead in the middle, I’d say. The voices are different, the smells are different. Oh, they are not smells, they are scents.’

  He laughed. ‘Mixing with the smell of the tatey hash? And tell me, do they go on eating while you are singing?’

  ‘Strangely, no, Freddie. I…I do wish you’d come and see the place for yourself. Anyway, you will soon and then you’ll get rid of this feeling against it.’

  ‘I haven’t any feeling against it. How could I?’ His voice sounded indignant.

  ‘Well, you seem to scoff at it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the name, Cora’s; it sounds utterly female.’

  ‘Well, it’s owned by a female; at least the family run it.’

  The door opened and Belle came in. Freddie didn’t speak, he just looked at the figure walking slowly towards him; it was Nancy who said, ‘Oh, you smell beautiful, Belle.’

  Belle made no reply to this, but she looked at Freddie who had risen from the chair and it was a long moment before she said, ‘Well?’

  He swallowed, then said, ‘Aye, well. So this is what the money’s gone on! Is…is that what is called a dance frock?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Just…oh, I suppose a party frock. But Nancy tells me they clear a space on the floor on a Saturday night and they waltz—’ she now bent slightly towards him as she ended, ‘decorously.’

  ‘And what colour might you call it?’

  ‘I might call it forget-me-not blue, and I might inform you that the material is chiffon on top of silk. And my cloak is of a similar shade but in velvet, and at the present moment Aunt Maggie and Jinny are attaching a hood to it because I am not going to wear a hat, and I couldn’t possibly go out without a covering to my head, could I?’

  ‘You’re being saucy.’

  She stared at him, then said quietly, ‘You haven’t said yet if you like it or what I look like.’

  How could he say what she looked like? For the very sight of her was bringing a heat to his body which a large hot rum had never accomplished. Of a sudden he had the urge to dash upstairs and change and say, To hell with how I look, because once she was let out in public looking like that she’d be eaten alive. She didn’t look as if she belonged to this earth. That would never be made apparent to anyone until she spoke and they discovered she had a mind of her own. He forced himself to say, ‘It looks bonny. You both make a bonny pair.’

  She turned now to Nancy, saying, ‘Do you hear that, Nancy? We both make a bonny pair. What does that word convey to you? A new Easter frock, or a clean pinny? Couldn’t he say, we are two beautifully dressed women, charming, fascinating, full of female wiles? Anything but not just bonny.’

  Nancy’s laugh rang out. ‘Oh, Belle, don’t tease him, you know he thinks you look wonderful.’

  ‘How can you tell that, Nancy?’

  Belle’s voice was quiet now, a solid note of enquiry in it. And Nancy, after a moment, answered, ‘Oh I can always tell.’

  A voice from the doorway now interrupted, saying, ‘Are you two ready? Mr and Mrs Twaite are here.’

  Nancy moved towards the voice and so to the door, but Belle remained standing looking at Freddie. And now she said softly, ‘Your face isn’t too bad, you could have come.’

  ‘I will next time.’

  ‘That’s a promise?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a promise.’

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning then.’

  ‘You’ll see me later on tonight. I’ll be here when you get back.’

  Without further words she turned from him and went from the room, and he sat down again by the fire. And when Maggie came in a few minutes later, she began abruptly, ‘We’d better get more steak on that face of yours and pull it together quickly, because if that one hasn’t an escort soon I’ll have to see about engaging the militia.’ Then sitting opposite to him, she sat quiet for a moment before asking, ‘Did you ever see anyone so beautiful in your life?’

  And he answered simply, ‘No; I never have, Maggie. I never have.’

  Three

  A week later, on a Tuesday, he made his way by train to Newcastle. His visits to Newcastle he always found interesting; and this morning’s was no exception for in the first-class compartment there was a man who told him he was due to appear at the Court of Conscience in the Guildhall, and, as everybody knew, this court was held for debts under forty shillings, yet this man was travelling first class, and he had wanted to ask him why he could afford to travel thus if he was in debt for under forty shillings. But he refrained, for ‘mind your own business’ was part of his motto.

  In the city, he would make for the quayside, not to do business at the Harbour Master’s Office or the Town Dues Office, or yet at the Assay, but, as he put it, to have a crack here and there and pick up bits of information that might assist Maggie in her next deal.

  Then he liked walking the main streets: to stop at the Theatre Royal in Grey Street, and then the Assembly and News Rooms in Westgate Road. He had dropped in there once or twice; you could learn a lot if you had time to stay; as you could in the Central Exchange and News Rooms in Grey Street. Oh, he could spend a day, a week, even as much as a month in the city and not get tired of the sights and sounds. As for the churches, God in heaven, they were spewed all over the place! A close second were the Baptist chapels, then the Methodists, and places that housed denominations he had never heard of before. But there was only one Catholic church in the city, that was in Clayton Street. He remembered old Mr McNeil as far back as twenty years ago: he used to walk from North Shields right out here on a Sunday morning just to go to Mass. Everybody thought he was strange. Well, weren’t all Catholics strange? And in his case it was proved so when he left a decent job and moved to Newcastle and to a starvation wage so that he could be near his church. Religion was a funny thing. He was glad he had nothing to do with it.

  But today he wasn’t here specifically to roam the quayside, nor to satisfy his desire to know more of the city and what it held; he was here to find the whereabouts of the eating house called Cora’s. And he found it. It was tucked away in a side street not a stone’s throw from Grey Street. The street was narrow but it would take a carriage. There was a swinging sign above the door, and it said simply, Cora’s Coffee House. Both the door and the big window beside it had panels of bottle-glass to prevent passers-by peering in, but which evidently let in a great deal of light, as he saw when he opened the door and stepped into a long room.

  He stood for a moment looking about him. Half of the room, he saw, was taken up with tables of various sizes, some to hold twelve, others simply for two people. It was only half past twelve in the day but most of the tables were occupied. There was a quiet buzz of conversation, threaded here and there with laughter.

  He walked down an aisle between the tables and when he saw a small and unoccupied table he sat down at it. He was now at the end of the dining area. In front of him was an open space that took up the width of the
room and was about twelve feet deep. This, he imagined, was the floor on which Belle had joined in the dance with the man who had requested the pleasure of her company, and to whom, as the Twaites said, they gave their permission because he was a gentleman, one of a small company dining at a nearby table, all of whom had clapped long and loudly when Nancy had sung. Behind the space was a narrow stage, in the corner of which was a pianoforte, and beyond this was what looked like a small glass-partitioned office. The door to the side of it apparently led into the kitchen quarters, for from it now there emerged a waitress carrying a tray on which were three plates of steaming food. Behind her came a youngish man; he too was carrying a tray and on it two brown jugs of steaming coffee, and as he passed close to him he could see that it held four colourful mugs and a bowl of brown sugar too.

  Slowly he turned his head and took in more closely the other occupants of the room. They were mostly men of a business type by their dress. The few women present seemed to be in a family group.

  The waitress came up to him now, saying politely, ‘Yes, sir, and what can I serve you?’

  ‘Well, what have you got?’

  ‘’Tis hotpot the day, or rabbit pie. Now, that’s got a very nice crust. But if you want something cold and light there is pork brawn with red cabbage and new bread. That’s very tasty.’ She nodded at him.

  Pork brawn, red cabbage and new bread. He’d never heard of such a mixture, but he’d try anything for a first time. So he said, ‘I think I’ll have the cold.’

  ‘You’ll like that, sir, I think…an’ coffee?’

  ‘Yes; coffee, please.’

  Within the next twenty minutes or so and during which he ate and enjoyed the strange meal, a number of people passed up and down the long room making their way to and from the glass office, from where he caught glimpses of a face that looked plastered with powder; at least that’s what it looked like from this distance. It wasn’t until some minutes later that he went to the partition and had a clearer view of the face through the glass that he drew in a sharp breath as the person spoke, asking, ‘Did you enjoy your meal, sir?’

  His mouth opened twice before he answered, ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

  ‘That’ll be one and fourpence, sir.’

  He now placed one and six on the narrow mahogany counter, then pushed it through the arched aperture in the glass towards her. And when he said hesitantly, ‘That’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘Oh, thank you, sir. I hope you come again.’

  He made no answer to this but just inclined his head towards her while his eyes took in once again the heavily powdered face.

  Out in the street he walked slowly. It couldn’t be, but it was. She hadn’t recognised him. Well, would she? How many years ago was it since she clapped eyes on him, fourteen? Fifteen? Yes, it must be fifteen. He had been a scrap of a thing, and look at him now. But she hadn’t changed, not really. Well, she couldn’t change her face, no powder could hide all those pockmarks. And then there was the eye dropping into the corner.

  How strange. Yes indeed how strange that she would own such a place as that. But did she own it? Yes, he imagined she did. But where would they get the money to start a place…?

  Don’t be an idiot, he was yelling at himself. Think back to the day when you last saw her in the garden. And what had she said? ‘Oh, don’t worry; we’re all right. And he thought he was clever with his hidey-holes.’

  They had likely left just enough to satisfy the old lady who came to take over.

  Well. Well. Well. Cora’s Coffee House. And her name was Connie. Should he tell Maggie? No; at least not yet, because she would be made to wonder why not one of the three of them had come over to North Shields to see how the child was faring. But then hadn’t they gone to Scotland? Yes, but according to Nancy they had been open about a year here. And there was something else to worry about. Belle had been there and she would likely want to go again. Yet, it wasn’t likely, if they hadn’t kept track of her, that they would recognise her. But should it come to their ears that Maggie Hewitt was her guardian, they wouldn’t have to put even two and two together.

  But then what could they do? What would they want to do? They hadn’t done anything so far, and there was only one thing sure, they wouldn’t want their own affairs to be looked into too closely, because where could three such people get enough money to start a business in Scotland and then take such a place in the centre of the city where rents were high? And they would be high for a place like that. Then they would have to have a licence for their entertainment side of it. Yes, where would they have got the money?

  Well, the only thing he would have to see to now was that Belle didn’t go back there again.

  It was as he was making his way through yet another side street that would bring him out into Northumberland Street that he saw ahead of him a man coming out of a jeweller’s shop with the name of Taylor in faded lettering above the door. It was, you could say, a small insignificant shop which had no fine display of expensive rings, bracelets and necklaces, no gentlemen’s watches and chains or ladies’ fobs, but seemed to deal mostly with the mending of old clocks, an assortment of which was displayed in its narrow window.

  Freddie had become acquainted with the shop some years ago through Maggie, for she had not been above acting as go-between for a little merchandise brought into port by some sailor. But, as she admitted herself, she had never really dealt with anything big until she took the two diamonds and the ruby to Mr Taylor. And that was only five years ago when their value had trebled, for up till then they had lain in her wall safe between the years eighteen forty-five and eighteen fifty-five.

  Maggie had seen she was given a good price for those three bits of ‘glass’, even though, as she had said at the time, it was nothing to what Mr Taylor would have got when he deposited them in London. Yet she liked Mr Taylor, and so did he. As far as his underground trade went, he was fair.

  How Mr Taylor had escaped the law over all these years, Freddie told himself, he would never know, unless he had a friend up in the High Court. And that could well be possible. Oh, yes, yes, quite possible. As he was sure had Mr Larry Freeman who was now walking ahead of him and who no longer galloped about on his horse but drove in a fine carriage and pair between his equally fine house on the outskirts of Newcastle and his office where he transacted most of his business.

  But now, seeing him come out of Mr Taylor’s jeweller’s shop, it was apparent to Freddie that he still had his hand in the old games.

  Freeman had evidently seen him, for he stopped and, when Freddie came abreast of him, he greeted him in a manner that was both condescending and jocular.

  ‘Well, well! Who do we have here on this fine day? If it isn’t Freddie Musgrave. It must be all of six months since I saw you. I believe you’re still sprouting.’

  Freddie forced back words his irritation was prompting him to utter. By now he should have become used to this form of address, for such it had been over the years. What he did say, with a smile which flummoxed Mr Freeman not a little, was, ‘The day, Mr Freeman, when you address me as man to man I shall know then that you have reached maturity, as I myself did as far back as when I was fourteen.’

  It was as if a dark shadow had passed over Larry Freeman’s face. And, aiming now to come back with a retort to equal the young snipe’s, as he thought of him, he said, ‘As a dirty little runner you were always nimble on your feet, and now seemingly the quality has gone to your tongue, which is a much more dangerous place to harbour a talent.’

  ‘Quite right. Oh, you are quite right, Mr Freeman. As is a fact that when one person knows so much about the other it is advisable for both to be civil. What d’you say?’

  The joviality went out of his tone now as he added, ‘And to remember, Mr Freeman, that I was a child when I was connected with your racket, and that I was used by elders. But since I was taken under the wing of Miss Maggie Hewitt, I was, as the preachers would say, saved, and have since lived a blameless life, a state which
can’t be claimed by everyone.’ A slightly mocking note had returned to his tone, and with the merest lift of his tall hat he left the older man glaring after him.

  He made his way now down an alley leading to the main thoroughfare, but when he reached it he found that he was shaking slightly. It wasn’t exactly with fear, but he had to admit to a certain apprehension. It was rarely he came in contact with the man, but when he did he remembered Maggie’s warning to play dumb with him, because she saw him as a dangerous fellow, but today he had forgotten her warning. And recalling it, he knew he had been stupid in rising to the man’s bait. Where there had before been merely condescension on Freeman’s part, now there would be the desire to get even and to bring him low in some way. He knew the type: there were many Freemans kicking about, and back in the home town too. Oh yes, he was reminded time and time again that he had come up from being a bare-arsed quay brat.

  It wasn’t a good day, he decided. That business of finding out who owned Cora’s made him ask himself, if Connie Wheatley found out who Belle really was, would she keep her tongue quiet? He didn’t know, he just didn’t know. And then there was this encounter with Freeman. No, it hadn’t been a good day; and being such he should be looking forward to getting home to Maggie and Belle. And he was…to Maggie yes, but not to Belle.

  Four

  He was rather late in getting back for he had walked slowly from the station to the house, wondering whether he should tell Maggie about the identification of the owner of the coffee house. But the choice was settled for him once he entered the house because not only was Belle in high spirits but Maggie too seemed to be quietly pleased about something, for she did nothing to quell Belle’s exuberance as she rushed to him, crying, ‘Where do you think you’ve been all day, Mr Frederick Musgrave, leaving two lone, helpless females to wander the waterfront where anything can happen, as you’ve told me time and time again, especially to young ladies who will be so foolish as to wear skirts that only reach to the top of their boots?’