With his arm round her shoulders, John kissed her good night. ‘You’re a good woman, and I love you,’ he said fondly. ‘If there’s ever anything you need, I’ll always be there for you.’
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘And I hope I’ll always be there for you.’
That night, when Lizzie was fast asleep in her bed, John went outside and, taking the spade and fork from the lean-to shed, he rolled up his sleeves and set about digging over the small patch of ground at the foot of Lizzie’s garden. He soon got into the rhythm of digging, then breaking up and forking over the soil, chucking weeds onto the compost heap.
When that was done and the last spadeful of earth had been turned over, he stood back and surveyed it. Satisfied, he returned to the house and after washing off the dirt and tidying himself up, he dug in his kitbag for paper and pencil.
A few moments later, seated at the table, with the glow of lamplight illuminating the page, he began the first of his letters:
Dearest Lizzie,
You’ve been the best mother anyone could have. It hurts me to leave you like this, but I have a feeling you will understand. You have always understood me, better than anyone.
The news of Emily has shaken me to my roots, as you must know. I came back here to marry her, but sadly, it wasn’t to be.
I’m leaving you this money. It is part of the sum I had put aside for our wedding, and to resolve other matters which would make life easier for Emily and her family. But she has made her choice, and there is nothing I can do about that.
Use the money wisely. Don’t overwork yourself, and stay well. I know now you will never leave this place, and who could blame you? If all had been well with me and Emily, I too would never want to live anywhere else.
I’m enclosing a letter for Emily. It’s just to wish her well, that’s all. I ask that you might please take it to her. But you must not let her know that I was here, or that I have learned she has a husband and child. I ask you that for a reason.
All my love. I will keep in touch, so please don’t worry.
Your loving nephew,
John
Because of its content, his letter to Emily was shorter. Rather than make her feel guilty, he took the blame on himself.
When it was written, he went to the dresser-drawer, where he knew Lizzie kept envelopes and such. From here, he took one small envelope, folded Emily’s letter inside Lizzie’s, and enclosed them both in the envelope. He then propped it in front of the mantelpiece-clock, laid the wad of money beside it, and with one last, fond glance upwards, towards Lizzie’s bedroom, he took his kitbag and left.
All his instincts wanted to take him by way of Potts End Farm. He knew how Emily would already be out of her bed and working at some task or other. He had visions of going to her and begging her to leave the husband she had taken and come away with him. It was a shameful thing, he thought, and the idea was soon thrust away. ‘She isn’t yours any more,’ he told himself, his gaze wandering towards the spinney.
All the same, leaving her behind was the hardest thing he had ever done.
In the morning when Lizzie woke, she knew instinctively that he had gone. ‘John?’ she called down the stairs. There was no answer, so she called louder. ‘JOHN!’
Throwing a robe over her nightdress, she hurried downstairs. The minute she entered the room, she saw the letter. Oh, dear Lord. He’d gone! Her heart fell. But he’d be back, she knew he would. Though whether that would be a good thing or a bad one, she couldn’t tell.
The wad of money shocked her. By! What did he have to go and do that for? She quickly read the note and was enlightened. ‘I’ll not spend it wisely,’ she said aloud, ‘’cause I’ll not spend it at all. One o’ these fine days, son, you’ll be looking to wed some young woman or other, and when that day comes, the money will be here waiting for you.’
She thought of her situation and of how she had always managed to earn a living selling her produce and pies at the market. A proud woman, she had never taken a helping hand from anyone, and she wasn’t about to start now, even if that hand belonged to the person she loved most in the whole world.
Crossing to the kitchen range, she took a loose stone from the wall to reveal a clever hidey-hole. From here she drew out a small square baccy tin. Inside was a small hand-stitched drawstring bag containing a number of guineas.
She counted the coins for the umpteenth time. Five whole guineas! Not bad for an old woman, was it? Mind, it had taken hard work and thrift to build up such a cache over the years. The wad of notes was far more money than she could ever save in her lifetime, and she instinctively glanced about before placing the wad into the drawstring bag. She then returned the baccy tin to the hole in the wall, replaced the stone and pushed a saucepan up against it.
Later that afternoon, Lizzie put on her best shawl and hat, and made her way across the fields and down through the spinney to Potts End Farm. Just as she had expected, Emily was to be found in the wash-house. ‘I’ve heard from John,’ Lizzie said abruptly, standing in the door. ‘He sent this for you.’
Holding out the letter, she was made to feel guilty when Emily ran across the room, her face alight. ‘Oh, Lizzie!’ Wiping her hands on her apron, she took the letter in hands that had begun to shake. ‘What does he say? Is he coming home?
Is
he?’ The words tumbled out as she unfolded the letter.
But when the young woman read her lover’s message, her tears of joy turned to sobs of despair:
Dear Emily,
Forgive me for what I’m about to tell you. I won’t be coming home, or getting wed as we planned.
I never meant for it to happen, but I’ve found a new love.
I had to write to you straight away, for I don’t want you wasting your life in waiting for me.
I hope you’ll find someone who will love and cherish you as you deserve; because although it wasn’t meant for you and me to be together, you are a very special and lovely person, Emily.
Please forgive me,
John
Now, as Emily looked up, her face crumpled with shock and pain, Lizzie was stricken with a terrible remorse. ‘Aw, lass.’ Going over to the girl, she put a comforting arm round her heaving shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry.’ And she was. But she couldn’t confess why; not to Emily nor to anyone else.
Even now, she could not deny in her own heart how she truly believed the parting would be best for both of them in the long run.
She comforted Emily as best she could, but it was of little consolation to the girl, who felt as though her life had come to an end. ‘How can I live without ever seeing him again?’ she asked brokenly. ‘How can I be without him, when I love him with all my heart?’
Unable to provide the answers, Lizzie left some short time later. As she climbed the brow of the hill, she thought she could still hear the sound of Emily’s sobbing, carried on the breeze.
‘God help me!’ Lizzie murmured. But it was for the best that Emily should wed the father of her child. For the best, that John was not fettered by another man’s responsibility.
And not forgetting the child itself, wasn’t it for the best that Cathleen should be brought up in the family security of her own father and mother?
Suddenly, when the breeze became wild, cutting across the hills like a banshee, Lizzie tightened her shawl and quickened her steps.
‘I did right!’ she told the wind. ‘I’m sorry for the pain I caused, but it was the right thing to do.’ A woman of high principles, Lizzie believed that mistakes had to be paid for, and that was Emily’s punishment.
As for John, he had done nothing wrong as far as she could see, so it was only right that he should make a new life without encumbrances not of his making.
As far as Lizzie was concerned, that was how she saw it, and if there was any blame to be apportioned in this deceitful business, it lay fair and square with young Emily.
Behind her, Emily was wracked with loneliness. ‘Why didn’t you come back for me, John?’ she sobbed. ‘How could you fall out of love with me so easily?’
Seated in the train and travelling further away from her with every minute, John was asking the very same question of Emily.
However long he lived, and whichever way his life turned, he was certain of only one thing.
He would never love anyone as he loved his Emily.
Part 3
March, 1905
Apart
‘I
T’S A POUND
a week if you’re wanting bed, breakfast and a meal after work. An’ it won’t be the kind of meal you choose neither,’ she warned. ‘It’ll be what I’ve been able to get cheap over the butcher’s counter.’
The round-faced woman with the pot belly and wild iron-grey hair had been opening her house near the Liverpool docks to strangers these past twenty years. In all that time, not once had she encountered such a good-looking and civilised fella as the one who stood on her doorstep now. ‘If you’re only wanting bed and breakfast,’ she went on, ‘that’ll cost you just eight shilling.’
Smiling broadly, she showed the most frightening set of naturally large white teeth. ‘I reckon I could put your washing in for that price an’ all,’ she observed. ‘And that’s only because you look more particular than the usual ragamuffin types who come looking to set foot over this doorstep. What! I would no more put their shirts in with my laundry than I would eat tripe and jam on the same plate.’
John liked her straight off. She was down-to-earth, with no fancies nor frills, and she spoke her mind – which left a man in no doubt as to where he stood. ‘It would be bed, breakfast and a meal after work,’ he informed her.
‘That’ll cost yer a pound a week then – how’s that?’ And when he nodded, she said briskly, ‘Right then, young fella-me-lad! We seem to know where we stand with each other.’ Just now when she wagged a finger with that certain no-nonsense twinkle in her eye, she put him in mind of his Aunt Lizzie. But that was where the likeness ended. Where Lizzie was small and neat, albeit plump, this kindly soul was large and spreading. Where Lizzie’s feet were dainty and narrow, this one’s feet were the size of canal barges.
Also, he had never seen traces of Lizzie snuff-taking, while there was a distinct brown ’tash drawn between the landlady’s nostrils. Moreover, the thick powdery smell of snuff permeated the air.
As if to confirm his observations, she now took a small shiny tin from her pocket. ‘So, will you be wanting to see the rooms? I’ve got two available; one at the front, one at the back.’ Taking the lid from the tin, she dipped finger and thumb into the brown granules and lifting out a generous helping, proceeded to ram it up each nostril in turn, sniffing and coughing as it went.
‘I’d be thankful for either,’ John answered gratefully. ‘I’ve spent hours wandering the streets, looking for good lodgings and a clean bed.’
‘Hmh!’ Observing him again, she wondered why a presentable young man like himself might have been wandering the streets. But she didn’t ask. In her experience it was always wisest to keep to your own business. ‘You’ll find a clean bed and good lodgings here,’ she answered, ‘so, if you want to follow me, I’ll show you the two rooms.’
Flicking the brown dust from her blouse, she replaced the lid on the tin, and the tin into her pocket.
‘I’ve got rules and regulations,’ she warned. ‘I don’t mind you entertaining a ladyfriend, but there’ll be no goings-on after nine p.m. All strangers and visitors must be out o’ the door by then. What’s more, there’ll be no card-playing, or loud talking, and I don’t take kindly to things being pinned to the doors … if you know what I mean?’
John recalled the many postcards he had seen pinned up inside the ship; saucy pictures of women winking, or smiling suggestively, and there had been some baring more than their smile. ‘I understand,’ he said with the merest of smiles, and his answer seemed to satisfy her well enough.
Puffing and panting as she led him up the narrow stairway, she declared sternly, ‘I run a decent house and am proud of it!’
‘I’m sure you do, Mrs … Miss … ?’ Not having been enlightened as to her name, he lamely finished the sentence.
Pausing to glance back at him, she imparted the information. ‘The name’s Harriet Witherington.’ Her expression hardened. ‘And it’s
Miss
Harriet Witherington,
if
you don’t mind.’
That said, she reached the top of the stairs, where she paused again to catch her breath. ‘These blessed stairs will be the finish of me!’ she groaned, quickly setting off again.
‘Go on in, young man.’ Having covered the short distance along the landing, she threw open a bedroom door. ‘This one is at the front of the house. You’ll get a clear sight of the docks from here, but you’ll get the noise too.’ She tutted loudly. ‘Drunken sailors and streetwomen … touting and fighting at all hours of the night. I warn you now – you’ll get little sleep in this room.’
Thinking her too honest for her own good, John followed her inside. The room was spacious enough, with a bed, wardrobe and manly chest-of-drawers. In keeping with its owner, there was a strong, sensible air about the place. Curtains were serviceable rather than pretty; the bedcover was plain and well worn, but spotlessly clean, and the bowl with its matching jug on the washstand was almost large enough to bathe in.
‘Look out of the window,’ she instructed, ‘and you’ll see what I mean.’
Intrigued, John looked out.
Just as she had promised, there was a clear view of the docks. In fact, some of the ships seemed so close you might think they would sail right into the room. At this time of the morning, there was much coming and going, with every sound melting one into the other. Curious, he opened the window and at once, the volume of life going on rose like a crescendo to fill his ears. Surprised, he quickly closed the window.