Lovers Meeting (12 page)

Garbutt did not take it, but answered, ‘You don’t remember me but that’s not surprising because I was only a boy of fifteen when you sacked my father.’ He paused, waiting, and when William stared at him, a confused old man now, Garbutt shouted at him, ‘You don’t even
remember
! My father, my family, me – you turned us all away to starve and you’ve forgotten us like we were so many bloody rats! My name is Garbutt!
Reuben Garbutt
! And you sacked my father,
Elisha
! Does
that
mean anything to you?’

It did. William withdrew his hand and slowly sat down. He replied wearily, ‘Yes, I turned him out because he was stealing from me. I’m sorry it happened, sorry for you and your family, but I do not regret what I did. I think I acted correctly, even generously, because if the case had been taken to court he would have been jailed.’

Garbutt glared at him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have any regrets but I think you’ll have some now. The money Shipbuilders’ Finance lent you, that
I
lent you – I want it back.’

William blinked, puzzled. ‘You mean repayment of some of it? Now?’

‘I mean repayment of
all
of it! Now!’ And Garbutt pulled from his pocket the sheaf of documents drawn up by Packer and threw them on the table. They slid along its polished surface, spreading like a fan to stop in front of William. Garbutt sucked in a deep breath, showing his teeth in a smile. He went on softly as William stared down at the papers, ‘Those are notices of foreclosure. Under the terms of the loans, they were liable to be called in if James ever ceased to be manager of the yard. And now he’s dead.’ He leaned forward to thrust his face close to William’s. ‘I reckon there’s enough there to bankrupt you and finish Langley’s altogether.’ Then he straightened and laughed.

The harsh laughter went on for some seconds as he stood over the old man. But then he shut his mouth and recoiled as William suddenly set hands on the table and shoved himself to his feet. For a moment he was again the William Langley he had been, tall and broad. Deep-voiced, he roared, ‘Get out! You’re a damned villain like your father! But you’ll get your money! The Langley yard will stay for Charlotte! You won’t get it! I’ll see you in hell—’ He broke off, his face contorting in agony as he clutched at his chest. His knees gave way and he collapsed in the chair.

Garbutt stooped to peer into the twisted face, the staring eyes, then he backed away, felt his hand on the door and yanked it open. He passed through into the hall and saw Rhoda descending the stairs. She was dressed for the street in dark coat and skirt and wide-brimmed hat, and labouring under the weight of a wooden box that held all her belongings.

Garbutt took the box from her and started towards the front door. Rhoda asked, ‘What’s been going on? I heard shouting.’

‘Never mind.’ Garbutt beckoned her with a jerk of his head.

But Rhoda turned aside and peered into the dining room. In the gaslight from the chandelier she saw the gleaming length of the table and William seated at its head. She took a pace towards him but then halted and put a hand to her mouth. She turned a horrified face to Garbutt and whispered, ‘He’s dead!’

Garbutt answered exultantly, ‘Aye. He ruined my father and I swore I’d see the end of him and I have. Now come on.’ He seized her arm and hurried her towards the front door.

A child wailed somewhere high in the house and Rhoda stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s the bairn! That’s little Charlotte! I can’t leave the bairn on her own in this place – with him.’

‘The brat’s nothing to do wi’ you!’ Garbutt tugged at her arm, eager to be away now, but she resisted stubbornly.

‘She’ll be expecting me to go to her.’ Rhoda turned to go back to the stairs but Garbutt swung her about to face him. As she opened her mouth to protest he slapped her across the face with a heavy hand, rocking her head on her shoulders.

‘You bloody little fool! For years you’ve been wanting to get out of here and now you’ve got your chance. Now don’t argue with me and come
on
.’ He swung Rhoda’s box up on to his shoulder and dragged the stunned woman out of the house and down the steps. He looked back once and gloated, ‘That’s the finish of the Langleys! I’ve done for them!’ He laughed harshly as he hustled Rhoda away into the fog.

Josie had learned she had a half-hour to wait in Monkwearmouth station for a train that would take her to Durham to connect with the London express. She found a seat in the waiting room, which soon filled up with women carrying shopping and men returning home from work in Monkwearmouth. She dozed, wearied by the events of the day and the journey with the carter – and dreamt of Hubert Smurthwaite leering at her and reaching out for her with groping fingers. Then the dream changed to the old one of the giant hanging over her, threatening. She woke, whimpering, to see the other passengers staring at her.

Josie apologised: ‘I must have dropped off.’ But they still exchanged disapproving glances that said as plain as day: ‘The woman’s been drinking.’ Josie peered out of the window at the fog swirling outside. Her feet were damp inside her shoes, the soles of them worn through and the heels run down, but she dared not change them for the pair in her portmanteau as they were the only good ones she had left. She was hungry but reluctant to eat. She was not destitute, had her small savings and the ten shillings Mrs Smurthwaite had given her in lieu of a week’s notice. But there was a chill fear inside her because she had heard stories of servants who had lost their ‘place’, failed to find another and had no other home to go to. They had been forced into the workhouse, spartan and soulless, or had to sleep in the streets and beg their bread from the back doors of the big houses. Or sell their bodies.

Josie tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She had to find her fare to go south. But the fears returning, she asked herself, ‘Can you
afford
to go south?’ Then she wondered, ‘Suppose I got some work here for a month or two, just long enough to save something, enough to pay my fare and a bit in hand?’ She shrank from the thought of the journey through the night – and what awaited her in London? She had nowhere to live, no job. She would have to walk the streets looking for both. She hesitated and heard the rumble of the approaching train. The people around her stood up and streamed out on to the platform. She knew she had to get her ticket now but still sat on. She stayed there, undecided, until the train pulled out, clanking on across the bridge over the River Wear in a hissing of steam and puffing smoke, heading for Sunderland central station. And now she accepted the inevitable – she would have to look for work and lodgings here.

Josie handed in her portmanteau at the left luggage office and walked out of the station. She hesitated for a moment longer in the shelter of the huge arch with its Grecian columns, then plunged out into the fog. She knew where to start, ideally wanted a job where she could live in, and a public house could be the answer. She had passed one with the carter: the Wheatsheaf.

The fog seemed thicker now she was out in the streets, the gas lamps lighting little except a few feet around them and that with only an amber glow. She guessed this was because she was near the River Wear and the sea. There were few people about and those she met materialised suddenly out of the mist and disappeared as quickly into it.

The manager of the Wheatsheaf did not want a barmaid but suggested she try the Frigate, nearer the river in Church Street. There Josie went into the snug and asked the barmaid, ‘Are you wanting another pair of hands here?’

The girl bustled along behind the bar to whisper to a man pulling pints of beer from a pump, and Josie saw him shake his head. She knew the answer before the girl returned, smiling apologetically, to say, ‘Sorry, pet.’ And then, because she had noted Josie’s accent, ‘You’re not from around here. Have you just moved in?’

Josie replied drily, ‘Not really. I came up from London to work in a house out towards Newcastle and I got the sack today. So I’m looking for a job and lodgings.’ Then she amended quickly, ‘Cheap lodgings.’

The barmaid said obliquely, ‘Some o’ these places want a sight more work out of you than they pay for.’

Josie supplied the information she was fishing for: ‘I could manage the work but the young master tried to … interfere with me.’

‘Ah! One o’ them!’ The girl scowled. ‘I hope you gave him what for.’

‘I did.’ They grinned at each other. Then Josie finished, ‘But that got me the sack.’

She turned away but then the girl said, ‘Wait a minute. Would you like a bite to eat afore you go? I brought some sandwiches for me tea and didn’t eat them all.’ And she brought out a little newspaper-wrapped parcel from under the bar. ‘It’s a nice bit o’ bread and cheese.’

‘Thank you. That’s very good of you.’ Josie took the parcel and sat down on the little bench by the counter.

The girl smiled, went away but returned a minute later and set a glass on the counter. ‘There’s a drop o’ something to wash it down.’

Josie fumbled in her bag for her purse but the girl said, ‘Never mind. That’s on the house. From the boss.’

Josie looked past her and saw the man still working the pump, beer frothing into the glass he held, but looking her way. She called, ‘Thank you!’ And he nodded and went on with his work.

Josie could have wept at their kindness but she was hungry. She munched on the thick slices of bread and cheese and sipped at the sherry, feeling it warm her. As she picked up the last crumbs she saw the newspaper that held them was the
Sunderland Daily Echo
of the previous day. It was filled with advertisements and Josie mechanically scanned the ‘Situations Vacant’ column. An agency in Frederick Street wanted housemaids and parlour-maids – but it would be closed at this time of night … Her eye ran on down the page and then one name stood out:
Langley
! ‘Housekeeper … and children’s nurse … Apply Mr William Langley.’

Josie’s heart thumped. She could picture him, tall, bearded and raging, as she had seen him twenty years before, her grandfather, William Langley. The children’s nurse would be for Charlotte; Josie remembered the announcement of Charlotte’s birth, which she had read while ironing
The Times
. She wondered briefly why James or his wife – what was her name? Maria – why they had not placed the advertisement.

But then a voice said above her, ‘There’s a pub down by the ferry that might be wanting a lass to live in, leastways he did last week.’ The publican looked down at her. ‘If you go down Church Street …’

Josie listened carefully to his directions, thanked him and his barmaid for their kindness, then went on her way. The crumpled newspaper she smoothed out, folded and put in her bag. If she did not find work this night she would go to the agency in Frederick Street.

The fog was thicker now as she walked down Church Street towards the river, following the directions she had been given. She had yet to find a bed for the night. If she did not find one, and work, at this pub, then she would look for lodgings. She saw hardly a soul after she had passed St Peter’s church. Now she was beginning to remember this place. She stopped in her tracks for a minute, breathing shallowly, as it came back to her, where she was and where she was headed. She went on. It was just about here that … She rounded a bend in the road and there was the square.

Josie halted. A carriage drive ran off from the road to the left. She remembered it made a half-circle to pass the Langley house and emerge again on the road further on. A terrace of houses rose to the left of the drive and on the right was a garden. There was another terrace, hidden in the fog now, on the other side of the garden. And at the back of the square, also hidden in the fog, was the Langley house. She could picture it: wide steps leading up to a front door, two floors with tall windows, a third with square, smaller ones where the servants slept. Josie had slept in rooms like that most of her life.

Was William Langley there, lurking behind that grey curtain?

Josie thought that he would be an old man of seventy or so now. And she was a grown woman. He would not recognise her. And then the idea came: she could face him, say she was Mrs Miller come to apply for the post, hold out the newspaper – and then walk away. She could lay this ghost for ever. If she dared.

She would.

Josie screwed up her courage and turned into the carriage drive. She would say, ‘I’m Mrs Miller. I’ve come about the “place” advertised in the
Echo
.’ She rehearsed it as she walked up the drive: ‘I’m Mrs Miller …’

There were many gaps in the ornamental railings that ringed the garden in the centre of the square. The garden was a wild, neglected jungle of trees and shrubs, long grass and thistles. All of it was insubstantial in the fog, dripping moisture that glistened in the pale reflected light from a gas lamp on the corner behind her.

Then she heard harsh, mocking laughter and the crunch of footfalls on the drive. They were approaching her and there was something about the laughter that sent her sidling through a gap in the railings. She moved behind the bushes, hiding, and stared out as the tramp of feet came nearer. Josie blinked and shrank down as a giant with a huge head took shape, striding out of the darkness. Then she realised it was not a monstrous head but a box he carried on his shoulder. He dragged a woman along at the end of his arm. Her face was covered by her shawl but her voice wailed, ‘You’ve killed him!’

The giant answered hoarsely, ‘Shut your mouth! You’re finished with him and that’s what you wanted.’ He yanked viciously at the woman’s arm so that she cried out. She stumbled on at his heels, then together they blended into the dank grey darkness of the night. Their footfalls receded then were gone, and Josie was left alone.

She rose and took a breath, steadying herself, letting her thumping heart slow down. She realised the man had not been a giant, had only seemed so because she was crouching low on the ground and looking up at him. But she knew that, giant or no, he was dangerous.

Josie walked on, repeating her little speech again: ‘I’m Mrs Miller. I’ve come …’ Until the Langley house loomed out of the mist. It filled the back of the square and she found its front door standing open, the gas lamp in the hall casting a rectangle of light down the steps. She climbed them, yanked at the bell-pull by the front door and heard the distant jangle deep in the house, but no one came hurrying. Josie entered the house, paused in the hall and peered cautiously around her. She called, ‘Is anyone there?’ On a floor above, a child cried mournfully. A tall clock with a slow swinging pendulum ticked against one wall. But there was no reply to Josie’s call.