Through Glass Eyes (23 page)

But what his mother had said was true, for several years he had had neither job nor income. He had done repairs to the cottages and pottered about with the horses, grown a few crops on the meadow and helped raise a few calves and hens, he had read many books, learned a lot, but earned nothing. He had been thoroughly self-indulgent. And all that time Grace had worked like a navvy, no doubt observing him. What on earth did she think of him?

Here he was, twenty five years of age with no trade, no job and little income, at a time when the queues of men seeking work were growing daily throughout the length and breadth of England.

If Mr Fothergill were to advertise for help, he would have no difficulty finding men eager to work on the farm. Men were becoming desperate. Some would work just for the milk to feed their bairns. Milk was essential and always would be. Being part of a dairy farm was a damn good proposition.

It was a good offer and James knew it, but since he had first mentioned the idea of farming, the price of land had risen and his capital was being depleted. Now, when he really wanted to buy some land, he didn’t have enough money. If there was no other way, he could ask his mother for a loan, but he didn’t know when she would return to England. It might be weeks or months and Mr Fothergill was waiting for an answer. Summer was round the corner and the fields were still lying fallow.

As he sat pondering his decision a sparrow hawk dropped vertically into the heather. After a few moments it flew up, its prey gripped tightly in its talons.

James knew instantly, he must grab the opportunity while it was available. But he also knew that if he was to accept Mr Fothergill’s offer, he would have to find some other way of getting the money.

Chapter 23

Cyril Street

The white-clad waiter was a tall willowy man and his turban made him appear even taller. Lucy took a sandwich from the tray and thanked him.

‘You don’t mind this heat here?’ The question came from a man drinking tea at the next table. He flipped the crumbs from his lap and turned to face her.

‘No, I don’t,’ Lucy replied. ‘It’s the moisture in the air, I hate. Makes everything feel permanently damp.’

‘You might like Australia then.’

‘Might I?’

 ‘Maybe. Hot there, but not as humid they tell me.’

‘You are travelling on, are you, Mr—?’

‘Street. Cyril Harley Street.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds more like an address than a name, don’t you think?’

‘Lucy Oldfield,’ she replied offering her hand. ‘Mrs,’ she said, ‘but actually it’s, Miss.’

‘You are very forthright! I like that.’

‘Why not?’ she said, inviting him to join her.
‘I’ve become accustomed to that title over the years. I think, because I was single and had a child, people called me, missus, out of politeness. For a long time I was happy to accept it, preferred it, I suppose, to being thought of as a loose woman.’

‘And were you?’ he said, with twinkle in his eye.

Lucy grinned. ‘That, I am not telling, Mr Street.’

‘Call me Cyril,’ he said. ‘Care to walk out on the terrace? I think there might be a little breeze outside.’

The hotel’s dining room was open on all sides but neither the balmy breeze blowing in from the ocean nor the ceiling fans provided any relief from the sultry atmosphere. The air on the terrace was as moist as it was inside.

‘Are you staying in Bombay long?’ Cyril asked.

‘Not much longer. I’m waiting to conclude some matters which have taken considerably longer than I expected. It’s been interesting to see how business is conducted in the colonies.’ Lucy dabbed sweat from her brow. ‘It’s over six months since I left England and it’s about time I was heading home.’

‘Because you have been in no hurry, might I assume you have enjoyed your stay, and that you have no one back home desperately awaiting your return.’

‘You could be correct.’

‘In that case, would you care to dine with me this evening?’

‘You do not waste any time, do you?’

‘At my age, madam, my adage is
waste not, want not
!’

‘All right, Mr Street, you have won me over for a meal. But a meal only.’

‘Well at least it’s a start,’ he said. ‘Shall we say seven?’

‘Seven on the dot.
I will look forward to it.’  

‘For you,’ James said, handing Grace a large bunch of pink carnations.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, as she sniffed the flowers and smiled. ‘I thought we were here to look at the stalls?’

‘We are.’

The Leeds market was crowded with shoppers. Under the glass-domed roof, the still air echoed with the raucous voices of traders competing to sell their wares. The individual shops looked the same as James remembered from his childhood: books, toys, drapery, and shoe shops set amidst the aroma of freshly baked bread and the scent of the cut flowers. The city market stocked almost everything from pots and pans, polishes, brooms and buckets, to dusters and dishcloths.

James and Grace ambled through the maze of assorted stalls, to the lane consisting entirely of butchers’ shops. Outside each establishment, chalkboards advertised tripe, dripping and kidneys. Inside, butchers smelling of blood and mutton fat, chopped bone and cartilage with sharpened cleavers. A hungry dog sniffed at the doorways, but instead of scraps received cries of abuse.

The fish-market had a very different smell but James didn’t notice as they wandered through. He was looking for stalls selling second-hand goods and, whenever he spotted one, he scanned the wares hoping to recognize something familiar – an item which had once belonged to his mother or Edward. Not knowing exactly what had been stolen, Grace wandered along beside him.

‘Nothing,’ he said, as they left the indoor market and wandered outside to the stalls which mostly sold fruit and vegetables.

‘Lovely apples!
Granny Smiths! Cox’s! Pick your own.’

‘’Ere ’ave a taste,’ a leathery-faced lady yelled, thrusting a segment of orange into Grace’s hand. ‘Don’t come no sweeter than that!’

Grace sucked on the fruit, the juice running between her fingers.

The sun had disappeared and a chill wind had whipped up while they were indoors. Cloth canopies flapped. A tin tray clattered, when it blew over and skidded along the ground in front of them. James retrieved it and returned it to the stallholder. It had come from a second-hand stall neither of them had noticed. Amongst the items on display was a teapot. It was a common white pot, stained inside and with a web of clay-coloured cracks running right through it. James remembered seeing a similar pot in Alice’s kitchen. He remembered the time she had scalded her wrist when the steam had escaped through a chip in the lid. This pot had a chip in the same place.

‘How much for the teapot?’
James asked.

‘Tanner to you,
Guv.’

James replaced it and looked around.

‘’Ave a look,’ the man said. ‘Come on missus, I got all sorts of stuff.’

Most of the items were damaged or stained. There were odd cups and saucers, bottles, books, tins, biscuit boxes, single serviette rings, certainly nothing of value. James scrutinized every item till he was satisfied, that apart from the teapot, there was nothing else he recognized.

‘Any idea where this came from?’ he said, holding the pot at arm’s length.

The man shook his head. ‘No idea.’

‘Any other things came with it?’

The man shook his head cautiously and turned his back.

‘Would a pound jog your memory?’

The man shuffled around. ‘Might do.’

‘I’m not interested how you got it or who you got it from, I just want to know if there was anything else came with it.’

‘Might have been.’

James reached in his pocket and took out a bank note.

The man looked around furtively.

‘Well,’ said James rubbing the paper between his fingers.

‘There was quite a bit of stuff.’

‘If it’s what I am looking for I’m prepared to buy it off you at a reasonable price. Where is it?’

‘Sold it,’ the stallholder sniffed. ‘Not my sort of stuff. Good stuff, if you know what I mean.’

‘Tell me who bought it and the money’s yours.’

‘No idea, Guv! Honest! Sold it to a bloke who came looking. Seen him before. Bit of a toff. Fancy dresser. Only wants quality. Don’t think he’s a collector. Reckon he’s got a shop ’cause he bought the lot.’

‘How much?’

‘That’s my business, Guv! I bought it fair and square.’

‘Who from?’

The man shrugged. ‘Fella comes round at times. Brings me stuff by the sack-load.’

‘Is it stolen?’

‘I don’t ask questions. Just gives him a price.’

‘And this other man who came and bought the stuff, the toff – would you know him again?’

‘I’d know him if I saw him. Never forget a face.’

James took out a paper and pencil. ‘Can you write?’

‘Of course I can write, I’m not stupid!’

‘Good. This is my address and here’s your money. And there’s another quid for you if you can get the name of the man who bought the rest of the stuff from you.’

‘And what about the fella I got it off in the first place.’

‘You get his name and address and I’ll give you the same again.’

The man pushed the piece of paper into an inside pocket. ‘You’ll be hearing from me, governor.’

James nodded and took Grace’s arm. They had only gone a few yards when the man shouted after them.

‘Hey, Guv!’
The man was beckoning. ‘I got a pile of odds and ends the toff didn’t want. He said it was rubbish. That’s where the pot came from. Want to have a look?’

James nodded.

Dragging a Hessian sack from under his counter the man unravelled the twine tied around the top. Reaching his hand in to the bag, James brought out various items and laid them on the ground.

‘You won’t find anything of value in there!’ the man said.

He was right. The clock’s face was broken. The glass vase was badly cracked. The stitched pages of the book had become separated from the binding. There was a pile of old sheet music but some pages were missing or torn. There was a posy of dried flowers and an umbrella with bent spokes. A tortoiseshell hair- brush and a broken picture frame. James looked at the sepia photograph behind the broken glass. It was faded and slightly scratched but he recognized the face of the girl in nurse’s uniform. ‘Alice,’ he murmured.

‘Is that some of Lucy’s stuff,’ Grace whispered.

James nodded.

‘You can have the sack for a quid,’ the man offered.

‘Your customer was right,’ James said. ‘This lot’s worth nothing.’

‘All right!
Ten bob to you, Guv.’

‘I’ll give you five bob for the lot including the teapot.’

‘Done!’ said the man.

‘And don’t forget, those two names. Addresses too if you can get them.’

‘Please come in Mr Oldfield and take a seat.’

James thanked the solicitor and sat down opposite the two elderly gentlemen.

‘How is your mother?’ Mr Armitage asked.

‘I understand she is well and enjoying her time in India, despite everything not going quite as she would have wished.’

‘Ah! Yes,’ he said. ‘We received a letter from our contact in Bombay. He said there were some problems. Legal matters have a habit of becoming tedious. I hope the delay will not cause your mother too much inconvenience.’

‘On the contrary, I think she welcomed the opportunity to extend her stay, although I don’t know how she will cope with the heat of the tropical summer.’

‘How right you are,’ the elder of the two solicitors said.

‘Now, Mr Oldfield, regarding the matter you put to us last week.’ Mr Proctor took a file from his desk drawer and leafed though the papers. Selecting one item, he held it at arm’s length, read it and passed it to his partner. From the coat of arms embossed on the top of the cream paper, James knew it was from Lord Farnley.

‘This is a very commendable character reference you have provided.’ He picked out another letter. ‘And also this one from Captain Wainwright.’ He cleared his throat and leaned forward. ‘As trustees of any estate we are obliged to carry out the terms of the will according to the wishes of our clients. But we must consider any request which deviates from these terms very carefully, as our client would have done, if he were still alive.’

James nodded.

‘In this submission, you are asking that the money, which Mr Carrington set aside for your tertiary education, is paid to you as a lump sum. That you intend to use the money to purchase some land.’ He turned the page and examined the title deeds of John Fothergill’s farm. After re-reading James’s proposal, he continued.

‘Mr Oldfield, my partner and I have arrived at the following conclusions. Had the money been required for the purchase of a vehicle, or a holiday, or suchlike, we would have declined your request. However, the purchase of land is regarded as a good investment, possibly sounder than leaving the money in the bank which is where it is at the moment. However,’ he added, ‘once you have invested the money we cannot stop you from selling the asset in a year’s time.’

‘That is not my intention, sir.’

‘We thought not. This brings me back to another point. Mr Carrington’s wish was that the money was to be spent on furthering your education. Yet you say you have no desire to pursue a professional career.’

‘That is correct.’

‘We have noted Captain Wainwright’s letter which states that Mr Edward Carrington did not follow the military career his father had intended for him because the army was not his chosen path. Because of this fact, we feel, if our client had been alive today, he would have been sympathetic to your request. He would not have forced you to attend university purely to please him. We also think he would have supported you in whatever path you chose to follow.

‘Besides being an astute man, Edward Carrington was a man with a good heart. We believe he would have wanted you to follow your heart.’ With that said, the solicitor replaced the papers in the file and closed it. ‘We will arrange for the money to be transferred from the trust account and placed into your personal account.’