Keepsake (4 page)

Ignorant as to the extent of his agony, his colleagues told him mildly, ‘Forget about her, Bootsie. The likes of her won’t fret about thee – oh, and we’ll have our money back if you don’t mind.’

‘Aw, don’t be mean!’ Now that the rival had been disposed of, Joanna allowed her compassionate nature to shine through and she gripped his arm. ‘Cheer up, Bootsie, me and my friend are off to the theatre tonight, you can come with us if you like.’

Normally Marty would have accepted, but he was just too devastated and did not even acknowledge the invitation, much to his admirer’s hurt. He emptied his pockets but, though glum, his tone showed he was not beaten. ‘I wonder if her address is in the register.’

‘Eh, don’t let Wilko hear you!’ They grouped round to recover their contributions.

Marty remained pensive. ‘She mentioned her dad’s a farmer…’

There was a cackle from the porter. ‘Aye, but not just
some clod-hopping smallholder! Haven’t you heard of him, you dummy? He owns half the Yorkshire Wolds!’

Unfazed, Marty declared. ‘Well, he doesn’t own me and I’m going to find her, you see.’

There was no time for the others to enquire how he was going to do this, for their superior came in then to give everyone a dressing down and to make sure the boot boy was kept busy for the rest of his shift.

But that didn’t stop his mind being preoccupied, and this mood was to last long after Etta had gone.

It was still with him when he travelled home along Walmgate that evening, a different environment completely to the one he had just left. Abounding with public houses, the thoroughfare reeked of stale beer fumes and the effluvia of tanneries and skin-yards, alleviated only by the more appetising aroma of fish and chips. Ahead of him, a small boy clanked along with a bucket and shovel, stopping occasionally to scrape a pile of dog excreta from the pavement into his bucket. Two hatchet-faced, greasy-haired slatterns called insults at each other from opposite sides of the road, one threatening to, ‘Tear the black heart out of yese!’ Cringing from such unfeminine behaviour, Marty ducked into a side street and onwards to the tiny terraced house in Hope Street with its soot-engrained bricks, its dull bottlegreen door and lopsided shutters, the feeling of discontent plain on his face.

His mother was quick to comment on this as he came through the door. ‘Bad day, son?’

He barely glanced at her as he went to wash his hands. ‘I met the girl I want to marry, Ma.’

With two children helping her to lay the table and another smaller one using her leg as a support, Agnes Lanegan smiled, arched an eyebrow at her husband and replied facetiously, ‘I’d better starch the best linen then, though you don’t look too happy about it.’

‘That’s because her father doesn’t want her to marry me,’ revealed Marty, hanging up the towel. ‘Thinks she’s above us.’

‘You weren’t codding us then?’ His mother bridled and pursed her lips.

His normally mild-mannered father showed indignation. ‘The poltroon! My son’s good enough for anyone…lessen ’tis the daughter of the hotel manager of course, now that would be taking expectations a bit too far.’ His eyes told that it was meant as a jest. Then he noted his son’s expression and his jaw dropped. ‘Christ, she’s not, is she?’

Marty paused and took a deep breath. ‘No…but her father does have a bob or two.’ Always able to confide in his parents, he was honest with them now, telling them everything that had occurred and rendering them dumb with such astonishment that he had to fill the gap himself. ‘I still can’t believe it happened so fast! Like an angel she is, an angel.’

His parents looked at each other, betraying dubiety, Agnes breaking the silence first. ‘But she’s left the hotel, ye say?’ She plucked the loose, tanned skin of her throat, anxious that he might be courting trouble.

Marty nodded sadly and tugged down his shirt cuffs.

Somewhat relieved, Mrs Lanegan shared a look of sympathy with her husband, saying kindly to her son, ‘There are finer fish in the sea than have ever been caught. Here, come sit down, I’ve some nice kippers – Uncle Mal, come for your tea now!’

Great Uncle Malachy cast a rheumy eye from his evening newspaper. ‘Tea? I only just had breakfast.’ But he ambled obediently to sit with the children at the table.

Pulling out a chair, Marty looked wan. ‘I don’t think I can manage anything.’

‘Sure and you will!’ Serving him directly after his father, Agnes patted his shoulder lovingly. ‘Get that down ye, it’ll make you forget about Miss High and Mighty.’

He looked up from his seat, slightly annoyed. ‘No it won’t.’

‘Watch your tone, boy,’ warned Redmond Lanegan, his eyes suddenly hard.

‘Sorry, Mammy.’ Marty was contrite whilst remaining obstinate in his ambition. ‘But I couldn’t forget about Etta even if I tried. She’s the one for me and I’m the one for her.’

‘Her father doesn’t seem to agree,’ Agnes reminded him.

‘Then he can lump it.’

The parents glanced at each other in dismay over this all too familiar stance. Marty had always lived life like a terrier fighting the leash: he knew there was something better to be had just over there, if only he was allowed to get at it – and, God, help them, he had spotted something over there again.

‘Martin, I’m warning you, put this out of your mind at once!’ Grim-faced, Mrs Lanegan turned to her husband for backing, which was granted, though it did not the slightest to change their son’s mind. Marty picked at his meal, not offering any further argument, but it was clearly evident in his posture.

Planting herself on the wobbly dining chair, Agnes damned him. ‘Ever since you were a bit of a boy you’ve always wanted what you can’t have! I’ll never forget that time you set your heart on a great big cooking apple – pestered and pestered till I bought it for you, even after I’d warned that it wouldn’t suit your taste. Then you took one bite, made a face and said you didn’t want any more – after I’d emptied me purse to get it for you!’

‘And you made me sit and eat it if I recall.’ Marty cast a dour grin at his younger siblings. ‘But this isn’t the same at all, Ma.’

Seeing his wife open her mouth for another volley, Redmond commanded tiredly, ‘For the love of Mike, leave it, woman!’

And knowing what tiresome repercussions even a tiny argument could bring, she complied, though with bad grace as she repeated primly, ‘Always wanted what you can’t damn well have!’ before getting on with her tea.

Taking his father’s raised voice as a signal to desist, Marty offered not another word, quarrel giving way to the brusque scraping of knives and forks.

Old Uncle Mal, searching for something to divert open warfare, ran his tongue around his gums and announced, ‘You’ll be pleased to hear my diarrhoea’s cleared up, Marty.’

‘We’re overjoyed,’ yawned Redmond, as there was a groan of disgust from his wife and sniggers from the youngsters.

But they were an affectionate family and the bad feeling did not last for more than a few hours, Mrs Lanegan clamping her son’s shoulder as she served his usual supper of bread and tea, and, without resurrecting the topic, telling him quietly, ‘Everything’ll turn out for the best, you’ll see.’

‘Aye, lookit, Marty!’ His face wreathed in ambition, Mr Lanegan displayed a picture of a motor car in the book he had been reading. ‘How d’ye fancy driving along Walmgate in that? ’Twould get the neighbours talking sure enough. Aye,’ he gazed longingly at the picture, ‘we shall have one of those some day.’

Marty dealt him a fond but half-hearted smile, knowing it was just his father’s way of taking his mind off Etta. As if it would.

Apparently this was to remain a concern to his parents, for as Marty finished his supper and was on his way to bed he overheard his mother trying to reassure her husband, ‘Don’t go fretting yourself about it, dear. ’Twill be just another of his passing desires. She’s gone from the hotel, so there’s not much he can do about it. You know what he’s like. In a few days he’ll have set his sights on something or somebody else and forgotten all about her.’

No I won’t, thought her son grimly as he continued up
the stairs. I won’t even be able to sleep for thinking about her. And he was right.

The next morning, exhausted and grumpy, Marty was ready to bite the head off the first person who crossed him. As this turned out to be the head porter he held his tongue and was glad he did, because after being upbraided for having his mail directed to the hotel, a letter was shoved into his fist.

Knowing immediately who it was from, he tore it open, receiving a jolt as he read the grand-sounding address of the correspondent:
Swanford Hall.
The note was brief and obviously scribbled in a hurry, but its content was wonderfully explicit. Etta wanted him.

Regarding it as too chancy to commit his intentions to paper, besides not being much of a letter-writer, Marty’s only option was to roll up at Etta’s address on his first afternoon off and hope to encounter her. Sadly, his optimism was outweighed by reality. Not daring to venture as far as the mansion he hung around its imposing gates until nightfall, waiting so long that he missed the last carrier and had to walk the fifteen miles home alone in the pouring rain. Thankfully he had Sunday off too which meant he could sleep in, but this failed to salve the bitter disappointment of not seeing her.

His mother, able to read him like a book, said upon his late-coming to breakfast and the drenched clothes that were steaming over the fire, ‘I hope you’re not up to divilment, Marty Lanegan, out capering till all hours.’

Knowing she would disapprove he felt unable to confide, mumbling into his dripping sandwich that it was the fault of his chum Joe who had forced ten pints down his neck.

But this did not hoodwink his mother. ‘Well, you’re drunk with something, that’s for sure, but it’s certainly not beer, there’s not a whiff of it about you.’

Ashamed that she knew he was lying to her, that he had pursued Etta when she had forbidden it, Marty dared not look up from his breakfast. However, this did not deter him from doing exactly the same on his next day off.

To his utter devastation, this attempt was also to end in another drenched failure, and to make it even worse there was a working day to follow. Consumed by thoughts of Etta, teased by the porter and the page alike for his grand ideas, he sought a feminine ear to air his chagrin.

Although wounded that he failed to detect her own heartache while he spoke longingly for another, Joanna was relieved that his expeditions had not borne fruit and she could afford to be magnanimous. ‘Ne’er mind, Bootsie,’ she comforted gently. ‘Sit down there and have a piece of this chocolate cake with a cup of tea. It usually helps to take my mind off any troubles.’

‘Ah, you’re a good pal.’ Martin showed gratitude and accepted the offer. But he was too obsessed with thoughts of the beautiful Etta to be touched for long by this softhearted gesture. Sipping his tea, his mind far away, he told Joanna, ‘I’m not giving up, though. Next time I’m off right up to the door if I have to.’

Joanna controlled her hurt, murmuring lightly whilst inwardly praying for failure. ‘Oh well, third time lucky.’

True to his declaration, Marty did indeed venture much further on his next day off. Using trees and shrubs as cover, he darted from one to another until there was nowhere left to hide, just an expanse of lawn up to the palatial stone residence. Thank heavens that after three weeks of rain the sun had come out. Crouched behind a huge rhododendron, he peeped around it to look up at each mullioned window, trying by sheer willpower to lure Etta to one of them.

Instead, to his horror, three dogs came bounding over from nowhere, hackles raised. He came instantly upright. They sniffed him excitedly, the hound, the Labrador and the flea-bitten terrier, circling him in distrust, but they did not bite, at least not yet. Encouraged, he voiced a cheery greeting, though he could have murdered the canine intruders; at which point they seemed to decide he was no
threat and began to snuffle around the bush instead. Keeping a nervous eye on them, he crouched again behind the foliage, whereupon the Labrador proceeded to thrust its smiling, fish-stinking muzzle into his face. Head averted in disgust, he entreated it gently at first, ‘Good lad, off you go now.’ Then when this did not work, he hissed more forcefully, ‘Bugger off!’ With a hurt expression the Labrador lolloped away, the terrier pelting after it. Martin cast an eye over his shoulder to locate the hound, found it cocking its leg against his back and lashed out at it. ‘Wha – you filthy sod! Take your purple bloody testicles elsewhere.
Go!
’ Luckily it did not retaliate to his rash outburst but loped after its companions, leaving him to flick disgustedly at his soiled jacket.

In the house, others were under chastisement too.

‘Ow! Blanche, are you trying to assassinate me?’ Etta jerked her handsome head out of reach and rubbed the spot where the hairpin had almost lanced her scalp.

‘Sorry, miss!’ The maid was contrite and paid more attention to her task of getting her mistress ready for her afternoon outing. ‘I was just diverted for a second – the dogs seem to have found something interesting in them bushes over there. I just thought it might be a robber.’ She glanced anxiously again at the window. ‘I’m sure I saw a man.’

Etta was immediately rushing to view the scene, hair only half done. Straining her eyes for a sighting, she fixed them on the bush in question where the dogs did indeed seem to be converging.

Blanche was peering out too now. ‘There!’ She caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face. ‘I knew I saw somebody! Shall I inform the master, Miss Ett?’

‘No!’ An excited Etta grabbed her. ‘He’s come to see me. I want you to take a message to him.’

Blanche was aghast. Warned to keep watch on her mistress after the recent escapade to London, she was not
so treacherous, but was nevertheless alarmed. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Do you want me to marry that gormless goblin my father has in mind?’ demanded Etta.

‘Oh heaven forbid, miss!’ Loyal to the young woman, Blanche detested the suitor as much as did the bride-to-be.

‘You’d rather I was with a man who loves me? Well, that man is there. His name is Mr Lanegan and he’s waiting for me to elope with him.’

Blanche gasped, clamped a hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. ‘It’s that one you asked me to post the letter to a few weeks back!’

‘Yes!’ Eyes bright with zeal the mistress patted the maid’s fat arms and went on breathlessly, ‘Oh, Blanche, I
knew
he’d come – now, be quick and finish my hair, then I want you to pack as much as you can into a small valise – we don’t want my father to be suspicious. Take it to Mr Lanegan and ask him to go to the village and wait by the stone cross.’

Of a similar age to her mistress, Blanche was quickly infected by the romance. ‘Ooh, but what will I say if I encounter the master and he asks where I’m off with a bag?’

‘Tell him I’ve sent you on an errand with some old clothes to the almshouses.’ Etta rushed back to the dressing mirror. ‘Whilst you’re doing that I shall set out as if for my afternoon expedition as planned and no one will be any the wiser.’ She hoisted her shoulders to express utter delight.

‘And what’s to become of me, miss?’ With a wistful expression, Blanche inserted a swift collection of hairpins. ‘I mean, I’ve been with you all this time and I know how you like things done, and unless this Mr Lanegan’s got a lady’s maid lined up for you I’d like to be considered…’

‘And I’m determined you shall, Blanche, you’re most valuable to me.’ The girls had played together as children and Etta genuinely cared for her. ‘But for the moment I don’t want to arouse suspicion by us both going out laden
with luggage. I promise to send word of my address later, but until then I shall have to manage without your help.’

‘Aw, I’m grateful, miss! But I couldn’t do it without the master’s say so, and he’s bound to ask me where you’ve gone.’ Rather more conservative of nature, Blanche envisioned herself being expelled and bringing shame on her parents, who also worked on the estate.

‘All the more reason that you don’t know what to tell him.’

‘I know the gentleman’s name.’

‘But you won’t divulge it.’ Etta sounded confident.

‘Not if I can help it.’ Blanche handed over a pair of earrings, saying anxiously as her mistress’s excited fingers fumbled in putting them on, ‘I hate to keep putting hurdles in your way, Miss Etta, but what about the coachman?’ The latter would be transporting Etta to this afternoon’s venue. ‘You know, the master’s –’

‘Got his spies everywhere,’ Etta supplied darkly. ‘Yes, I’m all too aware of that. I shall just have to risk it. By the time any tittle-tale reaches my father I’ll hopefully be far away. Now, shoo!’ The command was accompanied by a conspiratorial smile. ‘Before anyone should catch my future husband.’

Swept up in the excitement and anticipating someone far more eligible, Blanche was shocked to discover the individual of modest means behind the bush, and her first thought was that Miss Henrietta had mistaken his identity.

‘What’s your name?’ she demanded rudely.

Thinking the game was up, Marty rose and tugged his jacket straight, hoping she wouldn’t spot the damp patch where the dog had pissed on his back. ‘Lanegan, miss, I –’

‘Oh good grief, it is the right one then,’ muttered Blanche, and her suspicious frown turned to one of incredulity. Nevertheless, she shoved the bag at him and, to his delight, reported Etta’s instructions.

The latter meanwhile was summoning her transport, and,
without a backwards glance, hurrying down the stone staircase and into the coach’s leather interior. Only at the gate did her composure slip when she banged on the roof and shouted for the coachman to make a detour from his previously instructed route.

Bag in hand, Marty had barely arrived at the meeting place when the vehicle pulled up and his beloved alighted. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time all over again. He felt he might choke with desire as her face came aglow at the sight of him.

Similarly smitten, Etta wanted to rush to him, but she restrained herself for now, first instructing the coachman firmly to ‘Wait here for me, I shan’t be long’ before approaching Marty at a casual pace.

Her expression told him not to do anything rash, so he followed her lead, initially just standing to admire her accomplished deportment, but especially the sweep of breast and buttock under the pink figure-hugging dress, the froth of white lace at her bosom, privately smiling at the ridiculously large hat, then turning to stroll alongside her as she came past, murmuring to him, ‘Just act as if we’re discussing the weather.’

Parasol aloft, she sauntered down the tree-lined country road, Marty alongside.

‘I thought we’d get the carrier,’ he told her, as they inserted some distance between themselves and the coach. ‘He goes from the village green so we’d best not walk too far. I know to my cost he’s a mean sort and won’t pull up except at the proper stop.’

‘He will for me,’ replied his assured companion. ‘I refuse to turn back for anything.’ She urged him to keep walking, then linked his arm daringly. ‘I thought you’d never come!’

‘This is the third time I’ve been here – third time lucky.’ He could smile now at how long it had taken, for during the interim he had accrued a few shillings. Normally his mother would be the one to benefit from his tips, but lately
he had become a miser. In addition he had spent the last three weeks trying to earn money in other ways, though it was still barely enough to fund his elopement.

He dared not look over his shoulder at the straight road behind, but felt the coachman’s eyes boring into his back and said so. ‘Wouldn’t it have been wiser to send him away? He’s seen you with me now.’

‘In retrospect it might have been wiser not to bring him at all but I had to make everything appear normal. If I’d sent him home he’d guess of my intention to abscond and would run directly to my father. By telling him to wait for me I’ve ensured that he daren’t disobey – at least for a reasonable period.’

By the time the carrier came past they were fifty yards or so from the village, but Etta turned out to be right. At the commanding wave of her parasol the driver obligingly halted for the lady and her companion to get onboard, the other passengers shuffling up to make room. Huddled close together on the wooden seat, the horse clip-clopping onwards, she and Marty looked back along the arrow-straight road to where the coachman still waited obediently in the distance.

Marty chuckled sympathetically. ‘He won’t still be standing there in the dark, will he?’

Overwhelmed by happiness, Etta smiled and gripped his hand. ‘Don’t waste your pity, he’ll have none for us when he speeds off to tell Father the moment this vehicle disappears. But at least we’ve gained a head start.’

Her suitor felt a pang of concern, wishing he had planned this better. After the previously abortive attempts at elopement he had not visualised success this time and consequently had omitted to arrange anywhere for them to live. However, he didn’t tell Etta this, not with a cart full of people eyeing the mismatched couple suspiciously. In fact, under these strained circumstances, they were to say little to each other at all during the two and a half hour journey that followed.

Only when they were finally standing on the antiquated pavement of York and his young bride-to-be looked expectantly at him for direction did Marty confess. ‘Sorry, I haven’t managed to secure us any lodgings yet.’

Etta was unfazed, deliriously happy just to be with him, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. ‘Didn’t you say your work occasionally involves you having to sleep at the hotel? You can sneak me into the room where you stay.’

‘I’m sure Ned would be delighted.’

‘Who’s Ned?’

‘The bloke whose turn it is tonight.’ Despite the joke, Marty felt inept. ‘Besides, it’s the first place your father will look for us.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t enough money to pay for accommodation,’ said Etta. ‘I did manage to acquire some since we last met but in my rush to meet you I completely forgot it. I feel terribly foolish.’

‘No, you’re not.’ He patted her. ‘There’s only one thing for it. It’s risky, but if I can find out which rooms are unoccupied I could hide you in one of them for a day or so, until I can organise somewhere else.’

Her eyes sparkled, such intrigue adding spice to the romance. Marty, too, felt not fear but elation as they made their way from the busy Rougier Street, under a carved limestone arch in the Bar Walls, and on to the magnificent edifice that was the Royal Station Hotel. Advising Etta to wait in the sunlit grounds, heavy with the scent of roses, he affected a casual entrance to the hotel via the door marked tradesmen, as if arriving for work, yet his appearance drew amazement from the others. ‘Can’t stay away, Bootsie?’