Keepsake (7 page)

He shook his head. ‘No, she’s not that kind. I’d better go try and make it up to her somehow.’ He gave Etta a swift but devoted kiss. ‘I’ll see you later with some grub, and try not to fret.’ Juggling a collection of footwear, he hurried away.

He did catch up with Joanna, but whatever excuse he offered only seemed to worsen the atmosphere between them and, finally heeding Etta’s advice, he left her to cool off. Besides, there was work to be done, this keeping him so involved that he never got to discover whether or not she had returned to tidy Etta’s room.

Joanna had no intention of going back to that place of sin. In fact, by reliving every sequence of events she had worked herself into a fine lather and was by now so absolutely livid that she even contemplated telling the housekeeper about Bootsie’s subterfuge. But that would only get him the sack and it was not him she wished to be rid of. Instead, her anger making her physically ill, she approached the housekeeper with a request that she might be allowed to leave early. Presented with the chambermaid’s pallor and bloodshot eyes, Mrs Hardy was sympathetic and agreed. Joanna was on her way out of the hotel when she overheard a loud enquiry that halted her instantly.

‘
Ibbetson
,’ repeated the elder of the two gentlemen testily. ‘Check again.’

Transformed by excitement, she made a detour and crept back to lurk on the perimeter of the resplendently-tiled main entrance. The porter on the reception desk was polite and did as he was bidden, but his answer was the same as before. ‘I’m sorry, sir, there is no one of that name staying in the hotel.’

‘Then I shall search the place myself!’ boomed Mr Ibbetson senior. ‘For I have it on good authority that a member of your staff has abducted my daughter!’

With other employees looking fearful that there was about to be a scene, a delighted Joanna rushed forth to solve the mystery, moreover to rectify her own problem. ‘Excuse me, sir!’ she whispered confidentially, ‘but I think you’ll find the young lady in room eighty-four.’

No one had time to ask how she knew this, for with Ibbetson rushing off with his son in pursuit, Joanna’s superiors had enough to contend with in trying to keep this scandal from other guests. Withdrawing into the background, Joanna’s heart pumped with excitement as she awaited the ejection of her rival. With Bootsie safely tucked away in his rightful place there was no one to prevent it.

But the commotion had drawn a gaggle of observers who now smirked and gossiped and craned their necks to witness the fun, amongst them Marty. Joanna ducked out of sight, for he would instantly know it was she who had given the game away, especially now, as an even louder hullabaloo preceded the Ibbetson girl being dragged protesting down the grand central staircase, the thwarted bride-to-be digging in her heels and gaining a grip on the ornate ironwork, refusing to obey, only to receive a vicious rap from her father’s cane and her fingers wrenched free.

At the sight of his loved one so mistreated, the levity drained from Marty’s face. Immediately he elbowed his way through the watchers, intent on rescue, but Ibbetson had seen him too and roared to his son, ‘That’s him!’ And in seconds they had abandoned Etta and came rushing to tackle him. He saw the upraised cane, feinted to avoid it but only succumbed to a blow from Etta’s brother John. Whilst he was reeling from this the heavy silver top of Ibbetson’s cane thwacked his cheek, causing him to yell in pain, the crowd to gasp and Etta to scream.

‘Stop, stop!’ Horrified at the sight of blood upon her
lover’s face she tried to get near, to save him, but the windmilling arms prevented it, knocking her off her feet. ‘Martin!’ Heroically she rose and tried again, but someone pinioned her arms. ‘Father, stop!’

But her screaming entreaties did no good, for her father and brother seemed to have lost all reason, ignoring the hotel manager who had finally been roused from his office and tried politely to intervene – lashing, punching and thrashing Matin with no one doing a thing to stop it, knocking him to the ground until his only recourse was to curl up like a hedgehog. Still they showed no mercy, the silver-topped cane berating him again and again.

Appalled to have brought this upon the one she loved, at first Joanna stood frozen to the spot, biting her lip in terror at the violence, but when no one ended it, when it seemed that Bootsie might even be killed, she found the courage to rush forth and protect his cowering body, imploring his attackers to desist, and only now did they do so, standing back to examine their work, panting with grim satisfaction at the vengeance meted out, the victim’s blood sprayed upon their clothes.

‘Martin!’ Etta screamed and struggled to be free, even biting one of the hands that imprisoned her in order to run to him. But she was not allowed to do so, her father and brother grasping a slender arm each and dragging her from the hotel, protesting and shrieking for her lover. ‘He’s injured! I demand to see him! You cannot keep us apart!’

‘I can and I will,’ came her father’s grim reply, his fingers digging into her flesh as she wriggled.

‘I am most exceedingly sorry, sir!’ The hotel manager tried to make amends, wringing his hands and hurrying alongside them, but was ignored by all, his voice drowned out by Etta’s.

‘You can drag me to the altar but you can’t force me to utter the vows! I’d cut out my tongue before that! I’ll run
away again and again! You’ll never stop me – Martin, I’ll love you forever!’

Through a fog, Marty heard the declaration of undying love, formed a bloody, grimacing smile and attempted to nod, before entering a tunnel of unconsciousness.

Angry at being demeaned by the Ibbetsons, the manager came hurrying back, growling at those who huddled anxiously around Marty to ‘Remove him’ before shooing the rest of the staff about their business then forming an obsequious explanation for the guests who had been disturbed.

Hefting him between them, Marty’s colleagues struggled to convey his dead weight to the servants’ quarters, a frightened Joanna hovering alongside, the rest dispersing to chatter about the incident in shocked tones.

‘Oh, Bootsie, I’m sorry!’ With others laying him on a table, Joanna fetched a cold damp cloth to tend his injuries, wincing and whining as she dabbed at the blood. ‘I never meant to get you in trouble.’

‘I think he did that for himself,’ a porter comforted her, then clicked his tongue at the audacity. ‘The scallywag.’

A younger male conveyed admiration. ‘Good old Bootsie, I say. What a dark horse – how did you know he’d stashed her up there?’

‘I only found out by accident. I thought I was helping him out of trouble by getting rid of her.’ Joanna looked shifty, trying to convince herself as much as anyone. ‘I didn’t know they were going to half-kill – aw, Bootsie, please don’t die!’ She dabbed at him frantically, nauseated by the sight of blood on the cloth.

To the relief of all, Marty soon came round, and by the time Mr Wilkinson appeared he was sitting up, despite remaining shocked and in terrible discomfort. His superior was relieved too, although he showed no sympathy. Having received a personal grilling from the manager for his lack of supervision, his eyes were hostile and his request was delivered through gritted teeth. ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’

At the victim’s bruised and bewildered expression, Joanna answered for him. ‘I think he’s too dazed, sir.’

Wilkinson did not thaw. ‘Am I to assume that Lanegan has been consorting with a guest’s daughter?’

Unable to defend him, those supporting his battered carcass turned their eyes on Marty, who did not appear to know where he was, let alone what had happened.

‘I shall take your silence as an admission, Lanegan,’ hissed Wilkinson. ‘You will therefore remove yourself from the premises.’

Seeing that the boot boy still failed to understand, his friends exchanged looks. ‘You’re dismissing him, sir?’ ventured one brave soul.

‘I most certainly am.’

Feeling guilty, Joanna risked her own position. ‘But, begging your pardon, sir, he’s the victim of a dreadful crime.’

‘The only crime that has been committed here is that Lanegan has brought this hotel into disrepute!’

‘But he’s too ill to walk, sir!’

‘Then fetch a cart and convey him to those who care – and it does not take all of you to do it!’ Ordering all but two back to work, the furious Wilkinson strode away.

The page and the chambermaid studied their friend, who had begun to shiver. Marty beheld them too, but did not respond to their questioning for their voices were muffled as if emerging from a drainpipe. ‘Oh, look at his eyes,’ he heard Joanna say, ‘they’re right odd.’

Avoiding the nasty lesion, Joe pressed the victim’s brow. ‘He’s really cold an’ all. And he looks as if he’s going to throw – whoa!’ He jumped back as Martin spewed vomit, Joanna taking the full force of it.

Regarding her frontage in disgust, she did not cast blame – it did seem poetic justice after all – but stoically removed her apron and carried it between thumb and forefinger for disposal.

Whilst Joe tended Marty, whose teeth had started to
chatter, she returned with mop and bucket and swiftly cleared the mess. Then the page suggested, ‘Away, we’d better get some transport and take him home to bed.’

Averse to consigning him to a handcart as their superior had suggested, they hailed a cab and with the jarvey’s assistance bundled him inside, a guilt-ridden Joanna pressing the shilling fare into Marty’s hand and closing his fingers around it.

‘We can’t send him on his own like a parcel,’ decided Joe. ‘Look at him, he doesn’t even know what day it is. One of us should go with him and explain to his ma what’s happened.’ When Joanna shrank at the thought of her own malicious role in this, he announced, ‘Right, I’m off then and bugger me job!’

Marty could not summon the words to thank him. He was hardly aware of anything as he was taken home in disgrace. Dazed, and barely able to hold a handkerchief to his cheek, he stumbled from the cab as, simultaneously, his mother responded to the knock on her door.

‘Mother o’ mercy!’ At the bloodied state of her son, Agnes Lanegan was instinctively protective and, along with Joe, supported him over the threshold to a chair. But then there came fury as the full tale emerged and she raged at him, ‘Didn’t I warn you about wanting things you can’t have? You damned fool, look at the state of ye! What the hell is your father going to say?’ But her ire was directed less at Marty’s actions, more at the callous treatment that had been meted out to him, and she was swift to see that her ranting was not doing an ounce of good.

Under the wide and watchful eyes of her younger children and her anxious elderly uncle, she and Joe transferred Marty to the sofa then she pounded upstairs to fetch blankets, which were snuggled about him. ‘Brandy! That’s what we need.’ Shoving a cup at Joe and sending him to the Brown Cow, she herself made a pot of tea, and whilst this was brewing she tipped the rest of the contents of the kettle
into a stone hot-water bottle, wrapping this in a towel and tucking it at Marty’s feet, crooning and fussing. ‘Oh, my poor dear boy, what have they done to ye?’

Uncle Mal shook his head gravely. ‘Beat near to death, he is.’

Joe returned within minutes, the brandy being dribbled down the patient’s throat, followed by hot sweet tea.

‘Will I pour you a cup, Joe?’ Sounding vague, Aggie stood back to assess the situation. Though swathed to the chin in blankets, her son still shivered and trembled, teeth chattering, his face a swollen mass of lacerations, and he had not uttered a word. It deeply concerned her.

The page backed away. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Lanegan, I’d best return to work. I hope he’s soon recovered.’

‘Dear God, so do I, dear,’ muttered Aggie, but, looking at that trembling impostor, she feared her happy-go-lucky son might never return.

Wounds knitted, awareness restored, after his ghastly experience Marty felt he had lost a fortnight, but in fact had been lying there only a couple of days. According to Uncle Mal, his mother had barely left his side during those first perilous hours, spooning water through his split lips, performing the most intimate tasks, though he could remember little of them. He still ached in every crevice but now felt able enough for action after his midday mug of oxtail broth.

Forming each move gingerly to lessen the hurt, he rose from the threadbare sofa and waited a while to steady himself whilst his parents, younger siblings and Uncle Mal watched intently. ‘Sorry for putting you through all this, Ma.’

‘Isn’t that what mothers are for.’ Aggie’s heart bled for him, and she sighed. ‘’Tis a shame she never even managed to leave you a wee keepsake before they took her.’

Tottering to the mirror above the fireplace Marty grimaced at his pasty reflection, carefully examining the encrusted lesions. ‘What need have I of trinkets when I’ll soon have a real, flesh and blood keepsake – and now I’m back to normal I can go retrieve her.’

‘Normal, says he!’ A howl came from his father’s chair, making the smaller children jump. ‘There’s nothing normal about you. What ignoramus would set himself up for
another whipping like that? Sure, he must’ve beat the brains out o’ ye.’ Redmond was grumpy and tired; he, too, had just been sacked, for taking a nap in work time.

Martin made allowances, his reflection displaying nausea. ‘She’s in danger, Da, I have to –’

‘Did you witness her father whipping her?’ demanded Redmond.

‘No, he –’

‘He reserved his punishment for you, and quite frankly I can understand why!’ After trudging eight miles home with no pay for his morning’s work, Redmond was abnormally uncharitable. ‘What a damn fool to think you could get away with stealing his daughter!’

There was only so many allowances Marty would make. ‘She’s consented to marry me,’ came his obstinate reply.

‘Then she’s as disobedient a child as you, and if she takes a good hiding she thoroughly deserves it!’ Redmond turned to vent his exasperation on his wife. ‘He gets this off you! Letting him have his own way in everything…’

‘I do not!’ Aggie was having none of this. ‘Did you not hear me warn him about flashing the tackles over that girl? But will he ever listen? He will not!’ She in turn chastised Marty. ‘Look what your ambition’s done, setting us all against each other! What happened to that nice young woman you were stepping out with a few months ago?’

Marty gaped. ‘Bridget? Why, you said you didn’t want me consorting with a chocolate-basher, said you wanted better for me!’

‘There’s better and there’s downright ridiculous!’ Aggie united with her husband to warn their son, ‘Now, I forbid you to pursue this crazy notion. I’ll not have you putting yourself in danger again – do you hear?’

Looking worn, Marty turned away from the mirror, wincing. ‘I hear, Ma, I hear.’

‘But do you heed?’ His father jabbed a finger. ‘Because if you disobey then there’ll be nobody to scrape you off
the floor next time, and I refuse to have this household upset in such a fashion again. I’ve never heard such rubbish – you’ll be better directing your energy into finding a job and making it up to your mother!’

‘Why, of course I will, that was my intention.’

‘And you
will
leave that girl alone!’

His son heaved a sigh. ‘Have I any choice?’

‘Aye, you can do as the mammy and I say or you can sling your bloody hook!’ With that his father slumped back in his chair, his energy spent.

Seeing his mother about to set into him again, Marty held up his hands in surrender. But nothing would divert him. He was determined upon this union more than ever.

First, though, he must arrange the marriage licence. Still equipped with the uniform he had worked so hard to pay for, and which was the smartest clothing he possessed, he wooed his mother into sponging and ironing it into shape, saying he was going out to find new employment. Instead, armed with the forged letters, the money from the jewellery and an air of confidence, he presented himself at the register office. Here, much sweating was to take place whilst all the paperwork was gone through, though in fact it all turned out to be very simple and his request was duly granted. Unable to give a specific date for the wedding, he rejoiced to hear that the licence would last for three months. Still, he was wise enough to recognise that the hardest part was yet to come – not just the rescue of Etta but the acquisition of more money, for this arrangement had almost cleaned him out. Hence, the next hours were given to seeking work, though with poor result. Finding it impossible to acquire even the lowliest of jobs with no reference, Marty was pushed into the drastic measure of returning to the place from whence he had been dismissed. Presented with an abject apology, perhaps Mr Wilkinson would take pity and scribble a few lines in order that Marty’s family might not starve?

On the other hand he might not. The intrepid suitor found himself once again ejected, and whilst it was not under such violent circumstance as before, it left him under no illusion as to his lack of worth.

His application at the adjacent railway station met with no better luck. Dallying aimlessly by the ticket barrier, to be assailed by clouds of sulphurous smoke, the soot-speckled rush of passengers, the tuneless medley of carriage doors being slammed, the shrill whistle, the chugging and heaving of a departing engine and the cold echoing emptiness that ensued, a benighted Marty racked his brain for a solution. The rescue of Etta would be hard enough, for she could have been locked up or even sent away. However, putting himself in the father’s shoes, he doubted if the arrogant Ibbetson would expect him to turn up after such a trouncing, which would at least lend him an element of surprise. So, acting on this theory, he had decided simply to turn up at the mansion and wait for his willing partner to appear. He would wait even if it took forever. But to maintain her safety, he must have a regular income…which brought him back to the here and now.

He cast his despondent gaze aloft to the glass roof of this vast structure, and its elaborate cast-iron arched supports that extended along the length of the platform in an elegant curve, like the ribs of some leviathan, and he sighed – Jonah, trapped in the belly of a whale.

Another train came rackety-racking alongside the platform, and more tourists alighted, porters toting their belongings to the lobby of the Royal Station Hotel. He pictured Etta’s arrival with her papa that fateful day, wondered what she was doing and if she felt this miserable too. With unfocused eyes he stared as passengers came flooding through the barriers, those unable to afford a cab hailing the services of barrow boys. The scene was re-enacted many a time before the solution hit him. Why, of course! Whoever said that he could not be his own employer? Excited now, his
mind began to race, to form a plan, plummeting briefly as he hit a snag: to be a barrow boy one must have a licence – another blessed licence – and whatever the price he was unable to afford it. Still, he remained optimistic enough to accost one such carrier who was standing idle, asking, ‘Eh, chum, how much is a licence?’

‘’Bout half a crown, I think –’

Marty groaned.

The shifty-looking informant then admitted, ‘– but I haven’t got one.’

Marty perked up. ‘That’s in order, is it?’

‘Aye, but it means you only get a job when the permit-holders are all busy. And you have to watch out for Custard Lugs,’ he indicated a man with huge, yellow-tinged ears, ‘he carries a life-preserver and he’ll use it if he thinks you’re trying to weasel your way in.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of his way!’ Grinning his thanks, Marty left the station, feeling more buoyant than when he had arrived and celebrating with a pennyworth of fish and chips. All he had to do now was to acquire a barrow.

Had he not been a popular sort, with very little cash the acquisition might have been impossible, but he knew just where to go. One of his many friends was a collector, preferring that term to a fence of stolen goods, from whose treasure trove was unearthed a rickety barrow.

‘Needs a wheel.’ Bill’s guttural Yorkshire accent emerged from the shadows as he turned to poke around again in the shed. ‘But I must have summat here that’ll do.’

Marty was delighted. ‘Trouble is, Bill, I don’t have any cash. Can I pay you when I’ve put it to work?’

Still searching, Bill said he could, then reached into a cardboard box. ‘How about a cheese?’

‘To act as a wheel?’ asked Marty with a laugh.

‘Dozy sod – for your mother. Tell her I’ve got some nice bacon an’ all – oh, there we are!’ Bill found a suitable wheel
which, affixed to the barrow, was to provide Marty’s salvation. He had a barrow, he had a job; now he would have Etta.

Before anything else, he had to conjure an excuse for his parents as to why he might be absent for the next couple of days. It would not work. They would guess at once what he was up to and prevent it. Instead, speaking enthusiastically about the barrow, he explained the difficulty he might have in touting for custom without a licence, and that if he happened to be very late home on his first day they must not worry. They seemed very pleased with his enterprise and he hoped they would not be too concerned when he failed to show. He hated lying but could not hope for them to understand the strength of his feelings for Etta. It was she who commanded his thoughts as he trundled his barrow to the pub in Long Close Lane early the next morning, to be stashed there until his triumphal return.

Everything was in order with the room. How fortunate that he had paid the month’s rent in advance. Checking for the umpteenth time that the key was in his pocket, he embarked on his rescue expedition. Admittedly he was terrified of such a powerful man as Ibbetson, but his love for Etta overcame all, and the notion that he was taking the first step towards their reunion filled him with cheer as he set off on his fifteen-mile hike. Occasionally, this lightness of spirit was to evaporate along with the runnels of sweat on his brow as he struggled through the August heat wave that had suddenly flared, plodding along dusty roads and rolling countryside with his jacket slung over his shoulder, hour after hour after hour, his feet on fire, his legs fit to buckle, his throat parched. But, eventually arrived at her gate just after noon, he was imbued with a sense of such overwhelming achievement that instead of lying low and waiting for her to spot him, he summoned every ounce of
courage, donned his brass-buttoned jacket and marched proudly up the driveway towards the massive front door. He would show just how serious he was and let Ibbetson admire his pluck.

The door seemingly miles away, his resolve began to fray as he pictured the actions of those inside as they heard the crunch of an impostor’s feet along the gravel. He imagined eyes at every window, and steeled himself for the blows that must surely follow.

But lo and behold it was a kiss which greeted him first! Spotting him from her lonely seat by the window as she dressed for luncheon, Etta shoved aside her startled maid, rushed headlong down the staircase and across the hall, and before he even had a chance to ring the bell she had thrown herself into his arms and was pressing her lips to every sweating part of his face in joy and relief.

‘I knew it! I knew you’d come!’ And she grabbed his arm and hurriedly led him around the back of the house to a more secluded spot near the potting shed, with an anxious Blanche giving chase.

Unrestrained kisses were to follow, the maid averting her eyes, until Etta suddenly commented on the results of his previous beating. ‘Oh, your poor face! Have I hurt you?’

‘No, no! You make everything better.’ A rapturous Marty enfolded her, moulding his body into her soft, hot flesh, breathing in her scent along with the flowers, kissing and caressing erotically.

‘You shouldn’t have come to the front door!’ Her protestations interspersed more breathless kissing.

‘Are you saying I’m not good enough?’

Her face scolded him between kisses. ‘I meant why did you risk it? Father will be even more furious, I dread to think what he’ll do this time!’

‘Miss Etta!’ Blanche hissed a warning, but was ignored.

‘I won’t be cowed.’ Marty nuzzled the silky white neck. ‘I’ve decided to face him man to man, tell him I’ve got the
licence for our wedding and he’ll have to kill me to prevent it!’

‘That is a distinct possibility!’ interjected another. They whirled to see her enraged father bearing down on them. Informed by a servant, Ibbetson had had no time to grab a weapon but his clenched fists promised retribution. Blanche immediately backed away.

Forewarned, Marty was prepared and squared up to his opponent – at least there was only the one this time – but Etta went to meet her father. ‘Please discuss this sensibly!’

However, Ibbetson had never been an articulate man.

‘Mother, stop him!’

Along with a gaggle of servants, Mrs Ibbetson had pursued her husband but, afraid of his fury, did no more than hover in the background wringing her hands.

Etta found herself swiped to the ground, much to Marty’s disgust, but before he could avenge her honour she was up again and yelling into her father’s face. ‘Oh, that’s right, cast me aside like the dirt you hold me to be!’

Ibbetson wrestled with her, at the same time grappling with Marty. ‘You behave like a guttersnipe, and you’ll be treated as such!’

Mrs Ibbetson moaned. Blanche burst into tears. The tranquil garden was rent by angry grunts and squeals.

‘Call yourself a gentleman!’ countered a furious Marty, trying to avoid hitting Etta, who insisted on sandwiching herself between the men. ‘You look down on me but I’d never spurn a lady in such a fashion!’

‘No, you’d just defile her so no other man’ll take her!’ yelled Ibbetson, managing to elbow past his daughter and grab hold of the young upstart, tussling with him, trying to aim a good punch, their struggle invading the flowerbeds where geraniums were trampled underfoot.

‘I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!’ Face livid, Marty grasped the bigger man around the waist, hanging on grimly and pulling him in close to prevent Ibbetson landing a blow.
‘If you’d granted me the chance I would have asked politely to marry Etta, but you’re not a man for reason, are ye?’