The Castlefield Collector

by The Castlefield Collector (Watch for the Talleyman) (retail) (epub)

  There came the clatter of clogs as someone hurried by, stirring them from their nostalgic reverie and it was Cyril who broke the silence by clearing his throat. ‘What am I thinking of? Where are my manners? Can I get you a cup of tea, Maisie? Kettle’s on.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. I mustn’t stop long having things to do. I just wanted a quick word.’

  Cyril was offering his condolences, making the usual noises but Maisie interrupted him. ‘I’ve not come about my late husband, but to warn you that you’ll be getting a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor?’ Cyril frowned, looking puzzled, as well he might. Maisie knew he didn’t get many of those nowadays, not since his mother had passed away a year or two back.

  ‘Our Dolly has taken it into her head to pay you a call.’

  ‘Your Dolly is coming to see me? Why would she do that?’ His face seemed to change suddenly, to go all pale and stiff, then flush with crimson. ‘Oh, bless my soul, no, not after all this time. You haven’t gone and told her? Nay, what a burden to place on a child, as if you haven’t enough troubles right now.’

  ‘She’s not a child any longer, Cyril, and I told her nothing. It were our Aggie’s doing. She apparently got the whole story out of Calvin, or as much of it as he knew. After that, well, our Dolly isn’t one to sit silently by and say nothing. She had to pester me for the whole sorry tale and when I wouldn’t explain, started making guesses of her own.’

  Maisie seemed to be fidgeting with her gloves, drawing them off, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘We got to talking about the chapel and, well, she mentioned your name. I didn’t disagree with her assumptions. I couldn’t. If she comes, I wondered if… Well, all you have to do is listen and go along with whatever she says. Will you do that for me, Cyril?’

  ‘I’d do anything for you Maisie, you know I would.’

  She looked at him fully then, meeting his gaze at last, and her cheeks pinked with embarrassment or else over the naked adoration in his eyes. ‘I’m grateful, only sorry you’re involved in all of this muddle yet again.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me, Maisie?’

  ‘With my life, Cyril, but I made promises I must keep, as you know.’

  ‘And so did I. You can rely on me to be discreet. As ever.’

  They sat for a moment in silence, their business concluded satisfactorily yet apparently neither anxious to put an end to these few moments of peace and this quiet understanding between them. Two sad people disappointed by life, sitting with their heads bowed deep in their own private thoughts, saying nothing. Again Cyril offered tea but she was on her feet in a second.

  ‘No thanks, I’d best be off. I’ve said what I came to say.’ Still she hesitated, applying herself to pulling her gloves back on. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday then, as usual.’

  ‘Aye, Maisie, you will. I thought we’d do ‘Crimmond’ this week, in respect for Calvin. One of your favourites, eh?’

  She gave a soft smile. ‘That’d be grand, Cyril. And you’ll think on about our Dolly.’

  ‘I will. Your secret is safe with me, as it ever was.’

  Hovering on the doorstep, Maisie glanced up and down the street before stepping out, just to be on the safe side. Gossip about her comings and goings was the last thing she needed. Fortunately it was quite empty, with not a soul in sight. Not until the echo of her hurrying footstep had died away did a figure once more emerge from a nearby ginnel, and he was smiling.

  * * *

  Nifty Jack had been hanging around at the end of the street, leaning casually against a lamp post while he waited to do his bit of business. He’d watched Maisie Tomkins enter Cyril Duckett’s house and was filled with curiosity. This widow visiting a bachelor, having recently buried her husband, was the last thing he’d expected to see. A man had come clattering by in his noisy clogs, two children skipping along beside him but nobody was paying Nifty Jack the slightest attention, avoiding him, as was generally the case.

  He’d edged further down the street and walked stealthily past the window, trying to peep in although he could see little beneath the half-drawn blind. He’d hovered close for a few moments, hoping to hear something of the conversation within, but the mill stone grit walls of the terraced houses were too thick. He needed to know what she was up to. Recently widowed, she still owed him a deal of money. He slipped into the small vestibule between the open front door and the glass inner door, which shielded the parlour from draughts and found he could hear every word, clear as a bell. Even better, he’d put his eye to the keyhole and watched the entire scene. Then when he heard her coming out, he’d quickly escaped. Eeh, but what he heard was most interesting.

  There was more to Cyril Duckett than one might imagine, as well as Maisie Tomkins. Yet they were a dull, restrained pair. With her old man dead, why didn’t she dash upstairs and leap into bed with her lover? Why didn’t Cyril rip off her clothes and ravage her there and then on the rug? Nifty felt a swelling in his groin at the very thought of it. He would certainly have done so in the past.

  It amused him to think of Maisie as someone who’d play the dirty on her husband, not that Calvin was ever in a position to complain about that, not being the most faithful of spouses himself. What would he have said if he’d been here? Nifty chuckled, knowing full well. It had always been easy to get Calvin riled up, but less so to control that temper once it was roused. Nifty had always taken great care not to upset him. Calvin Tomkins had been a big man with a powerful punch. Did he know that his wife had betrayed him? Nifty wondered. Then he recalled a snippet of conversation he’d once had with his erstwhile friend. As he swaggered off down the street in the direction of his favourite watering hole, it all came back to him, clear as day.

  It must have been around the time that Maisie had left home and there’d been quite a bit of gossip. Calvin was drowning his sorrows in the Donkey, after having followed her and spotted her entering Duckett’s house. With a few pints inside him he was all fired up, ready to take on the world. ‘I’m going to go round there and clock him one, or chop off his nuts.’

  Nifty had attempted to calm him down.

  ‘How can you talk about being calm when me wife’s making a flaming fool of me? By God, I’ll make her sorry, I will an’ all, and make her rue the day she ever betrayed me. Bloody tart. I’ll give her a right pasting when I get her home.’

  Nifty had sunk his nose into his pint, so that Calvin couldn’t see the sharpening of interest. ‘You should keep her under better control, lad. Letting a wife run wild is allus dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t let her run wild but by heck, I never thought our Maisie would put it about, and with him of all people. I saw him as some sort of Nancy-boy singing in the choir, being a sidesman at the chapel. I mean, how did she ever persuade him to… you know…?’

  Nifty had done some fast thinking, wanting to know as much as possible. ‘I’ll admit he’s a whey-faced git but you can’t judge a book by its cover, isn’t that what they say? So are you saying that Cyril Duckett’s her bit on the side, eh?’ The question was asked in tones of pseudo-sympathy but it always paid to know which women might prove pliant and biddable.

  ‘Aye, so far as I can make out. We had a right barney about it the other week. I thought I’d made my position clear, made sure she’d not see him again in a hurry. Now she seemingly has, bloody tart. I’ll flaming kill her.’

  Calvin’s nostrils flared so wide Nifty had half expected flames to appear out of him.

  Now he struggled to remember what had happened next. Calvin had sunk several more pints to console himself, or fuel his anger. He’d then spoken of an unexpected pregnancy. Given a big wink as he tapped the side of his nose, he said, ‘Don’t let on I’ve told you! It’s all hush-hush. I don’t want it getting about that I were cuckolded by the likes of Duckett.’ And he’d fallen back in his seat and belched loudly.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s Cyril? If your Maisie is putting it about, it could be with anyone, couldn’t it?’

  He remembered Ca
lvin looking startled, struggling to focus and think it through. ‘Nay, that’s all I need for me wife to be servicing the whole blasted neighbourhood.’

  Nifty had made the right sort of sympathetic noises since it suited him to lead this stupid man by the nose, as his wife could well be doing, at least till he had the information he needed and his pound of flesh.

  Following that interesting discussion and judging his moment, he’d made his approaches or so he’d thought. Except that Maisie hadn’t been as biddable as he’d hoped, nearly cracking his head open with the frying pan when he’d suggested she repay her debt in kind. She’d made a fool of him because she was still spreading her favours, even now years later, after poor old Calvin was dead.

  But she had another daughter. Dolly Tomkins was as tasty a piece of fruit as her mother before her and Nifty had a healthy appetite for sweet things, especially young ones ripe for the picking. Any hold he could find over Maisie Tomkins might help him to tighten the screws on her pretty daughter. Information he’d learned over the years resulted in power, very much to his advantage.

  Chapter Eight

  It was payday and Aggie was waiting anxiously for the man to come round with his polished wooden box. She could see him at Betty Deurden’s frame, handing over shillings the girl had no right to be getting, in Aggie’s view, considering the trouble she’d caused. The mahogany box held rows of little numbered cups and her own money would be in one of them. He thought he was ever so important and would no doubt take the opportunity to ask her out again since he seemed to have taken quite a shine to her. But he was only a wages clerk, nowhere near good enough for Aggie.

  He was standing before her now, his piggy eyes fixed on her bosom. ‘Here y’are Aggie! Don’t spend it all at once.’ This was his weekly joke and Aggie managed a faint smile as he counted the shillings into her hand, half her mind working out how many she could slip into her pocket and keep for herself before handing the rest over to her mother. ‘I wondered if you’d happen care to come with me to the pictures tonight.’

  Aggie smiled coolly and sadly shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I’ve already made arrangements. Some other time perhaps.’

  ‘Nay, lass, don’t be unkind.’ He edged closer, and began to tell her how well suited they were; how he’d fancied her for as long as he could remember. He was panting hard, his breath reeking of picked onions and under cover of the box balanced on one arm, he gave her breast a quick squeeze. Aggie began to panic. She could see Harold Entwistle approaching. If he got wind they were wasting time, or worse, thought they were doing a bit of canoodling, as some of the operatives did when his back was turned, she’d be out on her ear again, probably for good this time.

  ‘Anything wrong here?’ Harold was coming swiftly towards them along the row between the frames, his face wreathed in a scowl, and Aggie was desperately trying to loosen the grip the clerk now had on her wrist.

  ‘Get off me,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll get me sacked.’

  ‘Say you’ll come out with me then.’

  With no release from his hold and the sound of the overlooker’s boots ringing in her ears, Aggie took the only option open to her. She fainted. It wasn’t uncommon for girls to come over all funny and swoon, what with the heat and the humidity, not to mention the constant hunger. She’d never suffered from such weak afflictions herself despite good cause, but this wasn’t the moment for pride. She rolled back her eyes, let her head and shoulders slump and, sending up a silent prayer that she didn’t bang her head on the machine, or get her hair trapped and be scalped as a girl did only a month or two back, she slid gently to the floor.

  Aggie judged it prudent to open her eyes and feign recovery reasonably quickly, not wishing to make too much of the faint or she’d have her pay docked. She found that the wages clerk had been sent packing and it was Harold Entwistle himself who cradled her in his arms, patting her cheeks with a gentle hand. When she looked up at him from beneath her lashes, his response was all she could have wished for. It gave her quite a start of surprise and a warm glow of satisfaction to see the extent of her power. She hadn’t lost any of the progress she’d made after weeks of careful flattery, despite her daft sister’s bit of bother. Which was just as well, as that would have been truly annoying. An overlooker was much more promising meat than either a wages clerk or Sam Clayton.

  * * *

  Nifty Jack was waiting at the gate when the mill loosed, as he always was on a Friday. He questioned several of the operatives, and took a portion of their wages appropriated before ever they left the premises. Some even queued to willingly hand over a shilling or two, perhaps in the hope of keeping him off their backs for another week. Betty Deurden, was one such.

  ‘I’ll give you sixpence on account,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him and trying not to snort with laughter at the jeering pantomime her mates were making behind his back.

  ‘You’ll give me a shilling Betty, plus twopence interest, as is my due.’

  ‘I can’t afford this week, Nifty, not after having me pay docked for smoking in the lavvy. Anyroad, me mam’s not well.’

  ‘That’s your problem, not mine. This is the third week in a row you’ve not paid the right amount, and before that a couple when you paid nothing at all.’

  ‘But that was because of the strike.’

  He gave her a smile that would chill any heart, even Betty’s. ‘I don’t like being let down. I don’t like it one little bit.’ His eyes glittered and he lowered his voice as he bent his mouth to the curl of her ear and slid one hand to cup her plump breast. ‘But don’t worry about it just now, Betty love. I’ll see you later tonight, shall I? You can settle up with me then, one way or another.’

  Betty shoved him away and fled to join her giggling mates. ‘No fear, leave me alone, you nasty-minded old git!’ And she flounced off, arm in arm with her best friends.

  It was a mistake. Not that Betty thought so at the time, not until later that evening when, on her way home from the dance hall and having said goodnight to her friends, Nifty Jack stepped out right in front of her just as she’d taken a short cut down a ginnel. She saw her mistake then clear enough, and couldn’t help but give a little squeal of terror, which made him laugh out loud. Betty cursed herself for not even noticing that he must have been following her for some times. Now she could do nothing to protect herself. She was quite alone.

  ‘Pity about this habit of yours of wriggling out of paying what you owe me, Betty, but then happen not. There’s more than one way of cracking a nut than stamping on it, wouldn’t you say?’

  Poor Betty wasn’t nearly so brave now as when she’d brought Dolly tumbling with the spindle. She was trembling as he drew closer, whimpering with distress as he unfastened her coat, crying and begging for mercy as he dragged her down onto the cold hard cobbles, and by the time his dry, rough little hands had tugged off her knickers, tossing them aside in the mud so he could satisfy his lust on her, she opened her mouth and screamed, very loud. Not that there was anyone to hear, and even if they had, they’d shut their doors and pretend they hadn’t heard, or even noticed his squat, bowler-hatted figure sneak by. It didn’t pay to interfere in Nifty Jack’s business or stop him from getting what he wanted. Betty learned that simple fact tonight, the hard way.

  * * *

  It was Dolly’s turn to sit in Cyril’s front parlour, fidgeting her bare legs on the rough fabric of the old chairs, eyes fixed on Alice blue gown and her adoring swain. Her gaze was caught by a picture of Daniel in the Lion’s Den, which brought a slight smile to her lips. Right now she felt rather as Daniel must have done. Following her failure to find work, Aggie’s unfriendly attitude and the confused conversation with Sam, she’d made up her mind to follow her first instinct and meet with Cyril Duckett. No matter what the consequences, or how difficult and painful it might be, she must find out what sort of person he was, and what sort of person that made her. Maybe then she could deal with things better.

  But what could sh
e say that wouldn’t sound rude, or too abrupt? She couldn’t just come right out with it: I believe you’re my dad. But what could she say? Did you have an affair with my mother? Dolly inwardly cringed. Neither sounded in the least bit polite.

  Cyril, unable to bear her obvious embarrassment, or the silence, any longer, cleared his throat and saved her from her dilemma. ‘I know why you’ve come, lass. Your mam explained everything.’

  ‘Did she?’ Dolly was surprised. This was the last thing she’d expected. ‘So, it’s true then, what our Aggie said?’

  Cyril cleared his throat again, which seemed to be causing him some problems. ‘You could say so, in a manner of speaking.’

  Now what was that supposed to mean? Dolly felt in need of confirmation. She drew in a deep breath. ‘You and Mam, you were fond of her.’

  ‘Very fond.’ Cyril met her gaze unflinching and she knew he spoke the truth.

  ‘Did she tell you she was pregnant with me?’

  ‘She did.’

  Dolly sighed. A man of few words obviously. It was no easier getting information out of him than it had been from Maisie herself. He was a small, faded little man, his head bald save for a fringe of grey around the sides. He wore glasses, was dressed in fustian trousers and a grey cardigan that had seen better days. Everything about him was grey. His clothes, his hair, his eyes, even the skin of his face an odd sort of putty colour. Where was the vibrancy that marked her colouring? To say that she was disappointed in his appearance, was putting it mildly. Not at all the sort of man anyone would choose for a father. Dolly let out a small, philosophical sigh. ‘So what did you do when you heard? Did you offer to stand by her?’

  ‘I offered her a home. There wasn’t much more I could do. She already had a husband, remember.’