by Amy Cross
Muriel Hyde
1910...
My eyes flicker open, and I realize that I must have fallen asleep and had the most disturbing dream. I imagined that Jack had come back, that he was trying to get me to leave. Taking a deep breath, I lean back and tell myself not to panic, that it was just a dream, yet my heart is racing and I feel as if my heart must have broken ten thousand times in the past day alone.
“Ms. Hyde?”
Startled, I jump to my feet and turn, just in time to see that Harry Tanner and Dusty Fowler are standing in the doorway.
“We didn't mean to disturb you,” Harry says cautiously, “we just... Are you open?”
“Yes,” I stammer, shocked by the realization that they must have come for a drink. It has been so long since the last time I had customers, I had almost forgotten that they were a possibility.
“We decided to make a stand,” Dusty tells me as I head behind the bar. “I've never liked being told what to do or think -”
“Neither have I,” Harry interjects.
“So we were talking, and we realized that The King's Head is the finest pub in the whole of Malmeston, so why should we be run out? Old Hayes has enough power already, he doesn't need to concern himself with where the likes of old Harry and I do our supping. Some might call us brave, some might call us foolhardy, but by Jove this is where we drink so we shall drink here!”
“Precisely,” Harry adds.
Staring at them, I realize that they are perhaps the only two people in the whole of Malmeston who have chosen to go against Mr. Hayes and his anger. I could kiss them, although of course I do no such thing; I pour them each a beer, while struggling to keep from sobbing with sheer joy. I had assumed that no-one in this town would stand up for me, yet here are these two fine gentlemen who have chosen to come to their favorite drinking establishment. There have been times when I have found the pair of them to be utterly irritating, but today I find them charming beyond measure.
“These two drinks are at no charge,” I tell them as I head over to them. “There are to be no arguments. I wish to offer them as a token of my gratitude.”
“It'd take more than a few rumors and sliver of gossip to keep us away,” Harry says, his eyes lighting up as I set his beer in front of him. “I'm not one to judge people, Muriel. I'm sure you did the right thing by taking your child to the orphanage. That can't have been easy, but it takes some real courage to -”
“What did you say?” I ask, interrupting him.
“Oh, nothing really, just -”
“Get out!” I snap.
“Ms. Hyde,” he replies, “please, I was only -”
“Get out!” I scream, taking the beer away and throwing it all to the floor. “Leave my pub and don't ever set foot in here again!”
“But -”
“I won't have such terrible gossip repeated!” I yell. “If you actually listen to the lies my sister tells, then you are both fools, and I do not want fools in my pub!”
“Ms. Hyde,” Dusty says, “please, I think there might have been a misunderstanding.”
“Do I have to call the police?” I shout. “Leave! Now! And don't ever darken my door again!”
They hesitate, as if they might be about to argue with me, and then they both get to their feet and head out of the pub. They're muttering to one another, no doubt agreeing that I seem utterly insane, but finally they step outside and let the door swing shut. I've got half a mind to rush out there after them and make sure that they know their ban is permanent, but I'm certain they must realize.
“Why do people always listen to gossip?” I sob, leaning against the bar as I feel the last of my hope begin to fade away. “Why must they always be trying to ruin my character?”
Putting my hands against my face, I start crying uncontrollably. There is a part of me that wants to go and bolt to door, to make sure that I am not surprised by anyone, but deep down I know full well that nobody is going to come through that door, probably not ever again. If Harry Tanner and Dusty Fowler have heard the gossip, then everyone will have heard it, and that means that there is no hope left.
The destruction of my reputation is complete.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Charley Lucas
Today...
“Dad!” I yell as I race along the hospital corridor. “Where are you?”
As I reach a desk, a nurse steps in my way.
“Tom Lucas!” I gasp, unable to contain my sense of panic. “I'm his daughter! Where is he?”
Hearing footsteps nearby, I turn to see that Jennifer – who drove me here after shutting the pub early – has finally caught up.
I turn back to the nurse.
“Where's my father?” I ask, as the sense of panic rises and rises in my chest. “I have to see him right now!”
***
“It's not as bad as it looks,” Dad groans as he tries and fails to sit up in the hospital bed. “I'll be fine in a week or two.”
“You're covered in bruises!” I say, with tears in my eyes as I look at the cuts and marks all over one side of his face. “You've got a black eye! What happened? They said you were in an accident!”
“I was mugged,” he replies. “I was at the wholesaler, I'd stupidly parked at the far end of the car park, where there aren't many lights. I was pushing a trolley back to the car, and suddenly these two assholes jumped me. They took everything, and then they just wouldn't stop kicking me, even when I was on the floor. I tried to fight back but...”
His voice trails off, and for a moment he seems to be reliving that awful moment.
“I was lucky,” he continues finally. “The manager from the store happened to pop out for a cigarette break, and he chased them away. They were really laying into me, Charley. I gave them everything and they still...”
Again, he falls silent.
“They could have killed you!” I say through gritted teeth, as more tears run down my face.
“That wasn't going to happen,” he replies. “It was just an old-fashioned mugging, and they got a little carried away at the same time. It's my own dumb fault for parking where I parked, but I just never thought that something like this could happen. I thought this part of the world was supposed to be safe.”
“How long are they going to keep you in?” I ask.
“I might be here for a few days,” he replies, “just for observation.” He pauses, and I can tell he's holding back from saying something else. “The pub'll have to stay shut during that time.”
“No,” I reply, “I'll keep it open. I can work behind the bar.”
“That's literally illegal,” he tells me.
“Who cares? No-one's going to complain!”
“There's no point, Charley,” he says, and then he sighs. “This is the end of the road, sweetheart. I know you don't want to hear this, but there's no coming back now. The pub has to shut, and it's going to stay shut. We can't find the money to keep it open, so it's better if we cut our losses now and accept the inevitable.”
“No,” I say firmly. “We're not giving in.”
“I can't do it anymore!” he replies. “Look at me! I've got a broken arm. I can't work at the pub with a broken arm, and you can't do half the things that need doing. And before you suggest that we hire someone, I can't afford to do that.” He sighs. “You have no idea how much I hate to let you down, but if we try to stay open we'll only be throwing good money after bad.”
He reaches out and wipes tears from my cheeks.
“I'll find something else for us to do,” he adds. “A new adventure. A new challenge. We might have to move again, but this time I'll make sure it's something permanent. I'm so sorry, Charley. This failure is entirely my fault.”
“It's not your fault,” I tell him, “it's...”
I stop just in time. He doesn't want to hear me going on about the brewery, even though I can't help thinking that this incident seems perfectly timed. Is it possible that Gary Hayes would pay someone to rough Dad up? I tell my
self that the whole idea is too far-fetched, but at the same time I heard the certainty in his voice earlier. He seemed convinced that Dad and I would be gone soon. Is this what he was planning?
“It's not fair,” I sob, unable to hold back any longer. “We were doing so well.”
He reaches over and pulls me tight for a hug. Resting my head against his shoulder, I realize that he's the one who makes the decisions. And I guess he's right when he says that I can't run the pub. Maybe I just have to accept that the brewery has won, that our time running The King's Head hasn't even lasted a month. For now, however, all I can do is cry as Dad holds me tight. This really isn't fair. We should have found a way.
***
“Are you okay?” Jennifer asks as we sit in her car, in the car park outside the hospital. It's almost midnight, and I'm pretty sure that we're both exhausted.
“Not really,” I reply, staring straight ahead at the streetlights.
“Tom'll recover, you know,” she says. “He's lucky. I mean, it could have been a lot worse.”
“He could be dead, you mean?”
We sit in silence. I'm so tired, I want to go to sleep and never have to worry about things again. At the same time, I'm far too wired for sleep and I feel as if I need to find some outlet for my anger.
“I've lived in Malmeston all my life,” Jennifer says finally. “I've worked in a few pubs, too, and there's one thing I learned very early on. You don't go up against Hayes and Storford. The brewery has all the power in town, and they always get their way.”
“Even if that means trampling all over people?” I ask.
“Whatever it takes,” she adds. “That's their motto.”
I turn to her.
“My uncle had The Old Bell just outside town,” she continues, and now there seem to be tears in her eyes. “We used to go there when I was a kid, he had a proper big slide in the garden. Anyway, eventually Hayes and Storford decided to put his rent up. He was doing well, so at first he was able to absorb it, but then the brewery took over two more pubs nearby and... Well, it seemed like they decided my uncle's place was more valuable as land. The rent went up again, and again, but he wouldn't surrender. He wouldn't accept that it was the end, not until...”
“What happened?” I ask.
I wait, and a moment later I see a tear run down her cheek.
“His wife found him on the floor one morning,” she says eventually, “behind the bar. He must have had a heart attack while he was cleaning the lines. He'd been so stressed, he'd barely been able to sleep. It just ground him down until he couldn't take it anymore. If he'd just let go of that pub, he'd probably still be alive today. Instead, we had to bury Uncle Mike, and now The Old Bell's gone. There are some new flats out there.”
“That's awful,” I reply, horrified by the story. “Why doesn't anyone stand up to the brewery?”
“They're too well-connected. Everyone knows that they give bungs to all the local politicians, to anyone with any influence, but it never gets investigated. People just accept that this is how it goes around here.” She sniffs back a few more tears. “Do you want to know something? I actually thought you and Tom might have a shot. I figured there was something dodgy going on, that the brewery wanted the pub to fail, but I guess I'm just an optimist. I guess that was dumb of me, huh?”
“No, you weren't being dumb,” I tell her. “You were right, we should have succeeded. Instead there's this brewery, going around acting like some kind of mafia family, and apparently everyone in Malmeston just accepts the way things are. The whole thing's rotten.”
“Sorry,” she says.
“What for?”
I wait, but she doesn't say anything, and then she starts the engine.
“I should get you home,” she mutters, forcing a smile that doesn't seem at all genuine. “It's been a long night and I don't know about you, but I'm cream-crackered.”
“I'm sorry about your uncle,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says, as she starts driving us out of the car park. “Me too.”
Chapter Fifty
Muriel Hyde
1910...
I remember that night so well, even though so many years have passed. And although I have forced myself to forget what really happened, there are times – such as tonight – when it all comes flooding back.
I was walking up a set of steps, and then I stopped. I had intended to go into the building, but something stopped me. Shame, perhaps, or simply the realization that I would surely be seen as some kind of harlot. I remember standing for quite some time, in the freezing night air, before finally understanding what I had to do. Then I stepped forward until I reached the door to the orphanage, and I reached down and gently lay my wriggling, gurgling, freshly-born child on the ground.
“It's going to be alright,” I whispered, with tears in my eyes. “Someone will find you and take you in, and you'll have a better life than I can ever hope to provide. I'm so sorry that I can't look after you, but this is in your best interest. I'm going to a place down south, I'm going to run a public house, and that is no place for a child. Goodbye, little man. Goodbye forever, but be certain that I shall never forget you.”
I wanted to say his name, even though I was not sure that I should do so. He was only a few hours old, having been born in an alley, yet I had foolishly given him a name even though I knew it would not stick.
“I love you, William,” I said finally. “I always will.”
I lingered for a moment, wondering whether perhaps there might be another way, and then I turned to walk away.
“Hello, there!” a friendly-looking man said, hurrying up the steps behind me. “Sorry, I -”
Stopping suddenly, he looked past me and saw my baby on the ground.
“Oh,” he said, staring at the child for a moment before looking at me, “is this...”
His voice trailed off.
“Not mine!” I said, keen to avoid having to answer any questions. “I was just passing, and I heard something so I came to take a look.”
“This happens, from time to time,” the man said, making his way around me and then gently lifting the child – my child – into his arms. “About once a month, we find a newborn baby on our steps. The mothers simply don't know what to do with them, you see, so they bring them here.” He looked down at my son, who already seemed a little calmer. “This one's a fine specimen. I'm sure we'll have no trouble finding him a good home.”
“Really?” I said, sniffing back tears. “He'll be looked after?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the man replied. “Why, just today I was given the details of a Mr. Fobwester. He and his wife wish to take in a young boy, I think this might be a rather serendipitous moment. With any luck, this child will be with the Fobwesters inside of a week or two.”
“And what are they like, these Fobwesters?”
“They're a very rich family, as it happens,” he explained. “Something to do with paper, or was it wood? Anyway, they own mills, and they're a very decent, very Christian bunch. There's no doubt whatsoever that they'll take good care of this little one.”
“I am so glad,” I replied, as tears ran down my cheeks.
“So you were just passing, were you?” the man asked, suddenly sounding a little suspicious. “It's rather late. Do you have business in the area?”
“No,” I replied, stepping back down to the street level, keen to get away without being questioned any further. “I was simply passing and I heard the sound of a child crying, that's all. I didn't even know that this was an orphanage.”
“He'll be looked after,” he said. “I promise you.”
“That is -”
“What is his name?”
I froze for a moment, before turning to look back up at the man and seeing him standing at the top of the steps, holding the child in his arms.
“Since you're the one who found him,” the man continued, “I think you should be given the honor of naming him. Otherwise I shall have to do it, and
my taste in names is legendarily terrible.” He paused, and he was giving every indication that he suspected my identity as the child's mother. “Don't you want to leave a little mark?”
I swallowed hard. I knew I should not say anything, but somehow the name seemed to be dragged out of me and forced into the cold night air.
“William,” I stammered.
“I beg your pardon? I didn't quite hear that.”
“William,” I said again, more firmly this time. “His name is William.”
“He'll be well cared for, M'am,” the man replied. “His mother, whoever she is, made the right choice by bringing him here. If she couldn't care for him herself, that is. And I'm sure the Fobwesters will take him in. He'll grow up in a good household, he'll go to a good school, and I'm sure he'll live a fine life. If I could speak to his mother, that's what I'd want to tell her. To reassure her, I mean.”
“Indeed,” I mumbled, before turning and hurrying away. I felt as if I might collapse in tears at any moment, but as I reached the street corner I turned and looked back up the steps, just in time to see the man taking William into the building. “Goodbye, my darling,” I whispered. “I shall always love you.”
***
Sitting alone now in the pub, with night having fallen but with the hearth remaining dark and cold, I still remember the terrible agony of that final moment. When I left York, there were rumors that I had fallen pregnant with Mr. Foster's child. I always denied those rumors, of course, sometimes even to myself. The truth is, nobody but Richmal or I could ever understand the bond that we had. We were not in love, not the way that Jack and I were in love, but we were good friends. And if I sweetened one night of his, toward the end of his life, then let the Lord – and the Lord alone – judge me.
“I'm so sorry,” I remember him saying to me, after the deed was done. “It was wrong of me to impress myself upon you in such a manner.”
I was so young and naive, only twenty-one years of age, that I had not really understood what was happening until it was over.
