Lovers Meeting

by Irene Carr

  He shrugged – the man meant nothing to him – and went up to the room. He joined his mother and sisters, all of them drunk now, and took a bottle from one of them. He drank and coughed as the raw spirit caught at his throat, but slowly his temper improved. He consoled himself that he would not have to put up with them for much longer. He was making far more money than he could have done by working. He took the lion’s share of everything the gang stole and he saw to it that they worked hard at it. He knew he had the power to charm or terrify and that those gifts would make him rich.

  He told himself that must come first. He would wreak his revenge on William and all the Langleys but in his own good time. He knew where to find them.

  ‘You are Mrs Langley, wife of Mr David Langley?’ A policeman brought the news. He stood blue and burly in the dim hallway of the boarding house with its aspidistra on a table and its smell of boiled cabbage. Peggy Langley was nervous, standing in his shadow with little Josie holding to her skirt, then distraught with grief and shock when he told her awkwardly that David was dead. She knew she had to control herself for the sake of the child at her side and at first there was disbelief. Hadn’t she kissed David, and seen him saunter off, only an hour or so ago? But then the policeman produced David’s wallet and notebook, in which he had written the address of the boarding house. So she knew it was true.

  Josie asked in a whisper, afraid of the big policeman, ‘What’s the matter, Mam?’ The tears rolled down Peggy’s cheeks, and now Mrs Entwistle came waddling to comfort her, with Herbert Entwistle tutting and shaking his head mournfully in the background. Peggy lifted Josie and held the child to her breast, let the older woman lead her to the parlour while Herbert fetched a nip of brandy. She was glad of any sympathy and comfort at that time. She could give little to Josie who could not understand why her father would never come back to her, and cried.

  Herbert Entwistle handed Peggy the brandy and assured her, smirking, ‘We’ll help all we can, m’dear. You can depend on us.’ He arranged for an undertaker, who slipped Herbert a commission. And the evening before the funeral Peggy, deathly pale in her black ‘widow’s weeds’ and with hands shaking still, asked Herbert, ‘May I speak to you in private, Mr Entwistle?’

  He bobbed his head, expansively granting a favour now. He knew there was little money to be had out of Peggy Langley. ‘O’ course. Come into the office.’

  The office, where Mrs Entwistle kept her records, was little bigger than a cupboard. There was a small table and two straight-backed chairs. They sat and Herbert waited while Peggy twisted her wisp of a handkerchief into knots, until he prompted impatiently, ‘What is it, then?’

  Peggy admitted, ‘Will you write a letter for me, please?’ Like many more, she was illiterate. Unlike many, she felt it keenly.

  Herbert’s sense of superiority made him confident. ‘O’ course I will.’ He coughed, then went on apologetically, ‘Trouble is, I have to charge.’ He ended vaguely, ‘Professional rules, y’know.’

  Peggy, still embarrassed, said quickly, ‘Oh, aye.’

  Herbert looked in the drawer under the table and found some sheets of writing paper, a pen and a bottle of ink. The nib was rusted but he scraped it clean with a thumbnail and wiped it on the leg of his trousers. Then he dipped the pen in the ink and poised it over the paper with a flourish. ‘Who is the letter to?’

  ‘Mr William Langley …’

  The letter Peggy dictated hesitantly was simple and short. It informed William of the death of his son, David, expressed Peggy’s sympathy and her own grief and concluded, ‘Yours sincerely, Peggy Langley.’

  Herbert addressed the envelope and said, ‘There y’are, ma’am.’ He ventured, ‘That’ll be sixpence.’ And added quickly as Peggy hesitated, ‘That’s for postage as well.’ So Peggy paid him and he ushered her out, assuring her, ‘You can leave it to me, ma’am, don’t you worry.’ Then he burnt the letter in the kitchen fire and pocketed the money.

  The funeral was in the morning. There was a cold wind numbing their faces and a spit of rain as the few mourners gathered around the coffin with the clergyman officiating. The widow was in black with a veil, and the child stood by her. Josie was very straight in the back and her white face was turned up to look at her mother. That showed because everyone else looked down at the grass and clay of the churchyard. The only other mourners were the Entwistles, Herbert carefully long-faced and his wife dabbing at tears caused by grief – or the wind.

  They all rode back to the boarding house in the solitary cab. Josie still could not comprehend the disappearance of her father, was bewildered and unhappy. She hated the Entwistles, the boarding house, the cemetery and the cab. She whispered to her mother, who sat clutching a handkerchief, ‘Are we going to America now, Mam?’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘No. We’re getting on a train to London.’

  ‘Is that like America?’

  ‘Better. You’ll see.’ But Peggy had no such confidence.

  The cab waited outside the boarding house and the Entwistles got down, but the cabman went in and emerged within minutes carrying a portmanteau on his shoulder. He heaved this up on to the roof then climbed up on to the box and picked up the reins.

  Mrs Entwistle wailed, ‘I hope everything turns out all right for you, dear.’ Herbert smirked and nodded agreement. He knew Peggy had paid her bill, had seen the money change hands. He would have most of that from his wife in a few minutes if he had to belt it out of her. He herded her into the house as the cab pulled away.

  At the station a porter took the portmanteau and followed Peggy as she bought her tickets and went on to the platform. It was lined with passengers waiting for the train to London. The porter put down the portmanteau and touched his cap, but refused a tip from the young widow. ‘Naw! You’ve had some bad luck lately, ’aven’t yer?’ And when Peggy nodded he told her, ‘Put that back in your purse and save it for the little lass.’ He patted Josie’s cheek then hurried away.

  Josie asked, ‘Will we live in a nice house in London, Mam?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Peggy replied, knowing she probably lied. But she knew Josie was unsettled by events, frightened and needing assurance. Peggy was going to London because she would not stay here where her heart had been broken. And in London she might find work. She believed she could hope for nothing from William Langley. She would take nothing and thought, To hell with him and his stiff neck!

  Peggy had no one to turn to but she had to think of Josie, and as long as she had Josie she had something of David. She knew no one in London but she remembered, when she had been in service with the Langleys, hearing of a Monkwearmouth boy who had gone to London and found a job there working for a Mr Urquhart. He might be able to help her. If not, well, she would have to find something, and soon, because her purse was almost empty. She held Josie more tightly and the child clung to her mother as the platform reverberated with the approach of the train.

  It came rumbling in at speed, the brakes grinding, looming monstrous, belching smoke and steam and giving off a smell of hot metal and coal smoke. Then the friendly porter came back and lifted the portmanteau, settled Peggy and Josie aboard the train. ‘There y’are, missus.’ Another pat for Josie then he was gone with a farewell wave of his hand. With a jerk and a clanking of couplings the train pulled away. So Peggy did not hear the boys selling newspapers outside the station as they called shrilly, ‘Dreadful disaster! Blackhill sinks with all aboard!’

  That was not strictly true. While the Blackhill had been in collision in foul weather there had been a few survivors. But most of her crew and passengers had perished. And David Langley and his family had left her at the moment of sailing. Their departure had not been noted and their names were still on the passenger list.

  3

  February 1888

  ‘’Ere y’are, missus!’ The hoarse voice caused little Josie Langley to look up with solemn, wide grey eyes. Peggy started out of her worried abstraction as the conductor of the horse-drawn bus bellowed t
o her over the heads of the other passengers. As she rose hurriedly to her feet he went on, ‘Up that street there and then foller your nose like I told you afore.’ He helped Peggy and her daughter down from the bus. This was a street of big, stylish houses, but Peggy and Josie had to pick their way between the heaps of horse manure that littered its surface. The street smelt of it, sharply ammoniac.

  Left to herself, Peggy would have walked and saved the fare, but the day was chill with a spit of rain and she was worried still about Josie’s health. The little girl seemed to have recovered fully from the fever, but Peggy was always conscious that David had left his daughter in her care. The bus had carried them from close to the lodgings Peggy had taken when they had arrived in London the night before. She had gone there warily on the advice of the cabman she had hired at the station, but had found the house comfortable, clean and reasonable in price. It needed to be.

  Josie was dressed in her best, as was her mother. The little girl wore her blue woollen coat with its flounced skirt that ended just above her buttoned boots. These Peggy had polished until they shone. So did Josie’s morning face, framed by her bonnet trimmed with fur. Peggy had not bought black for her child, despite Mrs Entwistle’s obvious disapproval, because she had felt David would not have wanted it. But she wore the black coat and dress she had bought for the funeral because she grieved and because it was her best.

  They followed the directions given them by the bus conductor and at the end Peggy asked the driver of a provision merchant’s delivery van, perched on his box of a seat behind his horse’s rump and smart in striped apron: ‘Excuse me, sir, but is this New Cavendish Street?’

  He guessed at her illiteracy but touched his whip to his cap. ‘It is, missus. Which one did you want? Mr Urquhart?’ Now he was impressed. ‘Ah! Fine gentleman.’ And he pointed out the house then clicked his tongue at the horse and rolled away on iron-shod wheels.

  The Urquhart house was tall and high-windowed with three storeys standing above the street. Peggy paused on the pavement opposite, hesitating nervously. Josie, holding her mother’s hand, pulled on it impatiently. ‘What’s the matter, Mam? What have you stopped for?’ But Peggy could not explain how much hung on the next hour or so, knew the child would not understand if her mother told her they would have to go to the workhouse if she could not find work. That institution would put a roof over their heads but its spartan cleanliness and pitiless regime were as bad as any prison. Peggy prayed silently, ‘Not for Josie, please, oh Lord.’ Then she took a deep breath and walked across the street.

  A flight of wide steps flanked by handrails rose up to the big front door with its shining brass knocker, but Peggy turned instead to the narrow steps that led down to the cellar kitchen under the house. She tapped at the door there and it was opened by a girl of sixteen or so, a kitchen-maid with a mob-cap on her curls and a white apron tied around her waist. Peggy asked, ‘Can I speak to Mr Harvey, please?’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Ooh! I dunno. Arf a mo’ an’ I’ll arsk. Who shall I say it is?’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘He won’t know me. Just say I’m from Monkwearmouth.’

  The wide eyes blinked. ‘Where?’ The girl had never heard of it.

  Peggy repeated, ‘Monkwearmouth.’

  ‘Ah!’ The girl mouthed the syllables silently, rehearsing, then said, ‘Awright, I’ll see if he’s in.’

  Peggy knew what that meant. As the girl disappeared and she was left to wait at the door she wondered if Harvey would see her. And thought with weary pessimism: Why should he?

  ‘’Scuse me, Mr Harvey, but there’s a woman at the kitchen door arskin’ to see you.’ The girl, Elsie, stood respectfully at the door to the butler’s pantry, a small, neat room that was his office. Albert Harvey, at thirty-one, was a young man for his job but he had already held it for five years. He was tall and lean with dark hair and shrewd dark eyes. He sat at the little table that served as his desk, in shirt-sleeves and black waistcoat, but his tailcoat hung ready on a hook. He had risen a long way in the world but was determined to go a lot further.

  He knew what it meant when a strange woman came to the kitchen door asking to see him. They often did and they always wanted work. He never took them on. Instead he looked for the staff he wanted and then set about getting them. At that time he knew there would soon be a vacancy in the household – today if he allowed the assistant cook to leave without working her notice; she wanted to join her husband in service in a house in the shires. But Harvey already had his eye on the potential replacement, working in a large house only a few hundred yards away. Still …

  The girl’s mention of ‘Monk-wear-mouth she says she’s from.’ That was something different. And Elsie went on, ‘She’s got this girl with her I think must be hers; little thing, all eyes.’ That was different, too. The women seeking work never brought their children with them, to spoil their chances by whimpering or wailing.

  Albert Harvey hesitated. He was a man of intelligence who reasoned things out, did not make hasty, emotional decisions. But now those two oddities of Monkwearmouth and the child made him curious. He said, ‘Very well. Show her up.’

  Josie did not like the pantry, windowless and lamplit, but she liked Albert Harvey and smiled at him as her mother led her in. Albert found himself returning that smile and it was still in place when he faced Peggy Langley. Probably the matter was settled then. He asked, ‘What can I do for you, Mrs …?’

  Peggy supplied: ‘Langley, sir. Peggy Langley.’ She started, ‘I’m looking for a place, sir.’ That meant she was wanting to work as a servant in a house. She went on to tell of her experience in the Langley house: ‘I think I’m a good, plain cook and before that I was housemaid …’ She told him of her marriage to the son of the Langley house but said nothing of William’s reaction. That did not matter because Harvey could read between the lines. Peggy explained how she and David were on their way to America when he was killed.

  Harvey thought, That’s why the child is here. He guessed that, being alone and newly come to this city, the young woman would be reluctant to leave the little girl with strangers.

  Peggy finished, ‘So now I’m looking for a place.’

  Harvey did not mention Monkwearmouth; he had never made favourites for any reason and would not start. He had not been back there for over five years because his work kept him busy and he had no relatives living there now. But he remembered the Langley family, and old William in particular. He could guess why Peggy had not sought help from the old man, and while she had not pleaded he also guessed that she was in desperate need of the ‘place’ she was asking for. She was pale and her lips were pressed tight to stop them trembling; her hands in their black cotton gloves were clasped. And at her knee there was that small face smiling up at him.

  He said, ‘As it happens …’ Peggy listened in a daze of relief, catching the phrases that meant so much: ‘A month’s trial … live in … wage of twenty-six pounds a year …’ He finished, ‘When will you be able to start?’

  He was not surprised when she answered, ‘As soon as possible.’

  He suggested, ‘Would the day after tomorrow be convenient?’

  It would. Peggy had enough money to pay for her lodging for another two nights, but no more.

  In Monkwearmouth, old William Langley was uneasy in his mind. He had settled down to work in his office in the Langley house but his thoughts kept turning to his elder son, his wife and his child. William was now uncertain. Had he acted justly? He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, saw it was mid-morning and decided it was time he walked down to the shipyard. He rose from his desk and strode out into the hall. At that moment the knocker banged on the front door. He knew that the maid had gone out on some errand so he opened the door himself.

  The boy standing on the step held out an envelope. ‘Telegram for Mr William Langley, sir.’

  ‘I’m William Langley.’ He took the envelope from the boy and gave him a halfpenny.

  ‘Th
ank you, sir.’

  William closed the door, frowning, and tore open the envelope. He wondered who the devil was sending telegrams to him at his private residence. They came to his office at the shipyard but never to the house. Some clerk had made a mistake …

  He read the flimsy through the first time without taking it in – or maybe his mind rebelled against the news, refusing to accept it. He read it again and this time the reading was more difficult because his hands shook so that the paper shivered and the words danced. But the message was dreadfully clear: the shipping company regretted to inform him that David Langley, his wife and daughter had perished, lost with the SS Blackhill.

  He said, ‘No. No!’ But he knew it was true. It all fitted. He had seen newspaper reports of the loss of the Blackhill, bound for America with emigrants, and David had said he was going to emigrate to America. He had said it in this house only a week ago.

  William turned and walked through the hall and the long passage to the kitchen at the back of the house. The woman he employed as a cook, and the scullery maid who helped her, were working there but he told them, ‘Get out.’

  The cook looked up from the dish she was preparing, startled. ‘I’m just getting the dinner ready—’

  But William shouted, face twisted in pain, ‘Get out!’ And the women backed away from him, snatched up their coats from the hooks behind the door and ran. They left the back door open and William shut it with a kick then sank down in a chair at the big scrubbed table.

  He remembered: it was in this house that David had been born and grown up; it had been his home. It was in this room that he, William, had denied that home to his son and sent him away. He had stood in the doorway to the passage, David just in front of him. His woman – his son’s wife – had stood by the table here with the little lass beside her and frightened out of her wits. William had seen that but hardened his heart.