by Irene Carr
She was not to know that, in Nice, a middle-aged Frenchwoman was searching for Commander Hubert Sackville, who spoke French like a native and had promised to marry her. On the strength of that she had lent him the dowry she had saved, to buy a house for them, as he would not come into his inheritance for a month or so. Hubert had invested the money in the casino at Monte Carlo.
Josie hung up the coat and saw that her hands were shaking – with anger. But she told herself that Hubert was a bag of wind and all talk and she must not allow herself to be upset. Her hands were steady when she took the tea into the drawing room.
‘—so if you could let me have a few quid—’ Hubert broke off as Josie entered with the tray. He snapped at her, ‘Put it down there,’ and nodded at the small table near the chesterfield where he and his mother sat. Josie set down the tray, conscious that he was watching her. He ordered, ‘And get out.’ Josie obeyed.
She could sum up Hubert now. He was begging money from his mother and when he got it he would go. That would be good riddance. Josie went on with her duties, encouraged. She was still doing most of Daisy’s work but coping with it. Her only recreation was to walk in the lanes around the house. Sunderland was two miles away and neither omnibus nor train connected the house to it. That did not matter because Josie had no desire to visit Sunderland, let alone Monkwearmouth where lived the giant. By the time the Smurthwaite household moved back to London in May for the summer ‘season’, she would have saved more money and be ready to seek another position. She had precious little saved now.
Hubert got some money from his mother but he did not leave. She gave him too little for him to do so because she wanted him at home for a while to keep her company. Hubert grumbled but stayed. For the next three days he drank through the morning, slept through the afternoon and started on the brandy before dinner. When Josie passed him during his waking moments, he watched her.
On the fourth morning Josie was making his mother’s bed and thought she was alone on the upper floor when he stole up behind her and put his arms around her. Josie gasped with shock and flailed her arms as she tried to break free. Her elbow connected with Hubert’s nose and she felt the jar painfully. A vase went flying from the bedside table and smashed. Hubert yelped, released her and clapped his hand to his nose as it began to bleed. Josie ran out and down to the kitchen.
She expected the summons, which came within minutes. Mrs Smurthwaite was judge while Hubert, a bloodstained handkerchief still held in one hand, was prosecutor. ‘I told her she’d not made your bed properly and she told me to go to hell. Then she threw the vase into my face and ran off.’ He pointed to the chunks of pottery that were all that was left of the vase.
Mrs Smurthwaite sucked in a hissing breath of disapproval and eyed Josie. ‘Well, what have you to say?’
‘It’s not true, ma’am. I was making your bed and Mr Hubert came up behind me and—’
‘How dare you!’ Mrs Smurthwaite cut in. ‘How dare you accuse my son!’
‘She’s a liar as well as a lunatic,’ Hubert put in. ‘Or maybe she’s drunk. We seem to be getting through a lot of whisky.’
‘I’ve a mind to call the police.’ Mrs Smurthwaite glared at Josie.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ Hubert advised. ‘After all, she’s a widow. We don’t want to be too hard on her. And we haven’t got a witness so it would be my word against hers.’ His eyes, gleaming and cunning, were fixed on Josie.
‘They would believe a gentleman, of course,’ said his mother indignantly.
‘Of course,’ Hubert agreed, ‘but it’s the laws of evidence, Mother.’
‘I see,’ she said vaguely, but not seeing at all. Josie saw only too well. If she complained to the police it would be her word against Hubert’s. She did not have a witness, either.
Mrs Smurthwaite said, ‘Then she’ll just have to go. Today – now. I won’t have her under my roof a moment longer.’ And to Josie: ‘You realise you are very lucky my son has decided not to press charges. I’ll give you a week’s pay and you can pack your things and go. Off with you.’ She waved her hand in dismissal.
Josie was ready to weep, but not in front of Hubert. She wanted to fight her case but knew that if she tried she would be forcibly ejected. Hubert would like the chance to do it. So she kept her head high, with the proud lift to it she had always had. She looked down and through Hubert and his mother, turned her back on them and walked away. She told herself she would have had to have left anyway, knew she could not have gone on living under the same roof as Hubert.
A carter come from Sunderland called at the house every day to sell fresh vegetables. An hour later he lifted Josie’s portmanteau on to his cart and climbed up on to his seat. Josie was about to join him when Hubert came out of the house and gloated: ‘I hope this has taught you a lesson, my girl.’
‘I am not your girl,’ replied Josie. ‘And you are not a gentleman. You are a bully and weak. You live off your mother and when she dies the money will run through your fingers and you will die in poverty and alone. Or you will steal and go to jail and die there.’
Hubert stared at her as if struck as she climbed up to join the carter on his seat. Josie’s words planted in him an awful fear. He tried to laugh and said, ‘Rubbish!’
Josie said only, calmly and with certitude, ‘We will see.’
Hubert’s laughter died. The carter cracked his whip and the cart rolled away down the drive. Hubert shouted after them shrilly, ‘Witch!’
The carter glanced sidewise at Josie uneasily. ‘How do you know what you told him?’
Josie grinned at him, feeling better for a while. ‘I’m not a witch! I just told him what he is and what may well happen because of what he is.’
Now the carter grinned with her, relieved. ‘You certainly put the wind up him.’ And they laughed together.
Josie kept on a cheerful face during the long drive into the town, despite her worries. And despite her approaching Monkwearmouth, the home of the Langleys – and William in particular. She saw the smoke hanging over the river where the ships were built and the tall cranes rising stilt-like above the houses. That stirred memories. Then, as the sun dipped towards the inland horizon, a fog swept in from the cold grey sea. Josie shivered at the chill of it as it lay damply on her.
They entered the town by the Newcastle road and as they passed a public house called the Wheatsheaf the carter said, ‘My stable is just at the back o’ here, but I’ll take you on to Monkwearmouth station. You can get a train there and change at the central station for Durham and London.’ A minute or two later he set her down outside the station with its Grecian columns, but he shook his grey head over her. ‘You’ve a lang way to gan, bonny lass.’ Then he drove away.
Josie was left alone in the mist and the gathering dusk and the railway smell of smoke and steam.
‘D’you have the foreclosure papers?’ Reuben Garbutt barked the question as he strode into Packer’s office in Sunderland and slammed the door shut behind him. He would wait no longer. He had struck the Langleys a terrible blow, now he would deliver another that would destroy them. He spent some time with the solicitor and finally arrived at the Langley house in the evening, walking up the carriage drive.
William had taken to dining early because the old cook had given in her notice, saying she ‘couldn’t cope no more’, and the girl had left to take a job in a shop. There was still neither housekeeper nor nurse. William had put an advertisement in the Sunderland Daily Echo a dozen times and seen a dozen or more applicants but he had turned them all away. None of them met his exacting standards, particularly for the care of his granddaughter. So Rhoda Wilks was producing makeshift meals with much grumbling. She had told all of this to Garbutt in the frequent letters she wrote to him.
‘Lord! What are you doing here?’ Rhoda, in grubby white apron and cap, opened the front door to Garbutt and gaped when she saw him standing at the head of the steps. The thick fog that had drifted in from the sea in the late afternoon
hung around the house, deepening the darkness, grey, damp and smelling of coal smoke. Behind Garbutt lay the garden inside its ornamental iron railings in the middle of the square. Rhoda could only see it was there by the fuzzy yellow bowls of the gas lamps set at its corners. The square was deserted but it could have held a hundred strollers and they would not have been seen.
‘I told you I’d come for you.’ Garbutt saw her surprise and grinned at her. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
Rhoda glanced nervously back along the hall, then took a pace out on to the steps, pulling the door to behind her. She said, voice lowered, ‘He’ll hear you! He’s just finished his dinner and he’s having a glass o’ whisky.’
‘It’s him I want to see.’ Garbutt reached past her to set his hand on the door, but he, too, spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘You don’t need to show me in. I’ll introduce myself.’ He shoved the door open and herded Rhoda into the hall ahead of him. ‘You pack your duds. You’re coming away with me.’
Rhoda whispered, incredulous but happy, ‘Now?’
‘In about ten minutes. That’s all it will take me to finish him.’
Rhoda paused at that, one foot on the stairs. ‘What d’you mean? What are you going to do?’
‘None o’ your business. I’m settling a score. I’ve waited and schemed for twenty years to finish off the Langleys and now I’m going to do it. Get on with you!’ And he gave her a shove to start her up the stairs. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’ Their whispers scurried around the hall and then ceased, were replaced by the swift, repeated creaking as Rhoda climbed the stairs.
Garbutt crossed the hall to the dining room, opened its door and walked in. It was a long room with pictures of ships built in the Langley yard on the walls. The curtains were drawn and light came from a gas chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. The long polished table was bare, its cloth drawn, and at its head sat William Langley. Garbutt saw that his face was thin and haggard now, his hair grey. He peered at Garbutt and asked, puzzled, ‘Who are you?’ He started to rise.
‘Please! Don’t get up.’ Garbutt advanced into the room, smiling. ‘I am from the Shipbuilders’ Finance Company – in fact, I am the Shipbuilders’ Finance Company. We’ve lent you quite a lot of money in the past.’
William still stood. ‘Yes, of course. I wonder why Rhoda didn’t announce you? Never mind. What can I do for you, Mr …?’ He held out his hand and waited.
Garbutt did not take it, but answered, ‘You don’t remember me but that’s not surprising because I was only a boy of fifteen when you sacked my father.’ He paused, waiting, and when William stared at him, a confused old man now, Garbutt shouted at him, ‘You don’t even remember! My father, my family, me – you turned us all away to starve and you’ve forgotten us like we were so many bloody rats! My name is Garbutt! Reuben Garbutt! And you sacked my father, Elisha! Does that mean anything to you?’
It did. William withdrew his hand and slowly sat down. He replied wearily, ‘Yes, I turned him out because he was stealing from me. I’m sorry it happened, sorry for you and your family, but I do not regret what I did. I think I acted correctly, even generously, because if the case had been taken to court he would have been jailed.’
Garbutt glared at him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have any regrets but I think you’ll have some now. The money Shipbuilders’ Finance lent you, that I lent you – I want it back.’
William blinked, puzzled. ‘You mean repayment of some of it? Now?’
‘I mean repayment of all of it! Now!’ And Garbutt pulled from his pocket the sheaf of documents drawn up by Packer and threw them on the table. They slid along its polished surface, spreading like a fan to stop in front of William. Garbutt sucked in a deep breath, showing his teeth in a smile. He went on softly as William stared down at the papers, ‘Those are notices of foreclosure. Under the terms of the loans, they were liable to be called in if James ever ceased to be manager of the yard. And now he’s dead.’ He leaned forward to thrust his face close to William’s. ‘I reckon there’s enough there to bankrupt you and finish Langley’s altogether.’ Then he straightened and laughed.
The harsh laughter went on for some seconds as he stood over the old man. But then he shut his mouth and recoiled as William suddenly set hands on the table and shoved himself to his feet. For a moment he was again the William Langley he had been, tall and broad. Deep-voiced, he roared, ‘Get out! You’re a damned villain like your father! But you’ll get your money! The Langley yard will stay for Charlotte! You won’t get it! I’ll see you in hell—’ He broke off, his face contorting in agony as he clutched at his chest. His knees gave way and he collapsed in the chair.
Garbutt stooped to peer into the twisted face, the staring eyes, then he backed away, felt his hand on the door and yanked it open. He passed through into the hall and saw Rhoda descending the stairs. She was dressed for the street in dark coat and skirt and wide-brimmed hat, and labouring under the weight of a wooden box that held all her belongings.
Garbutt took the box from her and started towards the front door. Rhoda asked, ‘What’s been going on? I heard shouting.’
‘Never mind.’ Garbutt beckoned her with a jerk of his head.
But Rhoda turned aside and peered into the dining room. In the gaslight from the chandelier she saw the gleaming length of the table and William seated at its head. She took a pace towards him but then halted and put a hand to her mouth. She turned a horrified face to Garbutt and whispered, ‘He’s dead!’
Garbutt answered exultantly, ‘Aye. He ruined my father and I swore I’d see the end of him and I have. Now come on.’ He seized her arm and hurried her towards the front door.
A child wailed somewhere high in the house and Rhoda stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s the bairn! That’s little Charlotte! I can’t leave the bairn on her own in this place – with him.’
‘The brat’s nothing to do wi’ you!’ Garbutt tugged at her arm, eager to be away now, but she resisted stubbornly.
‘She’ll be expecting me to go to her.’ Rhoda turned to go back to the stairs but Garbutt swung her about to face him. As she opened her mouth to protest he slapped her across the face with a heavy hand, rocking her head on her shoulders.
‘You bloody little fool! For years you’ve been wanting to get out of here and now you’ve got your chance. Now don’t argue with me and come on.’ He swung Rhoda’s box up on to his shoulder and dragged the stunned woman out of the house and down the steps. He looked back once and gloated, ‘That’s the finish of the Langleys! I’ve done for them!’ He laughed harshly as he hustled Rhoda away into the fog.
Josie had learned she had a half-hour to wait in Monkwearmouth station for a train that would take her to Durham to connect with the London express. She found a seat in the waiting room, which soon filled up with women carrying shopping and men returning home from work in Monkwearmouth. She dozed, wearied by the events of the day and the journey with the carter – and dreamt of Hubert Smurthwaite leering at her and reaching out for her with groping fingers. Then the dream changed to the old one of the giant hanging over her, threatening. She woke, whimpering, to see the other passengers staring at her.
Josie apologised: ‘I must have dropped off.’ But they still exchanged disapproving glances that said as plain as day: ‘The woman’s been drinking.’ Josie peered out of the window at the fog swirling outside. Her feet were damp inside her shoes, the soles of them worn through and the heels run down, but she dared not change them for the pair in her portmanteau as they were the only good ones she had left. She was hungry but reluctant to eat. She was not destitute, had her small savings and the ten shillings Mrs Smurthwaite had given her in lieu of a week’s notice. But there was a chill fear inside her because she had heard stories of servants who had lost their ‘place’, failed to find another and had no other home to go to. They had been forced into the workhouse, spartan and soulless, or had to sleep in the streets and beg their bread from the back doors of the big houses. Or sell their bodies
.
Josie tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She had to find her fare to go south. But the fears returning, she asked herself, ‘Can you afford to go south?’ Then she wondered, ‘Suppose I got some work here for a month or two, just long enough to save something, enough to pay my fare and a bit in hand?’ She shrank from the thought of the journey through the night – and what awaited her in London? She had nowhere to live, no job. She would have to walk the streets looking for both. She hesitated and heard the rumble of the approaching train. The people around her stood up and streamed out on to the platform. She knew she had to get her ticket now but still sat on. She stayed there, undecided, until the train pulled out, clanking on across the bridge over the River Wear in a hissing of steam and puffing smoke, heading for Sunderland central station. And now she accepted the inevitable – she would have to look for work and lodgings here.
Josie handed in her portmanteau at the left luggage office and walked out of the station. She hesitated for a moment longer in the shelter of the huge arch with its Grecian columns, then plunged out into the fog. She knew where to start, ideally wanted a job where she could live in, and a public house could be the answer. She had passed one with the carter: the Wheatsheaf.
The fog seemed thicker now she was out in the streets, the gas lamps lighting little except a few feet around them and that with only an amber glow. She guessed this was because she was near the River Wear and the sea. There were few people about and those she met materialised suddenly out of the mist and disappeared as quickly into it.
The manager of the Wheatsheaf did not want a barmaid but suggested she try the Frigate, nearer the river in Church Street. There Josie went into the snug and asked the barmaid, ‘Are you wanting another pair of hands here?’
The girl bustled along behind the bar to whisper to a man pulling pints of beer from a pump, and Josie saw him shake his head. She knew the answer before the girl returned, smiling apologetically, to say, ‘Sorry, pet.’ And then, because she had noted Josie’s accent, ‘You’re not from around here. Have you just moved in?’
