by Irene Carr
Josie replied drily, ‘Not really. I came up from London to work in a house out towards Newcastle and I got the sack today. So I’m looking for a job and lodgings.’ Then she amended quickly, ‘Cheap lodgings.’
The barmaid said obliquely, ‘Some o’ these places want a sight more work out of you than they pay for.’
Josie supplied the information she was fishing for: ‘I could manage the work but the young master tried to … interfere with me.’
‘Ah! One o’ them!’ The girl scowled. ‘I hope you gave him what for.’
‘I did.’ They grinned at each other. Then Josie finished, ‘But that got me the sack.’
She turned away but then the girl said, ‘Wait a minute. Would you like a bite to eat afore you go? I brought some sandwiches for me tea and didn’t eat them all.’ And she brought out a little newspaper-wrapped parcel from under the bar. ‘It’s a nice bit o’ bread and cheese.’
‘Thank you. That’s very good of you.’ Josie took the parcel and sat down on the little bench by the counter.
The girl smiled, went away but returned a minute later and set a glass on the counter. ‘There’s a drop o’ something to wash it down.’
Josie fumbled in her bag for her purse but the girl said, ‘Never mind. That’s on the house. From the boss.’
Josie looked past her and saw the man still working the pump, beer frothing into the glass he held, but looking her way. She called, ‘Thank you!’ And he nodded and went on with his work.
Josie could have wept at their kindness but she was hungry. She munched on the thick slices of bread and cheese and sipped at the sherry, feeling it warm her. As she picked up the last crumbs she saw the newspaper that held them was the Sunderland Daily Echo of the previous day. It was filled with advertisements and Josie mechanically scanned the ‘Situations Vacant’ column. An agency in Frederick Street wanted housemaids and parlour-maids – but it would be closed at this time of night … Her eye ran on down the page and then one name stood out: Langley! ‘Housekeeper … and children’s nurse … Apply Mr William Langley.’
Josie’s heart thumped. She could picture him, tall, bearded and raging, as she had seen him twenty years before, her grandfather, William Langley. The children’s nurse would be for Charlotte; Josie remembered the announcement of Charlotte’s birth, which she had read while ironing The Times. She wondered briefly why James or his wife – what was her name? Maria – why they had not placed the advertisement.
But then a voice said above her, ‘There’s a pub down by the ferry that might be wanting a lass to live in, leastways he did last week.’ The publican looked down at her. ‘If you go down Church Street …’
Josie listened carefully to his directions, thanked him and his barmaid for their kindness, then went on her way. The crumpled newspaper she smoothed out, folded and put in her bag. If she did not find work this night she would go to the agency in Frederick Street.
The fog was thicker now as she walked down Church Street towards the river, following the directions she had been given. She had yet to find a bed for the night. If she did not find one, and work, at this pub, then she would look for lodgings. She saw hardly a soul after she had passed St Peter’s church. Now she was beginning to remember this place. She stopped in her tracks for a minute, breathing shallowly, as it came back to her, where she was and where she was headed. She went on. It was just about here that … She rounded a bend in the road and there was the square.
Josie halted. A carriage drive ran off from the road to the left. She remembered it made a half-circle to pass the Langley house and emerge again on the road further on. A terrace of houses rose to the left of the drive and on the right was a garden. There was another terrace, hidden in the fog now, on the other side of the garden. And at the back of the square, also hidden in the fog, was the Langley house. She could picture it: wide steps leading up to a front door, two floors with tall windows, a third with square, smaller ones where the servants slept. Josie had slept in rooms like that most of her life.
Was William Langley there, lurking behind that grey curtain?
Josie thought that he would be an old man of seventy or so now. And she was a grown woman. He would not recognise her. And then the idea came: she could face him, say she was Mrs Miller come to apply for the post, hold out the newspaper – and then walk away. She could lay this ghost for ever. If she dared.
She would.
Josie screwed up her courage and turned into the carriage drive. She would say, ‘I’m Mrs Miller. I’ve come about the “place” advertised in the Echo.’ She rehearsed it as she walked up the drive: ‘I’m Mrs Miller …’
There were many gaps in the ornamental railings that ringed the garden in the centre of the square. The garden was a wild, neglected jungle of trees and shrubs, long grass and thistles. All of it was insubstantial in the fog, dripping moisture that glistened in the pale reflected light from a gas lamp on the corner behind her.
Then she heard harsh, mocking laughter and the crunch of footfalls on the drive. They were approaching her and there was something about the laughter that sent her sidling through a gap in the railings. She moved behind the bushes, hiding, and stared out as the tramp of feet came nearer. Josie blinked and shrank down as a giant with a huge head took shape, striding out of the darkness. Then she realised it was not a monstrous head but a box he carried on his shoulder. He dragged a woman along at the end of his arm. Her face was covered by her shawl but her voice wailed, ‘You’ve killed him!’
The giant answered hoarsely, ‘Shut your mouth! You’re finished with him and that’s what you wanted.’ He yanked viciously at the woman’s arm so that she cried out. She stumbled on at his heels, then together they blended into the dank grey darkness of the night. Their footfalls receded then were gone, and Josie was left alone.
She rose and took a breath, steadying herself, letting her thumping heart slow down. She realised the man had not been a giant, had only seemed so because she was crouching low on the ground and looking up at him. But she knew that, giant or no, he was dangerous.
Josie walked on, repeating her little speech again: ‘I’m Mrs Miller. I’ve come …’ Until the Langley house loomed out of the mist. It filled the back of the square and she found its front door standing open, the gas lamp in the hall casting a rectangle of light down the steps. She climbed them, yanked at the bell-pull by the front door and heard the distant jangle deep in the house, but no one came hurrying. Josie entered the house, paused in the hall and peered cautiously around her. She called, ‘Is anyone there?’ On a floor above, a child cried mournfully. A tall clock with a slow swinging pendulum ticked against one wall. But there was no reply to Josie’s call.
She tried again: ‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ But still no reply broke the silence of the house. There were wide stairs at the end of the hall, closed doors to her right and one on her left that stood ajar, showing light within. Josie went to it and peeped through the crack. She took in the long, polished table and the pictures hanging on the walls, but only in passing. Her gaze was drawn straight to the man seated at the head of the table and she sucked in a sharp breath of shock, held it then let it out in a shuddering sigh. She clapped her hands to her face in horror as she realised this was a dead man.
The door creaked, a long drawn-out groan, as she eased it open. Josie caught her breath, then went to him, heart thumping and hands shaking. She edged slowly down the side of the table until she stood close enough to touch one of his hands. It had slipped down on to the arm of the chair in which he sat and was already cold, lifeless. His other hand still clutched his breast. His face was twisted with pain – of body or mind? His eyes stared. Josie recognised her grandfather, now shrunken and dead.
She felt no sorrow. This was not as when her mother or Dorothy Miller died. Then she had lost those she loved dearly, but this was different. Her only recollection of this old man had instilled terror.
And yet … She had been drawn to this place against her will, unt
il at the last, when she had thought to rid herself of a memory. That memory of her grandfather had haunted her all her life and she had wanted to be rid of him. Well, now she was, and she felt tears pricking her eyes.
11
‘Mam-mee!’
Josie’s thoughts were recalled to the living as she realized the child was still wailing overhead. She returned to the hall, wondering, Where are James and his wife, and the servants in this house? But no one came, and she climbed the stairs. Four doors opened from a long landing; the crying came from behind one of them. Josie opened it and found a nursery. A fire, its embers banked up with coal dust for the night, gave out only a red glow. It was sufficient to show a table and chairs, a rocking horse, shelves on one wall with books – and a cot. The child, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little girl in a nightie, stood in the cot. She held on to its rail and wailed, eyes wide.
‘All right, now.’ Josie ran across to the cot and lifted the child out, held the weeping girl to her breast. ‘Whisht now, whisht.’ She soothed and rocked the child, whispering and crooning. There was a rag doll, the worse for wear through loving, lying in the cot. Josie pressed it into the plump arms and they closed around it. After a time the crying ceased and the little body relaxed. Josie gently replaced her in the cot and covered her over. She stood by for a minute or two, watching the sleeping child. Then, sure that she was sound asleep, Josie left the room.
She started back to the head of the stairs but then froze as she heard a heavy tread in the hall below. She wondered if the owner of the harsh laughter had returned.
A voice called deeply, ‘Who’s up there? Is that you, Rhoda?’
Josie did not think this was the same voice she had heard earlier in the square, but she was still cautious. She walked to the head of the stairs and halted there, looking down. A man stood in the hall. He wore a sea officer’s uniform of dark blue double-breasted reefer jacket and a peaked cap, but both were salt-stained, the cap broken-peaked. He carried a canvas kitbag on his shoulder and now took off the cap with his free hand as he saw Josie, revealing black hair that lay thick and unruly on his skull. He was unshaven, his face shadowed by the stubble, and his dark eyes and his voice were hostile as he demanded, ‘Who are you?’
Josie slowly descended the stairs and stopped when she was eye to eye with him. She realized she was still two steps from the floor. This man had not seemed tall when she looked down at him from the head of the stairs, probably because of the breadth of his shoulders, but now—
Tom Collingwood saw a slender, auburn-haired girl, pale and wide-eyed. Her coat was well worn and her shoes down-at-heel but there was a proud lift to her chin as she faced him. Pretty? He decided: more than that. But there was a rasp in his voice as he repeated, ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ He eyed her suspiciously.
Josie was still shaken, nervous in this strange place, and this man was rough in his appearance. She blurted out her prepared speech. ‘I’m Mrs Miller. I’ve come about the “place” advertised in the Echo.’ She held out the crumpled newspaper and pointed with one slim finger. She was also suspicious. She had photographs of James Langley, admittedly when he was fourteen years old, but she was sure this was not he. And this tall, hard-eyed stranger obviously thought she might be a thief. That angered her and she demanded, ‘May I ask the same question of you, sir?’
He blinked at that, taken aback by her challenge, but he answered, ‘I’m Tom Collingwood.’ He gave a stiff nod of the head which Josie acknowledged with a nod of her own. He went on, ‘I live here when I’m not at sea. I’m a ship’s captain.’ He reached out a big, callused hand, took the paper from her and read it, then looked up at her, still suspicious. ‘You were upstairs.’
‘I’ve been seeing to the little girl. She was crying.’
‘Charlotte?’
Josie remembered the name in The Times four years ago but realised she wasn’t supposed to know because she was Mrs Miller, not Josie Langley. She answered, ‘If that is her name.’
‘Where’s Rhoda?’
Josie shook her head. ‘I don’t know anyone called Rhoda.’
Tom muttered, ‘The last I knew she worked here and was looking after Charlotte.’ Then he concluded, ‘So Mr Langley has engaged you.’
‘No.’ And as he stared at her again, ‘I’ve been in this house less than an hour.’ Josie took back the paper, put it in her bag and snapped it shut. ‘When I arrived I found the front door open and—’ She stopped there.
Tom echoed, prompting her: ‘And … what?’
Her head had turned to face the dining-room and his gaze followed hers. Josie said, ‘In there.’
Tom crossed the hall with long strides and Josie came quickly down the last two stairs and followed him. He stopped for an instant in the doorway, staring at the body of William seated at the head of the table, then paced slowly to stand beside him and finally sank down on his knees to look into William’s face, gently touch his cheek.
Josie stood behind him and said softly, ‘He’s dead.’
He said hoarsely, ‘Aye, you’re right enough.’ Then he bowed his head and his wide shoulders slumped. He gripped the old man’s cold hands as if to try to drag him back from death. Josie heard him sob. His voice came to her, muffled. ‘He brought me up from a boy. He was father and mother to me. Anything I am or have, I owe to him.’ After a time he let go of the body and rose to his feet, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. Josie wondered at his love for a man who had turned her parents away.
Tom absently picked up the spread sheaf of papers from the table. ‘He had a sad ending. He sent me a cable – I got it at Lisbon a week back – to tell me his son James and his wife had been killed by some madman driving a lorry.’
Josie had heard nothing of this. She whispered, ‘Oh, my God! The little girl’s parents?’
Tom nodded absently. ‘Charlotte’s, yes. Her mother was Argentinian and her parents disapproved of her marrying James. They’ve not spoken to her since. But I must write to them, if William did not.’
Tom did not notice Josie’s shock, might have considered it excessive on learning of the death of two strangers, but he was frowning over the papers. Now he looked up, angry and puzzled. ‘These are notices of foreclosure, debts being called in. William must have mortgaged the yard. But to foreclose like this!’ He threw the notices on to the table as if they soiled his hands. ‘Who could have done it?’ Then he remembered he was talking to a stranger, and added stiffly, ‘This is family business. I’d be grateful if you would not repeat anything of what you’ve heard or seen this night.’
Josie looked up at him, angered by the request, the implication that she might gossip. But then she saw the reason for it, and his pain. She said, ‘I have something to tell you, Captain Collingwood.’
But not in the presence of the dead man. Josie led the way out into the hall and closed the dining-room door. She began, ‘When I got here, I was walking round the square—’ They stood together in the house, now silent save for the slow ticking of the clock, and she told of her arrival, the harsh laughter, the man and woman glimpsed in the fog. ‘She said, “You’ve killed him.” And he said, “You’ve finished with him as you wanted.” Then they went on and I came here. I heard the child crying upstairs and went to her, settled her down again – and then I heard you call.’
Tom Collingwood had listened intently and now he asked, ‘Would you know either of them again?’
‘No.’ Josie shook her head. ‘The box he was carrying hid his face and her shawl covered hers. And in the fog and the darkness—’
He nodded impatient acceptance of that. ‘Aye. But the woman sounds like Rhoda Wilks. She was the maid and lived in. I believe she’s been acting dissatisfied for some time. Maria – James’s wife – used to write to me and she mentioned Rhoda was not being satisfactory. And William was advertising so it sounds as if he might have been thinking of replacing her. But I must call the doctor.’ He turned towards the door then halted and glanced up t
he stairs, and his gaze came down to Josie. ‘There’s Charlotte. I can’t leave her alone in the house …’ He hesitated, his eyes searching Josie’s, and she met his stare. He went on, ‘And you are applying for the post of caring for the child? You have references?’
Josie hesitated now. Apply for this post? She had only come here out of curiosity and a vague idea of laying a ghost. Shouldn’t she disclose her true identity?
But Tom pressed her, suspicious again at this hesitation. ‘Well, have you?’
‘Yes.’ Josie fumbled the letter from Elizabeth Urquhart out of her bag.
Tom read it and admitted, ‘Very good.’ Then he glanced at the date. ‘But this was a year ago. You have nothing more recent than that? And you were in London. How do you come to be here?’
Josie explained how she had looked after Dorothy Miller and then sought work. Then: ‘I obtained a position in London but shortly afterwards the household moved North, to just a few miles from here. And I left today without a reference.’
Tom folded the letter and handed it back. ‘Dismissed? Why?’
‘I broke a vase.’
His brows rose. ‘Is that all?’ But he knew it was possible; servants had been dismissed for less.
Josie returned his gaze defiantly. ‘No. The son of the house laid hands on me and I … dealt with him.’
‘I see.’ Tom knew that happened, too. He looked away, embarrassed. Then they both turned as a motor car engine rumbled outside, brakes squeaked then the engine slowed to a steady tick-over. Josie saw the car through the open front door – a saloon, its coachwork and brass headlamps gleaming with polish. A chauffeur in uniform and peaked cap hurried out of the driving seat to open the rear door. A girl stepped out and ran up the steps.
‘Thomas!’ She cried his name as she entered the hall, opening her motoring coat of fur-lined wool to show her hourglass figure of curved hips, tiny waist and swelling bosom. ‘I heard that your ship had docked.’ She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, then pulled away and rubbed her cheek. ‘Oh! You’re all bristly!’ and coyly, ‘I should have remembered!’ Then she became aware of Josie and asked, the smile suddenly brittle, ‘Who is this?’ It reminded Josie of Hubert Smurthwaite’s greeting: ‘Who the hell are you?’ And the stare was similar, assessing her worth, grading her according to her dress.
