The Journey

by Josephine Cox

  “So Lucy went with her father, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Did I say that?” She liked to tell her story properly, and wasn’t finished yet. “Well, soon after she gave him the old heave-ho, his missus upped sticks and buggered off and nobody knows where she went.”

  “So where is Lucy?” Frustration rose in him. “What happened to her?”

  “Oh, aye, you might well ask!”

  “I am asking, and I’d be obliged if you’d give me an answer.” Trent had no patience with folks like this, especially after the travelling. He’d come a long way to get here, and no doubt he’d be going a long way back, sooner or later. So, there was no time to be wasting.

  “All I can say is, it’s a good job Lucy was the only child.” Folding her fat little sausage arms, the woman rattled on: “Y’see, her mam had such terrible trouble bearing a child. Lost four of ’em over the years, she did, an’ as if that isn’t enough to be putting up with, ’er scoundrel of a husband ends up in some other woman’s bed. Shame on him, that’s what I say!”

  “That’s enough o’ the chatter, lady! All I want is the whereabouts of Lucy.” Another minute and he might end up strangling the old biddy.

  Not one to be bullied, she declared sharply, “Hold yer ’orses. I were just getting to that!”

  “For Chrissake, woman, get on with it, then! Where the bloody hell is she?” When he now took a step forward, the red-faced woman took a step back.

  “She’s moved in wi’ Bridget.”

  “Who the hell’s Bridget?”

  The fat little woman gave a wicked grin. “Everybody knows Bridget!”

  “Well, here’s one who doesn’t.” When he took another step forward, she took another step back. “I couldn’t give a toss about Bridget. Just tell me where my girlfriend is, and I’ll trouble you no more.”

  “All right! All right! There’s no need to get aeryated. I already told you, I were coming to that.”

  When he glared at her, she nervously cleared her throat and hurriedly explained, “Bridget is a woman well-known in these parts … particularly by the men, do you get my drift? Oh yes, she might be generous with her favors, but she charges well enough, and so do her girls, though o’ course we ain’t supposed to know about what goes on in that place. The bizzies’ll put her away if she’s found out, an’ none of us would want to be responsible for putting Bridget away, nor any of her girls neither.”

  She took a well-deserved breath. “For all her wrongdoings, she’s gorra good heart, has Bridget, and she’ll help anybody in trouble. Lives along Viaduct Street, number twenty-three. You’ll find Lucy there.”

  On seeing the question in his eyes, she quickly assured him, “No, she’s not one of Bridget’s girls. Lucy Baker is a stray lamb. She met up with a no-good fella who promised her the world then cleared off to sea, and then she had nowhere to go when her mam and dad split up, so Bridget took her in. Y’see, as I told you … Bridget’s gorra soft heart and likes to help such folks.”

  As he hurried away, she called after him. “Hey! There’s summat I forgot to tell you!”

  Frankie was not in the mood for listening, however. “Silly old fool!” he muttered, and ignoring her, he walked on.

  Seeing him march away all the quicker, the woman shrugged her fat little shoulders. “Don’t listen then,” she told his back. “It won’t matter to me. Anyway, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.” The thought of him being caught unawares made her smile—until she recalled how he had nearly banged her door down and then stared at her so threateningly. Her hackles were up.

  Shaking her fist after him, she yelled, “And don’t come bothering me again, Sonny Jim! I were busy at the wash-tub when you came pounding on my door with your damned questions. It’s no fun washing blankets, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you, eh? Oh no! You men with your damned questions. Go on! Bugger off and don’t come back!”

  When he turned to scowl at her, she slammed shut the door and scampered back to her wash-tub, grumbling as she went. If Lucy Baker gives that fella so much as the time o’ day, she wants her head examining!

  When Frankie Trent reached Bridget’s house, he knocked on the door with the same force that he had used in Kitchener Street. “You don’t need to knock.” The woman who opened the door was in her late twenties, tall and slender, with a shock of dark hair and over-painted features. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.” She ushered him inside. “It’s down the passage and first left.”

  He went first and she followed at a quickening pace. It wasn’t often the younger men came to visit, and this one was handsome into the bargain, if a bit surly.

  As she came into the room she quietly closed the door behind her. “The other girls are out,” she confided. “Mandy’s having her hair done and Sandra’s got a day off. So I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me. I’m Lynette.”

  His frown became a smile. “You think I’m a client, is that it?”

  The young woman shrugged. “I hope you are,” she replied. Giving him a knowing wink, she went on in silken tones, “You make a nice change. We normally get the older men here—the blokes who don’t get treated right by their own women … at least, that’s what they tell us.” She chuckled. “So, what’s your reason for being here? Wifey kicked you out, has she?”

  Thinking that here was too good a chance to miss, he led her on. “And what if she has?”

  “Well, I dare say I’d have to cheer you up then, wouldn’t I?” As she spoke, she walked over to him and slowly, tantalizingly, began to undo the flies on his trousers.

  “Did I say you could do that?” He was enjoying every minute.

  “I’m sorry.” One button to go. “Was I supposed to ask?”

  “Not now.” Taking her blouse by the shoulders he ripped it clean off her back. “It’s too late to turn back now.” Leaning forward he kissed her neck, then wiped his tongue along her throat. “If you’re game, then so am I.”

  For the next fifteen minutes they played and touched and he took her without feeling or shame, with an insatiable hunger, and in the same aggressive manner that he might sink his teeth into a fat lamb-chop or swill back a tankard of ale.

  Afterward, while she was dressing, he threw a few coins on the bed. “That’s for your trouble.” He threw down another. “And that’s for what you’re about to do.”

  “And what might that be?” This time, Lynette was not so sure of herself. He had been unexpectedly rough and slightly cruel, and she was right to be wary.

  “Fetch Lucy Baker to me.” He wagged a finger in warning. “One word to her about what we’ve just done, though, and your pretty face won’t be so pretty anymore.”

  Astonished that Lucy would know such a man, she told him, “Lucy isn’t here.”

  She had hardly finished when he caught her by the throat. “You’d best not be lying to me!” he hissed.

  “I’m not lying.” Fearful, she began to struggle. “She skivvies at the squire’s house, Haskell Hall—all the way over in Comberton village. She’s there now. Let me go, please. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Throwing her to the bed, he stood over her. “What time will she be back?”

  “I’m not sure. Five, maybe six o’clock. She liked to work long hours. She needs the money for—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Taking hold of her he yanked her up and held her close, kissing her mouth, her hair, her eyelids. “How do I get there?”

  Cringing at his touch, she told him, “Across the fields at the end of this road toward the water-tower.”

  “How far?”

  “Take the bridle-path, alongside the brook, toward the village of Comberton-by-Weir. It’s sign-posted. Head for the hilltop, and you won’t go wrong. Once past Overhill Farm, go down the other side and you’ll find the squire’s house half a mile on. It’s called Haskell Hall. You can’t miss it—a big old house with great trees lining the way up to the entrance. It’s about a mile and a half in all.”

  Thr
owing her aside he scowled. “Ah, well. I suppose I’ve come this far, another mile or two will seem like nothing.”

  Before he left he warned her again. “We had our fun and that’s an end to it. But one word to anybody, especially to Lucy, and you’ll rue the day. D’you understand me?”

  Fearing for her life, Lynette nodded. “I won’t say anything.”

  “Good girl.” For an unbearable moment he stared her out. “I expect I’ll see you when we get back.” Grabbing her hair in a bunch between his thick strong fingers, he drew her head back and kissed her throat. “Oh look, you’re starting to bruise.” With a devious grin, he screwed a straightened finger into her forehead until she winced. “Not a word!” he whispered. Then he went on his way, whistling merrily as he strode briskly down the pavement.

  So far it had been a good day, he thought cockily.

  Seeing Lucy would be the icing on the cake.

  Back at Bridget’s house, the woman herself had arrived; large-boned, with her mass of fiery hair and eyes green as a cat’s in the dark, she filled the front parlor with her presence. Astonished to find one of her young people in tears, she dropped her bag into the nearest chair.

  “Aw, will ye look at that!” she exclaimed. “You’ll have eyes like split walnuts if you don’t stop the bawling, so ye will.” Sensing a man was involved, she demanded to know in the strongest Irish accent, “Who was he? What did the swine do to you?” She banged her fist on the dresser. “Sure, I’ll have the bloody head off his shoulders if he’s messed you up.” And by the ample size of her, she was well capable of carrying out her threat.

  “It’s got nothing to do with any bloke.” Afraid to reveal the truth, the young woman lied convincingly. “It’s just that I’ve had this awful toothache all day and it’s giving me some gyp.”

  Bridget relaxed. “If that’s all, you’d best get yourself a drop of the hard stuff out of the press. That should see you through the night, and if you’re no better in the morning, you can take yourself off to the dentist. All right?”

  “All right.” Lynette gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, and there was a man here … not a client or anything like that,” she added quickly.

  Bridget was disappointed. “Pity. So what did he want?”

  “He was looking for Lucy.”

  “Was he now? And did you tell him where to find her?”

  “Yes. I told him she was working over at the squire’s house. He’s gone there now, to meet up with her.”

  “Mmm.” Bridget did not like the sound of it. “And what did he look like, this fella?”

  The young woman shrugged, her bottom lip turning down as she pretended to recall his features; while in truth she would never forget them. “Rough-looking, I suppose, but handsome all the same.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much, does it? A description like that could fit anybody.” Bridget threw herself into the chair opposite. “Come on, Lynette—what else?”

  “Well, he had a weathered face as though he’d been in the sun a lot, and he was carrying a kitbag.” As the images burned deeper into her mind, her speech quickened, as though she wanted it all said and done with as swiftly as possible. “He was dark-haired and he had this look about him—a real mean, peevish kind of look. I tell you what, Bridget, I wouldn’t like to be Lucy if she’s got deep in with that kinda fella. No, I certainly would not!”

  Bridget was curious. “For someone who’s got a bad toothache, you seem to have found enough time to get a real good look at him.”

  “Well, o’ course I did, because he stood on the doorstep and wouldn’t go until I told him where Lucy was.”

  “What, you mean he got nasty?”

  “No, I don’t mean that at all.” She had not forgotten his parting threat. “He wanted to know where she was, and at first I wasn’t sure whether to tell him, then he stood his ground and I had no choice.”

  “So you told him, and he went?”

  “That’s right. I had to get rid of him. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like the look of him.” Involuntarily, she shuddered.

  “I see.” Bridget detected a great deal of fear in Lynette’s manner. “He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” she said quietly. “You sure that’s not why you were crying just now?”

  “No!” Leaping out of the chair, Lynette laid the palm of her hand over her mouth. “It’s this damned tooth. It’s driving me crazy.”

  Bridget got out of her chair and wrapped her arms about the girl. “You’re to fetch a drop of whiskey out of the cupboard, then get yourself off to bed. Come down later, when you’re feeling better. A good night’s sleep, then it’s the dentist for you first thing in the morning.”

  Before Lynette left the room, Bridget had one more question. “This man … was he a sailor, d’you think?”

  “He could well have been a matelot,” the girl said. “He did have a tattoo—oh, and sailors do have kitbags, don’t they?”

  Bridget was quiet for a minute, as though she had just remembered who he was. “Dark, with a mean kind of a look, you say. Mmm.” Then, her tone brisk, she told the young woman, “All right, darlin,’ don’t worry. Get off and take care of yourself. I’m sure Lucy will tell me all about it when she gets back.”

  A few minutes later, with Lynette off to her bed, and the other girls not yet back, Bridget went through to the kitchen, where the young housekeeper, Tillie, having heard her come in earlier, was already pouring Bridget a cup of tea. “Thought you might be ready for this,” she said, pushing it along the table to where Bridget had pulled up a chair and sat down. “Had a good shopping trip?”

  Having been thrown out of house and home by a violent stepfather these four years past, Tillie Salter had found a welcome at Bridget’s house of pleasure. At seventeen, innocent and plain-looking as the day was long, there was never any intention to recruit her into the “business”; so she was given a roof over her head and paid a wage to cook and clean and generally look after number 23 Viaduct Street, leaving Bridget free to keep a tight rein on her business, count her money, take care of her girls, and shop to her heart’s content.

  During the four years she had been there, Tillie Salter had loved every minute, and had come to look on Bridget as a surrogate mother. Bridget was her idol—her hero and her friend. She might run a brothel, but she was discreet in her dealings, she looked after her girls well, and had a heart of gold. So those who knew of her business said nothing, and those who thought she was a woman who had come into money legitimately, chatted with her in the street, and saw her as a kind soul, with a happy personality.

  Moreover, she seemed ever ready to listen to their problems when others would not.

  Bridget thanked her for the tea. She removed her light jacket and fanned her rosy face. “You’ve no idea of the crowds,” she groaned. “Pushing you this way and that … treading on your toes and thinking it’s your fault and not theirs. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What is it about shopping that makes martyrs of us poor women?”

  Bringing her own tea, Tillie sat at the other side of the table. “But you love it, don’t you?” she said shyly. “You love the noise and bustle, and spending your money across the counter. And I bet you went down the docks, dreaming of your homeland across the water.”

  Bridget squeezed her hand. “Ah, you know me too well, so ye do.” She gave a deep-down sigh. “Aw, Tillie, there are times when I really do miss my Ireland.”

  Tillie loved to hear the stories of Bridget’s upbringing in Kilkenny. “Tell me again, what do you miss most?” she asked eagerly.

  Bridget was pleased to answer. “I miss the rolling valleys and the way the sun goes down behind the hills of an evening. I miss my folks and I miss other people—like the old fella that used to sit outside the pub of an evening and play his accordion, so the people would throw a generous handful of coins into his cap as they sauntered by.”

  “What else, Bridget?” Tillie persisted. “Tell me what else.”

  Bridget laughed. “How many times must I tel
l you, before you’re satisfied? I shall have to be careful, so I will, or you’ll be up and off and across the water one of these foine days, so ye will!”

  “Just tell me about the music, and the dancing,” Tillie urged, her gray eyes bright with anticipation in her homely young face.

  “Ah, the dancing!” Rolling her eyes, Bridget leaned back in her chair; she could see and hear the festivities in her mind and her heart ached. “I remember the fair in Appleby, when the horsemen would come from all over Ireland and even across the Atlantic from ’Merica, just to show their horses and traps and watch the goings-on. And if somebody took a liking to one of their best horses, they’d offer a price and when the haggling was done, they’d do the spitting of the handshake and the deal was agreed.”

  Tillie cringed. “Ugh! I don’t think I’d want anybody spitting on my hand!” She hid her hands behind her back as if to protect them.

  Bridget roared with laughter. “It’s the way things are done, so it is,” she said. “Sure it’s been that way for a hundred years and more, and likely it’ll be that way for many more years to come!”

  Caught up in the housekeeper’s excitement, Bridget continued, “When the deals are all done, the men go down to the pub and celebrate, drinking and singing and dancing, too—and oh, the good crack, my love!” She threw out her arms with sheer joy. “I’m telling you, Tillie me darlin’, it is pure magic, so it is.”

  “And what about the dancing, Bridget? Tell me about that!”

  Bridget leaned forward. “Sometimes it would be one couple on the floor and everybody watching, and when their feet got a’tapping and their hands got a’clapping and they couldn’t watch no longer, they’d all link arms, so they would. Then they would all dance in a line, every one of them in tune with the other—feet crossing and jumping, and going high in the air as though they were one, and the tapping and the rhythm, and the noise against the boards …”

  Her voice rose higher and higher and soon her own feet were atapping and her hands aclapping, and, “Sure, there’s no magic in the world like an Irish jig!”