Katy's Men

by Irene Carr

  When the gates were repainted the name that was shown on invoices and receipts: Docherty and Ballard. Fleur did not know that and called the partnership Ballard and Docherty anyway. She was happy that her problems were over; she had secured her financial future. She was convinced of this when Matt rented a small house, bought some furniture and moved out of his lodgings. Fleur congratulated herself on making a good catch.

  *

  The morrow brought no solution to Katy’s problems. The summer slid by and the fear grew as the child grew inside her. She knew that, sooner or later, she would be found out and it was Rita who came on her one morning when she was being ill.

  Rita told Vera, vengefully, ‘That Katy, she’s throwing up.’

  Vera sought out Katy, in the office by then, though pale and apprehensive. The old woman’s beady eyes roamed over Katy where she sat at her desk and she ordered, ‘Come here, my girl!’ When Katy stepped up to her the crone shot out a hand to feel at the girl’s body and crowed, ‘He’s bairned yer! Your fancy man’s bairned yer!’ And as Katy shrank away from her, ‘You can pack your duds and leave! Now, this minute!’ Because Katy had committed the unforgivable sin. Vera could turn a blind

  eye to ‘followers’ when it suited her, to keep this girl who worked so well — and so cheaply. But pregnancy offended Vera’s sense of proprieties, and Katy’s presence in this house would besmirch the reputations of the Spargos. Vera put her head out of the door and shrieked, ‘Arthur!’

  He came waddling across the yard and demanded testily, ‘What’s the matter now? I’m sending the men off to their jobs.’ They were all busy in the yard, starting up engines and harnessing horses, but their heads were turned towards the office now, curious.

  Vera shouted, ‘You’ll have to stay back and do the books yourself!’ She grabbed Katy’s wrist and shoved her out of the office into the yard. ‘This one’s got herself into trouble and she’s leaving.’

  Startled and caught off-balance, Arthur said the first thing to come into his mind: ‘Not Ivor!’

  Katy had lived through these last months in worry and misery — heartbreak. She had loved again and been cheated again. Now she was being humiliated, held up before the men in the yard as a figure of shame. She saw Ivor standing across the yard, a gloating smile on his face, and she called out so they could all hear, ‘Not Ivor! Never! Though he’s tried often enough and once tore the blouse off me! And his father tried until I threatened to tell you.’

  Some of the men grinned at Ivor’s and Arthur’s embarrassment, but others among them who had daughters eyed their employers with distaste. Vera was enraged at this rebellion, tried to drag Katy back into the office and hissed at her, ‘Shut your dirty mouth!’

  ‘I’ve kept my mouth shut too long.’ Katy dug in her heels and refused to leave the yard. ‘I’m going but I want my money, what’s due to me.’ Then, remembering Betsy’s departure, ‘And I want it in my hand, not thrown in the dirt for me to grub for! And a cab to take me to the station and you can pay for that.’

  ‘I will not!’ Vera was now red with rage and brandished her fist at Katy, who looked back at her with contempt. Vera threatened, ‘You’ll get nothing now!’

  Katy did not yield, but lowered her voice so only Vera could hear: ‘You’ll give me what I ask, mine by right, or I’ll go to the justices and tell them the father is Arthur or Ivor and I don’t know which.’

  Vera gaped at her then countered, ‘They’d never believe you! You might perjure yourself but you couldn’t prove it was either of them.’

  Katy pointed out grimly, ‘Arthur and Ivor couldn’t prove it wasn’t.’

  Vera said, uncertain now, ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ replied Katy, chin set determinedly. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’

  Vera hesitated for some seconds but Katy’s gaze did not waver and finally she muttered, ‘Keep your mouth shut and pack your bags. I’ll get your money.’

  Katy insisted, ‘And a cab.’

  ‘And a cab.’ Vera spat that out like something sour.

  Katy did not care. In less than an hour she descended the back stairs, leaning under the weight of her cheap, old suitcase. The cabman waited in the hall, took the case from her and shoved it into the cab. He looked vaguely familiar to Katy, a stocky man with a walrus moustache.

  But Vera was waiting by the kitchen door and glared as Cook, tearful and fortified by gin, ventured, ‘Good luck, lass!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Katy replied. Then again, when Vera handed her the pay due to her: ‘Thank you.’ She would not abandon her manners. Vera said nothing, fearful of provoking the girl into the action she had threatened, but her little eyes followed Katy venomously as the cab rolled away. When it had passed from sight, Vera swore, ‘I’ll get my own back on you, trollop! You’ll weep for this one of these days!’

  Katy was ready to weep there and then, from reaction after the row and fear of what lay ahead. Her bold defiance had hidden a core of fear and the threat to go to the justices had been a huge bluff. She could never have shamed herself in that way, never have lied in that way, no matter how wronged. But she sat dry-eyed, her lip caught between her teeth as the cab rattled and swayed down the road to the Central Station. There she climbed down but did not seek a ticket for a train.

  She did not know where to go. She would not return home to be humiliated again by her father, and that was the best she could hope for. Realistically, she was certain Barney Merrick would turn her away from the door, refusing to harbour her, a fallen woman. So she had to find lodgings, and cheap ones at that.

  The cabman climbed down from his seat, hauled her suitcase out of the cab and asked, ‘Do you want a porter to put this on the train, lass?’

  ‘No.’ Katy looked around her, wondering what to do, and said, ‘Put it down there by the wall for now, please.’

  The cabbie blinked but set the case down. Straightening, he said, ‘It’s just that the old girl said to take you to the station to get a train. Mind, she sounded as though she’d be better pleased if I had to take you to the infirmary.’

  Katy smiled faintly, ‘We didn’t part as friends.’ Encouraged by his sympathy she admitted, ‘She threw me out.’ Then she added hastily, ‘But I was ready to go and have been for some time.’ She stopped there because she did not want to go into further details as to why she had left now.

  ‘Ah!’ said the cabbie, astutely, ‘you’re wanting some digs.’ He was looking at her with his head on one side now, puzzled. He asked, ‘Have you been one o’ my fares before? It seems like I’ve seen you . .’ He fumbled a short clay pipe out of his pocket and jammed it into his mouth under the walrus moustache. Now he pointed a finger at Katy and spoke round the pipe: ‘Got it! Weren’t you the lass — years ago now — that said I wasn’t to blame for a feller taking the paint off his cart? He said I backed into him and you told the pollis I didn’t.’

  Now it was Katy’s turn to eye him, and she recollected the incident. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Ah!’ He pointed the pipe triumphantly. ‘I have a good memory for faces. And am I right, are ye wanting digs now?’

  Katy admitted hesitantly, ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I thought so.’ The cabbie took up the suitcase again and put it back in the cab. ‘One good turn deserves another so just you come with me.’

  Katy hung back, wondering if she could trust this stranger. ‘I can’t afford anything too expensive.’

  ‘It won’t be that.’ The cabman tamped down the tobacco in his pipe with his thick thumb. ‘Not flash, either, just one room. It’s with a respectable auld woman that takes in a lodger to make ends meet. Anyway, seeing’s believing. You come wi’ me and if you aren’t satisfied I’ll bring you back here without charge.’

  Katy took a breath and said, ‘I’ll come.’ She climbed back into the cab and when it set off again she turned her mind to concocting a story. Ever since she had left home, and knew she was safe from her father stealing it, she had taken to wearing
the ring her mother had given her. Now she took it from her index finger and placed it on the third.

  The house was in a quiet street in Bishopwearmouth, not far from the centre of Sunderland. The cabman said, ‘This is Mrs Gates.’ And to the old woman standing at her front door, ‘This is a decent lass wanting a room, nothing fancy nor expensive.’

  Mrs Gates was stooped and frail. She had a smile for Katy and stood back to allow her into the house then showed off the room, small but comfortable. Katy performed some mental arithmetic and decided she could just afford it. ‘I’ll take it, please.’

  The old woman eyed her and warned in a quavering voice, ‘I’ll tell you now, this is a respectable house. I don’t allow any shenanigans with young chaps, Miss—?’ She let the question hang.

  ‘Mrs,’ corrected Katy, ‘Mrs Katy Merrick. And there won’t be any shenanigans.’

  Mrs Gates peered short-sightedly at Katy’s hand and her mother’s ring. ‘Oh, you’re married. I took you for a single lass. But I’m sorry, I don’t have any men in here, not husbands either. Men make for trouble.’

  Katy could agree with that, but only said, ‘You won’t need to worry about my husband.’ She produced her rapidly manufactured story, shyly, ‘I’m not long married, and he’s at sea, on a ship gone to China and he won’t be back for nearly a year. We had some bigger rooms but with him away and me having to be careful with money because of the little one to come, and I don’t get on with his mother . .’ She let the explanation trail off so Mrs Gates could fill in the gaps for herself, of the young bride left to manage alone, with a child on the way and a dragon of a mother-in-law.

  Mrs Gates did that, noting the mention of the ‘little one’, and became solicitous: ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll do all I can to make you comfortable.’

  So Katy settled in, ate plain but nourishing meals cooked by Mrs Gates and went for walks. She saw a doctor and prepared for her child to be born, relying on what she remembered of her mother’s pregnancies and the hazier recollections of Mrs Gates. Once a month she drew from the savings bank just enough to pay her way. At these times she told Mrs Gates she had been to the shipping office in Tatham Street to collect the wages from her sailor husband’s employers. Sometimes she brought back letters supposed to have been written by him and read them out to Mrs Gates.

  Katy did not like practising this deception but was forced to it. Nor was she happy. Added to the slowly subsiding pain of Howard’s betrayal was her fear of the future, for her and the child. She could not stay where she was forever because some day the mythical sailor would be expected to return, nor could she confess the truth to Mrs Gates. Where would she go? How would she earn her living?

  Who would help her now?

  *

  Charles Ashleigh had come home from the China station in July. In Newcastle Mrs Connelly, sour-faced and in rustling funereal black from head to toe, opened to his knock on her front door and peered at the young man standing outside. He was dressed in well-cut tweeds from Gieves with polished brogues and doffed his cap on sight of her. That showed his butter-coloured hair which contrasted with his bronzed features. His teeth showed even and white when he smiled and asked, ‘Mrs Connelly?’

  Katy’s erstwhile landlady eyed him with suspicion, distrusting all toffs, and asked in her turn, ‘Who wants to know?’

  He introduced himself: ‘Charles Ashleigh. I have a card here, somewhere.’ He produced one from a leather card case, a rectangle of pasteboard which stated he was Lieutenant Charles Ashleigh, RN.

  Mrs Connelly scanned it and handed it back, unimpressed; sailors were the worst. But the name of Ashleigh was familiar to her and she admitted, ‘I’m Mrs Connelly,

  but if you’re looking for digs you’re wasting your time. I only take young ladies.’

  Charles said hastily, ‘No! I’m not seeking lodgings. But I am looking for a young lady.’ He saw her brows come together and hurried on: ‘A young lady who boarded with you about three years ago, a friend of mine. Her name is Katy Merrick. I wrote to her several times but haven’t had a reply. Is she still with you? Or do you know where she is?’

  Mrs Connelly’s scowl had become fixed at the mention of Katy Merrick: ‘No.’

  Charles probed patiently, ‘She’s not here?’ And when she shook her head, ‘But didn’t she leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘No.’ Flatly, again.

  The door was closing and Charles pressed desperately, ‘But you do remember her.’

  He received only the reiterated, ‘No.’ The door slammed shut in his face. Inside the house Mrs Connelly rustled into that holy of holies, the front parlour, sacred to Sunday. Through the lace curtains she watched the young man slowly turn from the front door and walk away. She muttered, ‘Good riddance, to him and her. She deserves all that’s coming to her, little hussy.’

  Charles only retired as far as the corner of the street, where he would not be seen from the house. He waited there for an hour or more, until the shipyard hooters warned of the end of the working day, waited still until the girls came back to Mrs Connelly’s house from the shops and offices where they were employed. He cherished a faint hope that Katy might be one of them, but they all returned in the space of a half-hour, six of them, and Katy was not among them.

  When he was sure there could be no more girls to come, and that Katy was not going to walk around the corner into his arms, only then did he give up his vigil and go back to the Ashleigh house to eat a late dinner with his parents. He told them, morosely, ‘Katy wasn’t there. Her landlady denies all knowledge of her but she’s lying, of course.’

  Eleanor Ashleigh’s judgment was brusque and sure: ‘That girl was a fortune hunter. Once you had gone she left her lodgings and her place at Ashleigh’s to seek it elsewhere.?

  Charles was equally sure: ‘You’re wrong, Mother. Katy was not like that. I can’t understand why she left Ashleigh’s. She always said she liked the work.’

  His mother started, ‘I told you—’

  Charles broke in, ‘Yes, Mother, I know you did and I answered you.’ He was silent a moment, brooding, then finished, closing the conversation as far as he was concerned, ‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’

  Eleanor opened her mouth to remonstrate but caught her husband’s eye on her, warning — or pleading? She held her tongue but later, when they were alone, she protested, ‘Why do you let him pursue this ridiculous affair?’

  Vincent pointed out, ‘We can’t stop him.’ And then, uneasily, ‘I wonder if we were right to act as we did? If he ever finds out how I got him the draft to China . . .’ He shook his head unhappily.

  Eleanor brushed his worries aside: ‘He won’t find out, unless he meets that girl again, and then it would only be her word against ours. And we acted in his best interests. He was very young. The girl was quite unsuitable and he will be far happier with one of his own kind. I’ll do something about it tomorrow.’

  Charles was at his post at the end of the street when Mrs Connelly’s girls left the house, one at a time, next day. He let the first two go by because he judged them to be too young, would still have been at school when he sailed for China. He stepped into the path of the third, a tall, dark girl in her early twenties, and lifted his cap. ‘Good morning. I’m Charles Ashleigh. I wonder if you could help me? I’m trying to find a young lady called Katy Merrick. She boarded with Mrs Connelly about three years ago. Were you here then?’

  The girl had been trying to sidle nervously around him but now she paused. ‘Katy Merrick? Dark lass, pretty, must have been about seventeen or eighteen then?’

  Charles answered eagerly, ‘That’s right!’

  The girl nodded, ‘I remember her. She left years ago. There was a rumour she’d been carrying on wi’ some young toff—’ She broke off there, realising who she was talking to, then apologised hurriedly, ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but that’s how it was told to me and that’s how it got to Ma Connelly and she threw Katy out.’

  Charles asked tensely, ‘Do you
know where she went? Have you an address?’

  That brought a shake of the head and: ‘No. She said she was going to Scotland but that’s all; there was no address. She went off with her case and that was the last we saw of her.’ The girl waited now, no longer in any hurry to go to her work.

  But Charles only said heavily, ‘Thank you.’ He turned and walked away. The girl watched him go and sighed.

  Charles returned home despondently. Over the next few weeks he placed advertisements in newspapers in the north-east of England and Scotland but without result. Then his mother announced brightly, ‘Your father has taken a house in Town for the Season! We’ll all have a marvellous time!’ And, she thought, Charles could meet some girls of his own class and put this affair behind him.

  They travelled down to London on the express, with a mountain of luggage, a few days later.

  *

  Louise was born at the beginning of December, on Katy’s own birthday. On that one day Katy was wholly, supremely happy, filled with joy and confidence. Only later did her fears return.

  And on that day Matt Ballard witnessed death and stared ruin in the face.

  Chapter Ten

  SUNDERLAND. DECEMBER 1910.

  Matt Ballard sat at Joe Docherty’s bedside and watched him die. The doctor had already given his verdict: ‘There’s nothing I can do for him now. The root of the problem is his heart. It’s enlarged and feeble, struggling to do its job and failing. On top of that he’s been drinking very heavily when he should not have been drinking at all. And now that pneumonia has set in . . .’ He had shaken his head and gone away.

  Joe slept, or was unconscious, most of the time, but late that night he roused and saw Matt sitting haggardly watching him. ‘Matt? I feel bad.’ His breath rasped.

  Matt murmured softly, ‘Just try to rest.’

  But Joe could not: ‘I made you a partner because I knew this was coming and I wanted you to have something, but I think you’re going to find I’ve let it all go to hell. I just couldn’t cope without a drink, and then not for long.’ Matt gripped the thin, bony hand with his big one: ‘Don’t worry about it.’