They didn’t attempt to get on the back of the cart but the middle-sized man spoke to Pete, saying, ‘Set are we?’
‘Aye, all set.’ Then as Pete went to urge the horse on, one of the men catching sight of the hooded figure sitting in the back of the cart leant over the side, saying, ‘Who’s that?’
Without turning round, Pete answered, ‘The mother.’
‘In the name of God!’
‘’Tis all right. ’Tis all right, Johnny; she knows what she’s doing.’
‘I hope so. Begod! I hope so.’
The cart moved on and Emma could make out the three figures taking up their positions behind it, and as she looked at them she wondered how the big man was going to get through the back window which Pete had said wasn’t all that big. The place they were making for was Bucketwell Row as Pete had imagined, and, as he had told them earlier, there was no hope of getting an entry in the front way. Through standing a man a couple of pints of ale he had been able to gather from him that one of the streets in which he regularly played the mouth-organ was Bucketwell Row and that number eight was a kind of special house. No customers during the day; the madam went out sometimes accompanied by a couple or so of young lasses, supposedly her grandchildren. Her sons were hefty fellows; one had a barrow in the market, for cover as much as anything, he thought. ’Twas at night-time the custom started there, and not just ordinary customers, the man had said, toffs most of them, he thought. There had been raids on some of the houses round there by the polis but to his knowledge number eight hadn’t been touched. Perhaps after all, he said, it was still a family house for these houses had at one time all been family houses, the homes of the moneyed merchants. He remembered one being occupied by the family of a cheesemonger; and he had a bacon factory an’ all. And the clog-maker from number six had only moved out within the last ten years. And in number three there had lived the owner of the paper mill in Scotswood. The Row had been quite fashionable at one time. It was still fashionable—the man had laughed—but not in the same way.
Pete had seen that the top windows were barred; likely the windows of a one-time nursery now put to good stead, he had said. And he had almost given up the idea of gaining an entry when he had taken a walk through the fields at the back which bordered the courtyards. It had been one chance in a thousand that as he was passing the back door of number eight it had opened and a middle-aged woman swept the dirt from the yard outside into the field. He had hurried up to her, saying, ‘Could you give me a drink of water, missis, I’m as dry as a fish?’ She had looked him up and down in his sailor rig-out before saying, ‘You lost your way?’
‘No’—he smiled at her—‘but I see so much sea water that I like to walk on a bit of grass now and again.’
She had stepped back into the yard and looked about her, first one way and then the other, then said, ‘I’ll give you a drink but stay where you are.’ And when she disappeared, he stood on the step and peered into the yard and almost opposite to him he saw what looked like a kitchen window. It was a sash window and could be easily opened with a knife, that is if it wasn’t nailed. But then it wasn’t likely to be nailed because further along the yard he saw a similar one and this was open a few inches both at the top and bottom. Yet, as he had said, they had to be prepared, there could be blocks at both top and bottom to stop them being opened any further. If that was the case, then the only way to get a door open was to create a commotion outside and he hoped they hadn’t to do that, there would be plenty time for that once they were inside.
The woman had returned with a tin mug full of water and she stood with the door in her hand shielding the yard from him; and when, having drained the mug, he handed it back to her and, smiling, said, ‘Thanks missis, that was as good as a draught of beer,’ she said nothing but went so quickly to close the door that he almost tumbled back on the grass. It was, Pete said, as if she was regretting her hospitality and was afeared of what she had done.
One thing, he noticed, was that there must be comings and goings from that back door for there were two paths worn in the grass. One led across the field, the other round the corner to the front of the house. This he imagined had once been a right of way until the stile had been removed and railings put in its place.
The horse was struggling to pull the cart up the cobbled street, and the three men had to put their hands to the back of the tailboard and push. At the top of the incline Pete had to drive the horse onto the mud pavement to give way to a coach and pair. The driver yelled at him and he yelled back like any Newcastle drayman would, an oath punctuating each word.
A short while later Emma knew now by the smoothness of the cart that they were in a field and her heart began to beat so hard against her ribs that she had to press her hand tight against her breasts.
When the cart stopped with a jerk they all dismounted, except Henry, and she heard Pete say softly to him, ‘Take it over by the hedge, you’ll be nearer the road that way. But whatever happens, stay by it. Do you hear me, Parson? Don’t come into anything, please.’
She did not hear Henry’s answer because of the scrambling in the cart and knew they were gathering up the lengths of rope they had cut earlier in the evening.
The cart had moved away and they were in darkness now. There was no moon as yet and the wind had come up. It attempted to take her hood back from her head, and as she put her hand up to keep it in place Pete took hold of her other arm, whispering urgently now, ‘You stay by Da, remember? And if there’s any big shindy, get back to the cart and tell him to drive away.’
She made no answer. They were now close against a wall. She heard a slight scuffling and she knew that the small man called Ratty was scaling it.
It seemed that the next minute she was being pulled through a doorway and she knew by the feel of the hand she was beside the mister; then she was encircled by the men, all standing perfectly still. In a lull of wind she heard a slight grating noise. Following this, there came a thump between her shoulder blades. It was the signal that the window was open and they were going in. For a moment she was almost paralysed with fear, and her other emotions were so mixed that it was impossible for her to tell herself what she felt about the coming encounter…if there was to be an encounter.
Then she and the others became absolutely rigid as a muffled cry came to them. As if of one body they stood huddled round the window waiting for what to her seemed like an eternity; then the small man’s voice which seemed much larger than himself came hoarsely to her ears, saying, ‘’Twas on oldish wife, I fixed her.’
The next minute Emma was being dragged shoulders first into a dark passage and when she was on her feet she was pressed slowly forward towards where in the distance was a faint light coming through an open door.
When she entered the kitchen of the house the lamplight seemed so bright that she had to blink her eyes tightly against it. They were all in the kitchen now, the five men and herself. Beyond the table was the bound and gagged figure of a middle-aged woman, her eyes staring out of her head in abject fear. Then she herself knew an added fear as she saw the man called Johnny draw a knife from under his coat, and the tall fair man bring from a pocket of his jacket a short piece of wood that looked like a stick with a nob on the end. Then they all became rigid again as the kitchen door opened and a young woman said, ‘Meg,’ before her mouth went into a scream that was choked before it reached its height. Pete, who had been nearest the door, had sprung at her. His hand round her mouth he dragged her inside and within a split second he had pulled a rag from his pocket and rammed it into her mouth; then as if she had been a bale of hay he whipped her off her feet and threw her face down onto the floor. And Johnny Robson, jumping forward and acting as if the rope in his hands was greased, had the girl’s legs and arms trussed up almost as quick as it had taken Pete to gag her.
One thing penetrated Emma’s whirling mind; it was that the girl’s stifled scream had not brought anyone to her assistance, and so screams or squeals perhaps
were a natural sound in this house. But within a minute her thought was disproved.
Two abreast, the men had moved through the kitchen into the hall, followed by Jake Yorkless and she herself close on his heels. She had only time to take in that the hall was a large one with broad stairs going up from its middle, for coming rapidly down the stairs was one man while another was emerging from a room at the far side of the hall.
A confusion of muffled blows and yells followed. She was rammed against the wall near the kitchen door, her way blocked by the Swede and Pete and the man seemingly bigger than the Swede throwing his fists left and right; further in the room the other two sailors were fighting with the second man. As she eased herself along the wall to get away from the flailing arms, she saw a woman standing at the far side of the room. Two girls were near her, one with her mouth wide open. Perhaps she had screamed but the noise in the room had drowned it. As she now rushed towards the stairs she saw the woman turn towards the girl and strike her across the face with such force that the girl fell on her back.
She was halfway up the stairs when she was almost pulled down again by a fierce tug on her skirt, and as she gripped the bannister and swung round there was the woman below her, her fist raised again. Emma took in that she was elderly, well into her fifties, and what she did now was instinctive, for she lifted her foot and kicked the woman in the stomach and she herself almost let out a cry as she saw the figure tumbling back down the stairs.
She was on the landing now: Or was it the gallery? For there were railings round it and before her was a square area with doors leading off.
Two pedestals stood close to the wall, a lamp on each, and the light from them showed up the thick red carpet covering the floor. There had been no carpet on the hall floor, only some form of linoleum. There were pictures on the walls here too. For one frantic second she stood in the middle of the landing looking at the array of doors. The sound of the fighting downstairs had become dim, just a series of gasps and groans. She swung round twice as if she were in a game and had to choose a door; then springing forward, she turned the handle of the door nearest her. But it didn’t move and as she listened for a moment she thought she detected a moan or a whimper.
The next door she tried wasn’t locked and before thrusting open the door she paused for a second, her body so taut that she wouldn’t have been surprised if she had screamed herself. But the room was empty. There was a lamp, though, burning near a bed and her mouth fell into a slight gape at the luxuriousness it showed.
Hearing from across the landing voices like those of children at play, she turned swiftly around. The door to this room wasn’t locked, but she did not thrust it open; quietly she eased it forward and what she saw brought every feature in her face stretching as if away from itself. The man was elderly but the total ages of the three children in bed with him wouldn’t have reached thirty.
She closed the door and leaned against the wall for a moment, and as she did so Pete appeared on the landing and slipped across to her and whispered, ‘Well?’
She made a slight movement with her head, then again he whispered: ‘Have you tried them all?’
She moved her head and gasped, ‘Not those two.’ She pointed, and as she did so she noticed for the first time the stairs leading upwards. Pete too looked towards them. Then, jerking his hand forward, he ran from her and as he mounted the stairs she made her way across the landing to another door, and it was as she went to open it that she heard the giggle. It swung her around and brought her for an instant frozen to the spot; the giggle had come from beyond the door opposite and it was a well-remembered sound.
She didn’t seem to hurry as she made her way towards the door and her mind was telling her that if it was locked she must run to those stairs and scream for Pete. She put her hand on the handle, but she did not ease the door quietly forward because open or locked she meant to get into this room, so she thrust at it and it sprang open, and there before her stood her daughter.
Annie had been halted in her running, but her running had definitely not been in fear for her face was alight with laughter, as was the man’s. They were standing a yard apart now, staring at her as if she were an apparition, and as she stared back at the two stark-naked figures, that of her daughter, different yet still her daughter, and of a man of whom the recognition burst something in her mind, she knew that if she had been carrying a knife she would in this instance have thrown it with her father’s aim into his fat white body.
‘Ma!’ The word held amazement.
As Emma tore off her cloak and rushed at her daughter, the man also rushed towards the bed and, taking up a silken cover, pulled it around himself; and then he stood glaring at her, the hate in his eyes almost matching that in her own.
But now she was struggling with her daughter, trying to keep the cloak round her until, rage overcoming all her other momentary feelings, she grabbed Annie by the hair and dragged her out of the door onto the landing. But when she saw Pete come running down the far stairs, she pulled the door quickly closed behind her. If Pete saw who was in there, there would be real murder and he would hang. Oh yes, he would hang.
She thrust the struggling figure of her daughter towards him, saying, ‘Carry her.’ And after one glance at the naked shoulders and arms pushing out from the cloak, Pete grabbed up the slight body and made for the lower stairs.
Stumbling after him, Emma looked down into the hall. The woman was lying where she had fallen at the foot of the stairs, her skirts well above her knees and one leg twisted underneath her. But she was conscious, and her face didn’t look that of a woman but of a devil. The two girls were crouched in a corner and on the floor lay three men, one appearing to be motionless; the big man was half propped up against the wall, his hands tied behind him. His legs likewise were tied, and there was blood streaming down the side of his face. She remembered that when he had entered the hall he had been dressed in only his shirt and trousers. Now his shirt was in ribbons hanging down over his belt and there was a trickle of blood oozing out from a spot near his ribs. The third man on the floor was the mister. He lay on his side, his hand to his head, and his hair and his hand were covered with blood. The three sailors all looked the worse for wear, but Pete called to Carl, saying, ‘Here, take this one. Put her in the cart. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ And to Johnny Robson and the small man, he said, ‘Give me da a hand; I’ll be there in a minute.’ Then going across to the woman lying at the foot of the stairs, he bent over her and said, ‘You filthy old bitch, you! Now listen here. If those lasses on the top floor aren’t set free, them that wants to, and the bairns sent back to where they came from by the morrow night, I’ll have every bloody decent-minded man off that Newcastle waterfront up here and if nothin’ else we’ll burn you out, even if we’ve got to swing for it. Do you hear? And you needn’t bring your friends the polis in, back-handers’ll be no good in this case.’ He thrust his foot against her shoulder, and as she spun round on the linoleum she groaned aloud. When he went to repeat the process, Emma pulled at his arm, saying, ‘Pete. Pete, come on. Come on.’
They did not go out the way they had entered because now the heavily barred front door was open, and so they walked through it and into the darkness.
The street was still, there wasn’t a movement in it; if the rumpus had been heard the other residents were minding their own business, likely thinking it was the police who were doing some investigating because they wouldn’t all be blinkered or bribed.
The cart was standing in the rough road bordering the field. The mister was lying flat in the back of it and in the light of the cart lantern Emma saw that Annie was still struggling in the Swede’s arms, but Pete, taking in the situation, dragged her from him and standing her on her bare feet in the road shook her by the shoulders as he hissed down into her face, ‘Stop it, you little bitch you! Stop it, or you’ll get my hand across yer lug.’
She became quiet, and he hoisted her up into the back of the cart; then, turning to Emma
, he said, ‘Get yersel’ up, lass.’
Emma eased herself over the tailboard and next to her daughter, and she closed her eyes tightly as if through a stab of pain as the girl shifted her body away from her and pressed it against the side of the cart. Dimly she heard Pete saying to his mates, ‘See you in the mornin’ then, at the Bell, ’round twelve. And ta…thanks.’ There were muttered words and then the cart rocked as Pete pulled himself up into the seat beside Henry, and they were moving once more.
Emma leant her head against the side of the cart which rocked from side to side with the motion, and her thoughts rocked with it. What now? How was she going to keep her? How was she going to control her? This wild thing who hadn’t wanted to be saved from a life of degradation and iniquity. Never until the day she died would she forget the look of joy on her daughter’s face as she had first opened the door of that room and seen her with that man. Dear God, that man! Only she and Annie knew his identity. If she once let that slip the world would explode. Yet, oh how she wanted to bring him to justice, to see him standing in a court of law exposed for what he was. She had said a court of justice, but there was no justice, there was nothing, nothing in this life but pain, work and frustration…and beastliness.
They were now passing through one of the main lamplit streets of the city and she turned her head in amazement and looked at her daughter who, from being crouched in the corner of the cart, was now sitting upright, her head strained over the side, presumably taking in the shops and houses shown up in the lamplight. The action which in itself was simple seemed to set the seal on the creature her daughter had become. No…not had become, had always been.
The Whip (The Spaniard's Gift) Page 35
