‘We hardly ever see my father now,’ said Jessie. ‘But it doesn’t really make any difference. We didn’t see him all that much before he…before he went to live somewhere else. I mean…he didn’t take much notice of us, not like your father does with you and Patrick. And he wasn’t all kind and friendly, either, like your father… I like him very much… Your dad, I mean,’ she added pensively.
‘It’s funny to think of it, though, isn’t it?’ said Maddy. ‘If they got married – your mum and my dad – you wouldn’t be able to marry Patrick, would you? Because he’d be your brother, sort of…’
Jessie blushed bright pink. ‘Who says I want to? Anyway, he’s got a girlfriend now, hasn’t he? I saw him talking to a girl at that Pierrot show, the one when you sang.’
‘Oh yes, that’s Katy. She goes to our chapel; she’s in the choir. Our Patrick has started going there on a Sunday evening and he never used to do. He might be seeing her, but he never lets on.’
‘I’m not bothered anyway,’ said Jessie with a shake of her ginger plaits. ‘And if – you know – that happened, then Samuel would be your brother as well, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes…’ said Maddy thoughtfully. ‘Oh, let’s not think about it, eh? It’s far too complicated… I’m real sorry you’re going back this weekend, Jess. But we might see one another during the winter, like we did last year, if there’s another show on in York…or here.’
‘I hope so,’ said Jessie. ‘We have such a good time in Scarborough that it always seems so dull again when we get back home.’
Bella’s distress and anguish did not abate even when Faith Barraclough and her family had gone back to York. Indeed, they seemed to intensify.
The days were not too bad. She could busy herself with her work in the shop and keep her tormented mind more or less in check. She went on excursions with Polly to warehouses in Leeds and York, to choose a range of garments for the autumn and winter seasons. Polly’s excited chatter, for the girl had come out of her shell a lot recently, amused her momentarily, and she had always taken pleasure in the latest fashionable clothes. But there was nothing in her life anymore that she could say she thoroughly enjoyed or looked forward to. Her life, or so it seemed to her, had become meaningless. The evenings were the worst, especially now that the nights were drawing in.
She had never cared for the autumn, which she thought of as the dying of the year; the shortening of the days and the early darkness and, particularly on the coast, the fog that rolled in from the sea. She stood at her window one evening towards the end of September, looking out at the swirling mist. She knew that she was not well, either physically or mentally, but she was determined not to see a doctor. There was no doctor, anyway, who would be able to cure her malaise.
No one seemed to notice, however, that she was suffering. During the day she was able to put on a brave face, being her usual forceful self; her bossy self, as she knew only too well. She had lost weight because she was not bothering to eat as she should, but no one had commented on this, and the headaches she suffered from, which were occurring quite frequently, she kept in check with soothing powders.
Alone in her flat in the evenings with no company other that the whisky bottle – and she knew she was imbibing too much – she frequently gave way to despair. The alcohol, which had been a nightly solace, was no longer having the desired effect. But the worse she felt, the more she went on drinking.
She knew now that William would never be hers. She had been nurturing a hopeless love for the last…goodness knows how many years. And although at one time the bold and confident Bella Randall would have been able to pick herself up and start again, she knew she could not longer do so. It was not only the fading away of her futile dream that was tormenting her, but the memory of her wicked actions, her murderous intent; there were times when she really believed that she and she alone had been responsible for Clara’s death. If she had not succumbed to that moment of positive hatred – she recalled how she had looked down at Clara’s uncovered body and the enmity she had felt for the woman – then Clara would be alive today. William would not have fallen in love with Faith Barraclough. What had happened had all been her, Bella’s, fault. And it served her right that she had lost him now.
There was nothing left for her, nothing at all, and there was not one person in the world who cared whether she lived or died…
It was half past eleven at night and Constable Harry Perkins, peering through the mist up Valley Bridge Road, could see a figure loitering there, near to the railings of the Valley Bridge. He stood and watched as, some twenty yards away, the figure – a woman in dark clothing – after hesitating for several moments, put her hands on the railings and began to haul herself up.
Harry shone his torch in her direction and shouted, ‘Hey! Miss…you can’t do that. You mustn’t… Wait; I’m coming…’ He knew it was a favourite spot for suicides. There had been umpteen over the years since the bridge had been opened in 1865; folk who were tired of life flinging themselves down onto the road far below. But he had never, until this moment, encountered one himself.
He ran as fast as his corpulent figure would let him, praying he would get there before she jumped. But he could see that she was having difficulties; her long skirt was caught on the railings and she was trying to lift one leg up behind the other.
‘Miss! Don’t, please don’t…’ he cried, grabbing hold of her skirt and pulling at it.
‘Let go of me!’ she shouted back. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I can’t go on… I can’t…’
‘Now steady on, luv,’ he said, holding fast to her skirt. ‘There’s nowt so bad that you need to try and kill yerself. Come on now, luv. Come down…and happen you can tell me all about it…if you want to. I’m a good listener.’
The woman cast an anguished look in his direction. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you I can’t…’ Suddenly her voice broke in a sob, and he could see her frightened black eyes, like two gleaming lamps in a stark white face. He felt that he had won the battle as she began to sob, and then she climbed slowly down.
He looked more closely at her face. She was a good-looking woman, fortyish, he guessed, with a mass of black hair uncovered by any hat. He thought she looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place her. She was staring at him in a bewildered manner and as she began to speak he could smell the alcohol on her breath.
‘I was going to do it,’ she said. ‘I’d made up my mind, and if you hadn’t come along… Why did you?’
‘Just doing my duty, luv,’ he replied. ‘And it’s my duty now to see you safely home. You’ve got a home to go to, have you? Or is that what’s troubling you?’
‘No; I’ve got a home,’ she replied, ‘such as it is. But I don’t want to go back, not yet. Leave me alone, please; I’ll be all right.’
‘I most certainly will not leave you,’ said Constable Perkins. ‘Now, come along, there’s a good lass. Nothing is quite so bad as it seems.’ He took hold of her arm and, to his surprise, she started to walk along with him. ‘Now, you show me the way,’ he said, ‘’cause I don’t know where we’re heading for. You’ve decided to go back home, have you?’
She nodded numbly. ‘But I don’t know why. There’s nothing here. There’s nobody who cares…’
All the same she steered him away from the bridge, across Newborough, and then along Castle Road. It was as they neared the site of the undertaker’s premises, Isaac Moon and Son, that Harry realised who she was. She was that Miss Randall from the shop. Bella, they called her. He had been a constable in Scarborough for a good many years and he remembered that there had been some sort of a scandal about her a while back; living with a married man or summat o’ t’ sort. He didn’t let on that he knew her, though, and by the time they reached her door she seemed more composed. She hadn’t wanted to talk so he hadn’t pressed her.
‘So this is where you live, is it?’ he said. ‘Now, think on what I’ve said. Go and have a good night’s sleep and you’ll feel bet
ter in t’ morning. It’s not a bad old life, y’know, all things considered. And I’m sure there’s somebody, somewhere who cares about you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem like it at the moment… I’ll be all right though. Don’t worry. Thank you for seeing me home.’ Fortunately, and surprisingly enough, she had her key in her coat pocket and she quickly opened the door and disappeared inside.
Harry Perkins was worried though. He decided he must keep a watchful eye on her.
Bella flung herself on the bed fully clothed and, still befuddled by the whisky she had drunk before her aborted suicide attempt, she slept for several hours. When she awoke it was still dark and her alarm clock told her it was five-thirty in the morning. She could not tell whether she was glad to be back home, glad to be still alive…or what. She remembered, though, the kindness of that corpulent policeman with the ruddy cheeks, and it occurred to her that maybe she was being given another chance. She had done wrong; the Bible would say she had sinned, but maybe God had forgiven her.
‘There’s somebody, somewhere who cares for you…’ the policeman had said. But she did not know about that. If she had died, would there have been anyone to grieve for her? There might have been, though, if her life had taken a different direction.
Her thoughts, more lucid now, took her back to the child she had borne and then given up for adoption. Henrietta…no longer a child of course; she would now be a young woman, twenty-one years of age. She had been a tiny girl when Bella, secretly, had last set eyes on her, living in the town of Ashington with her adoptive parents. Was she still there? Or had she moved on, got married, maybe? Well, there was only one way to find out.
She pulled a large suitcase and a canvas holdall from the top of the wardrobe and, working swiftly, filled them with as many of her possessions as they would hold. She stopped for a wash, realising suddenly how grubby she felt, and breakfasted speedily on a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter.
It was half past six and still dark when she stole down the stairs and out of the door. She locked the door behind her and posted the key through the letter box. She had not left a note to say where or why she was going. It was nobody’s business but her own. She dragged her heavy luggage to the corner of the street and hailed a passing hansom cab.
‘Scarborough railway station,’ she told the driver. ‘As fast as you can.’
Constable Perkins opened the door of Moon’s Modes for all Seasons at eleven o’clock the following morning and entered the shop. It was the first time he had been inside the premises, although his wife had bought garments there occasionally, and he was struck now by the feeling of warmth and opulence, especially for a store that had once dealt solely in mourning wear. A middle-aged woman stepped forward to greet him.
‘Good morning, sir.’ She addressed him as sir although he was wearing his uniform. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I am looking for Miss Randall,’ he said, looking around. ‘Isn’t she here?’
‘Oh deary me!’ The woman seemed covered with confusion. ‘No, I’m afraid she isn’t. We don’t know where Miss Randall is.’ She looked at him in consternation. ‘Why? You don’t want to see her about…something, do you? It’s not…a police matter?’
‘No, madam,’ he replied. ‘At least… I hope not.’ He was beginning to feel worried. Surely she hadn’t gone and made another attempt? ‘You say you have no idea where Miss Randall is?’
‘No; she didn’t turn up to open the shop this morning. So Mr Moon went to look for her and all her things have gone from the flat… You’d better go and talk to Mr Moon,’ she said. ‘It’s really nothing to do with me.’ The poor woman was looking frightened to death by now.
‘Thank you, madam; so I will,’ he said. ‘Round at the back, is he?’
‘Yes, I think so. That’s where he usually is.’
William Moon, also, was very worried at the disappearance of Bella Randall, and even more so when he saw the policeman. He guessed why he might be there before the constable said, ‘I’ve come to see you about Miss Randall.’
William stepped out of the workshop and into the yard so that they might speak privately. ‘She isn’t in any trouble, is she?’ he asked. ‘She’s disappeared. Done a moonlight flit by the look of things. Do you know where she is… Constable Perkins, isn’t it?’ He had met this policeman before.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he nodded. ‘But, no; I’m afraid I don’t know where the lady is. But there is summat I think you should know. I came across her on t’ Valley Bridge last night, trying to throw herself over. That’s why I came, to see if she was all right.’
‘Oh…no!’ said William, aghast at the news. ‘Bella…trying to commit suicide? But…why?’
‘Well, she’d been drinking for one thing,’ said Harry Perkins. ‘That might’ve had a lot to do with it. And she’d got herself into a right maudlin state of mind, thinking that nobody cared about her.’
‘But that’s not true,’ said William. ‘She’s very well thought of here. Everyone thinks highly of her…’ A niggling thought intruded, though, at the edge of his mind. Thinking highly of someone was not the same as caring. ‘You don’t think…? Might she try to do the same thing again?’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Harry Perkins. ‘I was worried myself at first, when I found out she’d gone. But your shop assistant said she’d taken all her belongings. Now, you don’t do that if you’re intending to do away with yerself, do you?’
‘No… I suppose not,’ said William. ‘No; of course not. I can’t help feeling worried though.’
‘She was calmer by the time I left her. She kept mithering on about there being nothing left for her, nobody to care. But I told her there must be somebody, somewhere who cares for her. That was the last thing I said to her. Happen she’s thought of somebody and gone to find ’em, eh?’
‘Maybe…perhaps so,’ said William. ‘Anyway, thank you, Constable Perkins, for looking after her last night and for showing concern. I’ll let you know if we hear anything.’
‘Very good, sir. I was only doing my duty, but sometimes you’re called upon to do a bit more than duty, aren’t you? An’ I was concerned, like. But from what I know of Miss Randall – I’ve heard tell of her before, y’see – I would say she was a survivor. She’ll pick herself up and carry on.’
‘Yes, I hope so,’ said William. ‘I would have thought so at one time, certainly. But she’s kept herself to herself pretty much lately…’
He pondered on that after the policeman had gone. Had Bella been obliged to keep herself to herself, he wondered, because of the behaviour of the Moon family and, particularly, himself? Had she felt ostracised, not wanted…? He remembered how, when she had first come to work for them, he had been wary of her because of their past association; and he and Clara had agreed to be friendly with her, but not too much so. He thought the policy had worked and he no longer saw her as a threat. He believed that any residual feeling that she might have had for him had long gone, and that she now regarded him only as her employer and as a friend. Since she had been in full charge of the store, especially since the new innovations and the buying of stock which she had undertaken, he had assumed she had been contented; quite satisfied with her position of authority and with her life generally.
‘So she’s done a bunk, has she?’ said Patrick, when he found out that Bella had gone. ‘Where’s she gone to, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said William, although he had an idea that she had probably gone back up north.
‘Ah well, I reckon we’ll be able to get along wi’out her,’ said Isaac. ‘Although I must admit she’s been better lately. Me and her, we’ve never really hit it off, but we’ve managed to put our bad feelings to one side, at least I thought we had. Why d’you suppose she’s gone?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said William. ‘I would’ve thought she had a pretty good life. A steady job, a comfortable place to live and…friends. And since her…companion died she hasn�
�t seemed to seek the company of men…’ He was aware that Patrick was looking at him strangely. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘What have I said?’
‘Father, have you never realised?’ said Patrick. ‘Bella Randall was in love with you.’
‘What? What nonsense!’ exclaimed William, without stopping to think what he was saying. ‘However did you get that idea?’
‘Nah then, lad,’ said Isaac to his son. ‘The boy’s got eyes and ears. An’ he’s old enough now to know what’s what. Happen it’s time you spilt the beans, eh? You’ve nowt to reproach yerself with. It isn’t as if you were ever unfaithful to Clara.’
‘What?’ asked Patrick. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
William looked his son straight in the eyes. ‘I used to know Bella…’ he began, ‘when we were both a lot younger. Eighteen I was, and she was about the same. She was working down at the harbour… I never mentioned it because, as your grandfather says, I didn’t have any reason to reproach myself.’ He knew that he did, of course; there was the matter of a child born out of wedlock, but his father and Patrick did not have to know about that.
‘It was long before I knew your mother. And so when she came back to Scarborough – Bella, I mean – I met up with her again. And then, a good while afterwards, she came to work here; that was your mother’s doing. But your grandad knew. He had always known that I had met Bella before… It’s all ancient history, believe me, Patrick. I have had no feelings for Bella, other than friendship. Your mother was the only woman for me. And I shall never forget her. My feelings for Faith make no difference to the love I have for Clara… And as for Bella…’ He shook his head in a bewildered manner.
‘I believe you, Father; of course I do,’ said Patrick. ‘Actually, I’d guessed there might’ve been something, once, between you and Bella. But Bella…well, obviously she didn’t see it all the same way, did she? She must have kept on loving you. And since you became friendly with Faith… I suppose that must’ve been the last straw.’
A True Love of Mine Page 33
