For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh aye, still bragging, are we?’ She folded her arms under her plump bosom and challenged him. ‘All right, then – show us! Give us a demonstration o’ these manly charms an’ let an expert be the judge.’

  His sulk was cast off like a dirty shirt. ‘But what about the money?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll break me if I let you off this once. I mean, I don’t want to miss such a good thing, do I? If what you’ve been telling me is right, that is.’ She placed a hand on one hip and thrust it forward suggestively.

  He grinned and ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘Of course it’s true! Do I look like the kinda fella to tell a lie?’ He moved over to her quickly before she had time to change her mind and placed a bold hand on her breast.

  She stood motionless, gazing mockingly into his face as his lips pecked her cheek and his hands explored her, then asked, ‘Well, what comes next, pray tell?’

  The hand hesitated. ‘We take our clothes off?’

  ‘Very astute.’ She began to unbutton her bodice, then paused to ask, ‘You’re sure now?’

  Dickie wasn’t sure of anything any more, but answered in the affirmative. He slowly shrugged off his jacket, eyes growing wider as Bertha stepped out of her dress and folded it over a chair. His movements became slower and slower as she attained a state of nakedness, feeling his body respond accordingly as the marshmallow breasts burst free of her stays. She wore no unmentionables. He jumped as she asked if he was going to stand there all day and hurriedly stripped off his shirt. She smiled at his reluctance to remove his trousers and stepped forth to help him.

  ‘I can do it!’ He took a step back, suddenly embarrassed to let her see what her nudity had done to him.

  ‘How old are you, Dickie?’ she asked gently at the awkward fingering of his trouser buttons. Lying, he told her sixteen.

  ‘Truthful now!’

  ‘Oh, all right … fourteen – but I’m nearly fifteen!’ he blustered.

  ‘This is your first time, isn’t it?’

  He was about to lie again, but after a slight hesitation nodded. He looked so sorry for himself, standing there with his chin tucked into his chest, those long, dark lashes whispering his discomfiture, that tenderness stirred inside her. She put her arms around him and hugged him fondly. There was something about this boy that moved her, despite the brashness. Beneath that handsome face and the twinkle of youthful exuberance, something that made her want to cry – and Bertha could never recall having cried in her life.

  She patted her hands against his back, then pulled away and said softly, ‘Come on, love, I’ll show you what it’s all about. But first,’ she produced a sympathetic smile, ‘will you rinse yourself off in that bowl? Forgive me, but I have to ask. I have my business to consider, you see.’

  He hesitated at the bowl, unsure, embarrassed. She smiled reassuringly again and helped him.

  His friends had never told him, in their furtive sniggerings, that it would be like this. He allowed her to take the lead, for he didn’t know where he was going, felt himself drawn into the warm, clinging flesh that seemed to suck him in and devour him. She could not have fit him better had she been made to measure; a moist, silken glove. She moved beneath him just once and it was all over. Bright lights burst across his eyes as he exploded in noisy accompaniment to her pleased chuckle.

  ‘Surprised you, did it?’

  He muttered his answer into the soft flesh of her shoulder. Then, still trying to collate his senses, he propped himself on his elbows, clasping his hands across her chest and looked down pensively into her face. There was now another facet to the expression she had read in his eyes: a gleam of triumph, of discovered manhood. ‘Bertha?’

  ‘That’s me name.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you about – your name; not Bertha, I mean your surname. ’Tis an odd sorta name, Sunday.’

  ‘Aye, as odd as the bugger that gave it to me,’ sighed Bertha, shifting her body beneath him and stroking his back. ‘By, a right old bastard he was. The bloke in charge o’ the orphanage I’m on about. I’ve seen him take a stick to one o’ the lads and knock him near senseless for summat so paltry I can’t even recall what it was. An’ yet with us girls he was almost human, takin’ the little uns on his knee to comfort their tears.’ She laughed without amusement. ‘Though if his missus had caught him doing his comfortin’ she’d’ve given him a thrashin’. It taught me though, showed me that he weren’t alone in his need for “comfortin’ ”. I soon came to see that all men are the same – that’s how I came to be in this lark. Not that I’ve been in it all that long, mindst; couple o’ years in all. I came here from Leeds after I got done once too often for indecency – tut! I’m getting off the track: you asked me how I got the name. Well, it’s simple: Sunday was the day some kind soul found me on a rubbish pile and took me to the orphanage.’

  He felt he ought to say something. ‘I’m sorry.’ Though he wasn’t. All he could think about was that which he had just experienced.

  ‘No need.’ She brightened and cupped his face between her hands. ‘So, the boy’s a man, is he? Tell me what it feels like.’

  He grinned and wiggled on top of her. ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t get too cocky about it,’ she dampened his enthusiasm. ‘You’re not much cop when it comes to pleasin’ a lady – too quick, you see. Still,’ she whispered, nibbling his earlobe, ‘I reckon we could make summat useful out of you if we tried. Have you time for another?’ His face lit up. ‘I’ve time for six more at least.’ ‘Quality, dear, not quantity,’ said Bertha firmly. ‘You young coves are all the same – never think a girl likes to enjoy herself an’ all. A few quick thrusts an’ you’re there. Let me show you how to really please a lady.’

  He was quick to learn. She sighed with pleasure as he practised what she’d taught and thrust her pink tongue deep into his ear. He was reminded of the sound of the sea whispering in the whelk shell on that one lovely day his father had taken them to the seaside, with the hot sun and the tang of salt, thrusting his fingers into the warm gritty sand … but there was nothing gritty here. Hot like the sun, yes, but smooth, smooth as melted butter, like dipping one’s fingers into the secret rockpools with their dark recesses, not knowing what one might find.

  After a convulsive shudder Bertha relaxed. ‘I’ll say this, boy, you’re no dunce.’ Affecting an approbatory grin she pushed him onto his back and straddled his knees with fleshy thighs. He tried to pull her on top of him. ‘Ah, no!’ she laughed, her teeth shining white as the sheets, it isn’t often I get myself a succulent young virgin to pleasure me. You, my lad, are going to get the full treatment.’ And as her smiling mouth folded itself around the part of him that least expected it, Dickie closed his eyes and dreamed that every day which followed could be like this.

  They slept afterwards and the sun was turning red when they awoke. She drew in a noisy breath. ‘Christ, I’ll have to be getting to work!’ Then she stretched beneath him, cuddled up again and begged sleepily, ‘Say summat nice before you go.’

  He grinned sheepishly and rubbed his cheek against her breast. ‘What shall I say?’ He didn’t want to go, feeling warm and sticky and content.

  ‘Well, you could start by saying I’m pretty – even if I’m not.’ She looked past his eyes to the ceiling as if seeing someone else there. She always seemed to be looking at ceilings while some unfeeling dolt pounded at her body. Fat ones, thin ones, fancy ones, plain ones – but never one like this; he was beautiful, really splendid. ‘A girl doesn’t like to feel used,’ came the plaintive addition.

  His fourteen year old mind could not yet conjure up the rousing phrases that were to come as second nature in years ahead. He told her in a brief, stumbling monologue how beautiful she was, using the lie to worm his way into her one more time. This was to be the pattern of his life.

  Dickie emerged from his dream and entered the grocery store where he was employed, laughing to himself at Sonny’s false assumption. Hah!
Bellybuttons, was it? Poor Sonny, he would have to let him into the secret: all one had to do was to tell a girl she was pretty and she was yours for the taking.

  Chapter Three

  Thomasin made to enter the store in Goodramgate which had been her place of work for the past eight years, then frowned as the door handle resisted her pressure. She shielded her eyes and peered into the darkened shop. How strange – Mr Penny was usually there by the time she arrived. Not to worry though, the old man, having great trust in his assistant, had issued a spare set of keys for such an occurrence. Selecting the right one she inserted it into the rusting lock and gave a sharp twist.

  Inhaling the aromatic tang of rosemary and sage, bayleaf and dried fruit, she reversed the ‘Closed’ sign and hung up her shawl. After this she used another of the keys to unlock the safe and withdraw the day’s float which she put in the till. This done, she positioned herself behind the counter, donned a fresh apron from her basket and awaited the first customer. The store was of reasonable size, but the vast jumble of bins and cases, stone jars and bottles that Mr Penny insisted on stocking made it appear smaller than it actually was. ‘If you throw it away there’s bound to be somebody ask for it,’ he had always replied to her frequent enquiries as to the purpose of some little-sought-after item. So, the odd assortment had stayed, building up with every year that passed, to hamper any attempt she might cherish of converting the store into some sort of order. Everything was so drab. Around the counter leaned sacks of currants, raisins, assorted nuts, chests of tea, everything dark and uninspiring, apart from the smell. It could be a really depressing situation, thought Thomasin, were it not for the cheery presence of her employer – where on earth was he?

  The bell above the door jangled as the first customer arrived. ‘Good morning, Mrs Ramsden!’ Thomasin greeted the matronly, silver-haired woman. ‘Looks like it’s gonna be another mafter today.’ A desultory conversation followed. When the cost was tallied Mrs Ramsden surrendered her payment, saying, ‘Where’s His Excellency this morning?’

  Thomasin chuckled. ‘He’s probably having a sleep-in. Had one too many last night I shouldn’t wonder. Mindst, he deserves it, he’s gettin’ on yer know. He’ll be seventy-two next week.’

  ‘He never is!’ declared Mrs Ramsden. ‘By, doesn’t time fly? It only seems like last week he was telling me he was sixty-five.’

  ‘It probably was,’ replied Thomasin with a grin. ‘He’s always knockin’ years off his age. Every time he has a birthday he takes another five years off.’ She counted out the woman’s change. Another customer entered and joined the conversation. ‘Eh, you wouldn’t think he was that old!

  Wears well, doesn’t he?’ She hooked a finger over her lower lip as Mrs Ramsden left. ‘Now then, what did I come in for? I get talking and it completely leaves my head.’

  ‘You should make a list,’ suggested Thomasin.

  ‘I did – but I forgot that an’ all,’ joked the woman. ‘Oh aye! that was it – treacle. ’ She handed over a container.

  Thomasin made use of a small step-ladder to reach the treacle and, holding the earthenware jar beneath it, operated the tap. ‘D’yer know, I’m gettin’ a bit worried about Mr Penny; he’s normally ’ere by this time. I hope he isn’t poorly.’ The jar filled, she raised the hem of her skirt in order not to trip over it on her descent.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry over much,’ replied Mrs Aysgarth calmly. ‘As you said, he’s gettin’ on a bit, he’s mebbe overslept.’

  ‘Happen,’ mused Thomasin. ‘All t’same, if he isn’t in by dinnertime I think I’ll nip round an’ see he’s all right.’

  Towards eleven o’clock Thomasin, her tongue like a piece of dried leather, pulled aside the curtain, went through to the back room and picked up the kettle. The rush of water onto metal obliterated the sound of the shop bell as someone entered. She set the kettle to boil on a small stove, her back to the curtain while she selected a mug from the shelf, humming to herself.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The deep voice startled her and she spun round, juggling with the mug until it finally evaded capture and fell to the floor.

  ‘Godfrey Norris!’ she exclaimed at the uniformed figure who had pushed aside the curtain. ‘What yer tryin’ to do – gimme a seizure?’

  ‘Beg pardon,’ apologised the constable. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  Thomasin, suddenly filled with dread, left the mug where it had shattered. ‘Eh, hang on! What’s up? Is it me husband? Has owt happened to me bairns?’

  The police officer reassured her as he took off his helmet and placed it on a shelf. ‘But I do have a bit of bad news; it’s about your employer, Mr Arnold Penny … Would you care to sit down?’ He waited until she had seated herself on a stool, the only piece of furniture in the room which was little more than a cupboard really.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  He nodded, relieved that she had guessed. Of all the duties that he had to perform this was one he loathed; the breaking of bad news. He left her to fumble in her pocket for a handkerchief while he arrested the steaming kettle and filled the teapot.

  ‘When?’ she asked, unable to find a handkerchief and wiping her eyes on a corner of her apron.

  He searched for two more mugs, gave the pot a noisy stir and poured the tea. ‘He appears to’ve died some time yesterday evening or very early this morning. One of his neighbours got worried when his curtains stayed closed. She sent for us and we had to break in. He must’ve died in his sleep. So, you needn’t worry, he never suffered.’ He used his boot to scrape the shards of pottery into a pile.

  ‘I’m glad about that,’ she sniffed. ‘He was a grand old fella. A good friend.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘Eh, there’s all Thursday’s takings still in t’safe; d’yer think I’d better bank it?’

  He sipped his tea. ‘I should, if you know the procedure.’

  ‘Oh aye – I do all t’books an’ that. I more or less run t’shop on me own come to that.’ She sat upright. ‘That’s another thing: what’s gonna happen to me?’ The selfishness of her question pinkened her cheeks but the policeman seemed not to notice.

  ‘I expect Mr Penny’s relatives will sort all that out when we manage to find ’em – you don’t know where we might get in touch with them, do you? We couldn’t find any mention of next of kin when we searched his effects, that’s why you’re one of the first to know.’

  ‘As far as I know he hasn’t got any. No one at all.’ She sighed, as much for herself as for her dead employer. What would she do for a job now?

  ‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said the constable, ‘I’d continue as normal until someone tells you otherwise. I imagine his executors will contact you sooner or later.’ Wiping the ends of his moustache he pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the main body of the shop. Thomasin thanked him for his kindness and showed him out, then slumped back onto her stool to shed a few more tears for the loss of her old friend. The remainder of the morning was taken up with explanations of Mr Penny’s absence to enquiring customers. She was therefore relieved when both hands of the clock pointed skywards and she was able to lock up for lunch. As she hurried home she wondered how Pat would accept the news that they would be one wage short very soon.

  * * *

  ‘Miss Feeney, did I or did I not request that you take a pot of tea to table three?’ Mrs Bradall’s pretentious articulation came as an added burden in this damnable heat. Erin rolled her eyes as she turned to voice her reply.

  ‘Mrs Bradall, I only have the one pair o’ hands! You’ve just this minute asked me to see to table four.’

  ‘And now I am asking you to attend table three also,’ commanded the sour-faced woman. ‘Will you please do as you are told?’

  With a resentful sigh Erin placed a pot of tea, a jug of milk and another of hot water on a tray alongside two cups and saucers, then rattled her way across to table three.

  The café was housed in a medieval building which, with its low ceiling and uneven floo
r, did not make for very pleasant working surroundings – especially in midsummer. The tables were cramped together in order to fit as many as possible into the limited space and more than once Erin had been chastised for elbowing a customer on the head as she carried her tray backwards and forwards to the primitive kitchen. There was little respite from the open window; the lace curtain dripped lankly to the sill. The stifling climate affected both customers and staff alike.

  The occupants of table three halted their conversation as Erin placed the items on their table. ‘We ordered coffee,’ complained one of the women, glaring at the teapot. Erin gave an unconvincing smile. It had been the most infuriating morning; at some point she was bound to blow. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, madam. I’ll go and fetch it straight away.’ Mrs Bradall stood at the entrance to the kitchen and watched Erin’s stormy approach.

  ‘They didn’t want tea, they ordered coffee!’ hissed the girl accusingly as she brushed past.

  Mrs Bradall tucked in her chin and followed Erin into the kitchen. ‘Then you should have paid attention to what I said.’

  Erin rounded on her. The woman’s dour-faced authoritarianism was just too much on a day like this. ‘I like that! You told me …’

  ‘Kindly do not take that tone with me!’ exclaimed her superior, a hint of her Glaswegian ancestry slipping through the precise enunciation.

  Erin deliberately turned her back and began to make a pot of coffee, pulling faces to herself.

  ‘Miss Feeney, I have noticed for some time that you do not treat me with the respect that my position commands. Unless you change your attitude I’m afraid I shall have to dispense with your services.’ Mrs Bradall had recovered her stature and switched back to her ‘refeened’ accent.

  Erin bit back a rebellious retort and pranced hotly to table three to find that the customers had tired of waiting and had left. Oh, Jazers ’tis going to be one o’ them sorta days, is it? sighed Erin to herself. As if it isn’t bad enough listening to Mrs Bradall with her tartan voice moaning and wittering the customers are going to be awkward an’ all.