Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘It was you gave me the courage,’ Sean replied, ‘and I learnt a lesson that day. I’ll not stand by now and see anyone else suffer as I did then, nor let them stand alone. And I’ll never forget what you did.’

  ‘You think too highly of me,’ James replied. ‘It was simply chance that put me there when you needed help.’

  ‘Chance or destiny or fate or God,’ Sean said. ‘Call it what you will. Something links our lives for some purpose. I prefer to think it is God. I only regret I did not hear his voice when Tom Hunt asked for help.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps I did; but perhaps I didn’t listen well enough.’

  James found himself thinking of his father, a man who seemed to take courage, and honour and loyalty, for granted, as though they were characteristics given to everyone from birth, along with the responsibility to take care of those who needed help. At times it had made him seem cold and arrogant, driven by a certainty and moral code that left little room for weakness, but James now remembered him in a different light; remembered the look in his eyes when he gazed at the portrait of his dead wife, and his smile when he watched them playing as boys, believing he was un-noticed.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Sean stopped for no apparent reason on the corner of Southgate Street and turned around. ‘I wonder if he ever came to Bath,’ he said.

  ‘My father?’ James asked, bemused, as though Sean had been reading his thoughts.

  ‘No, not your da,’ Sean replied. ‘Why would I be wondering about your da? Good man though he was. I meant, Jesus Christ.’ He made the sign of the cross, to James’ embarrassment and to the obvious aggravation of several passers-by. ‘Have you not heard the legend that the Christ’s uncle, Joseph of Arimathea, owned lead mines in the Mendips and that he brought him there when the Christ was a young boy. They even say that after the crucifixion, Joseph took the Holy Grail to Glastonbury with the blood of Christ in it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that,’ James said. ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘I like to think it’s true,’ Sean said. ‘There’s a thorn tree in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, and doesn’t it still flower every year at Christmas. They say it grew from a staff that Joseph planted in the ground when he arrived. And the farmers up in the Mendips have a saying, “As sure as Jesus went to Priddy Fair.” I wonder what he thinks when he watches his people now.’

  Then, without waiting for an answer and still apparently deep in thought, Sean pointed to the window of a lodging house, before setting off again. James looked at the sign that hung there, “No Irish, No Blacks”. He’d never noticed it before. He was going to say so to Sean, but he was already too far ahead, and James had to run to catch him up, leaving the broad streets behind them.

  Sean’s route now took them through grimy alleyways and lanes and courts. He seemed oblivious to the filth, as James picked his way carefully through the open sewers and piles of rotting waste. Eventually Sean stopped in front of a house. It was a large building with many of the windows bricked up, to avoid the window tax. It looked almost derelict. At the side of the front door was a pigsty with two emaciated pigs rooting through scraps of rotting vegetables and mouldy bread. Sean pushed his way through the door, half hanging from its hinges, and James followed him down the unlit stairs, to the cellar.

  As they entered the kitchen, the stench was overpowering. The source of the foulness was quickly apparent; pools of water stood stagnant, here and there, on the bare earth floor, their odour leaving little doubt that they were the leaking effluent from some cesspit. The stove in the corner belched out acrid grey smoke, which hung suspended from the ceiling, cloaking the stench of raw sewage, but adding to the foulness of the air. James struggled for breath, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs, and replaced by some noxious, acidic gas.

  A man stood as they entered, and snatched up a poker from beside the kitchen range. ‘No one invited you in here, you papist bastard, or your fancy friend.’ The hatred in his face would have sent James backing towards the door, but Sean strode towards him and did not stop until they stood face to face.

  ‘Put the poker down or I’ll bend it around your ugly head,’ Sean said, ‘and you know well that I can.’ The two stood immobile for what seemed like minutes, locked together in a contest of wills. The man was shorter than Sean, but powerfully built. His bald head was like a cannon ball, balanced on his shoulders, with no neck between the two. His eyes were small and set deep, beneath heavy brows. James found his fingers playing almost automatically with the row of pearl buttons at the top of his cane.

  ‘You’re not welcome here,’ the bald-headed man said, gripping the poker so tight that his knuckles whitened. ‘But we’re always happy to take a penny or two from your flock of Irish sheep.’ He backed off, still holding the poker, and leered at Sean, as if the two shared a guilty secret. ‘Your bog-trotters are always glad to stay here,’ he said. ‘Three pence a night, and only two pence if they shares a bed, and you’d marvel at the numbers that seems overjoyed to share a bed for the night. They knows there’s no papist rules here and they love it. They can meet a new wife or new husband every night, as young or as old as the one they lies next to, and they can change them the next night.’

  ‘Look at this,’ Sean said, walking over to a dark patches on the wall, barely discernible against the dirt and grease. He ran the edge of his hand across the patch and a cloud of insects peeled away. Some cascaded to the ground and scuttled around while others flew off in different directions. James scratched his scalp. ‘These are the better class of vermin you’ll find here,’ Sean said. ‘Cockroaches just live off filth as God intended, but men like our friend here create the filth, and draw others into their depravity, lower than the lice and tics that infest the beds.’ Sean approached the man again, his arms flat against his side.

  ‘It’s your Catholic lice that like what we give ‘em, Father,’ the man said, sneering. Yet he backed away and his speech was cut short when Sean punched him full in the face. The punch was fast and as unexpected by James as it had been by the man. He reeled, but did not fall. The poker fell from his hand, and as he reached down he grasped the handle of the knife that protruded from his boot, and drew it. ‘I’ll do for you, you bastard, if you ever set foot in here again. This is Nat Caine’s house and if you cross him you’re a dead man. This won’t be the end of it, he’ll do for you.’

  Sean stood stock still, unmoving as the man pointed the knife towards him, but James thought he could detect a quavering in his voice when he spoke. ‘Gobshite. Tell Caine that Sean Brennan will not be put off by a beating, and I’ll not rest until he is out of this city.’

  James held his cane out in front of him, pointing at the man. ‘You can tell Mr Caine I look forward to seeing him in court.’

  ‘And who are you?’ the man spat back, between clenched teeth.

  Sean reached for his arm as though to restrain him. ‘His prosecutor will be Mr James Daunton,’ he said, as he felt Sean tugging him back towards the door.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Returning home, James and Sean went into the study. They had hardly spoken on their way back. ‘You should not have told him your name, James,’ Sean said.

  ‘I have no fear of them. They may hold sway in Avon Street, but they have no power elsewhere in the city. It’s you who must exercise caution, Sean. That man would have killed you without a second thought.’

  ‘He’d not have killed me without Caine ordering it first. But I don’t underestimate them, and neither must you. That was the house where Thomas Hunt and his daughter spent their last few weeks on earth with thirty other souls.’ Sean hesitated. ‘People ask me how God could allow Avon Street to exist without intervening.’

  ‘How do you answer?’

  ‘It’s Man who created Avon Street, and God that gave us the conscience and ability to put things right.’

  ‘I understand now why you hate Caine,’ James said. ‘I was proud to stand next to you today.’

  ‘No one else will do it,’ Sean
replied. ‘The local peelers are on his payroll, and the authorities would rather pretend that Avon Street does not exist. But I try not to hate Caine, and I should not have used violence. It was not what I wanted. There are other ways of beating him.’

  ‘If I could find money, Sean, what would you do with it?’ James asked.

  ‘So much,’ Sean replied. ‘I could lend to those who borrow from Caine, help them to pay off their debts and loosen the hold he has on Avon Street. The more they borrow from him, the more they need to pay him back and the less they have to live on.’ The tempo of Sean’s speech grew faster as if his thoughts had been held back for too long, waiting for a sympathetic ear. Now the dam had burst, and the words flooded out. ‘I also have a mind to start a co-operative market, such as they set up in Rochdale. I can buy a sack of potatoes for half of what I would pay if I bought it pound by pound, and the same holds true for milk and butter and coal and many other things. Most of the parish buy in pennyworths and get charged double the price.’

  Sean looked him straight in the eye, as if willing him to share his vision. ‘There is a cellar in the church where we could store food and sell it to parishioners in pennyworths, but at the same price as it costs to buy by the sack full. There’s no reason why we can’t provide some basic schooling for the children and perhaps a work area for the mothers, where they can work together, but not have to pay some sweatshop for the privilege. It’s not plans I’m short of, it’s only money.’

  ‘Wait a while,’ James said, ‘I will return directly.’

  He went up to the drawing room and opened his writing desk. Taking out one of the array of drawers, he reached to the back of its compartment and pushed the small, recessed lever. The mechanism released a narrow concealed drawer behind the pen rack and James withdrew its contents. In all there were twenty ten-pound notes. James replaced thirteen of the notes in the drawer and took the other seven with him back to Sean.

  ‘I may have exaggerated my financial condition earlier, Sean,’ James said. ‘I have seventy pounds here, get fifty to my brother and use the other twenty as you will.’ Sean leapt to his feet and, grasping the notes, threw his arms around James. Despite his injuries, the strength of his hold almost drove the air from James’ body.

  ‘One of the men is travelling to Ireland tomorrow to see his family. He’s trustworthy and if I give him a shilling, he’ll deliver the money to your brother quickly and safely.’

  ‘No one who saw us today would believe you were once the bullied one,’ James said. ‘It was good fortune that brought us together that day in school.’

  ‘God guides us into each other’s lives for some reason and he does so more often than we suspect. What happens then he leaves to us.’

  He looked at Sean. The sense of peace in his expression was so powerful that he felt uncomfortable, caught in his stare. James looked away and laughed. ‘Stop your religious ramblings. You’re my friend, not my priest, and besides I could have walked away that day.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Sean said, his expression now brimming with mischief.

  ‘I have a favour to ask,’ James said, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Ask it.’

  ‘Richard was upset at the drowning and the death of the little girl. See if you can find some way of getting Hunt’s children out of the workhouse and find them a home. I think it might help set his mind at rest.’

  ‘That won’t be easy,’ Sean answered, ‘not without splitting them up. There’s no one I know of who could afford to take on all four children. Most struggle to feed their own. I’ll see if they have relatives in Ireland, for they have none here, but even if they have family it would be a terrible burden to impose on them.’

  ‘What if I was to help with money?’ James asked.

  Sean laughed. ‘And don’t you have enough money troubles already? Why do you suddenly wish to become a philanthropist?’

  ‘Perhaps a guilty conscience; perhaps if I help others, my own luck will change; if you cannot do anything now, at least look into the matter for me.’

  ‘God doesn’t strike bargains, if that’s what you’re thinking, James,’ Sean said. ‘If you do good, it must be its own reward.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ James replied. ‘Perhaps God will help me raise more money.’

  ‘That’s not his way and you know it,’ Sean said. ‘You are a good man, James, you know deep within that you have a purpose in life. You keep denying it, but it won’t be denied.’

  ‘I deny nothing,’ James replied. ‘We each control our own lives.’

  ‘So we think, and perhaps we do,’ Sean said, ‘but I know each of us comes to this life with lessons to learn, something our souls need to understand. There are patterns to our lives; a purpose and a plan, which puts obstacles in our path, time and again, until we have understood and learnt the lesson they teach us. Recognise the lessons you need to learn, James, face your demons with the same courage as you faced Caine’s man today.’

  Chapter 10

  Belle sat in a corner of The Garrick’s Head, a loose bundle of papers on the table in front of her. Her earlier anger had by now settled into frustrated annoyance. Still she shuffled the papers again and again, careful despite her feelings, to keep them dry and clean for their return at the end of the play. She willed herself to take in the scribbled words, but her mind kept returning to that afternoon.

  She had learnt her lines days ago for the new production. Then when she had arrived at the theatre earlier that day, Cauldfield had changed her part. Her role now was to be played by Daisy, his lover, while Belle was to play a lesser role. Daisy had laughed out loud, her enormous breasts, invariably on show, visibly shaking. ‘Don’t worry for me, dear,’ she had said. ‘I learnt your part a while ago and you’ll soon learn mine, there ain’t many lines.’

  Belle’s new role had been scrawled on the sheets that now lay in front of her, the cues often longer than the lines themselves. Only the leading man had the whole text of the play, though it was wasted on Cauldfield. He was only ever concerned with his own part. Arrogant and lazy, he would not even allow proper rehearsals because, he said, they ‘dulled the performance’. Just once she would have liked to work with a copy of the full text, but books were expensive and it was so much cheaper to give each actor a scribbled version of their own lines.

  The Garrick’s Head was one of several places in Bath where the worlds of polite society and the underworld crossed paths and mingled. It had been relatively quiet when she came in, but the tavern was now a sea of noise, though it was still comparatively early in the evening. Clouds of pipe and cigar smoke hung over the mass of jostling bodies and in her annoyance she was all too easily distracted.

  The theatre tavern had only one qualification for admittance, as far as Belle knew, and that was a requirement that the men dress and deport themselves like gentlemen. Whether or not they were was a different matter. It was to be expected, she supposed, in an establishment which was once the home of Beau Nash, the man who had introduced the wealthy to Bath; and Bath to the pleasures of the rich. The bar room had once been Nash’s parlour, where he had entertained his guests with gambling and other pleasures. It was in this room that a man was run through with a sword for being caught with another man’s wife. It was behind a door on the floor above that the woman was later found hanging. They said she still haunted the house, a lady dressed all in grey.

  Belle picked out his voice at once amongst the others, booming loud above the noise of conversation. She wondered if he had already seen her, wondered if his loudness was for her benefit. For a while she resisted the urge to search him out. Then, looking up, she saw him; tall, thin, well dressed and still wearing that smile, standing in the centre of an adoring crowd – it was Frank Harcourt.

  She could not pretend otherwise – he was handsome and charming. The men around him seemed to hang on his every word. She watched him using his smile, as he always had, yet she had never noticed before how little his eyes smiled. They seemed
empty and soulless and as she watched and remembered, his good looks seemed to fade. How could she ever have loved him, she wondered, when the sight of his grinning face now turned her stomach?

  Harcourt had his left arm around a girl with flame red hair, whom Belle had seen often around the theatre foyer. She was a prostitute of some standing. His right arm encircled another younger girl, who had only recently been seen around and who, Belle assumed, was new to the profession. His face showed little recognition of the girls’ presence, though his hands seemed busy enough.

  Belle followed his gaze as he looked towards the doorway. It was clear from his expression that he knew the man who had just entered. He smiled in his direction, his grin even broader, though his eyes were as empty as before. This man was also handsome, though he had a more Mediterranean look about him, his skin darker than was fashionable, and his hair a little wild. He had a Roman nose, which might have detracted from his looks, but in fact lent character to his face, and, unlike Harcourt, his eyes seemed very much alive when he smiled.

  Belle looked back towards Harcourt. He was staring at her now and she sensed that he had been doing so for some time. She turned away, but continued watching from the corner of her eye, trying to feign a lack of interest. As his friend approached, Harcourt released both girls from his arms. They stood looking, unsure of what to do next, the redhead draping herself over his shoulder. His right hand took his friend’s offered hand while his left hand seized the man’s forearm, then he looked back towards her. He was smiling again, leering, as if he knew that she was still watching him.

  Belle understood all too well that Harcourt was staging a performance for her benefit, yet she felt compelled to watch as he took hold of the red-haired girl again. She thought he was talking to the younger girl, though he looked at neither of them. It was her that his eyes were fixed upon. She tried to look away, but somehow his empty eyes kept drawing her back. The girl was walking over now, walking in her direction.