Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘No,’ Harry replied. ‘You was the first and only one to climb the oak.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the cuts and scrapes, they’ll soon mend, they always do. I’ll tell ma I fell over running.’

  Caine stood and walked over to the two. ‘Nat!’ Harry shouted. ‘Tommy’s not making any sense; he thinks we’re young kids again. He’s talking about climbing that big oak tree in Cockroad.’

  ‘Leave him be, he’s probably drunk, he’s had half of that brandy and he’s lost a lot of blood for such a small cut,’ Caine said. ‘He’s probably playing the fool again; you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Look at him, Nat. He’s too poorly to play the fool. He’s like he’s on fire, but he’s shaking with cold.’

  The crash was loud as the bottle fell from Tommy Wood’s grasp and smashed on the flagstone floor. Nat leant closer and felt Tommy’s forehead. ‘You’re right,’ he said ‘the young ‘un is bad. He was burning up a minute ago and now he feels ice cold.’ Turning to the card players, he said, ‘One of you fetch some blankets and someone bank up the fire.’

  ‘He needs a doctor,’ Harry said.

  ‘Aye, get our friend, the one that doesn’t ask questions. Tommy’s lost a lot of blood already and I can’t see how bleeding him of more is going to help, but a bit of laudanum will take the pain away and give him a good sleep. Fetch him now. Tommy’s a special lad and I’ll not see him go without. Tell him Nathaniel Caine has asked for him personally and give him two sovereigns.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  James turned the key in the lock of the large front door and straightaway scraping and scratching noises could be heard from the other side. John Doyle seemed startled at the sounds and looked to James as though he was poised for flight. As the door swung open, a small brown and white terrier looked up at them and barked just once, quietly. James bent down to stroke the dog’s head.

  ‘I’ve no liking for dogs,’ John said as the terrier began energetically sniffing the bottoms of his trouser legs.

  ‘John, this is Admiral Nelson,’ James said, ‘my housekeeper’s dog. He is better known to his friends as Horatio. As you can see he has a patch around his eye, and all the qualities one expects of a guard dog. If his fearful bark fails to deter the housebreaker, he will simply lick the miscreant to death. Won’t you, Horatio?’ He bent over and stroked the dog’s ears but could see that John was still not at ease as he led him through the echoing hallway and into the study.

  The room was hot after the cold of the night and the guttering flames of the two gas lamps, which had been turned down low, added to the warm glow from the embers in the fireplace. James threw his jacket onto the chaise-longue under the window and then poked the fire and added a few small logs, creating a fountain of gold and red sparks, and sending wisps of wood smoke curling around the lip of the mantelpiece and into the room. The logs quickly crackled into life, and the small flames flicked over the bark and sent shadows dancing onto the walls.

  ‘You say very little, but I am still curious as to why you came to my assistance?’ James asked.

  ‘God only knows; maybe just because I was there, or maybe I didn’t like the odds. Does it matter?’

  ‘True,’ James said. ‘You at least helped, and I suppose it does not matter why.’ It did matter to him though. Part of him needed to know why Doyle had intervened, but it was obvious that the man would not be drawn further. ‘There is a hint of some accent in your voice,’ James said. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from Boston,’ John said, ‘but that was a long time ago. I’ve done a lot of travelling since and I ain’t been back in years.’

  ‘Ah, a Lincolnshire man,’ James said.

  ‘No,’ John replied, ‘Boston, Massachusetts.’

  ‘Oh, an American,’ James said, as he took off his shoes and stockings, leaving them in a sodden mass where they fell, before sitting in an armchair at one side of the fire and warming his feet. He gestured for John to sit in its partner on the opposite side of the hearth, but he stood immobile and uneasy, staring at the closed study door as though he was waiting for something. Seconds later the door swung open, framing the formidable shape of Mrs Hawker, in nightdress and dressing gown, a walking stick raised above her head.

  ‘I keep telling you, Mrs Hawker, you’re supposed to knock on the door before entering,’ James said.

  ‘And I keep telling you that you should return home at a decent time and not at this ungodly hour. When you have the manners to listen to me, I will have the manners to knock. And who’s your man here, come to burgle us, and do God knows what other foul business?’

  ‘I’m John Doyle and I don’t steal from good folks, or conduct any other foul business,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re a sparky one and no mistake,’ Mrs Hawker responded. ‘We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now, and leave the rest to time. Sit yourself down and stop standing there menacing us all. I suppose you both want to eat?’

  James smiled. ‘Yes, we are hungry, but we will fend for ourselves.’

  ‘Away with you,’ she said. ‘What do you want to eat?’

  ‘A chunk of cheddar and some bread will do us fine,’ James said, ‘unless there’s some of your pie left and perhaps a little ham and some pickles. I promised John here that we would feed him.’ His demands were as much to set Mrs Hawker’s mind at rest as they were about hunger.

  He saw her examining his discarded jacket with its various stains and rips. It looked worse than he had imagined. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she asked, attempting to remove some of the dirt from a sleeve. He told her he had been involved in a scuffle and that John Doyle had given him assistance. She was obviously concerned, and he said nothing about the nearness of his escape, or the fact that he had stabbed a man. Mrs Hawker frowned as she gingerly picked up the shoes and stockings with the tips of her fingers.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  They ate well and when they had finished James showed John up to his room. When he returned to the study, Mrs Hawker was clearing away the plates. ‘You know nothing of that man and yet you bring him into your home and let him stay for the night. I shall keep my door locked and you should do the same,’ she said.

  ‘I know he saved my life, Mrs Hawker, and that I had no other way of rewarding him.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ she replied, ‘but he has the run of the house and he looks a rough sort.’

  ‘Then lock your door, Mrs Hawker, and if it makes you easier I shall lock mine. Leave the dishes and get to your bed. I will go up when I know you are safe behind your door.’

  When Mrs Hawker left, James felt the weariness creep slowly into every part of his body, but he knew that his thoughts would not allow him to sleep. He had almost forfeited his life, stabbed a man, lost all his money, and could no more help his brother now than he could help himself. Neither could he dismiss the image of Sean’s face when he had taken the money from him and Richard’s words when he had borrowed from him. He would keep his promises to them though, and more. He vowed to himself to change the way he lived. He would work, as never before, to pay off all that he owed, and he would help his brother and Sean.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Tommy Wood showed no sign of pain now. The doctor may have done little else, but at least he had taken away his suffering. ‘Well, doctor?’ Caine barked. ‘Can you save him?’ The man’s hands were shaking and as he turned the sweat on his face said all that needed to be said.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. Nothing any doctor could do.’

  Caine studied Harry Wood’s face, as he cradled his brother’s head in his arms. ‘Get out, doctor, while you still can, and don’t let Harry see you again.’ He tossed a coin in the man’s direction, but the doctor made no effort to retrieve it in his haste to leave. The coin fell to the ground and Caine picked it up again.

  He walked over and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He looked at Tommy’s face, drained of any colour, the eyes sunk deep and dark. ‘Best say your goodbye
s, lad. I fear he’s dying.’ Harry turned and looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes, but he was holding them back. He looked for a moment as though he was going to speak, but he said nothing.

  Tommy’s breathing got louder for a while and then became very quiet, as though he had stopped breathing altogether. Shortly afterwards the rattle started, as though each breath was pained and stuck fast in his throat. Caine had heard it before. It stopped for a while and Harry held him closer. Just for a moment Tommy opened his eyes. ‘Come on, me babs,’ Harry said. But everyone in the room knew he was going. Then Tommy breathed his last breath.

  It took five men to subdue Harry and hold him down until his rage had passed. Then they left him alone with his brother.

  Chapter 14

  When John awoke he realised it was almost mid-morning, long after the time he had intended to be up and gone, but he did not stir. Instead he lay awake for almost an hour, listening to the lone birdsong through the bedroom window, allowing his mind to drift aimlessly with its territorial melody, enjoying the stillness of the house and letting his memory meander.

  Last night had not gone the way he had planned it. He knew well enough what he should have done, what he had spent weeks planning to do, but when the moment had come, he’d lost his nerve. Yet the emptiness it had left inside him was almost welcome, there was nothing left to lose now, even his money was gone. Most of it had been spent in London with the old friends he had sought out.

  Each meeting had been relatively enjoyable at the start, exchanging reminiscences and half-remembered, much embellished, anecdotes, making him forget for a while what he had lost. Then the silences had intervened and the unwelcoming looks from wives and families for the stranger who was a reminder of other days. To them he was a threat, an underminer of relationships, a caller-back to a former life at sea, and long partings and uncertain futures. They could not see how he envied them.

  There were no loved ones to resent his presence in the lives of other old comrades he had sought out. Yet somehow they made him even more conscious of his irrelevance. As long as he was with them, he was welcome to join in drinking sprees and any other entertainment that offered itself up, particularly when he had money in his pocket. But he knew that when he left he would not be unduly missed, and that once he had gone he would be remembered only now and then, as the subject of some half-forgotten story. They’d all known what he should do, confirmed to him what was already in his mind. Some of them even offered to help, but what he had to do, he had to do alone, or at least that’s how he had felt then.

  For a man of his build, John prided himself that he could still move quietly, when he chose to. He had waited until the house was completely silent; waited until he could hear no movement from below. Only then did he leave the bedroom and make his way downstairs. The door of the drawing room opened silently and closed without the slightest resistance. The room was deserted.

  He made his way to the ground floor and the front door, trying to remember each creaking board on the stairs and landing from the night before. He descended with barely a sound. Yet at the bottom of the stairs, he had taken only a couple of paces towards the front door when the dog came running towards him carrying an old worn slipper, which he dropped at his feet and nuzzled towards him with a quizzical look. Then he barked, a single gruff murmur, deep in his throat.

  John froze. He thought of picking up the shoe and throwing it for the dog to chase. He could be past it and through the door before the dog knew what was happening. But now James Daunton was calling through the half-open study door. ‘Is that you, Mr Doyle?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just going,’ he shouted back, making his way to the door. ‘Thank Mrs Hawker for the food last night, it was the best I’ve had in weeks.’

  ‘Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea, Mr Doyle?’ James said, opening the door of the study.

  ‘I wanted to be on the road before the morning was over,’ John replied.

  ‘But I promised you breakfast. Please stay for something to eat and drink before you go.’

  ‘I’d be glad of some food, but I’ll take it in the kitchen. I don’t wanna fuss made.’

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  John knocked on the door of the kitchen and waited for an invitation to enter. There was nothing other than the thought of food that might have made him stay; he had no money and no idea of when he would next eat.

  ‘Come in,’ Mrs Hawker shouted.

  John shivered as he entered the warmth of the kitchen from the cold of the hall and the steep, narrow, lower staircase that led down to the cellar rooms. He could feel the damp in the air from the clothes drying on the clothes-horse suspended from the ceiling, but the kitchen was lit by a deep golden glow from the fire in the black-leaded kitchen range and the soft morning light from the low basement window.

  This was obviously her kingdom he thought. The pine table at the centre of the room was worn and bleached white from constant scrubbing and she was busy at it now, her hands covered in flour. John felt strangely at home, the air seemed full of half-remembered childhood smells of cinnamon and cloves; honey and molasses; and the lingering scents of baked pies and spit-roast joints.

  ‘I’ve called in to say goodbye,’ he said, ‘before I set off on my travels, and Mr Daunton said I could have something to eat before leaving. Don’t go to any trouble though. I can see you’re busy. If you can spare a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese I’ll take ‘em with me.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll sit at that table so, and you’ll not move until you can eat no more. You look in need of a good meal and for that matter a bit of care.’ She wiped the flour from a corner of the table, sending a white cloud drifting down to the floor like a fall of fine snow. ‘I suppose you want something as well, Patch,’ she said, looking past him.

  John started. He was unused to being taken by surprise by anyone, yet, turning, he saw no one, until he looked down and saw the dog looking up expectantly, the slipper still gripped in his jaw. When he sat by the space Mrs Hawker had cleared at the table, the dog dropped the slipper in the fallen flour at his feet. When he did not respond the dog picked up the slipper and dropped it again in front of him, looking up into his eyes, nosing it towards him several times, each time looking up into his face for some sort of response.

  ‘Master James calls him Horatio,’ she said, ‘but I prefer to call him Patch. If he gets confused at times, he never seems to show it.’

  ‘Does he want me to throw it for him?’ John asked.

  ‘He wants you to pick up the slipper,’ Mrs Hawker replied.

  John picked up the slipper, ‘What should I do now?’

  ‘Just sit with it in your lap for a while and then put it back on the floor,’ Mrs Hawker said. ‘He followed me home from the market a few years ago and when he wouldn’t leave I threw a slipper at him. He just brought it back, and I let him stay. Now if he likes someone he gives them his slipper. He must like you.’ Her face had softened as though the dog’s approval counted for something in her mind.

  John unslung the bag from his shoulder and threw it down in the corner. It landed with the heavy thud of metal on stone. He looked up at Mrs Hawker as she studied the bag, a large china rolling pin in her hand. He smiled. ‘You’ve nothing to fear from me, you know,’ he said. ‘That’s my baccy tin and a couple of other things lying at the bottom of the bag, not the silver candlesticks from the drawing room.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘Oh, the thought crossed my mind,’ he said, ‘after all I’ve no money and silver fetches a good price, but I’ve stole nothing. I’m not a thief and besides Mr Daunton may have some funny ways, but he trusted me and it’s a while since anyone’s done that. I’d not steal from him even if I was a thief. You can go up and see for yourself if it’d set your mind at rest.’

  Mrs Hawker smiled. ‘It won’t be necessary. I can tell you’re a good man. It’s in your eyes.’ She hesitated. ‘So you like Master James?’ she asked.

  ‘He seems fair,�
� John replied. ‘But he shouldn’t go in the places he does.’

  ‘You seem a man of the world,’ Mrs Hawker said. ‘Where will you go after you’ve eaten?’

  ‘I’m heading for Bristol and then to sea,’ he lied.

  ‘Whatever would you do that for?’ she asked.

  ‘See the world agin and taste what it has to offer. Besides that’s my trade and I need money to live,’ John said.

  ‘You’re free to do as you please of course and if you want to run away that’s up to you, but I sense you might want to stay,’ Mrs Hawker said, her tone almost questioning. ‘You’ve an unhappiness inside you that you may be able to hide from others, but not from me.’

  ‘You’re a wise woman,’ John replied.

  ‘Wise enough to know that you don’t find what you’re searching for by wandering the world. Sometimes you see more by staying put for a while, not that I’ve seen much of foreign places.’

  ‘I do have unfinished business in Bath,’ John found himself saying. The words seemed to tumble from his mouth, and he wondered how this old woman had managed to coax the admission out of him, with so little effort.

  He felt her studying him as though the need to make some decision about him was rattling around in her brain. ‘This would be a good billet for someone who needs time to find themselves,’ she eventually said. ‘And I’ve a feeling that’s what you are looking to do.’ He could almost see her mind working now and it was not the mind of a feeble old woman, but more like a she-wolf protecting her cub. He was sure that anyone who underestimated Mrs Hawker did so at their own risk. ‘Besides, Master James might need someone like you, someone who he can trust, and knows how to look after themselves,’ she said.

  ‘How’s that then?’ he asked.

  ‘He got himself into trouble last night. It worries me that he goes to places that he shouldn’t, and gets into such scrapes.’

  ‘They weren’t just out to rob him. They could have done that easy, as soon as he parted from his friend,’ John said. ‘I’d watched them in the tavern. Why would they attack someone who had lost, rather than the winner?’