My Father, My Son

by My Father, My Son (retail) (epub)

  ‘What! You’d need to hold me for murder if I got my hands on her – oh yes, and I’d like to make a complaint against her myself.’ She applied her elbows to the counter and laced her fingers in businesslike manner.

  ‘Rachel, leave go, lass,’ coaxed Russ as the sergeant positioned his pencil.

  She ignored him. ‘Someone broke my window and I believe it was her.’

  ‘Did anyone witness this incident?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t require the brain of a mathematician to work it out, does it? I mean, here she is incarcerated for a similar crime.’

  ‘That’s not technically correct, madam. Mrs Daw is being held on a charge of assaulting a police officer. But,’ he reached for a piece of paper, ‘if you’d like to tell me the details…’ He went through all the particulars with her, asking finally, ‘And what date did this take place?’

  ‘The first of May 1902,’ declared Rachel.

  The pencil stopped writing and its holder looked up. ‘That’s over four years ago, madam.’

  ‘Your arithmetic impresses me!’

  The form was crumpled slowly in the sergeant’s fist, his patience flagging. ‘A bit late to be making a complaint, isn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t know who did it then, did I?’ An agitated Rachel started to rock the perambulator; the baby had been working up to this crescendo since being brought in.

  ‘You don’t really know that it was Mrs Daw now, do you?’

  ‘She’s…’

  ‘And even if you did it’d be a bit late to do anything – I’m sorry, madam.’ He glanced at the pram. ‘Looks like it’s past his dinner time.’

  ‘He’s a she!’ The ruffled woman made ready to leave, eyes brimming with tears of injustice. ‘Come on, Russ, it’s clear we’re not going to get any recompense for our ordeal. Honestly! They’re all the same, these policemen – and that Ella Daw! For once I’ll be glad when that scruffy friend of yours gets some leave. She needs a man to sort her out, does that one!’

  Chapter Six

  Rachel’s hopes that Jack Daw would knock some sense into his wife were dashed when next he came home on leave. She was incensed to find that he actually supported his wife’s activities! It was so embarrassing, she declared, being associated with them. But if she believed that things could get no worse she found out otherwise when Jack decided not to sign on again with the Colours. His first act – harmless enough – was to find employment at the Carriage Works. However, freed from the restrictions imposed on him by the Army, his second move was to join the Labour Party, and just to compound the sin he became deeply involved in the struggle to bring trade unionism to the railways. Russ, now a thriving businessman, had also become interested in politics during the last few years, though his allegiance lay with the Tories. He had been a shade surprised that his friend had not followed him into commerce and was rather cynical of Jack’s support for the WSPU – he had always regarded Jack as something of a misogynist – but at least his friend was beginning to think for himself and this pleased Russ. So even if, politically speaking, they were at opposing corners, they remained on equable terms. After all, it was the aim of both men to improve the community. Despite Russ’ commercial attachments he had always seen himself as having a social conscience. He was well aware of the terrible slums in this otherwise beautiful city and felt that something should be done about them – and he was doing his bit, wasn’t he, by employing Biddy and thereby taking her out of her atrocious living conditions.

  To Russ it seemed that all successive councils wanted to do was to pretend that these places didn’t exist and use the city’s budget for banquets and festivals. But how could anyone fail to be aware of their existence? They had been slums for Russ’ lifetime – and probably long before. ‘It’s high time these blokes on the Council did something,’ it became his habit to complain to Rachel, virtually every time he picked up the Evening Press. ‘Knock the whole lot down and start again. All they ever seem to do at these meetings is discuss the evils of Sunday trading. If I was on the Council I’d have that sorted out straight away. If folk want to trade on a Sunday, good luck to ’em, I say. We could do a nice bit o’ business ourselves… mindst, I have to admit I enjoy my day’s rest with you and the sprites – but, Lord, these council gadgers…’ A shake of the head at the paper. ‘I could do better myself.’

  ‘Why don’t you, love?’ Rachel decided to enquire this evening whilst busy on one of her creations.

  ‘Eh?’ He turned the page absently.

  ‘Don’t say “eh” in front of the children, Russ.’ Their expanding brood was passing an hour with the grown-ups before bedtime. ‘The word is “pardon” – I said, why don’t you go on the Council?’ At his look of astonishment, she asked, ‘Well what’s wrong with that? You’ve been a member of the Conservative Party for quite a time now, all you need is someone to propose and second you.’ Russ never pushed himself forward enough in her view.

  ‘And a good few to vote for me.’

  ‘That’s not impossible. You’re a very clever man – look how well the business is doing.’

  ‘Ah well, there’s the thing – would I have time?’

  ‘I swear I don’t know, Russ! You moan about the Council not getting things done but when I suggest the obvious you go all coy – make your mind up. You could do something about getting that horrible fence out there replaced.’ She grew more ambitious. ‘And perhaps get some trees planted all along that Knavesmire road. It’d make a lovely avenue.’

  ‘You know… you’ve got me interested, Rache.’ He put down the newspaper and crossed his legs. ‘I have been to enough meetings to know what it’s all about. I mean, they’re only ordinary fellows like me, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a bash.’

  ‘None whatsoever, and I wouldn’t say they were like you at all, Russ. You’ve a great deal more up top than some of them.’

  ‘He-hey! D’you think your dad’s got more up top?’ Assuming a paternal grin, Russ grabbed his son and swung him onto his knee. Robert, though seven, had not outgrown the occasional cuddle and returned his father’s gesture, answering the question with a firm nod. The unease of their first encounter had long since vanished. He and Russ were very close and Bertie, being the only son, felt himself in a special position. His blonde locks were gone now. His hair was cut into a pudding basin style by Rachel and had deepened to her own honey colour. He had her brown eyes too, which sparkled with hero worship whenever his father asked his opinion.

  ‘So our Bertie thinks I could teach these Council chaps how to run a city, does he?’

  Bertie’s smile widened. ‘You’d beat them all.’

  ‘Oh, fighting talk! Like to see your father Lord Mayor, would you?’

  ‘I’d rather have you be a general,’ admitted Bertie. ‘But Lord Mayor would be quite good too, I suppose.’

  Russ laughed. That was his own fault for telling the boy so many tales about his days in the Army. He was duly asked for another. ‘Oh, I’m sure your sisters are bored with hearing about soldiers,’ he answered, taking Rowena on his other knee while the younger ones clustered about him. ‘Aren’t you, me bonny lasses?’

  ‘I don’t mind – whatever the others choose.’ Rowena was a placid girl, always eager to please. She, too, had her mother’s colouring, though to much softer effect. There was an overall gentleness about Rowena.

  ‘Summat wi’ plenty o’ blood in it,’ demanded Rosalyn eagerly. This child was fair-haired – not quite blonde, not quite brown – with the mischievous blue eyes of her father and a wide mouth that was capable of a formidable sulk. She was also a tomboy. Like her sisters, her locks had been bound into rags for the night, but instead of ringlets hers would emerge like sparse bunches of catkins.

  ‘Rosalyn, that is not the sort of thing to go to bed on,’ scolded her mother. ‘And do speak properly!’

  ‘And guns goin’ bang!’ put in three-year-old Becky as if her mother had not spoken. The red hair must have been a throwback to s
ome distant ancestor. Her eyes were brown, but had little green flecks in them.

  ‘Right, well there I was all on me own and the bullets were whizzing like wasps…’

  ‘War, war, war!’ complained Rachel. ‘Whatever happened to the nice bedtime stories we used to hear as children?’

  ‘You’re quite right, Mother.’ Russ nodded contritely. ‘Away now, stop dancing on my feet, Spindleshanks,’ this to Lyn. ‘Once upon a time, there was this very peculiar woman. Oh, she was quite ordinary enough while she was sitting there stitching her hats, but should anybody say a wrong word and – glump! – she’d leap up and bite their heads right off…’

  Bertie saw the sly glance from his father to his mother, the twinkle in Russ’ eye. He giggled, looking at his sisters to see if they had picked up the joke – they hadn’t, of course. This pleased him, as though only he were privileged to share his father’s humour. He laid a fond head on Russ’ chest, feeling a rush of warmth for the bond they shared. If there was any scrap of insecurity in young Robert’s life it occurred but once a year when the new baby was coming. From the moment the nurse knocked on the door Bertie would begin to worry: would the bag which she carried hold another girl or was he going to have a rival? His father seemed to guess the torment he went through, for Bertie was always the first to be informed of the new child’s sex. When Father came down from visiting Mother he would say, ‘Well, Bertie, it looks like there’s still just the two of us poor fellows to be nagged by all these women,’ and for another year Bertie could feel safe. Thinking of this, he snuggled even closer to his father whilst Russ adopted his nightly role of raconteur until the maid entered twenty minutes later to take them up to bed.

  At the children’s departure, Russ said casually, ‘I think I’ll just pop and see how Jack’s foot is. I promised I’d look in tonight.’ Daw had miscalculated when handling a railway sleeper and had broken two toes, earning himself a spell off work.

  ‘Tut! I really don’t know why you have to keep being so pally with him – and don’t think you’re sneaking off to the pub either.’

  ‘Jack isn’t likely to be able to afford beer, is he? Him being off work.’

  ‘Good thing too,’ nodded Rachel as he left.

  Russ found Jack with his foot on a stool, a rifle on his lap and cleaning implements in his hand. Even having left the Regulars he still enjoyed his periodical training with the Territorials. A glass of beer stood at his right elbow. Ella, also enjoying a drink, nodded and gave her half-smile as Russ came straight in – one didn’t have to knock at the Daws’ house. ‘I don’t know why you haven’t thought of getting a job in the police force, Russ.’

  He responded with a smiling frown. ‘My feet are too dainty.’

  ‘I mean as a bloodhound. Marvellous sense of smell you’ve got.’

  ‘You’ve stumped me, Ella.’ Russ collapsed into a chair, eyeing the untidy parlour. Rachel very rarely came here: to a woman so fastidious it was torture to look upon such a mess and be unable to rectify it.

  Ella raised her glass. ‘I was just saying to our Jack, the minute I pour this out you’d get a whiff through them walls.’

  Russ understood now. ‘Ah, you were right then, weren’t you?’ He looked hopefully at the beer. ‘And you’ve made a liar of me. I told Rachel you wouldn’t be able to afford ale, him being off work.’

  ‘He can’t,’ supplied Ella, rising. ‘A pal brought it round. I’m just helping him get rid of it. He can’t bear to see the stuff lying about the house, you know.’ Russ said that was how he felt. ‘I know it’ll be sheer hell, but could you find it in yourself to help us dispose of it? I wouldn’t ask but…’

  ‘Eh, I don’t know if I could, Ella,’ came the doubtful reply. ‘It might make me sick.’ Russ grinned as she passed him the glass of dark ale. ‘Still, I’ll try and force it down for a friend.’

  The three sat and chatted for a while, the main contributors being Russ and Ella; Jack, as usual, interspersed the dialogue with his rare but relevant comments whilst polishing the rifle. Then Russ happened to mention his thoughts about standing for the Council. ‘I sit and read these reports and wonder what the hell they do at those meetings apart from sup tea and have a good binge at the ratepayers’ expense. They do nowt for people like Biddy, you know.’

  ‘And you would?’ questioned Daw, motioning for his wife to pass his cigarettes.

  ‘That’d be the first thing on my list – get rid of all the slums. Bloody eyesores – oh, ’scuse my language, Ella.’ He often forgot he was in female company with Ella; she had a slightly masculine edge to her.

  Jack lit up and tossed the packet at Russ, who withdrew a cigarette. ‘Are you sure you’ll be doing it for the poor folk’s benefit?’

  ‘Oh, not just for theirs of course,’ granted Russ on an exhalation of smoke. ‘Everybody’d benefit.’

  ‘Specially you,’ observed Jack with an imperceptible wink at his wife. At Russ’ demand for an explanation he went on, ‘You never could stand mess, could you, Russ? You’re not so much concerned with the inmates of those slums as with the slums themselves – they offend your sense of neatness.’

  ‘Well, that’s blinking good, isn’t it! Here I am trying to do something for people less well off than me and you pour scorn on it. I thought your lot were meant to be all for that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’m all for helping folk worse off,’ replied Jack evenly. ‘And I’ll agree that razing those places would go a long way towards that aim, but have you considered the people who’re renting them? Where will they go?’ Catching Russ’ look of unpreparedness he said, ‘No, all you’re bothered about is getting rid of the houses and be jiggered the folk that live in ’em.’

  ‘Aw well, if you’re going to be clever about it…’ Russ started to rise, putting aside his glass. ‘I thought you’d be interested in my idea but I can see you’re not. Time I was off, Rachel will wonder where I’ve got to. Thanks for the beer.’ On this short note he left.

  It was not until he found his friend alongside him at a Council meeting that he realized how his idea had interested Daw. After a period of strenuous involvement, both men stood for election and both found popularity with the voters – Daw because of his sincere connections with the trade unions and his proposals to obtain better treatment for the working man in his own city; Russ because of his charming smile, approachable manner and his plausible speeches.

  1910 was one of those years that seemed crammed with unusual events from start to finish. Between the two General Elections, one in January, the other in December – each seeing the return of a Liberal Government, much to the disgust of both Jack and Russ – there was a great deal of change in the two men’s attitudes to each other. They were still on speaking terms, but no longer did Russ fraternize so much with Daw, finding it terribly hard to separate the man in the Guildhall from the one in The Trafalgar Bay. To Russ, the insults which Jack flung at him across Council chambers were personal. He could not, as others did, turn off when the meeting ended and consequently saw little of his neighbour on a social basis. This suited Rachel nicely; it was what she had been wanting for years. Since Russ had become a councillor, her reluctance to mix with his socially inferior friends had become more staunch. That Daw was a councillor too did not seem to matter – he was a Labour councillor, not the same breed at all.

  Unfortunately, there were times when she could not help but socialize. Tonight, both parties found themselves in their respective yards at the same time and were forced to communicate.

  ‘Evening, Rachel.’ Ella, cradling a dog wrapped in a shawl, nodded to the other woman and her husband over the wall. ‘Come to see the comet?’

  Rachel lifted her eyes to the black sky, searching. It was a chilly night and there were many stars. ‘We’re allowing the children to stay up a bit later than usual, they may not see it again in their lifetime.’

  Ella clutched her terrier to her bosom and stood on the balls of her feet to peer over the wall. Four pairs of eye-whites
shone up at her through the darkness – Bertie’s were fixed to a telescope which was scanning the heavens. ‘A fair few now, haven’t you?’

  Rachel, taking this to be a compliment, preened and replied, ‘Yes, my Russ only has to look at me and I fall.’ Ella’s glance hovered on the swelling that protruded from her neighbour’s open coat. ‘He’s been looking at you again, judging by the cut of your dress.’ She stroked the dog’s ears. ‘Haven’t you ever considered birth control?’

  Rachel could scarcely believe what she had heard. In front of the children too! ‘I most certainly have not! Children are God’s blessing on a marriage. Naturally you couldn’t be expected to understand that.’ She was about to move away when a shout from her son brought her eyes skywards. ‘Where?’ She squinted. ‘Oh… are you sure that’s it, Robert?’

  ‘Of course! I’ve checked my compass.’

  ‘But it isn’t moving.’ Rachel had expected the comet to be hurtling across the sky.

  ‘It’s still a rare sight, though, isn’t it?’ contributed Russ. ‘Just think, it won’t be here for another seventy-odd years.’

  ‘By then you should’ve got around to carrying out all these grand plans you’ve been regaling us with, Filbert.’ Jack used the nickname as a form of retaliation – he couldn’t stand it when Rachel thrust Ella’s childlessness in her face. One of these days he would tell her just how fruitful her husband’s loins really were.

  ‘If my Russ says he’s going to do a thing then he’ll do it!’ volleyed Rachel. ‘He got that ugly fence at the front taken down, didn’t he? And the nice low one put up.’

  Daw pretended to be thoughtful. ‘Aye, I’ll admit that us being able to have a proper view over Knavesmire is a great benefit to t’community… pity we had to fork out half the cost ourselves.’

  ‘We’d have had to pay more if you’d had your way!’