The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  When once she dared to tentatively ask him if he was perhaps neglecting his business, he’d laughed and asked if she wasn’t pleased that he was proving to be such a diligent father.

  ‘Haven’t I wanted this all my life, Kate? Where is the harm in spending a little time with my son? And here, in the garden, is where I find the peace and solace I need, a time which welds us together as a family. Doesn’t that have equal value to making money?’

  Kate could not deny it, yet experienced great pangs of jealousy watching the three together. He was planning a new design for the garden, and worked happily side by side with old Askew, re-shaping it to a scheme he had drawn up with meticulous care, describing it all to Callum as if the little boy could possibly understand.

  ‘It is not in any way to be a grand design, you see,’ he would explain to the child, who would gaze up at him with wide-eyed adoration, ‘But a series of small, intimate, outdoor rooms, linked together to form a composite whole. Won’t that be nice?’

  ‘Me like pretty flowers,’ Callum said, nodding vigorously, clearly enchanted with the garden.

  In the weeks following, Kate too grew to love walking there, admiring the fruits of her employer’s labours. There was always something new to see, perhaps an unexpected artefact at the turn of a path, the minutia of a mosaic patio laid by his own hands, or a showy, exotic plant to delight the eye. He was a collector, a creator, and, like all good gardeners, a patient optimist, content to plant trees he would never see mature in his own lifetime.

  Master Eliot, as old Askew insisted on calling his employer, displayed a fine eye for detail, with which Kate could only agree.

  And a winning way with her child.

  On one particular morning in early autumn, she discovered him planting a dozen young saplings, whips as he called them.

  ‘Haven’t you enough trees already?’ she laughed, looking about her at the gracious line of beeches along the drive, the woodland copse of ash and rowan that stood behind the house, shielding Tyson Lodge from the terrace of fine houses beyond, and the high school from which each afternoon burst forth a chattering mass of giggling girls.

  ‘One can never have enough trees. We must plant for the next generation,’ he explained.

  ‘For Callum, you mean?’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘For Callum, and for his children, and for all future generations to come.’

  ‘Then will you tell me why you don’t take the same care over the business that you do with your blessed trees?’

  He paused in his digging to glance up at her in surprise, a frown puckering his brow, perhaps affronted by her impudence. ‘Dammit, I do. I always have taken proper care of the company. I run the factory with great care and attention to detail.’

  ‘Not recently, you don’t. Not since you got Callum, which seems odd to me. Doesn’t he, and these future generations you talk about, deserve to have some money coming in, so that they can carry on living in this grand house and enjoy this wonderful garden that you’ve made?’

  Kate thought for a moment that he was going to be angry, though she’d never yet seen him lose his temper. Nor did he on this occasion. Instead, his frozen expression was finally warmed by a lazy smile. ‘My word, you have a way with words, Kate O’Connor; a happy knack for cutting to the heart of a matter. But it is a justified criticism. I should spend more time at the factory, I don’t deny it. I’ve been enjoying my new son.’ He glanced fondly down at the boy, digging beside him in the rich earth with a small trowel.

  ‘Well then, what are ye going to do about it? Or this little chap could suffer and then I’d have given him up for nothing. Why don’t ye get back to work?’ She seemed to be growing more daring by the minute. Surely to God he’d bite her head off for such bare-faced cheek?

  Frowning, Eliot leaned on his spade to give the matter closer attention, just as if nursemaids questioned his judgement every day of the week. ‘I suppose because I’m not a greedy man and would much rather spend my time here in the garden, or with my wife, than in the office. Amelia is so much improved now that she has Callum, and you to help her. Am I not the most fortunate of souls, with all that a man could wish for? With sufficient funds for our needs, I am content.’

  ‘But will you continue to be so if the money runs out? Will there be sufficient funds, as you call them, if you carry on in this fashion? Sure and I’m no expert but if you neglect the business too much, and leave it in the hands of that nasty Ned Swainson, then may the Good Lord save you!’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Oh Kate, I’m well aware of your dislike of my poor foreman. Spare me further complaints about him, I beg you, on such a golden autumn day.’

  She was not to be distracted. ‘Why not let Mr Charles run the company for a while then?’

  At this, Eliot Tyson put back his head and laughed, a harsh, brittle sound with little humour in it. ‘Because he’d have us bankrupt in a matter of months. Fortunately, I’ve an accounts clerk to keep an eye on the financial side of things. Charles has his place in the company, as junior partner in charge of overseas orders. Plus, of course, whether you approve of him or not, I do have a most able foreman to deal with everyday matters.’

  ‘Saints preserve us, I wouldn’t trust the little toad as far as I could throw him. Begging your pardon, sir, but the man’s nought but horse shite, so help me God.’

  Eliot let out a great shout of laughter, a genuine, heartfelt emotion, which went on for so long that Kate found her own lips twitching into a smile. ‘Begging yer pardon over me language, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ever let Mrs Tyson hear you use such words, Kate. She’d faint clean away.’ He took out a linen handkerchief and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, blew his nose then tucking the handkerchief away again, a smile still playing about his mouth. Kate found her gaze fixed upon that mouth, upon the wide, upward curve of the lips, wondering what they might feel like pressed against her own. Cool? Firm? Or warm and soft and persuasively seductive? She pushed the thought away and concentrated on what he was saying to her. ‘While I don’t share your harsh opinion of Swainson, in other respects, Kate O’Connor, your criticism is justified. I should, and will, strive to be more assiduous in my duties in future. You are quite right that I have a son to think of now, and Callum’s future should be made secure. I promise I will be more assiduous in that respect. I shall even go in tomorrow and check that everything is in order. There, does that suit?’

  And they both smiled into each other’s eyes, aware of the incongruity of the exchange, and yet both well satisfied with it.

  Nevertheless, Kate couldn’t help wondering if, despite these fine words, he would keep his word. Why would someone who’d never needed to think too much about money in their life, struggle to find rent, or worry about where the next meal was coming from, trouble himself over how or why it arrived in their pocket?

  The next morning he left for the office at six. Admittedly he was home again by lunch-time, after which he took himself off to the summer house where he set up his easel and spent the rest of the afternoon teaching Callum how to paint his beloved trees. The child was soon plastered with the stuff, daubed in green and gold and yellow from top to toe by the time they were done for the afternoon. Drat the man, he was too relaxed and easy-going for his own good, allowing the joys of fatherhood to cloud his judgement over the business. A flaw in him, to be sure, but, in Kate’s opinion, understandable, and his only one. In every other respect he seemed to her quite perfect. So perfect, she was having trouble getting him out of her mind.

  She’d go to mass on Sunday, so she would, without fail.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucy looked on events with increasing alarm and despondency. Despite Charles’s promises that he had the matter in hand, nothing had changed. The workhouse brat had indeed been adopted and accepted into the family, papers duly signed, and her own expertise as a mother was frequently called upon to supply advice to Amelia. Admittedly the woman followed every word of it to the letter, u
sing that stupid book of Doctor Barker’s that Lucy had given her, as some sort of bible.

  What Lucy really longed to say was ‘put the dratted infant back where he belongs,’ but dare not. Amelia could be remarkably stubborn, and so could Eliot, and relations between the two branches of the family had never been easy since Eliot simply didn’t appreciate Charles as he should, nor provided proper recompense for the hours he put in at the factory. Lucy had hardly seen her husband lately. It really was too bad.

  For Lucy, nothing was certain, nor quite as it should be. She still felt bloated and tired after her latest pregnancy, another boy whom they’d named George after his grandfather, needing to make a point. She’d wanted to do this with their first born but Charles had been so furious with his father for not leaving him a proper share in the business, he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d regretted it ever since, of course, particularly as Eliot refused to share the task of running the company properly with him, claiming that he had no real head for business. Arrogant nonsense. Eliot never had appreciated Charles’s virtues, his ambition or his drive, not to mention his clever way of looking at things, Lucy thought admiringly, if with no small degree of prejudice.

  Now it looked as if their precious children were to be deprived of their heritage as well. It really was too much. She mustn’t let it happen. Nor would it. Not if she had any say in the matter.

  One day in late Autumn, with the first crispness of winter in the air and Callum having celebrated his second birthday, Amelia declared her intention of taking him shopping. ‘He is no longer a baby. Now that he is grown so big, our little man should have some new winter clothes, don’t you think? You must come too Kate, to help me choose, and to wheel his pram.’

  They walked him out the very next morning in the big, black perambulator which, to Kate’s mind, resembled nothing so much as an invalid carriage in every respect, save for its size. As always, she felt hugely conspicuous as they strolled in leisurely fashion across the new Victoria Bridge which her own father had helped to build, opened only a few short years ago to celebrate the Golden Jubilee. Then along Stramongate and up into town, Amelia stopping frequently to chat to ladies she met along the way as she so liked to do.

  When they had first come into town with the baby, she had been delighted to show off the new addition to her household. Several ladies had expressed surprise, saying how they hadn’t even known a ‘happy event’ was due, nor remarking on the unlikely size of this new baby. Amelia did not enlighten them on the truth of the situation, merely smiled and looked suitably proud. Today they agreed what a fine boy he’d grown into, and if privately they understood more of the situation than had been officially revealed, they were certainly not letting on. Kate, naturally, said not a word.

  On this particular morning, they called at Blacow Bros on the corner of Finkle Street and Branthwaite Brow to collect a new hat which Eliot had ordered, and then progressed on to Musgrove’s where, comfortably seated on a chair, Amelia proceeded to buy outfits for Callum, an event which seemed to take most of the morning, putting to the lie Fanny’s insistence that the family was parsimonious to a fault.

  The ubiquitous ‘Jack Tar’ suit was the first selected item, which all little boys possessed and made them look like sailors. A kilt was chosen next, in which Kate thought he looked a ‘right little doat’, to use an Irish expression she’d learned off her daddy. A cream woollen coat with a broad, blue silk collar, with shorts that almost reached his ankles to allow room for growth suited him better. It even had a matching waistcoat so that he could be a ‘proper little man’. Kate thought he looked rather fine in it, though how she would manage to keep it clean was another matter altogether.

  Several other items followed, including nightgowns, smocks, shorts, shoes and socks, so that Kate marvelled one small child could need so much in the way of clothing.

  ‘Oh Kate, what do you think of this?’ She had him rigged out in a Tyrolean style short jacket with a round hat with ribbons, which Amelia declared was ‘quite perfect for sporting occasions.’ Kate kept her opinions to herself.

  Last, but by no means least, came a blue velveteen suit with girlishly pointed-toed shoes for parties.

  ‘Is this what your Doctor Barker, the author of your book recommends that you buy?’ Kate dared to ask.

  ‘Indeed no, I’m sure it is not, Kate dear, but I simply can’t resist it. Doesn’t he look heavenly?’

  Kate almost burst out laughing on the spot, saying he looked like a miniature Little Lord Fauntleroy. All he needed was a white lace collar since he already owned the flowing locks, albeit in bright copper. But she managed to restrain herself just in time. ‘Doesn’t he just!’

  Callum was, in fact, beginning to grizzle and complain from all the tryings-on and fussing he’d been subjected to for the entire morning, and having instructed the shop assistant to deliver the items, a service carried out by a porter on a bicycle who would pedal about town with the boxes perched on the handlebars, Amelia told Kate to wheel him home, as she intended to meet up with Mrs Dawson for lunch at the Rainbow Hotel.

  ‘You may walk him back the long way, down Highgate, through Kirkland and across Nether Bridge and back along by the river, so that he has plenty of fresh air. But please do not make any detours into any of the yards along the way, the air is unsanitary in those dreadful places. No visiting old acquaintances, Kate. Remember our agreement.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Kate gave a wry smile, and could only marvel that her robust son had survived the unsanitary air for as long as he had, living in ‘those dreadful places’. Even so, she was equally unwilling to jeopardise his health and didn’t in the least mind giving her promise. Much as she longed to see her old friends again and discover what had happened to Dermot, she wouldn’t take the risk. She’d kept her word to stay away.

  But then on her way back through Kirkland, just close to the Parish Church, she ran into Millie

  Her friend was so surprised to see her that for a moment she was too startled to move an inch. All her children were gathered about her, clinging to her skirts or to each other like a brood of raggedy-eared puppies holding on to each other’s tails, the youngest cradled in the arms of the eldest girl since Millie herself was loaded down with kindling she’d collected down on the river bank. Dropping it all to the ground, the next instant the pair were hugging and laughing, thrilled to be reunited.

  ‘By heck, you look a right toff all dolled up in that rig. Well, I never! And what about young Callum in his knitted pram suit? Doesn’t he look the cat’s whiskers?’

  ‘Oh, Millie, you’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you. You must tell me everything. How is Clem? And Ma? And little Ruby?’ referring to the little girl who’d been sick when she’d left Poor House Lane. Millie simply shook her head, saying nothing, putting up a hand to prevent Kate from saying anything either. Kate swallowed, squeezed Millie’s hand. ‘And our Dermot? I wrote him so many letters, but he never replied to any of them. I did what I could you know, but got absolutely nowhere. Will you tell me how he is managing before I burst?’

  ‘Hush, hush. One question at a time. To tell the truth, we’re all fine, well, much the same as ever, if I’m honest. Clem has still had no luck with finding work but he scratches a living, and we muddle through as best we can. Ma misses you, and speaks of you often. But the news about Dermot is not so good. Oh, Kate, how can I tell you. Someone came looking for him one dark night, beat him up and took him away. God knows where to, we’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since.’

  Kate was devastated, asked a dozen more questions; wanting to know who was responsible but Millie could tell her nothing more. ‘Sorry, Kate love. Two men came for him. I don’t who they were, or where they took him.’

  ‘Ach, don’t ye worry, I reckon I can guess.’

  ‘I thought mebbe they were some of his gambling cronies, they were so nasty. They frog-marched him away, holding fast to his arms like he were some sort of drunk. The poor lad didn’t stand a chance,
and we could do nowt neither. Our Clem was real cut up about it. Waited up half the night for him, then gathered together some of his mates and they all went out searching for the poor beggar, but, like I say, they found not a sign.’

  Kate felt sick, not wanting to think too closely about what fate might have befallen Dermot. But, as always, this was swiftly replaced by anger. Oh, she knew who to blame right enough. The rotten, nasty, no-good piece of work. And wouldn’t she give him a piece of her mind, so she would. The temper was rising in her, as it so often did, and before she knew it, she was saying, ‘Here, take care of Callum for me for ten minutes while I go and have a word with that Ned Swainson. The nasty, rotten, no good piece of shite. He’s not getting away with this.’

  ‘Swainson! Nay, lass, don’t be daft,’ Millie protested. ‘That’d be too dangerous. Here, come back,’ she yelled, as her friend picked up the skirts of her best grey uniform dress and set off at a run. ‘Kate, come back!’

  But Kate didn’t pause except to half turn, wave and call out: ‘Just walk him up and down for a bit by the church, I’ll be back in a jiffy. So help me I’ll flay the rascal alive if he’s hurt our Dermot.’

  Ned Swainson, not unexpectedly, met her accusations with bland indifference. He knew nothing about any assault, he assured her. Why should he trouble himself about some ruffian of an Irishman? Hadn’t he worries enough with all the work he had on his plate on Mr Tyson’s behalf.

  ‘I swear if you’ve hurt him, I’ll . . .’

  ‘What will ye do, Kate O’Connor? I’d heard you were nicely placed up at the big house, so I’d think before you speak, if I were you, lass. I don’t take kindly to threats, not even idle ones.’