‘Leave ‘im alone, Jack,’ pleaded his wife behind him.
‘You shut up, woman … nobody was askin’ you,’ snapped Jack dropping Pat to the floor, where he landed on all fours. ‘My family’s no charity and them clothes ‘e ‘ad were just fine.’
‘I ‘ate you, I ‘opes ye drop dead, ye bloody lout!’ shouted Pat, his terror turning to anger, after seeing his clean hands now dirty again, along with the knees of his trousers. He loved the feeling of being clean and wanted to stay that way as long as he could.
‘Oh, do ye now? ye cheeky little runt. I best teach ye some manners then, ‘adn’t I, boy?’ Jack opened his jacket, removing his belt.
Pat ran to his mother, panicking, as his anger reverted to fear. He threw his arms around her waist, hoping she might be able to stop the inevitable. Jack drunkenly wrapped half of the belt around his fist, as his body swayed back and forth. Leaving about twelve inches of strap dangling from his hand, with the metal buckle at the end, he made his way to the corner.
‘Jack! Leave ‘im be, yer’ll ‘urt ‘im.’
The strength of Nelly Roche’s voice had come back to her to defend her son. Jack ignored her and fixed his sights on little Pat, who was clinging to his mother for dear life.
‘Ye better tell me where ye got them clothes from, boy, or this belt’s gonna thrash ye hide!’ He raised his hand above his head and the buckle gleamed in the firelight. Pat cringed at the dark silhouette of his father, the flickering shadowy orange flames from the fire lighting up one side of his body and bouncing off his face to reveal glimpses of his rage. He was sure his father was going to kill him.
‘The Lellerbarrers give me ‘em!’ he yelled, his body taut as he prepared to receive the strike and he gripped his mother even tighter.
‘The Leatherbarrows ay? Well, we’ll see about that … thinks I can’t clothe me own family, do they?’ Jack dropped his arm and grabbed Pat by the earlobe, almost twisting it off, and dragged him outside and up the street, all the way to the Leatherbarrow’s house. All his frustration was focused on them; he was out for trouble now that his lack of funds had thwarted him from further drinking. Pat’s face was screwed up in agony, as he was forced to run on tiptoe in order to keep up with his father’s furious pace. By the time they had arrived at the house, his right ear was purple and swollen. That same heavy hand now pounded on the front door, so hard that the Leatherbarrows were startled as to who it could be. On opening the door, Mr Leatherbarrow came face to face with Jack’s contorted face.
‘Where’s me lad’s clothes?’ he demanded.
‘Your boy’s clothes weren’t good enough to use for wash rags,’ retorted Mr Leatherbarrow, as he looked down at Pat’s petrified face.
‘My family’s no charity, Leatherbarrer, so keep ye bloody nose out of our affairs. ‘Cos if ye don’t, I’ll put ye on ye back b’fore ye know it,’ snarled Jack.
‘Is that right Roche? Would you like to try?’ Mr Leatherbarrow walked down the steps of the house and squared up to Jack. The upset had brought Mrs Leatherbarrow to the door and the surrounding neighbours to their windows and doors. Sarah was in her bedroom in the top room and was aroused by the raised voices. She opened her window and peered down to see Pat and their two fathers arguing vociferously. The summer sun had sunk behind the hills of Birkenhead and the darkness was falling thick and fast.
‘You’ll not be bringing trouble to this house, Mr Roche,’said Mrs Leatherbarrow angrily.
‘He’s not trouble, Ida. He’s just a lousy no good drunk, who only cares for himself,’ replied Mr Leatherbarrow.
Jack lunged at him, but Mr Leatherbarrow quite effortlessly ducked and side-stepped him so Jack fell hopelessly to the cinder ground, scuffing up a cloud of dust.
‘The day I have to lift my hand to you, Roche, will be the day you sleep through to the next,’ said Mr Leatherbarrow quite calmly. Even though he did feel like punching him, he hated resorting to violence; he was a peaceful man who kept total control over his temper. Pat felt the shame burning into his cheeks as he watched his father picking himself up off the ground and struggling to his feet, a truly pathetic sight. Then from out of Beech Court came old Billy Wakely, the night watchman who was not long on duty. Lantern in hand, he raised it with a slightly bent arm to shoulder height, revealing his face in the yellow glow of the feeble flame. He had been alerted by the sound of angry raised voices and had come over to investigate, so he raised his lantern to full arm’s length, in order to shed some light on the surrounding area.
‘What’re you folks up to then?’ He frowned.
‘Mr Roche has come round looking for trouble with my husband,’ replied Mrs Leatherbarrow, indignantly.
Old Billy Wakely held his lantern close to Jack’s face, making him squint and almost lose his balance.
‘Jack, you’ve been warned of your trouble startin’, time and again … now take yeself off ‘ome, before I lock ye up till mornin’… I’ll not have no fightin’ this time o’ night, so go on, clear off!’
He might have been getting on in years, but Billy was a well respected night-watch man, and unlike a lot of others in Liverpool at the time, he still held authority in his area. Billy was tough as old boots and still knew how to pack a punch if he needed to.
‘I’m not finished wi’ you, Leatherbarrer,’ muttered Jack, as he walked away in disgrace. One by one, the nosy neighbours withdrew from their windows and doors and the Leatherbarrows went in and closed the door behind them.
‘You get yesel’ ‘ome too, little Pat. Ye shunt be ‘angin’ around at this time o’ night at your age,’ said Billy, towering over young Pat.
‘Can I come wif you Bill?’ asked Pat.
‘It’s too now late little fella, I got work to do, but you come an’ see me t’morrer at the hut’. With that Bill lowered his lantern down to his side and disappearing into the night.
Pat was left alone, standing in the dark with what little light was stretching from the nearby gas lamp. He looked up to see that Sarah had been watching. She gave a subdued wave and Pat made a poor effort to return the gesture, then she took herself in, closing her bedroom window. Left in the emptiness of Crosbie Street, Pat took the shortest steps for the longest way home, his head filled with hatred for his father, who had just spoilt one of the best days he had ever had. He searched for something to feel happy about; he found it, the fact that his father had not dragged him back home by the ear again.
Pat was given the starkest of warnings that he was to stay away from the Leatherbarrows, and terrified by the threat, he did his best to obey. But he missed them, especially Sarah. He loved being in her company and playing with her. He also felt a certain amount of guilt for the trouble his father had caused. There were times when he wanted to call at the house, but his head had taken over the reins of his heart and held him back. Maybe they would not want to be bothered with him anymore. Maybe Sarah would be ashamed to be seen with him again. His mind was tormented by such thoughts and his resentment for his father festered inside him.
The weeks went by without sight or sound of the Leatherbarrows, just the odd glimpse of Sarah from a distance. Instead, Pat started spending time with his brothers Shaun and Danny, going out around the profitable areas of town, learning how to steal and pick pockets. It was nothing to be proud of and he knew it was wrong, but he was beginning to enjoy the rewards it brought. One autumn day Pat noticed Sarah at a distance, sitting alone on her front step, staring into space, and so instead of following his brothers down to the dockland areas to deprive some other hapless victims of their hard earned valuables, he decided to go and see her. A smile lit up her face the moment she saw him and they played happily for a couple of hours then, with Mrs Leatherbarrow’s approval, they went into the house. Though things were a little awkward at first, she was definitely happy to see him.
Pat was enjoying their company so much he had not noticed the evening creeping upon him and so was startled when there came a loud knock at the door. Mr Leatherbarrow shot his wife a
bitter look before she went to answer it. He had been worried by Pat’s presence in the house, even though it had been a while he had anticipated the coming trouble. It was Jack all right, and Pat quaked as he imagined his punishment for deliberately disobeying his father’s orders.
‘Ger out ‘ere, ye little brat!’ came the irate voice of his father, who was completely ignoring Mrs Leatherbarrow at the door. Pat timidly appeared at the front door from behind Mrs Leatherbarrow, keeping his head tilted to the floor to avoid eye contact with his brutish father. ‘Ye brothers told me I’d find ye ‘ere, ye little rat! Ye was s’posed to go with
‘em, weren’t ye? Now get ‘ome, before I belt ye so hard ye’ll not walk for a week.’ Then Jack turned his aggression on Mr Leatherbarrow. ‘Seems to me you need to learn a lesson, Leatherbarrer,’ he shouted into the house, ‘I don’t want me lad anywhere near ye stinkin’ kid, d’yer ‘ear me?’ Mr Leatherbarrow was not long home from work at the dock; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, his braces hanging down by his knees and the top buttons of his shirt undone as it was his routine, after a long day of toil, to loosen his clothes and relax in his chair. With a resigned sigh, he stood up and calmly walked to the front door, while pulling his braces back on to his shoulders. Then he stepped out into the street to confront Jack. Once again the sound of Jack’s raised voice had provoked the attention of the locals. It was still quite early and there were children playing and people chatting at their doors.
‘You’ll die a lonely old man, Roche, the way you treat your family,’ he snarled.
‘What d’you know about looking after kids, Leatherbarrer? When ‘alf o’ yours is dead.’
Sarah’s father struck Jack a mighty blow with no word of warning. After such a heartless comment he was lucky to still be alive. It was so sudden, he didn’t know what had hit him and he fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Pat looked on, mouth wide open, at mild-mannered Mr Leatherbarrow’s actions, in complete awe of what he had just witnessed. He was glad that his father had finally got what he deserved, and only wished he had had the strength to do the job himself. Like a true gentleman, Mr Leatherbarrow picked Jack up and slung him over his shoulders and took him home before the watchman or parish constable came on the scene. Yet he still burned with rage at what he had said, so hurt by the cruel jibe that he felt like going straight down to the dock and throwing him in. He dropped him hard back in his cellar room, where he didn’t wake until the following day.
That night Pat, his brothers and his mother, had a peaceful night’s sleep, but as much as he thought it was deserved, Mr Leatherbarrow had not fully considered the consequences for the other Roche’s, once Jack woke the following day. From that time on, Pat resolved to stay away from Sarah and the Leatherbarrow’s place, thinking that it was not right for him to bring trouble to such a good family, resigning himself to the fact that what he wanted, he could not have. He had been born into the wrong family. It was as simple as that. He didn’t like it, but it was time to tow the line.
And so it was that days turned to weeks, weeks to months and months to years. Jack managed to drive out Shaun and Danny, who decided it would be better to try and survive on the streets than to live under his tyranny, but Pat, in all his stubbornness, was not going to be pushed out that easily. He felt a certain sense of responsibility towards his mother; he was not prepared to leave her to take the brunt of his father’s abuses. As he had grown, so had his confidence, often diverting his father’s onslaughts on to himself, in order to protect her. Suffering without complaint, a strong bond between mother and son began to develop. She was the only reason he had stayed, and he was the reason she was still alive. Nelly Roche began to feel protected and cared for and Pat began to thrive under his mother’s gratitude and attentiveness.
Pat made occasional visits to the Leatherbarrows to see Sarah, often with a black eye, or swollen mouth, and Sarah’s mother would see to his wounds. Any contact with Sarah, gave him strength and invigorated him. The bond was just too hard to break, and he could not stay away for too long, though in order to survive, most of his time was spent stealing, pick pocketing or begging. Pat so wanted to relay the affection he received from Sarah and her parents on to his mother, but it was not the same. It was too late for Nelly to fully appreciate love; her emotions had withered over time and her soul had become a desert. Her health was deteriorating rapidly, and she was losing her will to go on, now that she knew her youngest son was older and stronger. Jack cared little either way, his addiction to alcohol having long since pickled any compassion he may have had.
These were hard times for Pat, not only did he feel that he was losing his mother, but also that Sarah was beginning to lose respect for him. She hated the fact that he was stealing and begging and kept telling him that it was wrong. He took her words to heart, but he had no choice; it was the only thing he could do to eat and help his mother. Yet a deep sense of shame stalked him constantly and the only way to keep it at bay was to stay away from Sarah. Mr and Mrs Leatherbarrow started to become more and more wary of Pat, knowing that he was becoming a petty thief, but Sarah was confident that he would never steal from them, assuring her parents that he would never betray their trust.
Pat was quickly growing into a man, and now at fourteen he had lost his little boy looks. It was much the same for Sarah, who was now thirteen, and growing into a woman and it seemed like the seed of love was beginning to blossom between the unlikely pair. Through years of struggle and difficulties, the two had still managed to maintain their friendship, even after intermittent months apart. Pat’s father had mellowed a little over him seeing the Leatherbarrows, accepting that he couldn’t keep his son from their door, he was too fond of them and they were of him, until disaster struck.
After a visit from Pat, Mrs Leatherbarrow could not find a brooch that had been passed down to her from her dead mother. After searching the house high and low, they reluctantly came to the conclusion that Pat must have taken it. Sarah defended him unreservedly; she knew him better and trusted him completely. Yet a week passed by without Pat going near their door, casting doubt over the trust she had for him, and now even Sarah was growing suspicious. She wanted to go to his house but Pat had always warned her not to. He was too ashamed for her to see where he lived, even though it was only a short distance away. So they decided to wait until Pat called to question him. Yet still there was no sign of him.
Their patience was wearing thin and the Leatherbarrows now felt certain that he had taken the brooch. Why else would he be avoiding a visit? It was now almost two weeks since he had last called. The day finally came with a faint knock at the door, Sarah and her parents went to the front door to see who it was. There he stood, his face full of remorse, his eyes glazed and raw, silently trying to compose himself, but before he had a chance to explain himself, Mr Leatherbarrow blurted out,
‘Where’s that brooch, Pat? How could you take it from us after all we’ve done for you, lad?’
Before Pat had the chance to reply to his abrupt question, he was thrown off balance by another accusation.
‘If you give it back, Pat, we’ll hear no more about it,’ said Mrs Leatherbarrow, throwing him a last lifeline.
There was a moment of silence as Pat grasped the insinuations, and he turned to Sarah for some support. A single tear threatened to roll down his face, as he looked at her pleadingly. The Leatherbarrows convinced themselves it was the look of guilt.
‘You’ve sold it, haven’t you? And I told them you didn’t take it,’ said Sarah in disbelief.
With that, the wells that had gathered in Pat’s eyes overflowed down his face, as he stood there in dismay. His whole world had collapsed and without a word he ran away down Simpson Street. Pat’s emotional reaction was taken as proof of his guilt by both Sarah and her parents, and it filled them with anger and bitterness. For the next few hours his name was subjected to criticism after criticism. He had deceived them all and they had been fools to be taken in by him. Sarah’s pa
rents went on venting their anger as she sat and listened. She still didn’t really know what to believe, but she felt in her heart that Pat would never do such a thing to a family that he looked upon as his own.
Later that evening there came another knock at the door. The Leatherbarrows prepared themselves, assuming it to be Pat, with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness. But it was Jack Roche, looking quite distressed himself.
‘What d’you want this time, Roche?’ asked Mr Leatherbarrow sternly, as he opened the door.
‘I’ve not come for trouble, but is me lad wi’ yer?’ he asked meekly.
‘No, he’s not, and he’s not welcome here either, after today,’ said Leatherbarrow angrily.
‘Why?’ asked Jack.
‘Your lad’s become a thief, because you couldn’t look after him, that’s why, and now he’s stolen from us who tried to help him,’ said Leatherbarrow.
‘Pat’d never steal from ye, ‘e’s too fond of ye to do that … and I know ye’ve prob’ly treated ‘im kinder than I ‘ave,’ replied Jack, his head cast down.
Mr Leatherbarrow could not help but notice this change in his attitude; gone was the angry challenging attitude.
‘He deliberately kept away from our door, till today, when we had a near confession of his wrong doing,’ said Leatherbarrow. By this time Sarah and her mother had joined him at the door.
‘My lad’s not been near ye door ‘cos ‘e’s been nursin’ ‘is mam the past fortnight, without sleep nor complaint till she passed away late last night.’ There was a long silence as the Leatherbarrows took in Jack’s words, broken only when Jack went on. ‘I’ve come to realise this past week or two ‘ow terrible I’ve been, an’ I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you and ye family. I bid ye good day.’
Having said his piece, Jack quietly walked away with his head tilted to the ground in shame. It was much too late for him to turn the clock back on all his wrongdoings; it had taken his wife’s death for him to see the error of his ways. He was now truly remorseful for all that he had done to her and his children, but it was too late, because there was no one left for him to make it up to. He had driven his children away and brought only misery and an early death to his wife. He had stopped drinking a week earlier, when he finally grasped that his wife was seriously ill, and in that week he had been humbled by the tender way that Pat had cared for his mother in the silent bleakness of that dank cellar.
Bound to Sarah Page 6
