The Long Walk Home

by Valerie Wood

  ‘No sign of a letter,’ she agreed. ‘And practically every day I asked ’postie if he had anything for Mr Kendall.’

  I don’t understand, Eleanor thought. Why is Father consulting Mary and why down here in the kitchen? There would be explanations in time, she was sure, but her father was now gazing curiously at Mikey and Sam.

  ‘Father,’ she said nervously, ‘these are my good friends, Mikey Quinn and Sam Hodges. We have travelled together.’

  As she spoke she wondered if he would recognize Mikey or his name as the rabbit boy who was so cruelly sent to prison.

  Mikey stood up and Sam followed suit. ‘How do you do, sir?’ Mikey said.

  ‘And so you have brought my daughter safely home?’ Edgar Kendall said.

  Mikey felt his eyes appraising him and realized how down at heel and scruffy he must appear. He hadn’t shaved since the start of their journey and his beard was unkempt and ragged. He had made an attempt to trim it with Eleanor’s nail scissors but the result was uneven. Even Sam now had a downy top lip and chin. He glanced at Eleanor; she too was looking travel worn with her long tangled hair and dusty boots.

  ‘We travelled together sir,’ Mikey said. ‘Ellie wanted to come home.’

  His fond name for Eleanor slipped out naturally and he saw that her father had noticed, for he frowned slightly and his eyes flickered uneasily.

  ‘Mikey brought me home, Father,’ Eleanor broke in. ‘But for him and Sam I would not be here yet. If at all,’ she added.

  ‘May I ask how you travelled?’ Her father beckoned to Mikey and Sam to sit down. ‘By train or – surely not by coach?’

  ‘We walked, sir,’ Sam butted in. ‘It’s a long way.’

  Mr Kendall’s eyebrows rose and he glanced from one to another, whilst Mary stood poised with the teapot in her hand, about to pour. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Eleanor said. ‘All the way. We hadn’t any money to do otherwise.’

  Edgar Kendall put his hand to his head. Eleanor heard him murmur so low that all she could catch was, ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Who told you I was in London, Papa?’ she asked. ‘If you didn’t receive my letter.’

  ‘It’s such a long story, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘So many facets which I will tell you in time; but your aunt Maud wrote after your mother had left the country, to say that she thought I should know that she had heard that you were alone in London. I believe that your brother had informed your mother and she had told Maud.’

  His voice had hardened when he mentioned Simon and their mother and he went on, ‘I cannot understand why I wasn’t informed before. There has been so much …’ His voice wavered, and Mary put a cup of tea in front of him and patted his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t agitate yourself, sir,’ she murmured. ‘It’s done with now. Miss Eleanor is home safe and sound.’

  ‘Papa, are you unwell?’ Eleanor said unsteadily. Her father’s face had a yellowish tinge and his hair was quite grey.

  ‘I have been,’ he said, glancing at Mary. ‘But I am much better than I was. I will explain eventually.’

  He’s been in prison, Mikey thought. I’ve seen that tallow-faced pallor on prisoners’ skin.

  ‘There is much to discuss,’ her father said. ‘Explanations which are owed to you, and also your future to decide. Your mother will not be coming back, as I’m sure you are aware, and forgive me’ – he looked at Mikey and Sam – ‘but there are also some private matters to speak of.’

  Eleanor was astonished that her father was so humble. The man he had been would have shown Mikey and Sam to the door without any preamble whatsoever.

  ‘I would like my friends to stay here,’ she said firmly. ‘We are all very tired and hungry and they need a bed for a night or two until we decide what next to do.’

  ‘I’ll put some dinner on,’ Mary said. ‘You must all be famished. Your father and me have had ours; we eat early, and then Mr Kendall has a rest of an afternoon.’

  So he is ill, Eleanor thought. He would never need a rest otherwise. ‘May I come up with you, Papa?’ she asked. ‘Or would that disturb you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I would like that. And I will rest much easier once I have unburdened myself.’

  Eleanor followed her father to his room, leaving Mikey and Sam sitting comfortably at the kitchen table and having another piece of cake whilst Mary put a hotpot in the oven to reheat.

  ‘Where is Cook?’ she asked as they entered his bedroom, which already had the bedspread turned back, although not the sheets. ‘Or the other maids?’

  ‘Gone.’ He took off his slippers and his wool jacket and sat on the bed. ‘Only Mary stayed. The others believed all they had heard about me and asked for their wages and references.’ He sighed and lifted his legs on to the bed, shifting a pillow behind his back. ‘Not that I could blame them. I would have done the same.’

  ‘Did you go to prison, Father?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘On remand for several weeks,’ he said. ‘Charges were brought but not proved. I went to court and they accepted my explanation that I had been foolish enough to put my trust in someone with criminal intentions.’

  Eleanor drew in a breath. ‘Who?’

  ‘My clerk. Percy Smart. I had trusted him with my clients’ affairs and whilst I was …’ he hesitated, ‘whilst I was involved with other matters, he was taking advantage and using my name as surety. At first it looked as if I was siphoning off money from the clients’ accounts, but he wasn’t as clever as he thought; the evidence was there and he was eventually found out.’

  ‘I remember him,’ Eleanor said. ‘I met him that day the police came, and he said there was some trouble, and that you would be charged with embezzlement. He also said he was to appear for the prosecution. I didn’t like him,’ she added. ‘He was arrogant and insolent.’

  ‘He seemed so efficient,’ her father said. ‘“Leave it to me, sir,” he used to say. “I will see to the detail.” And like a fool,’ he said bitterly, his eyes down, ‘such a self-important fool, I did. And now, because of it, I have lost so much. At least he is now languishing in the cell meant for me.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘I have made many mistakes, Eleanor, and the spell in prison made me see them. I have lost my wife and son, and my good name, for even though I was proved innocent there will always be some who will choose to think otherwise.

  ‘When I left court after being acquitted, Mary was waiting for me. The other servants had left, for you can imagine that the news was all over town, but Mary had stayed on; she kept the creditors at bay, for I had gone that day with the police and left no instructions or money. But she said that you had,’ he added, ‘and I was so grateful for that. And then, shortly after I returned home, I was struck by an illness of my heart. It was the shock, the doctor said, after the trauma of my arrest and the charge against me.’

  ‘But you are all right now?’ Eleanor asked anxiously. ‘Or will be?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he answered vaguely. ‘But my heart is in a weakened state. I shall not be able to work again.’ He gave a wry grimace. ‘If in fact anyone would want me. But there is more, my dear.’ Eleanor was startled. It was the first time she had ever heard a word of endearment from her father’s lips. ‘There is more.’ He lapsed into silence, and Eleanor thought he had fallen asleep until he said, ‘Your aunt Maud wrote not only to me, but to her father, your grandfather.’

  ‘My grandfather? I haven’t got a grandfather. Surely he’s dead?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘He is very much alive. You won’t remember him, as he saw you only once or maybe twice when you and Simon were babies. He didn’t visit us because he disapproved of me. He hadn’t wanted your mother to marry me, but was persuaded by his wife that it was a good match.’

  ‘Oh,’ Eleanor recalled. ‘That is what Aunt Maud told me.’

  ‘Well, your aunt took it upon herself to write and tell him of your mother’s going to Canada and of my troubles also. He was shocked at your moth
er’s conduct and has cut her out of his life, and appalled by my arrest. The disgrace,’ he said quietly. ‘And so there is the matter of this house.’

  He shifted in the bed. ‘He has said that he will try to reclaim it. He can’t, of course; it is mine in law, but he said he would give it a damned good try. His very words.’

  ‘But if he did, then we would have nothing,’ Eleanor murmured. ‘You would have nowhere to live.’ And, she thought, you wouldn’t survive.

  She thought of all the people she had met who were desperately trying to keep a roof over their heads. Liza and Mr Bertram, Aunt Marie and Josh. Of the street children that the Goodharts cared for. And yet her parents, who had had so much, in their folly had carelessly thrown everything away.

  ‘Where is my grandfather now?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s still here in the town,’ her father said wearily. ‘Still trying to find a lawyer who will help him with the impossible.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him,’ Eleanor said. ‘If he would agree.’

  Her father nodded. ‘He was alarmed to hear that you were alone in London. He blamed me, of course. Said I wasn’t a fit parent.’ He sighed. ‘And he is right. For I am not. I have made many mistakes, Eleanor,’ he repeated. He reached for her hand as she sat on the bed at his side. ‘And I thought I had lost my daughter too, though I hope that you have now come back to me to stay.’

  ‘I don’t know yet, Father,’ she said honestly. ‘I’m unsure of my future. I too have had my eyes opened. I cannot waste my life by doing nothing with it. I have seen so much hardship and degradation that I didn’t even know existed. I was quite ignorant of the poverty and suffering of so many, brought about by no fault of their own.’

  Her father listened silently and when she had finished he said, ‘So you intend to be a Good Samaritan? A philanthropist?’

  His tone was ironic and so like his normal manner that she felt a jolt of disappointment. So he hadn’t changed after all.

  ‘It is not a subject for derision,’ she said coldly. ‘I have met good people who help others who have less than themselves. I met a poor woman who gave me food and shelter when I had nowhere else to go and asked for nothing in return. I have met a clergyman and his wife who give destitute boys an education and hot food every day. They are not rich or philanthropic; they beg from those who can afford to give even a little.’

  He shook his head wearily. ‘I didn’t mean to mock, Eleanor,’ he said, ‘although I have done that so often that it is almost second nature to me. But what I meant to indicate to you is that you might not, will not, be in a position to distribute such largesse as you might wish to, for we shall be almost penniless. I have no profession, and if your grandfather should have his way, then we would have no home either.’

  ‘But you said that he couldn’t,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘He can still take me to court, and even if he loses it will cost us money. The house will have to be sold.’

  Eleanor saw that he was tiring and she left him to sleep. Besides, she was hungry and desperate for something to eat.

  As she passed the drawing room she peeked in. The room was shuttered and the furniture shrouded in dust sheets, and the curtains were closed.

  Down in the kitchen a smell of beef hotpot greeted her. Mikey and Sam, their hands and faces freshly scrubbed, were already attacking their second helpings.

  ‘Come along, Miss Eleanor,’ Mary said. ‘You’re so thin I’m sure you haven’t eaten since you left all those months ago.’

  ‘It’s not quite as long as that,’ Eleanor said as she washed at the sink, ‘though it seems twice as long. I didn’t know you could cook,’ she added.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Mary smiled. ‘But when I saw the state of your poor father I knew I had to learn pretty quickly. He had lost so much weight with the worry and everything.’

  Eleanor nodded. How much did Mary know, she wondered? Had her father confided in her?

  ‘Mary,’ she said, ‘have you met my grandfather?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Eleanor. I opened ’door to him when he came ’first time. He calls a spade a spade, I’ll say that for him.’ She stood pondering. ‘But I reckon he’s all right. He gave me his address anyway, in case I should need to get in touch with him. He saw your father’s state of health and I think he was concerned, though he didn’t say so.’

  ‘So where is he staying?’

  ‘At ’Vittoria. For another two days, and then he’s travelling home.’

  ‘I don’t even know where he lives,’ Eleanor murmured as she gratefully tucked in to the hotpot. ‘No one has ever said.’

  ‘Wakefield, Miss Eleanor. That’s where he’s from. That’s where your mother was born.’

  No one ever spoke of him, Eleanor thought. I assumed he was dead as I know my grandmother is, and as my father’s parents are. I shall go to see him tomorrow before he leaves for home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Early the next morning, freshly bathed and in clean clothes, Eleanor set off towards the pier and the Vittoria hotel.

  Mikey and Sam had slept on palliasses in the kitchen as Mary insisted she had to thoroughly air the beds upstairs before they slept in them, whereas Eleanor’s had been kept constantly in readiness. They too had bathed; Mary had found Mikey a blade to shave with and they were dressed in clean shirts, Mikey in one which had been Mr Kendall’s and Sam wearing one which had belonged to Simon. Now they were going in search of Mikey’s sister Rose and his brothers, Ben and Tom.

  ‘I’ll have to go to ’workhouse first,’ Mikey said as they walked out of High Street. ‘They should know where they are, or at least where they went, and mebbe the boys are still there, though Rose will surely have left.’

  But Mikey had forgotten that the workhouse, which had been in the centre of Hull for so many years, had been moved out of town into a brand new purpose-built building.

  ‘It’s onny a short walk,’ he told Sam, ‘a mere nothing for us.’

  They walked along the Anlaby Road and came to the redbrick building and sought out the matron. The boys were still there, she told him, but at school. ‘Your sister left. She got regular work and found a room she could afford.’

  The matron said she thought Rose was still working in a mill. ‘But I might be wrong.’ She shrugged, and Mikey got the impression that she didn’t really care, for once the residents had left the workhouse what happened to them was nothing to do with her.

  I’ll come back and see the lads tomorrow, he decided, and they’ll tell me where Rosie is. But he felt despondent. Tom and Ben will be expecting that I’ve made my fortune whereas things are just ’same as they were before.

  Sam shuddered as they left through the workhouse gate. ‘I’m glad I never had to stay in one of them places. I’d rather take a chance out on the streets.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ Mikey agreed, ‘even though ’new place is ten times better than the old one.’

  They walked back into town and Mikey decided that he would go to see Mrs Turner, Bridget’s mother, and give her news of Bridget.

  She was still in the same house and although she didn’t at first recognize Mikey, once she did she invited him and Sam inside. Mikey thought everything looked much the same except for the small boy of about three playing on the floor.

  ‘Did Bridget run off with you?’ she asked accusingly.

  ‘She followed me, Mrs Turner,’ Mikey said. ‘I didn’t ask her. She saw I was going on ’ferry and came after me.’

  ‘Where did she get the money for the fare?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘She had none of her own.’

  ‘That I don’t know, Mrs Turner.’ At least he was being honest about that, though he had his suspicions. ‘But in the end I was glad of her company. We went to London, and that’s where she is now.’

  ‘In London! Why, what ever is she doing there?’ Mrs Turner seemed flabbergasted. ‘Does she have work?’

  ‘She does, she works for a – a businessman. In import and export,’ he improvised. ‘She’s
doing very well.’

  Mrs Turner’s face cleared. ‘Well, who’d have thought it? Bridget in regular work.’ She beamed. ‘I’ll tell her da. He’s forever saying that she’ll go to the bad, so he is; but now I can tell him she’s doing well.’

  ‘I’m sorry over what happened that night, Mrs Turner,’ Mikey said humbly. ‘Except that nothing did. And never has.’

  ‘You’re telling me the truth now, Mikey Quinn?’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Absolute truth.’

  ‘Ah well!’ She smiled. ‘I never really believed it was your fault. I thought it was Bridget leading you astray, but now I know I was wrong over that too.’ She scooped up the small boy from the floor. ‘And look who we’ve got to take Bridget’s place. A fine son to provide for his mammy and daddy in our old age.’

  Eleanor’s hair ruffled in the breeze as she walked in the direction of the estuary. Halfway across the choppy water the ferry boat was churning towards the Lincolnshire shore, where just yesterday she and Mikey and Sam had stood waiting for it.

  I’m so glad to be home, she thought. Even if I don’t know what is in front of me. And Mikey feels the same, although he says that he feels that he achieved nothing. But he must have changed, and doesn’t realize it. He’s self-assured and confident and won’t be put upon. Quite different, I expect, from the boy sent to prison for stealing rabbits.

  She went up the steps into the Vittoria and asked at the desk if Mr James Carlton was staying there. On being told that he was, she asked if someone could send up to his room and say that Miss Kendall wished to speak to him.

  ‘I believe he’s still at breakfast, miss,’ the clerk said. ‘I’ll see if he’s finished.’

  He came back from the dining room a minute later to say that Mr Carlton asked if she would join him.

  A distinguished-looking gentleman with white hair and sideburns rose from his table to greet her. He bowed courteously and she dipped her knee.

  ‘I saw you come in,’ he said, ‘and it struck me how much you looked like my youngest daughter and now I know why. You are Eleanor. My granddaughter!’