The Urchin's Song Part 12

Josie wanted to protest, and as she met Gertie's eyes and her sister raised her eyebrows she knew Gertie was feeling the same, but out of consideration for Oliver in front of his staff she held her tongue and they proceeded into the house.

From the outside the large, double-fronted, three-storey property did not look particularly impressive, but once in the hall Josie realised this was a very big house and moreover, beautifully decorated and furnished. Another maid took their coats, hats and gloves, and probably due to the exquisitely worked, crimson carpet which ran in a strip down the hall, and the magnificent staircase in deep mahogany, Josie suddenly became aware that her dress was not new and that the colour - a pale dove grey - seemed rather dull. There was an upholstered couch with two small tables either side of it, and several fine paintings on the dark brown walls, but Josie had no time to notice anything further before a small, bustling, sharp-eyed housekeeper appeared. She was dressed in black alpaca like the maids but unlike them had no white cap or ap.r.o.n, and Oliver greeted her warmly, saying, 'Ah, Mrs Wilde. We have arrived, as you can see. We will have tea in the drawing room.'

'Yes, sir. I trust you had a good journey, sir?'

'Adequate.'

This was said over Oliver's shoulder as he drew Josie and Gertie towards a door down the hall to their left, and again, as Josie stepped into the room she met Gertie's eyes and saw reflected the same sense of awe she was experiencing. There was a roaring log fire set in a deep marble fireplace at the end of the room and even situated where they were, just within the room, the heat struck them. The drapes at the two sets of windows, the carpet, the upholstery of the couches and chairs scattered here and there were all in a rich peac.o.c.k blue, with the walls panelled and the ceiling light brown. It was luxurious and opulent and yet at the same time very masculine. Josie didn't know if she liked it or not but it was undoubtedly beautiful.

'Come and sit down and warm yourselves.' There was a couch placed at an angle to the fire, and as he gestured in its direction Josie and Gertie walked the length of the room and seated themselves, Oliver taking a fine Queen Anne chair with cabriole legs and drawing it close to them.

'This is very striking. You have a lovely home.' Josie glanced at a gleaming walnut-veneered occasional table enhanced by herringbone inlays as she spoke, and wondered how many families in Sunderland's East End it would feed, before mentally shaking herself. This was Oliver's home and he had the right to furnish it as he pleased. Why was she thinking like this?

'Thank you.' He had picked up a trace of something in her voice and he couldn't quite place what it was. But she didn't seem overly impressed, unlike her sister who was unashamedly gaping. Had he expected to impress her? Oliver looked into himself and had to admit the answer was that he had hoped to impress her. This did not sit comfortably, and his voice was somewhat tight when he said, 'We will just have tea and refreshments and then perhaps you would both like to see round the house and garden? The garden is not large, the rear of it having been cobbled over for the carriage and stable.'

What she would like would be to go straight to the hotel and have a quiet meal before going to bed where she could think over all that had happened and marshal her whirling thoughts, but she couldn't very well say so when he'd put himself out to such an extent and been so kind.

Josie forced all reluctance from her voice as she said, 'Thank you, that would be lovely.'

'Or perhaps you would prefer to rest quietly here? It was a tiring journey.'

She smiled at him now, a twinkle in her eye as she said, 'We're quite tough you know, Gertie and I. It would take more than a train journey to tire us,' melting all stiffness from his voice as he answered, 'Is that so? Good, good. I have a boy who comes every morning for a few hours to see to the two cobs, but they are always ready for visitors, being gentle-tempered creatures. We will find a t.i.tbit or two to take to them.'

She bobbed her head in reply, and as he smiled at her he wondered how this slip of a girl could manage to make his emotions see-saw so violently. He didn't understand it - he really did not understand it, but suddenly all he could think about was her. How on earth had he managed thus far without her?

Chapter Twelve.

The next few weeks were a period of great personal adjustment for Josie and, to a lesser extent, Gertie too. Each day the two girls left their little hotel in Brompton after breakfast and rarely returned before late evening, often dining with Oliver at his own residence before he took them home in his carriage. The hotel was basically one step up from the bed and breakfast establishments Josie and Gertie had been used to in the past, but the proprietress was known to Oliver - Josie was to find that her agent had contacts in all walks of life - and she looked after the two girls very well.

The days were spent in a whirl of dress fittings, singing lessons, elocution and deportment instruction and other coaching Oliver deemed important, and the evenings - once the carriage had returned the two girls to Oliver's house - in reading and talking with Oliver himself. These were the times Josie enjoyed the most. Slowly and skilfully, Oliver was opening up her mind, acquainting her with the works of Sh.e.l.ley, the sisters Bronte and Robert Louis Stevenson among others, as well as encouraging her to become familiar with the social characteristics of the age. He did not discuss politics, however; such things were a man's province and only men could understand the finer points of internal and foreign affairs.

Every evening, the Ill.u.s.trated London News, a weekly newspaper which had started life early in Queen Victoria's reign, was brought out and its contents discussed at great length, and Oliver found himself frequently surprised at how quickly Josie grasped new ideas and concepts.

From her friendly, relaxed manner towards him, Oliver was well aware that as yet Josie had no idea that he was treating her any differently from the other clients and protegees on his books, and for the moment he was content to let matters take their course. Partly, he had to admit when he examined his feelings, because he was in something of a spin and it was disconcerting to say the least. Josie was not of his cla.s.s, that was one thing, and not even from good stock such as clergymen or something similar. His own father might have been a wastrel and a gambler, but his ancestry had been impeccable, and his mother's people had had connections with some of the highest n.o.bility in the land. Of course, Josie's background wouldn't have mattered a jot if he had been going to take her as his mistress, and by the time he had finished coaching her she would be able to hold her own in any company, but . . . Oliver sighed deeply and gnawed at his lower lip for a moment in a way he did countless times a day when reflecting on the problem. He knew Josie well enough by now to know she wouldn't countenance such a proposal. She had the working-cla.s.s conviction that such women were bad, and although this irked him he knew he would not be able to change the tenet imbibed since babyhood.

Another thing that was causing him some personal discomfort was the discovery of an emotion hitherto unknown, jealousy. He had been pleased once they were on the train to the capital, and seeing Josie and her sister installed in the premises run by an acquaintance of his had given him some satisfaction, but it wasn't until Josie had been in London a month and an old friend had called unexpectedly one evening that Oliver had faced the fact that he wanted to be pre-eminent in her regard.

He had resented the way she had sparkled under his friend's compliments, and after Milton had left and he had taken Josie and Gertie back to their hotel, he had returned home and sat in the drawing room in front of the fire with a bottle of whisky until dawn, by which time the bottle was empty and he had come to terms with a trait of possessiveness in his nature he hadn't known existed. It had been as much distancing her from that big, ignorant lout who purportedly had something to do with Ginnett's in Newcastle, as removing her from danger, which had prompted the relief he'd felt once the train had pulled out of Sunderland Central. And the fact that it was a proprietress and not a proprietor had influenced his choice of accommodation for the girl too. Which made him . . . What? Someone he wasn't sure he knew, he acknowledged in a haze of whisky. Which was . . . His fuddled mind searched for the right word. Disturbing. That was it, disturbing.

He was going to have to do some serious thinking in the next little while, d.a.m.n it, and to cap it all, according to Milton, Stella was back and already asking questions about 'the little chit' - Stella's terminology, not his, Milton had been at pains to explain - that Oliver was apparently tied up with at the moment. All he needed was for Stella to throw one of her screaming tantrums. Not that she had any right to do so, none at all, he a.s.sured himself silently, but then when had that stopped her in the past? What's more, Josie was a good ten years younger than Stella, something Milton had pointed out before he had left. And when Oliver had asked him what the h.e.l.l that had to do with anything, Milton merely shook his head, almost pityingly, before adding, 'Women, my dear fellow, set great store by such things.'

And so the days and weeks had pa.s.sed. As March 1900 had gone out like a lamb, April came in on the gust of the incredible news that the Prince of Wales had survived an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt! A sixteen-year-old anarchist had fired two shots at him from point-blank range on a Brussels railway station. Brussels had been a centre of opposition to the British role in the Boer War for some time, and Jean-Baptiste Sipido told police he wanted to kill the Prince who had had so many men killed in South Africa.

'Particularly ironic, don't you think,' Oliver had commented to Josie when they had read the report in the Ill.u.s.trated London News, 'when Queen Victoria refuses the Prince access to most serious affairs of state and treats him as a child, rather than a grown man of fifty-eight years of age?'

'Does she?' Josie had heard the rumours, of course. Everyone was aware that the relations.h.i.+p between the old Queen and her son was not a happy one. 'That must be frustrating for him but then he doesn't seem to mind too much.'

He did not answer her for a moment, and his voice had changed when he said softly, 'He endures what he has to endure for the present with a view to the prize at the end of his trial.'

Josie looked at him in surprise. They were sitting in Oliver's magnificent drawing room, she, Gertie and Oliver, and in a few moments one of the maids would come and inform them that dinner was ready and light the lamps, but for the moment the room was bathed in a soft twilight. Josie was sitting with Gertie on a fine chaise-longue set at an angle to the full-length windows as she read items out loud from the newspaper for discussion, but Oliver was some way across the room and in shadow and she couldn't see his face clearly. But he had sounded . . . odd. As though his thoughts were not really on the Prince of Wales at all. And then he disabused her of this notion when he said, his voice brisk once more, 'The Prince pursues pleasure as an antidote to boredom, my dear, and does so with characteristic enthusiasm and determination. He is a man of enormous drive but in the opinion of most sympathetic ministers and diplomats, is given little opportunity by the Queen to exercise his energies responsibly.'

'So you are saying he puts a face on it? Makes the best of the tough end of the old mare?'

It was Gertie who spoke now, and at the same moment as the maid knocked and entered the room Oliver rose to his feet, his voice amused as he answered, 'That sums it up very well, Gertie.'

They had proceeded through to the dining room for dinner then - another area of schooling; the first time Josie had dined with Oliver she thought she had never seen so many knives and forks and spoons for one place setting, not to mention gla.s.ses and crockery and so on. According to Oliver, however, favourites of the music hall were often invited to weekend house-parties to sing and entertain, and it was imperative she become familiar with the intricacies of such dining. These dinners often comprised at least ten or eleven courses, Oliver had informed her gravely, showing her the menu of a dinner given by a friend of his in honour of Lord Rosebery: Caviar Anchois Tortue Claire Saumon, Sauce Medoc Filet de Sole a l'Adelphi Poulet Reine Demidoff Asperge en Branches au Beurre Quartier d'Agneau Filet de Boeuf Hollandais Granit au k.u.mmel Canard Sauvage Beca.s.ses Russian Salad Pouding Imperial Macedoine aux Fruits Meringue a la Creme Pouding Glace a la Chantilly Desserts And, of course, it would be all to the good if Josie could become familiar with some of the French terms. Josie said she would try.

However, she discovered she wasn't very fond of such dishes as pheasant stuffed with snipe or woodc.o.c.k, with the latter in its turn stuffed with truffles, and the whole covered with some rich sauce. Nor could she understand how a house-party could consume what Oliver termed a 'simple' breakfast consisting of fruit, oatmeal porridge, kidney omelette, baked eggs, fried cod, grilled ham, potted game, veal cake, stewed prunes and cream, scones, rolls, toast, bread, b.u.t.ter, marmalade, jam and preserves, tea, coffee, cream, milk, and then be ready for a good lunch, followed by a hearty tea, then dinner and later, supper. 'How on earth,' she'd asked an amused Oliver, 'do they find time to do anything other than eat and drink?'

'Oh, they manage quite well,' he had replied, and then, as his mind threw up recollections of some of the house-parties he had attended when Stella was present, and of the unashamed cuckoldry which was considered part and parcel of such events, he'd changed the subject.

By May, when the English papers were humming with the news of Lillie Langtry's triumph in Was.h.i.+ngton - she had taken the American city by storm with her portrayal of a dissolute courtesan in The Degenerates - Oliver had decided Josie would have her first stage appearance in London at one of the better variety houses which were scattered all over the capital. As in most halls, he informed her, the shows were twice-nightly, which would mean she could still continue with her singing and elocution lessons during the day if she so wished.

Josie hadn't needed to think about her reply. Claudette Belloc was an excellent teacher and already Josie had found that her range and technique had improved immensely; moreover, she liked the little Frenchwoman who was forthright and brusque and suffered fools badly. But developing and advancing her voice and polis.h.i.+ng her p.r.o.nunciation and articulation was not her only motive for tying up her daytime hours. Since she had come to London, and in spite of having Gertie with her, she had become increasingly homesick for Sunderland and worried about Hubert, and - probably due to the distance between them - hungry for any snippet of news about Barney in a way she had never been whilst still residing in the north-east. She needed to keep every minute of the day and night occupied, she admitted to herself. She mustn't think, that was the answer; at least only about the present and what she was doing on a day-to-day level.

It didn't help that Vera could barely read or write either; her friend's letters were written in an enormous round childish hand and consisted, at the most, of four or five lines of painfully laborious script, holding nothing of the warm, vigorous woman she knew. She missed Vera more than she would have thought possible, and although there had been times in the past when she had been unable to get home for a month or more, she had always known she was within a carriage ride should the situation call for it. Now, in this alien world where no one spoke with a warm northern burr and where she'd felt enclosed in a strange, isolated bubble the last couple of months, she had secretly cried herself to sleep more than once. Which was stupid, daft, for a grown woman of seventeen years of age who had been charting her own destiny for five years or more, she chided herself vehemently. But she couldn't help it. It would be better when she was working. She was longing, aching to throw herself into her work again. Nothing compared to stepping out on to a stage and singing and entertaining an appreciative crowd. She'd missed that too.

And so she prepared for her debut on the London stage with dedication and enthusiasm and very little nervousness. This was something she understood, something she was good at. The rest of it - the niceties of middle- and upper-cla.s.s conduct, the formalities of social etiquette and the hundred and one pitfalls it contained for the unwary - was not so enjoyable. But necessary. Oliver said so. And he was an experienced and respected agent who had been in the business longer than she had been alive, as well as being a gentleman by birth, so he should know. She could trust Oliver . . . couldn't she? But she wished, she did so wish Vera was here.

Vera herself, three hundred or so miles away in Sunderland, was in something of a quandary as she stared into her sister's worried face. And when Betty said again, 'What am I goin' to do, la.s.s? I can't abandon her; Frank wouldn't expect that,' she had to restrain herself from saying harshly, 'I'm not so sure about that. Didn't you tell me he all but threw her out after the do with Josie?' Instead she joined her hands together on the kitchen table, and leaning forward, said quietly, 'You know very well that you can't swing a cat in this place for bairns, an' with the two rooms upstairs packed to overflowin' and you sleeping downstairs as it is there's not an inch of ground to put another bed. You've got enough on your plate bein' mam an' da to your own lot, Bett. An' she's a nasty bit of work, don't forget that. Havin' the accident, bad as it is an' I don't say the poor la.s.s isn't sufferin', won't change her basic nature.'

'Aye, I know that. I'm expectin' nowt in that line.'

'An' you say Barney can't have her? I thought him and Prudence were all right again, and she's good pals with Pearl.'

'Oh aye, Barney and Prudence get on well enough, but since Pearl's bin took bad with this disease of the blood or whatever, she can't do nowt but lie in bed most days. Her mam's round there every hour the good Lord sends accordin' to Barney, worried sick Pearl's mam an' da are. It's drivin' Barney mad, especially 'cos he's not sure how bad Pearl really is but that's another story. Anyway, Prudence can't go there.'

Vera nodded slowly. By, talk about it never rains but it pours. Years Barney's sister had worked at that laundry and never so much as the whisper of an accident, and then the girl had to go and get her hands caught in a calender. According to Betty, Prudence had been trying to untangle a sheet that had got caught and instead she'd got her hands entwined and they were dragged on to the hot steel bed and crushed by the rollers. The hospital had been good but she couldn't stay there for ever, and they'd made it clear she wouldn't be able to do much at first when she came out and would need a bit of looking after.

'What about the other brothers? Can't one of them put her up for a time?'

Betty shook her head wearily. 'Neville's still off work with his legs an' Reg's not bin long gone back as you know. They're all havin' a right time of it an' their wives are doin' all sorts to try an' make ends meet. An' with Amos's last bairn bein' - well, not quite right . . .' Here Betty's voice dropped almost to a whisper; for the shame and shock of that happening was still reverberating round the family months later, and hadn't been made any easier by Amos's wife's parents insisting there had never been anything like that on their side, and it must be down to Amos. 'You can't expect them to take Prudence on, can you? It wouldn't be fair, la.s.s.'

'It's fairer than expectin' you to do it. When all's said an' done, you aren't even related to Prudence, Bett. Not really. An' she's bin a thorn in your side ever since you met Frank.'

'Aye, I know, but still . . .' Betty's voice trailed away as Vera stared at her anxiously. Her sister had been doing so well since Frank had gone but the woman was still heartsore and had lost much of her usual chirpiness. Prudence would be the proverbial nail in the coffin. 'No one else will have her - none of 'em can stand her.'

Vera took a deep breath and prayed Horace would understand when she told him. 'We'll have her at our place, la.s.s,' she offered. 'All right? There's the spare room next to ours an' she'll be comfortable enough until she can go back to Newcastle again.'

'Oh Vera, I couldn't let you do that. She'd drive you round the bend, la.s.s. Horace an' all.'

'Be that as it may.'

'No, no, it's not fair. You have the bairns afternoons as it is, la.s.s, an' I appreciate it more'n words could say.'

Vera straightened up, before stretching and settling back in her seat with a sigh. 'You've said yourself the others can't or won't have her, an' you're not prepared to let her take her chance as best she can.' Personally Vera was of the opinion that Prudence's type never sunk; they remained above water even if it meant staying afloat on the shoulders of those they were drowning. 'True she wouldn't be me first choice for a lodger, Bett, but there it is. Have they said how long they think it'll be afore she's fit to work again?'

'They're not sure. Months at least,' Betty said unhappily. 'But this isn't your problem.'

Vera stared across at her sister's plump, worried face, and she said softly, 'Aye, it is. Same as if the positions were reversed, it'd be yours.' And she wouldn't have minded having Prudence, in spite of the fact she'd got no time for Betty's stepdaughter, except that it'd be bound to make things awkward with Josie if the la.s.s came up for a visit. Still, she wasn't about to do that for the time being, not with how things were in London, and however much she wanted to see her la.s.s's dear face she was glad Josie was out of harm's way. With hindsight it was clear that it'd been a mistake for Josie to come back and play the halls in Sunderland. It had brought her to Patrick Duffy's notice again and he wouldn't have liked being thwarted a second time. By, there were some evil so-an'-sos in the world, but that man took the biscuit, he did straight.

And then she was brought back to the matter in question by her sister saying, a broken note in her voice, 'I dunno what I'd do without you, la.s.s, an' that's a fact.'

Neither of them was the demonstrative type but now Vera rose swiftly and walked round the heavy old kitchen table which took up most of the floors.p.a.ce in the small room, and they put their arms round each other and remained quiet for a time, until Vera said, 'That's decided then. When she comes out I'll have her - if she wants to come here, that is. She might want to stay in Newcastle with friends we don't know about, of course.'

Betty had sat up straighter as her sister had moved back to her seat. 'The chance of Prudence havin' any friends other than Pearl is about as likely as the rent man sayin' G.o.d bless you,' she said stolidly, pulling the worn shawl crossed over her enormous sagging b.r.e.a.s.t.s more tightly in to her skirt, before she added, her head c.o.c.ked to one side, 'They're a mite too quiet up there for my likin', la.s.s. I bet the little devils are diggin' the plaster out of the walls again an' eatin' it.' And she disappeared out of the room to check on her brood in the bedroom upstairs with a swiftness that belied her bulk.

Vera sat in the warmth of the cluttered, untidy kitchen, her mind only half concentrating on the hullabaloo above her head which indicated Betty had been right about the plaster and her bairns, who were supposed to be getting ready for bed. She glanced across at the youngest Robson - a little girl of six months old - lying in the battered crib to one side of the range, but without really seeing her tiny niece.

All this with Pearl; what was it about? Was the la.s.s really ill or just making on? Certainly her collapse, two days after Josie had gone to London, had been genuine enough, and the resulting investigations in the infirmary had thrown up this blood problem which the doctors seemed able to do little about. Something to do with the blood not functioning properly, Barney had told Betty, but he couldn't really be more specific because the doctors weren't saying much beyond Pearl had to rest and eat nouris.h.i.+ng food. But she'd seemed to get worse lately, not better. Barney was in two minds about it all, but then perhaps that wasn't surprising with things being so bad between him and Pearl. She had played the invalid on and off since they'd been married to avoid her wifely duties, Barney had told Betty in a moment of bitter frustration. Supposedly ailing one moment, and the next gadding about shopping with her mother or whatever. Betty had said he'd spoken as though he was at the end of his tether.

The thought brought anxiety flooding into her chest in a sick wave. She remembered the afternoon they had heard about Frank's death and she had seen the way Josie and Barney were looking at each other in her kitchen. No, no, she wouldn't believe it. Her la.s.s was a good girl. Josie would never . . . Vera shut her eyes tight for a moment. Thank G.o.d Josie was down in London and Barney was up here; likely their paths wouldn't cross in years. She was working herself up over nowt. She had more than enough to cope with here; she didn't need to go out looking for more trouble.

Vera reached for the big brown teapot in the middle of the table and poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea which she drank straight down.

Aye, she was imagining things sure enough, but all the same she wouldn't mention Pearl being middling to Josie. There was no need for the la.s.s to be told, and it was better Josie concentrated on her new life down south where she was safe. Duffy wouldn't bother her down there for one thing, and this other, this . . . figment of her imagination, would die a natural death if it wasn't fed. Pray G.o.d.

Chapter Thirteen.

He'd get it in the neck from Jimmy when he got back. Hubert hunched his shoulders at the thought, skimming a flat pebble across the water as he did so. He had walked the six miles from the East End to Seaham Harbour earlier in the day - something he occasionally did when the urge to escape his lot became overwhelming - but hadn't stayed long at the harbour itself, walking back up the coast past Seaham and towards Hole Rock where he'd found a quiet spot away from it all.

Normally, even on his worst days, he enjoyed the bustle and noise coming from the docks and outer harbour; the timber yards, iron and bra.s.s foundry and Bottle Works all adding to the vibrant life of the place. He usually spent some time watching the ma.s.sive cranes in the dry harbour at the side of the South Dock, and walked down to the Bottle Makers Arms for a bowlful of thick mutton soup before he made his way back home. The last two years though, since the rebuilding and enlargement of the South Dock had begun, he hadn't felt the same about the harbour, or maybe it was just that he was growing older?

These days he was aware of the chaotic, slummy development stretching from the back of North Terrace in a way he hadn't been when he'd first walked this way with Jimmy as a little lad of five or six, and again the ropery, foundry, gasworks, chemical works and the like which hugged the coast south of the docks hadn't really registered on him. Probably because he'd been used to the pall of thick, noxious smoke and polluted air in the East End.

He tilted his head in the dying sunlight of the cool May evening, drawing the cold fresh air redolent with the scent of gra.s.ses and faint tang of the sea deep into his lungs.

Jimmy would be back from collecting the dues by now. Who would he have taken with him when he'd realised his brother had skedaddled? Albert maybe, and perhaps Harry. Both of them were big brawny numskulls who liked nothing better than beating the living daylights out of some poor soul, or scaring women and bairns witless. By, it was a filthy job, collecting what people owed Patrick. It made a rent man's job appear sweet in comparison. At least the worst they threatened was getting the b.u.ms in when folk couldn't pay. And why, why would people be so daft as to borrow money from Patrick anyway? Everyone knew his reputation. Still, if it was a question of Patrick or the workhouse, some of them chose the little Irishman although they usually lived to regret it. Once Patrick had a foot in, you were his, body and soul.

Hubert s.h.i.+vered, although he wasn't cold. Jimmy knew he hated collection days, which Patrick varied each week in order to gain the element of surprise on the debtors. There were always three of them on the job; one, himself usually, to knock on the door and ask for the dues while the two others stood in the background looking menacing. Together they would march down the streets, putting on a grim expression and looking mean. Many a time the way cleared before them like magic, bairns hightailing it to warn their das that the lickspittles, as Patrick's hirelings were nicknamed, were coming.

Some of the streets weren't so bad, and where a man was in work there'd invariably be something paid off; folk would pay Patrick and keep the rent man waiting any day. But round where he'd been born - Long Bank and the quays and the rabbit warren of streets stretching east from the river - it was bad. Wretched dwellings with barely any furniture; stinking, filthy bairns with faces covered in scabs and hardly a st.i.tch of clothing. By, he hated going there and watching Jimmy and the others throwing their weight about. Last week had been one of the worst times; he'd had to get mortalious that night to blot out that room and its occupants in Blue Anchor Yard.

They'd climbed the stairs carefully, mindful of their creaking and rocking and the great holes in the skirting boards where rats lurked, and when Jimmy had struck a match to guide their way, lice had been crawling in their hundreds on the rotten walls. The family they'd been calling on had been on the top floor in a cell-like room which held eleven; the meagre amount of coal they'd had was kept in a cupboard and the rain was coming through the roof and soaking the foul-smelling flock mattress on the floor which was bedding for the whole lot of them. Pitiful it'd been, right pitiful, and still Jimmy and Albert had theatened and bullied the sick father whose body had been racked by St Vitus's Dance, until the bairns had been screaming in fear and the mother had promised she'd have something for them the next week. And they all knew how she'd get it; she'd go and sell herself down at the dockside. It was all she could do because everything else had failed.

Then there'd been Maling's Rigg. The gloomy dank pa.s.sage they'd entered had led to a room even worse than the other one but there they had drawn a blank. The father had committed suicide two days before and his widow and their six children had been taken to the workhouse just an hour before they'd got there.

He'd go stark staring mad, he would, if he had to continue with the dues. He couldn't do it any more, and he didn't understand Jimmy over this. How could he act the way he did with folk who could've been them not so many years back, before Josie lifted them out of the pit they had been in? He sometimes even thought Jimmy enjoyed what he was doing; swaggering about as though he was Lord Muck.

Hubert wiped the back of his hand across his brow which was damp with perspiration. It was getting these days so he didn't know where Patrick Duffy left off and his brother began, and certainly Jimmy relished being known as Patrick's favoured protege. It made Hubert feel physically sick every time he heard Patrick refer to Jimmy as 'son', and it was happening more and more in the last couple of years. He sometimes thought Jimmy had forgotten he wasn't Patrick's own flesh and blood. By, to be connected by blood with Duffy . . . Hubert's upper lip rose as though he was smelling something unclean.

How long could he go on like this, playing along with it all? But then he didn't really have an option, did he, not unless he was prepared to be six foot under. Even Jimmy wouldn't be able to protect him if Patrick decided he was for the jump. Would his brother stand up for him if it meant going against the man who had taken them in all those years ago when their da had gone missing? Hubert frowned to himself; a lone gull circling overhead in the clear blue sky causing his eyes to raise as it cried its lonely call. A couple of years ago he would have known the answer to that but now he wasn't so sure. Jimmy had changed, hardened, or perhaps his brother had always been as callous as he was now, and Hubert hadn't appreciated the fact until he'd met Josie again. Certainly since that night when he had been reunited with his sisters, he had begun to question everything more.

Hubert let his eyes roam the vast expanse of blue water in front of him for a moment, before walking away from the tiny frothy waves lapping the beach and throwing himself down at a point where wiry coa.r.s.e gra.s.s dotted with hundreds of tiny resilient wild flowers met the sand.

He had listened to their Jimmy and Patrick jaw about Josie until he'd begun to believe she was this cold, brazen hussy they'd portrayed. This had been one of the reasons he had gone to see her that night. He'd needed to see for himself whether the memory he had of his elder sister - as a slight, fiercely protective little figure with melting brown eyes and a smiling mouth - was right or wrong. In spite of what Patrick had said, he'd found it nigh on impossible to believe that the Josie he remembered would have betrayed her brothers to the law. Not their da, oh no, he could have expected that all right, but him and Jimmy? She'd mopped their tears and wiped their backsides from when they were little babbies, and once she'd started the singing she'd fought their da all the way to clean up their home and make sure there was always food on the table and a fire in the range. They hadn't had much, but the little they'd had had come from Josie sure enough.

And she'd looked the same. Hubert rolled over on to his stomach, watching a large black ant as it struggled through the gra.s.s with some prize or other held above its head. Aye, she had. Older and more beautiful maybe, she was a woman now and there was no mistaking that, but the old Josie had been s.h.i.+ning out of her eyes when she'd realised it was him. She'd been right pleased to see him. A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. And he'd known then, even before he'd asked her, that she was incapable of doing what Patrick had said. Now if Patrick had lied about Josie, it was fair guns he'd done the same about their mam selling them down the river. Which meant . . . The ant reached the tiny opening to its nest and disappeared underground, and Hubert sat up suddenly, taking off his cap and raking back his floppy brown hair before replacing the cap on his head. It meant Patrick could well be lying when he said their da had skedaddled on a s.h.i.+p. Josie seemed sure about it anyway.

He continued sitting until the twilight turned the blue sky pearly grey and he knew he couldn't delay his return any more. He rose slowly to his feet and began walking reluctantly along the coastal path which led to Marstack and then Salterfen Rocks, and the ragged outskirts of Bishopwearmouth.

He would have to tackle Jimmy about all this one day, about their da and Patrick and his sisters. The thought made him bite his bottom lip. One day - but not yet. He didn't consciously think, I'll have to wait until I'm a bit older and bigger, until I can make a plan of escape and get out if I have to, but merely reiterated in his mind, as the sky turned to rivers of brilliant pink and mauve and scarlet, Aye, I'll wait a bit, that's what I'll do, but one day, one day I'll put it to Jimmy and to h.e.l.l with the consequences - and Patrick Duffy.

The two individuals who had been featuring so highly in Hubert's troubled thoughts were at that moment making their way across the strip of town moor at the back of the orphan asylum and the Trafalgar Square almshouses. They were heading towards Prospect Row and Jimmy was saying, 'He's a good lad, Pat, you know that, but when all's said an' done he's only twelve.'

'He's thirteen in a couple of weeks, besides which you were collectin' at his age an' makin' a good job of it an' all.'

'Aye, I know, but we're all different, man.'

Patrick eyed the big strapping youth at the side of him who looked far older than his fifteen years. 'I let him get away with murder 'cos I know you think a bit of him, you know that, don't you?' he said, his voice terse. 'But it don't look good, Jimmy, not to the rest of 'em.'

'The rest of 'em don't blow their noses unless they ask permission of you, and you know that. Besides, if any of 'em have got anythin' to say they can say it to me an' I'll soon put 'em straight.'

Patrick again glanced at Bart's son, and his thin mouth twisted in a smile showing black rotting teeth. Aye, he would an' all. He was nimble on his feet, was Jimmy, and handy with a knife, and he didn't fight by the Queensberry rules, neither. Even a couple of years ago, before Jimmy had put on that spurt of growth and filled out, he'd seen him take down a man double his size. He could be a nasty bit of work and people knew it and were afeared of him. His da had been big but Bart had been all wind and water; Jimmy wasn't like that. The thought carried an element of pride, as though Patrick had had something to do with the lad's character - which, indeed, he considered he had.

When Patrick had taken Jimmy and Hubert under his wing he'd had several reasons for doing so. There had been an element of revenge; he'd liked the idea of securing what had been Bart's after the time, money and pain the other man had cost him, but also he had recognised that Bart's lads were good little pickpockets and with the right training could become accomplished thieves. He'd also gained some satisfaction from breaking up the Burns family further, especially when he knew having the lads working for him would net him a profit, and the story he'd told had gained credence by the law and others a.s.suming Bart had seconded his boys and the three of them had skedaddled. But overall, and linking all the other reasons together, was the fact that he had always had a soft spot for Jimmy. He'd seen himself in the lad and he had liked that, and Jimmy had proved to be everything he had hoped for. Unlike the other one.

As they moved into Prospect Row and then, taking short cuts, made their way through the streets and narrow side lanes towards North Moor Street they walked in silence, but just before they reached the slipway near the offices and the Commissioners' Stairs at the far end of the quays, Patrick said, 'You'll have to talk to him, Jimmy. He's takin' advantage of me good nature.'

'Good nature?' Jimmy grinned at the small man alongside of him, his voice holding a warm teasing note which spoke of ease and friends.h.i.+p. 'Good nature, is it? Where you bin hidin' it all these years then?'

Patrick grinned back. 'Less of your lip, son.'

They had turned down the narrow path off North Moor Street which led directly to the slipway now, and as a shadow emerged from the side of the offices the smiles slid off both faces and two pairs of eyes narrowed into cold calculating slits.

'Ready an' waitin', eh, Percy?' Patrick said flatly. 'I like that.'

'Whey aye, man. You know me.'

The man who had spoken resembled nothing so much as a small gorilla. His pug face and thick, dark, spiky hair were definitely ape-like, but it was his heavily barrelled chest, long arms, short thick legs and perpetually hunched shoulders that encouraged the feeling one should offer a banana. He didn't seem to have wrists or ankles; the arms grew straight out of his hands and his legs straight out of his feet, and he had no waist at all.

'Sure I know you, Percy,' answered Patrick, his voice low and without expression. 'An' you know me. Bairns we were together, me an' Percy' - this last was said as an aside to Jimmy but without Patrick's head moving, his eyes intent on the bulky figure in front of them - 'an' our mams were right good pals, isn't that so, Percy? Like family they were, Percy's mam an' mine.'