The Urchin's Song Part 5

She made her way slowly along the hall, but when she reached the front door and the knock came again, she found herself sliding the bolt instead of opening it, much to her surprise. She frowned, holding her free hand to her heart as it thudded into her throat. What was the matter with her? She was going doolally. Nevertheless, and in spite of now feeling slightly ridiculous, she called, 'Who is it? Who's there?'

There was silence for some ten seconds, and then the knock came a third time. She stared at the battered front door and then stooped down, placing the oil lamp on the floor before opening the door into Frank and Betty's front room. Before the arrival of Frank's second family this room had been used rarely; it had held a green plush suite and a highly polished oval table and six upholstered chairs. The suite remained, but now a double bra.s.s bed stood in the alcove which had housed the table and chairs, with a s.p.a.ce at the side of it where the crib - containing the youngest Robson - stood at night. Along with this was a huge wooden airer constantly filled with damp and drying clothes and a rickety wardrobe, which meant careful negotiation when edging to the bed. But it was to the window that Josie made her way, carefully folding the moth-eaten velvet curtains back a fraction as she peered out into the dark street.

But she hadn't been careful enough. As the big broad man outside turned and stared straight at her, Josie felt a scream which was never voiced spiral in her head, and then she heard the front door being rattled as her father realised he had been tumbled. She let the curtain fall back into place and now she stood in the darkness, no semblance of colour left in her face and her hands gripping the bodice of her dress as her eyes stared wildly about her.

He was here. Her da had found them. But how? How had he found out where they were living? She stumbled back into the hall, entangling herself in the airer on the way and causing it to fall backwards into the wardrobe. If it had fallen the other way the clothes would have landed on top of the glowing fire in the grate, kept burning day and night courtesy of the free coal the miners received, but such was Josie's state of mind she wouldn't have known.

'Josie? It's me. Da.' His voice now came clearly. 'Open the door, la.s.s.'

He was speaking in the wheedling tone he had used once before outside Central Station, as though he was a normal father dealing with a recalcitrant child who needed careful handling. And she answered him as she had then, her voice flat and controlled. 'Leave us alone,' she said.

'Come on, la.s.s, open the door. I only want to talk to you an' see how things are. Your mam's bin half mad with worry.'

That was a lie if ever she heard one because Vera had told her that s.h.i.+rley was pleased they were out of harm's way. And when had her da ever bothered about how her mam was feeling anyway? He must think she was daft to swallow that one. Josie took a long shuddering pull of air and said once more, 'Leave us alone. We're not coming back.' She was leaning against the cold wall for support but then, as the door was rattled violently on its hinges again, she sprang forwards and banged on it herself, hissing, 'You leave us be or else I'll call Barney and Mr Robson. They know all about you.'

'Oh aye? An' they're sittin' by the fireside, are they? Best place, la.s.s, on a night like this. Well, you call 'em an' we'll all have a crack together, eh? Mind, I might be inclined to say what I think about folk who take a pair of bit bairns away from their rightful mam an' da.'

She stared at the door, biting the end of her thumb. And then his voice came again saying, 'Well? I'm waitin', la.s.s. Or could it be they're oilin' their wigs some place? A little bird told me there's the comin' nuptials to get sorted.'

He had known. He had known all along that the house was empty except for her and the bairns. As the thought hit home she knew in the same instant her father had been keeping her talking deliberately, but then a hard hand was slid across her mouth as she was grabbed from behind and held close to a body which she recognised from its smell. 'Now you just keep nice an' quiet like a good little la.s.sie an' no one'll get hurt.' Patrick Duffy was holding her fast despite her struggling, and Josie would never have believed his strength if she hadn't felt it. 'Y'know, you've put me to a fair bit of trouble, me darlin', an' I'm not too happy about that.'

His hand was so tight across her nose and mouth that Josie couldn't breathe, but still she continued to struggle and kick as Patrick forced her towards the front door. She could hear him cursing, and in the moment he removed his hand from her mouth she sucked in a pull of air intending to scream, only to receive a blow across the side of her face that made her neck crack as her head bounced on her shoulders.

The shock of it stunned her for a second, but as Patrick Duffy slid the bolt and his hand went back to cover her mouth, she twisted her head and bit down on his flesh with all the power in her jaw. Again the hall became full of softly hissed profanities, but this time it was her father's fist that sent Josie whirling into darkness, although as she lost consciousness she thought for a moment she heard Barney's voice and it was yelling . . .

Chapter Five.

If he was honest, Barney had been glad of the excuse to nip home and check on Millie when Betty had asked him. He could take Pearl's mam and da in small doses, he admitted wryly to himself as he stepped out of the front entrance of the inn and began walking along Pitt Street, but lately, what with the wedding and all, he'd seen a mite too much of them for comfort. Still, he wasn't marrying Stanley and Marjorie, was he.

The moon was casting a cold white brilliance on the icy street and pavements, the already heavy frost coating the layers of ice and snow with a film of sparkling silver. Barney stood for a moment, his head uplifted to the night sky in which the stars stood out like twinkling lights, and he breathed deeply, taking the clean crisp air hard into his lungs.

By, it was good to be alive on a night like this. If he had his way he'd walk for miles now, not thinking, just drawing the essence of the night into him until he had a surfeit to carry him through the next days and weeks. And then he shook his head at himself, smiling self-consciously as though someone had told him he was being fanciful and womanish. It was funny, the way he needed to see the sky and wide open s.p.a.ces; his da, and their Amos, Reg and Neville didn't. His mouth straightened. The united att.i.tude of his father and brothers when he had told them he couldn't follow them down the pit had hurt him with its lack of understanding and barely concealed recrimination. But Betty had been for him. She was a canny little body, Betty.

He took another great breath of frost-flavoured air into his lungs, savouring its sharp cleanness after the cloying dust of the concrete works in which he laboured six days a week.

Aye, he and Betty got on all right, and if Prudence had given their stepmother half a chance it would have been a happier household the last few years. Nevertheless his thoughts were tinged with pity when they touched on his sister. It must be doubly hard for a woman to look like she did when she was a thinker, and Prudence was a thinker all right. If there was one thing he would miss when he got married it would be the talks - arguments sometimes - that they'd shared, because Pearl wasn't made that way. Social reform, the fight the unions were engaging in, the burgeoning Suffragette Movement were all beyond Pearl. Not that he minded that, he quickly rea.s.sured himself. Pearl was soft and sweet and docile, everything a woman should be. Aye, he was lucky she'd looked the side he was on. He was lucky. He didn't question why he had to emphasise this in his mind.

He pa.s.sed the junction with Wellington Street and continued on along Pitt Street, knowing he had to be quick to avoid suffering one of Pearl's wounded silences when he got back. They were killers, those silences of hers, when she'd look at him with big hurt eyes and quivering lips if he stepped out of line in some way. He perhaps should have told Pearl he was cutting along home for a minute or two when he'd made the excuse he needed the privy, but he'd known Betty wanted it kept just between them two, to avoid Prudence and his da dismissing her anxiety about Millie. And he could be home and back in minutes.

His hobnail boots were loud on the icy ground as he turned right into Spring Garden Lane, and then he paused. For a minute there he'd thought someone had just gone into their house, but it must have been next door's. Who'd be calling round at this time of night?

Nevertheless his steps quickened, and as he reached the open door and his brain registered the struggling girl and the big man's fist slamming into her face, his yell was purely instinctive as he launched himself forward, kicking over the oil lamp which was still on the floor as he did so.

Bart, already hampered by his broken arm in its sling, was caught off-balance and knocked halfway down the hall with the force of Barney's body, but it was Patrick's scream as the oil lamp smashed over his boots and trousers that brought Josie back to consciousness. She wasn't aware that the bottom of her own skirt was on fire until Barney was kneeling beside her, smothering the flames with his coat as he dragged her out into the street, but the main contents of the lamp had gone all over the little Irishman as the cries and shouts from within the house professed.

However, between them Bart and Patrick must have managed to put the flames out, because by the time Barney was able to leave Josie sitting against the wall of the house and re-enter the hall, the two had vanished the way Patrick had come in - through the back yard - and only smoking floorboards remained.

By now Gertie and the children were all awake and streaming downstairs and little Millie was yelling her head off in her crib in the kitchen, but all Barney was concerned with was the slight figure propped against the wall outside.

The neighbours came out in force, and after a brief and blunt explanation Mr Stefford next door was off at a run to the inn in Pitt Street, and Mrs Stefford was dealing with a weeping Gertie and the other children. Mr Middleton, on the Robsons' other side, was dispatched for the doctor, and his wife - a stout and very capable midwife - helped Barney settle Josie in the big armchair in the kitchen before she picked up the screaming baby and, together with Mrs Stefford, took all the children back into her house.

Josie was only dimly aware of all this. The pain in her head was excruciating, and combined with the accompanying swirling and dizziness, kept her swimming in and out of consciousness. But she knew she was holding on to Barney's hand, and she kept holding on even when the others arrived home and the doctor came and their hushed voices hovered about her.

'. . . concussion after blow on the head like that. Man ought to be strung up by his thumbs.' She didn't recognise this voice and a.s.sumed it must be the doctor, but was too sick and disorientated to open her eyes. '. . . take it further. It had to be her da, who else would have attacked a little la.s.sie?' This was from Frank, and such was the distress in his voice Josie would have liked to be able to rea.s.sure him she was all right, but she must have lost consciousness again, because when she next came to she was being carried before being placed on something very soft.

At this juncture she was longing for the blackness to take her over again because the pain in her head was unbearable, and when oblivion came she sank into it gratefully, even as she thought, I must let go of Barney's hand, he can't stay here with me. But perversely her fingers tightened and as she went down and down into the waves of darkness, his voice was saying, 'Go to sleep, la.s.s - aye, that's right. You'll feel better come morning.'

'You told me you'd set it all up.' Patrick Duffy was speaking through gritted teeth as he hobbled through the back streets, the burned flesh on his legs making every step agony.

'I did, man, I did. Look, I told you--'

'Oh aye, you told me all right.' There followed a spate of cursing that brought white flecks of spittle to the corners of Patrick's mouth, and only ceased when they came to the horse and cart they had left tied up in the back yard of an inn some streets away.

'You take the reins.'

Bart did as he was told; Patrick's hands were blistered and the blackened skin was hanging in strips in some places where he'd tried to beat out his burning trousers in the first panic-filled moments before Bart had been able to get to him and smother the flames with his coat. Bart was terrified. Duffy was not known for his magnanimity at the best of times, and this definitely was not the best of times.

'Patrick, man, I'll sort it--'

'Shut your gob.'

Bart glanced at the small man hunched on the hard wooden seat beside him. His thin sour face was grey with pain, and even in the darkness the enmity shooting from the two black jets that were his eyes was chilling. Bart knew he had to make this right somehow. By all that was holy he had to make this right, but how? He sucked in a lungful of icy cold air, sweat born of terror making his armpits damp beneath his layers of clothing.

As the old nag clip-clopped on towards Gateshead the silence was only broken now and again by a groan from Patrick as the pot-holes in the rough roads caused the cart to bounce and rock, and with each exclamation Bart's dread increased.

Bart took the same road on which they had travelled into Newcastle, a route which skirted the main town of Gateshead. The road was dark and lonely at times, the heaped snow either side of the banks and hedgerows and the ice beneath the horse's hooves making the going laborious. The plan had been to tie the children up with the rope they'd brought and gag them, hiding them under the old coal sacks in the back of the cart. This route had been ideal for its isolation. Now Bart wasn't so sure. He was well aware of the fisherman's gutting knife Patrick carried with him at all times, and having seen its sharp, vicious blade his flesh was twitching.

To his knowledge no one had ever dared lay a finger on Patrick, and he'd unwittingly been the means of something much worse. His own heartbeat was thumping in his ears and his throat was dry with terror. By, this d.a.m.n ride seemed endless . . .

'You let on to that little baggage back there about me an' Doug in that do afore she skedaddled? Mentioned names, did ye?' Patrick's voice was oddly quiet, and Bart's terror increased.

'No, man, no, I swear it. You know me better'n that. If s.h.i.+rl hadn't opened her big mouth 'bout Ada an' Dora the la.s.s'd be none the wiser the day, an' I denied everythin' anyway.'

Patrick didn't speak for some seconds, and then he said with a change of voice, for his words now came almost friendly-sounding, 'An' you've never told s.h.i.+rl anythin'?'

'I've told her nowt. What she thinks she knows hasn't come from me, an' Ada an' Dora knew better than to blab. I dare say s.h.i.+rl put two an' two together, but she'd never let on.'

'She told that 'un back there.'

'No. I've told you - it wasn't like that!'

'So you say.'

They had pa.s.sed Gateshead when Patrick spoke next, still in the friendly voice. 'Keep on this road instead of turnin' off. I've a bit of business to do in Was.h.i.+ngton afore we go back. Cut across the moor an' go on past Brandy Row an' Old Was.h.i.+ngton, all right?'

'Aye, just as you say, man.' Bart darted a quick glance at the little man but Patrick was staring straight ahead into the dark night. Bart had accompanied Patrick to the village of New Was.h.i.+ngton - half a mile north of Old Was.h.i.+ngton - once in the past, when the Irishman had had some business there. Bart had known better than to ask what had been afoot and Patrick hadn't told him, but the straggling village built for the colliery workers and holding rows of terraced houses, a few good shops, a Methodist chapel and the Bath Brick Works hadn't impressed him. However, Was.h.i.+ngton itself - where they were now headed - was larger than New Was.h.i.+ngton and Old Was.h.i.+ngton, and he'd feel a mite more comfortable there than on this lonely road. He'd buy Patrick a few drinks and perhaps they could get his burns seen to before they carried on to Sunderland? Whatever he had to do to make this right he would.

Nothing more was said until they had ridden right into the town, past the school and then the rectory, until they reached the Cross Keys public house opposite the smithy. Then Patrick said, 'Wait here a minute.'

'Why don't I come inside with you?' Bart had jumped down from the cart in order to a.s.sist Patrick to dismount, but the other man ignored his outstretched hand. Bart heard him gasp as he lowered himself to the ground. Patrick was in a lot of pain, that much was obvious, and the knowledge was turning Bart's bowels to water.

Patrick looked at him for a moment and his face was grim, but when he spoke he merely repeated his previous words. 'Wait here a minute.'

Bart waited. Indeed, he did not dare move from his place at the horse's side, but now his flesh was beginning to creep. He wished he was home. By, he wished he was home all right. The feeling he had on him took him back to the times when, as a bairn, he was waiting for his da to get back from the docks. Six foot, his da had been, big and burly and an out-and-out swine. The big man's favourite trick had been locking him in the large oak chest down in the cellar of the riverside house they'd rented. It had flooded regularly, that cellar, and apart from the terror of being buried alive, Bart had always been petrified he'd be forgotten down there and the flood waters would come before anyone remembered him. But it had been the waiting before the event that had regularly made him mess his trousers.

By the time Patrick re-emerged with two other men, a full half an hour had pa.s.sed. Patrick smelled of whisky but the alcohol obviously hadn't dulled the effects of the flames as the small Irishman was moving with painful stiffness. 'This is Wilf an' Lenny.' Patrick gestured at the small, gnome-like person with s.h.i.+fty eyes and a lump on the side of his neck like a bunion, and the other man who had a big scar down one side of his face. Bart nodded at them but they just stared back. 'I've some stuff to pick up while I'm here so we'll go down yonder' - Patrick indicated the road which led past the smithy and the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church - 'an' there should be some bits 'n' pieces waitin' in a spot by the old gravel pit. Wilf an' Lenny here'll load it on the wagon.'

Bart wanted to say that Wilf and Lenny weren't needed; that he could do any humping that was required, but with his broken arm it wasn't true and besides, he didn't dare. Instead he forced himself to speak in as natural a tone as he could manage as he asked, 'Where you takin' the stuff?'

'Not far.' Patrick looked at him with his soulless eyes. 'We'll walk; you lead the horse an' keep it quiet - there's the polis house over the way.'

Bart glanced at the police station which was situated next to the Cross Keys public house. For the first time in his life the law represented safety, but there was no way he could break away from the three men and reach the small brick house without being overpowered. Dear G.o.d, dear G.o.d. He repeated the blasphemy over and over in his mind as he led the way past the newly extended church with its recently raised roof on his right and what looked to be a sandpit on his left, whereupon the road narrowed into a thin dark lane with buildings belonging to the gravel pit some way in front of them. Once they were past the pumping station it was very dark and very quiet, the only sound coming from the horse's hooves as it clip-clopped along the side of the old gravel pit, a row of trees on the right of the road standing stark and bare against the harsh night sky.

'Where . . . where do you want me to . . . to stop?' Bart was stammering but he couldn't help it. Patrick might be a skinny little runt of a man but that knife made two of him, and although Wilf was small the other one, Lenny, was built like a bull. He should've followed Patrick into the pub and stayed there, or even nipped across to the police house. But he couldn't have done that, he argued with himself as he led the horse and cart along the frozen track leading off the lane, after Patrick called for him to turn left. Now there were windswept white fields on the one side and the black cavernous hole of the pit on the other. No, he couldn't have done that. What could he have said? And maybe he was imagining things here. Was afeared over nothing.

'Round here's about right.'

As Patrick's voice brought everyone to a halt Bart turned, saying nervously, 'You want me to help 'em load, Patrick? Where's the stuff hidden?' He faced the three men standing looking at him from a distance of a few feet away.

Patrick did not answer this, but what he did say was, and quietly, 'How long have you known me, Bart?'

'How long?' He had to wet his lips before he could say, 'Nigh on eight or nine years, maybe longer.'

Patrick nodded. Producing a small leather whisky flask from his pocket and taking several gulps he replaced the stopper and shoved it back inside his coat. 'An' would you say I'm a stupid man, Bart, or careless? Eh? Would you say that?'

The big fellow, Lenny, had moved round the far side of the horse and cart while Patrick had been speaking, and now Bart was effectively closed in by Lenny, the horse and cart, and Patrick and Wilf on the one side, and the abyss which was the gravel pit on the other. 'Patrick, man . . .' It was a whimper. 'Look, I said I'd make it right. Anythin' you want, anythin'.'

'You've put me to a lot of trouble, Bart. You've taken my money an' not delivered, an' as for tonight . . .'

'I'll pay you back, man, you know that, an' I'll get the bairns, both of 'em - all reet?'

'That 'un back there'll open her gob after tonight, you know that, don't you? You'll have a visit from the law come mornin', sure as eggs are eggs, an' what are you goin' to say when they ask you about me, eh?'

'Nowt, I swear it.'

'Nowt.' Patrick turned to the little fellow with the lump as he repeated again, 'Nowt. Now from his own mouth the la.s.s an' her mam know nothin' concrete about me, Wilf. Nothin' they can prove, leastways.' He laughed out loud, along with Wilf, and Bart forced a weak smile. 'As I see it,' Patrick went on, 'the only one who does is our Bart here. An' folk get jittery in a cell in the polis house. You ever noticed that, Wilf ?'

'Oh aye.' Wilf was still grinning widely, clearly enjoying himself. 'Many's the time I've seen it. Aye, I'll grant ye that all reet, Patrick, man. I divvent know many as don't. What say you, Lenny?'

There was just a grunt from the big figure behind Bart, but Patrick obviously took it for agreement, saying, 'So we all see eye to eye. A feller's ent.i.tled to protect his best interests, eh, Bart? I'd be daft to do different, an' we've already agreed I'm not daft. An', of course, there's the little matter of this.' He held up his hands, the palms and fingers raw and blistered and bleeding in places, for Bart's eyes to inspect. 'It'll be a while afore these an' me legs let me forget this night's happenin's. Yes, I deserve payment for this.'

Patrick made a sharp movement with his head, and before Bart could react he was grabbed from behind by a pair of ma.s.sive meaty hands which pinned his arms to his sides as he was lifted right off the ground and held close to Lenny's huge torso.

The same blind terror which had gripped the boy Bart now caused the man to lose control of his bladder. He tried to wrap his flailing legs round a stunted tree at the side of the cliff-like wall of the gravel pit but to no avail, and then Patrick and the little man were standing close.

'Scared, Bart?' Patrick gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. 'You should be. These two know how to make it last a long, long time, an' I'm goin' to let them have their fun tonight, the way me body's painin' me.' He took out his knife, and again he made the mirthless sound before he said, his voice even quieter but his words terrible-sounding to the petrified man, 'You'll be beggin' me to finish you off with this afore they're done, I promise you. An' don't worry about what you owe me, Bart. Those two lads of yours are brighter than you'll ever be, an' slippery into the bargain. I shall take them under me wing when you go missin', out of the goodness of me heart like. They'll train up right dandy, they will.

'Gag him.' This was to Wilf who promptly obeyed, stuffing a filthy neckerchief in Bart's mouth before tying it in place with his m.u.f.fler. 'An' move him over there a bit.' He gestured a few yards ahead. 'We don't want to frighten the horse, now do we?'

Chapter Six.

'But someone must know something!'

A week and a half had elapsed since the attack on Josie. Barney's wedding was only three days away, but the main subject of conversation in the house in Spring Garden Lane was the same as it had been for the last eleven days - the disappearance of Josie's father.

Barney, in particular, was tireless in his desire to bring about Bart's arrest, and had travelled down to Sunderland three times in the days since that fateful night, hara.s.sing the police both in Sunderland and Newcastle and making a general nuisance of himself to those in authority.

Pearl had let it be known she was feeling distinctly neglected; Betty had taken it upon herself not to let Josie or Gertie out of her sight; Frank had begun to bolt both the front and back door every night - an unheard of occurrence - and Prudence had moved into lodgings the day after the attack when her part in the incident had come to light. She hadn't tried to deny her involvement when Frank and Barney had put two and two together. She admitted that she had purposely made contact with Bart Burns, but maintained he had tricked her by telling her a pack of lies. Prudence's absolute refusal to accept any blame for the subsequent events had made Barney see red, and the two of them had had a row which had rocked the house.

Prudence had left the next morning, white-faced but dry-eyed, and with not a word to anyone as she carried her bags out of the house. Betty had since heard from Mrs Middleton - whose work as a midwife took her far and wide - that the girl was lodging in a house in Oxford Street which was just a stone's throw from the laundry.

Josie herself had felt considerably better about everything once she had emerged from the disturbing half-world into which the concussion had plunged her.

It had taken a few days for the effects of her harsh treatment at the hands of her father and Patrick Duffy to diminish, but even then she was still black and blue all over from her father's fist in her face and her fall when she had been flung aside at Barney's dramatic entrance into the hall. However, once her mind was her own again, Josie found she could cope with her physical state quite easily. Part of this was due to the overwhelming sense of relief she felt when a family conference a week after the attack decided her life at the laundry, should she return, wouldn't be worth living with Prudence now estranged from them all. Josie didn't let on to them that it hadn't been too good before.

According to what Pearl had relayed to Barney, Prudence was effectively blaming Josie for most of what had transpired and was wallowing in self-pity. At least, that was the way Barney had interpreted whatever Pearl had said to him, hence the family conference. 'You know Prudence has got a tongue on her at the best of times.' Barney's face had been grim. 'And Josie's been through enough lately. She's not going back to the laundry for Prudence to make her life h.e.l.l. And my dear sister is quite capable of doing that, as you well know.' No one had argued with him and so that had been that.

Josie had made it plain she would look for work elsewhere as soon as she was fit, but for the moment the doctor had been quite explicit in his stipulation that his young patient must rest until he saw her again, which would be the Monday after Barney's wedding. As Betty was determined to follow the doctor's decree to the letter, there was nothing Josie could do but accept her enforced inactivity with good grace.

'Most people'd be glad of the chance to sit with their feet up and be waited on,' Barney had teased her on the night of the family conference once Frank and Betty had gone to bed, Frank being on the early s.h.i.+ft at the pit. They were sitting by the kitchen range and Josie was warming her toes on the bra.s.s fender, having slipped off her heavy black boots. Barney had just made a pot of tea and with all the rest of the household in bed and only the light from a small flickering oil lamp and the rosy glow from the range to light the room, the effect was cosy. 'But Betty tells me you've been trying to do this and that all day. Ants in her pants, Betty described it.'

Josie had pulled a wry face. For the first time in her life she had time on her hands and she had found she didn't like the experience one bit. If Betty had let her help with the bairns or even do a bit of was.h.i.+ng or cleaning it would have been different, but just to sit around all day . . . She couldn't bear it. From being so tired she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, she was now lying awake most of the night, listening to the others breathing! 'I shall be glad when I've seen the doctor on Monday and can go back to normal,' she admitted quietly.

'Bored?'

'Oh aye.' It was said with feeling.

'Not ready for bed?'

'No.'

'Fancy a chat?'