Liza (36 page)

A few minutes later Flora returned with a packet of writing paper. Jasper took it from her, spread a sheet on the table and found a stub of pencil in his pocket. Ready to draw, he looked at the girl.
‘So, you say it’s like this.’ He made a rough sketch, following her instructions.

Afterwards she said,
‘What’s this going to be worth, then?’ ‘I’ll give you a sovereign.’

‘
More like a couple,’ she argued.

Jasper looked at her.
‘I’ll make it a quid now and another ten bob after. Don’t push for more. And I’ll settle with you if you let me down, don’t doubt it.’

‘
Give us the quid then.’ She had sold Liza into the hands of Jasper for thirty shillings.

He gave her the gold sovereign and she returned to her duties, while he and Flora drove back to their rented house.
‘We’ll keep away from the place now,’ he said. ‘We’ve got all we want.’ He had a rough but accurate plan of the interior of Spencer Hall and the girl had agreed to open the garden door on Saturday night. ‘They’ll all be sleeping sound early Sunday morning. That’ll be my time.’

Flora was disappointed. She had guessed that Doreen might be bought when she first saw her, but had said nothing because she hoped Jasper would find his task impossible and give it up. Instead he had noted Doreen just as she had. Flora was still uneasy despite his assurances. He had said he would give the girl a
‘leathering’. That conjured up pictures from which she recoiled ...

*
* *

On Thursday Liza set out to call on Iris. The days were flying away now and she would soon be finished here. She told herself that this was no more than she had expected. Now she would be able to go back to her own life, her mother and daughter. She was looking forward to that but
... Again, there was that ‘but’, defying reason.

Iris was in her shop, busily sorting clothing into piles and negotiating a transaction with a rag-and-bone man come to buy, his horse and cart standing outside. Iris hailed her,
‘Come in, bonny lass, and I’ll make a cup o’ tea. It’s no use arguing, Joe, I’m not cutting another penny.’

Joe grumbled, but paid up and took away his rags. A few
minutes later Liza and Iris were sitting in the kitchen, sipping strong tea. ‘You’re very busy,’ Liza said. ‘You won’t do too much, will you?’

‘
I’m feeling a lot better so I thought I’d have a tidy-up.’ Iris fiddled with her cup and saucer. ‘I’ll shut the shop this afternoon, though. I’ve some paperwork to do.’

Liza wondered about that but did not ask what paperwork was needed for a tagareen shop. Instead she said she had to leave.
‘William, Captain Morgan, said he’d drive me back. He’ll be waiting for me in his office.’

Iris hugged her.
‘You’ve been a Godsend to me. I lost the boys and that was bad enough. Barney was all I had. Then for him to go ... I think it twisted me. I knew he drank — and that was because of losing the boys — and I knew everybody said he must have been drunk the night he drowned. It made me full of hate and badness. Then you came and made me better.’ Iris wiped her eyes and planted a kiss on Liza’s cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself on Saturday. And remember what I told you about the big lad.’

Liza laughed and blushed, and made her escape.

She sat for some five minutes in William’s office while he signed letters, and then they walked down to the Vauxhall. They were laughing as they drove away.

*
* *

Among the passers-by who watched them go was an unshaven man in an old suit, carrying a cheap cardboard suitcase. He stared, disbelieving the evidence of his eyes. Vince Bailey had worked his passage home from Australia. He had disembarked from his ship only that morning with the intention of taking a train to London where he could live off his sister for a while. Now he grabbed the arm of a young man emerging from the offices close by.
‘Here! ‘Scuse me, but who were those two in that motor-car? I think I’ve seen them before.’

‘
That was Captain Morgan. I work for him. The young lady is Miss Cecily Spencer.’ He pointed to the brass plate on the door of the offices, that read ‘Edward Spencer. Shipowner’.

‘
His niece, though he’s dead now.’

‘
Is she?’ Vince grinned. ‘0’ course she is. Ta, mate.’ The young man went on his way, and Vince looked after the Vauxhall, though it was now out of sight. ‘Who would ha’ thought it of our Liza? How did she work that? You don’t have to go to London to seek your fortune now, my lad. It’s waiting for you here.’

*
* *

That night Liza wrote a letter to her mother and Susan.
‘I’ve nearly finished my work here and expect to be home soon.’ She did not give a day or time: better that her arrival should be a surprise. She could picture the delight on Susan’s face. She added, ‘But do not be surprised if I am delayed.’ She put that in because she did not want any hostages to fortune: she had experienced enough surprises necessitating changes of plan since she had arrived in this house. As always, she did not put any address on the letter.

*
* *

The next day, Friday, Liza posted it on her way into town. The overnight rain had stopped and a breeze had scoured the sky clean of clouds. She went to visit Iris, humming under her breath. The shop was open and she walked through to the kitchen, calling,
‘Good morning!’ Iris was in her chair before the fire, her black cap set square on her bushy hair, her shawl round her shoulders. Her head was bowed and her knitting lay in her lap, as if she had laid it down to nap for a few minutes. Her eyes were closed, but when Liza touched her shoulder gently, knowing but not wanting to believe, she seemed to collapse inside herself.

Tears in her eyes, Liza held her for a few minutes and she
seemed warm, but that was from the heat of the fire. Then she laid the poor clay, shrivelled now, back in the chair and walked out into the street. The children were there as usual and she saw Alice, Mrs Robson’s skinny little girl, hurrying back from the shop at the end of the street. Will you ask your mam if she can come here, please?’ Liza asked.

‘
Aye, Miss.’ Alice disappeared into the house next door. Liza knew that the child was not at school because her mother had kept her at home to help. That was common.

A minute later Mrs Robson hurried out, drying red hands on her apron.
‘Is something the matter, Miss? Alice said you were crying.’

‘
I’ve just found Iris dead.’

‘
Oh, my God!’ Mrs Robson put an arm round her. ‘Are you feeling faint?’

Liza dried her tears.
‘No.’

She led the way into the kitchen, with Mrs Robson saying,
‘I saw her just over an hour ago when I looked in, as I do of a morning. Oh dear. But no need for you to upset yourself, pet. You can leave me and Mrs Millan to see to things. It was only last night that Iris called the pair of us in and told us how she wanted everything done, service in the chapel at the end of the street — she was Methodist — and we had to tell the solicitor. I told her, “You’ll live to see us out.” I meant it an’ all, but somehow she must ha’ known. Now I’ll get Ada Millan.’

Liza went with her to the front of the shop, but then said farewell. From her childhood she knew that the two neighbours would do what was right. The poor looked after their own, bringing them into the world or seeing them out of it. But she was sad at heart.

* * *

Jasper was restless. He had made almost all his preparations
and now he could only wait. ‘I’m going out for a bit,’ he told Flora.

‘
Can I come with you?’ she asked, and reached for her coat.

‘
No,’ he replied flatly. There was no sense in her knowing too much too soon. Flora had taken to asking questions and voicing her unease — ‘Do you think you should do that? I wish you wouldn’t do this. Can’t we go somewhere we can live quiet?’ She was getting on his nerves. He said, ‘You stay here and have my dinner ready.’

He left the house by the back gate, without being seen, and walked towards the town. As he crossed the bridge a movement caught his eye and he halted. He saw the coal pouring down the chute from one of the staiths on the bank of the river, to crash into the hold of a ship tied up to the quay. He watched for some time as wagon after wagon emptied its load into the chute to be followed by another. There was an almost continuous black stream of coal pouring down into the hold with a sound like distant thunder, and the dust rose in clouds to drift away on the wind.

As he watched an idea formed in his head. When he moved on he had changed his plan. Now he had a better one and he would not need the spade he had intended to buy this morning, wouldn’t have to find an explanation for it when he returned to Flora. He would have to find out a few things about this loading of coal but that should not be too difficult.

He bought a bottle of gin and went back to Flora. They drank half of it, and he took her upstairs. When he woke he ate the dinner she had cooked, then walked down to the riverside. There was a pub opposite the towering staiths and he waited there. At the end of the day
’s work the men flocked out, coated in dust like so many pitmen. Most made off but a group of four trudged into the bar and ordered beer.

Jasper sidled up to them, grinning.
‘Are you lads working at loading the coal?’

He was going to buy them a drink but they stared at him. One said,
‘You’re not from round here.’ That much was clear from Jasper’s accent.

‘
What the hell has it got to do wi’ you?’ another chimed in.

‘
Aye. What are you after?’ the first said.

They were big men, and Jasper knew he would learn nothing from them. He walked away, cursing silently. It seemed he would have to revert to his original plan, although that did not appeal now. Still, the end, Cecily Spencer
’s end, would be the same.

23

SATURDAY, 16 FEBRUARY 1907, SUNDERLAND

Liza woke with the thought that this was her last day here. Tomorrow she would be gone, but she was determined to make the most of these few hours. When she ran down the stairs to breakfast, Martha was closing the front door. Through the narrowing gap Liza saw the telegraph boy cycling down the drive. ‘This has just come for you, Miss,’ Martha said. She held out the telegram.

Liza saw that it was addressed to Miss C. Spencer. She ripped it open. The buff form inside said:
‘Arriving ten a.m. Monday.’ It was signed, C. Calvert. So Cecily was using Mark’s name and had served Liza with notice to quit. It was no more than she had expected and only underlined that she was going.

‘
Thank you, Martha,’ she said, and went in to breakfast.

William was opening his mail: there was a little pile of discarded envelopes, and another of formal notes on stiff stationery. He held the last in his hand and waved it at her.
‘Good morning. These are the last of the replies to the invitations we sent out, all acceptances. We only had one refusal. Arkenstall had accepted but yesterday he sent one of his clerks to my office with a note to say he had to go to Liverpool on urgent business and won’t be back until Monday.’

Liza pulled a face.
‘That’s a pity.’ She had liked the solicitor, brief though their meeting had been. She filled a plate from the sideboard and poured a cup of tea. ‘I want to go to the chapel where the service to Iris will be held and pay my respects.’

‘
The funeral isn’t until next week.’ William looked puzzled. ‘I know. But I just want to do it today.’

He did not press her for an explanation.

Later Liza visited Cully in his hothouse, and that gentle man gave her a bunch of carnations. She recalled how pleased Iris had been with the ones she had taken her. She walked down through Mowbray Park for the last time and on until the tagareen shop came in sight. She stopped short of it at the chapel on the corner and tried the door. It was not locked, and opened at her touch. Inside she found an elderly woman dusting. ‘Have you a vase, please?’ Liza asked. The woman brought one with water and Liza arranged the flowers in it, then set it on a shelf by the pulpit. She sat for a while, thinking about Iris, the sadness and hardship of the old woman’s life.

When she walked back up the steep slope towards the town she felt at peace. She recalled that Iris had told her to enjoy herself. She would not mourn for her, or for whatever else she was leaving here. Remember it, yes, but not grieve. It was no use crying for what could never be. There was to be a party tonight to celebrate her birthday and she would look forward to it.

Liza was close to the house, just passing the copse opposite the open gates, when a man stepped out from among the trees. He had several days’ stubble on his face and was none too clean. His old suit was creased, shiny and torn. He might have been one of the tramps fed at the back door of the house but Liza recognised Vince Bailey.

‘
Hello, Liza,’ he said.

She stared at him, this ghost from her past, her l
ips parted. Then she whispered, ‘Vince! I thought you were in Australia.’