Our Lizzie (53 page)

This time Sam looked up. “Gimme a bottle of rum, then.” He fumbled in his pocket, found no more money and fixed the landlord with a glowering gaze. “Put it on t'slate. I've never not paid you what I owed.”

“All right, lad.” The publican knew better than to upset a man as drunk as this.

Clutching the bottle, Sam made his way towards the door. Someone opened it for him. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when he left.

*   *   *

Lizzie sobbed with frustration as she searched in vain for a loose floorboard. Time was passing. If she didn't get away soon, he'd be back. It was by sheer chance that she stumbled and hit the corner of the skirting board with her foot. Even through the pain that caused her, she felt it move. Only a bit, but enough to alert her. She dropped to her knees, yelping and stopping for a moment as she banged her broken arm. When the worst of the pain had passed, she tugged at the corner of the skirting board. It moved, then stuck, then moved again, revealing a recess where a brick had been removed from the inner wall.

Inside were several piles of money, her own quite separate, notes folded just as she had kept them. But there was a lot of other money, too, so many notes she couldn't take it in for a moment. Then she began to laugh, a harsh scraping sound that hurt her throat. It must have been here all the time. Enough money for her to escape, and she'd waited while she scrimped ha'pennies together! The laugh turned into a sob and she nearly allowed herself the luxury of a good weep, but forced herself to stop. No time for that. No time for anything but running away.

Lizzie grabbed a fistful of money and stuffed it in her apron pocket. She had begun to stand up when she realised that Sam would see instantly that she had found his cache, so she bent down again and awkwardly, with her good hand, put the piece of board back again. It seemed to take a long time to get it into place.

Then she staggered out to the hall and fumbled for her coat, moaning in impatience at her own ineptitude. Even as she was trying to put it on and hold it round her bad arm, footsteps sounded outside in the street. For a moment, she flattened herself against the wall, then she turned to run. If she could get out of the back door, perhaps she could still escape, climb over that locked gate. But she bumped her bad arm again on the hallstand and let out a wail of pain, clinging to the stand with her good arm and trying desperately not to let the blackness swallow her up. She'd not be able to climb over anything. She was trapped! He'd really kill her now she'd tried to take his money.

*   *   *

Sam staggered out of the pub, clutching his bottle. Snow lay thick on the ground, muddied by the feet of the departing customers. Within a few paces, he had fallen flat on his arse, and lay there for a moment or two, cursing and groaning. Two men walked past him.

“Gi's a hand up!” he shouted, but they didn't even turn round. “Soddin' snow,” he told the flakes as they whirled down on him. “Soddin' women!” he yelled at the world. He looked sideways and saw Ronnie still standing there, quiet now, with a sad expression on his face.

“Bes' mate I ever had,” Sam told him.

Ronnie just stared at him.

“All right, all right, I won't hit her again.” But Ronnie didn't even nod his head, just continued to stare. With a lot of grunting, Sam heaved himself to his feet, discovered the bottle of rum, unbroken, lying cushioned on a pile of snow, and picked it up, crooning to it as he took a good swig. Then he set off home.

It was at the corner of York Road that he slipped and ricked his good ankle. He stood for a minute letting the pain subside. When he could, he continued on his way up the hill, moving slowly now and with great difficulty. In the middle of the street, he nearly dropped the bottle and stopped to get a firmer grip on it. A chap standing on the pavement started yelling at him and waving his arms, so he yelled back, then turned to continue.

He saw the skidding motor omnibus just seconds before it slammed into him.

The world turned black for a few minutes, then Sam opened his eyes and saw his mate. He allowed Ronnie to help him up. Good ol' Ronnie, best mate he'd ever had. They walked off together.

*   *   *

It took Lizzie a minute to realise that it couldn't be Sam at the door, because he had a key. And anyway, the door wasn't locked, so Sam would just bang it open and stamp inside. With a sob, she stumbled down the hallway. Let it be someone who'll help me, she prayed as she fumbled for the handle.

When she opened it, she found a policeman standing there and whimpered in relief.

“Can I come in, love?”

“I'd rather—would you take me to my brother's? I think I've broken my arm—and my husband isn't here and—and I need help.”

“Let me come in first,” he said, his voice gentle. He put one arm round her. “Let's go through into the kitchen, eh?” He was horrified by her bruised face and neck, the terror in her eyes. He didn't look forward to this task and she didn't look to be in a fit state to cope with what he had to tell her, but it had to be done.

He helped her sit by the fire, easing her down and trying not to hurt the arm, which did, indeed, look to be broken. Then he piled some coal on the fire and shut the door into the hall.

“Why won't you listen to me?” she sobbed. “I have to get away or my husband will come back and kill me. Who do you think did this to me?”

He knelt in front of her. “Listen, love.” He held her good hand in his, amazed at how icy it felt. “Listen a minute.”

Lizzie stopped protesting and stared at him, wide-eyed as an owl, as terrified as a wild creature caught in a trap.

“There's been an accident. I'm afraid your husband's been killed.”

The words didn't seem to sink in at first, and she just stared at him, so he repeated them more loudly. “I'm afraid your husband's been killed.”

This time, she opened and shut her mouth, staring into his eyes with an intensity he'd only seen before in a madwoman. “Say that again.”

He obliged. “Your husband has been killed, Mrs. Thoxby.”

“Sam's dead? Really dead?”

“Yes, love. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

She sat so still he began to worry, then she asked very softly, “You're quite sure of that?”

Funny how it took some of them. “I'm afraid so. He was standing in the middle of York Road. A motor omnibus skidded on the ice and slammed right into him. He didn't even try to move out of the way.” The fellow had been blind drunk, by all accounts.

“He's dead. He's really dead.” She leaned back and let a great shudder of relief run through her body, taking the worst of her terror with it. Then she shut her eyes and murmured, “Oh, thank heavens! Thank heavens.”

If her husband was the one who'd beaten her up, the policeman couldn't blame her for being glad of his death. Well, even the Sergeant had said Sam Thoxby would be no loss to the town. But it was a rotten way to die, crushed by those heavy wheels, blood splattered across the cobblestones.

When she just sat there, shaking, he took charge, as he had learned to do at such times. “Let me fetch one of your neighbours, love. You need help.”

After a moment, she managed, “Number seven. Harpers.”

He nodded. “You'll be all right if I leave you for a minute?”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Mmm.” She wasn't, she found, glad that Sam had died, only glad to be free of him. He'd been hurt as well as angry when he found out about her writing to Peter Dearden. She was sorry for that. Sorry for everything. But now, oh, heavens, now she didn't need to go away. She could stay here and build a new life for herself.

Relief washed through her again, making her shiver, and it was a moment before she realised that Emma Harper was standing beside her, looking pale and unhappy but there at least.

“Oh, Emma! I don't know what to do.” Then Lizzie let herself slip into unconsciousness, let the pain go away, let everything go, because it was safe to give in now.

*   *   *

Lizzie arranged a decent funeral for Sam, but didn't attend it, sending Percy in her place. She'd stayed overnight in hospital where they'd set her arm and tended her bruises, then had insisted on coming home. Percy had offered to stay with her, and she'd accepted that, because she did need help just now. Johnny came, too, but he seemed a stranger, a rough lad of thirteen who stared at her blankly and seemed to spend most of his time round at his mates' houses.

A week after the funeral, Percy told her he was going to marry Emma Harper—and why.

“I'm glad for you, Percy. I know how you love her. And you'll be able to look after her. She'll need looking after.”

“Will you come to the wedding, be a witness for us?”

She smiled then. “Of course I will. And, Percy—I hope it works out.”

“I'll make it work out. And she does need me. So will the child.”

So Lizzie went to the register office in her Sunday best, with her arm in a sling, and signed her name shakily with her left hand. Then Percy and Johnny moved into number seven with the Harpers.

It was good to have number one to herself again. But Lizzie still seemed to be frozen, still couldn't think what to do with herself. And she had to pay for help in the house, help with getting dressed in the mornings, too. Fanny Preston, a lot older now, was glad to come in and do that.

But every morning Lizzie still woke with a start, expecting to see Sam lying in bed beside her.

*   *   *

On their wedding night Percy let Emma go upstairs first and get undressed, for they'd both vetoed Blanche's suggestion of a day or two away somewhere. When he tapped on the bedroom door, he found her already in bed, still looking a bit under the weather.

“I'll just go and get undressed in the bathroom.”

“You can get undressed here.” She gave him a faint smile. “I know what a man looks like.”

He blushed and shook his head. She might know what a man looked like, but he wasn't used to taking his clothes off in front of a woman.

When he came back, she said quietly, “Come on. The bed's nice and warm.”

He got in and pulled the cord to turn the light out. Then he lay there stiffly, trying not to touch her. He didn't want her to worry that he'd force himself on her.

“Percy.” Her voice was faint and breathy sounding in the darkness.

“Yes, love?”

“Could you just—hold me?”

He gathered her carefully into his arms and suddenly she was weeping softly and helplessly against him, so he patted her shoulder and made soothing noises till she stopped. It was nice to hold a woman. They were so soft. It was nice not to be on his own.

They drifted off to sleep in one another's arms and both slept well, waking to stare at each other in mild surprise the following morning.

“You all right, Emma love?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, Percy. And—thank you. For—for just holding me.”

“I'll always be there for you.”

She leaned across to kiss his cheek. “You're a lovely man.”

As they were sitting over breakfast, she said thoughtfully, “I haven't been down to the yard since—since I heard. Would you come with me today? Walter's gone back to work again and he's looking after things, but he's not so good with the paperwork.”

Percy, with a few days' holiday from Pilby's, nodded immediately. He'd have stood on his head if she'd wanted it. And actually, he found it interesting to sort through the papers and see how a building business was run. He offered a couple of suggestions for improving the account-keeping—he'd learned a lot in the office at Pilby's, by heck he had—and she looked at him thoughtfully.

That night when they went up to bed, Emma said abruptly, “Leave the light on. I want to talk to you about something.”

So they lay there, propped up by pillows, him wishing he could hold her again and her talking business. It took him a minute or two to understand what she was saying, then he forgot about cuddling her. “Me? Run Cardwell's?”

“Well, someone has to do it. Walter's a good man, and he knows the trade, but he's no use with customers and paperwork. I own a quarter of the business now. It's in our interest to see it thrive.”

“Well, I'll have to think about that. I'd not thought of leaving Pilby's.”

“You don't have to leave straight away. I can work for a while yet. But when I get too big, well, by then we'll know how things stand. And I'll have had time to show you what to do.”

“All right.”

It was a funny sort of discussion for two newly-weds, he thought, as he switched off the light and slid down in the bed beside her. But at least she did want a cuddle again. And if he worked in the business with her, it'd bring them even closer. Though he'd have a lot to learn. He would that. Eeh, it was funny how things worked out sometimes, it was indeed.

*   *   *

A couple of weeks after Sam's funeral, Lizzie went shopping in Overdale, more for something to do than because she needed much. The corner shop had supplied her well enough. Only she was going mad staying inside the house.

She hesitated outside Dearden's, then went inside, feeling a mixture of guilt and embarrassment.

Sally's face lit up as she saw Lizzie and she abandoned a customer, coming across to hug and kiss her then hug her again. “How's your arm?”

“Oh, all right. It was a simple fracture, they said. I'm getting quite good with my left hand now.”

The customer cleared her throat and Lizzie saw how many others there were waiting. She looked round for staff and saw only one harassed-looking young woman. “You look like you need some more assistants,” she joked.

“I certainly do. It's hard to find people who know the trade.” Though there wasn't the same amount of custom as there had been. Well, how could there be with all the shortages?