Ragamuffin Angel (36 page)
It would be all right, she could do this.
She bent down and placed the sweet jar on the pavement which some conscientious bank employee had cleared of packed snow and ice, and took a deep breath as she straightened, adjusting her blue felt hat and smoothing down the lapels of her grey winter coat. She had cleaned her hat with salt and flour that morning, brushed down her coat and shined her black boots; she was as neat and well turned out as she could make herself, she told her quivering stomach bracingly.
All she had to do was to ask for Mr Bainbridge. Father Hedley had promised he would let the bank manager know she would be arriving some time after ten o’clock. And then once she had shown him the contents of the sweet jar and the envelope they could discuss the possibility of her renting premises with a view to starting up a little business. A shop, tea-rooms too, whatever.
A shining black motor car drew into the kerb to one side of the tram lines, and as Connie watched a smartly dressed man help an equally smartly dressed lady to dismount, she caught the woman’s eye. And it was in that moment, as the cool gaze moved over her from head to foot in a scrutiny that was both haughty and disdainful, that the impulse to pick up the sweet jar and take to her heels almost overwhelmed her. But then the couple had passed her, sweeping into the bank without looking to left or right and leaving only the faint whiff of expensive perfume behind them.
By, she thought she was the cat’s whiskers all right. Connie stood for a moment longer before she bent down and retrieved the sweet jar. Lord and Lady Muck as Mary would say. Mind, she couldn’t help feeling that a real, honest to goodness lady – like Lucy – wouldn’t need to prove their superiority by being so hoity-toity as that fancy piece.
Anyway, she would own a car like that one day.
She stood for a moment more looking at the gleaming vehicle with its great brass headlights and leather seats. Aye, she would, and she’d live in a house that was bought and paid for too and hold her head high. But not like that lady had just done. No, not like that.
Anyway, she would own a car like that one day.
She stood for a moment more looking at the gleaming vehicle with its great brass headlights and leather seats. Aye, she would, and she’d live in a house that was bought and paid for too and hold her head high. But not like that lady had just done. No, not like that.
The interior of the bank was more than a little intimidating and she had to sit and wait for some ten minutes after she had stated that her business was with Mr Bainbridge. But then she was being ushered through to the manager’s office at the back of the building, and as she stepped into the large and pleasant room the lingering fragrance told her who the previous occupants had been. So, she was following in Lord and Lady Muck’s footsteps, was she? Wouldn’t that upset madam if she knew! Her mouth curled up at the thought and it was like that that she came face to face with the bank manager.
Twenty minutes later she was outside on the pavement again, minus the sweet jar and envelope and clutching the name and address of a solicitor in Stockton Road that Mr Bainbridge had recommended. There were others, he had told her with a nice smile, in the High Street and Bridge Street, but being at the hub of the town centre they’d likely charge five shillings for walking through the door. Watson and Son were reasonable and personal friends, she wouldn’t go wrong with them. And now she was off again to keep the appointment Mr Bainbridge had arranged for her on the telephone, her head whirling with facts and figures and her feet seeming to float as she made her way into Holmeside and then Vine Place before turning into Stockton Road some ten minutes later.
Watson and Son were situated on the opposite side of the road from the large three-storey brick building of the Eye Infirmary, and the office looked like an ordinary house from the outside. The premises were tucked away behind a high iron-railing fence which cut some few feet of overgrown front garden off from the street, and when Connie reached the front door it was slightly ajar. The reason for this became apparent when she entered a dark hall and saw a sign which said, ‘Newcastle & District Insurance Society, ground floor; Fowler R. Emigration Agent, first floor; Watson & Son Solicitors, second floor’.
After climbing the two flights of stairs Connie came to a door which again read, ‘Watson & Son, Solicitors. Please knock and enter’. After doing as she was bidden she found herself in a room which, although comparatively large, seemed small because of the amount of paper, books and files piled high in boxes on the floor, on the top of filing cabinets and on two tables on the far side of the room. There was a high desk with two high stools in the middle of the room, and a thin white-haired man had just slid off one of the stools and was now coming across to greet her. ‘Miss Bell?’
‘Yes.’ Never had she felt so out of her depth. ‘Mr Watson?’
‘No, no. I’m Mr Watson’s chief clerk, Miss. Please be seated and I will tell Mr Watson you have arrived.’
It was hardly worth seating herself on the hard-backed chair he’d pointed out because no sooner had he walked through the interconnecting door than he was back saying, ‘Mr Watson will see you now, Miss Bell.’
If she had thought the chief clerk looked old his employer seemed positively ancient, being tiny and gnome-like and quite dwarfed by his enormous chair and desk. A huge bookcase took up all of one wall and stacked against a second were named deed-boxes of prominent local families, but otherwise this room was quite orderly and tidy and lacked the overpowering fusty smell of the former.
‘Miss Bell.’ The voice matched the appearance being almost a trill. ‘Do please be seated. Would you care for a cup of tea? Mr Smeathe and I were about to have one.’
‘That would be very nice, thank you.’
Once she was seated in a cavernous leather armchair opposite Mr Watson – who was the son of Watson & Son, he took great delight in telling her, his father having retired only eight years before at the age of eighty-seven – and Mr Smeathe had handed her a steaming cup of tea in a fine bone china cup and saucer before disappearing back into the outer office, Mr Watson stared at her for a few moments before saying, ‘Mr Bainbridge tells me your nest egg is now safely deposited within his four walls. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Connie thought she had detected a note of admonition in the reedy treble, and this was borne out when Mr Watson shook his head twice, tut-tutted a few times and said, ‘Miss Bell, as your solicitor I have to advise you that it would be unwise, very, very unwise, to trust such a sum to the questionable security of a – ahem! – a sweet jar again. When I think of it . . .’ He shook his head again, and then his voice lost its doleful tone as he continued briskly, ‘I understand you are interested in securing property, Miss Bell?’
‘I. . . That is . . .’ Connie searched for the right words to begin and then said quickly but quietly, ‘I was thinking of renting somewhere to get a little business going, but Mr Bainbridge seemed to think it was wiser to buy. With my money as a deposit’ – she wasn’t sure if she was saying the right words here, her time with the bank manager had seemed like a confusing dream – ‘he said I could purchase a building of some substance, with the bank’s help of course, and then when the business allows I can pay off my debt. . .’ Her voice trailed away. She thought that was what Mr Bainbridge had said anyway.
‘Quite so, quite so. Mr Bainbridge is a very astute businessman, Miss Bell. You can trust his advice.’
‘And he said it would be better if you dealt with the agents for me. That you could negotiate. . . I thought I could do that myself but Mr Bainbridge did not favour the idea.’
Mr Watson shut his eyes for an infinitesimal moment. This mere slip of a girl, who had innocence written all over her in big capital letters, thinking she could conciliate with some of the hard-bitten individuals in that field? He didn’t know who or what had steered her in Ned Bainbridge’s direction but she should look on it as God’s providence. Ned was a good judge of character – he had to be in his profession – and between them they should be able to look after her best interests and set her on the right road. And he would enjoy doing that. There was something about this young woman that was most pleasing.
‘May I ask the nature of the business you are thinking of venturing into, Miss Bell?’
‘I thought a shop at first – just a shop,’ Connie said nervously, ‘but now I think a baker’s shop with tea-rooms too?’
‘And you would bake your own produce?’
‘Certainly.’ It hadn’t occurred to her before but it would make sense not to pay through the nose.
‘Capital, capital.’ Mr Watson was nodding energetically as though the undertaking would be the easiest thing in the world, but then he disabused her of that idea when he said, ‘You do understand this will require a lot of planning and forethought followed by hard work?’
‘I am used to hard work, Mr Watson.’ And now Connie’s voice was firm and she looked the small wizened man straight in the face as she said, ‘But this will be different, this will be working for myself and I shall make a success of it.’ And the name above the shop would be Bell, Bell in great big letters, and if that stuck in anyone’s craw and they didn’t want to avail themselves of the shop and tea-rooms, so be it.
Mr Watson inclined his head towards her, his voice courteous but with a genuine note of warmth which was not typical of the shrewd, tough little solicitor, and his answer was, ‘I have no doubt about that, Miss Bell, none at all, and neither has Mr Bainbridge because I can assure you he does not offer to lend the bank’s money lightly. In fact to my knowledge he does not normally offer to lend it at all. No, the boot is usually firmly on the other foot, if you get my meaning. I have actually heard complaints which would lead me to believe he is most chary in that regard.’
‘Really?’ Connie smiled. She liked this funny little elf of a man with the bright, artful eyes and sagacious manner, and she had liked his friend, Mr Bainbridge, too. She believed they both liked her, and felt a warm glow inside which was nothing to do with the tea. It was ironic that the dreadful letter Mr Alridge had received and which had been intended for her downfall should have been the means of sending her down this road which was so promising. It was up to her now. She had the means of fulfilling her dreams, she did, and she had to grasp the opportunity with both hands. Someone had wished her harm – it could have been Mrs Pegg, John Stewart, even Colonel Fairley himself, or one of many who viewed her endeavour to better herself as the bumptious aim of an upstart. But it didn’t matter who it was, she couldn’t waste time dwelling on that, and she would master the sick disgust which engulfed her every time she remembered the feel of the Colonel’s hands and mouth on those most intimate parts of her body too.
Do you hear me, John Stewart?
She sent a silent message winging into the air, and it wasn’t until that very moment that she admitted she believed it was Dan’s brother who had written such evil. You won’t crush me and you won’t beat me. I’m stronger than you.
I’m
stronger than you. It was strange, she had never thought of herself as daring or bold. All her life she had simply followed what her heart had told her to do in the difficult situations in which she had found herself, and thousands, millions, did the same after all. But she had been terrified this morning before she had walked into the bank, and nearly as nervous in facing another prestigious member of the establishment in the form of this solicitor. But she had made herself do it and what had she found? That they were just men, nice men, men who wanted to help her. Aye, she felt that. They wanted to help her.
I’m
stronger than you. It was strange, she had never thought of herself as daring or bold. All her life she had simply followed what her heart had told her to do in the difficult situations in which she had found herself, and thousands, millions, did the same after all. But she had been terrified this morning before she had walked into the bank, and nearly as nervous in facing another prestigious member of the establishment in the form of this solicitor. But she had made herself do it and what had she found? That they were just men, nice men, men who wanted to help her. Aye, she felt that. They wanted to help her.
Her smile widened. She was on her way up and nothing – and no one – was going to stop her. She simply wouldn’t let it. And then she straightened her face and listened to Mr Watson’s advice.
On leaving Watson & Son, Mr Watson having promised to get on to the matter of finding a suitable property first thing on Monday morning, Connie made her way home, doing a little shopping in Holmeside on the way. J. Piper’s grocer’s shop, with its choice smell of coffee beans, barrels of butter and blue-bagged sugar, provided most of what she needed, and she also called in to Maynards Sweet Shop on the corner of Holmeside and Waterloo Place for a box of toffee to share with Mary later that day by way of celebration. Consequently her arms were full of packages as she approached home, and she was finding she had to concentrate on where she placed her feet on the snow packed pavements, some of which were lethal. But it was her buzzing mind that was the main obstacle to staying on her feet. It was full of images – wonderful, intoxicating images of a bustling shop and crowded tea-rooms – and every time she slid a few inches or felt her feet slip she would warn herself to stop day-dreaming, but it was no good.
She was walking down the thin cobbled street, a new flurry of snow already dancing in the keen wind, and she had just reached her doorstep when a voice – a voice she would recognise anywhere – spoke from the dubious shelter of the slightly recessed arched doorway next door, and most of the packages went flying as she whirled to face it. ‘Dan!’
‘Hallo, Connie.’ Hallo, Connie. The simplicity of the words mocked him after all he had imagined himself saying when he first saw her again. Man, but she was beautiful. But no, that was too ordinary a word, too well used, to describe the inner radiance that lit up her eyes and turned her skin to pure silk. And then he came to himself, glancing at the strewn pavement as he said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I startled you. And the sugar bag is split.’
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