THE BONDAGE OF LOVE (12 page)

He was fifteen years in the steel works And he gave her all this, how he fell into the dock one night and was nearly frozen to death. He couldn't swim and was off bad for a long time with pneumonia. And from that time I don't think he's worked, which must now be four or five years. So there was a bitterness running through him and a sadness.

She . she picked this up. And I think she was comparing it with her own life. You know, Mr. Bill, Katie thinks a lot. Perhaps too much for her own good at the present time. But there's nothing on the surface with her; she wants to dig deep into everything. I know what that feels like and I

understood her crying. But, of course, Willie was somewhat upset, too,

because . well, Willie's different from her altogether. I can say this to you, Mr. Bill, everything's black and white with Willie, isn't it? "

"Yes, I suppose so, Sammy. I suppose so. But I don't know where you come in, whether you're black or white."

"Oh, half in, half out at times."

Bill now asked, "Is the girl Daisy coming to the party next Saturday then?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. And you're in for a shock, because, defiantly, she'll come in her best rig-out. Did Willie ever tell you what she said to him on their first meeting, when she was trying to teach him the rudiments of fencing?"

"No. No, he's never mentioned it."

"Well, apparently, he couldn't get the right position for his feet, and she asked him whether or not he knew where his heels were, for there were only two protrusions at the back of him and they were his backside and his heels."

Bill said, "I'm going to look forward to seeing this piece."

"Oh, you'll get on with her, Mr. Bill, and she'll like you."

"Now what d'you mean by that? By the sound of it, she's a brash,

outrageously dressed little spitfire. And you think we'll get on together?"

"Oh, yes. Yes." And at this Sammy had risen from the couch, saying, "Well, here's another one for upstairs. But I'll have to do an hour or two swotting before I go to bed."

"Don't take it too seriously. By all accounts, you're doing fine."

"Fine isn't enough, Mr. Bill, not in exams. Fine are Bs and Cs; I want As."

Bill sat on for five minutes more, in fact, until the door opened and Fiona came in in her dressing-gown, and, sitting down close to him, she said,

"Bill, I've got to talk to you about Mamie. Something must be done in that quarter. I didn't mention it before because I didn't want the day spoilt.

But she cheeked me last night, brazenly. And there's something else: I smelt smoke from her."

"Smoke?"

"Yes. Yes. I asked if she had been smoking, and she denied it and said, there had been some company at Mrs. Polgar's, and they had been smoking."

"Well, that could be. You know how it is when you sit next to anyone smoking, or even being in the room where there's smoking."

"I'm not so sure in her case. You know some thing, Bill, I really think she should go to her grandfather for a time. He's a strict Baptist, and he might be able to do something with her. Oh, and another thing, I don't like this girl. Nancy, that she's seeing so much of. I think she's a bad influence.

But how am I going to cut them off?"

"Just write the woman a note and say you don't think the association is suitable, that Nancy is so much older ... and so on."

"I can't do that."

"Well, honey, we'll have to sleep on it, because here's somebody who's dying to go to bed with a woman, and if she refuses to accompany him, then she can just stay put here all night. You have your choice." He stood and, taking her into his arms, he kissed her, and as they went upstairs, their bodies linked tightly, Fiona asked herself again, What more could she want? But tonight there was no need of an answer.

For the past four years, Katie had attended a school which had developed from St. Catherine's Academy for Young Ladies, started by a Miss Gregson towards the end of the last century. Today, it was known as St.

Catherine's, a private school. It was set in deep grounds and looked like an enormous country house, with its own small chapel attached.

A bus heading for Gateshead passed the gates every half-hour, and on this particular Tuesday night, Katie was waiting for it at the indicated bus stop some yards from the main gate. She guessed she would have five minutes to wait, and, as it was bitterly cold, she began to stamp her feet up and down on the frost-rimed path.

Usually, if she were coming straight home, she would be met by either Fiona or Nell. But on this particular Tuesday night, she had arranged to meet Sammy at Mr. Fenwick's bookshop, from where they would go on to do extra practice at the Centre.

Willie wasn't to be with them on this particular evening as he had a part in the school play and had stayed back for rehearsals. So, when she saw a car drawing slowly up as it passed the gates, in order obviously to come to a stop near her, although it certainly wasn't her mother's car, she had thought for a moment it would be someone from home.

When the window was pulled down, the blond head was poked out towards her, saying, "Hello, there. Can I give you a lift?" She took a step back on to the pavement, saying, "No, thank you."

"Come on, come on. What's the matter with you?"

"I've told you before, I don't need lifts."

"I'm not asking you to have lifts, I'm only saying, have this lift.

I'll run you to wherever you're going. Are you going home? "

"No, I'm not, and if I were you wouldn't be driving me."

She realised that the ignition had been switched off and then the car door opened. Then he was standing before her, saying roughly, "Look! I want to ask you something. Do I smell?"

She could have answered. Yes, you do, to me, but instead she said, "Look!

Remember, I once accepted a lift from you, and what did you do?

You stopped the car in a side road behind the station and expected payment. "

"I did nothing of the sort. Expect payment? What d'you mean? I merely put my hand on your arm."

"Yes, on my arm with the intention of putting it round me. And I told you then, flatly, that I wasn't your sort. But you didn't seem to hear and you continued to be deaf."

"How d'you know you're not my sort? You've never given me a chance."

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"Look, I wouldn't have thought you needed to make a set for me when it's known you already have a harem."

He laughed, a self-satisfied laugh, as if he weren't displeased at the

description. Then the laughter slid from his face as she said, in no small voice, "Now look here, Roland Ferndale! Our people might meet at intervals, but that isn't to say that I want to meet you. Now have I made myself plain?

And if you don't stop pestering me, I'll take matters into my own hands and then you may get a surprise."

"Oh yes? Well, we might have to put that to the test, mightn't we?"

"Yes, we very well might. Now once and for all, I don't want any lifts and I don't want any invitations to dances, pictures, or anywhere else. And I'll tell you something else before I'm finished; you're only after me because I must have been the first one to refuse to neck with you. And all I can say for the girlfriends you've had, and dropped, they're a lot of silly bitches to put themselves in that position."

"Well! Well! So this is the result of being at St. Catherine's, is it?"

he countered, sneeringly.

"But then you should know all about bitches, because you're the daughter of one. My mother took her measure right away, if you want to know. Upstart, even above her betters. That was her impression."

She sprang back from him now, her voice rising, "You do, and I'll have you on your back before you know where you are." She had taken up a stance with her forearm held straight out in front of her and her leg ready to kick.

"God!" He moved swiftly towards the car door now. Yet before opening it he stood there for a moment and said, "If you had tried that on, miss, you would have found yourself on your back quicker than your leg could have come up.

And you are what you said, a bitch. Why I ever saw anything in you, God only knows: you've got a face on you like nothing on earth. And your figure's yet to be born."

He managed to get the car started as the bus drove up; but she found she was trembling so much that she could hardly step into it.

Like its owner, Fenwick's was an unusual shop. Stretched above two display windows was a board on which were the letters, in fading scrawl, "W. Fenwick

& Son, Confectioners & Tobacconists', and, hardly discernible, the date

'1899'. The rest of the outside woodwork was smartly painted in a mahogany brown. But Mr. Fenwick refused to have the original board touched.

Having entered the shop through the double doors, to one's right was a long counter. This was given over entirely to sweets of every kind, and the racks behind the counter showed an assortment of glass jars.

At the far end of this counter, facing the door, was the cash desk, alongside which ran the original counter of the shop, put there by Mr. Fenwick's

grandfather or great-grandfather. It was made of mahogany and slightly

curved, and behind it were pigeon-holes in which different types of iz3

cigarettes, tobacco and cigars were on display. And on the top shelf,

almost touching the ceiling, were five brown jars. On the centre one, there could easily be discerned the word, "Snuff.

To the left there was only half of a wall, the rest being an open archway.

But covering this half-wall were two stands of paperback books. The original shop had once ended here, but the enterprising and present Mr. Fenwick had bought the shop next door which had once been a private lending library, and had turned it into what he called his treasure trove, but what others termed Fenwick's junk room. Two of the walls held the original book-racks, and these were filled with an amazing assortment of hard back books, in haphazard array. Along the third wall was a counter and, resting on this, was a

conglomeration of odd china figures, plates of all sizes and patterns, a large assortment of tins and tin lids, and glass bottles of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was a present-day collector's treasure trove.

Then, to the short side that backed on to the array of paperback racks in the main shop were four wash-baskets. And in these, again an assortment but of kitchen utensils. And the last odd thing about this room was the two mirrors set at angles above the steps on the left-hand side of the entrance. One gave a view of those down in the shop, while the other presented a part-view of what was going on in the junk room.

Mr. Fenwick had had them placed there some years ago, for he might be a man whose heart was set in the past, but he was one whose mind was open to the present.

Although there were nearly always three people in attendance this being himself, his wife and his daughter, not counting the paper boy things from both departments disappeared frequently. The junk room was open only from Tuesday to Thursday, because Mr. Fenwick's business and work, which was a pleasure, took him to sale rooms, mostly into the basements where the odd bits were to be found. He also dealt with Mr. Parker, who was a removal man in a small way. Mr. Parker would clear a house for a stated sum, a very profitable sum, and so he could afford to let the bric-a-brac and scores of tattered volumes go to his friend, Mr. Fenwick. The rest of his goods would go either into the sale room or for sale at his antique stall in the market .

It was here, in Mr. Fenwick's shop, that Katie was to meet Sammy. She was well known to Mr. Fenwick, although she was anything but a frequent visitor, whereas Sammy had, for years now, even as a lad, visited the junk room, that was when he had any money to spend. In earlier years he would have

patronised the tips. Nowadays, he visited the room in order to sort among the books, hoping that here or there he might come across an early edition of one of his favourite authors.

As Katie crossed the shop towards the archway, she turned and smiled in acknowledgement to Mr. Fenwick's nodding. He was serving a customer.

But she was a little puzzled when he lifted his hand and put his finger up and wagged it towards her.

There were five people in the junk room, but

Sammy wasn't there. Well, she would look around.

As she pulled out what looked like an almost new book from one of the racks, Mr. Fenwick appeared and beckoned as he hissed, "Missie!" And when she approached him, he said, "You are looking for young Master He had given Sammy this title years ago, but it had been a derisive one then, because he was then an urchin, and they have light fingers, urchins. But over the years he had come to know the boy, then the young man, and there was no derision in the title now.

"He ... he's gone not more than three or four minutes ago. He had found what he wanted. I have it on the counter." And now he nodded as he said, "I think it's a find, too. Anyway, it's a ninth edition, which isn't bad.

He scooted out quickly as if he had forgotten something and he asked me to say he'd be back in a few minutes. All right? "

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Fenwick. Anyway," - she looked back and around the room

"I won't get bored."

"No, indeed, you won't, miss. Indeed, you won't. Not in my shop."

They parted, laughing, and Katie began her browsing through the books while she waited . and waited . and waited.

Sammy had come to the shop a good half-hour before he was due to meet Katie.

As Willie had been chosen to take part in the Christmas play and had stayed behind for a rehearsal there had been no argument about why he wanted to go to that

stinking shop again: Willie wasn't interested in books, even if they were clean. He had enough of them at school to contend with, he said.

But he made one exception: if they dealt with cars, then that was different.

Sammy was happy to be on his own, especially in Mr. Fenwick's. His love of books had grown over the years. He had a tendency towards ancient history, and also, whisper it even to himself, poetry. And a short while ago on these shelves he had discovered what was left of a book of Donne's poems. It had been scribbled over here and there, and there were pages missing. But