The Urchin's Song (35 page)

The service was not a long one and after the burial in the churchyard the funeral entourage returned to Barney’s house in Jesmond. Pearl’s mother had wanted to see to the meal which, although consisting of various cold meats and such, was substantial, and Barney had let her, knowing Marjorie needed to be able to do something. It was as he was filling everyone’s glasses that Vera spoke to him for the first time that day, her voice quiet as she said simply, ‘I’m sorry, lad.’

‘Aye, thanks, Vera.’ Barney felt he didn’t need to say any more. Vera being Betty’s sister would know the marriage had not been all it should be; they were as close as bricks and mortar, those two. ‘It’s hit her mam and da hard.’

Vera nodded. And then she forced herself to say, as naturally as she could, ‘Gertie wrote me an’ said she’d explained them down in London wouldn’t be able to make it, Oliver an’ Josie only just gettin’ home from their honeymoon late last night an’ all.’

‘Aye, she did.’ Barney drew in a long breath. He had kept his mind from thinking about Josie, or more particularly Josie and Oliver, because he had known there was only so much he could take and he needed to get this day over.

And then Vera surprised both Barney and herself when she said what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t say, certainly not on this particular day: ‘She’s got a new life now with how things have gone for her, her success and all. It’s all different, lad. Not that she’ll forget her roots and her old friends, Josie’s not like that, but it wouldn’t be natural if she didn’t shake off the dust so to speak, would it?’

Barney raised his head and looked at Vera, and his lips moved, but he didn’t speak until he turned and looked across the packed sitting room. And then he said, his voice flat, ‘It’s a good turn-out. Marjorie and Stanley will take some comfort from that. Marjorie sets great store by such things.’

‘Aye, well everyone to their own, lad.’ Vera was feeling mightily uncomfortable and, searching her mind for something to say, she added, ‘Will you keep this house up now?’

Barney shook his head. ‘I’m selling it. I’ve been told I’ll make a nice profit on it. And I’m leaving Ginnett’s.’

‘Oh aye? You had the offer of another job then?’

‘No.’

Vera inhaled deeply and tried again. ‘So you’ll be doin’ what? Going back to the concrete works or lookin’ for something else in the theatre line maybe?’

‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I might take off for a bit, travel around.’ And then, when the silence stretched and lengthened Barney turned again, and what he read on Vera’s face caused him to say, and curtly, ‘It’s all right, Vera. London won’t be one of my calling places.’

Vera didn’t protest her innocence of the unspoken accusation, she merely looked at him for a moment or two before nodding slowly, and what she said was, ‘One town is very much like another in my book.’

No, one town was not very much like another, not when it had Josie in it. Barney watched Vera move away and for a moment he had it within him to hate her for the none too subtle plea to stay away from Josie. What did she think he was, anyway? Pearl barely put to rest and Josie just married; did she really think he was going to hightail it to London and plead his cause? Barney had decided to go to Glasgow, or perhaps Edinburgh. He’d make a bit out of the sale of the house, even after he’d paid the Building Society their whack, and he owed no one nowt. He needed to get away for a time, right away. Aye, that’s what he’d do. He would go to Scotland and if things turned out right he might even stay there for good.

‘You all right, Barney?’ Prudence was at his elbow.

He nodded. ‘And you?’

‘Aye.’ She had hoped to have a quiet word with him today but there was as much chance of that with friends and family milling around as flying. She hadn’t known quite how she was going to approach what she needed to say, it being a delicate subject, so perhaps it was better left unsaid anyway. She got on all right with Barney now and she didn’t want anything to upset that.

She hadn’t liked the look of the little ferret-faced individual who had spoken to her in the market a few weeks ago, but within a moment or two of him opening his mouth she had realised he had approached her for a purpose. He had known where she lived and her name and where she’d come from in Newcastle; he’d have had to ask questions and probe a bit to find that out.

She’d been tempted to tell him to be off about his business initially, especially when he had laid a claw-like hand on her coat-sleeve to detain her, but her curiosity had been stronger than her unease. He’d been careful in what he said, but it had been enough to indicate that he was aware she was the person who had tipped Bart Burns the wink all that time ago, and at that point she had to admit she’d become interested. And so she had swallowed her distaste and walked with him for a while, and although they had parted without anything of real importance being said, and without him stating the reason he’d spoken to her in the first place, she had gleaned enough to understand that the small Irishman had no more time for Josie Burns than she had. It was only when she was within sight and sound of Vera’s that she’d suddenly remembered the description the police had given of the accomplice who had been with Josie’s father that night at her da’s, and it seemed to match the little man to a T.

She should have told Vera about the meeting straight away, of course, but she hadn’t wanted to bring that whole unpleasant episode up, not with the part she’d played in it. Vera made no secret of the fact that she thought the sun shone out of Josie’s backside.

Aye, perhaps all in all it was better to say nowt. She might not see the man again anyway, so what was the point in stirring up a hornet’s nest, and if he wanted to settle a score with Josie that was his business.

Decision made, Prudence continued to stand at Barney’s side, and she felt no sense of guilt when she put all thoughts of Josie Burns and the man who clearly intended her harm out of her mind.

‘I’m sorry, Oliver, but just as you are a product of your upbringing, so am I.’ Josie was speaking with studied calmness but the atmosphere in the drawing room was anything but tranquil. ‘You were brought up in a house full of servants, you said yourself you couldn’t recognise half of them, so I can understand that your attitude to Constance and Ethel and Mrs Wilde differs from mine. Why can’t you offer me the same consideration?’

‘Because it isn’t a matter of consideration.’ Oliver had been pacing the fine Persian rug in front of the blazing fire, but now he stopped in front of the chair upon which Josie was sitting and stared into her face, holding her eyes. ‘They are
servants
, for crying out loud.’

‘They are human beings whom we employ. I am employed by whichever theatre wants my services and you are employed’ - here Josie checked herself. She had been about to say, ‘And you are employed by me’ - ‘by your clients. It’s all the same.’

‘It is not all the same and you know it. Mrs Wilde and the maids are in service and they live here in my -
our
- home.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘You cannot speak to them as if they were . . . were . . .’

‘Equals?’ Josie put in icily.

‘Yes, exactly. What do you expect our friends are going to think if the servants are allowed to become familiar? These people have to be kept in their place or they won’t be slow in taking liberties, I can assure you.’

‘I don’t think speaking to people as if they have feelings constitutes giving them a licence to run wild.’

‘Josie!’ His voice was a bawl.

‘Don’t shout at me.’ She had shot up from her seat with such abruptness that Oliver was surprised into taking a step backwards, but her voice had not been loud. ‘I won’t be shouted at, do you hear me? Nor will I be bullied. And while we’re on the subject of your friends, I have heard and seen the behaviour of some of them, both to those they consider beneath them and to each other, and it does them no credit.’

Oliver frowned angrily at her words. Yet if he had spoken the truth at this point he would have had to agree with her, and had he but known it, his concurrence would have persuaded Josie to meet him halfway and set the tone for any future compromises. Unfortunately, he would have looked on such an admission as a failing.

‘My friends are not under discussion here,’ he said icily, ‘and not one of them has to explain their behaviour to
you
, but I will say I would have thought you to be more grateful for their ready acceptance of you as my wife.’

‘Then you thought wrong.’ Josie seemed to have grown in stature, so tensely did she hold herself. She was remembering the dinner-party they had attended the previous evening, a few days after their own delayed wedding reception. There had been a couple there she was sure hadn’t been at the first event although Oliver had seemed to be on very friendly terms with them. A Lord and Lady Stratton. Godfrey Stratton had been quite pleasant, she supposed, in a stolid sort of way, but his wife had gone out of her way to ignore her, or that was how Josie had felt at the time. The woman’s attitude had made her feel awkward and ill-at-ease all evening, especially when she visited the powder room; Stella Stratton had been there, holding court to a group of ladies, and had stopped speaking very pointedly when she had entered. Josie had been determined not to be intimidated, although her legs were shaking when she emerged from the little cubicle into the larger area filled with mirrors and several small stools to one side of the two wash-basins.

She had opened her vanity bag and pretended to see to her toilette, fixing her hair and dabbing a touch of Eau de Cologne on her wrists, and all the time no one had said a word, although one or two of the ladies had sent a nervous smile and nod her way. As she left she had heard Stella speak, although the other woman’s voice had been too low for her to make out the words, but the gust of high titters which had followed had sent her back into the beautifully lighted dining room with her face burning. And he dared to say he expected her to be
grateful
?

Oliver glared at her a moment more, before turning and walking across to a cabinet on the other side of the room which he opened and, after pouring himself a stiff brandy, closed. Josie was seated again and pouring herself a cup of coffee from the tray at her elbow, the manner of her thanks for which, along with her sending her best wishes to Constance’s sick mother when the little maid visited her home that day on her afternoon off, had caused the altercation with Oliver.

Josie was trembling inside although there was no outward sign of her agitation, and she was thinking, Our first argument - and over something as silly as little Constance and Ethel. And yet it wasn’t about the maids, not really. It was deeper than that. Stella Stratton’s beautiful cold face swam into her mind and she pushed the image away as she said, her voice surprisingly steady, ‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’

She watched Oliver swallow back the brandy and set the empty glass down on the polished wood before walking across to join her. She looked up at him, not knowing what to expect, and when he reached down and drew her to her feet she went without demur. ‘I do not want us to quarrel,’ he said very softly, kissing her gently on the lips before enfolding her in his arms. ‘Our time together is too precious to waste on cross words.’

She didn’t reply to this but when he kissed her again she kissed him back. She didn’t want to quarrel either, it was the last thing she wanted. She had realised a few years ago, when she had started working in the theatre and she and Gertie had become autonomous most of the time, that the equable quality of their relationship was balm to her soul. All the years of violent rows and bickering at home throughout her childhood had left their mark, and her spirit recoiled from conflict. Nevertheless, she also knew she wasn’t her mother’s daughter with regard to allowing herself to be subjugated or oppressed, and again, this was probably due to the same reason. She had to be true to herself, that was it first and foremost, and much as she regretted the need for confrontation she would meet it head on when it was necessary. That was the way she was, and she wasn’t going to apologise for it to Oliver. He had
known
before they were married that they saw certain issues very differently; she had broached that very matter several times during their engagement and he had assured her they would work things out as and when difficulties occurred. But if he thought this working out meant she suppressed everything which made her
her
and tried to turn her into someone like Stella Stratton, he could think again.

And because the niggle which had been at the back of her mind since the previous evening now became too strong to ignore, she reseated herself, pouring Oliver a cup of coffee and passing it to him as he took a seat opposite hers, before she said, ‘That couple last night - Lord and Lady Stratton. How long have you known them?’

‘How long?’ He considered, his head slightly tilted. ‘Some fifteen years or so; at least that’s as far as Stratton himself is concerned. He’s a member of the Prince’s set, a very useful friend to have.’ He smiled at her, but when she didn’t smile back and sat looking at him, he swallowed a mouthful of coffee and added, ‘Regards his wife, perhaps five or six years at most. She is a great deal younger than him, of course, but they seem happy enough.’

‘How long have they been married?’

Again he said, ‘How long?’ as though he was having to think about it. ‘Two years, I think.’

‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘What?’ He raised his eyebrows as though he thought she was talking nonsense, and his tone confirmed this when he said, ‘Of course she likes you, my dear. How could she do otherwise?’

‘She hardly even looked in my direction last night, let alone spoke to me.’

‘No, my dear, you’re imagining it. It’s just that . . . Stella can be difficult to get to know. Some people are like that.’