Mary's Child (25 page)

Chrissie saw that, smiled at him and said lightly, ‘We missed you.’ They both knew that was an olive branch – and she looked very pretty. Jack accepted it and grinned for the first time. She went on quickly, ‘I’m in town to do a bit o’ shopping for Mrs  Morgan. But seeing you reminds me: Wasn’t there a friend of yours saying one night in the Frigate that his uncle was looking for a house in the country?’

Jack frowned, casting his mind back, then remembered, ‘Bob Pickering.’

Chrissie had been ready to supply the name to jog his memory but now said innocently, ‘Was it?’

‘His uncle wants somewhere cheap that he can knock into shape to suit himself, somewhere secluded.’

Chrissie agreed, ‘I remember now. Well, just between you and me, Lance is making a lot of money but Mrs  Morgan isn’t happy out there. I think he could be talked into selling and I wonder if Mr  Pickering’s uncle would be interested? I thought I’d mention it to young Mr  Arkenstall and ask if he could help because he knows about these things, being a solicitor.’

Jack shook his head quickly, ‘No. He’s the chap to draw up the deed of sale, but as to bringing the two parties together, well, I can do that.’

‘Oh, would you, Mr  Ballantyne?’

‘Of course.’ If anyone was going to help Chrissie it would be he. Grandfather could grouse as much as he wanted. Jack would court any girl he pleased. He said, ‘I’ll talk to Bob and his uncle and then come out to see Lance.’

Chrissie gave him a wide smile, ‘Thank you. That is good of you.’

Jack lunched in the dining-room of the Palace Hotel, the best in the town. When he returned to his office his father eyed him and asked good humouredly, ‘What are you smirking at?’

Jack realised he was grinning, and knew why, but could only say, ‘Oh, just – cheerful.’

Richard became serious. ‘Your grandfather had a point and a right to make it. He’s jealous of the family name and reputation. We came from humble beginnings – your great-grandfather started out in life as a labourer – but we’ve always played fair, in business and in our private lives. Don’t spoil that record.’

‘I won’t.’ And Jack was determined on that.

Chrissie had brought a sandwich into town and ate it in the snug of the Bells, chatting with the barmaid, Millie Taylor. She returned to the Halfway House in the dusk, well content with her day, and hopeful.

Jack Ballantyne came out on the following Saturday evening. Lance had been tactfully coached by Chrissie, giving her advice as enquiries: ‘Do you think you should lay it on about how quiet it is around here? And let his client see it on a Saturday as well?’

So Lance showed Jack around and gestured at the half-dozen farmers and labourers in the bar. ‘You came on a good night. Saturday is our quietest day. Everybody goes into town.’ In fact it was their busiest. ‘I came out here for the quiet and the country air but my missus doesn’t like it. She wants to get back into the town.’ At the end he swallowed, looked Jack bravely in the eye and named his price. Jack noted it down and went away.

Lance, relieved, said, ‘He seemed to think it was all right.’

Chrissie told him, ‘He would. If you had been trying to sell him a ship I daresay he could have told you what it was worth to a penny. But he doesn’t know anything about the pub trade and this one in particular. Besides, his client isn’t looking for a pub. He wants a house.’

Jack returned on the following Saturday evening with Bob Pickering and his Uncle Wagstaffe, morose and black suited, communicating in grunts or monosyllables with a flat Midlands accent. Wagstaffe looked over the property, shook his head, sniffed or sighed his way around the house, glanced at the land surrounding it and turned away in obvious disgust. He made an offer and Lance greeted it with amusement.

They haggled, sitting at the table in the kitchen behind the bar. Chrissie plied them with rum and coffee: ‘A drop o’ something in it to keep out the cold, sir.’ Wagstaffe grunted, sniffed at the aroma and drank it down, smacked his lips. Lance, previously primed by Chrissie, told him, ‘You’re a sharp man, there’s no denying that.’ And Wagstaffe swallowed the compliment and sniffed again, sat a little straighter and accepted another mug of thickly laced coffee. When they finally reached agreement his speech had thickened and he slapped Lance on the back, walked out with an arm around his shoulders and told him, ‘We learn how to drive a hard bargain where I come from.’

He had beaten Lance down just £100 from his asking price, leaving Lance well satisfied.

Jack Ballantyne hung back as Bob and his uncle walked out to the cab that had brought them. He had drunk sparingly of Chrissie’s coffee, now stood by her at the kitchen range and said softly, ‘The people where Wagstaffe came from didn’t tell him about you.’

She glanced at him sidewise, demure. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr  Ballantyne.’

He grinned. ‘Oh, yes, you do.’

She was aware of him close, dared not look at him, felt the heat in her face – from the oven? She looked to escape but there was no way past his broad shoulders. Then Florence Morgan hurried into the room and saw him, calling, ‘There you are! They’re looking for you, Mr  Ballantyne!’

‘I’m just leaving.’ Jack paused at the door to give Florence – or both of them? – a bow. ‘Goodbye.’

Chrissie looked his way at last, a quick glance, and laughed. ‘Ta-ra, Mr  Ballantyne.’

He went out to the cab, pulling his cap on to his black head, and that laughter went with him for the rest of the day. He, too, was well satisfied, had made a comfortable commission on the transaction.

He told his father and grandfather about it that night and they laughed. Old George Ballantyne, who had stated his position and would not hold a grudge, said, ‘Well, you have another string to your bow if ever they don’t want ships any more.’

Jack grinned. ‘They’ll always want ships. Besides, this just fell into my lap.’

Richard Ballantyne said, ‘But you saw the opportunity and seized it. That was a smart bit of work. You’ll make a businessman yet.’

It was only later that Jack wondered if he had been smart – or had someone else?

Lance Morgan took a drink to celebrate and then faced the future with more confidence than he had for months. ‘The only problem now is to find a house to rent until I can buy another pub.’

Chrissie said meekly, ‘That reminds me, Mr  Morgan  . . .’

Chapter 15

May 1911

‘Forty-six thousand ton! And three times the length of a football field! That’s a hell of a size, man.’ The riveter shook his head in admiration and lifted his pint from the bar of the Bells. He drank deeply and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘She’s titanic all right.’

Lance Morgan came into the public bar from serving an old woman in the snug and asked, ‘What’re they talking about?’

Chrissie, dexterously pulling more pints, told him, ‘They’ve just launched a ship over in Belfast, the
Titanic
.’

‘We cannae build them that big in this river,’ grumbled a plater.

A boilermaker capped that: ‘No, but we can build them better.’

That brought laughter, cheers and a chorus of ‘Aye!’

It was not a loud chorus. This was Saturday night but the public bar was less than half-full. Lance looked along the scattering of men standing at the bar or sitting on the horsehair stuffed leather benches around the walls. He muttered morosely, ‘No more than a dozen, and just one auld lass with a gill o’ beer in the snug. It looks like we’ve jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.’

The public bar and the sitting-room were each twice the size of those in the Frigate, and then there was the little snug where there was room for half a dozen old women to sit and gossip. Tonight the sitting-room, with its gleaming, polished tables and bright fire, was empty.

They had moved into the Bells just a month ago. Chrissie had led Lance to it and at the time he was eager. He needed to find another pub and was relieved to be shot of the Halfway House. But now he was having second thoughts.

Chrissie tried to cheer him. ‘It always takes time to build up trade. We’ll fill the place yet, you’ll see.’

Lance shook his head. ‘I doubt it.’ His gaze moved along the bar to where Millie stood polishing glasses. He said, low voiced, ‘I’m going to have to give that lass the sack.’ He had taken on Millie when he bought the Bells.

Chrissie pleaded, ‘Oh, no! She’s all on her own, no family and living in just the one room.’

‘I know that and I’m not liking the idea of getting shot of her.’ Lance sighed. ‘But I’m running a business here, there’s scarcely enough trade to keep us two busy and I can’t pay her for doing nothing.’

Chrissie hesitated. She knew very well that there was not enough work for the three of them. She had her qualification in bookkeeping, and was determined to use it and not spend the rest of her life working behind a bar. But at the same time, she felt reponsible for Lance Morgan being in the Bells. He had been good to her, she believed she was in his debt, so she did not want to leave him.

She tried again. ‘Wait another week on two and see if things pick up. Once the football season starts—’

Lance lifted one hand to stop her. ‘All right! I know about that; you’ve told me often enough. But you only
think
we’ll get some extra business then, you don’t
know
. And as it is, we can manage here with just the two of us.’ He paused then, her soft brown eyes on him, the corners of her mouth drooping, and he yielded: ‘Well, I’ll give her to the end of next month but not a day longer.’

Chrissie smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Mr  Morgan!’

‘You’ve got your own way of getting what you want.’ He pretended to scowl but the grin showed through. Then he added, ‘But here’s another customer and he’s one o’ yours.’

Ted Ward, in scarlet coat with glittering buttons, strode up to the bar. His grin was evident and broad and Lance murmured, ‘I think he’s glad to see you.’

Chrissie laughed, pink cheeked, but could not deny the charge. Ted had only visited her once while she was at the Halfway House. The journey from the town was too far when added to the travelling from the barracks in Newcastle. Now he came to the Bells every Saturday and caught a train back to Newcastle from nearby Monkwearmouth Station.

He smiled shyly. ‘Hello, Chrissie.’

He was a tall, handsome young man and Chrissie had known him a long time, was fond of him. They talked, Chrissie standing just across the bar from him when she was not serving, or throwing the odd word to him as she hurried past. She was pleased to see him and his presence helped the evening to pass quickly. And she was conscious all the time of his admiring gaze that brought the blood to her cheeks again.

When he left to catch his train back to barracks she squeezed his hand. Then remembered: ‘I had a letter from Frank.’ He wrote to her every week. ‘He’s at some place called Sheerness, at the gunnery school there. He says he gets a few extra coppers for playing the bugle.’

Ted asked, ‘How is he?’

‘He sounds cheerful. And he says the boxing instructor is pleased with him and says he might be picked to box for the Navy.’

In fact the instructor, a hard-eyed petty officer, had told a panting, sweating Frank after one particularly skilful bout, ‘You’ve got the talent, son. You’ll box for the Navy and you could go on and fight professional if you were harder on your opponents. But you hold back when you could be hammering them into the ground. You need to be full o’ hate in the ring.’

Now Ted said wistfully, ‘I’d like to see him again.’ Then he grinned, ‘I’ll have to learn to play the bugle and save the fare to – Sheerness? That’s down by London, isn’t it?’

‘That way. But you get on or you’ll miss your train.’ Chrissie shoved him on his way.

On a bright summer morning Frank Ward fell in with the rest of the band at the head of the long column of bluejackets. They were ranked on the barrack square of the gunnery school. The commander bellowed an order and the column moved off, the band struck up. They wound out of the barracks and along the road that led to the gunnery sheds. There they would spend the day under instruction on the guns. There was a salt wind from off the sea, the bugles blared and the drums rattled.

Frank stepped out, free arm swinging, his heart big in his chest. There was a magic in being part of that disciplined body, at one with the men around him, comrades, all moving as one. He could play his bugle and let his mind drift away while his body kept its place in the marching column. He could think of Chrissie and her last letter.

‘What cheer, Lance!’ Walter Ferguson hung his bowler hat on a peg in the sitting-room next to the bar in the Bells and smoothed down the well-cut jacket that fitted his ample frame like a glove. A gold watch-chain looped from pocket to pocket across the front of his waistcoat. He sat down at one of the tables, the gleam of the dark oak matched by the shine on his boots.

‘Now then, Walter!’ Lance answered him. Ferguson was an old friend and manager of the Palace Hotel in the centre of the town. ‘What would you like?’

‘Scotch and a drop o’ water will go down very nicely, please.’ Walter dropped his copy of
The Times
on the table.