Don’t Cry Alone Read online

  ‘That’s all right, Methias,’ she reassured him, thinking how insignificant the old fellow’s problem seemed compared to hers. ‘Leave the papers with me. I had intended leaving early today, but I promise I’ll have them ready before I go.’

  ‘Bless you, Miss.’ He made a curious little bow and deposited the papers with a flourish on her desk. ‘I wouldn’t want Mrs Ward to think I was not doing my duties in a proper fashion.’

  ‘Nobody will think that of you,’ Beth told him, at the same time making a point of collecting the documents and placing them immediately before her. She was not surprised that he had been more concerned about what her mother might think of him. The old man’s instructions had come from Richard, but no doubt it was Esther who wanted to scrutinise the papers. A quick glance at the title page had told Beth that they referred to a new and important acquisition. It was her father who had skilfully beaten off other commercial rivals in order to secure the prestigious site. Thankfully, this time there were no evictions. The site was a disused brickfield covering three acres of prime land and situated close to New Road in Marylebone. It was one of the few remaining sites left in that particular area, and was keenly pursued by a number of large, lucrative companies. It said a lot for Richard Ward’s business acumen that he had secured the site in the face of such fierce competition. Sadly, Inner London was now almost entirely built over, with only the odd site being offered for redevelopment. As a consequence, most landowners had long turned their attention to renewing and redeveloping properties on which leases were starting to fall due.

  ‘Thank you again, Miss.’ Inclining his head in a quaint manner, Methias shuffled away. He was an old man with no income other than the wages he was paid here. The thought of being thrown out of work made him tremble in his boots.

  Realising that he had set her an arduous task, Beth got straight to work on duplicating the material, all the while acutely aware that Tom Reynolds was slyly observing her from the other side of the room.

  Some time later she glanced up at the clock. It was almost six – the hour when the office normally closed. The work for Methias had taken longer than she had anticipated. As yet, though, her father had not returned to the office. Beth was thankful for that. There had been so much friction at home this week, and though on lesser matters she might be tempted to confide in her father, she found that she was both afraid and ashamed to face him now. Yet mingled with her fear and shame was great pride and joy. All the same, it would have been wonderful to share her secret with someone; with her brother Ben perhaps, or with a friend. Ben, however, was already regretting his part in the conspiracy, and thanks to her strict and closeted upbringing Beth had never learned how to make friends. But she must share her ‘secret’ soon, and with the one person who mattered more to her than life itself. With this comforting thought in mind, she put on her coat, pulled the blue woollen beret over her thickly coiled hair, and calling out a cheery ‘goodnight’ to her colleagues, hurried across the small wood-panelled office and made her way towards the door.

  ‘Surely you don’t intend leaving just yet, Miss Ward?’ Tom Reynolds had watched as Beth prepared to leave. Now he was blocking her way. ‘The weather’s atrocious,’ he told her with a sweet and deadly smile, ‘there won’t be a cab to be had. Not anywhere. But, if you wouldn’t mind waiting until everyone else has gone and I’m able to lock up, I’ll make it my business to get you home safely.’ His eyes devoured her. ‘You would find me to be excellent company.’ He smiled, and his meaning was unmistakeable.

  Beth’s curt reply belied her feeling of revulsion. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Reynolds, ‘but I’m sure I can manage.’ A bubble of wickedness rose in her as she added with a delicious little smile, ‘However, I’m quite sure my father will be very pleased to know how concerned you are for my welfare.’ It was as she suspected. The colour drained from his face at the thought of Richard knowing how his clerk had made advances towards Beth. He did not delude himself that his employer had any fondness for him.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ he answered, his face set tight as he stepped aside. There was bitterness in him, and the longer he gazed on her lovely face, the desire to take her for himself grew all consuming.

  Amused by his grim expression, Beth nodded gratefully. Then, without another word, she quickly opened the door and emerged on to the pavement, with the rain pouring down on her. Drawing up her collar and holding the tapestry bag above her head to keep off the downpour, she found herself smiling; he was right about one thing, she told herself – the weather really was atrocious.

  A quick glance down Catherine Court told her she would need to hurry if she was to secure a cab. Already the black-hooded Hansom carriages could be seen vying for fares in Trinity Square. At this time of the evening many office workers deserted their dreary workrooms for the warmth and cheeriness of their own cosy hearthside, and on this wet and windy Friday a thin line of dark-clad figures could already be seen threading its way down to the square. Concerned that her father might show at any minute, and desperate to make her way as quickly as possible to Lewisham Street, Beth threw caution and decorum to the winds. Plucking the hem of her skirt from around her ankles, and bending her head low against the driving rain, she ran down Catherine Court in a most unlady-like fashion, gasping when the wind was knocked out of her as she collided with Martin Drury, a fat and miserable wine merchant. ‘Really!’ he snorted, glowering at her from beneath wet spidery eyebrows as he struggled to remain upright.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Drury,’ she called, skilfully wending her way in and out of the astonished figures, before halting breathlessly on the kerbside, soaked to the skin and waving her tapestry bag at the driver of an approaching Hansom. By the time the cab drew up alongside, the throng had caught up with Beth and there was a deal of pushing and shoving from behind – the biggest culprit being the fat wine merchant who took great delight in rudely wedging himself between Beth and the carriage door. But he hadn’t reckoned on her determination. When the heel of her dainty boot ground itself into the toes of his black shiny shoes, his round face screwed into a grimace of pain, then fell open with astonishment as she pushed in front of him and clambered into the carriage.

  Having witnessed the incident with some amusement, the carriage driver was still grinning when he asked ‘Where to, Miss?’ When he was given his destination, the smile slipped from his face. First he wiped his damp hand over his thin bony face, then gave in to a fit of coughing, then he took his top hat off and shook the rain from it. Then he stared intently at Beth through the spyhole in the roof. When he realised she was not about to change her instructions, he shrugged his narrow shoulders, coughed again, closed the spyhole and turned his attention to the restless beast between the shafts. It was a grey day and, like his master, the big piebald was not in the best of moods. ‘As you say,’ the driver grumbled resignedly. ‘Number twelve Lewisham Street.’ When he pulled away, the black carriages behind were soon filled with wet and weary passengers. Before long there was not a single soul left standing on the pavement. Not even the fat wine merchant.

  * * *

  Beth never tired of the sights and sounds of the old city. Rain, shine, wind or snow… the streets of London were always bustling and alive to the sounds of vendors calling out the virtues of their wares, and urging the milling crowds to ‘Treat yerselves today’ or ‘Get yer ’ot chestnuts ’ere’. There were flower-sellers, old bent men walking the pavements with sandwich-boards strapped to their backs, dare-devils on penny-farthings diving in and out of the horse-drawn vehicles, and newspaper stalls fronted by large posters carrying scandalous and newsworthy stories in big bold letters. The huge undertaking to construct a tower bridge linking the two banks in the dockside area commanded much interest, as did the running saga of events stemming from the unrest long felt by the working class. A series of demonstrations and riots in Trafalgar Square had evoked political and public awareness, and all of this was much reported and commented upon.

  As the
carriage neared her destination, Beth prepared to alight. Lewisham Street was in a rundown part of London; an area of grim and pitiful dwellings that should have been razed to the ground years before. Inhabited by poor but proud people whose worldly possessions consisted mainly of children, the street was bedecked with a profusion of Creeping Jenny plants and other various blooms adorning every window sill; in amongst these trailing gardens were many tiny cages containing numerous singing birds, mainly thrushes and bullfinches, whose melodious voices filled the alley with song. The people here might be deprived and stricken with poverty of the worst kind, but they would not be depressed. Hardy and bold, they were filled with a special kind of hope, a breed to themselves, looking out for each other and making the best of what little they had.

  ‘Are you sure you’re gonna be all right, Miss?’ The driver peered at Beth as she reached up her gloved hand to pass him the fare. He glanced nervously about, acutely aware of many watchful eyes… some slyly regarding him from behind discreetly moved curtains, others openly observing him from grimy doorways. He had been surprised when the young lady had instructed him to take her to Lewisham Street – a place which he had not encountered before in his short employment with the cab firm, but an area which he was given to understand did not enjoy many visitors… apart from the landlord and the tally-man, the milkman and, on a Sunday maybe, the winkle-man, who was not particular where he plied his trade.

  The rain had cleared now, and folk were beginning to venture outside. Nearby, an old woman with weathered skin and a toothless smile manoeuvred her three-legged stool on to the pavement, promptly seating herself beside the front door of her little house with its astonishingly sparkling windows and pretty floral curtains – the latter no doubt cadged or ‘borrowed’ from someone more fortunate than herself. Children spilled on to the cobbled road, rolling hoops through the puddles and chasing each other with much glee, delighted to be outside where they could run wild and make as much noise as they liked. All down the street, doors began to open and chairs were fetched out. Big black perambulators appeared, complete with excited grubby little occupants. Women sat in small busy groups, chatting and chuckling, and at once the street was transformed – as bustling and vibrantly alive as any market-place on a Saturday.

  Smiling up at the driver, Beth assured him, ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ The thought of seeing Tyler filled her heart with joy and all her earlier anxieties seemed to melt away.

  ‘As you say, Miss,’ he conceded with a nod of his head. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’ He raised his long leather whip and gently tickled the horse’s rump with it. When the animal began moving forward at a leisurely pace, he made a loud clicking noise to send it on at a trot. As the big wooden wheels whipped up the rain from the gutter, Beth stepped smartly away, although the hem of her dress was already soaked and her cape sodden. Her hair was hanging damply in wisps round her face and shoulders. Now, as she made her way towards number twelve, she shivered openly. Already she felt a chill settling on her.

  Number twelve was one of the larger terraced houses and, like many of the more enterprising tenants who were not encumbered by hordes of children, the lady of the house had turned a number of rooms over to boarders. Being governed by certain rules and regulations, she was careful not to broadcast her services too far and wide, although – provided they received the lion’s share of any revenue – the owners pretty well turned a blind eye. But there were always more unscrupulous landlords willing to make capital out of other people’s misfortunes. Consequently many of London’s big houses were subdivided so drastically that often large families, mostly poor immigrants, were forced to live together in one or two pitifully small rooms.

  Florence Ball, however, was as wily and cunning as the best of ‘them toffee-nosed buggers who think they’re one above the rest on us!’ She was well practised in the art of shepherding her three boarders into a ‘safe’ place whenever the landlord arrived on her doorstep. Always suspicious, ever alert when the door knocker sounded like a death knell through the big old house, she would inch the door open and ask a body’s business before either reluctantly admitting them, or advising them in loud and delightfully vulgar tones to ‘Piss off!’

  Never sure how her own arrival might be greeted, Beth lifted the iron knocker and rapped it gingerly against the oak panel. She waited for what seemed a lifetime before slow shuffling footsteps could be heard making their way along the passage. When the footsteps came to a halt, Beth tapped on the door with her clenched knuckles. A moment, then the footsteps started again. They stopped immediately on the other side of the door. ‘Who is it?’ The voice was sharp and rasping, laden with fear and suspicion.

  ‘It’s me… Elizabeth Ward.’ Beth leaned forward to speak through the letter box. At once the metal flap was lifted and a pair of beady bloodshot eyes appeared out of the gloom. ‘It’s only me,’ Beth said again. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Blacklock.’

  ‘Hmph!’ The voice snorted, and the flap dropped with a clatter. There was a deal of muttering and a series of sounds that told Beth she was about to be admitted. When the door was flung open, it was to reveal a sight that had become all too familiar to her during this past week. A woman of some forty years, Florence Ball was neither handsome nor sociable; instead, she was a shock on first sight and a curiosity ever after; always dressed in the same shapeless frock beneath a grey pinny, and being curiously bloated and round. She was destined to keep her apt surname until the end of her days, for there had never been a man brave enough to give her his own. Her grey hair was wild and unusually thick, springing from her head to form an unbecoming halo round her wrinkled features. Numerous fine flyaway hairs poked from her cavernous nostrils and broad chin, giving her the frightful appearance of a walrus. The eyes were small, the nose too bulbous, and the loose mouth always hanging open – ‘ready to catch a bluebottle’, her daughter said with some cruelty.

  Eyeing Beth with the same suspicion she might regard any stranger, the unfortunate woman told her with some indignation, ‘I know very well who you’ve come to see… though I can’t hardly fathom why a lady of your sort should hanker after the likes of Tyler Blacklock.’ Amused by her own bold observation, and the obvious fact that these two were strongly drawn to each other, she softly chuckled, all manner of lewd thoughts stirring her vivid imagination. Ah, but then again,’ she murmured beneath her breath, ‘happen I can… happen I can. And who’s to blame yer, eh? He’s a fine figure of a man an’ no mistake. An’ I should know, seeing as how I’ve stripped him naked an’ bathed him more often than I care to recall.’ Disappointed that her words were not creating the shock she expected, the woman stepped aside, inclining her grey head towards the stairway at the far end of the passage. ‘You’d best come in, then. Don’t want yer standin’ on the doorstep for all the bloody world to know us business. Lord knows there’s enough nosy sods out there to put two an’ two together an’ come up wi’ trouble!’

  Hurrying past her into the dim interior of the hallway, Beth wisely ignored the crude and intimate comments. Instead she told her with genuine gratitude, ‘I know how well you’ve looked after Mr Blacklock this past week, and I’m very grateful. Really.’

  ‘Aye… well.’ Florence Ball shut the door and led the way down the passage. ‘Just so long as the pair on yer don’t forget.’ She groaned and clutched her back as though suddenly in agony. ‘I ain’t so young as I was, an’ that Blacklock’s a strapping big fella. I don’t mind telling yer it ain’t been easy lifting an’ turning a big fella like that… keeping him alive and tendin’ his wounds. Naw! It ain’t been easy, ain’t been easy at all. But I done what were asked of me, an’ I done it well.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that, Mrs Ball,’ Beth was quick to assure her. ‘You’ll be well rewarded, as I promised.’

  ‘Too bloody right I will! Else I should never have agreed to tend him in the first place. Yer tells me it weren’t his fault. Well… if it weren’t his fault, who the divil’s fault were it, eh?’ The
woman glanced back as Beth followed her up the stairs. She wasn’t finished yet. ‘In my opinion, when a bloke gets hisself cut up like that… well, all I can say is, nine times outta ten the bugger were asking fer it!’

  ‘Not this time, Mrs Ball.’

  ‘Oh. Yer reckon, d’yer?’

  ‘I promise you. What happened to Mr Blacklock was not his fault.’

  ‘Aye? That’s what they all say.’ Her voice was oddly serious and her mood darkened. She had known more than enough trouble in her chequered lifetime – trouble and strife, and worse things even than that. Fearful things, things that concerned the authorities; and robbery and… murder! She shivered. Deep in thought, and with Beth silent behind her, she continued on up the stairs until they reached the first landing. ‘I reckon you’ll find him a good deal improved at any rate, though there’s still a way to go afore he’ll be fit to work agin.’ She frowned, adding in a sly voice, ‘Though I understand there’s them as wouldn’t ever want to see the poor sod work agin.’ She waited, but was visibly disappointed when her remark brought no response from Beth. But the woman’s observations had not gone unheard, and Beth was well aware of what was being hinted. Even in Lewisham Street, it was no secret how Esther Ward had put the word out on Tyler Blacklock.