Poor Jacky, page 8
Miss Beamish’s room was chock-a-block with books and a fug of mustiness that reminded Paul of his time in the cellars of Dedley Hall. Rick parked the old woman by the table and she immediately pulled open a drawer. She withdrew two hefty notebooks, bulging with bookmarks. They were almost too heavy for her to lift. She dropped them on the table with a thud.
“My life’s work,” she said with more than a hint of pride. “Apart from the archiving, I mean. I am cut off from primary sources now, of course, but over the years I have gathered enough information to write my thesis. You may read it, Mr Writer Man, and then what is next is up to you. Perhaps you will find understanding. Perhaps you will be able to lay your ghosts to rest, and I say that deliberately.”
Paul picked up the first book. The cover was blank. He opened it at random. Every page was densely packed with neat, tiny handwriting. Some things were circled, underlined, or marked with sticky notes. He handed the second volume to Rick. That was the same.
“I don’t mean stand there and read them now, you ninnies,” the old woman rolled her eyes. “Take them away. Leave me to my bingo, gentlemen.”
Paul was struck then by the sadness behind the old woman’s sarcasm. He realised she had no relatives - there were no family photographs to be seen - and of course, she had never married. She was clearly in full possession of her mental faculties and now she was marooned in this place, cut off from the work to which she had devoted her life.
“Thank you, Miss Beamish.”
“Yes; cheers,” added Rick.
There was an awkward moment of silence. No one moved.
“Go on then; piss off,” said the old woman. Paul and Rick hurried out.
***
In the car, they decided they would read a volume each to speed things up. They would note any salient points and report back the next evening.
But back at the Railway Hotel, Paul found his reading delayed. He had a visitor. She intercepted him in reception before he could lock himself in his room.
“Hello, Paul,” she said coldly. “How lovely to see you.”
“Hello, Judy,” said Paul.
***
Paul’s agent, Judy Weinstein always dressed as though for a court appearance. As a magistrate, that is. Her default expression was one of having trodden in something unpleasant. She accepted his air kisses with the long-suffering grace of a minor Royal visiting a contagious diseases ward. When Paul tried to steer her towards the hotel bar, she resisted.
“Your room, if you please,” she snapped. “I’ll talk, you pack.”
“Pack?”
“You know, put your belongings into your suitcase. You’re going back on the road, my dear, and pronto.”
She chomped on nicotine gum while he busied himself between the bed and the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. The amount of clothes in his open suitcase didn’t seem to be getting any larger. Judy correctly surmised that her client was stalling.
“You don’t appreciate the situation you’ve put me in, kiddo. Not showing up for book signings, without breathing a word to me about it. How does that make me look? You ignore my calls. You don’t respond to my texts. You have to do this tour, boychick. You can’t rest on your laurels.”
Paul’s body language as he folded and refolded his socks suggested he wasn’t listening. Judy glanced around for something to throw at him.
“Paul! Listen; you have to get yourself out there. It’s different these days. So many writers out there now - and people who call themselves writers. They’re eating away at your audience. You have to keep reminding people you’re still around. Sign their books, pose for their camera phones, autograph their Kindling or whatever the hell they call the damned things. You have to keep yourself in the public eye. You shouldn’t be footling around in this backwater lame ass town, doing whatever it is you’ve been doing. What have you been doing, by the way?”
Paul folded - his arms, this time.
“I think I might - no, not might - I definitely have come across the story of my life!”
“Your autobiography?”
“No; I mean the best story I’ve ever come across. I just need to do the research and then I can throw myself into putting this thing together.”
“Sure. After the fucking tour.”
A bit of role reversal took place. While Paul pitched his new novel idea, his agent tottered around on her heels, grabbing his belongings and tossing them unceremoniously into his case. She would have packed the kettle and the television remote if he hadn’t stopped her.
“I worry; you know how I worry.” She patted his face. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Poking around in your past. It can’t be good for you. You don’t want to end up - well, you don’t want to go back to - you don’t want to go back to that place again, do you?”
He turned away. He knew what place she meant without further clarification. He heard her heels click on the en suite floor. She returned with his shaving gear and toothbrush.
“You are taking your meds, aren’t you, Paul? Tell me you’re taking your meds.”
“I’m taking my meds.”
“You’re lying.” She dropped his toiletries into the suitcase. “What am I going to do with you? Now, come on; we can make the six thirty train. The people of Aberdeen, what do you call them. Aberdonians, Aberdoodians? Well, whoever they are, they’re all expecting to see you bright-eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. So come on; shift that ass and call us a taxi.”
Paul opened his mouth. And closed it again. Judy wouldn’t listen. She closed the lid and struggled with the zipper. He reconsidered his options. A long train journey to Scotland would give him time to read Miss Beamish’s tome. And he could contact Rick by phone and so on. Judy was right about keeping his readers happy; Judy was invariably right.
He nudged her aside and zipped up his suitcase.
Judy nodded, satisfied.
***
Judy saw him onto the train at Birmingham New Street. She waved him off from the platform but he didn’t even glance at her. He was already absorbed in some old notebook. Writers! Always working on something.
I should be glad, she reflected. I’ve made a lot of money out of Paul Beecroft over the years. But I can’t help worrying. Digging up his past might kill the cash cow that lays the golden eggs. Or whatever. There’s a reason I’m an agent not a writer.
She watched the train leave the station. Every mile between him and Dedley town would make her feel better. She cursed herself for showing him the invitation from that library. Of course he’d want to give a talk at his old stomping ground and as publicity stunts went, it wasn’t bad. She couldn’t have known he’d want to stay there, rooting around for a story.
She realised her nicotine gum packet was empty.
Good.
She headed for the shop. She could do with a proper fag.
***
Paul didn’t notice the miles flashing past the windows. He was unaware of the stops in the train’s journey as it snaked its way up the country. His attention was fully captivated by the tightly written notebook Miss Beamish had compiled. Her life’s work, piecing together the unusual history of Dedley Hall.
It wouldn’t take much tweaking to turn it into another Beecroft page-turner...
1813
When Edmond, Earl of Dedley, took himself a wife, the general opinion around the region was that he had chosen well. As the only daughter of a wealthy Northern family, Lady Alice came with a dowry that was almost unparalleled in living memory. And she was a comely young woman too, spirited but not overly so. She quickly charmed the locals and it was hoped her influence would soften the stern and irascible nature of her husband.
The couple threw open the Hall for balls and other functions. The great and good from every direction looked forward to these gatherings with zeal and, for the lower orders, the grounds were host to garden parties and light-natured sporting events. The people began to see the Hall as theirs - to an extent. You could still find yourself riddled with buckshot if you were caught poaching the Earl’s pheasants.
It was expected that so healthy and vibrant a bride would be quick to provide an heir but the years passed and the marriage was fruitless. Whispers ran around the corridors, finding their way to eager ears in the marketplace and thence to every hearth in the county. Lady Alice was barren; she came from a sparse family tree, after all. Or perhaps it was His Lordship who was at fault? Perhaps he wasn’t up to the job. Perhaps his well was dry.
The rumours and whispers eventually found their way to Edmond’s ears and served only to arouse his ire. There’s nothing wrong with me, he would bluster drunkenly after an evening on the port. He embarked on a series of assaults on his serving girls. He would demonstrate his manliness and his fertility upon them and prove it was not he who was to blame. But after months of rape and a rapid turnover of staff, no bastards were forthcoming either. His Lordship’s reputation was in tatters and he cancelled all the fetes and functions out of spite.
Lady Alice withdrew into her apartments and was rarely seen out in public. A new rumour sprang up that she was locked up, or worse, had been murdered by the Earl. People will talk.
The truth was Lady Alice kept herself to herself. It was prudent to keep out of her husband’s way. He had become a drunkard and a bully. Dissipation made his once-fine features flabby and ashen. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was becoming redder with every passing week. She found she did not miss his company. She had her maids - old matronly types His Lordship’s pizzle would never worry - and there was her coachman, James.
The rumour mill went into overdrive over James. He had been seen, people would say, taking Her Ladyship’s landau out towards the hills of Clent. Her Ladyship was taking the air? Then why were the carriage windows shuttered? Why was she never seen? And was it seemly for Her Ladyship to be out and about with only a young man for company? And such a handsome, strapping and vital young man to boot.
Inevitably, this gossip wormed its way to the ears of the Earl. Incandescent with rage he summoned his footman and demanded to know what he had heard around the town. If Lady Alice was being bad-mouthed, it reflected badly on His Lordship. He would have the truth of it and be damned.
The footman, in fear of his life, had repeated what the scullery maids had told the rest of the staff, what they had heard from a deliveryman only the other day -
“To the devil with ye!” His Lordship spat, lifting his walking stick as though to beat the poor footman to death. “Just tell me what was said.”
The footman fell to his knees and out it all came: rumours, suppositions, unfounded gossip. The Earl gave him a swift kick for good measure and stormed out to the coach house, after a quick detour to the kitchen whence he appropriated Cook’s largest and nastiest blade.
The next morning, Lady Alice dressed for a day out in the Clent Hills. There was her coach, waiting at the front steps as usual. At the dashboard, the coachman’s collar was turned up against the wind and his hat pulled down over his brows. He responded to Lady Alice’s cheery good morning with a nod, and as soon as she was on board, he geed the horses and away they went.
How quickly James is driving this morning, thought Lady Alice, bouncing around inside the carriage. He must be as keen to get away from the house and grounds as I.
The wheels splashed through puddles and drove new ruts into the muddy road. Lady Alice became increasingly alarmed. She rapped on the roof and when this gained no response, she lifted the shutter and opened the window. Cold drizzle chilled her cheeks as she called up to the coachman to slow down at once. Her commands went unheeded. On and on the carriage tore along, through the tiny hamlet at the foot of the hills and up the winding path to the summit.
The carriage jolted to an abrupt halt. The door was yanked open but before Lady Alice could give James a piece of her mind, she found herself roughly manhandled from the conveyance and hurled onto the grass. She gazed up with a sense of mounting terror as the coachman’s high boots stepped towards her. She saw his white breeches as his greatcoat flapped open in the wind. The lace of his stock flashed around his neck. But the neck was not James’s - it was her husband’s!
Beneath the brim of his borrowed hat, Edmond’s eyes flashed murderously. Lady Alice tried to scurry away but he was too quick. He snatched her wrist and pulled her to her feet. She beat against his chest and tried to wrest herself free. He waited, penning her in with his arms until her attack abated and she was spent.
“A fine spot you have picked out for your sordid little trysts,” he snarled. Before she could question what he meant by that, Lady Alice was dragged to a nearby hut and dashed to the floor.
“What have you done to James?” she cried as her husband slammed the door behind him. “Where is he?”
“He won’t be troubling us again.” Edmond shucked off the heavy coat and then tossed the hat to a corner.
“You have murdered him!” Lady Alice gasped in horror as her husband tore off her skirts.
“Think what you like,” his breath was hot and moist against her face. “Believe he has gone to Australia, for all I care. It’s about time you were reminded who your husband is.”
She feared he would take her then on that dirty floor. At first she resisted but when she realised he was sobbing, she cradled his head against her bosom and told him all would be well. Here was the man she had married.
Then they made love for the first time in months.
***
At first, Lady Alice kept word of her pregnancy to herself. She wanted to be sure so she swore her chambermaids to secrecy. Edmond visited her more often in her apartments, always with flowers, and they would dine together and sometimes more love-making would occur. It was like their courtship all over again, with the added benefit of marital union.
In her third month, Lady Alice decided she could conceal the truth no longer and one evening, over soup, she made her joyful announcement.
The Earl nearly choked on his bread roll. When, after gulps of water, he had composed himself, he embraced her, raining kisses on her face and neck, and laughing with delight. They had done it! He had done it! The estate would pass to his heir - and he was certain the child would be a son. Fate would not be so cruel as to send him a daughter.
He coddled her during her pregnancy and was her constant companion during her confinement. Everyone marked the change in His Lordship. He even smiled at servants on the stairs. Everyone looked forward to the birth with the eager anticipation of children waiting for Christmas. In fact, this particular child was perhaps within this household, more keenly expected than the original Christmas baby.
And it is thoughts like that that tempt Fate...
***
Three days before the child was born, a travelling circus rode into Dedley. By day they performed in the marketplace but they set up camp on common land adjacent to the Earl of Dedley’s estate. His Lordship was, predictably, outraged and sent his burliest men to warn the travellers off. The men returned with complimentary tickets. Damning them for fools, the Earl took it upon himself to approach the undesirables himself. He strode through his grounds determined to seek out the ringleader - or the ringmaster, at least.
He came across a collection of battered caravans, their ragbag horses tethered nearby. Smoke from a central fire permeated the air; Edmond put his kerchief to his mouth trying to ward off the stench; what on Earth were they cooking? Dirty-faced urchins ran around, some of them naked as the day they were born, chasing each other happily. Women sat in caravan doorways, peeling vegetables, skinning rabbits and squirrels. All eyes were on him.
He approached a toothless, white-haired crone who was plucking pigeons on her caravan steps.
“I say, you there,” he began, finding his voice thick with the putrid smoke and his eyes streaming in protest. “Who is in charge?”
The woman appeared to be ignoring him. She was intent on her task.
“I say!” the Earl repeated. “I demand to see whoever is in charge. I am the Earl of -”
The crone interrupted him. “Oh, we knows who you are, lover.” She sounded bored. “We bain’t on your land. We bain’t breaking no laws. Go in peace.”
“Now, look here!”
“No, lover. You look to your own. Get thine own house in order afore you comes around here making demands.”
“What do you mean? My house in order? Look at me, damn you!”
The old woman turned her watery, cloudy eyes to her interlocutor. Her face became a mass of wrinkles, all curved upwards like a thousand smiles. A shiver ran along the Earl of Dedley’s spine.
“Look to your own,” she showed him her gums. “That which you thinks is your own.”
The Earl, though repulsed, could not look away.
“What mean you?”
The crone grinned enigmatically.
“What mean you, damn you?”
The old woman got to her feet. She barely came up to his chest. She raised a clenched fist to his chin, opened her hand and then blew a handful of pigeon feathers into his face.
Edmond spluttered and wiped the feathers away, swearing and blustering.
But when he was finally clear, the old woman was gone and the camp was in silence and stillness. There was no sign of another human in the entire place.
Puzzled and more than a little apprehensive, Edmond made his way back to his own land. He was not striding purposely anymore. The old woman’s words burned in his mind. Look to your own. What you think is your own...
As soon as he was indoors, he snatched up the port. It failed to settle his jangling nerves. Rather it inflamed his temper.
The coachman’s face flashed before him. It was like the tumblers of a lock turning into place in his head.
Damn him! And damn her!
He sprang up the main staircase only to be met by chambermaids hurrying down in a panic. He was about to lash out at them - how dare they use the main stairs! - when one had the temerity to grab his forearm.
“Oh, come, sir! Babby’s coming!” The girl began to pull him upstairs. With a snort, he pushed her aside and tore along the corridor to his wife’s - ha! the harlot! - apartments.
