Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

‘But-’

‘I know what I’ve said before. It was your mother who always told me to let you be yourself. She was right. You don’t know how long you’ll have any happiness. You need to grab at it. You’ve got a good lad there. Just make sure you love him with all your heart.’ He reached over and squeezed her hand lightly. ‘I was thinking we could ask him to lodge here, if you wanted that.’

‘But where would he sleep? There’s no extra bedroom.’

‘Aye, I know.’ He smiled at her. ‘But it would all look above board if he was a lodger.’

‘People would still talk. There’d be a scandal,’ she objected. ‘Mrs Rains would let me go.’

‘I don’t think folk would even notice. Plenty of folk have lodgers. And if Mrs Rains is outraged, open your own school. There are plenty in Leeds who have nothing, who’d like a little learning for their daughters.’

She was lost in thought for a moment, daydreaming, he thought.

‘How could I afford it?’

‘You have the money Amos Worthy left for you. There’s more than enough for that.’

‘You said you want me to refuse that. You told me it was tainted. And you were right.’

‘I know,’ he agreed with a short nod. ‘And I know better than you how he filled his coffers. But it’s done with. The money’s there. Maybe doing something good with it would be right. Educate the poor girls who’d never have a chance otherwise.’ He smiled. ‘Your mother would be proud of that.’

Emily sat and stared at the fire.

‘Believe me,’ Nottingham said, ‘life’s too short to end up with any regrets. I’ve learned that in the last few days. I want to see you happy, and I don’t give a bugger what anyone else thinks. It’s up to you, though. Would you like Rob here?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, giving the first smile he’d seen since Mary’s death. ‘But what about your position? What will people say?’

‘Nothing, most like. As long as it looks right, no one will take much notice. And if they do, he’s the lodger. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things since . . .’ He swallowed and forced himself to say the words. ‘Since your mother died. If you don’t make the most of your life no one else will. Love that boy of yours. Be happy. Christ only knows there’s nothing else worthwhile.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’ She stood in a smooth movement and hugged him, her head against his chest. He put his arms around her, pulling her close, her hair against his face. The scent of her was just the same as it had been when she was a little girl, and the images of those years tumbled through his mind. Of Emily, Rose, Mary. Of himself, younger, healthier and happier. Back when he could taste the future and grabbed for it. God knew he missed his wife, but perhaps he and his daughter could forge some kind of life.

He didn’t want to leave his bed. When he opened his eyes he could feel the pounding in his head. The landlord of the Ship had given him a flagon of strong twice-brewed ale, and he and Lizzie had drunk it all once Isabell and James were asleep.

Her arm was thrown across her chest and he could feel her furred breath close to his ear. They’d talked and laughed their way through the evening, carefree and careless, the drinking turning to touching and kissing before they tumbled between the sheets, feeling alive and loving.

Through the gap between the shutters he saw the sky lightening. He knew he should get up and go to the jail, but the warmth was so lulling and comforting, and he could guess how he’d feel when he moved.

Finally, though, he had to stir and use the chamber pot. The sounds of movement woke Isabell. Before she could begin to cry, he picked her out of her crib and placed her next to her mother. Lizzie stirred with a small groan and drew the baby to her nipple.

The deputy dressed quickly, before the heat of the bed vanished. Down in the kitchen he took a quick drink from the dregs of the ale, swilling it around in his mouth. He felt rough, no doubt about it. It was his own fault; the landlord had winked and warned him it was strong.

His breath clouded the air as he walked down Lands Lane, the cold pulling at his face, his head hammering with every footfall. The ground was soaked from the rain that had lasted most of the night. But the thought of Lizzie the evening before made him smile. She hadn’t been like that in a long time; he’d forgotten how much he missed it.

Rob was at the jail, head down as he checked a column of figures.

‘Keeping out of mischief?’ He poured some beer, letting it take away the dryness in his throat.

‘More than you, by the look of you.’ Rob chuckled. ‘Good night?’

‘Grand. How about you? Much here?’

‘They must have all stayed indoors. Saturday night and only three arrests. They’re all sleeping in the cells.’

Sedgwick sat and stretched out his legs. ‘Wish I could do that myself.’

‘You’ll live.’

‘I daresay.’ He covered his eyes with a hand. ‘Right now it doesn’t sound like a good idea, though. You almost finished the accounts?’

‘Close enough. They’ll be ready for the boss to give to the treasurer on Tuesday.’ Rob stood and reached for his greatcoat. ‘I’m going home.’ He glanced at the deputy. ‘God help Leeds if anything happens this morning.’

‘Bugger off.’

Lister left, laughing. The deputy could hear the city stirring, a few folk off to early services. He drank a little more. It helped. He’d be spending most of the day outside, standing and waiting in the bitter weather.

Sedgwick stood far enough away, hidden from sight, and watched Solomon Howard leave for church, his new servant right behind him. Five minutes later the cook emerged, wearing her good dress, a heavy shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She started up the Head Row, and his long legs soon brought him up beside her.

‘Morning, love,’ he said, tipping the brim of his old hat. She turned to look at him, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the old clothes and worn boots.

‘Morning,’ she said cautiously.

‘You work for Mr Howard, don’t you?’

The woman frowned. ‘What about it?’ she asked. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m John Sedgwick, I’m the deputy Constable.’

‘Then you can get yourself gone,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll have nowt to do with you.’

‘I just want to ask you some questions.’

‘You’ll get no answers from me. You’re hounding him, you and the Constable, and he’s done nowt wrong.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

She stopped, brought up her hand and slapped him hard on the face. ‘Of course I bloody am. Now leave me alone.’ She walked on, leaving him to rub his face, the skin stinging in the chill.

He kept an eye on her until she crossed the road and vanished along Town End towards the church. She’d tell her employer, he had no doubt about that, and the man would be at the jail with his lawyer.

There was nothing to be done. He’d tried. It was time to make his rounds and see if he could walk off his throbbing head.

The Constable walked down Marsh Lane, Emily’s arm threaded through his, Lucy on the other side. He’d slept badly, dreams tugging darkly at him and waking him several times. His leg ached and the knife wound on his belly felt hot.

At the churchyard they stood by the graves for a few minutes, saying nothing, lost in their own thoughts. He saw Emily wipe away tears, and put his arm around her shoulders. There was space beyond Mary where he’d lie when his own time came.

The service was as long as ever, the vicar’s voice droning through his sermon. He closed his eyes, hoping to rest a little, but all that came to him were pictures of Mary decaying in her coffin, jerking his eyes back open and leaving his heart pounding in his chest. Eventually it was over, the final blessing given, and they made their way outside, taking condolences and making greetings. Mayor Fenton passed with a curt nod, glowering at him.