Under the wide and watchful eyes of her younger children and her anxious elderly uncle, she and Joe transferred Marty to the sofa then she pounded upstairs to fetch blankets, which were snuggled about him. ‘Brandy! That’s what we need.’ Shoving a cup at Joe and sending him to the Brown Cow, she herself made a pot of tea, and whilst this was brewing she tipped the rest of the contents of the kettle into a stone hot-water bottle, wrapping this in a towel and tucking it at Marty’s feet, crooning and fussing. ‘Oh, my poor dear boy, what have they done to ye?’
Uncle Mal shook his head gravely. ‘Beat near to death, he is.’
Joe returned within minutes, the brandy being dribbled down the patient’s throat, followed by hot sweet tea.
‘Will I pour you a cup, Joe?’ Sounding vague, Aggie stood back to assess the situation. Though swathed to the chin in blankets, her son still shivered and trembled, teeth chattering, his face a swollen mass of lacerations, and he had not uttered a word. It deeply concerned her.
The page backed away. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Lanegan, I’d best return to work. I hope he’s soon recovered.’
‘Dear God, so do I, dear,’ muttered Aggie, but, looking at that trembling impostor, she feared her happy-go-lucky son might never return.
Wounds knitted, awareness restored, after his ghastly experience Marty felt he had lost a fortnight, but in fact had been lying there only a couple of days. According to Uncle Mal, his mother had barely left his side during those first perilous hours, spooning water through his split lips, performing the most intimate tasks, though he could remember little of them. He still ached in every crevice but now felt able enough for action after his midday mug of oxtail broth.
Forming each move gingerly to lessen the hurt, he rose from the threadbare sofa and waited a while to steady himself whilst his parents, younger siblings and Uncle Mal watched intently. ‘Sorry for putting you through all this, Ma.’
‘Isn’t that what mothers are for.’ Aggie’s heart bled for him, and she sighed. ‘’Tis a shame she never even managed to leave you a wee keepsake before they took her.’
Tottering to the mirror above the fireplace Marty grimaced at his pasty reflection, carefully examining the encrusted lesions. ‘What need have I of trinkets when I’ll soon have a real, flesh and blood keepsake – and now I’m back to normal I can go retrieve her.’
‘Normal, says he!’ A howl came from his father’s chair, making the smaller children jump. ‘There’s nothing normal about you. What ignoramus would set himself up for another whipping like that? Sure, he must’ve beat the brains out o’ ye.’ Redmond was grumpy and tired; he, too, had just been sacked, for taking a nap in work time.
Martin made allowances, his reflection displaying nausea. ‘She’s in danger, Da, I have to –’
‘Did you witness her father whipping her?’ demanded Redmond.
‘No, he –’
‘He reserved his punishment for you, and quite frankly I can understand why!’ After trudging eight miles home with no pay for his morning’s work, Redmond was abnormally uncharitable. ‘What a damn fool to think you could get away with stealing his daughter!’
There was only so many allowances Marty would make. ‘She’s consented to marry me,’ came his obstinate reply.
‘Then she’s as disobedient a child as you, and if she takes a good hiding she thoroughly deserves it!’ Redmond turned to vent his exasperation on his wife. ‘He gets this off you! Letting him have his own way in everything…’
‘I do not!’ Aggie was having none of this. ‘Did you not hear me warn him about flashing the tackles over that girl? But will he ever listen? He will not!’ She in turn chastised Marty. ‘Look what your ambition’s done, setting us all against each other! What happened to that nice young woman you were stepping out with a few months ago?’
Marty gaped. ‘Bridget? Why, you said you didn’t want me consorting with a chocolate-basher, said you wanted better for me!’
‘There’s better and there’s downright ridiculous!’ Aggie united with her husband to warn their son, ‘Now, I forbid you to pursue this crazy notion. I’ll not have you putting yourself in danger again – do you hear?’
Looking worn, Marty turned away from the mirror, wincing. ‘I hear, Ma, I hear.’
‘But do you heed?’ His father jabbed a finger. ‘Because if you disobey then there’ll be nobody to scrape you off the floor next time, and I refuse to have this household upset in such a fashion again. I’ve never heard such rubbish – you’ll be better directing your energy into finding a job and making it up to your mother!’
‘Why, of course I will, that was my intention.’
‘And you will leave that girl alone!’
His son heaved a sigh. ‘Have I any choice?’
‘Aye, you can do as the mammy and I say or you can sling your bloody hook!’ With that his father slumped back in his chair, his energy spent.
Seeing his mother about to set into him again, Marty held up his hands in surrender. But nothing would divert him. He was determined upon this union more than ever.
First, though, he must arrange the marriage licence. Still equipped with the uniform he had worked so hard to pay for, and which was the smartest clothing he possessed, he wooed his mother into sponging and ironing it into shape, saying he was going out to find new employment. Instead, armed with the forged letters, the money from the jewellery and an air of confidence, he presented himself at the register office. Here, much sweating was to take place whilst all the paperwork was gone through, though in fact it all turned out to be very simple and his request was duly granted. Unable to give a specific date for the wedding, he rejoiced to hear that the licence would last for three months. Still, he was wise enough to recognise that the hardest part was yet to come – not just the rescue of Etta but the acquisition of more money, for this arrangement had almost cleaned him out. Hence, the next hours were given to seeking work, though with poor result. Finding it impossible to acquire even the lowliest of jobs with no reference, Marty was pushed into the drastic measure of returning to the place from whence he had been dismissed. Presented with an abject apology, perhaps Mr Wilkinson would take pity and scribble a few lines in order that Marty’s family might not starve?
On the other hand he might not. The intrepid suitor found himself once again ejected, and whilst it was not under such violent circumstance as before, it left him under no illusion as to his lack of worth.
His application at the adjacent railway station met with no better luck. Dallying aimlessly by the ticket barrier, to be assailed by clouds of sulphurous smoke, the soot-speckled rush of passengers, the tuneless medley of carriage doors being slammed, the shrill whistle, the chugging and heaving of a departing engine and the cold echoing emptiness that ensued, a benighted Marty racked his brain for a solution. The rescue of Etta would be hard enough, for she could have been locked up or even sent away. However, putting himself in the father’s shoes, he doubted if the arrogant Ibbetson would expect him to turn up after such a trouncing, which would at least lend him an element of surprise. So, acting on this theory, he had decided simply to turn up at the mansion and wait for his willing partner to appear. He would wait even if it took forever. But to maintain her safety, he must have a regular income…which brought him back to the here and now.
He cast his despondent gaze aloft to the glass roof of this vast structure, and its elaborate cast-iron arched supports that extended along the length of the platform in an elegant curve, like the ribs of some leviathan, and he sighed – Jonah, trapped in the belly of a whale.
Another train came rackety-racking