I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, out at Kirkstall Forge for the launch of No Precious Truth. I never counted how many came, but the estimates are between 50 and 60 – a hell of a turnout for a sunny Thursday evening, and I’m flattered so many attended.
A number of faces I knew, and far many more that I didn’t. There had been an article about the event in the regional newspapers that must have made people curious. But also people familiar with my books, curious to see Leeds in a World War 2 setting, and to meet Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden. And to be terrified by that rare vision of me in a suit.
The Forge features in the book, making it an ideal location for the launch. It had been important in the war (and was bombed in 1942, with five men losing their lives). I’m grateful to Lucinda Yeadon, who ended up in hospital two nights before the event (all wishes for a speedy recovery), to Marius and Shelly for being so receptive to the idea and organising everything, as well as providing refreshments for everyone.
Plenty of artifacts and ledgers from the Forge in wartime were on display, along with replica war documents, like ration books and identity cards, and newspapers.
Truman Books, a wonderful independent from Farsley, was the bookseller. 22 copies of No Precious Truth were sold, as well as two from the Tom Harper series. Thank you, everyone who bought a copy.
The centrepiece, though, was the cake, made and decorated by Lizzie, the daughter of Shelly, who runs Butler’s café, the venue for the event. Isn’t it glorious? Here it is, before and after.
I’m grateful to everyone who came and all those involved in putting on the event. Thank you. I hope the photos make you feel you were there. Remember, you can buy the book and see what all those people have discovered. Cheapest UK hardback price, with free postage, is here.
Just a week until No Precious Truth is published (April 1, and I hope that’s not an omen!). It’s seemed so distant for so long, and now it’s barrelling down on me at a rate of knots.
Things are in place. I have a new review from Booklist that says the book has a “likable heroine, a twist-a-minute plot, and heart-wrenching details about the effects of war make this a good choice for fans of historical wartime mysteries.”
I’ll definitely take that. Meanwhile out of the blue, the Promoting Crime Fiction website has declared an as “Unsung Hero Of Crime Fiction.” I’m flattered, but I don’t feel very heroic. Read it here.
The blog tour begins on publication days. Eight stops, eight different reviews, all posted online (mostly Instagram, I believe). Keep your eyes peeled for them.
I’ve taken out ads, putting my money where my mouth is because I believe in this book.
There’s going to be a launch. It’s on Thursday, April 17th, from 6-7 pm. It’s going to be held at Kirkstall Forge, which features in the book. They’ll have some photos and artefacts from the war. I’ll be bringing replica documents from the war, as well as newspapers. Truman Books will be there to see you copies of the book.
And there will be a special cake.
You’re invited. If you’re close, come along. Plenty of parking, or the Forge has its own little railways station, just five minutes on the train from Leeds.
If you really can’t wait until then to read No Precious Truth, why not buy it from your local indie bookshop, or Speedy Hen has the cheapest price for the hardback, with free UK postage. Go here and get it.
The following first appeared in History and Heritage Yorkshire – you can find them here. The photos are courtest for the excellent Leodis photo archive. Take a browse.
We’ve all heard about the rationing. Of food, clothes, petrol, coal, pretty much everything, and the way the amounts people were allowed grew smaller and smaller as the war progressed. We had a National Loaf, devised by nutritionists, incredibly healthy, but supposedly tasteless and grey. Ministry of Food pamphlets offered recipes for families during the conflict. People dug for victory in their back gardens. Unused open areas or bomb sites that had been cleared, every kind of spaces was made over into a veg plot.
That was right across the country. But what changes did the war bring to Leeds? In terms of air raids, the city escaped very lightly. We had some – nine in total – and 77 lives were lost. But there was only one of any great consequence, the Leeds Blitz of March 14-15, 1941 (it was termed a quarter-blitz, comparing it in size to the damage inflicted on other cities). The night began with incendiaries, fires lighting the way for the waves of high explosive bombs that arrived later. In all, about 100 houses were destroyed and around 4600 damaged. Bad enough, but not much when compared to elsewhere, and there would only be one more raid of note, in 1942, when five workers at Kirkstall Forge were killed.
The appearance of the city changed. There were sandbags everywhere, tape on the windows of shops and office, as well as home. Much less traffic on the roads due to strict petrol rationing – handcarts and horse-drawn wagons often replaced lorries and vans (out in the country, horses drew ploughs and threshing machines, as if we’d moved back a century).
The Blackout
The blackout meant that those vehicles which kept running, and only a small number were permitted, had to cover head and rear lights, with only a thin slit for illumination – and that made the 20mph speed limit an excellent idea. Curbs, lamp posts, telegraph posts were painted with black and white stripes to aid motorists. Trams had bells that jangled to warn pedestrians who might be in the way. The windows in trams and buses were covered to stop light leaking, then with netting or tape in case of blasts.
The ARP (Air Raid Precaution) wardens were the ones with the job of enforcing the blackout. Stories have so many of them acting like little tin gods, and probably some did. But it was a thankless job.
The blackout should have been a boon to crime. Yet a number of newspapers reported the expected wave of thefts and robberies didn’t happen. There was plenty of opportunistic crime: where houses had been bombed or families fled, there was looting (not much of a problem in Leeds), and some other illegal activities did flourish – while the duties of the police grew. Prostitution became more widespread, and more blatant, for one small example. Some of the women were honest; others would lure their customers into the dark ness and rob them, either alone or with an accomplice.
There was a rise in bag-snatching, thefts from telephone boxes and standing cars, but greater crime figures seemed to be down. In part, that was due to transportation. Petrol rationing made it illegal for most people to use cars. There was plenty of black-market petrol for sale, but cars on the road were remembered, and easily traced. Which might explain why one of the biggest rises was in bicycle theft.
The Black Market
With rationing, there as the inevitable rise of those who saw the chance to make money by bypassing the law. It could be something as simple as a shopkeeper saving a little extra for favoured customers or fudging coupons. It could be the spiv – a term that came into use with the war to denote the stereotype of a flashily-dressed man selling goods on the corner. Rationing and crime were interlinked, and it was responsible for many of the offences that ended up on police blotters and in court.
One of the most widespread of those was that theft of coupons from Ministry of Food offices. The security was non-existent, and if someone broke in at the right time, there were literally thousands of coupons waiting to be taken and sold. Others forged coupons. Essentially, rationing and coupons created an industry.
Items were stolen – entire lorries of them at times, often tinned food. On a smaller scale, things walked out of the stores for the NAAFI canteens which gave food and drink to service personnel. Other items vanished from work. In Bradford, my own grandfather was arrested and convicted of stealing 99 yards of cloth from his employer. He got off with little more than a rap on the knuckles: just a £5 fine.
Outside the small amount allocated for civilian use, petrol was dyed red to deter theft. However, with a little work and ingenuity, the dye could be removed.
Rationed alcohol offered more opportunities. Much of the whisky supply was reserved for export to help the vital balance of payments. Enterprising crooks worked with chemists and made hooch, alcohol created from different things with the kick of booze, then dyed and flavoured and passed off as the real thing, often in recycled bottles and with carefully printed labels. The customers were often clubs – many operating without a licence – where couple and service people on leave went to relax. It had worked during Prohibition in the US and proved successful here. However, there were reports of drinkers becoming ill after using hooch, often severely. Cases of permanent blindness, even death, happened.
Physical Changes
There was bomb damage in Leeds. Far less than other places, but it was there. Marsh Lane goods station was pretty much destroyed, and the same with a number of factories along the river. The front of the museum on Park Row collapsed, and there was damage to the Town Hall, aa well as a number of houses, particularly in Armley.
Leeds Museum after the March raid
Model Road, Armley
Some of the physical changes were made as precautions. Lewis’s, the big department store on the Headrow had the brick blast wall outside its main entrance to avoid any flying glass and debris. Outside, along the middle of the road, stood a series of emergency water tanks to help deal with any incendiary bombs and fires. They were painted in black and white checks to alert traffic and pedestrians at night.
Emergency water ponds were dug all over, although most of them were never needed, thankfully.
The Marks & Spencer store that’s such a familiar sight on Briggate was completed right at the beginning on the war. The company had kept a presence further up the main shopping street since 1909, but this was intended to be the grand flagship store. They purchased and demolished the Rialto cinema at 46 Briggate and built something entirely new and modern. However, in 1940, as they were set to opened, the building was requisitioned by the government for use by the Ministry of Works. A blast wall was erected to cover where the display windows had been (and was soon covered in layers of posters advertising films). The entry for staff was a metal door to the right, still there if you look.
The elegance of Park Square remained, but in a diminished state. The railings around the grass were removed, like most metal, part of a national drive. It was ostensibly to build more Spitfires; the reality was that the metal often just sat in huge, rusting piles in scrapyards.
Food
As mentioned earlier, rationing gradually bit harder and harder. Nutritionists worked on recipes with the Ministry of Food, creating dishes that were both healthy and tasted good (although many might disagree with that). But the reality was that Britons did eat a very healthy diet during the war, better than before it for many, and rationing did create an equality between the classes.
Gardening was encouraged, growing the food that was so desperately needed with imports so limited. There were pamphlets and newspaper columns with characters like Potato Pete. Gardens were made over, empty ground cultivated. A street, even a couple of streets, would use all their scraps and waste to feed a pig that one of them would keep – quite illegally. In return, they’d receive some of the meat when it was butchered.
Fishing was affected, too, with the trawler fleet and the catch depleted, as the Germans considered fishing vessels to be legitimate targets, and mines took their toll. By 1944, the catch was round half the pre-war figure – and that was an improvement over 1941. Fish was never rationed, but the prices rose very steadily as the fighting continued.
These are just a few quick snapshots; there are entire books and studies on each of the topics. The war in Leeds, at least at the beginning of 1941, is the backdrop for my new novel, No Precious Truth. The main character is Woman Police Sergeant Cathy Marsden, one of the very few women in the force back then. She’s’ seconded to the brand-new local squad of the Special Investigation Branch (a real organisation, part of the military police) for three weeks, a period that keeps getting extended. They deal with organised crime and the forces. But suddenly they find themselves facing something very different: an escaped German spy.
It’s published by Severn House, and available as a hardback and ebook from April 1. Buy from an independent if you can, or the cheapest UK hardback price, with free postage, is here. The launch will be at Kirkstall Forge in Leeds (a location in the book) on April 17, 6pm. I hope you’ll show up. All are welcome – they even have their own little train station.
Sometimes the truly wondrous does happen. When that occurs, it etches a sharp, memorable line in a life.
In my most recent book, Them Without Pain, a true incident from Leeds history is the catalyst for everything that happens. In 1696, goldsmith Arthury Mangey was hanged for coin clipping – which was treason, as it debased the coinage. In his trial it was alleged that he had a secret workshop on Middle Row, the shops and workshops behind the Moot Hall in the middle of Briggate (see the superb cardboard model).
In 1825, the Moot Hall and Middle Row were finally demolished, opening up the town’s main street. But as the workmen tore down walls, they discovered…a hidden workshop, with two pairs of metal shears, a bowl and an Elizabethan coin.
In the book, Simon Westow is there, and in the hidden room he also finds a body. That provides the spark for everything that happens.
Why had no one looked for the room at the time of the trial? Did the things in there really belong to Mangey or had he been set up?
We’ll never know. But some of what was found has remained and will be used in an exhibition on Leeds writing later this year.
Yesterday I was giving a talk at Abbey House Museum, where I’m writer-in-residence. I had the real privilege of holding these shears, of touching history. Maybe Arthur Mangey really did use them to commit treason over 300 years ago and I was able to share that with him. A connection across the centuries.
I’d written about them, and they were real. Now that’s magic, isn’t it?
Forgive me for ending on a crass commercial note, but in the UK Amazon has both Kindle and hardback editions at very low prices. See here.
My new book, No Precious Truth, will be published on April 1.
However, in exchange for an honest review, you can read it now. It’s available on NetGalley. You need to register with them – free and only takes a few seconds – then be approved for Severn House titles. If you’re not, please drop me a line and I should be able to fix that for you.
It’s the start of a new series, Leeds in World War 2, with a new female lead character I love, but yes, I’m nervous about it, even more so than when a series in established. I’d like plenty of people to read it and give their opinions, so you’d actually be helping me.
Thank you in advance.
If you are registered with NetGalley and approved for Severn Housem simply go here.
Actually, not quite Annabelle Harper. Still Annabelle Atkinson, a recent widow after her husband Harry died and left her the Victoria. But you’ll see for yourself.
Here were are, Christmas Eve, and this is the last of the Christmas stories dug out from the past. I hope you’ve enjoyed them. Thank you for reading, and for reading/buying/tolerating my books and posts. Happy holidays – what ever you celebrate – to you and those who hold dear. May 2025 be kind to us all and see us in good health.
Thank you again.
Leeds, December 1887
Annabelle Atkinson didn’t want Christmas to arrive this year. She didn’t feel any of the joy or the goodwill this December. It was barely three months since her husband Harry had died; the earth had barely settled on his grave.
They’d had a few good years before the heart attack took him. Now she had to look after the Victoria public house as well as the two bakeries she’d opened. On her own, sometimes she felt like she was drowning.
On Christmas Eve, once the last customer had gone, she intended to bolt the door, closed the curtains, and keep the world away until Boxing Day. She’d never been one to wallow in sadness; if you had a problem you took care of it and carried on. But these last few weeks…she’d been slowly sinking and she knew it. She felt like one of the jugglers in the halls, trying to keep all the plates spinning in the air. Too many of them.
‘Come on,’ she said to Willie Hailsham, taking the empty pint pot from his hand. ‘You’ve had enough. Get yourself off home so your wife can remember what you look like.’
The same with Harelip Harmon, Donald the Steel Man, and Jingling James, always moving the coins around in his pocket. They’d stay drinking all night if anyone would keep serving them.
‘Don’t you have homes to go to?’
It was the nightly routine, almost a comedy act after so long. They drained their glasses, said their goodnights and then the bar was empty. She locked the door, drew down the bolts and let out a long sigh. Glasses to wash, woodwork and brass to polish.
Better get started, she thought. The work’s not going to do itself.
Up a little after three to supervise the baking in the kitchen at the other end of the yard. The last day before Christmas, orders to fill, plenty of demand; the shops would be little goldmines today. And the Victoria would be packed from the time the factories closed.
Gossiping with the girls as they all worked together, mixing, kneading, baking, the smell of fresh loaves filling the air and making her hungry. Back in the rooms over the pub she made breakfast.
This was what hurt most: the silence. There used to be so much laughter here when Harry was alive. It seemed like there was always something to set them off. Now just being here was oppressive, all the weight of ghosts around her.
Dan the barman and Ellen the barmaid were already working hard with polish when she went downstairs. Sleeves rolled up and plenty of elbow grease, they’d be done soon enough. Nothing for her to do here. The dray from the brewery was due at ten, but Dan could take care of that.
Annabelle put on her cape and picked up her purse. Go into town and have a poke around the shops. An hour or two away might perk her up. But there was no magic in December this year. The pavements were full of people jostling around, weighed down by packages and bags. She felt removed from it all. The displays in the windows of the Grand Pygmalion didn’t make her want to part with her money. She was low, she knew it; a lovely gown or a good hat could usually tempt her. Today, though, there was nothing. No cheer.
Even a stop at the cocoa house for something warm to drink and a slice of cake didn’t help her mood. She trailed back out along North Street, through the Leylands and past the little park, back along to Sheepscar.
Soon enough the Victoria was busy, and it would stay that way until she called time. She took her place behind the bar, smiling, flirting the way she always had, and for a few minutes at least she could forget why she hurt inside.
‘Give over,’ she told one man who insisted he’d be a good husband. ‘I’d wear you out in one night, then I’d have to send you home to your missus.’ It brought laughter. As she walked around, collecting glasses, she brushed hands away, giving the culprits a look. It was all part of running a pub. A game; if you played it well, you were successful. And she had the knack.
Annabelle promised old Jonas free beer for the evening if he played the piano in the corner, and soon half the customers were singing along the favourites from the music hall. It gave her a chance to breathe and Dan could look at the barrels.
By eleven she’d had enough. The pub was still busy, the till was overflowing. But all the noise made her head ache. She needed some peace and quiet for a while. She wanted the place empty.
‘Come on.’ She rang the old school bell she kept under the bar, next to the cudgel for sorting out the unruly. ‘Time for you lot to see your families. They probably don’t believe you exist.’
Slowly, the crowd thinned. Another five minutes and it was down to the usual four still standing and supping. Donald the Steel Man, Willie Hailsham, Jingling James, and Harelip Harmon.
‘That’s enough,’ she told them. Her voice sounded weary. She knew it and she didn’t care. They were regulars, they’d probably been coming in here since they were old enough to peer over the bar. ‘Let’s call it a night, gentlemen, please.’
James slipped off to the privy while she was ushering the others out, wishing them merry Christmas and accepting beery kisses and hugs until they’d gone and she turned the key in the lock.
Then James was there, looking bashfully down at his boots. He was a gentle soul, a widower with grown children. Fifty, perhaps, his hair full white, jammed under his cap.
‘Are you seeing your family tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Not this year.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘They all have their plans. It’s different now, everyone’s so busy. What about you?’
‘A quiet day. Maybe it’s better that way.’
‘When my Alice died I carried on, same as I always had. The bairns were grown and gone but I still had to work and put a roof over my head.’
‘I know,’ she agreed. The everyday tasks that carried on like a machine. Without thinking, he jingled the coins in his pocket.
‘Then her birthday came around. We never made a fuss when she was alive, well, who could afford to? First we had the little ‘uns, then it didn’t seem to matter so much.’
‘We were the same,’ Annabelle said. ‘No kids, but Harry’s birthday or mine, there was still the pub to run.’
‘Any road, the year she died, on her birthday it suddenly hit me how alone I was. Not just then, but for the rest of my days. Because no one could replace Alice. I had all them years in front of me.’
‘What did you do?’ she asked.
‘I sat there at the table and made myself remember all the good things. How she looked when she smiled, how she sounded when she laughed. The way she were pretty as a picture when we got wed. I said it all like she were sitting there and I was talking to her.’
‘Did it help?’
‘It did. I can tell you’re feeling that way. I can see it in your eyes. I just thought it might help.’ He gave her a smile and bussed her cheek.
‘You said you’re not going anywhere tomorrow?’ Annabelle said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Come round for your tea. It won’t be anything special, mind.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll probably sick of my own company by then anyway.’
Maybe making an effort would help. Even a small one.
She locked the door behind him, hearing the jingling of his coins as he walked down the street.
It’s the next-to-last of the Christmas stories. I hope you’re enjoying them. I realise that charity has been a theme in them, along with compassion. No regrets about that. It’s right for the season. Meanwhile, take time over your tea and coffee and mince piece while you look at this. Thank you.
‘Excuse me, luv, do you have one like that in a plum colour?’ Annabelle Harper pointed at the hat on display behind the counter. It was soft blue wool, with a small crown and a wide brim, decorated with a long white feather and trailing lace meant to tie under the chin.
The shop assistant smiled.
‘I’m afraid not, madam. We only have what’s on display. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ She put down her purchases, stockings, bloomers, garters, and a silk blouse. ‘I’ll just take those, please.’
Be polite to everyone, that’s what her mother had said when she was younger, and it was a rule Annabelle had lived by. It cost nothing, and a little honey always ensured good service.
The Grand Pygmalion was packed with people shopping. Women on their own, with a servant along to carry purchases, wives with long-suffering husbands who looked as if they’d rather be off enjoying a drink somewhere.
Four floors, two hundred people to help the customers, wonderful displays of goods. It just seemed to grow busier and busier each year. But it was the only real department store in Leeds. She waited as the girl totted up the totals.
‘I have an account here, luv.’
She saw the quick flicker of doubt and gave a kind smile. Couldn’t blame the lass. She didn’t sound like the type of person with the money to shop here. Then the gaze took in her clothes and jewellery and the girl nodded.
‘Of course, madam. What name is it?’
‘Mrs. Annabelle Harper. The address is the Victoria public house on Roundhay Road.’
Everything neatly packed and tied into a box, she walked out on to Boar Lane. A fortnight until Christmas and it was already cold. Bitter. A wind whistled along the street from the west. All around her she could hear people with their wet, bronchitic coughs. It’d probably snow soon enough, she thought.
Omnibuses, trams, carts and barrows moved along the road, a constant clang of noise. On the corner with Briggate, by the Ball-Dyson clock, a Salvation Army brass band was playing, their trumpets and tubas competing against the vehicles and the street sellers crying their goods.
She pulled the coat closer around her body as she walked, clutching the reticule tight in her hand. Plenty of crime this time of year. Married to a detective inspector, she couldn’t help but hear about it. And she had enough cash with her for something special; she didn’t want to lose that.
Strolling up towards the Headrow, all the lights in the shops were already glowing. Only three and it was almost dark. Roll on spring, she thought, then stopped herself. Never wish the days away. Who used to say that? She racked her brain. Come on, Annabelle told herself, you’re not old enough to forget things yet.
Then it came. Old Ellie Emsworth at Bank Mill. Annabelle was ten, she’d been at the mill a year, working as a doffer, still too young to be on the machines. Six days a week, twelve hours a day for not even two bob a week when all she wanted to be was out there, away from it all. Ellie had worked the loom all her life. She was probably no more than thirty-five but she looked old, worn-down.
‘I know you don’t like it here,’ Ellie had said to her one day as they ate their dinner. Bread and dripping for Annabelle, all her family could afford. ‘But don’t go wishing the days away. They pass quick enough, lass. Soon you’ll wish you had them back.’
She smiled. For a moment she could almost hear Ellie’s voice, rough as lye soap.
People pressed around her as she walked, some of them smiling with all the joy of the season, others glum and po-faced. Christmas, she thought. They’d never had the money to make a proper do of it when she was little. As soon as she had a little, after she’d married the landlord of the Victoria, she’d given presents and spent all she could afford.
Even the Christmas after he died, she’d been determined to put on a brave face. A big meal for friends, presents that saw their eyes shine. It made her happy.
And now she had Tom. She had the wedding ring on her finger and she felt happier than she had in a long, long time. This was going to be their first married Christmas and she was going to buy him something he’d never forget. A new suit. A beautiful new suit.
Along New Briggate, across from the Grand Theatre, the buildings were bunched together. Business on top of business as the floor climbed to the sky. Photographers, an insurance agent, gentleman’s haberdasher. You name it, it was all there if you looked hard enough.
The girl stood in the doorway of number fifteen, a broken willow basket at her feet. At first Annabelle’s glance passed over her. Then she looked again. For a moment she was taken back twenty years. She was ten again and staring at Mary Loughlin. They’d gone to school together, started at the mill together, laughed and played whenever they had chance. The same flyaway red hair that the girl had tried to capture in a sober bun. The same pale blue eyes and freckles over the cheeks. The same shape of her face.
‘Wreath, ma’am?’ The girl held it out, a poor thing of ivy and holly wrapped around a think branch of pine. ‘It’s only a shilling,’ she said hopefully.
Her wrist was thin, the bones sticking out, and her fingers were bare, the nails bitten down to the quick, flesh bright pink from the cold. An old threadbare coat and clogs that looked to be too small for her feet.
‘What’s your name, luv?’
The girl blushed.
‘Please ma’am, it’s Annabelle.’
For a second she couldn’t breathe, putting a hand to her neck. Then, very gently she shook her head.
‘Your mam’s called Mary, isn’t she?’
The girl’s eyes widened. She stared, frightened, tongue-tied, biting her lower lip. Finally she managed a nod.
‘She was, ma’am, yes.’
‘Was? Is she dead?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Three year back.’
Annabelle lowered her head and wiped at her face with the back of her gloves.
‘I’m sorry, luv,’ she said after a while. ‘Now, how much are these wreaths?’
‘A shilling, ma’am.’
‘And how many do you have?’
‘Ten.’
She scrambled in her purse and brought out two guineas.
‘That looks like the right change to me.’ She placed them in the girl’s hand. Before she let go of the money, she asked, ‘What was your mother’s surname before she wed, Annabelle?’
‘Loughlin, ma’am.’
‘I tell you what. There’s that cocoa house just across from the theatre, Annabelle Loughlin. I’d be honoured if you’d let me buy you a cup. You look perished.’
The girl’s fingers closed around the money. She look mystified, scared, as if she couldn’t believe this was happening.
‘Did your mam ever tell you why she called you Annabelle?’
‘Yes ma’am.’ For the first time, the girl smiled. ‘She said it was for someone she used to know when she was little.’
Mrs. Harper leaned forward. Very quietly she said,
‘There’s something I’d better tell you. I’m the Annabelle you’re named for.’
She sipped a mug of cocoa as she watched the girl eat. A bowl of stew with a slice of bread to sop up all the gravy, then two pieces of cake. But what she seemed to love most was the warmth of the place. Young Annabelle kept stopping and looking around her, gazing at the people and what they had on their plates.
She was twelve, she said. Two older brothers, both of them working, and two younger, one eight and still at school, the other almost ten and at Bank Mill.
‘What does he do there?’
‘He’s a doffer,’ the girl said and Annabelle smiled.
‘That’s what your mam and I did when we started. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and went into service.’
‘But you’re rich,’ the girl said, then reddened and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ve got a bob or two,’ she agreed. ‘I was lucky, that’s all.’ The girl finished her food. ‘Do you want more?’
‘No ma’am. Thank you.’
‘And don’t be calling me ma’am,’ she chided gently. ‘It makes me feel old. I’m Annabelle, the same as you. Mrs. Harper if you want to be formal.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Harper.’
‘What does you da do, luv?’
‘He’s dead.’ There was a sudden bleakness in her voice. ‘Two years before my mam. So me and Tommy, he’s the oldest, we look after everything.’
Annabelle waved for the bill and counted out the money to pay as the girl watched her.
‘What work do you do? When you’re not selling wreaths, I mean.’
‘This and that ma’a – Mrs. Harper.’
‘And nothing that pays much?’ The girl shook her head. ‘You still live on the Bank?’
‘On Bread Street.’
‘Can you find your way down to Sheepscar?’
‘Course I can.’ For a second the bright, cheeky spark she remembered in Mary flew.
‘Good, because there’s a job down there if you want one. I own a pub and a bakery down there, and someone left me in the lurch.’ The girl just stared at her. ‘It’s not charity, you’ll have to work hard and if you’re skive you’ll be out on your ear. But I give a fair day’s pay for a fair days’ graft. What do you say?’
For a second the girl was too stunned to answer. Then the words seemed to tumble from her mouth.
‘Yes. Thanks you ma’am. Mrs. Harper, I mean. Thank you.’
Annabelle looked her up and down.
‘If you’re anything like your mam you’ll be a grand little worker.’
‘I’ll do my best. Honest I will.’
‘I know, luv. You’re going to need some new clothes. And I daresay the rest of your lot could use and bits and bobs, too.’ She took a five pound from her purse and laid it on the table. ‘That should do it.’ The girl just stared at the money. ‘Don’t be afraid of it,’ Annabelle told her. ‘It won’t bite. You buy what you need.’
‘Do you really mean it?’ The words were barely more than a whisper.
‘I do.’ She grinned. ‘When I saw you, it was like looking at Mary all over again. Took me right back. You’re just as bonny as she was.’ She stood, the girl quickly following. ‘You be at Harper’s Bakery at six tomorrow morning. Mrs. Harding’s the manager, tell her I took you on. I’ll be around later.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Harper. And…thank you.’
‘No need, luv. Just work hard, that’s all I need. You get yourself off to the Co-op and buy what you need.’
The girl had the money clenched tight in her small fist. At the door, before she turned away, she said,
‘Mrs. Harper?’
‘Yes, luv?’
‘Sometime, will you tell me what my mam was like when she was young?’
‘You know what? I’d be very happy to do that.’
She watched the girl skip off down the street. Who’d have thought it, Mary calling her lass Annabelle? She shook her head and looked up at the clock. A little after four. She still had time to go to that tailor’s on North Street and order Tom a new suit for his Christmas present.
It was still dark when she finished the baking, and bitter outside the kitchen. She washed the flour from her hands, walked through the yard and unlocked gate that led to Roundhay Road. The draymen would arrive soon enough, the sharp sound of hooves as the horses stopped outside the Victoria. She peeked out into the street. The air was winter-heavy and wet with soot.
It was early but there were already men out walking, on their way to jobs in the boot factories and tanneries, the mills and breweries. The gas lamps offered a faint glow. She turned and caught the silhouette of someone crouched on the doorstep of the pub.
Someone small. A boy.
“Waiting for something, luv?” Annabelle Atkinson asked as she crossed her arms. “We’ll not be open for two hours yet.”
“I’m just sitting,” the lad answered. She could hear the cold in his voice. As she came closer, she was that his face was grubby and he was only wearing a thin shirt and a pair of ragged trousers that left his calves bare, his shoes were held together with pieces of string. He wasn’t local, she was certain of that. Annabelle knew everyone around Sheepscar, each man, woman and child. “No law agin it, is there?” he asked.
“Not if you want to stay there,” she told him. “Warmer inside, though. The oven’s going. Cup of tea. Maybe even breakfast if you’re not too cheeky.”
He was torn, it was plain on his face. The boy was thin as a stick and didn’t look as if he’d had a full meal in days. She didn’t say anything more, deliberately turning away to stare back up the road towards the endless streets of back-to-back houses and factories. December. It would be a good while yet before it was light. As light as it ever became when the air was filled with fog and smoke.
When she looked again he was there, standing close, expectant and wary.
“You’re not having me on, missus?”
“No, luv, in you go.” She watched him run through the yard and into the kitchen. By the time she entered he was already standing by the oven, hands outstretched, soaking in the heat. She didn’t have any bairns of her own. Her husband had been older, then he’d died and she’d taken over running the pub. However it had happened, she’d never caught. Now she was courting again, a man called Tom Harper, a copper of all things, a detective inspector, set to wed next year if she could ever persuade him to pop the question.
She cut two doorsteps of bread, buttered them thickly and placed them on the table in front of him. Before he could grab one she took hold of his tiny wrist and said,
“You’re not eating with those filthy paws. Get them under the tap. Your face, too. We’re not short on soap.”
He returned, skin scrubbed and glowing, grabbing the food before she could say anything more. Annabelle brewed tea, one cup for herself, another for him, milky, with plenty of sugar.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Henry, missus,” he answered with his mouth full.
“You can call me Annabelle. Where are you from? I’ve not seen you around before.”
“Me and me da just moved here two day back. We was living in Morley, then me mam and me sister got ill and died and me da started drinking and lost his job so we had to leave.” The words arrived in a rush. “He thought we might do better up here.”
She smiled softly. The lad couldn’t be more than eight. But what had happened to him was no more than had happened in so many families.
“We’d best get you home then, Henry. Your da’ll be worried. Get some food in you and I’ll walk you back.”
“He din’t wake up yesterday, missus.” He said the words flatly.
“What do you mean, pet?”
“He’d had a few drinks the night before so I thought he were asleep. I knew he’d belt me if I tried to wake him up, so I left. When I got back the door were locked and he din’t answer. I don’t know anyone round here so I din’t know where to go.”
“Right,” she said after a minute. “You tell me where you live, Henry and I’ll go and see your Da.” Emma the barmaid came into the kitchen, raising her eyebrows at the sight of the child. “Can you make him something hot?” Annabelle asked. “Bacon and eggs, whatever we’ve got. Poor little sod’s perishing. And see he gets a bath after. I’m off to see his Da.”
“Are you posh, missus?” Henry asked, looking at the servant in awe.
“No, luv,” Annabelle laughed. “I’m not.”
Armenia Grove ended in a big stone wall at the back of the dyeworks. A little further along, Gipton beck ran along past the school, down to the mill pond. Number six was the same as its neighbours, all blackened brick and rotting woodwork, the front door opening as the turned the handle. Henry and his father had the upstairs room at the front, the boy had told her. Locked, just he’d said. She knocked but there was no reply.
Back on the street, Annabelle caught a glimpse of Bert Hardwick and shouted him over before he could duck out of sight.
“There’s a door I need opening,” she said.
He gave her a sheepish glance. “I don’t do that kind of thing no more. I’m over at the brick works now. It’s steady, like.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to take owt. Just work the lock for me.”
It only took him a few seconds, working with the tip of his pocket knife. Before she could enter, he’d vanished, boots hammering down the stairs. Men, she thought. All bloody useless.
Rags covered the window, blocking out the first light. But she could still see the shape on the floor, huddled under a threadbare blanket. Annabelle spoke his name but he didn’t stir. She reached out to touch his cheek then recoiled with a gasp as soon as her fingers felt his cold skin.
Quietly, she left the house.
Dan the barman was emptying the spittoons and polishing the tables. She asked him to find the beat bobby and take him to the house on Armenia Grove.
“He’ll know what to do.”
She brightened her expression and walked through to the kitchen. Henry was sitting in front of the oven, wearing nothing more than a large towel. Emma had stoked up the fire and washed his clothes; they were strung up on the wooden rack, steaming as they dried.
“You look better all cleaned up,” she told him. “Right handsome.”
“Did you find my Da, missus?”
“I did.” She stood by the chair and took hold of his hand. “What’s his Christian name?”
“Edward,” the boy answered. “But everyone calls him Ted.” Worry flashed across his eyes. “Why, missus?”
She gazed at him for a moment.
“I don’t know how to tell you, Henry, so I’ll just do it straight. Your father’s dead. It looks like he passed away in his sleep. I’m sorry.”
His grip tightened.
“But…” he began, then the words failed him. He began to cry and she cradled him close, rocking him softly until the tears turned to slow hiccoughs.
“Tom, you’ve got to help him.”
He’d arrived after work, close to eight on a dreary evening, exhausted and dirty. He’d ended up chasing a pickpocket out to Marsh Lane, finally bringing him down in the mud that passed for road there. She’d kept a plate warm in the oven for him, the way she always did, hoping he’d visit on the way back to his lodgings.
“Where is he now?” Inspector Harper asked.
“Fast asleep, poor little perisher.” She smoothed the silk gown and with a satisfied sigh, let down her hair so it fanned over her shoulders. The mutter of voices came from the bar downstairs. “He’s all cried out. I finally got him to tell me that his mother’s sister lives in Morley. She’s Temperance, so after his ma died, she wouldn’t have anything to do with his father because he was a drinker. What do you think? Maybe she’d take him in.”
“Maybe. What’s her name?”
“Molly Wild.”
“I can get in touch with the station down there. Someone will let her know. I can’t promise. What about the father?”
“Burial tomorrow up at Beckett Street.”
He shook his head. “You’re paying?”
“Guinea grace,” she told him. “Come on, Tom. He needs to be able to remember his da, doesn’t he?’
“Yes,” he answered slowly. “I suppose so.”
“It’s only money. I have the brass for that.”
Two days passed before the woman arrived. Annabelle had set Henry to work, washing glasses and helping with small tasks in the kitchen. He was an eager little worker, humming as he did whatever he was told. Only when the memories caught up with him would his face crumple and the tears begin. She fed him well and tucked him into the spare bed every night, watching from the doorway until he was asleep.
“There’s a woman outside wanting to talk to you,” Sad Andrew told her as he entered the Victoria. It was a little after ten in the morning, the fog thick as twilight.
“Tell her to come in, then,” she said. “I’m right here.”
“She says she won’t come into a public house.” He mimicked a prim voice and Annabelle sighed, drying her raw hands on an old cloth before pulling a shawl around her shoulders and pasting a smile on her face.
A horse and cart stood at the curb, driven by a man with hunched shoulders and a defeated expression. The woman had climbed down, glancing at the pub with a critical eye. Her bonnet was black, her gown a plain charcoal grey, button boots peeking from the hem.
“You must be Mrs.Wild.”
“I am,” she replied with a sniff.
“I’m Mrs. Atkinson.” The woman’s gaze moved to Annabelle’s hand, no ring on the third finger. “I’m a widow.”
“I see.” Her tone was disapproving. “The police came,” she said as if it was the most humiliating thing that could have happened. “They said Henry’s here and that his father’s dead.”
“That’s right. Do you want to see him?”
The woman stepped back as if she’d been slapped.
“I would never set foot on licensed premises.”
“Then I’m glad not everyone’s like you,” Annabelle said, smiling to take the sting from her words. “I’d be out of business in a week.”
“Was it the drink that killed my sister’s husband?”
“I don’t know, luv. All I did was take the boy in and see that his father was buried. But now you’re here, I’m sure Henry will be glad to have a home with you.”
“We already have five children.”
“Then you’ll hardly notice another.” She tried to make her voice light.
“We have good, God-fearing children.”
“You’ll love Henry. He’s a wonderful little lad.” She paused for a heartbeat. “He’s your own flesh and blood. Your sister’s boy.”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me something,” Annabelle said. “You strike me as someone who likes to live by the Bible.”
“Of course we do.” Mrs. Wild lifted her head.
“Then what does it say in there about looking after those in need?”
“Don’t you go quoting that to me!” the woman bristled. “I’ll not have that from someone who runs a place like this.”
“What about someone who took your nephew in when he had nowhere else to go and arranged his father’s burial?” It didn’t matter who the woman was or what Annabelle needed from her. No one was going to speak to her that way. “Or doesn’t that count because I own a pub?”
The man on the cart turned.
“Just bring the lad out, missus.” He glared at his wife. “Don’t worry, we’ll look after him proper, won’t we, Molly? Like you said, he’s family.”
She stood on the doorstep of the Victoria, watching them drive away until they vanished into the fog. Henry had clung to her, not wanting to leave, crying once again as his aunt looked on, hawk-faced.
But it was for the best, she told herself. They were family.
For today, a little sidestep from Annabelle to her husband Tom.
He finally found the woman at half-past five on a cold December evening. She was sitting on the pavement, knees clasped against her chest like a small child. Right there on Briggate, in the very centre of Leeds, people moved around her without noticing, without caring, just an impediment as they made their way home.
Detective Inspector Tom Harper bent down next to her.
‘Ada?’ he asked and she turned her head slowly, as if she’d been off and away, thinking of other things.
‘Hello luv,’ she said. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No,’ he told her with a smile, ‘but everyone’s been looking for you. Do you think you can stand up?’
It had started twelve hours before, when a woman had dashed out of her house off St. Peter’s Place. Not even light yet but she was yelling, ‘Mam! Mam! Where are you?’ until the copper on the beat came running.
‘You’ll have the whole street up,’ he told her. ‘What’s the matter? Where’s Ada gone?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t be shouting for her, would I?’ She gave him a withering look and started to shiver. Just a thin dress with a shawl caught around her shoulders to keep out the winter cold. No stockings, just a pair of clogs on her bare feet. ‘I woke up and looked in on her and she’d gone.’
He looked at her. Constable Earnshaw had been fifteen years on the force, the last five of them around here. It was a poor area, no more than a loud shout from the nick down at Millgarth. Filled with rooming houses, the Mission, a run-down Turkish bathhouse in among the back-to-backs. Too many people crammed into houses that needed to be torn down. But it was what they could afford.
‘Outhouse?’ he asked.
‘I already looked,’ Millie Walker told him. She shook her head, wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to cry. ‘She’s gone again.’
The first time had been the year before. Ada Taylor was old, half-blind, spending more hours lost in the past than she did in the present. She talked to her husband, dead for nigh on twenty years, as if she could see him right there in the room, and to Dollie, Millie’s younger sister who hadn’t lived past the age of eight. Sometimes she was fine, making as much sense as anyone, cackling with the other women who gathered on the doorsteps and gossiped. But when her mind slipped, no one knew how long before it would return. Or even if it would come back.
Everyone in the area kept an eye out for her, leading her back home if she began to wander. One day, though, she managed to just disappear, gone for an hour as people searched, until they found her down by Marsh Lane, standing and talking to someone that no other person could see, calling him granddad, listening to the answers only she could hear.
There’d been two other occasions since. Once at the start of spring, when someone finally spotted her over on Kirkgate, so soaked after a heavy shower of rain that Millie was scared her mother would take a chill and die. Then in the summer when she ended up on the river bank – and God only knew how she’d walked so far with bad knees and swollen ankles – just sitting with her legs dangling and smiling up at the blue sky.
This time, though, there was no telling how long she’d been gone.
‘I felt the sheets in her bed,’ Millie said, ‘and they were cold. Like ice.’ She was trying to keep her face steady and her voice strong. The weather had been bitter the last few days, she could almost taste the snow in the air, along with all the soot and the stink.
‘You get the people out around here,’ Earnshaw told her. ‘Go all around. I’ll get the bobbies out.’ He waited until she gave him a short nod then turned on his heel and dashed away.
Detective Inspector Tom Harper was at the station just before the shift changed at six. All the night men looking ready for their beds, faces red with the cold. And the ones on days looking glum at the idea of twelve hours out in the weather.
‘Sir?’
He looked up, setting aside the report he was writing.
‘Morning, Victor. Time to go home for you, isn’t it?’
They knew each other; Earnshaw had shown him some of the ropes when he’d been a recruit, in the days when he’d been too eager to please and believed everything anyone told him. The older man had helped him quickly rub off some of the green and give him an edge.
‘Not this morning, sir. I’ve got something. And old woman who’s vanished in the night. She’s a bit, well, you know.’
‘How long’s she been gone?’
‘Anytime up to eight hours, sir. That’s the problem. She’s done it before, an’ all.’ He explained quickly, giving a short description of the woman. ‘I thought I’d go back and help out if I can.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I know you get out and about. If you can pass the word, please, sir. I’ve let Sergeant Tollman know. Everyone’s going to be watching for her.’
‘I will,’ Harper promised.
‘Bless you, sir. A few of the lads are going to come with me. Happen we’ll find her soon.’
By dinnertime there was no sign of her.
Harper had had a full morning trying to track a thief who’d broken into at least twenty houses. He had the man’s name, but he’d gone to ground somewhere, nowhere to be found. It was a time to go around the pubs and corners, to ask his quiet questions and mention Ada Taylor as he was leaving. Half the men he talked to couldn’t care – they could trip over her and not give a damn – but others nodded with serious eyes. They remembered their mams and their nanas.
To make it worse, he was working alone; Sergeant Reed was in court, giving evidence in a fraud case and likely to be there all day and half the next.
At three the word reached him. The man he wanted was hiding in an empty cellar on Commercial Street. Sold out for three shillings, and the inspector paid it gladly.
The only way in was a set of steps off Packhorse Yard. At the top he took a deep breath and moved as quietly as possible, keeping one hand against the wall to steady himself. Under his boots he could feel the stone, greasy and slick. One slip and he’d tumble all the way down.
The door at the bottom was pulled to, but gave when he pushed lightly on it. The day was already near dusk, the light dim. Inside it would be black.
God alone knew what the man had in there to protect himself. And all detectives carried were their police whistles. It was going to be bluff.
With a kick, he rattled the door back off the wall.
‘Police, Jem.’ He let his voice ring out. ‘I’ve got three coppers out here who are cold and angry. They wouldn’t mind warming themselves up on you. It’s your choice.’
If he’d been given the wrong information he’d look a right bloody fool. And he’d be getting his money back from someone, no mistake on that.
He waited, flexing his hands into fists. Ready. Harper knew his hearing was poor, all down to a blow six years before. The man could be creeping across the floor right now and he might not even know it.
Then the face was there in the doorway. Dirty, hair ragged, a weeping sore filling one cheek. The inspector grabbed him, turned the man against the wall and snapped on the handcuffs on tight.
One thing done, at least.
Writing out the report took an hour, but at least there was a good coal fire burning in the office. No sign of Ada Taylor, though. The word that she was still missing had rippled through the station. He could only imagine the thoughts going through her daughter’s mind.
Ten past five and the door opened suddenly, Tollman peering through.
‘Disturbance, sir. Corner of Briggate and Boar Lane. Sounds like they need all the help they can get.’
Harper ran full pelt, but it was still four full minutes to reach the scene. Traffic was stopped, omnibuses, carts, and trams all one behind the other. There had to be fifteen coppers already there, truncheons out, herding two groups of youths apart and cracking a head or two. All over bar the shouting and the arrests.
In the December darkness it was time to call it a night. And that was when he saw Ada Taylor.
He helped her up. She was cold, shaky, but she could shuffle along if she clung tight to his arm.
‘You’re like Bert,’ she told him with a coy expression. For a moment the years parted and he could see the pretty young girl she’d been so long ago. ‘You should have seen Bert. He was good-looking, too. I should never have turned him away for Eddie. I’d have had handsome children then.’
The cocoa house was nearby. He helped her inside and bought her a cup, watching as she gazed around the place, not saying a word, drinking with dainty sips.
‘Come on, we’d better get you home,’ he said finally. ‘Your daughter must be beside herself with worry.’
‘I can see your fortune,’ Ada said. It came out of the blue and took him by surprise. The voice didn’t even sound like hers. It was darker, graver, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Her eyes seemed to be staring at something far away. ‘You’re never going to be a rich man unless you do one thing.’
He’d play along, he thought. Who knew what was going on inside her head?
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
But as quickly as it arrive, the moment passed. The confusion had returned to her face.
‘Who are you again?’ she asked, sounding like an old woman once more.
‘Someone who’s getting you home. There’s bound to be a hackney outside. You fancy a ride in that, Mrs. Taylor?’
It was the best part of seven o’clock before he climbed the stairs at the Victoria. A long day, but then they all were. Still, he had a thief ready to go to trial and there was someone back with her family. He’d experienced worse.
‘Tom?’ Annabelle called from the kitchen as he opened the door.
He walked in and put his arms around her.
‘Busy day?’ he asked.
‘No more than usual. You look all in.’ She stroked his hair.
‘It was interesting,’ he said. ‘I almost found out how to be rich.’
‘What?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t be so daft. What on earth are you talking about?’
He smiled.
‘Honestly,’ he told her, ‘I wish I knew.’
If you like this, there are 11 books in the Tom Harper series, running from 1890-1920, as much about him, his family and Leeds as about crime. The first few are dead cheap on Kindle. Why not treat yourself (or someone else?). Find Gods of God, where it begins, right here.
Annabelle Harper had gone five paces past the man before she stopped. There were beggars everywhere in Leeds, as common as shadows along the street. But something about this face flickered in her mind and lit up a memory. He was despondent, at his wits’ end, but unlike so many, he wasn’t trying to become invisible against the stones, to disappear into the fabric of the city. He might not like he was happy about it, but the man was very much alive. She stopped abruptly, turned on her heel in a swish of crinoline and marched back until she was standing over him, shopping bags dangling from her hands. It was the last day of February, a sun shining that almost felt like spring.
‘You, you’re Tommy Doohan, aren’t you?’
Very slowly, as if it was a great effort, he raised his head. He’d been staring down at the pavement between his legs.
‘I am,’ he answered. His voice was weary, a broad Leeds accent with just the smallest hint of Ireland, easy to miss unless you were familiar with it. He stared up at her, baffled, with his one good eye, the other no more than a small, dark cavern above his cheek. ‘And who might you be? You don’t look familiar.’
‘Annabelle Harper,’ the woman replied. ‘Little Annabelle, when you knew me. Back on Leather Street where we were little.’
His smile was weak. He looked as if the entire weight of the city had pressed down on him and left him small and broken. It had dropped him in this spot
‘That was a long time ago.’
His suit had probably been reasonably smart once. Good, heavy wool, but the black colour had turned dusty and gritty from sitting so long. Cuffs and trouser hems frayed, threads hanging to the ground. Up close, she could see the grime on his shirt, no collar, no tie. The shine had long vanished from his shoes. He was bare-headed, his hair dark, growing wild and unruly. His cap sat upside-down between his thighs. In a rough, awkward attempt at copperplate, the cardboard sign propped against it read: But give that which is within as charity, and then all things are clean for you.
‘Luke,’ she said. ‘Chapter eleven, verse forty-one.’ Annabelle grinned. They’d been in the same class at Mount St. Mary’s School. ‘The nuns must have rapped my knuckles a dozen times over that one. Sister Marguerite would be happy it finally stuck.’
‘Ah, she did the same to me as well. Twenty times, at least. But they’d have a harder time doing that now.’ He held up his right arm, the hand missing two fingers and the thumb.
Annabelle took a slow, deep breath.
‘My God, Tommy, what happened?’
‘Just a little fight with a machine,’ he said wryly. ‘I think I won, though. You should have seen the machine when we finished.’
‘How can you-’ she began, then closed her mouth. She knew the answer deep in her bones. You laughed about it to stop the pain. You joked, because if you didn’t you’d fall off the world and never find your way back. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t let a woman pay for me.’
She dropped the bags and stood, hands on her hips, face set.
‘You can and you will, Tommy Doohan. Get off your high horse. You’d have been happy enough if I’d put a tanner in your cap. Now, up on your feet.’ She looked along the Upper Head Row and across down Lands Lane. ‘We’re going to that place over there. And I’m not taking no for an answer.’
For a moment he didn’t move. But her voice had a razor edge, and he pushed himself to his feet, scooping a couple of pennies and farthing from the cap before he jammed it on his head.
He was tall, towering a good nine inches above her. Close to, he smelt of dirt and decay, as if he might be dying from the inside.
‘I’d carry your bags for you, but one of the paws doesn’t work so well.’
‘Give over,’ she told him, and his mouth twitched into a real smile.
He cradled the mug, as if he was relishing the warmth, only letting go to eat the toasted teacake she’d ordered for him. When he was done, he wiped the butter from his mouth with the back of a grimy hand, then felt in his pocket for a tab end.
They’d been silent, but now Annabelle said: ‘Go on, Tommy, what happened to you?’
‘When I was sixteen, I headed over to Manchester to try my luck. Me and my brother Donald, do you remember him?’
She had the faint recollection of someone a little older, tousle-haired and laughing.
‘What could you do there that you couldn’t here?’
‘It was different, wasn’t it?’ he said bitterly. ‘I’d been a mechanic down at Black Dog Mill, I could fix things, and Donny, well, he was jack of all trades.’ He smoked, then stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray in quick jabs. ‘We did all right, I suppose. One of the cotton mills there took him on, made him a foreman, earning fair money.’
‘What about you?’
‘Down at the docks. Long hours, but it was a decent wage. Lots of machines to look after. I met a lass, got wed, had ourselves a couple of kiddies.’
‘I’ve got one, too. A little girl.’
Doohan cocked his head.
‘What does your husband do? You look well off.’
‘You’ll never credit it.’ She laughed. ‘He’s a bobby. A detective inspector. And I own a pub. The Victoria down in Sheepscar.’
He let out a low whistle. ‘You’ve turned into a rich woman.’
‘We get by,’ Annabelle said. ‘Anyway, what about your family?’
‘Gone,’ he told her bleakly. ‘About two years back I was working on this crane, you know, hauling stuff out of the boats. The mechanism has jammed. I almost had it fixed when the cable broke. It’s as thick as your arm, made from metal strands. Took the fingers before I even knew it, and a piece flew off into my eye.’ He shrugged. ‘I was in the hospital for a long time. Came out, no job. They told me that since I didn’t have two full hands, I wasn’t able to do the work anymore. Goodbye, thank you, and handed me two quid to see me on my way like I should be grateful.’
‘Where was your wife?’
‘Upped sticks and scarpered with my best mate as soon as someone told her I wasn’t going to be working. Took the children with her. I tried looking round for them for a long time, but I couldn’t find hide nor hair. Finally I thought I’d come back to Leeds. I might have a bit more luck here.’ He sighed. ‘You can see how that turned out. On me uppers on the Head Row. Begging to get a bed.’ He spat out the sentence.
‘Couldn’t your brother help?’ Annabelle asked.
‘Donald was married, and he and his brood had gone off to Liverpool. He has his own life, it wouldn’t be fair. Me mam and dad are dead, but there are a few relatives who slip me a little something.’
She stayed silent for a long time, twisting the wedding ring back and forth around her finger.
‘How long did you work at all this?’
‘Seventeen years,’ Doohan said with pride. ‘Ended up a supervisor before…’ He didn’t need to say more.
‘Do you know Hope Foundry? Down on Mabgate?’
‘I think I’ve seen it. Why?’
‘Fred Hope, one of the owners, he drinks in the pub. He was just saying the other day that he’s looking for engineering people. You know, to run things.’
Doohan raised his right arm with its missing fingers to his empty eye.
‘You’re forgetting these.’
‘No, I’m not. You’ve got a left hand. And your brain still works, doesn’t it?’
‘Course it does,’ he answered.
‘Then pop in and see him tomorrow. Tell him I suggested it.’
He stared at her doubtfully. ‘Are you serious about this?’
‘What do you think?’
‘He’ll say no. They always do.’
‘Happen he won’t. Fred has a good head on his shoulders. He can see more than a lot of people.’ Annabelle opened her purse and pulled out two one-pound notes. ‘Here. It’s a loan,’ she warned him. ‘Just so you can get yourself cleaned up and somewhere decent to sleep. Some food in you.’
‘I can’t.’
She pressed the money into his palm.
‘There’s no saintliness in being hungry and kipping on a bench,’ she hissed. ‘Take it.’
He closed his fingers around the paper.
‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I’ll pay you back.’
‘You will,’ she agreed. ‘I know where you’ll be working. And your boss is a friend of mine. Now you’d better get a move on, before the shops shut.’
‘What about…?’ He gestured at the table.
‘Call it my treat. Now, go on. Off with you.’
At the door he turned back, grinning. He seemed very solid, filling the space.
‘Is this what they mean by the old school tie?’
Forgive the self-promotion, but it’s almost Christmas and Amazon has my newest book on sale (I’d prefer you to give your money to a local bookshop but…) for a low price, hardback and Kindle. If you want to give it a try, find it here.
Chris Nickson 