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 alongside the platform, and more tourists alighted, porters toting their belongings to the lobby of the Royal Station Hotel. He pictured Etta’s arrival with her papa that fateful day, wondered what she was doing and if she felt this miserable too. With unfocused eyes he stared as passengers came flooding through the barriers, those unable to afford a cab hailing the services of barrow boys. The scene was re-enacted many a time before the solution hit him. Why, of course! Whoever said that he could not be his own employer? Excited now, his mind began to race, to form a plan, plummeting briefly as he hit a snag: to be a barrow boy one must have a licence – another blessed licence – and whatever the price he was unable to afford it. Still, he remained optimistic enough to accost one such carrier who was standing idle, asking, ‘Eh, chum, how much is a licence?’
‘’Bout half a crown, I think –’
Marty groaned.
The shifty-looking informant then admitted, ‘– but I haven’t got one.’
Marty perked up. ‘That’s in order, is it?’
‘Aye, but it means you only get a job when the permit-holders are all busy. And you have to watch out for Custard Lugs,’ he indicated a man with huge, yellow-tinged ears, ‘he carries a life-preserver and he’ll use it if he thinks you’re trying to weasel your way in.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of his way!’ Grinning his thanks, Marty left the station, feeling more buoyant than when he had arrived and celebrating with a pennyworth of fish and chips. All he had to do now was to acquire a barrow.
Had he not been a popular sort, with very little cash the acquisition might have been impossible, but he knew just where to go. One of his many friends was a collector, preferring that term to a fence of stolen goods, from whose treasure trove was unearthed a rickety barrow.
‘Needs a wheel.’ Bill’s guttural Yorkshire accent emerged from the shadows as he turned to poke around again in the shed. ‘But I must have summat here that’ll do.’
Marty was delighted. ‘Trouble is, Bill, I don’t have any cash. Can I pay you when I’ve put it to work?’
Still searching, Bill said he could, then reached into a cardboard box. ‘How about a cheese?’
‘To act as a wheel?’ asked Marty with a laugh.
‘Dozy sod – for your mother. Tell her I’ve got some nice bacon an’ all – oh, there we are!’ Bill found a suitable wheel which, affixed to the barrow, was to provide Marty’s salvation. He had a barrow, he had a job; now he would have Etta.
Before anything else, he had to conjure an excuse for his parents as to why he might be absent for the next couple of days. It would not work. They would guess at once what he was up to and prevent it. Instead, speaking enthusiastically about the barrow, he explained the difficulty he might have in touting for custom without a licence, and that if he happened to be very late home on his first day they must not worry. They seemed very pleased with his enterprise and he hoped they would not be too concerned when he failed to show. He hated lying but could not hope for them to understand the strength of his feelings for Etta. It was she who commanded his thoughts as he trundled his barrow to the pub in Long Close Lane early the next morning, to be stashed there until his triumphal return.
Everything was in order with the room. How fortunate that he had paid the month’s rent in advance. Checking for the umpteenth time that the key was in his pocket, he embarked on his rescue expedition. Admittedly he was terrified of such a powerful man as Ibbetson, but his love for Etta overcame all, and the notion that he was taking the first step towards their reunion filled him with cheer as he set off on his fifteen-mile hike. Occasionally, this lightness of spirit was to evaporate along with the runnels of sweat on his brow as he struggled through the August heat wave that had suddenly flared, plodding along dusty roads and rolling countryside with his jacket slung over his shoulder, hour after hour after hour, his feet on fire, his legs fit to buckle, his throat parched. But, eventually arrived at her gate just after noon, he was imbued with a sense of such overwhelming achievement that instead of lying low and waiting for her to spot him, he summoned every ounce of courage, donned his brass-buttoned jacket and marched proudly up the driveway towards the massive front door. He would show just how serious he was and let Ibbetson admire his pluck.
The
