and giddy with happiness, she ran to where the hat still lay on the carpet. It was whilst she was picking it up that her father’s voice intruded, startling the elopers.
‘What the deuce are you doing in here?’ It emerged as through a megaphone.
Wheeling to face the imposing presence, Marty blanched – the wretch must have passed Joe on the way. Under threat, he thought quickly, seizing and brandishing the kid slippers that he had thrown aside on entry. ‘Just returning the lady’s shoes, sir!’ He hoped the father did not recognize the lie.
But ownership of the shoes was of no concern to Ibbetson. ‘The door was locked – you must have let yourself in!’ Stick raised, the man advanced upon the slender youth.
Alarmed that her newfound romance was to be spoiled before it had chance to flourish, Etta butted in whilst trying to appear calm. ‘There’s nothing untoward, Father, he was passing the room and I commanded him to fetch me something to drink, which involved him also fetching a key. It was stifling in here, I almost passed out.’
Marty chipped in to endorse this. ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to ignore the lady’s discomfort, sir.’
‘You are impudent, boy! I shall have you dismissed!’
‘For saving me?’ Head erect, Etta glided forward, desperate to run but knowing that would ruin everything. As things stood, all was not completely lost. ‘I should rather imagine the hotel owner would thank his employee for such quick thinking. He wasn’t the one who locked me in.’
With her father’s wrath successfully deflected from Martin, immediately she became humble, though it was against her nature. ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean that to sound in any way defiant. I’m merely trying to explain that the young man was simply doing as he was bidden. Please, Father, you’ve never been unfair to our own servants.’ Etta laid a steadying hand upon his arm, trying not to reveal her true anxiety. How were they to get away now?
Marty was thinking the same thing. Wisely, in the face of Ibbetson’s fury he dropped his gaze to the carpet and stood meekly awaiting his fate, though under the surface his mind whirred like clockwork for a solution.
After what seemed like aeons, though his colour remained high, Ibbetson grudgingly decided, ‘Very well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You may keep your job – but only because we shall shortly be gone and I shan’t have to encounter your detestable face again. Now get out and send a porter to transport our bags immediately to the platform!’
With the man gesticulating for him to leave, Marty gave hasty thanks and obeyed. Henrietta’s heart sank into despair as he dealt her not so much as a glance.
By now, though, thoroughly infatuated, Marty had no intention of abandoning his prize. Cursing his laxity at not seeking her precise address, he raced downstairs, and, after bewailing his luck to his colleagues and submitting to their friendly teasing, he threw himself on their mercy yet again. Scribbling on a crumpled bit of paper and electing the chambermaid as his go-between, he begged her, ‘Jo, do us a favour! Slip her this message before she lea—’
‘He must think I’m barmy!’ Open-mouthed, she advertised her scorn to the laughing assembly.
‘Ah, go on!’ Fraught with desperation, he tried to cup her face. ‘Please! I have to get her address or she’s lost to me forever!’
She craned her head out of reach. ‘And you expect me to care?’ Was he really so insensitive? Could he not tell how much she wanted him herself?
‘I thought you were a pal?’ he beseeched her, but she just pushed him bad-temperedly out of her way and left.
No one else seemed keen to take the risk, laughing off his frantic attempts as pure whimsy. After an infuriated pause there came a brainwave. Swearing and rummaging through a drawer he finally came up with a piece of chalk. Then, grabbing a tray he scrawled something on the underside and rushed from the side exit. Swearing and dodging his way through a collection of laundry hampers that were being off-loaded, he bounded around to the hotel’s main lobby which opened onto the station platform, heading for a spot that Etta would have to pass.
But she was already well on her way, albeit unwillingly, being half dragged by her father after the porter who carried their bags. Hovering anxiously with his tray, Marty silently urged her to turn around, but Etta marched onwards stiffbacked to the waiting train. Panic rose. He couldn’t lose her, he couldn’t! Almost at the point of risking everything, he was about to yell out for her not to leave, when, miracle of miracles, she turned crossly to take issue with her father for manhandling her into the carriage and at last spotted Marty. In this same instant he tilted the tray to reveal the chalked entreaty underneath: IF YOU WANT ME TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE.
A joyous recognition came to her eyes, igniting a spark of optimism that regrettably was not to last, for at this same time her father spun round too and Marty was compelled to vanish. When he dared to poke his head out again, Etta was in the carriage, out of sight. He wondered miserably, as the train chugged away, if she had deciphered his message or if he would ever see her again.
Ignorant as to the extent of his agony, his colleagues told him mildly, ‘Forget about her, Bootsie. The likes of her won’t fret about thee – oh, and we’ll have our money back if you don’t mind.’
‘Aw, don’t be mean!’ Now that the rival had been disposed of, Joanna allowed her compassionate nature to shine through and she gripped his arm. ‘Cheer up, Bootsie, me and my friend are off to the theatre tonight, you can come with us if you like.’
Normally Marty would have accepted, but he was just too devastated and did not even acknowledge the invitation, much to his admirer’s hurt. He emptied his pockets but, though glum, his tone showed he was not beaten. ‘I wonder if her address is in the register.’
‘Eh, don’t let Wilko hear you!’ They grouped round to recover their contributions.
Marty remained pensive. ‘She mentioned her dad’s a farmer…’
There was a cackle from the porter. ‘Aye, but not just some clod-hopping smallholder! Haven’t you heard of him, you dummy? He owns half the Yorkshire Wolds!’
Unfazed, Marty declared. ‘Well, he doesn’t own me and I’m going to find her, you see.’
There was no time for the others to enquire how he was going to do this, for their superior came in then to give everyone a dressing down and to make sure the boot boy was kept busy for the rest of his shift.
But that didn’t stop his mind being preoccupied, and this mood was to last long after Etta had gone.
It was still with him when he travelled home along Walmgate that evening, a different environment completely to the one he had just left. Abounding with public houses, the thoroughfare reeked of stale beer fumes and the effluvia of tanneries and skin-yards, alleviated only by the more appetising aroma of fish and chips. Ahead of him, a small boy clanked along with a bucket and shovel, stopping occasionally to scrape a pile of dog excreta from the pavement into his bucket. Two hatchet-faced, greasy-haired slatterns called insults at each other from opposite sides of the road, one threatening to, ‘Tear the black heart out of yese!’ Cringing from such unfeminine behaviour, Marty ducked into a side street and onwards to the tiny terraced house in Hope Street with its soot-engrained bricks, its dull bottlegreen door and lopsided shutters, the feeling of discontent plain on his face.
His
