hands. ‘I met the girl I want to marry, Ma.’
With two children helping her to lay the table and another smaller one using her leg as a support, Agnes Lanegan smiled, arched an eyebrow at her husband and replied facetiously, ‘I’d better starch the best linen then, though you don’t look too happy about it.’
‘That’s because her father doesn’t want her to marry me,’ revealed Marty, hanging up the towel. ‘Thinks she’s above us.’
‘You weren’t codding us then?’ His mother bridled and pursed her lips.
His normally mild-mannered father showed indignation. ‘The poltroon! My son’s good enough for anyone…lessen ’tis the daughter of the hotel manager of course, now that would be taking expectations a bit too far.’ His eyes told that it was meant as a jest. Then he noted his son’s expression and his jaw dropped. ‘Christ, she’s not, is she?’
Marty paused and took a deep breath. ‘No…but her father does have a bob or two.’ Always able to confide in his parents, he was honest with them now, telling them everything that had occurred and rendering them dumb with such astonishment that he had to fill the gap himself. ‘I still can’t believe it happened so fast! Like an angel she is, an angel.’
His parents looked at each other, betraying dubiety, Agnes breaking the silence first. ‘But she’s left the hotel, ye say?’ She plucked the loose, tanned skin of her throat, anxious that he might be courting trouble.
Marty nodded sadly and tugged down his shirt cuffs.
Somewhat relieved, Mrs Lanegan shared a look of sympathy with her husband, saying kindly to her son, ‘There are finer fish in the sea than have ever been caught. Here, come sit down, I’ve some nice kippers – Uncle Mal, come for your tea now!’
Great Uncle Malachy cast a rheumy eye from his evening newspaper. ‘Tea? I only just had breakfast.’ But he ambled obediently to sit with the children at the table.
Pulling out a chair, Marty looked wan. ‘I don’t think I can manage anything.’
‘Sure and you will!’ Serving him directly after his father, Agnes patted his shoulder lovingly. ‘Get that down ye, it’ll make you forget about Miss High and Mighty.’
He looked up from his seat, slightly annoyed. ‘No it won’t.’
‘Watch your tone, boy,’ warned Redmond Lanegan, his eyes suddenly hard.
‘Sorry, Mammy.’ Marty was contrite whilst remaining obstinate in his ambition. ‘But I couldn’t forget about Etta even if I tried. She’s the one for me and I’m the one for her.’
‘Her father doesn’t seem to agree,’ Agnes reminded him.
‘Then he can lump it.’
The parents glanced at each other in dismay over this all too familiar stance. Marty had always lived life like a terrier fighting the leash: he knew there was something better to be had just over there, if only he was allowed to get at it – and, God, help them, he had spotted something over there again.
‘Martin, I’m warning you, put this out of your mind at once!’ Grim-faced, Mrs Lanegan turned to her husband for backing, which was granted, though it did not the slightest to change their son’s mind. Marty picked at his meal, not offering any further argument, but it was clearly evident in his posture.
Planting herself on the wobbly dining chair, Agnes damned him. ‘Ever since you were a bit of a boy you’ve always wanted what you can’t have! I’ll never forget that time you set your heart on a great big cooking apple – pestered and pestered till I bought it for you, even after I’d warned that it wouldn’t suit your taste. Then you took one bite, made a face and said you didn’t want any more – after I’d emptied me purse to get it for you!’
‘And you made me sit and eat it if I recall.’ Marty cast a dour grin at his younger siblings. ‘But this isn’t the same at all, Ma.’
Seeing his wife open her mouth for another volley, Redmond commanded tiredly, ‘For the love of Mike, leave it, woman!’
And knowing what tiresome repercussions even a tiny argument could bring, she complied, though with bad grace as she repeated primly, ‘Always wanted what you can’t damn well have!’ before getting on with her tea.
Taking his father’s raised voice as a signal to desist, Marty offered not another word, quarrel giving way to the brusque scraping of knives and forks.
Old Uncle Mal, searching for something to divert open warfare, ran his tongue around his gums and announced, ‘You’ll be pleased to hear my diarrhoea’s cleared up, Marty.’
‘We’re overjoyed,’ yawned Redmond, as there was a groan of disgust from his wife and sniggers from the youngsters.
But they were an affectionate family and the bad feeling did not last for more than a few hours, Mrs Lanegan clamping her son’s shoulder as she served his usual supper of bread and tea, and, without resurrecting the topic, telling him quietly, ‘Everything’ll turn out for the best, you’ll see.’
‘Aye, lookit, Marty!’ His face wreathed in ambition, Mr Lanegan displayed a picture of a motor car in the book he had been reading. ‘How d’ye fancy driving along Walmgate in that? ’Twould get the neighbours talking sure enough. Aye,’ he gazed longingly at the picture, ‘we shall have one of those some day.’
Marty dealt him a fond but half-hearted smile, knowing it was just his father’s way of taking his mind off Etta. As if it would.
Apparently this was to remain a concern to his parents, for as Marty finished his supper and was on his way to bed he overheard his mother trying to reassure her husband, ‘Don’t go fretting yourself about it, dear. ’Twill be just another of his passing desires. She’s gone from the hotel, so there’s not much he can do about it. You know what he’s like. In a few days he’ll have set his sights on something or somebody else and forgotten all about her.’
No I won’t, thought her son grimly as he continued up the stairs. I won’t even be able to sleep for thinking about her. And he was right.
The next morning, exhausted and grumpy, Marty was ready to bite the head off the first person who crossed him. As this turned out to be the head porter he held his tongue and was glad he did, because after being upbraided for having his mail directed to the hotel, a letter was shoved into his fist.
Knowing immediately who it was from, he tore it open, receiving a jolt as he read the grand-sounding address of the correspondent: Swanford Hall. The note was brief and obviously scribbled in a hurry, but its content was wonderfully explicit. Etta wanted him.
Regarding it as too chancy to commit his intentions to paper, besides not being much of a letter-writer, Marty’s only option was to roll up at Etta’s address on his first afternoon off and hope to encounter her. Sadly, his optimism was outweighed by reality. Not daring to venture as far as the mansion he hung around its imposing gates until nightfall, waiting so long that he missed the last carrier and had to walk the fifteen miles home alone in the pouring rain. Thankfully
