‘I could murder a beer,’ Emily said.
‘I didn’t know you drank.’
‘I didn’t. I’ve just started.’
We were standing by a bridge to the side of a tavern. We’d been walking all morning through braying rain. My surtout was clinging to my skin and the seams were rubbing the flesh raw.
‘I suppose we could both do with a drink and something to eat,’ I said.
Inside, the barman eyed us suspiciously. We must have been a sight to behold, Cathy. A barefoot girl in an oversized shirt, a ripped frock tied at the waist, and a dark-skinned gypsy in naught but a coat and breeches. Wet as water rats. He refused us custom at first but I managed to persuade him. I bought us some bread and cheese, a flagon of ale for the girl and some hot tea for myself. We sat on stools around a small table next to a group of navvies and bankers. They were drinking ale and smoking their clay pipes. I watched them chat and laugh. One was dark-skinned like me and it was good to be in the company of another. I earwigged as Emily supped. The dark-skinned one had been transporting goods on the coaching roads and was talking about how much safer it was on the canal.
‘So we go to the docks and we make some enquiries, is that the plan?’ Emily said.
‘That’s the start of it. What will you do?’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You can’t just follow me around all the time, you know.’
‘Why not?’
‘My long-term plans, they don’t involve you.’
‘What long-term plans?’
‘To get an education. To get wealth. To get what’s mine.’
‘Well, I want an education too, you know. And I want wealth. I want what’s mine.’
She started coughing from deep down in her lungs. I watched as she hacked and spluttered. I waited for the coughing fit to finish.
‘You’ll have to find your own way. I can’t be responsible for you all the time. Besides, once I’ve got my wealth and my education, I’m going back.’
‘To Wuthering Heights?’
‘To Wuthering Heights.’
‘What for?’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Are you going to stick it to Hindley?’
‘I’ve not decided yet.’
This was true. All I knew at this stage was that cunt was going to get it. And as for you, Cathy, I was still thinking on how best to teach you a lesson and make your life a misery.
‘My dad would have the lot of them rounded up and shot like cattle. He wouldn’t mess about. Your problem is you spend too long thinking about stuff instead of doing it. My dad used to say that there are two types of people: people who get stuff done and people who are cunts.’
Yes, I wanted to say, and look how he ended up. But I bit my tongue.
‘What about the cake shop?’
‘What about it?’
‘Can we open a cake shop there?’
‘Where?’
‘Near Wuthering Heights.’
‘There’s no call for cake in those parts.’
‘Everyone likes cake, in every part I’ve travelled, anyway, and I’ve been almost everywhere. You’re not travelled like me, you don’t know about these things. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just a farm boy from the sticks. I’ve done this, done that. Been here, been there. It’s time you took some advice from one who knows.’
I watched her stuff the last of the cheese into her mouth, followed by a heel of bread, then slurp the dregs of the ale. We got up and made our way back to the canal.
In the distance I could hear a cuckoo’s hooting call. I remember Nelly one time saying that I was the cuckoo of the family and I’d asked you later why she’d said it. You told me that a female cuckoo lays its egg in another bird’s nest and that bird brings up the infant cuckoo – and that’s what Nelly meant. That I was a foreign infant, a parasite. But I found out later that when the infant cuckoo hatches, it pushes all the other eggs out. So in fact I wasn’t a cuckoo at all. I was the one who had been pushed out of the nest, first by Hindley, then by you, Cathy. Or maybe that’s what I should do. Go back to Wuthering Heights and kick you all out of the nest. I’d enjoy doing that. Be the cuckoo you all thought I was.
The rain had stopped and the sun was burning through the clouds. I took off my coat and carried it over my shoulder, hoping it would dry. As I walked I mused. We’d be in Liverpool soon. But would I find what I wanted to? I had no idea how I would go about it. Emily was right. What if I found out nothing? What then? I would still need to raise the capital for a decent education. How was I going to do that? It all felt out of my grasp. And yet what did I have? Only to go on with the plan. There was nothing else to keep me on this earth.
‘This is boring,’ Emily said again.
‘You’re boring.’
‘Tell me a story.’
‘I don’t know any stories.’
‘You must do.’
I thought back. I’d told her everything I knew. I shrugged.
‘If my dad were here now, he’d tell a brilliant story.’
‘Well, he’s not.’
We walked in silence for a while, with the water to our right and bramble to our left. I tried a few attempts to get Emily to talk but she’d gone quiet again.
‘Here, let’s pick these,’ I said.
We stopped. I picked some berries. Emily stared at her feet.
‘They’re good, try for yourself.’
I handed her a blackberry but she didn’t respond.
‘You were saying earlier on, about your dad. About him thinking about working the towpaths. That he said it was too busy. Did you hear that man in the pub back there?’
‘What man?’
‘He was talking about how it was safe. Working the canals. He meant safe from thieves.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, it might be that your dad was right, that it’s because there’s too many people about, but I’ve been thinking, I mean, there’s hardly anyone along this bit. So it can’t be just that. It would be easy to come along on horseback and hold up one of the boats.’
‘And steal what? A ton of coal?’ Emily said.
She thought about it for a bit.
Then she said, ‘Besides, it would be easy to duck inside. And a horse can’t walk on water, so as long as the boat is in the middle of the canal, it’s safe. I mean, even if they fired and shot the boatman, how could they get to his booty? There would be no sense to it.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ I said. ‘No good for your dad then.’
We came to an aqueduct. A stone bridge that allowed the canal to cross over an expanse of water beneath. As we walked along the narrow towpath, I looked down at the river below. The water was almost as still as the water in the canal. When we got to the other side of the bridge, I looked back at the aqueduct. The water was up to the brim of the bank.
‘How come it doesn’t overflow?’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I bet your dad would know.’
‘He would,’ she said. ‘He’d definitely know.’
We rejoined the towpath, where two adult swans glided through the water, followed by their young. The cygnets were almost as big as their parents, but their feathers were dull and grey and their beaks were black. I heard that swans mate for life, Cathy. The pen doesn’t make a promise to the cob and then renege on that promise, when a poncier cob comes along. The pen stays true to her word. She doesn’t betray her heart’s desire, she knows what matters most.
As we approached a place signed Worsley, the water in the canal turned at first from brown-green, to russet, and then an umber colour, until eventually the water was bright orange.
‘Why’s it turned colour?’ Emily said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe someone spilt some paint.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘There were two men back there painting a fence.’
‘They weren’t painting it orange though, were they? Besides, did you see the size of the tin?’
She shrugged. She went quiet for a while.
‘Why’s the sky blue?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. You might as well ask why the grass is green. Or why a buttercup is yellow.’
‘Don’t you ever think about these questions?’
‘I’ve got more important things to think about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like where I’m going. Where I’ve been.’
‘Well, I think about them. I asked my dad the same question. And he knew the answer.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said the sky was blue because God wanted it that colour.’
We came to the end of the canal. The waterway terminated by a dock. I looked up at the sun. We were heading north – in the wrong direction.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It can’t be this way.’
There were barges parked up, being loaded with coal. The clock nearby was striking thirteen. I remembered Stick’s words. I recounted the story to Emily.
‘The flatmen were getting back late after their dinner break. They were down the pub, getting bevvied up.’
‘Bevvied up?’
‘That’s what Sticks called having a beer. Anyway, they were having a beer and getting back late, so the duke had a special clock fitted, rang out thirteen times when it was one of the clock. Crafty sod, that duke.’
We asked another boatman. He told us that we needed to go back to the aqueduct. The water underneath the bridge was the Irwell. This was the waterway that would take us to Liverpool. I remembered Sticks’s words again. I’d misunderstood what he’d meant. It was only three miles back the way we came, but I was getting tired, my legs and feet were aching, and the thought of retracing our steps made my heart sink. Nevertheless, we turned around and walked back the way we had come to the bridge.
‘We’ve got to walk all the way back. Because of your mistake,’ Emily said, shaking her head.
‘I didn’t see you correcting my error.’
‘I’m not an expert on canals.’
‘Neither am I.’
We got back to the bridge, then we dropped down onto a path by the side of the huge expanse of water. As we headed west once more I could feel the sting of another blister, this time on the heel of the other foot. The Irwell was not like the Bridgewater. While the Bridgewater had room for two or three barges, this stretch of water could fit a full fleet and still have space either side.
We walked along its length, watching the barges and boats snake up and down, carrying their heavy loads. We saw a ship piled up with bales of raw cotton, no doubt destined for the Manchester mills we’d seen half-starved children pour out of. In the opposite direction, going towards Liverpool, we saw a ship loaded up with the finished cloths. There were boats carrying tobacco, sugar, tea and coffee. Spices from faraway countries. All kinds of finery. There were boats everywhere and men working the loads. There were ships powered by sails, but some were pulled by beast. We even saw a boat being dragged by a gang of men.
‘Why don’t we get a lift?’ Emily said.
‘Eh?’
‘We’ve got money. We could offer one of the boatmen some bunce to take us to Liverpool.’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. I was reluctant to get chatting with anyone for any length of time.
I thought about Mr Earnshaw. He had walked from Wuthering Heights to Liverpool, as we were doing now, and walked back again with me under his arm, carrying also a whip and a fiddle. He would have followed this route by the river, I imagined. What was Mr Earnshaw travelling to Liverpool for? We had never spoken about it. We had often spoken about my origins.
You kept changing your mind, Cathy. One of your theories was that I was the son of an Egyptian prince. Another, that I was the son of a Yemeni king. Yet another theory said I’d descended from a Moor of the Maghreb, and we imagined the regal legacy that was due to me. It seemed strange to me now that we had been so curious as to my paternal origins but never about the nature of your father’s journey. He’d risked his life making it. The roads were filled with thieves and vagrants, waiting to stop a man and take his wealth. There were pickpockets and cutpurses who would think nothing of murdering a man for a few shillings.
An even bigger threat were press gangs. We had heard many horror stories of them grabbing wayfarers and drugging them, making them sign away their lives for the king’s shilling. Then there were those who took the shilling willingly without being insensate with drink or drugs. In a country such as ours, which at least pretends to be free, it becomes a matter of no small surprise that so many thousands of men should deliberately renounce their privileges and voluntarily sell themselves to the most humiliating and degrading slavery, for the miserable pittance of sixpence a day.
Sticks had told me of those volunteers who had thought they would become soldiers and see the world, but had just ended up with a chest full of lead. He had told me also of the men who had been kidnapped. Grabbed from off the turnpike and tied to the carts. Within a day they were on a boat heading for America to fight the war of independence. Somewhat ironically. I kept my wits about me. I had escaped one form of slavery and was in no rush to volunteer for another. I had my own war to fight. I had my own independence to defend.
‘My feet are killing me,’ Emily said.
So were mine.
Emily had a cut on the sole of her right foot. She stopped and I examined it. By now I had a third blister to match the other two. We walked in silence, alone in our pain. The rain was braying again now, and I could feel the water dripping onto my head and down my spine. I tried to think warm thoughts. I pictured you naked: the skin which had never seen the sun was as white as milk, and you were lying across the purpling heather. I was on top of you, and inside you.
Emily scowled and dragged her feet. I resented her presence – she was an uninvited guest. At the same time I felt pity for her. She had nowhere to go, and no one to turn to. Like me she had nothing. We were united by our penury. We were wet and tired and our feet were sore. We stopped by the side of the path to rest. Emmets teemed beneath us. Dodging raindrops. Carrying leaves and other bits of vegetation. I took off my boots and examined my feet. One of the blisters had burst and the wound was bleeding. We were just past a place called Irlam, according to a sign. It was a grim place. Even the sycamore trees looked feeble and sickly. Not quite green enough. The rowan berries looked paler than they did in Yorkshire, more orange than red. Emily was looking up at the sky. The rain was easing off, and she was staring at a white disc, where the sun shone through the mist.
‘Do you think God sees us?’
‘Whether he does or he doesn’t, makes not a blind bit of difference to me. Unless he throws down two lightning bolts, one for Hindley and one for Edgar, he can kiss my arse.’
‘Do you think it is possible to get into heaven when you’ve done a bad thing?’
‘Depends on how bad the bad thing is, I suppose.’
I thought about you, Cathy, saying that heaven was no place for us. You told me of that dream you had, where the angels threw us out in anger onto the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights.
‘Because it wouldn’t be fair, would it? If, on no account of your own doing, circumstances arranged themselves around you, and, you know, you ended up doing something really bad, that you didn’t want to do, that you wouldn’t have done, if things had worked out different. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?’
‘I don’t suppose it would.’
I imagined she was thinking about her father but thought it best not to ask. I didn’t care about damnation in eternity, as long as I could get even on earth.
We got talking to a boatman who was moored near where we were sitting. He was a big black man with skin so dark that I was as pale to him as Emily was to me. He had a huge bald head that looked like a giant lump of coal and shoulders like an ox. He was eating something from a small metal box perched on his knee. He asked us where we had been and where we were going. He told us he’d worked more on the canal than on the river.
‘Used to haul coal by cart before that. In them days, you’d have to go back and forth with that cart all day to carry what I can now shift in a morning. Half the time you wouldn’t make it. A wheel would break, you’d get stuck in mud. Robbers. This is loads better.’
‘Can you give us a lift?’ Emily asked.
‘Shush,’ I said. ‘Sorry about my sister. She speaks out of turn.’
‘I’d gladly give you a lift,’ he said. ‘Only, I’m stopping here till tomorrow. Got to pick up an order.’
We carried on our way. We walked another three or four miles. Our steps getting shorter, our pace slowing. The journey was catching up on us and I could feel every muscle ache. I looked back. Emily was behind me some way now. I stopped a while and waited for her to catch me up.
‘I can’t go on,’ she said.
‘Keep going.’
I slowed down to her pace and together we traipsed further on. I was barely aware of our surroundings, just the rubble and mud beneath our feet, but the next thing I saw was a cartwheel in our path. Too tired to walk around it, we stopped. I looked up and saw that it was attached to an open-backed cart with two horses reined to it. There were four men and they were standing around a sack that had fallen off and spilt grain. The man at the front was tall and stocky, with a large bulbous head and long scraggly hair. He scooped up the grain and loaded the sack. He hefted it onto the cart.
‘Help us,’ Emily said in a feeble voice.
The man stopped what he was doing. There was something shifty about his manner. I wanted to shush Emily but it was too late.
‘Look at these two,’ he said to his companion, a man with curly hair and a pointy nose. ‘Reminds me of when we were in the army. That thirty-mile hike we did across Dartmoor. Do you remember?’
The pointy man laughed. ‘I remember the sergeant shouting in our ears till they rang like bells.’
‘I bet we looked like them.’
‘We need a lift to Liverpool,’ Emily said, in a firmer voice. ‘Where are you heading?’
The bulbous man shrugged. He whispered to his close companion and gave the nod to the other two.
‘We’ve got money,’ I said. ‘We’ll pay you.’
‘We are heading that way, as it happens. In’t that right, Bert?’ the bulbous man said to the pointy man. Bert nodded.
‘What do you think, lads?’
The other two men mumbled something.
‘How much have you got?’ the pointy man asked.
‘Enough,’ I said.
‘How much?’
I pulled out my bag of coins and opened it up.
The next moment the bulbous man was pointing a gun in my face.
‘Hand it over.’
The barrel of the gun was staring down at me. I should have been afraid, or angry, but I felt nothing. I did as I was told.
‘Fred, get that rope.’
There was another man now and another gun.
We were grabbed, jostled, tied to the cart and gagged. I tried to free myself, but it was no use. They put sack hoods over our heads. I could hear the men get onto the cart and gee on the horses. I could feel the cart move underneath us. Slow at first, then quickening.
‘He’ll fetch a shilling but she’ll fetch more,’ the bulbous man said. ‘I know a bloke who’ll pay a pound for a young’un like that.’
‘I know a fella who’ll pay two pound,’ another said.
There was laughing and more talking. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I tried to shift in my bindings but they were too tight. I tried to nudge closer to Emily but there was no give in the rope. The road was bumpy but as we travelled it got smoother. We journeyed on the smooth road for a long time, maybe half an hour, before the road got bumpier again. I had no idea where they were taking us or what they planned to do when they got to where they were going. I tried to halt my imagination from running wild.
Eventually the cart came to a stop and we were taken off the cart and bungled into a room. I sniffed the air. It was musty. I could feel the hard ground beneath my feet and the hands of the men, grabbing me and pulling me across. I could hear objects being moved. The sound of wood against stone. We were jostled about again. Put them there. Grab this. Hold that. Here, give me that. Pushed down. Held down. Our hoods were removed.
We were inside a shed of some sort. The room was lit by shafts of grey light that poured through gaps in the wooden slats. There were boxes and bags and some tools stacked against the wall. I looked over to Emily. Her eyes were wide with fright. Both our arms and legs were firmly bound with rope. Another length of rope tied each of us to the chairs we were sitting on.
‘Wait here,’ the bulbous man said, and he and the pointy man disappeared out the back way. The other two sat opposite us, pointing their guns at our heads. One wore a flat cap and the other had a red shirt with a rip in the sleeve. They each sat like that for some time without uttering a word. I could see Emily twist and turn her wrists every time the men looked away, trying to loosen the rope without success. I did the same.
After a while, the man in the flat cap said, ‘How long are they going to be?’
‘Don’t know,’ said the other one.
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘There’s some ale in the kitchen.’
The man in the cap got up.
‘You all right while I fetch it?’
The man in the red shirt nodded.
The man in the cap came back with a flagon of ale, took a sup, scrunched up his face, then passed it to his companion.
‘I think it’s on the turn.’
The man in the red shirt took a slug. He sloshed it around his mouth, then swallowed.
‘It’s all right. Better than nothing.’
‘He’ll probably bring some more.’
‘Better had do.’
I looked around the room. There was a rake, a spade, a scythe and a number of other implements, including a mattock. I thought about the mattock. It was a short-handled one, fixed to the wall with two nails. The blade looked sharp. But it was no use to us. There wasn’t much we could do tied up, and with guns in our faces. I glanced over to Emily and tried to give her a reassuring look.
‘I need a piss,’ said the man in the red shirt. He got up and wandered over to the corner of the room. He unfastened himself and pissed up the wall. I could smell the tang of his urine.
‘Do it outside, you dirty bastard,’ said the man in the cap.
‘It’s raining. Fuck that.’
The two men laughed. The man in the red shirt shuck himself dry and buttoned up his breeches. He went back to his chair, picked up his gun and sat back down.
An hour or two went by. The men finished off the flagon. They talked about inconsequential things. The man in the red shirt smoked a pipe. The other yawned and complained about having to wait so long. Eventually the bulbous man and the pointy man returned.
‘Well?’ said the man in the red shirt.
‘He won’t get here till tomorrow,’ the pointy man said.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Fuck that.’
‘Let’s have some fun.’
‘No,’ said the bulbous man. ‘We’ll get more for a filly than a mare.’
‘Who’s to say she is or isn’t? He’ll believe what we tell him. As long as we’re careful not to mark her,’ the pointy man said.
‘I said no.’
‘Come on. It’s been a long day. We could all do with something to unwind.’
The bulbous man shrugged. ‘Suppose it would be a shame to waste what we’ve got.’
‘I’m going first,’ said the pointy man.
‘Fuck off. Why should you go first?’
‘It was my idea.’
‘It’s my cart and my nags.’
‘Did you fetch some ale?’
‘There’s some on the cart. I’ll get it later.’
The pointy man walked over to where Emily was tied. He took out a knife and cut through the rope that was holding her to the chair. He hoisted her over his shoulder; she strained her neck around, looking at me with terror-filled eyes, but there was nothing I could do. I pulled with all my might. I was fixed firmly to the spot. I could see her wriggle in her bindings. Her body jerked as she fought impotently against the rope. The man disappeared with her into another room.
‘No marking. Do you hear me?’
‘Wait for me.’
‘And me.’
All four men disappeared.
I had to free myself somehow. I had to get to Emily. I studied every detail of the room. I looked at the mattock again. It was only a few feet away but that seemed like a long way from where I was sitting in my present state. But if I could shuffle across I might be able to rub the rope along the blade. I rocked quietly but the chair didn’t move. I stretched my legs so that the tips of my toes made contact with the floor of the shed. I managed to move the chair only a fraction of an inch, but it was something. The effort strained my muscles but I persisted, until I’d managed to drag the chair several inches. I was still a long way from my target but I needed to rest. There was no time to rest though. I fought fatigue and the stabbing pain in my calf and thighs. I could feel muscle rip.
I could hear raised voices and laughter. I thought about Emily and the men.
I tried again. I managed another three or four inches before I needed to rest once more. Again, I fought the urge. Faster, come on, move. I was in agony with the effort but I carried on. Eventually I made it across to the mattock. I managed to nudge the chair around so that I could reach it. I rubbed the rope frantically against the blade, praying I wasn’t too late. It was thick rope and it took a lot of effort but I got through the fibres enough and broke the chair free from the bindings. I turned around and, in a frenzied state, worked on the ropes around my wrists. It was slow going but eventually they came loose as well. I took the mattock to the ropes around my ankles. Eventually I was free. I picked up the mattock and stumbled over to the door where the men had disappeared.
It was a darkened corridor, with a dim grey light at the end. In the distance I could hear muffled voices. I hurried along the corridor as quietly as I could, until I came to an open door. I peered in. It was a kitchen, with a cooking range in one corner and pans hanging from the ceiling. There was a three-legged stool next to the range with a flintlock on top. In the middle of the room was a wooden table. The chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room, and one of them was knocked over, lying on its side. Emily was spread across the table, jerking and wriggling. Three men held her down. The pointy man was standing behind her. His belt was by his feet, coiled like an asp, and next to this a flagon. The man had his back to me, but I could tell that he was fumbling with the buttons on his breeches. The other three men were looking away from where I was standing.
‘Thirsty work, this,’ he said, and reached for the flagon.
I ran at the man as he raised the flagon to his lips and launched the narrow end of the mattock into the back of his skull. I heard bone crunch. The man dropped the flagon and it shattered on the stone-flagged floor. He collapsed on his front, his arms splayed. The three others turned to look at me. Their expressions shifted from shock to anger. The bulbous man let go of Emily and looked over to the stool where the flintlock lay. He made a run for it. I intercepted his path, swinging the mattock around so that the sharp end embedded itself into the man’s forehead. It stopped him in his tracks. He fell to his knees, a wedge-shaped gash bleeding where the mattock had chipped out a chunk of his skull.
The other two men were running at me. I lifted the mattock again, but as I swung it around, the one in the red shirt caught hold of my arm. As he did the capped man kicked me hard in my chest. I was thrown against the wall. The red shirt swung his fist and it connected with the side of my head. I dropped the mattock and fell to the floor. The man grabbed hold of the mattock and lifted it high, about to drop it down into my cranium. As he did, I heard a bang. The back of his head exploded. Blood and brain spattered the wall. The man dropped the mattock and crumpled onto the flags.
There was another bang. I looked and saw the capped man hold his chest. His hands were red. Emily was standing five or six feet away from him, clutching the flintlock, which was smoking. The man staggered towards her, muttering something. I picked up the mattock and finished him off.
The room was swaying. I looked about me. The flags and walls were decorated with spats of blood, brain and bone fragments. And acrid smoke hung in the air. I could smell blood and gunpowder. I dropped the tool and went over to where Emily was standing. I reached out for her, but she balled her fist and punched me in the gut. I let her go at me, punch after punch. In my gut. In my chest. I didn’t fight back. I let her punch me until she had no energy to punch me any more.
I grabbed hold of her and held her tight. I could feel the strong rhythmic pulse of her heart beating beneath my own. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I stroked her hair.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said, as I let go of her.
I nodded. The shots had been loud. There could be other men nearby. We had no time to waste. I went over to the sink and took a cloth. I hurriedly rubbed the gouts of blood from my face and surtout. I threw the cloth down and made my way to the doorway.
‘Wait,’ she said.
She went over to the corpse of the bulbous man and retrieved my purse from his pocket. She handed it to me. She spat on the man and kicked him in the face.
‘Cunt.’
We ran out of the room, along the corridor and into the shed. We opened the shed door. The nags and the cart were outside.
‘Let’s take these,’ Emily said.
‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve told you, we get caught for stealing a horse, it’s a hanging offence.’
‘And killing four men isn’t?’
‘A squire thinks more about his horse than he does a farm labourer.’
‘We don’t even know where we are.’
I looked around. We were on the grounds of a small farm. Stone walls marked out two fields. One with horses, the other barley. I looked to where the sun was whitening the clouds.
‘This way.’
I led the way along a path that trailed to a gate, then along a cart road. We walked for miles along that road, then miles across country before we came to the Irwell once more. We were back near Barton Bridge and had to re-walk the last six or seven miles we’d gone before we were grabbed by the men. My feet were rubbing raw in my boots. We walked slowly, side by side. I wanted to say something to Emily to comfort her, but I didn’t know what. Instead we walked on in silence. I knew what it was like to fear for your life. To have no one in the world. I knew what it was like to feel shame. To feel like dirt.
I’d had it bad. She’d had it worse. And I’d let her down. There was no conceivable way I could ditch her. No, I couldn’t leave Emily now. I was sure of that.
Eventually the built-up walls by the side of the river started to fall away, and the locks that had been constructed along its length to stem the tide were running out. The banks giving way to salt marshes. We were in the mouth of an estuary. There were strange birds wading in the sand. Lanky-legged like heron and whaap, with long thin beaks, like woodcock and jack snipe. They prodded the sand, and turned stones with the ends of their bills. I could smell the salt in the air and knew that we couldn’t be that far now from the coast. I had another blister forming behind the ball of my left foot. Emily was limping along behind me. I waited again for her to catch me up.
‘We’ve not got long to go now,’ I said.
I got no response. I carried on walking. My feet felt like they were on fire. Burning and throbbing. On and on we walked. The path beneath seemed to get harder with each step. The water to our right mocked us with its coolness. I looked back. No Emily. I stopped. About twenty yards down the path, Emily had collapsed by the side of the path. I tried to stand up straight. I traipsed back across to where she lay.
‘Come on. It can’t be far.’
Nothing.
I bent down and shook her gently.
‘Come on, Emily. You’ve got this far. You can do it.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Can’t.’
I took her in my arms and carried her. The extra weight made my feet burn up even more. Each step was like being branded with a red-hot poker. I took one at a time. Each step another victory. The road seemed endless for the last hour of that journey. I was walking so slowly that a snail could have overtaken me should he have had the inclination. My thoughts were single words. Sand, stone, dirt, road. One foot. Then another. Keep going. Left. Right. Left. Right. I kept my eyes to the ground. Willing my feet to move. First one, then the next. Keep doing that. Till you get there. Every now and then I would look up. But mostly I looked down at the dirt road. The dust and the stones. My boots. Somehow, I became vaguely aware that we had reached a town by the coast.
The dockside was bustling but I was too tired and worn to take any notice of the bustle. I laid Emily on the grass, then rested a while. I bought us both a bowl of broth from a street vendor and collapsed by the stall near to Emily. There were merchants and dockers, sailors and pedlars. Kittiwakes careened in the breeze. Gulls gyred above luggers. I let the broth revive me, dispensing with the thible and supping straight from the lip of the bowl.
I walked over to the dockside, leaving Emily to rest. I saw an old man mending a fishing net.
‘This is Liverpool, right?’
The man laughed. He attached more twine to the shuttle.
‘Close.’
‘This isn’t Liverpool?’
‘You’re in Runcorn, mate. Liverpool is over yonder.’
He pointed east over the estuary with the shuttle.
‘How do we get there?’
‘Swim.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Course I am.’
‘Then how?’
‘You can catch a ferry.’
I noticed that the accent of the people around me had changed. They had the same harsh nasal tones as Sticks. I made further enquiries. There was a ferry departing in ten minutes. A penny each. I went back to where Emily was slumped on the grass, too tired to spoon the broth into her mouth. It lay by her side untouched. I explained our error.
‘We’ve got to catch a ferry.’
‘I can’t move another inch.’
I could see she was in no fit state. Instead, I took some broth on her spoon and held it to her lips.
‘When I was young, younger than you are now, I caught a fever. Mrs Earnshaw had just died of a fever and there was talk that I’d go the same way. Mr Earnshaw was still deep in grief, so Nelly nursed me. Every day she would sit by my sleeping place and feed me broth. She’d tell me stories of when she was a girl and Mr Earnshaw was a young man. He was a bit of a one, according to Nelly. She called him a “rum’un”, whatever that meant. She told me that Mrs Earnshaw didn’t know the half of it. Said it was just as well she had died without knowing. Day after day she’d bring me broth, until I gained my strength. Cathy would come to see me too. She’d sit by my sleeping place and tell me stories. After a few weeks the fever broke and my brow began to cool. I was back on my feet shortly after that, but I don’t think I’d be here today if Nelly hadn’t taken pity on me.’
Emily nodded. I fed her all the broth, then left her once more while I found us digs for the night. I didn’t stray far, while I made enquiries, making sure I had her in my sight all the time. When I returned for her shortly after, she’d already ligged. She was curled up on the grass, sucking the broth thible like a dummy.
I let Emily have a lie-in the next morning. I couldn’t have shifted her if I’d wanted to. Eventually, after breakfasting on porridge and kippers, we set off for the dock. Emily came around as she scoffed her grub.
‘Are you all right?’ I said.
‘Yeah.’
She shrugged.
All that way. Afterwards. She hadn’t said a word. I wondered if she blamed me. Perhaps we could have cadged a lift earlier. We could have paid a boatman. We had enough money. There had been plenty of opportunities. I should have known there was something suspect about the men. There was something conspiratorial from the outset. All that whispering. I should have trusted my instincts. I shouldn’t have shown my hand. It was foolish getting my purse out like that. Letting them see the size and weight of it. I couldn’t allow anything like that to happen again. I would have to be much wiser from now on. I looked over to Emily again. I had failed her. I wanted to say something else, something that would make it better. But what can you say, Cathy?
Eventually I took hold of her hand and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
She just shrugged.
‘Look, Emily, I promise you from now on, no matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe from harm. I promise you that nothing bad will happen to you again.’
I looked her in the eye.
‘You’ve got to believe me, Emily.’
I squeezed her hand gently.
At last she returned my gaze and nodded.
We made our way to the dockside and I paid the ferryman tuppence. The ferry was almost full, and there was an air of excitement as we cast off. The boat was powered by a large sail that one man trimmed while another took the tiller. We sailed across the choppy water, gulls gliding in our wake. We could make out Liverpool seafront from where we were sitting. Like Manchester, there were many tall buildings with domes and spires. There was a sea mist, making the scene ahead a magical one. The air was damp and tangy.
‘It’s like in a fairy tale,’ Emily said. ‘Where they go to a far-off land and everything is different.’
The sun glinted on the tips of the water like polished silver. Strange fish as big as pigs swam by the side of the vessel. They had skin instead of scales and noses like bottle tops. They leapt out of the waves and smiled at us.
‘What are them?’ Emily said.
I shrugged.
A man sitting close by leaned over to Emily. ‘They’re dolphins. That’s what they are. It’s a good sign, dolphins following us. It means we’ll harbour safely.’
I’d heard of these mythical sea creatures, half-human, half-fish. I remember you telling me, Cathy, about sea monsters with eight arms and swords for mouths.
‘Do you think we’ll see a mermaid?’ Emily said.
‘I hope so,’ I said.
‘I don’t. My dad said that mermaids bring bad luck. They look like angels but are really devils. What about dragons? Don’t some of them live in the sea?’
‘I suspect they do.’
I suspected no such thing, Cathy, but I was happy to see Emily revived somewhat from yesterday. She clung onto the side of the boat and leaned over.
‘Not so close,’ I said, pulling her back. ‘You don’t want to get eaten by a sea dragon.’
When we got to Liverpool docks it became obvious that Liverpool was very different from Runcorn. Where Runcorn had only one small dockside, Liverpool had several massive docks. Where Runcorn had a dozen boats, the waters of Liverpool were teeming with every type of vessel as far as the eye could see. Every colour, every shape, every size. Shallop, dory, skiff. Dogger, cutter, sloop.
I came across a shipyard with ships and boats in various stages of construction. Among them was a vast galleon that was only halfway built, so that I could see all the workings inside. There were cordoned-off areas that were clearly built for storage. Hundreds of them. The height of which was ten inches or so. I wondered what cargo the ship was built for.
We wandered around, examining the various places and buildings. The air was pungent with the stench of salt and fish. Gulls careened above us, screeching and diving. All around folk mulled. A cacophony of voices. We saw by the end dock the town’s gaol, a dark foreboding building, like a haunted castle in one of your story books, Cathy. Next to this was Coat Yard. We made our way back to the main docks. There were lots of large ships moored up. There were sailors and merchants loitering around and further back there were whores plying for business. Some not much older than Emily.
A chill down my spine made me shiver but I wasn’t cold. The docks were familiar to me. I remembered them. The memory was rising to the surface like something coming up to breathe. I’d stored it in a room in my mind and locked the door. But now, being here, looking at the square of water and the buildings surrounding it, standing on the waterfront, watching the ships, listening to the gulls, was the key to the lock. The door was opening. I was six years old. I was hungry and cold. My mother was dead. But I could speak my mother tongue and I could speak the language of this land. Some of the words came back to me. They formed in my mind but then evaporated. I tried to grab them. They were solid, they had their own taste and flavour, but then they were smoke. I felt dizzy with emotion. I steadied myself and clung onto the iron railing.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Emily asked.
I didn’t say anything. I breathed in deep and closed my eyes. I saw an eye staring at me. The iris like a blazing fire.
‘I like it here,’ she said. ‘It’s even better than London.’
A dog came up to us, wagging its tail. Emily bent down and stroked it.
‘I’d like a dog,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could get one.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But when we get the shop we’ll need a dog to guard the place at night. My dad would never let me have a dog. He said I was enough trouble, without another meddlesome creature. We could feed him the cake that was left over. Dogs like cake.’
‘Talking of which,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘let’s get some grub.’
Further back from the dockside, we found an alehouse called the Gallows Inn and I ordered us refreshment. We sat by the fireplace and watched a game of skittles. There were four men playing for pennies. Sailors. One of them was talking about their next voyage to Africa on a ship called Destiny. He’d never been before and the others were telling him of how dark-skinned the natives were, black as coal, and how the women went around bare-chested with everything on show, bubbies out. The man’s eyes lit up and they joked around. The man lost his game and handed over his money to the others. When he went to the bar, I followed him. He was rummaging around in his pockets. He turned to me.
‘You know, I got paid yesterday, a week’s wage, and it’s almost all gone already. I just can’t seem to keep hold of it.’
‘Why don’t I buy you a drink?’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. What will you have?’
I bought him a glass of brandy and handed it over.
He had thick, greasy brown hair and the hair from his chest was growing out of the top of his shirt and up his neck. He was stocky but a good few inches shorter than me.
‘You’re a sailor then?’ he asked.
‘Not me,’ I said.
‘Then what?’
‘I’m a farm labourer.’
I thought back to the burial ground above Shudehill, and to a grand memorial with an eagle sculpture and gold lettering carved into the stone.
‘The name’s Isaac Addison.’
‘Jack Bird,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Isaac.’
We shook hands.
‘Done farm labouring myself one time. Cutting the hay, baling it. Those bales don’t half get scratchy.’
He laughed, showing off a row of black and crooked teeth.
‘I’m no farmhand though. Ships are my thing. First voyage I went on, I got flogged for drunken behaviour. Said I’d never sail again. That was six years ago. My feet have hardly touched dry land since.’
He laughed, flashing those teeth again.
‘You off on this next voyage then? Destiny, I think it’s called.’
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’m not part of the crew this time. Got in there too late. Captain’s got his crew. I’m waiting on another ship. So what brings you to Liverpool? There’s no farm labouring hereabouts.’
‘Bit of unfinished business.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘I’m trying to trace my roots.’
‘Lots of roots round here. And there’s them without roots.’
‘I was found in the streets hereabouts when I was a boy. Taken to Yorkshire.’
‘When was that?’
‘I don’t know exactly. About nine years ago.’
‘The docks was busy in them days. Twice as busy as they are now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘This war has been bad for business the past few years. A big drop-off.’
I assumed he meant the war in America, but I didn’t want to show my ignorance so I just nodded.
‘Well, nice talking to you, Isaac. Best get back to my game.’
‘You wouldn’t know anyone who could help, would you?’
‘Well, there’s only one bloke I know been here nine years.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A man named Edward Cubbitt.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s worked the docks longer than anyone I know. There isn’t much he doesn’t ken.’
‘How would I find him?’
‘He’s not hard to find. Anyone will tell you. Looks after the South Dock. Used to be a sailor. And a privateer. Getting on a bit now. About my height, bald head, grey beard, big belly. Good luck. And thanks for the drink.’
He took his glass from the bar top and went back to his game of skittles.
Our plates arrived and Emily tucked in, not looking up or pausing for breath until her plate was empty. I’d seen dogs eat like that, back at Wuthering Heights. But never people. She used the last of her bread to mop up the gravy. Then, clasping the plate in both hands, she licked it clean.
‘It’s good stuff, that,’ she said. ‘That’s what you want, good grub and good ale. Good grub and good ale keeps you out of mischief. That’s what my dad used to say. Didn’t keep him out of mischief though, did it?’
I looked around me at all the men in the inn, different heights, different builds, different-coloured skins. I felt detached from the scene, as though it were a dream. It felt so strange being back. I felt myself drift up to the ceiling, watching the scene from the corner of the room, looking down on me and Emily. Maybe it was the white walls or the sailors, or maybe the skittles, but I recollected an earlier time. A different pub or the same pub? I couldn’t be certain. I tried to dig down in my mind. To get at the memory. Roaming streets. Lost. Hunger pangs. The smell of cooking. Entering an inn. Warmth and bustle. But nothing more would come. I couldn’t rely on my brain. I would comb these streets and taverns until I got the picture as clear in my mind as a painting.
I thought back to Wuthering Heights, at how small the world was that we occupied. The moors had seemed vast but I’d seen so much since I’d left that now it felt as though the moors were just the edge of another world.
A barmaid came over to our table and cleared our plates. I asked her if there was a room for hire for me and my sister. She said she’d enquire. She came back a few minutes later. They had a room we could have. She would make up the bed. Would we need a bath? I said we would and thanked her.
‘You know when you were talking earlier about your mother, about her being a whore?’ I asked.
‘Only till she met my dad. She wasn’t a proper whore.’
‘And that she died in childbirth.’
‘She did.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My father told me. He said she’d turned to whoring because she had no other way of earning a living. She was an orphan like you. As soon as she got with my father she gave up her trade. She was a good woman.’
‘According to your father. Who was a highwayman.’ I raised my eyebrows.
‘At least I know who my mother was. Maybe yours was a whore too. At least my mother didn’t die a whore.’
‘My mother was no whore.’
‘How do you know? You don’t know anything. You don’t even know your own mother’s name.’
I could feel my blood boil but I reined in my wrath, Cathy. I tried to focus on the game of skittles through a fog of pipe smoke. I watched the light flit on the tops of the pins.
‘When did you first know you could do it?’ I said at last.
‘Do what?’
‘Get dead people to speak through you.’
Emily stared into the empty pit of the fireplace.
‘I found my father in the kitchen one day on his own. He was sitting on the floor, drinking brandy and crying. I was probably no more than five years old.’
‘What was he crying about?’
‘He was crying over my mother. He said he missed her. He said they’d argued before she died. She was pregnant and she said she didn’t want me because she didn’t want a child of hers to have a thief for a father. He stormed off and when he came back half-cut, I was born, and she was dead. He said he just wished he’d been able to tell her how much he loved her. He said if there was a spell to bring her back to life, even for one moment, he would pay anything to get it. I just remember being overtaken by this feeling. Everything in the room was swimming. Then I became aware of another world behind this one. It was like this other world was trying to break through. I could feel myself sinking into its dark waters. I was helpless, unable to stop it. I don’t remember what happened next. I just remember waking up. I was on the floor with a banging headache. My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow. My ears were ringing and I had pins and needles in the tips of my fingers. My dad was stood over me. He was smiling. He picked me up in his arms and kissed me on the forehead. He stroked my hair and said he’d spoken to her. We were always close, but after that he never left my side. That’s when I started working for him.’
Emily told me of another robbery.
‘This one wasn’t on the highway, but in a home. We broke into this house of a nobleman. Got over a thousand pound in gold and silver. My dad tied them up in their beds. It took my dad a while to get them to confess. The money was where they said it was. There was a packet of gold lace too. That was valued at eighteen hundred pound.’
She stopped and stared into the fireplace.
‘It was his last job,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was going to give it up. He had enough money to quit. He had a friend who was setting up a business, needed a partner. If he hadn’t got caught, things would have been very different. If only that servant hadn’t come in. If only he’d left us to it.’
‘What happened?’
‘What do you think? He got a good crack to shut him up. And the rest. It was his own fault.’
She went quiet and stared into the fireplace again.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get a bath and lig down for the night.’
I bathed first, the privilege of age. Emily had to bathe in my water. She complained initially but then stripped off and plunged into the grey soup. I got into bed first, Emily joined me shortly after.
‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’ I said.
‘Tell me what?’
‘When we were in the bar earlier. I met a man who gave us a lead.’
‘What lead is this?’
‘He said to look out for a man called Edward Cubbitt, works the South Dock.’
‘Well, it’s a start,’ she said, settling into the covers and putting her head on the pillow. ‘Tell me a story.’
‘I think we’ve had enough stories for one day. Let’s get some sleep. I need you to be fresh for the morning.’
I thought she might complain but she was snoring in no time. I couldn’t sleep with her racket. I thought about poking her in the ribs, telling her to shut it, but she looked so angelic in the moonlight with her head on the white pillow, her eyes closed, and her white-blonde hair splayed around her. I lay back and wondered about Edward Cubbitt.