Classic Bestsellers from Josephine Cox: Bumper Collection. Josephine Cox

of that warm, crisping bacon was playing tunes on his stomach.

      Stripping to the waist, John filled the bowl with cold water from the jug and began to wash and shave. The generous layer of carbolic felt good and invigorating on his skin, and the swill of water afterwards made his skin tingle and shiver. It was a good feeling.

      At the dresser, where he had unpacked his kitbag, he shook out a clean singlet and soft collarless shirt, which he quickly buttoned on. That done, he was soon ready for a hearty breakfast.

      As always, when he went out of the door, locking it behind him, it was Emily who kept him company. She filled his heart and mind as he went down the stairs, and she was beside him as he entered the breakfast-room.

      ‘Good morning, young man!’ Harriet waved a knife towards the one empty table. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll have your breakfast in front of you before you know it.’ With that she ambled away.

      As John made himself comfortable at the tiny table, the other two lodgers gave him the once-over. ‘Morning!’ The man who spoke was middle-aged, bald, and bore the hangdog look of someone weighed down with worries.

      Judging by the smart clothes and the newspaper laid out before him, John thought he might be a salesman or a clerk. ‘Morning,’ he replied with a nod of his head and a smile. ‘The landlady seems a good sort, don’t you think?’ The smile soon faded when the man looked away without another word.

      ‘You’re right. She is a good sort.’ That was the frail, elderly woman by the window. ‘I’ve lodged in this house for almost two years off and on, and never a cross word.’ She was buttering a slice of toast while peering at it through her lorgnettes; her hands, he noticed, were clad in old-fashioned lace mittens.

      John gave her a friendly nod. ‘Really?’ He wondered what she meant by the remark that she had lodged in the house ‘for almost two years off and on’, and thought maybe she was a relative of Harriet’s, who liked to pay a visit from time to time. Her scent of lavender and camphor made him think of his Aunt Lizzie.

      There was no chance to carry on any conversation, because the woman then took her leave, shortly followed by the man. A moment later, Harriet returned with his breakfast. ‘I wasn’t sure of what you liked best,’ she told him, ‘so I gave you a measure of everything. What you don’t want, you can leave. I won’t mind a bit.’

      Setting the plate on the table she watched his mouth open in astonishment. ‘My God!’ The plate was piled high with fried tomatoes, four rashers of bacon, three sausages, two eggs, a generous helping of fried potatoes, and two plump rings of black-pudding. ‘You must think I need fattening up!’

      ‘That’s because you do!’ she retorted. ‘You sailors are all alike. Surviving on meagre rations at sea, and afraid to spend your money on good food when you come ashore.’

      John took up his knife and fork. ‘How did you know I was a sailor?’

      ‘Hmh!’ Placing her two hands on her chubby hips, she gave him a knowing smile. ‘It didn’t take much. I knew it the minute I clapped eyes on you. Your kitbag, for one. You were browned from the sea-air for another. And you looked like you needed a good meal inside you. What! I’ve seen more fat on a dried-up chicken-bone.’ She gave him a curious look. ‘I suppose you’ll be going back to sea soonever you’ve spent your hard-earned money?’

      Digging the prongs of his fork into a juicy sausage, John took a bite; the sausage melted in his mouth, leaving behind all manner of sensational tastes. ‘That’s the best sausage I’ve ever tasted,’ he told her, his mouth full.

      ‘Ah well, that’s because I make them myself,’ she revealed. ‘Best cut of young pork, minced with a mangling of apple and a mix of my own spices, churned to perfection, then cooked on a wire tray over the pan.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I cooked some for the butcher once and he’s been after me for the recipe ever since. He won’t get it though. It was my mother’s.’

      John thought there was a deeper side to this woman than she ever let on. ‘I thought you said you didn’t bake if you could help it?’

      ‘And I don’t. Baking and cooking are not the same thing, young man.’

      John was curious. ‘Oh, and how’s that then?’

      Harriet explained the best she could. ‘Baking is kneading over a bowl for hours on end. It’s making bread and pies and such, and rolling out pastry until your back aches. Or it’s beating cake mixtures until your hand is ready to drop off. Y’see, cooking is quicker, not so laborious. In fact, it’s a pleasure.’

      John laughed. ‘Well, I never. I always thought they were one and the same.’

      She too gave a hearty laugh. ‘And now you know different, don’t you? Oh, and you still haven’t answered my question.’

      John took another bite of the sausage, allowing the meat to ooze its juices onto his taste-buds. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘What question was that?’

      ‘I asked if you would be going back to sea?’

      ‘No, I won’t be going back … ever.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘It’s a long story.’

      ‘I’ve got the time if you have.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ Shaking his head, John cut a slice of the egg. ‘Do I get a drink with this breakfast?’ He wasn’t in the mood for talking about Emily, not even to this likeable soul.

      Harriet was mortified. ‘A mug o’ tea for you and a drop of the old stuff for me,’ she said. ‘I’ll sit alongside you while you eat your breakfast, and you can tell me all about your troubles.’ No sooner said than done, she was off and, in a minute, had the kettle whistling on the stove.

      John didn’t know whether to wolf down his breakfast and leave, or enjoy it at leisure while confiding his ‘troubles’ in Harriet.

      He didn’t have much time to ponder, because now she was back and seated opposite, a large mug of tea steaming in front of his plate, and a glass of what looked like wine in her hand. ‘What do I call you?’ she asked. ‘You must have a name.’

      ‘The name’s John,’ he answered. ‘John Hanley.’

      ‘Go on then, John Hanley,’ she urged. ‘Talk away. There’s only the two of us here now, and don’t you worry, because whatever you have to say won’t go beyond these four walls. It’s a rule of mine, never to pass on what’s told me in confidence.’

      For some reason John trusted her. This was surprising to him, as he had only just met her. As a rule, he was wary of strangers but somehow she had a way about her that made him think of Lizzie.

      So he opened his heart to her. He told her about Emily, and the plans they had made. He gave a short account of Clem Jackson, and how that monster of a man had the Ramsden family by the throat. He outlined how he and Emily had spoken at length, about their love and their future, and how he had decided that the only solution for them all was for him to go where he could make money. Afterwards they would be rid of Clem Jackson, and he and Emily would wed and raise a family. ‘But she didn’t wait,’ he said sadly. ‘She married some other man. They have a child – a lovely daughter.’

      Harriet had listened intently, and now she had a question. ‘When you saw her there, did you think she seemed happy?’

      John thought of Emily, of how she was laughing. He saw the light in her eyes and recalled how she and the man seemed to share such joy in the child, and each other. ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘She seemed happy enough.’

      Harriet could see his pain, and now as she spoke, it was with a tenderness that belied her clumsy frame and hitherto brusque manner. ‘For what it’s worth,’ she told him, ‘I think you must put her behind you and start again. It seems that someone else came along with the means of giving her the contentment she needed. Be glad for her. That’s all you can