The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly

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 door seemingly miles away, his resolve began to fray as he pictured the actions of those inside as they heard the crunch of an impostor’s feet along the gravel. He imagined eyes at every window, and steeled himself for the blows that must surely follow.

      But lo and behold it was a kiss which greeted him first! Spotting him from her lonely seat by the window as she dressed for luncheon, Etta shoved aside her startled maid, rushed headlong down the staircase and across the hall, and before he even had a chance to ring the bell she had thrown herself into his arms and was pressing her lips to every sweating part of his face in joy and relief.

      ‘I knew it! I knew you’d come!’ And she grabbed his arm and hurriedly led him around the back of the house to a more secluded spot near the potting shed, with an anxious Blanche giving chase.

      Unrestrained kisses were to follow, the maid averting her eyes, until Etta suddenly commented on the results of his previous beating. ‘Oh, your poor face! Have I hurt you?’

      ‘No, no! You make everything better.’ A rapturous Marty enfolded her, moulding his body into her soft, hot flesh, breathing in her scent along with the flowers, kissing and caressing erotically.

      ‘You shouldn’t have come to the front door!’ Her protestations interspersed more breathless kissing.

      ‘Are you saying I’m not good enough?’

      Her face scolded him between kisses. ‘I meant why did you risk it? Father will be even more furious, I dread to think what he’ll do this time!’

      ‘Miss Etta!’ Blanche hissed a warning, but was ignored.

      ‘I won’t be cowed.’ Marty nuzzled the silky white neck. ‘I’ve decided to face him man to man, tell him I’ve got the licence for our wedding and he’ll have to kill me to prevent it!’

      ‘That is a distinct possibility!’ interjected another. They whirled to see her enraged father bearing down on them. Informed by a servant, Ibbetson had had no time to grab a weapon but his clenched fists promised retribution. Blanche immediately backed away.

      Forewarned, Marty was prepared and squared up to his opponent – at least there was only the one this time – but Etta went to meet her father. ‘Please discuss this sensibly!’

      However, Ibbetson had never been an articulate man.

      ‘Mother, stop him!’

      Along with a gaggle of servants, Mrs Ibbetson had pursued her husband but, afraid of his fury, did no more than hover in the background wringing her hands.

      Etta found herself swiped to the ground, much to Marty’s disgust, but before he could avenge her honour she was up again and yelling into her father’s face. ‘Oh, that’s right, cast me aside like the dirt you hold me to be!’

      Ibbetson wrestled with her, at the same time grappling with Marty. ‘You behave like a guttersnipe, and you’ll be treated as such!’

      Mrs Ibbetson moaned. Blanche burst into tears. The tranquil garden was rent by angry grunts and squeals.

      ‘Call yourself a gentleman!’ countered a furious Marty, trying to avoid hitting Etta, who insisted on sandwiching herself between the men. ‘You look down on me but I’d never spurn a lady in such a fashion!’

      ‘No, you’d just defile her so no other man’ll take her!’ yelled Ibbetson, managing to elbow past his daughter and grab hold of the young upstart, tussling with him, trying to aim a good punch, their struggle invading the flowerbeds where geraniums were trampled underfoot.

      ‘I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of!’ Face livid, Marty grasped the bigger man around the waist, hanging on grimly and pulling him in close to prevent Ibbetson landing a blow. ‘If you’d granted me the chance I would have asked politely to marry Etta, but you’re not a man for reason, are ye?’

      Striving