The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly

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 mother was quick to comment on this as he came through the door. ‘Bad day, son?’

      He barely glanced at her as he went to wash his 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