The Journey by Josephine Cox Page A

him.”
    “Well, o’ course I did, because he stood on the doorstep and wouldn’t go until I told him where Lucy was.”
    “What, you mean he got nasty?”
    “No, I don’t mean that at all.” She had not forgotten his parting threat. “He wanted to know where she was, and at first I wasn’t sure whether to tell him, then he stood his ground and I had no choice.”
    “So you told him, and he went?”
    “That’s right. I had to get rid of him. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like the look of him.” Involuntarily, she shuddered.
    “I see.” Bridget detected a great deal of fear in Lynette’s manner. “He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” she said quietly. “You sure that’s not why you were crying just now?”
    “No!” Leaping out of the chair, Lynette laid the palm of her hand over her mouth. “It’s this damned tooth. It’s driving me crazy.”
    Bridget got out of her chair and wrapped her arms about the girl. “You’re to fetch a drop of whiskey out of the cupboard, then get yourself off to bed. Come down later, when you’re feeling better. A good night’s sleep, then it’s the dentist for you first thing in the morning.”
    Before Lynette left the room, Bridget had one more question. “This man … was he a sailor, d’you think?”
    “He could well have been a matelot,” the girl said. “He did have a tattoo—oh, and sailors do have kitbags, don’t they?”
    Bridget was quiet for a minute, as though she had just remembered who he was. “Dark, with a mean kind of a look, you say. Mmm.” Then, her tone brisk, she told the young woman, “All right, darlin,’ don’t worry. Get off and take care of yourself. I’m sure Lucy will tell me all about it when she gets back.”
    A few minutes later, with Lynette off to her bed, and the other girls not yet back, Bridget went through to the kitchen, where the young housekeeper, Tillie, having heard her come in earlier, was already pouring Bridget a cup of tea. “Thought you might be ready for this,” she said, pushing it along the table to where Bridget had pulled up a chair and sat down. “Had a good shopping trip?”
    Having been thrown out of house and home by a violent stepfather these four years past, Tillie Salter had found a welcome at Bridget’s house of pleasure. At seventeen, innocent and plain-looking as the day was long, there was never any intention to recruit her into the “business”; so she was given a roof over her head and paid a wage to cook and clean and generally look after number 23 Viaduct Street, leaving Bridget free to keep a tight rein on her business, count her money, take care of her girls, and shop to her heart’s content.
    During the four years she had been there, Tillie Salter had loved every minute, and had come to look on Bridget as a surrogate mother. Bridget was her idol—her hero and her friend. She might run a brothel, but she was discreet in her dealings, she looked after her girls well, and had a heart of gold. So those who knew of her business said nothing, and those who thought she was a woman who had come into money legitimately, chatted with her in the street, and saw her as a kind soul, with a happy personality.
    Moreover, she seemed ever ready to listen to their problems when others would not.
    Bridget thanked her for the tea. She removed her light jacket and fanned her rosy face. “You’ve no idea of the crowds,” she groaned. “Pushing you this way and that … treading on your toes and thinking it’s your fault and not theirs. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What is it about shopping that makes martyrs of us poor women?”
    Bringing her own tea, Tillie sat at the other side of the table. “But you love it, don’t you?” she said shyly. “You love the noise and bustle, and spending your money across the counter. And I bet you went down the docks, dreaming of your homeland across the water.”
    Bridget squeezed her hand. “Ah, you know me too well, so ye do.” She gave a deep-down sigh.