Bound to Sarah Page 8

  Mrs Leatherbarrow stroked Pat on the shoulder as a way of comforting him.

  ‘It prob’ly sounds excitin’, but it’s somethin’ I never want to go through again. I’ve seen enough death, blood and guts… an ‘all for nothin’. It doesn’t feel good to kill a man … it leaves a mother without a son, a wife without a ‘usband, a child without a father. From that day on I was finished wi’ war, I wanted out, I ‘adn’t been ‘ome since I left at fourteen.

  ‘Course, I ‘ad nothin’ to go back to, I just knew I missed … I missed … Sarah. An’ I was lucky to get ‘ome, not like thousands of others. There was over six ‘undred and fifty soldiers at that farm’ouse and only forty odd got out. The major couldn’t thank me enough for saving ‘is life and that’s where I got me commendation for bravery.’

  With the revisiting of the battle over, it was back to the here and now, and a happier note. Throughout the story the young couple had not been able to keep their eyes off each other and Sarah’s parents knew that something was in the air. They knew that Pat had nowhere to go, so they told him that he could stay with them, under the strict rule that he must sleep downstairs. Pat was overjoyed at the invitation, he had wanted to stay with them ever since he was a boy. Now, as a man, he had been given the privilege at last, and he honoured their rule.

  The next morning Sarah stayed off work in order to spend time with Pat, and they went out walking. It was a good time to be alone, and as they walked along the dock road, reminiscing, Pat took his chance to slip his hand into hers. The touch of her soft skin elated him, but before he could get used to it, she withdrew it, leaving him to drown in dejection. Why had she pulled away? Didn’t she feel the same way as he did? Doubts raced through his mind; maybe she loved somebody else. But then, why was he staying in her house? He was confused and frustrated. They carried on walking for a while more, Pat having distanced himself a little, which, in turn, left Sarah feeling confused. She thought he understood that it was not right and proper to show affection in public. They turned up James Street, heading toward the castle ruins, the silence between them only broken when they arrived at the ruins and sat on the wall.

  ‘I used to come ‘ere with me brothers, years back,’ he said in melancholy mood. ‘We used to plan where we’d go, an’ who we were gonna rob,’ he said, wondering where they were now.

  ‘I know, I passed by a few times, if you remember. Hey! Remember the time you gave me one of your stolen apples?’

  ‘Yeah. An’ ye made me a daisy chain in return.’

  He edged his way closer, but Sarah slid off the end of the wall. No matter how hard he tried, she kept her distance, telling him to behave. He was desperate for his passion to take flame but Sarah refused to give him the spark. It finally dawned on him that it might be because there were too many people around, so he quickly came up with an idea.

  ‘Ye ever been up on Rupert ‘ill, Sarah?’

  ‘No … Where’s that?’

  ‘You mean ye’ve never ‘eard of Rupert ‘ill?

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s in Everton Valley Park,’ he explained.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ She looked at him foolishly. ‘So why’s it called Rupert Hill then?’

  Pat explained about how Prince Rupert had stood at the top of Everton Valley Park with his army during the Civil War, before invading the town, destroying the castle and claiming victory over Liverpool. Sarah was most impressed by his knowledge, and he enjoyed educating her for once.

  ‘I’ll take ye up there tomorrer, if ye like,’ he offered.

  ‘Can’t … I’m working,’ she replied bluntly.

  ‘Well on ye next day off then.’

  ‘Sunday’s my only day off, and I go to church on Sunday,’ said Sarah, trying to show constraint. But Pat was persistent, which was what she wanted to see. Eventually she dropped her guard and told him that she very much looked forward to going to Rupert Hill with him on Sunday after church. Pat saw the twinkle in her eye and felt on top of the world, but he knew that he had to restrain himself until then. Time dragged, but Sunday came at last, and found them sitting in church together, singing and praying along with the rest of the congregation. Brushing up close, shoulder to shoulder, he could feel her at last. Holding her hand, then disguising his actions through little movements; leaning into her to reach for the Order of Service; holding her slender waist as he guided her back to her seat; holding her hand as she got up off her knees. Pat truly was in heaven and Sarah had to stifle her giggles at his over attentiveness.

  They laughed and joked all the way up Rupert Hill, where Sarah found the view stunning. It was a clear day and they could see for miles, as far as the Welsh mountains. There was hardly anyone about so they were able to relax and Sarah laughed so hard at his foolish impression of Prince Rupert on his horse that she thought she would choke. They spent the whole afternoon up there enjoying one another’s company. Then they sat on the grass, their arms linked, and watched the sun going down. As the burning yellow disc slowly disappeared behind the horizon, Pat turned to Sarah and gazed into her eyes, then kissed her gently parted lips and there they sealed their love on Rupert Hill.

  Their childhood friendship had now blossomed into a bond of love, and before long they were planning to marry. Pat had saved up all his money from his army days, which would see them through for quite a while, but he planned to find a job as soon as he could. They had heard of an area just outside town where rents were cheaper and they went to take a look. They found a property they liked and decided to go and see the local parish priest to ask him to marry them. On 11 June 1816, they were married in St Anthony’s, on Scotland Road, and went to live off Byrom Street, which led on to Scotland Road.

  Pat managed to secure work digging underground tunnels. He had no idea what they were for, he just did what he was told without question. His employer was the rich eccentric, Joseph Williamson, who took it upon himself to employ people to dig tunnels under his home. With the Napoleonic war over, unemployment was high, particularly for returning soldiers. Williamson had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it, so he decided to help the city’s unemployed. Over the years he had hired hundreds of desperate people and ended up with miles of tunnels under the Edge Hill area of Liverpool. The pay was not that good, but it was enough to see them through for now.

  Pat worked long hours in the tunnels for a little over a year before securing a job on the docks, where he loaded and unloaded cargo shipments. It was better paid and had its perks, because he used to bring things home on occasions; fresh fruit, wine, odd bits of material from India. He would smuggle out what he could and either sell it, or keep it for him and Sarah to enjoy. Sarah had regular work in the washhouse and cleaning offices in the town.

  So for the next few years Pat and Sarah got by just fine, they were happy together and life seemed rosy and she always had her parents to fall back on if they got desperate. Pat was proud of the fact that he didn’t drink away all his wages, unlike his father. On wages day he would return home and hand it all over to Sarah to manage. They were also proud that they didn’t need to resort to the parish, or call on the overseer of the poor for help. They had seen so many others having to take such desperate measures, some even ending up in the workhouse, the worst of all fates.

  Sarah rushed up to Pat on his return from work one evening, to tell him that she was pregnant. He was overjoyed, because after three years he was beginning to think they would be childless forever. Sarah had shared the same thought, but now that she was actually pregnant she became quite nervous of the fact that she was going to be a mother. She spent a lot of time with her own mother, taking on board all her advice and preparing for the birth. Pat put his efforts into earning as much money as possible and had never felt happier in his life.

  On 9 August 1820, Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy, with the assistance of her mother. She had spent twelve hours in labour and it had all happened while Pat was sweating it out at the dock. In the final days of
her pregnancy Sarah had gone to stay with her parents, as Pat was not allowed any time off. So every evening he would check on her there, before returning home to sleep. That night he was delighted to find a one-hour-old baby waiting for him. He picked him up from his exhausted mother, and looked at him in wonder, then handed him back and gave Sarah a gentle kiss on the forehead.

  The arrival of Samuel John Roche had made the couple into a family and Pat was devoted to them. Whatever spare time he had he would take Sarah and Sam out to stroll along the fields of Everton Brow and sit watching the ships ploughing their way up and down the river and in and out of the dock. They enjoyed getting out into the fresh air and looking out over the town and the patchwork fields and windmills of Birkenhead across the Mersey and they would often wonder what it was like beyond those Welsh hills and mountains they could see in the distance. Pat promised to take Sarah there one day, when he had earned enough money.

  The days rolled by so fast and before they knew it little Sam was toddling around. It was now his second Christmas and Pat wanted them to have a good one, just like the year before. Christmas had never really meant much to Pat until he had got together with Sarah and her family on his return home from the war. Pat surprised Sarah on Christmas Eve when he brought home a fat goose and a bag of potatoes. Then he pulled out a bag from inside his coat for Sarah and a little something for Sam, but he would not let them open them until the following day. Sarah’s face beamed with excitement, she had not expected anything, but it turned out to be the best Christmas present she had ever had.

  As she opened the bag, Pat sat watching her face for a reaction as she pulled out a beautiful brand new dress. She had pointed to it some weeks ago in a shop window on Scotland Road, and Pat had remembered it and bought it for her. She tried it on and it fitted perfectly, as if it had been made for her. She was instantly choked by her husband’s generosity, but wondered where the money had come from, until Pat revealed that he had been hoarding a secret stash, just for this special day.

  Little Sam was also delighted with his wooden toy soldier, in its bright red painted tunic and dark blue trousers and played with it all day long. Sarah felt so guilty because Pat had nothing to open, but he reassured her that he was just happy to see her happy and that was all he wanted. They took the goose and potatoes round to Sarah’s parents on Christmas day, to let them share in their good fortune.

  CHAPTER 5

  MURDER IN THE SLUMS

  Evening had fallen on the streets of Liverpool, bringing with it a sombre atmosphere and an eerie emptiness. It was the final days of January 1823 and only the sound of occasional footsteps and the sight of dark shadowy figures going about their business disturbed the scene. The dark nights and the cold weather always drew folk to stay indoors – a virtual hibernation – people tending to keep themselves to themselves in an effort to survive the winter, huddled up in their dismal little hovels. It was the prime season for the unlawful, who could prowl the streets almost undeterred, looking for an opportunity.

  On this particular night someone was up to no good. In the shadows of an alleyway lurked the silhouette of a man, only the side of his face catching the light of the gas lantern that stood above. His eyes lay fixed on another figure, who wanders through the night as if it were broad daylight. He taps at different doors, and after a few kind words and maybe the offer of a handout, he politely lifts his hat, bids goodnight and moves on. He greets the night watchman with a nod and lifts off his hat, unaware of those prying eyes, watching his every move.

  ‘Good evening to ye, Mr Higgins,’ says the watchmen, before resuming his duties. ‘Tis gettin’ more and more bitter by the day, sir.’

  George Higgins was a proud man, employed by the local parish as the overseer of the poor. He was very well liked and respected by both the people he served and the parish priests. He prided himself on going round the houses of the poor and needy, no matter what the time of day, making sure that everyone got what they needed most, which was mainly money. He knew the risks of being out after dark, but how else should he spend those long dark winter nights? He never pushed his luck by staying out too late and was always back home by nine o’clock. He also had great faith, believing he was chosen by the Good Lord to do his work and so be kept from harm. To his credit, after thirty odd years of this kind of work, that had so far proved to be true.

  Over on the other side of the street the lurker slipped silently back into the blackness of the alley, as he watched the night watchman’s lantern fade away. Then the grim face briefly reappeared in the light of the gas lantern, before disappearing silently into the night.

  The Dunbar Castle was a murky hovel where the air was choked with smoke and the stink of unwashed men. The sweetness of the sawdust that covered the floor had long since been cancelled out by tobacco smoke, which had impregnated the furniture and soaked into the walls, coating everything with a dirty thick yellow tinge. The pub had never attracted the right kind of people, but she had her regulars, enjoying the blunt hospitality of the barmaids, and tolerating the miserable wretch of a landlord. This dirty drinking den was situated on the corner of Byrom Street and Circus Street, in the heart of the growing slum area of Scotland Road.

  The breath of whispering, no good-men blew over a wooden barrel used as a table, setting the dim candle flame flickering in staccato bursts. The two whisperers were huddled in a dingy corner, their elbows resting on the barrel, their heads sunk into their shoulders. So close were they to the tiny dancing flame that you would swear their eyebrows must be singeing. Looking suspiciously over their shoulders every time the door swung open, and another customer brought in the cold night air, their conspiring eyes scanned the room for anyone who might be trying to eavesdrop.

  The pair spoke intermittently for almost half an hour, before one of them knocked back the contents of his jug. With a clean sweep of his sleeve across his mouth, the grim- faced prowler lifted his cap slightly, then stood up and left. The other sinister figure emptied the contents of his jug and shouted for the barmaid to top him up again, which she did with a curse, inviting a scornful stare from the stranger. He was ignorant of their inhospitable ways, but nor did he care about them – he was here to glean information and to have a drink. There he stayed, drinking quietly, for most of the evening, putting the barmaids on edge with his haughty leering eyes. Eventually he left the murky place, glancing around before dissolving into the night along the street.

  The following week, George Higgins was going about his business once again in the Scotland Road area, and once more prying eyes were watching in the pitch darkness. A gusty wind had assisted in cloaking him from view, having blown out some of the gas lanterns that stood twelve feet above. On windy nights like this, it was very rare for the night watchman to bother relighting them, so that section of the street was left in total darkness, drawing an extra veil over what was to come.

  The faint sound of footsteps could be heard coming up the street, and the shadowy figure stood motionless as the steps drew closer, waiting in the sheer blackness of the alley, like the spider for the fly. The footsteps belonged to George Higgins, going about his business without much concern. There would be no chance of hesitation from the shadow that stood ready to pounce; the devil was on his side tonight. Then the pace of the footsteps seemed to slow somewhat, as old Higgins noticed the blown out lantern, but instead of crossing the road, he decided to challenge his caution with his faith. He carried on cursing the wind and reciting a piece of the good book under his breath.

  ‘The day I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.’

  He huddled into his coat and an icy shiver ran down his spine. Was it fear? Or was it the cold penetrating his old bones? Before he could decide, the figure pounced on him, dragging him into the alleyway, with no time to cry for help. The poor man’s hat spun off his head, hitting the ground and rolling to a stop in the gutter. The sinister villain had George pinned against the wall, with his mouth covered to preve
nt him from shouting for help. The heavy voice of the faceless figure demanded George’s money, threatening to break his skull if he did not hand it over. But George refused outright. That money was for the poor and needy and he was not going to see it stolen from them.

  He put up a brave struggle, thinking he could call on the night watchman, but it was futile, because he couldn’t free his mouth from the smothering hand. The now anxious villain had to stop him from struggling, so he smashed George’s head against the alley wall. The sound of his skull breaking with a sickening crack sent the mugger into a panic. He froze for a moment, realising what he had done and the lifeless body slithered down the wall and slumped to the ground. He collected himself and began to sift through George’s pockets for the money that he knew he always carried. Blood began to gush from the gaping wound and trickled over the cobbles, settling in the cracks.

  The robber did not hear the footsteps of someone else heading his way up the deserted street. His heart was too busy racing, frantic to locate the money on George’s body so he could flee the scene. He was now a murderer and would almost certainly hang if he were caught. Then the footsteps were upon him and a curious figure hung over the alley entrance, just feet away from him, having stopped to look at the hat in the gutter. That figure was Pat, on his way home from working overtime at the dock.

  He bent down and picked up the hat, watched by the murderer in the silent shadows, who was praying he would move on quickly. But he did not, and at that moment George’s corpse let out a mighty groan, a last plea for help, or maybe just the release of trapped air in his lungs. Pat turned towards the alley, peered cautiously into the darkness and took a few wary steps towards the sound. Then he noticed the blood, trailing like black tar in the darkness, and immediately shouted for the watchman. Then suddenly, from out of the darkness, a black figure pounced and Pat cried out in fright. A great scuffle ensued – fists flew and clothes were ripped, as the two battled blindly. Then an almighty blow sent Pat flying into the alley, tripping over George’s body. The culprit wasted no time. He jumped over him and fled into the night.