The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly
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going to let it worry me today, and now you’ve gone and reminded me of it, thank you very much!’ And in an unstoppable attack she began to drive him towards the front door. ‘Out, out with ye now, and not another word of complaint – go and have a party in your own street if this one isn’t good enough for ye!’
‘It’s good enough!’ cried Marty, covering his head and backing away, trying not to trip over a giggling William. ‘Please don’t hit me, Ma, I’m begging ye!’
‘My God, he’ll have the –’ Red crashed into a few seconds of unconsciousness before finishing his sentence – ‘polis on us with his daft goings-on.’
‘Are we off then before all the food’s gone?’ croaked Uncle Mal.
A happy Etta shook her head laughingly, then slowly and patiently began to guide the frail nonagenarian towards the front door.
Managing to control his affliction, Red arose to shuffle after them, an expression of disbelief upon his burnt face. ‘’Tis a fine thing if you’ve only your belly to worry about, and you nudging your century!’ And to Etta, ‘If I’d known he was going to live so long I’d never have taken the ould bugger in. I can’t believe he’s still walking round with this flu knocking people off right, left and centre, like poor Johnny and Joan.’
‘Neither can I,’ marvelled Etta, and to her charge, ‘Tell us your secret, Uncle Mal.’
With painful slowness, the old man cupped his ear with a bony, liver-spotted claw.
‘What’s your secret for a long life?’ she repeated in louder tone.
‘Keep breathing,’ said the ancient, with a mischievous grin.
And to fond laughter, the Lanegans moved out into the sunshine, to join in the Hope Street celebrations.
Table of Contents
Marty Lanegan was skylarking his way along a corridor of the grandest hotel in York, lolloping like an ape for the entertainment of a workmate to have him double up in laughter, when his antics were stalled by a furious argument. Abandoning his audience, he paused to listen and to grin at the choice insults which jarred with this Edwardian elegance, that were hurled like clubs between father and daughter. He knew this to be the relationship for he had witnessed the arrival of the scowling but very handsome young lady and her papa late yesterday afternoon, and had opined to the rest of the staff that she looked a proper handful.
‘You mean you’d like a handful,’ the page had leered.
Well, that was no lie. She was the most stunning girl Marty had ever seen: hence his unusual keenness for work this morning. He was about to put his eye to the keyhole when the door opened, forcing him to leap back or be bullocked aside by the angry gentleman on the point of exit.
The boot boy sought to explain his proximity. ‘I’ve just come to check if there’s any shoes need cleaning, sir!’
This was met by suspicion, the man’s cane held at a threatening angle. ‘Somewhat late in the day for that, isn’t it?’ It was well after breakfast.
Marty’s reply displayed just the right blend of courtesy and helpfulness, delivered with the faintest lilt of Irish brogue. ‘Some guests forget to leave them out, sir, so I make constant trips up here. I like to provide good service.’
‘If it was that good you’d be aware that you’ve already done ours,’ growled the man, who, with his bearded face, corpulent build and eyes that bulged with rage, was the spitting image of the King, though his manner was anything but royal. Ramming on his bowler and shoving the cane under his arm, he turned his back on the servant, locked the door and marched to the stairs, but not before both he and Marty heard the sound of a heavy object hitting wood.
Struggling to contain his mirth, the boot boy appeared to go obediently on his way. But a crafty glance over his shoulder told him that the other had descended and, upon hearing noisy sobs, he crept back to employ the keyhole. Maybe he could be the one to comfort her…
They were not the feeble kind of tears but loud wails interspersed with frustrated yelps and thuds, as if she were punching some substitute for the one who had angered her. He was still bent over trying to catch a glimpse of anything other than the bedroom wallpaper, when someone nipped his trim, uniformed buttock, shocking him upright.
The culprit stifled a giggle as her victim swivelled in dread. ‘What’re you up to, Bootsie?’
‘Ye daft mare!’ He scolded the chambermaid in a forced whisper, and then grabbed her to tussle and tickle her, chuckling good-naturedly. ‘I thought ’twas her daddy come back.’
Annoyed to learn that his attention was for another woman, Joanna’s laughter dissipated in a blunt Yorkshire response. ‘You lecher! Spying on that swanky