The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly
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and a quiet smile accompanied his invitation for the happy couple to board. It appealed to his anarchic nature that he might be helping them elope, their murmured conversation during the journey confirming his suspicions.
Martin wondered aloud if they would be in York before the register office closed, thus including the waggoner in their conspiracy.
‘I don’t want to dash your hopes, but old Snowy doesn’t walk much faster than a man these days. However,’ he gave a reassuring smile and tickled the horse’s geriatric rear with his whip, ‘we’ll give him a try – gerrup now, Snowy!’
‘Aye, gerrup, Snowy!’ Marty and Etta shared a loving laugh at their simultaneous command, even though it made no difference at all to the horse’s stride.
Against all odds, they did reach their destination just in time to visit the register office, the waggoner bestowing them a wink of good luck as they thanked him and rushed away to make an appointment to marry.
But at the last minute, Etta had a bout of nervous superstition and urged her suitor to enter alone lest all go awry. ‘When they see how young I am – oh, I feel so self-conscious, I can’t bring myself to go in!’
‘You’ll have to present yourself some time, they can’t marry folk by telegraph – I’m joking!’ He gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘How can it go wrong? We’ve already been granted the licence.’
‘It’s all very well for you, you’re almost twenty-one.’
Blushing, Marty was forced to admit then, ‘I exaggerated about the couple of months, I won’t come of age till next year – but I swear to God I haven’t lied to you about anything else!’ He crossed his heart.
Forgiving him this trespass, she was finally persuaded that their visit was mere formality, and, with time ticking away, agreed to come in with him for support. Still, she braced herself for an interrogation.
The superintendent registrar was not at all pleased to receive their request so late in the day, and throughout the brief interview there was to be great suspense.
But then, ‘We’ve done it!’ Marty broke into relieved laughter as, wedding arranged, they rushed away before anyone could call them back.
‘Almost!’ Etta squeezed his arm excitedly. ‘Oh goodness, wasn’t it such luck he could fit us in so soon? I wish tomorrow afternoon would hurry! What are we to do until then?’
‘I don’t know about you but I’m famished!’ exclaimed Marty, who had not eaten since breakfast.
‘Let’s visit a restaurant!’ At his look of dismay a crafty glint came to Etta’s eye. ‘I’m not so penniless as I made out to Father. After the last debacle I thought to be better prepared and I’ve managed to accumulate eight sovereigns.’ She laughed at his gasp. ‘Don’t ask where from! I had Blanche sew them into my petticoat.’ Then, taking his arm, she hurried him into the entrance of a dark, ancient passageway that stank of urine. ‘Shelter me whilst I retrieve some of it!’
His stomach cramped by intense hunger, Marty was not about to rebuff her extravagant gesture and shielded her with his body whilst keeping a lookout for peeping Toms. He cast furtive glances as she hoisted her skirts and attempted to rip the coins from the petticoat’s hem, but they were too firmly stitched. She cursed and applied her teeth to the linen, making him laugh at her antics until frustration drove her to urge him, ‘Well, you have a go!’
Wondering what an onlooker might think of him lifting a young lady’s petticoats, he nibbled and picked at the hem, which, between the pair of them, was finally rent and the coins retrieved, Marty having to chase some of them down the pavement as they all spilled free at once.
Then, still delirious with laughter and excitement at the thought of their coming nuptials, off they went to find a place in which to gorge.
An hour later, bloated with sausage and mash, strawberries and cream, Marty bestowed an adoring smile upon his bride-to-be across the white table linen, hoping he didn’t have gravy round his mouth and admitting he had never been in a place as nice as this. Moreover, there was another bonus. ‘I’ve still got plenty of time to nip home before it gets dark – I mean to Ma and Da’s.’
Etta’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t possibly think to leave me alone! I know you regard it as living in sin, but –’
‘Do I look that holy?’ He reached for her hand, laughing. ‘We’ll only be jumping the gun for a single night, that hardly constitutes living in sin. No, I meant just to reassure them. I’ll take you to our new home first, get you settled – got to go there to collect my barrow anyway – then I’ll call on Ma and Da and tell them I didn’t have such a lucrative day as I thought so I’ll have to go out again. You know, lay it on thick as to how I feel guilty at not bringing any money home after all the trouble I’ve caused them.’
‘You’re used to this, aren’t you?’ accused Etta with a smile.
He bit his lip. ‘No, I hardly ever tell them lies. I hate doing it now really but they’ve been so blasted obstrocu-lous over this marriage that it serves them right. If they supported their son he wouldn’t have to lie, would he? Though what I’ll do if Ma wants to feed me…’ He chuckled and, holding his distended stomach, pretended to retch.
Etta grimaced emphathetically as they paid for the meal and left the restaurant. ‘But they’ll still expect you to come home some time during the evening,’ she reminded him.
‘Not if I say I’m going to kip on a bench at the station so’s to be bright and early tomorrow.’ Marty looked smug.
‘Another lie for Judgement Day,’ teased Etta.
‘Well, only in part. I will be up bright and early, it’s not every day a fella gets married.’ He linked her arm as they ambled through the city, along narrow streets that boasted elegant Georgian architecture, its symmetry marred by the squat and decrepit medieval buildings that lurked between, their gable-ends plastered with garish advertisements, plus an array of striped awnings, even now at seven o’clock having to shade the goods in the shop windows against an unrelenting sun. ‘Mindst, we won’t be tying the knot until the afternoon, we might decide we deserve a lie in.’ A twinkle in his eye, he nudged her suggestively with his hip.
‘Well, I might,’ said Etta, ‘though I can’t see you being very comfortable on the floor.’
At this he looked blank.
‘We only have the licence, not the certificate,’ she reminded him archly. ‘It’s rather presumptuous of you.’
Marty’s visage flooded with disappointment. ‘Aye, well, I suppose it is…’
Etta remained aloof for a moment, then could no longer maintain the charade and broke into peals of laughter at his chagrin, clutching his arm as if hanging on to life itself. ‘Do you seriously think I’m ever going to let you out of my sight again? Of course you shall share the bed, tonight and always – oh, won’t it be wonderful never to be parted!’
He returned her laughing gesture, voicing agreement, but still in the dark as to whether she intended only to let him sleep beside her or to lift the embargo on their physical union before marriage. But at present nothing else mattered other than her vow to be his – as his warning glance told every other man who turned to stare at her, though secretly he enjoyed the kudos of having such a jewel on his arm.
They came out of town via the gnarled stone bridge at Castle Mills, over the scum-laden, oil-dappled broth that was the River Foss, where barges idled in the evening sun, and through the postern gate in the medieval limestone walls. Marty had deliberately brought her this way to avoid any drunken antics along Walmgate, renowned as the roughest thoroughfare in York. Some might have declared it a futile gesture when the room he had rented was over a pub, but he himself was pleased to find the saloon bar comparatively quiet, this being mid-week, albeit reeking of the usual beery fumes and tobacco smoke.
Still, he