Three Letters (45 page)

‘Oh,
I’m sorry.’ The girl liked to chat. ‘So does your brother-in-law have children of his own?’

‘Sadly, no.’

‘Oh, that’s such a shame. He looks like he’d make a wonderful dad.’ She handed Alice her change.

Walking back to the table, Alice thought of the girl’s comments. She was right; Steve really would make a wonderful father. She and Mike had always known that.

It wasn’t long before the waitress
arrived with the tea. ‘I’ve brought a lollipop for the child.’ She smiled at Susie and then she told Alice, ‘It’s on the house.’

Steve took a great gulp of his tea. ‘This morning has been a real tussle,’ he told her, ‘but I’m sure you don’t want to know all the tiresome details.’

‘Of course I do!’ Alice gently kicked him under the table. ‘I want to know every little detail, so out with it,’
she said. ‘How did it go?’

Deliberately aggravating her, he took another gulp of his tea, then winked at Susie, who tried to wink back, but ended up squinting cross-eyed.

‘On the whole, it went very well,’ Steve said. ‘It was an uphill struggle, but we got there in the end.’

Delighted Alice leaned over to give him a kiss. ‘Well done, I knew you could do it.’

Not to be left out, Susie climbed
onto his lap, looking up at him like he was a real hero.

Steve went on to outline the situation. ‘They gave it the thumbs-up, but with some conditions; which I won’t go into now, because it’s all a bit complicated. What it means is, I’ll need to stay here another day. As I suspected, I’ll need to speak to a number of people involved, like the lawyer, and the builders, together with the architect,
who will need to amend his plans. Then it’s back to the authorities, when hopefully they’ll agree with the changes and rubber-stamp it, so I can start putting my plans into action.’

Jubilant, he clenched his fists in the air. ‘I can hardly believe we’re almost there,’ he said. ‘At least, they didn’t turn it down out of hand.’

Susie was excited too. First, because Uncle Steve and her mummy were
excited, but mostly because, now that they were altogether, she could go to the market and see the boy play his guitar.

Just now, though, her mummy and Uncle Steve were drinking and talking, and she was growing more and more impatient.

When she could control her impatience no longer, she shouted, ‘WHEN ARE WE GOING TO SEE THE BOY?’

Alice quietly shushed her. ‘It’s rude to raise your voice like
that. Uncle Steve and I are having a conversation. As soon as we’ve finished our tea, we’ll take you to see the boy; if you could just be patient for a minute or so longer.’ Reaching out, she stroked Susie’s hair. ‘All right, sweetheart?’

Fed up with waiting, Susie took a moment to answer, but eventually she replied sulkily, ‘All right then.’

She cheered up when Steve told her, ‘I’m sorry, but
I’m still catching my breath. I promise we’ll get you to the market in no time at all.’

So, while the adults talked a little longer, Susie glued her nose to the window, taking intermittent licks of her bright yellow lollipop, and watching the world go by.

Every now and then, she would impatiently glance up to see her mummy and Uncle Steve in serious conversation, then she would sigh and groan
and take another lick of her lollipop, her gaze constantly wandering towards the market clock.

‘I hope we’ve not missed him, because we’re going home today, and I’ll never see him again,’ she muttered to herself.

She remembered the boy’s shy smile from the bus, and it lifted her spirits.

The idea of never seeing him again, though, made her feel miserable.

When they’d first
arrived at the market early that morning, Patrick had explained to Casey why the stall must be set out as it was now.

‘You need the taller stuff at the back of the stall, with the smaller items laid out in front. That way people can see everything, without shifting stuff about and causing a jumble, and you must remember to keep the really small pieces in the bric-a-brac box.’

Casey was fascinated.
‘What’s a bric-a-brac box?’

‘It’s for keeping things in like hairpins an’ coins, an’ bits o’ fancy jewellery an’ such. Some of it can be worth a bob or two, an’ that’s why it needs to be at the side, where I can keep an eye on it.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, ’cause there are too many folks wi’ nimble fingers, who would think nothing of dipping into the box and helping themselves.’

Casey was learning by
the minute. Earlier, he’d watched with interest as the merchandise had been brought out of the wagon, and he was fascinated by the seemingly endless stream of articles that emerged. There were many items of furniture; a great number of china vases and ornaments; various household stuff; and all manner of tools, some working and others, so Granddad Bob told him, needing repairs.

There were toys
of every description, including teddy bears, and a big selection of dolls, some wearing frocks and others totally naked, and even one wearing baggy trousers and a sailor’s hat.

There was a rusty old doll’s pram, and a long iron rack filled to bursting with second-hand clothes of all sizes and descriptions. The stall was alive with miscellaneous items, every one painstakingly laid out to display
its best angle.

‘Patrick?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s a rag-tatter?’

Patrick was surprised by Casey’s question. ‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Because the man on the food stall said you were a rag-tatter.’

‘Oh, did he now?’

‘Are you … a rag-tatter?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Well now, let me see.’ He scratched his nose and gave a little cough, then he tried to explain. ‘A rag-tatter is somebody
who tatts round the streets, asking folks if they’ve any old rags or anything else they don’t want any more. If the man or woman of the house wants rid of something – like the grandma’s rusting old mangle in the back yard, or a suit that’s too small and been hanging in a wardrobe since the day of the wedding forty years back – they might give it to the rag-tatter, just to be rid of it. Or
they might be moving house and don’t have room for all the furniture any more, so they’ll sort out what to keep and what to let go. The rag-tatter doesn’t mind, as long as he gets to sell it on for a bob or two.’

He gave a great sigh of relief to have achieved his explanation. ‘So, does that answer your question?’

‘Yes, but …’

Patrick wasn’t listening. He was watching a child lift something
from the stall but was relieved when the mother put the item back. ‘What’s on your mind, son?’ He returned his attention to the boy.

Casey was curious. ‘Why don’t people sell their own stuff, and make “a bob or two” for themselves?’

Patrick was horrified. ‘Heaven forbid! If they did that, how do you suppose poor old folk like me would make a living?’

‘But it’s their stuff.’

Patrick explained,
‘They don’t mind, and anyway I’m doing them a favour. I’m taking away their rubbish, which they’re glad to be rid of it. What’s more, I’m equipped to deal with it, while they wouldn’t even know where to start. First of all, they don’t have a wagon to carry the stuff, and secondly, they don’t have the salesmanship to sell it. And that’s where I come in. As you know, I have a fine wagon. I am also
a very good salesman, as your granddad Bob will tell you.’ Feeling important, he drew himself to his full height. ‘If I say so myself, I’m the best man for the job. I’ve been at it most of my life and my father before me. So there you have it, and that’s that!’

Casey began to realise over the course of the morning that what came out of the back of that wagon might seem like a load of old rubbish
to some, but to a fine self-made businessman like Patrick, it was money in his pocket.

‘Right! Here we are.’ Puffing and panting, Granddad Bob returned with three glasses of sarsaparilla, most of it running down his arm where he’d been jostled by the people. ‘By! Yer should see the folks arriving now,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s getting really busy out there.’

He knew how a market attracted all
manner of people. Everyone loved the excitement of the coloured awnings and noisy traders; and the countless choices from a vast array of merchandise.

These would-be customers came from all walks of life. Some were professional buyers. These were easy enough to spot, with their notepads and pencils, and often discreet little eye-glasses in their top pockets, useful for examining the marks on
the bases of vases.

Others, with far slimmer wallets, might be on the lookout for second-hand items to suit their own personal requirements.

‘Hey! These glasses are only half filled!’ Patrick glowered at his old friend. ‘What did you do, have a sly drink or two on your way back?’

‘Don’t be daft. They’ve spilled over ’cause folks kept bumping into me. I never wanted to fetch the drinks in the
first place, as well you know. But I’ll tell yer what, next time, yer can fetch ’em yerself.’

‘I’ll do no such thing!’ As usual, Patrick gave as good as he got. ‘My job is to do the selling and yours is to fetch the drinks. That’s the way it’s allus been!’

‘I never said I minded fetching the drinks, did I? But I do mind being moaned at, through no fault of my own.’

‘You’re right,’ Patrick apologised.
‘I’m a miserable old sod, aren’t I?’

‘Hmm! Yer can say that again.’

‘So, are we still friends?’

‘Go on then.’ Bob raised his glass. ‘Here’s to us.’

Chinking glasses with his old friend, Patrick drank the entire lot in one go. ‘Phaw!’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Sure, ye can’t beat a glass of sarsaparilla … or half a glass, if you see what I mean?’

‘Don’t you start again!’

‘I’m not. It’s just that I’ve a favour to ask.’ Holding up his empty glass, he gestured towards the drinks table. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might—’

‘No, there isn’t.’ The old fella was adamant. ‘If yer want another drink, yer can fetch it yersel’. I’m not fighting my way back through that lot, not even for a gold clock.’ And Patrick was left in no doubt that he meant it.

‘When
can I play the guitar, Patrick?’ Casey had helped set up the stall, and waited around all morning, so now he was eager to play for the crowds.

Patrick understood. ‘You’ve been very patient, so ye have.’ He drew out an old orange box. ‘Here. Sit yerself on that, and start playing whenever ye like.’

In truth, Patrick was a little nervous. He couldn’t be sure whether the customers would appreciate
the boy’s considerable musical talents, or be put off from buying. Some people were funny like that. They came to market for a bargain. As a rule, they had little time to stand and listen.

Granddad Bob, though, had no doubts whatsoever. ‘Don’t be nervous, lad,’ he quietly encouraged his grandson. ‘All you need to do is play from the heart, like always.’ He paused before adding quietly, ‘I taught
yer daddy to play the guitar when he were about your age. Mind you, neither me nor yer daddy could ever put the heart and soul into a tune the same way you do. It’s like … well, it’s like you were born with a natural instinct for the music.’

‘That’s what Daddy told me. “You bring the guitar to life,” he told me, “and when you sing, it’s like there’s only you and the guitar in the whole wide world.”’

‘Well, there yer go, lad. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.’

‘Granddad?’

‘Yes, lad?’

With big, soulful eyes, the boy looked up at him, and each knew what the other was thinking.

In a small, broken voice, Casey said, ‘I wish my daddy was here.’

‘I know, lad.’ The old fella shared his pain. ‘He can’t be here and, hard as it is, you and me both … well, lad we’ll just have to try and get used
to it.’

‘Do you think he might be listening?’

With tears clouding his old eyes, Granddad Bob put on a smile and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I’m sure he’s up there right now, looking down on the pair of us, an’ I know he’ll be giving you all the strength you need. So, go to it, lad. Just play the music, an’ mek’ the people smile.’

He winked encouragingly. ‘Remember what yer daddy taught yer, and
play the music like he’s right there standing beside yer. Oh, but he’ll be that proud, he’ll have a smile on him wide as the River Mersey.’ He glanced at the people mooching about the stalls. ‘They’re all here, waiting for you to start. So bring ’em in, lad,’ he murmured. ‘Bring ’em in.’ Taking out his big hanky, he wrapped it round his nose and blew hard, then slyly dabbed away his tears.

When
Casey began to play, the people inched nearer, enthralled by the boy and his music. When he started softly singing, they stayed to look and listen, and to enjoy.

Casey was nervous, until he remembered what his granddad had said – that his daddy would give him strength – and believing that, his heart grew quiet.

Lured by Casey’s voice and the accompanying music, young Susie broke away from Steve
and Alice to run ahead, pushing through the growing crowd, until she was so close, she could have reached out and touched him.

Lost in the song, Casey did not see her. His sensitive young fingers moved softly against the guitar strings, the rhythmic sound mingling with the purity of his voice. The voice was still immature, yet passionate and emotional, in perfect harmony with the music, and the
silent crowd were mesmerised.