Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
Skipton, Yorkshire
If it hadn’t been Fate, it wouldn’t have been so easy. Or at least, that is what Pip told himself.
Pip didn’t mean to meet the man at the Yorkshire Unicorn. But it felt so much like fate, being asked to take the camera to Skipton on Friday like that—the very same day that the meeting had been arranged in that mysterious letter.
After he dropped the tourist’s lost camera at the address provided by Mrs Alfred, Pip found himself with more than an hour to wait until the next train.
He would take a stroll through the town.
He did not look for the Unicorn, did not ask a passerby where it was, but when he saw it across the street, it was simply too easy to go inside and order a pint while he waited.
Pip was brooding over his pint and his misfortunes in a dark corner when a man sat across from him. He had sharp lines, lean and cockney. Pip knew the type from London.
“Good morning, Philip,” he said, just as if they knew each other. “Sent you on an errand, did they?”
“How did you know that?” Pip asked, feeling a pinprick of fear for the first time.
“Who do you think left the camera, my boy? There’s not a lot we don’t know,” he said. “We know they’ve strung you along with false hopes. How do you like being an overgrown errand boy?”
“Who’s we?” Pip repeated, ignoring the jibe.
The man made a pattern on the tabletop with one finger and lowered his voice. “The Brotherhood of Saint George.”
Pip jerked back. These must be the fanatics who had hurt Una. Such things as horsewhips and the local constabulary crossed his mind.
“See here,” he said, “you oughtn’t to have hurt Una like that.”
The man spread his hands and raised his eyebrows. “Settle down! She hurt our Harold worse than he ever hurt her, I’ll have you know,” he said. He looked Pip over. “Loyalty. I like that. The Brotherhood likes it, too. But here’s what I want to know: what did Miss Una Worms ever do for you?”
“She wrote to me when I was at school,” Pip said, and then bit his lip. It sounded so juvenile.
The Cockney laughed. “Doesn’t take much to earn your devotion, does it? You ever heard of those old maids who write to prisoners? They send them improving books, too, and jellies and what-have-you.”
“What do you want from me?” Pip asked, looking way. He didn’t like the way this man had commandeered the conversation. “Why did you send that letter? What does my father have to do with any of this?”
“Steady, Philip,” cooed the Cockney. “We’ll get to that. I’m putting you first, see? The Brotherhood don’t ask where it don’t give.”
“And just what do you think your Brotherhood can give me?” Pip said. He tried to say it defiantly, but it came out hungry and grasping.
“First of all, the truth,” said the Cockney softly. “Then, whatever you want, my lad. Whatever you want.”
The words hung between them.
Pip lowered his voice. “What’s all this about my father? Or was that just a trick to get me here?”
The man looked away. Whatever he had to tell him about his father, it wasn’t something he expected would please Pip, so it wasn’t a sham. In Pip’s experience, the worst things turned out to be true.
“No trick,” said the Cockney. “Man to man, I can’t promise you’ll like it.
But there’s something at the other end of it.
A new start. No more obligation, no more charity.
But first, it costs something to get what you want.
It costs all of us something. You don’t get anything for nothing in this life. ”
“I know that. So what’s the cost?” Pip asked.
The Cockney snorted. “Oh, I think you know, Philip. You’re not slow, not a bit. Our Harold could see that, straightaway. There’s a young man in Ormdale, he told me, and he’s a bright spark.”
Pip looked around them to see if anyone was listening.
“It’s the relic,” Pip whispered. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“It’s funny, you know. You keep asking what we want.“ The Cockney leaned forward. “I tell you what. I’ll tell you about your dad—right now, today, no strings attached. Get it out of the way. But before I do, what I want to know is, what do you want?”
A merry-go-round of desire wheeled through Pip’s mind, slowing to one object.
“No one’s judging you here, my lad,” the Cockney said. “Spit it out.”
He suddenly felt the shame of his situation. This was so far from the life he craved. But the other choice was to go back to bed tonight just as ignorant, dependant, and poor as he had awoken that morning.
Or was there another option? Could he earn favour with the abbey family by reporting back about this meeting with one of their enemies?
But that was no good. They’d know—they’d see in his eyes that he’d almost betrayed them.
Sir George would be grieved. Violet would look right through him.
And Una wouldn’t look at him so trustingly every again.
Pip might even lose the fresco commission. And before he knew it he’d be working at the kilns, and that would be the end of everything.
“Money,” Pip managed, and the word tasted vile. “And then I want to get out of England.”
The man’s slow grin showed his teeth. “Is that all?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Well, you are in luck, lad.”