Yesterday's Dreams

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Local Whitby girl, Colette Shipley has become fascinated by the mysteries of the new art of photography and begins to create a record of her scenic home town with its tall ships and twin lighthouses, street urchins and weathered old fishermen. One day she encounters Arthur Newton who shares her passion for the town's unique atmosphere. Colette and Arthur begin a friendship that develops further. However, unbeknown to Collette, Arthur is also married with a young child. Arthur has tried to be content with his steady job at the railways and his marriage to his childhood sweetheart Rose. However even before meeting Colette, Arthur had been living a secret life, one which he has not shared with his family, friends or even Rose: he has a real talent for painting. His talent has blossomed under the tutelage of a sympathetic gallery owner, Ebenezer Hirst, and the patronage of Laurence Steel, an established painter in the Pre-Raphaelite school. Arthur is now faced with a difficult decision: remain comfortably in his railway job or risk the security of his wife and child by becoming a full-time artist. A decision not made any easier by his growing attraction for Colette...

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

Arthur Newton was on a pilgrimage. There had been doubt in his mind about committing himself to it, especially on this day,
8 September 1889, but the compulsion to return to Whitby and his past overwhelmed his uncertainty. Once the train huffed out
of Scarborough and settled into its regular motion, Arthur settled too. He became lost for the time being in awe of this mode
of transport, so different from the horse-drawn coach he had last used on this journey twenty-three years ago in 1866 when
he was thirty.


He could not help but wonder at the abilities of the men who had invented, designed, and constructed such modern wonders,
and at the labourers who had built the line along this magnificent Yorkshire coast, laying the tracks at times so close to
the edge of the cliffs that the train seemed to sway precariously over the sea beating on the rocks far below.


The rattle and the motion and the constantly changing perspectives reminded him that the onward movement of time always brings
changes. That made him doubt if the past could ever be recaptured, but he had to try. He had begun to wonder if he should
have taken a more determined course when he was last in Whitby, perhaps stood up to Rose? But that would have caused her pain
and left a terrible hurt. He would have suffered too, though not in the same way. He would always have had a guilty conscience,
especially in relation to his daughter, Marie, who idolised him. But would this visit only heighten his desire for the life
that might have been?


He pushed that thought aside and turned his gaze on the ever-changing view, seeing it with the eye of a painter, transposing
composition and subtle colouring on to imaginary canvasses. He could not help but admire the magnificent seascapes and towering
cliffs that periodically swung into view as the track twisted its way towards Whitby before turning away from the coast and
then curving to bridge the River Esk.


Arthur sat upright, eyes focused on the town than clung precariously to cliffs formed over the ages around the river on its
course to the sea. Houses crowded together, seeming to stand one on top of another, their red roofs glowing in the September
sunshine. Ships with furled sails lay idle at quays to either side of the river; others drifted on their moorings midstream.


His heart beat faster and his body tensed at the thought of setting foot again in Whitby where so much had happened. Misgivings
prompted him again. Was he right to come back? What could he realistically hope to gain by it? He could remain in the train
instead and return to Scarborough, hoping the inspiration of yesterday remained with him. But that would be the coward’s way
out.


The train swung to the right and a glance to his left gave Arthur a view of housing developments that were new to him, an
expansion on the back of Whitby’s growing prosperity thanks to its lucrative maritime trade. The engine slowed, causing the
carriages to jerk. Caught unawares by the motion, Arthur gripped the seat to steady himself.


The engine came to a halt with a final clatter.

‘Whitby. All change!’ Before he knew it Arthur was on his feet and outside the station, pausing to gaze across the nearby
docks bristling with masts. Beyond lay the River Esk forming the Inner Harbour up river from the bridge that connected the
East and West Sides of the town.


Arthur walked slowly in the direction of the bridge. People flowed around him, noise rang out. The buzz of conversation was
overlaid by shouted greetings, mothers chiding their infants, urchins yelling in chase, hammers and saws sounding from the
shipbuilding yards, ropes and timbers creaking as ships moved with the sway of the water. Overhead came the screech of seagulls,
floating on air currents, ready to swoop down on a tasty morsel.


Arthur lovingly absorbed it all. He was back.

He turned up short steep Golden Lion Bank that led into Flowergate where the slope was not so testing. He had no need to rush
but he did not want to delay for there was a purpose to this visit. He turned into Skinner Street, then into Well Close Square.
His steps slowed as he viewed the elegant Georgian houses until he came to a halt and silently contemplated a brick house
of three bays and three storeys. The doorway with its arched fanlight had a case of Doric columns. The eight tall sash windows
each had twelve panes and plain lintels. These, along with the stonework running its full height at each corner of the building,
relieved what would otherwise have been a severe frontage. But Arthur had never regarded it as severe; to him this house had
always been welcoming, both without and within.


He tightened his lips, fighting the sadness that threatened to envelop him. He wondered who lived here now and if they loved
the house as he had done? He laid his hand on the gate, tempted to push it open and engage the current occupants in conversation,
but he got no further than that. There were some places best left unvisited for fear of reawakening old sadnesses. He turned
away and walked slowly back to Skinner Street.


He paused at the corner and for a moment eyed the building opposite. ‘Why not?’ he muttered to himself, crossing the road
and climbing the stairs to the tea-room above Botham’s shop that sold the wonderful breads, cakes and pies that came out of
their bakehouse. When he entered the tea-room his eyes immediately searched out a particular table and his heart gave a little leap of pleasure when he saw that
it was empty. But when he sat down and faced the empty chair opposite he wondered if he had been right to come here. Then
pleasant memories took over and for the next half-hour he enjoyed the refreshments and recollected happier times spent at
this table.


Back on the street he retraced his steps along Skinner Street, Flowergate and Golden Lion Bank to the bustling riverside.
He made his way slowly along St Ann’s Staith, through Haggersgate to Pier Road, which he had known as the Quay, recalling
past visits to the Whitby Subscription Library and to the museum housed in the same building. He kept pausing to cast his
eyes over the cobles moored alongside the Quay. He watched, intrigued by a fisherman inspecting the set of his sail in one
of the cobles. Across the river two more were drawn up on the beach at Collier Hope where clothes had been laid out to dry
on the shingle by housewives living on Tate Hill, an area close to Henrietta Street and the bottom of the Church Stairs which
led up the cliff to the old Norman church of St Mary.


All around him the life of the port went on as it must have done throughout his twenty-one years of absence. Housewives and
their daughters dressed in the same fashion with scarves tied over hair neatly parted in the middle, ankle-length dresses,
plain or filled at the bottom, covered at the front by white aprons, gathered round a bearded fisherman, whose waistcoat hung
loosely over his thick gansey, hoping to get a tasty meal from the fish he had just brought ashore. Arthur watched the haggling
for a few minutes and then moved on towards the West Pier. So much life around him: young women sitting on the quayside,
laughing at the gossip and tittle-tattle that passed between them as they knitted a shawl, scarf or jumper or idly watched
a child adjust the sail on his toy boat; a man and a woman intent on mending nets did not notice Arthur pass as he moved on
to the West Pier.


Across the river the East Pier ran from the foot of the cliffs towards the West Pier, both positioned so as to provide a barrier
against the sea and make a safe entrance to the river. He admired the twin lighthouses rising at the piers’ extremities, guides
to sailors seeking refuge, welcome sights indeed to men home from the sea. Arthur felt he had stepped back in time. He moved
along the West Pier. There was no need to search for the place he wanted, his steps automatically took him there as they had
done on many occasions in the past. He found the place where he used to sit, made himself comfortable, admiring the panorama
as he looked back at Whitby now that he could take in both sides of the river.


He sighed as an unexpected mood of contentment settled over him and pulled a small sketchbook from his pocket. He looked wistfully
at it for a few moments. It was almost as good as new. It had not been taken from its hiding place in twenty-three years.
Why he had slipped it into his pocket today he did not really know except that his action might have been stimulated by the
same force that had insisted he come to Whitby, on this particular day.


He opened it and flicked through the pages with his right thumb. They were all in pristine condition except for one that held
a head and shoulders sketch of a young woman. It was dated 8 September 1866. Arthur’s eyes settled on it. The subject was
sitting in a three-quarters pose facing to the right, but her head was turned so that she was looking almost directly at the
artist. Her oval face had a rounded chin which made her appear resolute but gentle. Her mouth was small but perfectly bow-shaped;
her nose ran straight to a high forehead, with thin brows arching over eyes in which the artist had captured a sparkle that
drew the observer’s attention. The head was held proudly and with an air of gentle authority, which gave the impression that
this young woman would follow her own mind and opinions even if they went against convention. The hair that tumbled to the
nape of her neck had been draped in a flimsy tulle scarf held by a jewelled clasp to the left-hand side, close to the shoulder. It was a subtle way of framing and enhancing
that enchanting face.


Arthur sat looking at the picture, now oblivious to the busy scene around him. His right forefinger traced the name written
beside the date: ‘Colette’. His finger paused at the end of the final stroke.


His mind drifted back to 8 September 1866, the day he had lovingly drawn the portrait of a twenty year old Colette. That drawing
had imprinted her in his mind forever. A day of blissful happiness was destroyed by upheaval and loss. But it had its beginnings
long before that.


‘Arthur, hurry thissen, your pa’s waiting.’ Enid Newton, her voice strident with urgency, shouted up the stairs.


‘Coming, Ma,’ a young voice called in return but there was no sound of movement.

With a sigh of exasperation, Enid turned back to the dining-room. She caught the amused flicker of her husband’s lips before
he hid them with the edge of his cup. ‘You can smile, Harold Newton. You aren’t much help in getting him off,’ she chided
as she came bustling over to the table.


Harold’s grin broadened. He had noted that she had used his ‘Sunday’ name instead of the more usual Harry. She always did
when she was annoyed, even just a little. She reached for the bread knife but he caught her arm before she picked it up. With
a quick movement he swung her round so that she was forced to collapse on to his knees. He steadied her with his other arm
around her waist and held her tight as he kissed her full on the lips. She gave a small struggle but then, enjoying the intimate
closeness of their bodies, relaxed and returned the expression of his love.


‘That’s better,’ he said when their lips parted. ‘You’re more nervous than he is.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t be late on his first day at work.’

‘He won’t be.’

They heard footsteps on the stairs. Enid jumped up from her husband’s knee, picked up the bread knife and was halfway through
cutting a slice when the door opened.


Enid’s lips tightened with irritation when she still did not see Arthur. ‘Celia, where’s that brother of yours?’ she snapped,
as if her fifteen-year-old daughter could wave a magic wand and produce him.


‘Still in his room, I think, Ma,’ replied an unconcerned Celia as she sat down at the table.

‘Oswald, go and tell him to hurry up.’

‘But you’ve just shouted for him,’ protested her younger son.

‘Just go and do as you’re told – now!’

As he slunk away he caught the wink his father gave him and knew there was no malice in his mother’s tone.

They heard Oswald cajoling his seventeen-year-old brother to get himself downstairs. Then scuffing sounds, a pounding on the
stairs and Oswald’s protests at being pushed out of the way. The dining-room door burst open.


‘Ready, Ma,’ Arthur called breezily.

‘Indeed you’re not,’ replied Enid indignantly. ‘Just look at your tie.’ She came to him, buttoned his shirt at the neck and
adjusted his tie so that it sat straight in his collar. ‘Your hair!’


‘I combed it, Ma.’

‘I can see that, but I don’t know what you did after.’ She used her hand to flatten it into place. ‘That’s better.’ She glanced
at Harold.


‘He’ll pass muster,’ he confirmed, rising from his chair.

Enid’s anxiety lessened; her attitude softened. She placed her hands on her son’s shoulders and looked lovingly into his eyes.
‘We are all proud of you, Arthur. Remember – always do what is right. Do your best and don’t let the family down. Respect
the people over you and those you work with. You were lucky to get this job, you think on that.’


‘I will, Ma.’ Arthur showed a little embarrassment at this last-minute lecture and grudgingly accepted his mother’s kiss on the cheek.


Harold glanced at his other two children. ‘Be good to your mother, you two.’ He gave Celia a kiss on top of her head and ruffled
fourteen-year-old Oswald’s hair. Finally he turned to his wife, kissed her on the cheek and said. ‘Have a nice day.’


‘Look after him, Harry.’

‘He’ll have to look after himself when I leave him,’ Harold reminded her, then gave her another reassuring kiss. ‘Don’t worry,
he’ll be all right.’


The look in Enid’s eyes questioned that. Her lips tightened with uncertainty; a wife doubting the veracity of her husband’s
view; a mother doubting, yet not doubting, the capabilities of her eldest son who was about to make his first steps into the
adult world.


Enid came to the front door with them and watched for a few minutes as father and son strode down the street. She was pleased
that a gawky schoolboy has blossomed into a tall, confident young man. Though he couldn’t be described as handsome, his well-proportioned
features, set with a rugged jaw and enhanced by dark brown hair with a natural sweep, were attractive. She could not help
but wonder if Arthur would cope with the big wide world in which he would find himself; an adult’s world, all so new to him.
It seemed as if she was saying goodbye to her ‘little’ boy and seeing a grown man in his place. She felt a touch of pride
nevertheless. He had been a good, loving son. Oh, he had got up to all the usual boyish tricks and had thrown childish tantrums
but he also showed a real appreciation of his parents, setting an example to his siblings. He was a bright boy and had done
well at school, something that had stood him in good stead when he had gone for his interview at the Railway Offices. Maybe
now that he had a job he would spend less time with a pencil and sketchbook; think seriously about his future and enjoy the
company of new-found companions.


She turned back into the house and the sound of the door shutting seemed to mark the end of an era.


‘Excited, son?’

‘Yes, Pa.’

‘Well, don’t let it show at work. Just take things calmly. If you are over-enthusiastic you’ll get put on. Be willing but
not over-willing. Don’t go asking for jobs, there’ll be plenty come your way as office boy. Do what you are told to do and
always do it with a happy smile. Keep your wits about you; note the way things are done; be willing to learn. Railway transport
will be important in the future and you can grow with it, maybe achieve a highly responsible position. Leeds is expanding
rapidly on the back of the railway and the other industries it is encouraging. There’s a great future to be had here, lad.’


‘At the interview, Mr Stokes said I wasn’t the only new starter. Is that because of the expansion?’

‘Aye. I know Charlie Stokes. He told me Ben Sleightholme and Giles Wainwright are starting today as well. Mr Stokes told me
that Ben’s a bright lad, should do well; Giles impressed him with his neat writing and sound arithmetic, just the sort of
person they are looking for to train as a ledger clerk.’


Any further queries were halted when Harold turned into a shop, the bow window of which was neatly set out in such a way that
the foodstuffs on display would catch the eye and tempt the customer inside.


‘Good morning, Con,’ called Harold breezily.

‘Top o’ the morning to ye, Harry.’ Conan Duggan looked up from the blue sugar bag he had just filled. He was a tall man, well-built
and always cheery. He had come to Leeds from Ireland when he was twenty to ‘seek his fortune’. He duly married a Yorkshire
lass whose father, impressed by his son-in-law’s capabilities and ambition, took him on as a partner after he had gained experience
elsewhere in the grocery trade. Now Conan ran the shop with his father-in-law as a sleeping partner. Through Harry calling in here most mornings, he and Conan had become friends,
drawn together by a shared interest in cricket.


‘First day at work for the lad?’ said Con inclining his head in the direction of Arthur who had sauntered down the shop to
talk to a girl of his own age busily taking apples from a barrel, rubbing them with a soft cloth and arranging them in a pyramid
on a tray.


‘Hello, Rose,’ said Arthur. Though they had been friends since childhood he was beginning to see her in a different light.
She had blossommed into a seventeen-year-old who was taking pride in her appearance.


She looked up and, seeing the mischievous look in Arthur’s eyes as he reached out towards the pile of apples, glared at him
and snapped, ‘Don’t you dare!’


He whisked one off the top. ‘I only wanted that one,’ he laughed.

Rose gave a little tremor of irritation. She had been caught again; reacting to Arthur’s gesture when she really knew he would
not upset her handiwork for fear of bruising the apples. ‘You shouldn’t tease me,’ she retorted sharply.


He leaned closer and whispered, ‘You like it.’

Rose blushed and said haughtily, ‘I do not. And mind you pay for that apple.’

Arthur smiled, tossed the apple nonchalantly in the air, caught it, winked at Rose and went to join his father who was purchasing
a twist of his favourite tobacco.


‘See you later, Con.’ Harold turned towards the door.

‘Hope your day goes well, Arthur.’

‘Thanks, Mr Duggan.’ He followed his father, giving Rose a small wave. She blushed and turned her attention back to the apples.

Arthur fell into step beside his father, determined to match his stride. He was a man now; no more trotting to keep up. They
caught the horse-drawn bus that would take them into the centre of Leeds.


They parted at the corner of Boar Lane and Bishopgate where after a brief ‘Goodbye, son. Mind you do well’, Harold entered
a building with a semi-circular pedimented front. The lettering above the tall ground-floor windows announced that this was
The Yorkshire Banking Company.


Arthur paused and looked back, feeling a sense of pride that his father worked as one of the chief cashiers in such an imposing
building. He hurried on. He must not be late. But two hundred yards further on his steps faltered. Would he have time? He
pondered a moment then, decision made, turned and ran through a maze of streets until, panting, he pulled up in front of a
shop whose sign announced that it belonged to Ebenezer Hirst, Antiquarian Bookseller and Art Dealer. The books in the window
were neatly arranged so that they could easily be seen yet did not distract from the oil painting that occupied central position.


Arthur stared at the painting, drinking in its delicate use of colours that not only depicted a pleasing landscape of a river
flowing between banks of willows but also captured the mood of a misty morning. Time stood still for him as he was transported
out of this street where smoke from the chimneys had blackened the dark stone. Some day he would paint as well as this … No,
better! The thought startled him. He glanced at the clock above the shop doorway. He barely had time to get to work on time.
If he didn’t he would have blotted his copybook on his first day. Mr Stokes had warned him at the end of the interview that
he took punctuality for an indication of keenness and was not one to tolerate latecomers. Arthur ran!


He took the steps into the building two at a time, ignored the people crossing the entrance in various directions and charged
up the stairs to the first floor. He raced down a corridor and burst through a door into a large room with several desks,
all of which were occupied. Heads were raised and knowing smiles were exchanged as Arthur half walked, half ran to the door
on the left at the far end of the room. He paused in front of it, drew a deep breath to try to stop his chest from heaving and knocked on the door. Hearing
the call of ‘Come in’, he pushed it open and, trying to bolster his confidence, entered the room.


A thin man sitting behind a desk looked over the spectacles perched on the end of a sharp nose. His black hair, thinning a
little on top, had been carefully brushed into place. His gaunt cheeks gave way to a pointed chin that made him look much
more of an ogre than he really was. He knew it and used that impression to control his staff, for they never knew when they
might encounter an unknown side to their chief clerk.


His thin-lipped mouth grimaced as he said, ‘Ah, Newton.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. The pointers showed one minute
to the hour. ‘I see you have made it just in time, but, from the look of your red face and the way you are trying to get your
breath, it has been something of an effort. See that it is not so in the future. Young men in your present condition take
some time to get down to their work.’


Arthur swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced at the other two young men sitting calmly to his left. They showed no such sign
of exertion. No doubt they had arrived in plenty of time.


‘Sit down, Newton.’ Mr Stokes indicated the empty chair drawn up with theirs in front of his desk.

Arthur did as he was instructed.

Stokes cast his eyes slowly over each of them in turn. ‘Very well, gentlemen.’ Though they were mere boys by his reckoning,
he always addressed them in the same way as he did all his staff. He believed it set the right tone for the office and established
a respectful relationship between them all. He encouraged the use of surnames preceded by ‘Mr’ between members of his staff,
though he knew out of the office, and often within it when out of his earshot, they used Christian names. ‘I will start by
introducing you to each other. Mr Arthur Newton is the gentleman who chose so nearly to be late on his first day and is to serve as an office boy. The gentleman at the other end of the line is Mr Ben
Sleightholme. He too is to serve as an office boy. The third gentleman is Mr Giles Wainwright who is here to train as a ledger
clerk.


‘Now, this is an important day in your lives,’ he continued solemnly. ‘Your first job. You have a great opportunity here.
The railway is bringing much wealth to Leeds and, as the town expands with that wealth, so too will the railway, making an
important contribution not only to our locality but also the whole country. Mark my words, it will expand until every town
is near a railway station. It will spread across the country like a spider’s web, moving goods and people. It will enable
everyone to travel and that will help other towns and districts to develop like ours. Oh, yes, we are moving into a great
age, and you, I hope, will play your parts and consider yourselves lucky to be involved.’ He paused, letting the vision he
had conjured up impress them.


‘Now, what about your work here? First I had better give you a broad idea of what goes on. All information, no matter what
it concerns, comes into the outer office. It will be reviewed there by my clerks and then passed on to the various departments
situated on other floors: goods traffic, passenger traffic, accounts, equipment, and so on. You two young men will be responsible
for keeping the flow going from this department, the hub of the system, and seeing that it gets to the right person in the
right place without delay, giving priority to matters as you are directed. You will have a table at the far end of the office
on which you will sort the items for delivery. Mr Wainwright, you have been given a desk opposite Mr Chisholme the chief ledger
clerk.


‘You will get to know everyone else as you go along, except for the two young men to whom I will introduce Mr Sleightholme
and Mr Newton. They were office boys last year and will show you what is expected of you. They have moved up to be very junior
clerks. That “very” is because above them we have two junior clerks, then two senior clerks. They are all answerable to me. You will notice a door in the end wall to
the left as you leave my office. This leads to the manager’s office, Mr Bullock’s. You only go there if called upon to do
so. There is another door to his office, through his secretary’s room. The secretary is called Mr Frost.’


During this speech Arthur had regained his composure but at the name Frost his lips twitched with amusement.

‘Have I said something funny, Mr Newton?’ queried Mr Stokes with a touch of irritation.

Arthur shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

Stokes frowned and gave him a piercing look. ‘I think I have, Mr Newton. If you have found something amusing I think we should
all share it.’ He paused, keeping his gaze on Arthur, waiting for a reply. When it did not come he snapped, ‘Out with it,
young man.’


Arthur was on the point of spluttering a denial, but seeing the look on the chief clerk’s face knew it would be no good trying
to excuse himself so he spoke out boldly. ‘It was the name Frost, sir, it made me wonder if he was frosty.’


A titter came from the two new employees beside him.

Stokes frowned at them. Their amusement was nipped in the bud.

‘For your information, Mr Newton, and for that of you other two gentlemen, Mr Frost is far from frosty. He’s proper and punctilious,
with everything done by the book. Don’t ever try to take advantage of his good heart. Everything for Mr Bullock has to pass
Mr Frost’s scrutiny. You will be let into Mr Bullock’s office by Mr Frost, and then only if it is absolutely necessary. Now,
with that understood, I’ll take you into the main office.’ He rose from his chair, a signal for the others to do the same.
As he came from behind his desk, Arthur moved smartly to the door and opened it for him.


‘Thank you, Mr Newton,’ said Stokes as he passed through.

He took Wainwright to Mr Chisholme and left him in his care.

‘Come.’ He shot a glance at Arthur and Ben who followed him as he approached the two young men sitting at desks at the far
end of the room, intent on their work now that Mr Stokes was in the offing. They did not raise their heads until he spoke.


‘Gentlemen.’

They looked up quickly and replied, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Here are Mr Ben Sleightholme and Mr Arthur Newton. They will be doing the jobs you were doing last year. I want you to show
them the ropes and the way around the building.’


‘Yes, sir.’ They sprang to their feet, rather pleased to leave the invoices and letters they were sorting. This was a job
that, before the morning was out, they would be handing over to Arthur and Ben.


As Stokes walked away the two young men introduced themselves and shook hands with the