A rag-and-bone man passed him, shouting loudly his requirements, his old horse, its head down, pulling the heavy, dirt-ridden cart up the steep hill. ‘Rag and Bownes!’ His voice ran around the small terraced houses, as he waited for women with their cast-offs to run to him and haggle a price. Adam quickly came to his senses and watched the filthy man and his beast, before carrying on his way. The man would be the first of many traders that he’d meet, once he was down in Keighley. The potato blight in Ireland had seen an influx of Irish, who were eking out a living from knife-sharpening, shoe-cleaning, tinkering and any other trade that they could turn their hands to. If Keighley had been a poor town before their arrival, then it was even poorer now, with families in up to the teens living in two-bedroom houses, and open gutters running with human and animal waste. Those who had money had started businesses along East Street, and above the shop doorways were names that depicted their Irish roots: Murphy’s and O’Haggan the butcher’s being just a couple.
Reaching the centre of Keighley, Adam made his way to the corner of College Street and deposited his letter, to be sent to Ivy in Kendal by the daily mail-coach. The new postal building and service were a lot more professional than when they were run from the parlour of the Hare and Hounds by old Mrs Martha Cooke, who had scrutinized every letter sent or received, before passing them through a hinged pane in the window. Perhaps Keighley was progressing. The Mechanics’ Institute and the Court House on North Street showed progress, Adam thought, as he stood and summoned up the courage to enter the apothecary’s shop.
Adam recognized it well, from when he had patrolled his beat, and knew the chemist would perhaps recognize him, despite the fact that he had aged in his time away from the area. He looked around the shop at the various coloured jars of poisons, drugs and concoctions. People were obsessed with their health and would buy anything that promised a fix for their ills. A display of Dr Airey’s Celebrated Indian Pills, Fox’s Anti-Cholera Mixture and Fox’s Never-Failing Cure for Thick Necks adorned the polished wooden counter, leading people to think they would cure whatever complaint they had.
‘Can I help you?’ The chemist turned round from measuring out some dark, vile-looking mixture and glanced at Adam.
‘Some laudanum, please.’ Adam spoke in a low voice; even though laudanum was a common everyday drug, he knew the chemist would know its properties, and that he had been at one time a regular visitor for the drug.
‘Pills or drops?’ The chemist stared at him.
‘Drops, please,’ Adam answered quickly.
‘It’s a penny for twenty-four drops – will that be enough?’ The chemist looked harder at him. ‘I seem to recognize you from somewhere.’ He measured the drops out into a bottle and passed it over to Adam.
‘Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’ Adam exchanged his penny with the chemist and placed the bottle and its contents safely into his pocket.
‘They say people experience pain because of their sins. Do you think that is correct?’ the chemist quizzed. He’d realized who his customer was: older now and not as cocksure, but it was definitely Adam Brooksbank.
‘I wouldn’t know, sir, as my pain came from a Russian’s sword. Thank you for your service.’ Adam turned and made for the door, knowing the old man would not stop there.
‘That’s physical pain, but your pain must be deeper, my friend.’ The chemist leaned over the counter and watched as his shop’s door slammed shut, leaving the doorbell above it ringing. So Adam Brooksbank was back and was still hurting; hurting so much that he had to find relief in laudanum.
Adam stood for a minute and pondered whether to go back into the apothecary’s shop and tell the chemist that the years he had been away from his home town had changed him; that now the drugs were definitely for his sword wound, and not to ease his heartache. But then he thought better of it, for the old man would think what he wanted, no matter what Adam said. Folk did that, hearing only what they wanted, most of the time. He should by now be used to gossip, and should ignore any that he heard or that was of his making. At least he had his laudanum now, and a few good nights of sleep, free of pain, would make all the difference.
He put his hand in his pocket and fished out Lucy’s list of storeroom ingredients; all the items she had requested were available from the shops along North Street. Adam decided to leave her list with Harrison’s, the main supplier of provisions on North Street, for them to get ready for his return, after seeing Tom Gaine with regards to his need for a horse. What Harrison’s couldn’t supply, he’d pick up elsewhere on his way home, and would strap it all to the horse’s back. He quickly walked the few yards to Harrison’s, giving them the list to put together, before making his way across to the other side of town towards Fell Lane, seeking directions from a woman who was peddling her goods at the crossroads that led out of Keighley up to the wild moorland.
Standing on the doorstep of Daisy Cottage, Adam looked around him. But for the row of cottages and an inn, appropriately called The Three Horses, this part of Keighley had not yet been touched by the ongoing Industrial Revolution. Instead it was surrounded by grassy scrubland and fields, where Tom Gaine’s love of horses was obvious to all, as numerous beasts stood and grazed in the surrounding fields.
‘Aye, what can I
