It had been a perfectly regular day, until Bill arrived back at Whitby station that evening. His face and hands were covered in soot and his clothes were dirty with soot and sweat, but none of this was unusual. Lottie would have hot water ready for him when he got home, so that he could wash before tea. No, nothing seemed out of the ordinary when he stepped out onto the platform.
 
“I’ll leave her to ye, Peter,” he told Peter Higgins, the man responsible for cleaning up and waiting until the fire was safely and properly extinguished.

The tall, sinewy man nodded and climbed into the locomotive, but turned. “I was sorry to hear about yer son, Bill.”

Bill froze in his spot. His first thought was of John. He and his wife had lived in permanent anxiety ever since he had left for India. Or had something happened to Joe? His job was a relatively safe one, but he did occasionally hear stories of people falling onto the tracks.

Peter did not keep him in suspense but continued almost immediately: “’E’s a good lad. Hard-workin’ an’ polite, ‘n’ all. Can’t see what they got to be unhappy about.”

Instant relief was followed by new concerns. “I’ve not set a foot on t’ platform since this mornin’, Peter. Fill me in.”

“Ah, sorry. Ah, ye shouldn’t ‘ave heard it from me. Yer lad was sacked. No one knows why. I hadn’t started yet, so I heard it when I came in. Apparently it was a bit of a to do. I’m sorry, Bill.”
 
Unable to get more information from Peter, Bill thanked him and made his way to where the station offices were. Probably Meekford was out already, but Bill hoped to get the story from him before he talked to his son. He knew Meekford. The man wanted things to run orderly, but he was also kind and generous. Whatever Joe had done, it had to be real bad for Meekford to sack him without a warning.
 
The windows were dark, except for one near the entrance where a single clerk sat writing at a desk. He looked up when Bill entered.

“Excuse me. Has Mr. Meekford left already?”

He could see disapproval in the man’s eyes as he sized Bill up. “He has, sir. And I wouldn’t go see him like that.”

Bill wouldn’t have gone to see his boss while covered in soot if he weren’t desperate. But he was. “My son, Joseph Blacke, was sacked today. Do ye know owt about it?”

“I do, sir. And I would recommend you leave it be, if you like your job. It was bad. Managing Director himself was here. Don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s done business, that was clear.”

That nearly sent Bill reeling. The Managing Director himself had travelled down to Whitby to deal with Joe. This was bad.
 
He walked home with big anxious strides. By the time he reached Oswy street, anxiety had turned to anger. Joe wasn’t there, and Lottie didn’t know where he was. He hadn’t come home for his tea. Bill didn’t tell his wife anything about what he had heard. He wanted to talk to Joe first. He washed, changed, had his tea, no sign of Joe. He waited. No sign of Joe. He clenched his firsts so tightly on his knees that his knuckles turned white. Suddenly he rose. “I’ll be out.” And without as much as a word of explanation to his wife, he put on his jacket and cap and left the house.
 
He didn’t know where to look for the boy and so he just walked wherever his feet led him. Past the station, across St. Anne’s Staith. No sign of him. The West Pier. No Joe. The beach. Lovers kissing in the moonlight and doing far more inappropriate things. The tide take them. But no sign of his son. The Wharfs. No Joe. Across the bridge. The pubs of Grape Lane and Church street. Still no sign of him. Down by Tate Hill Pier. There were some youths sitting on the edge of the pier talking and laughing. But no Joe. Up the steps to St. Martha’s. Some ruffians stood muttering in the shadow of the church, exchanging money and goods. They looked up when the stranger approached. Bill turned on his heel and walked back down. This was no use. For all he knew his son was home already.
 
He walked down Church street and was about to pass the corner, when someone shouted. “Mr. Blacke!” He turned. It was Reverend Greene. They didn’t attend church every Sunday, but the minister knew them and kept urging them to attend more regularly. Greene ran a little to catch up with him, and then had to catch his breath, for he was an old, corpulent man who was clearly not used to physical exertion. “I was just on my way to see you. Your Joseph was arrested.”

Bill’s heart sank. “Are you sure, reverend?”

“I saw him myself. The constable led him away in cuffs. Seemed drunk. Is everything alright, Mr. Blacke? I’ve been worried about-,”

“Thank you, reverend.” Bill cut him off and he marched away in the direction of the police station, without looking back at the minister.
 
Now he was livid.
 
And so it was that Bill entered the police station, sweaty all over again, heart beating fast.

“Pardon me, ser.” He approached the first constable he could see. “I’m looking for a Joseph Blacke who was arrested earlier tonight.”