by Leah Fleming
This made Tizzy’s forehead burn even more. Surely smallpox would not come to this faraway camp? What if it were here already, caught at the fair in the mix-up of folk that gathered last Saturday in Scarsbeck? What if death was creeping up the valley, over the hill, sticking to the stick bundles of bogtrotters or fair folk, stalking through Paradise in the dead of night, uncaring like the angel of death in the Sunday school leaflets in the reading hut, marking out the first-born . . . not Mally though, she wasn’t a son. What if her headache was just the beginning and she woke up covered in blistering pox? Tizzy felt panic rising. ‘Not us again, Lord, one, two, three, four . . .’
Chapter Seventeen
Cora Bulstrode sat at the high desk overlooking the rows of forms in the temporary classroom, watching the fingers of the wall clock creep slowly towards breaktime. She handed round the box of knitting for spare moments. The only sound came from the click-click of needles and her efforts to untangle the bodged stitches of the infant boys who were a ham-fisted lot compared with the girls.
The seams of her own Monday morning had fallen apart when a child banged on the schoolhouse door to tell her that Miss Herbert had collapsed in her classroom and needed attention. Susan was at the dolly tub and the copper was boiling for the next wash but she must inform poor Ezra of this rude disruption to his routine. His class were demolishing that great epic ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’, struggling to parse each verse, but he dutifully rose to the occasion, admonishing the pupils on pain of death not to move a muscle until his return. She watched through the door as he escorted the white-faced teacher out into the fresh air.
Cora could admit it was as hot as an oven in the classroom but to collapse in a heap was so undignified and quite unnecessary. She had a sneaking feeling that perhaps the minx had feigned the whole episode just to get herself alone with her brother. She trusted no woman around him and this one especially with her refined accent and dainty ways. Her enthusiasm for classwork was far too energetic to be healthy. Miss Herbert was little more than a Sunday school teacher but behaved as if she was fully trained like Ezra.
As if her pupils mattered. Here today, gone tomorrow, most of them. Already her class had halved in size what with children absconding to make hay on the farms or families disappearing overnight without so much as a by your leave.
Now poor Ezra decided to combine the two classes briefly while she was left to hold the fort with the younger children. She did not agree with his decision but knew better than to argue. He knew best, after all. Ezra was head of the household like their father before him and Father’s word had been law. He was such a dutiful master and even now would be trying to stuff some rudiments into these poor lumpen scholars.
It really was inconvenient to be stuck here while Miss Herbert reclined on their sofa in the cool, drinking camomile tea prepared by Susan, eating their fancies and making crumbs, leaving the wash boiler to go cold.
Tizzy Widdup watched the headmaster warily as he scanned over their efforts with a sneer on his face. He kept mopping his brow and looking at his silver watch and chain which bobbed over his round belly. She had been scared when Sherbert just dropped to the floor. She never thought her teacher could be so frail and human. Sherbert was always bouncing in with some grand scheme, never looked defeated by how thick some of her mates were when it came to reading and writing. Having tried herself to bang in letters, Tizzy knew it wasn’t as easy being a teacher as she first thought.
‘You, you. You and you . . . Rise. Turn. March into my classroom and the rest of you, not a peep until Miss Bulstrode comes to instruct you,’ barked the headmaster to the subdued class who sat stunned at the change of batting orders. Tizzy was one of the chosen and shuffled obediently into the next classroom. They were never allowed in this hallowed room, not even for assembly. If they were required for anything they had to stand in the tiny corridor between the old school and the extension and wait to be questioned, caned, admonished or whatever with beating heart and trembling legs.
The classroom held fifty pupils all sitting in neat rows on benches with desks attached, inkwells and proper pens. The ceiling was arched with treacle-brown beams like an upturned boat and the long thin windows were high up the walls letting the sunshine rays beam down like a torch shining on the speckles of chalky dust. On a raised platform was the high desk and behind on the wall in golden scroll was painted a text, ‘Thou, O God, seeth all’. There were two blackboards and maps suspended from the arches, brown cupboards and shelves of tattered books. Tizzy spotted a specimen case of old stones and shells. It made Sherbert’s classroom seem very bare.
As they stood awkwardly at the back of the room, the other pupils kept turning slyly to stare at them. Tizzy felt like a specimen herself and slouched against the wall hoping she could melt out of view. ‘Shuffle up, rows nine and ten, and make space for them,’ came the order, reluctantly obeyed.
Mr Bulstrode looked jolly enough with a round face and a sort of grimace which you could pass off as a smile but he had no lips so his mouth was always a hard line. ‘Let us show our new pupils what is expected in this class, starting with the six times table.’ The class dutifully chanted the multiplication table in a singsong meaningless way.
Tizzy was not impressed for she knew her tables backwards, sideways and inside out. They were good to play with when she was nervous. Suddenly she felt a jerk on her sleeve from a fierce girl with long yellow pigtails who then kicked her shin with a heavy clog. Tizzy kicked her straight back sharp and hard. The girl squealed. ‘Please, sir, he’s kickin’ me.’
‘Merciful Birkett, are you telling tales again? Fetch the card for her neck, monitor.’
‘No, sir, honest. He’s just kicked me.’ She raised her clog to show the red mark.
‘She kicked me first, sir.’ Tizzy lifted her shin to show a weal of broken skin.
‘He’s lying, sir.’
‘Out here! Both of you together. How dare you waste our time with such idle concerns. Wait until breaktime and kick each other to pieces if you must but I will not have this bickering. Merciful Birkett, hold out your hand.’ The girl gulped and unfurled her fist to receive two hard raps on her palm from a thick stick. ‘Go to your seat and be silent, stupid girl.’
Tizzy stood in front of the silent class awaiting the same fate, trying not to shake. The teacher rose to his medium height, towering over the child, and shouted, ‘I’m sorry you find our learning so boring that you create other entertainments. No doubt you can rattle off your tables in your sleep. Let’s see how much Miss Herbert has managed to drum into your thick skull. Entertain us then with your nine times table.’ Ezra Bulstrode stood back expecting silence. Tizzy rattled off the table at breakneck speed.
‘I see I must congratulate Miss Herbert on her diligence but can you apply these numbers? What is the sum of nineteen by six and eleven by forty-one?’
‘Five hundred and sixty-five, sir,’ came Tizzy’s prompt reply. The headmaster had to jot down his calculations.
‘Correct. Do you read as well as you number? Read this aloud.’ He shoved a book of poetry into Tizzy’s hand. ‘Read.’
Tizzy barked out every word without meaning or emphasis but pronounced every syllable.
‘Who taught you before you came to Scarsbeck?’
‘No one, sir. I allus could count. I like numbers. I do them for fun in my head.’ Tizzy was feeling dizzy with all the attention, fifty pairs of eyes boring into her body.
‘Your name, boy?’ said the master, peering at her intently.
‘Widdup, sir, Billy Widdup.’
‘Ah, Master Widdup! The famous prodigy. Miss Herbert has already been your champion. Now I see why. Sit down, Widdup. I’ll deal with you later.’ Tizzy staggered back triumphantly. No beating. As the lesson droned on, Tizzy felt the headmaster staring at her with a bemused shaking of the head. She would be glad when it was time to go into the yard and get out of this inspection. The other teacher from the schoolhouse came in and she watched Bulst
rode point again in her direction. Miss Bulstrode, who looked like a string bean, screwed up her eyes to inspect her. Tizzy was beginning to feel like the freak at the peepshow last Saturday.
The rest of the class was dismissed and Tizzy was summoned to stay behind. ‘I shall be transferring you from Miss Herbert’s room. She has indicated before that she thought you more suitable material for my instruction. It seems she’s a good judge of potential. I want to study you closely and see what metal you’re made of, not dross or base metal I trust but one hundred per cent pure gold. You will stay behind tonight for another interview and all of us will put our heads together to see if further study might make a scholar of you.’
‘But, sir, I’m a part-timer at the camp. I work with a gang.’
‘Not a word, boy, this is a golden opportunity for you to better yourself under my tutelage. Miss Herbert can arrange minor details. Who are your kin? They must be made to understand the importance of your talent and release you from other obligations.’
‘But, sir.’ Ezra Bulstrode waved his hand to waft away any protest. His eyes were cloudy and moist as he patted the boy on the head. ‘Good lad, off you go. Stay in this playground and come at my bell. What do you say then?’ Bulstrode held onto the lapels of his dusty black jacket, waiting for bursts of gratitude.
Tizzy darted out into the sunshine with only a breezy, ‘Ta-ra for now.’
Once out into the yard she stood blinded by the brightness. This game was getting out of hand; Mr Bulstrode was taking her seriously. What if he found out she were a lass? Mally was right, this was going too far. Miss Herbert would be disgraced and they would be chucked off the camp and Mally would lose Wobbly Bob and her job. Fancy Mac would disown his tea masher. They would have to tramp on and Granda was too old. Ironfist did not care. It was up to her to carry on the fooling of everybody but she felt a stab of fear in her belly. Would she be brave enough to brazen out her disguise?
Her arrival stopped the skipping, the game of tag, the marbles competition and the handstands. Mercy Birkett, whose hand was still stinging from her caning, marched up to Tizzy sticking out her tongue. ‘You smell.’
‘No I don’t . . .’
‘Yes you do, bowdykite, bogtrotter. All navvies smell, my mam says. ’Snot fair, I got the cane and you didn’t. That’s Mr Patabully, carrots for the lads, nowt but sticks for the lasses.’
‘It weren’t my fault. I just did what he asked.’
‘Show off! ’Snot fair. All navvies are bastards, my cousin says. Are you one as well?’
‘I have a mam and a dad but they live away.’
‘Where do they live then?’
‘I dunno.’
‘My dad’s gone to heaven, so there.’
‘So’s my gran and me big brother, Bi . . .’ Tizzy stopped in time.
‘You smell and you’re not sitting next to me. I’ll get fleas, my mam says.’
‘No you won’t. My sister works in the laundry house and these are my best clothes, so there.’ Tizzy felt tears welling up but boys didn’t cry so she turned away from her tormentor. After a moment she continued, ‘Well, I can do sums better’n you and that got me off the stick.’
Mercy Birkett was put out at the truth of this. ‘I hate Patabully.’
‘So do I,’ said Tizzy, glad to be agreeing on something at last. ‘He seems keen to keep me face in a sum book. Why?’
‘Teacher wants you for the Fawcett,’ sang Mercy to the familiar hymn tune of ‘Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam’. ‘To shine for him each day. You’ll have to stay behind and go to his schoolhouse, do sums and writing. Take an eggsandwichstation. ’Snot fair, only boys do the Fawcett. I’m top of the class for writing. Girls should be allowed too,’ explained Mercy as she cartwheeled across the yard.
‘Suppose so.’ Tizzy was in no mood to argue on that score. How on earth had she managed to land a Fawcett, whatever that was? It sounded like hard work and more school. If only Miss Herbert had not passed out none of this would have happened. Tizzy watched the boys kneeling over their marbles and she sauntered across, fingering poor Georgie’s best bull’s-eye. He was best off up in the sky playing his own game of taws. Soon she was in the thick of the game as the other lads eyed her bull’s-eye enviously. Tizzy was bursting to go to the lavvy but crossed her legs, trying to forget the urge.
The bell rang and everyone shot to their feet for the lineup. Tizzy was paired alongside the Birkett girl again who sniffed and turned away. They spent the afternoon doing handwriting with quills and ink. Mercy laughed at Tizzy’s feeble efforts and splotched lines. When they came to stand for the evening prayer she whispered through her hands, ‘I’ll wait for you s’after . . . I can show you the beck and a kingfisher what fishes from my branch, if you like.’
‘Ah don’t know how long this palaver goes on for,’ whispered Tizzy to the sound of: ‘Hands together, softly so, Little hands shut tight, Father just before we go, Hear our prayer tonight.’
‘I don’t mind,’ smiled Mercy, looking human at last. ‘You can tell me what you do there.’
‘Are we friends now?’ answered Tizzy.
‘Aye, I suppose so, but don’t tell anybody. It’ll be our secret.’
‘I’ve got a secret,’ blurted Tizzy, but drew it back quickly.
‘Tell, tell or go to hell!’ laughed Mercy.
‘No, it would only get us into trouble.’ Tizzy flashed her eyes.
‘Honest, Billy?’
‘Honest injun,’ replied Tizzy, relieved not to have spilled the beans. If she didn’t find a bush soon she would wet her breeks.
‘Let’s swear on a gravestone then,’ was Mercy’s bright idea until she caught sight of her cousin on horseback riding up the street.
Tizzy stared at him. ‘I hate him. He killed my dog and got my friend into trouble. He’s dead meat.’
Mercy nodded. ‘That’s my horrible cousin, he kicks cows into the barn and swings chickens round by the neck till they’re dead.’
‘Shall we play a trick on him, then?’ asked Tizzy.
‘How? When? He’s bigger than us,’ Mercy cautioned.
‘I don’t care. I’ll think of something,’ said Tizzy. ‘Have to go back now and face the Patabully parade. Wish me luck, Mercy. See thee later.’ Tizzy dashed for the empty privvy in the schoolyard, spat on her hands and gave her face a cat’s lick, pulled up her scratchy socks, straightened her shirt into her trousers and dawdled nervously up to the schoolhouse gate. She was for it now.
After Billy’s interview was over, they sat sedately in the back room. Miss Herbert seemed remarkably recovered, sipping tea and smiling. Ezra was full of excitement at his discovery.
‘You were right, Miss Herbert, to bring his talents to my attention. Master Widdup is an exceptional child, such a pleasant appearance, courteous and with a head for numbers. What a gift in one of such lowly class. We shall have to tailor his instruction carefully to fulfil the requirements of the Fawcett but in six months we shall surely see our hard work come to fruition. I am not a gambling man, of course, but I’d like to lay odds on him achieving our goal, dear sister. Isn’t it fortuitous that Miss Herbert being indisposed allowed me to step in to see this uncut diamond for myself? Lots of polish, eh!’ Ezra laughed at his little joke.
‘Yes, dear, most fortunate for all concerned.’ Cora had never seen her brother so excited, not since the last scholar, Alec Braithwaite, who fell by the wayside after only a few weeks and never returned to thank his tutor. Not one word of appreciation. He was such a saint to labour in such harsh conditions. She often wondered what drove him to such sterling efforts. Perhaps it was the way Papa had tutored him privately, given him the opportunity to go to the university. Only Father’s untimely death robbed him of the chance of carrying through his studies to a degree. Now he dedicated his life to poor students.
Miss Herbert was looking so pleased at the outcome, positively preening. For one moment Cora wondered if the woman had set up the whole encounter but no, surely a missi
onary would not stoop to such duplicity?
‘I will visit the camp and speak to Billy’s kin on camp. I foresee no problems from them. I know Billy’s shillings do help the family purse, the shillings he earns as a runner for the gang,’ offered Zillah Herbert as she gathered up her schoolcase and gloves.
‘What if they decide to move up the line? These families are so unreliable. I hope you will not waste your efforts on an untrustworthy scholar, Ezra dear.’ Cora was not happy with this decision.
‘I’m sure there are no worries on that score, Miss Bulstrode. I have always found Billy to be reliable as a monitor,’ defended Miss Herbert promptly, jabbing a pin into her ridiculous boater trimmed with striped ribbon to match her silk school shirt. Such extravagant clothing on a teaching assistant.
‘Master Widdup seems an amiable child, small for his age, a bit on the thin side. I hope he will not be a sickly child. I need robust scholars. Perhaps you would make a note to see that he gets a full glass of milk and some fruit after school with a few tasty sandwiches. Build him up a bit so that his concentration is fully occupied in his head, not his belly. Lads of that age are all stomach gurglings. Oh this is an important day! I take back everything I said about your Mission school, Miss Herbert. Are you settled in your new lodgings?’
‘Perfectly, Mr Bulstrode. The Birketts are a charming family. I am most contented to be there.’ She smiled sweetly at Cora who remained tight-lipped, watching the woman glide out of the door like a siren.
Now Ezra was giving orders again. She had some of her own making. No navvy child, scholar or not, would be crossing the portals of his precious study until she personally saw to it that his face and hands were scrubbed raw, nails cut, hair inspected for fleas and his breath smelt for the faintest whiff of alcohol. Master Widdup would get a dose of purging oil and a spoonful of poppy juice if he showed the slightest sign of sickness in her house.
