A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘Nonsense.’ Alex grinned. ‘You're as thin as a rail. There's no meat on you at all.’

  ‘I must eat more. I'll stuff and stuff.’

  ‘Don't do anything of the sort. You're perfect as you are.’ Alex held out his hand to her. ‘Come here.’

  Lalage flung herself on the bed. ‘When do you wish me to have a child?’ she asked.

  ‘A baby?’ Alex winced. ‘Surely you don't want to be pregnant? Not yet?’

  ‘Well, you want an heir, don't you?’ Lalage frowned. ‘I assume you married me so I could provide you with one.’

  ‘No!’ Violently, Alex shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. What I mean,’ he added, seeing his vehemence astonished her, ‘is that I think you're too young.’

  ‘I see.’ Believing she'd been wedded and bedded in order to breed a clutch of little Lowells, and intending to have at least six children, Lalage shrugged. ‘I just wondered. Alex, I need a couple of new gowns.’

  ‘Order them.’ Relieved to get off the subject of pregnancy, for the idea of Lalage's beautiful skinny body bulging and swollen revolted him, Alex smiled. He kissed her. ‘Order what you want. Two, twenty–two, a hundred and two. As many as you please.’

  Lalage narrowed her eyes. She wondered what else she needed. If Alex was feeling generous, now would be a good time to ask.

  She kissed him in return. ‘Do you know, Alex?’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I'd so like to travel.’ She stroked his shoulder. ‘I'd love to go abroad.’

  ‘You shall.’ Feeling desire rekindling, Alex kissed her again. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Italy.’ Dreamily, Lalage smiled. ‘I'd like to go to Italy. To Venice. To Rome.’

  ‘Then you shall. I'll make the arrangements later today. Darling, lie down again now.’

  Chapter 4

  Lyddy Searle's baby daughter became a lively toddler, then a merry, good–humoured little child. Growing up in a dark, shuttered, poky little house in the shadow of the button works where her grandfather was first the solitary labourer, but soon enough the overseer of a dozen men, and finally — having acquired an adjacent yard and some outbuildings — the owner of a fair–sized button, buckle and trinket manufactory, Rebecca was well content with her lot in life. With good reason. In a hard, unforgiving world governed by a stern, Prebyterian God, she knew her own family had been singularly blessed.

  In spite of its thriving industries and bustling commerce, Birmingham was a byword for poverty, dirt and despair. Even for starvation. Ragged, homeless children, their bony little bodies riddled with disease, their eyes huge in their emaciated faces, sat all night against the warm wall of the factory furnace. But Rebecca slept in a soft, feather bed. Thin, pale women, often with babies in their arms, walked the filthy streets where they begged for coppers or scraps of food. But Rebecca's grandmother and Aunt Lyddy had plenty to eat, good warm clothes, and a comfortable home.

  As Rebecca knew perfectly well, this was because her family was industrious and God–fearing. Because her grandfather worked hard, went regularly to chapel, and did not swear.

  Orphans were not a rarity, so the fact that Rebecca's mother had died when she was born did not particularly distress her. She sometimes wished her father would come home. But her grandfather evidently hadn't got on with his son.

  ‘You must never ask Granda about your father,’ said Aunt Lyddy, taking the child on her knee and looking earnestly into Rebecca's cornflower–blue eyes. ‘Becky, you must promise me now. Never ask him about when you were born. Or anything like that.’

  ‘Will it make him angry?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘Very angry.’ Aunt Lyddy sighed. ‘Also very sad.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rebecca thought for a moment. ‘Aunt Lyddy, did you like my Papa?’

  ‘Yes, at first.’ Lyddy shrugged. ‘But later, after you were born, I didn't like him at all. We'd best forget all about him.’

  Always obedient to her beloved aunt, Rebecca did as she was told. Besides, she loved Jeremy Searle dearly. She would not have upset him for the world.

  * * * *

  Although universal in the more ancient English towns, there were no trade guilds in Birmingham. There were no closed shops, no long years of formal training before a man might be initiated into a trade, or mystery as they were still known in places like Winchester, Coventry or York. Any man with his own small savings, rather more ambition, and a hefty dollop of luck, could push his way into the hierarchy of manufacturers. He might even become rich.

  At the age of forty one, Jeremy Searle became one of those men determined to create his own little kingdom, a New Jerusalem of which he would be king. He was already a fine craftsman. Back in that quiet Warwickshire village, he had often undertaken small commissions for fancy wrought–iron work. He'd made ornate metal baskets for planting up with summer flowers, and taken regular orders for hanging brackets, elaborately worked coat–stands, and even garden gates.

  For a man as dour and self–righteous as Jeremy, the blacksmith had a surprisingly well developed feeling for proportion and beauty. This was coupled with an artistic talent and natural sense of line which he expressed through even his most ordinary work.

  Although running the factory left him no time to make anything himself, he still had the patience to seek out, encourage and expect good craftsmanship. In each of the many workshops, excellence was always demanded, and frequently attained. But, although he inspired and encouraged them, his workers feared his temper. As Jeremy made his daily inspections, both foremen and hindsmen held their collective breath.

  ‘Here, you. James Adderby, isn't it?’ Today, Jeremy collared one of his current apprentices. He glared at the lad. ‘You call this finished?’ he demanded. He held up the snuff–box in question. He glowered at it in disgust. He was seriously displeased.

  A child of eleven or so, whom Jeremy had literally taken from the street, James Adderby bit his lower lip. ‘I buffed it well, master,’ he whispered. He was terrified of all grown men, and Jeremy scared him almost witless. ‘Truly, sir. I finished it as best I could. W–where do you see the fault?’

  ‘Here, idiot. Here again!’ Now, on a minute shaving of rough metal near the hinge, Jeremy deliberately cut the ball of his own thumb. ‘If a man wants to cut meat, he buys a carving knife. Smooth and polish it again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The boy reached for the steel wool.

  ‘Not now, child.’ Jeremy's stern features relaxed a little. ‘The other lads stopped work five minutes ago. Go and get your dinner.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The boy managed a faint smile of gratitude. Then he scuttled off.

  Jeremy trained his apprentices personally. He drove them very hard. But he paid them well, and he treated them humanely. In the factories and workshops of his competitors, child operatives slept on rags spread over the hard factory floor, but Jeremy lodged his apprentices in a purpose–built dormitory adjacent to the works. While other men's juniors were thrown scraps fit only for animals, Jeremy Searle's boys ate nourishing meals, with butcher's meat every other day.

  In return, their master expected complete loyalty, unquestioning obedience, and very hard work. He was seldom disappointed.

  As his undertaking prospered, Jeremy diversified from the main business of button, buckle and trinket manufacture and began a line in fine wrought–iron work. Later, as this began to pay dividends, Searle's took deliveries of tin, brass and copper too, turning out candlesticks, snuffers, needlecases, card–holders and all manner of fancy goods. By the time Rebecca was eight, Searle's factory was a byword for excellence. A bright, shining jewel in the crown of that dirty metropolis, which was also the toyshop of the world.

  * * * *

  ‘Here come the carters. Aunt Lyddy! The delivery men are here.’ From her bedroom window in the house alongside the factory, Rebecca loved to watch as drays loaded with sheet metal or bar–iron rolled heavily into the cobbled yard. Begging an apple or two for the horses, she would rus
h down to feed them as they stood calm and patient, waiting for their drivers, jangling their brasses and stamping their enormous, iron–shod feet.

  ‘Becky! Come away!’ Passing through the yard, Jeremy often had occasion to scoop the little girl out of harm's way. For, docile and tractable as they were, the carthorses still fidgeted and shifted about, and a careless kick could have crushed her skull like a nut. ‘What have I told you, my maid? How many times must I say it? Keep out of the horses’ way!’ With a great, rough forefinger, Jeremy tapped Rebecca's little nose. ‘Will you never learn obedience? Have you no common sense?’

  ‘I'm sorry, Granda.’ Rebecca tried to look contrite. ‘They're gentle beasts,’ she whispered. ‘They'd never hurt me.’

  ‘Not on purpose, no.’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘You must heed your elders, child. Do as you are told, come when you are bidden. Remember, a lesson not willingly learned must be beaten in.’

  But, in spite of these warnings and threats, Rebecca still darted among the horses. Offering apples or carrots, stroking their velvety noses, she was sure she'd come to no harm. She loved the warm, bran–and–molasses, ultimately reassuring odours of those great beasts. The crunching, grinding sound of heavy, metal–rimmed wheels rolling across cobblestones was music to her ears. She would always associate these with the more familiar sounds and smells of hot iron being worked by perspiring human beings.

  Standing in the factory forecourt, she was happy. This was where she belonged. Where she would always belong.

  * * * *

  ‘Are you there, Lyddy? Where is the woman? Lyddy!’ Jeremy Searle's harsh, peremptory shout was the alarm which always roused Rebecca to wakefulness early each morning. ‘Lyddy, you idle good–for–nothing! Bring me some hot water! Where's my shirt?’

  At the sound of these and half a dozen other equally strident demands, Rebecca would sit up, rub the sleep from her eyes, and frown. Her stern but loving grandfather was so hard on her poor aunt. He was just as curt with his wife. Why? It was a mystery indeed.

  It was not as if Jeremy were a cruel man. He was kindness itself to children. He plainly adored his grand– daughter who, from earliest infancy, had been actively encouraged to sit on his lap, pull his side whiskers and dribble all over his lapels. She was his precious Becky, his dear little maid, and his sour, hard–featured face creased into lines of pleasure when his grand–daughter was at his side.

  From Jeremy, Rebecca heard her first Bible stories. From him, she learned the names of birds and flowers which, as a town–dweller, she seldom saw in real life. From the age of five or so, she spent most of her waking hours in his poky little hole of an office, learning her alphabet and then, painstakingly, transcribing lofty sentiments and copybook phrases for his ever critical scrutiny. Thus occupied, she desired no other company.

  ‘Here,’ he would say, as he rewarded her with the sweet or farthing which meant he was satisfied with her efforts that day. ‘That's good, child. Very good indeed. But don't make those fancy hooks and curls. Plain writing's the thing, you see. They'll expect it when you go to school.’

  School was a torment which began when Rebecca was seven. Made to sit still, to learn by rote, to repeat the same lessons over and over again, Rebecca was bored and irritated from day one.

  By the end of her first week, she had decided enough was enough. ‘Don't want to go there any more,’ she declared. As Lyddy brushed the child's straight, fair hair, Rebecca folded her arms. ‘I'll stay at home and help you today.’

  ‘You must go to school.’ Lyddy fetched Rebecca's clean cap. ‘Here. Let me tie the strings, then you must be off.’

  ‘I'm not going. I told you.’ Rebecca stamped her foot. ‘I don't need to go to school. I know everything already. Aunt Lyddy, I do!’

  ‘Hush! Granda will hear.’ Looking fearfully round for the old man, Lyddy tried to pacify the child. ‘Granda will be so angry — ’

  ‘Don't care if he is.’ Scowling, Rebecca plucked at the pintucks on her bodice. ‘Aunt Lyddy, it's horrible there. Mr Harker shouts and yells all the time. He takes so much pipe tobacco that he stinks. Like a dirty old hog.’

  ‘Rebecca!’

  ‘Well, he does. He's a disgusting, smelly pig.’

  Hearing his grand–daughter's voice raised in anger, Jeremy came across the yard. Now he walked into the kitchen. ‘Pig, is he?’ he asked, mildly enough. He swept his grand– daughter into his embrace. He tickled her cheek. ‘Rebecca, I should whip a little maid who calls her schoolmaster a pig.’

  ‘Whip me, Granda?’ Rebecca grinned. ‘You wouldn't do that. Anyway, it's true. Mr Harker doesn't smell at all like a Christian.’

  ‘Eh? Stinks of fire and brimstone, does he? Of the fumes from the fiery pit?’

  ‘Yes!’ Delighted, Rebecca laughed.

  In spite of himself, Jeremy chuckled too. ‘You must go to school,’ he said. ‘To learn your numbers and your letters. So you may cipher, read and write. You must study the Scriptures, too.’

  ‘I can read and write already. I know the Twelve Principles for a Godly Childhood by heart. You could teach me to add and subtract.’

  But Jeremy was firm. ‘You shall go to school,’ he said. ‘You must learn everything you can. Then, Becky, you will grow up to be a sensible, well–educated, modest woman.’

  ‘But — ’

  ‘Be silent!’ Jeremy's fierce, pale eyes met hers. ‘A maid's first duty is obedience. So, Rebecca — you will do as I say.’

  Rebecca was defeated. Sulkily, she allowed Lyddy to fasten her into her pinafore, then to cover her shoulders with a plain, worsted cape. Her hair tucked under a cap of such starched white purity that it gleamed, she set off along the grimy street, towards the school where she would be systematically drilled into a narrow, Nonconformist view of the universe in which she lived.

  * * * *

  Along with Rebecca, there was a whole group of children who were habitually bored. They took care not to show it, however, for yawning, fidgeting and scratching were offences of the gravest kind, and punishable by flogging on the hands or the back of the neck. Protestations of innocence merely incurred a double dose of stripes.

  So the children took correction meekly, even if it was unjust. Beaten on the hands until her palms were split and disfigured with great purple weals, Rebecca knew better than to argue with Mr Harker about the fate of a piece of chalk, which she'd allegedly stolen. She knew full well that same chalk was in Anthony Rider's breeches pocket. Biting her lip, she took her punishment, hoping she would not cry out — and thus be given additional stripes, for insolence.

  Friday afternoons, twice blessed Friday afternoons, were usually made unpleasant by readings from Foxe's Book of Martyrs. Rebecca watched in disgust as Mr Harker's yellow jaws dribbled tobacco–stained saliva, as he read out details of the most appalling torments.

  ‘The children too were stripped, and cast naked into a circle of flames,’ he intoned, his bleary eyes roving over his own class of little sinners. ‘Searle, I saw you fidgeting. Step up to my desk.’

  * * * *

  ‘I must be naturally wicked and ungodly,’ thought Rebecca as she walked home, her hands stinging and her spirits depressed. ‘That's why I hate old Harker, and why he hates me.’

  But then, inspiration dawned. She came to a sudden decision. ‘I shall mortify my flesh,’ she resolved. ‘I shall subdue my passions. From now on, I shall accept chastising in a meek and maidenly fashion. I try to like Mr Harker, then he may like me.’

  In this unnaturally high–minded mood, Rebecca made her way to a piece of waste ground, where she picked a handful of burrs. Making sure no one was looking, she yanked open the front of her gown, then stuffed the prickly objects deep inside her shift. Lying next to her skin, they scratched and tickled horribly. So now, feeling as complacent as the most self–satisfied of martyrs, she went home.

  Smugly, she sat down to her supper. ‘Whatever's the matter, child?’ asked Lyddy, as Rebecca ate her bread and drank her tea. ‘Why d
o you fidget so?’

  Rebecca smiled beatifically. ‘I don't mean to fidget,’ she replied. Longing to have a good scratch, now she forced herself to sit absolutely still. She nibbled her bread and butter.

  She retired to bed early. She spent half an hour on her knees, then climbed into a bed from which she'd removed most of the bedclothes. She'd suffer in earnest now, for the autumn night was very cold, and there was no fire in her little room.

  Downstairs, Lyddy shook her head over the half– finished meal. She wondered if the child was sickening for chicken–pox.

  After a chilly and almost sleepless night, Rebecca rose early, washed, and observed she had an unpleasant rash all over her chest. All that day, she itched horribly. Mortification of the flesh was supposed to be uplifting, but this was nothing of the sort. It just hurt. ‘Searle!’ Glancing up from his own work, Mr Harker finally noticed her furtive scratching. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The master grimaced. ‘Come up here.’

  Meekly, Rebecca bowed her head. Rising to her feet, she approached his desk.

  ‘You have fleas, Searle?’ enquired the master.

  ‘No, sir.’ Rebecca folded her hands. Instead of giving the master her usual bold stare, she looked humbly at the floor. She hoped God was watching her. That He was impressed.

  Mr Harker wasn't. He merely picked up his cane. ‘Searle,’ he said, ‘you are a disgrace to this school. You are not only forward and disobedient, but evidently dirty as well. A liar, to boot. What are you, Searle?’

  ‘Forward, disobedient and dirty, Mr Harker.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Forward, disobedient and dirty, sir.’

  ‘Hold out both your hands.’

  Rebecca did so.

  The master found children like Rebecca thoroughly exasperasting. Too clever by half, they finished their own tasks in record time, then fidgeted and distracted the others. This Searle child was the most aggravating of them all. Today, she would be taught a particularly difficult lesson. He raised his cane.