Thomasin smiled to herself. That was one thing they shared at least – the curious accent, a conflicting mixture of Irish and Yorkshire, at times musical, at others blunt, basic.
Sonny wriggled out of his mother’s embrace, wiping the spot where her lips had moistened his cheek and peered under the peak of his cap. ‘I’m off then, Mam. Are yer sure ye’ll be all right on yer own?’
His concern touched her. ‘Aye, love, I’ve got a busy day ahead o’ me. I’ve got to go with Erin to her new job an’ then I’m goin’ after one o’ me own.’ Last evening she had spied, in the Situations Vacant column of the local newspaper, a post which would suit her requirements admirably. A part-time assistant at a grocery store down Goodramgate. ‘So, it looks as though we’re all venturing into new territory. Oh, I will miss yer though!’ She was about to kiss him again but Sonny, seeing his brother open the door, dashed after him, shouting an apology. ‘I’ll have to go, Mam! Look after yersel’.’
‘I will,’ laughed Thomasin. ‘An’ think on, no fightin’. An’ mind the road!’
Outside the younger boy danced and skipped excitedly beside his brother. ‘Will I be in your class?’
‘Dunno.’ Dickie was still trying to prop his eyes open.
‘What’s yer teacher like? Is he nice? Will I like him?’ Sonny tugged at the older boy’s sleeve, firing questions like peas from a reed.
‘For God’s sake, our lad, will ye shut your gob?’ Dickie shook him off. ‘Sure, I don’t know what yer getting so excited about. Ye’ll be sick of it by the end o’ the week. Sure, I can think of a million better things to do wi’ me time than sit in a stuffy ol’ classroom.’
Sonny would not be deterred by his brother’s usual bout of ‘morning moroseness’ as Thomasin had dubbed it, knowing that by dinnertime Dickie would have found his good humour again. It took him all morning to wake up.
‘Will I have a desk? What will I be doin’ today? Sums?’
Dickie grabbed a handful of his jacket and growled into his face, ‘I don’t know about sums but ye’ll be doin’ bloody somersaults if ye don’t shurrup.’
‘Awmmm! I’m gonna tell me Mam ye been swearin’,’ cried Sonny, though the threat was empty for he knew that should he do so he would probably get a good hiding for telling tales.
Dickie knew this too and gave his brother a sardonic sneer as they arrived at the school, whose open gates revealed a hotch-potch of juvenile humanity. Boys of diverse sizes, differing standards of dress ran amok, their collective noise having all the attributes of a pack of young hounds.
Dickie, hands in pockets, strolled up to a small group who squatted in a circle, firing pebbles at something on the ground. His brother, gazing wide-eyed at the turmoil around him, stayed close to his elbow.
‘What ye doin’?’ Dickie placed his hands on a boy’s shoulders and leaned over to peer into the centre of the circle.
The skinny, freckle-faced boy glanced up then resumed his cannonade. ‘We’re havin’ a race,’ he answered, flicking yet another stone at the unfortunate cockroaches. ‘Mine’s winning.’
‘’Tis not!’ cried another boy. ‘Look, ’tis going the wrong way.’
The freckle-faced boy plucked the cockroach from its intended escape route and placed it in the right direction. ‘Go on, yer bugger! Go on!’
Amid much cheering and jeering, howling and cursing the cockroaches finally staggered up to the piece of string that was the winning line, the freckle-faced boy’s coming first as he had predicted.
He scooped up the insect with a whoop. ‘I won! I won!’ For the first time he noticed the younger boy at Dickie’s side and thrust the cockroach under Sonny’s nose. ‘Look at that. What d’ye think? Is it not a beauty?’
Sonny did not flinch as the insect wriggled inches away from his face. ‘Ye cheated,’ he accused.
The other boy’s exultant smile vanished. ‘What d’ye mean by that?’
‘When ye picked it up and straighted it ye put it down a few inches nearer the winning post.’
The freckle-faced boy stared at Dickie who shrugged. He certainly was not going to get involved in the argument.
‘What’s yer name?’ asked the boy suddenly.
‘What’s yours?’ replied Sonny defiantly.
The boy frowned. ‘I asked you first, an’ don’t cheek your elders.’
‘You’re not older than me.’ Sonny’s jaw protruded obstinately.
‘Look, son,’ the boy adopted a haughty posture, trying to increase his height, ‘I’m nearly eight, so ye’d best watch out for yerself.’
Sonny was scornful. ‘You’re never eight! You’re only as big as me an’ I’m six.’
‘Thump him,’ urged someone in the crowd that had gathered.
‘Show him who’s master,’ goaded another.
The freckle-faced boy glared and took a step towards Sonny who raised both his fists like a prize-fighter.
At this point Dickie stepped in and took hold of his brother’s ear. ‘Off to a good start, are ye not? Didn’t Mam say for ye not to get into any trouble?’
The freckle-faced boy addressed Dickie. ‘Does he belong to you, then?’
‘Aye, he belongs to me,’ said Dickie. ‘More’s the pity. Look,’ he said to Sonny, ‘what did ye want to go accusing my friend o’ cheating for?’
‘’Cause he was, I saw him!’
‘Well, if he’s a cheater,’ Dickie informed him, ‘then you’re a liar, ’cause ye said you were six an’ y’aren’t.’
‘I nearly am!’
‘Will ye stop arguin’! ’Tis nothing to do with you anyway, I don’t know why ye had to interfere. Now make friends an’ tell the boy your name.’
Sonny glowered under golden lashes and clamped his lips together. He was not going to back down. ‘He’s got to tell me his first.’
‘I’ll clatter ye, now tell him!’ Dickie proceeded to shake him until his teeth rattled.
But Sonny merely glared in stubborn defiance until suddenly a bell clanged its noisy invitation, sparing him further man-handling and the playground’s confusion formed into six, untidy lines.
Sonny kept a firm hold on his brother as they edged their way into the classroom through the tumult of wriggling, streaming bodies.
‘Ah, and who might we have here?’ A pair of kind-looking brown eyes smiled into Sonny’s grey ones as the two boys emerged from the press to stand gazing up at the master’s tall desk.
‘This is our Sonny, Brother Francis – I mean John!’ Dickie shoved his brother forward. ‘He’s come to start school.’
The master raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not mean to tell me that this fiery-haired little chap is your brother? Why, you are as different as chalk and cheese.’
‘I didn’t know where to take him, Brother Francis,’ said Dickie.
‘Well, perhaps he had better sit next to you for the time being,’ answered the master, ‘so that you can take care of him. I am sure he must be feeling apprehensive on his first day.
‘I don’t need no taking care of,’ supplied Sonny. ‘An’ I don’t want to sit next to him.’ He was still angry about the incident in the playground.
Brother Francis laughed. His young face, rather like that of a plaster saint, shone with goodness. ‘Ah, you must be the little fellow whom Father Kelly warned me about. He said I might find you…’ he paused ‘well to use Father Kelly’s own words, a “proper little Tartar” he said you were an’ no mistake.’
Sonny did not know whether a Tartar was good or bad so said nothing.
Brother Francis became serious. ‘But you would do well to curb that tendency to speak your mind, my good chap. There are many in this school who are not so lenient as I. Now, I think it best that you seat yourself beside your brother as I am about to begin registration.’
When all the boys had been accounted for Brother Francis laid down his pen and addressed the class. ‘Now, pay attention my fine fellows! After Mass most of you will be going to take your lesson from Brother Sim
on Peter.’
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Dickie under his breath. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean us.’
‘Did you speak, Richard Feeney?’ Brother Francis enquired sternly.
‘No, Brother Francis.’ Dickie hung his head.
‘Very well, then might I continue with what I was saying?’ He waited for any other interruption then proceeded. ‘I require a deputation to transport certain monies to the Post Office. Now, who can I trust, I wonder, to undertake this important task?’
Every boy, with the exception of Sonny who did not understand the implication of the master’s request, shot up his hand, waving it in the air frantically. ‘Me, Brother!’ It came as one voice. ‘Please, me, Brother!’ The chance of being spared the agony of Brother Simon Peter’s class was not to be passed over lightly. Brother Francis toured the pleading faces, feeling like a hanging judge. Which boy would earn the stay of execution? Dickie Feeney came under his indecisive eye, his arm flapping wildly, straining at the socket, desperate to be chosen. The boy’s good-looking charm was infallible.
‘Very well, Richard Feeney and… you and you.’ He pointed at two other boys who grinned their relief while the others grimaced jealously.
‘Please, Brother Francis, can I take me brother with us?’ asked Dickie.
The master’s answer was drowned by Sonny’s objection. ‘I don’t want to go! This is my first day at school, I want to learn things.’
‘Young man,’ said Brother Francis. ‘The first thing that you must learn is not to speak unless spoken to. This is the second such time I have to warn you. Now, I shall ignore your outburst this time, attributing it to the insecurity you are so obviously encountering on your first day and your unfamiliarity with school etiquette. But I warn you for the last time, another such interruption will not be tolerated.’ He turned to Dickie. ‘Master Feeney, I suggest you acquaint your brother with the manner in which a scholar should conduct himself before he finds himself in deep water.’ He addressed the whole class. ‘And now, my friends, to Mass.’
Noisily, the boys shuffled their way into the draughty corridor and joined the other classes then, all assembled, they trooped back outside and crossed the playground to the church.
Chapter Forty
After the boys had gone to school Erin came in from the back yard, making Thomasin exclaim, ‘Eh, I thought you were gonna sit there all day.’
‘I’ve got the runs.’ The pale-looking girl rubbed her abdomen and made a face. A letter had arrived the other day summoning her to her new employment, since when she had been in this state.
‘’Sonly nerves, love.’ Thomasin patted her kindly. The child was bound to be feeling anxious with such a big step ahead of her. ‘You’ll be all right when yer get settled in.’
‘I hope so,’ replied Erin. ‘All of a sudden I’m feelin’ really frightened. ’Tis the first time I’ve been away from all o’ yese.’
‘Oh, there’s sure to be somebody there who’ll take care o’ yer,’ Thomasin reassured her.
Erin chewed her fingernail. ‘What if they don’t like me? What if I should smash the best pots or something silly like that?’
Thomasin was concerned that she was responsible for putting Erin in this position. ‘You won’t.’ She hesitated, then added: ‘Erin… can you keep a secret?’ At the girl’s nod she went on, ‘You know you’re supposed to’ve received yer wages in advance for this job?’ Another nod. ‘Well… that was a lie in a way. Yer see, yer father is a very proud man an’ he’d be ever so mad if he knew where it really came from… I borrowed it from someone, he’s got pots o’ money an’ he says he doesn’t mind when I pay it back, but I had to concoct this tale for yer dad. I know it’s wrong, but it was better than him being in prison, weren’t it?’ Erin agreed. ‘I could’ve paid this person back with the money John brought, but then we wouldn’t’ve been able to furnish this house… anyway, what I’m tryin’ to say is you’ll be receiving wages as well.’
‘But why?’ Erin wanted to know.
‘Eh, lass, it’s far too complicated to explain. Just believe it’s all for the good of yer father – an’ yer must never tell him or he’ll blow his top. Take the wages they give yer an’ slip ’em to me in secret an’ just act as if it’s a normal job to the other servants. We don’t want them noseyin’, all right?’
Erin smiled, ‘’Tis our secret,’ making Thomasin cringe.
Feeling treacherous, the woman took her stepdaughter to Monkgate. The door of the grand house was opened by Alice Benson who directed them into the balmy kitchen, telling them they were expected. Thomasin bent to kiss Erin, then prepared to leave.
‘You’ll be welcome to stay for a cup of tea, Mrs Feeney,’ offered Rose Leng, the cook. ‘After all, it’ll be a fair while before you see your daughter again.’ The staff was granted one day off per month and one free evening a week.
Thomasin thanked her and sat down, eyeing the spotless kitchen. It was quite clearly a very well-run household. She examined the large, rectangular room as Alice filled the teapot. The length of one side of it was covered by a huge dresser which displayed an assortment of jugs, tureens, plates and dishes on its top shelves. Stacked beneath were numerous pans of different sizes. In the centre of the room was the table at which she now sat and where the food was prepared. This was also where the servants took their meals. On another wall stood the kitchen range, flanked on one side by a hot closet and on the other by an alcove, in which hung copper pans and a pair of bellows. Light was provided by one tiny window beside the outside door and in the evenings by gasflame, the pipes of which hung down from walls and ceiling in ungainly intrusion, lacking the ornamental glass globes which graced those of the upstairs rooms.
Against another of the distempered walls was a small table with two wooden stools and on the remaining wall was hung a variety of cooking implements, a sampler with ‘Bless This House’ embroidered on it by the daughter of that house and a mincing machine. The red-tiled floor was naked save for a fireside rug, on either side of which was a chair, the property of Rose and Johnson the manservant. Finally a doorway led to two whitewashed larders, the store cupboard and the laundry room.
Thomasin accepted the cup of tea, grateful for the opportunity to ask the cook about the mistress. She knew, naturally, that Roland’s was a marriage in name only and that his wife had rejected her daughter at birth, but little about the way in which she treated her staff. Rose, a devout gossip, was only too pleased to fill in the missing details.
‘By, she’s a proper brazen little thing,’ she nudged Thomasin confidentially. ‘D’you know, I’ve lost count of the number of men that’s been here this week. Man mad, she is, man mad. Pretends she’s giving dinner parties, but we all know what goes on afterwards. I swear, it’s like living in a brothel.’ Alice Benson snorted and gave Thomasin a crafty wink. ‘How d’you know that, Mrs Leng?’ she asked innocently. ‘Have you lived in one?’
‘Alice Benson!’ shouted the cook. ‘Stop your nebbin’ and make yourself useful. There’s plenty I can find for you to do down here if you’ve done upstairs.’
The maid flounced off sulkily and Rose turned back to Thomasin. ‘Cheeky young madam.’ She bristled with indignation. ‘She’s more idea of what one o’ them places looks like than I do. Real flighty piece, you know.’ She looked at Erin. ‘I hope you won’t catch any of her bad habits?’
Erin shook her head, though not fully understanding the cook’s meaning.
‘I can’t think how she’s kept her position,’ Cook went on. ‘I’ve been expecting her to come in any day and announce she’s… you know… with child.’ She mouthed the last two words behind a plump hand. ‘The mistress, two-faced hussy that she is, doesn’t allow us to have followers – how d’you like that?’ Thomasin made sympathetic noises. ‘But Alice, she manages somehow.’
Thomasin smiled as Rose took her empty cup away, her wide beam wobbling like a jelly, the dimpled flesh of her upper arms trembling at her every breath.
; ‘But don’t you go worrying about your little girl, Mrs Feeney.’ Rose returned to her seat. ‘I’ll see she doesn’t come to no harm. Look after her like my own child, I will.’
‘Does Mr Leng work here too?’ enquired Thomasin.
‘Oh no, dear, I’m not married.’ Only the cook’s status in the household afforded her the marital title.
‘Are there just the two o’ you, then? Apart from Erin, I mean.’
Rose shook her head and her whole body shivered like a blancmange. ‘No, there’s Mr Johnson-valet, he calls himself, more like a general dogsbody if you ask me. Proper snobby, he is an’ all, thinks he’s a cut above. By, he’s a strange cove. There’s something not quite right about that one. Nothing I can put my finger on, mind, but it’s just the way he… well, I do declare the price of coal nowadays!’ She hurriedly changed the subject as a pair of highly-polished boots appeared on the stair, followed by a pair of rather bandy legs, a stocky body and finally a face with a Grecian nose, dark chips of eyes and a mouth which might have been fashioned from granite.
Thomasin, puzzled at Rose’s sudden change of subject, turned as the manservant came into the kitchen then, seeing the faint traces of annoyance on Johnson’s face, hurriedly gathered her shawl about her and rose. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way. Thank you for the tea, Mrs Leng.’ She touched Erin’s cheek. ‘’Bye, love, I expect we’ll see you on your evenin’ off.’
Johnson made a barbed comment, suggesting that if Erin ever got an evening off it would be more than he ever had.
Thomasin decided that she did not like him. Most men were pleasant and attentive in her company; this one was eyeing her as though she was something the cat had chewed up. ‘I sincerely hope she will get an evening off,’ she told him, coolly polite. ‘She has had strict instructions from her father to attend Mass on one evening per week and on Sundays.’
‘Well, I can tell you now,’ replied Johnson with a smirk, ‘she’ll not be allowed to go to any Catholic church; if she goes anywhere it’ll be to Chapel on Sunday morning with the rest of us servants.’
A Long Way from Heaven Page 41
