The Orphan Collection

by Maggie Hope

  Jonty’s face tightened and his eyes went cold. If his father started on again with his ranting about his mother and her family, he swore he would go for him. He’d taken it all his life but now he was seventeen and a man grown, he’d take no more of it. First he had to make Sally see to his grandmother’s fire. He would be better facing up to his father if the two of them were alone in any case.

  ‘Sally, there’s a scuttle full of coal and kindling at the bottom of the stairs. Grandmother’s fire is out. I’ve told you time and time again that she needs to be kept warm. Old people can’t stand the cold.’

  ‘Light it yourself then!’ Sally exclaimed, not bothering to disguise her disrespect for him. She was confident that Ralph would simply laugh at her spirit, but in this she was mistaken. Roughly drawing his hand from her bodice, he shoved her off his knee so that she ended up sprawling on the worn carpet.

  ‘You mind yourself, girl!’ he roared, and springing up, stood over her threateningly. ‘You’ll get out and do as you are told, this minute!’ His face was screwed up in anger so that the lines of dissipation which had appeared these last years deepened into channels which ran all the way down his face. His colour heightened until he was a deep, bright red.

  Sally, suddenly transformed into a frightened little girl, whimpered and fled for the door, tears of mortification starting into her eyes.

  Ralph watched her out then gave his attention to his son, his gaze raking him from head to foot.

  ‘And you, you misbegotten whelp,’ he said venomously, ‘look at you! Is it any wonder the maids cheek you? You look as though you sleep in the stables. For God’s sake, go and wash the coal dust from your face and change into some clean clothes.’

  Jonty lifted his chin and stared his father in the eye. ‘If I’m a stable lad, then you made me one,’ he stated flatly. ‘And if we had proper staff in the house, I wouldn’t have to bring in coal for Grandmother’s fire.’

  Ralph’s mouth fell open. He was taken aback by Jonty’s standing up for himself. His son limped over to stand directly before him.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Grandmother,’ he said. ‘She has to have proper care.’

  ‘The old hag! Always whining and moaning around the place.’

  ‘Yes, she’s old.’ Jonty kept his voice level as he struggled to control his rising temper. ‘She’s old and needs a woman to look after her all the time. And not someone like Sally either.’

  ‘And where do you think the money will come from? She’s the only one with anything left and she has that tied up in shares. Women these days aren’t content with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, they have to be paid. If you want her watched over then you’d better do it yourself, it’s about all you’re good for.’

  Jonty stepped forward until his face was but an inch from his father’s. Ralph eyes widened in shock.

  ‘And who was it went through the money, not only your own inheritance but most of Grandmother’s too?’ Jonty could feel himself losing control. He stared into Ralph’s bulging eyes, bloodshot with rage and alcohol. ‘If we paid our servants, we’d be able to keep them.’

  Ralph mouthed an oath and raised his fist to punch Jonty over the ear as he had done so many times before. But this time Jonty caught his wrist and contemptuously flung the older man back into his chair.

  ‘Don’t you raise your hand to me, Father, never again. Not ever again or I won’t be responsible for what might happen to you.’ Turning on his heel he strode from the room, leaving his father, for once, quite speechless.

  Upstairs he found a cheerful fire in his grandmother’s room and she was sipping tea from a delicate china cup brought up on a tray by Sally. That’s better, he thought, and a good thing too.

  ‘How are you, Grandmother, warm again?’ he asked, walking over to her and taking her hand. Indeed the hot tea and the fire seemed to have worked wonders with her, she already had a little colour in her cheeks and her fingers felt quite warm.

  ‘I’m fine and dandy, really I am, Jonty. Come and have a cup of tea with me, the girl will fetch another cup.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have to clean myself up.’ He laughed. ‘I shouldn’t be here at all, reeking of the stables as I do.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ declared the old lady ‘just so long as you come to see me, I don’t care at all.’ She smiled wistfully and Jonty knew she was thinking of her son. Ralph avoided visiting her and frowned blackly if he saw her venturing out of her room. Jonty stooped and dropped a kiss on her cheek, thinking that her skin felt as thin and dry as tissue paper. She was getting old, his grandmother, the only person in the world who cared a damn for him. The thought saddened him.

  ‘I’ll come to see you again this evening, Grandmother,’ he said. ‘Now, I think you should drink that tea before it gets cold.’

  After Jonty had bathed, he dressed in his one decent suit. It was short in the arms and legs and threadbare at the elbows, but it was the only one he had which was fairly presentable. He combed his dark hair before the looking glass and paused to feel his chin for stubble. It was still fairly smooth, he’d shaved that morning. Jonty had only recently started to shave and was quite proud of the fact. He was becoming a man now. Hadn’t he faced up to his father? His dark brown eyes mirrored in the glass showed his satisfaction; he was elated that at last he would be his own man, no longer frightened of his father.

  Walking down the staircase, not the narrow, steep stairs at the back of the house but the broad, sweeping staircase leading directly into the hall, he told himself he would never use the back stairs again, except for his own convenience. Snores were emanating from the study and Jonty rightly surmised that Ralph had drunk himself into a stupor.

  At least he would have no more trouble that evening, Jonty thought grimly, and opened the heavy front door to let himself out into the cool twilight. He was going to visit the people of the estate, though perhaps ‘estate’ was a grandiose term for the lone farm and few brokendown cottages left. And even they and the land farmed by the tenants were mortgaged up to the hilt.

  As Jonty walked along the farm track, he pondered on what he was going to do about his future. His education was sketchy to say the least, for Ralph had not allowed him to attend school along with other sons of the gentry.

  ‘I’m not paying any school fees for that brat,’ his father had said shortly when Grandmother raised the subject. ‘Teach him yourself, if you want him taught, or send him to the National School.’

  Grandmother wouldn’t think of letting him attend the National School, so she had taught him herself. She had managed to teach him reading and writing and simple arithmetic, but after that her own education had been confined to embroidery and home crafts. So, secretly, she had sent Jonty to the parson every Monday for further tuition.

  Monday was market day in Darlington and she could rely on Ralph’s being safely out of the way then. He did not frequent the market, of course, he wouldn’t bother himself with that. No, it was because he had cronies there and they would meet in an inn there and spend the day and half the night.

  Later, when Mrs Grizedale found it too difficult to raise even the small sum required by the parson for Jonty’s lessons, he was older and his own natural intelligence won through. He was diligent, he would work on his own, driven by an innate curiosity about the world around him. He borrowed books from the parson and also subscribed to the Lending Library in Bishop Auckland.

  ‘You’re so like your grandfather, my dear husband,’ Mrs Grizedale would say. ‘Oh, if only Ralph …’ and she would stop, unable to continue, and her eyes would fill with tears.

  ‘Don’t worry, Grandmother, I can teach myself now,’ he would answer. But he knew there were still gaps in his education and his speech was sometimes rough and ready, mixing as he did with stable lads and farm-hands.

  Jonty was approaching the farm now and his heart sank as he saw that the hole in the roof of the barn was bigger. It was gaping now and tiles had slid down to the
ground in an untidy broken heap. No doubt a result of the recent gale. Farmer Teasdale would be asking for the repairs to be done as he had a perfect right to. After all he had paid his rent in full, last quarter day. And Father had taken the money and gone into Darlington and neither Jonty nor his grandmother had seen him for a week.

  I should take off, thought Jonty, biting his lip in his vexation. Make my own way in life. He had a good head on his shoulders and a will to work. Wildly he thought of emigrating to Australia, America even. Oh, he had great ambitions. But as always his dreams of a brilliant future came up against the reality of his grandmother and how she would fare if left to the mercies of his father. He could not leave until Grandmother passed away, and there was nothing he could do about his father’s headlong rush into bankruptcy, nothing at all.

  There was still the two thousand pounds his grandfather had left him. Oh, yes, there was that. But it was in trust until he reached the age of twenty-one and firmly tied up so that his father could not get at it. In fact, Father didn’t even know about it. Grandfather had known Ralph so well that he had put the money aside for Jonty long before he died and only Grandmother and her solicitor knew about it. If she had not shown Jonty where the document was hidden in her room, he would not have known either.

  ‘Your grandfather,’ she had said softly in Jonty’s ear, looking over her shoulder to make sure her son was nowhere near, ‘saw to it that you would be looked after. The day after you were born, he rode into Auckland and got Mr Whitehead to draw it all up. You know, Mr Whitehead, the solicitor, dear.’ She shook her head regretfully, ‘Maybe if he had trusted Ralph more when he was a boy, not been so harsh with him …’

  Jonty thought about the money he had coming to him now. He could do so much with it, make repairs, get the mortgage paid off. He would be able to hold his head up in the county. But it was four years before he would be twenty-one. Would they be able to last out until then? Had his father nothing left? Jonty was pessimistic about it. He knew his father’s railway shares were long gone, along with anything else which was saleable.

  He saw Farmer Teasdale standing by the farm gate as he neared the farm. The farmer was watching him as he walked up the lane and his expression was sombre.

  ‘Evening, Master John,’ he called. ‘Come to tell me when the tiler’s coming then?’ Jonty knew the farmer didn’t really think that was why he had come. The man was in a bad humour and the remark meant to be sarcastic.

  Jonty flushed a bright red. ‘I’m trying to see to it for you,’ he said diffidently. ‘I asked Father to see him when he went into Auckland but I’m afraid he must have forgotten.’

  ‘Aye. Forgotten. Just like all the other times. An’ leaving me to shift for myself and make the repairs if I’m to save the hay.’

  Jonty was beginning to wish he hadn’t come out. It was pointless, in any case, visiting the tenants and pretending everything was normal up at the Hall. He felt a proper fool.

  Farmer Teasdale saw his discomfiture and relented. ‘Nay, it’s not your fault, lad, none of this.’ He eyed his visitor up and down, and Jonty knew he was noticing that the elbows were practically out of his coat and the edges of his trousers halfway up his calves.

  ‘We’ll say no more, Master John. Howay into the kitchen and the wife’ll give you a glass of fresh milk. There’s nowt like it for a growing lad and you are that, all gangly legs and arms, not a picking on you.’

  Jonty flushed an even brighter red but thanked him politely.

  ‘It’s very good of you to offer me your hospitality,’ he said formally, ‘but I’m afraid I must be on my way.’ For he had recognized only too well the element of pity in the farmer’s offer and was mortified; he marched off down the lane with his head held high though his stomach rumbled. He would get that bread and cheese, he thought, and afterwards he would have to check that Grandmother had been served some supper.

  Next morning Jonty was up with the sun, completing his work in the stables in record time. Then he saddled his mare, Nancy, a not very well-bred Dales pony, but sturdy and dependable. Jonty felt he had to get right away, anywhere, so long as it was miles away from his father and Grizedale Hall.

  He rode in the direction of Bishop Auckland then changed his mind and took one of the old bridle-ways and donkey paths which riddled the local countryside. Along these paths there used to be strings of donkeys with their side panniers of coal, transporting it to the mills of the industrial towns. Before the days of the railway, that is, thought Jonty, even before the days when there was a railway with the wagons pulled by donkeys and horses.

  He glanced over at a hill on his left, remembering a story his grandmother had told him. In those days, she had said, there were donkeys pulling the wagons up that hill, and they pulled them willingly once they knew there was a dandy cart on the end of the line of wagons. At the top of the hill the donkey would be uncoupled and the train of coal wagons would go rumbling down the other side and gravity would take it all the way to Aycliffe. And the donkeys grew adept at waiting for the low-slung dandy cart and jumping aboard, holding their heads up high as they faced into the wind, enjoying the ride as any human would. And of course, at Aycliffe, they were ready to take an empty train back again, up the hill to Brusselton and down again on the other side.

  Jonty smiled. How he had loved Grandmother’s stories! Often after a beating from his father, when he was curled up in a ball on his bed, she would creep in and take him in her arms and cuddle him and tell him stories to take his mind off the smarting pain.

  He rode on now, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the freedom riding gave to him, freedom from his hated limping.

  The morning was dull and grey with rain clouds threatening from the west, but Jonty didn’t notice the weather. So it was that he came near to the miners’ rows by Winton Colliery, just as the first large raindrops fell. They rapidly became a deluge and soon Jonty was soaked to the skin.

  Lord, what a fool I am! he told himself angrily. Now he would have to seek shelter. He looked around. There was no barn in sight at this end of the village, only the colliery rows and the huts and pigeon lofts across the road and in the gardens of the end row. He eyed the first house. It had a chimney which was throwing out smoke, denoting a good fire, and brightly clean lace curtains at the windows. Perhaps the miner’s wife inside would give him shelter? He could ask at any rate. Dismounting, he led Nancy to the front gate and tethered the reins loosely over it.

  He was not prepared for his reception. The woman who came to the door was middle-aged and motherly. He was sure he hadn’t met her before. But she peered closely at him for a minute before opening her eyes wide.

  ‘Jonty! Eeh, it’s Jonty Grizedale! Tot, come here, lad, you’ll never guess who’s come to see us.’ Phoebe Lowther was fairly gasping in excitement. ‘Howay in then, lad, come by the fire. Eeh, I never did.’

  Chapter Ten

  Meg was at the bottom of the stairs calling her da down from his afternoon’s sleep when Auntie Phoebe rushed in, her face flushed with the importance of what she had to tell.

  ‘Is your da up? Eeh, Meg, where’ve you been? You’d never guess who I’ve just had in the house, aye, standing in my kitchen and drinking tea from our Tot’s pint pot.’

  ‘I’m just calling him, Auntie Phoebe. He’s on nights the night. As to where I’ve been, I went out for the shopping and then when the rain came on I waited in the shop ‘til it cleared up.’

  Meg walked into the kitchen and raked some small coals from the shelf at the back of the fire down on to the flames.

  ‘The days are getting colder now, aren’t they, Auntie Phoebe?’ She smiled to herself, teasing her aunt who was expecting eager questions on who her mysterious visitor was. Meg was not disappointed in Auntie Phoebe’s reaction.

  ‘Are you not going to ask me who it was, then?’ she demanded, placing her hands on her ample hips and glaring at Meg.

  Her grin widened. ‘Oh, aye, you said you’d had someone in, di
dn’t you?’ Calmly she settled the kettle on the coals before reaching up to the high mantelshelf, taking down the tin tea caddy and spooning tea into the pot. But she was all attention when she finally heard the name.

  ‘John Thomas Grizedale, that’s who. Standing in my kitchen, sheltering from the rain.’ Auntie Phoebe stood back and nodded her head importantly.

  ‘Who?’ asked Alice, who had just come in with little Bella.

  Auntie Phoebe sighed. ‘Oh, aye, you two bairns won’t know who I mean, but I thought Meg might remember. You know, our Meg, Jonty, your cousin Jonty.’

  ‘Jonty?’

  ‘Aye, Jonty.’ Auntie Phoebe’s news was not being received in the way she had expected it to be and she was becoming impatient. Meg stared at her. Surely she had made a mistake?

  ‘Surely you remember Jonty? You were brought up with him until you moved to Marsden.’

  ‘Oh, Jonty,’ Meg said wonderingly, memories crowding in on her. Warm memories. Jonty. Mam used to say that it was the first word Meg had uttered. Jonty. The son of her dead Aunt Nell. How Mam had gone on about her sister Nell, and the way she and Nell and their mother had come across the county after the explosion in Haswell pit which had killed their da.

  ‘Meg!’

  She dragged her thoughts back to the present. Auntie Phoebe was talking to her.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Auntie.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Auntie Phoebe looked a bit put out but she carried on with what she was saying. Bella had gone over to her and Phoebe was stroking her head as she talked.

  ‘Aye, I was telling you, there he was standing at the front door and asking if he could shelter from the storm. Why, I knew him straight away from that time he fell off his horse and broke his leg. He’s the spit of his da to look at, like. “It’s perfectly all right,” he said, “I’m John Thomas Grizedale from Grizedale Hall. I’ve foolishly allowed myself to get caught in the rain. It’s a distance back home and I thought …” Eeh, an’ do you know, he speaks just like us. Well, mebbe not just like us, but he’s no side to him, no side at all. Not like his high and mighty father. And when I told him who I was, well, he was flabbergasted, he was.’