Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  With the onset of recuperation she asked Mr Maguire, ‘Dada, can we go to Nat’s house and see if he’s there?’

  ‘You’ve asked me that an’ I’ve told ye tis not the kind o’ place my daughter should visit.’

  ‘But ye never said why.’ Bright had always been curious.

  ‘I don’t have to say why. I’m the father and I say who goes where.’ However, as Bright’s face crumpled Maguire relented. ‘Oh, well now, maybe I could go on my own.’

  Bright cheered up, but alas, her happiness was to be shortlived. Mr Maguire returned from his humiliating visit to tell her that Nat was once more incarcerated. ‘And if you ask me, the boy’s a lot better off in there than he is with that trollop! God, ye never heard the like of it when I asked after Nat. Her and that fancy man…’ Red-faced, he turned to Mrs Maguire who put a finger to her lips.

  ‘Later, Tommy, tis not fittin’ for little ears.’

  ‘You’re right there!’ Mr Maguire calmed his temper and addressed himself in a crisp tone to Bright. ‘I’m sorry about your friend darlin’, but there’s nothing I can do.’

  His daughter, still confused over Nat’s mother’s behaviour, pleaded, ‘Couldn’t we go and visit him?’

  Mr Maguire grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah well…’

  She clapped her hands and squirmed up to him in the way that had always borne results in the past. ‘Please, Dada, we could go before bedtime, it wouldn’t take long and I know Nat’d love to see us.’

  ‘Before bedtime?’ Maguire pretended outrage. ‘Sure you cannot!’

  The pleading turned to confidence. ‘Then we can go tomorrow?’

  ‘Had my arm twisted again as usual,’ complained Mr Maguire to his wife. ‘All right, if ye think you’re up to it we’ll go tomorrow when I get home from work. Now, let’s hear your prayers and off to bed!’

  Had Bright known there was to be further disappointment at the Industrial School she would not have skipped off to bed so happily.

  ‘Nathaniel Smellie is here, yes,’ said the officer who answered the doorbell on consulting his register. ‘But he isn’t allowed visitors.’

  ‘No, I said Nathaniel Prince,’ corrected Mr Maguire politely.

  ‘Yes, I am aware of the boy to whom you refer,’ said the officer. ‘I remember that he likes to assume an alias, but his correct name is in fact Smellie.’

  Smellie! Bright felt herself redden in embarrassment for poor Nat. She resolved never to mention this awful handicap when in his presence.

  ‘However, the name is of no consequence,’ proceeded the officer. ‘Neither he nor any of the boys are permitted to receive visitors; the entire school has been put under isolation. The majority of our inmates, number twenty-seven included, have contracted measles. One boy has in fact died from the disease.’

  Bright flinched and, sensing her father’s eyes upon her, reddened again. She could not look anywhere but at the floor.

  Mr Maguire said lamely, ‘Well, in that case, sir, I’m sorry to have bothered you. Would ye please be after giving Nat a message?’ At the responding nod he added, ‘Tell him the Maguires hope he’s soon better. Er, before ye go…’ The officer had been about to close the door. ‘How long will this isolation last?’

  ‘We will certainly not be accepting visitors for the next month at least.’ After informing Mr Maguire on what date he expected visiting to recommence, the man closed the door, leaving Bright and her father to wander away.

  ‘Did I do that?’ Bright spoke in a little voice, not daring to look up at her father as they walked along the riverbank towards home.

  ‘Do what?’ Maguire was still annoyed at his foolishness over giving the wrong name. What other lies had Nat told them?

  ‘Give them measles and make that boy die.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘No, darlin’. Why sure, it could’ve been Nat who gave it to you. We don’t know who got it first.’

  Her eyes beseeched him like a puppy’s. ‘Can we go and see him when this desolation thing’s over?’

  Maguire sighed. ‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’

  * * *

  Bright and her father were eventually allowed to visit Nat in June. Maria, too, had been granted leave to see her son. She was as apprehensive about this as Nat was, both remembering how distressing their parting had been at Christmas. This latest meeting, if anything, was even more awkward than the last. Nat was angry with his mother for allowing him to be sent back here after his escape. Of course he made no great display of emotion, it was not in his nature, but the lack of response to Maria’s questions and the way he just sat there picking at his fingernails was sufficient illustration of his feelings towards her. With her topics of conversation exhausted and silence falling between them Maria decided to leave before visiting time was over.

  ‘Well, if you’re not gonna talk I’ll go then,’ she issued lamely.

  Though consumed by anger and sadness, Nat was determined not to let her see how deeply she had hurt him, and did not make an exhibition of himself like the last time. ‘All right. Tara, then.’ His eyes remained downcast as his mother rose. Then as she turned to leave, he blurted, ‘Will you come again?’

  Maria smiled tightly and, nodding, hurried from the room.

  Nat was about to return to his dormitory when Mr Chipchase informed him that more visitors had arrived to see him and he reseated himself at the table to receive Bright and her father.

  Initially, the meeting with the Maguires was hostile. Whilst on the one hand Nat was glad to see them, on the other he resented them witnessing his humiliating treatment by the officers, and most irrationally of all he found himself venting the anger he felt towards his mother on them, responding towards Bright’s innocent questions with sullenness. It was only when an impatient Mr Maguire pointed out, ‘Look, we won’t be allowed another visit for two months. Are ye determined to waste all our time by behaving like an eejit?’ that the boy was jolted to his senses and became more affable.

  This mood was not to spill over into everyday life and he was as incommunicative as ever to his masters, but at least he was wise enough to keep out of trouble, a fact which enabled him to be included in the school’s holiday to Scarborough.

  Contrary as ever he was determined not to enjoy it, but faced with the exciting prospect of a train journey he could not maintain his sullen expression for long. This was the first time Nat had been on a train. He and the others were divided into groups. Officer Chipchase had been appointed to take charge of Nat’s section so there was more chance of horseplay in this compartment than in other groups – though there was little reason for this with so much to view from the carriage windows. When the train pulled into Scarborough Nat was almost disappointed that the journey was over. The boys were taken directly to their lodgings, a huge house that overlooked the sea. An excited horde swarmed to the window en masse. ‘Can we go down there, sir? Can we? Can we?’

  ‘All in good time!’ Mr Chipchase tried to calm them. ‘First, you can make up your beds, then put your clothes into those lockers – neatly! Then assemble downstairs for dinner.’

  ‘Then can we go?’ The persistent boys danced round him.

  ‘If good behaviour continues, yes. Now get on with it.’ Mr Chipchase left to a loud cheer and great activity.

  In record time the officer’s instructions were carried out and the boys pelted downstairs. Where once he might have been last due to someone ripping the blankets off his bed, Nat careered downstairs at the centre of a good-humoured throng. Since his birching he had been granted more respect from his peers. Besides, with new boys entering each month there were plenty of weaker victims for Larkin to bully.

  Lunch consisted of kippers, bread and butter and a jam pudding. Eager to be on the beach the boys wolfed it down in no time but were forced to wait impatiently until Mr Raskelf had finished his, hanging on his every spoonful.

  At last permission was granted to clear the tables, but even now there was infuriating delay whils
t Raskelf made a speech. ‘Every year the good citizens of this delightful watering hole are kind enough to accept you into their midst, as I trust they will continue to do so for many years to come. I understand that for boys who have been cooped up for many months there is a danger that you may become overstimulated by all the fun on offer and thus commit some foolish act. I must warn you to consider your actions very carefully. Should I receive but one complaint against one boy then I shall not hesitate to cancel the holiday and take the entire school back to York.’ His eyes moved up and down the ranks of boys so that all should be impressed. ‘In a moment, your officers will escort you down to the sands where you will be allowed to play unsupervised for the remainder of the afternoon.’ This was met by excited grins. ‘I am trusting each and every one of you to uphold the fine reputation of the school and to ensure that your fellows behave in the same manner. You may now go to your dormitories, remove your boots and stockings and prepare for an afternoon’s fun.’

  A race to be first up the stairs and first down ensued. When all were assembled outside, each officer led their respective group to the beach. ‘And behave yourselves!’ Disposed of their burdens and unfettered from their wives, the officers relaxed in deckchairs on the Spa Pavilion where a band played military marches and attractive ladies sauntered for their extra delight.

  Unleashed, the boys seemed unsure of what to do first. They teetered on the verge of excitement, scraping their heels at the sand and making patterns – until one broke for freedom and at once the Riviera of the North, sedate and elegant, was riven by a Mongolian horde that careered towards the sea, demolishing sandcastles and scattering toddlers with a tribal yell of delight. The sea shrank away, repelled, but the mob invaded her, plundering, splashing, yelping savages, hurling themselves about so that their clothes were drenched, gyrating in the usual madcap way of boys, leaping in the air, taking giant strides and making idiotic noises.

  Nat loved the feel of the sand beneath his feet. He bunched his toes, using them to pick up the grit and squeezing it until the pads of his feet became sore. Moving to the water’s edge, he stood to gaze at the vast expanse of sea and then – how inexplicable – was once again swamped by loneliness, by the whole pointless exercise of life. So great was the depression that it threatened to engulf him, until a wave rolled over his ankles, causing the sand beneath his feet to shift. He tottered and cried out in alarm, fleeing to dry land to await the fate of his companions, but soon saw that they were still enjoying the waves unharmed. In the knowledge that he was not to be sucked under and buried alive Nat returned to the water’s edge, made footprints in the wet sand and stood back to watch in fascination as the eddying wavelets filled his imprints with water and carried them away – and with them the brief spell of depression.

  Excited cries drew his attention and brought him running to a crowd of his companions. One boy had found a little fish, another produced a soggy paper bag in which to put it, but the water kept dribbling out and the fish faced certain death until the sea washed up a tin can. Others gathered shells, whilst more mature companions ogled the ringleted girls with their dresses tucked into their bloomers. Yet another enclave had noticed that an infant had left his spade several yards from where he now sat picnicking with his family, and moving as one, edged closer and closer, circling it in a huddle, whence one of the boys grabbed the spade and the rogues then spirited it away for their own entertainment; this involved one of their number being entombed up to the neck for the whole of the afternoon until the tide came in and they thought to resurrect him, crying and windburned. ‘If you tell old Bramble Conk you’re for it!’

  The afternoon was over in a flash. A hostile tide drove them further back up the beach where, within calling range of their officers, they were summoned to tea. A muttered command was passed between the boys. ‘Pretend you haven’t heard!’ They continued their capers, forcing Mr Chipchase and two fellow officers to come down onto the sands. ‘Aw, can’t we stay a bit longer, sir?’ they whined as they were rounded up.

  ‘You’ve a whole fortnight ahead of you,’ replied Chipchase, one side of his face crimson where he had fallen asleep in the sun. ‘Right now, it’s time for tea.’

  ‘Sir, you’ve got a wasp on your hat!’

  Mr Chipchase ducked and brushed wildly at his head. The wasp flew up, then resumed its attack, hovering and darting into his face whilst Chipchase lashed out as if conducting an orchestra. With one lucky blow he knocked the wasp away towards Mr Screeton, who in turn lashed out and directed the furious insect back at Chipchase, back and forth, back and forth like a dangerous version of tennis, whilst the boys fell on the sand laughing hysterically until a final volley sent the wasp spinning into their midst and with one united yell they fell apart and escaped up a slope to the road, with a perspiring Mr Chipchase taking up the rear.

  ‘Sir, I got bitten!’ Larkin showed the officer a red lump on his arm.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ puffed Chipchase, mopping his brow, ‘a wasp with distinction – and they don’t bite, they sting. I’ll put something on it, if we ever get back to the house. Come along now, fall into line. I’m sure you must all be famished.’

  ‘I could eat one o’ them donkeys.’ Nat pointed up the beach.

  ‘Aye, me too,’ agreed Cobbins. ‘A good day, weren’t it?’

  ‘Your enjoyment is by no means over,’ divulged Mr Chipchase. ‘After tea I’m going to take you on a clifftop walk so that you can appreciate the flora and fauna of the east coast.’

  ‘Where did he say we’re off?’ frowned Cobbins, when later they were led back out into the evening sunshine.

  Nat shrugged. ‘I dunno – to see Flora or somebody.’

  ‘This is boring,’ muttered Cobbins when, half an hour into the expedition all they had done was look at flowers and moths. ‘I’d rather be down there on them merry-go-rounds and things.’

  Murmured agreement rippled through the half-dozen boys who lagged at the rear. ‘But we’ve no money,’ said Nat. ‘Anyway, how do we get there without Chip seeing?’

  As if to answer the unspoken prayer, a cry went up, ‘Sir, wh – sir, sir!’ Mr Chipchase was in conversation with another and only now looked up. ‘Sir, what’s that thing what just ran into them bushes? It were a rat thing wi’ a long skinny body.’

  ‘Oh, that would be a weasel!’ Mr Chipchase hurried over in the direction of the pointed finger, hence allowing Nat and his five accomplices to sneak over the edge of the cliff where, by means of a well-trodden path, they scrambled first to the beach, then walked on to the greater lure of the penny arcades.

  It turned out that it was not such a futile venture after all. Cobbins had money – a whole shilling’s worth of change. ‘I’m gonna be generous and give you each a penny, but if you win owt it belongs to me, right?’

  At the first go, Nat succeeded in milking five new pennies from the machine. He gave a crafty look around to see if Cobbins had observed. He had. Reluctantly the five pence was handed over. There were three other winners. At the end of half an hour Cobbins’ pockets were weighted down with almost half a crown’s worth of pennies. Not a stingy boy, he bought each of his friends a plate of cockles and enjoyed his own so much that he embarked on a further nine until, with his last mouthful, he suddenly announced, ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  Nat, who felt bilious too, merely at witnessing Cobbins’ gross consumption, suggested, ‘We’d better be getting back. Chippy might’ve missed us.’

  Looking up and down the seafront Galton pointed. ‘Our house is just up that slope…’

  ‘Ooh, listen to him – our house!’ laughed Nat.

  Galton continued, ‘We might as well go there and hide in t’garden till the others come back.’ And with this they set off, accompanied by a moaning Cobbins.

  ‘I’m gonna be sick. Oh, God, I’m gonna puke!’ Half way home, Cobbins deposited his ten plates of cockles onto a Scarborough resident’s petunias. The others ran, fearing retribution, but no one saw and when they s
uccessfully regrouped with Mr Chipchase later it was obvious he had not even missed them.

  The period up until bedtime was taken up by a sing-song and cocoa. When an exhausted, windburned Nat fell into bed he had time only to note that his feet were cleaner than they had ever been in his life and were covered in white blisters – then, there was happy oblivion.

  The second afternoon of the holiday was spent once again on the beach. Cobbins, now recovered, suggested that he and his cronies sneak off to have a donkey ride. Thus, the man who owned the donkeys found himself besieged by a group of suspicious-looking characters, Nat amongst them.

  ‘Can we have a ride, mister?’ asked Galton, idly swinging a banner of seaweed around his head.

  The man pointed with his stick to a board that advertised the price.

  ‘We haven’t got any money on us,’ explained Cobbins. ‘But that’s our dad up there…’ He pointed in the direction of the Spa. ‘He’ll pay you when we’ve had our ride.’

  ‘Brothers, are you?’ The donkey man looked around at the shavenheaded urchins who in feature could not have been more different.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’m the Duke of York.’

  ‘Ooh, are you?’ Galton cocked his head with interest. ‘Where’s your crown?’

  The man threatened them with his stick. ‘Get back down yon end with the rest of the rabble!’ He turned away as a little girl was brought for a donkey ride and lifted into the saddle by her father. Other children joined her and when all saddles were filled the man took hold of the reins of an animal and led it forward. Nat and his group took up the rear behind the jingling procession.