Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Nat looked up at him, agog, but did not need telling twice. Off he ran towards home. Happy with a role well-acted, the Rawlinsons, too, went on their way. Kendrew had asked if they would foster Nat but they had refused as had everyone else he had approached. In desperation Sep had pleaded, ‘Then just pretend to do it. I’ll pay you two quid. I’ll arrange everything with the school, all you have to do is turn up on the day, crack on you’re taking him home, then do what you like with him. If anybody comes snooping you can say he’s run away – he’s well known for it.’ Once he and Maria were in Hull the boy would be no longer a nuisance.

  The clothes which Nat had worn on entry to the school were naturally too small for him now and so he was perforce discharged in the institution garb. This and his shorn head made him a marked man and there were several unpleasant incidents before he reached home. Bounding up the stairs, he hesitated outside the door. Would Kendrew still be there? Preparing two different greetings, he turned the knob, only to be met with anti-climax: the parlour was empty.

  On the table was his jar of lucky stones. Taking out his tin whistle he wandered up and down trying to remember the tune that Mr Maguire had taught him, but it had been a while since he had played it and it sounded sweeter in memory than it did now. Soon bored, he flopped down onto the sofa and lay motionless for a long time, gathering his thoughts. His innards began to rumble. With no one to give the order that it was dinnertime he sat for a good while before realizing that he no longer needed permission from an officer when to eat and when to sleep. He was his own master again, until his mother got home at any rate. The bold decision to visit the larder turned out to be academic; it was completely bare. Nat paced indecisively, sat down again, counted the luckystones in the jar, then went to stare out of the window for a while, pondering over the odd behaviour of the people who were meant to have been his foster parents. There were voices below. Nat hauled up the sash and poked his head out, but when the women looked up he drew it in again quickly.

  He waited a long time. Nobody came. He went to lay on the bed which had no covers – his mother must have taken them to the laundry. He fell asleep. On waking, the position of the sun and his grumbling stomach told him it was well after noon. He decided to call at Bright’s where he would surely be fed, but there was no one there either to answer his call. After a moment he peeped round the door, but the parlour was empty except for Granny Maguire who, with gaping jaw, sat snoring by the fire. Disappointed but afraid to linger he decided to go down to St George’s School and wait for Bright.

  The playground was silent, a silence that wrapped itself around him blotting out everything else. For one moment of panic it seemed to Nat that every person he knew had vanished off the face of the earth. He slumped down on the kerb, leaned on his knees and focused on a dead bird on the road. It had been squashed to a pancake by numerous cartwheels, yet one flight feather wafted back and forth, back and forth in the breeze. Nat watched it, growing more desolate by the second, until a low rumble alerted him to the pupils’ exodus. Remembering the previous attack by the Irish boys, he jumped to his feet and sought out a less conspicuous place to wait.

  Even though she had seen him before with his long hair shorn to grey stubble, Bright did not recognize him at first. A brief expression of fear passed across her face as his hand pulled her into the back lane. Then alarm turned to delight. ‘Nat!’

  ‘Shush! I don’t want to draw attention to meself.’

  She raised her eyebrows in glee. ‘Have ye run away again?’

  ‘No, they let me out.’ Nat peeped round the edge of the wall. She was quick to interpret his concern. ‘Oh, don’t worry about John Kelly, he’s left our school.’

  ‘I’m not worried about him!’ Nat squared his shoulders. ‘I can look after meself after being in there.’ He glanced into the street again. The crowd of schoolchildren had thinned and those that were left were mostly girls. ‘Shall we go to your house?’

  ‘I’m not going home, I’m off to Louisa’s for me tea.’ Bright pointed at a dark-haired girl who sat on the kerb playing jacks. ‘I’ll have to go now, she’s waiting – come to my house tomorrow if ye like though. Bye!’

  And Nat had no opportunity to tell her that he had not eaten since breakfast. At his half-hearted nod she was gone. Annoyed, he leaned against the wall, but it was too cold to tarry for long. Surely his mother would be back from the laundry by now. Nat set off at a jog and kept up the pace for most of the way home.

  His mother wasn’t there. Another period of waiting ensued. After a time, he braved the dark Stonebow Lane and went out to look for her, but was soon driven in by the cold. It wasn’t much warmer in the house, with powdery ashes in the grate and no coal to light a fire. He went to crouch on the top stair, ready to hurl himself at her the moment she came through the door.

  The door opened. He half rose expectantly, but it was the woman who lived below and he replaced his chin in his hands. The woman did not like him and never spoke to him. This evening, however, she appeared to falter as if she wanted to engage him in conversation, but then she went into her own quarters, abandoning him to the darkness.

  An age later, or so it seemed to the child, she opened her door again, casting light into the stairwell, and looked up at him. ‘Here.’

  Nat could not see what she was holding out to him, but in the hope that it was food he went down. After handing over the crust she said nothing more and shut the door again.

  Nat’s teeth ripped into the bread, but the hours of abstinence and the growing worry over his mother had shrunken his gut. When it came to swallowing, the crust became a boulder. Self-pity brought tears to his eyes. Shoving the bread into his pocket he dragged his feet up to his room and curled up on the bare mattress, praying that his mother would be there beside him when he woke.

  * * *

  Dawn stole into the mean alleyways and over his sill. Nat had woken constantly throughout the night to feel for his mother but cold had been his only bedfellow. Now, mercifully, his fitfulness gave way to deeper sleep and he was granted three hours of oblivion until a knock at the door forced him to rise and answer it.

  The landlord looked down at the shorn head and asked if Nat’s mother was in. Nat rubbed his itchy eyes and said no.

  ‘No, she wasn’t in the last time I called neither.’ The landlord looked villainous. As a matter of fact he had always appeared extremely suspicious to Nat, with his shifty eyes and his hat pulled down over them even in the middle of summer. ‘I thought I’d come through the week; she never seems to be in on a Friday nowadays.’ He gave a disparaging sniff. ‘What time will I find her in?’ Nat said he didn’t know, he was waiting for her too. ‘How long have you been waiting then?’ The landlord brushed past him and looked around.

  ‘Since yesterday,’ answered Nat.

  The landlord gasped as the truth took only seconds to dawn on him. ‘The bloody cow, she’s done a moonlight!’ Nat frowned and asked what he meant. ‘She’s run off without paying my rent!’ His mouth was still open at the audacity of it.

  ‘She wouldn’t leave me,’ protested Nat. ‘Anyway, the furniture’s still here.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ said the landlord, looking him up and down, ‘but the bloody furniture’s only good for matchwood. The little whore…’

  Nat overcame his natural reticence. ‘Don’t you say that about my mam!’

  ‘Out!’ Without further ado, the man pushed Nat outside and locked the door behind them.

  It was then that Nat remembered his whistle and the jar of luckystones standing on the table, but was too afraid to call after the landlord. He slumped on the top stair, wishing that he had a key like the one Watson had shown him so that he could rescue the precious stones. His mother would be furious when she returned.

  Shortly after the noise had died down, the woman who had given him the bread came out to find him sitting outside on the front step. ‘It’s no good waiting there, lad. Your mam’s gone.’

  He r
efused to believe her and shook his head. ‘She’ll be coming back for me.’

  The common-looking woman folded her arms and tried to offer a solution. ‘Haven’t you got any aunts or uncles you could go to?’

  Nat shook his head. ‘I have to stay here or me mam won’t know where I am.’

  After a moment’s silence, she muttered reluctantly, ‘You’d better come in with me till we decide what to do. Come on,’ she urged him to get up, ‘you’re not far away if your mam does come back.’

  He didn’t like the woman, despised her lumpy features. ‘S’all right. She won’t be long now.’

  ‘She might be longer than you think… I wasn’t privy to where she was going, but gossip has it that she went to live in Hull with that fella of hers.’

  Nat pressed his lips together. That… bugger! Well, Kendrew hadn’t bargained with his adversary’s doggedness. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Which way’s Hull then?’

  ‘Too far for you to go today. Come on in and we’ll talk about it.’

  Nat was still tired out and hungry. He finally accepted the woman’s offer. She told him to go and have a wash whilst she made him some porridge. He did so, but eavesdropped at the door as she spoke to her companion.

  ‘Poor little mite. I can’t say I like him but you have to feel sorry for him. He doesn’t realize she’s cleared off and left him. What sort of woman would do that to her own bairn? And her acting all stuck up, reckoning she’s better than us. Well, she needn’t think she’s landing me with him. We’ll have to tell the authorities…’

  Nat had only to hear the last word and he was out of the window in a trice, running for his life down Stonebow Lane and stopping only to ask the first person he saw, ‘Which way’s Hull?’

  The postman in his fore and aft hat continued to trundle his handcart full of parcels but nodded at Fossgate. ‘Down there and carry straight on.’

  Nat carried on. He rushed past Bright Maguire’s, not having time to dally. Anyway, she would ask questions and it was none of her business. Mam, how could you leave without telling me where you were going? Eventually he came to Walmgate Bar. Emerging the other side, he flopped against the barbican to catch his breath and looked around. He had not been this way before, his geographical knowledge confined to the streets inside the walls. The area was full of drovers awaiting the trains that would bring the Irish cattle to market. Still panting, Nat bent over and leaned on his knees, letting his head sag. A bell clamoured somewhere to his right. He looked up. A train carrying flour from the mill up Navigation Road was now crossing Foss Islands. Summoning courage, Nat pushed himself from the barbican and approached one of the loafers to ask, ‘Is this Hull?’

  The man guffawed and said something unintelligible to his companions who chuckled too. Detesting anyone who laughed at him, Nat turned on his heel and stalked away. It was some time before he had recovered enough to go and ask the man in charge of the level crossing the same question. This man laughed too. Even though it was not as unpleasant a sound as the other’s, Nat was abashed. ‘Where have you sprung from?’

  Nat muttered in his usual stumbling manner. ‘Stonebow Buildings. I’m going to Hull. Postman told me it was this way.

  ‘It is, but it’s too far to walk.’ Another train had pulled into the sidings, belching steam. Nat asked if that would take him. The man pointed out that it was a cattle truck. ‘They wouldn’t let you in anywhere stinking o’ bullocks. Anyway it’s going back west. Hull’s t’other road.’

  Nat felt squashed and asked how far it was. The railway man astounded him. ‘About forty miles.’

  ‘I’ll go after dinner,’ decided Nat, feeling hungry.

  ‘Dinner? You’ve just had breakfast haven’t you?’

  ‘Haven’t had none.’ Nat eyed the cow-wallopers who were unloading the bellowing cargo. The sun was trying to get out but the morning was still bleak for this abandoned child. ‘I haven’t had owt since yesterday morning.’

  ‘Good Heavens! Doesn’t your mother feed you?’

  Nat was exasperated. ‘Course she does, but she’s gone to Hull and I have to go and find her.’

  The man rubbed his whiskered chin thoughtfully and perused Nat’s shorn scalp. ‘Hmm, bit of a problem that, isn’t it? You sure you haven’t run away?’ The boy shook his head furiously and made to escape, but the railway man grabbed him. ‘Hold still a minute! I’m trying to think how to get you there. Have you any money?’ Another shake of head from Nat, who determined to run once the man freed his grip. ‘What about your dad, you haven’t mentioned him.’

  Nat thought it easier to say, ‘Me dad’s dead.’ His eyes held the man’s face, ready for that expression that would indicate he was going to be handed over to the authorities. The railway man sensed his fear and tried to allay it. ‘Harken to me and stop wriggling. I reckon you have run away from some boys’ home or the like – I said stop wriggling! I’m not about to send you back there, I’ve been in one myself and I know what it’s like. Believe me or not I want to help you. Now then, I’m going to let go of your arm and you can either run away or you can have a sandwich from me lunch can. You please yourself.’

  Now starving, Nat decided to accept the food, but kept the railway man in his sights all the while he was eating.

  A question from the man: ‘Were you telling me the truth about your mother being in Hull?’ Munching ravenously Nat moved his head. ‘Well now, I know somebody who’s going to Hull this morning. I might be able to wangle a free ride for you.’

  Nat was immediately on alert, but desperation made him trust this man, and how fortunate that he had, for later that morning he was on his way to Hull on a merchant’s cart.

  The journey was tedious. Both the cart and the merchant stank of fish, but Nat was too immersed in thought to care much. Why, why had not his mother left word for him? It didn’t make sense. During the dusty, uncomfortable ride he had much opportunity to mull over ways to find her, though this did not help. When the cart finally rumbled into the fishing port of Kingston-upon-Hull he was appalled at how busy the place was. Where on earth would he start looking?

  His benefactor eased an aching back whilst continuing to steer his horse down the highly populated thoroughfare of Hessle Road. ‘Well, you wanted Hull and here it is. Whereabouts d’you want dropping?’

  Nat lurched with the motion of the cart and stared miserably ahead. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Then I might as well stop here.’ Several times the man had tried to involve Nat in conversation and had received such a response. He would be glad to see the back of his dull travelling companion.

  The boy climbed down from the cart, looked around, then began to wander away. Peeved at the lack of gratitude, the man did not offer to buy the lad a meal as he had fully intended. Without sympathy he flicked his reins and moved off, leaving Nat to fend for himself.

  Existing on the contents of dustbins, and bedding in doorways, Nat padded the streets for the next two days hoping for a sight of his mother, looking into every face, exploring every alley – even loitering around the many public houses in the area on the off-chance of seeing Kendrew – but there was no sign of either of them. Each night he changed his dossing place, moving on to a new street where he would begin his quest again in the morning.

  On his fourth morning, a Monday, he was woken from his cold and uncomfortable bed of newspaper by the sound of clog-irons resounding from the pavement. Aching with cold he rubbed his eyes. It was still dark – seemed like the middle of the night. For a moment he leaned in the doorway and watched the bunches of dockworkers lope past, unable to see their faces, just dark shapes. One of them noticed his own shadowy form, took pity on him and threw him a penny. Grasping it, he rose, yawned and decided to follow the men to see where they were going.

  His journey took him into an even darker subway that echoed eerily to the sound of clogs and voices. When he emerged he found himself on what was obviously the fish dock. Apart from the odour he could see the outline of half a dozen large tra
wlers against the early morning sky. Yawning again, he became aware that the quay was as busy as a Saturday afternoon’s market in York – busier. The men who landed fish – the bobbers, who had disturbed him – now formed into gangs, each unloading their appointed vessel, some below deck, some above, some on land, working like ants. Speed was essential with this perishable cargo. On deck, swingers despatched baskets of fish to the winchman on the quay who emptied and weighed its contents, which were in turn harrowed off to the market. Meanwhile, on the trawlers men in rubber aprons scrubbed the boards to remove blood, scales and ice.

  Clutching his penny, Nat wandered about the quay, occasionally slipping on the greasy ground, watching the great activity as men rushed in preparation of the seven-thirty market, sorting fish into type and size, stacking each trawler’s catch into heaps ready for auction. He found a soup wagon where he spent his penny, gratefully cupping his hands to the warmth. Long after the broth was finished he continued to watch the scene. Each trawler was divested of its catch then moved away by tugs to the dry docks for repairs. By now it was light, though still early, and the fish merchants had begun to arrive. Once the warmth of the soup had lost its effect Nat began to walk again, watching, watching all the time for a familiar face. He came to the auction. St Andrew’s Dock was now busier than ever. After each sale the merchant’s label was slapped onto the heap of crates then transported by barrowboys to the filleters at the buyers’ stand. Knives flashed, fillets were packed in ice. Gulls screamed and dived on the pile of offal that grew at the workers’ feet until it was carted away to a factory and the flags hosed down.

  Over the rest of the day Nat covered every inch of the fish dock, eventually coming to the conclusion that he was wasting his time here. Tired, disillusioned and hungry he wandered around seeking an exit, only finding one by shadowing a group of bobbers on their way home, tripping over ropes, jumping out of the way of gushing hoses and feeling generally miserable. Once again he followed them under the subway and out into a network of streets. Soon he would need a place to lay his head for the night, but right now he was too tired to go any further. Dropping to the paved ground he leaned his back against the wall of a school, hugged his knees and rested his brow upon them. There was no danger; the pupils had gone home. Horse-drawn traffic clip-clopped up and down this main route to the docks. The sound of clogs clip-clopped past him too and marched on up the street… then paused and made their way back. ‘Here!’