Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Bright wandered in their wake, like a dog that has been abandoned but refuses to believe it. Then, outside the church anger replaced dejection. What had she done that was so wrong it could not be forgiven? None of this was her fault. ‘How can you do this?’ she screeched after them. ‘You’re my family! The ones who’re meant to love me, to look after me! I didn’t ask for any o’ this! It’s not my fault!’ None of them, not even her mother turned to look at her. They continued to walk up the street in a tight bunch. She knew then that it was over.

  14

  The orange, amber and gold of fall gave way to the sparkle of frost and the cattle were driven down from the high plateaux to winter forage on the prairies. Now an accomplished hand, Nat joined in the drive, herding the steaming, bellowing mass across icy gushing rivers, down towards the log cabin where a hot bath and good food awaited, yelling and laughing to his companions and enjoying every minute, despite the cold.

  Snow came, transforming the land. Indeed, Nat found his whole life transformed, for the hacking bronchitis that was his usual winter companion failed to arrive. Though there were deep drifts and the temperature plummeted to a level unheard of at home, the atmosphere was crisp and dry with brilliant blue skies, and occasionally the balmy chinooks would waft down from the Rockies to temporarily alleviate winter’s grasp before the next onslaught. Nat did not mind the snow, even ventured out in it for enjoyment. Wrapped up in warm clothes, it was a joy to set out towards those mountains, even though he knew he would never reach them, content merely to look and to wish and to dream upon their summits as he trudged in the ghostly calm of that white wilderness, unimpeded by foggy alleyway and greasy cobblestone.

  Sometimes, though, in certain lights the mountains turned to jade, bringing a deep inexplicable melancholy to his breast when for all this splendour, he would wish himself back in York with its narrow streets and narrow minds, just so that he could see Bright once again.

  The thaw came. Frozen streams gushed new life into the mountains and a million alpine flowers blazed across their meadows. That summer Aunt Lucy announced that she was planning a ‘ho-down’ in celebration of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. All their neighbours would be invited, however distant, which meant a reunion for Nat with other Industrial School boys, some of whom he had not seen since last Thanksgiving. Though not particularly close to any of them, they were nevertheless a link with his past and he showed pleasure at seeing those who turned up at the barn dance that summer afternoon, and to hear how all were getting on. Like his, their faces were tanned and healthy, their hair longer. However, apart from this it transpired that, for them, things had not improved much since their last meeting. They were still regarded as slave labour.

  ‘You jammy bugger,’ accused one of them, Rymer, on seeing all that Nat had on offer and envying the open displays of affection from the Andersons that Nat found so irksome. ‘I’ll bet you inherit the bloody place after they snuff it.’

  Nat sought to correct the impression that he was rich. ‘I don’t get paid or owt, though! I mean they’re good to me, but it’s not as if I can do as I like. Where can you go with no money?’ He shrugged.

  ‘Why would you want to go anywhere else when you’ve got all this and your old bloke buys you everything you ask for?’ objected Rymer, the others nodding. ‘He’ll be dead in a few years and you’ll cop for the lot.’

  A fiddler led the band into its opening number, and people took to the dance floor. The youths eyed a group of girls at the other end of the barn, who twittered and bridled and invited closer inspection. ‘Go on, you go first!’ Rymer elbowed Nat, who displayed non-interest.

  ‘They’re too young.’

  ‘They’ve got tits, haven’t they?’ argued Rymer.

  ‘You go, then,’ suggested Nat.

  Rymer laughed and turned to the other boys. ‘Are you coming?’

  Dickson turned up his nose. ‘They’re not my type.’ When pressed for explanation he added, ‘I only bet on certainties. You won’t get anything out o’ them.’

  ‘That ginger-haired one goes like a rabbit,’ leered Rymer.

  ‘How would you know?’ teased another boy, Simpson.

  ‘I’ve had her,’ came the reply.

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘I have!’ And Rymer proceeded to go into lurid details. The others were not sure whether or not to believe him, and so invented exploits of their own.

  ‘What sort o’ woman d’you like then?’ Simpson asked Nat who, to much laughter gave a coarse description of his fantasy, whilst in reality his vision was of Bright.

  ‘Away, we’re wasting time,’ urged Rymer.

  ‘I’ve told you, you go if you want to,’ repeated Nat. ‘I’m having something to eat before all them greedy buggers scoff it. The women’ll still be there later on.’

  In agreement, the youths broke from their talkative huddle to scrummage over the food tables, the contents of which had kept the womenfolk busy in the kitchen for days. Nat poured himself a glass of soda, piled his plate high and went to sit on a hay bale alongside Rymer and two others, where they continued their former theme until some other youth marched up to the girl of Rymer’s dreams and whisked her onto the dancefloor. ‘Oh well, she’s a slut anyway,’ he decided, and the conversation changed.

  ‘D’you ever miss anything about England?’ Nat asked above the music before cramming his mouth with food.

  As always, Rymer was the most vociferous, spraying the listeners with flakes of cherry pie. ‘You must be mad! I might not get paid much where I am but there’s better places than England to go if I want to move on. I’m never off back there again. Don’t try and crack on you miss it?’ He took another bite, juice dribbling down his chin.

  Nat tried to appear nonchalant and took a gulp of soda, tapping his foot to the vigorous fiddle-playing. More people were dancing now. ‘I wouldn’t mind going back for a visit, just to show them bastards how well I’ve done – if I had the fare.’

  ‘You want to try your luck up north, then.’ Rymer finished his pie and sank his teeth into something else. Nat asked what he meant. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Crumbs flew. ‘There’s been a massive gold-strike in the Yukon.’ Nat hadn’t heard. Mr Anderson sometimes bought a newspaper when he went into Calgary but the last occasion had been months ago. Rymer swallowed, wiped his mouth on his cuff and lowered his voice. ‘In fact I’m thinking of striking out meself but I don’t fancy going on me own. Any of you lot want to come with me?’

  The gastronomic offerings lost their appeal. A pastry slid off Nat’s plate and into the straw as his mind became concentrated on fiscal matters. At the mention of gold, all his good sense vanished. The early lesson of his childhood, when the tramp had duped him with the fake coin, was instantly obliterated in the heat of gold fever. ‘When are you going?’

  ‘You interested?’ Rymer looked excited. ‘It’ll take a bit o’ planning. Got to get enough provisions together, shovels and things like that, and work out a route.’

  Dickson voiced his reluctance. ‘I’ve heard they get terrible winters up there, and it’s a bloody long way.’

  Simpson agreed, addressing himself to Nat. ‘If I had a good place to live like this I wouldn’t be risking it to get frozen to death.’

  Nat pulled a face. ‘We get winter here, don’t we?’

  ‘Aye, but not like they do up there. And we don’t even know if it’s true about the gold.’

  ‘You saying I’m lying?’ demanded Rymer.

  ‘No, but you have been known to get the wrong end of the stick and it’s a long way to go to find it’s a load of cock and bull.’

  ‘So you two won’t be coming then?’ Having established this, Rymer reserved his conversation for Nat. ‘Well, if you don’t mind this is secret, so piss off and dance and let the men talk business.’

  After the others had walked off, Nat said he was keen to press ahead so as to reach the Yukon before winter, but Rymer insisted that the trip needed careful preparation.


  ‘You realize how far it is? I mean it’s a bloody wilderness out there, you know.’

  Nat taunted him. ‘Why did you mention it, then, if you were going to go all chicken-hearted?’ He drained his glass abruptly and set it down.

  ‘I’m not backing out, I’m just saying…’

  ‘Look, I’ve been up in the mountains plenty of times, spent days out there. I know how to survive.’ Nat was recklessly boastful. ‘I can get horses, tools, food…’

  ‘All right!’ Rymer fended him off. ‘But I still can’t go tomorr—’ He broke off as Mrs Anderson danced up, swinging her skirts and beckoning to Nat.

  ‘I can’t dance, Aunt Lucy!’ Nat resisted her efforts to get him onto the floor.

  ‘Oh, tush! I’ll bet it’s just an excuse so you can sit talking to your friend here.’ Mrs Anderson dealt him a kiss then put an arm around both youths. ‘I know it’s a long time since you boys’ve been together but Mr McDonald’s got a barn-raising bee coming up next month, so you’ll have plenty of chance to chat then. Come on, now, be sociable and dance!’ She whisked Nat away, but not before he had dealt Rymer a significant look that warned him to get his plan sorted out by the next time they met.

  Nat was occupied in square dancing for the rest of the night and so missed any other opportunity to speak with Rymer, but that did not prevent the subject of gold from occupying his thoughts as he joined the final rendition of God Save the Queen. While the band packed away fiddles, guitar and concertina, Mary and Mrs Anderson cleared away the leftover food and the boy helped Mr Anderson to tidy up the barn.

  ‘Did you have a good day, Nat? Enjoyed seeing your friends again? Bet you had plenty of interesting things to talk about.’ Anderson unpinned the legs of a trestle and folded them under.

  ‘Yeah,’ Nat supported the other end of the table. ‘Uncle John, have you heard anything about the gold strike up north?’

  ‘Can’t say as I have.’ The man seemed more interested in his task.

  ‘Rymer told me about it. He said he might go and try his hand at mining.’

  ‘Fool’s game,’ came Anderson’s denouncement as he folded his end of the table to meet Nat’s.

  ‘Why?’ Nat flicked the catches that secured the trestle.

  ‘Cause it is.’ Anderson paused to rest. ‘I never met a man yet who made a fortune out o’ digging for gold.’

  Nat showed a streak of his natural obstinacy. ‘These men have been finding some wacking big nuggets.’

  Anderson pinned him with a cynical eye. ‘Seen ’em, have you?’

  Annoyed at this belittlement, Nat blurted, ‘I’m thinking of going meself.’

  Anderson was about to move on to another task, but now wheeled round to deliver rebuttal. ‘No you’re not! I’m not having any son o’ mine going on a damnfool goosechase – why, I don’t even know the country up there myself! You’ll get yourself killed. Put it right out of your head, and don’t you dare mention this in front of Aunt Lucy, she’ll worry herself to death. Come on now, get this garbage picked up – and take that sullen look off your face, it’s disrespectful to your Queen!’

  * * *

  At home in England, celebrations for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee had been less boisterous in the Fulford residence, though Bright’s employer had allowed her to partake in a glass of sherry to mark the occasion. How different from the party that would be taking place at the Maguire household, and how Bright still missed her family.

  The old woman imbibed the last drop of sherry and handed her glass to her servant. ‘Most enjoyable!’ She sat down.

  Bright, who had been staring into her own empty glass, started, then came out of her trance. ‘Oh, indeed it was, ma’am, and God bless Her Majesty.’

  ‘Hear, hear. You can wash those now.’ Miss Bytheway indicated the glasses.

  Bright replied, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and in her mind, added, Such a wonderful party. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the excitement.

  ‘Oh, wait a moment! I have a little treat for Oriel.’ Miss Bytheway reached down beside her chair and delved into a bag.

  Bright thanked her for the chocolate drops and, putting them into her apron pocket, left the room.

  She had just washed the glasses when the doorbell sounded and she hurried to answer it. ‘Oh, hello, Sister.’ At the sight of the nun a nervous hand came up to pluck at her collar. Her heart began to thud.

  ‘Hello to you, Bright.’ The nun’s voice was a confidential whisper. ‘I’m sorry to be taking you away from your duties but I came to tell you that your poor father died this morning.’

  Too shocked to respond, Bright just stared. Being cooped up inside had made her freckles fade, but even so they now stood out in sharp relief against the pallor.

  ‘Your mother thought it was only right that you should be told,’ whispered the nun, touching Bright’s arm, ‘but she says you shouldn’t ought to come to the funeral because it might upset people, you know. Anyway, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such horrid news.’ She gave a last gentle pat of Bright’s hand. ‘Away back to your work now.’ And with that she was gone.

  Stunned, Bright shut the front door then wandered back into the hallway, closing the vestibule door too. Her face drained of any emotion she stood for a moment, then, feeling the little bag of chocolate drops rustle in her apron, she drew it out and stared at it before embarking in a leaden plod up the staircase. Reaching the top, she sat down in the nursery and gazed into space. Oriel was awake and playing in her cot. The child addressed her mother in gibberish. Bright took a chocolate drop from the paper bag and, mechanically, inserted it into Oriel’s mouth, then ate one herself. Another for the baby, another for her. Then another, and another. The taste plunged her back into childhood, reminding her of the treats that her sister would bring home from the factory. How could they love her so much one moment and hate her the next? They don’t even want me at the funeral. Oriel was yelling for another chocolate drop. Her mother did not move, but crumpled the bag in her fist. Her lip began to judder and her eyes bulged with tears. She let them tumble down her cheeks, crying and sobbing, drooling long strands of chocolate-flavoured misery upon her pristine apron front. Dada. Nat.

  * * *

  That Anderson assumed his command about the gold-mining would naturally be obeyed only went to prove how little he had learned about Nat during the last year. To him the matter was long forgotten when, several weeks after the Queen’s Jubilee he, his wife and Nat arrived back from the McDonald homestead after spending a very enjoyable time helping to erect the new barn. Hence, a great shock was to come the following night when, awoken by a noise from outside, he peered from the window to investigate and sucked in his breath. There was Nat, trying not to make a noise, leading his horse from the barn, a horse that was packed with equipment.

  Anderson blinked as if unable to believe such treason. Then overtaken by fury, he rushed downstairs in his nightshirt to surprise the eloper.

  And surprise Nat it did. Having just donned his haversack, he gasped as the white-clad figure rushed at him out of the darkness.

  ‘You were creeping off without saying one word of goodbye?’ Anderson’s whisper was loaded with incredulity.

  ‘It isn’t goodbye.’ Nat looked shamefaced, one hand gripping the reins of his horse, the other rested on the head of the dog who pressed against his side, tail wagging. ‘I’ll be coming back when I’ve made my fortune.’

  ‘No you won’t, boy. If you go now you don’t never come back.’

  Nat sagged and tried to explain. ‘Look, I…’

  ‘Didn’t I forbid you to go on this damn fool mission? Didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nat lifted his palm from the dog’s head and ran a thumb between the strap of the haversack and his shoulder.

  ‘Well, I guess you don’t know me too well, Nat, cause when I say you don’t go, you don’t go. Get back to bed!’ His yell was meant for one of the ranch hands, who had risen to investigate the disturbance. The bleary face ducked back indoors.
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  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go,’ responded Nat. His horse shifted from one leg to the other, creaking its harness.

  ‘Why?’ demanded Anderson. ‘Give me one good reason, other than greed. You’re prepared to risk all you have here – including the love of Mrs Anderson – for some stupid rumour about gold? God damn it, didn’t you spare a thought for all the children she’d lost until she got you! Don’t you know how your sneaking off like this will break her heart? My God, you’re even stealing her cooking pots!’ He had spotted a pan dangling from Nat’s haversack.

  Nat dropped his gaze, his blue eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. ‘I’ve said I’ll come back.’

  ‘When? In five years’ time when you’ve exhausted your claim or in a wooden box – which is far more likely. Why did you think I forbade you to go? Because I knew you’d as like get yourself killed as find gold. Why, you don’t know the first thing about life in those frozen wastes!’ Nat removed his hat in an obvious attempt to plead. ‘I have to try, Uncle John…’

  ‘Don’t you Uncle John me!’

  ‘I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Oh well, thank you, sir, I’m sure!’

  ‘But I – I’ve a girl at home in England and I’ve sworn to bring her out here when I’ve saved enough money, and you don’t pay me any wage!’

  Anderson gasped. ‘You expect me to pay for the privilege of regarding you as my son?’

  ‘I didn’t ask to be your son! I would’ve been happy just to work here as one of the hands. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult you.’ Nat averted his eyes from the devastated expression on Anderson’s face. ‘You’re both really nice people, but I can’t behave the way you want me to behave. I’ve got to have money, Mr Anderson.’ He chose to dispense with secrecy. It didn’t seem to matter now. ‘This girl, she’s got my kid.’ The grizzled face twisted. ‘You mean you ran out on her just as you intend to run out on us! I see right through you now, boy. No wonder you didn’t give nothing away! Coming here under false pretences… you never intended to give your best to this country, all you wanted was an escape from your problem. You’re not doing this simply to earn the fare to bring that girl here – why, if you’d cared enough to confide in us we could’ve helped with that, but it’s sure as hell too late now. I don’t want a son I can’t trust. You’re motivated by self and nothing else. You don’t give a damn about any of us, Mrs Anderson, me nor that girl. Why, you don’t even care about that stupid dog! Look at him! How long d’you think he’d last in that frozen north?’