Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Anderson shrugged the restraining hand from his shoulder and hoisted his belt. ‘I gave him it, yes, but that was when I looked upon him as a son and not a sneaking little thief! That horse was only his for as long as he lived in my house. Far as I was concerned, once he’d run off it belonged to me again.’

  The sergeant was really annoyed now. ‘So you figured you’d get the North-West Mounted Police to teach him a lesson! You think we’re not short-handed enough with this darned goldrush that we have time to run after every wayward boy?’

  ‘He committed a crime!’ objected Anderson.

  ‘The fact is, mister, that a fella can’t be capable of stealing what’s already his! You just admitted you gave the animal to him.’

  ‘What about the other things?’ demanded Anderson. ‘The food, the tools, my wife’s pans…’

  ‘We didn’t aim to bring him all this way just to stand trial for stealing pots and pans! Horse stealing’s a serious offence and so is lying to an officer of the law.’

  Anderson’s moustache bristled. ‘God darn it, I didn’t lie! I still say that horse was mine!’

  ‘You can say all you like! You’ve just admitted that you once gave that horse to him and that’s sufficient to prove that the boy had every right to believe it was his. Now I suggest you leave my office before I get real angry and charge you for wasting my time!’

  Anderson made no move to leave. ‘What’re you gonna do with him?’

  The sergeant used his body to shepherd Anderson to the door. ‘Don’t you worry, he’ll probably go to gaol for the theft of the tools et cetera, that was your aim weren’t it?’

  Anderson glanced over his shoulder at Nat, his face dark. ‘News is that the British are asking for volunteers for this war they’re fighting in South Africa. I don’t see why good Canadian boys should risk their lives when dirt like you is ruining this country. When you come out o’ gaol I suggest you join up, do something decent with your life for once. Whatever you do, don’t come within a hundred miles o’ my ranch.’ He opened the door and left.

  Nat only saw the man again briefly at his trial, at which he was to receive a prison sentence for the theft. However, there were others determined to speak their piece and to inflict additional punishment. The judge, having made it his business to uncover Nat’s past, voiced disapproval that was not confined to the boy. ‘It seems to me that the British authorities in sending you here hoped to rid themselves of an habitual criminal. Well, let them be in no doubt that we will not permit them to foist such characters upon us. As soon as you have served your term you will be escorted to Montreal and put on a ship back to England.’

  Nat’s only recourse was to defiance; ‘I don’t care, you can stick your bloody country!’ But during the long lonely nights in gaol he had much time to ruminate. His one great chance, and he had ruined it. How could he face Bright? He was as penniless as when he had come here. Fool! Idiot! What was he going to do now? Who would employ him? He was nineteen years old, a man, but at that moment he felt like a small boy again. And it was all his mother’s fault.

  Part Two

  16

  How precious were Sundays. Bright would rise early and take Oriel into her bed, where they would snooze until seven-thirty. Miss Bytheway did not require breakfast until late on the Sabbath. Afterwards they would go to Mass together, she and Oriel, though at a different church than the family who had abandoned her and one whose priest was unaware that she had tried to take her own life. If it was fine they would enjoy a walk along the city walls or the riverside before going home. It was rather a misnomer to call this Bright’s day off, for she still had to eat dinner and therefore she was the one who had to cook it, but from then on her time was her own.

  For the rest of the week life was as hard as ever and often without reward, for her employer had a poor memory when it came to wages and there was a limit to the number of times Bright could politely remind her. Nor could she object when given rotten jobs to do, for if she were dismissed it was not only a job she would be losing but her home – perhaps her daughter too, for as Oriel grew she was treated more and more as though she were Miss Bytheway’s daughter, taking her meals in the dining room while Bright had to eat in the kitchen, except on Sundays which was obviously viewed as a great privilege by Miss Bytheway.

  Things that once went unnoticed now began to tweak the three – year-old’s intellect. ‘Why doesn’t Mother eat with us all the time?’ she asked Miss Bytheway one particular lunchtime.

  ‘Because your mother is a servant,’ replied the elderly woman, as if this was sufficient explanation.

  Oriel was an intuitive child; she had noticed the underlying animosity between the two women even though there were never any raised voices nor any hint of anger. ‘Why don’t you like Mother?’

  Miss Bytheway was unmoved. ‘One neither likes nor dislikes servants,’ came the dignified reply. ‘They are merely there to do one’s bidding. Now stop tinkering with your knife and fork and eat your meal.’

  If Bright had entertained worries over where her daughter’s loyalties lay, she would have been heartwarmed to hear Oriel’s current decision. It was hugs and cuddles made a parent, not rigid discipline. ‘I don’t want to eat with you any more, I want to have my meals with Mother.’

  ‘Well, you can’t. You are here not only to sate your hunger, but to learn manners also.’

  ‘What’s manners?’ asked Oriel, swinging her white kid boots beneath the table and nibbling the prongs of her fork.

  ‘Exactly my point! How can your mother be expected to teach you these things?’

  ‘She’s very clever,’ parried the child.

  ‘Not clever enough or she would be sitting in my chair and I should be the servant.’ Miss Bytheway pursed downy lips around another morsel of spinach.

  Oriel pondered on this. Maybe what Miss Bytheway said was correct. After all, her mother must be in awe of the old lady, for did she not do all her bidding?

  After luncheon she went directly to Bright. ‘Is Miss Byvway cleverer than you?’

  Her mother was busy with the washing up, but had time to look amused. ‘I should think so. Doesn’t she sit there while I do all the work?’

  ‘Is that why you don’t like her?’

  ‘What a thing for a child to ask!’ Bright clattered another bowl onto the draining board.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Who says I don’t like her?’ Cutlery rattled at the bottom of the sink as Bright’s hand chased it.

  ‘Me, I can tell.’

  ‘You’re too clever by half.’

  ‘Miss Byvway says you’re not clever at all.’

  ‘The old…’ Bright compressed her lips and sloshed about in the water to show her disapproval. ‘What’s she been filling your mind with?’

  Oriel’s bottom teeth grasped her upper lip, like a bulldog. ‘I just asked her why she didn’t like you.’

  ‘Oh, ye didn’t!’ Bright had to laugh.

  ‘She said…’ Oriel frowned to remember the exact words. ‘“One neither likes nor dislikes servants. They are merely here to do one’s bidding.”’ The little girl looked proud of her achievement.

  Bright gasped her outrage. ‘And isn’t that the truth! Here’s me working from cockcrow till bedtime and do I ever get a word of praise? I do not. Not one compliment have I heard in this house.’

  ‘What’s a compliment?’

  ‘Tis when a person says something nice about ye.’

  ‘You make very nice gravy,’ offered her daughter.

  ‘Well, thank ye!’ Bright tried to be good-humoured again. ‘Look, Oriel, you’re right in a way, I don’t care for Miss B, but she was very kind in taking the pair of us in. I’d’ve been in the workhouse if it wasn’t for her. Nobody would take an unmarried woman with a baby. I’ll always be under obligation for that and so must you – though goodness knows she tests my gratitude sometimes. Oh, Mother o’ God!’ A black face at the window made her jump. Then she laughed, held up one hand
with splayed fingers and mouthed, ‘Five bags, please!’

  Drying her hands she bustled outside to chat with the coalman. Even though he was middle-aged the opportunities to flirt were few and far between and seize them she must, at the same time thinking how pathetic she must seem. Oriel followed her. The blackened face was outside the gate now, hefting a sack from his cart. Bright smiled as he winked at her on his re-entry and travelled up the garden to the coal shute.

  ‘Is the young lady here to check up on me?’ he asked as he passed.

  Bright grinned and laid a hand on Oriel’s shoulder. ‘No, we trust you, don’t we, Oriel?’ Though wary of all the tradesmen at first she had come to like this particular one. A couple of the others she still did not trust, they were a bit too familiar, but when this one winked at her it was as if her father were doing it. She felt safe with him, plus the fact that he did not treat her with disrespect just because she had an illegitimate child.

  ‘Can you count to five?’ he asked Oriel as he went for another sack.

  The child wrinkled her nose and gave a half laugh. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Pity,’ joked the man. Bright laughed, enjoying his all too brief company.

  When the full quota had been deposited in the coal cellar the man puffed out his chest and came to the kitchen door to hand over his bill. Bright tried to keep him chatting as long as she could, for his tales of things that had occurred on his round could be very entertaining. Eventually though he glanced at the lane and exclaimed, ‘Well! My horse is getting restless, I’d better be on my way. Good-day to you now.’ And that was as near as Bright would ever come to having a man’s attention. She and her daughter went back into the house.

  ‘He’s very dirty,’ commented Oriel.

  ‘You shouldn’t say things like that about people, you’ll hurt their feelings.’ Bright returned to the sink. ‘He’s only dirty because his job is to carry coal. Someone has to do these jobs, not everyone can be their own master or mistress like Miss Bytheway.’

  ‘I told her I want to eat with you.’ Oriel swung on a corner of her mother’s apron. ‘She said I can’t because I have to learn manners.’

  ‘Manners?’ Bright shook her head. The woman might know which knife and fork to use but made a sound like a pig when she ate. However, this was hardly the thing to say to Oriel, who would repeat it. ‘Well, much as I miss your company I suppose she’s right.’ Another pot was washed and lifted from sink to draining board. Her hands were now crimson from the hot water. ‘She can teach ye more than I ever could – mindst, I’m no dunce either,’ she defended herself. ‘Wasn’t I a pupil teacher until I had you.’

  Oriel looked pleased. ‘I told her you were clever.’

  ‘Well that’s very loyal of ye, but ye’d better keep it to yourself in future.’ Bright smiled down lovingly upon her child. ‘So long as the two of us know it there’s no one else matters, is there?’

  And Bright convinced herself that this was true. As long as her child was happy no one else mattered, not even Bright herself. Her whole life was devoted to Oriel’s well-being. At least this was one thing the two women had in common, though Miss Bytheway showed her concern in very different ways, ways that made Bright intensely jealous.

  ‘We’re going to the circus tomorrow afternoon,’ announced Oriel to her mother during one of their Sunday walks home from church. It was August, and the sun bounced off the pavements making the city streets unbearably hot, but now as they reached New Walk there came relief. This bank of the Ouse was canopied by trees, making the last part of their journey more pleasant. The air was heavy with the scent of greenery and the path thronged with strollers: ladies in white dresses with parasols, boatered gents and children in their Sunday best. Oriel was wearing a huge sun bonnet and lace pinafore and trundling a little wicker perambulator. Her mother had to keep stopping to wait for her as the wheels encountered some obstacle.

  ‘By we, I assume you mean Miss B and yourself.’ Bright couldn’t help the childish jealousy. In her nineteen years never once had anyone taken her to the circus.

  Oriel was quick to reply, ‘You can come too.’

  ‘I don’t think that was what Miss B had in mind,’ answered her mother. ‘Anyway, I’ll have too much work to do.’

  Oriel was thoughtful, steering her pram around a fallen branch. ‘She said it was a birthday treat.’

  ‘My God,’ muttered Bright to herself. ‘How many birthdays can one child have?’ Oriel’s birthday was nearly two months ago and Bright could still recall her own envy at all those gifts the old woman had given her – probably to overshadow Bright’s own gift, came the malicious opinion. The amount of work I put into that rag doll, and all she has to do is open her purse.

  Christmas had been the same – worse, in fact. Bright had been a loved and pampered child and though the gifts were never worth more than a few pence she had always been the centre of the family’s attention at Christmas. Now that was gone and to watch Oriel be the recipient of similar attention from Miss Bytheway pricked childish envy in her breast. Inevitable guilt followed. What sort of mother resented her own child? I don’t resent her, honestly I don’t, it’s just – oh, I just miss them, Mammy, Dada… the pain of loss seemed especially acute at Christmas and birthdays.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll enjoy it,’ she told her daughter in genuine enthusiasm. ‘Barnum and Bailey’s, is it?’

  The infant peered up from beneath her frilly bonnet. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen it advertised. It’s from America, I think.’

  Thoughts of America led to thoughts of Canada and Nat. She wondered what he was doing there, and whether he would ever come back for her. What would she tell her daughter when the child eventually asked why he was not here with them?

  Oriel interrupted her mother’s dream. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘America? Across the sea. You’ll have to ask Miss B to show you on her map when we get home.’ Why do I do it? Bright chastised herself. Here we are, the only day of the week when we can escape the woman’s clutches, and I have to raise her name.

  ‘Do we have to go across the sea to get to the circus?’ asked Oriel.

  Bright chuckled and patted the child’s shoulder. ‘No! They’ve brought all the animals here in a big ship. I think it’s on Knavesmire.’ She pointed over the river, then laughed. ‘Oh, ye will have to cross water to get to it, though only by ferry.’

  It was this ferry that they were watching some months later when another child planted seeds of enquiry in Oriel’s mind. Mother and daughter were seated on a bench, enjoying what was surely to be the last of the fine weather before winter arrived, when another little girl came skipping up to the bench and sat down beside Oriel, face a-brim with congeniality. Bright smiled up at the mother and offered a quiet hello as the other came to sit beside her. ‘Isn’t it beautiful for October – well, it’s almost November!’ exclaimed the newcomer. Bright agreed and a desultory conversation was interspersed with questions between the two little girls.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Oriel.

  ‘Fulford Road,’ replied the other.

  ‘I live at number five St Odswald’s Terrace.’ Oriel could never get her tongue around Oswald’s. ‘I’m three years old.’

  ‘I’m five,’ came the important reply.

  The two examined each other’s attire. ‘My father’s at the war,’ informed the blonde child. ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Well, I can’t sit here all day chatting!’ Ignoring Oriel’s enquiring face, Bright sprang to her feet. ‘Come along, dear! Miss B will be cross if we don’t have dinner ready on time. Goodbye!’ she said to the woman with whom she had been chatting, and hurried away along the riverbank.

  ‘Have I got a father?’ Oriel’s short legs tried to keep up with her mother.

  Bright’s stomach churned but she forced her voice to sound cheery. ‘Of course! Everyone has a father.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s dead
.’

  ‘What’s dead?’

  This was going to be more complicated than Bright had feared, but at least it lured Oriel’s attention from the dreaded subject. ‘Oh, tis when someone doesn’t live on earth anymore but goes to live in heaven with Jesus.’ Go on, ask who Jesus is, she silently urged.

  Oriel complied. ‘Who’s Jesus?’

  ‘I’ve told ye before. He’s the Son o’ God.’

  ‘Who’s God?’

  ‘Don’t you listen to anything in church?’ scolded Bright. ‘He made the world and everything in it.’

  ‘Even me?’ asked the little girl.

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  ‘Did He make my father?’

  Bright gave an inward sigh. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘Up in heaven.’

  ‘So… my father’s dead.’ Oriel began to flag at the pace.

  ‘No, no!’ Bright grew testy. ‘I thought ye meant where is God. Your father, he’s in Canada – that’s across the sea,’ she added before the child asked.

  ‘Is he in a circus?’

  ‘The questions you ask!’ Bright was flustered.

  Oriel cast her mind back to the conversation with the blonde child. ‘Will he come to see us soon?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe.’ Bright was glad they were almost home.

  ‘Is he a soldier like that other little girl’s father?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure what he does.’

  Oriel’s imagination was captured. ‘Why haven’t I seen him before?’

  ‘Because… oh, look at the swans!’ Why did I say that? Bright chastised herself. Didn’t I always swear I would be honest with her, and what do I do when I get the opportunity? Oh, but it’s a lot more painful than I could have imagined.

  Oriel was temporarily distracted by the swans. When the pair of them resumed their journey home she seemed to have forgotten all about her father, but just as they reached the corner of St Oswald’s Terrace the child piped up, ‘Does Miss B know my father?’

  ‘No!’ Bright answered too quickly, too sharply. A look of woe clouded Oriel’s face. ‘Sorry, did I hurt your hand?’ In her fear she had jerked the child’s fingers. ‘I didn’t mean to.’