A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  Bella started. “Eh? What? Oh, there’s a closet, at the end of the street. But you won’t be going out there the night! Use the chanty. It’s over there.” She pointed vaguely to a corner of the room, where a chamberpot sat, covered in a cloth rag.

  Hannah was grossed out, but desperate. She reluctantly picked up the chamberpot, removing the cloth, and placed it in a far corner of the room. Arranging the two chairs around her and draping her shawl and blanket over them, she made a sort of privacy screen. She used the pot quickly, terrified she would wake the others.

  Shortly, Hannah was back in the cot she shared with Bella. She had an uneasy gnawing sensation in her stomach and her tummy growled loudly. Why was it doing that, she wondered? Was she sick? After a few more anxious moments, it dawned on her that she was hungry. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  In the early hours of the morning, when it was not yet light, Hannah was woken by a sharp tapping on the window. This was especially startling because the apartment was on the third floor. Hannah jumped up and dashed to the window, just in time to see a man on the street below rapping against the glass with a long pole.

  “What the…” Hannah muttered. She knocked hard on the window. “Go away, weirdo! Get lost!”

  Mrs. Nicolson poked her head out from the bed curtains and called, “Why are ye shouting at Harry? He’s our knocker-up.”

  Hannah whirled around. “Your what?” she giggled.

  Mrs. Nicolson repeated, “Knocker-up. He knocks us up of a morning. We pay him a penny a week.”

  Hannah fell about laughing now. Mrs. Nicolson, shaking her head in confused irritation, tutted loudly, and disappeared behind the bedcurtains.

  “Wow, a human alarm clock,” Hannah said. “And what an awesome name… Hey, Mrs. Nicolson, do we, like, get knocked up every morning? Only I don’t wanna get knocked up yet.” She dissolved into giggles again. But now that she was out from under her thin blanket, she began to shiver. She could see her breath in front of her. Bella was already pulling on her heavy petticoat, skirt, and shawl over her shift.

  “Where are the baths?” Hannah asked, as she tied on her skirt.

  Bella jerked her head toward the window. “In the bathhouse across the way. Our bath night is Monday.”

  So that was why the factory workers smelled funny, Hannah thought. Nobody had a bath more than once a week. Yuck.

  Hannah was having serious doubts about her decision to quit her job. If she left the factory, she would have to leave Mrs. Nicolson’s, and then where would she go? What would she do? For one crazy moment, she imagined she would run away to Balesworth and Mrs. Devenish. But then she remembered that Mrs. D. hadn’t even been born yet. And how would she eat on the journey? Food was expensive and she hadn’t been paid yet. In 1940, Hannah had thought that her choices were limited. But in 1851, she had no real choices at all.

  Mrs. Nicolson was stirring the huge pot in which she had cooked the potatoes the night before. Hannah didn’t recall anyone washing the pot, but, to her surprise, she also realized she didn’t care much if the pot was dirty. She was hungry. “Mrs. Nicolson,” she said, “Are there any other jobs round here aside from the factory? For someone like me, I mean?”

  “None as you’d want, I expect,” said Mrs. Nicolson. “You could find a job in service in the town.”

  That meant nothing to Hannah, and her face registered confusion. Mrs. Nicolson, looking up from the cooking pot, said, “I mean you could be a maid.”

  That sounded good. Hannah could just see herself in a cute little black and white uniform, serving tea and scones. “So how do I do that?”

  “I don’t know why you would want to be someone’s maid-of-all-work,” sniffed Mrs. Nicolson. “You’ll never have a moment’s peace, and only one afternoon off a week, if you’re lucky. Scrubbing floors and cooking meals…”

  Hannah changed her mind. That sounded dreadful.

  Mrs. Nicolson placed four wooden bowls on the table, and filled each with a sticky, grey mess. It was oatmeal. Hannah hated oatmeal, even the super-sweet instant kind with marshmallows.

  But right now, in 1851, Hannah could think of nothing that she wanted more than a hot bowl of oatmeal. She could barely wait until Charlie had said grace before digging in with her rough wooden spoon. The oatmeal wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t smooth, and she didn’t care. In Hannah’s opinion, this oatmeal was the weirdest version of one of the grossest, most disgusting foods ever invented. And it was delicious.

  ****

  While Hannah was discovering a love of oatmeal in rainy Scotland, Alex was in sunny Savannah, Georgia. He was standing before a large gray brick mansion on a beautiful tree-lined city square.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he began to climb the curved iron staircase to the entrance on the second floor. But Jupe hung back on the street, reluctant to follow. Alex didn’t notice that he was missing until after he had knocked on the door. “Jupe,” he hissed, “Come on up!”

  Jupe didn’t move. “I can’t go in the front door, no, sir.”

  Suddenly, it occurred to Alex that perhaps he, too, as a lowly would-be employee, should have gone to the kitchen door. But it was too late now, because a white woman in a mob cap was looking at him expectantly. “Yes, sir?” Her accent was Irish.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Thornhill,” Alex said nervously. “He asked me to apply for a job as a clerk?”

  The maid didn’t seem horrified by his reply, or that he had used the grand main entrance, and she stood aside to allow Alex into the hall. But he held back. “Um, my friend? He’s downstairs.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, sir, well, he’s welcome, too.” She stepped outside to beckon to Alex’s friend. But when she looked down the steps and saw Jupe hovering nervously, his hat in his hands, her smile vanished. She turned to Alex in confusion. “Where’s your friend, sir?”

  Alex pointed at Jupe, and the woman’s expression now turned very grim indeed. “Your boy can wait there, sir,” she said, unsmiling.

  “It’s okay, Massa Alex,” called Jupe, waving to him. “I’ll be here.”

  Alex wasn’t happy about this, but he entered the house alone. While the maid disappeared to announce his arrival, he looked around. The hall was luxurious. Plaster oak-leaves and acorns ran in a border along the tops of the walls, which were hung with portraits, including one of Mr. Thornhill himself. The maid soon returned, and she led Alex into an airy and elegant parlor furnished with a dark red chaise, a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes, and an odd-looking vertical piano, which stood bolt upright with cascades of peachcolored silk covering the strings.

  Amid the clutter of furniture and knick-knacks, it took Alex a second to pick out Mr. Thornhill. He was lounging in a chair by the fire, smoking a cigar. Across from him was Mr. MacGregor, the sinister man from the train. Mr. MacGregor glanced at Alex, his eyes widening for a second as he recognized him. Then he smiled slyly to himself, and took a puff on a large cigar.

  Mr. Thornhill did not rise, nor did he ask Alex to sit down. During the awkward silence, he removed his cigar from his mouth. “How can I be of assistance to you, lad?”

  Alex hoped he hadn’t made a terrible mistake by coming here. His words tumbled out. “I hope so, sir. My name’s Alex Day. I don’t know if you remember me or anything, but we met in Snipesville, and you said you might…”

  Mr. Thornhill interrupted, his eyes twinkling. “Of course I remember you. It was only last night, and I wasn’t that drunk. Day, allow me to introduce my friend Mr. MacGregor.”

  Alex nodded. “Yes, sir, I’ve met Mr. MacGregor before. On the train.” Mr. MacGregor cocked his head in greeting, with a faint smile on his face.

  Mr. Thornhill gave a short hacking laugh, coughing out cigar smoke. “Well, damn me, that’s a coincidence. So, MacGregor, do you think I ought to offer this lad a position?”

  “I have no idea,” Mr. MacGregor laughed. Alex wondered what was so funny. Mr. MacGregor continued, “As I told Master Day, if he w
ould only sell his slave, he wouldn’t need your job.”

  “Slave?” Mr. Thornhill sat up, furrowed his brow, and tapped ash from his cigar. He turned to Alex. “You had no slave with you at the inn.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Alex said, “I met up with him in Millen. He belongs to my uncle… He loaned him to me.” Mr. MacGregor was looking at Alex with that same slight smile, curling his lip, but Mr. Thornhill seemed to accept his explanation, and changed the subject. “How’s your arithmetic?”

  “Math? Um, okay, I guess.”

  Mr. Thornhill nodded. “Very good. I require a junior clerk. My practice is principally in law, but I also act as the factor, the agent, for certain companies in England and New York. In addition, I do a little… ah… investment in land. I would need you, for instance, to help me take stock at an estate I have recently acquired. Do you believe that such work would suit you, Day?”

  Alex had no idea, but he needed a job. “I guess so. What would I do?”

  Mr. Thornhill smiled, suspecting that Alex didn’t understand what “taking stock” meant. “Very well. You will accompany me to my new property, and write down an account of all that we find there. I wish to know in some detail what it is that I own.”

  “Sure,” said Alex. “I guess I could do that.”

  “Splendid. I shall have you work with Mr. Baird, my senior clerk.”

  “Great,” Alex said. “Thanks! Have you got any suggestions for where I can live?”

  Mr.Thornhill waved around him. “You are welcome to board here, Day. Mine is a spacious house…” As soon as he had said it, Mr. Thornhill paused and stared into space for a moment, before collecting himself. “Now, MacGregor, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must inform the servants of young Day’s arrival.” He rose, and walked over to a small round object fixed to the wall at waist height. It looked like a large bicycle bell. He pulled back on it, but it made almost no audible sound. Sure enough, however, the Irish maid quickly reappeared, and Mr. Thornhill ordered her to prepare a room.

  “Well, I must be off,” said Mr. MacGregor, rising to his feet. “Thornhill, would you mind if I had a word with your new clerk on my way out? It’s a private matter, pursuant to our conversation on the train.” Mr. Thornhill nodded graciously to him.

  As soon as they were out of the room, Mr. MacGregor turned to Alex. Quietly, he said, “He doesn’t belong to you, does he, this slave?”

  Alex was shocked. He held his breath and said nothing.

  Mr. MacGregor leaned both hands on his walking stick, and shoved his face close to Alex’s. “You could get yourself in a lot of trouble, boy. But I can help you. If you bring him to me, I’ll only charge you twenty-five cents a day to hold him in my slave pen. Then I’ll make sure he’s sold so far away, even God Almighty would find it hard to track him down. But if you decide to keep him, well, I’m sorry, but I might just have to have a word with the patrols. It’s my legal obligation as a gentleman. You understand me?”

  Alex nodded mutely. He realized that MacGregor was blackmailing him. He hated this man.

  Mr. MacGregor stepped back, and picked up his walking stick. “Just think about it. And when you’re ready, come and see me. I’ll get you a good price for him, too. Unless,” and here he gave another short mocking laugh, “you have a better plan, since you’re such a smart young man.”

  ****

  Hannah wasn’t much looking forward to her weekend. She had learned from Bella that church, or “kirk” as the Scots called it, was the only entertainment open on Sundays. Saturdays weren’t much better: She only got part of the afternoon off work. The brightest spot of the whole weekend promised to be Friday, which was the twice-monthly payday.

  Late on Friday afternoon, Hannah joined the other workers as they queued to collect their wages at the Counting House on Caithness Row. When she reached the front of the line, she wasn’t paid in cash, but was handed a “Wages Ticket” for six shillings: That was two weeks wages. The wages ticket looked a lot like a check. In fact, Hannah realized, it was a check. She could either turn it into cash by standing in another line for the cashier, or spend it in the company-owned store next door.

  Now, Hannah thought with excitement, she could go shopping. After about twenty tantalizing minutes in line outside the tiny shop, she stepped through the door to the high-pitched jangling of a bell. Mostly, the wares for sale were in sacks and barrels on the floor: Oatmeal and potatoes, cabbages and carrots. On a rough counter were baskets filled with bread and more vegetables, alongside fish and meat laid directly on the table. Other supplies sat on shelves, including a keg of whiskey, which a shop assistant was tapping into a small bottle for a customer. There were several large wheels of cheese, a whole ham, metal beer mugs, bolts of assorted cloth, and some simple ready-made clothes.

  Customers snapped up meat, tea, bread, and even beer. Hannah was mystified by their enthusiasm: The men and women in line were looking eagerly at the merchandise, pointing to the goods on sale.

  But since Hannah’s food was bought and cooked by Mrs. Nicolson, and there was nothing fun to buy in the shop, she sadly returned to the Counting House, waited in line once more, and exchanged her wages ticket for cash.

  It was probably just as well. When Hannah returned to the flat, Mrs. Nicolson asked her for board and lodging money of five shillings, which left her with only a shilling to spend on herself. She was not pleased. “It’s kind of a rip-off here, huh? I mean, you even have to buy your food from the factory store.”

  “I’ve heard tell of many a swindle in factories,” said Mrs. Nicolson, as she placed Hannah’s earnings in her pocket. “There are owners who cheat their workers, and mill shops that charge very dear prices. But we are lucky. A friend of mine came from a mill in Glasgow, and she said that our New Lanark shop is the best anywhere. It brings us fresh vegetables and meat and milk from the mill farm, and all cheap. It’s a fine thing, and I cannot imagine what we would do without it. If you don’t believe me, walk up to the town of Lanark one Saturday, and see how expensive things are there.”

  “Is the shopping good in the town?” Hannah asked eagerly. “I mean, are there cool shops and stuff?”

  “I don’t know your meaning, lassie,” sighed Mrs. Nicolson, not for the first time.

  Hannah still refused to accompany Bella to the New Lanark school, figuring that it offered a very basic education, and that she wasn’t likely to learn much. She already knew how to read and write, of course, and the math that Bella showed her was at the level of third-grade arithmetic. Anyway, school wasn’t an appealing option at the best of times. At school in California, Hannah had spent most of her time stupefied with boredom.

  Hannah didn’t enjoy her work in the factory either. It was boring beyond belief. At first, as she got the hang of piecing, she found some satisfaction in fixing broken threads. It was a bit like knitting, or doing some other craft where you do the same thing over and over, except there was nothing relaxing about it. Every spinning mule screeched like a fire alarm crossed with a tractor engine. Elspeth and Bella constantly yelled at her to watch out as the mule moved backward and forward. And then there was the pain. Her hands bled and hurt dreadfully, and she wondered how much it was going to cost her in manicures to get the damage to her nails fixed when (and if ) she returned to Snipesville. Over the weekend, her hands began to turn tough and calloused.

  On Monday, Hannah was again examining the damage to her nails when she heard a man shout, “You there!”

  She looked up to see the supervisor of the spinning works trotting toward her. Bella and Elspeth had spotted him too, and they were working harder than ever: Wisps of Elspeth’s blond hair tumbled from under her cap as she pulled the frame backward. Hannah, meanwhile, was standing off to one side, leaning against a pillar, still staring at her fingernails.

  “You, lassie, Hannah Dow!” yelled Mr. MacDonald.

  She stared back at him. What was the man’s problem? “I was just taking a break. My fingers hurt.”


  Mr. MacDonald, a thin, tall, balding man with glasses, looked pained as he confronted Hannah. He almost pleaded with her. “This isn’t the time for resting. Back to work with you, and let this be the last time I warn you.”

  He reached above her head to a small obelisk-shaped block of wood hanging from a hook, and turned it so that the side painted black, with “No.4” written upon it, faced out toward him.

  “What does that mean?” Hannah asked, looking above her.

  Mr. MacDonald took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “What it means, lassie, is that you have a bad conduct mark. Mend your ways today, or there will be another….Ach, did nobody explain this to you?”

  “No,” said Hannah resentfully.

  “Aye well, you’ll know now…” he reached up and grasped the small wooden block. “This is the silent monitor. When I turn it so that the blue face, number three, points outward, like so, it signifies that your conduct is indifferent: Not bad, but not very good, either. When it is turned to yellow, number two, your conduct is good. When, as seems unlikely ever to occur, I find your work excellent, I will turn it to number one, which is the white face.”

  The system reminded Hannah of a kindergarten classroom. “What, do I get a time-out when I get three fours? This is embarrassing. I’m not a baby.”

  Mr. MacDonald sighed heavily. “Hannah, you know very well that I repeatedly admonished you for your inattention on Friday.”

  “Yeah,” said Hannah. “But I thought that you chewing me out was, like, the punishment. This is… I mean, this is so stupid.”

  Mr. MacDonald drew himself up. “See here, Hannah, if you wish to take up the matter with Mr. Walker, and appeal my decision to mark you down in the book of character, you may…”