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

by Laing, Annette

  ****

  In the early hours of the next morning, Brandon was lying awake at the workhouse. He was bitterly cold. The only window, an arched square divided into small panes, was dripping condensation. The wall behind his head was oozing damp and mold, and the room smelled musty. It was still dark outside.

  Just as Brandon was persuading himself to drift back to sleep, the door banged open, and an old man ambled slowly down the length of the room, ringing a loud handbell. Men and boys in the surrounding beds began to cough, scratch, stretch, and swing their legs onto the floor.

  Brandon grabbed his shapeless uniform from the hook on the wall, and threw it on. He began to follow the others, but the old man with the bell stopped him. “Master says you’ve to paint a bit o’ the stairwell,” he said creakily. “I’ll show you the paint and brushes.”

  “Don’t I get breakfast?” Brandon said in dismay.

  But the old man was firm. “Not until you’ve worked an hour. Them’s the rules.”

  An hour later, a paint-spattered Brandon was sitting glumly on a bench, contemplating a truly revolting breakfast of dry whole wheat bread and thin oatmeal. Painting was a very boring job, made more so by the fact that the stairwell clearly didn’t need painting: It was already thick with several previous coats. Brandon was certain that he was doing busywork, to make him work for the sake of working. He was right.

  His oatmeal was an unappetizing grey concoction without milk or sugar, served in a wooden bowl with a large wooden spoon. It looked and smelled like dirty dishwater.

  “What is this junk?” he whispered to Weaver.

  “Gruel,” whispered Weaver. “Haven’t you never had gruel where you come from, lad?”

  Brandon shook his head and sipped the gruel. It tasted foul, as though neither the water from which it was made, nor the pot in which it had boiled, were entirely clean.

  He looked up, and saw a beam, running the width of the ceiling, on which someone had helpfully painted God is Good. What sort of people would build a place like this, he wondered, and then preach at the inmates? It was beyond cruel.

  When Brandon had finished his breakfast, having eaten all of the bread but very little of the gruel, the old man told him to collect bowls and spoons and take them to the kitchen. One of the women working at the kitchen fireplace pointed him to the scullery next door. An old pauper woman, her hair in a bonnet, was at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes with cold water, but she looked up as he entered. It was the Professor.

  She straightened up. “Glad you’re here, Brandon. Well, not really, of course, but…Oh, you know what I mean. I checked myself in last night, but I was hoping I wouldn’t have to stay long. These places are quite dreadful, aren’t they?”

  “Hi. What kind of jail is this, anyway?”

  The Professor dried her hands. “It’s not a jail, not exactly. Anyone can leave, so long as they tell the Master they’re leaving. You only get into trouble if you hop over the wall without giving notice, because that’s against regulations, and then you get whipped. This is a workhouse. It’s a great way to help unemployed people, isn’t it? Not to mention senior citizens, orphans, people with disabilities, and the homeless.”

  “No,” said Brandon. “It’s not a great way to help anyone. It sucks. Why does it have to be so nasty?”

  The Professor began scrubbing at an oatmeal-encrusted bowl. “The idea is to discourage people from seeking help. The 1834 Poor Law says that everything in here must be worse than it is for the poorest people outside, including the food, the beds, and the clothes. Everything’s strictly regimented, as you see. And families aren’t allowed to stay together: Men, women, and small children are kept strictly separate. Kids can see their mothers only for a short time on Sundays, in the presence of the Matron or Master. Fathers can’t see their kids at all.”

  Brandon was shocked. “Man, that’s harsh!”

  “It’s meant to be. This way, the poor won’t ask to be admitted until they’re absolutely starving, which saves the taxpayers money. It’s quite successful… if you like that kind of thing. The Victorians think that everyone with a problem should be locked up in a great big building.”

  “That’s awful…” said Brandon. “I thought people were supposed to be nicer back in the day?”

  The Professor said softly, “Depends which day. Depends which people.”

  Brandon said. “Look, how come they know me already, like I’ve been here before?”

  “I don’t know, and it’s worrying me,” she said with a furrowed brow. “I’ve been asking around, and they seem to know you as an orphan who lived here for a while. It must have something to do with whatever’s gone wrong with Time. But, really, there’s no point in worrying about it. And I think it’s time for you to go to work, isn’t it?”

  Brandon thought about arguing with her, but he realized it would be no use. He decided that it was time he took matters into his own hands. After he exchanged his workhouse uniform for his ordinary clothes, he headed back toward the canal near the George and Dragon. There, he persuaded a bargeman to take him to London, in exchange for his tommy notes.

  Chapter 8: A Question of Respectability

  Late on Wednesday afternoon, the horse-drawn barge slowly glided up the Thames toward the town of Windsor. Brandon was sitting on top of the boat, worrying. It had been a long journey, but the boat was drawing closer to London now, which meant he would have to start making decisions. Maybe he had made a huge mistake leaving his job at the mine. Would the Professor be able to find him? And what would he do for a living in London? It was all very well to think positively, but he knew that what he really needed was to think. When he had visited London in the twentieth century, it was a huge, scary city. What would it be like in 1851? He dreaded finding out. His thoughts were interrupted by the breathtaking sight of an enormous castle looming over the river. “What is that?” he gasped, pointing.

  “That’s Windsor Castle,” grinned Arthur the bargeman. “Home of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, the Prince Consort, and Prince Edward, Prince of Wales.”

  “Coooool!” Brandon exclaimed, as he scrambled forward for a closer look.

  “Don’t fall in the drink,” Arthur laughed. Then he nodded at the long line of barges they were about to join. “And fear not, you’ll have plenty of time to admire it, because we’re going to be here quite a while.”

  Brandon already knew why they were waiting: There was a lock ahead. This hadn’t been a speedy journey of the best of times, because the horse on the towpath pulled the boat at walking speed. But locks slowed them down even more. The Thames was a natural river, but much of it had been turned into a canal, an artificial waterway. A lock was a sealed chamber that allowed canals to go uphill or downhill quickly. There were a lot of locks, and it took a long time to go through each one. Every time they reached a lock, Arthur’s son, Will, and Brandon jumped down to the canalside, carrying a crank to unlock the gates. With the help of the lock-keeper, the boys pushed with their backs against the massive balance beam to open the heavy gates. Finally, Arthur would steer the barge into the lock chamber, and wait as water was released into it. Once the water was at the level of the next stretch of canal, Will and Brandon jumped aboard, and the gates opened to let them through. Brandon had long ago lost count of the number of locks they had traveled through.

  As the long line of boats waited for the lock at Windsor, the sun was beginning to set, and Arthur made a decision. “Best we moor here the night, and wait til morn,” he called to Will and Brandon, as he steered the boat toward the side of the canal. His son grabbed a rope, jumped onto shore and pulled the barge to its mooring.

  From the riverbank in the grey dusk, the castle looked like something from a fantasy novel. Soon it would be dark, but Brandon couldn’t resist making an expedition to see where the Queen lived. He asked Will if he wanted to come with him, but Will and Arthur were more interested in visiting a pub on the riverside for beer and supper, and so Brandon walked up the hill alone.


  Windsor was quiet. He passed only a handful of people, one of them a soldier who was walking downhill in red uniform and a tall bearskin hat. As Brandon slowly progressed along the road that curled up and around the castle, he began to see how massive it was, and how ancient it seemed. He imagined medieval archers in chainmail helmets, peering through the arrow slits and crenellations atop the towering walls. He glanced to his right at the shops facing the castle, and immediately came to a halt.

  What had grabbed his attention was nothing especially remarkable. It was a brick building with several arched windows, and double doors of black-painted wooden planks, above which sat a large sign in raised white letters: J.M. Spencer, Cabinet-Maker, Upholsterer, Undertaker &c. To most twenty-first century people, what this business actually did might have remained a mystery. But the sign made Brandon’s heart leap. If he wasn’t mistaken, that word “undertaker” meant that he had just found a funeral home. Then again, if he was mistaken, he had found a furniture factory. There was only one way to be sure.

  One of the huge double doors stood open, and Brandon cautiously stole a look inside. It seemed, after all, that this was only a furniture workshop. Wood shavings and sawdust littered the floor. Cartwheels, chairs, tables, and wardrobes in various stages of construction lay about the room. Brandon, thinking he had made a mistake, was about to slip out quietly. But then he spotted the three coffins stacked against the wall.

  He called out, “Hello?”

  Seconds later, a sandy-haired mustachioed man in a leather apron and rolledup sleeves popped his head round the door at the back of the workshop. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Brandon still wasn’t sure that he was in the right place. “Hi, yeah, well, no, probably not. Maybe you can tell me where to go. I need the kind of undertakers who arrange funerals…”

  The man rushed to reassure him. “Oh, aye, that’s what we do. Well, that is one of the services we perform.”

  Brandon looked around doubtfully.

  The man added, “I’m Daniel, I’m a journeyman cabinet-maker. The master here is Mr. Spencer. Would you like a word with him?”

  Brandon was feeling a bit out of his depth, but he figured he might as well talk to the boss. He followed Daniel upstairs to an office, where a middleaged man in shirtsleeves and tie was poking at the fireplace. His rough hands showed that he was used to hard work, but his tidy clothes suggested that his days of hard labor were behind him. He looked curiously at Brandon as Daniel introduced him. “Mr. Spencer, sir? This is Master Clark, and he’s enquiring about a funeral.”

  Mr. Spencer straightened up and put on his most sympathetic face. “Oh, yes? Thank you, Daniel, you may go. I’m sorry to hear about your bereavement, young sir. May we be of assistance at this difficult time?”

  Now Brandon felt really awkward. “Oh, I haven’t lost anyone. I just came to see about a job. I have experience. My family owns an undertaker’s shop in, er, London.”

  Mr. Spencer was delighted to hear this. “Well, you might well suit my requirements for a mourner and assistant. I reckon our customers would love to see you at a funeral. You’d bring us good fortune, wouldn’t you?”

  “Would I?” Brandon was mystified.

  “Certainly you would. It’s good luck, isn’t it, having a black at a funeral?”

  Brandon had to suppress a smirk and a groan, all at once. “Like having a black cat cross your path?”

  “Yes, well, something like that. And you said your family are undertakers in London? Well, I never. In North London, are they?”

  Brandon nodded. When in doubt, he reminded himself, agree with adults.

  Mr. Spencer asked eagerly, “Did you ever arrange a funeral at Kensal Green Cemetery?”

  “Sure, all the cemeteries,” Brandon fibbed. “You’ll find us there.”

  This answer pleased Mr. Spencer. “Splendid, because I haven’t ever conducted arrangements at Kensal Green, and if I ever have the honor of doing so, I might need your help operating the modern equipment in the chapel. Do you believe you could assist me?”

  “Sure,” said Brandon, crossing his fingers behind his back. “It’s just…I mean…I need someplace to live, too.”

  “That’s no trouble, no trouble at all,” said Mr. Spencer. “Plenty of space downstairs in the workshop for a limber young fellow like you. I’ll have our maid fetch you a blanket and pillow, and you can find a quiet corner to sleep. You look about the same size as the last boy I employed as a mourner, so I trust you’ll fit into his suit.”

  Brandon couldn’t believe how happy he was to find a job he had always dreaded: Working in a funeral home.

  He spent an uncomfortable night in the freezing workshop, lying on some straw-filled sacks he had arranged under a table. The maid gave him an old blanket that was full of holes, but the promised pillow was never delivered. He could not sleep, and as the dawn crept through the undraped windows, he took a walk down to the river, to bid farewell to the bargemen, and reassure them that he hadn’t fallen in the Thames.

  But the mooring spot was empty. Sadly, Brandon guessed that Arthur and Will were probably well on their way to London by now, and he hoped they hadn’t worried about his failure to return. Then he had to remind himself that, in 1851, he wasn’t really a child: He was an employed young adult, and to the bargeman and his son, he was just a stranger. They probably hadn’t given much thought to his sudden departure.

  Over the next week, Brandon learned the ropes of the funeral business in mid-Victorian Britain. Mr. Spencer had inherited the carpentry and furniture-making firm, including coffin manufacture, from his father. Now, however, he had greater ambitions, and he was happy to explain these at length to Brandon. “You need money these days, Brandon, money and respectability,” he said, returning from a meeting with a bereaved customer. “Indeed, to get respectability, you had better have money. My wife is a fine woman, or should I say a fine lady, and she needs to put pretty things on the table and on her person to mix in the sort of respectable company to which we belong. For how else, I ask you, do persons such as ourselves, persons of humble beginnings, rise in the esteem of our betters? Money, that’s how. And there’s no better way to make money, I say, than in supplying a need that won’t never go out of fashion, and that’s death.” “But aren’t you providing a community service, too?” Brandon asked.

  “Why, of course, of course we are, of course,” Mr. Spencer added hurriedly. “Indeed, more today than ever before. People today wish to have their loved ones consigned to the grave with respectability, in the proper new fashion, and we are happy to assist them in achieving their desire. Take these, for example.” He handed Brandon a greeting card that announced a person’s death and funeral. It was elaborately engraved in black on white card, with a picture of a weeping woman sitting under a weeping willow, and Brandon supposed that it was very expensive. He made vague admiring noises, and Mr. Spencer continued. “There’s also a great deal of interest, I’ve learned from canvassing my customers, in American cast-iron coffins with glass face-plates, which allow the face of the deceased to be seen until the moment of interment.” Brandon shuddered, thinking how creepy that sounded, but Mr. Spencer didn’t notice. “However, I have yet to locate a supplier in this country, since such a coffin is beyond Daniel’s capabilities. But I do know of a man in Telford what makes cast-iron gravestones. I’m considering stocking those, because they wouldn’t wear away over time like stone does.”

  “No, that’s true,” agreed Brandon. “But they would rust.”

  Mr. Spencer hadn’t thought of that. He looked admiringly at Brandon. “You learned a great deal from your family, Brandon. I’m surprised you didn’t apprentice to your own father. Family quarrel, was it?”

  “Yes,” said Brandon, with a slight shrug. “Something like that.”

  The following Saturday afternoon was Brandon’s half-day off. By now, he was itching to take a closer look at Windsor Castle. But as he approached the gate, he saw with disappointment th
at it was firmly closed, with red-coated guards stationed on either side. He was about to turn back, when he saw an ordinary woman carrying a basket wander unchallenged through a massive stone archway that led inside the castle. The archway was not gated, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Brandon followed her. Neither soldier on duty stopped him.

  Inside, just as on the outside, Windsor Castle was like something from a fairy tale. But while it looked solid and impenetrable from the outside, on the inside was a little village crammed together within the walls. A row of small stone houses with carefully-tended flower gardens led up the hill. A clergyman in robes, carrying a stack of books, was walking briskly from the large stone church. Ahead of Brandon squatted the massive round tower on a steep mound of grass-covered earth, surrounded by a dry moat.

  Meanwhile, the woman carrying the basket had turned to stare at Brandon. “Motte and bailey,” she said.

  Brandon gave her a big smile. “You found me!”

  The Professor looked sharply at him. “I am very annoyed with you. You shouldn’t have left Hitherton, and you’re very lucky I tracked you down. Fortunately, Windsor Castle isn’t a huge tourist attraction yet, and a black kid in town does stand out a bit in the records for 1851. Want to help me deliver these eggs?”

  Muttering apologies, Brandon took the basket from her, and they began slowly to walk up the hill. “What did you mean by moat and… whatever you said?”

  “Not moat. Motte. As in motte and bailey,” the Professor corrected him. “It’s a type of castle design, cheap and built in a hurry.”

  “This doesn’t look like it was built in a hurry,” Brandon said, sweeping a hand across the view.

  “Oh, the original castle was, I promise. King William I, otherwise known as William the Conqueror, built it. The motte isn’t another way to pronounce moat. The motte was the big earth mound on which William built a wooden tower. The bailey was the yard next to it. If invaders managed to break into the bailey, everyone inside could retreat to the tower. Pretty nifty, eh?”