Hannah was appalled. “Good for me? It so was not. I was totally scared, and I never meant for people to follow me.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said the Professor, “but you did what you were meant to.”
Hannah blinked. “I did?”
“Oh, yes.”
Hannah didn’t want to confide in the Professor, but she had nobody else to talk with about what was bothering her. Hesitantly, she said, “This is so different from Balesworth.”
The Professor looked away from her and recited, “Different place, different time, different people.”
Hannah struggled with that. “Yeah, but… I kind of learned how to deal with England when I was in Balesworth… Like I knew how to be English. But in Scotland I can’t seem to figure out the rules.”
The fight and the jeering crowd were moving in their direction, so they stepped away again as the Professor spoke. “Scotland is part of Britain, Hannah, but it’s also a separate country with its own culture. Plus, you’re in an industrial city in 1851, not a small market town in 1940, and you’re staying with a working-class family, not a middle-class one. Everywhere and everyone is different at every time. Foreignness upon foreignness, that’s what you’re dealing with.”
Hannah shivered in the cold, trying to process the Professor’s words, and she watched as the brawl draw to a close. One woman was knocked unconscious, blood streaming from her nose, and her friends were carrying her away.
She turned back to the Professor. “Dundee is the grossest, most disgusting place I’ve ever been, and half the people are drunks. People are always getting in fights. There’s hardly any shops, and I can’t afford them anyway, even if I was allowed in the door, which I so am not. I never get any, like, privacy. So, yeah, it sucks… Except…”
Except. Hannah didn’t know how to put it, and she paused for a moment.
“Except…?” prompted the Professor.
“I don’t know… The Gordons are nice. I felt like Mrs. D. was so cool, but now I think the Gordons are easier to live with. Jessie doesn’t nag, and she doesn’t seem to mind much what I do. Mina’s awesome. But if Mrs. D. was here, she would be, like, totally shocked.”
The Professor smiled knowingly. “Never mind Mrs. D. She hasn’t been born yet. It’s you I want to hear from. Are you scared?”
Hannah nodded reluctantly, and struggled to put her feelings into words. “I don’t know how…I mean… I guess…”
The Professor seemed pleased. “You don’t know what to think, do you? I mean, if you judge this place by the standards of America in our time, or Mrs. Devenish’s England, then it’s dreadful. Actually, by practically any standard, it’s dreadful. But…”
“But,” interrupted Hannah, “there’s something neat here, too. I just don’t know how to explain.” She immediately regretted saying that. What did she mean? She wasn’t sure, but to her surprise, she wanted to understand. “Everything here is nasty. But I feel like it’s… Real. Yeah, that’s the word. It’s real. Like not pretend. Like not totally fake.”
“Mrs. D. wasn’t totally fake, was she?” The Professor asked gently.
“No…yeah…no…wait…Sort of. I mean, she didn’t always say what she meant, and you kinda had to learn how to read her. But Jessie and the girls, it’s like what you see is what you get. That’s way cool.”
“So you prefer that?” The Professor looked intrigued.
But Hannah was once again grumpy and suspicious. “What do you care? I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.”
The Professor gave her a knowing look. “Maybe I can help you to understand. You don’t have privacy, but you’re never lonely here, either. You can’t go shopping, but so what? Here, you don’t have to worry all the time about how you look. The work’s awful, but you have friends there, especially Maggie. And when bad things happen, there are always people willing to help you out.”
Hannah pondered this in silence.
“Think about it,” said the Professor, tightening her shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll be in touch soon, Hannah. And don’t worry. I’m pretty sure that things are working out as planned. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.” The crowd had melted away, and the Professor’s footsteps echoed in the empty close. Left alone in the darkness, Hannah turned and hurried back to the tenement.
All in all, Hannah was feeling pretty good about herself, reveling in her new status as the brave mill girl who stood up to rich people. But she was also sad that Mina would be leaving. She thought a lot about Mina’s impending departure over the next few days. In fact, she was daydreaming on that very subject when Tam the Deil spotted her.
He stalked over to her, waving a finger. “Hannah Dow, look lively! You’re holding up the work as usual, and… What is this?” He briefly grabbed at a handful of broken threads, and immediately shut down the machine.
“Fix them!” He yelled at Hannah, and stood over her while she hurriedly pieced the threads.
Suddenly, Tam was distracted by the whole room erupting in laughter. Hannah at first thought the laughter was directed at her, but it wasn’t. Mina had just made a grand entrance draped in colored paper streamers, and carrying a chamberpot filled with rock salt. She gave her audience a goofy smile and an exaggerated curtsey. All the Gordon sisters had come with her, and, indeed, it seemed that they had brought every other weaver in with them. Everyone in the spinning shed immediately stopped work. As the machines powered down into silence, the room filled with the sounds of women’s laughter, giggles, chatter, and jokes.
“We’re creeling the bride!’ cried Maggie excitedly.
To Hannah’s surprise, a sour-faced Tam the Deil only tutted in exasperation, before making a quick exit.
“Hey,” Hannah said to Maggie, “Why doesn’t he put a stop to this?”
Maggie shrugged, smiling. “He’d be taking his life in his hands, so he would. It’s a tradition, and he daren’t interfere. There would be a riot if he even tried.”
Hannah liked that, and she also liked the raucous joy of everyone around her. She remembered how different things were at the office parties her mom had sometimes dragged her to in San Francisco. There, everyone ate nasty super-sweet brightly-colored cake with frosting that tasted weirdly chemical, and that was the big highlight. Otherwise, the “partiers” stood around awkwardly, pretending to enjoy themselves while not really saying much of anything, and after twenty minutes or so, they all made excuses and left, while lying about the wonderful time they had had.
This was not that kind of party. There was no cake, but everybody was loud and happy, and they even held a sort of karaoke, where people took turns getting up to sing. Mina’s sister Mem warbled a sad song about a young woman from long ago whose father had forbidden her to marry her true love. Before she had even finished the first verse, her sister Mary had started sniffling. By the time Mem came to the end of the very long song, the young woman and her lover were both dead, and practically everyone in the room was in floods of tears, including Hannah.
“Och, look at you all girning,” cried Mina. “It’s my wedding, not my funeral. We need a bit of cheering up. Gie’s a song, Hannah.”
Hannah, sitting on the floor, was startled to be called upon, and she emphatically shook her head. “Oh, I can’t sing. I am so awful at it.”
But the partygoers wouldn’t buy that, and the Gordon sisters pulled Hannah to her feet, shoving her forward while the whole room chanted “Sing! Sing! Sing!”
She was so mortified, she didn’t know where to look. What would she sing? She could just imagine the stunned silence if she broke into rap. So she settled for a song she had learned in 1940, a silly song with a catchy chorus about running rabbits. It was a bit off key, but everyone seemed happy with her effort, and she sat down afterward to much applause. Hannah felt strangely proud of her star turn, as she sat wedged between Mem and Mary. She joined in the choruses of the next song, and laughed at the jokes even when she didn’t entirely understand them.
Aye, we’re a’ met together here to sit and to crack, Wi’ oor glasses in oor hands, and oor work upon oor back, There’s no a man amang them a’ could neither mend nor mak, If it wasnae for the work of the weavers.
By now the whole room had joined in, and Hannah sang along with them:
If it wasnae for the weavers, what would they do? They wouldna hae clothes made o’ wool. They wouldna hae a coat, no, neither black nor blue, If it wasnae for the work o’ the weavers.
“Now then, a’body” said Mina, jumping to her feet as the applause died down. “Let’s collect pennies!” She rushed toward the door, carrying the chamberpot, and all the girls and young women ran after her. Out in the mill courtyard, the group dashed toward the first man they saw, who broke into a broad grin when he got a good look at Mina. He gave her a peck on the cheek, then reached into his pocket and dropped a coin into the chamberpot. As the gang of women once more took off, Maggie grabbed Hannah’s hand, and they ran laughing together toward the jute warehouse. At this moment, Hannah forgot the hard work, the filth, the cold, the hunger, the tiredness, and even the fear that she would never get home… or feel at home anywhere.
****
Brandon normally felt like a bit of a dork, but today he felt like an utter, total, uber-dork. He was a dork among dorks, the prince of dorks. His dorkiness was to an Olympic Gold standard. He was wearing his new mourning clothes. His black trousers were way too big for him, and were held up with suspenders and a belt. Worse, his tall black hat was draped by a black crape cloth that came to a point on top of his head, and then trailed down his back in a foot-wide black sash that made him look like Miss Witchy Dorkiness of 1851. In his hand, he carried a sort of flag that looked like a black cloth-covered broomstick. Worst of all, he was wearing a long black overcoat that was more like a dress.
The overall effect was dreadful. Mr. Spencer was very pleased.
Over the past two weeks, Brandon had settled into life at Mr. Spencer’s. Early on, he had resigned himself to his little nest in the workshop. Mrs. Spencer’s maid brought over plenty of food, and it wasn’t bad, for it included meats, vegetables, fruits, cheeses and even, to Brandon’s joy, desserts, including a heavy fruit cake stuffed with raisins. All the same, he couldn’t help wondering if he would ever be invited to eat at the Spencers’ table in the house behind the business, just as Daniel did.
That question was settled one day at supper time, when the Spencers’ young son came into the workshop to invite Brandon to supper. Over roasted chicken and vegetables, Mrs. Spencer warmed to Brandon, and suggested he make his bed in the attic room that was next to Daniel’s.
Today, the day on which Brandon put on his humiliating costume, was the day on which he would be officiating for the first time as a “mute”, or silent professional mourner. His job was to assume a gloomy expression and walk behind the coffin at a funeral.
As he followed Mr. Spencer downstairs, Brandon was still thinking happily about the book the Professor had loaned him. He had been reading about the Great Exhibition of 1851. When Mr. Spencer caught sight of Brandon’s goofy faraway smile, he gently reminded him to look sad.
“Sorry, sir,” Brandon said, and told him what he was thinking about.
“Oh, I do applaud your enthusiasm, Brandon,” Mr. Spencer declared. “The newspapers have been full of it for months, and what descriptions they give! It is truly to be a modern wonder of the world. And it opens on May Day, just weeks from now. Perhaps once the crowd settles down a bit, you can go up to London. Mind you, the admission prices are expensive, for the Exhibition is intended for an audience of quality. You’ll have to hope that the Prince Consort and his committee do indeed arrange cheap days for the working classes, as some eminent gentlemen have proposed.”
“Oh, they will,” Brandon said. He had read about the Exhibition’s “shilling days” in his history book.
On Sunday Brandon was at breakfast with the Spencers, when the mail arrived. The maid brought in a letter on a platter.
“You get mail on Sunday?” Brandon asked. He’d never seen that before, not in England or in America.
Mr. Spencer smiled. “Do you not know, Brandon? Lord Ashley’s law last year, banning Sunday deliveries, proved temporary. We have been getting Sunday post since September. Now, mind, Mrs. Spencer does not approve of breaking the Sabbath…”
“Indeed, I do not,” Mrs. Spencer said timidly.
“…But I believe that business must come first. After all, in my profession, there is no such thing as a day of rest. And I hardly think that one delivery on Sunday is excessive. Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”
Mrs. Spencer inclined her head slightly, making it difficult to tell whether she agreed with her husband or not. Brandon had already noticed that the postman, who resembled a giant ladybug in his red uniform and tall black hat, visited the house up to eight times in a day.
Mr. Spencer, meanwhile, had opened the mail, and his lips were moving as he read the letter. Folding it up, he beamed at Brandon. “You have brought me good luck after all, my boy. This letter contains news that is at once sad and happy, for it will provide my most genteel funeral yet. Old Mrs. Wentworth, that distinguished lady of Windsor, died yesterday afternoon. She is to be buried in London. Her brother has asked me to visit her residence this morning and prepare the body, and then to accompany the coffin to the funeral. What’s more, it will take place at Kensal Green Cemetery.” The name of the cemetery sounded vaguely familiar, but Brandon couldn’t remember why. He just nodded.
Mr. Spencer continued. “I am not, alas, arranging the funeral procession, for a London firm has been appointed to that task, but I am to escort the coffin until it’s committed to the ground. I shall need you to help me. I am delighted that you know the workings at the Church of England chapel at Kensal Green, because I am rather nervous about it, to be honest with you.”
Brandon had no idea what Mr. Spencer was talking about, but he had a very queasy feeling that it would, perhaps, have been better not to have exaggerated his qualifications at his job interview.
From Windsor to London by rail was a long and dull journey, during which Mr. Spencer talked almost nonstop about how this funeral might boost his business. “This is quite the opportunity to make a favorable impression upon many important personages of quality,” he said proudly. He spoke, Brandon thought, as though he had not only swallowed a thesaurus, but digested it, and was now pushing out the contents from the other end.
At the railway station, they met Mr. Perkins, the Important London Undertaker, whose men took charge of the coffin, and loaded it onto a wagon bound for Mr. Perkins’ shop, where final preparations would be made.
When Brandon and Mr. Spencer finally arrived at Kensal Green Cemetery, Mr. Spencer stood awed before the huge park-like graveyard that spread before them. Brandon tried to seem impressed, but to him, it looked like every cemetery in modern America. They waited at the grand stone archway for the deceased’s relatives, for Mr. Perkins, and for the deceased herself.
“Mrs. Wentworth, may she rest in peace, was a person of quality,” said Mr. Spencer to nobody in particular, as he continued to congratulate himself on landing such an important funeral. “She was a lady of great gentility, and much esteemed in Windsor.”
Brandon had long ago guessed what this sort of talk really meant, and finally, sick of Mr. Spencer going on and on, he said it. “So she was rich?”
Mr. Spencer was shocked. “We should not discuss her means, Brandon, and especially not immediately after the honorable lady’s demise. She was, I repeat, a genteel person, kin to the aristocracy, and that, I’m sure you would agree, is the salient point.”
Brandon couldn’t agree because he didn’t know what “salient point” meant, but he nodded gravely.
At the sound of rolling wheels, they turned and saw several open carriages approachin
g. In the first was a lady carrying a parasol, and accompanied by her maid. The carriage paused in front of Mr. Spencer and Brandon, and the lady asked if she was addressing Mr. Perkins.
Mr. Spencer fumbled apologetically with his hat. “No, madam, my name is Spencer. Mr. Perkins will be along shortly with the…”
“Mr. Spencer,” the lady interrupted. “I am Lady Chatsfield. I am the cousin of the late Mrs. Wentworth. You may recall that we corresponded.”
Mr. Spencer groveled before her, bowing so low that Brandon was afraid he would scrape his nose on the ground. “Yes, my lady, of course I recall the favor of your ladyship’s letter.”
Brandon wondered, since he was dressed like the Beauty Queen of Death, whether he should curtsey, and he began to get the giggles thinking about it. A sharp look from Lady Chatsfield shut him up.
“I intend to follow the procession,” she announced in a voice that invited no argument.
Mr. Spencer gulped slightly and bowed again. “As Your Ladyship wishes.”
While her coach driver helped her down from the carriage, Brandon whispered to his boss, “What’s wrong, Mr. Spencer?”
Mr. Spencer shuffled awkwardly. “Nothing, nothing at all. But… It is a modern idea, this, ladies following funerals, is it not?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Still, I suppose we can get used to it,” he added, doing his best to look as modern as possible.
At that moment, a horse-drawn hearse pulled up to the gates. Atop it was a glass enclosure, and within, a highly polished wooden coffin: It certainly wasn’t the pine box in which the body had travelled from Windsor. Mr. Spencer muttered to Brandon, “That coffin is the sort of manufacture I would expect from a fine London firm such as Mr. Perkins’. I must speak with Daniel about drawing up plans to build a coffin like that. Just look at the craftsmanship!”
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 20
