Children Of The Tide

by Valerie Wood

  Mildred got to her feet once more and the two women faced each other, both their faces were flushed, their hands clenched. ‘How dare you speak so!’ Mildred’s voice was low and scathing. ‘I never thought to hear such things in my own home, especially from someone who is kin.’ She put her hand to her chest and breathed heavily. ‘Thank goodness Isaac isn’t here to witness this, or my daughter.’

  ‘A child who is reputed to be your grandson is at present under my daughter’s care and protection, and you worry over how Anne would feel?’ Ellen fastened her cloak and prepared to leave. ‘I just don’t understand you, Mildred. Where is your compassion? Would you leave it to a young and inexperienced girl to accept what should be your responsibility?’

  Mildred’s face drained of colour and she seemed to be fighting for self-control. ‘I will say once more, and only once, this has nothing to do with us.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If Sarah Maria wishes to indulge herself over a child, then she should marry and have some of her own instead of collecting others’ waifs and strays. Good day to you, Ellen. You must excuse me, I have a busy afternoon ahead of me.’

  Ellen didn’t answer. She picked up her reticule and whirled out of the door, the feathers on her small hat bobbing and bouncing, and it wasn’t until she was back in her carriage and heading back down the drive, her mouth clenched in anger and her eyes filled with tears of fury, did she realize that, although Mildred had offered her refreshment, she hadn’t actually given her any, and she faced the long drive home without the prospect of food or drink.

  I shall visit the company, she decided. I will speak to Isaac, he surely will come to some arrangement; and if he is not there, then at least I shall see Billy and he will give me tea.

  Their younger son, Billy, had joined Masterson and Rayner as a very junior clerk who would learn the company business from the bottom up, and in time, if he proved adaptable, would become a director. William, Isaac and their brother Arthur had shares in the company, with Isaac in control as managing director, for he was seen to be the one with the most interest and expertise in the whaling industry.

  William wanted only to continue farming at Garston Hall as he had always done, whilst Arthur, whose business was the railways, lived with his wife and three daughters in York, the northern base of railway operations. He had seen the fall from grace of the great George Hudson and assumed a complacent satisfaction, which he never failed to talk about, at his business acumen in having moved his shares from the Railway King’s company at just the right time.

  Johnson negotiated the clumsy old carriage through the busy High Street, and Ellen looked up at the name above the company building: Masterson and Rayner. A name well thought of in the shipping industry. And the name of Foster is still perpetuated, she thought as the carriage pulled into the yard. Sarah Foster, her mother-in-law, who had married John Rayner, had been proud of her background, telling in her gentle manner to anyone who was interested, that she was the first Foster to be born in Monkston and that her father Will, who had been an ordinary whaling seaman from Hull, was the bravest man who had ever lived. And in his memory, as well as Sarah’s, the Foster name was continued through their children and grandchildren.

  ‘Mr Rayner is not in the office at present, ma-am,’ said the clerk who greeted her. ‘Perhaps I can assist you? Or young Mr Rayner is here – Mr Gilbert.’

  She stared at him for a moment and then blinked. ‘Oh, er, no. Perhaps I could see my son for a moment – Mr Billy Rayner? I won’t keep him long.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Rayner, I didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’ She smiled faintly at the embarrassed clerk, and pressed her fingers to her temple; she was starting a headache and his words had triggered a train of thought which was muddling through her mind.

  ‘Hello, Ma! What brings you here?’ Billy kissed her warmly on both cheeks. ‘Come upstairs into Uncle Isaac’s office, he won’t mind. He’s out at a meeting somewhere, but he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Will you be home this weekend, Billy?’ He didn’t come home every weekend and she missed his exuberant chatter.

  ‘Perhaps not. One of the fellows here has asked me if I want to join him and a party to visit the theatre, and afterwards there’s a glee.’

  She surveyed him anxiously. He was very handsome, everyone said so, it wasn’t just a mother’s pride. At nineteen he was tall, slim and willowy as a reed, and with a shock of hair as fair as hers, unlike his siblings who all had a tendency towards shades of red. She was understandably anxious: living in Hull, he was no longer under her influence. He was bound to be attractive to women, she thought affectionately, and vulnerable too – look what happened to James!

  ‘A glee?’

  ‘Yes. You know, music and singing and such.’ He smiled down at her teasingly.

  ‘Yes, I know what a glee is, Billy, but you won’t take strong drink, will you? Just drink a little wine, it’s safer.’

  He pulled out a leather chair for her to be seated. ‘All right,’ he said, amused. ‘I will. Don’t worry. Let me send for some tea for you, you look tired.’ He opened the door and called out to someone below.

  She looked around the room, she hadn’t been in it for a long time. The large desk which her late father-in-law, John Rayner, had once used, was still set near to the window with a view onto the river below; a wooden filing cabinet on the opposite wall held private papers. Two embroidered texts sat side by side on the window wall, which she guessed were Mildred’s work, and opposite the desk were two portraits, one of John Rayner as a child and another as he had been in his capacity as chairman of the board of directors. Between the two was a smaller picture set in an oval gilt frame. It showed an older man, his wrinkled hands clasping a cane, this was Isaac Masterson, uncle of John Rayner and founder of the company.

  ‘Will you excuse me for a moment, Ma? I must just see Hardwick about the accounts I’m working on. They’re bringing you some tea.’

  ‘I don’t want to keep you from your work, Billy. Tea would be lovely. Off you go, I’ll rest for a while and, if Isaac hasn’t returned, I’ll go home. You know how your father worries if I’m late.’

  ‘You didn’t say why you were here.’ Billy paused with his hand on the door. ‘Shopping, I expect?’ He gave her a quick merry smile as she nodded her head in response.

  No point in discussing the issue of the child with him yet, not until it was resolved. He obviously hadn’t heard or he would have mentioned it. There were no secrets between this branch of the Rayner family. Open discussions were always the order. Mildred would be most uncomfortable to listen in to our conversations. A respectable family! She mused over Mildred’s statement. She will think that we are morally decadent and quite irresponsible, bringing up our children to see animals being born, to know about babies and how they are conceived. And her children were not allowed to play games as ours were! They were shut up in the nursery with their nurses or taken for decorous walks in their fashionable little suits and gowns. They never knew what dirt was!

  Such ignorance. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, and meditated; yet it was one of Mildred’s own sons who had committed the unpardonable sin of bedding some poor girl and had given her a child!

  The door opened and she opened her eyes, expecting the maid with the tea.

  ‘Aunt Ellen!’ Gilbert’s face flushed, he’d pushed open the door into his father’s office, totally oblivious of her presence. ‘I, er, how nice to see you!’ He stammered out a greeting and dropped the papers he was carrying.

  ‘Hello, Gilbert. I’ve been to see your mother, and thought as I was passing through Hull, I would call in to see your father.’

  ‘My father?’ He rubbed his chin nervously.

  Strange, she thought as she watched him. He is the one who appears so debonair, such a sport, such a very merry young gentleman, yet here he is acting like a schoolboy.

  The maid brought in the tea and Ellen drank it gratefully. ‘I didn
’t see James while I was at Anlaby; I was hoping to,’ she added.

  Gilbert shuffled amongst the pile of papers which he had retrieved from the floor and heaped onto the desk. ‘He – er, left me a note to say he has gone to York.’

  ‘Oh?’ You’d know a Rayner anywhere with that red hair, she thought and watched him as he stared out of the window. No, she corrected herself. The red hair came from Grandmother Sarah, and before that, her father, Will Foster. Yet the Foster cousins in Tillington were all as dark as gipsies, their colouring coming from a different stock.

  ‘James has gone back to his old school, Aunt Ellen, to see his drawing master,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s gone to ask him if he can recommend him to a tutor who can improve him in his artistic abilities and gain him employment.’ He turned and gazed at her from his dark brown eyes; she couldn’t tell, as he had his back turned to the light, what expression to read from them. ‘Mother says he must leave home over this – this catastrophe. She says if it gets out it will be the ruination of our respectability and position in society.’

  ‘Indeed! And what of the child?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Is he simply to be abandoned? Does no-one care what becomes of him?’

  She saw him draw breath, and briefly and swiftly he put his hand to his eyes, then withdrawing it said falteringly, ‘It is so regrettable. I will speak to my father on – on James’s behalf and that of the child’s. Provision will be made, Aunt Ellen. We were wrong to let Sammi take him, I realize now, but she was so taken with him that it seemed the obvious answer at the time.’

  She nodded, pacified for the moment, and put down her cup and saucer. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you then, Gilbert. You or your father.’ She looked at him frankly. ‘I trust that you will make the right decision and soon.’

  He escorted her down to where Johnson was waiting in the yard, puffing on a smouldering wet pipe as he sat on a mounting stool.

  ‘Ready then, ma-am?’ Johnson stood up and knocked out the pipe. ‘We’d best be off then. ’Master worries if you’re late. He allus thinks I’ve turned this cumbrous old carriage over and you’re lying dead in a ditch.’ He flicked an imaginary speck from his frock-coat and adjusted his top hat. He gave her a small bow and extended his hand to help her in.

  ‘Good-bye, Gilbert.’ She leaned from the carriage window. ‘Tell Billy I’ll see him soon.’

  Gilbert almost collided with Billy as he turned to run up the stairs.

  ‘Oh! Has my mother gone already?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gilbert answered shortly.

  Billy watched the carriage pull out of the yard and lifted his hand in a wave. ‘I say, Gilbert—’

  ‘Not now, Billy.’ Gilbert took the stairs two at a time. ‘Can it keep?’ He closed the door behind him without waiting for an answer, and turned the key. He stood for a moment leaning against the door and stared unseeing, his mind only dwelling on the face of a girl, a girl with a cloud of dark hair who had shared her love with him for such a brief time, and who had died giving birth to his son. His son, whose tiny hand he had held. His son whom he had denied. He sat down at his father’s desk and looked up at the portrait of his grandfather. He seemed to gaze down, admonishing him. Gilbert clenched his fist and banged on the desk. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean this to happen.’

  Tears gathered in his eyes and a lump came into his throat. He put his head in his hands and started to weep.

  5

  When James had delivered Sammi and the child safely into Johnson’s care, he’d crossed the High Street and entered The Black Boy Inn. He’d ordered a meat pie and a small glass of ale and contemplated what he should do next. Sammi had suggested that he should go to see his former drawing master and, on reflection, that seemed to be the only recourse. He didn’t want to go home and face his parents, particularly his mother, and although he wasn’t too perturbed about Anne’s opinion of his behaviour, he didn’t want to be in the house if there was any kind of hostile atmosphere.

  The landlord brought his food and ale and placed it on the table in front of him. The aroma rose from the crust and he licked his lips. He had the normal appetite of a young male and now that the immediate problem had been driven away with Sammi, he felt quite hungry. He enjoyed the pie, mopping up the gravy with a chunk of bread, drank to the bottom of the glass and scribbled a note to Gilbert, explaining that he was going to York and why. Crossing the High Street once more, he gave the letter to one of the clerks in the office.

  He pulled out his pocket watch and immediately broke into a run. He was familiar with the coaches to York and realized that he had just time to catch the two o’clock diligence before it moved off. James had often wished that the railway companies would make up their minds about a direct line to York, rather than having to take the route via Selby and changing trains at Milford Junction to get there.

  For the moment, the regular coach service was the most efficient and reliable, and for several years as he’d travelled the journey to and from his school, he’d watched with his artistic eye the changing vista from the flatlands of Hull through to the gently rolling meadows which skirted the foothills of the Wolds.

  In the summer months, the fields of Dunnington on the north-eastern fringe of York were covered with the pale blue flowers of chicory and which, at the end of autumn, swarmed with itinerant workers brought in to gather and harvest the root and transport it to York for drying.

  He bought a ticket and climbed aboard, and by early evening the coach was dropping down into the Vale of York towards his destination.

  He weaved his way through the warren of familiar dog-leg lanes and narrow passages, which cut a way through half-timbered buildings of merchant houses and ancient dwellings. Some of these lanes were medieval pathways with room for only one pedestrian to traverse, and which, he recalled, could be very awkward if a person of the opposite sex was met up with half-way through. He was reminded of the rules given out by the school housemasters that if this should happen, then no matter what the female’s class, be she rich or poor, the young gentlemen should immediately raise their hats and turn around and go back the way they had come, giving the lady free passage to continue.

  A small smile touched his lips as he remembered the additional ruder names which he and his friends had invented for the snickets and alleys which threaded a hidden path through the centre of York. Names to confuse new pupils who were not familiar even with the strange-sounding hidden courts such as Mad Alice, Cheats Court, or the Hole in the Wall, which lay at the foot of the majestic Minster.

  He hurried on, anxious to see Peacock before he went in to supper. He pushed open the iron gates set in the high stone walls which surrounded the old school, and walked up the path to the thick oak doors.

  ‘Mr Rayner, sir.’ The porter greeted him cordially. ‘Didn’t expect to see you back so soon!’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be back, Lawson. But life is full of surprises.’

  ‘You’ve discovered that already, sir? Then your education is continuing.’

  James waited in an anteroom while Lawson went to look for Peacock, and as he paced the floor he reflected on the change of attitude in Lawson’s demeanour towards him now that he was no longer a student. Then, he would watch all the young gentlemen, diligently noting what time they went out and came back, whether they were suitably and tidily dressed and reminding them at all times that their behaviour reflected the school’s reputation. Not one note of jollity ever passed his lips, yet now he had a positive twinkle in his eyes.

  James had often wondered why his parents had sent him to this school in York, when there were equally good schools nearer to home. Gilbert had attended the Grammar School in Hull which had a fine reputation, but when, at eight, James had questioned his father as to why he should have to go to York, he was told that it was for the best.

  He stood up as Henry Peacock came into the room and extended a hand towards him in greeting.

  ‘Rayner! How good to see you. What brings you back so soon?’

&
nbsp; James shook his hand and gently retrieved it. Peacock had a habit of holding on to a boy’s arm or shoulder when discussing or admiring a work of art, and there was much contemplation in the dormitories after the lamps were dimmed as to whether or not he was effeminate with unmanly traits, or an aesthete. James had always hotly defended the master, stating that Peacock had only eyes for beauty of line and form, and was quite above such commonplace qualities as they were suggesting.

  Peacock had opened his eyes to the sculpture and architecture which lay all around them in this ancient city. He had taught him to observe the stark beauty of winter-bare branches in the city parks, and the delicate veil of green as spring unfolded and divulged her presence. So, too, had he shown him the richness of the medieval stained glass in the Minster; made him run his hands over the texture of the stone that he might sense the throbbing of ancient chanting voices still held within the fabric; and told him of the time, twenty years before, when, as a young man, he had wept unashamedly after a fire had destroyed the carved bosses and central vault of the nave.

  ‘I need your advice, sir. I couldn’t think who else to ask. I trust you don’t mind?’ He looked frankly at him. Their eyes were almost on the same level. Peacock was a small man, a little shorter than James himself, but his extravagant mode of dress, his velvet jacket and braided trousers, his long greying hair and clean-shaven chin, caused others to notice his appearance rather than his lack of height.

  ‘Mind! My dear fellow, I am flattered to say the least. Come, we will take a walk. It is a pleasant evening and besides, I have no stomach for the food which is being prepared. I have smelt it and my juices have dried up in apprehension.’ He went to fetch his outdoor clothes: a faded cape which once was black but had now a hint of green, and a battered felt hat which he angled carefully onto his head. He drew on to his pale hands a pair of woollen mittens, and they stepped outside.