Children Of The Tide

by Valerie Wood

  They walked by the white-painted cottages and redbrick residences which lined the banks of the river Ouse, and James haltingly explained his predicament while Peacock listened without comment.

  ‘Come,’ he said, when James had ground to a halt. ‘We will take some refreshment. I know of a coffee house if you have any money, for I have only a little. My salary …!’ He gave a meaningful gesture towards his pockets.

  ‘I have a little money, sir.’ James felt for his pocket-book. ‘Enough at least for a small supper.’

  There were few people in the coffee house, which they reached by turning down a narrow passage and into a small court. It was warm and dark, with only a single candle set on each round table.

  ‘Well, my dear fellow, this is what I suggest you must do. And I must say that the circumstances which have befallen you, whether of your own creation or not, will perhaps prove to be the emergence of you.’ He removed his mittens and, dropping them with a flourish onto the table, he leaned back on the spell-backed chair in a reflective manner. ‘You have the makings of a lazy fellow, I regret to say, who, if you had ample means at your disposal and were not in such a precarious and impecunious state as I, would sit around waiting for some opportunity to present itself. As it is,’ he continued, ‘you have no alternative, if you are to help support this child, but to go out and find your living.’

  He stretched his long fingers and joined them, tip to tip, into an arch, and with one eye closed, peered through it, framing James’s face. ‘Your parents will naturally think that they could be ruined socially by such a misdemeanour. The bourgeois classes set much store by convention, and the mediocre opinions of others towards them matters greatly. You should be thankful, James, that you are not a female in such a predicament, for you would, without any doubt, be packed off to an asylum to end your days.’

  James felt a great joy unfolding inside him. This, he realized, was what he had missed since leaving school; the conversation, the ideology and sometimes heated exchange of words with his peers. He had had no conversation since going home, and his intellect was starved.

  Peacock took out a pencil and scrap of paper from a pocket hidden in the depths of his cape and, pushing aside the cream jug and coffee pot, he leaned on the wobbly table and started to write in an elegant hand, a name and address in London, which he handed to James. ‘This is where you must go.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I assume your father will assist you financially until you can earn a living.’

  James nodded tentatively. He would be in a predicament if he didn’t, but his father had said, ‘We’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘I will write to Batsford immediately I get back to my room, and he will have the letter the day after tomorrow,’ Peacock continued. ‘The fellow is an excellent tutor and a painter in his own right. For a small fee, he takes students in order to eke out a living while he paints. He has not, like so many of us, sold his soul in exchange for a little comfort and a regular, if meagre, salary.’

  It was almost dark when they finally left the coffee house and, although Peacock suggested that a bed could be found in the school, James declined with thanks.

  ‘I have relatives in York, sir. I can stay there. I used to stay with them on my holidays if the weather was bad and I couldn’t get home.’

  ‘Does your uncle keep a good cellar? It is of no comfort whatsoever if the bed is warm and the wine poor.’ Peacock once again drew on his mittens and wrapped his cape around him. A fresh breeze had sprung up and he shivered.

  ‘I believe he does,’ James smiled, ‘although I am no expert on the matter, but he does have an excellent cook.’

  ‘I will leave you, then, in the anticipation that you might eat another supper, and I will return to the aroma of overcooked cabbage, and compose a letter to Batsford.’ Peacock hesitated slightly and then, tapping his mittened fingers against his chin, said, ‘It is perhaps only fair to warn you, James, that the bohemian classes are unconventional. You may find their attitudes and behaviour a little strange or even disturbing, especially as you have been brought up with middle-class standards of morality. Be circumspect at first, choose your companions cautiously until you are sure of them. But accept them for what they are and do not put a judgement on them too hastily.’

  James was intrigued. He walked swiftly through the sweet-smelling city of cocoa beans, chocolate and confectionery, avoiding now the alleys and courts which, after dark, were the hunting ground of prostitutes and thieves, and made his way to his uncle’s house near the Knavesmire racecourse. He realized, with a strong grip of excitement which filled him to the core, that he couldn’t wait to get away. That a very different life was waiting for him in London.

  His uncle and aunt and their three daughters were at supper. They were seated around the dark polished dining table arranged with a shallow crystal flower bowl, silver cruets and bread baskets, and glass candle holders which gave out a soft flame from the wax candles inside them.

  His aunt, Henrietta, brushed aside his apologies for disturbing them. ‘Do not think anything of it, James. You are most welcome.’ She raised a finger to the waiting butler. ‘Bring a chair, Summers, and another setting. You must eat of course, James, and will you stay the night? I fear you have missed the train.’

  ‘Please, Aunt, if I may. If it doesn’t inconvenience you too much.’ Since he was a small boy, he had admired his aunt. In her early forties, she was much younger than her husband, and retained the beauty and style of her youth.

  Their daughters, as fair as their mother, but plain and with a tendency towards being slender like their father, rather than inheriting their mother’s pretty plumpness, were considered to be highly marriageable, with expectations of handsome dowries.

  ‘So, James,’ his uncle boomed, ‘what do you intend doing with your life now that you have finished your education? Not going into whaling I trust? That’s finished, I keep telling your father. Shipping is all right if you are in the right commodity.’

  ‘No, sir. I’m – erm – I’m going to London, sir. I have a letter of recommendation, which is why I am here in York. I, er—’

  ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ His uncle cut in. ‘Breaking out of the mould, hey? I’m glad to hear it’ He refilled James’s wine glass. ‘It was in my mind to suggest you might like to join me. I’m fond of you, you know, and there’s money to be made in railway companies, take my word for it.’ He patted his nose. ‘You have to learn to sniff out the good ones of course, but it can be done.’ He leaned forward, his face expectant. ‘So what is it to be, eh? Law? Banking? Yes, I could see you in banking, James. It’s safe, and you’re using other people’s money and not your own.’

  He paused again, and James felt all five pairs of eyes lingering on him. His voice broke as he started to speak, and he hastily cleared his throat. ‘No. None of those things, Uncle. My former drawing master seems to think,’ he blushed modestly, ‘he seems to think that I have a little talent which, with tutoring, could be improved enough for me to become a painter – an artist!’

  There was a silence in the room. One of the candles guttered as it burned low, and the butler standing stiffly by the serving table moved forward and replaced it, returning immediately to his station.

  ‘An artist?’ His uncle glanced up at the walls which held several large oil paintings and water-colours, as well as miniatures and tapestries on its background of red-flocked wallpaper. ‘As a living!’

  ‘Oh, no, James!’ His aunt was startled. ‘We are, as you know, patrons of the arts. We attend all the exhibitions and concerts; we have even entertained artists in our home, but it is not a suitable career for a young man of your background.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t!’ his uncle barked, a touch of laughter softening the harshness. ‘Whatever are you thinking of? What does your father say of it?’

  ‘He, er, he doesn’t know, sir. I haven’t yet discussed it with him. I’ve only just decided.’

  ‘Ah. Then it’s just a whim!’ His uncle visibly rel
axed. ‘Take my advice, James. Find yourself a worthwhile career and do your bit of dabbling as a hobby.’

  James felt so let down. He had thought that this aunt and uncle would have understood, even if his parents did not. They visited the theatre, though not the music halls. He had attended concerts with them, though declined their musical soirées. They had even taken him to hear Mr Charles Dickens give a reading from A Christmas Carol, and had joined with him in the rapturous applause of the audience.

  He had thought wrongly, he now surmised, that they were forward-thinking people with a wide social circle which embraced flamboyant artistic and literary figures. He realized now that their involvement was merely a veneer; it was considered fashionable and reactionary to be seen in the company of actors and artists, to read racy novels and discuss them, or to give a considered opinion on a water-colour. But to suggest that one of their relatives should become such an artisan, then the idea was rejected with typical, traditional prudishness.

  Bourgeois! Frustration and anger provoked him. Bourgeois!

  6

  As Sammi waved good-bye to her mother and walked across the yard to the millhouse, she could hear the sound of raised voices. Uncle Thomas was railing against someone, and another voice was wailing – Sammi recognized it as Betsy’s, her very best friend as well as her second cousin – and then came yet another, a conciliatory deep voice of a male which, she thought, could only belong to Tom, Betsy’s brother.

  She knocked on the half-open door and called through. ‘Is it safe to come in or shall I walk back to Monkston?’

  ‘Sammi! You’re just in time to sort out my da and Betsy.’ Tom greeted her with a smile. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘I hope you’ve had breakfast,’ Uncle Thomas growled and sat down in his chair and started to unfasten his boots. ‘’Cos there’s none here. Not for anybody.’

  ‘I’m cooking it now, Da. Don’t keep going on. It won’t take long.’ Betsy glared at her father as she slipped a white apron over her shirt and long woollen skirt. Her dark hair was tousled and her deep blue eyes sleepy. ‘I slept in,’ she carped, ‘and I’ll never hear the last of it.’

  ‘We’ve been working half the night,’ her father started complaining again. ‘’Least we can expect is a pan of gruel waiting when we come down.’

  ‘All right Da, leave it now. Betsy said she’ll do it.’ Tom patted his father on the shoulder and signalled to Betsy to hurry up. ‘Sorry, Sammi. The wind has been blowing all night and we’re dead tired. Da especially, he’s been doubled up in the cap for the last half hour, chocking up the brake wheel and greasing the bearings.’

  ‘Aye well, I like to do it missen and I know it’s done,’ his father grunted as he heaved off his boots.

  ‘Let me help you then, Betsy. I’ll cut the bread and get the dishes out.’ Sammi took off her jacket. ‘I’ll just wash my hands.’

  ‘I haven’t brought the water in,’ Betsy said sullenly and glanced at her father. ‘You’ll have to use the pump.’

  Sammi went back out into the yard and Tom followed her, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He started to work the handle of the pump and a stream of crystal clear water gushed out. Sammi held her hands beneath it and then rubbed them briskly together.

  ‘Now let me do it for you, Tom.’ The skirt of her gown dipped into a puddle of water but she put her hand to the handle to work it for him.

  He shook his head and with a laugh he brushed her aside. ‘You’re not cut out for hard graft, Sammi, neither are you dressed for it. I’ll fill the pail and bring it inside.’

  She watched him as, with a few swift strokes, he filled the wooden pail. His shoulders were broad and his arms were brown and strong. She had admired Tom since she was a small girl, and she had often watched him in the mill as he effortlessly lifted sack after sack of corn, hanging them on to the hoist chain on their journey up through the trap doors to the top of the mill; she had seen him run nimbly up the access ladders, or chop a pile of wood in the yard. She had seen him, too, with his strong gentle hands, easing a sticky baby lamb from a birthing ewe.

  ‘What’s happening, Tom? Why are Uncle Thomas and Betsy arguing again?’

  He pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to her to hold, then worked the pump handle again. When the water gushed out he put his head under it and came up spluttering. He shook his head, showering her with water, and ran his fingers through his wet black hair. ‘Same old thing. Betsy can’t get up in a morning, and if she does get up, then she either lets the fire out or she burns the porridge. She just can’t seem to get the hang of things.’

  ‘You should get another girl in to help her. It’s too much to expect Betsy to do everything.’

  ‘We do have someone to do the rough work, but Betsy always seems to rub them up the wrong way, and they don’t stay.’ He took his shirt from her and vigorously rubbed his hair and face on it. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her cold hand into his. ‘Let’s see if breakfast is cooking and if there’s a clean shirt for me to wear. We don’t often have company for breakfast.’

  ‘So what brings thee out so early, Sammi? Was that your ma in ’carriage?’ Uncle Thomas seemed to have recovered his humour as he sat hunched over his porridge.

  ‘Yes, she’s driving into Anlaby to see Aunt Mildred.’

  ‘Humph. I shouldn’t have thought your ma would have much to jaw about with that dowly woman.’

  ‘There was something in particular that she wanted to discuss with her.’ Sammi dipped her spoon reluctantly into the lumpy gruel.

  ‘Did you enjoy James’s birthday, Sammi? Was there a party?’ Betsy sat at the table and tucked her chin in her hands and gazed at Sammi.

  Mark and George, Tom’s younger brothers, had both come in for breakfast. George tucked into his porridge, but Mark spoke cuttingly. ‘A party? We didn’t get an invitation, did we, Da? Not good enough for that lot of Rayner folk.’

  Sammi started to protest, to explain that there wasn’t a party, but her uncle raised his voice to his middle son. ‘That’s enough of that sort of talk. I’ll not have bickering between family.’ He lifted his spoon to his mouth and looked across at Betsy who was sulkily staring at the table. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘we none of us like Mildred, so it would be hypocritical to go and eat at their table.’

  ‘Well, I would have put up with her just for once,’ Betsy pouted, ‘if it meant wearing something nice and meeting company.’

  ‘But there wasn’t a party!’ Sammi thrust in when she could. ‘Far from it. You would have hated it, Betsy.’

  ‘Aye, well, lass, even if there had been tha wouldn’t have been invited, so it’s no use chewing it ower.’ Her father with a sigh put his spoon into his dish and pushed it away. He put his elbows on the table. ‘Tha’s burnt porridge again, Betsy! Pass me a hunk o’ bread.’

  ‘I’m so miserable, Sammi. I’m no better than a servant. I’m like a wife or a mother to those four, and I have no life of my own. I’m at everybody’s beck and call day after day and it’s not fair!’

  They had cleared away the breakfast dishes and left the kitchen tidy. Sammi had fuelled the fire and put a pan of water over it, so that there would be hot water ready to make the men a drink when they came in again later in the morning.

  ‘You need to be more organized, Betsy, but you also need more help. I’ll get Mama to speak to your father, shall I?’

  Betsy nodded. ‘Please,’ and picked up her shawl. ‘Where did you say you wanted to go?’

  ‘I’ve something to show you. But we’ll have to walk into the village to see Mrs Bishop.’

  ‘Mrs Bishop? But why?’

  ‘Wait and see.’ Sammi refused to be drawn further and, linking arms, they set off down the lane where the horse chestnut trees threw a leafy, pale green canopy over their heads. Sammi paused by the wooden gate which led into the churchyard. ‘May I pick some flowers from your garden later, Betsy, to put on Grandmama’s grave?’

  Betsy squeezed her arm. ‘Of course.
You miss her, don’t you? But then, we all do; she always listened to me when I had a grumble or a grouse.’

  Sammi nodded and felt a lump in her throat with the sad, sweet memory of her grandmother, Sarah Rayner. Sarah Foster Rayner, she corrected herself: Grandmama said we must never ever forget that we were from plain working stock.

  They walked down the main street of the village, a village that was growing now that some of the Monkston villagers were being re-housed there, and those who had come were, it was said, quite satisfied with their move, for this village had a church and two inns, The Raven and The Ship, as well as the mill where they could buy their flour. Monkston had none of these, for its ancient church and inn had succumbed to the sea many years before.

  Mrs Bishop was sitting outside the door of her cottage with a child at each breast. ‘’Mornin’, Miss Rayner, Miss Betsy. Fine day. Thy da will be pleased with this breeze, though it seems to be freshening too much for my liking.’

  Betsy looked down at the two babies, one contentedly feeding, the other wriggling and squirming. She compressed her lips together. ‘I didn’t know you had two babies, Mrs Bishop.’

  ‘Bless thee, haven’t I got half a dozen to my name? But these are not both mine. No, one of ’em belongs to Miss Rayner here.’

  Sammi laughed at the astonished look on Betsy’s face, and lightly admonished Mrs Bishop. ‘He’s not mine, Mrs Bishop, as you very well know. I’m simply looking after him until arrangements can be made for him.’

  ‘Aye, so tha said, miss.’ Mrs Bishop took each child away from her nipples and swapped them over to alternate breasts. She squinted up at Sammi. ‘But mind out, ’cos folks’l1 start to talk, and mind as well that tha doesn’t get over-fond on him, ’cos if tha does, tha won’t want to give him back.’

  ‘Whatever have you been up to, Sammi? Whose child is it?’

  Betsy plied her with questions, but Sammi refused to answer until they were well out of earshot of Mrs Bishop.