Fourpenny Flyer

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘If you ask me,’ Matilda said, withdrawing her skirts from the mess, ‘Annie and James had the best idea, staying at home.’

  ‘Cheer up, Tilda,’ Billy said, cheerfully giving his trousers a shake, ‘it ain’t your clothes she’s ruined and we’re in sight of Darlington.’

  ‘And not a minute before time,’ Matilda said. ‘The sooner this thing stops the better. I never was so uncomfortable in my life. You come with me, Harriet my dear. Billy can look after the little’uns.’

  She was full of tender concern, helping Harriet out of the carriage the minute their journey was over and the chocks were in place, holding her arm as they walked towards the inn, settling her into the most comfortable chair she could find and then rushing off to order soap and warm water and clean towels. ‘I’ve told ’em to brew a nice dish of raspberry tea,’ she said confidentially. ‘’Tis the best thing I know for your kind of sickness, depend upon it.’

  ‘Thank ’ee,’ Harriet said weakly. She still felt nauseous and raspberry tea would be calming. ‘You are so good to me, Matilda.’

  ‘And so I should think,’ Matilda said stoutly, ‘after all you did for us when our Matty was ill. Are you restored just a little my dear? Now tell me, do.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Harriet assured her. ‘I am quite myself again.’

  ‘’Tis always the same when one carries,’ Matilda said carelessly. ‘I was sick every single day, I remember. You do breed, do you not?’

  She knows, Harriet thought. Oh dear God, not yet! Not so soon! And what little colour she had drained from her face. ‘I cannot tell,’ she stammered. ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘I’m sure on it,’ Matilda said confidently. ‘You wouldn’t be so sick otherwise. Won’t your John be pleased? And Mrs Easter, too.’

  ‘Where is John?’ Harriet said, trying to change the conversation.

  ‘Gone off with his mother and that Mr Chaplin,’ Matilda said, ‘and all talking like ninepence.’

  That was a surprise. ‘Mr Chaplin? The coach king? Why whatever is he doing here? Surely he didn’t ride on a locomotive?’

  Her mother-in-law was saying much the same thing. ‘I must confess I never thought to see you here, upon me life.’

  ‘Reconnoitring the enemy position, Mrs Easter,’ Mr Chaplin said cheerfully. ‘If this is to be the new way to travel I mean to know about it.’

  ‘And is it to be the new way to travel, sir?’ John asked. ‘I found it mighty uncomfortable and a deal slower than a pair of horses.’

  ‘Only time will tell us that,’ Mr Chaplin said. ‘On balance I think it as likely as not. Meantime I have taken shares in the Stockton and Darlington Company, and would advise you to do the same.’

  ‘Have you so?’ Nan said, her eyes shrewd. ‘Then I declare I will take your advice.’

  She would, John thought.

  ‘We must travel back to London together,’ she said, ‘and you must tell me more.’

  In the Guildhall at Norwich the Quarter Sessions were under way. The seven accused had been brought across from their squalid cells in the castle prison and shuffled into fresh air and daylight for the first time in more than a month.

  ‘By t’ end of this day,’ Caleb whispered to his friends as they trudged up Guildhall Hill, ‘we shall be free men again.’

  ‘Aye,’ his nearest neighbour whispered back, as they passed Mr Rossi’s goldsmith’s shop, and the brisk winds of early October buffeted downhill against their faces. ‘God willin’!’

  But it wasn’t God’s judgement they had to face that day. It was Justice Ormorod’s. And Justice Ormorod was a personal friend to Lord Sidmouth.

  He sat in legal glory on the high dais, a handsome man in his heavy wig and his rich red gown, and impressive too with a fine embonpoint and a resonant voice.

  ‘A legal mind,’ the clerk to the court approved to his junior as he wrote up the gentleman’s judgement after the first case that morning: ‘Mr Joseph Wiggins, driver of the ‘Phenomena’, fined £90 for having in his possession 36 head of partridge. I likes a judge with a legal mind. He’ll know what to do with rioters, upon me life he will.’

  Proceedings opened calmly, with an admirable statement from Justice Ormorod, assuring ‘this court, the defendants and whomsoever else may be concerned with the outcome of this trial, that matters here this morning will be decided strictly according to the letter of the law and with no other considerations of any kind whatsoever being either permissable or possible.’

  Caleb was much heartened by his words. ‘Aye,’ he muttered, ‘a fair trial. ’Tis all we ask.’

  And at first, as evidence was given in the slow pace and ponderous language of the judiciary, it all felt extremely fair. The seven weavers listened as witnesses were questioned with interminable patience as to the estimated number of people present, and the estimated number of torches the said people took with them, the direction in which the said people had been seen to be walking, or not walking, or marching as the case may be, whether or not banners were carried by the said people and what words were written upon the said banners. The courtroom smelt of polished wood, new leather and ancient parchment, and a spiral of golden motes nudged and gentled in a visible beam of sunshine, falling slowly and delicately, to disappear into the grandeur of the judge’s robes. The clerk to the court nodded off beside his table, and up in the public gallery the newspaper reporters were yawning like frogs.

  But they sat up when judgement was given. ‘On the first count of unlawful assembly,’ Justice Ormorod opined, ‘the facts as I see them are as follows: since the repeal of the Act of Combination, assemblies entered into for the purpose of discussion as to matters of trade are legal. Howsomever, this particular assembly was not called by the defendants to discuss trade. This assembly was called in order to express the defendants’ displeasure at the proposed reenactment of the Act of Combination, and as such was plainly unlawful. To my mind this was a riotous assembly and a riotous assembly of the worst possible kind. Consequently I find this charge proven.’

  We are lost, Caleb thought, fear crushing his chest for the first time since his arrest. He means to find against us no matter what. We are lost. But the judge was speaking again, rolling onwards with the weight and implacability of a treadmill.

  ‘On the second count of common assault, the evidence given by the constables, who were plainly punched and manhandled in the most grievous manner (and incidentally deserve the commendation of the court for the splendid manner in which they executed their duties in an uncommon difficult situation), this evidence, as I say, is sufficient to remove all doubt from my mind. I find this charge proven also.

  ‘I shall therefore proceed to judgement and I shall give judgement upon each of the defendants in turn. Caleb Rawson will please to stand.’

  Caleb stood, angered to discover that his legs were trembling. ‘Are we not to say a word in our own defence?’ he asked. ‘We been waiting all morning to be called to give evidence.’

  ‘What word could you say, sir?’ the judge inquired, raising his eyebrows in an almost perceptible sneer.

  ‘I could tell ’ee t’ truth, sir. T’ constables lied to ’ee, we could all tell ’ee that. T’ first blow was struck by t’ man over yonder. He struck me, sir, as he knows full well. Not another blow were struck ’til that moment, I give thee my word.’

  The judge snorted. ‘Am I to take the word of a common criminal against the word of one of His Majesty’s constables, duly sworn?’ he asked.

  ‘I am a weaver, sir,’ Caleb said, ‘not a common criminal.’

  ‘You are a common criminal, sir,’ the judge replied coolly. ‘You have a record. I sentence you to seven years penal servitude, to be served in His Majesty’s penal colony in Van Dieman’s Land. Jonathon Murdoch will please to stand.’

  He sentenced them one after the other, seven years, five years, four years, but the number of years was meaningless. They were banished for life and they all knew it. I spent every minute I wasn’t at t’ loom, wo
rking to better t’ lot of my fellow weavers, Caleb thought, shaking with anger at the injustice of it, and now I’m to be transported on t’ word of a lying constable. ‘What sort of justice is this?’ he cried when the sentences were all given and the great book closed.

  ‘British justice, sir,’ the judge told him sternly. ‘The best in the world, sir.’

  The news was in all the London papers by the following morning.

  Nan saw it as she was eating dinner at six o’clock that evening with her travelling family all around her. They were on their homeward journey now and had got as far as Stamford.

  ‘Why look ’ee here, John,’ she said. ‘Norwich rioters to be transported. Caleb Rawson – en’t that our Uncle Caleb?’

  John took the paper calmly and read the news aloud so that they could all hear it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the man. It seems a little harsh, don’t ’ee think, even if he did cause a riot.’ He kept his face expressionless but inwardly he was smiling with triumph, even though he knew that triumph at such a time was really rather ugly. He’ll do no more harm to us now, he was thinking. Not in Van Dieman’s Land. We are free of him. And there’ll be no more letters either.

  Harriet was so shocked by the news she couldn’t say anything. Transportation! How terrible! How unfair! When he was such a fine, good man, helping the injured at Peterloo, working for the weavers in Norwich. They’d only met to protest about this stupid law. Oh, if only he hadn’t gone! If only none of them had gone! They’d never harmed anybody, and he’d always put other people’s interests before his own. Except for that one humiliating time in Norwich, of course. But that was …

  And then it occurred to her with a shameful lightening of heart, that he wouldn’t be able to see her again, after all. She was free of that, at least. And for all her admiration of him, and her sorrow at his undeserved punishment, she knew that the emotion she was feeling was relief. And then she was more ashamed of herself than ever, for being selfish and thinking of her own situation rather than his when he was being transported. What could be worse than that? To be sent away from your friends and your family to live with savages on the other side of the world. Poor, poor Caleb. What a terrible punishment!

  The conversation around the table had moved on. Billy was telling Will and Edward how a steam engine worked. John was brooding, and Nan and Matilda were planning their journeys for the following day.

  ‘If you’re to be up in the morning in time for the eight o’clock coach, young Edward,’ Matilda told her younger offspring, ‘then ’tis high time you were a-bed. Say goodnight to your father. I doubt you’ll see him in the morning.’

  ‘Not at the pace your grandmother keeps,’ Billy said, grimacing. ‘We’ve to be up at six in the morning, damne if we ain’t. ’Tis an ungodly hour.’ He and John were to travel to London with Nan while their wives took the road to Bury via Peterborough and Ely.

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet said, remembering her duties. ‘Time you were a-bed, Will. The girls are half asleep already.’ And so they were, their eyelids swollen with the need for rest.

  I will clean the house, she thought, as she escorted the children up stairs to their rooms, and I will put flowers in all the rooms, and I will get Mrs Chiddum to help me cook a special meal for him on the day he gets back, and when he is as rested and easy as I can make him, I will confess. I am pregnant. There is no doubt about it. Caleb has been most cruelly punished and I still hide my sin. It is time to be honest.

  It was so good to be back in Rattlesden again, with Annie and James and Pollyanna close by, and dear old Rosie in their quiet house. The high woods blazed with autumn colour, gold and purple and berry-red, and the fields had been ploughed brown while she’d been away. I belong here, she thought, hanging her washing over the bushes in her garden. It is so beautiful here and so peaceful. But the confession had to be made nevertheless. She had made up her mind to it now and she would do it. It had to be done.

  John came home a week later. He brought Will a mechanical toy, which he’d found in a tiny shop in Hatfield, and until Rosie took the boy to bed, the two of them played with it, sitting on the rug before the fire in the parlour, while Harriet set the table for her special meal.

  But when her good food had been eaten, quietly and with hardly a word said, and the cloth had been removed, and the moment had finally arrived, her nerve failed her. She couldn’t confess here, in the house. ‘Should we take a turn through the village?’ she said. ‘’Tis a fine evening.’ And among the hedgerows it would be a private one.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you wish.’ But he didn’t smile or encourage her or say anything else. Oh, how difficult this was! It was almost as if he knew what she was going to say.

  Dusk was clouding the sky with lilac as they walked to the holm oak at the crossroads, where they’d stopped so often to kiss and talk in their courting days. Now perhaps it would be possible.

  ‘I have something to tell ’ee, John,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘it must wait, for I can’t abide it. Not tonight.’ His shoulders were drooping with more than fatigue and his eyes were limpid in the half-light, almost as if he were about to burst into tears.’

  ‘Why, John?’ she said, torn with sympathy for him. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘I’m a failure,’ he said. ‘A failure.’

  ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘You are not. Oh John, my dear, you are not. You must not say such things.’

  ‘If locomotives prove popular,’ he said, stony-faced with distress, ‘and more railways are built, Mama means to transfer all our trade from coaches to railways. I have argued and argued against such folly, but there is no talking to her. Oh Harriet, I have spent my entire life perfecting the coach lines and now she means to undo all my work for a whim.’

  ‘The railway is an oddity,’ she said. ‘It can only run where there are rails to run upon and I have only seen one set of rails. Why, it is hardly more than a toy. I do not think you need to fear it.’

  ‘Mr Chaplin has bought shares in four different railways,’ he said. ‘And Mama has too. It is the end of everything, I know.’

  ‘Even so,’ Harriet tried to comfort. ‘The coaches run everywhere and with great success. Oh my dear, dear John, you mustn’t be dismayed.’

  ‘I started planning how to send papers along the coach routes when I was little more than a boy. Fourteen years ago, it was. I was nineteen, Harriet, and I’ve spent every working minute since then perfecting the system. And now she means to wreck it all and she won’t listen to me.’

  His face and his voice were both so anguished that she put out her arms instinctively to hold him close, pulling his head down onto her shoulder, kissing his cheek, murmuring comfort to him as though he were an injured child, her confession forgotten.

  It was the first time they had touched for many, many months, and the sudden sensation of being loved and held dissolved his misery like a charm.

  ‘Oh Harriet, my love,’ he said, ‘you and Will are the only good things in my life. The only good things.’

  ‘Hush, hush,’ she said. ‘The railways will fail. You’ll see. Your mother will be proved wrong. I know it.’

  ‘The only good things.’

  ‘My dear, dear love.’

  And he raised his head to look at her, and they were mouth to mouth in a kiss so sweet and long and full of pleasure that it took their breath away.

  ‘Harriet! Harriet!’ he said, holding her about the waist. ‘Oh my dear, I love you so much.’

  And she kissed him back, lost in the old familiar sensation of being loved, and she kissed him and kissed him, straining against him and loving him with all her might, kissing away his sorrow and her shame and all the long empty nights of their abstinence. Now, oh now, they would not fail.

  They walked back to the house thigh to thigh in a deliberate unison that kept them as close as they could possibly be. And they kissed on every step as they climbed the stairs. And when they reached their bedroom and had
locked the door safely behind them, he began to play their old, old game, slowly and with exquisite pleasure, as though they were courting, which, in a way, they were. ‘If we were married, I would …’

  ‘Yes, yes –’ breathless with pleasure – ‘what would you do?’

  And so, moment by delicious moment, they moved nearer and nearer to ecstasy. And they were both strong in their passion for each other. And this time he didn’t fail.

  Afterwards, as he slept, oh so peacefully, beside her, his arm still flung about her waist, she remembered her plans. But they were unimportant. She had her own dear John back in her arms again. The confession could wait.

  It waited all through the rapturous days and nights of that October and November. And it was still waiting when Christmas came, and the family gathered in Bedford Square for Nan’s elaborate celebration. By now John was busily making plans to switch trade to the railways after all. For now that they were lovers again, somehow or other the certainty of change no longer looked like a defeat. On the contrary, it had become a challenge and one that he could meet with ease. He was so sure of himself again that Harriet simply couldn’t bring herself to spoil things by introducing such sour news. She was happy in her pregnancy now, and when the baby quickened right in the middle of the Christmas Service, she was happier than ever. It seemed appropriate somehow. As though the child were approved of, despite the sin of its conception.

  And in the end it was John who spoke first.

  He’d been watching her as she dressed for Christmas dinner, easing the buttons of her bodice together because it was very tight on her now.

  ‘Are you breeding, Harriet?’ he asked, and the question was such a touching blend of curiosity, disbelief and hope, that she simply told him that she was.

  ‘Oh, my dear love,’ he said, looking at her with affection. ‘A child from our reunion. What could be better?’

  I should tell him now, she thought, as he held her and kissed her. But she couldn’t do it. It would have hurt him too terribly.

  So although she confessed her cowardice to her diary, the pregnancy continued unexplained and was accepted by everybody in the family with immense pleasure and unstinted congratulation. Everybody in the family, that is, except the Sowerbys. For Harriet could not bring herself to tell her parents. They might mock or lecture. Time enough to let them know of it when the child was born. By the spring her condition was very obvious, and the baby was kicking healthily, to John’s delight and Will’s very considerable interest, but she still said nothing to her parents. It had become a superstitious necessity. If they knew nothing of it, all might yet be well.