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Bates laughed, likely thinking of breaking those rules with Eliza.
"That'll be enough of that." Mrs. Wiggins were firm with him, the only one who could be. "Give Mary what's hers and leave it to me to talk sense to the girl."
Bates bowed and put the little twist on the table next to me. Eliza came up from the cellar just then, one hand holding BREAD AND BUTTER, the other holding DILLED.
She glanced at Bates and gave the packet a bit of a glare, reminding me I wouldn't be telling her, either, where the sweets came from, not giving her the satisfaction after all her hints and nonsense.
Eliza were staring at me, as were Nut, Mrs. Wiggins, and Bates. We finished the meal in utter silence. More of us than me, I am certain, were considering how a paper cone of candy might change my life.
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ELIZA 1877 Getting Fed Up
Eliza thought she might grind her own teeth to splinters by the end of that supper. Him giving her sweets out in front of everyone, that was as ill-mannered and hurtful as a fellow could think of. And nobody making so much as a comment of consolation to her after?
Resentment itched Eliza. After her teaching Mary to be a proper tweenie--a maid between stairs, meaning up and down and everywhere in between ... covering her mistakes, of which there were plenty she could think of ... Imagine! Going at the grates without gloves! All the laundry lessons, all the nights in the same iron-posted bed ... Eliza wished Mary would have the courtesy to explain, or apologize, or flaunt even, so there'd be a natural reason to tear at her hair until it ripped right out.
But to pretend the moment hadn't happened? That just burned Eliza's bonnet, that did.
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JAMES 1884 Remember the Forsaken Poor
James felt clever on Saturday night in the chapel, but come Sunday morning on the same spot, he didn't feel so clever anymore. On Saturday night, Mr. Chester had polished his round spectacles on his waistcoat and smiled at James with his crooked mouth before sending the bullies to the crypt and the little boys back to their beds.
On Sunday morning, however, it was the Big Chaps who surrounded him before the service began.
"You will pay for the rest of your days."
That was what Tubbs said in James's ear, digging his knuckles deep into James's neck. Harvey Hooper rammed his hand under James's collar and let loose a fistful of salt, saved especially from the breakfast table.
Those thick, tall boys slid away right quick. Quick as snakes, all gone. James saw why, with Mr. Byrd's eyes watching and Mr. Florence, the choirmaster, waiting. All
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the masters stood in a special place, with the lady teachers from the girls' side too. Mr. Chester was there, but too far away to notice that those same menacing Big Chaps were at it again.
James and the other Infants sat in the front row where he could mostly see only railing. The bench was hard. The boys behind must have had fire in their eyes because the heat on James's neck was most distracting. The boys behind were supposed to tell a master if any small foundling moved one bit during chapel. His eyeballs ached from holding in misery. He counted curses for distraction.
Devil's fart.
God's bum.
He needed a new one. Or two. Something to do with ...
Coram! Coram's skull!
Coram's breath ... Yes, the crypt could supply an endless list!
But then Mr. Florence tapped a stick on his music stand and the choir began to sing. There was a rush of air in James's ears like the whole huge chapel was fluttering with a thousand birds. His ears flew up higher and higher and he forgot to breathe. He looked at the other boys to see if they were marveling as he was, or if he was the only one who'd never heard such songs before. That was an hour he would remember, probably forever.
The next hour too, but for a different reason.
They lined up like always outside the boys' refectory.
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They each were wearing a new Sunday collar, which James already hated; stiff, tickling thing.
They marched slowly into the dining hall, in time with the striking mallet. James went to his place and stood behind the bench. This part he already knew. But today, Sunday, there were strangers clustered near the walls. Some of the gentlemen kept their hats on and some held them under their arms. The ladies wore dresses in beautiful colors, like a row of biscuit tins with pretty labels.
Like the tins in the Peeveys' shop.
The mallet rapped. James bowed his head and clasped his hands in front, as all the others did. Rap! He closed his eyes and listened to one of the Big Chaps--which one? He opened one eye and tried to see without turning his head. It was Monty Clemens, who had carroty hair, even under his arms, according to Frederick. Monty said the grace, using words fast.
"Father of mercies, by whose love abounding all we Thy creatures are sustained and fed, may we while here on earth Thy praises sounding, up to Thy heavenly courts with joy be led."
The servers carved roast beef and spooned out boiled greens. James held on to both sides of his plate, sniffing, hopeful. Maybe food tasted better on Sundays. There seemed to be more of it. The visitors began to move between the tables, pointing at the food and looking closely at the boys. Was he supposed to stop and look at them? No, the others were ignoring the waving and watching.
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They were just eating. James just ate, though his throat was clogged.
Some of the spectators said things.
"Fancy giving beef to charity children!" That was a lady with blue gloves, holding a man's arm.
"No wonder they gobble it up like goats," said the man.
James shut his eyes and tried to chew loudly enough not to hear the talking.
"The boy who spoke the grace," one lady said. "With the red hair? You can see his mother was an Irish slut!" That made laughter ripple around.
James kicked Frederick's ankle, not hard, just to get his attention.
"What?" said Frederick.
"Why are they here?" whispered James.
"They come to see us," said Frederick. "Sometimes they give us pennies."
"But why ?"
"Because we're poor."
"Poor," said James. "Not deaf."
A lady wearing a violet dress swished along their row. She leaned over with her gray bonnet right next to James's face. Close enough that he could have bitten off one of the silky little rosebuds on the hat's brim. Her nose was bumpy but her eyes were soft brown and worried-looking. James stopped chewing. You can't chew or swallow when someone's bumpy nose is nearly touching yours.
"Hello," she said. "Aren't you a pretty one!"
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Frederick made a rude noise and pretended it was a cough. The lady kept peering at James. The stupid collar was going to choke him. He lowered his eyes, awkward with staring.
"Ohh! The lashes!"
Frederick snorted again. James booted him. He felt roast beef in his throat, mixed with the smell of the lady, which made him think of cake. He might be sick, he really might. Two Big Chaps watched from the other side of the table.
"Are you new, dear?" asked the lady. "I don't think I've seen you before."
"Yes, he's new," said one of the older boys. "He doesn't talk much, but he likes pennies."
James flinched. "I do not!" Of course he did, really, but it was bad manners to say so!
The lady smiled, showing edges of buckteeth and crinkling her friendly eyes. "I am Lady Bellwood," she said. "What is your name?"
Frederick booted him this time.
"James," he whispered.
"Hello, James. You little dear." She opened her purse and tucked something from her hand into his. "That's for you, mind, not for those other boys." And she winked .
Her skirt was twisted by the bench leg when she tried to stand up but she got free and went away. James slid his fist below the table to glimpse his prize: three sweets wrapped in waxy paper.
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"What've you got there?" Ben Fra
nklin was quick. James pushed two candies into his cuff before his hand was jerked into view.
"Give it to me!" Ben snatched the sweet.
James grabbed at him but mostly for show. He wasn't going to fight with Ben Franklin. He only wanted Sunday dinner to be over and never come again.
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OLIVER 1884 Visitors
When Oliver was a boy, spectators had been permitted into the wards at night to observe sleeping foundlings. He wondered whether they hadn't even been encouraged to visit, on the chance that a potential benefactor's heart might be swayed by the sight of a stray curl resting against a slumbering cheek ...
He'd had a naughty streak, even he would admit that, as dry and sensible as the boys might think him now. He and Rawson Smith had planned many an entertainment for the denizens of Ward Three. It had begun honestly enough, when Oliver awoke one night, with a total stranger sitting on his bed, rearranging his blanket. He'd screamed. Who wouldn't? He'd startled the woman, the matron, and the whole dormitory full of boys. The next
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time, Rawson did it on purpose, with the same prolonged effect on the audience. The time after that, Oliver added moaning, and a few twitches, before rolling himself off the edge of the bed. Rawson then sat up in terror, grabbing the skirt of a tiptoeing lady visitor, claiming he'd dreamt of Death wearing a cape. The final event had involved a boiled beet, carefully saved from dinner. Oliver remembered the sharp-tasting juice sitting in his mouth while he'd waited to leak "blood" during the evening tour ...
That had been the end of it. Oliver and Rawson were caned and wrote five hundred lines each: I will not create false nightmares but will instead accept God's mercy to the forsaken poor .
Night visiting had soon after been terminated.
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MARY 1877 Telling About the Letter
The day came when Mr. Daniel knocked twice and were standing there still when I'd wiped the carrot shreds off my hands to open the door. He handed me a small bundle of letters but kept one apart.
"This one is for you, Mary."
I suppose he didn't expect me to know my letters. He pointed to where my name were writ out, bold and square.
Did he notice my upset? "It may not be bad news," he said, quiet-like, trying to reassure me. "Bates can read. And Eliza. Take it to the table." He nudged me across the stoop and waited. Finally, he closed the door for me. I were that shook, wondering what calamity I held there, feeling the paper under my thumbs until it warmed.
I'll give Bates credit that his voice changed as he read.
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To Mary Finn ,
My sister Fanny wrote to us that you ran away, which news has broken your father's heart. We received word from you also, writ by your friend, but it did not balance our disappointment. We wonder that a girl so young should be so headstrong. For the safety of the children you are not welcome here again .
You now have a half sister, Phoebe, born May 12, 1877, and another one coming, though it shames me that you are related by blood .
We all are well here in Pinchbeck, except your brother John, who passed from this earth on the 10th of September. He is buried next to your mother, Mary Ann Boothby Finn .
Your father asked me to write .
Sincerely,
Margaret Finn
I tore the paper from Bates's hand. Margaret Finn ? How dare she? Small John, dead and buried? I slid into
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the chair, instantly swallowed by the shock. I shook off whosever hand touched my back, my face hidden while I wept for my dear brown-eyed boy. It were certainly that cough that took him and I blamed Margaret Huckle for not knowing about chest plasters or bowls of steam or spoonfuls of honey before bed. But worse, letting myself be sent off made it my fault, and then going further away instead of home. I cringed, remembering Mam, her littlest boy lost on account of me.
The bell jangled above our heads, from the library.
"They'll be wanting their tea," said Mrs. Wiggins. "You've had your cry. Now splash your face and get on with it. Take the post up too."
I were sniffing and bubbling when I lifted my head to see all their faces turned elsewhere, giving me that whole minute to mourn my baby brother. Nut slid his hand under mine, setting me off again. But I upped and put on clean cuffs, changed my apron, and took the tea tray to the library. I put it down on the nice doily that lay over the table by the window.
"Thank you, Mary," said Lady Allyn, barely smiling. At the desk, Lord A. kept moving his pen, not looking up. Neither of them had half a care for me, even if they'd known that my brother had died. I backed out of the room that held all those prized books, all the words written by men who'd got servants bringing tea and not one of them thinking how it mattered that I had spooned honey into Small John's fevered mouth, or mended his blue jacket,
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or been proud of him picking out the letters on a gravestone.
Somehow I knew there were a gulch between what got writ down about history and what were remembered by the people who went along living it. No doubt the scholars checked their facts about battles and such nonsense, but weren't those battles fought by boys who'd wished for their mams, or bought peppermints or arm wrestled to win a bit of tobacco? Days went by, girls left home, children died, and who marked it all?
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JAMES 1888 Finds the Tree
James didn't think of climbing the tree until he was nearly ten years old and being chased by Harvey Hooper for the purpose of having his "poxy little mongrel's face pushed in."
"Touch me and you'll get the pox!" he'd shouted, but that idea didn't have much plunk with a brain the size of Harvey's.
Until that day, James had often hidden behind one tree or another, but had never considered climbing. One hand on the bark, ready to slip between the tree and the wall, he happened to glance up, and had an instant of soaring recollection--of Mister's strong hands clasping his waist, lifting him high enough to catch hold of the lowest branch.
James leapt, and surprised himself by being able to
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reach, just as Harvey's voice called out, "Nelligan, I'll get you, wherever you've hid your ugly face." James grinned, palms smarting, feet scrambling till they suddenly found a spot and he was safe. The next branch was hardly higher, an easy climb. He watched the yard, spying on Harvey's confused face and stomping-away boots. James shifted his wedged bottom, and--Coram's ghost! He could see right over the wall and into the street!
Oh, the hubbub! What that narrow brick wall had been hiding! James stretched out along the branch--that day, and whenever he could afterward--watching the wild world outside from the safety of his perch.
The tree gave James a new life, a room to himself, the crow's nest on a sailing ship overlooking the Outside. His branch was higher than anywhere he'd ever been in an outdoors place, perhaps as high as the dormitory windows. The light was different under there, pretty and lacy, always shifting as leaves fluttered, a perfect green curtain. He couldn't go every day, not even every week, but sneaking up there was even better than sitting at history lessons. It was the Now part of history, thought James. His breath came fast as he climbed each time, knowing there'd be ... something different to see. At the Foundling, every minute could be predicted and accounted for. The Outside was so busy and crowded that James could never predict or account, much as he'd tried. No list could ever capture it all.
His view of that stretch of street (which street was it? He wished he knew its name) became his secret source of
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knowledge, like finding a book written in a language that none of the other boys could understand. And he'd certainly never show them.
As he lay up there, twitching and giddy, poked by rough tree knobs, James tried to memorize everything, to tell all the things for sale to Mama Peevey that never were in the shop at home.
Pies!
Every kind of flower, also watercress in baskets
Milk and beer and pressed lemon d
rink
Mattresses!
Lots of slimy things that looked, from where James lay, like slugs in little saucers: mussels, they were called, or oysters
There was a fellow sometimes passing who bought hair--yes, hair. He'd cut the length from a girl's head and pay her something for it. What did he do with it? James could never tell .
Oh, it was too much to think about while watching! He wanted to save some for later, like the sweets that Lady Bellwood and the other lady visitors gave to him on Sundays.
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MARY 1877 Love
I suppose you'll think I'm a right hussy when I tell you we got to kissing the third time I ever saw him. I will only say that it were soon after I had the letter from Margaret Huckle and I were oddly jumpy. There were something tingling inside, making me laugh when I ought to be crying, making me notice the colors or the taste of things. The rules were not sitting so firm in my mind.
You'll remember that Caden Tucker had given notice as to where he might be loitering at a certain time, should I happen to be there too. I had been worrying since morning what reason to use, but then a gift were presented, in the shape of Master Sebastian's emerging teeth. This were his second time to alter my life's bumpy path, and he just eight months old. As Mam would say, this leading to that,
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the history of a person could be so directed by the incidental nub of a tooth chafing its way through.
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