Rory's Fortune

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Touching sixteen.’

  ‘Touching sixteen.’ She mimicked his voice so accurately that when he heard it he was startled. Did he sound like that? Aye, he must.

  Her head strained back onto her shoulders and she looked up at the man who was standing behind the couch and once again spoke to him rapidly in the foreign tongue; but he answered in English, and in one word. ‘Enough,’ he said; and at this she rounded on him. ‘Enough! Enough, is it? Hawkins gone, John on his back, it just needs Ben to be laid up and then, dear brother, you’ll be for the journey across the water. Think of that. Now you think of that. Unless we can get a fresh recruit or two you will have to brave the waves.’

  She turned her head slowly and looked at Rory, and Rory returned her stare for a moment, then looked at the man, whose head was hanging. The attitude of the big, bearded man standing as if beaten had an odd effect on him. Suddenly he felt sorry for him and he had the urge to turn on the woman and say, ‘You’re recruiting me for nothing, missis; I’ve come on an errand an’ once you give me whatever it is I’ve got to carry back I’m for home, and as fast as those trains can carry me. So you’ve got it.’ But he remembered the look on his master’s face and his warning: ‘Say nothing except what is necessary in politeness.’

  A minute or so later he found himself in the kitchen; and this was as amazing in its way as the room he had just left and the hall he had first entered, for it was as big as the whole wheelwright’s shop if the top and bottom floors were put together, and it wasn’t fitted like a kitchen with hanging meat and pans. There was little sign of cooking, yet when the man brought from the larder a platter with several slices of new bread and a big dollop of butter on it, together with a plate holding the complete half of a chicken, he thought that even if there were no usual signs of cooking there seemed to be an abundance of food, and good at that.

  He felt chary of starting to eat when the man sat opposite to him, his eyes fixed tight on him, but he was hungry. He tried to ignore the fixed stare and waded through the bread and chicken. When he was almost finished the man spoke, saying, ‘What’ll you have to drink? Beer, milk, tea?’

  ‘Could I have tea, please?’

  ‘Yes, you can have tea.’

  He watched the man mash the tea and then place a steaming mug before him, and after drinking from it he admitted to himself he had never tasted finer; it was stronger than anything the missis had ever brewed.

  ‘How much do you earn a week?’

  He gulped on the scalding liquid before saying, ‘One and sixpence, an’ me board.’ The man repeated, ‘One and sixpence and your board?’ then shook his head, and after a moment he leant across the table, his arms folded, and said softly, ‘Are you ambitious?’

  Ambitious? He hadn’t heard the word spoken before but he knew what it meant, so he answered, ‘Well, I want to get on and be a wheelwright some day.’

  ‘And how much will you earn then?’

  ‘Oh, I can get anything up to ten shillings a week, it all depends on the work I’d be doin’.’

  ‘How would you like to earn ten shillings an hour?’

  ‘What! Ten shillings an hour?’ Rory smiled, then shook his head derisively, and the man, his voice still low, continued as if Rory hadn’t interrupted him. ‘And perhaps twenty pounds for a night’s work.’

  Rory stared at the bearded face. The eyes were not like those of the woman, for they were dark brown and held a certain amount of warmth. His own face straight, he answered, ‘Nobody earns twenty pounds for a night’s work and does it honest.’

  There, he had opened his mouth and said what he thought, and he shouldn’t have, but the man seemed to take no objection to his remark. Instead, he said, ‘There’s honesty and honesty, it all depends on how you look at it. You’d be doing what your master’s been doing for many a year, and you consider him an honest man, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh aye, an’ the best master in the world.’ Rory was bristling as if denying an implication in the man’s words, and the man bowed his head and raised his hand as he muttered, ‘All right, all right; we won’t go into that.’ Again the man was staring at him and this time he surprised him with the question, ‘Do you go to church?’

  ‘Sometimes; feast days like harvest time and such, but not Sunday school. They mostly go to Sunday school to learn their letters, I know me letters; me da learned me, he’s a great reader is me da.’

  ‘You can read then?’ The man’s eyebrows had moved up.

  ‘Aye, I can write an’ all.’

  ‘That’s interesting, very interesting. I know some men, craftsmen, who can’t even sign their names.’

  ‘The master can, the master’s a good writer.’

  Rory now saw a change come over the bearded face. It was like a ripple of laughter, derisive laughter, yet the offence it might have held was taken away by his words when he said, ‘Oh yes, your master can write; we know that, God help him.’

  It was now the turn of Rory’s eyebrows to move upwards. The man was pitying his master. He saw no reason why anybody should pity Mr Cornwallis.

  Rory watched the man scrape his chair back on the stone floor and recognised a change in his voice when he said, ‘Well, are you ready?’

  Whilst the man took a lamp from a side table and lit it, Rory wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked up his belongings from a chair; then he was following the man again, upstairs now, but not the stairs that led from the hall. These were narrower stairs, but nevertheless they had a carpet on them. The landing that they gave on to was long and had five doors. The man opened the second one on the left-hand side and said, ‘You’ll find what you want in there,’ then, pointing along the corridor to the end door, he added, ‘That’s the water closet.’

  Water closet! A water closet inside the house! Would he never stop being surprised in this place? Again he wanted to open his mouth and say, ‘I’m not using any water closet inside, it’s not decent. The missis doesn’t even allow chamber pots except when you’re bad in bed.’ But he said nothing.

  When he was bidden, ‘Goodnight,’ he said, ‘Goodnight,’ and added ‘Sir,’ and went in and closed the door.

  He carried the lamp to a table by the side of the single bed. The room was furnished in grand style. He sighed deeply. It was all beyond him; perhaps things wouldn’t be so confused in the morning. What he wanted was sleep, a good night’s sleep. Hastily he got out of his clothes, then shivered as he slipped in between the questionable luxury of sheets, and his last thought before sleep overtook him was, why should that fella be sorry for the master?

  Chapter Four

  ‘Sleep till you’re buried, you will, then wake up’n find yourself dead.’

  ‘W-What! Where am…who?’ Rory dragged himself up out of a deep sleep and onto his elbow and stared at the laughing face looking down at him. It was a plump face, a pretty face, and young. He drew back from it, saying, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘To gettin’ you out of bed, that’s what I want.’ When the girl’s hand took the top quilt and threw it back he grabbed the remaining bedclothes around him and, sitting up, cried at her, ‘You leave me be! I can get up without your help, thank you very much.’

  The girl, about to make a laughing remark, was checked by a harsh voice from the door, crying, ‘Tilda!’

  They both stared now at the old white-capped woman glaring at them, and the young girl, her face dropping into sullen lines, cried back at the woman, but in a muted tone, ‘Am just doin’ what I’m told.’

  ‘Come out of it!’

  Rory watched the girl walk sulkily out of the room and bang the door after her; then the old woman’s voice came to him, saying, ‘You scut you! That’s what you are, a scut.’

  ‘Scut yerself, you, Jessie. ’Twas the mistress who told me. “Go up,” she said; “get him out of bed if you have to pull him.” That’s what she said. Oh, you! Old, you are, cranky.’

  Before the voices had faded into the distance Rory was out
of bed and into his trousers, and within five minutes he was washed and fully dressed and walking cautiously down the corridor.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs he again saw the girl and his face turned scarlet; but she was her usual merry self. ‘Mistress is in the long room,’ she said. ‘She’s waitin’ for you.’

  When he came within arm’s length of her she put out her hand and pushed him in the shoulder, saying, ‘What be frit of? Face is red as a cock’s comb. Don’t be frit, yarm too big to have yer backside tanned.’

  Well, of all the cheeky monkeys! For two pins he’d skelp her lug for her; he would that.

  ‘Go on.’ She actually pushed him through the door, and he found himself in the hall once again and knew he hadn’t imagined that the place was full of colour, for now in the morning light it appeared like a great painted picture of reds, greens and golds.

  ‘The door under the arch.’ She dared to push him again. ‘Knock first, else you’ll get your head knocked off.’

  He managed to bestow on her a withering glance before he walked across the hall and knocked on the oak door that fitted into the rounded arch.

  ‘Come in.’

  The woman was sitting at a desk at the far end of the room and she didn’t speak or raise her head until he was standing before her, and then she looked up at him and smiled; and he was mystified, because her face looked pleasant.

  ‘Sit down, Rory.’

  She must have got his name from the letter. He sat down, his eyes fixed tight on her.

  ‘Well now—’ she leant back in her chair, her elbows on the arms, her fingertips tapping each other. With her head on one side she said in the most pleasant manner, ‘You’re only going to be here for a short time so we must see that you enjoy it, mustn’t we? Do you like the country?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you ever lived on a farm?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Then you must go round the farm this morning, and later, take a drive. I have need to send someone to Upottery; you’ll enjoy the drive and you can visit Yarcombe on the way. You’ll never see finer country than around here.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And when you come back you must tell me what you think about it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about leaving the North of England and looking for your fortune elsewhere?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I…I like the North, an’…an’ me people are there.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ She moved her head once, and now she asked, ‘Mr Cornwallis, do you think he is seriously hurt?’

  ‘Very, ma’am, I should say. It may be that he’ll never move again.’

  ‘Oh!’ She turned her head away without taking her eyes from his face. ‘I understand you can write.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘How well can you write?’

  ‘I can write me name, ma’am, and words, an’ reckon money.’

  ‘Really!’ There was surprise in her voice; then bending forward she picked up a sheet of paper that was placed to the right of her hand and said, ‘Show me how well you can write. Write your name; what is your full name?’

  ‘Rodney Thomas McAlister, ma’am.’

  ‘Rodney Thomas McAlister. Oh, we want a nice clean space for that name, don’t we?’ She folded the sheet of paper over several times and when she handed it to him there was left a clean oblong strip that would take his name. When she nodded towards the feather quill pen he took it out of the inkwell and wrote in a round clear hand, upstrokes thin, down strokes thick, Rodney Thomas McAlister. When he handed it to her she stared at it for a moment; then, looking into his face again, she smiled and said, ‘Yes, indeed you can write.’

  Sitting straight up in her chair again, the paper with his name on held in her hand, her tone took on a briskness as she said, ‘It being Sunday you will not get the right impression of the work that goes on on the farm, but nevertheless you can wander around. Go now to the kitchen and Jessie will give you some breakfast. My brother should be leaving for Upottery around one o’clock. You won’t have your dinner until you return so I’d advise you to eat well at breakfast.’

  He was standing now. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  She smiled at him again and he turned from her and walked down the long length of the room knowing that her eyes were upon him.

  In the hall he looked about him; he guessed that the passage that led from the backstairs would also lead to the kitchen. He supposed that was where the cheeky monkey had been coming from when he had last seen her.

  After crossing the hall he hesitated between two doors, then went through the one at his left. No sooner was he on the other side than he knew it was the wrong door, for here he was in a small hall with an open door at the end of it leading onto what looked like a terrace.

  Well, he reasoned, he had only to walk round the terrace and he would come to the kitchen door, wouldn’t he?

  In walking along two sides of the terrace he had passed a number of windows but no kitchen door, and it was as he turned a corner yet again that the voices came to him. He recognised them immediately; one was that of the woman who had just been talking to him, and the other was the voice of the bearded man, her brother, and it was he who was saying, ‘None of your tricks, May; he’s different, it could mean trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alex; a boy earning one and sixpence a week, different, huh! Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I tell you I feel he’s different, he’s got spirit.’

  ‘So had his master.’

  ‘It was a dirty trick to play on the lad.’

  ‘I may not use it; if he’s wise I won’t have to use it. I’ve told him he’s going with you today; I didn’t tell him I was supplying a companion for him besides yourself. We’ll see what interests him most, Tilda’s charm or the scenery.’

  ‘You’re too clever, May.’ The statement was full of bitterness, and was followed by a silence during which Rory stood, his head cocked to one side, his fingers nervously tapping his lower lip. That woman; he knew he hadn’t liked her from the start. But what trick had she played on him? She had done nothing to him when he was in that room. But what had he done? Nothing; just answered her questions and showed her that he could write…write! His eyes sprang wide; he had written his name on a piece of paper. He could see her now folding it. There had been writing on the paper, and she had covered it up…Aw—he shook his head at himself—he was being daft, imagining things. But the man had just said she had played a dirty trick on him. He couldn’t really get to the bottom of it, but one thing he did know, she wasn’t a good woman—planning to send that cheeky monkey along of him this afternoon in order that she could take his fancy.

  He turned now and tiptoed back along the terrace and into the hall. He wished he was home; by lad! He wished he was home. They could keep the scenery, and their farm, an’ the beautiful house…an’ that cheeky monkey an’ all, they could keep the lot. Give him the wheelwright’s shop and his bed under the eaves an’ Mrs Cornwallis baking in the kitchen, an’ Lily with her kind face and sweet voice…And the master…the master who was an honest man. The master who travelled hundreds of miles every two years or so to visit his mother, and the mother was Ma Bluett…He mustn’t start suspecting the master, that was the last thing he must do. But it was all very odd, aye, an’ that was putting it mildly.

  For the past half-hour he had sat crushed up against the ‘cheeky monkey’, who was sitting between him and the bearded man on the seat of the high go-cart; and his term for her became more appropriate with the journey for she chatted not only to him, but also to her master. He supposed the man was her master, seeing that his sister was her mistress. Yet this much he had gathered: the bearded man might be tall and stern-looking, but he didn’t wear the breeches in the household; in some ways he seemed no better than a servant; it was the woman, with her beautiful face and oddly big hands like those of a man, who wore the breeches.
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  He had to admit that the country they were driving through was bonny, but it wasn’t his type of country, too soft like, as he put it to himself.

  When they drove into a tiny village with a grey stone church on one side and a few cottages on the other, it was raining heavily and the man said to him, ‘Get down and go with Tilda; I’ll pick you up on the way back.’

  When the girl went to push past his knees, saying, ‘Well, get you down,’ he remained tightly fixed in his seat and glared from her to the man, saying, ‘Where’s she goin’?’

  ‘To her mother’s. Go on, get down; I won’t be long, not more than an hour or so.’

  He got down and watched the cart roll away along the rough road, and Tilda, laughing from under her hood, said, ‘Come on, run, we’ll be soaked else. ’Tis just along the lane.’

  He didn’t move but looked about him, and his eyes became fixed on the church. Then looking at her again, he said, ‘You can go along on your own, I’ll wait in the church.’

  ‘What!’ Her nose wrinkled, her lips parted, showing a large mouthful of square white teeth. ‘You daft or summat? That there’s mouldy, smelly, and as dank as the grave. Come on, you fat-head.’ She made a grab at him.

  ‘Fat-head!’ He was bristling. ‘Who’s a fat-head? Don’t you call me names. An’ get your hands off me an’ get yourself away.’

  Her face straight now, she looked at him in bewilderment. She couldn’t understand him; no boy of his age had ever before said no to her. He was a queer one, odd.

  ‘You mean you’re not a’ comin’?…Mam makes a good tea Sundays.’

  ‘Well, you eat it,’ he barked ungraciously. Then turning from her, he went down the sloping path and followed it round the side of a square towered building until he came to the church door. Turning the heavy handle, he pushed against the black oak and went inside, and knew immediately that she had been right about one thing anyway. It was smelly, and as cold as the grave.