Salting the Wound

by Janet Woods

  She was heading out of town at a fast pace, and not in the direction he’d expected. The heath was in the other direction. She had a parcel under one arm, a basket in the other. The feather on her bonnet bobbed. After a while the crowds began to thin out.

  He could have called to her, but he was enjoying watching her too much. After a while she turned into Constitution Hill, where his Aunt Daisy lived. She slowed down when faced with the upwards climb, began to pace herself. It was late afternoon, what was she doing here? Not visiting Lucian Beresford, he hoped.

  A boy of about twelve was going in the same direction.

  ‘How would you like to earn thruppence, lad?’ Nick asked him.

  The boy’s eyes began to shine and he nodded.

  Nick took the locket from his pocket. ‘See that lady up ahead. Catch her up and tell her she dropped it.’ He plopped that and the thruppenny bit into his palm. ‘Look lively now, lad, else you’ll lose her.’

  The boy was off like a shot.

  Nick watched from the shadows of a spreading tree as the lad gave the locket to her, then delivered his message and went on his way.

  Marianne gazed down at the locket for a while, then opened it. He watched a smile inch across her face until it shone like a beacon. She gazed down the hill at him, her mouth forming his name. ‘Nick.’ Dropping her basket and parcel she came running down to where he stood. Once there she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight. Tears tumbled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you were alive . . . I just knew it . . .’ Her hands touched his face, mussed his hair. She planted a kiss on his cheeks, his mouth. His forehead. ‘Oh, Nick. I’ve missed you so much.’

  He couldn’t stop smiling. ‘I’d intended to go straight to Harbour House to find you, then I saw you in the crowd. What are you doing in this part of town?’

  Her smile faltered. ‘I live here, with your Aunt Daisy. You don’t mind, do you? I know we were going to keep our marriage a secret, but it wasn’t possible.’

  He slid an arm around her waist. ‘Of course I don’t mind. But I still don’t see—’

  ‘Charlotte threw me out.’

  His heart sank. How could Charlotte have done such a thing to her own sister?

  They’d reached her parcel and her basket. He stooped to retrieve them. ‘Has it been bad for you?’

  ‘There was gossip. Still is, in fact. Everything will be all right now you’re home. Where have you been for all this time? They said you were dead. Even Erasmus thought you were gone, but he pretended he didn’t. He’s been so kind, and so has Aunt Daisy. I’ve missed you, so.’

  ‘Samarand went down, but I’ll tell you all about it later.’ Drawing her into the shadow of a hedge he took advantage of her soft and willing mouth. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. There was something different about Aria. She’d gained a little weight perhaps, but in the right place. Otherwise, she was still as slender as a sparrow.

  When his glance fell to her breasts, laughter filled her eyes.

  The gate gave a familiar squeak when he pushed it open. Aria had her own key, and opened the door. The familiar smell of his childhood home took him unawares, as did the thought that if fate hadn’t decreed differently, he wouldn’t be standing here now.

  From upstairs there came a couple of soft yelps, and soothing noises from Daisy.

  Marianne placed a finger over her mouth when his aunt shouted from upstairs, ‘Is that you, Marianne?’

  ‘Of course it is. Who else were you expecting? Come down and bring Dickon with you. I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  Her familiarity with his aunt surprised Nick. He remembered the yelps and whispered, ‘Dickon? You’ve got a dog? How did you persuade my aunt?’

  She gazed up at him, laughing. He’d forgotten how blue and entrancing her eyes were. ‘It’s a surprise for you, as well as for Daisy, Nick Thornton.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Daisy said, descending the stairs. She was carrying something loosely wrapped in a shawl. She stopped dead when she saw Nick, her hand flew to her mouth and she whispered, ‘Nicholas . . . you’re alive . . . thank God! Oh dear, if I didn’t believe in Him before, I do now. Welcome home, my dearest boy.’

  But Nick’s eyes were intent on the bundle Marianne took from Daisy, an infant with dark curls. Nick’s heart turned over when she placed the child in his arms and said softly, ‘This is your adorable son. Dickon, meet your papa.’

  Eyes as dark as his own gazed into his, then a tiny arm emerged from the wrapping. A fist unfurled, a perfect hand in miniature appeared, and an uncertain smile came and went.

  She placed a little kiss right next to his ear, one so light that it made Nick shiver. ‘Well, my love, what do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s perfect.’

  The boy’s eyes moved to his mother. This time his smile was bigger and longer lasting. Dribble ran down his chin and his legs gave a joyous little kick.

  Love for this scrap of humanity filled him. He gazed at the woman who’d produced this tiny miracle for him as a welcome home gift, and tears filled his eyes. All the time he’d been absent and he’d never given a thought to the fact that their lovemaking might have born such tender fruit.

  ‘I think he’s perfect. Thank you, my love.’ He gazed at his aunt who was also crying. ‘And thank you for looking after them, Aunt Daisy.’

  Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, Daisy vigorously blew her nose. ‘I’d better go and make us a cup of tea then. I imagine you could do with one after all this time.’

  As soon as he’d gone he slid his free arm around Aria’s waist. When he pulled her close she snuggled her head into his shoulder and the three of them were joined as one.

  After a while her tears dampened him and he whispered, ‘Don’t be sad, Aria. Everything will be all right. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.’

  When she snuffled out, ‘I’m crying because I’m happy, you idiot,’ he laughed, because nobody could be happier than he was at that moment.

  Nineteen

  John didn’t know how long he’d been in the workhouse. Several weeks had passed since he’d escaped from the man who’d asked for his ticket.

  He’d run as far away from the station as he could, and had found himself in a street with shops. He’d bought himself a pie.

  ‘Do you know the way to Poole?’ he’d asked the woman who’d served him.

  ‘And what pool would that be?’

  ‘It’s on the other side of the heath.’

  ‘No, luvvy. I’ve never heard of it, or the heath.’

  A man followed him out of the shop and drew him into the lane. ‘Where are your folks, lad?’

  ‘They live in Poole. That’s where I’m going.’

  ‘You want to go to Poole, do you, lad? It happens I’m going that way. It will cost you.’

  John didn’t like the look of the man. ‘I haven’t got much money.’

  ‘Turn your pockets out lad and let’s have a look.’

  ‘I need it for food.’

  He cried out when the man twisted his arms up behind his back. ‘You’ve got more’n I’ve got, and if you don’t shut up I’ll break your soddin’ arm.’ The man’s hands searched roughly through his pockets. ‘Call that nothing,’ he said of the florins, and pushed John face down in some rotting vegetables. By the time John stood the man was gone. So was his money, and a dog was gulping down the remains of his pie.

  He’d lingered in the shopping street for several days begging for food and sleeping in the alley. One night a man took him by the collar, hauled him to his feet and threw him into the back of a wagon.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you, lad. You can’t stay there any more, someone will do away with you. I was hoping you’d move on. We’ve got enough paupers as it is.’

  The union workhouse was a few miles out of town. It was a relief to have a bed to sleep in, even though it was shared by two other boys. At first John was pleased to have regular food, though he soon lost his appetite for gruel, thin pea
soup with fat floating in it, and bread. Nobody took much notice of him amongst the crowd of people living there, but he attended lessons in the schoolroom, which he liked. After three weeks he caught a fever, and came out in spots.

  Both of the boys who shared his bed caught it too, and the smaller one died.

  ‘Measles,’ the medical officer said, and John was placed into a room that had other cases in.

  Three weeks later he was back on his ward. The place stank of urine. His head and body itched, his hair was coming out and he thought he might have caught lice.

  One day he looked out of a window in desperation, and saw a couple of gypsy caravans heading for the hills. He wondered if they were going to the heath.

  If he didn’t get out of here soon he’d die, he thought desperately. He’d run away once, and he could do so again.

  ‘We want some boys to weed around the graveyard,’ a warder said the next day. ‘You, you, and you.’

  ‘I can pull up weeds,’ John offered.

  ‘A little minnow like you.’ The warder laughed. ‘All right then, come on.’

  There was about twenty of them in the weeding gang. It was grand to be out of the workhouse, where the most he could hope for was to separate the tar from the oakum until he died. People died quite often in the workhouse, like the boy in the bed who’d felt cold and waxy in the morning. John’s fingers were already covered in blisters and calluses from picking oakum. The weeding proved to be hard work, too, but the air was fresh, and there were slabs of bread and cheese and a barrel with ale in to drink. Using the gravestones as cover, John gradually worked his way over to a line of trees.

  He waited there, knowing he need only to squat as an excuse for being there if anyone looked for him. Dusk began to fall. The boys lined up, and John held his breath, hoping the warder didn’t count them. He didn’t, and he began to walk back to the workhouse, the warder at the front helping to pull the cart, and the boys in a straggling line after him.

  Then they were gone from sight. Keeping to the line of trees John began to run uphill, in the same direction the caravans had gone. They were a day ahead of him. He’d have to walk all night to catch them up. The sun dipped in the sky and long shadows spread across the land. John crossed to the limestone track that wound into the distance. When the moon came out he would still be able to see his way. He’d die rather than go back.

  But despite his resolve, he quickly tired. He made his bed behind a dry stone wall out of the wind, curled into a ball in his coarse workhouse clothing, and fell asleep.

  The next morning the sound of horses woke him. About to sit up, he froze against the wall when he heard a voice. ‘He wouldn’t have come this far, surely. He’s too small.’

  ‘It’s surprising how far nippers can run when they want to. I hope he’s stayed on the track, otherwise he’ll be lost by now.’

  ‘Aye, well. You can’t blame the boy for running away. He’s probably gone back into town. There’s no sign of him up ahead. Let’s go back. We’ll have a look round the docks.’

  ‘We’ll go as far as that copse up ahead. I can see smoke.’

  ‘Probably the diddicoys. They passed through earlier.’

  John stayed where he was, pressed against a cold wall, the long grass ticking against the back of his legs. He pulled a long tender shoot and sucked the moisture from the root end to refresh his mouth, as his Aunt Marianne had once shown him. He couldn’t risk being seen. The men came back an hour later, and passed within a foot of his hiding place.

  When they’d gone from sight, John rose from his bed of long grass and began to run. In the distance he could see a thin thread of smoke curling up the copse. He headed for it, frantic, in case the gypsies moved off again.

  The sun reached the overhead position. It was noon, that much he knew. Otherwise, he had no idea where he was, and wished he’d paid more attention to his geography lessons. Hungry and thirsty, by mid-afternoon John’s pace had long ago flagged to a walk. He could smell the smoke in the air now. He trudged on and turned into a field, where a couple of barking dogs tried to keep him at bay. He couldn’t go any further and simply stayed there, swaying back and forth.

  Someone shouted at the dogs and they retreated.

  A woman he recognized was sitting on the step of her van. Not far from her a black kettle steamed over a fire. Unhurriedly, she rose to her feet, gazed at him then smiled. ‘So there you are, Master John Hardy.’

  ‘Jessica,’ he whispered, stumbling towards her, feeling relieved that her face was familiar. He’d visited her with his Aunt Marianne and she wouldn’t turn him away.

  ‘We’ve been waiting here for you. What took you so long?’

  He was so weary and aching he could have died from it. ‘My legs wouldn’t go any faster, and stones kept getting inside my boots and making blisters. How did you know I was trying to catch you?’

  ‘Two fellers in uniform came sniffing around looking, and asked for you by name. Besides, ’tis the way of the gypsy to pass the word in the wind. We were all keeping a look out for you. Right now, I know you’re thirsty and hungry and you need to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  He did feel better when she took him in her arms, hugged him to her and rocked him back and forth while she soothed him with, ‘Such a brave little soldier, you are, my lovely. Everything will be all right now, you’ll see. Jessica will look after you until we get you home if that’s what you want. Your folk will be worried, but word will get to them. There’s a man looking for you though. His name is Adam, if I take you back, he’ll find you.’

  John remembered Adam, who his pa had trusted. He might take him back to his grandfather though. ‘I don’t want to wait for Adam. Please let me come with you, Mrs Jessica.’

  ‘I reckon the countryside will help take the hurt away from you, at that. Someone will pass the word.’

  There was a younger man and woman, and two older children with her. They exchanged a smile.

  Jessica said, ‘This here is John Hardy from Poole Heath. His mama named her girl twin after me. Find him some warm clothes to wear, and feed that workhouse uniform to the flames. Roseanne, fetch the boy some water to drink.’

  ‘He stinks something awful, ma.’

  ‘And like as not he’s lousy with it. While we still have light we’ll give him a bath. I’ll put some chrysanthemum and thyme oil in it. I’ll rub it through his hair, too, then I’ll see to his sores and crack his lice, because they’ll be half dead by then and not so lively. After that he’ll be ready to eat some of that nice rabbit stew you made, I reckon.’

  John had never looked forward to a bath so much. It was nice to feel clean again – to feel safe. Jessica stroked soothing salve into his sores, and her fingers in his hair made him feel sleepy.

  By the time John had finished his stew he was drowsy. He leaned his head against Jessica’s body and she told him a story about his real mother and father who were living with the angels and kept watch over him. Every time you see a gold flower they would have planted it there for you, and you’ll remember how much they loved you. John felt comforted by the story and the spoon dropped from his fingers into his lap.

  ‘There, there, my lovely, you don’t have to worry any more. You’re a long way from home, but Jessica will take you there eventually, and everything will be all right.’

  John felt himself being lifted from her and laid on a bunk. A blanket was tucked over him and Jessica began to sing in a low voice, using words he didn’t understand.

  The last thing he heard was the soft hoot of an owl.

  John had gone to the wrong station. He’d boarded a train at Paddington, and had got off at Bristol. Adam knew that for a fact, since the stationmaster remembered him.

  ‘Dressed like a little lord, he was. He said his name was John. The lad didn’t have a ticket when I challenged him. He told me he was going to Poole, and his father would pay for it when he got there. You’re a bit young to be travelling on your own, sez me. And if y
ou’re going to Poole, what are you doing in Bristol? I threatened him with the police if he didn’t hand the money over. He said he needed it for food, and when I threatened to turn him upside down and shake it from his pockets he ran off, as quick as a rat.’

  Adam grinned. ‘The lad was telling the truth. He boarded the wrong train in London, and I’ve been hired to find him. There is a substantial reward for his safe return. If you see him again I’d be obliged if you’d offer him some assistance. He’s to be delivered to Colonel and Mrs Seth Hardy, of Harbour House in Poole.’ Adam handed him the fare. ‘Will this be sufficient recompense for his fare?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man touched his cap and slid the money into his pocket, where it would probably be conveniently overlooked as belonging to the Great Western Railway. ‘A reward you say. Well that puts a different light on things. I’ll deliver the boy personally if I see him, and I’ll treat him like one of my own.’

  Bristol was a bustling port town and the chances of John going unnoticed in the crowd was strong. Adam was lucky in his inquiries that a pie seller remembered him. ‘A nice young man. Polite like. Someone must have robbed him because the next time I saw him he was foraging in the alley for scraps . . . sleeping there for all I know. I don’t know where he came from, but he were lost and begging on the street. I told the officer at the workhouse, lest the boy be set upon. I reckoned he’d be better off there. There are lots of unscrupulous types in Bristol, and it wouldn’t have taken much for him to have been picked up, taken on board one of the ships and sold into slavery.’

  Thanking the man, Adam pressed some coins in his hand, booked a room for the night in the Railway Hotel. He asked directions to the workhouse. When he got there he was too late.

  ‘John Barrie absconded from a work detail four weeks since. He disappeared into thin air. Nobody saw him leave. We sent men into town to search for him, then up into the hills, but all they found were a couple of gypsy caravans. There were a couple of women, a man and some boys . . . too old to be John. A sullen lot, the gypsies. Secretive, like. We turned everything over in the caravans, but no sign of the runaway hidden away. They didn’t seem to know his name, and said they hadn’t seen him.’