The Christmas Blend

by Veronica Bale

  Chapter Three

  Nat was in high spirits when he left the pub. With a full pay packet in his pocket and a belly full of ale, he was as happy as he’d ever been. Not even the rain that had begun to drizzle onto the city a half hour ago, and which he now had to walk through to get home, could bring him down.

  He and Bill—that had been the name of his workmate for the day, though Nat could not remember the man’s surname—had shifted far more than two men’s worth of cargo, as Nat had promised Mr. Slattery.

  First there had been the grain ship, which was docked when he arrived, and then Duckett and Company had come to the docks by road, with several wagonloads of stout that was to be shipped out on a charter barge. Mr. Slattery had been mightily impressed, and Bill had been grateful for the extra work. He was still in the pub when Nat left, and was working on his fifth pint. Five pints was more than Nat himself would be willing to spend in any one sitting, but after today’s windfall his friend would still have enough left over to satisfy his wife and children.

  Dripping wet and eager to share his triumph with Rose, he took the tenement steps two at a time and burst through the door. What greeted him on the other side ruptured the bubble of his joy.

  Rose was seated on the edge of Oliver’s cot, hunched over the little boy who was tucked under the covers to his chin. She dabbed at Oliver’s forehead, cheeks and neck with a wet rag. Her large, dark eyes shone with tears that she was trying desperately to contain, and her hands shook visibly. Mary sat quietly on her own cot, which had been pulled as far into the corner of the room as it could go. She watched on somberly, twisting the ears of her stuffed rabbit, which was now threadbare from more than one set of hands twisting at its cloth body over the years.

  Mr. Cotter stood in the doorway to the bedroom. He leaned on the dilapidated wood frame looking completely helpless. His arms were crossed over his withered chest and his right knee wagged back and forth subconsciously, knocking the doorframe in a steady drumbeat.

  Nat wasted no time with preliminary conversation. He crossed the room and put the back of his fingers to Oliver’s forehead. It was burning hot. The boy’s cheeks were an angry pink, too, and his breathing was raspy and laborious.

  “My God, how long has he been like this?”

  “Since this afternoon.” Rose did not look up. “He’d been quiet all morning, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then when I made them a spot of dinner at noon, he hardly touched it. He went to lie down after that, and he’s been here ever since.”

  Nat heard the crack in Rose’s voice, knew the thoughts that were running through her head.

  “Rosie, this ain’t your fault. Do you understand? You are not to blame for this.”

  “Cor, Nat. I shoulda known. I shoulda thought something.”

  Her chin quivered for a brief second. But in true Rose form, she clenched her fists shut, wiped the gathering tears from her eyes with her knuckles, and got on with the business at hand. Nat’s heart ached for his sister. She was too young to have to be mother to the entire family.

  “Has the doctor been called?”

  The girl looked furtively to her father. Joseph Cotter made no answer. Instead, he shuffled to the table in the centre of the small room and sank heavily into a battered wooden chair—the family’s only seating; there was no room for an armchair or a settee in the flat.

  “Father’s lost his job,” Rose said softly.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am.”

  Nat’s eyes searched out his father’s, but Joseph Cotter would not look up.

  “But how? Why? You’ve never been a day late in your life. You haven’t shot off your gob, have you?”

  Joseph Cotter shook his head. He looked small sitting there. Diminished. Like he’d aged a decade in one night. “There was many jobs lost today, son. It would appear that Mr. Dyer has run up too many debts.”

  “Mr. Dyer? That red-nosed toff what struts about like a peacock?”

  “That’s the one. He is Mrs. Duckett’s brother, and he manages the business. And he’s run it into the ground, it would seem.”

  Nat remembered the man named Charles Dyer, and he remembered disliking him on sight. He’d seen him a few times when he’d gone to the brewery, either to take his father the lunch he’d forgotten or when Joseph Cotter had been fortunate enough to secure Nat a day of casual labor. The impression Nat had of Charles Dyer was that he was a pompous, useless, overweight imbecile who drank while working. He liked to intimidate and look important, but no one was fooled into believing he was anything other than a dolt.

  Now the man had run the brewery into debt, Nat thought, growing angry. Well that was no great matter, was it? No no, a simple fix for that lot of toffee-nosed buggers. Take jobs away from good men, that’s all that was needed. Good, hardworking men would lose their livelihoods, but at least Mrs. Duckett would be kept in frills and kid gloves.

  An image of the unseen Mrs. Duckett formed in his mind. He’d never had occasion to lay eyes on her before, but in his brain she was exactly like her brother: portly, red-nosed, and insipid.

  His anger intensified, turned into a slow-simmering rage. While the likes of the Cotter family were scraping by, the likes of Charles Dyer and Mrs. Duckett were swanning around in luxury, either oblivious to, or completely unmoved by, the suffering they caused.

  It was with great effort that he managed to remain calm. He stroked Rose’s dark curls, so much like his own, so much like Oliver’s and Mary’s and their mother’s before them.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor. I’ve had a good day at the docks, so we’ve enough to pay for a visit.”

  “What about the rent?” Rose asked.

  Bloody hell—the rent.

  “I don’t know about the rent just yet, Rosie. I’ll talk to Mr. Carver and see if he will extend us more time. For now, Ollie needs to be seen.”

  ***

  It was an infection of the lungs. That’s what the doctor said after examining the little boy, who wheezed and coughed the entire time. The doctor, a tall, overbearing man with the bedside manner of a workhouse warden, prescribed tinctures of his own making, plenty of fluid, and avoidance of the damp.

  Avoidance of the damp? Spitalfields was perpetually damp no matter where one went. How was Oliver supposed to avoid that?

  A shrug was what he got when Nat put the question to the man. “If he makes it through the night, he’ll live.”

  After paying for the tinctures and the doctor’s fee, Nat’s entire wage packet was gone.

  Now there was nothing to do but watch Oliver writhe and hack. Watch Rose make her motherly administrations, and count down the hours until the night was over. It was all so unfair. Rose was not Oliver’s mother, nor was she Mary’s or Nat’s. She was only a girl herself. Just twelve. And his father, his poor father who sat at the table with his head in his hands, had barely moved for hours.

  As small blessings go, Mary had fallen asleep before the doctor arrived, so at least they didn’t need to worry about her venturing too close to Oliver’s sick bed and catching what her brother had.

  Nat felt useless. Small. Angry. He had never been one to stew over what he couldn’t change. When there was no work to be had at the docks, or when another man was chosen to work over him, he simply picked himself up and went elsewhere. When the family once again didn’t have enough to buy a goose for supper last Christmas, Nat bartered a whole two days’ heavy work with the butcher for a pair of chickens.

  No one was ever truly helpless. There was always something that could be done. Even with his father losing his job they might have been able to get by in some other way. But not with Oliver sick on top of it. Not with their family on the precipice of turning from five… into four…

  A sudden thought surfaced in Nat’s mind as he watched his sister and brother as uselessly as his father. It was a slow, almost doubtful thought, one which he felt sure he should dismiss. But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t stop thinkin
g about it.

  There was something he could do. One small thing. It might not change the Cotter family’s situation, it might not make Oliver better… but at least it would ease his gut-churning rage.

  “I’m going out,” he said abruptly.

  “Out?” Rose balked. “At this time of night?”

  “Will you be all right here, Rosie? You have things in hand?”

  “Of course. But where on earth are you going? Can you not stay here, by Ollie’s side, until he is well again?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I need to go. Father will be here.”

  Rose glanced doubtfully toward her father, who was staring blankly at his youngest son.

  “Just don’t let him get into the gin,” Nat said by way of apology.

  Rose gave him a long-suffering look that reminded him of his mother.

  “Go where you will,” she said with clear disappointment. “But be back as soon as you can.”

  Nat put a hand on Oliver’s small head, kissed Mary’s onyx curls, and gave Rose’s narrow shoulder a squeeze. Then he went out into the cold, damp night.

  He walked with purpose, with direction. He was going to Belgravia, to confront Mrs. Duckett. He didn’t have any expectation that it would change his family’s situation or make anything better, but at least it would make him feel better to unleash his pent-up anger. At least he would be doing something. Saying something. It wasn’t against the law to stand up to a toff, was it?

  Well, it wasn’t that he knew of.

  He’d been to the late Mr. Duckett’s home once before. That beautiful home in the beautiful neighborhood called Belgravia. There were no poor streets like there were in Spitalfields, no dilapidated buildings, no wretched people. It had been ten years ago, but Nat remembered it well. Remembered the unprecedented luxury in which the Ducketts lived.

  Back then, when old Mr. Duckett was alive, there used to be luncheons held once a year for the company’s senior brew masters and their families. Joseph Cotter had been one of those men. Nat had only been thirteen at the time, but he was fairly certain he could find the way again. After all, he was a man now. He knew the city, and he knew where Belgravia was in relation to Spitalfields.

  With no money to hire a public cart, the journey on foot took more than an hour. But that was all right. Nat was accustomed to walking and being on his feet all day. The holes in his shoes where they let in the rainwater were a nuisance, but it was nothing he couldn’t ignore. The rain, though, pelting him overhead—well, he would prefer if it didn’t drip off his hair and into his eyes, but there was no help for it.

  At last, the clean, quiet streets of Belgravia came into view. Toff carriages rattled past him on the cobbles, and toff gentlemen with their toff ladies strolled past. They gave him suspicious looks, accusing glances. Why are you here? Nat imagined they were thinking. You do not belong here. Be off with you. Nat kept his head down, kept his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, and kept walking. He walked until he came to the row of white terrace houses that he remembered from that one luncheon those many years ago.

  A moment of doubt halted him in front of the house. Would Mrs. Duckett still be here? Toffs didn’t up and move like his lot did, because the rent was late or the landlord had found a tenant willing to pay more. No. Toffs stayed put, didn’t they? This was still the Duckett residence. It had to be.

  If it wasn’t, Nat didn’t know what he’d do next.

  Two short steps rose from street level to a long front step flanked by smooth, round pillars. Nat looked up at the house. Every window shone richly, as if declaring its own splendidness. A splendid a house as were the people inside.

  In his initial awe, he had nearly forgotten why he was here. But that unbidden thought reminded him. These people were not splendid; they were rich. There was a difference. They were cruel and selfish, and this splendid house was just a shell. It did not define who they were as people any more than their splendid clothing or their splendid possessions did.

  Resolved, Nat took a step onto the porch. A voice behind him stopped his leg midair.

  “You’ll be wanting the servants’ entrance.”

  Nat turned around at the condescending remark to find a well-dressed, elderly man strolling past. The man stared down his nose at Nat, which was impressive given that Nat was a head taller to start with, and standing a step higher than the man at street level. Nat glared at him then deliberately turned his back. No, he was not wanting the servants’ entrance. He was going to confront Mrs. Duckett at her own front door.

  He took a breath to steel his nerves then Nat lifted a hand and rapped decisively on the grand door. After a short time it opened, revealing a tall, stout man with thinning hair—the butler, obviously. The man looked out at Nat with tired eyes and not a hint of surprise at the appearance of someone like Nat on the doorstep.

  “We do not give to beggars,” the butler said in long, drawn-out syllables. “If you are looking for food, I suggest you try one of the charity kitchens or the parish church. Now be off with you before you’re seen.”

  The man started to close the door, but Nat stuck his foot in the frame to keep it open.

  “I want to talk to Mrs. Duckett.”

  “And I want that you should never have knocked on Mrs. Duckett’s door, but that is not likely to happen, now is it?”

  “I ain’t leaving until I speak to her.”

  “I am sure the constable on duty tonight will think otherwise when I raise the alarm of a vagrant trying to barge his way into a home that is not lawfully his.”

  The butler shoved on the door. Nat shoved back with his whole body.

  “Mrs. Duckett,” Nat called into the house in a last, desperate attempt. “Mrs. Duckett, I have something to say to you.”

  From inside, there was a small, weary voice.

  “Willcox, who is it?”

  “It is no one, madam,” the butler replied, still shoving.

  “Mrs. Duckett,” Nat said quickly so that he would not lose his opportunity. “My father lost his job today at your brewery—”

  He found he could not finish the words. They suddenly sounded ridiculous. What did he expect? That he would sling his accusations and unburden himself of his hatred towards the lady and her kind… and she would listen? She would thank him? She would agree and Nat’s burning rage would be soothed? Not bloody likely.

  Nat looked at his foot wedged into the door opening. He may not have been in danger of being thrown in the clink for simply knocking on the door, but forcing his way in was another thing altogether.

  So it was a great surprise to him when the small, weary voice inside said, “Open the door please, Willcox.”

  “But madam, surely—”

  “I said, open the door.”

  The butler, whose face had lost its composure during his struggle with Nat, resumed his air of boredom. Then, with exaggerated slowness, he opened the door and stood back.

  Nat peered into the brightly lit foyer with its white marble staircase, wood-panelled walls and gaslight sconces. It was exactly as he remembered it those ten years ago when Mother was alive and healthy, and Father was still optimistic.

  Grand paintings of country landscapes were mounted above the curving stairs. They looked like windows into another world. The heady scent of roasting meat wafted out at him, making Nat’s stomach growl. Never before had he smelled meat so succulent and rich.

  The most astonishing sight of all amidst this unbelievable show of luxury was Mrs. Duckett herself. He imagined a smaller version of her brother—stout bellied, red nosed and frivolous, dressed in lace and frills and with hair elaborately curled. What he found was a small, delicate woman not much older than he was. She had large brown eyes that dominated a face resembling a porcelain doll. And her hair, which was not elaborately curled but was sensibly pinned with only a slight embellishment at the nape of the neck, was rich and full, the color of strong tea. A pale blue dress (with not a frill in sight, Nat noted) was tightly fitted to h
er slim figure from shoulders to waist before it billowed out in a river of loose pleats.

  She looked at him blankly, with neither the distaste of her butler nor the haughty animosity of the man who had spoken to him from street level. Under that unwavering gaze Nat lost some of his ire. But not much. His father was still without a job, and his family would still suffer because of it. And no matter how small, delicate, and innocent she may look, she was at fault for the Cotter family’s circumstance at this point in time.

  Nat fixed her with his own unwavering gaze.

  “My name is Nathaniel Cotter,” he began steadily. “Today, missus, my father lost his job as master brewer at your company. He’s worked there for twenty years, and always thought of that place and his fellow workmen his home and his family. He’s a dedicated, loyal man, and he hasn’t never put a foot out of line in all the days he worked for you. And it’s a poor, shoddy thing indeed that you’ve put him out without showing any of that loyalty to him in return. You’ve cast him off like an old shoe, you have.”

  “And what was I to do?” she asked tiredly. “There are massive debts. If I were to keep my employees now, I would have had to let every single one of them go when the business folded.”

  “So you have kept your jewels and your fine gowns and your frills and luxuries, and sacrificed the men who worked to give you them things?” Nat’s fire was replenishing itself. “That’s a fine, selfish way to look at the world. You don’t deserve that business, and you never did. You haven’t done one thing to work for it from the beginning, and now that you’re on the verge of losing it, you won’t lift a finger to start fighting for it. Your lot are all the same. You’re a selfish bunch, you are.”

  He hadn’t meant to be so accusatory, or at least not quite so, but when faced with the opportunity to unburden himself, he couldn’t hold back. It was more than just the job that made him so angry. It was Oliver. It was Rose. It was Mary, and it was his own inability to find steady work no matter how much he wanted it. All of these things came crashing together to dislodge the dam on his emotions.

  His words were wounding her. Nat could see it in her face, and he should be glad that he was having some effect on her. But he was just so angry.