by Craig McNish
Miss Merryman cast her eyes over the gathering quickly, but with an expression leading one to believe she was looking for something very specific. No questions had yet been asked of anyone, and it was impossible to judge by looks alone just how skilled a man might be when it comes to running a plough, or a woman at fixing a torn dress. Still her eyes darted around, and finally they came to rest on a man stood ten feet from Mills' left side. A shy smile appeared on her lips, but also one of satisfaction that silently spoke of how she had found what she was searching for.
“Your name, sir?” She asked, beckoning for the man to step forward.
“Benjamin Godling, my lady.”
“Please, walk with me.” Godling looked puzzled, but knew that now was not the time to question how this lady would recruit her staff, nor was it his place. He did as he was asked, the two talking idly about this and that until they cleared the market place.
“Might I ask how old you are, Mister Godling?”
“Twenty two years, my lady...” And then he was quiet again.
“You do not wish to ask me the same question?” she said.
“Why, that would not be my place. I have no wish to offend the very one who might be willing to offer me work.” She laughed at this; a pleasant sound on the ear.
“I assure you, no offence would be taken, but I do appreciate good manners. I'll be twenty five years this July – the sixteenth, as it happens.”
“I have to say that I would not have guessed at a day over twenty” said Godling, his voice very genuine. “I hope my age would not cause a difficulty in gaining employment with you. I have many talents; as an only child raised mostly by my mother from a young age after the death of my father, she taught me skills one might not usually think probable of a man. I cook well, and have also been known to darn my own stockings when they have become damaged.” He looked embarrassed by this, but Merryman was captivated. “She taught me how to read well and I am also an accomplished piano player” he went on. “Mother always told me it was of the utmost importance to keep learning new skills, and I believe she was right. But I am also more than willing to do whatever other work you might require of me, be it working in the fields or cutting firewood. I believe it is important to take up any job and do it as well as you can do.”
“Then it seems that I have found the perfect man” said Merryman.
“You would offer me work? Then you have mine and God's thanks. I have no wife or children, so would require little by the way of money. I live very modestly and...” Merryman raised a hand, and Godling fell silent.
“I would say to you now Mister Godling that I am not looking for paid help...”
“Then why would you seek me out, if I might be so bold to ask?” Now she looked anxious, almost afraid.
“Let me be blunt” she said. “I have dedicated so much time to my work that it seems life has passed me by in the mere blink of an eye. I am of an age where I see my friends settled in homes with children, and husbands. I could think of no other way than this to try and find a husband to whom I might be able to give at least one child, and he to give us his love in return. I am a good judge of a person, and I believe that you might be the man I find myself looking for.” Godling was speechless for a long while, but then managed to find his voice.
“You want us to marry?”
“You find me unappealing?”
“Not at all! This is something of a shock is all. A very fine offer indeed, one which would be flattering to any man, but I do believe that a ritual courtship would be the proper way to proceed, don't you think? And then I would insist on asking for your father's permission before any marriage was to go ahead. I'm sure you understand.” Merryman smiled again, touched Godling's cheek.
“I'm afraid my parents have passed, but I see you have true respect for a lady. So we will begin a courtship, and hopefully will choose to marry when the time feels right. You live close by?”
“In Spennymoor, so no great distance. I still live in my parent's home – I would like very much for you to meet them.”
“All in good time, Mister Godling. But first I would say that the skills you tell me you possess make you worthy of work that is of better standing than a servant. I have a friend who is a tailor – maybe you would consider becoming an apprentice in his shop?”
Merryman and Godling continued on their way, talking about any number of possibilities that lay ahead of them.
*
Now the sun was beginning to fall in the west. A lot of daylight was still to be had, but a darkened cloud of gloom and maybe even despair hung low over the remaining clutch of those who had come searching for work that day. The lucky ones had homes and families to return to, and even without the promise of wages they would still have food in their bellies before sunset. Others were not so fortunate; the ladies would be forced to offer up their bodies for sale just to earn a few pence and gain a roof over their head for the night, while the men would silently pray they could hide themselves away well enough until dawn to keep from getting into any kind of scrapes, or possibly even be killed for the clothes on their back. And for so many of them, that was all that they had.
“You there – the large woman. What is your name?” Robert Cutter had a loud, booming voice that commanded attention. Everyone was looking at Anne Sanders, who was at first nervous to be looked upon by so many, but then hopeful she might soon be getting some work.
“Anne Sanders, sir. Thirty-one years, I am. I can cook, clean, sew – even good with the little 'uns, I am. Maybe you have some work for me?” Cutter looked her over, his eye taking in every little detail it could find.
“Thirty-one years, you say? I would have supposed you were twice that – older than my own mother, even.” There was a lot of laughter. Cutter liked to entertain an audience, more so at the expense of someone who was less well off than he.
“Life hasn't been kind to me, sir. Lost two babies before they could walk, and my third husband has just been stole from me by a woman who lives over by where they do the hanging. Haven't eaten a thing in two days – no money to buy any food, you see.”
“Enough, woman! I have no desire to learn of your whole miserable life. Maybe this is God's way of telling you that you have eaten too much already, don't you think? Or maybe it is your husband didn't run off with another but that you ate him instead?” More laughter. More humiliation. Rejected once again. Cutter simply waved his hand to brush off the feeble protestations of his wife not to be so harsh and show a little compassion.
“Well I do have need for a washerwoman, but for one as unclean as thee it would be my guess that you are not up to the job. However, my friend here might be able to use your services.” Cutter pointed out John Brass, who looked perplexed as to his friend's thinking.
“You do, sir? Well, that would be grand. I could start work right this minute if needs be.” She was talking to Brass now, who was shaking his head and looking bemused.
“He has a farm, not far from here.” Cutter was addressing Sanders again. “Tells me that the crows keep scavenging on his land, making many a meal of his crop. He could use someone to run around his fields all day and scare them off. What might you say?” A cruel joke indeed. Sanders felt the wet of the tears roll across her cheeks. “Two farthings a day, for surely your face will see many of those birds go on their way. And maybe an extra farthing when you are able to run a little faster than now.” More disapproval from Cutter's wife went unheard. Everyone else just didn't care.
“You are an evil man” the wailing woman told Cutter. “If not for people such as I you would be made to do your own dirty work. Your wife would be forced to scrub the floors, and your daughters to sell themselves to any and all men just so you might have a morsel to eat each day. You think yourself better than many, but you are wrong. The success you enjoy now will not last much longer, you mark my words.”
“You would dare to put some kind of curse on me? Pish! By the time I finish with you, not one household in the l
and would be willing to have you work there! Maybe you should be so good as to do every single one of us a favour and throw yourself into the river, and if you rise to the top then we will burn you at the stake as we do with all witches! Now be gone, and make sure I never have to look at your wizened old face again!” And off Ann Sanders ran. A cheer, when she stumbled on a rock as she hurried along the path, and then another when she tumbled and seemed to have hurt her knee. Elinor Cutter really took a great dislike to her husband when he acted in such a way, often wishing she would have the courage to say as much, but each time her appeals for common decency were made and dismissed they went no further. Now she didn't even promise herself to try harder next time, as once she used to.
John Brass, meanwhile, was busy conducting his own business. Amusing as it was, he didn't have time to spare handing out insults to lowly servants. Mills caught his eye, and so he approached.
“What's your name, lad?”
“Andrew Mills, sir.”
“You live in these parts? I don't ever recall seeing your face around Ferryhill, and I visit the town often.”
“I do. The north side of town, where...”
“Where all the thieves and murderers gather together” Brass finished. “Not a thief or a murderer, are you, Mills?”
“No sir, not at all.” He was shaking his head with some vigour. “Just too poor to leave our home and live anywhere else is all. Me and my father live there – mother died from whooping cough some years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that” said Brass, and Mills believed that he was. “You seem to be a strapping young lad, Mills. Have you ever worked on a farm?”
“Only during the harvest, three or maybe four times. But I believe I could run a plough and tend to the oxen. Lifting and carrying would not be difficult for me. I like to be out of doors, so it would suit me fine. I think I could do a good job, if you were to give me the chance.” Brass thought about this for a minute.
“Very well, lad – you're hired. Be back here for eight sharp tomorrow morning, I'll send a carriage to collect you. I have no room to accommodate your wife and child, should you have them...”
“No sir, there will only be me.”
“Good. Very good. Eight o' clock tomorrow, then.” Mills got the chance to say nothing further, Brass now distracted by the excited chatter of his wife's voice regarding something she had just happened upon.
“John, come and look at this! Why, isn't she just the most adorable thing?” Margaret Brass was fussing around a small child, a girl with a dirtied face and a dress that was in tatters. “Your mother and father – are they not with you?”
“They both died” was the reply, the girl looking down at her shoes. Margaret felt her heart ache for the child.
“You live on your own?”
“No, with an Aunt and Uncle. But they don't want me to live there. Said they never had the money to feed me any more, and that I had to start earning wages.”
“How old are you, dear? You look to be barely eight or nine years of age...”
“I'm twelve. Can I live at your house? I would work hard, do what you ask of me...” Margaret looked to her husband. She could see that he didn't approve.
“We have no work for a child, Margaret. She'll have to look elsewhere.”
“But we can't possibly leave her, John. She has no family or home to go to, at least none that want her.” She looked the child in the eyes. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Philippa Dothwat, me lady.” She offered a brief but perfect curtsey. Margaret Brass looked at her husband again, this time more pleading.
“You would have her sent to a workhouse instead of live with a family? Why, we have plenty of room at the farm, and she would be a perfect companion to young Elizabeth, don't you think?”
“I've just hired some help.” Mills was pointed out, still standing across the way. “What if we were to walk five yards and see another child such as this one, and then five yards more to find yet another? The farm would become overrun with waifs and strays! I agree it is sad that this child has lost her family, but we cannot be responsible for each and every one of them we might come across. Give her a shilling and send her on her way.”
“I say, who is this adorable creature?” Elinor Cutter was stood by Margaret Brass now, both of them making something of a fuss over the girl.
“Elinor, this is Philippa” said Margaret. “She was just telling me how her parents have both died and that she has no home to go to that would have her willingly. John refuses to let her come with us back to the farm, but maybe you and Robert might find her a place in your home?” Elinor called out to her husband; he came over and the girl was asked to tell him her story.
“You wish to come and work for me?” he said when the tale had been heard.
“You seem kind. I think it would be a good thing to work and live in your house” said Philippa. “My Aunt and Uncle would send me to the workhouse tomorrow if they could, so I dare not go back to their house. Please will you help me?” Robert Cutter was more amenable to taking in the little girl than John Brass had been. It did not take long for him to make up his mind.
“I will help you” said Cutter, who was quite happy to let the girl hug him around the waist before his wife lifted her up into protective arms.
*
Anne Sanders had arrived in Durham City just as day began to turn to dusk. She was sat on the south bank of the River Wear and looking to the moon, which was in its first quarter. It was where she wished she could be right now, to be as far away from this place as possible. Maybe things would work more kindly for her there. The riverbank was quiet of people – at least this part of it – and only the smallest amount of light crept down here from the first of the oil lamps to be lit.
A dark figure moved toward her, but still some way distant. She could not make out who he (or she) was, not yet, but they had done little to disguise their approach and so robbery was not chance to be their motive. Most likely a vagrant looking for a safe place to make a bed for the night, she reckoned. Sanders could see as the unnamed person drew closer it was a man, though slightly built. He carried a bottle in his hand and had trouble walking in a direct line. Then she could hear his nonsensical chatter, some of which came across to her ears as bemoaning his lot in life. Having fought off larger men than this one in her time, Sanders felt there was no need for fear. It was only when he was no more than twenty feet from where she was sitting on the grass did he notice that she was there.
“'Oo are you?” Was the first thing the man could think of to say. He swayed gently as he stood, holding a hand over his eyes as one might do to shield the sun from view.
“Someone who could use a swallow of whatever is in that there bottle in your hand. Maybe you would be so kind as to share?” The man swayed some more, didn't reply. Then he mumbled something only he understood and dragged himself over to where the woman was sat on the grass, sitting down close by her with a bump and a roll. Sanders looked at the bottle, taking a hearty swig when it was proffered.
“Name's Anne Sanders” she said, answering the question he had asked earlier. “Walked here from Ferryhill, straight from the market place. Went there to find me work and all I got was insults. Well they can all rot, for all I care!” She looked over to where the lamps were when she said this last part in a loud voice, but not a single soul was close enough by to rebuke her for the remark. A dog barked twice somewhere in the darkness across the river, then was quiet.
“Sellby” said Ralph Sellby, holding out a hand for the woman to shake. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He seemed surprised by the strength of her grip as she shook it once, twice, three times and then let go.
“You live in the city, maybe close to here?” Sellby thought about the question, wondered what Sanders might be implying.
“I live here” he said, taking a drink from his bottle and letting go a loud belch when he removed it from his lips. He passed it to Sanders so she might have another drink.
“And I live there, and I live there, and I live over there.” He pointed in three different directions when he said this, to no spot in particular.
“So you're a vagrant?” Sanders had been hoping for a roof over her head other than her own, which was falling into a bigger state of disrepair with each day that passed, for the night but it was clearly not going to be in the company of the man to whom she was currently talking.
“Just got out of Saddler Street not two hours ago. Owed Isaac Walton four shillings, and he isn't a patient man when it comes to money. Even cost me twopence before Laxe would remove the shackles, and the man has nerve to lock me up like a common thief!”
“You aren't married, then?”
“I am, but she is staying with relatives awhile. No house, you see. She says it's my fault, that the liquor has took my mind and my money as well as my job and my house, but what man doesn't partake of a little alcohol every now and then, eh?” Sanders had never met this man until now, but it was plain that his wife was right in her assertions. But Sanders felt that it wasn't her place to say and so kept her mouth shut on the subject.
The night wore on. It was windy, but warm, something Sanders had cause to be thankful for. Sellby was well in drink – much more than she – and it was doubtful he would recognise the cold even if he was lying on a fresh covering of snow. As their conversation had gotten more sparse, he instead became amorous and started to make advances. Sanders had been brushing these off without a problem until it dawned that he had been the first man in a good long while to offer her any kind of affection, be it in drink or otherwise. She sat in closer to him, no longer voicing complaint when he moved his hands roughly over her body.