The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘He doesn’t really need brains, does he?’ Edward said, not unkindly, merely giving comfort to his older brother. ‘He’ll never need to earn his living as I shall.’

  It was a knife twisting in Oliver’s heart; Edward’s acceptance of the natural order of things under which James would benefit from all that his father’s life work would bring. It was a growing burden, when every instinct told him to help Edward as a father would, to hold back and watch him make his way alone. Edward was so like himself. He saw the boy’s progress following the same pattern; fatherless and being brought up by Dolly; making his way unaided through life.

  ‘Was Father a clever man, Oliver?’ Edward asked. Edward often dropped such questions into the conversation.

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver picked up a newspaper. ‘Would you like to go to a theatre tonight, Edward, or will we just dine here and talk?’ He did not want to be questioned again about Dad.

  ‘Let’s eat in the restaurant. How’s Lizzie?’ Edward asked eagerly.

  ‘Grand,’ Oliver replied. ‘Come then. We’ll eat in the dining room. Unless you’d rather we had it sent up?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’d rather go down,’ Edward said.

  A table, heavy with silver and crystal, was set for them in the corner of the dining room. Oliver ordered turbot to start with, followed by roast beef. He saw, with paternal anxiety, that Edward was hungry. His son said little until the first pangs of his hunger were satisfied.

  ‘Nobody does it as well as your mother, do they, Edward?’ he said. ‘But it’s almost as good.’

  They finished with ices, cheese and salad and Oliver watched with pleasure Edward trying to give the impression of a delicate eater while consuming twice as much as he did. Port was brought to the table.

  ‘Lizzie has learned to ride. She goes out every morning with one of the grooms. She shows promise of becoming a fine horsewoman,’ Oliver reported when Edward asked about his sister again. ‘Florence has taught her to drive the pony and trap and she comes down to the station for me when I’ve been to Middlefield.’

  He leaned back and smiled at the recollection of Lizzie, her lively hair netted into a chignon and pinned under a brown velvet hat, clad in Donegal tweed, concentration in every muscle of her hands and face as she shortened and loosened reins, steering the trap back to the house along the empty drive. The pony she used could have done the trip blindfolded with nothing but a bit of string around its neck, but Lizzie did not know that.

  ‘Florence is very fond of her. Takes her everywhere. They spend hours at the dressmaker’s. Florence has promised to take Lizzie to Paris in the spring to order gowns from Monsieur Worth. Florence and her mother go every year.’ Oliver offered Edward a cigar and a waiter came forward to clip off the ends for them.

  ‘Florence has introduced her to a farmer whose land lies next to ours. The man’s quite besotted, Florence tells me. He contrives to meet her whenever she’s out riding.’ Had Oliver been watching Edward’s face he would not have missed the leap of consternation his words had aroused, but he was not looking and he exhaled the fragrant cigar smoke before continuing. ‘He must bribe Lizzie’s groom to lead her across his path every day.’

  He smiled benignly at Edward. ‘Lizzie finds more amusement than excitement in it I’m afraid. Florence’s little matchmaking attempt looks like coming to naught.’

  They talked on into the night, perfect companions. Oliver wished that his son had a little less pride for he longed to help Edward with money. The boy’s cuffs were frayed, his suit was thin and shiny at the elbows and seat, and he was certain that Edward was frugal in his eating. The money Oliver had put into trust for the two children brought only an inadequate income. But no matter how he approached the subject Edward was firm about not accepting help. Others managed on as little as he had, he told Oliver, and he considered himself fortunate in having a good home to return to during his holidays, where his mother cared for him so well.

  Oliver looked forward to these evenings, these times alone with his son. They were oases of relaxation and enjoyment in a world of business that grew ever more demanding.

  Oliver walked through the town to the gates of the school. The fog had lifted overnight and the sun shone on the mellow stones. He would have enjoyed this when he was young; the chance to learn, the opportunity to row and ride and bat. A group of tail-suited young men raised their hats to him as he reached the entrance and one stepped ahead of him to hold open the doors.

  Dr McCormack’s large, comfortable study overlooked the playing fields beyond the hedge that secluded the staff wing from the ancient, sprawling school buildings. He was a tall, gaunt man, a wise academic, dedicated to honouring the traditions of his school. He rose from his desk as Oliver was shown in.

  Oliver had taken to the man when they first met. He reached out to shake hands with him and they seated themselves before the headmaster spoke.

  ‘Mr Wainwright. There has been trouble in the school for some time. We instil into our pupils respect for teamwork and consideration for others. Individuality is encouraged but only insofar as it benefits the rest of the community. I am afraid that your son has flouted the authority of his housemaster, has demonstrated a lack of willingness to co-operate and rejected all of the principles the school is founded upon.’ He paused for a moment, anticipating some response from the man who sat silent and intent before him.

  ‘Go on,’ Oliver said evenly.

  ‘James has gathered around himself what can only be likened to a bunch of thugs and bullies. We are expert at detecting this kind of thing and weeding out individuals who wish to practise their own brand of despotism, but your son has deceived the most hardened cynics amongst the staff.’

  ‘What has he done?’ Oliver asked in a cold voice.

  ‘He has extorted money from younger boys with threats of reprisals. He has beaten boys who do not belong to his nasty little gang and he has tried to escape retribution; using force to extract false confessions from the boys he intimidates.’

  ‘What do you propose?’ Oliver tried to sound calm and reasoned but he knew with awful certainty that James was guilty of these crimes. He had seen in his son an arrogance and viciousness he had chosen not to acknowledge, hoping James was passing through a rebellious period; that soon his behaviour would moderate. He had taken the easy way out and left it to men he believed were better equipped than he was to deal with undesirable traits. He should have brought the boy up his own way, given him a respect for others and pride in the work of his hands.

  Now he must deal with James himself, in his own way; a way that knew nothing of kid gloves or subtlety.

  ‘We will warn him in your presence,’ the headmaster continued, ‘that his behaviour is intolerable. We will separate the individuals he has gathered around himself and, if necessary, we’ll send him down for the rest of term.’

  Dr McCormack rang a bell on his desk to summon a messenger. ‘I’ll have him brought to the study, Mr Wainwright. Are you an Old Boy?’

  ‘No. I didn’t have the advantages I’ve given to James. As a matter of fact I believe that I’ve benefited from their absence.’ He walked to the window and gazed out.

  The fires of his anger had been stoked. He had not felt this way for years. His mind went back to Tommy and his cheating ways. He had put a stop to Tommy’s nonsense and his younger brother was a prosperous sheep farmer in Australia now. Drastic measures were called for again, though he didn’t contemplate banishment for James. There was silence for a moment before he turned to face the headmaster.

  ‘I’ll deal with my boy in my own way. I’m grateful for your assessment of his character but I don’t believe your punishment will go anything like far enough to check him. I’ll set him upon a proper course myself.’

  The door opened and James sauntered insolently into the study. Surprise registered on his face when he saw Oliver and his eyes flew from him to the headmaster enquiringly.

  ‘I’ve heard all about it. You needn’t start expla
ining,’ Oliver said before James had a chance to speak.

  James appeared to recover his composure. He walked the few paces to Oliver’s side and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure you don’t believe all the rubbish that’s being talked about me, Father,’ he drawled.

  Oliver’s hand caught him a blow across the side of his head, sending him to the floor, stunned by its force.

  Dr McCormack had not expected this. His reaction was a quick intake of breath and a hand gripped on to the desk to steady himself against the shock of seeing such swift retaliation.

  James sprang to his feet. ‘Father! What do you think you’re doing? You are in school, not one of your back-street factories.’ He got no further. He was felled again with Oliver’s other hand.

  ‘Get your things.’ Oliver’s voice had a grating edge that he had never used on James before. ‘Go to your room. Pack an overnight bag and be back here in ten minutes.’

  James stood before him, white-faced but trying to show some bravado.

  ‘Move!’ Oliver went towards him and he retreated through the open door. He would hasten to pack now, Oliver knew, before he was disgraced any more.

  ‘The fees will be paid. He’ll not be back,’ Oliver told Dr McCormack. ‘Have his belongings sent to Suttonford.’

  James was back in seven minutes, carrying a leather case.

  ‘Goodbye.’ Oliver shook hands with the headmaster and led James from the school.

  Outside the gates he turned once more to face James who was dragging his feet. ‘Get moving,’ he growled. ‘Walk behind me. I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice until I’ve decided what to do with you.’

  James stopped and faced Oliver. ‘I’ll not be treated like a naughty child,’ he began. Oliver made a move towards him that told the boy that indignation was of no benefit and strode ahead, to the station.

  James hung back in the press of passengers while Oliver booked a whole compartment. He slunk behind as they went to the train. He made no attempt to help as Oliver swung their cases on to the rope-net luggage rack.

  Oliver slammed the door and hauled on the window strap to close it. ‘Right. Now you want to know what I’m going to do with you, don’t you?’ he said.

  The train heaved forward, heading north. There was no humour or warmth behind Oliver’s dry smile as he spoke. ‘You’ve had all the lessons you are going to get, James. I never wanted this kind of education for you, you know. My father died when I was young and I missed him so much that I promised myself I’d never deprive my own children of a proper home life. But they were all against me; Sir Philip, your grandmother Mawdesley, even your mother. They felt you’d be better for a public-school education.’

  James sat, silent and sullen, but Oliver knew that he was listening to every word. ‘Well you’ve had your chance to learn. From now on you are going to make your own way in the world. You’ll maybe not find it so easy to be top dog in the real world as you did at school, especially when you’ve done a hard day’s work. But this is life, lad. For most people it’s not all about learning and playing. It’s about earning and paying.’ He started to smile at his own joke and the expression of disbelief on James’s face. ‘You’ll enjoy it. There’s no better feeling, my boy, than knowing that what you’ve got is what you’ve worked for.’ He leaned back against the seat, loosened his jacket and, hands in pockets, began to outline his son’s future.

  ‘James. I think you are a leader. You need to get down to some proper work. Use your ingenuity. I’m going to have you apprenticed to a textile manufacturer. You’ll start at the bottom – learn everything – see how the whole business works; spinning, weaving, dyeing, printing.’ He smiled broadly at his son. ‘One day you’ll run Suttonford. The house and your livelihood depend totally on my factories. It’s better you know exactly what you’ve got.’

  James stared at him now. ‘All right, Father,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll do as you say but—’

  ‘You will, my boy. You certainly will!’ Oliver agreed.

  ‘… but I’ll start after Christmas. The second of January perhaps?’

  James’s confidence appeared to be growing by the minute, sufficiently encouraged by the smile on Oliver’s face to try to set a few of the conditions.

  ‘You’ll start tomorrow, boy.’ Oliver’s voice was stern. ‘As soon as we reach Middlefield we’ll find lodgings for you near to the factory. Not one of my factories, of course. It wouldn’t please the workers to have the boss’s son put amongst them.’ They would give him a hard enough time at one of the other mills, Oliver knew.

  Oliver raised the window blind and looked out into the blackness. ‘We’ll stretch our legs at Crewe; find something to eat on the station. This is a treat for me, having company on the journey home.’ Oliver was enjoying himself. It would be a new challenge, supervising the boy’s education. For that was how he saw it. It was a wonderful chance for James to put his spoiled childhood behind him and learn to act like a man.

  It was nine o’clock when they reached Middlefield and walked up the Wallgate to the home of one of the mill managers. The man was delighted to accept James as an apprentice. He admired the boy, he said, for wanting to learn the business properly.

  Oliver knew that the wife of one of his own foremen took in lodgers at their house in Rivergate and next he and James walked down the steep slope of the gaslit street to the lodging house directly opposite The Pheasant. Oliver pointed out to James the yard behind the tavern where he had first lived as a stable lad. ‘It was my first job, James and I was very proud to do it. I hope you’ll be as happy as I was.’

  The Smallwoods’ house was narrow, squeezed in between The Crown and a dry-salter’s but it was inviting, warm and homely with scents of rising bread dough and baking coming from the kitchen. James would be all right here.

  The bedroom they were shown was clean and there were plenty of blankets on the bed. The boy would be warm enough and Mrs Ellen Smallwood seemed a good sort. Oliver paid her a week’s rent in advance.

  ‘After this you pay your own rent, out of your wages on a Friday. I expect to see you at church on Sunday morning. It’s very important to your mother. You can come for lunch at Suttonford afterwards. It will be a pleasure for your mother to have her working son at the lunch table, once a week. Good luck.’

  He squeezed James’s shoulder affectionately and left for Suttonford.

  He softened the story a little for Florence, telling her that James was not really bad, just young and impulsive. Young men need an opportunity to exercise their talents, he assured her. After all, her own father and her grandfather had been army men. They had been through a testing time and it was wrong to deny James a chance to prove himself.

  Florence snuggled up to him in front of a glowing fire in her bedroom. He put his arm around her shoulders as they sat together on her little satin-covered sofa. ‘You’re a wonderful father, Oliver darling. I hope James knows how lucky he is,’ she sighed contentedly.

  Oliver tossed and turned in bed in his room. He would not be able to sleep tonight. He tried to focus his thoughts on the events of the day but an image of Celia kept intruding and the need for her, which was growing from, not being assuaged by, their weekly meetings rose to torment him.

  He pictured her face, the dark, flashing eyes and her deceptively prim mouth, her eager, supple limbs wrapped around him, her cries of pleasure when he …

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said to himself. ‘I can’t live like this!’ He rose and pulled on riding breeches and boots, tucking in his nightshirt. He brought out a stalking jacket and pushed his arms quickly into the sleeves before slipping, unseen, from the great house to walk in the cold night.

  He walked quickly at first, in a fury of frustration, away from the house, towards the woodland path. What should he do? The more he saw of Celia, the more he wanted her. He had tried to think of her as an instrument; an instrument of his release from the tyranny of his appetites but had only succeeded in increasing those appetites. He
had told himself that she was of no consequence – a mere circus act who could be replaced if he so chose – he would soon tire of her and find a more acquiescent, undemanding mistress. He thought of all these things … and he knew that they were not true.

  He trod the wet leaves beneath the elms and leaned against their rough trunks and filled his lungs with sharp night air. The moon shone silver and brilliant between the trees. He listened to the sounds of the night creatures; an owl’s strange sustained call – a scuffling in the undergrowth and the wailing of the stable cats as they courted their chosen mates.

  Then he walked five miles over the heather-clad moors before returning, with the dawn, to Suttonford.

  He would confide in Albert. Albert was more experienced in these matters than he was. Perhaps Albert would tell him how he kept his feelings under control; for Albert had always had a weakness for the fair sex yet never allowed the weakness to dominate his other life, the life of contentment Oliver so desperately wanted to regain.

  He went slowly back into the house, no nearer to understanding his own dilemma. Tomorrow he would go to Manchester to see Celia.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  James opened one eye. He was not a young man prone to ‘Where am I?’ thoughts when he awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. A match was struck and the room swelled with light as the girl who had carried hot water to his room lit the gas. From the back she was such a pretty creature. She wore a long white cambric apron tied firmly around her neat waist and her hair, blonde like his mother’s, was tied just as firmly at the back of her head with a large black bow. The sleeves of her grey woollen dress were pushed back, revealing milky-white forearms with a downy covering of fine silver hairs. James closed his eyes tight as she turned towards him.

  ‘Mr Wainwright. Time to get up.’ Her voice was not that of an ordinary maidservant. It had the Middlefield accent quite strongly, James heard, but lacked the whining tone he found so unpleasant on most of the locals. In fact he rather liked the way she pronounced his name … Mister Wayn-wright … he wondered how she would say James … Jay-ms … probably. He pretended to be asleep.