‘Tap dancing and singing – they’ve got quite a few new songs – and the lady with the performing dogs; that was a new act…’
‘And you were going to tell us about a girl that you met, weren’t you?’ said Clara. ‘Didn’t you say she was called Jessie? Does she go to your school?’
‘Oh no, she’s from York,’ replied Maddy. And whilst they ate their baked apples and custard she told them about how she had met Jessie Barraclough, how well they got along together, and what a nice respectable girl she seemed to be; that, she knew, would mean a great deal to her parents. They were not snobbish by any means, but they were quite fussy about the sort of friends that their children mixed with. ‘She walked back home with me, an’ I’m seeing her again in the morning. She wouldn’t come in with me, though… She seemed a bit – you know – scared, like, when she found out about us being undertakers.’
‘What d’you mean, us?’ quipped Patrick. ‘I didn’t know you were one.’
‘Don’t be silly, Patrick,’ his mother chided. ‘You know perfectly well what your sister means. Yes, people do sometimes think that what we do is rather…odd, but when you’ve been brought up in the business, you get used to it.’
‘You weren’t brought up in it, Mam,’ Patrick observed.
‘No, that’s true,’ said Clara. ‘But I’ve been involved in it ever since I married your father, and it suits me fine.’ She smiled lovingly at her husband and he smiled back at her.
Isaac, watching them, thought, once again, how glad he was that his son had had the sense to settle for Clara and not that other hussy, the one that served in the shop downstairs. The shop would be closed now, of course – between the hours of one and two – and Bella Randall would be having her lunch in the back room, or on a bench on the seafront, like the other two assistants. Isaac knew that she would dearly love to get her feet under their table, but William and Clara had made it clear, obviously to the woman’s displeasure, that she was not to be regarded as a member of the family, but as an employee. Except, of course, on special occasions when she might be included as a family friend.
‘I don’t want your new friend to think that there’s something strange about us,’ Clara was saying now. ‘Would you like to ask Jessie to come and have tea with us one day, then she can see that we are quite normal? What about Wednesday? That’s our half-day closing at the shop, and it will give me time to prepare a specially nice tea and do a bit of baking.’
‘Wednesday; that’s the day after tomorrow,’ said Maddy.
‘Well done, Maddy!’ Patrick clapped his hands loudly. ‘Thank you for that information. We would never have known.’
‘Shut up, you!’ Maddy stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Oh, take no notice of him,’ said Clara, laughing. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Maddy?’
‘Yes, thanks ever so much, Mam,’ said Maddy. ‘I’ll ask her tomorrow. And she said her mother would probably be with her as well, so she’ll be able to tell me straight away if she can come. And don’t you go frightening Jessie either, Patrick.’ She turned to her brother. ‘None of your tales about putting pennies on the corpses’ eyes, or trying to get their false teeth in.’
‘As if I would…’ Patrick’s brown eyes opened wide with innocence. ‘No, honestly, Maddy, I won’t. I shall be on my very best behaviour. Is there any of that apple and custard left, Mam?’
Isaac pondered on Clara’s words later that afternoon, as he worked alongside his son and grandson, about how, when you had been brought up in the undertaking business, you became used to it. In the end you thought very little about it, realising that death, in fact, was a part of life; the one inescapable part that everyone, sooner or later, had to face. The making of coffins and the organisation of funerals, for rich and poor alike, was just a job, the same as any other job. Isaac supposed he could understand, however, that some folk might consider it an odd sort of way to earn a living. And he had long become accustomed to quips that he would never be out of work.
At the moment he was keeping a sharp eye on his grandson who had been entrusted with assembling and lining a coffin, for the very first time. And a good job he was making of it too. He had fastened together the various sets – the wooden pieces of differing lengths, already cut to form the shape of the coffin – and now he was engaged in the task of lining the sides with pitch, which would make the box waterproof.
The lad seemed to be taking to his apprenticeship like a duck to water, as the saying went. Just as William, his father, had done, and, before that, Isaac himself. He reflected, though, that he had had little choice in the matter. His father had ruled him with a rod of iron, and so, when Joshua had started up his own business, in the mid-nineteenth century, after working as an undertaker’s assistant for many years, he had insisted that his youngest son should join him in the venture. Isaac, at that time, had been apprenticed to a carpenter, but had soon been released from his tenure.
The business had started off in quite a small way, until Joshua Moon and Son had started to make a name for themselves as a reverent and sympathetic partnership. They were frequently called out to the homes of the poorer townsfolk who, in spite of their shortage of money, had, nevertheless, ensured that their loved one would have a good send-off. The most widespread form of insurance had been that of saving for a funeral payment; indeed, at the start of this new century, it still was. A pauper’s funeral, in a plywood box in an unmarked grave, was to be avoided at all costs.
Most coffins, in those early days, had been black; black wood covered with a black cloth. It was a tradition which had gone on for a long time. Nowadays coffins were also made from elm or oak wood, waxed or highly polished and with brass handles, according to what the family could afford. For children of five years of age and under, though, it was still usual to have a white coffin. There had been a dreadful number of children’s deaths in those early years; stillborn babies, and others who had died from diphtheria, scarlet fever or whooping cough. And, regrettably, there were still too many infant deaths. That was the one thing to which Isaac had never become accustomed and he knew he never would. The sight of a little child laid out in a nest of white satin, no matter how peaceful he or she looked, never failed to bring a tear to his eye.
They had not often been asked to do the laying out of the body in those early days, and even now they were not always requested to do so. There was generally a ‘handywoman’ in the district whose job it was to do the laying out, before the undertaker was called in. This same woman often acted as midwife at the births as well. Nowadays, though, the undertaker usually dealt with every aspect of the death, sometimes not a task for the squeamish or faint-hearted, but Isaac was relieved to see that young Patrick was coping very well with it all. He was a sensible, well-balanced lad who, Isaac was sure, would be pleased to follow in his father’s footsteps. The sign above the workshop now read ‘Isaac Moon and Son’. And one day, no doubt, it would say ‘William Moon and Son’.
Not that Isaac had any intention of departing this earthly life just yet, not if he had anything to do with it. He was very hale and hearty for his almost seventy years and, if God was good, he hoped to continue to be so for many years. He was forcing himself to slow down, though, to a certain extent, leaving the more arduous jobs to his son and grandson because they would, ultimately, inherit the business.
They were in quite a big way now, of course, and Isaac was proud of the manner in which their business had increased. There had been a rapid growth in the social importance of funerals during the last half on the nineteenth century, due to the death of Queen Victoria’s beloved husband, Prince Albert, and the Queen’s subsequent mourning of him. Even now, almost forty years after his death, she still dressed entirely in black, although she sometimes condescended to wear a white lace cap.
The Queen’s interminable grieving for her husband had captured the imagination of the public. It had become customary, following the death of Prince Albert, for a woman who had lost her husband
to wear her widow’s weeds for up to two years, and then to replace them with dresses of grey, purple or mauve. Nowadays, however, the strict adherence to periods of mourning had relaxed somewhat, several months being the norm, rather than years. But the shop that William had opened some five years before – his own enterprise – was still doing a good trade.
Isaac well remembered the grand funerals of eminent members of the public in those early years, when he and his father had been only a small and insignificant firm, striving to make their way amidst fierce competition. A town councillor, or a prominent lawyer, for instance, would take his final journey in a glass-sided hearse drawn by four black-plumed horses. At the front of the hearse there was often a man who wore a head-dress of black feathers, walking slowly and stately, flanked by two other men, known as mutes – because of their silence – whose job it was to open the doors. Or sometimes it would be the undertaker walking in front, as it was now with their own firm, wearing a black top hat, frock-tailed black coat, black gloves, and a white handkerchief with a black border in his breast pocket. Young Patrick had taken a turn at leading a funeral procession, but on seeing his sister watching him from the sidelines he had had difficulty in controlling his giggles. But he was gradually learning to behave with the dignity and solemnity due to the occasion.
Now that Isaac Moon and Son were themselves a prestigious partnership, they too were able to conduct funerals in a grand manner, according to the requirements of the family. They now owned their own hearse and two black horses, Jet and Ebony, who were stabled at the rear of the premises; in the early days they had hired the horses. Isaac could see the day when the hearse would be contained in one of those new-fangled horseless carriages, but not, he hoped, in his lifetime.
He had seen many changes, though. He remembered, in his early years as an apprentice undertaker, funerals taking place in the churchyard of St Mary’s, the 800-year-old parish church of Scarborough, on the top of the cliff facing the castle. It had been a stiff climb for the horses up the steep incline of Castle Road. As for the less affluent families, a pony or donkey might pull the coffin on a cart, or four pall-bearers would bear the burden on their shoulders all the way from the home of the deceased.
Now, the graveyard of St Mary’s was full, and funerals took place at the cemetery on Dean Road on the northern outskirts of the town. The ill-fated Anne Brontë had been one of the last persons to be buried in St Mary’s churchyard. She had died whilst on holiday in Scarborough in 1849 and was buried in the annexe to the main graveyard, which had already been full, on the other side of Church Lane.
‘Aye, I can see you’ve made a good job of that, my lad,’ Isaac said now, bringing his wandering thoughts back to the present time and casting a keen eye over his grandson’s efforts. ‘We’ll leave that ’un to dry out…
‘Now, how about trying your hand at lining this ’ere coffin? You’ve watched me and your dad often enough, haven’t you? Cotton wool padding first, then cover it all over wi’ this white satin. It’s quite a costly one, is this. It’s for one o’ t’ local bigwigs, a fellow from Merchants Row, so mind you do your best…’
Chapter Four
Maddy skipped along the path which led down to the lower promenade. She couldn’t wait to get to the beach this morning to meet Jessie again, and probably her family as well. She stopped by the railings, looking out at the wide expanse of golden sand and the bluey-green sea in the distance, with little white waves lapping at the edges like a frill of white lace.
She could see two men assembling the wooden platform which the Pierrots would use; and there was the ‘barrer man’ pushing their piano on a handcart, down the broad slope which led to the beach; her grandad had told her that that was what they called him. There were a few bathing huts drawn up at the edge of the water; nearer to the sea wall there was an ice-cream stall and, further along, the gaily striped box of a Punch and Judy show. It was far enough away from the Pierrots’ stage, so that there would be no distraction between the competing entertainments, although it was unavoidable sometimes to prevent the sound of laughter and singing being carried on the wind.
It was quite early in the morning, but there were already several holidaymakers on the beach, ladies with parasols and men in white flannels, blazers and straw boaters, strolling along by the edge of the sea, and others taking their ease on deckchairs or on rugs spread out on the sand. One or two brave souls were emerging from the bathing huts into the sea. The men and women alike were clad in knee-length bathing drawers and round-necked bodices, and bathing caps which completely covered their hair.
As Maddy stood and surveyed the scene below her she caught sight of a familiar head of bright ginger hair. She had met her only the day before, but surely there could not be another girl with such flaming orange hair as Jessie. Yes, it was Jessie, and there were three other figures with her who must be her mother and her little brother and sister. They were walking in her direction from the stretch of sand below the castle.
Maddy started to wave, but they had not seen her yet. She opened her mouth to shout, ‘Yoo-hoo, Jessie…’, and then she realised that perhaps she shouldn’t. Her mother had told her that it was rather vulgar to shout in the street, and she supposed that went for the sands as well; and Jessie’s mother, Maddy guessed, was a rather posh sort of person who would be sure to disapprove of such uncouth behaviour. She hurried down the nearest set of steps and ran to meet them.
‘Hello, Jessie…’ she began, a little out of breath. ‘I saw you coming from up there.’
‘Hello, Maddy.’ They smiled at one another, but somewhat shyly now after their easy friendship of the day before. Then Jessie remembered her manners, and in a grown-up voice she said, ‘Maddy, this is my mother. Mummy, this is Maddy.’
‘How do you do, my dear?’ said Mrs Barraclough, smiling very charmingly and holding out a white-gloved hand. ‘Jessica has told me all about you.’
‘Has she?’ said Maddy, rather nonplussed. ‘Er…how do you do?’
She was a very pretty lady with ginger hair, but of a darker hue than Jessie’s. It was the colour and sheen of a sleek chestnut horse, and she had bright blue eyes. Maddy thought that her own mother was pretty, but she guessed that Jessie’s mother might be considered beautiful. Her dress was the blue of the sky on a sunny day, and it made her eyes seem even bluer. It had a high white lace collar and lace cuffs, and her straw hat was trimmed with a posy of bright blue cornflowers.
‘This is Tommy, and this is Tilly,’ she said. ‘Say hello to Maddy, you two. She is Jessie’s new friend.’
‘Hello,’ said Tommy, looking at her curiously and rather boldly, with eyes of the same blue as those of his mother and elder sister.
His twin, clearly less confident than her brother, glanced at Maddy shyly from beneath her eyelids. ‘Hello,’ she whispered, then quickly looked away again. Her eyes were grey rather than blue, and she appeared to be altogether a paler version of her bright and exuberant brother. Her hair was a lighter shade of ginger and she was shorter and less sturdily built than Tommy.
Both children were dressed in sailor outfits, which were still very popular. This style of dress for children had come into fashion in the middle years of the last century, when Queen Victoria had had a portrait painted of her eldest son, Bertie – now the notorious Prince of Wales – wearing one. Tommy’s navy jacket had shiny buttons, a large collar with three white stripes and a lanyard, and his knickerbockers fastened at the knee. Tilly’s dress, also navy blue and made from shiny stiff cotton, had white stripes around the wide collar and the hem.
‘Hello. You look very smart, you two,’ said Maddy. She was not really used to smaller children, having no young brothers and sisters of her own, but the boy, at least, looked as though he wanted to be friendly.
‘Mummy bought these special for our holiday,’ said Tommy. ‘They’re for best an’ we haven’t to get them messed up. Mummy says we can go paddling in the sea, p’r’aps another day. Do you go paddling, Maddy?�
� he asked, looking at Maddy in her far less elaborate clothing.
Her cotton dress was dark green, a colour which would not show the dirt, with long sleeves and a high neck with a rounded collar. She had noticed that Jessie’s dress was a much paler shade than her own; green also, but a pretty leaf green trimmed with white braid. Both girls, however, were wearing long white socks as a concession to the summer weather. For most of the year, and always for school, Maddy wore black stockings and black button boots, rather than the brown lace-ups she had on today.
‘Yes, I sometimes go paddling,’ she replied in answer to the little boy’s question. ‘Not often though, because my mam says I have to have someone with me when I go in the sea, and she and my dad are usually too busy to come to the beach.’
‘That is very sensible of your mother, dear,’ said Jessie’s mother. ‘The sea can be quite dangerous, even if you are only paddling. It is far safer to keep to the rock pools. But we are not paddling today, are we, Tommy? Don’t you remember? We are going to watch the Pierrot show. Jessie was telling us how much she enjoyed it.’
Tommy nodded. ‘Can Maddy go paddling with us another day? Can you, Maddy?’ He looked at her, his blue eyes alive with curiosity.
‘Yes… I think so. That would be very nice,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have to ask…my mother.’ She had been about to say ‘me mam’, but just a few minutes in the company of this family had made her think that she ought to try and speak nicely, as she knew she could do when she was on her best behaviour.
‘And we’ve got new fishing nets, haven’t we, Tilly?’ Tommy turned to his twin, who nodded silently. ‘And buckets and spades, and we’re going to make a big sandcastle, aren’t we, Tilly?’ The little girl nodded again. ‘Can you make sandcastles, Maddy?’
‘Yes… I can,’ she answered, realising that it was quite a long time since she had engaged in such a pastime. Both she and Patrick had made some wonderful ones when they were small, but that seemed ages ago. Patrick was grown up now, a working member of the family, and building sandcastles was not much fun on your own. ‘Perhaps Jessie and me could help you one day,’ she said.
A True Love of Mine Page 3