Dickie lurched across the field as if making for the farm. But once on the other side he took the lane that ran behind it. That ungrateful bugger could drum up his own crew, for Dickie would be damned if he was wasting his time with no recompense at the end of it.
Towards evening he knocked on a farmhouse door and asked for a drink of water. ‘My carriage has overturned a couple of miles back,’ he told the farmer’s wife. ‘My coachman is staying with the team. I said I would press on and try to find myself lodgings. Unfortunately on my way here I was set upon by robbers who stole every penny I had. If you would be so kind as to spare me a sup of water to sustain my journey I would be eternally grateful to you.’
Inevitably he received the farmer’s sympathy and was invited in for a meal and a bed for the night. The following day, bearing a napkin full of freshly-baked bread and a wedge of cheese, he set off looking for work, with the promise that he would repay their hospitality when he finally reached home.
It was another couple of days before he found means of earning himself a few shillings. By this time he was famished, so he would have taken on anything. It was the sound of the explosion that alerted him. Hearing it, he stepped up to a hedgerow, peered through its frost-furred spines and saw, away across the field, a group of navvies blasting their way into a hillside. Searching for a weak spot in the hawthorn he squeezed through and set off in the direction of the scene.
The foreman’s ferret face sneered over him. ‘An’ why would I want to hire a ponce like you?’ he asked inhospitably, leaning his tattooed forearm on the handle of a shovel.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ Dickie wanted to know. ‘If ’tis me face ye’ve taken a dislike to I’ll not be workin’ with that but me hands.’
‘Let’s see ’em then!’ The other man held out a hand like a dinner-plate.
Dickie displayed upturned palms. ‘Hah! Smooth as a babby’s arse. Yer’ll carry two bucketfuls o’ muck then start whining about yer hands bein’ sore.’
‘I can take hard work!’ Dickie started to strip off his coat and shirt, flexing lean but muscled arms.
The foreman, Standish, made a swift jab at Dickie’s abdomen and the youth doubled over with a grunt of pain. Standish guffawed. ‘I’d not give yer hundred to one in a lard competition. Still,’ he rasped a hand over his unshaven jaw, ‘I could use another pair of hands. I’ve lost three men this mornin’.’
Dickie paused in his dressing. ‘Killed, ye mean?’
‘Nah! Buggered off,’ declared Standish. ‘Couldn’t stand the bloody pace, lazy sops. I don’t suppose you’ll last long either. Well, it’s three bob a day. Now, see that baldy fella over there? Go see him an’ he’ll tell yer where to stick your rubble.’
Dickie was given a barrow and a shovel and sent into the winding intestines of the hill. His job was to scrape up the loose rock caused by the explosion and barrow it out. The first two trips, though hard work, were not too gruelling, but by the third barrowful Dickie was thinking that he might have made a mistake in leaving the road back there. By the sixth he felt as if his back was breaking and by the tenth he wished he was dead. Belying the cold weather, the sweat trickled down his dirt-caked forehead and into his eyes, stinging them into blurred pools as he strained under the weight of the rock-laden barrow. The journey to daylight was at a slight incline and his thigh muscles screamed their protest at the tortuous haul. The barrow wheel became wedged against a rock. He put his shoulder behind it and strained, his face screwed up with pain.
‘Come on, Mary-Ellen!’ Standish came strutting over. ‘Don’t be pullin’ a face to mek it look as if yer workin’. Put some bloody muscle behind it.’
Dickie grunted and pushed. ‘S’no good!’ he gasped. ‘Could ye just kick that rock out from under me wheel? I’ll be able to manage then.’
‘Me, lad?’ Standish was affronted. ‘I’m not ’ere to wipe your bloody arse. Now, get the bugger shifted.’
Dickie heaved once more, his hands juddering as though from a bad attack of nerves. The barrow keeled over, spilling out two hundredweight of rubble.
Standish leapt deftly out of its path and aimed a kick at Dickie who had collapsed with it. ‘Yer useless, lazy pillock! Yer like a spare prick at a wedding. Gerrup an’ start shovellin’ that rubble back into barrow else your morning’s wage goes up the creek.’ He towered over the fallen youth, kicking him till he rose.
Dickie dragged himself upright, set the barrow straight and started to spade the rubble back in.
‘I could do it quicker wi’ a bloody teaspoon,’ growled Standish. ‘Come on, put some weight behind that shovel.’
‘I’m doin’ me best,’ Dickie stopped to say.
Standish cuffed him. ‘I’ve just had an example of your best – nearly broke me bleedin’ foot. Now I’m gonna be watchin’ you all day, an’ every time I think you’re slackin’ tuppence o’ your wage goes in my pocket. Yer’ll be lucky if yer’ve a bob left at end o’ day. Now get crackin’.’
After this Standish shadowed him all day, tonguelashing and belittling. ‘Who’s carved his initial on yer bonce, then?’ He prodded the L on Dickie’s forehead. ‘Yer fancy-man? The L must stand for Lucy, does it? Come on, Lucy, yer can shovel quicker than that. Mind yer don’t get them pretty little hands dirty. Aw! diddums has cut his po’ likkle finger. Eh, don’t bend down lads, Lucy’s around. Whoops!’ Dickie took it all, too weak to offer any form of resistance, even verbal. But at the end of the shift, with his hands torn to ribbons, unable to straighten his spine and every tendon of his body shrieking, he knew that if he stayed here he would be dead before he had a chance to make even one thousandth of his fortune.
He went off to look for his topcoat. Someone – it didn’t take much guessing who – had tossed it into the latrine. It was beyond redemption. Wearily he limped off to join the queue for wages. While he waited he wondered what to do next. One thing was certain, he would not be undertaking any physical work for a while.
When it came to his turn to receive his pay Standish greeted him like a long-lost friend. ‘Why, if it isn’t Lucy Locket come for his money! Easiest day’s pay he ever earned.’
Dickie grimaced. ‘Aye, so easy ye’ll not be seein’ me tomorrow.’
Standish gave an ugly laugh. ‘Ah, I said it’d be too much for yer. Well, Lucy,’ he counted out the money, ‘here’s yer brass an’ don’t go spendin’ it on owt naughty like beer or women – oh, I forgot – there’s no danger o’ that, is there, lads?’ There were few laughs; no one liked the foreman.
Dickie stared down at the pittance on his bleeding palm. ‘What d’ye call this?’
Standish bent forward. ‘I can understand that an impoverished bugger like you might not have come across it afore, but that there, lad, is called money.’
‘I meant,’ snapped Dickie irritably, ‘there seems to be some missing. Ye told me three bob.’
‘I know what I told yer. I also told yer that every time I caught yer slackin’ I’d dock tuppence.’
‘On no occasion have ye caught me slacking, Standish …’
‘Mr Standish to you,’ growled the other.
‘… I’ve been sweating my balls off all day …’
‘Oh, I didn’t think he had any, did you, lads?’ came the smug reply.
‘Are ye going to pay me my full wage?’ persisted Dickie angrily.
Standish grinned. ‘An’ what are yer gonna do if I say no?’
Dickie glared at the sneering face. A quick glance around him told that he would get no support from his fellow workers. He pocketed the coins sullenly and began to move away.
‘Eh, hang on, Lucy!’ Standish called him back. ‘Sign this little chitty to say yer’ve had yer brass.’
‘But I haven’t, have I?’ replied Dickie.
‘Sign it! The gaffer wants every penny accounted for. If yer can’t write yer can put yer mark. Let’s see, yer could put a little flower or a loveheart.’
‘I can write!’ Dickie snatched the stub of pencil and scribbled on Stand
ish’s form, then strode away rapidly.
Standish patted his pocket, his voice raised to cover the widening distance between them. ‘Night, night, Lucy! I shall enjoy spendin’ your wages tonight.’ He dropped his grinning face to look at the form where Dickie had written his name, and his amusement paled to a puzzled gawp.
In very large, untidy lettering for all who followed to see was: HUGH CUNT.
* * *
He forsook the main road in favour of the fields and the little tracks that dissected them and travelled until dark when, unable to find any farm building or cottage at which to curry sustenance, he spent the night under a hedge. Hungry, worn-out and without his topcoat, he was in danger of succumbing to exposure. In the morning, long before the mist had lifted, he crawled from his insubstantial bed of crackling leaves and rags to set off down the track again, this time allowing it to lead him back to the road and a far-off cluster of buildings, just discernible through a quivering swathe of poplars.
He had been walking, or more correctly limping, for half an hour when the mist finally lifted and gave way to glorious and unexpected sunshine. He began to feel happier, even to the extent of pursing his lips into a tuneless whistle. There was a movement on the road ahead, far in front of him, as a vehicle trundled over the horizon. He shaded his eyes. It was going in the wrong direction, but perhaps the people on board might not be averse to his company, and there again, which way was the right way?
Carrying on towards it he was about to raise a hand in a friendly wave when suddenly the continued approach of the vehicle brought with it the dreadful realisation of what it actually was. He hurled himself over a drystone wall and made himself as small as possible, heart thumping as the wagonwheels ground nearer. The rumbling and clanking grew louder as the tinkers’ caravan drew alongside, then began to recede as it continued along the road.
Dickie cautiously unwound his cramped body to peer over the top of the wall at the retreating wagon, then heaved a large sigh and sat back on his heels in relief. He brought up a hand to push back his hair, and jumped nervously as a movement caught his peripheral vision, relaxing when he recognised the movement was caused only by his shadow.
‘I’ve heard the saying but never given it much credence before!’
His jolt was accompanied by a cry of alarm and he spun round to face the owner of the voice – but whether it was man or woman he could not decipher. The person making the observation was well past middle-age. The clothes were a man’s – shabby, patched trousers, knee boots and a filthy, wine-coloured frockcoat – but the face belonged to a woman. It was smooth and round, the cheeks with the bloom of advancing years, her eyes like two periwinkles beneath a pork-pie hat.
‘Whassat?’ Dickie stared.
The other patiently repeated the statement. ‘I said, I always thought it were only a saying – jumping at your own shadow – but I’ve just witnessed it with me own eyes. Somebody’s got you real wound up I’d say.’
He relaxed a little then. ‘’Tis right y’are there, ma’am,’ he paused for the objection to his premise of her gender and when none came pressed on. It was a woman after all – but as strange a one as he had ever seen. ‘I was just keeping out o’ the way o’ them tinkers. I had a nasty bit o’ truck with them lately, and I’d as soon not repeat the experience.’ He held out his hand. ‘Richard Feeney’s the name. Dickie for short.’
‘Victoria Hughes. Torie for short.’ The woman had a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Where’re you heading?’
‘Oh, nowhere in particular. I’ll just go where the road takes me an’ where I can find a job. Ye wouldn’t be wantin’ any work doin’ in exchange for board an’ lodgings, would ye?’
‘I might.’ She encompassed him with shrewd eyes. ‘That depends on what sorta work you’d be willing to do.’
‘Oh, I’m a strong worker, ma’am! Ye knew where they’re laying the railway over yonder? Well, I been workin’ there for six weeks now. But the thing is see, they’re cutting down on labour an’ I was forced to quit.’
‘You’re sure it wasn’t for any other reason?’ asked Torie, viewing him strangely.
‘What other reason could there be? I wouldn’t attempt to kid ye, ma’am. Wherever I’ve worked I’ve always had the best references.’
‘And you got on with your fellow workers?’
‘Like bees and honey, ma’am. The foreman and me were like twins – in fact I’ll bet he’s still shedding tears over the way I had to leave him.’
She made a noise in her throat. ‘So, when did you leave the diggings, then?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘And what have you been doing since then?’
He flung his arm in a random direction. ‘There was a farm a few miles back. They let me stay the night but there was no work, see.’
She made the noise in her throat again. ‘Have you ever worked with animals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cows?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t mind hard work?’
‘I thrive on it.’
‘Right! Come along then.’ Torie set off at a march across the field of turnips, the tattered frockcoat flapping around the calves of her boots. Dickie ran to catch her up, loping along beside her. ‘How much does the gaffer pay, if ye don’t mind me askin’?’
‘That depends on what she thinks you’re worth,’ replied Torie.
‘She?’
‘I’m the gaffer, lad. There’s only me you have to please.’
‘What about your family?’ he asked.
‘Have none. Leastwise, not now. Lost ’em all in one fell swoop. Husband and three sons. Fever.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not. You didn’t know them, so what call have you got to be sorry?’ He gave a shrug. ‘Wasn’t out here they caught it, mind,’ she added. ‘We never see nobody from one week to the next out here. No, they went along to the market as per usual to sell some cattle. Stopped the night at a lodging house, thought they’d have a bit of fun before they came back to my nagging. Couple o’ weeks later they were all dead, every one.’
Dickie looked around to see where her home might be but failed to spot anything. ‘Looks like we’re in the same boat; I’m all alone too. How do ye manage on your own? Is it a big place ye’ve got?’
‘Middling. That’s it over there on that hill.’
Dickie strained his eyes. He could see the hill with something on it that could have been a house but he could not tell from this distance.
‘But that’s miles off!’
She dismissed his concern with a flap of her hand. ‘Nah! We’ll be there in half an hour.’
His body groaned. When he had met her by the road he had assumed that she lived somewhere nearby and said as much.
‘Been to see my neighbour,’ she explained. ‘He’s getting on a bit. I call every morning to see he’s all right. Come on now, stop dawdling, there’s work waiting!’
It was all he could do to keep up with her. He felt as though he had walked ten miles. ‘Don’t tell me ye have to slog up and down here every day?’ he puffed when they finally reached the top of the hill.
‘You get used to it. Best place for a house I reckon. I miss nowt up here. Anyways, I thought you were supposed to be fit?’ She took the last few steps to her back door and opened it. Dickie, some yards behind, paused to catch his breath, then dragged himself to the doorway and went in after her.
The kitchen was like a menagerie. Torie was surrounded by cats which jostled to arch against her boots, tails held high. There were ginger tabbies, grey tabbies, blacks, whites, tortoiseshells leaping from their comfortable seats to see what Mistress had to offer. Perched on the dresser and the table, trying to find a foothold between the stacks of screwed-up paper and stale food, was an assortment of hens. Torie, still enmeshed in a slinky tangle of feline adoration, paced slowly over to the hearth rug where lay the motionless form of a huge grey cat. She stooped over it and curved her fin
gers round its chest.
Dickie’s eyes darted round the kitchen. It was strewn with clutter. Every available surface was coated with hen-droppings and pieces of bacon rind which the well-fed cats had scorned, stale bread, congealing pools of spilt milk, feathers. The inglenook was two inches deep in ashes. Living here, he decided, would be like living in a midden. But there seemed little choice open to him at the moment. Certainly he was not going to attempt walking back down that hill until he had had a decent night’s rest and a good meal.
‘She’s dead.’ Torie looked up from the hearth rug whose colours had been lost beneath the layers of grease and cat-hair. ‘Old Spittler.’
‘Have ye had her a long time?’ asked Dickie without interest.
‘Ten years, but she was much older. Found her half-dead in the yard. Been scrapping with a fox what had tried to take her kits. Half o’ those are hers.’ The sons and daughters of the old cat resumed their positions and observed the scene with dead-pan green eyes. Torie ran her hand over the grey fur; there was no answering purr.
‘Have ye no dogs?’ Dickie scooped a cat from a spindled chair and took its place. ‘I would’ve thought ye coulda done with one, living here on your own.’
‘Can’t stand ’em!’ spat Torie, inserting her hands under the limp body and lifting it gently. ‘Fawning, lickspittle creatures. Anyway, I can look after myself well enough. Right now, you can start your employment by going out and giving her a proper burial.’ She extended her arms bearing the floppy corpse.
‘Jazers, can’t it wait till I’ve got me breath back?’ he pleaded.
‘No,’ came the flat reply. ‘And that’s the first and last time you’ll use the Lord’s name in vain in my house. I don’t hold with such talk. This is a Christian household. Now, behind the barn you’ll find a row of graves. Dig another – and make it deep enough; I don’t want no mangy fox coming and digging up my Old Spittler. When you come back I’ll have a pot of tea ready.’
Dickie exhaled impatiently but did as he was ordered. He had assumed Torie to be a soft touch; a woman on her own. How wrong could one be?
For My Brother’s Sins Page 53