Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  He measured out a dram of ginger and sifted out two drams of the aniseed into the bowl. He added the turpentine to the mixture and stirred it with his fingers until it formed a ball.

  When he was twelve years of age, the punishments stopped. One afternoon, Jarius came home earlier than usual. It was a stiflingly hot summer day and Frank was in the stable. He was so uncomfortable with the heat he had stripped off his clothes and was standing naked, pouring a bucket of water over himself. He suddenly became aware that Jarius had come in and was watching him.

  “My little brother is growing up, I see,” he said, but his voice was so full of repulsion that Frank there and then began to think of himself as ugly; he knew it had to do with the hair that had grown in his crotch and the changes in his private parts.

  Frank hadn’t been paying much attention to what he was doing but suddenly the odour of the turpentine made him retch, his stomach was already so queasy from last night’s binge. Then he realised he’d forgotten the other part of the recipe. Irritated, he went back to the shelf.

  “Where is the frigging stuff?” he said out loud.

  “What frigging stuff?” Peter Curran was in one of the stalls, working on the horse.

  “The antimony. It’s supposed to be here on the shelf.”

  “Don’t blame me, I wouldn’t touch it.”

  “Damnation.”

  They were interrupted by his nephew’s voice.

  “Uncle Frank? Shall I feed Brownie?”

  Lewis was standing in the doorway. He could have been Frank’s own child in appearance, with the same light brown hair and round face, but this similarity didn’t endear him to his uncle. He was too quiet, inclined to be sly, and although he would never have admitted it, Frank saw himself mirrored in that cautious, wary expression with which Lewis regarded the world.

  “Of course feed him. He was purged this morning. Have you been messing with the medicines?”

  “No, Uncle Frank.”

  “This will have to do then. Put it in the mash.” He held out the ball of aniseed, dropping the sticky mass into the boy’s palm. “Stir it in well.”

  He followed the youngster to the stall and watched while he ladled mash from a pail into the horse’s pan. Brownie stepped forward and Lewis leaped away, almost knocking over the pail.

  Frank yelled at him and gave him a sharp rap on the side of the head.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I thought he was going to bite me.”

  “What a yellow-bellied little runt you are. He wanted his mash, not you. Get out of here. Go see if your father’s finished.”

  Lewis scuttled away. Frank waited until he was sure the roan had swallowed the medicine, then followed him. Curran was in the process of blacking the mare’s hooves. Earlier he had filed away the ridges in her front hooves to hide the fact she had foundered, and the blacking was to cover the signs.

  “Done? Let’s bring her out then. Our friend should be here soon.”

  Curran took the mare’s halter and led her out of the stall.

  Frank beckoned to Lewis. “Now, Mister Titty Suck, I want you to show the horse when the customer comes. Do you think you can do that without a big cock-up?”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “This man is a stupid sod, fancies himself a bit of a buck but he’s a green arse. Just the kind we like. He says he wants a lively carriage horse for his new bride. ’Course he doesn’t want to pay a top price but never mind. We have the perfect mare for him. Good thing it’s raining, you’ll have to walk her in here. Doesn’t matter if you’re nervous, that’ll look good, like she’s spirited.”

  “Oh, I’m not scared of Duchess. She’s quiet.”

  “Any more quiet and she’d be dead,” put in Curran. “I’m surprised you haven’t sent her to Lamb’s factory. She’ll make better glue than she will a ‘lively carriage horse.’”

  Frank laughed. “Well, we have the remedy for that, don’t we? Hold on to her, Lewis, don’t let her run off.”

  The boy stood holding the lead rein. The mare showed signs of a hard life and was slightly swaybacked. Her head drooped almost to the ground.

  Frank came back with a piece of clean linen and the tin of powdered ginger. He took off the lid, twisted the cloth into a tight spindle, and dipped it into the ginger. Then, clicking his tongue softly, he approached the mare, lifted her tail, and quickly pushed the twist of cloth into her anus. She jumped, but almost immediately the ginger began to sting. She pawed at the ground.

  “Walk her, Lew.”

  The boy tugged on the halter and she needed no urging, stepping forward in a prance, her tail held high as she tried to get away from the irritation in her backside.

  Frank whistled in delight. “She’s moving like a filly. We’ll give her another little boost just before he gets here. He’ll be totally satisfied. And he’ll think he’s bilking me into the bargain. ’Course in two days she’ll be near death again but that won’t be my fault, will it?”

  “What if he brings her back, Uncle?”

  “He won’t. Our agreement will be final sale. Besides, he’s going away on his wedding trip. When he gets back, he can blame his own groom for overriding the horse. He’s not going to admit I duped him. All right, let her walk it off a bit, then put her back in the stall.”

  He went over to the lantern that was hanging on a hook by the door and turned down the wick. “We can see quite well enough, thank you.”

  Curran waited until Lewis had stabled the mare again, then he turned to Frank.

  “By the way, Jarius said that Pa has made up his mind.”

  Eakin stared at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You was busy.”

  “Well, what’s he going to do?”

  Curran grinned. “I guess you persuaded him. She’ll get the operation.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AS SOON AS HE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR, Murdoch could hear Arthur coughing and immediately, almost subconsciously, he assessed the sound. No worse, maybe slightly better than usual. He was hanging up his coat and hat when the kitchen door opened and Enid Jones came out.

  “Mr. Murdoch, I was hoping you wouldn’t be too late. Your supper is almost ready.”

  He couldn’t resist imitating her lilt.

  “Is it now?”

  She smiled. “Is it mocking me you are?”

  “Not at all. I could listen to you all day long.”

  “I’d say that was a dreadful waste of time then.” But her tone belied the words.

  However, they were both suddenly awkward, standing close in the narrow hall.

  “Mrs. Kitchen has gone to a prayer vigil at the church,” Enid said. “I promised I would look after you in her place.”

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Jones, but really I am quite capable of taking a plate out of the oven. I have done it many times before.”

  “Whether you are capable or not isn’t the point, is it now? We both thought you could do with some tending to on a raw night like this. Especially with you having had your tooth pulled.”

  She scrutinised him. “Your face is still swollen. Is it hurting?”

  “Very much,” he said solemnly.

  She stepped back. “Go get you a warm by the fire, then. I will bring in your tea.”

  He went into the little front parlour. The fire was crackling and there was an extra lamp on the table. The heat and light seemed dazzling after the dismal weather outside.

  “Hello, Alwyn.”

  Enid’s son was sitting at the table with some sort of games board in front of him. As Murdoch entered, the boy glanced up but he didn’t look too pleased to see him.

  “Good evening to you, sir.”

  Murdoch looked over his shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  “It’s a game my mamma gave me.”

  “Looks interesting. The Prince’s Quest. What do you have to do?”

  Alwyn became a little more animated. “The prince
ss is asleep and she’s in danger. There are four princes who want to save her. The first one to get to the bower wins her.” His face was earnest. “The path is full of dangers.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve known it to be.”

  There was a silence while the boy considered his options. Finally, he said, “Will you play then?”

  “I would like to.” He pulled out the chair next to the boy.

  “We must first choose our pieces,” said Alwyn.

  He showed him cutout shapes of princes on little wooden stands. They wore flat hats, short embroidered jerkins, and dark stockings. Each had a sleeveless cloak, also short, which were of different colours.

  “I’ll take the purple one.”

  Alwyn looked disappointed. “That was the one I wanted.”

  Murdoch hesitated, trying to decide whether it would be better for character development for the boy to take his lumps or whether he could curry a bit of favour. He elected to placate.

  “Green for me then. He’s a handsome fellow.”

  “No, it’s all right. My da said it wasn’t manly to complain if things didn’t go your way.”

  “Did he now? He was right, I’d say. Purple it is.”

  Alwyn studied the princes. “I’ll take blue, no – this one, the red.” He set the two chosen figures on the board, each one facing a different path. “Throw the die and move according to the number.”

  “Where’s the princess?”

  The boy pointed to a woman with extraordinarily long hair who was reclining languidly on a couch. Her eyes were closed so he assumed she was sleeping. Or waiting and full of anticipation.

  Vigorously, he shook the die in his cupped hands and tossed it down with a flourish. One.

  “Hm, the story of my life.”

  Alwyn threw a five and gleefully counted off the spaces along the path toward the prize.

  “I’m beating you already.”

  Murdoch’s next throw landed him on a square marked Shoes of Swiftness, and he was able to shoot ahead, thereby avoiding a stint of work in the dwarf’s cave. Alwyn threw a four and landed in the Garden of Sleep.

  “Oh, dear, miss three turns,” said Murdoch.

  “No, that’s not fair,” the boy wailed.

  “It’s the luck of the game, titch. Remember what your father said.”

  He was about to throw again when Enid entered. She was carrying a big tray.

  He got up quickly to help her. Alwyn said something to her in Welsh, gesturing angrily at Murdoch. She answered in a soothing voice, shaking her head.

  “I didn’t,” said Murdoch.

  “Didn’t what?” she said, startled.

  “Cheat.”

  “You know Welsh?”

  “No, but I know small boys. He landed fair and square in the Garden of Sleep. He has to miss three throws.”

  “Good gracious, that is hard.”

  “Rules are rules.”

  He wanted to add, That is what your husband taught him, but was reluctant to introduce any memory of her former love.

  She turned to her son.

  “Mr. Murdoch is going to have his supper. You can finish your game afterwards.”

  Alwyn answered in Welsh and, picking up the die, he went back to the board. He was going to play both princes. Then he was sure to win the princess. Murdoch thought it was churlish to protest. He moved over to the place set for him.

  Enid lifted the lid off the tureen.

  “I made a rabbit soup,” she said. “It’s a popular dish at home.”

  The food smelled so fragrant, Murdoch’s mouth watered and he was afraid he’d actually be drooling if he didn’t eat soon. She ladled some soup into a bowl, handed it to him, and waited for him to take his first taste. He did so, nearly scalding himself.

  “Utterly delicious,” he managed to mutter.

  “It’s hot, be careful now.”

  He tore off a piece of bread from the hunk on his plate and stuffed that into his mouth to ease the pain. She watched him with gratification as he made more appreciative noises.

  “I thought you’d need something soft.”

  Alwyn looked up. “I’ve got a loose tooth.” He opened his mouth and waggled one of his front teeth.

  “Good for you,” murmured Murdoch, trying to make sure the soup wasn’t getting into the gaping crater he could feel in his gum.

  “I’ll bring in the potatoes. I mashed them up with the rest of the rabbit,” said Enid.

  She went back to the kitchen, leaving Murdoch to blow air into his burning mouth.

  Alwyn returned to his game, talking quietly to himself as he moved his pieces. Murdoch saw him land in the Haunted Glen. He was supposed to throw a three to get out but he ignored that and moved on. Murdoch was about to call out, “Hey, you’re cheating,” but thought better of it. The lad needed a firm hand, he decided. He studied him for a moment. He had his mother’s dark eyes but he was sharper of feature and his hair had a curl to it. I wonder what it’s like to see your own reflection in a child’s face, thought Murdoch. Or the face of the woman you have loved? He stopped eating.

  Enid came back into the room and he hastily dipped his spoon back into the soup.

  “Is it all right then?”

  “Wonderful.”

  She put the platter on the table.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jones. This is very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. I wanted to help Mrs. Kitchen.”

  On impulse, he caught hold of her hand, grasping it awkwardly in a semi-handshake. Then, as if his body were acting entirely on its own accord, he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. Her skin smelled faintly of onions. She didn’t pull away but he didn’t know what to do next. He wanted desperately to be eloquent but found himself tongue-tied. He looked up at her. This time she did move.

  “I must go fetch the potatoes.”

  “You brought them in already.”

  “So I did.” She became even more flustered and reached for the soup tureen. “I’ll take this out of your way and let you finish your meal in peace.”

  “This is peace. I’d be honoured if you would keep me company.”

  She hesitated briefly, then sat down at the opposite end of the table.

  “Very well.”

  He bought some time by spooning up more soup, which had cooled somewhat.

  “Utterly delicious.”

  She nodded. Alwyn gave him a reprieve by getting up and going over to his mother.

  “I won, Mama. I rescued the princess.”

  Fondly, she put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. “Well done, little one.”

  Murdoch was about to say that it was easy to win if you were moving both pieces but he bit his tongue. Feeling rivalrous, was he?

  “If you go into the kitchen you will find a tray of lemon dumplings,” she said to the boy. “You can have one for yourself. But eat it there, look you.”

  Alwyn took off.

  “Lemon dumplings? This is a meal fit for a king.”

  There was another uncomfortable silence while he tackled the platter of rabbit meat and potatoes.

  “Mr. Murdoch, there is something I have been wanting to ask you.”

  “Yes?” He was hopeful.

  “In church last week, the minister was preaching about the afterlife. He pointed out that if my son were to die, God defend us, the Roman Catholic Church teaches that he would not go to heaven as he is not of the Catholic faith. He would be deprived of the sight of God for all eternity through no fault of his own. Can you explain to me how a person who believes in the Divine love can accept such a cruel doctrine?”

  Murdoch almost groaned out loud. A theological discussion was not his notion of love talk. But she was regarding him earnestly, wanting an answer.

  “As far as I am concerned, doctrine is man-made. We hope that it reflects God’s will on earth but we can never know that for sure.”

  She seemed dissatisfied with his answer. “Yes, but …”

  Fort
unately, he was rescued by Mrs. Kitchen coming into the parlour. Her nose and cheeks were reddened from the chill air outside.

  “Mr. Murdoch, I am so glad Mrs. Jones has been taking good care of you. I won’t even apologise for my absence, since I can see what a splendid meal she has prepared.”

  Murdoch stood up to greet her. “Splendid and plentiful.”

  “Are you ready for your tea?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “The kettle is at the boil,” said Enid.

  “Good, let me just see how Arthur is doing and I’ll make us all a pot. You will join us, won’t you, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Thank you, but perhaps another night. I have to start getting Alwyn ready for bed.”

  She headed for the door.

  “Perhaps I can answer your question at a later time,” said Murdoch.

  She nodded. “It is a discussion I am looking forward to.”

  Mrs. Kitchen waited until she left. “She worked all day on that soup, Mr. Murdoch. I would be careful if I were you.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. K.? It tasted quite all right to me.”

  She tapped his hand. “Don’t pretend. You know perfectly well what I am talking about. She fancies you.”

  Murdoch clasped both her hands in his. “Oh, dear Mrs. K., is that so terribly bad?”

  “It’s not so much it’s bad, as that it’s out of the question. Or have you forgotten she’s a Baptist?”

  He sighed and let her go. “No. You both seem intent on reminding me. She wanted to know how I explained limbo.”

  “Did she indeed? That means she’s serious. She’s trying to see how big the chasm is. But never you mind, some people have made successful mixed marriages. She would have to convert, of course.”

  He grinned. “Mrs. K., here we are talking about the lady as if she and I were courting. I’m not even at the starting line.”