A Long Way from Heaven

by A Long Way from Heaven (retail) (epub)

  ‘Come out, ye’ve had your turn.’ Dickie elbowed him out of the way and squinted through the crack.

  ‘S’not your turn, ’tis mine,’ argued Sonny and a ferocious jostling for position began, until the doors swung open knocking them all onto the filthy yard.

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’ bawled Raper, brandishing a red-tipped knife. ‘No good, I’ll be bound.’ He advanced on them.

  The terrified boys, without daring to take their eyes from the knife, tripped and stumbled into the alleyway and out into the street, pursued by the maniacal butcher. He shook the knife at them and bellowed like one of his victims. ‘I’ll cut your bloody throats if ever I catch yer round ’ere again!’

  They ran like the devil himself was on their heels, until they were sure that he was no longer following. ‘Phew! I wonder what time it is?’ panted Dickie, making certain that his pocket still contained the hens’ feet. ‘D’ye think we’d best be goin’ back?’

  There was half-hearted agreement and together they cut through a lane that led to the school, hoping to rejoin the group of runners on their return.

  But their plan was foiled. As they were about to run towards the school, the appearance of an all-too-familiar figure had them hastily springing back around a corner.

  ‘Blinkin’ ’ell, what we gonna do now?’ asked George, goggling at Brother Simon Peter in alarm. ‘Look, there’s the rest o’ the lads.’ He pointed in the direction of George Street where the first of the breathless competitors had appeared. However fast they might sprint across the road to join them Brother Simon Peter would most certainly see them.

  ‘I told ye ’twas a silly idea,’ bewailed Sonny.

  The line of boys was halfway past the truants now, who could already feel the strap across their rumps. It would take witchery to get them out of this one.

  And then appeared a person whom they had always accused of possessing that power, but for which they had never dreamt they would ever have cause to be grateful. ‘Coo-ee, Brother Simon!’ whinnied Nelly Peabody and bounded across the road to greet the master, omitting to use his full name as she always did; it was such a mouthful.

  The master tried to ignore her presence and concentrate on counting the runners as they streamed past, but Nelly tugged at his sleeve demanding his attention and so confusing his addition.

  ‘Oh, Brother Simon,’ said Nelly. ‘I was beginning to think that you were avoiding me.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that impression, Miss Peabody?’ The smile lacked conviction. ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two.’

  ‘Well, that last time I saw you, you did say that you might take tea with me one afternoon. That was some time ago.’ Nelly had successfully entertained just about everyone who was of any importance in the district. The schoolmaster had so far managed to evade her.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Peabody, but as you know a schoolmaster has numerous duties to perform – twenty-seven, twenty-eight – I do trust that you are enjoying more reasonable health since our last meeting?’

  ‘Oh, my dear Brother Simon, you cannot begin to imagine the pain I have to endure…’ Nelly ranted on and on and on, while the master tried futilely to keep his attention on the runners.

  Here was their chance. As the last boy padded towards them the three leapt into the queue, passing the stragglers and positioning themselves behind the thirtieth runner; a place where they might be expected to be. At that moment Brother Simon Peter returned his calculating eyes to the boys, craning his neck over Nelly’s shoulder as she moaned continuously over her rheumatism. Forty boys staggered past him, thirty-seven of their number in red-faced exhaustion, the other three eyeing him nervously.

  With a modicum of diplomacy the master finally disengaged himself from Nelly and followed the boys into the yard where he scrutinised each face closely.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘You may return to the classroom.’

  The three recalcitrants made to follow the rest, sneaking congratulatory smiles at each other.

  ‘One moment, those three boys.’ They stopped dead as he came up to them. ‘Running appears to be your forte, does it not?’ They stole apprehensive glances at one another, unfamiliar with his phrase. ‘What I mean by that, Feeney,’ said the master as he bent towards Sonny, speaking in his quiet, minatory way, ‘is that whilst the rest of the class are obviously worn out from their exercise, you and your companions seem not to have sustained any ill-effects whatsoever. On the contrary, you are positively bounding with fitness.’

  ‘It was quite easy really, Brother.’ Sonny could have bitten off his tongue, but the words could not be reclaimed.

  ‘Good, good,’ smiled the master reflectively. ‘Then, as you apparently enjoyed it you will be pleased to learn that I have decided to allow you to complete the course again. One cannot have too much of a good thing, can one, Feeney? But this time, instead of coming into school after completing the first circuit you will go round once more, which should add to your enjoyment even further.’

  Sonny could feel his brother’s accusing glare.

  ‘Very well, off you go – oh, and Feeney?’ Both Dickie and Sonny turned back as he warned them: ‘Just so you will not take it into your heads to cut your journey short, I am going to position a boy on all entrances to Margaret Street and George Street.’

  There was no way out this time. The three set off, Sonny and George berating Dickie for his bright idea of a short cut. By the time they reached the Bar their legs were beginning to ache, weighed down by the heavy boots. There was no dodging the hot sun which bounced from the pavements and settled upon their heaving shoulders. Towards the Cattle Market they staggered, panting dry-tongued past Fishergate Bar where one of Codgob’s spies lounged in bored antagonism, onto Fishergate Postern, clomping up Lead Mill Lane and back to the school.

  ‘Keep those knees up!’ shouted the master as they ran past the gates. ‘I shall allow you another eight minutes to go round again.’

  ‘D’ye think we can do it?’ panted George hopefully.

  ‘Doesn’t matter if we do or not,’ replied Sonny dully. ‘We’re still for it.’

  Their windpipes started to feel as though they had been scoured with sandpaper. Ballooning lungs, tortured limbs – Holy Mary, Mother o’ God, pray for us sinners! Left, right, left, right! Eyes stinging, heads throbbing. Sweet Jesus, the landmarks seemed to be getting further apart. Slogging, plodding onwards.

  ‘I can’t go any further,’ wheezed Dickie painfully. ‘I’ll have to have a rest.’

  Sonny and George, though exhausted themselves, heaved him to his feet and dragged him between them.

  ‘Come on, our lad,’ gasped Sonny, wiping a hand around his dripping face. ‘’Tis not far now. There’ll be trouble if we’re not back in time, or worse trouble I should say.’

  Each step became agonising. The pain clutched at their calves and, gaining a hold, crept higher into their thighs, their hips. Everywhere.

  Suddenly Dickie fell. A long, ragged gash appeared on his shin. He began to cry. Sonny helped him up and pulled a grimy rag from his pocket, dabbing at his brother’s eyes; a diminutive patriarch. The blood oozed from the cut in a scarlet trickle towards his boot, soaking into the stocking that hung around his ankle.

  Sonny straightened the handkerchief and tied it around his brother’s leg. ‘Can ye tie a double knot?’ He looked at George who came to his aid.

  Then once more they continued the tortuous trek, feeling no benefit from their brief rest. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, they reached the school gates where Brother Simon Peter still lurked, a black-hearted vulture.

  ‘A fine effort,’ he praised as they limped after him into the classroom, his lips twisting into what was supposed to be a smile. ‘Unfortunately you failed to arrive back within the allotted time.’

  ‘’Tis not fair,’ Sonny objected. ‘My brother fell an’ cut his leg, that’s why we didn’t get back in time.’

  The vee above the master’s nose seemed as thou
gh it were ready to take flight. ‘So, you stayed to look after him? An admirable trait is compassion, Feeney. Highly commendable.’ He reached for the strap on the walk ‘And, as you so rightly shared his pain then, you will have no objection to sharing it now. That is only “fair”, as you put it. Come here, boy.’

  Sonny advanced and, without having to be instructed, unbuttoned his trousers and bent over the bench.

  ‘Now, how many shall we give him today, boys?’ The master tapped the strap across his palm, prolonging the agony. ‘For his failure to complete the course in the given time might I suggest six would be suitable?’ Sonny knew that he would not get away so lightly. ‘Then six for taking a short cut in the first instance…’

  ‘We didn’t!’ Sonny interjected.

  ‘… and a further six for his insolence towards his master.’

  Sonny took his punishment with the invariable silence, gritting his teeth as the thick leather strap bit into him. The Brother, recognising that he would kill this boy before subduing him, wisely kept his temper, administering the blows in cool, calculating accuracy.

  ‘Next!’

  George stepped forth and duly received twelve welts, finding no difficulty in producing the required tears.

  Then it was Dickie’s turn.

  ‘Now, Feeney,’ said Brother Simon Peter, almost gaily. ‘How many do you think you deserve?’

  The boy studied his boots and remained silent, knowing that any answer he might give would be the wrong one.

  ‘Have you no tongue, boy?’ hissed the master, wetting his lips as he watched Dickie unbutton his trousers and produce his white rump for retribution.

  ‘Let me see. Feeney Minor received eighteen, did he not? And I believe you were the person who hindered the others by your careless action. Therefore I think it only fair that you receive an extra six, making a total of twenty-four.’

  Dickie looked at his brother, then closed his eyes as the punishment commenced. By the sixth stroke the tears were beginning to form. By the twelfth he was crying profusely, sobbing noisily into his clenched fists.

  Sonny watched his brother’s anguish in angry silence, guessing that anything he might say would only procure sterner retaliation for Dickie. The wily master had finally found his opponent’s Achilles heel: his brother’s pain could reach Sonny in a way no flogging could.

  The strokes, instead of decreasing in strength as they neared the fifteenth, became heavier. Each time the man’s hand fell he looked towards Sonny, urging him to cry, to put a stop to his brother’s pain. Dickie yelled heartrendingly, begging the master to stop. But only Sonny could do that, and Sonny would not cry.

  Everyone’s eyes were upon him. Seventeen! Eighteen! Dickie was almost screaming now. Sonny bit his lip. Why? Why was everyone looking at him? He had taken his punishment like a man, why could not his brother do the same? He knew that he could put a stop to all this, but why should he? Why? It was always he who had to be the strong one, even though he was the youngest; sticking up for his brother, fighting his battles. Angrily he listened to Dickie’s screams and knew that he could not stand by and do nothing. He would have to do it. At that moment he hated his brother. This time it was not punches that were required, but tears. It took a different kind of courage.

  Slowly a drop of moisture welled up in the corner of his eye. It hung on his lower lashes for an age, then trickled down the side of his nose, pursued by another, and another. The master’s eyes lit up with a triumphant gleam. He slapped the twentieth stroke over the red and broken skin, then dropped the strap to his side.

  ‘I think we can dispense with the other four, Feeney,’ he said magnanimously. Dragging Dickie to his feet he gloated as the boy painfully fastened his breeches and limped back to his seat.

  The room was silent. All gazes were cast to the floor, sharing in Sonny’s humiliation as the tears coursed down his face. He had been their hero – their one spark of light in this golgotha – now he was just the same as all the others.

  Sonny looked around at his friends who now presented their backs and refused to meet his eyes.

  Later, in the playground, though Sonny tried to avoid them, George and his comrades edged up to him, jackal-like, scuffing their boots on the gravel, prompting each other into speech. Eventually it was left to George to state their claim.

  ‘We want our things back,’ he said bluntly.

  Two sharp lines appeared between the sandy eyebrows. ‘They’re not yours now, ye gave ’em to me.’

  ‘That was before.’ The rest of the boys grew braver and circled around him. ‘You’ve got to give ’em back, else we’ll tell.’

  Furiously, Sonny rammed his hand into his pocket and drawing out the marbles, badges and string flung them into their turncoat faces. Then, swivelling on his heel, he marched briskly away. If that was their idea of friendship, then he wanted none of it.

  And as usual, when there was trouble, his brother was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  That evening Erin came, armed with a basket of groceries which Cook had sneaked from the larder.

  ‘Will ye look at her, Tommy!’ cried Patrick, kissing his daughter delightedly. ‘Has she not grown into a little lady?’

  Thomasin put down her darning and came to welcome her stepdaughter. ‘She is that. And look at all these lovely things she’s brought with her.’ She lifted the napkin from the basket. ‘By Jove, I shan’t know what to do with all this.’ She turned to address her sons, holding up a brown, speckled egg. ‘How would yer like a chucky egg for your supper, then?’

  ‘Eggs for supper!’ exclaimed Patrick in mock horror. ‘Sure, ye’d think she was laying ’em herself.’

  ‘Well, yer’ve got to do summat to cheer ’em up,’ answered his wife. ‘I’ve never seen such long faces in all me life. They’ve been sat like two book ends since they came in from school.’

  The boys eyed her noncommittally from their separate chairs.

  ‘They’ve been fightin’,’ whispered Thomasin to Erin, who took the groceries through to the scullery where she slipped her wages into Thomasin’s pocket.

  ‘How’s the mistress treatin’ yer these days?’ asked Thomasin sitting down again.

  ‘About the same,’ replied Erin quietly. ‘I’m beginning to think she’s got something personal against me.’

  Thomasin flinched. ‘Nay, she’s no reason to, has she?’

  ‘I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me,’ ventured her stepdaughter. ‘She’s been saying…’ she paused.

  ‘Saying what?’ asked Patrick interestedly, sucking on his pipe and filling the room with clouds of familiar perfume.

  ‘Ah, ’tis nice to be home with all the old smells,’ breathed Erin as the smoke swirled around her head.

  ‘By, yer make it sound as though we stink,’ sallied Thomasin, glad that Erin had changed the subject.

  Erin laughed softly. ‘Now ye know what I meant – Dad’s tobacco and the like.’

  Patrick smiled too but was not to be distracted. ‘Ye were saying that the mistress says things. What about?’

  ‘Oh just… awful things,’ answered Erin. ‘None of it has any substance, she just says things to hurt people.’ She looked at Thomasin who was obviously suffering some discomfort from this dialogue, then changed the subject again. ‘There’s one thing anyway,’ she said brightly. ‘The mistress seems to have taken a liking to Caroline all of a sudden. We never see her in the servants’ hall now, she always takes her meals upstairs.’

  ‘As it should be,’ said Patrick firmly. ‘Whoever heard of a lady making her daughter eat with the servants? Though I don’t expect the girl is very keen about taking her meals with the miserable ould witch after the fun she’s had with you.’

  ‘Ye’d not think so,’ agreed Erin. ‘But Caroline doesn’t see the mistress in the same light as we do. She’ll not hear a wrong word said about her. I miss her though.’

  ‘Well, perhaps ’tis for the best,’ Patrick puffed thoughtfully. ‘It
doesn’t do to get too attached to someone of her class.’

  ‘Why eyer not?’ asked Erin. ‘Just because she’s rich doesn’t mean to say we can’t be friends.’

  ‘That’s quite true in theory,’ admitted Patrick. ‘But such friendships usually end in one o’ the parties being hurt, an’ there’ll be no prizes for guessing which one.’

  ‘Ye don’t understand, Dad,’ sighed his daughter. ‘Caroline isn’t like that at all. Well, she can be a bit high an’ mighty at times, but that’s only her upbringing, she’s a good friend really. Think of all the things she’s done for me. These nice clothes I’m wearing, they belonged to her – and the school lessons.’

  ‘They’re to continue then?’ asked Patrick, fighting to keep the bitterness from his voice. It needled that Caroline, with a wave of her hand, could give his daughter what he could not.

  ‘Of course,’ said Erin. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Does the mistress know about them yet?’ asked Thomasin. She had been greatly surprised when Erin had informed her about the lessons.

  ‘D’ye think I’d still be taking them if she knew?’ grinned Erin, then went on to tell them the rest of the news, about the dinner parties Helena had given and the new gowns she had bought, describing them down to the last button.

  ‘I wish ye wouldn’t talk about all this grand stuff in front of your mother,’ reproved Patrick, though only in fun this time. ‘She’ll be expecting me to buy them for her next.’

  ‘Now yer know what I’ve always told yer,’ retorted Thomasin. ‘I have everything I want right ’ere.’

  Pale creases fanned out from the outer edges of Patrick’s blue eyes, where they had been screwed up against the glare of the sun. It looked as if someone had taken a paintbrush and applied white, feathery strokes to his tanned skin. ‘I know what ye say,’ he teased. ‘But if it was handed to ye on a plate I’ll wager ye’d not turn it down. Come on now, be truthful.’