Admonition

by Chris Throsby

  One day, Mum told me Ruth had a fever and I wasn’t to hold her until she was better – but she didn’t tell me I couldn’t look at her lying in her crib. So the first time I looked, I was shocked; whimpering and tearing at her clothes, Ruth’s face was very red and just standing by her, I could feel the heat coming from her little body. It was three days later I noticed she had gone quiet. Mum had just stepped outside, so I went to her crib and was happy to see she was sleeping peacefully and her fever seemed to have gone completely. Excited, I ran outside and called Mum. She was talking to a neighbour, but when I told her Ruth was asleep and I thought she was getting better, she didn’t smile or say anything, just rushed into the house. She picked Ruth up and looked at her, but she didn’t smile or make the clucking noises she normally made. Instead, she began to wail in a way I’d never heard before, have never heard since and hope I never will again. It wasn’t like when Dad set about her or even how she was after he’d finished with her. Confused, I asked her what was wrong and when she didn’t reply, I tugged at her skirt and asked again. She pulled herself away from me and screamed,

  “She’s dead!”

  I didn’t understand. How could it be true? I’d seen Ruth moments before and she’d been sleeping; how could she have died so quickly? But when I asked Mum, she set her teeth and spat,

  “You stupid child, she wasn’t sleeping. She was already dead.”

  Pulling at her arm, I made her show me, but when I touched Ruth’s face, it was cold and she didn’t move at my touch. Then I noticed her little chest, which I was used to seeing move rapidly in and out as she breathed, now was motionless and I realised Mum was telling the truth. The shock forced me to my knees and as I buried my head in Mum’s skirts, the tears began to flow.

  For what seemed forever, Mum left me there sobbing, but finally, after putting Ruth back in her crib, she bent down and pulled me gently to my feet. She pleaded with me,

  “Your father will be home soon. You don’t want him to catch you crying, do you? You know what he’s like, so dry your eyes now and be a brave boy.”

  I knew she was right about my father, but I’d lost my little sister and I was very far from being ready to be a ‘brave boy’. So instead, I ran out the front door and kept running until I was safely in the woods that surrounded our village. There I threw myself on the ground and cried myself out.

  When I returned home a couple of hours later, Dad was already there, but neither he nor Mum wanted to know where I’d been. Mum only asked me quietly whether I wanted something to eat. I said yes, but then ate only a couple of mouthfuls. Normally I’d be forced to eat the rest and when I finished, my reward would be a beating from Dad, but this time Mum just took my plate away and Dad said and did nothing.

  I never saw Ruth again and when I noticed her body was no longer in her crib, Mum explained that she’d already taken her to get her ready for burial. And as they didn’t take me to the funeral, I never had the chance to say goodbye.

  When Mum died, Dad took to drinking whatever he could, wherever he could get it and it was only a few months later that he abandoned me. I learnt later that two more years of that life had found him dead in a gutter.

  I was barely seven years old and my father hadn’t taught me much. But two things I had learnt from him that I would never forget: how cruel men could be to women and the way drink could destroy their lives and the lives of those around them. In time, I came to realise that life had put my father at the bottom of the pile and fate had conspired to keep him there. Mum had been the one bright shell that had washed up on life’s otherwise cold beach. Beguiled by her looks, he believed she would lead him to a better place. She gave him no reason to think that way and couldn’t be blamed for her looks – she certainly never flaunted them – but when he realised that nothing would change, her looks became a taunt to him and the passion to destroy them became as strong, stronger even, than the one that had dazzled him in the first place.

  Dad drank too much to keep any job and I became used to being woken in the dead of night and moved from one dank hovel to another even worse. Finally, when there was nowhere Dad didn’t owe rent or where his reputation as a bad payer didn’t precede him, we spent an uncomfortable night sleeping under a hedge.

  Early the next morning, I awoke cold and hungry and we found some uncollected windfall apples, left presumably because they were beginning to rot. Making sure the maggots, already started on their own meal, didn’t become part of ours, we breakfasted on those morsels we found that were still edible.

  Meagre as it was, that meal turned out to be the only food we had to eat all day and after spending the day wandering aimlessly and not finding anything better, that night we returned to the same hedge. Huddled close to Dad, though cold and aching with hunger, I was so exhausted I slipped into fitful sleep. But then, in the middle of the night, Dad woke me.

  “Come on son, wake up. I know what we’re going to do.”

  As I struggled to my feet, lying in the cold and damp had made me very stiff, Dad said,

  “We’re about three miles from town and there are some people there who’ll take you in and look after you. You’ll have to be really quiet when we get there though, ’cos we don’t want to rouse them ’til they’re ready to take in a newcomer.”

  Without another word, he started walking away and bleary-eyed, there was nothing I could do but follow.

  It was still dark when he stopped outside a high gate. He spoke in a whisper.

  “This is the place then Jabez; in a couple of hours, they’ll open the gate to let a few people out.”

  Pointing at the flint–fronted building that lay in darkness beyond the gates and so quietly I could barely hear, he breathed,

  “When they see you, they’ll ask why you’re here and all you have to do is tell them the truth. You just explain that your Mum’s dead and I’ve gone to find work. Tell them that and they’ll take you in, feed you and give you a bed until I’ve got things sorted out and can come back for you.”

  I was frightened to be left alone and the building, which in the night looked windowless and unwelcoming, filled me with foreboding. But I didn’t want to spend another night under that hedge and I was so hungry that the thought of food, any food, overcame my fear.

  When I think back, my father actually looked relieved as he said,

  “Right then son, I better get going. Remember, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I sat down by the gate and waited for someone to appear. I think, even then, I knew I’d never see my father again.

  ‘What the devil are you doing there boy?’

  A voice had interrupted my dreams, and opening my eyes I saw a man stood at the gate jangling a large set of keys in his hand. Struggling to my feet, I said what Dad had told me to say, fully expecting the man to open the gate and welcome me in. But the gate stayed firmly shut as he sneered,

  “So your father’s left you here, has he? Expects us to feed and clothe you, does he? Put a roof over your head ’till he feels like picking you up? Now you get on your way and catch up with your father and when you do, you tell him – and make sure that you do – you tell him we’re not here to look after any of his waifs and strays.”

  I was confused. I didn’t understand. Dad had said they would just take me in. So not knowing what else I could say to change his mind, I said,

  “Please sir, I haven’t eaten for days, or slept in a proper bed.”

  Looking down at me, he remained unsympathetic.

  “That’s not our problem, is it lad? It’s your father’s job to look after you, not ours. Now the sooner you get after him, the sooner you’ll catch him up and when you do, you tell him what I said; tell him I don’t want to see either of you back here. Do you understand me?”

  I just stood there not knowing what to do. His unforgiving face told me I’d never change his mind and as if to confirm my thoughts, he added,

  “I said get on your way otherwise I’ll call a constable.”

/>   I started to walk away; I didn’t know where I was going but there seemed to be little else I could do. I was so hungry; my stomach hurt. So tired, I was light–headed and worst of all, I felt so very alone.

  As I walked, my head began to swim and reaching for a wall, I missed and fell. I must have fainted because in what seemed moments but must have been longer, I found myself being picked up by a man I didn’t know. I was too weak to struggle and, to be honest, I couldn’t see the point; whatever fate this man had in store for me, it couldn’t be worse than the one I was already facing.

  I slipped in and out of consciousness, so I remember only slivers of what happened next. I’ve never met that man again, so I’ve never been able to thank him and tell him that that morning he probably saved my life; he certainly changed it for the better.

  Ignoring the porter’s protests, he called,

  “Nurse Cole.”

  Repeatedly he called for her. He wouldn’t give up and eventually she appeared. Just out of bed, her hair dishevelled, she’d clearly dressed in a hurry. Looking very displeased, she demanded,

  “And who is it making enough noise to wake the dead? Who thinks they have to drag me out of bed at this ungodly hour?”

  Then she must have seen me and, ignoring the porter’s scowls, told him to unlock and reopen the gate.

  “Bring the boy here,” she told my rescuer.

  He carried me in and, at Nurse Cole’s instruction, put me down. I tried to stand but my head started swimming for a second time. I staggered and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught me up again. With a note of resignation, Nurse Cole said,

  “Very well, bring him inside and take him to the infirmary.”

  Carrying me in, the man laid me on a bed and after wishing me well, disappeared. Despite my hunger, I fell asleep instantly and whilst sleeping was overtaken by a fever.

  Most of the next week was nothing to me but fevered dreams, broken occasionally by Nurse Cole trying to make me drink a little water. Again and again I had the same nightmare; I was in a darkened room where Mum gave me a basket full of apples and every time I took a bite from one of them, it turned rotten. When I turned to ask Mum why, she was the same, her face rotting and covered with maggots.

  The fever broke after four days and later Nurse Cole told me she’d seen many, both young and old, who’d had a lower fever than me but hadn’t survived. Nevertheless, once the fever broke, I started to recover quickly and thankfully as my temperature fell, so the dreams became less frequent until after a week they stopped completely.

  After ten days, I was given a bath (I hadn’t bathed since Mum died) and some fresh clothes. The clothes were rough, but at least they were better than the rags I’d arrived in. In all the time I spent in the workhouse, that was the only time I bathed in clean water because usually, one by one, we all used the same water and if you were far enough down the line, it could be thicker than the gruel they fed us every morning. Nevertheless, they always fed me, clothed me and put a roof over my head. The bathwater might have been dirty most of the time, but it was always at least lukewarm and usually took off more dirt than it put on. After bathing, although still weak, I was moved into the main dormitory and joined the same routine as all the other young paupers.

  So for the next six years, the workhouse was my home and although I was often reminded how fortunate I was that the parish had taken me under its wing, in all that time I was never again asked any questions about my father, or the circumstances that led to him abandoning me outside the workhouse. I suppose, like me, they knew he was never coming back.

  ‘Bend with ’em and you’ll be alright.’

  That’s what Joseph whispered to me the first night I was in the boys’ dormitory – I’ve often wondered why he later forgot to follow his own advice, but I’ll come to that.

  Beds in the dormitory were arranged in two lines down opposite walls and I was given the last one on the left with Joseph next to me. The ceiling was high, as were the two small windows that provided the room’s only light. The walls were unbroken distemper, unbroken but for a small fire in one corner which, even when lit, threw heat no further than the two nearest beds.

  But for me it was everything I could wish it to be. I had a dry bed, a pillow, a sheet and a blanket. The pillow may have been hard and the blanket thin, but they were more than I had enjoyed for a long time and by simply pulling the covers over my head and curling up in a ball, I found I could create enough warmth to make me comfortable on even the coldest nights. So on that first night and most that followed, I slept soundly.

  The next day, as he showed me how to pick oakum, Joseph introduced himself. He told me, in that straightforward way we all have as children but lose before we become adults, that his name was Joseph Levy, he was eleven years old and that he had come to the workhouse with his mother after his father had died.

  “But you can call me Joe,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Now, remember what I told you last night. I’ll make sure none of the other boys give you any trouble and the men and women here probably won’t have anything to do with you. They keep us separate from them nearly all the time and most of ’em have enough troubles of their own not to be bothered with the likes of us.”

  For reasons I only understood later, it was clear Joe had decided to take me under his wing.

  "No, it’s some of ’em who run this place you’ve got to watch out for. Nurse Cole’s alright. She growls a lot, but she don’t bite. Mr Deeming, our tutor, is much the same, as long as you learn your letters and get his sums right, he’ll give you no trouble. The ones you’ve got to watch out for are the Master and Matron. You’re best doing anything you’re told by a member of staff, but with those two, you’ll do better if they don’t notice you at all. They hate everyone who’s in the workhouse and as far as they’re concerned, we can never do right.

  Matron is usually with the women and girls, but Mum says she’s much the same as the Master. They call us slackers and sluggards and never miss a chance to punish us, even if we haven’t done anything wrong and it don’t seem to matter to them that without us they wouldn’t have a job. I haven’t been allowed to see Mum for three weeks because every week when he does his dorm inspection, the Master says my bed’s not made right. He pulls on the sheet really hard so it’s bound to come off; I’ve never seen him do it to anyone else."

  I didn’t say anything, just wondered why Joe was treated differently from all the others. Surely the Master could have done the same thing with anyone’s bed?

  “The others are alright most of the time, but o’ course you’ve already made your own enemy.”

  Confused, I asked him,

  “How can I have made an enemy? I haven’t spoken to anyone in here apart from you and Nurse Cole?”

  After looking round to check he couldn’t be overheard, he said,

  “But you were let in after the porter refused you entrance, weren’t you? Nurse Cole overruled him in front of some of the paupers and according to him, ‘undermined his authority’.”

  I was still bewildered.

  “How can he blame me? I walked away when he told me to. It’s not my fault that I passed out and someone carried me back.”

  “But that’s just it,” Joe said. “He’s convinced himself you were acting. ‘Like summat outta Shakespeare’, he said, ‘’e shouldn’t be in ’ere. ’E should be on the stage’.”

  “But I wasn’t acting,” I said angrily. “I was starving.”

  "I know, but you won’t convince him. Don’t worry though, as long as you stay away from the gate, you shouldn’t need to have anything to do with him. His name’s Platt by the way.

  Anyway," he continued, “we’d better get some more of this oakum picked before the dinner bell rings – they won’t let us eat if they don’t think we’ve picked enough.”

  Like everywhere else in the workhouse, the walls in the classroom were painted white, but unlike everywhere else, two good-sized windows in the back wall mea
nt the room was well–lit on all but the gloomiest days. A fire, which Mr Deeming ensured burnt whenever it was cold, made sure the room was always tolerably warm. I sat at the back next to Joe.

  When Mr Deeming breezed in, the class, which was already quiet, fell silent, and after glancing round, his gaze settled on me.

  “You, the new boy, we don’t want you sat at the back, do we? At least not until we know you’re not sitting there just to avoid working.”

  I think he smiled, though it looked more like a grimace.

  “What’s your name then lad?”

  After I told him, he said,

  “Right then Payne, come and change places with Camden here in the front. On your way to the back Camden, hand out the slates, will you?”

  The slates were in two neat piles on Mr Deeming’s desk, and without a word, Ben Camden collected the first pile and handed them out to those nearest. Picking up the second pile, he distributed them as he made his way to his new place next to Joe.

  When I’d settled at my new desk, Mr Deeming handed me a piece of chalk, but seeing the clumsy way I held it, he said, “You’ve not learnt to write yet, have you boy?”

  I knew my face was turning red; all the others were looking at me and I wasn’t used to being the centre of so much attention, so I could think of little else to say other than,

  “No sir.”

  “And can you read at all?”

  The truth was Dad couldn’t read or write, so there was no possibility that I was going to learn.

  “No sir.”

  Expecting that reply, almost as soon as I spoke, he said,

  “Right, give me your slate and we’ll start you at the beginning.”

  As he wrote on the slate, he told me,

  “I’ve written the first five letters of the alphabet, A B C D and E.” He pointed to each one as he named it.

  “Now I want you to hold the chalk like me and copy them. They’re to look exactly the same as mine, the same height, all the lines joined but none running over another and all the letters in a straight line. If you make a mistake, rub it out and start again. When you’ve finished, put your hand up and I’ll come and look at what you’ve done. I don’t want to see them ’til they’re perfect, mind.”