Admonition

by Chris Throsby

Taking a firm grasp of Joe’s arm, the Master led him from the classroom. Joe only had time to glance back pleadingly in my direction before he disappeared. But I understood. I knew that whatever the Master had said, Joe wanted me to seek out his mother and tell her what had happened.

  He needn’t have worried though because, as Mrs Levy later told me, the Master was as good as his word and as soon as he knew Joe was well away from the workhouse, he took it upon himself to break the news to her. Taking great delight from telling her that Joe had, that very day, signed up for a seven-year apprenticeship in the welsh lead mines, he went on to tell her she could visit him just as soon as she left the workhouse. Joe of course would not be able to leave Gladlys until he had served his time. The Master’s cruel pleasure was extended as he went on to explain how Joe would spend his days dragging ore from the mine to the surface, breaking and washing it and then helping with the smelting.

  When Sunday finally came around and I was able to see Mrs Levy, it was clear she was deeply upset. Looking more careworn than she had when last I saw her, the lines on her face seemed etched more deeply than ever. But she put on a brave front and told me she still hoped to hear from her cousin who she was sure, when he heard of Joe’s fate, would buy out his indenture. I had no idea what an indenture might be, but even at seven, I could hear the desperation in her voice. She asked me if I might come and see her every Sunday; just in case, she said, one of us had some news of Joe. I believe she thought I held memories of Joe that I could share and would enhance her own recollections.

  Enclosed by high grey walls on all sides and dubiously decorated with streaks of green slime, the yard was a stark place. The long and narrow walkway that led through to the yard from the workhouse, tunnelled even the balmiest breeze into a bone chilling wind. Despite the cold, the yard was filled each week with couples and families huddled against the conditions, prepared to endure any discomfort in order to spend time together.

  Each week, we found a spot to meet and in time learnt to manoeuvre ourselves to a position where others protected us from the worst of the wind. But our greatest problem wasn’t the cold. It was that after only a few weeks, I had nothing further to add to the picture of Joe Mrs Levy had so preciously retained. Though we had learnt a great deal about each other, I’d spent barely three weeks with Joe, so there were few recollections or golden moments I could tell her that she didn’t already know. In fact, if just once Mrs Levy had suggested that we met only if we had fresh news of Joe, I would have gladly agreed. But that suggestion never came, so each week we met, we told each other we had no news and I shivered whilst Mrs Levy, to whom the cold seemed unimportant, continued to look worse than she had the previous week.

  Save for the warming weather, months passed without news or change and although my weekly meetings with Mrs Levy meant I never forgot Joe, workhouse routine ensured that my mind was mostly occupied with other things.

  Each morning was filled by breakfast, then work and finally lunch, whilst every weekday afternoon was spent in the classroom. Like everything else, our food followed a routine. Some grumbled and it’s true there was never enough, but it was always hot and usually edible. I especially liked Friday because on Friday they gave us what they called Irish stew. We never knew exactly what was in it, though some of the boys talked darkly of missing cats, but there were always bits of meat and enough potato to take the edge off your hunger.

  But what I remember most about Friday is that it was on a Friday Nurse Cole told me that Joe had been killed. That morning, she had found me in the garden where I’d been sent to help raise some potatoes. Calling me to one side, she said,

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you Payne. The workhouse has just received notice from the headman at Gladlys that Joseph Levy was killed in an accident last Thursday. That’s all the note said, but the boy who delivered it told me Joe had been killed when gunpowder had ignited prematurely, causing a rock fall.”

  Quietly she added, as though it would bring me some consolation,

  “He said Joseph was killed instantly when a large rock crushed him and that he wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  But she had brought me no consolation because my friend, my brother, was dead. I was excused work for the rest of the day and allowed to return to the dormitory and it was there something remarkable happened.

  The dormitory was empty of course and the others would not return until evening, so I threw myself on my bed and wept. Of course I cried over Joe, but I also cried over losing my mum and even over being abandoned by Dad but, strangely, most of all, I cried again for Ruth, the little sister I never really knew.

  After a while I must have cried myself to sleep because the next thing I knew, someone was gently shaking my shoulder. I woke with a start. The dormitory was already in darkness, but in the gloom I could see clearly Mr Deeming standing over me. Struggling to get up, still in sleep–induced bewilderment, I thought I should be in the schoolroom. As I tried to rise, I began to apologise.

  “Sorry sir, I’ll be there right away… I don’t know…”

  He pushed me gently back on the bed.

  “Stay where you are Jabez, you’re not in any trouble. Nurse Cole told me what happened to Joe and I know you boys had become friends, so I thought I’d come and talk to you.”

  I had only been in the workhouse a few months, but one thing I had learnt was never to expect kindness from any member of staff, so Mr Deeming had done nothing to clear my confusion. As again, I tried to rise and began to speak. He pushed me back putting a finger to his mouth to silence me. Then he said, quietly,

  “Now Jabez,” his voice was a little sterner, “I want you to lie still and listen to me. Will you do that?”

  I nodded; I was fully awake, now. He said,

  "I’ve only just heard about Joe and I knew you would be upset. As you have no family in this place, I wanted to give you some advice.

  When you have time to think about the manner of Joe’s death, you’re going to want to blame someone and I’m here to tell you that would be a mistake. Finding someone to blame for his death will be of no value to you because you’ll be powerless to do anything about it. I think Joe would have agreed with me when I tell you that in your life it is important you look after yourself, because no one else will. You must also use any skill you possess that might give you some advantage over your circumstances.

  Now, although you have only been here a short while, I’ve noticed how well you’ve taken to reading. In fact, I may tell you that of all the young paupers who’ve been in my classroom, you have shown the most promise. So I want to lend you a book; you won’t be able to read it yet, but in time you will. Robinson Crusoe is about a man who’s the only survivor of a shipwreck and lives for many years on a desert island. The story is full of adventure and I think when you have learnt enough to be able to read it, you’ll enjoy it. But I hope you’ll also see that along with all his adventures, the most important lesson Crusoe learns is that he can rely upon only himself to survive so, as I said, that’s the lesson I want you to learn."

  He handed me a green–covered book, the corners of many of its pages bent; clearly, it had been read many times.

  “The book is mine and it’s the only copy I own, so look after it. I’ll want it back before you leave this place.”

  With that, he turned and left. I opened the book, but it was already too dark to read, so I hid it under my pillow; I knew the other boys would be coming to the dormitory shortly and I didn’t want them to see the book until I could give them a reason why it was in my possession that didn’t cause any bad feeling.

  The following day, as soon as we were released from the classroom, I made for the dormitory and retrieved the book from under my pillow. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened it eagerly, but whilst I recognised a few words, most were just a jumble of letters. Disappointed, I put the book back under my pillow and waited for the others to join me.

  The next afternoon at the end of lessons, Mr Deemin
g told me to wait and when the others had all left, he asked,

  “So, tell me, Jabez. Have you tried reading Robinson Crusoe yet?”

  “Yes sir, but it’s too difficult for me.”

  He smiled and said,

  “Remember I told you, Robinson Crusoe had to learn to do things for himself. He did that in three ways; first, he took things he’d already learnt in life and applied them to his new situation. Second, he learnt by using guesswork and sometimes using a little of both made a third. Now, each day in class you’re going to learn more new words and new sentences and each day I want you to take what you’ve learnt and try to read the book. Be patient and, in time, you’ll recognise enough of the words to have a good guess at those you don’t know and that way be able to read the whole book.”

  He was right of course and after about a year, I had learnt enough to make a fair guess of all the words I didn’t know.

  I had come to an arrangement with the other boys in the dormitory. When I shyly showed them the book, it was passed from one to another and their reactions ranged from curiosity to jealousy, but they all had one thing in common: none of them could read it, so I promised that as soon as I could, I would read it to them.

  Eventually, after three or four months, I felt confident enough to offer to read the first chapter to them. My offer was met enthusiastically. They had after all waited patiently for what must have seemed a long time for this moment. The boys had left me alone when, each evening, they had seen me settle down to read and though this surprised me at first, I came to recognise that they’d seen the book and knew how hard the task I’d taken on was.

  I had moved to one end of the dormitory and, feeling apprehensive and with trembling legs, climbed onto the only chair that we had. But as I looked around at all the eager and attentive faces, nervousness left me. The trembling in my legs drained away and was replaced by a comfortable solidity; I opened the book and began to read,

  “I was born in the year of 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that Country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull.”

  My voice sounded strange to me. It was clear and strong and when I glanced up, I saw only expressions of awe looking back at me. Although I had read the first chapter to myself more often than any other, I still stumbled over many words. But I pressed on, sometimes making complete guesses and at length, read,

  “Til at last I quite laid aside the thoughts of it, and looked out for a voyage.”

  I had finished the chapter; my legs ached and by the end, my voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. I closed the book and looked up. All the faces looking back at me were transfixed. At first there was silence but then, one by one, they began to clap quietly.

  Flushed with success, I told them, or tried to tell them, I would read the second chapter the next evening. Fortunately, though my voice was reduced to a whisper, the boys nearest, who could still hear me, passed what I’d said on to those who hadn’t heard.

  And that’s what happened. The next day, with my voice recovered, I read chapter two and on the following evenings a chapter or on occasion, when a full chapter was too long, only half of one. In reality, my reading ability was still limited, but whilst I continued to make mistakes, stumbled over words and guessed or made up many others, encouraged by the other boys, I persisted. And after a few weeks I had completed a, no doubt, unique but generally true to the substance of the tale, reading of Robinson Crusoe.

  I had no sooner read,

  “All these things, with some very surprising incidents in some new adventures of my own, for ten years or more, I shall give further account for in the Second Part of my Story,” and explained I didn’t have the second part of his story, before they clamoured for me to start reading from the beginning again. However, as it was already getting dark and reading the last few pages had been quite a strain on my eyes, I was glad to say I would start again the next evening.

  I read to those boys every day and over the time I was in the workhouse, I probably read that book to them, from cover to cover, a dozen times and each time with less and less guesswork.

  Reading was important to me then and, before I left the workhouse, was already shaping my life.

  The Sunday after Joe was killed, I went looking for Mrs Levy. As usual, the yard was crowded with couples and families keen to be with each other for the first time in a week or more, but Mrs Levy was nowhere to be seen. I waited for about a quarter of an hour hoping she’d arrive, but when she still failed to appear, I began to make my way back indoors. I had just entered the walkway that led back to the workhouse when she appeared at the other end. Straight away I could see something was wrong. The sight of her careworn face and her thin body, thin even for the workhouse, had become a familiar sight. But now her walk was slow and laborious and she appeared to be talking to herself. I’m certain had I not spoken to her, she would have walked passed me without a word.

  “Hello, Mrs Levy.”

  “Mmm. Oh, hello Jabez. Have you heard about Joe?”

  “Yes Mrs Levy, Nurse Cole told me on Friday. This is the first time since then that I’ve been allowed to see you.”

  She started to walk ponderously towards the yard again, but I grabbed her arm and said,

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Levy.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. She gave me a strange smile.

  “He was blown up, you know; didn’t feel a thing.”

  She continued towards the yard. I didn’t follow; it seemed though she said my name, she didn’t really know me, so instead, I just returned to the workhouse.

  The next week I went back to the yard, determined I would talk to her and discover why she had acted so strangely. But even though I waited for the whole hour we were allotted, she never appeared.

  As I stood in the yard keeping the whole length of the walkway in clear view at all times, the following week appeared to be heading the same way. I was concerned that she might decide to come to the yard and then lose courage, so I was ready to run and stop her, determined that we should speak if she appeared. It was then I noticed a man and women arguing, and both of them were looking repeatedly in my direction. Clearly, in some way I was the cause of their disagreement. Eventually, the woman started walking towards me and though the man tried to stop her, she shrugged him off.

  As she came towards me, she started talking.

  “You’re looking for Rebecca, aren’t you?”

  Disappointed, I told her I wasn’t and that I didn’t know any Rebecca.

  “I mean Rebecca Levy.” Then as she reached me, her voice dropped and she added, “Joe’s mum.”

  Now realising who she meant, I nodded and asked,

  “Do you know her? Do you know why she hasn’t come to the yard?”

  “Yes son, I know her and I know why she’s not here. It’s ’cos she’s not in the workhouse no more.”

  Before continuing, she looked around to make sure she wasn’t overheard. She needn’t have worried. All the people there were from families who’d been torn apart by the workhouse system and for whom this hour on a Sunday morning was the nearest they had to normality. In fact, this woman, who was kind enough to tell me about Mrs Levy, had given up her own precious time with her husband to speak to me; the reason, no doubt, he continued to look highly agitated. Certain that we were being ignored by everybody else and after pulling a defiant face at her husband, she continued,

  "Rebecca was affected terribly by Joe’s death. The shock broke her and by the end of last week, she was refusing to leave our dormitory. Instead, she just stood in the corner rocking to and fro and banging her head against the wall.

  The Master reported to the workhouse governors that Rebecca had gone mad and needed to go to the madhouse. The governors would have done it as well, ’cos they always do what the Master says. But luckily for Rebecca, before the governors had their next meeting, who do you think turned up at the gates, large as life and took her away with him?"
<
br />   “Her cousin?”

  Nonplussed, the woman said,

  “How did you know that? No one else is supposed to know about him. I just happened to be in the dormitory when he came to collect her. That’s why I was arguing with my husband. The Matron told me not to tell anyone and he told me I should keep my mouth shut.”

  She gave a cursory nod in the direction of her husband.

  “But I told him I’d seen you with Rebecca every week and you had a right to know what had happened to her.”

  I thanked her for telling me and explained that,

  “Mrs Levy told me and Joe about her cousin weeks ago. She said she’d written to him and asked if he could help her and Joe get out of here.”

  I didn’t tell her that I was supposed to go with them. What this woman told me just seemed to confirm Mr Deeming’s words of advice when he found me in the dormitory.

  And so it was that, punctuated by bells, for the next six years my life followed an unchanging routine. From the bell that woke us to the bell that told us to go to bed, every day, except Sunday, was an endless repeat of the day before.

  But reading took me away from the dull routine. Every night for about three months, I read aloud a chapter or so from Robinson Crusoe, and even though they were becoming very familiar with the story, the boys’ keenness to hear me read never waned. Like me, I’m sure in their imagination they loved to escape to the hot, dry isolation of that island and to be where, unlike in the workhouse, they had the luxury of seclusion.

  Mr Deeming had said nothing to me about the book since encouraging me to persevere, but one day, just as he had on that occasion over a year before, he asked me to wait behind at the end of the day’s lessons.

  “So Jabez, how have you been getting on with Robinson Crusoe?”

  With the confidence the other boys had given me, I said,

  “Very well, I think, sir.”

  “Well then, I think you should bring the book to class tomorrow and read it to the others. What do you think?”

  Finding it hard not to smile, I agreed.