Admonition

by Chris Throsby

  I’d wondered if she thought something like that; the truth is most people in her life had treated her like she was cursed, so I knew whatever I said next was important.

  "Adie, your name is not a curse and it is definitely not the reason your family was killed. They were killed because a salt mine, which should not have been dug where it was, collapsed under your home.

  But your name is a burden, or at least it will be if you let it. Your mum gave you your name as a warning to your father that he must never again treat her in the cruel ways he had. And that’s what your name means; it’s a warning. But it isn’t a warning to you. It was meant only as a constant reminder to your father and perhaps one other. It is not a curse and nothing like what happened to your family is going to happen to me and Tom.

  Your name is unusual. That’s why people notice it and they always will. But you need to see that it will be up to you what they make of it."

  She seemed interested and now as curiosity overcame worry she said,

  “I suppose so. I remember Dad once told me something like that when I was very young, at least he told me people would always talk about my name. But I never knew he’d been cruel to Mum though. Do you know what he did to her?”

  I’d promised her the truth, so even though I knew it would be hard for her, I told her the tale Tom had told me. I took hold of her hand and as we started walking again, I said,

  “Adie, what I’m going to tell you now is something Tom told me. I promised him I’d keep it secret and I’ve never mentioned it to anybody, but I think you have a right to hear it.”

  I took a deep breath and told her what I knew.

  “Now, before you were born, there was a night when Tom and your dad came home from the Boar’s Head roaring drunk and singing. You probably know that your dad came home like that quite often, but I’d never seen Tom in that state. Anyway, your dad left Tom at the door and when he came in, he was still singing. He slumped in his chair by the fire and as his singing petered out, he started talking. You know Tom isn’t one for talking much, but the drink had loosened his tongue.”

  I glanced at Adie to make sure she was alright. I didn’t want her believing I thought badly of her father, but she just gave me a nervous little smile. It was clear she wanted me to go on.

  "At first I thought it was just the drink talking. He talked about how I was a good wife and how he knew he could trust me, all that old nonsense men come out with when they’re drunk. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. I worried more about how I was going to get him into bed; I thought I might have to leave him where he was.

  But then he appeared to make a huge effort to pull himself together and looking at me closely, in a whisper, he asked me if I could keep a secret. He put a finger to his lips to emphasise the point. I didn’t see why we were whispering, because other than us the house was empty, but I didn’t want to discourage him. After all, it was nice to have Tom confiding in me like he was, even if it turned out to be just the ramblings of a drunkard. So I whispered back that of course I could keep a secret and that’s when he told me why your dad was so angry with your mum.

  ‘Bill told me summin’ tonight that’s goin’ to surprise you, but you must promise never to breathe it to another soul. Do you unnerstan’?

  I was beginning to lose my patience. I told him that, of course, anything he told me I would keep in the strictest confidence; he was my husband after all.

  That seemed to convince him ’cos he carried on.

  ‘Sally isn’t Bill’s child an’ he thinks Annie might not be as well. He wouldn’t tell me who she’s been seein’, but he says it’s someone she knew from before they were married. Apparently, it’s been going on for years. ’"

  Adie went pale, so I said hurriedly,

  "Oh, I told him that couldn’t be true. I’d known your mum from the day she and your dad were married and I swear she never looked at another man.

  So I asked him what made your dad think that way. Apparently he wouldn’t say, but Tom thought someone must have said something to him. I tell you Adie, if I found out who that person was, I’d give ’em a piece of my mind, ’cos they sowed a seed of doubt into a good marriage and that’s unforgivable. It’s also the reason your mum gave you your name; it was the only way she could let your dad know how she felt about his accusation."

  I looked at Adie to see if I’d upset her, but whether I had or not, her reply was defiant,

  “So you’re saying the only reason I’ve got my name is because Mum wanted to settle an argument?”

  I started to reply.

  “Well, that’s partially true…”

  But she interrupted me.

  "So, even though it wasn’t my fault, I was the one she really punished. She’s dead; it don’t matter to her anymore. But me, I’m going to have to live with it, with the teasing by the other children, the strange looks people give me – all my life I’m going to hear them, whispering and giggling whenever I’m near.

  ’Admonition, that’s a strange name.

  Oh, don’t you know, her mother gave her that name to punish her father.

  Punish him, punish him for what? …’

  Like I said, she’s dead and it doesn’t matter to her anymore. But I’m stuck with it. I hate her and I’m glad she’s dead."

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was, so I said,

  “Adie, you don’t mean that, you’re just upset.”

  She hadn’t finished and by what else she had to say, it was clear she certainly was upset.

  "I do mean it. I do. She always called me Admonition. Always. And she made all the others do the same whenever she was around. Mine isn’t a name. It’s just a punishment. You’ve never called me Admonition. You always call me Adie, ’cos I think you think the same as me.

  And do you know the first time I remember someone hugging me? It was the day of the accident when Mr Rider first brought me and Will back to you and you hugged me. She never held me, she only ever hit me, told me I’d done wrong. She was never a mum to me. Never."

  She finally burst into tears.

  What could I say? I knew the child deserved honesty and I believed what she’d said was right. But somehow, for her sake, I needed to soften the truth.

  Gripping her hand more firmly, I said quietly.

  "I shan’t argue with you, Adie, but things were made hard for your mum in a way she couldn’t have seen coming. She loved your dad but he had unfairly accused her of doing wrong, of being unfaithful. He never gave her the man’s name, so she couldn’t defend herself.

  Can you imagine what that was like for her? Just think, to be completely innocent, yet treated as guilty and punished accordingly by the person you loved the most in the whole world. It made her very angry and she struck your father in the only way she could. When we’re as angry as your mum was, we sometimes make mistakes. She was thinking only of your father when she gave you that name. If you could talk to her now, I’m sure she would admit it was wrong.

  Life will bring you many experiences; good and bad, short and long. They won’t shape your life, but how you react to them will. You’re growing into a beautiful young woman, but if you let it, that name will twist your looks along with your nature."

  She stopped again and looked at me.

  “You really think I’m beautiful?”

  I laughed, mostly with relief.

  “Of course you’re beautiful, didn’t you know?”

  I’d never before seen her blush, but she did then and with her eyes cast down, said quietly,

  “No one’s ever told me that before. How was I to know?”

  I knew that was probably true.

  “Trust me, it’s true. But Adie, don’t forget the other things I’ve told you. They’re just as important, more even.”

  This time she squeezed my hand and, for the first time since our conversation began, gave me a proper smile and said,

  “I won’t.”

  We were almost back at
the gennel, so slipping my hand she skipped ahead and I chuckled to myself; despite all that had happened to her in her short life, Adie was still a child.

  Jabez

  The Salt Road

  I stayed an apprentice for seven years and through all that time I continued to read for Mr Dodds who, for his part, made sure I learnt all he could teach me about running a pub. And it was from standing behind the bar with him, watching and listening to how he handled his customers, that I learnt the important things about being a publican. Through him and my own lifetime behind the bar, I learnt to read my customer’s every action and reaction. I especially knew my regulars, knew their work, their fears, I knew their whole lives really. But the real skill I learnt from Mr Dodds was that whatever they wanted to talk about, no matter the subject, they all thought I agreed with them. The truth is of course, I never agreed or disagreed with any of them. Like Mr Dodds I just listened and gave them a sympathetic ear, because usually that’s all they want.

  Mr Dodds never mentioned that I was an apprentice in all the time I was with him; at least not until the day my apprenticeship came to an end. That morning, just like every other, he woke me with a smart knock on my bedroom door. But this morning when he entered, he wasn’t carrying a jug or towel, instead, accompanied by a beaming smile, he carried a piece of paper I hadn’t seen for seven years; my papers of indenture. Handing them to me he said,

  “There you are Jabez. Today your indenture is complete and you’re no longer an apprentice. You’re free to leave any time you like, though I must admit I’m rather hoping you’ll stay.”

  The paper he handed me seemed so insignificant, nothing notable apart from the signature I barely recognised of a young boy I hardly remembered. But by giving it to me, Mr Dodds had finally separated me from the workhouse for ever. So returning his smile I said,

  “Thank you Mr Dodds, I’ve loved my time here and I hope never to leave.”

  Stepping out of the room, he came back with the jug of water and towel he’d left outside my door and said,

  “That’s good to hear. Now, when you’re washed and ready to come down, there’s something else I want you to read.”

  I thought he had a bill, notice or some such that he needed me to read, so I washed and finished dressing without any particular urgency. Most mornings Mr Dodds left my breakfast at one of the tables in the bar and was usually to be found seeing to the horse, feeding and grooming him and sometimes mucking out his stable, although this last duty usually fell to me. But this morning was different because when I walked into the bar, Mr Dodds was sat at a table and in front of him was, I assumed, the document he wanted me to read.

  Taken aback I said,

  “I’m sorry Mr Dodds, I didn’t realise it was urgent otherwise I would have been quicker.”

  As I sat down opposite him, he slid the document in front of me.

  “It’s not urgent lad, or at least I hope not, but it is important that you read it.”

  It took only a glance for me to realise that this was his Will, so I asked him whether he really wanted me to read its contents. In reply, he just turned slowly to the first page and passed it to me. Looking down, I could see there were very few words and of those, even fewer were of significance. The phrase that carried everything was,

  ‘To Jabez Payne I leave all my worldly goods.’

  I must have looked as shocked as I felt because, even though I hadn’t yet had time to form them, he then seemed to answer all my questions in one,

  “As far as I know I have no family living, so you’re the nearest thing I’ve got. I’ve taught you all I know about running a pub so I know, when my time comes, I’ll be leaving the Boar in good hands.”

  Standing, he said,

  “That copy is yours to keep. Make sure you put it somewhere safe because my copy is with the solicitor who wrote it and I haven’t known young Carlyle long enough to be sure that he can be trusted.”

  I told him I didn’t really know what to say, but that I was very, very grateful.

  He smiled and said,

  “Right then lad. You go and find somewhere safe to keep your copy and I’ll go and get us some breakfast.”

  Not really knowing what else to do, I took the will to my bedroom, took my clothes out of one of the chest draws, lifted the lining paper and placed the will underneath. It stayed there until long after Mr Dodds died. In fact it might have stayed there forever because Carlyle turned out to be as honest as the day’s long and had the will ready to be read at the earliest opportunity after the funeral.

  Although he never said, I believe Mr Dodds already knew he was ill when he had the will drawn up, because it was only about a year later he was laid to rest in the village church cemetery and at the age of twenty-two, I became landlord of the Boar’s Head.

  It’s hard to believe how the years slip away. I had been the Boar’s landlord for twenty-five years and in all that time, the inn had just about paid its way, but now it was in trouble. Since the mines started opening up, work at the pans had steadily reduced. As a result, many of the men had gone to work in the salt mines, even taking their families with them and all of them eating and sleeping underground and only coming home again on Sunday. I’m not saying what they did was wrong, but now they hardly ever came to the Inn. For those who stayed at the pans, there was a lot less work and less work meant less money and of course that meant they had less to spend on ale. Not for the first time I was mulling this over, as usual without reaching any solution, when my first customer of the evening walked in.

  Joseph Bayley was a rare visitor to the Boar and though I thought I knew the look of trouble if it decided to walk through the door, just this once it was so well disguised that even I didn’t recognise it, so instead I welcomed Joseph in.

  “Evening Joseph.”

  “Evening Jabez”

  “Small beer, isn’t it?”

  I was curious, there had to be a reason for his visit. But there was no point in rushing him, I just had to leave the door open. If he’d got something to say, he’d walk right through; but only in his own time.

  “No. Give me a gin, will you Jabez? I need somethin’ a bit stronger.”

  I poured him his gin, took his money from the counter and then served a couple of my locals who’d come in just after Joseph. I’d only just finished serving them when Joseph called for a refill. Without comment, I served him again.

  It was only when, five minutes later, he again called for a refill that I invited him to step through and tell me what was on his mind.

  “You’re not usually a gin drinker, are you Joseph?”

  I knew he wasn’t, but my question had the desired effect.

  "Thirty years I’ve been a baker. Worked with my father from the age of seven and took over the shop when he died and like him, I’ve always produced good bread. No rubbish in my bread, just good flour and now it looks like I’m going to have to close down.

  People have moved away or just stayed away, and the rest are buying less bread because they can’t afford it. If they’d just cut the salt tax, it might give me an edge, but I hear that if they’re going to do anything, they’ll put it up even higher."

  I gave him his third gin.

  “Take it slowly, eh Joseph. Something may turn up.”

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “See, my bread’s better not only ’cos I use good flour but because it’s tastier. And do you know why it’s tastier?”

  His eyes were beginning to lose focus.

  “It’s ‘cos I use a little more salt. Mix it wrong, you kill the yeast and the bread won’t rise, add too much salt an’ it tastes ’orrible.”

  The gin was having its effect.

  “Tha’s a trade secret, thad is. I’m telling you cos I know you’ll keep it to yourself. Now gimme another gin, will you Jabez?”

  What he’d said was true; his secret was safe with me. Far more likely, especially as the bar became busier, was that others would overhear his slu
rring, but liberated, tongue and I knew there were some who had access to cheap salt and they weren’t all fair men. Deal with the wrong ones and I knew Joseph might end up in real trouble, so although I knew he’d had enough, I also knew, as he wasn’t used to it, another drink would knock him out cold. So I served him.

  As he slumped onto the bar, I arranged to get him home. If they lived locally, I dealt with all my regulars when they’d had too much to be able to walk, in the same way. Although he wasn’t a regular, Joseph was local, so I got a couple of the stronger lads to sling him across one of the donkeys and take him home. I’d already taken money out of Joseph’s change to stand them both a drink on their return, a practice which was generally agreed to be fair.

  I liked Joseph and I felt sorry for him, so I thought I’d have a word with a couple of pan workers I knew I could trust and see if we couldn’t help solve his problem. Men from the pans often smuggled small amounts of salt past the watchmen and sold it to residents and shopkeepers from the town. But I always made sure I neither saw nor heard anything and I didn’t ask any questions when a small parcel of money was dropped at my door, nor did the revenue’s local officer when I passed half of it on to him. But now, for the first time, I became involved in supplying contraband salt and that held the danger I hadn’t foreseen.

  A couple of nights after he’d been in the Boar, Joseph had a visit from two men he didn’t know. With few words, they dropped a bag containing a bushel of salt in front of his counter.

  “That’ll be eight shillings,” one of them said.

  A bemused Joseph paid him and the stranger said,

  “If you want any more, just tell Jabez.”

  With that, according to Joseph, the two of them slipped away into the night. An insignificant encounter for them, but those final words were to mark the start of my life in the world of salt smuggling. What started simply enough with me operating as the link between Joseph and his salt suppliers, in not much more than a month, had me embroiled in a serious smuggling operation.