Admonition

by Chris Throsby

  I knew he wouldn’t believe me. I just hoped he couldn’t prove I was lying. When Sam was helping me load the donkeys, we’d discussed what I would say if I was stopped, so at least I had a reason for being so far from the Boar.

  “Beers are brewed round every corner in Manchester. Why go to the expense of having beer brought from over thirty miles away?”

  I hoped I didn’t sound rehearsed.

  “It’s true there’s a lot of beer brewed here, but you see the owner of this factory grew up close to the Boar. He worked in the pans with his parents and, when he was old enough, used to come in the Boar with his dad. ’Course that was a long time ago, well before I came to the pub, but I’m told he remembers the ale with fondness. His son, who’s ordered the beer, says his father talks about it every time they drink ale together and always says the ale in the Boar is better than the one they happened to be drinking. His son thought it would be a nice touch to order the ale as a surprise for the celebration dinner. The brew’s been the same for at least fifty years. I just hope it tastes as good as he remembers.”

  I’d been practising this tale so often as I travelled to Manchester that I almost believed it myself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same of the Supervisor.

  “Take a barrel down and show me.”

  Sure of what would happen, he didn’t try to hide the smirk on his face as I took a barrel down from the jenny. I assured him it only contained beer, but he told me to get on with it.

  I hadn’t expected him to change his mind. Still, as I watched it flow into the gutter, it did seem a waste of perfectly good ale.

  “Alright, let’s try another one,” he said, “but this time from the jack.”

  I said nothing, just took a barrel from the back of the jack, stood it next to the one I’d taken from the jenny and opened the tap. I had been worried the ale would stop running before he let me close the tap and the first one must have been quite close. The second was similar. But when he told me to take down the third and I reminded him this order was especially to celebrate the factory owner’s birthday, I’d let out barely a mug full when he told me to close the tap. Even more pleasing, I noticed his smirk had faded and was being replaced by a look of doubt, a doubt that grew as I showed him that each barrel contained nothing but ale.

  When I closed the final tap, he couldn’t contain his frustration. He turned to Sweetman and said,

  “I want to see the weasel who’s made me trail after this man all night for nothing.”

  Sweetman looked shocked.

  “But you agreed I could keep his name to myself.”

  “And you promised me that I could trust his information. No, he’s wasted my time and so have you. I want to see him tomorrow or you can say goodbye to your job.”

  Without even another look in my direction, he set off home, followed closely by his assistants. Glancing nervously in my direction, Sweetman looked like he was going to speak. He obviously thought better of it and set off hurriedly after them.

  Of course, I was in no doubt Tom Rider was the informant, but just then I was more interested in moving the salt into the factory as quickly as possible. There was no reason for me to worry though, because the Excise men had only just disappeared into the Piccadilly crowds when a group of men from the Factory descended on the barrels. In seconds, they’d moved the barrels through the gates and vanished with them into the depths of the factory.

  Hurried into the factory by a man who introduced himself only as the factory foreman, I enjoyed watching his men try to get to the salt in the barrels. The floor was awash with beer before a sharp-eyed young apprentice, who I suppose also had smaller and nimbler fingers than his workmates, spotted and managed to remove the hidden bung from one of the barrels. Immediately, if only temporarily, promoted from the lowliest position to one of great importance, the lad was keen to open the other barrels. But before he could start on the next one, I suggested they were moved on to drier ground before checking that the salt had been delivered dry. The foreman agreed and all six were moved before the apprentice was allowed to open them. Rather than empty each barrel and risk getting the salt damp in the humid factory air, a sample was drawn from each barrel, taken from where the seal ensured the beer and the salt were kept apart. Once the foreman was satisfied that each sample was dry, it was put back and the bung put back in place.

  I’d hitched the mare and the donkeys to the factory gate when the Excise Supervisor had insisted on checking the contents of the barrels, so they had been breathing the filthy air a lot longer than I’d anticipated. Not wanting to make them wait until we were back in Great Ancoats Lane, I asked the foreman if he could spare me a bucket of water. Clearly delighted by his salt delivery, he sent the lad who opened the barrels to fetch one. The boy in turn, still basking in his newfound importance, rushed off, returning a minute later soaking wet and with a nearly full bucket. Thanking him, I took the bucket outside and washed the animals, letting each have a drink. As the mare finished the last of the water, the lad came out to collect the bucket. When I thanked him, he beamed and said there was no need because,

  “I’ve had just about the best day of my life, thanks to you and them barrels. They’ve treated me like I’m one of them and all the time I’m the only one who can take out the bungs, they’re going to have to carry on treating me the same way.”

  I’d already tethered the donkeys to the mare, so after telling him I was pleased I’d been able to help him, I re-mounted the mare and set off home. But as I rode away, I wondered how long it would be before the men devised their own ways to open the barrels. Most of all, I hoped the boy wouldn’t go through life always marking today as the best one, but with the suspicion that he probably would.

  Shaking off that saddening thought, I reminded myself how successful the barrels had been at not only keeping the salt dry but also completely fooling the Excise Supervisor. I’d already taken the same route as the Excise men, so with the happy thought of how pleased both Adie and Sam would be at my success, I shook up the mare and we set off home at a steady trot.

  I made good time returning to the Boar and arrived home in the early evening not long, so she told me, after Adie had opened the doors. There were only three customers in the bar. Two were regulars who showed no curiosity in knowing where I’d been. The other one I recognised as one of Sam’s men who, as soon as I confirmed that everything had gone to plan, got on his way – presumably to report the good news to Sam.

  Having established that Adie had had no problems in my absence and having assured her that I would tell her all about my trip as soon as we’d closed, I went outside and led three exhausted animals to the stable. Having fed and watered all three, I was just bedding them down for the night, when I heard a noise behind me. I turned sharply and there, standing in the doorway, was Sam Baker. It was barely twenty minutes since Sam’s man had left the Boar, which meant he must have been waiting close by. Clearly, he had been anxious to hear that I’d returned and by the look on his face he was keen to hear how I’d got on.

  “All went well then, Jabez?”

  Shutting the door, Sam moved across to his mare who, having eaten, was dosing. As he stood fondling her ear, I told him about my morning’s adventures. Although happy that his salt had been safely delivered, he wanted to know more about the Excise Supervisor’s examination of the barrels. He looked more anxious now than before. So perhaps because I was as tired as the animals, I forgot who I was talking to.

  “I thought you’d be pleased. The barrels have all been examined and the salt stayed hidden – Adie’s idea worked.”

  I already decided not to mention Tom and my suspicion that he was Sweetman’s informant. Sam seemed to relax a little.

  “You’re right; I’ll check that there weren’t any problems with the salt and then I’ll be back to see you and collect my mare. In the meantime, you should get some rest.”

  Giving the mare one final pat, he went on his way and I headed back into the pub.


  Elizabeth

  Cold Comfort

  When he brought it home, Tom said it was beef. With him being in the mood he was, I didn’t like to argue, but I knew it was mutton – and from an old ewe at that. Still, I boiled it for a couple of hours and though it was a bit stringy, it didn’t taste too bad. Mind you, it wouldn’t matter what I gave Tom. By then he didn’t seem to care what he ate or even if he ate at all.

  It’s been three months now since he was injured and he hasn’t worked a day since; looking at his hand, I don’t know if he ever will. Though it’s healed in a fashion, the skin’s so thin and taught that the slightest knock breaks it and lays open the red and raw flesh underneath and the slightest touch is so painful to him; it turns his already pallid face grey.

  What I can’t understand is why, since two of them brought him home, neither of the workers, or come to that, anyone else from the pan have offered to help us, not even been to see him. I would have thought, especially as he saved that boy, at least his mother would have tried to help us. I’ve seen her in the gennel a couple of times, but she’s deliberately ignored me and slipped away the moment she’s seen me. No, the only visitors we’ve had was when we had another visit from Mr Sweetman, and this time that dreadful man the Excise Supervisor, Mr Herne, was with him. I can’t understand why he came ’cos he’s only interested in catching salt smugglers and I know Tom’s never had anything to do with that business. The horrid man looked really angry when I opened the door and he pushed straight past me. He started shouting at Tom, something to do with the information he’d given Sweetman being worthless. Tom seemed more worried about making sure I didn’t know what they were talking about, because he didn’t argue with him, just led the way back outside – Herne followed him with Mr Sweetman trailing behind. I followed them, worrying that Tom, who hadn’t been outside since his accident, was alright. I needn’t have worried, he was already well down the gennel with Herne close behind him. He was still shouting at Tom, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  When he returned about half an hour later, Tom was alone and as I say, Herne and Mr Sweetman have never returned and nor has anyone else. It makes me so angry. I told Tom I’d go down those salt pans and give them all, especially that Sarah, a piece of my mind, but he’s told me I must never do that. He’s never told me what Herne wanted, but at least since then he’s started going out again.

  But this morning I finally broke down. We had no money, nothing left to sell and not a thing left to eat and I really mean it, not a single thing. For a week, we had only oatmeal and we’d had the last of that two days ago; there had been so little left towards the end, all it had done was to turn water grey. When I broke down, I think I shocked Tom because I didn’t shout or rant at him, but just sat at the table with my head on my arms and sobbed.

  When I eventually spoke, all emotion had been washed away, so I said unsteadily,

  “I don’t know what else to do Tom. We’ve got nothing to eat and no way of getting anything. You won’t talk to the people who by rights should be helping us and you won’t let me talk to them. I can’t see that there’s anything left for me to do except go to the workhouse.”

  Tom looked at me. He saw that I meant what I said and talk of the workhouse must have shaken him because reaching for his coat, he just said,

  “Right, leave it with me.”

  With that, he left the house and marched off up the gennel.

  He’d been gone for over an hour and I was beginning to worry, when he walked back in and handed me that bit of mutton.

  “They told me that’s to last us for a week, but I’ve found a way to earn a bit of money. I hope that’ll make you happy.”

  He spoke so coldly. I didn’t answer him. I wanted to tell him I was very far from happy, that I was tired of wondering where our next meal was coming from and that I was sick of having to go begging to the Parish when they ought to be treating him like a hero. But as I said, I kept quiet, forced a smile and set about cooking the mutton.

  Jabez

  Arrest

  After Sam left, Adie didn’t really want to talk about the pub. She wanted to hear about my trip and listened in rapt silence while I told her about my escapade. She showed increased pride as I told her about my close shave with Herne, then laughed with delight when I told her how the Supervisor had been so certain that he’d caught me red-handed and looked so disappointed when he failed to find anything but ale. Best of all, we agreed, was knowing that he thought his informant, who we knew to be Tom, had proved to be so unreliable.

  The next few weeks went quietly enough and whilst I rested on the first day, still recovering from my travels, on the second afternoon we sat in the bar and I began to teach Adie to read and write. Sat at a table, I thought of my first lessons with Mr Deeming, but not possessing a slate, I found a piece of paper and using a pencil, wrote a b c d e, then asked Adie to copy them – and that’s where my problems started.

  Adie had said she wanted to learn, but when she could see her first effort, though recognisable, was very different from mine and several more attempts brought little improvement, I could tell she was getting frustrated. So I decided to leave things until the next afternoon, but it made no difference because, even though I tried different letters and capitals, her copies still didn’t look anything like mine. After almost a week, Adie wanted to give up and I didn’t know how I could help her. Not knowing what else to do, I decided that the next day we should try reading. Sitting side by side at our usual table, this time I’d brought from my bedroom the big old Bible Mr Dodds had left me when he died. I decided the Bible would be the best place to start because I knew Adie would know many of the stories. So I asked her what her favourite Bible story was. She thought for a moment and said,

  “The Good Samaritan,” she smiled and added, “because he reminds me of you.”

  I knew that wasn’t true. I was very far from being a Samaritan of any sort, but I returned her smile and turned the pages of the huge book to Luke’s Gospel and found the story she’d asked for. I thought it best if on that first occasion I read the story slowly, running my finger along the words as I read so she could follow.

  As I read, Adie followed closely. So when I finished, I suggested I read it again, but that this time she tried to follow with her own finger. Whether it helped her learn to read I don’t know, but it did solve the problem that was stopping her learning to write. As I read, I saw Adie was following quite closely with her finger – though she couldn’t read she clearly recognised a lot of the letters and words she was hearing – but I was struck by something strange. So stopping, I said,

  “I can see your following quite well, but you’re using your left hand. I thought you were right-handed?”

  It was as if the paper had suddenly become red hot to her left hand and she quickly changed to her right.

  “I’m sorry Jabez, I just forgot.”

  She looked far more worried than she should, so I asked her,

  “Are you really left-handed?”

  “No, I’m right-handed. I used my left to do things when I was really young, but my mother told me that was wrong and made sure I always used my right – as I said, I just forgot.”

  I said nothing but got up and fetched another piece of paper and a pencil. Like before, I wrote the first five letters of the alphabet and asked Adie to copy them, but this time to use her left hand. Looking at me suspiciously, she said,

  “But it’s wrong. Mother told me, it’s evil to be left-handed.”

  I’d heard this old superstition before, but I knew that’s all it was, an old suspicion. So that’s what I told her, adding,

  “Anyway, there’s no one else here except you and me, so why not give it a try?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, she picked up the pencil in her left hand and started to copy the letters. As soon as she picked up the pencil, I could see she held it more easily and when she’d finished copying the letters and sat back, we could both see the improvement. Tu
rning the paper over, I showed her some of the previous week’s efforts.

  “Still think that being left-handed is evil?”

  I smiled when I said it, but she scowled and said,

  “Just give me the next five, will you?”

  Of course she copied these as easily as the first five and would have carried on with the rest had our first customers not started knocking loudly, keen to get their first pint.

  Next morning, she raced round getting her jobs done as quickly as she could, chivvying me to get mine done more quickly and helping me as soon as hers were done. When we were finished, she rushed and got the pencil and paper we’d been using the day before, sat at a table and said,

  “Right then Jabez. Let’s have the next five letters.”

  I did as she asked, pleased to see the transformation in her enthusiasm. Watching her copy, hesitating only a moment as she took in the shape of the k, I was just as pleased to see how quickly her confidence had grown. We worked on the alphabet for the rest of the morning and in the afternoon once again, read and re-read the story of the Good Samaritan.

  For several weeks, life went on in very much the same vein. Our days were spent with Adie learning to read and write, our evenings serving my regular customers and, because for several weeks we heard nothing from Sam Baker, our nights sleeping. Over what must have been six or seven weeks, Adie made good progress and had grasped some basic writing skills. For example, she could write her name with great confidence. She also began to read parts of the Good Samaritan, although remembering Ben Camden’s failed attempt to deceive Mr Deeming, I did wonder how much she read and how much she’d memorised. But I never had a chance to find out, because one day, out of the blue, there was a knock at the back door and when I answered, there stood Sam Baker.

  Pushing past me, he led the way back to the bar, where barely acknowledging Adie’s greeting, he turned to me and said,