by Marele Day
She knew what Sam wanted—for her to keep the business going. Her father, Charles Smith, agreed. Truth be told, it was one of the reasons he had assented to the transaction of marriage between his daughter and the businessman. Unlike other publicans on the waterfront, who gave it a try and lasted a year at the most, Batts had run his alehouse for more than fourteen years.
Mary hadn’t reckoned on this, she told her father, as she walked the baby up and down. It was the only thing she could do to stop Elizabeth crying. ‘You mustn’t pamper the child,’ her father advised her. Mary swallowed a hard lump in her throat. She would not succumb to tears in front of him. But didn’t he see that the whole thing was upsetting Elizabeth? She could feel the bristled air.
‘For the future of the child you must carry on,’ her father said more softly. Mary nodded. She knew it already, knew there was no choice. In the swirl of life on the waterfront you couldn’t stop. The tide would lap over you and eventually engulf you.
Mary held the baby to her after her father had returned home to Bermondsey across the river. She kept pacing. Sam had left her with two children to look after—sweet little Elizabeth and a big boisterous alehouse that would run into trouble if it wasn’t watched carefully. If she let the alehouse go she would be in ruin. The poorhouse or worse. ‘I will never let that happen,’ Mary whispered into the baby’s ear. She had worked by her husband’s side, she would imagine him still there, as indeed the ghost of him was, though a ghost could not serve customers or keep order, employ men to unload cargoes, conduct meetings or undertake any of the other business that dockside publicans engaged in. Mary sighed. Working alongside Sam was one thing, taking his place was another.
The tide was out and the river stank. The muddy iodine smell of it blended with everything else—the buckets of coal, stacks of timber, rope, beer and gin. Above all, the smell of men. Would the men respect Mary the way they did Sam? There were plenty who would seek to take advantage of a young widow.
The baby was fitful and wouldn’t sleep. Mary held her at the window and looked out at the night. It was rarely clear in London, there was always a haze, and coal dust settling on everything like black snow. The hubbub of the streets had died down somewhat, though Mary knew there were those who had business in the dark of night. Like the two small shadows moving across the shine of mud towards one of the ships. She’d seen the cargo come in from that one—tobacco from the colonies—all of it now safely behind the high brick walls of a warehouse, protected by watchmen peering out between slits in the brickwork. Behind those walls the riches of the world were amassed. Bolts of cloth, tobacco, spirits and tea, spices. Coal and alum.
Mary identified the shadows now—two boys, no more than seven years old, slipping across the mud, wading into the shallows and climbing on board the ship, ready to pilfer whatever came to hand, or perhaps, Mary thought more kindly, looking for somewhere to sleep for the night.
‘For the future of the child . . .’ Mary had to prepare herself for the daunting task ahead. She wrapped Elizabeth warmly in a blanket, and took out Sam’s ledger.
In the following year the Bell alehouse was thriving but the baby was not, one perhaps the result of the other. Mary had servants and employees to help, of course, but as Sam always said, the best way to run a business was to keep an eye on everything yourself. Mary was afraid she’d been keeping an eye on the alehouse at the expense of her daughter. The child remained small, despite Mary’s attempts to feed her, and had a dry cough, but thankfully no blood with it. Elizabeth seemed happy enough, and at least the cough got no worse, even in the spring when the winds blew in all kinds of sudden calamities.
It had been hard for Mary, especially at the beginning during those busy summer months. She’d spent night after night going over Sam’s ledger, forcing herself to do the calculations and to do them quickly. She had to keep her eye on everything, make sure that the servants and lodgers weren’t stealing from her or taking advantage. Mary was especially grateful for the support of the Quakers with whom she conducted business. She had heard that at Quaker prayer meetings women sometimes got up to speak and that what they said was accepted with the same gravity accorded to a man. Perhaps that was the reason the Quaker merchants readily accepted her in place of Sam. Mr Sheppard, part-owner of John Walker’s ships from Whitby, had helped her organise the gangs of coal heavers, and showed her how to keep a tally of what they drank.
The winter, with its slower trade, had brought Mary some respite and a little more time with Elizabeth, but now it was spring and the ships were starting up again and there were cargoes to unload. The alehouse was full of heavers turning money into ale, and ale into money, slaking their thirst only to sweat it out again over the next lot of cargo. An alehouse was not the best place for a child as young as Elizabeth, but there were plenty worse off. Mary tried to keep her daughter upstairs, but the little one had begun to walk and despite a barrier of servants and closed doors, had found her way out.
Elizabeth stood at the top of the stairs, her hands on the balustrade, and looked through the bars to the world below. Such a sea of bodies, some sitting, some standing, but all seemed to her to be in motion like a slow-moving tide. She breathed in the smell of it, a soup of ale and sweat and coal.
‘Mama.’ Her eyes finally lit on her mother, in conversation at the end of the bar with a couple of men in tall black hats and cloaks. Elizabeth began making her way down, each step an operation that involved arms as well as legs, one hand on the bars before the other let go to find its new place further down.
‘What do we have here? A fine looking morsel for my dinner.’ A big coal-smeared face loomed up at her, tobacco-stained teeth visible in the grin. Elizabeth stood stock-still, watching the flicker of bloodshot, rheumy eyes. She felt the roughness of his hands on her and suddenly she was lifted into the air, her little face only inches away from a timber beam. In the corner of it was a grey patch of cobweb.
Then she felt herself flying backwards, and the world was upside down. ‘Mama!’
Mary was already fighting her way through the crowd, ordering the drunk to put the baby down. ‘You wouldn’t miss a sippet like this, would you, missus, a tidy morsel no bigger than a rabbit? I’ve a mind to put her on the fire and roast her straightaway.’ He flaunted the baby high over his head, as if she were a prize he had won. Mary held her tongue, more fearful that the drunk would slip and fall with the baby than that he intended any harm to her. The muscles at the sides of her cheeks stood out as she clenched her teeth.
Then a lodger appeared on the stairway. Mr Blackburn. Mary had no idea how long he had been there. Her eyes were fully fixed on Elizabeth, the baby’s little hands swimming in the air, trying to right herself. Everyone in the alehouse was still, except for the drunk, who continued swaying with his prize, grinning in his glory. Mr Blackburn advanced one step then two, till he was right behind the drunk. The baby made a small sound as Mr Blackburn took the drunk’s prize as easily as if he’d relieved him of his hat. Then, with a deft movement, he kicked the drunk into the crowd.
Mr Blackburn handed Elizabeth to her mother. The baby gurgled but seemed none the worse for wear. Mary hugged Elizabeth to her breast, the baby’s little nose squashing against the bones in her mother’s stays. She saw no more of the drunk except fists pounding down on him and the back of his heels as he was eventually kicked out the door.
Mary walked the short distance along the High Street to the Quaker house of the Sheppards, lifting her skirts to avoid the mud, manoeuvring her way through the crowds of mariners, street girls and urchins, around a pile of oars and timbers, stepping over the feet of a beggar who had taken up residence in the street.
Quakers helped those in need. Fire was a constant menace in the crowded dock area, and there had been some terrible fires, especially when the flames got into the warehouses where gunpowder was stored. The Quakers took in those made homeless by the fires, and other unfortunate families. Mary didn’t think of herself as unfortunate, but
the Sheppards had often expressed concern for Elizabeth.
When she came to the Sheppards’ alleyway, a woman in a raggy shawl and bare feet tried to sell Mary her baby. ‘A young’un for you, missus,’ said the woman, showing gin-rotted teeth. Mary, her thoughts full of her own little Elizabeth, momentarily forgot the riverside practice of ignoring such offers. She gaped at the baby in the woman’s arms. It was a scrawny little thing with a bluish tinge. Mary wasn’t even sure it was alive. She faltered, almost turned back. Mary gave the woman a shilling, much more than she’d normally give a beggar, and made herself knock on the Sheppards’ door.
A servant showed Mary in to the plainly furnished house. She sat rigidly on a chair and made the necessary arrangements with Mrs Sheppard. Elizabeth would be taken by boat to Barking, then on to the Sheppards’ country house at Crowcher’s Yard.
Mrs Sheppard suggested a monthly sum for lodging Elizabeth and Mary offered more, to make sure the child was well cared for.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Mrs Sheppard gently. ‘I’ll look after Elizabeth as if she were my own. It will be a pleasure to have her,’ she added. ‘She’ll be a friend for my own little Sarah. Friday fortnight, would that be suitable, Mrs Batts?’ Mary slowly nodded her head. Mrs Sheppard could see that the conversation was not an easy one for her neighbour. She put her hand on Mary’s knee. ‘I’ll bring Sarah with me, that might make the . . . ’ she searched for the right word, ‘ . . . transition a little smoother.’
On the appointed day Mary packed Elizabeth’s bag. ‘You’re going to stay in the country with Mrs Sheppard,’ she said brightly as Elizabeth watched her clothes going into the bag. ‘She has a little girl about the same age as you. Won’t it be fun to have a playmate! There’ll be bunny rabbits and lambs,’ Mary went on. Nothing seemed to stop the toddler’s little mouth from quivering. ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ said Mary, trying to stop her own mouth from quivering. How could she explain?
Mary carried her child towards the wharf. She took out her handkerchief and wiped the little one’s face. ‘We don’t want to greet Mrs Sheppard with tears, do we?’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Be a brave girl for Mama.’ She spotted the distinctive black Quaker dress in the crowd. ‘There’s Mrs Sheppard and little Sarah.’
Elizabeth looked at Sarah, a strange yet familiar creature, just like herself. When their mothers brought them up close, Elizabeth stuck out her hand, and after initial surprise at the gesture, Sarah put hers out too. The mothers smiled with relief.
Mrs Sheppard handed Sarah down to a servant in the waiting boat then stepped aboard herself. It was time to pass Elizabeth over. ‘Be a good girl,’ Mary whispered, smothering Elizabeth in kisses. ‘Do everything Mrs Sheppard tells you to.’
The boatman loosened the moorings. ‘Mama!’ cried Elizabeth when she saw that her mother wasn’t coming with them. ‘It’s all right, Elizabeth,’ said Mary, swallowing back her tears. ‘Look, Mrs Sheppard has a banana for you.’ But Elizabeth wasn’t interested. ‘Mama!’ she cried, reaching out for her. Mary clenched her fists to stop herself from plucking Elizabeth out of the boat and taking her home. ‘Be brave, my little one,’ Mary called as the boat pulled her child away from her.
Mary could hardly bear to watch yet she could not let Elizabeth see her mother turn away from her. She was not trying to get rid of her child like the gin-rotted woman, she kept telling herself, it was only a temporary measure. She steadied herself against the mooring post and waved her handkerchief, held it up high for Elizabeth to see. As the boat became smaller and smaller Mary felt her heart being dragged out with it as if she were tied to the boat by an invisible rope. Tears streamed down her face. She stood on the wharf waving her handkerchief long after the boat taking Elizabeth away had disappeared in a loop of the river.
THE GREAT TREE
James stood on the edge, the wind from beyond the horizon howling in his face. He looked down to the sea far below, its churning waters, blue on this day of sun, and the white spray hitting the rocks. He was walking the twelve miles from Staithes to Whitby, along the cliff-tops, listening out for the boggles who were supposed to live in the nooks and crannies. The creatures had never been seen but on certain days, it was said, you could hear them doing their washing. James listened carefully. The sound was not caused by unseen creatures. It was the wind itself, scouring out the crevices. That would make the sound of a washboard.
James continued on his way, shirt off, the wind drying the sweat on his chest. He had seen this coast, or at least the ships that sailed it, from the great tree which grew outside the tiny clay biggin in Marton where he and his brother John had been born little more than a year apart.
James had been barely four years old when he’d first climbed the great tree. Even now as he walked along the coastal path he could recall the rough texture of bark, the needle-like leaves he grabbed hold of to haul himself up. It had been a windy day but that was nothing unusual in Yorkshire. He had climbed, one big step at a time, looking up after each for a foothold for the next. Higher and higher he went up the sturdy trunk and branches till he was in the billowing sky. He looked across the patchwork of fields, the pastures and the dark gorse dotted with yellow flowers. Saw tiny specks of cows grazing, farms and buildings. Then, far in the distance, where the sky came down to the land, something caught his eye. He climbed higher, to get a better look, and as he gazed at it, trying to determine what the thing was, he discovered that it was moving.
The wind ate up all the sound of the earth, swirled it around and spat it out somewhere else altogether. It was ages before the wind carried up the sound of his own name and he looked down to see his mother beckoning, waving oatcakes in her hand.
‘What moves between the land and the sky?’ James had asked while they were eating their dinner.
‘A bird?’ said his father, thinking it was a riddle. He smeared butter on an oatcake. James shook his head. It wasn’t a bird. ‘A cloud?’ his father guessed again. James furrowed his brow, frustrated at not being able to explain. Then he got an idea. He excused himself from the table, went outside and came back with his kerchief tied to a twig. ‘Like this, Da,’ he said, showing his father. James senior was about to bite into the oatcake but stopped, impressed by the boy’s ingenuity. ‘Why, that looks like the sail of a ship.’ He looked around the one-room cottage that was their home, wondering what had given his son the notion of a ship.
‘Young James climbed the tree today,’ said Grace, his mother.
James had been reluctant to share this news with his father, fearing trouble, but James Cook senior accepted it with a chuckle. ‘No doubt a little bird whispered in his ear,’ he said, winking at Grace. ‘The coast must be twenty mile away. I doubt you can see it from here, lad, tree or no.’
‘Perhaps a ship entering the mouth of the Tees?’ suggested Grace, trying to help her son out. His father continued doubting. But James had seen what he had seen, whether his father believed him or no.
Later, when they moved to Aireyholme Farm, James saw the sea itself. He had climbed to the peak of Roseberry Topping behind the farm and there in the distance was the streak of blue, a precise line separating it from the sky.
He loved climbing that hill. He could see all the land around, Mr Skottowe’s minuscule farms and the narrow cart-track leading to Great Ayton far below. Mr Skottowe may have been lord of the manor, might have owned all the land, but he did not own the wind and the sky and the sea. Up here James was the lord.
Though from the heights of Roseberry Topping the sea looked easy to get to, it was years before James found himself gazing at it up this close. He skirted Runswick Bay, saw boats down below. A couple of men in each, a haul of fish, though from his time in Staithes, James knew full well other cargo found its way into the coastal boats. James thought about the village he had left that morning. From the land you didn’t see Staithes till you were almost upon it, the little houses built right into the cliffs either side of the deep narrow creek, the cliffs four hundred fe
et if they were an inch.
Sanderson’s shop, where James had served these past eighteen months, was right down near the water, but James was not sorry to have left it. Though he was good at arithmetic, he did not see cut out for him the life of a shopkeeper. Eventually he had told Mr Sanderson.
‘You want to go to sea?’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘Well, lad, it’s a matter that needs to be discussed. Mr Skottowe and your father will have something to say about it, I’m sure.’ Mr Sanderson could see that his apprentice was determined. ‘Tell you what, lad,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll be making a journey to Newcastle shortly, by way of Great Ayton. I’ll have a word.’
Mr Sanderson liked the boy well enough, had taken him on when his wife was expecting their second child and indisposed. He was related to Mr Skottowe by marriage and Mr Skottowe being lord of the manor and all, Mr Sanderson had felt obliged. But now the obligation was at a likely end.
Also, there was another matter Mr Sanderson couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was nothing disrespectful about the lad, and he was a good worker. It was the size of him. The seventeen year old towered over Mr Sanderson. The whole shop seemed like a doll’s house when James was in attendance. A modest lad but Mr Sanderson felt that if he were there much longer, he’d be the one running the shop and not Mr Sanderson.
At night, after Mr Sanderson had left for Newcastle, James lay curled up on his mattress under the counter, willing himself into the discussion of his future Mr Sanderson would be having with his father and Mr Skottowe.
The shop was spick and span by the time Mr Sanderson returned, and James could tell by the look in his employer’s eyes that the discussions had been favourable.
‘Don’t take off your apron just yet, lad, there are certain conditions.’
James didn’t care. Anything, he would abide by whatever the conditions.