Mrs. Cook

by Marele Day

  ‘Your father knows what goes on in these parts,’ said Mr Sanderson, flicking at a speck on his coat sleeve. ‘While there’s not a man around who would say no to a gift of tobacco or a bottle of brandy, it’s getting caught that is the problem.’ Was that the condition, not to engage in smuggling? James could agree to that readily enough. There was plenty of legal trade up and down the coast. ‘Your father doesn’t want you stepping out my door and picking up with the first cobble that sails past. He is especially concerned that you remain a God-fearing young man of sober habits. He does not want you falling into bad company. Stack those bolts of cloth, lad, you’re still in my employ.’

  James knew that the cloth needed stacking but had thought it better to give Mr Sanderson his undivided attention while such an important matter was being discussed. Mr Sanderson stood with both hands stretched out on the counter, as if he were a vicar delivering a sermon from the pulpit, while his apprentice stacked the cloth. It was late in the evening. The fruit baskets had been brought in for the night and muslin placed over the sides of bacon. James was glad no customers came to disturb the discussion.

  ‘So I have made enquiries in Whitby,’ Mr Sanderson continued, full of his own importance. ‘There’s a Quaker shipowner, a Mr John Walker, an honest and fair man by all accounts. He’s willing to have a look at you.’

  Now James stood on the cliffs overlooking Whitby, on his way to meet Mr Walker. He put on his shirt. It was late afternoon and the sun was losing its warmth. He had eaten the bread and cheese Mrs Sanderson had packed for him, and the apple as well. On his approach to Whitby he had watched men shovelling alum, the precious substance that was used as a mordant for dyes. It had turned Whitby from a quiet little fishing village into a thriving port. The ancient abbey on the other side of the estuary loomed up, its ruins jutting into the sky. One of the alum workers had shown James a snakestone, a peculiar spiral shape that looked like the inside of certain molluscs. He told James that Hilda, the first abbess, had got rid of the snakes around Whitby by turning them into stone. How else could you account for such a thing? James felt sure that in the life that lay before him, other explanations existed.

  Down below, the port was crowded with ships and boats. James had never seen such a mass of craft. Whitby was at least ten times as big as Staithes, and prosperous by the look of the brick and stone buildings, such a contrast to the poky little cottages of Staithes with their mouldy thatches. James filled his lungs with the air of the place and began his descent into the town.

  A BOX OF LETTER TILES

  It smelled, it was dark brown, and to make matters worse, there were no other children. A big rowdy place with grown-ups behaving in a way that Elizabeth had never seen. Shouting at each other, laughing very loudly, rolling around and sometimes falling off their chairs, playing games and betting. The alehouse was so full of tobacco smoke that Elizabeth could hardly breathe. Even some of the ladies were sucking away at pipes. But Quakers, who stood soberly to one side, conducted business here, so it must be all right.

  Mrs Sheppard had said that Elizabeth was now a big girl, almost five, and it was time for her to go back to London. Even though Mama came to visit occasionally, she must be missing Elizabeth terribly. Mama had a new husband to help with the alehouse and now she could take care of Elizabeth properly.

  Elizabeth wished Mama lived closer to Crowcher’s Yard, then she would not feel so sad about leaving the Sheppards and not being able to play with Sarah, feed the lambs, and help Mrs Sheppard pick peas. Elizabeth loved eating peas straight from the garden, they were so juicy and sweet, though Mrs Sheppard told Elizabeth it was not a good idea to eat them raw because they might give her colic.

  There was no water to drink at the alehouse, only wine or ale. When Elizabeth asked for water Mr Blackburn said it would make her toes curl up and everyone laughed. It had not made her toes curl up at the Sheppards’. Wine left a sour taste in Elizabeth’s mouth but she quite liked the fizz of ale, although that posed a problem too. Barrels of ale were stored in the cellar, under the ground, where dead people went. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, the barrels of ale, the cheeses and bacon down there were food and drink for dead people. When she asked her mother about this she laughed gently and said: ‘Nonsense, Elizabeth. We have enough lodgers to look after without victualling the dead.’ Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip. ‘The dead have no bodies,’ Mama comforted her. ‘They don’t need to eat or drink.’

  Though they lacked bodies, they might drink the essence, the fizz, for their souls. Elizabeth tried to avoid those ales with not much fizz, in case the dead had been supping from them.

  ‘What have you brought back from the country, apart from those apple cheeks?’ asked Mr Blackburn. Elizabeth was playing with a set of small wooden tiles, a letter painted on each. They were in a special box with a lid that slid out. She did not remember Mr Blackburn, though she recalled the feeling of flailing her arms but grasping only handfuls of air.

  ‘My name,’ said Elizabeth, showing Mr Blackburn her special box. One of the farm boys had made it for her, and the tiles too, but it was Mrs Sheppard who had painted on the letters, and it wasn’t till Elizabeth could name a letter that Mrs Sheppard gave it to her to put in the box.

  ‘A big name like Elizabeth in that small box?’ She wrinkled her nose and held her breath because every time Mr Blackburn opened his mouth an unpleasant smell came out.

  Elizabeth thought the box was quite big but didn’t say so. ‘It’s not in one piece,’ she explained, ‘it’s broken up into letters.’ She slid open the box, something she loved doing so much that she often spent her time just sliding the lid backwards and forwards.

  The first letter she took out was a K. She put it to one side. The first useful one was the E. She remembered how it looked like a set of shelves. And the Z, like the piece of wood on the barn door at the Sheppards’. Soon she had her name assembled and put her finger under each letter to show Mr Blackburn.

  ‘What about my name?’ smiled Mr Blackburn. She started looking for a B. ‘That will take too long,’ he said. ‘Let’s try my given name.’ He put his big fingers into the box and pulled out a J. It looked like the tail of a cat. ‘Now, what next?’ He found the O, the shape your mouth made when you said it. Then the H and the N to finish. ‘Do you know what that name is?’ he asked.

  ‘John,’ she read the letters he had placed on the cloth. But to Elizabeth he would always be Mr Blackburn.

  It was December 1745. Mama said she had waited for Elizabeth to come back so that she could help with the decorations. Decorations? ‘Holly and other greenery. Don’t the Sheppards put up Christmas decorations?’

  No, they didn’t. Nowhere in the Bible, so Mr Sheppard said, did it say to celebrate Christmas. Why should they set one day aside for Him who should be kept in continual remembrance? It led to suspicion. No, superstition. Nevertheless the greenery smelled very nice and Elizabeth was glad that Mama had waited. Elizabeth, Mama and the servants put laurel and rosemary and sharp glossy holly leaves everywhere. When they came to the stairs, Mama held Elizabeth up so that she could tie a bunch of rosemary to the ceiling beam. Elizabeth stared for a long time at the grain in the timber. She remembered looking at it when she was swimming in the air. That was all she recalled of the alehouse.

  On Christmas morning they walked to church. The ground was muddy and slippery, and especially squashy the closer they came to St John’s. ‘Wapping is built on a swamp,’ commented Mama. ‘Only the good Lord stops St John’s from sinking into the ground.’ The snow hadn’t come yet and it had not rained for a good few weeks but still their footsteps squeezed moisture out of the grass.

  Mama paused for a moment at the gravestone of one who was already under the ground, taking Elizabeth aside with her. ‘Can you read the name?’

  Elizabeth looked at the stone, which, only a few short years after having been placed there, was already growing patches of moss.

  ‘Samuel Batts,’ read Elizabeth.

&nbs
p; ‘Your father,’ said Mary.

  ‘My father which art in heaven?’ asked Elizabeth.

  Her mother could not suppress a smile. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Elizabeth had the red and green bird with her. When you blew into its tail it made a lovely chirrup. Mama had wanted her to leave it at home but Elizabeth had insisted so much on bringing Sam Bird that finally Mama had relented. ‘But you must look after it. And I don’t want to hear it whistling in church.’

  Mama had explained that it was a special gift from her father, Sam Batts, and she had shown Elizabeth his likeness. He was old like Mr Blackburn, but he looked very nice and smiled at her from out of the picture. ‘Your papa died when you were a baby, and now you have a new papa, Mr Blackburn, whose name also begins with a B.’ Mr Blackburn may have become Mama’s new husband but he was never going to be Elizabeth’s new papa.

  They entered the church to find rosemary and laurel leaves strung over the doors and along the pews, holly and other greenery decorating the altar, and altogether so many leaves and berries that Elizabeth felt herself to be inside a huge generous tree. What a wonderful place for Sam Bird. Only the statues of saints and the appearance of the vicar reminded Elizabeth that she was in the house of God.

  The sermon was very long and thinking about God took Elizabeth’s mind off the cold rising from the stone floor, up through the soles of her shoes and into her stockings.

  Unlike the Quaker gatherings where everybody was very quiet and spoke only one at a time, the people in St John’s coughed and blew their noses, and even chatted to their neighbour. It was almost as noisy as the alehouse. Mrs Sheppard said that the quiet allowed the Holy Spirit to come, and you could speak when It moved you, whether you were a man, woman, or child. The Holy Spirit could come to anyone, not just Quakers.You didn’t even have to be English. God created us all, and so loved us all. Animals, plants and everything.

  ‘Even rats?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, even rats.’

  ‘Why would He create such a nuisance?’ asked Elizabeth, using a word she had heard Mrs Sheppard herself use.

  ‘They are only a nuisance sometimes.’

  Mama nudged Elizabeth. It was time to kneel on the little cushions and pray. Elizabeth put Sam under her skirts to keep him warm. After the prayer came the part Elizabeth liked best. Everyone stood up, the choir began to sing and those who knew the words joined in: ‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let earth receive her King.’

  When they returned to the alehouse, Grandfather and Uncle, both of them called Charles, were walking up the steps from the river, carrying packets and a basket. Everyone said ‘Merry Christmas’, and Grandfather Charles lifted Elizabeth up to kiss her. Through his face powder she saw tiny little black dots all around his chin and up to his ears and under his nose. They prickled her face when he held her close. He smelled of leather.

  Grandfather Charles entered the parlour, looking around like an officer inspecting his men. ‘You’ve done a good job of it, Mary.’ Elizabeth thought he meant all the Christmas greenery but he went on: ‘They tell me, on the other side of the river, that it’s as well run a business as it ever was. And you’ve bought yourself a wharf, I hear. No doubt Mr Blackburn had a hand in that,’ he added, looking in Mr Blackburn’s direction.

  Mary was glad of the companionship of her new husband. John was reliable and he knew how to deal with the men, but Mary had acquired the wharf before she married him, as her father well knew. But it was Christmas and not the time to beg to differ with him. ‘Some mulled wine?’ she suggested.

  ‘Excellent idea, Mrs Blackburn,’ said her husband.

  While they waited for Rose to bring it, Grandfather Charles started undoing his packets—a fine collar of brawn, jellied pig’s trotters and some damson pies. Uncle Charles stood with his back to the fire, lifting his coat-tails, rocking backwards and forwards from heel to toe.

  Rose appeared with a jug and glasses on a tray. She placed it on the table and Mary served the wine. ‘To our good health,’ proposed Mr Blackburn. And everyone lifted their glasses into the air. Elizabeth did the same. The drink was the colour of mulberries, rich and sweet as honey, though when Elizabeth swallowed, a vinegary taste stayed in the back of her throat.

  When Rose brought the food to the table, Elizabeth didn’t start right away but instead bowed her head. She had already noticed that no-one said grace before eating, but she thought for this special Christmas dinner they might. ‘C’mon, little Elizabeth,’ said Mr Blackburn. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I am thanking God for what we are about to receive.’

  ‘It’s me, your mama and Grandfather Charles you should be thanking,’ he teased.

  Elizabeth knew that it was not the Almighty Himself who brought the pies and everything, but that’s not what saying grace meant.

  ‘Let the child do it if she wants to,’ said Mama.

  Elizabeth bowed her head again, feeling hot and prickly all over. She felt as if she was in a house full of strangers.

  ‘Well then,’ said Mr Blackburn, ‘let’s hear the Quaker grace.’

  It wasn’t fair of Mr Blackburn to mock the Quakers. Elizabeth’s embarrassment started to wane and in its place rose indignation. ‘They say it quietly,’ she glared at him.

  He was about to reply but Mama put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Let that be an end to it,’ she said firmly.

  After dinner of beef, turnips and potatoes, then a raisin suet pudding which filled everyone up so much they said they couldn’t move from the table, Uncle Charles suggested they play bullet pudding. ‘A Christmas treat for Elizabeth,’ he added. Bullet pudding didn’t sound like a treat but everybody was so gleeful about it that Elizabeth held her tongue and instead made a little nest in her lap for Sam Bird.

  When the dinner plates were cleared away Rose brought in a pile of flour and arranged it into a cone. Uncle Charles took some of the wrapping paper and shaped it into a tight little ball. When the ‘bullet’ was set on top of the cone of flour, Mama invited Rose to join in the game, and after a shy giggle, she sat at the table with the family.

  ‘Who shall go first?’ boomed Mr Blackburn.

  ‘The youngest member of our party,’ said Uncle Charles.

  Elizabeth’s big blue eyes were as wide as saucers.

  ‘Perhaps the oldest,’ suggested Mama, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand under the table. ‘To show her how it is done,’ she added.

  Elizabeth supposed that Grandfather Charles was not normally one for playing games but it was Christmas and he was full of wine and he did feel, as head of the family, it was his responsibility—nay, his duty—to set a good example. He rubbed his hands together, picked up the knife and carved away a section of the cone. Then he passed the knife to Uncle Charles. Next it was Elizabeth’s turn. She looked very carefully at the bullet, then cut away a thin slice of the ‘pudding’, without disturbing it.

  ‘Well done,’ said Grandfather Charles, and everyone applauded.

  They all had a go at cutting the pudding, including Rose, who had to be coaxed, which Uncle Charles took upon himself to do.

  Elizabeth’s second turn was successful but the bullet was teetering. ‘This requires some strategy,’ said Uncle Charles, pushing his chair away and bending down so that he was at eye level with the bullet. It wasn’t his turn but no-one seemed to notice. Using his thumb and index finger Uncle Charles made measurements. He took another sip of wine. Rose was giggling rather a lot and everyone’s face was red and glistening. It had grown dark outside, and lit by the firelight and candles, the shadow of the bullet fell across the diminishing pile of flour like a tower.

  Finally Uncle Charles made a cut and everyone roared as the bullet fell. But that was not the end of the game. Uncle Charles had to retrieve the bullet. He began nuzzling into the flour and everyone laughed to see it all over his face. But he managed to get the bullet between his teeth and stood up, triumphant. Then he spat the bullet into the fire. ‘A shame it would b
e to see a good pile of flour go to waste,’ he said merrily. He walked around the table till he was behind Rose and lightly tipped her face into it. When she brought her head up again, giggling all the while and saying ‘Mr Charles’ in a playful way, she had a spot of flour on her nose like a snowman.

  ‘Blind man’s bluff!’ said Grandfather Charles bringing out his kerchief.

  So they played more games and drank more wine long into the Christmas night, and no-one mentioned that perhaps it was time for Elizabeth to go to bed. When she finally climbed the stairs, said her prayers and put her head upon the pillow, her eyes would not shut. On the ceiling she saw them all at Christmas dinner again, saw the pile of flour and the bullet and the fun, all spinning round and round.

  A small ale-tasting burp escaped from Elizabeth. Though she felt a little bit sick, she had enjoyed Christmas. Perhaps the Holy Spirit could come to you in celebration as well as quietness. Did it come in with the fizz, or hover outside like a halo around the saints? Was it made of air, which you couldn’t see but was everywhere? Did it blow with the breeze, like a ribbon or a leaf?

  Elizabeth took a feather from her pillow, opened the window and blew the feather out. It descended a little and danced above a mooring post, before floating into the shadow of the watchman, the collar of his greatcoat turned up to meet his hat. She caught sight of the feather again, in the flickering orange light of his lantern. Then it flew away in the breeze. Elizabeth was glad that Sam Bird wasn’t a real bird because she didn’t want him disappearing like that.

  She found her way over to Mama’s bed and began tugging at her sleeve. ‘Mama.’ Eventually Mama woke up, with a little sigh. ‘What is breeze?’

  ‘It is what blows your hat off,’ Mama said sleepily.

  ‘And if I’m not wearing a hat?’

  ‘Then it ruffles your hair.’

  Mr Blackburn stirred, and let out a grunt. Elizabeth waited a moment. ‘And the fizz in the ale?’

  ‘Oh, not again. Go back to bed, Elizabeth. It has been a very long day.’