Oy Yew (The Waifs of Duldred Trilogy Book 1)

by Ana Salote

  ‘I’m thinking same as you,’ said Oy. ‘Can’t help it.’

  ‘Dead. What else could it be?’

  ‘Plenty I suppose, but that’s the one beating in my head.’

  Alas handed the ledger to Oy. ‘See if there’s any more D’s. I want to try the drawers.’

  ‘There’s only one more D,’ said Oy, ‘and an E. Arun Flud, I think the name is. Only it’s been scored through, like someone was angry with him.’

  ‘E is for: egg, end,’ said Alas, ‘come on you’re better with letters.’

  ‘Enemy, escape,’ said Oy.

  ‘Escape – I like that one.’ He continued poking around. ‘What we really need is in here.’ Alas rested his hand on a glass-fronted book case. ‘Our ledger is there, see. It’s a straightforward lock by the look of it. Listen hard now while I try it. Get your ear to the door. If we’re caught at this we’re D’s.’ Alas was right, it was a simple lock. He flashed Oy a look of glee as the door opened. He reached for the current waif ledger but his tremor made it difficult to read. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Here, this is us: Reta, M. M? What could that be? Owin, M; Lenud – he’s another. What’s that?’

  Oy shook his head. He had heard nothing.

  ‘Outside. I thought I heard Master’s voice. Look out the window but make sure you’re not seen.’

  Oy flattened himself into the bay. ‘He’s down there talking to Chibbs. And there’s Raymun running across the lawn shouting something.’

  Alas joined Oy at the window. They looked down on the old waif’s bald head bobbing towards the Master’s black one. Raymun’s voice came to them, excited and breathless.

  ‘Master, you better come and see what they found in the hole. They don’t know what it is, but I got an idea.’

  ‘Well, what do you think it is?’ said Jeopardine.

  ‘Bones, sir! Bones like you’ve never seen before.’

  They watched as Jeopardine streaked towards the dairy site. Ignoring paths, he cut across lawns and over walls and shrubs while Raymun hurdled behind him. Just past the Grove, Jeopardine pulled up suddenly clutching his hip. Raymun caught up and the Master limped on slowly, leaning on Raymun for support.

  ‘He won’t be getting back in a hurry,’ said Alas. ‘I want one more look at that ledger.’

  Pausing at the top of an earth bank, Jeopardine looked down into the hole. Two men were digging around something long and curved and yellow-brown. Jeopardine was in no doubt what it was. He knew the colour and texture of ancient bone when stained by sandy earth. But the size of it. The curve suggested a bone of vast circumference. He scrambled down the bank, excitement overcoming his pain.

  ‘Stop that! Everybody put those spades and pickaxes down.’

  For the first time since his birth, Master Jeopardine got his hands dirty. He crouched down in front of the bone and gently brushed some earth away. His eyelids fluttered as he touched history.

  ‘This great lumbering beast, did it ever dream, all those thousands of years ago, that it and I would meet like this? Oh the incomparable th-rrrills of ossiquary.’

  17 Reading Between the Lines

  Mrs Midden turned the pages of a cookbook so large that she had to walk from one side of the table to the other in order to read it.

  ‘You haven’t had the book down in a while, Aunt. I thought you kept it all in your head,’ Molly observed.

  ‘So I do, most of it, but maybe Master is right. I might be too stuck in my ways. I got to think of my Aunt Bill. She was still cooking at ninety-two and still adding new recipes to the book, which is why it’s so big because she was half blind by then. Now what have we got here? Duldred Alabasters: in brackets she writes, “my own variation of knotted swans”. Master likes a bit of swan meat, we’ll try this. I’ll give it the Midden touch with some pastry helmets. He’ll soon see I’m anybody’s equal for ideas.’ She gave Oy a sidelong glance. ‘You can get along to the butchery,’ she told him with relish. ‘Mr Cracklin’s left us a bag of gall bladders.’

  Oy did not like working in the butchery and Mrs Midden knew it. He could smell the iron in the blood and the salt stink of dead flesh just on the turn. Game birds with crusted eyes were bunched on hooks, further back the big carcasses swung, bruise- coloured and slit through the ribs. Oy was nearly sick the last time he had to collect the bile. The vile green fluid had to be squished out of the flabby organs and bottled for the laundry. It was used on grease spots. Oy saw the blood-stained bag on the marble slab and went to untie it. The smell came up immediately. With his keen nose it was almost unbearable. He clamped his hand around his nose and mouth but the smell got in anyway, through his eyes and ears it seemed. It was bitter and sickly, worse than drains. He thought it smelled like anger. He did the job as quickly as he could, trying not to breathe or look too much, but he was watery-mouthed with retching. When he was nearly done he knocked the bottle over. A yellow-green pool spread across the chopping block.

  As he swilled it away he heard braying and thrashing from the pond. Sly came in with three swan necks hooked over his arm. ‘Pluck ’em,’ he said, throwing them down at Oy’s feet and shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Oh, you poor things,’ Oy said, taking one heavy, still warm swan up onto his lap. ‘You poor beautiful thing.’ He stroked its lovely limp neck. ‘Wish I could breathe the life back into you.’ The smooth coolness of the feathers and the faint warmth radiating from underneath, it was all so near to life. What a quick, little thing was killing to some.

  Mrs Midden came to the door. ‘Get on with it, oven’s waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Oy whispered to the swan. It seemed disrespectful to despoil its beauty with such haste.

  ‘Well.’ Mrs Midden was still watching. ‘What you looking so squeamish for? This is what food’s really about: all of us preying on each other. It’s not about frosted pansy petals. We’d soon starve if we tried to live on them. There’s only one difference between slaughter and laughter and that’s an s. It’s all two sides of one thing and you got to make sure you’re on the laughing side.’

  Oy sighed and began ripping out the feathers.

  Sly came back, a rare air of thoughtfulness about him. He sat down on the other side of the feather bag and leaned towards Oy. ‘I want to ask you a question. And don’t you blab this to anyone or I’ll squash you.’

  Oy waited.

  ‘You and Molly seem pretty thick. I’ve even seen her hug you, which is more’n I get. What I want to know is, why would she prefer you to me, and how do I get her to switch over?’ He moved his forefingers through a half turn.

  ‘Molly is my friend…’

  ‘Friend – you’re getting above yourself there.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Oy went on plucking quietly.

  ‘Alright, I’ll let that go – you were saying?’

  ‘Well, say I was her friend, I’m sure she’d have room for another without doing any switching.’

  Sly nodded his head slowly. ‘Can you go into that a bit more? What did a nothing like you do to get that friendly feeling started?’

  Oy shrugged. ‘She’s friendly ’cos she’s kind. You could try that, being kind back.’

  ‘Giving gifts and the like?’

  ‘And caring about how people feel.’

  ‘How do I know what they feel?’

  Oy could see that Sly really didn’t know. ‘I never thought how. You sort of watch faces and see little changes, and that tells you better’n words what’s happening up there.’ He tapped his temple.

  Sly sat back with his hands on his thighs, frowning. ‘Let me try it.’ He leaned towards Oy and stared grimly into his face as though he would read it by sheer effort. He shook his head. ‘It’s not working. I blame my ma – Mrs Rutheday to you. She ain’t got feelings and her face don’t move, so how was I supposed to learn? Let’s have another go.’

  ‘Try to relax,’ said Oy, ‘don’t hold your breath.’

  After a while Sly gave his verdict. ‘You
look tired – not my sort of sloth, deeper ‘n that.’ Oy nodded. ‘And you look hungry – not my sort of peckish, more starved to the bone.’

  ‘Good,’ said Oy. ‘And can you imagine how it feels?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Sly cheerfully. ‘You know for a second I even thought you was feeling sorry for me. Shows how bad I am at this. Well I’ll keep practising. Here.’ Sly felt in his pocket and pulled out a bag. ‘Why don’t you take these sweets.’ He stood up to leave. ‘And if you was to mention to Molly where you got them from, well, it wouldn’t do no harm.’

  When Oy got back to the basement he had grown a soft warm belly. He lifted his shirt and a heap of swan’s down fell to the floor. Hands reached out around his feet to play with the feathers.

  ‘Well done Oy, that’ll puff the pillow nicely. It won’t be long before we can start on another,’ said Lucinda.

  Oy picked a stray feather from the floor and held it against his face with a far away look.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Gertie.

  ‘I was only thinking,’ said Oy, ‘that Linnet’s hair is whiter than this feather. I hope I see her again.’

  ‘I told you not to think like that,’ said Alas. ‘It’s not certain.’

  ‘What’s not certain?’ said Lucinda.

  ‘There’s something to tell,’ said Alas, addressing everyone. ‘You’ve heard about the big bone found on the dairy site, well Jep’s acting like a Afflish infant on its giftday. It gave us, Oy and me, a good chance to look at our ledger. The names have all got letters after ’em. There’s M’s, L’s, E’s. We can’t be sure what they all mean but there is a pattern that helps us guess. L’s and E’s are leavers, accidents have all got a M. I noticed the L’s go in daylight. The E’s left at night. Jenfa and Nat were E’s. I spent time on the docks when I was free and there never used to be a night boat. So we got to ask, why do some waifs leave at night? Where are they going if not on a boat?’

  ‘Looks like an L is the only healthy thing to be,’ said Gertie.

  ‘What about us?’ said Lucinda. ‘Are all our names marked?’

  ‘Not yet, except for Oy. He’s got M in pencil with a query mark.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Gertie. ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Alas looked at Oy.

  ‘Wait a bit,’ said Gertie, ‘this reminds me of something. I didn’t read it out ‘cos it was just a list of names with letters after them. It was a page in the news-sheets. I’m sure we’ve still got it.’ Gertie pulled some papers from underneath her box and found the one she wanted. ‘Here it is: Justice Journal. These are all criminals and the letters is code for what sentences they got. Now, does it say what the letters mean? Yes. F is forfeit, T is time with length of sentence in brackets, L is liberty. E is exile.’

  ‘What does exile mean?’ asked Gritty.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gertie, ‘only the E’s get a choice of desert or mountains. Oh, Lor.’ Gertie lowered the paper. ‘M is mort, and the way they get morted is by hanging.’

  ‘Oy,’ Alas went to his side. ‘I told you none of this is certain.’

  ‘I don’t want to be morted. Not yet,’ said Oy. ‘I promised I’d go back, and…’

  ‘Oy, you ain’t going to die for whiles and whiles.’ Lucinda came to hug him.

  ‘No,’ said Gertie. ‘That M can’t be right. Master’s too taken with your cooking. He needs you.’

  ‘Needs him till the big dinner,’ said Alas, ‘but after that, who knows? That’s why we got to keep fighting.’

  18 Bitter Sweets

  Mrs Midden crossed through some lines in her notebook. ‘I’m changing the meat,’ she said. ‘We’ll have wild boar and wolf instead.’

  ‘That’s peasant food,’ said Molly. ‘Master won’t have that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Midden. ‘He’ll come to his senses then and leave it all to me.’

  She turned to Oy. ‘That’s meant to be the pudding is it?’

  Oy heaped foamy cream and crushed meringue onto the berries and tapped the peak gently releasing a haze of bubbles. ‘I think I got it right, now,’ he said, offering the plate to Mrs Midden who shoved it on to Molly. Molly tasted and gave Oy a reassuring wink.

  ‘You’d best have a man’s opinion,’ said Sly, digging in roughly with his spoon. ‘Mmm, not bad. Come on Mrs Midden, tell us what you think. It’s a bit airy for me. I’d rather have your suet steamers. They sit in the belly like a brick. You know you’ve eaten something.’

  Mrs Midden was sulking by the stove. She eyed the pudding with suspicion. Molly loaded a spoon for her. ‘You’re the expert, Aunt. It’s one-one, so far. You’d better cast your vote.’

  Mrs Midden snatched at the spoon and tasted. She closed her eyes as a minor convulsion rippled down her body.

  ‘She likes it,’ Molly murmured to Oy.

  But Mrs Midden’s face had changed. Sly pointed at her as though he was aiming a gun. ‘Bitter,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Midden. ‘I was going to say sweet. Too sweet, like you’d expect from a child.’

  ‘I meant you’re bitter,’ said Sly, ‘like maybe you’re jealous.’

  Mrs Midden’s spoon clattered on the flags. She ran at Sly, beating him with her oven cloth.

  ‘Angry,’ said Sly, fending her off with one arm and pointing again with the other.

  ‘Sly, you’ve got to stop this pointing business,’ said Molly. ‘Don’t you know it’s offensive?’

  ‘Face reading,’ Sly spluttered, as the old cook clubbed him in the mouth. ‘I’m studying it.’

  ‘Ladies.’ It was Jeopardine.

  Mrs Midden froze with her cloth in the air, pretended to swat a fly and smiled at the Master.

  ‘Sly, you’re not to disturb the cooks. They have important work to do.’ Sly sloped away. ‘Something smells good,’ Jeopardine went on, ‘I thought I’d check on the progress of the Ossiquarian menu.’

  Mrs Midden, still panting, pushed her tongue into her cheek, and felt for her notebook. ‘You asked for ‘different,’ sir – wise or not, t’ain’t for me to say, I’ve only been cook here for forty years.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Midden, and greatly valued you are, but the menu?’

  Mrs Midden held the notes at arms length. ‘Here we are then: puffballs stuffed with wolf and juniper paté, flitch of wild boar with scallions and blewitts, wild berry baskets soused in mead and Duldred bubble-top cream.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Jeopardine looked pained. ‘Is it not a little… earthy?’

  ‘My exact feeling, overly earthy. I knew it wouldn’t suit so I’ve done an alternative. What would you say to Stargazy Royale? Picture it sir, a dozen twenty pound rainbow chub, rubber lips erupting from Midden’s pastry, and inside, thick-as-your-arm eels fresh from our lake.’

  Jeopardine blinked quickly. ‘A possibility. I think I’d better speak to him.’

  ‘Where’s he gone? Oy! Back in here,’ Mrs Midden called.

  ‘The menu,’ said Jeopardine, ‘it’s most unusual – what is its theme?’

  ‘Um.’ Oy’s eyes roved around the kitchen.

  ‘Are we sure that he’s behind this? This isn’t some sort of joke. You’re not repaying me for something I did as a boy, Mrs Midden?’

  ‘The theme is prehistoric, sir,’ Molly intervened. ‘All ingredients that the ancients would have used. We were thinking you could have that giant bone chained up above the dining table, curtained off. Then after the dinner you could unveil it. That way the dinner leads up to it and it’s all in keeping.’

  ‘I see, ye-es. Will they get it, though?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir,’ said Mrs Midden. ‘I know these people. Old Afflish is what they like, nothing new, nothing risky. Good home cooking can’t be beat. Mr Odol’s the one they all follow, and he’s a pie man through and through, weaned on pie I should say.’

  Jeopardine leaned back. He appeared to be grinding his cane into the floor. ‘Drains, a word.’

  Oy foll
owed him out of the kitchen.

  Jeopardine pincered Oy’s arm with two fingers and placed him with his back against the wall. ‘I have heard of people like you, simpletons with one special talent. They can’t say how they do what they do, they simply do it. However, let me impress on you how important this dinner is to me. If you fail, if you do not produce the finest meal ever to grace my table – think of the worst fate you can, and double it. Not troubled by that thought I see.’ Jeopardine jabbed at Oy’s shoulder. ‘You. You make good meal. Or you end up as good meal. For hounds.’

  Oy swallowed but otherwise looked blank.

  Jeopardine clutched his brow. ‘Mammus help me. Go!’

  19 A New President

  The tables had been laid and relaid, the place cards switched and shuffled and switched again. Jeopardine had hovered and checked and queried and doubted until Mrs Midden had walked off in a huff muttering, ‘Fumin’ ’n’ gloomin.’ (She had been up at dawn, face and arms covered in flour, angrily rolling out a pond-sized pie crust just in case it was needed).

  At last Oy made his final tastings, all was declared ready and a long procession of upservants left the kitchen. Mrs Midden was required to lead though her expression said she wanted nothing to do with it.

  Molly and Oy were left alone. She swung him around and planted him in the middle of Mrs Midden’s chair. ‘That’s where you belong,’ she said. Oy looked at the space on either side of him, enough for four more his size, and swung his legs.

  ‘They’ll be sitting down about now,’ said Molly, looking at the clock. ‘We’ll have a breather before we start plating the boar.’