by Erica Brown
‘Well?’ she said, looking up at him as she bent over what looked like endless lines on some kind of architect’s drawing.
‘Your brother met a woman today.’
He thought he saw contempt in her eyes as she sank into her father’s brown leather chair. He chose not to believe it.
‘Well, come along, Duncan. I don’t employ you to be my eyes and ears in this place for you to be vague about your findings. Tell me the rest.’
Duncan licked his lips, not really because they were dry, but more because he wanted to relish the information. She would not be pleased. Not pleased at all. There were few times when a servant had power as he did now. He enjoyed the feeling.
‘They did it beneath the trees at the back of the churchyard.’
Her tone was waspish. ‘Don’t play with me, Duncan. I can still have you whipped.’
He raised his eyebrows at the prospect, but lost none of his arrogance. ‘Slavery is abolished, ma’am.’
A slow smile crossed her face. He went weak at the knees when she smiled like that.
‘So, who was he with?’
Duncan told her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Disappointed but feeling duty bound to keep his promise to the children, Tom took Edith and the children into Bristol, winding through the narrow streets around Redcliffe until they were on the quayside close to the Hole in the Wall tavern.
Since getting involved with the sugar refinery, he had not visited the ship as often as he’d liked. The sight of her took his breath away.
The Miriam Strong creaked like an old bed and her hawsers squealed against the drumheads of dockside capstans. A brisk breeze scuttled among the sails and sent clouds scudding across the sky. Sunshine followed shadow with regular frequency and if Tom glanced at her quickly, he could almost imagine her ploughing through a sea that was sometimes blue, sometimes green.
Jimmy Palmer held a finger to his mouth as Tom boarded. ‘Mr Trinder’s doing the schooling today. Before long, them boys will be writing better than me.’
From somewhere below decks came the sound of young voices reciting their tables.
‘Can we join them?’ asked Rupert with obvious longing.
‘No.’ Tom directed the children to the various decks and masts, giving them permission to climb, but insisting that Edith stay on deck with them.
All but one of the children scampered off. The youngest stayed close to Edith, clutching her hand tightly and sucking his thumb. There’s something sad about that child, Tom thought but what would he know? He was a seaman, a bare-knuckle fighter who frequented all the places respectable men wouldn’t or shouldn’t visit.
Down in the cabin a bottle of rum and two glasses were placed against the rim of the table, a habit acquired on voyages so that the precious rum did not end up on the floor.
‘They’ve been back,’ said Jimmy, his brow creased with worry.
Tom sighed. ‘So you’ve been approached again?’
Jimmy swigged back his drink, and promptly poured himself another. ‘What does the Reverend say?’
Tom twirled his drink in his glass before answering. ‘To tell you the truth, Jimmy, I haven’t mentioned it to him. He’s not far off dying and I don’t want to hasten his journey without good cause. I’ll see what I can scrape up of my own money. That should help.’
Jimmy jerked the decanter implying that Tom should take another drink. Although Tom wasn’t in the mood for spirits, he swigged back what was left in the glass and held it out for a refill. It might not solve the problem, but it helped subdue his concern.
With a worried frown, Jimmy said, ‘I don’t think it’s really the money they want, Tom. I think they’re after this bit of the quayside, though God knows why! Look at it!’ He nodded through the window at the huddled mess of old warehouses with broken windows and rotting doors. ‘I think that lot was already old the day John Cabot left for Nova Scotia.’
Tom frowned as he thought about why someone would want this exact spot. It was close to the centre of the city, the last deep-water mooring before the Avon ambled off towards St Mary Redcliffe and Temple Meads Meadows. What was here or in either of those places – of interest to anyone?
Jimmy seemed to read his mind. ‘So it can’t be any big shipping company, can it?’
Tom had no reassurance to give him. ‘The last mooring between here and Temple Meads Meadow…’ he said and racked his brains for the answer.
The clumping of feet in strict timing signalled the fact that the boys’ lesson was over, though Mr Trinder was still maintaining discipline.
By the time Tom and Jimmy got back up on deck, the boys were lined up in neat rows. Tom could have sworn that there were exactly ten inches between each boy and a ruler had been used to measure the gap to the last inch.
The Strong children watched from the upper deck, except young George, who had disengaged himself from Edith and had attached himself to one of the lines of boys, his back straight and his head held high.
Mr Trinder, who had once been a ship’s surgeon and before that a teacher in tactics at Dartmouth Naval Academy, shouted, ‘’Ten… shun!’ The boys clicked their bare heels and saluted smartly. A little late, but just as smartly, George did the same.
‘Class dismissed!’
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the boys relaxed and began to horse around as boys are wont to do. George joined in. Tom smiled. It was the happiest he’d ever seen the boy.
Rupert was instantly in the fore of things. He loved the ship and had met the boys before. Arthur, a little more restrained than his brother, held back but not for long. Caroline did her best, but the boys seemed uncomfortable in her presence, turning their backs each time she tried to join in.
Tom smiled. Every so often, Caroline reminded him of Horatia, though she didn’t frighten him half as much.
‘Permission to approach captain, sir?’
Clarence, Sally’s son, marched stiffly forward, his face fuller than when he’d last seen him. Amazing what good food and a warm bed could do.
This was a ship and, as such, traditional protocol was maintained. ‘Permission granted,’ said Tom.
He saw Clarence wince as he snapped to attention.
‘Cane?’ he asked, raising one eyebrow.
Clarence nodded.
‘For what?’
‘Daydreaming.’
‘Boy, you’ll learn nothing by daydreaming. Is there anything you have learned today?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘And what was that?’
The boy’s eyes, so similar to those of his mother, shone like a newly minted guinea. In a sing-song voice that crackled with the onslaught of early puberty, he recited: ‘A mack’rel sky and mares’ tails / Make lofty ships carry low sails.’
Tom recognized the ditty as something Jimmy would have taught him rather than Mr Trinder. Nothing changes, he thought. Practical men with practical ways still rule the seas. He said, ‘You sound a keen seaman, young Clarence.’
The way Clarence swelled with pride touched Tom’s heart.
‘Very keen, sir.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Tom saluted. ‘Relieved of duty, Able Seaman Ward.’
He’d expected the boy to rush off then, to gang up with the other boys who were now standing in single file, waiting to go down below, collect their tin plates and spoons and devour their midday meal.
Clarence didn’t move. He had a serious expression, the sort that most folk would not associate with a boy of his age, but Tom knew how it was to be a child and fend for oneself. Wisdom beyond his years, he thought, and remembered how he’d felt when he’d first boarded the Miriam Strong.
Hands clasped behind his back, Tom waited apprehensively for the question he knew was coming. How would he answer? What good things could he say?
‘I’d like to know how my mother is faring, sir.’
The question was just as expected. Tom would have loved to tell him that his mother’s health had imp
roved and that she’d moved in with her sister at Portishead, but he’d be lying. There was no good news to tell on that front, but he knew it was desperately important to give the boy something positive from the mess that was his mother’s life.
He tossed his unruly hair back from his face and kept his gaze fixed beyond the boy to the old warehouses on the opposite quay. ‘I saw her recently. She’s proud of you, glad you’re going to make a new life for yourself.’
The boy sniffed derisively. Tom guessed he had not been fooled. ‘Glad I’m off her hands, I’ll bet. But never mind.’ He saluted again. ‘All I want is to leave this dirty place and see the prow feathering the water.’
Another of Jimmy’s sayings. Tom smiled. ‘I’m happy to hear it, though you may need to grow a little older before that happens.’
Clarence almost stood on tiptoe as he made the effort to look bigger than he was. ‘I think I’m about eleven, sir. My mother thinks I am too.’
The predictable news that Clarence did not know his correct age stabbed at Tom’s heart because he wasn’t entirely sure of his own and had settled on being thirty out of simple expediency. He kept his own counsel and spoke to the boy like a captain would a time-served seaman. ‘Not long before you get a berth then.’
Clarence nodded, but the shine of his eyes turned suddenly dull as if some inner cloud had passed through his soul. ‘If you see my mother on her deathbed, tell her I’ll always remember her in the yellow shawl.’ Tom saw the boy swallow what might have been sobs. ‘Men don’t cry, do they, sir?’
Painful memories came to mind. Tom hesitated before answering, remembering the cold doorways and the gnawing ache of starvation. He also recalled the brutality of some men towards women who had nothing except their bodies to sell.
‘They do sometimes,’ he said.
With Edith and her charges in tow, having eaten their picnic and thrown the crusts to the ducks and gulls that frequented Redcliffe Back, he left the ship a few minutes later.
He tried to focus on Clarence’s enthusiasm, rather than his painful childhood. Jimmy Palmer had taken the boy under his wing, judging by the ditty the boy had recited. Jimmy missed the sea and in his more thoughtful moments spoke eloquently of the way the waves broke before the prow, ‘Like feathers falling into the sea.’ On a day when the wind rattled the halyards and jeers against the folded sails and stout masts, Tom found himself also missing the salt air and heaving deck. If he was truly honest, he’d never stopped missing it.
‘She’s a lovely old ship,’ said Rupert, as Edith and the other children climbed aboard the governess cart.
Tom agreed, holding the horse in check at the side of the Hole in the Wall as he gazed at the tall masts and the closed gun ports. He could almost imagine the cannon snouts sticking out and men behind them waiting for the order to fire. She was a good ship; Jeb was right on that count. It didn’t matter what her name was, and Tom hoped the day would never come when Jeb told him her true name, because that would mean his death was close at hand.
Tom flicked the reins and urged the horse on.
Young George looked at him searchingly. ‘Are we going to see Edith’s brother? He’s got dogs. Lots of dogs.’
Tom was in no mood to go visiting another part of the city. Perhaps if Blanche had come too, it might have been different. He wondered what she was up to back at Marstone Court. And what was Nelson up to. He couldn’t bear the thought that they might be together. He had to get back.
‘It’s a fine day. Let’s go home through the village. Ned Bramble’s got a bitch terrier with puppies. Perhaps he’d let you see them.’
He fancied Edith looked disappointed, but it couldn’t be helped.
The day stayed warm and bright. On the way back, the three eldest children played games – I spy and Spot the Cow. The youngest curled up in a ball on the floor and slept soundly. Tom wished Edith would do the same. She sat beside him again and didn’t stop talking.
Ned Bramble kept and bred terriers for hunting rodents and rabbits. He lived in a cottage built of lime-washed cobble beneath a thatched roof. On the first floor, small windows squeezed tightly against the eaves. The door was solid and low.
‘Just cropped and docked,’ said Ned as he led them round the back of the house to a three-sided shed with a roof of woven willow that just about kept the worst of the weather at bay.
Tom winced at the news, thought about curtailing the children’s visit, but they’d already heard the squealing puppies and got there before him.
The ears of week-old terriers were regularly cropped, the soft flaps of the ears cut off leaving the remainder standing erect. As with spaniels, the tails were docked, leaving no more than a stump. Most countrymen did this with their teeth, though some had a special pair of shears for the purpose. Tom didn’t know much about the reasons for carrying out such a barbarous act, and found it distasteful.
The puppies’ mother looked warily up at them as they entered, alert in case they should inflict more pain on her troubled offspring.
Caroline gasped. ‘Poor things! Look at their ears. And their tails.’
Rupert was more curious. ‘They’re covered in blood. Why is that?’
Ned sucked on his pipe. ‘Makes ’em look more alert and saves ’em breaking their tails when they’re down ’ole after a rabbit. Fierce like ’er there.’ Ned nodded at the black and white terrier bitch, whose ears were like neat triangles perched on top of her head.
‘Must be frightening for the rabbits,’ Tom said.
Ned was too wrapped up in his puppies and the children’s reaction to notice Tom’s sarcasm.
Rupert was about to ask more questions, but Tom could feel young George slowly sliding behind him, before flying into the folds of Edith’s skirt where he hid his face and began to wail.
Tom hustled everyone out and didn’t look back. ‘Let’s get home.’
‘They’ve cut the puppies’ ears and tails,’ said an incredulous Caroline, as they all climbed back into the cart. ‘I think it’s cruel.’
‘It’s to make them look fierce and brave,’ said an adamant Arthur, who seemed to like being privy to the harsher facts of the adult world, though only from a distance.
‘Right,’ said Caroline. ‘When we get home, I’ll take my needlework scissors and snip off your ears. Let’s see how brave that makes you!’
Weakening beneath his sister’s glare, Arthur clapped his hands over his ears.
Edith continued her chattering, though Tom hardly noticed what she was saying. It was like the wind in the trees, it was just there and not very noticeable after a while, which was why at first he failed to hear her question.
The children had heard what she’d said. ‘Can we?’ they all cried in unison.
He shook himself back to reality. ‘Of course we can. What is it you want?’
Caroline’s voice was almost as strident of that of her stepsister, Horatia. ‘It’s the market today! We want to go to the market.’
Tom composed his expression and smiled, though his face felt it would crack with the effort. Much as he wanted to get back to Marstone Court, he’d already said yes and the clamouring of the children and Edith’s accusing countenance were too much to ignore.
Perhaps Blanche was in the village, taking the air and wandering around the market where farmers’ wives sold homemade jams, eggs, spring vegetables and truckles of Cheddar cheese. Some also sold homemade remedies, mostly made from mutton fat and elderflower, or goose grease and rosehip. The former was recommended for chapped lips and sore feet, the latter for glossy hair and the treatment of boils. He knew Blanche was interested in things like that. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that she’d be there.
‘It’s a fine day,’ he exclaimed. ‘Too nice a day to be indoors.’
He took it easy around the edge of the market, which was crowded with people, even though it was way past noon. People were enjoying the sunshine as much as they were the temptation of fresh food straight from
the farm. At dawn today, the cabbages on sale would have still been in the ground.
He looked for Blanche in the crowds that loitered around the market stalls. She wasn’t to be seen, but there were ample-hipped country girls galore. He smiled. They smiled back. In the past he would have lingered with a view to keeping company with them for the rest of the afternoon, but he had the children with him and, besides, his taste had changed.
A flurry of hawthorn blossom billowed from the churchyard to the south of the market place. Drawn by the shower of whiteness, Tom eased the horse in that direction. It would take no longer to skirt the churchyard than it would the market. There was a back way that wound around the edge of the birch trees. He knew it well from his youth. It was where he used to hide rather than sit through the hour-long sermon.
The children squealed with delight as they bumped along the track. Low-hanging branches flipped at their heads.
‘Go faster,’ Rupert urged and George giggled the whole time, his cheeks red as apples because he’d just woken up.
Just when Edith had turned her back, laughing at something the children had said, Tom spotted another low-hanging branch, and shouted, ‘Look out!’
Edith ducked, but it was too late. The fake cherries on her hat caught on a branch.
‘It’s me best one,’ she screeched. ‘Don’t lose me cherries!’
Tom checked the horse while Caroline unhitched Edith’s hat. That was when he spotted them; two figures among the white trunks of lacy-leaved birch trees. Sunlight dappled her lemon dress and his dark green painting smock. Blanche and Nelson.
Tom drove back to Marstone Court in silence, Edith filling the vacant air with her continuous talk about her family and newly created stories of their exploits. For the most part the details went in one ear and out of the other – except one.
‘Course, my Cousin Fenwick’s done a lot of travelling. All round the world in fact. Started in Australia, he did, then went off to everywhere you could think of, Africa, Italy, Sicily…’
Fenwick? Wasn’t that the name of the farm boy who’d helped the poacher at the time of Jasper’s disappearance?