Off the Rails Read online

  As it was. ‘You can do those,’ Aunt Tot said, as if she were granting her a favour, ‘whilst I put the dining room to rights. Set the candle on the window sill. Tha’ll not need more than the one. That’ll give ’ee light enough. Soda’s in pot. Water’s in kettle.’ And she was gone before Jane could put down her bag.

  It took a very long time and a great deal of backache and soda before the dishes were clean, the pots scoured and the dish-clout hung across the sink to dry, and then Aunt Tot steamed back into the room on a strong smell of sweat to say that the kitchen table had to be scrubbed too.

  By that time, Jane was so weary and miserable that all she wanted to do was crawl away into a corner somewhere and go to sleep. Knowing there was even more work to be done made her feel weak and sick and, greatly daring, she opened her mouth to ask if the table couldn’t wait till morning. But she’d barely spoken the first word before Aunt Tot descended on her, striding across the kitchen until they stood nose to nose. The candlelight cast long dark shadows under her eyes and her scowl was horrible to see.

  ‘Now look ’ee here, Jane Jerdon,’ she said, ‘an’ get this straight in tha mind. If I says tha art to do a thing, tha jumps to and does it. Is that clear?’

  Jane bit her lip, feeling suddenly afraid, and dropped her eyes to avoid that awful gimlet glare. ‘Yes, Aunt.’

  ‘Tha’s got a millstone round tha neck, what’ll make tha life impossible, and don’t ’ee ever forget it.’

  Jane kept her eyes down and her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘No, Aunt.’

  ‘Very well then,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘Get that table scrubbed clean and riddle out the stove ready for the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt.’

  ‘I’m off to my bed then,’ Aunt Tot said and she took up her candlestick, found a new candle for it, and lit it ready to light her way upstairs.

  She was almost out of the door before Jane dared to speak again. ‘If you please, Aunt,’ she asked, ‘where am I to sleep?’

  ‘Why, in the cupboard, child,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘Where else?’ And she carried her light and her disapproval out of the room.

  Left on her own, Jane sat on the kitchen stool and cried for a while because she simply couldn’t help it. Then she got on with her chores. The hall clock was striking midnight before she’d finished. She pushed the hair wearily out of her eyes and looked round the dark kitchen for the cupboard. There was a door in one corner alongside the dresser, which looked possible, and sure enough, it led into a large walk-in larder and underneath the slate counter, where the cheese, milk and eggs were kept, was a small truckle bed with a straw mattress, a pillow with a rough ticking cover and a single blanket. She pulled the little bed out into the room and set it by the remaining warmth of the fire. Oh to lie down and sleep, she thought, as she blew out the candle. She was so tired her bones ached and she hated George Hudson with a passion.

  It was late evening when that worthy arrived outside the city of York, for he’d stopped at the inn at Claxton for a supper of lamb chops and kidneys and a good sustaining tankard of ale, and when his plate was clean, he’d sat on by the fire supping his ale and thinking. By the time he set off on his walk again, the city was just a dark presence brooding below him, speckled by the flicker of rush lights and candles but impossible to see in any detail. He could just about make out the shape of the Minster looming over the roofs huddled below it, grey against the dark sky, but the city walls were shadows. He could smell the place, of course – he’d been smelling it for over a mile and very nauseating it was – because the local farm labourers were out with their dung carts collecting the night soil. But the stench and the lack of light didn’t trouble him at all. He’d thought until he knew what he was going to do and that was what mattered. First he was going to find himself a bed for the night and then tomorrow morning he was going to visit his rich Uncle Matthew and throw himself on his mercy. It wouldn’t be easy, he was well aware of that, for the man didn’t know him from Adam, but he had a good tongue in his head and he was sure he could do it. He was George Hudson and nobody was going to put him down.

  2

  THE NEXT MORNING dawned fair and fresh. The streets of York had been swept clean as soon as day was breaking, most early-morning faces washed, horses newly groomed, their tails combed and plaited and their brasses polished to catch the sun, doorsteps scrubbed white, bed linen hung from the upper windows to air. In short, it was a sweet-smelling, purposeful day when anything was possible and George was full of food and high spirits, whistling as he walked along Goodramgate towards Monkgate and his uncle’s fine house.

  The central arch of Monk Bar was clogged with carts and horses, and the two side arches, being smaller, were a-jostle with people all trying to shove their way through to one side or the other, so it took a while before George could squeeze through the crush and emerge into the wide roads on the other side of the wall. It was like stepping into another world, for the houses here were new, built of brick and beautifully proportioned, with grand doors and elegant windows. And Uncle Matthew’s house was the finest of them all. Although he knew very little about this distant uncle of his, one thing was obvious. The man was rich. He walked up to the front door and knocked firmly.

  The door was opened by a servant in green livery and a white wig, a very haughty man and disconcertingly tall. ‘Yes?’ he said, looking down at George.

  ‘Name of Hudson,’ George said, speaking boldly and determined not to be put down. ‘George Hudson. I am Mr Bottrill’s nephew.’

  ‘You have a calling card no doubt, sir?’ the servant said. No card had been offered, as it should have been, so he was fairly sure this young person didn’t possess such a thing. Especially given the way he was dressed. His shirt was clean enough, to give him his due, but, really, those rough breeches and that waistcoat were the sort of things one saw on a farm hand.

  ‘Not at t’moment, no, sir, I’ve not,’ George said, trying to sound as though it didn’t matter and knowing how much it did – now that it was too late. ‘I’ve just come to town and my family gave me instructions I were to pay my respects afore I did aught else. Common politeness, they said.’

  ‘If you will just wait here,’ the servant said. What a sneering voice he had! ‘I will consult with Mr Bottrill.’ And he shut the door and left George on the step.

  It seemed like a very long wait, standing there on his own, but at last the door was reopened. ‘If you will come this way,’ the servant said, ‘Mr Bottrill will see you.’

  Into an elegant hall, with a tiled floor, a carved staircase and a huge chandelier that held more wax candles than he could count, up the easy tread of the stairs to a landing on the first floor, where closed doors lined the walls, then a discreet knock and a muffled cough outside the furthest one and a querulous voice calling, ‘Come in, come in.’ And then he was in the presence.

  It wasn’t the sort of presence he was expecting at all. For a start he was in a bedroom and an extremely musty one, smelling of sweat and used chamber pots, and his illustrious uncle was in his nightshirt with a crumpled nightcap on his grey hair and a decidedly grubby dressing gown swathed about his body. His feet were long and bony and the slippers he wore might have been red velvet once but were now so scuffed and discoloured that they looked more like mud than cloth. For a rich man he was downright disreputable. He was also really rather rude, for he was reading a newssheet when George entered the room and he didn’t look up or stop reading for as much as a second.

  If there’s going to be a conversation, George thought, I shall have to start it myself. ‘I trust I see you well, sir,’ he said.

  His uncle grunted.

  ‘’Tis a grand day.’

  Another grunt.

  Happen he’s deaf, George thought, and repeated his observation in a louder voice. ‘A grand day, sir.’

  ‘Stow your row,’ his uncle said, without looking up from the paper.

  That was disconcerting but George could see that there was nothin
g for it but to wait until he was noticed. So he waited.

  After what seemed an extremely long time, Uncle Matthew gave the paper a shake and threw it on the carpet. ‘So what’s all this about?’ he said. ‘Come on the scrounge, have you?’

  George assumed an expression that he hoped would convey shock and outrage. ‘No, sir,’ he said hotly. ‘I have not. The idea. I wonder at you, sir, that you should think such a thing. I were sent to enquire after your health, sir. That’s the sum and total of it. After your health.’ And since the old man looked disbelieving, he contrived to bristle. ‘I see I’m unwelcome, sir.’ He turned as if he were about to leave.

  ‘Keep your wool on,’ his uncle said. ‘If you ain’t after money, you’re the only one. Rest of ’em are at it night and day. There’s no end to ’em. Sit ’ee down.’

  There was only one other seat in the room and that was a low armchair upholstered in pink velvet to match the curtains. It looked too delicate to be used by a farmer’s son, but George sat in it nevertheless, although cautiously. Then he put his hands on his knees and waited.

  His uncle was re-lighting a pipe that was half full of tobacco and decidedly evil-smelling. ‘Nephew you say, I believe,’ he observed, puffing thick fumes into the room.

  ‘Yes, sir. My mother was your niece. Name of Elizabeth.’

  ‘Ah!’ Matthew said. ‘A good woman. Married some fool of a farmer, as I recall.’

  ‘My father, sir.’

  ‘Had a sight too many children.’

  ‘Ten, sir.’

  ‘Total folly,’ the old man said, sucking his pipe. ‘So why ain’t you working on t’farm?’

  It was time to feed him a spoonful of truth and see what came of it ‘I’m the fifth son, sir. I’ve to fend for myself seemingly.’

  ‘Ah!’ his uncle said and smoked his pipe for a few minutes, nodding his head from time to time as if he was thinking. ‘They’ve thrown you out, is that the size of it?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘That’s families for you,’ the old man said. ‘Not a heart atween the lot of ’em. So you’ve come to York?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘What’s brought ’ee here to me then,’ his uncle asked, ‘if it ain’t money? And don’t give me all that malarkey about how you were asking after my health for I don’t believe a word of it. My family ain’t the least bit interested in my health. Not a one of ’em. They’re all waiting for me to die so they can get their greedy hands on my money. So come, and tell me t’truth, mind. What’s brought ’ee here? There’s bound to be a reason.’

  ‘I need a job, sir,’ George confessed. ‘If I’m to fend for myself I’ve to find a job. That’s t’truth of it. I thought you might know someone who were looking for a worker, being as you live here. I’m willing, sir. I’ll turn my hand to anything. And strong. Strong as a carthorse, Ma used to say.’

  ‘Um,’ the old man said and fell to puffing his pipe again, his long face creased with thought. There was so much smoke in the room that George began to feel quite dizzy but eventually his uncle took the pipe out of his mouth, shot him a shrewd look and gave his advice.

  ‘Nicholson and Bell’s is what tha wants,’ he said. ‘Drapers. Looking for a ’prentice boy. Not in a good way of business since Mr Bell died, to tell ’ee true, but beggars can’t be choosers. They might take to you. Corner of Goodramgate and College Street, opposite Bedern Hall. Tell ’em I sent you.’ And he went back to his pipe.

  It was a very short walk to the shop and an even shorter trot and, although the place was dark, dusty and insignificant, it was easy enough to find. George wasted no time deploring its appearance; he simply walked straight in. A job was a job and the sooner he landed this one the better.

  It was extremely dark inside, for the ceiling was low, the walls were painted dark green and the windows were so grimy that they let in very little light. There were dark counters on either side of the room and shelves behind them holding various rolls of dark cloth, and sitting behind the right-hand counter, chewing the end of a quill pen, was a most unprepossessing woman. She looked dowdy and none too clean and she had such a long narrow face and such lank, greasy hair under her grubby cap that for a few seconds, while he got his breath back, George wondered whether she was some relation of Uncle Matthew’s. Then she looked up, took the pen out of her mouth and spoke to him.

  ‘Was it for breeches or a jacket?’ she asked.

  He was rather pleased to be mistaken for a customer. ‘Neither,’ he told her.

  The answer seemed to puzzle her. ‘Beg pardon.’

  ‘I’ve come for t’job,’ he explained. ‘’Prentice boy. Sent by Mr Bottrill. Am I speaking to Mrs Bell?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said and giggled as if he’d made a joke. ‘Nowt like that. Wish I were. No such luck. She’s my sister. Wait there till I get her.’

  She looked even more ungainly standing up than she’d done sitting down, for now he could see that she was wearing dull, brown, old-fashioned clothes, that although her black lace collar had once been fine – it was prettily embroidered – it was faded and frayed at the edges, that her brown boots were down-at-heel and that there was nothing soft or rounded or feminine about her. He watched as she walked towards an inner door, moving in a slummocky way like a surly boy, her shoulders humped and her long feet splayed. I wonder whether she’s any good at her work, he thought, and walked across the room to see what she’d been doing. Writing up the accounts, apparently, they didn’t look at all healthy and were full of mistakes. She’s no beauty, he thought, she can’t add up and, if this is all the trade they do, there’ll not be much work for me.

  But he could hear feet approaching so he had to stand back and pretend to be looking out of the window at the street. Two sets of feet, one slummocking, the other brisk.

  ‘You’ve come to apply to be our – um – apprentice, I believe,’ the newcomer said. Very much like her sister to look at but better dressed and with a chatelaine at her belt.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you – um – worked with a draper before?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Can you – um – read?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And write a fair hand and add my figures and subtract ’em. I kept accounts on t’family farm for the last three years.’ That wasn’t strictly true. He’d kept the accounts for a week three years ago when brother John had been ill of a fever and couldn’t do it. But it sounded well and he could see that it impressed both his listeners.

  ‘Did you so?’ Mrs Bell said. ‘Well – um – that could be an advantage, I daresay.’ Then she seemed to be at a loss for words and stood silent, fingering the lace on her left sleeve and looking into space. Good lace, George noticed, and unlike her sister’s, clean and starched, and she was wearing a good stout pair of boots too. Why don’t she say summat? he wondered. There was nowt for it, he must make some sort of offer for this job if he wanted to get it.

  ‘I could keep your accounts,’ he said, smiling at the lady, ‘if you’d like me to.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ her sister said. ‘We would like you to, wouldn’t we, Rebecca?’

  ‘Well, as to that,’ Mrs Bell said, looking stern, ‘that’s as maybe. ’Tis not a thing to be rushed at. You must – um – walk before you can run, young man, if you take my meaning. I might permit it once you’re ’prenticed. We shall – um – need to see. There’s a lot to be learnt. For the moment you must – um – learn how to keep the shop and – um – sweep it and clean it and – um – so forth and bring in new cloth when ’tis needful and – um – attend to the customers, what has to be done delicate and respectful. And acquaint yourself with the cloth and the prices and how ’tis to be wrapped.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ George said, in what he hoped would be a dutiful voice. ‘I could do all that and willing.’ And he wondered if this was the point at which he ought to ask whether an apprentice could expect any wages.

  She answered him before he could ask. ‘I would pay you – um –
sixpence a day,’ she said, ‘and all found. When you’ve worked a month and we’ve seen how you do and providing you’re – um – satisfactory, I will draw up articles for you to sign.’

  What does she mean, all found? he thought. He couldn’t ask her. That would make him look stupid. He couldn’t argue about the wage she’d offered either. It was far too little but this wasn’t the time to say so. Uncle Matthew was right: beggars can’t be choosers. He could edge it up later when they’d found out how good he was. The main thing was to have something settled. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She paused again, as if she were wondering what to say next. Then she looked at her sister. ‘Show him where the – um – brooms are, Lizzie,’ she ordered and walked out of the shop, the keys at her belt rattling.

  He swept the shop and dusted the shelves while Lizzie bit her pen. There were no customers so he stood in a patch of sunshine and waited and got bored. Finally he asked Lizzie if he could have a bucket of water with a good splash of vinegar in it and set to and cleaned the windows. Then he took the bucket back to the kitchen and settled to wait again. There were still no customers.

  ‘Is it allus this quiet?’ he asked.

  Lizzie put down her pen to look at him. ‘People come in from time to time,’ she said and confided, ‘It were better when Mr Bell were alive. He attracted ’em somehow. Bein’ he was a man, I daresay. He had the knack of it. Making jokes wi’ ’em and so forth. He were allus making jokes.’ She sighed.

  ‘Happen tha’d like me to finish the figures,’ he suggested, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Aye. I would,’ she said firmly. ‘They give me headache summat chronic. But she’ll have summat to say if you do.’

  ‘We won’t tell her,’ he said.

  That made her giggle. ‘Tha’rt a bad boy,’ she said.

  ‘That’s me,’ he agreed and winked at her.

  So the figures were corrected and finished, and Lizzie sat on the newly scrubbed window sill and gazed out of the newly cleaned window and watched the people walking past. And there were still no customers.