Off the Rails Read online

  I shall be bored stiff in this house with only these two for company, he thought. And he remembered Philly, who was all quick sympathy and ready wit and bubbling laughter, and felt homesick for the sound and sight of her.

  Someone was pushing open the door, making the bell jangle as if it was an alarm. It was a young man, very tall and very fashionably dressed, in a green jacket made of fine wool, doeskin breeches, expensive boots and a white silk hat set at a rakish angel on a shock of brown hair. He was dangling four plump pigeons in his right hand and bellowing as he strode into the shop, ‘Becky! Where the devil’s she got to? Ain’t that just like the woman! Never here when you want her. Becky!’ Then he noticed George and scowled. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘New shop boy,’ Lizzie told him. ‘Come to be apprenticed.’

  ‘Humph!’ the young man said. ‘He’d better be good, that’s all. I didn’t think much to the last one. Becky!’ And he pushed through the inner door, waving the pigeons and shouting as he went.

  George looked a question at Lizzie. It wasn’t worth putting it into words because he knew she wouldn’t answer it.

  But she surprised him. ‘My brother, Richard. Been out buying cloth.’

  George grimaced. ‘Funny sort of cloth.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be delivered when it’s ready,’ she explained. ‘He allus buys summat special when he’s out and about. He likes his food.’

  I wonder whether I shall get to eat any of it? George thought. All found could mean meals, couldn’t it, and after all that scrubbing and cleaning, he’d worked up a healthy appetite, which got sharper as their empty day gradually inched towards dinner time and the smell of roasting pigeon began to drift into the shop. Then, when his belly was rumbling loud enough to be heard in the street, there were trudging footsteps on the stairs and a murmur of voices in the room above the shop and a woman in a grey mob cap appeared in the doorway. She was small, short and skinny and she looked so worn and scuffed she could have been any age between thirty and sixty.

  ‘Dinner’s on the table, Miss Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘Miss Bell says to shut shop.’ She stood aside to make way for Elizabeth, who rubbed her hands clean on her skirt and went stooping up the stairs, then she turned and looked at George. ‘You’re the new ’un, ain’tcher,’ she said, ‘what’s been a-cleaning the winders. You’re to come wi’ me. Name a’ Norridge. Mrs Norridge to you. I’m supposed to be their cook housekeeper. That’s a laugh. General dogsbody more like. Look sharp or it’ll get cold.’ But George needed no bidding for they were heading for the kitchen and the smell of roast pigeon was growing stronger with every step he took.

  The table was set with two plates and a serving dish where two roast pigeons lay side by side and steaming, on a mound of greens and potatoes. It was a feast.

  ‘How…?’ he asked, and then stopped. If she was cheating their employers, happen it were best not to know.

  Mrs Norridge winked at him. ‘Nipped out the back and bought two more,’ she explained, ‘soon as he brung ’em in. They got an account at Mr Cullen’s. I often does it. Eat hearty, boy.’

  He ate very hearty. The pigeons were delicious, cooked to such perfection that the flesh fell from the bones. And when they’d eaten every morsel of the main course Mrs Norridge took a tray and disappeared upstairs, returning with the remains of a sizeable cherry pie with a dish of cream. I shall live well here, he thought, as he put the first spoonful of pie in his mouth. They might not be taking much trade but they’re comfortable if they can dine like this.

  ‘Good?’ Mrs Norridge asked.

  ‘Aye,’ he told her, happily. ‘Gradely.’ He took another mouthful and savoured it. ‘They don’t do much in the way of trade,’ he said, speaking casually.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Mrs Norridge said. ‘I don’t know how they make out some weeks. Course it was all different when old man Bell was alive. They had plenty a’ custom then. He was up to all sorts a’ tricks to bring ’em in.’

  ‘What sort of tricks were those then?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts,’ Mrs Norridge said. ‘He used to write out little cards – Mr Bell respectfully begs to inform his customers that the new spring cottons have arrived or the new broadcloths or whatever it was – an’ stick ’em in the windows. That sort a’ thing. An’ then they’d come a-trooping in to see what was what. Knew ’em all by name he did. All their fancies. Cracking jokes and making ’em laugh. It was like a party in there sometimes. Couldn’t hear yerself speak fer cackling an’ laughing. Can you manage the rest ’a this pie?’

  He held up his plate.

  ‘More like a morgue nowadays,’ she said, as she served him the last of the pie. ‘Creeping about, never saying nothink. Mr Richard makes enough row coming home, hollering and shouting, I’ll grant you that, but he never says nothink to me. An’ that last boy they had was worse than useless. Never said a blind word to anyone the whole time he was here. She threw him out after six months an’ I can’t say I blamed her.’

  So, he thought, for all her ums and ahs and that odd way of hers, Mrs Bell can be tough. ‘’Twill be different now I’ve come,’ he said, licking the last of the cream off the serving spoon. ‘Watch an’ you’ll see. I’ll have the shop full in no time. I’ve got ideas.’

  ‘You got plenty a’ sauce,’ she said, removing the spoon. ‘I’ll say that for you.’ She lifted her head and listened. ‘They’re a-coming down,’ she said.

  There was only one more thing he needed to find out. ‘Do I sleep here, Mrs Norridge?’

  ‘In the store room,’ she told him, carrying the plates to the sink. ‘Now get back to the shop, for pity’s sake.’

  He was standing by the shelves pretending to tidy the rolls of cloth when Mrs Bell rattled her keys into the room. ‘Leave that,’ she said. ‘Time you – um – learnt about cloth if you mean to be – um – ’prenticed. Follow me.’

  He followed her into a small dusty room, where rolls of new cloth stood in line against the walls, wrapped in rough linen and carefully labelled, and piles of boxes were heaped one on top of the other in every available space, and he caught a glimpse of a truckle bed half hidden in the furthest corner, and there he was instructed, and tried to look interested, and repeated what she told him, to show that he understood her. But his thoughts were spinning away in a completely different direction. He was surprised to see how much stock they had and even more surprised to think that it was all hidden away. It seemed total folly to him. What was the point of explaining the difference between hand prints and roller prints or cottons and calicos, when so few of them were in the shop? They should be on the shelves and draped in the windows, he thought, where the customers could see ’em, then we might tempt a few of ’em over the doorstep. But he couldn’t say so. She might not take kindly to an apprentice telling her what she ought to do and he didn’t want to get sent packing on his first day. So he listened and looked attentive.

  For the next two days, he did what little work there was – sweeping the floor, carrying two rolls of cloth down from the store room for a customer and running errands to master tailors in Stonegate and High Petergate – and thought hard about what else he could do. On his fourth morning, an elderly lady came timidly into the shop to say that she wished to choose some new ribbons for her Sunday bonnet and Lizzie, who was busy showing the lilac broadcloth to a young man, indicated with an upward nod of her head that he was to serve the lady. It took him ten minutes, as he presented her with a tray full of possibilities from the shelf under the counter and used every ounce of charm he possessed to persuade her that the most expensive would suit her complexion to perfection. After she’d gone, smiling and satisfied and surprised by her own extravagance, he stood looking at the tray and wondering whether he could say something to Lizzie.

  ‘These should be in the window,’ he said eventually, ‘where folk can see ’em, not hidden away under the counter. These and the best of the cloth. That lilac for a start, and the green. Good broadcloth is that. We should make show
of what we’ve got to offer. Let folk see it. That’s my opinion. They’ll not buy what they can’t see. What do ’ee think?’ If he could get her on his side she might be able to persuade her sister.

  She was no use to him at all. She giggled. She said she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t the sort of question she’d ever been asked. ‘Tha’d need to talk to Mrs Bell about it,’ she told him. ‘’Tis not up to me.’

  It was the worst possible answer. How could he do that when she wouldn’t allow him to say a word? It was very frustrating and, try as he might, he couldn’t see a way round it.

  The next day was Sunday, which at least meant there was something different for him to do. The entire family took the short walk down Goodramgate to the Church of the Holy Trinity, where the saints stood impassively in the stained glass windows, empty-faced and distant, the flagstones were jaggedly uneven, and the box pews out of alignment and black with age. Mrs Bell and her brother and sister had a pew halfway up the aisle, which showed that the family had some standing.

  ‘There are seats for ’prentices at the back,’ Mrs Bell said, putting him in his place again. ‘Norridge will show you where to go.’

  George took his seat feeling belittled and irritable. He bit his lip. He ignored the other people in the pew. He scowled at the saints. He frowned at the pulpit. He glared at the nobs as they swept past him on their well-dressed way to their important pews. And then one of them stopped by his lowly seat and leant across towards him and spoke his name.

  ‘Morning, George. Tha got the job, I see.’

  It was his Uncle Matthew with his wife on his arm, and a gold-topped cane in his hand, dressed in the height of fashion, in a broadcloth jacket and a pair of trousers, no less, and a waistcoat of pale blue brocade.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, fighting the urge to turn his head to see if Mrs Bell was noticing. ‘Thank ’ee kindly.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Mr Bottrill said. ‘I like a boy who works for his living. Settled in well, have ’ee?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ his uncle said. And he and his wife continued their progress to the front pews, greeting Mrs Bell on their way.

  Has she seen? George wondered. Please God, let her have seen.

  She had and made a point of asking him about it on their way back to the shop. ‘You know Mr Bottrill – um – seemingly.’

  Oh, what an enjoyable moment. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ George said.

  ‘How did that – um – come about?’

  ‘He’s my uncle, ma’am.’

  ‘Is he, by Jove?’ Richard said, very much impressed. ‘Fancy. Now he’s what I call a rich man. Very rich by all accounts. A regular Croesus. Runs a coach and four, house full of servants, property all over, in Hutton and Cranswick and Newton-on-Derwent, even as far afield as Whitby and Huntington, so they say.’

  ‘Aye, so he has,’ George said with enormous satisfaction. Now, he thought, happen they’ll treat me with a bit more respect.

  3

  THAT FIRST WEEK with Aunt Tot was the longest Jane Jerdon had ever had to endure. The work was endless. She’d no sooner cleared away one meal and scoured the dishes before she had to start preparing the next. Aunt Tot roasted the meat on the spit and made pies and pastries but as far as Jane could see everything else was down to her. She fell into her truckle bed far too late at night, too tired to think. And the baby grew heavier day by day.

  ‘Oh, my little Milly Millstone,’ she said to it, as it wriggled and kicked its feet against her ribs. ‘I’ll be reet glad when th’art out in t’world.’

  But when she woke at first light on Monday morning to the realization that her belly was being gripped by an unfamiliar pain, she was caught in a sudden fear and prayed that this wasn’t the baby coming. I’ve eaten summat, she decided as the pain ebbed away. That’s how ’tis. I got the gripes. But the next pain was so strong there was no denying what it was. Oh my dear heart alive, she thought. How shall I make out?

  She tried to remember what she’d heard about birthing a baby and it wasn’t very much. I should have asked Mrs Hardcastle afore I left the village, she thought, but it was too late to be thinking of it now. The next pain started before she’d caught her breath from the last one. It was so powerful it made her groan. And so did the next one. And the next. Soon she was groaning as the pains began. She simply couldn’t help it.

  After what seemed like a very long time, she became aware that there was a face leaning towards her and that someone was calling her name. ‘Janey! Janey!’ And she made an enormous effort and opened her eyes. It was an oddly familiar face but she couldn’t place it. ‘Who…?’ she said.

  ‘See if you can sit up,’ the face advised, and it was speaking with Aunt Tot’s voice. But this wasn’t her aunt surely. Not this woman with her long brown hair tumbling out of her nightcap and her eyes looking concerned and her voice gentle. ‘Audrey’s here to help us,’ the face said. ‘Just swing your legs round, like a good girl, and see if you can stand up. Tek your time. There’s no rush. We’ll hold on to you.’

  Another face. This time the milkmaid’s. Hands supporting her under the arms. I’ll never be able to stand up, she thought. And stood up.

  ‘’Tis only a few steps,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘Just down to my room. You’ll be more private there. ’Tis all ready for ’ee.’

  ‘I’ve not lit the fire,’ Jane panted. ‘The bread wants …’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head about fires and bread,’ Aunt Tot said as they staggered out of the kitchen. ‘That’s all took care of. You just concentrate on birthing this baby. Just a few more steps. There’s a good girl.’

  They were in a quiet bedroom, with a high bed mounded with pillows. They were lifting her into it, easing her onto a thick towel, plumping the pillows to make her more comfortable. And she was more comfortable. The pains were still hard but they were easier to contend with now that she was sitting up and had company.

  ‘I’ll just nip back to t’kitchen for a minute, to tend to t’fire and t’bread and such,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘You’ll manage, won’t you, Audrey? You know where I am if you need me.’

  The room was so quiet that Jane could hear Audrey breathing and a clock ticking somewhere nearby. She wondered what the time was and how long this birth would go on and what would happen next. She seemed to have been struggling through pains for a very long time. And then the next thing happened, with a rush of water that soaked the towel and such an urge to push that she barely had time to recognize it before she was responding to it. She didn’t even notice that Audrey had run off for Aunt Tot.

  Half an hour later, her little Milly Millstone was in her arms, red in the face and crying so lustily she was showing the roof of her mouth and her bare pink gums. She had a shock of damp dark hair and the prettiest hands and feet and Jane was instantly enamoured of her. ‘My dear little Milly,’ she said. ‘Don’ ’ee cry. I got ’ee. I won’t let no harm come to ’ee, ever, I promise.’

  Audrey was in tears. ‘I never seen a babba born afore,’ she said, wiping her eyes on her apron. ‘I never know’d it was so …’ And then stopped, at a total loss for words.

  ‘Nor me neither,’ Jane told her, gazing at her baby. ‘She’s the prettiest thing I ever did see.’

  ‘Where’s her clothes?’ Aunt Tot said. ‘We can’t have her a-lying there naked, even if she is a babe new born. She’ll catch her death of cold.’

  Jane was kissing the baby’s fingers. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘they’re in my bag. All ready and waiting. I wouldn’t leave ’ee naked, would I, my precious.’

  Audrey was sent to fetch them and returned carrying them reverently in her rough hands and weeping again because they were so small and delicate.

  ‘So I should think,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘We can’t wrap our precious in linsey woolsey. That’d never do. Tha’s got to give thought to materials, when it comes to a baby.’

  George Hudson was giving thought to materials at that moment too but in his case it was red bro
cade. Now that he’d impressed his new employers by showing them that he had a wealthy relation, he was going to make capital of it. He hadn’t seen Mrs Bell since he started work that morning but he’d kept himself occupied by planning exactly what he would say to her when she finally appeared. The thing was to catch her eye before she could say um and disappear.

  She smoothed in at a thoroughly inopportune moment, when he was serving an elderly man who couldn’t make up his mind. Damned woman. And she stood and watched him as he tried to make a sale. He had to keep a smile on his face even though he was inwardly fuming, while the old man dithered and changed his mind and finally said he’d think about it and come back later. He was so cross he could have kicked the counter. But he stayed in control. ‘Mrs Bell, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I been thinking.’

  ‘Not to any – um – purpose, seemingly,’ she said, ‘else you’d have made a sale.’

  ‘Now that, ma’am, is precisely why I was thinking,’ he said, pressing on despite her disapproval. ‘’Tis my opinion of it that the gentleman would ha’ bought the cloth if he could ha’ seen it in t’window and made his mind up afore he came into the shop.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Lizzie told me you wanted to put – um – cloth in the window. Well, let me tell ’ee. It wouldn’t do a happorth of good. People never look in t’windows.’

  He decided to change tack slightly. ‘I been considerin’ our red brocade,’ he told her seriously, ‘and seems to me ’tis just the sort of cloth my uncle would buy, if he knew t’was on offer, so to speak. ’Tis quality is that an’ he’s a man for quality.’

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly. ‘As to that, I’m sure I don’t know.’

  ‘It might be worth a try,’ he urged. ‘I could put it all up for you in no time and glad to do it. ’Twould be an experiment. That’s all. And if it don’t come to any good, I’ll tek it down again in a day or two and no harm done.’ Then he gave her the benefit of his earnest grey eyes and waited.