Paupers Graveyard (3 page)

‘Well, he can hardly object to my riding him, can he? Not any more.'

Before she could reply he left the room and she watched from the window as he strode towards the stables. Soon the sound of horses' hooves could be heard on the stable-yard cobbles, and she watched as Timmy, the youngest stable boy, led Lightning and his rider through the gate. She could see Charles talking down at him and Timmy pointing towards the north pasture, probably indicating the best areas for riding. She waited until Charles had disappeared into the distance, before going outside.

Timmy stood rooted to the spot, still watching the rider, who was now no more than a dot on the horizon. It wasn't until she had almost reached him that he became aware of her and turned around with guilty eyes.

‘He ordered me to saddle the master's horse, mistress.'

‘I know, Timmy, it's all right,' she patted his shoulder. It felt thin beneath her fingers. ‘You'll have to eat more, get some flesh on those bones.'

‘Yes, mistress. My da says I eat like a horse and look like a greyhound, but I'm strong.'

‘I'm sure you are, Timmy.'

She could see why her husband had been so fond of this boy. Always willing and not afraid of hard work John had said, but there was something else too. The very air around him seemed to crackle with energy. He had a thirst for life. Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from within the stable-yard.

‘Timmy, you good-for-nothing wretch, where the hell are you?'

Jack Carey. He was head groom, and the bane of those who worked under him. She watched as Carey walked over to the gate, looking all around him for the boy, who stood mute at her side. On seeing them, he feigned surprise, but walked forward smiling and doffing his cap.

‘Good day to you, mistress.'

‘Good day, Carey.' She neither smiled, nor looked directly at him. ‘I borrowed your young man here,' she smiled down at Timmy. ‘He's been a great help in saddling his lordship's mount.'

‘His lordship's horse?' He was taken aback, until he realised that she meant his new master. He had wanted to meet him first and get on a good footing before anyone else.

‘Thank you, Timmy.' She nodded to them both, and turned towards the house. Stopping before the door, she looked back and watched the man and boy enter the stables. Carey's sheer size was overwhelming; he was over six foot tall and built to match. It was his eyes that made her uncomfortable; they were almost as dark as his hair, a deep, unsettling black. She knew the servants had christened him Black Jack and it was easy for her to see why, she thought, going indoors to summon the children to lunch.

Once out of the mistress's sight, Black Jack grabbed Timmy by the arm, almost lifting him off the ground. ‘Why didn't you call me when his lordship came for the horse?'

‘I did call you.' Timmy tried to wrestle away from the strong fingers that were biting into his thin flesh. ‘But you weren't there, and the master wouldn't wait.'

‘Well, the next time, boy, make yourself heard.' He gave the struggling child a hard clip across the ear and watched as he hurried away. He'd make it his business to be here when the master returned. If any of the rumours were true, it might turn out to be quite profitable. He was not averse to a game of cards himself, and when the master sought companions in the sport, he would only be too glad to steer him in the right direction. There were many wealthy farmers in the district who liked a gamble and were not fussy whom they played with, so he would be well thought of for bringing gentry to the table. Yes, he was on his way up. By this time next year he would be a changed man, hadn't his own mother predicted it?

Agnes Carey always predicted great things for her son. He was her world, despite the fact that on many occasions she had to get rid of his ‘mistakes'. She was an accomplished abortionist; her knowledge of herbs, along with the aid of a long wire hook, helped keep the population down. And it wasn't just with the poor. Agnes told of many's the fine lady who had willingly lain spread-eagled on the dirty tabletop and allowed her to poke and prod between their legs. That so many died afterwards from shock, loss of blood or infection was of no account to her. She saw herself as a saviour of sorts and made quite a bit of money in the process. Those who did survive soon found that they were in debt to Agnes Carey for the rest of their life. Her silence cost dearly.

Black Jack didn't have long to wait for his master's return. Quickly bored, Charles rode back into the stable in a foul mood. His inspection of his estate had come to an abrupt halt in just over a mile. What he saw depressed him; dirty little cabins with children running around barefoot and barely covered in rags. And as for the women! There wasn't one that caught his eye. But then it was hard to imagine beauty in such filthy circumstances. The smell had been the worst. Many of the hovels had large manure heaps outside, pigs roamed freely and he had even seen them appearing from inside the dwellings! His estimation of these people had been correct; they were no more than pigs themselves. He dismounted almost before Black Jack could catch hold of the reins, and would have stormed away, if the groom hadn't stopped him.

‘How do you do, my lord?'

Charles turned, aghast that this upstart was addressing him. Timmy came running from the stable to relieve Black Jack of the struggling horse. Charles walked back to where the man stood, cap in hand.

‘Are you addressing me?' He was mortified to find that he had to look up at the man. This made his humour worse, and he was sorely tempted to use his riding crop.

‘Yes, my lord, begging your pardon, sir, but I just wanted to welcome you to Maycroft.'

Charles looked on as the man stood twiddling his cap, and decided the fellow was harmless enough. He was, after all, attempting to be sociable, which was more than he could say for the rest of the rabble.

‘Yes, indeed, thank you.' He cleared his throat as though the simple sentence was sticking there, and turned to go, but was stopped again as the man spoke.

‘If there's anything I can do to help, I'd be glad to.'

‘Help! Is it possible to help someone who finds himself in hell?'

‘I can understand how this place must seem to you, my lord. There's very little to do. Sure if it wasn't for the odd game of cards, we'd all go mad.' Black Jack could see the gleam of interest in the master's eyes.

‘What's your name?'

‘Jack Carey, my lord. I'm head groom here. I've been here since I was ten years old. I served your late brother well and I hope I can do the same for you.'

‘You may well be of service to me, Carey. Now tell me about these card games.'

Timmy watched as the two men drew closer, but try as he might, he could not hear what they were saying. Whatever it was improved Black Jack's humour and he even allowed Timmy to finish a whole hour early.

‘Timmy!' His brothers and sister came running to meet him, and threw their arms around him.

‘Let me breathe,' the twelve-year-old laughed, untangling the numerous arms and trying to answer their questions.

‘Why are you so early?' Peter wanted to know from his older brother. ‘You didn't lose your position, did you?'

He looked down at the three little faces.

‘No, indeed, I didn't.'

They smiled with relief and he hoisted Rose, baby of the family at two, into his arms. Balancing her on his hip, he took six-year-old Tom by the hand, and they walked indoors.

Even in summer the cabin was cold. Built of stone, with two rooms and an old thatched roof, it retained very little warmth. The crude wooden table that stood in the centre of the room had a bench on both sides of it and a wooden chair at the head.

A small cupboard, placed as near to the fire as possible, protected their food from the damp. Two rickety armchairs stood on either side of the large open fire. His mother and father sat there each night, weary after working hard in the fields. Over the fire hung a long black arm with two hooks; these held the cooking utensils, a large black pot and a kettle. A flat griddle pan lay beside the hearth.

After sending Peter to fetch water from the well, Timmy set about preparing the supper. Half-filling the pot with water he carefully counted in the potatoes, six for his father and three for his mother and two for each of the children. He quickly got the turf and sticks to catch fire, and swung the heavy pot over the flame.

Next he set the table with three chipped cups and three small wooden bowls to hold the buttermilk for the younger children. Since starting work he was considered a man and was allowed to use a cup. Three plates, in much the same condition as the cups, followed, with a small bowl of salt. Two bent forks and two knifes, their blades worn away to an arch from constant sharpening, completed the table setting.

Timmy then sat in his mother's chair with Rose on his lap and with his brothers sitting on the floor beside him, he recounted stories about fairies, goblins and wicked witches. They listened in wide-eyed wonder as he told of Tir na nÓg, a magical land where a person never grew old, where there was plenty of food to be had, fish and meat every day if you wanted it, clothes made of gold and silver, and real shoes for your feet. They shook their heads in awe, imagining not having to go barefoot.

The pot was bubbling cheerfully when the door opened. Timmy beamed with pride when his tired mother gazed around the room, taking in the table and the pot on the fire. Then he glanced past her to his father, who was glaring back at him.

‘What are you doing home at this time, lad?' Without waiting for an answer, he reached for the stick that was always kept handy in a corner and turned back to Timmy with his hand raised, ready to strike.

‘For the love and honour of God, Pat,' his mother stood in front of Timmy, ‘let the lad answer.'

‘There's nothing wrong, Da. Black Jack just let me finish early, that's all.'

He watched in relief as his father returned the stick to its rightful place. His brothers had been looking on, ashen-faced, and Rose's lower lip was trembling. They had all felt the sting of the stick in the past. Brushing past them, their father slumped into his chair and sat gazing glumly into the fire. Their mother, trying to lighten the mood, chatted gaily as she checked the potatoes, sticking a fork in to see if they were soft enough to eat. Once she was happy, so were her children. She carried the pot outside and, covering the top with a piece of sacking, tilted it to one side to allow the water to drain off. The pot was placed back over the fire for a few minutes, to let the potatoes dry, and the piece of sacking, steaming from the boiling water, was held in front. When it was dry, she placed it in the centre of the table and upturned the pot, allowing a mountain of potatoes to appear. Some tumbled and rolled, and the children laughed, as their mother and Timmy tried to stop them from falling onto the dirt floor.

From a small cupboard she took a covered dish. This, like the cups, was chipped and the flowers on it faded, but it was still her pride and joy, given to her by her mother when the flowers were still bright blue. The same colour as your eyes, her mother had said, as she kissed her goodbye on her wedding day.

She had been fifteen when she married Pat, and now, almost fifteen years later, she was faded, like the bowl. Sometimes she felt as though she had been alive forever. Lifting the lid, she carefully spooned a piece of dried fish onto her husband's plate. His large hand covered hers.

‘Take a bit for yourself.'

‘I have no appetite, Pat. I'll save it for tomorrow.'

‘Eat it now, you're skin and bone as it is.'

She had no choice but to obey, and the children watched her trembling hand spoon out a small piece of the fish and replace the lid.

‘Eat,' she nodded at the children, and Timmy picked up a knife and began to peel the potatoes for Tom and Rose. His father and Peter ate them skin and all, but his mother and the younger ones had no stomach for that. The skins did not go to waste though, because they went to feed Nelly, their pig. From a churn his mother scooped up buttermilk, pouring it into each of the cups and bowls. As always, she took the least, and Timmy watched her picking at the piece of fish, pulling it apart, checking for bones. He knew what was coming next, so he turned to his father and started to talk.

‘The new master came into the stables today.'

‘Did he indeed?' His father was interested. ‘They say he's not a patch on his brother, though he was a hard enough man, God knows. Not that it matters to us,' he snorted. ‘He'll do little enough to help here.'

Now that Timmy had started his father off about the changes that needed to be made, it allowed his mother some free rein. He watched as she studied her husband, and when she was sure he wasn't looking, she took bits of the flaked fish in her fingers and fed them to Rose and Tom. They opened and closed their mouths soundlessly, reminding Timmy of the fledglings in the trees beside the cabin. He would have loved some of the dried fish and, licking his lips, he tasted the salt from the potatoes and pretended it was from the fish.

Peter watched each mouthful, his eyes as big as saucers. Timmy and Peter knew that the younger ones needed the food more than they did, but it would have been nice to taste it, just this once. His mother caught his eye and winked, he winked back, glad to be sharing a secret with her. They had outwitted his father who was now in full flow, waving his knife in the air and sending bits of potato flying into his hair. Soon it looked as though it had snowed on his head, and she shook her head in warning to them not to laugh. When the meal was finished, his father went outside with the slop bucket to feed the pig.

Timmy and the others helped their mother clear up, and then get ready to wash the younger ones. She placed a chair in front of the fire and took an old enamel basin from a nail in the wall. When his mother had half-filled it with cold water from the bucket, Timmy brought the kettle from the hearth and allowed the hot water to dribble into the basin until it was warm enough. Each of the children squirmed as she scrubbed necks, ears and between sticky fingers with a soapy rag, determined to root out any trace of dirt. We may be poor, she often told them, but that's no excuse for filth.

Timmy was glad he no longer had to endure this nightly ritual. When she had finished with the others, he emptied the bowl. This was refilled as before and handed to him. He took it into the other room, the sleeping place for them all. The beds were planks of wood tied together with rope and covered with straw. One set in the corner for his parents and a larger one for the children. A frayed blanket lay in the centre of each one and this was all the bedding they had. When the weather got too cold, they dragged the beds into the kitchen and slept by the fire. The only other furniture in the room was a stool, and it was on this that he placed the bowl.

The threadbare cloth they used for a towel had hardly enough fabric left in it to dry him; still damp, he carefully manoeuvred the jumper over his head and elbows. There were so many holes in the sleeves, that he once managed to put his head through one, stretching it even further. As he was carrying the basin outside, his father loomed from out of the darkness.

‘Hurry to bed, boy, the spring planting has to be done on Saturday. You'll need all your strength for that.' He brushed past his son without looking at him and went inside. Timmy heard him talking to his mother and the tone was sharp.

Timmy did not look forward to spending a full day in the fields with his father, but the planting of the potatoes was the most important event of the year. He waited outside for a while, watching shadows moving within the cabin, caught by the light of the fire. The three small ones went from the kitchen to the bedroom, then the large, lumbering shape of his father, followed them. At last his mother was alone. He crept inside, closing the door as quietly as he could.

His mother brought her fingers to her lips, nodding towards the other room. He understood that they could speak only when they heard the thundering snores of his father. They sat in silence before the fire, his mother trying to darn one old jumper with wool from a more threadbare one. He studied her face as she worked. He found it hard to imagine that she had once been young, except when she smiled; her eyes lit up and then she seemed like someone else, not like his mother at all.

As the sounds from the bedroom signalled their release, she put aside the jumper. Timmy knew what to do. They had been doing the same thing for over a year, since he had grown old enough to be trusted.

He crept to the turf pile, moved aside a few sods and felt for the loose brick. After prising it out, he reached inside and pulled out a package wrapped in old rags. This he placed on his mother's lap and watched as she opened it. The book inside was so old, the pages had come loose, but that didn't matter. It was the words that were important and also the stories they told.

‘We'll start on a new one tonight.' She smiled at him, moving to one side of the chair, and allowing him to squeeze in beside her.

Slowly he moved his fingers across the page, sounding out in a whisper the more difficult words, until he had finished the first paragraph. He was pleased and looked at his mother for approval. She was gazing at him with an odd look in her eyes, a sort of sadness. But she kissed his forehead and told him how well he was doing, and warned him, as always, that he must never speak to anyone about the book. She told him that the strange, musty scent from within the book was the smell of freedom, that one day he would understand. For now all the words and wonderful things he learned must remain a secret, to be whispered between them late at night, while the others were asleep.

He hid the book again, replacing the brick and piling the turf back against it. Squeezing back into the chair, he laid his head on his mother's shoulder and felt her thin arm encircle him, stroking his hair. He was far too old, he knew, to need cuddling, but he let her, for her sake.

‘What's he like?' she asked.

He was puzzled, ‘Who?'

‘The new master, what's he like?'

He knew he could be truthful with his mother.

‘He's a bit cross and strange-looking.'

Her laugh startled him. There was little that made her laugh and he felt powerful for having done so. Trying to outdo himself, Timmy continued, ‘He walks like a girl as well. I'll show you.' He minced his way across the floor exaggerating the master's walk, hands held in a foppish manner. This was too much for his mother, who roared with laughter and he joined in, delighted. It took them a moment to realise that their noise had awoken his father, who was now glaring at them from the doorway.

‘What in the love and honour of Christ do you think you're doing?' He looked from one to the other. The sight of his red-rimmed eyes and angry face was usually enough to frighten them, but now they looked at each other and burst out laughing once more. This made his temper even worse and he lurched towards the corner that held the stick.

‘You see this?' He waved it in front of their faces. ‘I'll use it on the both of you in a minute.'

The laughter died. He threw the stick aside and it landed with a clatter on the floor.

‘Now get to bed and don't have me tell you again.'

They set about preparing the room for the following day. His mother steeped the oatmeal for the breakfast porridge, as Timmy filled the kettle and placed it near the hearth. When there was nothing more they could do, they went grudgingly to bed. His father was snoring again and Timmy lay beside his brothers and sister enjoying their warmth.

Tonight, for the first time, he realised how much he hated his father. If the look in his mother's eyes was anything to go by, she felt the same. He wondered, as he drifted off to sleep, what made his father so bitter. Martin, his best friend, had six brothers and sisters and his family was even poorer than them, but his father had a smile and a good word for everyone. Life was very strange, he decided.