Off the Rails (4 page)

‘Getting on, I see, young George,’ he said as he reached his nephew’s pew. ‘That’s the style.’

‘Yes, sir,’ George agreed. ‘I do my best, sir.’

‘Good lad,’ his uncle said and made a heavy joke. ‘Now all you need’s the breeches, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ George said again, but he was thinking
and
the hat and the boots and a calling card. Oh, he’d a fair way to go yet.

It took him till the beginning of July and it needed all his skills as a salesman and considerable manipulation of Mrs Bell’s profit figures before he’d amassed enough money to be kitted out as he wished. And then he had to wait a week for the next early closing day before he could wear it. But the result was so satisfactory he was preening all the way to Monkgate. And what a happy moment it was when he handed his card to that snooty butler and told him that Mr Bottrill was expecting him. Now sneer if you dare, he thought.

This time he was admitted straightaway and led in due and proper style to the drawing room on the first floor, where his uncle was waiting for him.

‘We’ll have our coffee now, Joshua,’ he said, and when the butler had bowed and left them. ‘Still doing well, I see, young George.’

‘We’ve trebled our trade in the last two months,’ George told him happily.

‘Aye. I don’t doubt it,’ his uncle approved. ‘I’ve been watching. And all your doing if I’m any judge.’

‘Yes, sir,’ George said, trying to look modest and making a poor fist of it.

‘You’re a good lad,’ his uncle said. ‘A worker. Which is more than can be said for the others. Been here with their begging bowls only last week, so they have. Not that it’ll do ’em any good. I’ve got their measure, don’t you worry.’

George had no desire to hear about the others but there was no stopping Uncle Matthew once he’d started and his complaints against his avaricious family went on and on until the coffee was borne steaming into the room and he had to pause from his diatribe to drink it. George watched his disagreeable face as he scowled and sneered, and those bony hands clutching the cup and that long nose dipping towards the coffee, and decided that he would endure being bored and try to look as though he were interested. If this was the price he had to pay for being the favoured nephew then he would pay it. He’d be rewarded in the long run.

He stayed with his uncle for nearly an hour and parted with him in apparent good humour, even though he was inwardly twitching to get away. But it was a job well done, he thought, as he walked back to Goodramgate and he was eased and pleased when he began to gather admiring glances again.

‘Well, bless my soul,’ a familiar voice said as he emerged from the crowded arch of Monkgate, holding onto his hat. ‘If it’s not George Hudson. You do look well. Quite the swell.’

‘Mrs Hardcastle, ma’am,’ he said, giving her a courteous bow. ‘I trust I see you well.’ It was always sensible to keep in with the local gossip.

‘Visiting my cousin,’ she said.

‘Ah!’

‘Do ’ee work hereabouts?’

‘At the drapers,’ he told her. ‘Nicholson and Bell’s.’

‘And doing well, I see.’

He laughed at that. ‘Aye, ma’am, but give me a year or two and I shall do even better.’

She gave him her shrewd look. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Happen so.’ They were
heading in opposite directions or she would have walked with him and discovered more.

‘Pray give my regards to my family,’ he said as he turned to stride away from her. And that was such a happy moment he was grinning all the way back to the shop.

Mrs Hardcastle went straight to Home Farm as soon as the carter had set her down by her own gate. This was too good a piece of gossip not to be spread and besides she wanted to see how Philadelphia was because the poor girl had been quite ill these past few weeks.

She was sitting in her chair by the kitchen fire darning stockings and looking extremely pale and tired but she greeted her visitor in her usual gentle way and when Mrs Hardcastle asked her how she was she smiled and said she was ‘fair to middling’ even though it was plain to the midwife’s experienced eye that she was no such thing. But she was visibly cheered when she heard how well her brother was doing.

‘Fallen on his feet, sithee,’ Mrs Hardcastle told her. ‘Allus knew he would. Great strong boy like that.’

Philadelphia covered her mouth with a kerchief and coughed into it for a worryingly long time. But her mind was still on her brother and when she’d recovered her breath she questioned her visitor again. ‘He looks well, would ’ee say, Mrs Hardcastle?’

‘Blooming,’ Mrs Hardcastle said, but she was thinking, which is more than can be said for you, poor girl. ‘Great strong boy!’

L
ITTLE
M
ILLY
S
MITH
was a very good baby and by the time she was four months old she was delectably plump and pretty. Jane had almost forgotten that her eyes had been dark blue when she was born. Now they were pansy brown and her original mop of straight dark hair had been replaced by a head of thick fair curls.

‘Th’art the dearest little thing what ever was,’ Jane told her and the baby smiled as if she quite agreed. But the smile brought sad thoughts. She was still a fatherless child, however dear she was, and she still hadn’t seen her grandmother. Don’t ’ee fret, Jane thought, kissing her dear little curled
fingers. I’ll be mother and father to ’ee both so I will. Tha’lt want for nowt, I swear to ’ee. And that vile George Hudson can rot in hell, what I hopes and prays he will. But what she really wanted was to see her mother.

She’d written a letter to her on the day the child was born, naturally, but it was weeks before the carter arrived and could be asked to deliver it. And now a fourth letter was being written and there were times when despite all the good things that were happening to her, Jane wept private tears of anguished homesickness. If only Milly wasn’t such a very little baby and if only it wasn’t such a very long way to Scrayingham Church.

September came in that year with gales and driving rain and October was no better, for now they had to endure mists and fogs. Scrayingham Church seemed even further away than ever, even though Milly was now sitting up on her mother’s knee before the fire, looking about her and as warm and sturdy a child as you could hope to see. The others weren’t faring so well in the colder weather; Audrey’s hands were so chapped and raw she said she was ashamed to put them
near our precious
and Aunt Tot had a rheumy cold that wouldn’t go away.

‘That dratted wind goes straight to your chest,’ she said. ‘You must take care our babba’s wrapped up good an’ warm if you means to take her to church come Sunday. I’ll look out a little blanket for her. We don’t want her to take cold. That’ud never do.’

Jane was thinking fast. Was this the chance she’d been hoping for? With a blanket, the long walk might be possible. ‘Well now, Aunt,’ she said
carefully
, ‘as to that, I been a-thinking.’

‘Oh aye,’ her aunt said. ‘And what great thoughts have come to ’ee?’

‘What I been thinking,’ Jane confessed, ‘is I would like to go to church at Scrayingham one Sunday, if ’ee were so minded, to see my ma. I do so want to see my ma. ’Twould be a fair old trudge but I don’t mind a long walk and if Milly’s wrapped in a blanket I can keep her out of t’cold. ’Tis five months now since I saw Ma and that’s a mortal long time.’

The longing on her face was so extreme that Aunt Tot was torn with pity for her. ‘You’ll have to face bad looks if you’re a-going there,’ she warned. ‘Scrayingham’s a different parish to ours. You’re known there.’

‘Aye,’ Jane said sadly. ‘I know. But I do so want to see my ma.’

‘I tell ’ee what I’ll do,’ Aunt Tot said. ‘I’ll see if old Jem’ll take you. He might well. He’s a good man and one church is as good as another, when all’s said and done. You’ll be warmer in t’cart than on foot, and that way you can be took straight to t’church gate and brought straight back again after t’service so there’ll be less time for t’gossips to put their knives in.’

So two Sundays later, at long last, Jane was driven to Scrayingham Church with the baby in her arms, wrapped up snug in her shawl and her
blanket. It was a lovely moment. When Jem clicked to the horse and set off, she was tremulous with excitement but after a while her heart began to crumple into misgiving. What if her old neighbours sneered at her and called her names? Aunt Tot had thought it likely. Well, if they did, she thought, trying to be valiant, she would have to face it. She did so want to see her ma and if this was the only way it could be done, then so be it.

Luckily, she arrived a matter of minutes before the service was due to begin and only just had time to sneak into the church and scuttle into the pew beside her mother before the rector made his entrance. And oh it
was
so good to be with her again and to pull back the shawl and show her Milly’s dear little smiling face and watch as she kissed her dear little warm fingers.

‘She’s a pretty child,’ Mary Jerdon said under cover of the first hymn. ‘She looks as if she feeds well.’

‘All day long,’ Janey told her proudly. ‘Don’t ’ee, my darling.’

‘Lovely fat cheeks,’ her mother approved, gazing at her granddaughter. ‘Oh, it
is
good to see you, Janey.’

Neither of them paid very much attention to the service and when the rector cleared his throat to begin the sermon, they simply let him get on with it and gave themselves up to baby worship and the joy of being together. It was the happiest, easiest time. When the service was over they slipped out together as quietly and unobtrusively as they could and found a hidden corner behind the cart where they could talk more freely until Jem arrived. At last Jane could tell her mother how much she missed her.

‘They treat you well, though,’ Mary Jerdon prompted.

‘Aye, well enough,’ Jane told her. ‘But they’re not you. Oh, Ma, I’ve been wanting and wanting to see you.’ She was in tears by then. She simply couldn’t help it.

Her mother held her and kissed her and told her that they were back together now and there could always be another time; Scrayingham Church wasn’t all that far and happen she could get home for Christmas, there was always Christmas. And Jane promised to come to Scrayingham again as soon as she could and to see what could be done about Christmas. But they parted in tears despite all their commiserations because Jem was walking towards them and the rest of the congregation had begun to leave the church. The sight of them all, so gathered together, walking down the path towards her, put poor Jane into a panic and she scrambled into the cart before they could see her and nodded to Jem to start the horse. But once they were round the first bend and travelling steadily, she calmed down, comforting herself that she’d been quiet and behaved very sensibly, not gone up to take communion, nor spoken to anyone other than her parents, and
only whispered to her ma at that, and they’d left the church very quickly, slipping away like shadows, so happen no one would have noticed her.

She was wrong, of course, for there’d been one pair of eyes in the
congregation
that never missed a face or a trick. One very sharp pair of eyes and they belonged to Mrs Hardcastle.

‘Was that your Janey I saw in church?’ she said to Mary Jerdon, as they walked towards the Howsham road.

Mary admitted that it was.

‘I trust she’s keeping well.’

‘Fair to middling.’

Even though Mary was turning her head away and looking as
discouraging
as she could, Mrs Hardcastle persisted with her interrogation. ‘She brought the baby with her, I think.’

‘Aye, she did,’ Mary said, looking at her fiercely, ‘and let me tell ’ee, she’s a very pretty baby and a very good one. We never had a peep out of her the whole time. Not one peep.’ She looked at her husband for support but he was far too much in awe of Mrs Hardcastle to venture a word on such a delicate subject and merely nodded.

‘I’m uncommon glad to hear it,’ the midwife said. ‘Good babies are worth their weight in gold, as I should know. I’ll not judge a child by the sins of its parents.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say it,’ Mary told her, even more fiercely. ‘For I tell ’ee, ma’am, if I ever hear so much as one bad word bein’ spoke against my granddaughter, I shall have summat to say what’ll roast ears. And now as we’ve reached our footpath, I give ’ee good day, ma’am.’

But Mrs Hardcastle didn’t seem to be aware how close they were to a quarrel and stood in her way, blocking their path with her bulk. ‘You’ve heard the news about Philadelphia Hudson, no doubt,’ she said.

Hudsons again, Mary thought. Don’t she know how we feels about ’em? But it was obvious that Mrs Hardcastle wasn’t going to move until she got some sort of answer, so she offered, ‘We heard she was poorly.’

‘Aye, so she is,’ Mrs Hardcastle told her. ‘She has the coughing sickness mortal bad, poor woman. Mortal bad. Fading away afore our eyes she is. I doubt she’ll last till Christmas.’

Mr Jerdon ventured an opinion as one seemed called for. ‘She’s wore herself out a-runnin’ that farm,’ he said. ‘All those great girt boys to care for. ’Tis no wonder she’s poorly.’

‘You’ve the right of it there, Mr Jerdon,’ Mrs Hardcastle told him. ‘She’s wore out, poor woman, and that’s the truth of it.’

‘We must be getting on,’ Mary Jerdon said. And, as the midwife was finally standing aside, she strode off along the path, leaving her husband to
come puffing after her. She was so cross she could hardly contain herself.

‘Hudson! Hudson! Hudson!’ she cried. ‘I’m sick of the t’sound of the name. What makes her think I care two pins about them? They can all take ill an’ die for all I care. Pernicious critters every which one of ’em, from that vile George on down, and he ought to come to a bad end if there’s any justice in the world. Treating our Janey so. A thoroughgoing bad family. All tarred with t’same brush. How dare she make us talk of them and my Janey in tears for not seein’ us, poor child. ’Tis cruel, so ’tis, and she should know better than to burden us. I hopes that George burns in hellfire so I do.’

‘Soon be home, Mother,’ Mr Jerdon tried to comfort. ‘’Tis no distance now. Soon be home.’

‘Don’t keep saying that!’ she shouted at him. ‘’Tis no help to anyone. Damned Hudsons.’

He followed her meekly. When a fury was on her, what else could he do?

The damned Hudsons were in the middle of a family argument.

‘We must tell him,’ Ann was urging. ‘He’s her brother when all’s said and done.’ She might be a mere nineteen and so skinny she looked as if the slightest wind would blow her over, but now that Philly was ill someone had to mother the family and see that the meals were cooked and try to calm the brothers when they were angry, as they were at that moment, torn by fury that their sister was so ill and that they were powerless to help her, shamed by the memory of how they’d parted with their feckless brother and angry because he’d made this so difficult for them by not writing to them.

‘Five months he’s been in York,’ John said, ‘and we’ve not had a single word out of him. Not one single word. Oh, I know our Philly’s fond of him but fondness cuts both ways. He should’ve written.’

‘He’s been too busy feathering his nest,’ Thomas sneered. ‘That’s my opinion on it. Looking after hisself. Same as allus. What was it Mrs Hardcastle said? Dressed to the nines.’

‘Philly wants to see him,’ Ann said, standing her ground, although their anger was making her feel shaky. ‘We ought to tell him and that’s
my
opinion on it. How is he to know if we don’t tell him? And what if she were to die and he didn’t even know she were ill. What would we say then?’

‘She won’t die,’ William told her fiercely, his face strained with grief. ‘I won’t allow it.’

‘And how will ’ee stop it, tha great blamed fool,’ Robert roared at him. ‘Tell me that. No one can stop it. There’s nowt we can do. Nowt. Not one blamed thing.’

William pressed his palms against the table top to steady himself and leant
across towards his brother. ‘Don’t,’ he begged. ‘Don’t say such things. I can’t bear it.’ He was close to tears, his face distraught and his eyes red-rimmed.

Ann was so upset she couldn’t find any words either to stop them or to comfort them. She stood twisting the hem of her apron in both hands as if she could wring an answer from it until John came to their rescue.

‘I will write him a short letter and tell him she’s ill,’ he said. ‘In Christian charity I can do no less.’

‘And he’ll go his own sweet way,’ Thomas warned. ‘I doubt you’ll even get an answer.’

The letter was delivered just as George had started to serve a prestigious customer. It couldn’t have been a worse moment. He glanced at it,
recognized
his brother’s handwriting and put it under the counter to be dealt with later. Then he turned his attention to his customer and, in the
satisfaction
of an excellent sale, well earned, he forgot all about it. It wasn’t until the end of the day when he went to the counter to take out the account book that he found it again and this time opened the seal and read it, quickly. The news didn’t trouble him. He assumed it was a rheum of some kind or a winter chill and it didn’t occur to him to wonder why John should have written to him about something trivial. Poor old Philly, he thought, and took the account book into the office.

During the last three months he’d organized the back parlour into a workplace where accounts were written up every evening, deliveries noted as soon as they arrived and wages paid out on a Saturday. It pleased him to see how well ordered it was and preened to think it was all his doing. Trade was good that autumn and, on the strength of it, he’d persuaded Mrs Bell and Richard to raise his wage to five shillings a week. Now he had two good suits of clothes, several fine shirts, two pairs of fashionable boots and more than a dozen cravats, and with money in his pocket he could spend his evenings in the local hostelries enjoying a drink or two with his new cronies, and could pay for a whore when the itch grew too troublesome.

And of course there was always Uncle Matthew to visit and flatter into good humour. He was doing extremely well with that gentleman. He’d found out how to make him laugh and how to tease him into a good humour when he’d grown maudlin with too much grumbling. If he played his cards right, there would be money in this acquaintance. And he meant to play his cards to perfection. He was so happy dreaming the way into his future that he forgot all about John’s letter. So it was rather a shock when another one was delivered to him three weeks later.

Poor old Philly, he thought as he opened the seal, she must be worse. I ought to go and see her.

But it was too late for visiting. The second letter had been written to tell him that his sister had
‘passed away’
and to inform him that the funeral was arranged for the following Thursday. It was a cold, formal letter and at the close of it, John said stiffly that he
‘expressed the hope’
that George would find himself able to attend. It seemed harsh and uncaring. Does he imagine I would stay away? George thought. She was the best of the bunch. We all knew that. As much of a mother to us as Ma herself. Of course I’ll be there. I’ll hire myself a horse and ride there. Then I can ride back to York when it suits me.