Rory's Fortune Read online

  ‘Aye, Rory. Will you be long gone?’

  ‘Aw,’ Rory’s tone was casual-sounding, indicating more confidence than he felt, ‘Might be a week.’

  The thought of being away a week suddenly reminded him that Lily wouldn’t know where he’d gone. Bending down to Sammy now, he said hastily, ‘There’s a lass at the end of the village, the blacksmith’s daughter, if you see her on the quiet, just say to her, Rory said he’ll only be gone a few days, might be a week. Will you do that?’

  ‘Aye, Rory. Is she a big lass?’

  ‘About the size of me. Her hair is straight and black an’ tied back in a bun, an’ they call her Lily. You’ll know her.’

  ‘Aye, Rory.’

  ‘And remember an’ all that if I’m not back come Saturday the missis’ll put you on the carrier cart with some taties an’ things, and tell them at home I won’t be long. Now you’ve got all that?’

  Sammy nodded, and Rory put his hand on his brother’s head and said, ‘That’s a good lad.’ Following which, they stared at each other until Rory said abruptly, ‘Well, come on then.’

  He went down the ladder first, then put up his hand to guide the short legs reaching for the rungs. When they entered the kitchen, Mrs Cornwallis, pointing to the table, said to Sammy, ‘Sit up and get your bite, boy, afore you start your work. Have you said goodbye to your brother?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am…Missis.’

  ‘That’s a good boy…Come along, Rory.’

  With a backwards glance towards the face turned towards him, Rory followed Mrs Cornwallis down the stairs and out into the yard, and there, looking at him, she said, ‘You should get the first carrier cart from the crossroads and you’ll be in Newcastle in under the hour.’ She smiled faintly. ‘It’s a good job you’re not starting out the morrow, St Crispin’s Day, else you’d wear your shoes out.’

  ‘Aye, missis.’

  The smile went from her face. ‘Now, boy, don’t forget all you’ve been told. Don’t let the shirt off your back; besides the letter, I’ve sewn four half-sovereigns into the patches under the oxters. Should you be waylaid, an’ I wouldn’t put it past the folk who travel on trains, you’ll not be destitute; you’ll have enough to get you there, and once there they’ll see to you coming back. But let’s pray to God that nothing such will befall you. God speed, boy. You know what to do…And boy…’

  ‘Yes, missis?’

  ‘Always remember what I’ve said afore, the master is a good man.’

  To Rory’s astonishment his mistress bent swiftly forward and placed her lips on the side of his cheeks before turning and hurrying, almost at a run, back into the wheelwright’s shop.

  And so he started on his journey not thinking of what lay before him, but only that the missis had kissed him, and had emphasised once again that the master was a good man—well, he had always known that, hadn’t he?

  Chapter Three

  His buttocks were sore. He felt that his bones were sticking through his skin, in fact his whole body was aching; as he put it to himself, he wouldn’t have felt any worse if he had been laced to a cartwheel. He never wanted to ride in a train again as long as he lived. He felt he had been riding in trains for weeks or months, not just for two days. How many trains had he been in? Four, five; he had lost count, and he had long since given up reckoning the number of stations.

  The first part of the journey, to York, he had found exciting, but then he had only been sitting on the wooden seat for a matter of a few hours or so and he had been wedged between a plump man and an equally plump woman, and they had cushioned the jogging for him.

  But at York, Rory had lost his two companions, and with them, the warmth of their bodies. In spite of his new suit and thick melton cloth overcoat he had shivered for the remainder of the journey to London, for although the compartment was packed, his close travelling companions were two thin ladies, one of whom complained about three unruly children present and certainly didn’t whisper when, addressing herself to no-one in particular, she said that children should not be allowed to travel second class but should be made to go third; sixteen shillings and eightpence she had paid to suffer this.

  Mr Cornwallis had written down the address of a hostelry in London, where he was to stay the night; the place was close to the station. But when, stiff with cold and weary, he emerged from the station, the sight that confronted him made him forget his discomfort. He had never seen so many people together or so much traffic in all his life…and at night-time! There were horse-drawn trams, and cabs of all shapes and sizes; the whole scene was utterly bewildering.

  The hostelry, a very ordinary one, appeared grand to Rory, though the meal he was served was, he knew, not a patch on what Mrs Cornwallis would have cooked. But he was too tired and weary to mind much. After eating he went straight to his room, in which was a wash-hand stand with a basin and a ewer on it, and the water in the ewer had the chill off it. It was all very grand, he thought.

  He went to bed in his shirt, as he always did, but with one difference, he kept it buttoned right up to the neck and went to sleep with his arms folded across his chest …

  He had thought the journey from York very harassing, but before he had been a few hours on the road to the West Country he was looking back with nostalgia on his first introduction to the railway.

  At times he had a corner seat, when he could look out at the countryside, which here was different altogether from what it had been on the other side of London. And then those people who did speak to him were hardly understandable, like foreigners, and he, he realised, must appear the same to them. Unlike the kind man who had asked him to repeat slowly what he had said, most of them smiled or guffawed when he opened his mouth, and always asked what part of the world he was from. He had become peeved and for most of the long tedious journey kept his mouth shut.

  Now he understood there were only ten more miles to go. For two days Rory hadn’t done a hand’s turn of work, just sat and sat, yet he was more tired than he used to be when he did twelve hours in the blacking factory and had to walk the four miles home afterwards.

  ‘Where be you for, boy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said where be you for? Not deaf are you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not deaf.’ Where be you for? He was in a world of foreigners. Aw! he saw now what the man was getting at. ‘I’m for the Axminster station.’

  ‘Oh aye. But where be you for after that?’

  ‘I’m going to see me…me grandmother.’

  ‘Your grandmother? And where be she?’

  ‘Wha…Oh…er…well, it’s a place atween the station and a village called Yarcombe I’m told.’

  ‘You’re told? Don’t you know? Never been afore?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she your grandmother?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, I know that part better than some; born there I was, bred there, lived all me life there. What’ll be the name of your grandmother?’

  What’ll be the name of his grandmother? ‘Bluett,’ he said. ‘Grandma Bluett.’

  The man gaped at him, opened his mouth, closed it, then brought his head down slowly as he repeated, ‘Ma Bluett your grandma? Aye, well, well, never go on a train I say but what you learn summit, an’ that’s the best I’ve learned this while back, Ma Bluett your grandma! Well, boy’—he put out his hand and gripped Rory’s shoulder—‘if you say Ma Bluett’s your grandma then she’s your grandma. Never contradict a stranger when he’s looking you straight in the face.’

  The man began to button up his coat, saying, ‘Not far to go now, running in I should say. Glad to get something to swill this coal dust out of me throat I’ll be.’

  A few minutes later as the train slowly puffed itself to a weary stop, Rory rose stiffly from the seat, took his canvas holdall down from the rack, then followed the man from the carriage, almost falling on his face through misjudging the depth of the step from the platform.

  When he reached the man again he was
talking to the porter. ‘My horse ready, Isaac?’ he was saying, and the porter replied, ‘’Tis, Mr Dobell, ’tis.’ The man now turned and peered at Rory, saying, ‘How you getting to your…your grandma’s, boy?’

  ‘I was told I’d get a slow coach, sir.’

  Both the porter and the man laughed now, and the man said, ‘That you’ll not at this time of night, neither slow, fast nor middlin’. First coach not till eight tomorrow mornin’; one goes Honiton way, an’ one goes Chard way, an’ your destination is dead in centre. What I’ll do though I’ll send one of me men over that lives by way to drop in and tell your…your grandma you’ve come by, that is if he hasn’t got his chores done an’ left by the time I reach the farm…She’ll send a vehicle for you no doubt. Expecting you, is she?’

  What should he say? ‘No, but she’s expecting me master’? And if this woman was supposed to be his grandmother then his master would be his father, wouldn’t he? So that is what he said. ‘No, she wasn’t expectin’ me but, me da…father.’

  ‘Ohooh!’ That was all the man said, but he looked at the porter, and the porter looked at him, and after a time the man said to the porter, ‘This is Ma Bluett’s grandson, Isaac,’ and after a longer while the porter turned and looked at Rory and said, ‘You don’t say, Mr Dobell! You don’t say!’

  ‘I wouldn’t, Isaac, but he does; so there we have it. Well, goodnight, boy; I’ll do as I said.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ He watched the man move away beyond the rim of light given off by the dangling oil lamp above the porter’s head, and he asked the man, ‘Can I wait here?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you can. But it’s bleak outdoors; wet through and stiff you’ll be in no time, mist dropping from the hills. Come along of me.’

  And Rory went with him. He followed the swinging lantern across a rough yard and into a room that was foggy with heat coming from an iron stove set in the middle of it, the chimney going up through the roof; the walls of the room were covered with pictures of trains, maps and sheets of paper that looked like timetables. Along one wall stood a pallet bed. The porter now pointed to the bed saying, ‘I keep that there for just such a case as yours; me cottage is next door.’ He thumbed the far wall. ‘Put yourself down and go to rest. You’ll be roused quick enough when the vehicle comes.’

  ‘Ta…thanks!’ He didn’t know whether to address the porter as Sir or Mister. He plumped for the Mister.

  ‘That’s all right, that’s all right.’ Smiling broadly, the porter scratched his head and surveyed Rory as he lowered himself wearily down onto the edge of the bed, and then he muttered, ‘Ma Bluett’s grandson! As Mr Dobell says you learn every day,’ and on this enigmatic remark he threw his head back and roared with laughter. And his laughter could still be heard after he had banged the door behind him leaving Rory staring at it.

  It seemed to Rory that he had no sooner put his head down on the straw pillow than he was woken up again, but the face he was looking at now was not the face of the porter but that of a man with a beard and side whiskers; he was wearing a high bowler and a cloak with a double cape around his shoulders. ‘Who are you, boy?’

  Rory gave one tight deep blink to take the sleep from his eyes. ‘I—I—’ he looked now from the face hanging over him to that of the porter at the side, and he realised that it was time for some straight explanation, so he said simply, ‘Mr Cornwallis sent me; he’s had an accident an’ couldn’t come.’ He watched the man with the beard slowly straighten his back, take in a deep breath and then say, ‘Oh! That’s the rights of it, is it? And you’ve brought a message?’

  ‘Aye.’

  The man now sighed deeply, then added, ‘Well then, get yourself on your pins.’

  In answer to the authority of the voice, Rory scrambled up, grabbed for his cap, which he had thrust under the pillow, picked up the cloth bag and stood waiting while the bearded man stared at him as if he were measuring his height and strength for some feat; then of a sudden the man swung round and strode from the room.

  In the station yard, illuminated by two carriage lights, stood a one-horse carriage. ‘Come on then, up!’ said the man abruptly.

  He was no sooner seated than the horse set off at a quick trot and he had to grip on to the iron framework edging the seat to stop himself from slipping off.

  He had no idea what kind of country they were driving through, he was sure only of one thing, the horse knew the way.

  They must have gone about three miles before the man spoke; then he said, ‘Known Cornwallis long?’

  ‘Four, nearly five years.’

  ‘What are you to him?’

  ‘Apprentice wheelwright.’

  The man turned his head swiftly and peered at him; then turned his gaze forward again, and there was no more said until the horse, suddenly dropping its trot to a walk, turned abruptly into what appeared to be a tunnel but which Rory soon realised was an avenue of tall trees. When they emerged into comparative light they were in a big yard, well paved he realised immediately, for the wheels ran smoothly across it. It was some kind of a farm.

  The carriage had drawn up opposite a door which was now pulled open, and a beam of light swept across the yard. He stepped stiffly down from the carriage and the bearded man placed his hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him forward towards the light and the figure standing there. It was a woman, but Rory couldn’t at first see her face because she had her back to the light, but as soon as they reached the door she stepped backwards and began speaking in a decidedly foreign tongue.

  During the last two days Rory had heard all kinds of voices and although he classed them as foreign he realised they were only foreign in their dialect; but this voice was really foreign, and he couldn’t put a name to it.

  The man, answering in the same tongue, again pressed him forward and into the middle of the hall now. Rory’s swift, first impression was that the hall was beautiful, grand. He was walking on a soft carpet, the same as mounted the stairs and glowed like a red sunset. He had a vague impression of pictures all round the hall and up the staircase wall, of gleaming furniture; then the impression was wiped from his mind for now he was looking into the face of the woman who was, he judged, Ma Bluett, for the man had just addressed her as Ma although his Ma sounded like May.

  He knew that his mouth was hanging open, agape like any gormless idiot’s; but he felt like a gormless idiot because he couldn’t make it out. Ma Bluett was supposed to be Mr Cornwallis’s mother, but the woman before him wasn’t old enough; he doubted if she was as old as Mr Cornwallis. Moreover, she was a foreigner. He couldn’t quite say why but he was sure in this moment that this woman could not be Mr Cornwallis’s mother. And there was another thing. No wonder the porter had looked amazed when he had claimed this woman as his grandmother.

  ‘What is your name, boy?’

  He was startled by the plainness of her speech. She was no longer speaking like a foreigner; he could understand her better than he had understood anybody since he left home.

  ‘McAlister, ma’am.’

  ‘You have, I understand, brought a message from Mr Cornwallis?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  He bit on his lip, wagged his head, then said, ‘I can’t at the moment, missis…ma’am, it’s…it’s in me shirt.’

  ‘Your shirt?’

  ‘Aye. The missis, she sewed it there, for safety like.’

  ‘Take your shirt off.’

  He looked from her to the bearded man, and the man gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t unkind; then he said, ‘Come in here.’

  Rory followed him, and the woman came with him and closed the door behind her. Then, her finger pointing, she indicated that he should go and stand by the fire.

  Slowly he put down the canvas bag he was still carrying; then, still slowly, he divested himself of his overcoat, coat and waistcoat; finally, pulling his shirt up out of his trousers he tugged it over his head, turned it inside out to show where the patch w
as, then handed it to the woman, and was surprised when she didn’t take it. And he knew he wasn’t imagining that her nose wrinkled slightly.

  It was the man who took the shirt from him. Taking a penknife from his pocket, he carefully cut the stitches from one side of the patch, which, all things considered, Rory thought was very considerate of him, as he could quite easily have made a slit in the shirt and so come by the letter more quickly.

  As the man went to unfold the letter, the woman almost snatched it from his hand, and after reading it she again spoke in a foreign tongue to the man before passing the letter to him.

  When he had finished reading it he looked at her and said, ‘He seems to lay great store by the boy.’ And the woman answered in English, ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s still a boy.’

  Standing bare-chested, Rory looked from one to the other. They were talking as if he weren’t there. He didn’t like it; he didn’t like either of them, but of the two he preferred the man. She had a sharp face, this woman, a sharp voice too; but what he thought he disliked most about her were her eyes. They were piercing eyes, yet looked colourless in this light; perhaps they were grey. She sat down now on the velvet couch, and not at all like a lady would, in spite of her voice and bearing, for she didn’t spread her skirts over the seat even as the missis did, but crossed her legs and spread her arms along the back of the couch just like he himself would do against the five-barred gate that led to Rawlinson’s farm.

  ‘I suppose you’re hungry?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I am.’

  She looked up at the man who was standing at the head of the couch and said, ‘Ring Jessie; tell her to get him something.’

  ‘I can see to him; Jessie needs her bed.’

  Yes, indeed the man was nicer than the woman; and when he picked up his shirt and threw it towards him, Rory hastily got into it and was just about to go with the man when the woman stopped him by actually lifting her foot and bringing his leg to a stop with the toe of her shoe. ‘How old are you?’