Admonition Page 5

  It was always hard to tell what Mr Deeming was thinking, but as I left the classroom, I thought I saw that he too had the trace of a smile on his face. Now, when I think back, I believe he knew exactly what was going to happen.

  When I reached the dormitory, I told the others Mr Deeming’s instruction and because they were all as familiar with the story as me, they had little concern. They knew, or thought they did, that when I stopped reading, whatever questions they might be asked about the book, they would know the answer.

  So the next day, straight after our midday meal, I rushed to the dormitory and collected the book. By the time I got to the classroom, all the boys were sat quietly at their desks and Mr Deeming was at the head of the class.

  “Ah, Payne, glad you could join us.”

  “Sorry sir,” I panted, “I had to fetch the book from the dormitory.”

  He continued.

  “Well then, when you’re ready, perhaps you can begin to read to us. Start at the beginning.”

  I had barely finished the first paragraph on the second page when he told me to stop; I wondered where I’d gone wrong.

  “That’s fine Payne. You can stop reading now. Now, who’s next?”

  He surveyed the class, his eyes finally coming to rest on Ben.

  “Camden; let’s hear from you.”

  Ben said nothing but strode confidently to the front and took the book from me; it was still open at page two. He started, to ‘read’.

  “Being the third son of the family and not bred to any trade…”

  As I suspected, Ben had heard me read the adventure so often that he now knew large parts of it off by heart. But he soon discovered learning that way is not the same as reading.

  Again, Mr Deeming intervened.

  “No, not from there, Camden. Turn to page eight and start reading from, ‘Though my mother refused to move it to my father…’”

  Ben, whose face had carried a look of assurance now, as he found page eight, bore a look of panic. Desperately, he scanned the page; I could see he was trying to remember how the story went from there.

  Impatiently, Mr Deeming said, “Come on now Camden, let’s begin.”

  A combination of a little of what he’d learnt in class, loud echoes of the story he’d heard me read many times and cold fear, led him to believe he’d found the right place. So, falteringly he began, or so he thought, to read.

  “Though my mother refused to move it to my father… she told me it would be to no use…. to tell my father anything. That he knew.”

  “Stop,” Mr Deeming bellowed.

  The mood of the whole class had changed. Everyone knew Ben had gone wrong, but they all knew, if asked, they would have the same difficulties.

  Mr Deeming continued, though in a slightly lower tone.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Camden?”

  “I’m trying to read the book from where you said, sir.”

  “No you’re not. That’s nothing like the piece I asked you to read. It sounds more like you’re trying to re–write the story. Is that what you’re trying to do, Camden? Do you think you can write a better story than Mr Defoe?”

  “No sir.”

  Ben looked defeated. Clearly, he feared what punishment awaited him. But Mr Deeming just told him to sit down and then, turning to the class, asked,

  “So, is there anyone apart from Payne, who thinks they could do better than Camden?”

  The class was silent; things were definitely not going as they expected.

  “As I thought, no one. I’m not surprised. You see, on occasion, since I lent Payne that book, it’s proved necessary for me to pass your dormitory in the evening.”

  I could see no reason why he should need to pass our dormitory. The corridor led nowhere other than back to the main rooms of the workhouse.

  “And each time, without fail, I’ve heard Payne reading this book to you.”

  He held the book out in front of him.

  “And I’ve not heard one of you even trying to read it.”

  To ensure he still had our full attention, he slammed the book down on his desk. The class froze, uncertain as to what would happen next.

  “You’ve all been happy just to leave it to Jabez.”

  He’d never before called me Jabez in front of anybody else; I hoped none of the other boys had noticed.

  “Now, I’m going to give the book back to Payne.”

  He placed the book back on my desk; I was just grateful he hadn’t called me Jabez again.

  “This time I want you each evening to read a piece yourselves and in a month’s time we’re going to repeat this exercise and see how you’ve all got on.”

  With that, he changed the subject and we spent the rest of the afternoon reciting our tables and I was left wondering what the night would bring.

  I wasn’t taunted too much. Mr Deeming had used my first name only that once and anyway they were all relying on me, or at least they thought they were, to help them read Robinson Crusoe. Of course, they had all been learning to read in class and they had become very familiar with the book, so reading Robinson Crusoe themselves was largely a matter of confidence. Nevertheless, when a month later, they were each able to read a few pages of the book to Mr Deeming’s satisfaction, my approval in the workhouse amongst my peers was assured.

  However, my greatest security came from the familiar daily routine. For another five years, life continued with little variation or incidents, but then the day arrived which would take me from the workhouse and shape the rest of my life.

  Whilst in class one afternoon, the Master entered in his usual brusque fashion and without invitation said,

  “Mr Deeming, can I see you for one moment?”

  With that, he stepped back out of the classroom, expecting to be followed. Mr Deeming looked around the class, all of whom had frozen when the Master entered.

  “Right boys, carry on working. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He followed the Master from the classroom and when he returned after only five minutes, he said nothing. The afternoon’s lesson continued as before, but when the class was dismissed, he told me to wait because he needed to speak to me. When the others had all left, he told me to sit down again and explained the reason for the Master’s earlier interruption.

  “The Master has been approached by the landlord of the Boar’s Head, Mr Dodds. The Boar’s Head is an inn about fifteen miles north of here and Mr Dodds is looking for an apprentice. The Master asked for my advice because Mr Dodds can’t read or write and so requires a boy not only to help run the Inn, but also to check his accounts and ensure his suppliers aren’t swindling him. The Master asked me whom I thought was best suited to the job and I told him you.”

  I suppose I knew I would leave the workhouse one day. After all it was usual that those who didn’t leave the workhouse with their parents or were taken by other members of their family, all became pauper apprentices by the time they were fifteen.

  Mr Deeming continued.

  “Mr Dodds is spending the night in town and is going to meet you at the workhouse gates at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  So that was it. One more night in the workhouse and I’d be starting a new life wholly unknown to me. Although I suppose I knew I could be made to leave at any time, I harboured a vague hope that somehow, I had formed no idea how, I would be able to stay indefinitely. I knew there must be many questions I should ask, but all I said was,

  “I’ll go and get Robinson Crusoe for you, sir.”

  For the first time in the six years I had been in the workhouse, I saw Mr Deeming definitely smile and he said,

  “That won’t be necessary Jabez. Take it with you. Who knows, perhaps you’ll have time to read it to Mr Dodds.”

  So, the next morning, having gathered my few belongings and eaten my last workhouse breakfast, accompanied by the Master I went to the gate to meet Mr Dodds.

  To a thirteen-year-old, the man waiting at the gate was ancient, although
Jack Dodds was in fact only in his mid–forties. In appearance, it seemed he’d concentrated all his effort into growing tall and neglected to save any for developing his girth. Consequently, he was at least nine inches taller than anyone I knew, either pauper or workhouse staff member, but looked like a stiff breeze would snap him in two.

  Before I left, the master gave me my indenture papers and a quill and, forgetting that I could read, showed me where to sign. So, whilst I had very little time to read before I was pressed to sign, I did have time to see that, like Joe, I was signing for seven years. Over the years since he’d been killed, my memories of Joe had faded, but I still remembered enough to hope I would enjoy a better fate than him.

  The porter opened the gate and as I stepped out, I heard him mutter that I would come to no good and something about how Mr Dodds would live to regret taking me. For me, it was the first time since I’d been carried exhausted and starving into the workhouse that I was on the outside and even though I had feelings of anxiety, those of nervous excitement were stronger. I scowled at Platt but said nothing, even at this late stage I was afraid Mr Dodds might change his mind and I would be sent back into the workhouse. Fortunately, the Master was as keen for me to leave as, by then, I had become to go, and he concentrated all his attention on Mr Dodds. So handing him the signed paper he said,

  “There he is then, Mr Dodds, Jabez Payne, our tutor says he’s the best reader and writer we’ve got. Now, he’s got no family as far as I know, told us he was abandoned by his father at this very gate and out of kindness our porter took him in; that’s the case, ain’t it, Mr Platt?”

  Platt looked startled. I don’t suppose he expected to be involved in this conversation, but he rallied,

  “As you say, Master, starvin’ and fevered he was when I found him; so weak he had to be carried in. Still, fully recovered now though, ain’t you lad?” He forced a smile.

  Although, barely eight years old at the time, I’ll never forget the feeling of desolation and loneliness I felt when Platt refused me entrance, nor that it was only the kindness and persistence of a man I never knew that had won me access. Stunned, I remained silent; freedom was so close. I think it was to avoid further awkwardness that Mr Dodds intervened.

  “Well Master, if there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way. Come on lad, the cart’s just around the corner but we’ve got a long journey.”

  With that, he began to walk away from the entrance. I suppose he thought he was walking at an ordinary pace, but for me, his long loping stride meant I had to break into a trot just to keep up. We turned the corner and were just walking by the high wall which marked the boundary of the workhouse, when a small black door in the wall opened. Over the five years, I think I had explored every corner of the workhouse, so I realised it had to be the rear entrance to the kitchen. What was a complete surprise to me was seeing Mr Deeming standing in the doorway. Startled, I stopped in my tracks.

  Clearly anxious not to be seen by anyone in the workhouse, he kept glancing over his shoulder. He spoke urgently.

  “I wanted to see you before you left, Jabez. I’m glad you’re going with Jack Dodds. He’s a good man.”

  Glancing in the innkeeper’s direction, he said,

  "Work hard for him and I know he’ll treat you well.

  Now, if you have any time to yourself, then I want you to read this."

  With that, he handed me a book. It seemed brand new. I looked at the cover and read: ’Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World’. It said it was written by someone called Lemuel Gulliver. For the second time in only a few minutes, I was lost for words.

  Having checked again there was no one behind him, he said,

  “I know you must have read Robinson Crusoe so many times by now that you know it by heart, so I thought you might like that one. But be careful. It isn’t all it seems.”

  I was intrigued, but he hadn’t finished.

  “Gulliver sees things differently to Crusoe and it’s important that we learn to understand different points of view. Anyway Jabez,” he grasped my free hand and shook it vigorously, “work hard for Mr Dodds, help him in any way you can and I’m sure he’ll teach you his trade so that, in time, you will be able to support yourself.”

  With that, he let go of my hand, gave a final nod to Mr Dodds and slipped back through the door, shutting it behind him. I found myself mouthing ‘thank you’ to a black, blank door. I don’t know how long I would have stood staring at it and wondering what had just happened (me, a workhouse pauper and he had just shook my hand!) when Mr Dodds spoke.

  “Very well then lad. Keep hold of that book and let’s press on. The cart’s just up ahead.”

  Pulled back to reality, I once again broke into a trot.

  The journey to the Boar’s Head fascinated me.

  The horse that pulled the cart had been dozing when we reached him, but ambled off without complaint when roused. There was still a chill in the morning air, so Mr Dodds spread a blanket across our laps; little else passed between us for most of the journey.

  Leaving the workhouse, we headed towards the town and as we didn’t talk much, I had time to absorb the unfamiliar world I barely remembered. When we reached the edge of town, we passed a number of houses so decrepit and rundown that it seemed only desperation kept them standing. Some of their occupants, mainly women holding babies with barefooted scraps hanging round their skirts, stood looking at us hopelessly as we drove by. We turned into the High Street and entered a world of bustle and commotion and I was thankful to leave the desolation behind us. We now met carts, their drivers shouting warnings to careless pedestrians, keen to make their way into town. As we drew towards the town centre and the array of shops it contained, the number of people and carts increased in number and urgency, and it was fortunate that our horse knew only one slow, unruffled speed. Fortunate, because as the road became more crowded, so it became more deeply pitted, with that and many more people darting across our path, our slow progress ensured Mr Dodds had sufficient time to steer the horse on a safe course.

  I had never really seen a town before. Even when Dad brought me through this one, it had been in the dark dead of night and I had seen nothing. Now, the urgency with which people appeared and disappeared through shop doorways, mingling with numerous goods and smells that spilled out onto the path had me mesmerised. I was fascinated by the throngs of people who stood talking to one another, some who met in greeting, others who stood and argued, whilst the greatest number just stood together in comfortable familiarity.

  For me, one pair of eyes was never going to be enough to take in all there was to see, but a glance at Mr Dodds told me he was wholly unaffected by the spectacle. With concentrated disinterest he looked only forward, his eyes on the horse and the road ahead and the only time he or the horse reacted quickly was when two brawling drunks fell from a pub into the road directly in front of us. Startled, the horse had reared, raising the cart behind him and only an instinctive grasp of the cart’s side saved me from being thrown into the road. But Mr Dodds held on tight to the reigns and, by talking firmly but evenly to him, brought the horse back to his usual rhythm. Memories of my father’s drunken violence made me grateful that Mr Dodds ignored the drunkards’ swearing and kept us moving through the town.

  Soon after we passed the pub, the town began to peter out and before long we were in the solitude of the country. A long bend in the road brought us to a junction where, turning left, our path began to climb. As we progressed, trees which had been scarce became increasingly more numerous, until woodland enclosed us on both sides. After we’d travelled for what must have been a further half hour, I noticed that the road had levelled and that whilst the woodland to our right now rose high above us, to our left we looked down on the tops of even the tallest trees; clearly, our path was taking us round a hill. As we moved away from the town, the road surface improved, so now only rivulets, bound to their downward journey, occasionally eroded the road’s surface as they crossed our
path.

  We met only one other cart as we rounded the hill and when we did, to me it seemed the path wasn’t wide enough for us to pass one another. But Mr Dodds and the driver of the other cart knew better, so whilst the other driver drew his cart as close to the inner bank as he was able, Mr Dodds moved us towards the outer edge. This left me overseeing nothing but tree tops and pointlessly gripping the cart again, praying that the wheels unseen beneath me would remain on the road. But I needn’t have worried, because two experienced horses, driven by two skilled men, inched passed each other without incidence and with only the faintest acknowledgement of each other by their drivers.

  I forgot I was still holding the side of the cart until some minutes later when Mr Dodds glanced in my direction and said,

  “The road’s wider now. It’ll stay that way ’til we reach the Boar.”

  Not wishing to show my embarrassment, I bent down to check my bootlaces then, sitting up again, rested my hands in my lap. Mr Dodds said nothing, though I’m sure I saw a hint of a smile.

  After we rounded the hill the path descended, the woodland thinned and a further hour brought us to another junction where, turning right, we once again entered a world of activity. Moving with us was a steady stream of empty carts, whilst moving in the opposite direction were others all fully loaded with salt.

  Mr Dodds seemed to have read my thoughts.

  “They’re from the salt pans.”

  He seemed to expect me to understand, but I’d never heard of them.

  “The salt pans?”

  “That’s right. Our living depends on them. Most of the men who drink in the Boar work in the pans and those who don’t make their money from those who do.”

  This was the most Mr Dodds had said to me since we met; it was clear the salt pans were very important to him and though I wasn’t to know it then, in years to come they were going to be even more important to me. Five minutes later, we left the traffic and turned into a tree–lined lane and I could see that at the end of the lane stood a solitary building. As we drew closer, I could see above the building’s entrance a drawing of what had to be a Boar’s Head.