Admonition Page 7

  “That was my mother’s favourite; she knew it off by heart.”

  Surprised that he’d spoken at all, I looked up and was even more surprised to see there were tears in his eyes. Not knowing what else to say, I asked him if he wanted me to stop, but he just shook his head and said,

  “No, no. But, I wonder, would you read that Psalm again for me?”

  He smiled and of course I said I would. Wiping his eyes, he said quietly,

  "My grandfather gave that Bible to my mother on her wedding day; he’d already taught her to read. But father said it was a complete waste of money and if mother wanted to keep it, she’d better make sure it stayed hidden. When I came along, she was forbidden by my father from teaching me to read and although she never disobeyed him, she did teach me to recite all the pieces of the Bible that she knew; I don’t remember most of ’em now but, as I say, Psalm 27 was her favourite.

  I believe my grandfather was quite a rich man, made his money from shipping. But he didn’t approve of my father, told mother she’d married beneath herself and when he died, her brother inherited almost everything. My mother only inherited a few pieces of my grandmother’s jewellery, keepsakes my mother said, not worth anything other than sentimental memories."

  Shortly after he told me all this, there was an impatient rap at the front door; the first of the day’s thirsty customers were keen to get to their first drink. Mr Dodds went to open the door and I hurriedly put the Bible in the back kitchen, where it would be safe enough until we went to bed, when Mr Dodds could take it back to his bedroom.

  Things changed again that day because from then on, Mr Dodds talked to me a lot more. He asked me many questions about my life in the workhouse and told me much more about his life, and it soon became clear to me that he thought of me more as a son than as an apprentice. He seemed to take great pride in telling his customers, and more importantly his suppliers, how well I read and he was delighted to find that, over the next year, whilst others complained about rising prices, many of his bills actually went down.

  Content as I was, I did regret that I had nothing else to read. I’d read two books for many years and although I’d been reading the Bible for less time, it contained only so many exciting stories and many of those I’d heard before in the workhouse chapel. So it came as a pleasant surprise when I discovered that the bottom drawer of my dresser, a draw I’d never used, was lined with newspaper. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something new to read.

  Yellowing and fragile, the outside pages broke into pieces when I took them out of the drawer. But when they broke away, they revealed a second folded set of four pages that were in much better condition. Leaving the broken pieces in the bottom of the drawer, I took the whole ones and laid them carefully on my bed. Kneeling, I began to read.

  The first thing I noticed was the date of the paper – 15 January 1763, which made it almost four years old. It was full of how cold the weather had been and at the time of writing, that there were several Cheshire villages still cut off by snow; worst affected, it said, were those on the edge of the Peak District. Although I read every inch of those pages, there was little else of interest. So, disappointed, I folded the paper and took it back to the drawer.

  Bending to place the paper carefully back in the drawer, one of the broken pieces, larger than the others, caught my eye. Still only a fragment, though I lifted it gently, little flakes came away from the edges. Nevertheless, the main piece containing the article that I’d noticed stayed intact. Once again, I carried the paper carefully to my bed and knelt down to read it. The article told how a family of six had been found, frozen solid, in the basement of a house in Chester. It went on to say that these deaths raised the total number of people in Cheshire who had been killed by the cold since Christmas, to twenty–four. It ended by demanding that county authorities ensured tragedies like this never happened again.

  Having read the article, I gently lifted the fragment and placed it back in the drawer. The way I held it meant I returned the fragment to the drawer with the article face down, so it was only as I was shutting the draw that I saw the name which stopped me in my tracks. Reopening the draw, I pulled out the paper and once more took it back to my bed. Stunned, I stared at a small entry at the bottom of the fragment: ‘Vagrant found frozen in Nantwich High Street.’ But the headline wasn’t what caught my eye; it was the next line. ‘The man was believed to be one Oswald Payne.’ I sat on my bed and read how the vagrant was well known in the area, often being seen helplessly drunk in the streets of Nantwich. The article went on to say that his death ‘was regrettable, but no surprise to those for whom he had become a familiar and shameful sight.’

  Sitting on the bed, the article next to me, I thought, ‘So that’s how he died.’ When, after a year Dad hadn’t returned for me, any faint hope I might have harboured of ever seeing him again had disappeared. So reading of his death was no surprise. What did surprise me was how I reacted. My father was dead; the paper said he’d been a “familiar and shameful sight”, who’d been too drunk to save himself from being frozen to death. But it all meant nothing to me. For me he had died many years before and his place, I realised, was more than filled by Mr Dodds and that’s what surprised but also pleased me. After a long moment, I stood up, took the article and crumbled it into small pieces before throwing all of them out the window, where a light breeze blew them away. Shutting both the window and the draw, I went downstairs, meeting Mr Dodds who was just coming in; he’d been shopping in town.

  “Everythin’ alright then, Jabez?”

  Laden, he strode past me and headed for the back kitchen. I don’t think he expected much of a reply.

  “Everythin’s fine, Mr Dodds. Everythin’s just fine.”

  He must have heard something in my voice because, stopping, he turned and faced me.

  “That’s good then lad – that’s very good.”

  For just a moment, we both stood and smiled at one another. Then turning back, Mr Dodds continued into the kitchen, while I went through and lit the fire to warm the bar in time for our first customers.

  Part Two

  Elizabeth

  Between a Rock and a Soft Place

  It stands to reason, there’s always been a few of ‘em, but now rock pit holes are appearin’ everywhere and one of em’s made a grave for Bill and most of his family. Do the owners care? ’Course not. They say it’s nothing to do with them ’cause no holes have appeared near the shafts, but the pillars aren’t anywhere near the shafts and that’s where the trouble comes.

  This is how it works. First, they dig the mines three hundred feet deep, leaving the roofs held up by nothing but pillars of rock salt. Then the mines slowly fill with water. The water dissolves the salt in the pillars which weakens them until finally they collapse. Without support from the pillars, the roofs soon follow, bringing down with them anything, or anyone, unlucky enough to be sat above ‘em. So what I want to ask is, if they know all this, and they must do if I do, for the love of God why do they keep diggin’?

  Tom says that’s an easy question to answer – money. He says the mine owners are making a fortune and the Government’s taking its share, so no one’s going to stop them, at least not ’till things get a lot worse. And do you know what I think? I think he’s probably right.

  I don’t worry about the boy. He’ll look after himself, but I’m not so sure about Adie. At first I thought it was just the shock of the accident that meant she didn’t cry all week, but even today when she has cried, it still seems to be for all the wrong reasons. Well, not wrong exactly, it’s just that she doesn’t seem to be that upset about losing most of her family and I know it might be a terrible thing to say, but when she did cry, I think it was only because I showed her a little kindness. To be honest, I don’t think she’s seen much affection in her short life; you only have to look at the way she pulled in so close when I put my arm around her.

  Just an irritating noise, that’s how she’s been treated – espec
ially by her mother. I know Hannah was angry with Bill because he accused her of seeing another man. He refused to tell her who she was supposed to be seeing mind, and then to make matters worse, he made her pregnant again. Including herself and Bill, she already had six mouths to feed and the amount Bill spent down the Boar, Tom told me how much he drank, only made things worse. It wasn’t the child’s fault. Hannah knew that. But she still gave her that name – the poor child was a constant reminder of what Bill had said and done and though she was blameless, Hannah punished Adie on every possible occasion.

  And what about that name? Admonition. It was supposed to be a punishment for Bill. Hannah made no secret of that. But even though they’re both gone, for Adie nothing has changed; for her, it’s still a lifetime’s punishment. All her life people who know what ‘admonition’ means are going to ask why it’s her name and if they don’t know, they’ll be curious and when they find out, then they’ll ask why it’s her name. I’ll tell you something though, she’ll never hear me call her Admonition and I’ll make sure Tom doesn’t either. She’ll be Adie here and nothing else.

  The salt pans are dangerous places. Tom’s worked there most of his life and seen more than his fair share of deaths and injuries, so usually he’s unaffected, but this time is different. This time I can see he’s been hit hard by the accident; you only have to look at what he’s done since. He brought those children straight back here, let me feed ’em and didn’t argue when I suggested they should stay the night. In fact it was Tom who said we should give up our bed for them, even though it meant we had to make do with chairs.

  The next day, he left it to me to find out from Will if he knew of any relatives who might be able to take care of him and Adie. I was worried Will might think I was saying they weren’t welcome, but he was fine about it. He told me he didn’t know anything about their dad’s family, but thought some of their mums might still live over Macclesfield way. He couldn’t tell me anything more, ’cos as far as he knew, his mum hadn’t been there since his aunt died of scarlet fever, which happened when he was very young and long before Adie was born.

  Anyway, I told Tom all this and the following Sunday, the first day he wasn’t working, he walked all the way to Macclesfield and back; well over twenty miles it was, and when he returned, we went outside and he told me all he’d learnt. We agreed what we should do. He said it would be best if I told them what he’d discovered and then explain our idea. Tom’s not very good with children. He’s not had much experience and that’s why I was amazed he bought ’em back here in the first place. So, thinking he was probably right, I took a deep breath and followed by Tom, went back indoors. Both Will and Adie were sitting silently on the bed, waiting to hear what Tom had discovered, so I squeezed in between them and began to repeat what he’d told me.

  “You know that Tom went to Macclesfield today to see if he could find any of your family and see if they could take you in.”

  They both nodded, so I continued.

  "Now when he got to Macclesfield, he didn’t know who to speak to, so he decided he’d start by speaking to the Church Minister. Luckily, Reverend Lingard remembered your mum from when he first came to the Church and she sometimes came to the Sunday Morning Service with your Aunt Eleanor, but he didn’t think he’d seen her since Eleanor’s funeral.

  Reverend Lingard was deeply saddened to hear what had happened to the rest of your family. He asked Tom to tell you he’d remember you in his prayers and would ask his congregation to do the same.

  He understood your Aunt had been married, but that her husband had left her before he’d come to the Parish, so he suggested they spoke to the verger because he’d been involved with the Church since before the spire was taken down back in 1740. Reverend Lingard explained to the verger why Tom was asking about Eleanor’s husband and after thinking for a few moments, the verger, who Tom says was very old, said…"

  “As old as Methuselah.”

  Tom’s interruption caught me by surprise, but I think he was just letting me know he was listening ’cos straightaway he lapsed back into silence. Speaking suddenly like that he’d thrown me, but I gathered my thoughts again and carried on.

  “Yes, as old as Methuselah, but as Tom told me, his memory was still really sharp. He said that Eleanor’s husband’s name was Nathaniel Watson and that he’d left her about a year after they married. Unfortunately no one had seen or heard from him since, although because he’d been a sailor when he met your aunt, most people thought he’d probably gone back to sea. I’m afraid it seems your mum was probably the only other close family Eleanor had.”

  I put my arm tightly round Adie and grasped Will’s hand because I wanted them to know that what I had to say next came from my heart.

  “Now, we’ve talked about what we should do, and we’ve come to a decision. We think that, even though we haven’t got much, Tom and me would like you both to stay with us. Isn’t that right, Tom?”

  Tom still didn’t turn round. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, but he murmured his agreement.

  I felt Adie begin to tremble and I sensed she was about to cry. She hadn’t cried at all since she’d come to us, so I thought that my poor offer had at last made her realise how much she’d lost. Desperate to make things right, I turned her gently so we were looking at one another and said as softly as I could,

  “Adie please don’t cry. I know I’m not your mum but I’ll try and do my best for you. We both will, won’t we Tom?”

  Before Tom could speak, Adie said something that surprised me. Starting to cry, she buried her head beneath my arm and between sobs, hiccuped,

  “That’s not why I’m crying… I miss my family… but… but you’ve been more like a mum to me than mine ever was.”

  She dissolved completely and I held her even closer, trying to comfort her. Eventually her sobs subsided and apart from an occasional rasp, her breathing became more settled. After what felt like an age, the nature of her breathing told me she was asleep. Tom must have noticed the change as well, because finally turning from the fire, he beckoned Will to join him and they both stepped outside. I could hear a murmured conversation and later that evening, Tom told me how they’d talked about Will’s return to work.

  We hadn’t had any children, Tom and me, and after ten years of marriage, it was unlikely that we ever would. To tell the truth, Tom had never really been very interested in me that way and after a couple of years, had lost interest altogether. I told myself I was lucky. I’d seen so many babies die before they could even walk. Hannah had lost two before Adie was born and I’d seen mothers go as well – sometimes with their baby, other times leaving orphans. But for all that, I knew deep down I yearned for a child of my own. So, as I sat with Adie, her head pressed against my breast, asleep and trusting, I realised she might be my one chance. I had no reason to feel guilty I told myself, after all, I had nothing to do with the accident. Even Tom’s best efforts to find any relatives who might take in her and her brother had failed. Anyway, it was plain to see this child needed a mother and I didn’t think anyone else was going to offer to fill that role.

  My dreams were broken by Tom and Will’s return, so I laid Adie gently down on the bed, put a blanket over her and got on with making dinner. I said nothing to Tom or Will because I wasn’t sure either of them would be happy with me becoming Adie’s mum. Uncertain of Tom because I knew he was quite happy with us being childless. I was equally unsure of Will, as Adie’s last words would still be ringing in his ears and I didn’t want him thinking I agreed with her about Hannah. No, much better to say nothing and let things take their own course.

  William

  Lies

  Going back to the pans was easier than I thought. Dad and Tom had rented a single pan between them producing fine salt – although the hardest to produce, fine salt paid the highest rate. I’d worked with them for almost a year and John had joined us a few weeks before the accident. I know Dad was pleased to have both his sons working with him and pro
ud to see us following him, just as he had followed our grandfather. Once John had learnt all the tasks involved in producing the salt, Dad had told me it was his intention to rent a second pan.

  Most of the work in the salt pans takes place inside a long, low shed, with only storage (the finished salt is kept in a separate, dry storeroom.) and the loading of barges, taking place elsewhere. The work is hard and dangerous and whilst the shed keeps out the weather, the fires that heat the brine in the pans mean it is always hot and steamy. Every hour of every day from Monday to midday Saturday, those fires keep the brine bubbling away and as the water evaporates, the salt that remains is dragged to the side to be scooped into moulds. When most of the water has evaporated and the salt removed, the pans are again filled with brine and the whole process starts all over again.

  Although we worked stripped down to no more than decency required (some said beyond even that), as the brine bubbled, so did we. Although the sides of the shed were slatted, providing us with some relief, sweat poured from us freely even before we started work and the heat and the salty steam left us permanently thirsty.

  For those who passed the Boar’s Head on their way to work – and most did, life was made more tolerable by Jabez Payne, the inn’s landlord, who allowed them to draw water from his well. The well had been there longer than anyone could remember and its water had always been clean. Jabez allowed us to take the water for free on the understanding that, at least occasionally, every worker would stop on their way home and buy some of the Inn’s more traditional refreshments. Most did, driven not only by thirst but by the need to wash the taste of salt from their lips. Apparently, this arrangement was introduced by Jabez’ predecessor, Jack Dodds. Jack, who in the first few months he was landlord, had already become popular with his locals, sealed his popularity when he allowed free use of the well. After his death, fond memories meant Jack’s reputation grew, so that now he is generally held to have been the Boar’s greatest landlord in its two-hundred-year history. Whether or not his reputation was deserved, we were all grateful for the free water.