Charles Palliser (65 page)

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“Here’s a new ’un, Hal,” he said to the youth with the whip who had a nose like a parrot’s bill. “Cloth-Ear.”

“All right, Cloth-Ear, get to work,” said the burly youth.

I picked up the flail but since I had no idea how to use it, I had to be shewn — which involved much cuffing and swearing.

Mr Quigg watched benignly for a few minutes this commencement of my studies, and then strolled back towards the house.

Now, hungry and thirsty as I was, I was forced to work for the next three hours at the exhausting task of threshing, with only a single break of a few minutes. The hand-staff of blackthorn blistered my hand as I swung the swupple. Then once we had threshed the corn from the ear, we had to winnow it to separate the corn from the husks and chaff, and the dust that was raised by the winnowing-fan made us gasp and choke.

We laboured under the sharp gaze of Hal who seated himself on a bale of hay and smoked a pipe. But if any boy slacked Hal cried out in the manner of a coachman and

“touched him up” with his whip. At last our over-looker allowed us to stop and then led us to a delapidated barn outside which there was another group of boys of various ages who were being supervised by yet another youth with a whip — this one thin and cadaverous, and his face badly pitted like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn.

These two counted us: “Eleven with the new ’un makes twelve,” Hal called out. “It’s one of tha’s that’s wanting, Roger.”

“Mealy-Plant,” the thin youth replied. “He’s on his way.”

And a few minutes later the boy I had spoken to outside Mr Quigg’s library came into the yard from one of the fields, staggering with exhaustion.

“Get in!” shouted Roger and cracked the whip above our heads alarmingly.

All the boys hurried into the barn and I followed them. It was empty except for bales of decaying straw and there was more straw underfoot above a layer of mud. There was a strong musty smell of rot which grew intenser when the door was secured behind us.

The only light came through the gaps between the boards, and in the near-darkness no-one spoke. We laid ourselves down on the straw, too tired for speech. After several minutes we heard the wooden cross-bars being raised and the door was opened by Mr Quigg who entered followed by the two young men each carrying a bucket. The boys rose wearily and stood back while Roger and Hal poured the contents of the buckets into a large wooden trough and I saw that they were nothing but potatoes. None of the boys moved and all kept their eyes on Mr Quigg. When the youths had finished he stepped forward holding up his hand as if to quell an uproar:

“Now young genel’men, I ken how hoongry yow mun be after yowr labours in t’ fields of laming. How do I ken? Why, on account of I ken what boys are. How do I ken what boys are? On account of I wor one myself. But don’t go thinking I had the advantages of a superior eddication like what yow’re getting. Oh no, indeed. I wor turned out by my fond pappy to yarn my living at no more nor seven year old, so yow boys are lucky and yow should be grateful.”

He made this speech regularly. Later I was told that he had been a porter at a school in Wakefield and that this was his closest experience of education.

He looked around at us with a cruel smile, waiting as if enjoying the suspense. At last he shouted: “Now get it!”

All the boys ran forward to reach into the trough and to my horror began fighting amongst themselves. Three of them were bigger and heavier than the 296

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others and these — two of whom were almost plump by comparison with their fellows

— pushed the smaller ones aside and seized as many of the potatoes as they could, tucked them into their shirts which they held out before them, and carried them away to a corner of the barn. Mr Quigg and his sons (for that is who I learned the two youths were) urged the other boys on with shouts and occasional blows of the whips. When the bigger boys had eaten their potatoes they came back for more. Hungry as I was I could not bring myself to join in the fight.

“Good lads,” Mr Quigg cried out giving the three bigger boys a hunk of barley-bread each. Then he addressed me, jeeringly: “Art tha not hungry now, Cloth-Ear?”

I shook my head and he struck me with the whip. I crept away and watched from the shadows. A boy who had a humped back and short, misshapen legs was fighting off some of the smaller fellows to seize a few of the potatoes that were left. I noticed that the boy I had spoken to, the one addressed by Mr Quigg as Mealy-Plant, was, like me, making no attempt to obtain any of the potatoes although he was one of the comparatively larger boys.

When the trough was empty Mr Quigg and his sons went out and I heard the cross-bar slam into place. A minute or two later the monotonous howl of the yard-dogs turned into a series of frenzied barks as the sound of their chains being unlocked became audible. I heard them approach and then saw their muzzles shoved through the wide gap under the door of the barn as they scratched at the wood, whining savagely. No notice was taken by my new companions, and then the thinnest of the three bigger boys began working at a flint and tinder until at last he lit a tallow-dip and somewhat dispelled the darkness.

Now I saw the young cripple hold out a potato to a large but vacant-faced boy who took it without looking at him and put it straight into his mouth. Then the crippled boy went over to the one I had spoken to outside Mr Quigg’s library who was lying as if exhausted on the straw, and held out a potato to him.

“Here you are, Stephen,” he said.

“Thank you, Richard.” He took it and looked across at me: “But he had nothing either.”

Stephen broke the potato in two and held out one half.

“It’s yours,” I said, shaking my head, though I was in pain from hunger.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“I wish I had another,” said the crippled boy.

At that moment the boy who had lighted the dip said: “Here’s one I was keeping for later.”

He brought over a potato and I accepted it. It was half-raw inside and burnt outside, but I ate it with as much pleasure as if it had been the most exquisite delicacy.

The boys now gathered round me and in the faint light of the guttering dip I saw a circle of drawn, pale faces with sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks. The three largest boys were in rather better sort than the others, all of whom were emaciated, clad in rags, filthy, and infested with vermin, especially their shaggy heads which they constantly scratched.

“Who sent you here, Cloth-Ear?” demanded the largest and oldest. He had a somewhat brutal face with a broken nose. He was stuffing a pipe as he spoke and now leaned forward to light it at the candle.

“Don’t call me that. My name is John.”

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He and the burlier of the two other biggest boys looked at each other quickly as if secretly amused, then he gripped me by the throat and forced my head back: “I’ll call you what I please. I’m captain here. Now answer my question. Who sent you here?”

“M-My mother.” I gasped.

“Who is your father?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He said something brutally coarse and his companion laughed noisily, revealing that he had only a few blackened stumps for teeth. Then he banged my head against the wall and let go of me so that I fell to the ground. He and the other boy walked away.

Richard helped me to my feet.

“Why does your mother want you out of the way?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Out of the way?” I repeated.

For answer he drew one hand across his neck and smiled grimly.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve been sent here because my mother’s friends want me to be safe.”

The boys laughed joylessly.

“Oh you’ll be made safe all right,” said the one who had given me his potato.

“My mother does not mean me harm,” I protested.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “We were all sent here by our friends. Most of us are love-children as I am. My name’s Paul.” He indicated the crippled boy: “That’s Richard.

He’s not a love-child. His parents wanted to get rid of him because of his back. But
he
is,” he said, pointing to the boy with the vacant, staring face. “We call him Big Thorn because that’s Little Thom.” He indicated a smaller boy with a sharp-featured countenance and pale eyes.

“I don’t know what I am,” said Big Thom. “I don’t remember nothing before this.

’Cept beatings.”

“He was sent here for being disobedient,” Paul went on. “He was wild when he came.”

Paul pointed out the other, smaller boys and told me their names quickly as if they were of little significance. They were lying down on the straw and pulling it over themselves — indeed, several of them were already slumbering. One was weeping in his sleep and from the darkness the self-proclaimed captain cried out: “Shut thy noise before I shut it for thee, thou mammy-sick babe! And bring that dip over, Paul.”

Paul quickly lighted another and gave it to Richard.

“Who are those two?” I asked Richard softly as Paul obediently went over to his captain.

“That’s Ned,” he answered. “And the other is Bart. His lieutenant. They’re Quigg’s favourites.” In an undertone he added : “Paul’s one of them, too, because he’s older.”

Ned pulled a pack of cards from under the straw and they began a noisy game of vingt-et-un.

“What is for early school tomorrow?” Little Thom asked sleepily, lying back on the straw.

“Threshing and ploughing again,” Richard answered.

“When will we start proper lessons?” I asked.

They laughed mirthlessly.

“What could they teach us?” Richard said. “None of them can even read or 298 THE

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write. They have to get their maid-servant or one of us, to deal with their letters.”

“Is it just in the summer that we work on the farm?” I asked.

“Bless you, no. The autumn’s the hardest,” said Stephen.

“When do we start pulling potatoes?” Little Thorn asked.

“Another month at least,” Richard said. “But that’s no good. You can’t eat murphies raw.”

“Yes,” Stephen agreed, “carrot and turnip-pulling are best for that.”

“I found some mushrooms this afternoon,” said Little Thorn.

“Did you eat them?”

“No, I didn’t dare. They weren’t like any mushrooms I’ve ever seen.”

Cautiously he pulled something out of his pocket and opened his palm. Richard held the dip over them and we all leaned forward.

“Where did you find them?” Richard asked.

“By the gate from the yard into the Fifteen-Acre. Just by where Davy is. Does anyone know, dare I eat them?”

I recognised them from my mushrooming expeditions with Sukey. “No,” I said. “You certainly can’t. They’re called Death-caps and they’re very dangerous.”

“Are you sure?” Little Thorn said disappointedly.

“Yes. Give them to me and I’ll throw them away.”

“Oh,” he said, “I know a trick worth two of that.”

I didn’t understand for a moment what he meant. “No, I’m not going to eat them,” I said. “Put them on the ground.”

Suspiciously he did so and I put my foot on them and crushed them into the mud and straw of the floor.

“Hush!” Richard whispered suddenly, and we all fell silent, our ears straining.

We heard what sounded like footsteps at one side of the barn, but then came a low growl and the boys relaxed.

“It’s only one of the dogs,” Richard said.

“We were afraid it was Roger,” Stephen explained to me. “He often spies on us like that.”

He lay back and pulled some straw over himself. In a few minutes he was fast asleep.

Richard glanced at him: “He is being worked harder than any of us.”

“Yes,” said Little Thorn, “he is being treated the way they did poor Davy. Today he was ploughing for longer than ever.”

He turned away and began to make preparations for sleep.

“Ploughing!” I exclaimed to Richard. “Surely he is not strong enough to handle a team!”

“A team?” He smiled grimly. “You’ll see.”

“And they’re punishing him more often than any of us,” Little Thorn muttered.

“Yes,” agreed Richard. He added softly: “Just like poor Davy again.”

“Can you do nothing?” I asked.

“What?” Richard demanded.

“Can you not tell your friends when you write?”

“Write?” Richard cried. “You are green! We cannot send letters.”

“But do you never go home?”

“Never,” Richard said. “The fees cover the holidays as well.”

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“But do your friends never visit you?”

“Our friends!” Richard exclaimed. “Do you think we would be here if they cared for us?”

“Then can you not escape?”

“Where to?” asked Richard. “If we had anywhere to go or anyone who wanted us we would not be here.”

“But wouldn’t anywhere be better than this?”

“It’s impossible to escape from here,” Richard said. “Nobody ever has.”

As if to mark his words, the dip guttered and went out. The others now lay down and prepared to sleep and I did the same, pulling the straw about myself. It stuck into me most painfully and the dust made me gasp and splutter. Since I had eaten nothing since breakfast at the inn, apart from the potato Paul had given me, I was so hungry that I was in pain.

Why should Mr Steplight have brought me to this place when he had stressed that it was so clearly in Sir Perceval’s interest that I should be well looked after? Could it be that Mr Steplight did not understand what kind of establishment it was? Surely not, for he had met Quigg and seen Stephen and the other boys. In that case, was he deceiving Sir Perceval? Or, a more frightening thought, could it be that the baronet was acting dishonourably towards my mother and myself ? Was it, as I had asked the attorney during the journey, because he no longer needed me now that he had the codicil and was going to destroy it?

I wondered if there were any way to smuggle a letter to my mother, but then I reflected that it would merely torment her for she would be powerless to do anything.

To come and fetch me away — even if it were in her power to release me from Quigg —