Chapter 3 #2
“We have both been out in the world these ten years,” I added. Obvious. Bad.
“Aye, sir, that’s true. Long time, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is a long time. We are men now, are we not?”
“Aye, sir.”
He gave me a curious look. I thought he would speak more but he did not. Bees buzzed sleepily in the dog-rose that grew about the stable fence and in the scarlet geraniums that glowed in the pot by the water trough. Somewhere off in the coppice, a nightingale sang.
Now we had caught up with our news, so to speak, I thought his next words would be about money. But he did not seem to know how to ask. He simply stood there, so red in the face he put the geraniums to shame, twisting his cap almost apart.
I understood his reluctance, for I was familiar with his situation.
One longs to ask—for bread or money or a friend—and yet one cannot.
It is not pride, exactly, or not pride alone.
It is the knowledge that, afterwards, they will know you are a person who had to ask, and they could use that information against you, if they wished.
I should have to help him.
“Jem.” I used the gentlest tone I could muster. “Do you remember the day we went to Branley Chase and I fell in the eel pond. We were ten, I think. Or perhaps eleven. Do you remember?”
He glanced up, a smile lighting his eyes and lifting his heavy brows. “I do! It were that cold! And you slipped into that pond like a duckling.”
“I was too afraid to go home afterwards, remember? Because I was so wet.”
“Ah. Your Pa would have made a hem stink.” He frowned, remembering. “Where did we go? Weren’t the old boat shed. Happen it were Ilford’s byre?”
“Behind it, I think. And you made a fire so I could dry my jacket.”
“You were that cold you couldn’t talk. Your lips were blue. Like a dead man.”
“I wore your jacket while we waited. Remember?”
“And soon I couldn’t talk either.” He chattered his teeth and rubbed his arms in mimicry, smiling there in the summer heat. “Thought we should both catch our deaths.”
“So did I. But do you remember, Jem? You took off your jacket and gave it to me. I didn’t have to ask.”
“Did I?” He shrugged, not really attending.
“But how did we get the fire alight? Jack must’ve been home on leave, I suppose.
Must’ve taken his tinderbox. I were lucky if I got away with that without him a-flaying me good and proper.
Curious, ain’t it? Remember all of it with you, clear as day, but I disremember what came after. ”
“I don’t remember either. But, Jem, don’t you see what I mean? I’ll give you anything you want. You don’t have to ask. Or, at least, you do, but only because I don’t know how much you need.”
He looked at me, eyes widening. “Oh. No. No, no, no. No, Master Willie, sir. That ain’t…it’s not…that ain’t what I…”
“Will a pound do it, Jem?”
I blinked, suddenly cognisant of the most likely reason a man of Jem’s type might ask me for money. He probably wanted to get married. My gut gave a very queer twist and a feeling almost of desolation swept through me. It was probably because once he had the money he would go.
“Or two pounds, perhaps?” I added. “And a new suit of clothes?”
“No, no, sir. It’s very kind, but honest that ain’t what I…I mean, there is something I wanted to ask of you, sir, begging your pardon, but that ain’t it.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh. Then what, Jem? Would you like me to write you a letter of recommendation?”
“Er…well…perhaps if you would write it to yourself, sir.”
“I don’t quite…”
“Well, it’s this, sir. I hope you’ll beg pardon for my asking, but I was hoping as how you might be willing to take me on.
I’ll do anything , sir, that I will. And I hope as how the scrapes we got into as boys won’t make you think I’m not a hard worker, for I have learned my lesson at sea and I am not a lad any longer, and I will work all the hours God sends and do anything you ask of me and that’s a promise, sir.
And it’s true I don’t know much of cows, sir, or pigs, but I know a little of sheep and of cabbages and potatoes, as you know, and of raspberries, for I learned that under Mr Scatcherd.
And…and that is what I was wondering, sir, and why I came. ”
I blinked, so surprised my mind went blank. “I thought you wanted money. To get married, probably.”
“No, sir.” His expression was almost reproving. “Ain’t the marrying type.”
I said, “I was not looking to hire a man,” because that was the truth.
“No, sir,” he murmured, ducking his head and seeming to shrink.
“Midsummer Day is past,” I added, because the quarter day would have been the time to take on new staff.
“So it is.” His voice was very quiet.
“George does the garden and sees to the animals,” I explained. “Mrs Fowke’s brother.”
“Aye. Course.” His voice was a whisper. He was staring down at his boots. After a moment, he took a deep breath.
“Well, I am very sorry to have troubled you, Mr William, sir. And I thank you again for the meal, and it was right good to see you and I will be off.”
His tone was all wrong. He was always polite, but he sounded formal, distant. He could have been any decent way-faring fellow, thanking me for a bit of charity.
“No— no ,” I blurted. “I mean, wait but a moment. Tell me, where will you go?”
“Don’t rightly know, sir. Back to the…er…the tannery maybe, if they will have me.”
I frowned. Things were going terribly wrong. “But you said you were not suited to the work.”
“Well, maybe I can find something else.” But there was something despairing in his tone.
“Wait, Jem. Wait. Where will you sleep tonight?”
“Don’t trouble yourself over that, sir. I shall be all right.”
“At least…no, Jem…I cannot let you go. At least you must stay one night.”
“I could not put you to the trouble, sir.”
“Jem, please. Will you not wait? Listen, I have had an idea.”
“Aye, sir?”
“Yes. The thing is, George has not been well. He has terrible rheumatics. He can hardly walk sometimes. And he suffers from the ague too, very regularly. He is in bed with it now, I believe.”
“Oh.” He began to shake his head, very slow. “But I could not take a man’s job from him, sir. I could not. Not if he were at death’s door.”
“No, no,” I said, shocked. “Of course you will not be taking his job. But everybody knows he is old and that he suffers. So even though Midsummer’s Day is past, people will perhaps understand that I am taking you on because of that.
He needs help, do you see? There is too much for him to manage.
So, it will not seem odd if I take you on as well. Will it?”
A sudden hope lit his face. “No, sir. I think people will understand.”
“Do you? Yes, I think so too. Of course, it may seem profligate for a clergyman to have two men. Mr Hay who is the rector over the way in Medbridge has but one man and a boy, and Mr Chambers, who is vicar in Hockford, has but the one man, but that is because his boy grew too old and went for a soldier so he will certainly be getting another soon. And perhaps he will not even wait for Michaelmas? So that is perhaps all right. But the main thing, I think, is whether it would seem odd for the rector of Hunsford to have two men rather than one and a boy? Perhaps I must think on it.”
“I did hear, sir, as how there was a Mr Melling, who was a parson in Hastings, who had two men. I knew one of them.”
“Yes? And what did people say of Mr Melling?”
“He was a respected gentleman, sir.”
“That is promising.”
“Yes, sir.”
“People did not say he was profligate?”
“I never heard so, sir.”
I wished, as I had wished many times, that there existed a book that covered matters such as this and gave advice on which course of action would be approved by all. I could never tell which matters might be considered nothing much, and which might be considered beyond the pale.
Of course, the teachings of the church gave some guidance as to how most people might view some acts, but, alas, did not extend to such day-to-day practical matters as whether the rector of Hunsford might take on two men, given that one of them was often unwell.
In the past, I had sometimes used my folk as bellwethers. It was not that I took their advice, exactly, for they were uneducated people, but they were sensible and could at least provide reassurance.
“Jem, will you wait here for a moment? Promise you will not leave? Promise?”
“Aye, sir. I will wait.”
“Do you promise me, though, Jem?”
“I promise.”
I hurried into the house and tapped on the kitchen door, briefly noting, in my haste, that I had simply acted and not debated with myself. If only all of life could be so simple. “Mrs Fowke? Milly?”
Milly opened the door, Mrs Fowke at her shoulder, wiping her hands on a cloth.
They were unrelated, of course, but I was struck afresh by their similarity.
Not in looks, exactly, for where Milly was spare, Mrs Fowke was stout, yet they seemed cut from the same cloth.
They did everything together and the hands of one seemed the hands of the other.
“Yes, sir?” There was enquiry in Milly’s faded blue eyes.
“Ah, Milly. Yes. Mrs Fowke. I ah…I have been talking with Jem Binns. The…the fellow you have just been kind enough to give a meal. And…and I am of a mind to take him on.” I paused but they continued looking at me steadily and did not speak nor give me any clue to their opinion, so perforce I must continue.
“Yes. Because I have been worried about George for some time now. His health, you know, and the work being too much. Of course, George has his place here forever, as far as I am concerned, but Jem was my father’s gardener’s boy, so he knows a little of potatoes, you see.
And he says he will stay. And he can do the heavier work and run my errands to Pettiford and so on, and George can show him what to do with the cows and how to make bread poultices for Pilot, and I think we should find ourselves well-situated.
And there is a Mr Melling in Hastings who is a parson and has two men, although I am aware that Mr Hay and Mr Chambers have but one man apiece, although Mr Hay also has a boy.
But I think, overall, that it is a good idea, probably.
Although perhaps I must think on it some more. ”
My heart pounded as I waited for their response, and I realised, with something of a shock, that even if they confessed themselves amazed at my eccentric idea, I intended to ask Jem to stay anyway, for it was plain he wanted to and I ached to have him by my side once more.
Mrs Fowke said, “There, wasn’t George saying only the other day as how he thought you might be thinking of taking on a boy or another man. Because of there being ever so much to do, sir, and him suffering terrible from his rheumatics as you know, sir.”
Milly said, “You’ll be wanting a bed made up for the lad, then, sir?”
From these remarks, I gathered they approved of the idea, or, at least, did not think it horribly unusual. Indeed, I rather thought that making up a bed meant the matter was settled and that Jem would be staying.
“Yes,” I said. “A bed. Very good. Excellent. Yes, thank you, Milly.”
“Is it all right, sir, if I put him in the little room that faces north?” Milly asked. “I would put him in with George, sir, only I don’t think there is the space for another bed.”
“Yes, yes, the little north room. That is quite all right.”
“If I may, sir,” Mrs Fowke put in, “If you are taking the lad on, he must have some new clothes first thing tomorrow and should sleep in the barn tonight for we don’t want that jacket in the house, sir, begging your pardon, for it has more things living in it than a bit of old cheese, and we don’t want to risk such in our nice new linen cupboards, that we don’t! ”
“Oh. No. We certainly don’t. You are quite right, Mrs Fowke. I remarked myself that his jacket was quite old and he will certainly need a new one. Yes, I will tell him he may sleep in the barn tonight and tomorrow I will take him to the village for new clothes.”
I hastened back into the warm summer evening to tell Jem the good news, my heart so aflame with joy that all my apprehensions seemed, for a moment, as nothing.