THE NEXT MORNING dawned fair and fresh. The streets of York had been swept clean as soon as day was breaking, most early-morning faces washed, horses newly groomed, their tails combed and plaited and their brasses polished to catch the sun, doorsteps scrubbed white, bed linen hung from the upper windows to air. In short, it was a sweet-smelling, purposeful day when anything was possible and George was full of food and high spirits, whistling as he walked along Goodramgate towards Monkgate and his uncle’s fine house.
The central arch of Monk Bar was clogged with carts and horses, and the two side arches, being smaller, were a-jostle with people all trying to shove their way through to one side or the other, so it took a while before George could squeeze through the crush and emerge into the wide roads on the other side of the wall. It was like stepping into another world, for the houses here were new, built of brick and beautifully proportioned, with grand doors and elegant windows. And Uncle Matthew’s house was the finest of them all. Although he knew very little about this distant uncle of his, one thing was obvious. The man was rich. He walked up to the front door and knocked firmly.
The door was opened by a servant in green livery and a white wig, a very haughty man and disconcertingly tall. ‘Yes?’ he said, looking down at George.
‘Name of Hudson,’ George said, speaking boldly and determined not to be put down. ‘George Hudson. I am Mr Bottrill’s nephew.’
‘You have a calling card no doubt, sir?’ the servant said. No card had been offered, as it should have been, so he was fairly sure this young person didn’t possess such a thing. Especially given the way he was dressed. His shirt was clean enough, to give him his due, but, really, those rough breeches and that waistcoat were the sort of things one saw on a farm hand.
‘Not at t’moment, no, sir, I’ve not,’ George said, trying to sound as though it didn’t matter and knowing how much it did – now that it was too late. ‘I’ve just come to town and my family gave me instructions I were to pay my respects afore I did aught else. Common politeness, they said.’
‘If you will just wait here,’ the servant said. What a sneering voice he had! ‘I will consult with Mr Bottrill.’ And he shut the door and left George on the step.
It seemed like a very long wait, standing there on his own, but at last the door was reopened. ‘If you will come this way,’ the servant said, ‘Mr Bottrill will see you.’
Into an elegant hall, with a tiled floor, a carved staircase and a huge chandelier that held more wax candles than he could count, up the easy tread of the stairs to a landing on the first floor, where closed doors lined the walls, then a discreet knock and a muffled cough outside the furthest one and a querulous voice calling, ‘Come in, come in.’ And then he was in the presence.
It wasn’t the sort of presence he was expecting at all. For a start he was in a bedroom and an extremely musty one, smelling of sweat and used chamber pots, and his illustrious uncle was in his nightshirt with a crumpled nightcap on his grey hair and a decidedly grubby dressing gown swathed about his body. His feet were long and bony and the slippers he wore might have been red velvet once but were now so scuffed and discoloured that they looked more like mud than cloth. For a rich man he was downright disreputable. He was also really rather rude, for he was reading a newssheet when George entered the room and he didn’t look up or stop reading for as much as a second.
If there’s going to be a conversation, George thought, I shall have to start it myself. ‘I trust I see you well, sir,’ he said.
His uncle grunted.
‘’Tis a grand day.’
Another grunt.
Happen he’s deaf, George thought, and repeated his observation in a louder voice. ‘A grand day, sir.’
‘Stow your row,’ his uncle said, without looking up from the paper.
That was disconcerting but George could see that there was nothing for it but to wait until he was noticed. So he waited.
After what seemed an extremely long time, Uncle Matthew gave the paper a shake and threw it on the carpet. ‘So what’s all this about?’ he said. ‘Come on the scrounge, have you?’
George assumed an expression that he hoped would convey shock and outrage. ‘No, sir,’ he said hotly. ‘I have not. The idea. I wonder at you, sir, that you should think such a thing. I were sent to enquire after your health, sir. That’s the sum and total of it. After your health.’ And since the old man looked disbelieving, he contrived to bristle. ‘I see I’m unwelcome, sir.’ He turned as if he were about to leave.
‘Keep your wool on,’ his uncle said. ‘If you ain’t after money, you’re the only one. Rest of ’em are at it night and day. There’s no end to ’em. Sit ’ee down.’
There was only one other seat in the room and that was a low armchair upholstered in pink velvet to match the curtains. It looked too delicate to be used by a farmer’s son, but George sat in it nevertheless, although cautiously. Then he put his hands on his knees and waited.
His uncle was re-lighting a pipe that was half full of tobacco and decidedly evil-smelling. ‘Nephew you say, I believe,’ he observed, puffing thick fumes into the room.
‘Yes, sir. My mother was your niece. Name of Elizabeth.’
‘Ah!’ Matthew said. ‘A good woman. Married some fool of a farmer, as I recall.’
‘My father, sir.’
‘Had a sight too many children.’
‘Ten, sir.’
‘Total folly,’ the old man said, sucking his pipe. ‘So why ain’t you working on t’farm?’
It was time to feed him a spoonful of truth and see what came of it ‘I’m the fifth son, sir. I’ve to fend for myself seemingly.’
‘Ah!’ his uncle said and smoked his pipe for a few minutes, nodding his head from time to time as if he was thinking. ‘They’ve thrown you out, is that the size of it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘That’s families for you,’ the old man said. ‘Not a heart atween the lot of ’em. So you’ve come to York?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘What’s brought ’ee here to me then,’ his uncle asked, ‘if it ain’t money? And don’t give me all that malarkey about how you were asking after my health for I don’t believe a word of it. My family ain’t the least bit interested in my health. Not a one of ’em. They’re all waiting for me to die so they can get their greedy hands on my money. So come, and tell me t’truth, mind. What’s brought ’ee here? There’s bound to be a reason.’
‘I need a job, sir,’ George confessed. ‘If I’m to fend for myself I’ve to find a job. That’s t’truth of it. I thought you might know someone who were looking for a worker, being as you live here. I’m willing, sir. I’ll turn my hand to anything. And strong. Strong as a carthorse, Ma used to say.’
‘Um,’ the old man said and fell to puffing his pipe again, his long face creased with thought. There was so much smoke in the room that George began to feel quite dizzy but eventually his uncle took the pipe out of his mouth, shot him a shrewd look and gave his advice.
‘Nicholson and Bell’s is what tha wants,’ he said. ‘Drapers. Looking for a ’prentice boy. Not in a good way of business since Mr Bell died, to tell ’ee true, but beggars can’t be choosers. They might take to you. Corner of Goodramgate and College Street, opposite Bedern Hall. Tell ’em I sent you.’ And he went back to his pipe.
It was a very short walk to the shop and an even shorter trot and, although the place was dark, dusty and insignificant, it was easy enough to find. George wasted no time deploring its appearance; he simply walked straight in. A job was a job and the sooner he landed this one the better.
It was extremely dark inside, for the ceiling was low, the walls were painted dark green and the windows were so grimy that they let in very little light. There were dark counters on either side of the room and shelves behind them holding various rolls of dark cloth, and sitting behind the right-hand counter, chewing the end of a quill pen, was a most unprepossessing woman. She looked dowdy and none too clean and she had such a long narrow face and such lank, greasy hair under her grubby cap that for a few seconds, while he got his breath back, George wondered whether she was some relation of Uncle Matthew’s. Then she looked up, took the pen out of her mouth and spoke to him.
‘Was it for breeches or a jacket?’ she asked.
He was rather pleased to be mistaken for a customer. ‘Neither,’ he told her.
The answer seemed to puzzle her. ‘Beg pardon.’
‘I’ve come for t’job,’ he explained. ‘’Prentice boy. Sent by Mr Bottrill. Am I speaking to Mrs Bell?’
‘Oh no,’ she said and giggled as if he’d made a joke. ‘Nowt like that. Wish I were. No such luck. She’s my sister. Wait there till I get her.’
She looked even more ungainly standing up than she’d done sitting down, for now he could see that she was wearing dull, brown, old-fashioned clothes, that although her black lace collar had once been fine – it was prettily embroidered – it was faded and frayed at the edges, that her brown boots were down-at-heel and that there was nothing soft or rounded or feminine about her. He watched as she walked towards an inner door, moving in a slummocky way like a surly boy, her shoulders humped and her long feet splayed. I wonder whether she’s any good at her work, he thought, and walked across the room to see what she’d been doing. Writing up the accounts, apparently, they didn’t look at all healthy and were full of mistakes. She’s no beauty, he thought, she can’t add up and, if this is all the trade they do, there’ll not be much work for me.
But he could hear feet approaching so he had to stand back and pretend to be looking out of the window at the street. Two sets of feet, one slummocking, the other brisk.
‘You’ve come to apply to be our – um – apprentice, I believe,’ the newcomer said. Very much like her sister to look at but better dressed and with a chatelaine at her belt.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Have you – um – worked with a draper before?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Can you – um – read?’
‘Yes, ma’am. And write a fair hand and add my figures and subtract ’em. I kept accounts on t’family farm for the last three years.’ That wasn’t strictly true. He’d kept the accounts for a week three years ago when brother John had been ill of a fever and couldn’t do it. But it sounded well and he could see that it impressed both his listeners.
‘Did you so?’ Mrs Bell said. ‘Well – um – that could be an advantage, I daresay.’ Then she seemed to be at a loss for words and stood silent, fingering the lace on her left sleeve and looking into space. Good lace, George noticed, and unlike her sister’s, clean and starched, and she was wearing a good stout pair of boots too. Why don’t she say summat? he wondered. There was nowt for it, he must make some sort of offer for this job if he wanted to get it.
‘I could keep your accounts,’ he said, smiling at the lady, ‘if you’d like me to.’
‘Oh yes,’ her sister said. ‘We would like you to, wouldn’t we, Rebecca?’
‘Well, as to that,’ Mrs Bell said, looking stern, ‘that’s as maybe. ’Tis not a thing to be rushed at. You must – um – walk before you can run, young man, if you take my meaning. I might permit it once you’re ’prenticed. We shall – um – need to see. There’s a lot to be learnt. For the moment you must – um – learn how to keep the shop and – um – sweep it and clean it and – um – so forth and bring in new cloth when ’tis needful and – um – attend to the customers, what has to be done delicate and respectful. And acquaint yourself with the cloth and the prices and how ’tis to be wrapped.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ George said, in what he hoped would be a dutiful voice. ‘I could do all that and willing.’ And he wondered if this was the point at which he ought to ask whether an apprentice could expect any wages.
She answered him before he could ask. ‘I would pay you – um – sixpence a day,’ she said, ‘and all found. When you’ve worked a month and we’ve seen how you do and providing you’re – um – satisfactory, I will draw up articles for you to sign.’
What does she mean, all found? he thought. He couldn’t ask her. That would make him look stupid. He couldn’t argue about the wage she’d offered either. It was far too little but this wasn’t the time to say so. Uncle Matthew was right: beggars can’t be choosers. He could edge it up later when they’d found out how good he was. The main thing was to have something settled. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
She paused again, as if she were wondering what to say next. Then she looked at her sister. ‘Show him where the – um – brooms are, Lizzie,’ she ordered and walked out of the shop, the keys at her belt rattling.
He swept the shop and dusted the shelves while Lizzie bit her pen. There were no customers so he stood in a patch of sunshine and waited and got bored. Finally he asked Lizzie if he could have a bucket of water with a good splash of vinegar in it and set to and cleaned the windows. Then he took the bucket back to the kitchen and settled to wait again. There were still no customers.
‘Is it allus this quiet?’ he asked.
Lizzie put down her pen to look at him. ‘People come in from time to time,’ she said and confided, ‘It were better when Mr Bell were alive. He attracted ’em somehow. Bein’ he was a man, I daresay. He had the knack of it. Making jokes wi’ ’em and so forth. He were allus making jokes.’ She sighed.
‘Happen tha’d like me to finish the figures,’ he suggested, trying to sound casual.
‘Aye. I would,’ she said firmly. ‘They give me headache summat chronic. But she’ll have summat to say if you do.’
‘We won’t tell her,’ he said.
That made her giggle. ‘Tha’rt a bad boy,’ she said.
‘That’s me,’ he agreed and winked at her.
So the figures were corrected and finished, and Lizzie sat on the newly scrubbed window sill and gazed out of the newly cleaned window and watched the people walking past. And there were still no customers.
I shall be bored stiff in this house with only these two for company, he thought. And he remembered Philly, who was all quick sympathy and ready wit and bubbling laughter, and felt homesick for the sound and sight of her.
Someone was pushing open the door, making the bell jangle as if it was an alarm. It was a young man, very tall and very fashionably dressed, in a green jacket made of fine wool, doeskin breeches, expensive boots and a white silk hat set at a rakish angel on a shock of brown hair. He was dangling four plump pigeons in his right hand and bellowing as he strode into the shop, ‘Becky! Where the devil’s she got to? Ain’t that just like the woman! Never here when you want her. Becky!’ Then he noticed George and scowled. ‘Who’s that?’
‘New shop boy,’ Lizzie told him. ‘Come to be apprenticed.’
‘Humph!’ the young man said. ‘He’d better be good, that’s all. I didn’t think much to the last one. Becky!’ And he pushed through the inner door, waving the pigeons and shouting as he went.
George looked a question at Lizzie. It wasn’t worth putting it into words because he knew she wouldn’t answer it.
But she surprised him. ‘My brother, Richard. Been out buying cloth.’
George grimaced. ‘Funny sort of cloth.’
‘Oh, that’ll be delivered when it’s ready,’ she explained. ‘He allus buys summat special when he’s out and about. He likes his food.’
I wonder whether I shall get to eat any of it? George thought. All found could mean meals, couldn’t it, and after all that scrubbing and cleaning, he’d worked up a healthy appetite, which got sharper as their empty day gradually inched towards dinner time and the smell of roasting pigeon began to drift into the shop. Then, when his belly was rumbling loud enough to be heard in the street, there were trudging footsteps on the stairs and a murmur of voices in the room above the shop and a woman in a grey mob cap appeared in the doorway. She was small, short and skinny and she looked so worn and scuffed she could have been any age between thirty and sixty.
‘Dinner’s on the table, Miss Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘Miss Bell says to shut shop.’ She stood aside to make way for Elizabeth, who rubbed her hands clean on her skirt and went stooping up the stairs, then she turned and looked at George. ‘You’re the new ’un, ain’tcher,’ she said, ‘what’s been a-cleaning the winders. You’re to come wi’ me. Name a’ Norridge. Mrs Norridge to you. I’m supposed to be their cook housekeeper. That’s a laugh. General dogsbody more like. Look sharp or it’ll get cold.’ But George needed no bidding for they were heading for the kitchen and the smell of roast pigeon was growing stronger with every step he took.
The table was set with two plates and a serving dish where two roast pigeons lay side by side and steaming, on a mound of greens and potatoes. It was a feast.
‘How…?’ he asked, and then stopped. If she was cheating their employers, happen it were best not to know.
Mrs Norridge winked at him. ‘Nipped out the back and bought two more,’ she explained, ‘soon as he brung ’em in. They got an account at Mr Cullen’s. I often does it. Eat hearty, boy.’
He ate very hearty. The pigeons were delicious, cooked to such perfection that the flesh fell from the bones. And when they’d eaten every morsel of the main course Mrs Norridge took a tray and disappeared upstairs, returning with the remains of a sizeable cherry pie with a dish of cream. I shall live well here, he thought, as he put the first spoonful of pie in his mouth. They might not be taking much trade but they’re comfortable if they can dine like this.
‘Good?’ Mrs Norridge asked.
‘Aye,’ he told her, happily. ‘Gradely.’ He took another mouthful and savoured it. ‘They don’t do much in the way of trade,’ he said, speaking casually.
‘You can say that again,’ Mrs Norridge said. ‘I don’t know how they make out some weeks. Course it was all different when old man Bell was alive. They had plenty a’ custom then. He was up to all sorts a’ tricks to bring ’em in.’
‘What sort of tricks were those then?’
‘Oh, all sorts,’ Mrs Norridge said. ‘He used to write out little cards – Mr Bell respectfully begs to inform his customers that the new spring cottons have arrived or the new broadcloths or whatever it was – an’ stick ’em in the windows. That sort a’ thing. An’ then they’d come a-trooping in to see what was what. Knew ’em all by name he did. All their fancies. Cracking jokes and making ’em laugh. It was like a party in there sometimes. Couldn’t hear yerself speak fer cackling an’ laughing. Can you manage the rest ’a this pie?’
He held up his plate.
‘More like a morgue nowadays,’ she said, as she served him the last of the pie. ‘Creeping about, never saying nothink. Mr Richard makes enough row coming home, hollering and shouting, I’ll grant you that, but he never says nothink to me. An’ that last boy they had was worse than useless. Never said a blind word to anyone the whole time he was here. She threw him out after six months an’ I can’t say I blamed her.’
So, he thought, for all her ums and ahs and that odd way of hers, Mrs Bell can be tough. ‘’Twill be different now I’ve come,’ he said, licking the last of the cream off the serving spoon. ‘Watch an’ you’ll see. I’ll have the shop full in no time. I’ve got ideas.’
‘You got plenty a’ sauce,’ she said, removing the spoon. ‘I’ll say that for you.’ She lifted her head and listened. ‘They’re a-coming down,’ she said.
There was only one more thing he needed to find out. ‘Do I sleep here, Mrs Norridge?’
‘In the store room,’ she told him, carrying the plates to the sink. ‘Now get back to the shop, for pity’s sake.’
He was standing by the shelves pretending to tidy the rolls of cloth when Mrs Bell rattled her keys into the room. ‘Leave that,’ she said. ‘Time you – um – learnt about cloth if you mean to be – um – ’prenticed. Follow me.’
He followed her into a small dusty room, where rolls of new cloth stood in line against the walls, wrapped in rough linen and carefully labelled, and piles of boxes were heaped one on top of the other in every available space, and he caught a glimpse of a truckle bed half hidden in the furthest corner, and there he was instructed, and tried to look interested, and repeated what she told him, to show that he understood her. But his thoughts were spinning away in a completely different direction. He was surprised to see how much stock they had and even more surprised to think that it was all hidden away. It seemed total folly to him. What was the point of explaining the difference between hand prints and roller prints or cottons and calicos, when so few of them were in the shop? They should be on the shelves and draped in the windows, he thought, where the customers could see ’em, then we might tempt a few of ’em over the doorstep. But he couldn’t say so. She might not take kindly to an apprentice telling her what she ought to do and he didn’t want to get sent packing on his first day. So he listened and looked attentive.
For the next two days, he did what little work there was – sweeping the floor, carrying two rolls of cloth down from the store room for a customer and running errands to master tailors in Stonegate and High Petergate – and thought hard about what else he could do. On his fourth morning, an elderly lady came timidly into the shop to say that she wished to choose some new ribbons for her Sunday bonnet and Lizzie, who was busy showing the lilac broadcloth to a young man, indicated with an upward nod of her head that he was to serve the lady. It took him ten minutes, as he presented her with a tray full of possibilities from the shelf under the counter and used every ounce of charm he possessed to persuade her that the most expensive would suit her complexion to perfection. After she’d gone, smiling and satisfied and surprised by her own extravagance, he stood looking at the tray and wondering whether he could say something to Lizzie.
‘These should be in the window,’ he said eventually, ‘where folk can see ’em, not hidden away under the counter. These and the best of the cloth. That lilac for a start, and the green. Good broadcloth is that. We should make show of what we’ve got to offer. Let folk see it. That’s my opinion. They’ll not buy what they can’t see. What do ’ee think?’ If he could get her on his side she might be able to persuade her sister.
She was no use to him at all. She giggled. She said she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t the sort of question she’d ever been asked. ‘Tha’d need to talk to Mrs Bell about it,’ she told him. ‘’Tis not up to me.’
It was the worst possible answer. How could he do that when she wouldn’t allow him to say a word? It was very frustrating and, try as he might, he couldn’t see a way round it.
The next day was Sunday, which at least meant there was something different for him to do. The entire family took the short walk down Goodramgate to the Church of the Holy Trinity, where the saints stood impassively in the stained glass windows, empty-faced and distant, the flagstones were jaggedly uneven, and the box pews out of alignment and black with age. Mrs Bell and her brother and sister had a pew halfway up the aisle, which showed that the family had some standing.
‘There are seats for ’prentices at the back,’ Mrs Bell said, putting him in his place again. ‘Norridge will show you where to go.’
George took his seat feeling belittled and irritable. He bit his lip. He ignored the other people in the pew. He scowled at the saints. He frowned at the pulpit. He glared at the nobs as they swept past him on their well-dressed way to their important pews. And then one of them stopped by his lowly seat and leant across towards him and spoke his name.
‘Morning, George. Tha got the job, I see.’
It was his Uncle Matthew with his wife on his arm, and a gold-topped cane in his hand, dressed in the height of fashion, in a broadcloth jacket and a pair of trousers, no less, and a waistcoat of pale blue brocade.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, fighting the urge to turn his head to see if Mrs Bell was noticing. ‘Thank ’ee kindly.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Mr Bottrill said. ‘I like a boy who works for his living. Settled in well, have ’ee?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good,’ his uncle said. And he and his wife continued their progress to the front pews, greeting Mrs Bell on their way.
Has she seen? George wondered. Please God, let her have seen.
She had and made a point of asking him about it on their way back to the shop. ‘You know Mr Bottrill – um – seemingly.’
Oh, what an enjoyable moment. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ George said.
‘How did that – um – come about?’
‘He’s my uncle, ma’am.’
‘Is he, by Jove?’ Richard said, very much impressed. ‘Fancy. Now he’s what I call a rich man. Very rich by all accounts. A regular Croesus. Runs a coach and four, house full of servants, property all over, in Hutton and Cranswick and Newton-on-Derwent, even as far afield as Whitby and Huntington, so they say.’
‘Aye, so he has,’ George said with enormous satisfaction. Now, he thought, happen they’ll treat me with a bit more respect.