Changing of the Guard: Pomp and Poverty, #1

Changing of the Guard

Pomp and Poverty Book 1

Copyright © 2016 James Farner

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CONTENTS

Clarence Urwin 1827

Edward Urwin 1834-1839

Mrs Forsyth 1838-1841

Henry Beechworth 1839-1843

Gertrude Ebonson 1843-1846

Edward Urwin 1846

Theodore Norlong 1846

Hugo Ebonson 1846

Edward Urwin 1847

Pomp and Poverty Book 2 Sneak Peek

Clarence Urwin

1827

Clarence Urwin wiped the top of his forehead with the bottom of his hat. When he replaced it, the pink skin of his head was as black as a Staffordshire coal mine. He fell into line with other men wearing the same soiled overalls. They were leaving the series of warehouses straddling one of Birmingham’s stinking canals for the public houses a few streets away.

Clarence was going somewhere different tonight. He’d gone through the meeting in his mind throughout the day. The rate at which he threw crates on top of the pack horses was at an all-time low, and some of his friends were beginning to pull him up on it. When the whistle for the end of the day went, he breathed a sigh of relief. If Tommy Malkins hadn’t called him back, he would have escaped before everyone else. As it stood, he walked with twenty pairs of prying eyes following him.

Look, I’m going to have to go, said Clarence.

What? You not coming down for a drink? said Tommy.

Boss wants to see me.

To see you? They training you up to be a boss as well, are they?

Clarence spat to his side. I’m no traitor to my class. Wouldn’t be seen dead up in an office somewhere, so knock that on the head now. I’m already late.

I want a full report in the morning, then. Don’t want to be letting you becoming a toffee-nosed snob, do we?

Clarence didn’t laugh. See you later, mate.

He turned right down an alley that led between two ram-shackle houses. All the houses were the same in this neighbourhood; leaky roofs, dirt piled an inch thick, and as many people as possible crammed into every room. He lived in one himself, as did every other middle-aged toiler who worked on his shift.

The line of workers filing through the main gates meant he had to change direction and find a side entrance. The shrill whistles from workers calling over heads for their friends and the whinnying of nervous horses forced him to keep his head low.

He entered through a side gate and blended in with the few workers who had to maintain the premises on the nightshift. The Ebonson Carrying Company never stopped. Only on the canals did regulation force them to limit their activities.

Luckily, none of them knew who he was. He turned his collar up on his short, plain cut jacket and scratched the huge wart on the side of his nose. He’d sell his sister for a pint of bitter about now.

Enormous loads of everything from machine parts to uncut fabrics took up most of the yard. He crouched below one of the great stacks of boxes above him. He wiped the top of his head with his cap again. He couldn’t believe it. He’d made it bright and early.

Do not think you are off the hook, Clarence.

Clarence snapped to attention as a long, thin man dressed in a thick black cloak emerged from behind another load of stores. His top hat kept most of his face in shadow.

Got held up. Clarence’s voice had faded to a mumble.

I will hold you up if you think about being late again. Every minute lost increases the chances of someone stumbling upon us.

What do you want me to do?

Not a great deal. You know who murdered your brother, and that is a problem. The man withdrew a blade from an inside pocket. I am sorry to do this.

Wait, stop. Don’t. Clarence backed up against the boxes until he couldn’t go any further.

The man advanced towards him and stopped. You see how much damage this information could cause if it got out. It could bring this world down. You are one of the only people to know about it, and that cannot happen.

What do you want from me? Please. I won’t do anything.

I know you will not do anything. That is why I have watched you for the preceding six weeks. You have not said a word. And why is that, I wonder?

Clarence glanced at the point of the blade approaching his chest. Because it’s none of my business, and I know it. I won’t say anything. We weren’t close to each other. Just the same blood and that’s it.

Good. That is exactly what I wanted to hear. The blade gradually moved towards the man’s inside pocket.

Clarence eased himself up again. Could he make a break for it now? This was his chance. He’d always been a fast runner as a young man in his twenties.

The man stepped in front of him, as if he already knew what he was thinking. I want you to know that I feel the same way as you do. It is none of your business, and if you do not want to make any problems for me then I can see you are well taken care of. He flashed a grin. Or I could simply remove you.

I’ll say nothing. Nothing at all. You can rely on me.

The man’s hand dove for his pocket again. Had he changed his mind? Clarence was already trying to move away when out popped a piece of paper. When the man slapped it onto Clarence’s hand his breath caught in his throat. It was a one pound note, so crisp he could almost see the ink shimmer where the bank manager had signed it off.

You can expect another one of these every month if you keep your mouth shut.

Clarence couldn’t believe what sort of deal was on the table here. He could never dream of earning this much money this quickly. Tommy might have been right all along. This wasn’t his boss, Sir Leopold Ebonson, but there might be another way to get out of this losing position in life after all. At the very least, he could buy a few more rounds in the Horse and Cart.

If someone, anyone, should discover something, you will die. It is a costly business, murder, but do not think I will not shirk it. At that point I would have nothing to lose.

Clarence nodded at the threat, his mouth still hanging open. Now all he had to do was make sure nobody asked any questions about his sudden windfall.

Edward Urwin

1834-1839

1

I thought my parents were killed when two runaway packhorses threw off their loads at the Ebonson Carrying Company.

I was too young to have known them. Whenever I asked about my mother, Henrietta, or my father, William, Uncle Clarence would clip me around the ear, or if I caught him on a bad day he would take the belt to me. I had to accept it. My parents died when I was a baby and I don’t remember their faces.

For all his tempers Uncle Clarence was the only man I ever knew in the house. He worked as a loader for the horses. When he was younger he loaded for the Ebonson Carrying Company on their canals. He’s worked there for as long as I can remember, and I assumed he would work there for the rest of his life. He couldn’t read, write, or count beyond his fingers.

At the weekend Clarence would sometimes take me down to the Horse and Cart public house. He never left me alone long enough for me to sneak a drink of his beer. Not that I tried after he once gave me the belting of my seven-year-old life for wrapping my lips around the rim of his glass. There would be the rest of my life to indulge.

I loved these weekends spent in the Horse and Cart, if only for the strange characters that would come through the doors. They didn’t pay much attention to me beyond a kind word and a pat on the head. I suppose when I was seven they were never interested in what I had to say.

There was Jimmy Marklew, one of Clarence’s work friends. He always held an opinion on everything from world politics to what was going on with the Fishwick family, who ran a market stall selling something or other. It wasn’t until later I discovered that he, too, wasn’t able to read or write, so how was he to know what happened in world politics?

Tommy Malkins could offer a memorable afternoon sometimes, but he was too much like my uncle. Prone to tempers and drinking too much, he could be a nasty human being when he wanted to be. I witnessed it first hand when he almost ripped off a man’s ear over issues I couldn’t comprehend.

My favourite character was an old man who always sat at the same table three steps from the door. I didn’t know the man. He hadn’t acknowledged me. And nobody seemed to know much of anything about him. Yet there was something that drew me to him. I can’t explain what it was, but when I thought he wasn’t looking I would observe him.

That was until Clarence would slap me around the back of the head and demand we go home. I always hoped Aunt Hannah would hold her tongue until Clarence had sobered up.

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During the day I would wash pots or help around the house. If I could get away, I would. I always loved Aunt Hannah, but I didn’t like the work. I tried to make my hands work, but my mind would wander across to something else. Before long, I’d discover I’d washed the same pot over and over for an hour.

When I could steal myself away, I would collect stones left on the street. They always made white when I scraped them across the flag. If I could fetch a brick, I could make orange, but that was it. Only occasionally did I come across a piece of real coloured chalk. I didn’t know where they came from, but they allowed me to create my greatest masterpieces yet.

If the rain didn’t wash them away from the paving stones, I could return the next day and still see the faded outline. I had a little tin box with three dents in the top of it for hiding all my chalk. This I would carry around with me most of the time, like two lovers clinging to each other in the twilight of their lives. Now when I remember back I realise how strange I must have looked.

If it wasn’t for that strangeness, I would never have met Henry Beechworth.

I first met him whilst finishing the design of the squalid little house opposite my place sitting on the path like an urchin begging for a coin. I already had to do it again once because the local bully Harold Lynch had scraped his foot over it and cracked me in the mouth. I was smaller than most as a child, so there was nothing I could do about it.

Nice bit of art, young man, said Henry. I’ve seen you drawing on the street a few times. You use chalk, do you?

Yes, sir. I held out my tin box to show him. I could barely steady my hand. Nobody had ever approached me out of nothing to compliment my work.

What’s your name?

Edward Urwin, sir.

Very nice to meet you. Henry held his hand out. I’m Henry Beechworth.

Thank you, sir.

My mouth was hanging open in awe the whole time. He towered over me, and his wrinkles framed his face like a demented actor from Shakespeare’s Richard the Third. He looked so old he could have been fifty, or even older.

No need to call me sir. Henry will be fine. So, I see you’re drawing the house across the road. What do you think of it?

I shrugged. It looks like it’s about to fall over. I think it’s horrible.

Henry smiled at me warmly. That’s where I live.

I blushed more than anyone could have in that moment. I’m sorry, Henry, sir, Henry. I didn’t mean to.

Henry patted me on the head. Don’t lose your head. I agree with you. It’s horrible and I wish I could live somewhere else, but life is all down to chance. And chance didn’t favour me this time. But maybe it’ll favour you?

I don’t understand.

And you shouldn’t. Finish your drawing. I might see it later.

Henry continued to trace a path towards his house. I didn’t return to my drawing until I saw the door close behind him. I wasn’t sure what to think in that moment. There were so many possibilities and none of them made any logical sense to my young seven-year-old self. Later, all my questions would have answers.

Sometimes Henry would come to look at my drawings. He did nothing else other than observe them, occasionally passing comment, and making suggestions for how I could improve. I enjoyed his company, but I didn’t feel qualified to ask any further questions.

If only I knew then what I do now...

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Aunt Hannah was both my mother and my father. Clarence, for all his attempts at bonding, was cold and heartless. I tried to stay out of his way, when possible. This wasn’t easy in the one room we all shared together. More than once I was on the end of a beating because he’d lost at cards or something inexplicable had annoyed him.

Only on the first of each month was everything different. We would have a feast. Aunt Hannah would visit our local butcher and pick up the biggest leg of pork or chicken she could. Later that afternoon we would be treated to a meal fit for a king. I only got the scantiest piece of meat there was, but it was more than anyone else in our area could expect.

What I didn’t understand was how we could afford it. Everyone I knew didn’t have more than mere morsels on their plates. I felt guilty when I discovered this wasn’t what happened to normal families.

Whenever Hannah asked Clarence where he found the money, he would go quiet and tell us Just a bit extra from the boss.

The conversation ended there. If it didn’t, which only happened once every six months, Hannah would go to bed with a black eye or a bleeding nose. Like a coward, I would curl up in a corner and sob.

Life went on like this until I was nine and that fateful day when I entered a place I’d always wondered about.

2

Henry studied Edward’s drawings, pleased with how they became more pronounced with every month. The colours remained the same and the subjects hadn’t altered much, but the way he drew them had. The details were coming to life. His watery blue eyes noticed things he could have never hoped to notice before. For a nine-year-old, he had a skill about him.

Marvellous, Edward, marvellous, said Henry. I see you’ve drawn my house again. Squalor has never looked so good.

Edward immediately stopped working and stood to attention with a beam across his face. Thank you.

Come, you’ve been working here since this morning, and I don’t like the look of that sky. Henry threw his head to the rapidly greying heavens. Fancy a cup of tea?

Thank you, Henry, but I don’t think Auntie Hannah would like me coming in and asking her to make drinks.

I wasn’t asking you to go home. I was inviting you into mine. Come on, you’ve earned a rest.

Henry was already making his way across the street. A horse and cart with pieces of rubbished wood piled on the back momentarily separated them. Edward, dumbstruck, could only follow.

Welcome. I’m on the top floor in the attic, sorry to say. Least I’ve got the place to myself.

Mould covered the walls and the stone steps had chips missing from them. The air hung heavier than in Edward’s own home. He climbed the steps after Henry. He could see into some of the rooms and catch a whole family huddled around a little fire. One room looked half full with empty tins. The stench of rotting food made Edward run on without stopping.

Up and up they went until they came to a final door. This door swung on rusted hinges and Henry brought him into his little home. A skylight allowed in some thin rays to bring some light to the gloomy surroundings.

You’ve got the bed or the chair. You take your pick. I’ll go downstairs and get the water boiled. The Carters are good people, and they’ll always give me a hand when I need it. Don’t go too far, said Henry.

Edward was alone and couldn’t help but begin to explore. His artist’s eye started to work, and he saw so many possibilities. Did the pattern of the mould look like a busy market street? The discarded pieces of paper could have once made up a pack of playing cards. It was the most rundown room he’d ever seen, but he loved it.

Standing on the bed, he stretched towards the ceiling and managed to open the skylight. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get high enough to see outside. He jumped again, missed the ledge, and fell onto the creaking springs.

You best be careful, young man, or you’ll come to a bad end.

Edward quickly replaced the skylight and sat with his legs crossed whilst Henry made up the tea. It tasted bitter and what he wouldn’t have given for a lump of sugar. They made no more mention of his attempts to climb out the window.

I’m sorry I haven’t invited you in here before. Can’t believe my eyes when I think I first saw your pictures two years ago. You’re getting better and better.

Thank you, Henry. Edward averted his eyes towards the chipped white cup between his hands.

What do you wish, Edward?

What do I wish?

Yes, what do you want to do with your life? You must want something from this world when you grow up.

Edward sucked on the front of his teeth. I’m going to work with my uncle with the packhorses. Loading them up.

Henry’s face fell. Don’t you want to be an artist? To draw for the rest of your life?

My uncle said I can’t be doing that until the end of my days. Said I’d be out on the streets if I did.

Your uncle might know many things, but one thing he doesn’t know about is the world outside horses. You have a rare talent for spotting things others can’t. One day you’ll find this is something to be thankful for, said Henry.

My uncle wouldn’t like it if I didn’t work in the yard with him, though.

Wouldn’t you like to do more?

Edward shrugged. What else is there?

An entire world. Birmingham’s one city of many. You ever heard of London, Paris, and Vienna?

Only London. But nobody from our family has ever gone down to London, said Edward.

Lots of new things to draw down there. A whole world. Would you like to learn about them?

Edward thought about it. Henry had never spoken to him like this before. As far as everyone else knew, when he was old enough he would work for the Ebonson Carrying Company like his father before him.

Only until I’m old enough to work in the yard like my dad and uncle.

Then that’s what it will have to be. You’re a good boy. A good boy, indeed.

Henry ruffled the boy’s chestnut-coloured hair, knowing that this was not Clarence’s blood nephew. If everything worked out as he’d always planned, the boy had a real chance of escaping this place for good. Perhaps one day he would see the places he could only dream of?

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No longer was it considered abnormal for Henry to invite Edward into his attic above the townhouse. It didn’t take long for Clarence and Hannah to notice the change. And it didn’t take long for them to come to blows over it, sometimes for real.

I don’t want him hanging about with that old gimmer, said Clarence. He’s a wrong ‘un. All he does is hang about that pub in that corner. I’ve never seen him talk to a soul, and now he wants to get interested in Eddy. What’s his game?

There’s no harm in it, said Hannah. He’s just an old man who wants a bit of company. Nothing’s ever happened.

Yet. Clarence was getting redder in the face. Yet. We don’t know what he’s up to or what’s going to happen next week or next month. If he doesn’t stop inviting him in, I’m going down to see him myself.

You’ll do no such thing. Hannah stepped forward

Get out of my face, you bitch, or I’ll make you live to regret it.

I’m trying to stop you starting something when there’s no need to, said Hannah.

"I’ll tell you when there’s a need. Now get away from me.

Still, Hannah didn’t move. Edward, sitting nearby, had already covered his face with his hands. He wished he could cover his ears too. Her frail, skeletal features didn’t stand a chance.

I’ll not let you ruin his life because of your made up problems.

Hannah hit the ground crying. The fist caught her in her bottom lip. The blood spilled freely. The screaming and the shouting melded into one and Edward did his best to pretend he was somewhere else. He only wished he knew of London, Paris, and Vienna. Then he could transport himself to what sounded like the ends of the earth.

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School was for the rich. Nobody from 10 Smithson Street had ever seen the inside of a classroom. There was no chance of the poor masses ever being educated. Jimmy Marklew theorised the ruling classes didn’t want anyone to get on their level. Henry’s improvised lessons made the world bigger by a thousand.

He would tell him stories of lands that he’d only heard in name. There was no structure and no reason. One day it may be a story about Renaissance Italy and the political manoeuvrings of the Medici Family through art patronage. On another day it may be a discussion about the Emperor Napoleon and the series of wars that had ended only a generation ago.

I want to see it all, said Edward after a lecture on the discovery of America.

Steady on, my boy. You’ve barely seen Birmingham and now you want to see the world.

I want to see that too. With the new railways they’re building, said Edward.

Maybe if you can pretend you can buy a ticket. Your uncle only ties boxes to horses. It doesn’t give him the right to travel on the trains.

Edward looked disappointed.

But there’s a chance, said Henry. Drawing can take you around the world as many times as you please. Artists are always in high demand. Keep your nose clean and keep drawing. One day you never know what might happen, understand?

Edward had no idea how drawing could get him around the world. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t find time to draw judging by how long Clarence’s day was. He would get up and bustle around long before the sun had risen. Everyone else would be forced to wake up with him. Following a shave with his straight razor, Clarence would throw on the remainder of his clothes and strike out. He would only return late that evening, usually drunk.

Do you know what a book is, Edward?

He snapped out of his thoughts. I’ve heard of them, but only seen them down near the market in this shop.

Correct. Do you know what’s inside them?

Edward’s eyebrows scrunched together. Words?

Henry chuckled. Yes, that’s right. You can read books on anything from politics to philosophical works by some of the greatest minds we’ve ever known. They can say far more than any one person. A man who’s well-read will always have an advantage over everyone else.

Even you?

Even me. Even more than ten of me. Would you like to see what’s inside a book? said Henry.

Yes, please.

Good boy. You will see more than anyone in your family. So, will you come with me down to the market? Henry was already putting on his coat.

Yes, please.

Grand. And you remembered your manners as well. Get your clogs on.

Edward pulled on the clogs he’d found at the side of the road with a hole in the top of the shoe and they began their journey down to the market. In the middle of the day all the industrial workers had gone away. What remained was a gaggle of wobbly-limbed men, women, and the elderly trying to make a crust.

Ordinarily, Edward hated hanging around at the market. There was nowhere for him to draw. Every time he tried, someone would step over it or aim a kick