Thistles in the Corn

CHAPTER 1

When, as an old man, Will sat and reflected on the events of his long life, he found it difficult to remember much about his early years, spent in the Poor House. He did not know whether he had been born there, or whether he had been taken there as a babe in arms. No one had ever told him anything about his background. He had no memory of his mother or of any family of his own. His name—Will Smythe—was his only inheritance.

As far as he could recall, his life in the Poor House had not been unhappy. No one had ever been cruel to him, even though no one had ever shown him affection. He had grown up surrounded by other small, lost boys in the security of an institution that ensured that its inmates received just enough care to survive and taught them their place in life. Will accepted this; it was the only kind of life he knew.

Nothing much ever happened to disturb the humdrum routine—until that day in May 1835, all those years ago. That was the day when Will left the Poor House and went to live with Farmer and Mrs Stower at Stower Farm.

The day had begun as usual, with early rising and a breakfast of thin gruel and coarse bread; but then, instead of being packed off to work—at some repetitive task or other—seven of the boys were singled out and told to follow the porter along unfamiliar corridors, through doors that had to be unlocked, to a part of the Poor House that they did not know existed.

At last, the porter stopped before a door. He turned to face his charges.

Now, you lot. You be goin’ to see the Master an’ the guv’ners, he growled. Don’ speak unless you be spoken to; don’t fidget about. D’you hear me? Mind what I says . . . or it’ll be the worse fer ’ee.

He glared round at the seven pale faces. And don’t ’ee blub, Harris. D’you hear me?

He put his ear close up to the door and tapped lightly, almost timidly.

A moment later, the boys were being hustled into a room such as they had never seen before.

There was colour in this room—in the patterned carpet; in the heavy curtains; in the pictures on the walls; and in the clothing worn by the four gentlemen who were seated at a highly polished table strewn with papers. They recognised, at once, the hard features of the Master of the House, even though they rarely came into contact with him. One of the other men was also familiar to the boys; he was the fat clergyman who visited the Poor House frequently to oversee their religious development. He had often frightened them with his stories of the punishment meted out to sinners. He had never filled any of them with a sense of God’s love and mercy, even though he had told them many times that God did love them.

Now, he acknowledged their arrival with a wave of his pudgy hand and a patronising smile.

Right. Line ’em up, Mister Worthington. Let’s take a look at them.

His order was addressed to the Master who inclined his head in acknowledgement, then relayed the instruction to the porter who chivvied the boys into line then, with a small bow to his superiors, slid into the background.

Will’s cheeks burned with embarrassment under the keen scrutiny of the four pairs of eyes. He felt a sudden need to use the lavatory, and squirmed about in an effort to control himself. More than anything, he wanted to escape from this room; but he did not dare to ask to be excused.

You boys . . . The clergyman was addressing them in his ponderous voice that was used to making itself heard in church. You fortunate boys . . . You have been brought up in the safety and plenty of this excellent institution. You have never known the hardship and danger which so many of your kind endure in their dreadful hovels. God has smiled on you. You have been very fortunate . . . and have grown up strong and healthy . . . thanks to this system . . . thanks to this place. However . . . Here he paused and smiled an all-encompassing smile that made his red cheeks puff out above his tight collar. However, we cannot keep you here for ever more, costing good Christian men money . . . even if we wanted to.

He looked round at his companions for their agreement. They all nodded.

Now it is time for you to try to make your own way in the world . . . to earn your living, he went on. You are no longer helpless little children. Why, you’re almost men, aren’t you.

Will cast a sidelong look at the boy standing next to him. Harris certainly didn’t look like a man. He had soft, babyish features that would have looked pretty on a girl. There was a damp stain on Harris’s breeches, and tears in his blue eyes that were staring so resolutely at the floor. And Will himself, while he might already be as tall as a short man, had yet to fill out to a man’s physique. All the others were short and puny.

Yes, the time has come, the cleric continued. Some of you, I believe, have been with us all your life. You can truly be said to be our children. You are a living testimony to the charity you have received. We have done a good job with you. Now you have to complete that job yourselves.

He paused and looked keenly into the young faces ranged before him.

Does anyone want to ask anything? he asked, anticipating no reply.

Yes, Sir . . . Please . . . p . . . p . . . p . . . please, Sir, one boy stuttered.

The four gentlemen looked surprised. The clergyman gave a weak smile of encouragement.

Well, boy. What is it? His voice boomed out.

P . . . p . . . please, Sir . . . Be you . . . I . . . I . . . The boy stuttered; then he took a deep breath and blurted out the important question, You b’aint goin’ to open the door an’ chuck us out?

He began to cry; and tried unsuccessfully to hide the tears that ran down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. The clergyman let out a bellow of laughter that was echoed by his companions.

Well, well . . . I only wish we could! What a lot of bother it would save us . . . and what a lot of time! No, boy. We cannot, and would not, just open the doors and throw you out into the world. That would surely mean that you’d be back in here . . . or in gaol . . . or worse . . . within a week. No. Hopefully, you will never come back here again. What we have arranged is this: each one of you fortunate, privileged boys has been found a proper job and a proper home to go to. That is a lot more than a lot of boys of your age . . . and of your class . . . could ever hope for. Most have to take their chances. But you . . . We have found you all somewhere to go. This is the first step towards earning your own living; and I hope and trust that you will all do your best, according to your ability, as you have been trained here, and that you will each make something of yourself and prove to be a credit to this establishment that has provided you with a home for so long.

He beamed at the solemn, pale faces and raised his eyebrows in surprise at their obvious terror.

Why are you trembling, boy? He addressed little Harris, who did not reply, but hid his face with his tattered shirtsleeve.

Do not be afraid, the clergyman went on. Be glad! Seize your opportunity to go away and make something of yourselves. As the Bible says: ‘Rejoice in the Lord; and again I say Rejoice.’

He turned to his companions. And now, I ask you, gentlemen, to rise and join me in a prayer to ask the Lord’s blessing upon these, His humble servants, and upon the work done in His name in this house.

The chairs scraped back as the men rose unenthusiastically to their feet. The boys automatically put their hands together and closed their smarting eyes. They heard the sonorous voice booming out the usual platitudes. All were too nervous to take in exactly what was being said; though, from long practice at communal prayers, they managed to put the ‘Amen’ in at appropriate moments.

The clergyman signalled to the porter to take the boys away.

Line ’em up in the dormitory. Doctor Simms’ll take a look at ’em and sign the release papers. Then you can deliver ’em to their new homes, the Master instructed.

The boys filed out of the room in silence. Their relief was tempered now by the new and awful fear of what might lie ahead. They straggled back along the unfamiliar corridors as if in a dream.

Right, you lot. Gather up yer things an’ line up over there, by the winder, the porter instructed, brusquely. He was keen to exert his authority which, he felt, had been disregarded by his superiors.

Please, sir . . . What things? a boy asked. As far as he was aware, he had never had any possessions of his own.

There be a few bits o’ clothes an’ things set out fer ’ee . . . See them bundles? They be fer ’ee. Now let’s have a look at ’ee.

He looked each boy over, tutting at the odd grimy neck, raging over Harris’s soiled breeches.

This ’ere doctor, he’ll check as you be all in one piece . . . Ah. Here he be . . . As soon as he be done with’ee, us’ll get off.

He bowed to the young man who had just entered the room.

I’ve got ’em into line, Sir, the porter reported. I’ve put ’em by the winder, so as you’ve got a bit more light.

Umm. They’re not very clean, are they? The doctor was wrinkling his nose.

No, Sir. I’m afraid, Sir, that th’inmates don’t set much store by bein’ clean. I don’ suppose as they realises that it be next to Godliness, as the Reverend says, the porter explained.

The doctor showed his distaste for the job he had been asked to do by keeping at arm’s length from each boy and by not touching any of them. His examination of their health amounted to no more than a quick perusal of the bits of their flesh that showed and his watching each of them walk up and down the room.

They look all right to me, he announced.

Oh yes, Sir. An’ so they be, agreed the porter readily.

I have the papers here.

The doctor opened his leather bag and took out the official documents that stated that each boy was in good health and strong enough to benefit from what was planned for him.

I’ll sign these later, he said, thrusting them back into the bag.

Now what you need, porter, are these documents . . . here . . . that you must pass on to their new masters.

He pulled out a few sheets of paper and handed them to the porter.

These’ll tell them all there is to know about each boy. Now, I’ll bid you good day.

He hurried from the dismal room with evident relief.

The porter shuffled the pieces of paper and made a great show of pretending to read them and take in the information. It hadn’t been his fortune to be taught to read when he was a lad; these orphans had received only rudimentary tuition, but it was more than he had had; however, he wasn’t going to let it show. He nodded his head as he perused each one.

Right. That’s it. Now, you lot . . . Out to the lavvy, then we’ll be ready to set off. I meself be lookin’ for’ard to a nice little ride in the cart. All round the countryside in the May sunshine, ay?

The porter chivvied them out into the courtyard. A battered farm cart stood waiting for them.

A-hoy, Ted! The porter greeted the carter. That be a right rickety-lookin’ contraption as you got there. Aint there anythin’ better fer us to travel in?

It’ll get us there an’ back again. All the other carts be needed. It’ll be all right if ’n’ they don’ jump about, the carter growled. Get ’em on board. The sooner as we gets goin’, the sooner as we’ll be finished.

I don’ reckon as there’ll be much jumpin’ about, declared the porter with a guffaw. ’Em aint very perky this marnin’. Come on, you lot . . . Yer carriage awaits ’ee.

The boys clambered into the cart and huddled together on the splintery boards.

Cheer up, you lot. You looks as if you be bein’ taken to yer execution. The porter hauled himself on board.

Let me down, hollered poor little Harris; but the man’s strong hand pressed the child back to the floor of the cart.

Take ’em away, Ted, the porter called, as he flopped down beside his charges.

The carter twirled his whip in acknowledgement, and set the cart in motion.

The cart was driven slowly all round the courtyard, as if to show the boys off, for one last time, to any pale faces that might have been watching through the grubby window panes. Then, with another twirl of the carter’s whip, they passed through the gateway and out into the world.

On any other day, a ride in the cart would have been an adventure, something out of the ordinary, to be enjoyed. But this morning, the boys were journeying into the unknown. The Poor House might be regarded with suspicion, and even fear, in the surrounding countryside; but to them it had been home for as long as they could remember.

As they left the town behind, the horse picked up speed. Will found the rolling motion of the cart nauseating. All he could do was to stare straight ahead and hope that it wouldn’t get worse. He was aware of somebody—probably Harris—sobbing and sniffing. Then, suddenly, a boy lurched to his feet, thrust his head over the side of the cart and was sick.

The porter guffawed and started to cough.

Sit down, Hawkins, else yer’ll end up under the wheels. Be there anybody else as feels he’ve got to part wi’ his breakfast? He grinned round at them. Yer’ll get used to it . . . Aint ’ee the lucky uns, then . . . goin’ fer a jaunt all round the countryside?

After a while, Will did get used to the motion. The other boys were looking better, too. Even little Harris had stopped blubbing and was now sucking his thumb. The air was warm and carrying the sound of birdsong. People were about their business, and many of them paused and waved at the passing cart with its cargo of anxious children.

It was clear that the porter was thoroughly enjoying himself. A break from the day-to-day monotony did not come his way very often. He waved and called out greetings to passers-by, and occasionally volunteered little tit-bits of information about the places they were passing through. However, none of this did anything to reassure the boys; they stayed silent, each one thinking his own thoughts.

Right, Perkins. This be fer ’ee! exclaimed the porter unexpectedly, as the cart came to a shaky stop outside a grim-looking building.

Perkins remained seated, rigid, uncomprehending.

Come on, boy! Get up! Move yerself . . . an’ be quick about it. This be where ’ee gets down. This be where ’ee be goin’ to learn a trade.

He kicked Perkins’ leg with the toe of his boot, and gestured to him to get up.

Perkins was trembling. He looked wildly round at his companions, as if hoping that one of them would put up a challenge on his behalf. No one moved. No one looked at him. He was on his own. It had come; this was the parting of the ways, the final separation from everything and everyone that they were familiar with. Each boy was anticipating his own turn, coming shortly.

In a sudden movement, Perkins leapt over the side of the cart; but found himself caught up in the porter’s waiting arms.

Got ’ee! You’ll not do anything daft, now, will ’ee, boy? It be a rough old world out here, like the Reverend said . . . There’s better folk than ’ee strivin’ an’ starvin’ . . . And ’ee wouldn’ last long on yer own wi’out gettin’ into trouble . . . or worse. Straighten up them shoulders, now. This be Jonathon Furze’s cobbler shop. You be lucky as he aint got no little uns of his own to train along . . . an’ that he be such a powerful strong Christian gent as’d rather give a pauper lad, like yerself, a start in life than to take on some decent lad from the village . . . Come on, Perkins . . . Don’ stand there . . . I got a whole cartload of ’ee to see settled . . . You be lucky. Cobblin’ be a lucrative trade, as they says. Them cobblers aint never poor, I can tell ’ee. You’ll learn a proper trade, me lad . . . It be a sight better chance than I had when I were a lad.

As he spoke, he rattled the doorbell, then pushed the door ajar and peered round it. He yanked Perkins inside after him. The door closed firmly behind them. It was the boys’ last sight of Perkins. They exchanged worried looks.

Wonder what theyz’ll do to un, when theyz got ’un in there? mused one.

Chop un up . . . an’ make meat pies, I bet, suggested another.

Everybody shivered.

They’d’ve took us all, if that were the jaunt, said Wilson calmly.

A sense of relief came to them. Everybody acknowledged that Wilson’s reasoning powers and common sense were a touch above normal. He was bound to be right.

D’you reckon as theyz’ll split us all up . . . on our own? ventured Harris during a brief break from sucking his thumb. It was terrifying to contemplate being left alone with strangers.

No one spoke. Even Wilson felt unable to give him an answer.

The porter was gone for some time. When he returned to the cart, he was wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Years later, Will would wonder why the waiting boys had not seized the opportunity to jump out of the cart and run off. But, of course, they were used to being obedient; besides, there was nowhere to run to. They knew that the porter had spoken the truth when he cautioned Perkins against trying to escape.

At the next stop, three of the boys were set down together and delivered into the care of a bailiff of a large estate. Being together gave them a kind of jaunty confidence, and they swung out, over the side of the cart, calling goodbyes and promises to try to keep in touch.

The porter shook the bailiff warmly by the hand and followed him into one of the small outhouses that surrounded the yard.

Won’t keep ’ee long, Ted, he called to the carter. I jest got to sort out the paperwork about these three.

The carter’s swear word was perfectly audible to the three boys huddled in the cart.

Harris, Wilson and Will remained silent. They were resigned to their fate, whatever it turned out to be. They had never known freedom; now it hung over them as a threat to their security.

Again, the porter was gone for some time. It was noticeable that he had difficulty in climbing back into the cart. His right leg kept swinging up into mid air and missing the side of the cart, as he hopped about on the other leg. On any other occasion, the boys would have sniggered and found his antics comical.

Damn an’ blast it! he was muttering over and over again. Then he yelled, Fer goodness sake, give us a hand up, Smythe.

Will automatically did as he was told. He grasped the man’s wrist and pulled. As the porter’s face came close up, Will smelt a strong and unfamiliar taint on his breath.

That Mister Cooper—he what be master o’ the place when the squire be away—he be a proper gen’rous sort o’ fellow . . . I’ve allus found un to be so . . . He do keep a real good drop o’ tackle fer vis’ters, he do . . . That were a right good drop o’ tackle, that were.

The porter flopped down onto the floor as the cart shuddered forward. He sat there belching and chuckling. Each time he belched, the unfamiliar smell grew stronger.

Will found the strong smell distasteful; but he didn’t have to put up with it for long. The cart soon turned off the main road onto a narrow cart track. The porter had seemed to be falling into a doze, but the rutted surface of the track jolted him awake. He craned his neck to see where they had got to.

This don’ lead nowhere, he informed the boys. Only to Stower Farm.

Soon, round a bend in the track, a farmyard came into view.

This be yourn, Smythe, he said, as the cart came to a halt in the middle of the yard.

Will stood up on shaky legs and stared about him. In front of them was a farmhouse with a shaggy thatched roof. There were several other similarly dilapidated farm buildings arranged around the other sides of the yard. It didn’t look very busy or very prosperous.

Will smiled at Wilson. Wilson would be all right, thought Will. Wherever he ended up, Wilson would use his reasoning powers to his advantage. Wilson smiled back and swallowed the lump that came in his throat.

Look after yerself, Harris, muttered Will.

There were tears in Harris’s blue eyes. Suddenly, Will felt angry. How could that fat clergyman, and the doctor, and those two other men consider that little Harris was almost a man?

Will ruffled Harris’s fair curls in a rare show of emotion, and then dropped over the side of the cart. All he could hope for was that Harris would be sent to a kind master.

Tears smarted in Will’s eyes as he stood beside the cart while the porter struggled to dismount. He kicked the dust at his feet, making a drab cloud of it rise up and drift around him.

A-hoy!

The porter let out a shout of greeting; and Will raised his eyes and saw that an elderly couple—most likely, the farmer and his wife—were waddling towards them. They were so alike as to be proof that living together begets a kind of likeness. Both were short, plump and rosy-faced; the most obvious differences were that Mrs Stower boasted considerably more hair than her husband, while his conspicuously bandy legs could not be concealed below a floor-length skirt, as hers were.

The old woman reached them first. She hurled herself straight at Will and wrapped her plump arms round him, hugging him to her plump bosom. Will struggled frantically and managed to duck out under her arms. He was poised to run off.

Let the boy alone, Dolly, do. The farmer’s gruff voice scolded.

The porter seized Will firmly by the arm and gave him a little shake.

Good Marnin’ Farmer . . . an’ Missus, too.

He bowed towards the pair, then thrust Will forwards. Will winced as his fingers tightened on his scrawny arm.

This ’ere be young Will Smythe . . . he as was promised to ’ee . . . Will, shake the farmer’s hand.

He prodded Will in the back.

Will’s hand was caught up in the farmer’s strong grip and pumped up and down until he feared that it would drop off.

Take yer cap off . . . polite-like, when you greets the missus, hissed the porter in Will’s ear.

Blushing scarlet, Will snatched off his cap and gave a slight nod in the direction of the woman. He could not bring himself to look at her.

Look, Ephraim, he be ginger, commented Mrs Stower.

The farmer grunted.

That don’ count against un round here, stated Mrs Stower firmly.

Will raised his eyes momentarily and saw that both the farmer and his wife were smiling broadly.

I got his partic’lars here . . . somewhere.

The porter was rummaging through his pockets. He drew out the three remaining lists and fumbled through them.

I mustn’t give ’ee the wrong ’un, he chuckled. But, then, ’t wouldn’t make a lot o’ diff’rence. There aint much to tell about any of ’em . . . You’ll see what I means when you gets to take a look at it.

He squinted at each list in turn.

Here Smythe . . . be this your name?

He waved one of the lists in front of Will’s face. Will recognised a W starting the first word and the S that started the second word; and nodded.

Thought so! The porter grinned, pleased with his success.

He handed the sheet of paper to the farmer.

He aint a bad un, this un, he commented. And he’ve been used to a spot o’ work in the fields, so it shouldn’t take ’ee long to teach un what to do.

Mrs Stower was peering over the side of the cart.

What about this other young un? she said There be a little lad in ’ere, Ephraim, wi’ a face like an angel.

She was beaming at Harris who was cowering down in fear.

Couldn’ we take this little un? she demanded. He do look as if he do need a spot o’ motherin’ more than this un do.

We aint takin’ any o’ them to mother ’em, exploded the farmer. What use’d that little runt be to we? He don’ look to be much more’n’ a baby. What good ’d he be to I, about the farm?

He turned to the porter, hoping that he would back him up.

Ah. ’Tis as you says, Farmer. You got the strongest o’ the bunch . . . Yes, indeed you have . . . This little runtish sort o’ boy wouldn’ do fer ’ee at all . . . No, No. I be right sorry, Missus; but I couldn’ go against the plans as I been given by the guv’ners. I be charged wi’ deliverin’ Will Smythe to ’ee; an’ that’s what I be goin’ to do.

He clapped Will on the back in the only friendly gesture he had ever shown him.

I reckon as he’ll do ’ee well, he added, as he turned and began to haul himself back on to the cart.

Won’t ’ee partake of a little refreshment, Sir? Mrs Stower offered.

Yes. Yes, insisted the farmer. The Missus’ve got a pot o’ stew goin’. An’ I likes vis’ters to pass comment on me home brew.

Clearly tempted, the porter hesitated; he ran his tongue over his lips.

What d’you say, Ted? he called to the carter. Shall us take refreshment wi’ the farmer an’ his missus?

I aint got all day, you know, the carter’s gruff voice complained. I wants to get this jaunt over. I still got plenty o’ things to do when I gets back.

Hey, carter. You be welcome too, of course. Of course you be. An’ I dare say as we could find a morsel fer they lads as well, eh Dolly? The farmer extended his offer of hospitality.

I got to be goin’, the carter insisted, ungraciously.

The porter smiled ruefully. He would have to comply with the carter’s wish. Ted Grimes was a surly sort of fellow who, if he thought fit, might well report him to the Board of Governors. In any case, he also had jobs to finish on his return to the Poor House; so it wouldn’t do to end up being too much the worse for drink.

Thank ’ee, Farmer . . . Missus . . . It be right kindly of ’ee to offer. But we’d best get off and see these last two delivered, he said.

The cart was already in motion.

The farmer waved his stick in acknowledgement. Will did not watch them go. It was easier to keep control, if he concentrated on the scuffed-up patch of ground at his feet. He heard the sound of the horse’s hooves and the creaking of the cart as it swept round the yard before it passed out into the lane, severing all his links with his past life.

Right . . . Come along in, then. I reckon as ’ee must be jest about ready fer a spot o’ dinner.

The plump little woman set off across the yard towards the house. Will’s feet, in the clumsy cobbled-up boots, seemed stuck to the ground. He couldn’t move them. Anyway, he didn’t feel hungry.

The farmer, clutching the precious sheet of paper, waddled past him.

It be rabbut stew, boy, he said.

He didn’t wait for Will to follow him; he just assumed that he would.

And so Will did follow. If he had made a run for it, where would he have gone? If he had managed to catch up with the cart, the porter would surely have brought him back again. If this was his first day of freedom, Will didn’t feel very free at the moment. He had no choice. This was his fate. He was going to live here at Stower Farm. He forced his reluctant feet to move; and slowly trailed after his new master and mistress.

CHAPTER 2

Stower Farmhouse was a squat building of warm pink brickwork and faded timbers. Its thatch was badly in need of patching. Will noticed, with surprise, that all the windows as well as the door were wide open. In his experience, doors were closed almost as soon as they were opened; and he had never realised that windows could be opened.

An appetising, savoury smell was drifting out into the yard. Will hesitated on the threshold.

Come on in, boy, the farmer coaxed. Can’t ’ee smell the rabbut stew? Aint ’ee hungry?

Will realised that he was hungry. The savoury aroma was enticing. He took a deep breath and bent his head as he passed through the low doorway into a warm and cluttered room. The wonderful smell was coming from a blackened pot hanging over the large grate.

The farmer’s wife let out a yell, seized a cloth and unhooked the pot. She set it down with a thud on the scrubbed table.

Darn it! Nearly spoiled the whole bloomin’ lot! she exclaimed, sucking on burnt fingers. How d’you like rabbut stew, boy?

Will blushed at being asked a direct question. He could not answer. How could he say that he did not think he had ever tasted it? What a fool he would seem.

Cat got yer tongue? chuckled the woman.

She bustled about, fetching plates from the dresser and spoons from a drawer. Then she drew a ladle-full of the pungent liquid from the pot, blew on it noisily to cool it, and held it out to Will.

There . . . Try that . . . See if that aint the best rabbut stew as you’ve ever tasted.

Slowly, Will crept closer. He put his tongue to the spoon and sucked the rich gravy from it. He was used to thin soups with just a few vegetables as flavouring. He had never tasted anything so rich and tasty. He closed his eyes as he savoured it. When he opened them, he saw that the