Salting the Wound (27 page)

‘You promised me a dog.’

‘I don’t like dogs. They leave hair on the furniture and will make the house smell.’

Something came over him one day and he pulled all the books out of the bookcase and piled them into a heap.

‘What did you do that for, John?’

‘I was looking for the book I made you. Did you like it?’

‘What book was that?’

‘The one with the heath birds in.’

‘It’s in the cupboard in the schoolroom, I expect. I haven’t had time to read it yet. ‘Now, you can put those books back on the shelves. You’re not a baby, and if you do that again I’ll tell your tutor to cane you.’

‘My pa would never have caned me.’

‘No wonder you have such appalling manners. You need discipline, young man.’

John hated his tutor, whose name was Mr Hagman. He spelled his words and did his sums wrong on purpose. He began to whistle every time he went up and down the stairs.

As he’d promised, his grandfather instructed his tutor to discipline him. A cane was used and it stung. He cried himself to sleep. He hated his tutor and he hated his grandfather.

Mr Hagman began to use the cane more often for discipline, and his grandfather didn’t seem to mind. Some days he didn’t even see him.

John stayed in his room as much as he could. When he was trotted out for his grandfather’s friends he hardly spoke. The only one he liked was Mr Wyvern, who told him his parents sent their love, then whispered that they’d bought him a puppy for his eighth birthday.

‘He’s a terrier, white with a brown patch on his back, and his name is Scrap. They said you can have pretend adventures with him.’

‘I want to go home,’ he said. ‘Will you take me there?’

‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t, John.’

John went to sleep that night imagining himself with his dog Scrap, with his ears pricked up, running across the heath. He even spoke to him when he was sure nobody else was listening, and could feel his body pressing warmly against his knees under the quilt at night.

One day he found Mr Hagman with the book he’d made with his Aunt Marianne, for his grandfather – the one that he’d never had time to read. John challenged him with, ‘Excuse me, sir, but that’s my grandfather’s private property. I made it for him.’

The man was in a bad mood, and thrashed him, leaving him with stinging welts across his back and bottom. Later that evening John was looking in the book of birds and wondering why his grandfather hadn’t bothered to look at it, when he came across the exercise book with the map in that his pa had made for him of the journey to London.

Although he couldn’t read the longer words without trouble, he had a good memory, and remembered the name of all the towns. The yearning to see everyone he loved and to see his new puppy was overwhelming. All he had to do was get on a train at Waterloo Bridge station, go to Southampton, than get on another train to Poole. Then he could walk across the heath.

Remembering his manners, and wishing to leave a good impression, John wrote his grandfather a note.

Dear Grandpapa,

Thank you for your hopspitality.

I am going home to my dere papa. I do not want Mr Hagman to eat my brains or beat me any more. You may visit me if you wish to. I will show you the real birds of the Heath. They are much better than the drawings in the book I made for you. I’m sorry you didn’t like them.

Please don’t put me in prison, like you did my papa.

Your grandson,

John.

John had some money that he’d received for his birthday, and some sixpences and shillings that his grandfather’s friends slipped into his hand now and again. There were several florins from Mr Wyvern and a guinea from his grandfather. All were saved in his money box. John waited until Saturday morning, because his tutor didn’t come on that day.

After breakfast he said, ‘Goodbye, Grandfather,’ and he wanted to hug him. But his grandfather didn’t look up from his newspaper, just grunted.

John then waited until after breakfast when his maid took him to the park for a walk. She joined the group of governesses who were out taking the air with their young charges.

It was a nice day to travel, the air was June soft and filled with flying blossoms. The sky was a busy expanse of fluffy clouds and birds. On the heath the heather would be coming into bloom, and the gypsy caravans beginning to arrive, he thought. He felt ill with longing for home and the people he loved, that night.

It was easy to escape, since the maid wasn’t watching him. John simply walked away from her, out through the gate and to the end of the road, where he knew an omnibus stopped. He’d been on an omnibus once before with his tutor, when they’d visited the British Museum to see the Elgin marbles.

John had enjoyed it at first, until he’d mentioned that some of the people curved into the frieze had their heads missing. Mr Hagman had slapped him around the head. He’d said it was a pity that John’s head wasn’t missing, too, and he might put a rat in his ear when he was asleep, and it would pull his brains out and eat them. John had tried to stop going to sleep in case he did, and he imagined his pillow covered in blood, and his brains spilling out and Mr Hagman eating them.

He’d been sick with relief when he woke up the next morning, but at night he found it hard to settle to sleep, and he missed Aunt Marianne or his pa telling him a story.

He sniffed back his tears as he joined the omnibus queue, jingling his money in his pocket.

The conductor held out his hand for the fare and John put a sixpence in it. He followed a man in front of him up to the seat on the top, where he clung on as the sturdy horses plodded along the street with its burden of humans. The horses reminded him of the ones that tilled the fields near his home, big, gentle beasts of burden that dragged the plough behind them all day to crumble the soil ready for planting the next season’s corn crop. John was glad he wasn’t a horse.

When everyone got off he said to the conductor. ‘Where’s the railway station?’

When the conductor jerked his thumb, John set off on foot. It was a long time before he realized he was lost.

Mr Hagman would probably give him another beating when he set eyes on him. His grandfather would be furious. Perhaps he’d even send him to jail, like he’d sent his pa to jail with the policeman. John’s heart gave a little wrench. If he knew where Mr Wyvern lived he’d go there. Mr Wyvern had got his pa out of jail; he’d heard him arguing with his grandfather about it.

Then he remembered the river. If he followed that he should come to the station, and he’d soon see his mamma and his pa, and his new puppy Scrap. And he could see the river, and a bridge!

He gave a smile and set off. But when he got to the bridge he couldn’t find the railway station. He gazed down the river to the next bridge, which seemed a long way away. His legs ached and he was getting hungry. He had an apple in his pocket, but he might need it later.

He remembered that his grandfather’s cook had told him there was apple and rhubarb pudding for supper. His mouth began to water.

The adventure soon lost its shine. He changed his mind about running away and began to retrace his steps. After a while it began to get dark, and he became confused with all the people hurrying this way and that.

Then he saw a station in front of him, as big as a church, and he remembered there was a puppy waiting for him and decided to go ahead. He followed after a family group with several children and bags, and he scrambled on to the train, taking a seat on a wooden bench in an empty carriage.

When the train chugged from the station his stomach churned with excitement. Finally he could stand his hunger no longer. Taking the apple from his pocket John scrunched it down, wiping the juice from his chin with his sleeve.

He belched, then yawned and lay down on the hard seat. The wheels clickity clacked over the track and the carriage swayed back and forth. He felt drowsy. His eyes began to droop and within minutes he was asleep.

‘My grandson has run away!’ The colour drained from Charles Barrie’s face as he read the note. ‘Where’s the girl who was looking after him?’

When Mollie Smith was found, hiding in the housekeeper’s sitting room, her pale face was smeared in remorseful tears. ‘One moment he was there, the next minute he was gone.’

‘That’s just not good enough, Smith. I’m afraid I can’t keep you on after this.’

She shrilled, ‘It wasn’t me who frightened the poor lad by saying I’d eat his brains. It was that miserable old tutor. And it wasn’t me who beat him every time he put a foot wrong. It was Mr Hagman, and it was you who told him to. No wonder the poor little sod ran way. I don’t blame him. His life’s been a misery since he came to live here, the poor little thing.’

Too distressed to summon up the anger her attitude deserved, he told her wearily, ‘You’re dismissed, and without reference. After the constables have interviewed you, you can get out.’

She sniffed. ‘With pleasure. I’ll go and work in my brother’s pie shop. He’s been nagging at me for weeks, and there will be no, Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, there.’ She flounced off, banging the door so hard behind her that the windows rattled.

The butler coughed gently into the awkward silence. ‘I’ve informed the constables and they will keep a look out for the boy.’

‘Send for that investigator, Adam Chapman, and for Edgar Wyvern. Tell them it’s urgent. Take a cab and go yourself.’ And because it occurred to Charles that Mollie Smith might attempt to smear his reputation out of revenge if left alone, and his presence there might intimidate her, he added, ‘In the meantime I’ll sit in on the interview with that maid, and you will act as witness to the proper payment of her wages to date.’

Edgar was the first to arrive at the house.

Charles had the bird book John had made open in his lap. ‘You know, Edgar, I never got round to looking at this. A lot of work has gone into it.’

Edgar seated himself and read the note from John before gazing with genuine sympathy at Charles.

‘I don’t need to tell you that this had been a great blow, Edgar.’

‘To your pride, yes. Nevertheless, I’m not going to encourage any self-pity, and I can’t say I’m altogether surprised by what’s happened. It’s your own fault.’

‘I’ve been an old fool, haven’t I? I took the boy away from all that he knew and loved, and in return he got an irascible old man who never had any time for him.’

‘That’s the truth of it, Charles.’

‘You said I was too old to take on a child. But I wouldn’t listen. He must hate me to have run away like this.’

‘John wouldn’t have invited you to visit him if he hated you.’

Charles grasped at the straw held out to him. ‘Yes . . . there’s that. You know, when I told the tutor to discipline him that was not carte blanche permission for him to frighten the boy out of his wits, or to beat him.’

‘You always had to learn from your own mistakes, Charles, but I’d prefer not to listen to you flagellate yourself over it, especially when it’s motivated by self-pity. What’s done is done. We must put the boy’s safety first, and try to rectify the situation.’

His own stupidity in parenting the lad was so apparent to Charles that it might well have been scribbled in large accusing black letters on the red and gold wallpaper. Next time he’d make sure that the boy had companionship, and his tutor would be female.

Adam was announced, already made aware of the situation by the servant Charles had sent, and in possession of some useful information. ‘On the way over I stopped and talked to one of the omnibus conductors. A boy matching John’s description boarded the vehicle earlier. He asked for directions to the station when he got off. He was wearing a sailor’s cap and a navy blue coat with brass buttons, over grey trousers.’

Charles confessed to himself that he hadn’t noticed what John had been wearing, though the boy did have such an outfit in his wardrobe. He nodded. ‘That sounds like John. Waterloo Bridge station, you say.’

‘No, just the station. The driver thought he meant Paddington. I’ll take a cab over there and search the station, then walk back to the omnibus stop.’

‘Bring him back safely, and I’ll be forever in your debt.’

‘May I ask what you intend to do with John when he’s found?’

Charles’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘We must learn from our mistakes. It’s probable that I’ll return him to the family of Colonel Hardy, where he was happy, and hope I can see him now and again. If you have any other suggestions please don’t be afraid to voice them.’

Adam exchanged a look with Edgar and smiled.

‘S
amarand
has gone down with all hands.’

Erasmus Thornton’s face was grey. ‘It’s my fault . . . I should’ve listened to him.’

Daisy gave a small cry of anguish.

The infant inside Marianne stretched. Goodness, it was strong, and its knees – at least, she thought it was knees – pushed a lump into her stomach under her belly button. She placed her hands over it and winced, sinking into the nearest chair with a gasp and with the colour draining from her face. She couldn’t quite grasp what Erasmus was saying. Dead! Dearest Nick . . . her lover . . . the husband who she’d hardly known, but loved anyway. He was so strong and vital. He couldn’t be dead. ‘I refuse to believe it.’

‘Wreckage was found—’

She didn’t want to hear any more and her voice rose to a hysterical level. ‘He’s not dead, I tell you. He can’t be dead because he promised to return, and he never breaks a promise, I won’t let him be dead, do you hear me? His child will be here soon. Nick will be here to see him, just wait and see. The boy will need his father.’

Daisy’s thin arms came round her. ‘Marianne my dear, calm yourself. If you get upset it will be bad for the infant.’

Marianne turned to gaze at Erasmus again. ‘Nick would have made it to shore . . . he might be injured.’

‘It happened four months ago, when
Samarand
left Melbourne. He’s well overdue, and I think we would have heard something by now.’ Hope filled her when Erasmus said almost pityingly, ‘It’s possible that he made it ashore, I suppose. There’s plenty of empty coastline.’