giggled.
“Oh, no… it’s too much,” laughed David, pointing towards a garden on the other side of the lane. “Look over there – it’s a snowman! All we need now is Aled Jones!”
“Nah,” retorted Geoff, wrinkling his nose. “He’s not the same since his voice broke! Walking in the Air just wouldn’t be the same in a baritone voice.” He demonstrated his point by warbling a line from the song while making exaggerated arm gestures.
I laughed so much that David had to grab me by an elbow to stop me from slipping over.
By the time we got to the cottage, we’d taken Geoff’s lead and started a Christmas sing-song. We had reached the eleventh day of Christmas as I took off my glove to rap on the front door. Lola watched with wide, fascinated eyes as the three of us sang heartily with Geoff, spurred on by his impression of Aled Jones, attempting some brave harmonies.
“Good gracious,” said Carol, holding a plateful of warm mince pies in one hand as she opened the front door of the cottage, “I thought you’d all be cold and miserable and here you are singing Christmas songs and acting like a bunch of new year’s revellers!”
“Weeell,” said David, giving her a big bear hug, and relieving her of the plate of mince pies, “it just goes to show that a terrible start to Christmas can turn around and become the best Christmas of all, as long as you have a sense of humour and good company.”
“Merry Christmas, Carol,” I pulled the blanket away to reveal my daughter’s pretty face. “Meet your granddaughter, Lola.”
David spluttered. “Merry Christmas, Carol! Get it? Christmas Carol?”
Poor Law
I awoke as usual at half past five on a bitterly cold February morning in 1903, desperately wanting to stay under my blanket but knowing full well the punishment that would be the certain outcome if I did so. Rubbing my eyes and yawning, I grudgingly shoved the blanket to one side and flinched as my bare feet came into contact with the ice-cold floor. Crossing to the other side of the dormitory, I shook the inert lump in the bed belonging to Freddie Bark. “It’s half past five, Freddie,” I whispered into a small opening at the top of the bulge, “better get up quick, else Master Norton will be after us!”
Freddie groaned, pulling his cover half-heartedly down below his chin, revealing his bleary blue eyes and his cropped light blond hair which stood out from his head in a way that reminded me vaguely of the seed head of a dandelion. Yawning cavernously and scratching his head vigorously, he blinked then sighed and pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Blimey it’s a chilly one this morning, Will!” he exclaimed, rubbing his arms.
“All the more reason to get down to the basement and stoke the greenhouse boilers: I’ve already been up once in the night because old Norton prodded me and told me I had to get down there pronto to make sure the boilers were doing all right. ‘Can’t live off dead plants can we, eh, Thompson?’” I said, doing a fair impression of Master Norton’s gruff, gravelly voice.
Freddie grinned; my impressions always cheered him up. “Come on then,” he sighed, “better get dressed and head off.”
Seeing him start to pull on his clothes, I returned to my bed and put on my own crumpled shirt and trousers, holey socks and ill-fitting shoes before we both made our way quietly down to the basement.
Freddie and I had been ‘doing the greenhouse boilers’ for the past two months, since we’d both turned twelve years of age. I’d sort of taken him under my wing, because he was new to the ‘cottage home’ whereas I’d been there for six months already.
I was sent there because my mother had become ill and couldn’t work anymore or look after me, my older brother Henry and our younger sisters Daisy, Annie, Ruth and Mary. My father had died from typhoid fever back when I was eight, leaving Mother to look after us children on her own. My grandparents (my father’s parents) had done what they could, and when Mother had become ill they even managed to take on the older two of my sisters. But they could not be expected to care of all of us, and so Mother had been taken into the workhouse infirmary while me, Henry, Ruth and Mary were taken to the ‘cottage homes’ – the children’s equivalent of the workhouse.
I was glad not to be the only boy in the family, because that meant I got to be with Henry at mealtimes at least. My sisters, however, were housed in the girls’ home next door, and even though they were so close by, we were not allowed to see each other. Once, I had seen Mary over the garden wall, but when I ran over to speak to her, Master Norton told me it was forbidden to make any contact with the girls and gave me three cuts with the cane. He told me he was letting me off lightly because I didn’t know the rules yet. Since then, I’ve only seen my sisters once over the wall, and I’d learned well enough to not even smile when I saw them, even though I was aching to find out how they were.
When we’d been living there for about two months, Matron Greenway had been given the unpleasant task of telling Henry and me that our mother had died. Henry asked if he could be allowed out to go and tell our grandparents and our sisters, but Matron said that Master Norton had written them a note and that one of the older boys was already on his way to deliver it. We never heard about her funeral, and knew better than to ask if we could attend.
Anyway, me and Freddie went and stoked the boilers (luckily they were still going quite well since I’d attended them in the night). We’d just finished and were off to the dayroom for breakfast when Master Norton appeared at the top of the stairs and called down saying that he wanted to speak to me. Freddie and I exchanged worried looks and I trudged off up the stairs to Norton’s rooms.
I’d been inside them a number of times, mostly to clean the fireplace and light the fire, or sometimes to deliver a cup of tea or cocoa in the afternoon. The size of his rooms compared to the cramped dormitories in which the boys slept never ceased to surprise me. He was in charge, and entitled to more luxury than us poor children, but he certainly didn’t want for anything much as far as I could tell. I tried never to stare at anything when I was in his room, for one time when I had he had glared at me and told me not to “get any ideas about pinching anything”. As if I would; I was brought up to be honest and proud by my hardworking mother and father.
On this occasion, Master Norton wanted me to run an errand for him: He picked up an envelope that had been lying on his desk, tucked the flap inside to close it and hastily wrote something on the front before handing it to me, instructing me to deliver it to Mr Bunton at Pilkington School. “Go straight there; no dilly dallying. Put it right into his hands. Be sure not to give it to anyone else, do you understand?” he said frowning sternly down at me.
“Yes, sir. Now, sir?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes, now, Thompson. Right now!”
I turned on my heels and hurried off, not even stopping to collect my coat before heading down the stairs and out into the cold morning air.
Pilkington School was, I guessed, about two miles away if I took a short-cut across St Martin’s Plain and a couple of fields. Not wanting to be punished for being tardy, I ran most of the way there and arrived puffing and panting and red in the face. “I have a… letter for… for Mr Bunton… from… Master Norton.” I announced to the elderly caretaker who met me at the door.
“I’ll take it to him,” suggested the old man, reaching out a gnarled hand to take the envelope.
“Master Norton said to… to give it to him myself,” I declared, breathing a little easier now. I held the envelope close to my chest and stood up straight, lifting my chin to show that I meant to follow my instructions precisely.
“Very well then,” grumbled the caretaker grudgingly. “His office is upstairs at the end of the corridor,” he added, pointing towards the stairs opposite.
“Thank you,” I replied with a nod, feeling slightly less nervous now. I marched smartly up the stairs and along the musty corridor to the door marked ‘Headmaster,’ where I knocked confidently before my nerves finally caught up with me and I slunk back half a step, hunching my shoulders.
&nb
sp; “Enter!” boomed a voice from inside. Tentatively, I turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. I peered cautiously into the room, to see the imposing figure of Mr Bunton sitting at his desk, silhouetted in the light coming through the large bay windows behind him. He looked up from his work and stood up, frowning as I scurried into the room, all my self-assurance having now totally deserted me. “What do you want?” he asked, as if I were a speck of dirt to be flicked off his immaculate robes.
I thrust the letter towards him. “L… l… letter from Master Norton, sir,” I stuttered.
“Well, bring it here then, boy!” he rumbled.
Taking half a dozen steps forward, the letter still in my outstretched hand, I leaned forward the last few inches to pass him the envelope as though I was hand-feeding a scrap of meat to a hungry dog. Not taking his eyes off me, he snatched the envelope and opened it, extracting the two sheets of writing paper within. Finally glancing away from me and towards the letter, he scanned the pages quickly, moving his lips silently along with the words as he read through the contents of the note.
He raised his eyebrows, looked briefly back at me, then stuck his hand down inside the envelope feeling around inside. He frowned, his dark bushy eyebrows covering the top part of his eyes. Staring ominously at me,