those same false colours we must go on.
Now, sobbing bitterly, Kate poured out all her hidden shame and doubts. No wonder, she said, everything went wrong with us, living in mortal sin, as we were. And if she died in childbirth, as well she might, she would go straight to Hell as a wanton. She went so far as to ask whether being born free could make up to Stephen and the child that was coming for their bastardy.
Her distress distressed me. I said I was sorry for having spoken as I had, and we kissed and made up. But every quarrel – of which this was but a sample – took something from us which no reconciliation could fully restore. I understood, during the next few months, what makes men go and drink themselves silly in the ale-house. I should have done so, many a night, had I had any money.
VIII
The day dawned that brought the end of my apprenticeship. Nothing had been said over-night, but I had not expected any sign, for during my two years at Armstrong’s I had seen an apprentice become a journeyman. (Journeyman does not mean a man who journeys to his work; it means a man who works by the day, jour being the Norman for day.)
It was one of those enchanted days of late summer touched by the first breath of autumn, golden and blue and heavily dewed as I set out for work, carrying Stephen, as I had done for some weeks, and walking round by Master Webster’s woolsheds. Even Kate was more cheerful this morning.
I went, as soon as I reached the smithy, to the nail where my apron usually hung. It was not there. I pretended great surprise and anxiety. Then the others gathered round me, chanting,
‘He’s grown too big for his apron
He’ll have to get another one.’
The reply to this sally varied with the nature and wit of the new journeyman. I said, ‘How can I get another? I’ve earned nothing yet!’ and that was well received, with more laughter.
I then went to take up my tools. They too were gone and again I pretended concern. They gathered round me,
‘He worked so hard for a dinner a day
He wore his hammer clean away!’
The next remark was prescribed. I must turn round and cry in mock dismay,‘What shall I do?’
Then they all bellowed,
‘Become a journeyman!’
After that there was a moment or two of jollity, with good wishes and drinking, turn and turn about, from a jar of ale, which, according to rule, should be provided by the senior workman present. It was an understood thing that on such a morning, the master should allow ten minutes for the little ritual. On this morning my apron and tools were returned to me, and I was, at last, a journeyman of the Smith Guild in Baildon town.
Presently Master Armstrong arrived, stood by my shoulder while I finished a job and then said,
‘Step across the road with me. I’ve something to say to you.’
The ‘Smith’s Arms’ stood directly across the road from the forge; we took a seat on the bench and Master Armstrong called for ale. This, I thought, was another stage in the process of being recognized as a journeyman. When the ale came I expected him to speak some words of salutation, but instead he took a deep draught and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘You ain’t going to like this, Martin,’ he said. ‘But thass no good blaming me, nor nobody. Rules is rules and they hev to be kept. Last Guild meeting I brung up your name and said you’d done your time and was a handy skilled worker; but they ain’t taking you.’
The cobbled lane, the forge opposite with its smoky red fire and the haunches of the waiting horses and donkeys began to rock and swing before my eyes, slowly at first and then faster, until all I could see was a blur. I realized that my eyes had filled with tears; I was about to cry, like achild. My throat ached and felt wooden. I lifted my mug and took a tiny sip and swallowing it eased me so that I was able to say,
‘In God’s name, why, master?’
‘You worn’t born here. And do you go back where you
Now, sobbing bitterly, Kate poured out all her hidden shame and doubts. No wonder, she said, everything went wrong with us, living in mortal sin, as we were. And if she died in childbirth, as well she might, she would go straight to Hell as a wanton. She went so far as to ask whether being born free could make up to Stephen and the child that was coming for their bastardy.
Her distress distressed me. I said I was sorry for having spoken as I had, and we kissed and made up. But every quarrel – of which this was but a sample – took something from us which no reconciliation could fully restore. I understood, during the next few months, what makes men go and drink themselves silly in the ale-house. I should have done so, many a night, had I had any money.
VIII
The day dawned that brought the end of my apprenticeship. Nothing had been said over-night, but I had not expected any sign, for during my two years at Armstrong’s I had seen an apprentice become a journeyman. (Journeyman does not mean a man who journeys to his work; it means a man who works by the day, jour being the Norman for day.)
It was one of those enchanted days of late summer touched by the first breath of autumn, golden and blue and heavily dewed as I set out for work, carrying Stephen, as I had done for some weeks, and walking round by Master Webster’s woolsheds. Even Kate was more cheerful this morning.
I went, as soon as I reached the smithy, to the nail where my apron usually hung. It was not there. I pretended great surprise and anxiety. Then the others gathered round me, chanting,
‘He’s grown too big for his apron
He’ll have to get another one.’
The reply to this sally varied with the nature and wit of the new journeyman. I said, ‘How can I get another? I’ve earned nothing yet!’ and that was well received, with more laughter.
I then went to take up my tools. They too were gone and again I pretended concern. They gathered round me,
‘He worked so hard for a dinner a day
He wore his hammer clean away!’
The next remark was prescribed. I must turn round and cry in mock dismay,‘What shall I do?’
Then they all bellowed,
‘Become a journeyman!’
After that there was a moment or two of jollity, with good wishes and drinking, turn and turn about, from a jar of ale, which, according to rule, should be provided by the senior workman present. It was an understood thing that on such a morning, the master should allow ten minutes for the little ritual. On this morning my apron and tools were returned to me, and I was, at last, a journeyman of the Smith Guild in Baildon town.
Presently Master Armstrong arrived, stood by my shoulder while I finished a job and then said,
‘Step across the road with me. I’ve something to say to you.’
The ‘Smith’s Arms’ stood directly across the road from the forge; we took a seat on the bench and Master Armstrong called for ale. This, I thought, was another stage in the process of being recognized as a journeyman. When the ale came I expected him to speak some words of salutation, but instead he took a deep draught and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘You ain’t going to like this, Martin,’ he said. ‘But thass no good blaming me, nor nobody. Rules is rules and they hev to be kept. Last Guild meeting I brung up your name and said you’d done your time and was a handy skilled worker; but they ain’t taking you.’
The cobbled lane, the forge opposite with its smoky red fire and the haunches of the waiting horses and donkeys began to rock and swing before my eyes, slowly at first and then faster, until all I could see was a blur. I realized that my eyes had filled with tears; I was about to cry, like achild. My throat ached and felt wooden. I lifted my mug and took a tiny sip and swallowing it eased me so that I was able to say,
‘In God’s name, why, master?’
‘You worn’t born here. And do you go back where you
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