Read Online Whispers in the Dark by Jonathan Aycliffe - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Aycliffe
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see.”
“I’ll never forget you, Annie.”
And I never have. I remember Annie every day. I’ve tried to find her so many times, always without success. She slipped away from me without trace, like a boat without a mooring. A long time after that I went to the Lincotts and inquired about her, but they barely remembered her name and could not tell me where she had gone. I did not make myself known to them, nor do I think they would have thanked me if I had.
“I’ll write to you,” I said. “As soon as I’ve settled in.”
I didn’t tell her how unlikely I thought it that any of our dreams would ever materialize. The Ayrtons would turn me back at the door, and that would be the end of the story. My greatest worry was how, after that, I would ever find Arthur.
Annie told me where to go and how to make my way through Gateshead and Newcastle. In addition to money, she gave me something of even greater value: a pair of old but sturdy shoes that fit me properly. As a result, I was able to walk all the way, anxious to save the little money I had. In Gateshead, I found Clark’s foundry, a horrid place filled with fumes and noise, where they told me Arthur had stayed a month and then vanished. That was all they knew.
I crossed the river into Newcastle on the High Level Bridge, taking the Ha’penny Lop, the old horse-drawn brake that was still used then and for many years afterward. We all got down at the far end in sight of the castle, and I set off with my three shillings in my pocket, aware of how little I mattered in anybody’s course of things. I kept imagining footsteps behind me: Mrs. Moss, coming to reclaim me and the priceless belongings I had stolen from her; Mrs. Venables, indignant, resourceful in her search for revenge; Mrs. Lincott, cold, disdainful, aloofly calling me back to her scullery. At every corner,
I expected to see them waiting. If I saw a policeman, I would shrink aside, as though I were the most sought after of criminals.
I recalled—already a distant memory—trips to town with my mother, when we would go shopping in Fenwick’s or Bainbridge’s. Afterward she would always take Arthur and me to Tilley’s Cafe in Blackett Street. Everywhere we went, shopkeepers and waitresses would treat us with enormous respect. I thought then that that was just how people were, that they would always treat me so if I smiled and said “please” and “thank you” as I had been taught.
Now, making my way through the city without fine clothes or a carriage waiting to take me home, I saw how things really stood. No one made way for me, no one lifted his hat as I passed by. Once, a stall holder clipped me round the ear as I stood looking at the pies he had for sale, telling me to “get on out of it.” I passed the door of Tilley’s Cafe and knew they would not even let me inside.
I spent that first night in a cheap rooming house in Black Boy Yard, off the Groat Market. The room was crowded and dirty, and the thin blanket they gave me was barely adequate against the cold, but I lay there with a growing sense inside me of something I could scarcely name, something I now know must have been freedom, an awareness that I had, in the spacc of a few hours, taken control of my own destiny.
The next day I devoted to getting free of the city. I followed the instructions Annie had given me, asking directions a piece at a time until I got myself onto Claremont Road. From there I took the long road north through Kenton toward Ponteland. I was tired and hungry, and my feet ached terribly, but I was on my way. The smoke and clamor of Newcastle were behind me now. Before long, I was in open countryside, still heading north—walking, I hoped, along the very road Arthur had taken all those months earlier.
I spent my second night at Woolsington, in a cold shed full of turnips. In return for sixpence, a farmer’s wife prepared a meal for me, the first hot food I had eaten since leaving the workhouse.
When I set off
“I’ll never forget you, Annie.”
And I never have. I remember Annie every day. I’ve tried to find her so many times, always without success. She slipped away from me without trace, like a boat without a mooring. A long time after that I went to the Lincotts and inquired about her, but they barely remembered her name and could not tell me where she had gone. I did not make myself known to them, nor do I think they would have thanked me if I had.
“I’ll write to you,” I said. “As soon as I’ve settled in.”
I didn’t tell her how unlikely I thought it that any of our dreams would ever materialize. The Ayrtons would turn me back at the door, and that would be the end of the story. My greatest worry was how, after that, I would ever find Arthur.
Annie told me where to go and how to make my way through Gateshead and Newcastle. In addition to money, she gave me something of even greater value: a pair of old but sturdy shoes that fit me properly. As a result, I was able to walk all the way, anxious to save the little money I had. In Gateshead, I found Clark’s foundry, a horrid place filled with fumes and noise, where they told me Arthur had stayed a month and then vanished. That was all they knew.
I crossed the river into Newcastle on the High Level Bridge, taking the Ha’penny Lop, the old horse-drawn brake that was still used then and for many years afterward. We all got down at the far end in sight of the castle, and I set off with my three shillings in my pocket, aware of how little I mattered in anybody’s course of things. I kept imagining footsteps behind me: Mrs. Moss, coming to reclaim me and the priceless belongings I had stolen from her; Mrs. Venables, indignant, resourceful in her search for revenge; Mrs. Lincott, cold, disdainful, aloofly calling me back to her scullery. At every corner,
I expected to see them waiting. If I saw a policeman, I would shrink aside, as though I were the most sought after of criminals.
I recalled—already a distant memory—trips to town with my mother, when we would go shopping in Fenwick’s or Bainbridge’s. Afterward she would always take Arthur and me to Tilley’s Cafe in Blackett Street. Everywhere we went, shopkeepers and waitresses would treat us with enormous respect. I thought then that that was just how people were, that they would always treat me so if I smiled and said “please” and “thank you” as I had been taught.
Now, making my way through the city without fine clothes or a carriage waiting to take me home, I saw how things really stood. No one made way for me, no one lifted his hat as I passed by. Once, a stall holder clipped me round the ear as I stood looking at the pies he had for sale, telling me to “get on out of it.” I passed the door of Tilley’s Cafe and knew they would not even let me inside.
I spent that first night in a cheap rooming house in Black Boy Yard, off the Groat Market. The room was crowded and dirty, and the thin blanket they gave me was barely adequate against the cold, but I lay there with a growing sense inside me of something I could scarcely name, something I now know must have been freedom, an awareness that I had, in the spacc of a few hours, taken control of my own destiny.
The next day I devoted to getting free of the city. I followed the instructions Annie had given me, asking directions a piece at a time until I got myself onto Claremont Road. From there I took the long road north through Kenton toward Ponteland. I was tired and hungry, and my feet ached terribly, but I was on my way. The smoke and clamor of Newcastle were behind me now. Before long, I was in open countryside, still heading north—walking, I hoped, along the very road Arthur had taken all those months earlier.
I spent my second night at Woolsington, in a cold shed full of turnips. In return for sixpence, a farmer’s wife prepared a meal for me, the first hot food I had eaten since leaving the workhouse.
When I set off
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