The Paper Knife

By R A Laycock

Frederick Lazenby has, for many years, been a respected citizen in a pleasant Durham town; a resident of repute; a man of principle. But now, with death approaching, he must deal with the past. To gain absolution, Frederick summons his sons. They must hear his life story, one he has concealed for too long. Napoleon’s wars; the hated Corn Laws; clerking in a hellish iron works; grinding poverty in a grim Scottish town; the Scottish insurrection - Frederick has lived through it all, and survived. But at what cost? What is his secret? And why is he so obsessed with the paper knife he now clutches? For Frederick, the word ‘betrayal’ has a special meaning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R A Laycock
• Release date: Jun 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910256312

Book preview

Chapter One

A Chance Encounter

Canon

Gateshead, he mused. I feel like I’ve been travelling for weeks and I’m still only at Gateshead. The man in the tavern sipped his ale meditatively, glanced wearily at the clock, then swung round to the grimy window and contemplated, across the Tyne, the steepling tenements and warehouses of Newcastle rising up the northern slope. They dominated the skyline and seemed to diminish the masts and sails of the many ships along the river and wharves, most of them moored in a tangle of ropes and winches as they disgorged their contents or took on new cargo.

In reality he had been travelling for just two days. Was it really only Monday, he thought, that he had boarded his coach by the Waverley Inn in Edinburgh? There had followed a jolting, lurching ride to Newcastle, with stops at Dunbar and Berwick (where he had spent an uncomfortable night), in the company of two business men, a middle aged woman, and a man in charge of a small boy. The boy, it transpired, was travelling south to begin his first term at a boarding school near London. His companion was some sort of servant, a footman perhaps – a taciturn, long faced man whose demeanour suggested he was making this journey under sufferance and who would be gratified to deposit his charge at the gates of the school and then make haste his return north.

The woman, recently widowed, was moving to stay with her sister in Newcastle and was of the disposition to talk, at length, to anyone who caught her eye. Well practised in the matter of travel and therefore skilled in the art of avoiding entrapment in polite conversation with strangers, the businessmen busied themselves reading papers and documents or, pointedly, gazed at the passing landscape. They conversed a little with each other, brusquely it is true, but aware that each understood the other to be a brother: their bond being commerce; their currency – entrepreneurship; their interests – profit.

It fell to the remaining man to be the subject of the woman’s discourse - a lengthy, whining, repetitive soliloquy on the misfortunes of life in general and her own in particular.

Frederick, who had a notably open and somewhat guileless face, was a man the widow felt would be receptive to her litany and so it was that, when they bid each other adieu, by the docks, he was relieved to give his ears respite, and she disappointed to have lost someone she felt to be a sympathetic and interested audience. It was in his nature to refuse to betray his true feelings, so that he had maintained a counterfeit interest in the good woman’s travails; and in hers to mistake polite engagement for avid empathy.

And so they parted, Frederick reflecting on the fact that, while he had merely spent two days listening to her woes, her sister was condemned to a lifetime. He had felt a passing twinge of sympathy for the latter, but more for his own bodily condition. The night had been a difficult one. He had been repeatedly bitten by a flea, or probably, he thought wryly, by all its friends and relations too, and had spent precious time before breakfast sorting through his clothing, item by item; then, after catching the offending creatures betwixt his finger and thumb and drowning them in the washstand ewer, had left the inn in a painful ecstasy of itching and scratching.

Today he had encountered a quieter moment, having crossed the Tyne by ferry for the next Stage from Gateshead. The boy and his minder were there, but the businessmen had disappeared, no doubt to do commerce by that great river, teeming with its barges, ships and cranes. Two new passengers were waiting, heading for Durham, having spent several days visiting relations in Hexham. They, a father and daughter, were returning to the village of Bishop Middleham, south-east of the city of Durham.

The father – pleasant and vivacious, with a rubicund face set off by mutton chop whiskers - was soon chatting with Frederick and this time the younger man participated enthusiastically. Where the day before he had merely seemed, so he felt, to be the convenient receptacle for the targeted melancholy of an unhappy woman, this time he considered himself included as an equal.

This pleased him, partly because he enjoyed discussion and argument, but also because he had an audience in the shape of the daughter. She, demure; as the situation demanded; was nonetheless ready to join in and give her opinions, which, Frederick noted, were listened to with respect by her father. He liked this, for it reminded him of his earlier life when he and his siblings had had their views accorded similar status.

Also, he was rather taken by the looks of the woman - aged, he surmised, around twenty or so – and found himself glancing at her surreptitiously, only ceasing when she returned the look with a hint of amusement in her eyes. Then he hastily averted his gaze and, to cover his confusion, remarked on the nature of a bird espied in a field, or on the weather, or made an allusion as to the wretched surface of the roads. The girl’s father, who had introduced himself as Hodgson, Joseph Hodgson, and his daughter as Ann, told them he was a farmer. It also transpired that Ann was one of five children, something that gave Frederick common ground. It wasn’t long before the three were conversing amiably, in the course of which Frederick disclosed his status as an orphan.

Tell us, if you will, of your family then, asked Mr Hodgson. Your brothers and sisters. Where are they now? Are they well?

As far as I know, the answer to that last question is yes, replied Frederick. Harriot, older than me by two years has been married some eight years to a soldier – a drum major. They moved on their wedding day to the Cape, in Africa, and have settled there. They have two children.

Have they been back to see you? asked Ann.

No, said Frederick, somewhat shortly. She writes, of course, but rarely, and seems quite accepting of her life in barracks. Indeed, she has said she has no special desire to return to Scotland, or England for the matter of that.

I knew by your accent that you were from north of the border, remarked the girl’s father, contentedly puffing on the pipe he had thoughtfully lit in the inn before they departed. I fancy a hint of Glasgow in that voice. It’s too strong for an Edinburgh man.

Aye, well, my childhood days were spent in Glasgow, replied Frederick. But then, we had to move, to Falkirk with grandmother, where we stayed some seven years. Since then though I’ve lived back in Glasgow, then Edinburgh. This is my first foray into England, where my father was born.

Ah, returning to your roots perhaps, murmured Mr Hodgson, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

There was a pause. Sensing that, for some reason, the young man opposite her seemed sensitive to that area of discussion, Ann asked:

So. What about your other sister, and your two brothers?

"Well, there’s George. He’s in the King’s Navy. He writes – though his lettering, despite my best efforts, is abysmal – and tells me of his news. The last I heard, some months ago, he was sailing towards Rio in South America on a three year voyage.

"He was always set on going to sea was George. I can remember that, even when he was a wee’un, he lived for the sea and ships. If you couldn’t find him by the house you would discover him at the Monkland canal, sailing his models – bits of wood really – or maybe on the banks of the Clyde where he could be espied watching the great ships go by. And, of course, as he was growing up he came to hear of Trafalgar, and Nelson, and, well, it sealed matters. And so, when he reached fifteen he enlisted. We met up again once, briefly, when his ship was moored in Leith, but other than that, no.

But he seems to suit the life of a ‘tar’, and he’s given no inkling he wishes to leave the Service. Rather the opposite. He was that restless as a lad - always out for adventure – that I’m not surprised he likes the freedom of the oceans.

The discipline is fearsome though, is it not, enquired Mr. Hodgson. Has he not written of it?

No, he hasn’t, replied the younger man. Yet I’m of a mind that he will have incurred many a retribution for his impulsiveness. And it’s always been in him. Why, when he was a wee bairn he was all but charged with theft – not that he was guilty of course – and nearly landed Harriot and I in his tangled plight.

Seeing the questioning look in Mr Hodgson’s eye he hastened to recount his first visit to the Tryst at Stenhousemuir.

Though I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Tryst there, he concluded.

Heard of it? echoed Mr Hodgson. I’ve been there. Way before your time of course, and Miss Ann’s come to that, but I was taken on as a drover by Milligan of Aycliffe and spent weeks herding cattle all the way, then returning with heavier heads – but lighter pockets, if you catch my meaning.

He laughed at his own humour.

Aye, but we passed Falkirk by – coming by the way of Edinburgh you understand – so I can recall nothing of the town. Not that I remember much of anything, he chuckled. The ale flowed freely I seem to mind.

Again he snickered, then, catching a meaningful look from his daughter, subsided in a fit of coughing.

Frederick smiled to himself. He recognized family secrets well enough to sense that Mr Hodgson had disclosed a trait that was, perhaps, still flourishing. He decided to steer the conversation back to his family.

As to Mary-Ann, she’s now aged seventeen and in service in a big house near Glasgow.

Is she happy there? asked Ann Hodgson.

"Well, Miss Hodgson, I think she is well treated but, I think, like most maids, she sees her work there as but a stepping stone to marriage. She loves children and would, I feel, be a fine wife and mother.

And Thomas, now sixteen years of age. He is employed by a Princes Street hairdressers in Edinburgh and seems to have found his vocation in life. Not my idea of a profession but Thomas always was combing and braiding Mary-Ann’s hair when they were small.

So, said Mr Hodgson. Harriot is married to a soldier; George a sailor on the High Seas; Mary-Ann a maid servant in a grand house in Glasgow and Thomas a hairdresser. What about you? I’ll wager you know little of farming.

Aye, you’re right there, laughed Frederick. I’m a city man, born and bred, and can barely tell a cow from a sheep. Nah, I’ve been a clerk for some twelve years or so. Not that it’s a job with any great prospects or enjoyment, you ken, but, if you can write a neat hand and deal with numbers efficiently – and this I can do – then it offers security. And in these troubled times that counts for a lot.

Could not your parents, when they were alive, have encouraged you towards employment as befits your needs and desires? asked Ann. The look in her eye and something in the tone of her voice suggested a certain disappointment that the fine looking stranger was no more than a clerk. Frederick, alert as ever to moods, felt the gaze keenly.

I had no choice, he responded. I was too young. My father died in 1810 and my mother three years later. Grandmother Baines, bless her, took us to her heart and insisted we stayed with her in Falkirk, her hometown of many years. In order for us to live, Harriot and I had to find work and so she went into service at the grand home of a businessman and I was appointed to the post of clerk at Carron’s.

Not the Carron’s who make the iron goods? asked Mr Hodgson, voice rising with curiosity.

The very same, grinned Frederick. And guns. And pans and pots and railings. If it’s made of iron the chances are Carron’s made it.

Bless my soul, exclaimed the older man. Why, we have Carron’s ware at our farm house. It’s . . .

Not an iron range by any chance? asked Frederick. Ha, I thought as much. Everyone seems to have one of these.

What made you move away from Falkirk? asked Ann Hodgson after a pause.

Ah, you see, grandmother took ill and passed away and since, by then, Harriot and George had left home, it fell to me to look to the interests of Mary-Ann and Thomas. We moved back to Glasgow, that we might be near friends and former acquaintances and so secure work for the two bairns.

But you don’t care for clerking? asked Ann’s father casually, looking out of the window as he spoke.

Well, replied Frederick, a little disconcerted now that the focus of attention had returned to his prospects. He was glad to note that the servant had fallen asleep and his charge was reading a book.

I clerk, and clerk well, and am moving on to Sheffield, my father’s birthplace, in order to find work there. I’ve heard that the nail and cutlery manufacturers in that city are enjoying a great expansion in their commerce and feel I could, with my letter of introduction, obtain a position. And there are distant relatives who might give me shelter. It’s not what I would like to do but I must work to live.

There was silence for several minutes: then Ann supplied the question which had hung there, slowly revolving.

So, what would you care to do? she asked softly.

Again there was silence, save for the rumble of the wheels and the sound of hooves on the Macadamised road. Then:

"When George, and Mary-Ann and Thomas, were young, it was I who helped them with their letters and primers. I who showed them how to understand a globe and who helped with their counting. Mary-Ann and Thomas were willing and obedient learners but George had a truculent, dismissive side to his nature when it came to school work – and still has that demeanour – and it was all grandmother could do to make him learn anything at all. But I seemed to have the aptitude for making it so he wanted to learn.

For instance, he said eagerly, his eyes animated for the first time, George’s primer was awfully dull and needed the perseverance of Sisyphus to master it.

Sisy who? asked the older man.

He means the work was always hard and never ending, said his daughter rolling her eyes. I’ll enlighten you later papa, she added, sotto voce.

Hmmph. This Sisy should try farming, snorted Mr Hodson.

Yes, father. But don’t let’s get onto that shall we. Do please go on if you will, she said to Frederick, with a smile that the young man found enchanting.

Er, yes. I would take his slate and, instead of the repetitive words of the primer, I would print out words that might interest him. Words that he knew in his mind.

Mr Hodgson looked intrigued by this.

What sort of words? he asked. Words in his mind? What do you mean?

"As I said, George was fascinated by ships and the sea, so I put in nautical terms such as ‘sail’ and ‘mast’, and simple words of that nature. Then, when he was a little more advanced in his abilities I moved on to words like ‘clipper’ and ‘frigate.’

It sounds rather silly I know but, you see, it seemed to work.

Not silly at all, boomed Mr Hodgson approvingly. "It would seem to be a most worthy method. I believe my childhood education would have been considerably less painful had I been the beneficiary of such teaching.

Not silly at all, he repeated, giving the coach and its occupants a Jove like nod of approval.

Encouraged by this response, and conscious of the unwavering attention of the man’s daughter, Frederick felt emboldened to continue.

"And when it comes to arithmetic, I found I could engage Mary-Ann in a way that figures on a slate could not hope to accomplish. Now, you will be aware of the abacus as a fine method of adding and subtracting large numbers. Well, we couldn’t afford one, so, to begin with, I found and sorted pebbles, all of the same size, to represent the units, and larger flattish stones to be the tens. You see, Mary-Ann was fine with wee numbers such as, say, when adding two to five, but she floundered when faced with larger sums, as with, for example, eight added to nine.

Her difficulty was in understanding that the answer, seventeen, was represented by a one and a seven. To her mind, how could the one suddenly become a ten. She became very frustrated and my grandmother would give way to vexation and annoyance. And this only made matters worse.

Frederick smiled slightly at the recollection. Grandmother Baines, though of the kindest intent, had never been one to suffer fools gladly and the matter of home tuition for her grandchildren had sorely tried her patience.

So, I used the pebbles on a board, shaped so that only nine would fit in a column which I called the single numbers or units. Mary-Ann, and later Thomas, seemed to quickly grasp that the larger flat stone could substitute for ten smaller pebbles. In the case of seventeen, she readily comprehended that one flat and seven pebbles made seventeen. Later we acquired a fine abacus but I know grandmother was quite intrigued by my success.

I’ll wager she was, said Mr Hodgson. And later I imagine your sister was able to understand the values of the numbers on the slate more easily.

Yes indeed, replied Frederick.

Yet you have remained a clerk, enquired Ann. Why is that? You sound like a born teacher. Is that what you wish to be?

Frederick thought for a moment.

"Aye, I would. More than anything. But most schools require university degrees or evidence of training, as when one becomes a pupil teacher. I could never have afforded to attend university such as Edinburgh or Glasgow, with or without my bag of oatmeal, and pupil teachers get their keep – nothing else. My brother and sister have needed me to support them. It was always a deep fear of mine, and grandmother’s, that they might end up in a mill, cleaning chimneys or down a mine.

And that doesn’t bear thinking about. I saw mill children in Glasgow and their lives were unspeakably wretched.

There was a further silence lasting several minutes. None felt sure what to say next. Then the coachman’s horn sounded and they saw, on turning to the window, the imposing bulk of Durham’s cathedral in the distance.

Mr Hodgson, noting the nudge his daughter gave him, seemed to brood over something before appearing to reach a decision.

We alight here and catch a trap for home. But before that we intend to take refreshment in Durham. Your ongoing journey to Harrogate, your next Stage, doesn’t depart for two hours. May I suggest we dine together? I have a proposal to make which you may find of interest.

Nonplussed, Frederick agreed to the offer. He had nothing to lose. After leaving their luggage in the care of the ostler, a man Mr Hodgson seemed to know well, Frederick set off with his two travelling companions.

They settled themselves in an eating place close to the river, one the older man frequented often, and, once he had ordered plates of game pie and potatoes – and had insisted that he would pay the bill, despite Frederick’s protests - he showed his hand.

"Now then, young man, listen to me. Your plans are to continue your journey south and I respect that, and your reasons for doing so. Nevertheless, it is apparent that the work you seek is not that which gives you happiness and satisfaction.

"You have also indicated that you feel your vocation might lie in the education of young minds, and, if I’m a fair judge of a person’s worth – and I believe I am - you have a vocabulary and ability with words which suggests a fine background. You would appear to have the makings of a schoolmaster.

"It so happens that I may – if you are interested in the proposition – be able to effect an opening for a teaching post, probably temporary mind, in the village of Ferryhill, about five miles from our village of Bishop Middleham.

"And how do I know of this, you may ask? I may be a farmer, but I’ve always valued education and know how the Scots feel the same. Well now, my brother’s lad John, a fine and learned man, is a schoolmaster in the village of Lanchester, on the Shotley Bridge road, and, as a consequence, is in a position where he hears of openings in the county of Durham. And he knows of Ferryhill. In this case the pay would be very little, and would require you to live in the headmaster’s house as a lodger, but would open up the chance for you to prove yourself. You seem, from what you have told us, to have a bent for this vocation and a fine one it is if I may say so. And in due course you may become a teacher in your own right. So, what do you say?

Ah, food, he declared, breaking off for a moment as the manservant arrived with steaming plates and a jug of ale. My, that smells good. Tuck in lad. You look like you need fattening up.

Frederick barely touched his meal. His head was spinning. Only yesterday he had been questioning his decision to move south, where he had been hoping to find solace in the doubtful company of distant relatives, descendants of people who had known his father. It had been a decision born of despair, but whose genesis lay in the years passed since he had left Falkirk.

They were long years, lonely and guilt-ridden. Gone was Harriot, who seldom wrote. Gone was George, whose scrawled missives gave little news of value – unless one was fascinated by life on board a sailing ship – and now on a three year voyage aboard the ‘Osprey’. Heaven knew where he was.

Gone too was grandmother Baines, and Frederick had missed her more and more, realizing how much he and Harriot had relied and depended on her in those years after their mother’s death.

But then his thoughts turned towards Gordon, living out his life on a convict farm in Australia, and a burning sense of shame would overcome him. It could have been different. So different. And he missed his friend’s ebullience, his outrage against the slings and arrows of life, his knowledge and wit and bravery.

Thanks to the kindness and inside knowledge of the housekeeper at Callendar House, Mary-Ann had been taken on by a prosperous family near Glasgow. Thomas had served his apprenticeship to a leading hairdresser with vigour. After this he had attained a position in Edinburgh and was now a confident sixteen year old. They were fine and wrote regularly to Frederick. He was now their one anchor in life and he took his filial duties seriously.

For himself life seemed to divide into two unequal parts. During the days he toiled as a clerk in a poorly lit counting house in a cotton mill on Sauchiehall Street. His pay was meagre and his working colleagues indifferent to his presence. The manager, a vindictive bully of a man, ensured his days at his desk were cheerless and sombre. The repetitive tedium of his work depressed him more and more and he recalled Gordon’s assertion that he, Gordon, wouldn’t stay a clerk forever. Well he was right about that, thought Frederick grimly. Where he was now was a far cry from Falkirk’s famous iron foundry.

The resumption of his organ playing at St Andrew-by-the-Green was the one saving grace, as was his tuition, at last, in the art of the clarionet. In both he was indebted to his old mentor, the organist Mr McPherson.

But with his family scattered, time had weighed heavily on Frederick’s mind and, with the growing independence of his youngest sibling, came an awareness that, if he were to avoid a lifetime of drudgery, he must out. Before, he had had no choice but to react. The needs of his family demanded it. Now he was free - responsible only to himself. The final, deciding factor was the illness and death of his organist friend. Before he died Mr McPherson had spoken to him, at length, of the need for him to move on and away from his past and grasp the future.

Make something of your life, son, he had said fiercely. Be a teacher. Ye have the talent, d’ye hear?

And now, thanks to the random oscillations of fortune’s pendulum, he was presented, for the first time ever, with an opportunity to take charge of his life. He could dare to seek out his long held dream.

Thank-you Mr Hodgson, he said. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you. The Gods seem to look down on me with favour. I would like to accept your kind offer of a chance to apply for this position and so hope to do justice to myself should I be granted an interview by the headmaster at Ferryhill.

Good, said Mr Hodgson. That’s settled then. You have a fancy way of saying it but I grasp what you mean. You’ll stay with us for a few days while I arrange matters but, mind, I will take no money for your keep. However, if it’s all the same to you, you might care to help us on the farm during your stay? You look as if you could do with some sun on your face.

Mr Hodgson, replied Frederick fervently. I’d be glad to.

Good, said the farmer again. Let’s collect our cases and find a trap. It’s a fair ride to Middleham and we’d like to be there before dusk.

Chapter Two

Baptism

Cadenza

‘What a difference,’ thought Frederick. ‘What a difference!’

He couldn’t help but compare the interview with that at Carron’s way back in time, and in the Sauchiehall Street mill. Then formal and austere. Now relaxed and genial. Then an awareness of the impersonality of a huge business and his own small part in it. Now, the realization that he might take centre stage in shaping the learning of children.

Mr Hodgson – having arranged the meeting with Ferryhill’s schoolmaster and the Reverend Long, in whose remit lay the offer of the position – had had but two things to say to Frederick before sending him on his way from Bishop Middleham to Ferryhill, a five mile walk.

"Tell them about how you taught that brother of yours, George, and how you got Mary-Ann to understand addition. I liked that, and if I’m a judge of a man, so will Mr Wilson. Some of the tykes at that school – well, like children in any school I suppose – don’t want to learn neither lad, and some are that thick I sometimes wonder they learn to dress themselves. Wilson will be intrigued by someone with novel ideas. He learned his trade over in Shute Barrington’s school in Bishop Auckland and that’s recommendation enough for anyone.

And as to the vicar. Make sure he knows of your ability on the organ and your regular attendance at your church in Glasgow. He may ask you if you would like to help with the new Sunday schools that are springing up and if I were you I would agree to this wholeheartedly.

Frederick’s walk through the fields and woods to the village of Ferryhill was one he would never forget. It contrasted so sharply with that of the journey to Carron’s in Falkirk. Then, as he’d left the huddled homes up the Cow Wynd, the smoke belching chimneys of Carron’s and the Falkirk Iron Foundry had beckoned; stalwart sentinels that rained down soot and grime. The detritus of wealth, as Gordon had so aptly put it.

Now – oh, and what a contrast – a slumbering countryside where the gnats hovered and wavered: fields and woods a ballroom for the bees who danced over them; meadows and copses, ripening crops, contented animals and an abundance awaiting the harvest which, so Mr Hodgson said, would be the best in many years. It was with a light heart that Frederick had made his way. And with it had come a realization that he wanted this job, badly. But would he pass muster? Would he interest them sufficiently to procure an invitation to commence duties? And would he, when faced with the urchins of the parish, be able to teach them; control them?

But he was determined to succeed. Anything but the sloping desk, the wooden bench, the quill pen, the parchments and the ticking clock.

Yet another matter tugged at his mind, making him all the more determined to secure the position. His days at the Hodgson farm, when not cleaning out byres, mending walls and fences or picking early fruit, had been spent in conversation with Joseph Hodgson; his wife Ann, who had welcomed him warmly; and their daughter. And it had become apparent to Frederick that he was growing to enjoy the company of the younger Ann more and more. He enjoyed hearing her voice, listening to the accounts of her childhood, admiring the shape of her face and the colour of her eyes, and becoming aware, as he never had with any other woman, of her body and the way she moved.

So he wished also to obtain the post that it might provide the means to his being able to continue to see this woman. She was a farmer’s daughter, and did her share of the chores as was expected, but had let it slip that she did not always want such a life. From that Frederick had deduced that she did not see her future as the wife of a farmer and in this he was correct.

Much as Ann had admired her mother for her role on the farm, it was not something she herself wanted to do. Besides, that would mean marrying a farmer and so far she had been less than impressed by the younger men in the vicinity. Her leanings were towards men who had more on their minds than the price of corn or a tumble in the hay. Ann, a keen reader, and one who had succeeded well with her studies, wanted something more, and the introduction onto the farm of a young, knowledgeable and intelligent man had intrigued and excited her.

Trembling slightly with apprehension, Frederick approached the Ferryhill vicarage and lifted the cast-iron knocker, wondering inconsequentially if it had, by any chance, been made by his former employer. As he let it fall, its metallic thud seemed to symbolise closure on a previous life. He so hoped this would prove to be the case.

A female servant, of middle age, opened the door and ushered him into the parlour where she bid him wait while she went to announce his arrival, closing the door softly behind her. Frederick glanced round the room, taking in the oak table, writing desk, oil lamps and the casement clock, ticking soothingly and slowly in a corner. Opposite the fireplace, lid open, was a small cottage piano-forte, a Warnum. Eyes lighting up, Frederick walked over to it and looked intently at the music left open on the rest. Bach, he noted: an arrangement of his Toccata and Fugue. The young man knew this work. How often had he tackled its mighty range with Mr. McPherson by his side, guiding and prompting. As he ran his eyes over the manuscript, his head filled with the pulsing, reverberating resonance, he was once more transported to his beloved church and the organ he had mastered.

Do you play?

Frederick whirled round, covered in confusion. There stood a somewhat corpulent figure in clerical garb; balding, with a stoop, and a grave smile on his lips.

Y-Yes, stammered Frederick, conscious of the colour rising to his face and trying to will it to subside. The organ, Sir, and the clarionet. I h-had a good tutor at my church in Glasgow.

Which church was that?

Frederick told him.

Episcopalian, I would imagine? Their links with the Church of England are very strong you know.

Yes Sir, said Frederick. We were often known as the English church. We took music very seriously. Is that perhaps the case with your church Sir?

The Reverend Long chuckled.

I would like us to be but ours is a small church and a scattered community. We have no organ but welcome any music in our House of God. It’s my belief that music was bestowed on the world by God, that we might glimpse the world hereafter, with all its beauty and tranquillity. Would you not agree?

Why, yes indeed Sir. I think that conception is immensely important. It seems to me that a service without music has something missing - as if the heart has been stilled.

Very well put, commented the vicar, appraising his visitor intently. "But, to business. You wish to become a teacher, I understand. As you may be aware, a teacher at our school has been sick for some time and Mr Wilson has been struggling to contend with nearly a hundred young souls. No easy task I can assure you.

He’s in the library, across the hallway, and is very keen to meet you. Would you care to follow me?

So saying, the Reverend Long moved towards the doorway and walked down a dark passageway. Frederick meekly followed him, feeling as he had when he had trailed after Mr Dalgleish on that first day at the Carron Ironworks.

Mr Wilson. May I introduce to you our aspiring teacher?

A thin, middle-aged, somewhat harassed looking man briefly shook Frederick’s proffered hand. Having effected introductions, and bidden Frederick to be seated on a hardback chair facing the broad bay window, the two men seated themselves in similar chairs facing Frederick. Their faces were, effectively, in shadow, while his was bathed in light. The sun slanted in at an angle, causing dust motes to sparkle and reflect. Bookshelves were everywhere, crammed with tomes of all shapes and sizes.

‘Not many to have awakened Gordon’s interest, I’ll be bound,’ thought Frederick abstractedly.

Mr Wilson, would you care to commence the interview? asked the vicar of his colleague. I have had a brief conversation, in the course of which I have ascertained that this young man and I have one thing, at least, in common. We both share a love of music.

Music eh, grunted the schoolmaster. Do you play an instrument?

Frederick told him.

There’s no instrument of music in the school, remarked Mr Wilson, save for the human voice of course. But you play the clarionet you say. How do you think that might aid our charges in their education?

Both interrogators sat back and regarded Frederick impassively, though not unkindly. Clearly, the interview had begun.

I think children should have the opportunity to develop all their talents, began Frederick. It seems to me that education, good education, should be something which finds ways of unlocking children’s minds.

And how might you unlock, as you put it, a child’s mind with music? enquired the schoolmaster. And with what purpose in mind?

Frederick thought hard.

My sister, my younger sister - I have two sisters and two brothers - had difficulty in remembering lines of verse. Yet if the poetry was within a piece of music, as in a song, she had no trouble. It was if the pattern of the music enabled her to capture the words without effort. Not that it helped her singing voice, he added. She always had a voice like a corncrake.

The Reverend Long laughed but Mr Wilson merely nodded. His expression gave little away.

Did you often help your brothers and sisters with their learning? he asked.

Oh yes. George, Mary-Ann and Thomas were all younger than me and, while George, and later on the other two, went to the local school, they found some aspects hard. Mary-Ann had very little understanding of arithmetic and George was of a nature which seemed determined to refuse to learn anything.

The two interviewers exchanged glances at this last remark.

There are plenty of Georges in Ferryhill, growled the schoolmaster sardonically. And I’ll wager they’re wherever there’s a school.

The vicar chuckled at that.

Tell us, he said, how you managed your George.

Frederick, primed by Ann’s father, spoke at length on the drawbacks of standard primers, and outlined the ways in which he had used the context of his brother’s interests as a vehicle for learning. Then, in response to a general question on his approach to arithmetic, he expounded on the manner in which he had taught Mary-Ann the relative value of numerals.

The young man was conscious that his responses held the interests of his interlocutors, but found it hard to discern how much they had helped him in persuading them of his suitability to the world of school.

After a question on the teaching of the scriptures, which Frederick fielded easily, Mr Wilson brought him back to earth.

I’m intrigued by your responses concerning the ways in which you assisted your siblings in their studies but, you know, teaching one child, however recalcitrant, is not comparable with teaching a class full of many such children. How do you think you might respond to a challenge of that sort?

Frederick, intuitively aware that much hung on his response, took his time.

I think, he began, I would insist that children stuck to their task and worked hard, but I think also that the lesson should be one which can be mastered, at least by most of the scholars. I believe that the lesson should, if possible, be made interesting or arranged so that it captures interest.

Like your substitution of words for your brother George, when the primer proved inadequate? enquired the vicar.

"Aye. I mean, excuse me, yes Sir. That’s only an example, of course, but children have knowledge of their own. Many here learn much of farming, I would imagine, and it should not be beyond my wits to devise work, perhaps studying the nature of the flora and fauna in the area, which captures their minds.

But I recognise that I have so much to learn, and would strive to observe and watch the established practitioner in all that he did, that I might develop my own abilities and, in time, become skilled in my own right.

There was silence. Then:

Oh, said the Reverend Long. I almost forgot. You will have, I trust, letters vouchsafing your reliability, trustworthiness and adherence to the Protestant faith I presume?

Yes, indeed Sir,’ said Frederick, blessing his foresight in having carefully kept his testimonials. I have them here."

Again there was silence lasting several minutes while the two interviewers read and exchanged the letters.

Thank-you for these, said the vicar. Your testimonial from the Reverend Jamieson at St. Andrews is as I would have expected, and indeed also confirms your musical prowess as an organist and clarionetist. But it is the letter from this Mr Dalgleish which intrigues me. You worked, as a clerk, at the Carron Iron Foundry and he confirms this. But he also writes highly of your diligence and of your neat script. He suggests you could, in time, have superseded him as a senior member of the counting-house staff. What made you repudiate such an opportunity?

Frederick told them. He spoke of his frustration in a job that seemed so mundane, though of course worthy. He spoke of the way George referred, in grudging admiration, to his teacher at the church school in Falkirk, and how this first stimulated him to consider teaching as a way of life but how, until his siblings were old enough, he was obliged to stay at his desk.

He finished by saying that he was now free from these shackles and would so value the chance to prove himself as a schoolteacher. And he thanked the stars Mr Dalgleish had drawn a veil over his dismissal and the reasons for it.

Again there was silence, save for some clearing of throats. The two older men glanced at each other, then, after ringing a bell, the vicar spoke.

Yes. Mr Wilson and I would wish to speak in private now. I’ve rung for Mrs Dean to take you back to the parlour and offer you some refreshment which I am sure you need.

The next ten minutes seemed to stretch to eternity, despite the remarks from the housekeeper.

Cheer up, lad, she said, seeing the tense strain on his face as he followed her into the parlour. "The worst’s over with you know. Besides, they’ve asked you to stay and wait. That’s a good sign. The last person was shown the door in no uncertain fashion. Apparently, he couldn’t even do simple sums nor spell correctly. Well, that would have been acceptable once upon a time, but since Mr Johnson’s dictionary was published, there’s no excuse, is there?

Now, here we are. There’s a cup of tea for you and a piece of my own stotty cake. Eat up lad. They won’t be too long. Luncheon time is approaching and The Reverend Long likes his food.

So saying, she left him alone. Frederick settled down, as best he could, valiantly eating the cake and supping the tea, though in truth he seemed to have no appetite at all.

Not long afterwards, just as Mrs Dean had predicted, the sound of voices in the corridor proclaimed that the conclave had ended. Agreement had been reached. The verdict must be delivered. Frederick stood, facing the door, white faced, his countenance such as a condemned man might wear on hearing the arrival of his executioner.

Lanchester

1870

I’d always wondered how you got into teaching, father, said William, who had arrived during their father’s disquisition. But teaching Uncle George and Aunt Mary-Ann? That was very impressive.

We knew you started your teaching at Ferryhill, said Thomas. Out towards Coxhoe isn’t it? But I didn’t know that Uncle George had been so fascinated by the sea and sailing since your days in Glasgow.

Nor me, said Thomas. He seems to have been a singular person.

Oh, he was, he was, wheezed Frederick, smiling wanly. Singular. That’s a good’un. Singular George. They should’ve christened him that.

Father. We know you, and George, and all your family were orphaned but we don’t know anything else. You’ve never been drawn. How did such a thing come about? Is it true grandfather Lazenby was married before, and how did grandmother die? And what was this Baines woman really like?

Ah. Yes. Those days, said Frederick. They seem a century ago. Yes. You need to understand how I felt. Glasgow. Falkirk. It was a world apart. A different time. You’ve heard of the Dark Ages? Well, this was mine.

Seeing the uncomprehending looks in his sons’ faces he sought inspiration from the shadows cast on the ceiling by the flickering flames in the grate.

Let me show you what happened. The moment from my mother’s funeral to when I and my brothers and sisters arrived in as depressing a place to live as I can think of, and how your Aunt Harriot and I entered the world of work. A world turned upside down.

Glasgow 1813

Chapter Three

Orphaned

Doloroso

The front pew had been graciously unlocked and loaned for the day by the MacLeod family and in this, his unhappy mind wandering, sat Frederick. To his left was his elder sister, Harriot, at fifteen, two years his senior, and on his right his brother George, now eight. To his right sat Mary-Ann, who was five. Beyond her was their grandmother, and on her right Charles Thomas, who was always called by his middle name. Thomas was three.

The Episcopal church of St Andrew-by-the-Green (not to be confused – as strangers to the district were told regularly and firmly – with the Parish Kirk up the road), was a fine building, one of the best in Scotland so they said. Built in 1750 and costing the huge amount, to Frederick’s mind, of £1,250.12.9½d, it was beautifully proportioned in the Georgian style, popular with the Merchants of Glasgow at that time. The boy had often, when much younger, joked about the cost, and the exactness of that final half-penny.

‘What was that for, I wonder,’ he would ask, and back would come the replies.

‘The polish on the door handle’, ‘The final stop on the organ’. ‘The boot scraper by the entrance’. And, more daringly, ‘Och, the wee dram for the Minister, son.’

Frederick, sitting subdued between Harriot and George, had spent many hours in this church, at first brought a tad unwillingly for Sunday services but later, as his interest and talent in music grew, to receive lessons on playing the organ. Not for nothing was St Andrew’s known as the ‘Whistling Kirk’, or the ‘Kirk o’ Whistles’, which was on account of the air which periodically escaped when the bellows were being worked.

The organ had been built by John Snetzler for the chapel in Edinburgh’s Carruden’s Close, but it had been moved to St Andrews in 1775, though not used until 1777. Apparently – and the boy smiled slightly at this recollection – there was no one able to play the thing those first two years.

Until a year ago the congregation had stoically put up with these extraneous noises. However, by 1812, just a year previously, the church members had decided that they had become weary of the jibes and snide remarks from outsiders, and the organ, despite having been enlarged and improved by John Donaldson of York some twenty years before, had been sold, and this magnificent new one installed. Frederick had been thrilled by the change and had been one of the first – after Mr McPherson the organ master, naturally – to be allowed to play and practice the hymns and music felt to be appropriate for such a fine House of God. Why, his mother had exclaimed only last year, he was nearly as good as Mr. McPherson. His mother…

Frederick blinked, and shook his head slightly, jolted back to the present. He wouldn’t hear her voice again, nor her praise, for she was lying here, in front of him, in her coffin.

He had not then heard the word ‘deja-vu’, but if he had he would have abstracted instantly its meaning and import, for it was only three years back that his father - dead, it was said, of a broken heart at the death of his eldest son Thomas in Antigua (born of his father’s first marriage) - had lain in the same church. Then Frederick’s mother had sat next to him and he and his siblings had drawn comfort from her presence, racked though she had been by grief.

Now it was his grandmother, his mother’s mother, who had taken her place and Fred stole a sideways glance at her from under his lashes. She had attended his father’s funeral, coming over from Falkirk, and he recalled her presence once at a Hogmanay, but not otherwise. The distance was too far, the cost too great.

She sat very still, seemingly impassive, which Fred noted with slight apprehension. He had been thinking that she might be more demonstrative. Hadn’t people always said that the hardest thing is to outlive your children? Yet his grandmother had arrived quietly a week last Friday and had ministered to her daughter as she lay dying. At first they had feared cholera, now gaining a strong foothold in this teeming city, but it became apparent that it was the wasting disease and the doctor could offer no hope. He did prescribe laudanum, which Frederick had fetched from the apothecary, to ease her pain, and it was a mercy he did so, for there had been times when she had cried out aloud in her spasms.

Perhaps, Frederick decided, his grandmother was too strong to give way to outward emotion. Certainly she could claim the bitter pill of experience, for bereavement was not new to her. Her other two children had died whilst in early childhood and, following her husband’s death some ten years earlier, she had been sorely pressed to make ends meet. A sewing and mending job at Falkirk’s famous Callendar House, and the taking in of washing, had enabled her to keep going but it had not been easy. She had been a proud woman too, for she had rejected all her daughter’s pleas to come and stay with them in Glasgow.

A nudge from Harriot brought him back to the present. The Minister, the Reverend Alexander Jamieson, having finished his sermon, was descending from the top deck of the pulpit in order to give the blessing and the eulogy from the middle deck, as was the custom. Before that the clerk to the church, Michael Brown, would announce, from the lowest tier, the hymn.

The Episcopal belief in singing and using music to glorify the Lord had been one of the factors which had attracted Frederick to the church. The organist, a dour man who had always to be addressed as Mr. McPherson, (Frederick