Raised From The Shadows

By Darren Mockler

Set in Victorian England during the mid to late 1800’s. A time of affluence due to the rise of the British Empire and with it a class divide epitomised by the political-social unrest in London’s dark underworld the East End.

John Cutty is a troubled young boy struggling through childhood as he is exposed to life events tha

• Language: English
• Publisher: FCM Publishing
• Release date: Aug 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999652654

Book preview

Dedication

With love to,

My Wife, Karen

&

Harrison and Jackson,

Our two greatest creations

In Loving Memory of,

My Dad, Patrick John Mockler (Pat)

1938–2004

&

My Brother, Stephen John Mockler (Steve)

1956–2016

Acknowledgements

Thank you for all your support

and comments;

Michael Mockler, Elaine Mockler,

Lis Edwards & Tracey Thompson

About The Author

Dr Darren Mockler was born in Teesside in a small town, Thornaby-on-Tees, which sits on the southern bank of the River Tees. After moving to London and securing his BSc degree in Psychology, he commenced his professional training, Doctorate in Clinical Psychology, at the University College London (UCL), graduating in 1997. He worked and developed clinical expertise in the domain of mental health, forensic psychology, and neuropsychology.

A Personal Note

Storytelling and reminiscing with family and friends have always been a big part of my life. I have enjoyed reading for as long as I can remember. After writing an essay in an English exam that had to be entitled ‘Duel’, I developed an interest in writing. I have been hooked ever since. I look forward to sharing my work with you, both now and in the future.

Darren.

Chapter 1

Leaping from the carriage and hurrying up the steps of the Victorian town house, his black cape flowing behind, caught in the slipstream of his movements, he flung open the door forcefully and moved quickly along the dimly lit passage to the very end of the corridor. As he passed through the door and reached the sanctuary, his movements grew less urgent, more purposeful. Placing his bag on the table, he immediately slumped into a chair. Although the fire provided some semblance of warmth, he was oblivious to the cold, the adrenaline coursing through his veins had made him break into a sweat. Raising himself from the chair, he picked up a jug and poured the water into a basin. His eyes fixed on his bag, he leaned over and opened it, as if he were prying apart the gaping jaws of an animal. Reaching inside, he pulled out a wrapped bundle that clinked as he placed it on the table. He slowly unwrapped the fabric to reveal the knife inside. Taking it by the handle, he raised it high, the light reflecting into his eyes. Without blinking, he continued to rotate the handle, staring transfixed at the shiny metal. A drop trickled down the blade. As he pointed it downwards, the trickling gathered momentum, collecting into a large bulbous mass at the tip. Lowering the point further, he studied the drop right before it succumbed to the force of gravity, gliding off the blade. He watched as the droplet hit the water in the basin, sending ripples as the clear fluid gradually turned red. With brows knit in concentration, he tilted his head, his gaze still fixed on the water. Slowly, purposefully, he lowered the blade into the centre of the ripples and moved it in a circular motion, causing all the water in the basin to turn red. As he lifted the knife to eye level, something caught his attention – his own reflection in the mirror. He lowered the knife and looked into his own eyes, which, in the dim light, seemed dark and soulless. The deeper he stared into his own gaze, the more he fell into the darkness within.

The boy ran, pulling on the string as the kite bobbed in the air, dragged along the ground, before sailing skyward majestically with one mighty effort, its long, ribbon tail flapping in the wind. The lad whooped with glee, shouting, Fly, fly high! He kept running as the kite soared higher and higher; so high, he felt it would touch the stars. When he reached the end of the string, he stood watching his home-made creation in bursting pride, its stunning red material standing out against the white of the puffed marshmallow-like clouds. All the time and effort he had put into building his flying work of art had borne fruit; it was there to behold in all its glory. Totally absorbed in the moment, he was unaware of a voice calling out his name, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Someone whirled him around with a violent tug, making him lose his grip on the string. The woman shouted at him, Didn’t you hear me calling? Why didn’t you answer?

He replied, I’m sorry Mother, I didn’t hear you.

I’m not interested in your excuses. Now, get home, she bellowed, pulling him.

Looking back, he could see his kite drifting in the wind, slowly sailing away from him. He pleaded, But Mother, my kite! It’ll be lost... He struggled to free himself from her grip.

We don’t have time for silly games. Now come along, she scolded, tightening her grip on his arm.

But Mother, you don’t understand. It’s my kite, the one I made...

Overcome by a fit of rage, his mother slapped him hard across the face. Clutching his stinging cheek, he hung his head, not wanting to meet his mother’s glare and fuel her wrath. His mother hollered in frustration, Now look what you’ve made me do. You never fail to anger me, always up to no good. Should’ve got rid of you when you were born.

Plucking up courage, the boy surreptitiously moved his head to the side. As he watched his kite disappear over the hill, any hope he had left turned to despair. His heart sank, and tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. His shoulders slumped, he allowed his mother to drag him away.

He knew very well how angry it made his mother when he cried. Manfully, he tried to stop his tears. As they walked up the outer stairs of their house, his mother screamed, Stop whining. You’re so weak, just like your father. You need to grow up and be a man. The boy looked up at the window and saw the figure of a man watching them. The boy gazed into his father’s eyes, pleading for help without uttering a single word. For a brief, hopeful moment, he thought his father would intervene – his father’s expression mirrored his suffering. His hopes were dashed when his father lowered his head, turned and walked away from the window.

The boy was jostled up the stairs and thrown into his bed. Stay there, and don’t expect any supper. If I hear any sound from you John Cutty, you’ll be in for a beating, his mother warned.

Burying his head in a pillow, the boy allowed his emotions to spill. Lost in the shadows of his mind, he cried himself to sleep.

Sunrays filtering in through his bedside window awoke John the following morning, temporarily blinding him. He promptly hid his face under the sheets, allowing his eyes some recovery time. Slowly, he lifted his head above the blankets, taking care to keep his eyes shut tight. He swung his legs out from under the covers and sucked in a breath as his feet touched the cold, hard floor, the familiar musty smell of the unventilated room greeting him. The warmth from the sunlight provided some comfort from the biting cold. Pausing for a moment at the edge of the bed, he gathered himself, preparing for the day ahead. He then tiptoed his way across the room.

He stared out of the window over the nearby park, and the image of his brilliant red kite swaying around in the blue sky drifted back into his mind, making him smile. His happiness, his pride at having created something of such beauty overpowered his sense of loss. With his newfound warmth, he allowed his feet to finally rest on the floor.

A knock on the door drove the image away from his mind, and he heard the familiar voice of the maid call out, Master John... Master John, are you awake yet?

Yes Agnes, the boy replied

You must hurry... I am about to serve breakfast... Your mother’s impatient, she’s asking for you... You don’t want to anger her more.

With Agnes’s flustered muttering still trailing in the corridor, he hurriedly picked up the jug of water to wash his hands and face. Changing from his nightgown into his day clothes, he scampered down the poorly-lit passageway, anxious. He was confused, compelled to run so as not to be late, but also aware that rushing in would only make conspicuous his lack of punctuality. He settled on a brisk walk, before taking the stairs two at a time. Outside the door of the dining area, he paused to straighten his attire and, drawing a deep breath, entered the room.

Right then his mother called out to the maid, Agnes, will you call that boy again and tell him that if he doesn’t come down immediately, he’ll go without— Noticing her son walk in the room, she turned to him and ranted, —So there you are! About time... Always thinking only of yourself, keeping everybody waiting.

Avoiding eye contact, John muttered, I’m sorry Mother, I didn’t mean to be late...

Dismissively, his mother continued her tirade. Excuses... Always excuses! Just sit down now, so we can eat.

Taking his seat, John was pleased to see his mother redirect her attention towards his father. Edward, must you read your newspaper at the table. It is so undignified. Your manners are so common.

Without a word, Edward folded up the newspaper and sipped his tea.

John kept his head lowered, observing his parents discreetly. His father stared across the room and out of the window. Throughout the meal, his father did not utter a single word, while his mother continued to bark out orders to Agnes. The maid hurried in and out of the room, trying to meet her mistress’s demands, serving food and taking dishes away.

Unexpectedly, his mother said, I have a treat for you today, John. As if suddenly realising that she had been affectionate, she continued, Not that you deserve it!

Ignoring her last comment, John looked up at his mother and smiled, A treat... What treat, Mother?

I’m going to take you to the park today... After you have completed your chores, of course, she said, raising a cup to her lips. Before her son could reply, she turned to her husband and criticised, Edward, what have I told you about resting your elbows on the table, it is so undignified.

Getting to his feet, Edward walked towards the door, muttering, I’m going to work. As he reached his son, he managed a smile and whispered, Enjoy your trip to the park.

John, moved by his father’s show of affection, returned his father’s smile, just as his mother’s bellowing demanded his attention. Don’t dawdle John, go do your chores.

The thought of going to the park with his mother filled his heart with joy. He had noticed that recently, she had been taking him out for frequent walks. A sign, he thought, of her growing affection for him.

Later in the morning, Agnes called out, Master John, your mother’s waiting.

I’m ready Agnes, he replied, following her to the reception area. He cursed himself for being late, even though he had spent his time completing his chores. Expecting his mother’s anger, he stood in front of her, his head lowered.

Well, are you ready for your treat, John? There was a definite sense of excitement in his mother’s voice.

Surprised by her tone, he raised his head and stammered, Yes Mother.

Good, well let’s be on our way. Turning to Agnes, she continued, We’ll be back at about two. Please have tea ready?

Agnes nodded meekly, her head bent in respect, Yes Ma’am.

As they walked towards the door, much to John’s utter surprise, his mother reached out and gently took his hand, smiling. Off we go then.

Thrilled at his mother’s display of affection, John tried to keep a straight face as they walked hand in hand to their destination. As they entered through the gates of the city park, the green expanse stretched out in front of him. The desire to run across the open plains almost overwhelmed John, stifled promptly, however, by the fear of his mother’s rage. He looked up at her, seeking permission, and, as if reading his mind, she said, Off you go then.

Like a bullet, he shot off, traversing the open space in front of him, like a prisoner freed from his jail. He could hear his mother’s voice, growing ever more distant, shouting a warning, Don’t go too far! as he continued to run even faster. He loved to run, and boy, was he quick. Reaching the top of a small mound, he turned back to locate his mother and gauge the distance he had covered. Slightly out of breath, he watched his mother walk along a path to a bench and waved both his arms in the air, trying to attract her attention. When she looked over and waved back, he felt an inexplicable elation. Her love and warmth were all he ever wanted. To be noticed by her. To be loved.

Noticing a copse of trees, John decided to go and explore. He started to hunt around in the brush for something of interest. Lifting stones, he watched as a number of mini beasts scurried off in all directions, trying to find sanctuary in some other damp, dark place. Carefully, he placed the stone back, returning the home of the bugs to its rightful owners. He was about to turn and walk away, when he paused for a moment. Deep in thought, he stared down at the ground. Slowly, he raised his foot above the stone, feeling compelled to stamp down on the rock repeatedly. Fighting hard to resist the temptation, he hesitantly lowered his foot to the floor. His gaze fixed on the stone, he struggled to turn away. Finally, he overpowered the urge and made his way to the edge of the trees.

Staring across the park, he watched the children chasing each other around the park, feeling no desire to join them. John had always been a loner, content with his own company. The only attention he desired was from his parents. His mother, in particular.

Glancing in the other direction, he noticed his mother still sitting on the bench. But now, there was someone else, a man, beside her. He continued to watch his mother from behind a tree. She was talking to the man, seeming at ease in his company. He could see she was laughing, and the man kept drawing his head close to his mother’s, which made John experience a puzzling sense of discomfort.

As John watched, the man rose from his seat, took his mother’s hand, and kissed it tenderly, before walking away. After a brief pause, his mother stood and walked off in the other direction towards the park entrance. John kept his eyes on the man as he strolled through the park, swinging his walking stick. He was smartly dressed in a top hat and long overcoat. He heard the familiar voice of his mother calling, John... John! With one last glance at the mysterious man, he ran in the direction of the park entrance. He had already decided not to mention the clandestine meeting with the stranger to his mother. Walking hand in hand, the mother and son left the park, John so overjoyed at spending time with his mother, that he had already pushed any thoughts about her meeting with the man to the back of his mind.

Since the walk in the park, John noticed that his mother had seemed more content with life. She continued to shout and rant at times, but it was noticeably less frequent and intense. Thankfully for John, the focus of her displeasure seemed to have been temporarily redirected towards his father. Although he was relieved to have some respite from her constant nagging and criticism, he pitied his father. John was not totally exempted from her rage – far from it – but life at home seemed marginally more bearable. In some ways, his mother’s fluctuating attitude towards him was quite unsettling. The stability of expecting to be confronted with his mother’s rage and a lack of affection somehow made the situation more manageable. Not knowing what mood his mother would be in, even for a minute, was deeply unsettling. He revelled in her displays of warmth, but they only made her rejections ever more painful.

One afternoon, following another earful from his mother, John had hurried to complete his many chores. He didn’t mind doing the work – it was a rare opportunity for him to try and please his mother. He tried to justify her actions to himself. She’s only hard on me for my own good, to make me stronger, a better son he thought. He craved her love, and although her expressions of tenderness were infrequent and conditional, he could only see the goodness in her. He was convinced that he himself was the problem – a difficult child – and that it was his bad behaviour that made her shout at him or hit him. This was because his mother had convinced him into believing that he was a burden on her.

Taking an apple from the basket, he ran out to his favourite tree in the garden, sitting on the side that was hidden from view. He felt like he was invisible behind the tree – hidden from the world – so he could lose himself in whatever fantasy he wished to paint. He read books, immersing himself in whichever text he could find, ferrying on the pages to whatever magical land the author had described. His father, knowing how much his son loved to read, had given him a new book – a strange tale called Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The bizarre fantasy land portrayed in the book was so appealing to the young boy that he searched the entire garden for rabbit holes to try and discover the gateway to wonderland, to escape from his own world.

John’s mother deemed reading to be a waste of time, and she frequently berated her son when she caught him with a book. Her criticism did not discourage him from reading, it just meant he did it in secret, shared only with and supported by his father.

Sitting under the tree, shaded from the sun, he took a large bite out of the rosy red apple, the sweet juice exploding on his tongue. Pulling out his book from his waistcoat, the boy turned to the page he had marked with a small family portrait. Gazing down affectionately at the image, he moved his finger over the outline of his mother and then his father. He smiled at the image of himself seated on his mother’s knee, held by her. Placing the portrait carefully in his pocket, he returned to his book and the adventures in Wonderland.

A number of weeks had lapsed since John’s walk in the park with his mother. He had been delighted to be invited to take another trip out with her down to the local shops. Excitedly weaving his way through the crowds of people in the town that was situated on the outskirts of the city, John stopped to peer wide-eyed into the various shop windows adorned with brightly coloured toys and sweets, enticing potential customers through the doors. Hovering at the door of a confectionery, he was drawn by the sweet aroma of candy. His mother’s voice boomed, John... John, where are you?

Responding instantly to her cry, he turned in the direction of her voice even before he had seen her. Just as she was about to call out a second time, he arrived at her side. Trying to catch his breath, he said, I’m here Mother.

Flustered, she replied, Oh there you are, where have you been? You must stop wandering off.

Sorry Mother, he replied sheepishly.

After glancing across the street his mother looked at him, her expression and tone transformed. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out some coins and dropped them into John’s hand. There’s a shop across the road. You can go buy yourself some candy.

Equally surprised and delighted by her changed demeanour, he closed his hand over the coins and excitedly proclaimed, Thank you Mother! He hesitated, delaying his departure, awaiting her permission.

Well... Be gone with you, before I change my mind, his mother pushed him away gently, encouraging him to leave.

Requiring no further encouragement, he set off once again, navigating his way through the crowded street. Reaching the doorway, he glanced back at his mother. She waved at him from across the street and, after waving back, he disappeared into the magical world of the confectionery.

The old, Tudor-style building with its low black stained beams that contrasted with the white of the walls, was offset by the rows of jars filled with brightly-coloured confectionery. He drew in a deep breath to inhale the various sweet aromas that intermingled into pure ecstasy. Moving animatedly around the jars, his senses overloaded, he struggled to decide which sweets to choose first. Settling on a jar of toffees and some candy canes, he glanced over at the shopkeeper to find him busy – the sweet taste of the candy on his tongue would be delayed. He made his way around the shop, moving from jar to jar. Arriving at the front window, he stared at the display of sweets he had marvelled at earlier. He momentarily glanced across the road, wondering what to feast his eyes on next. His eyes widened as he noticed his mother – she was not alone. A man stood by her side, deep in conversation with her. It was the man from the park. He knew for certain, not on instinct, but from his posture, figure, and dress. He tried to make out the face of the man. He seemed familiar, but it was difficult to determine from a distance. The couple were glancing around nervously. Albeit anxious, they were obviously happy to be in each other’s company. The man took her hand as they moved out of his sight and down a side alley.

An unexpected voice from behind surprised him. Can I be of some help to you, young sir?

Whirling around quickly, the boy lost his balance and felt himself falling, until someone grasped his arm. With this helping hand he steadied and straightened himself, his dignity restored. The shopkeeper looked down at him over the rim of his glasses and said, You need to be careful, young sir, we don’t want you coming to harm, do we? He smiled.

No sir... And tha-thank you... Sir, the boy stammered.

Well, how can I be of further service to you? the man enquired, gesturing at the array of jars.

Some toffees and candy canes please, the boy replied with a smile.

Excellent choice, the shopkeeper complimented, taking the jar of toffees off the shelf, poured out a measured amount, and wrapping them up. And which of the candy canes would you like? asked the shopkeeper.

After a moment’s deliberation, John reached out and selected two red- and white-striped cane-shaped sticks and handed them over to the man. Paying for his treasure, he headed towards the door. He then slowed down, troubled by what he had witnessed. He did not know what to do next.

Is something on your mind, young sir?

Shaken out of his thoughts by the shopkeeper’s voice, John half turned and replied, No... Thank you. He stepped out of the shop and onto the busy street. His mother was nowhere to be seen, but the man stepped back into view from the alley, heading away quickly from where he had last seen his mother. After a short while, his mother reappeared, glancing around and pulling at her dress, as if straightening the garment. John moved stealthily towards her, avoiding detection in the crowd of people until he arrived at his mother’s side.

Hello Mother, he greeted her.

Oh, there you are... Well, let’s be getting on, I have a few chores to do before we can go home. Taking him by the hand, she marched off in the opposite direction to the man, who had long since disappeared into the crowd. Walking alongside his mother, he wondered about the man. Another meeting. Perhaps by chance, or is that too much of a coincidence? Whatever the circumstances, he did not dare ask his mother about the meetings with the stranger. But there was definitely something about the man and his mother’s behaviour that troubled him.

Once back home, John retreated to the sanctuary of his own room. He picked up his book and tried to read, struggling to concentrate. After reading the same page for a second time, he accepted that he was, perhaps, not in the right frame of mind. He had tried not to think about his mother’s meetings with the stranger, but the images kept forcing their way into his mind. It was most likely just his mother meeting with a friend for a chat, but there was something about their gestures, a whispered intimacy. Besides, the man seemed strangely familiar to John. If only he could have been close enough to see his face.

Lying back on his bed, deep in thought, he stared at a butterfly fluttering around the room. He followed it with his eyes until finally it settled on a table. Getting out of bed, he trapped the butterfly in a glass jar in one quick motion. For a moment, John observed as the insect tried frantically to escape out of his glass prison, only to fail and bounce off the cold, hard walls. Reaching under the glass, he managed to capture the insect, feeling the soft touch of its wings on the palm of his hand. Managing to grip a wing between his fingertips, he pulled at it, causing the fragile work of art to disintegrate into nothingness. He placed the single-winged insect on the table, watching it flap around, unable to take flight. Picking up a needle, he waited for it to stop moving, then pierced it. As it wriggled, he removed the other wing. He watched for a while as the wingless insect writhed on the needle. Unmoved by the plight of the once beautiful butterfly, he left the room.

He made his way down a flight of stairs and to the slightly ajar door of his father’s study. Peeping in through the opening, he could see his father hard at work at his desk. He was putting finishing touches to a ship he had refurbished out of wood and other material, down to the detailed rigging. The boy wondered whether he should tell his father about the strange man. While he was still deliberating, his father looked up and noticed him at the door.

Is that you, John?

Pushing the door open, he replied, Yes Father.

His father gestured at him to enter. Come in my boy, come and see what I’ve created.

Walking quickly across the floor, he stood in front of his father’s desk.

Well? What do you think? he said, holding up his prize.

It’s wonderful father, what ship is it? he asked.

Why, don’t you recognise her John... It’s Nelson’s Flagship, Victory. A 104 gun, fully rigged, first rate ship of the line! It’s magnificent! Do you remember the Battle of Trafalgar from your studies? 1805. What a ship, and what a captain! he inspected his work with pride.

Yes father, I do know about Admiral Nelson, the Victory, and his heroic sea battles, John replied.

As his father continued admiring the ship in his hand, John noticed a change in his tone – his voice wavered and there was a sense of sadness. I wanted to go to sea, travel the world... Be part of some heroic adventure... But it wasn’t to be.

Without waiting for his son to respond, he continued, You see, my father had other plans for me. He told me that there was no future in sailing the seas, that it was a waste of a life. ‘Banking, my boy, that’s what you need to do.’

His father paused, lost in his memories. It seemed as though he had forgotten about his son’s presence. Still in a trance, he whispered, Banking, that’s what you need to do... Forget about the sea.

Looking more closely at his father, John leaned forward and asked, Is everything alright, Father?

Fighting to pull himself together, his father sat upright in his chair, Yes... Yes of course, my boy.

Reassured by his father’s bravado, John said, Father, there’s something I want to tell you... He hesitated, fearful of his mother’s wrath.

What’s that John? His father leaned forward expectantly.

John started to explain, Well... I was out walking...

Just then, the door flew open, and in stormed his mother. Edward, I thought I’d asked you to respond to those invites to dinner at the Spencer’s. If we don’t reply, we won’t be allowed to attend. And you know how influential that family is in the city. They could really help with your career. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "I don’t understand you, such a lack