In Spite of Everything
by Charles Lacey
Chapter 3
Paul
Mother had run out of sugar. The Minister was expected to tea, and she always baked some biscuits to give him. She was a careful, thrifty shopper, and tended to go to the shops in Ashbury which were a little cheaper, but she would use the village shop in emergency. So I was provided with fourpence and sent there to buy 'a pound of granulated'.
Our village, Ainsworth, was quite a small place, high up in the Derbyshire Peaks with probably fewer than a thousand inhabitants. It had St Peter's Church, the Rehoboam Chapel which we attended, the Cross Keys Inn (Mother averted her eyes if ever she had to pass this house, which she regarded as a Haunt of Wickedness), the school, and a fair number of houses, as well as several farms placed outside, but near enough to be considered part of the village.
Ainsworth Hall was a mile or so away, and had been for centuries the home of the Ainsworth family. But the direct line had ended three generations ago, and the estate passed to some cousins by marriage named Hanbury. As far as I knew they were decent folk who did no harm, supported village activities in a quiet way and were kindly employers. But Mother would hear nothing good of them, for they were Roman Catholics and therefore utterly beyond the pale. I can still recall her voice, telling my father of their Heathen Practices, Bowing Down to Idols and goodness knows what nonsense besides.
But I was telling you about the sugar. If anyone is going to read this, I must try to keep my mind on the subject! Well, I'd just paid for the sugar – threepence ha'penny, but I would need to take the ha'penny change back to Mother, or I'd be in trouble - turned round, and there was a boy standing in the doorway looking at me. The moment I saw him, everything else went clean out of my mind, but at least I still had the manners to say, "Hello" and tell him my name. He was about my height, dark complexioned, perhaps with a little Indian in his ancestry. He had beautiful dark silken hair, and sparkling eyes just the colour of milk chocolate.
But Adam Skillicorn was now a back number, and this boy, Aiden, had instantly taken his place in my secret affections. His accent sounded a little strange to me; I later found that he came originally from Worcestershire. All the way home, and for some time afterwards, I wondered who he might be and what he was doing in the village. That night, and for many nights thereafter, I imagined him in my bed, his arms around me. By this time I was masturbating regularly; what astonishes me now, looking back, is that I still never connected this practice with the Detestable Sin of Self-Abuse. From time to time the Reverend Hodges would refer to this Vile Practice (I'm sorry, but the way he spoke of these matters always seems to me to require capital letters!) and the Sin of Sodom; his voice would tremble and his hands shake with the fervency of his preaching on this and similar subjects. But, we were told, by accepting Jesus Christ as our Saviour and leading a Respectable Life, resisting staunchly every Temptation to Sin, we might – we just might – Avoid Damnation.
But duty called, as ever, and I had to keep my mind on my tasks. School holidays were not regarded as an excuse for idleness in our household. While Adam was on his annual holiday with his wife (I believe they usually went to Skegness) I helped my father in his workshop and went out with him in the van collecting work to be done and delivering finished articles. As always, I was filled with admiration at his skill; he could take a clock case or a chair that was little more than a wreck and transform it into something as good as new. And if he were commissioned to make a new piece of furniture, it would not leave his workshop until it was perfect. I have sometimes wondered whether his spending so much time in his workshop was not a tactful means of keeping out of Mother's way. For even he was not safe from her caustic tongue. His mild-mannered "I must just finish Mr So-and-so's chest of drawers, he will be wanting it soon" was often heard in our house, and he was probably in the workshop for at least three evenings out of seven, as well as most of every day except Sunday.
Sunday in our house was indescribably tedious, at least to a fourteen-year-old boy. Wearing our Sunday best, we would go to Chapel. The service, given that the sermon was seldom less than forty minutes in length, would take at least an hour and a half. Any wandering of the attention during the sermon, or lack of fervency in singing the hymns, would be noticed and criticized. Following this we would return home and have our 'Sunday dinner' of roast meat, generally underdone and tough, boiled vegetables, invariably overdone and soggy, and apple pie with custard, usually burnt. Fortunately I had a healthy boy's robust internal economy, but I fear my poor father must have frequently suffered from indigestion. He certainly seemed to get through a lot of Milk of Magnesia.
On a Sunday afternoon I was not permitted to do anything noisy, since it was a Day of Rest. My parents demonstrated this by spending the afternoon in their chairs, snoring gently. I might read, but only the Bible or a recognized devotional work such as Pilgrim's Progress. Alternatively, I might go for a walk if the weather were fine, and on condition that I returned immaculate and in good time for the evening service at Chapel. In the evening we might listen to the wireless, but only if it were 'serious' music or a talk on a religious subject.
In those days, under Sir John Reith, the B. B. C. made a special thing of Sunday broadcasting. We had quite a good wireless set. The "works" had been given to Dad by a customer who had bought a new one, and he had made a cabinet for it. It had three valves, which made it a very superior set. One of my tasks every Saturday was to take the Accumulator which it needed to power the valves to Mr Haylock's Garage to exchange for a fully charged one. When I was at the Grammar School I made a Crystal Set for myself which I listened to surreptitiously. It could only receive the B. B. C. station from Droitwich, but it didn't need any batteries at all. The aerial was my iron bed frame! Of course, Mother forbade listening to Variety or Dance Bands; they were Worldly and Immoral. But I did get to hear some good music, and the news bulletins kept us abreast of current affairs.
But I got to know the countryside around the village very well indeed, since whenever I could I would spend my Sunday afternoons walking. Only very wet weather would keep me at home. There was a farm, Hobson's Farm, it was called, after the family who had owned it for generations, a mile or two out of the village, which had a lovely old-fashioned wooden barn. Horses – in those days a lot of farm work was still done by teams of heavy horses – were stabled in the lower part, but there was a lovely hayloft above, which was a very comfortable place to spend an hour or two. No-one ever seemed to come up there. Indeed, I very seldom heard anyone moving about below; it was, after all, the Sabbath and the rules about working on Sundays were still pretty strictly observed. And what I did while occupying a comfortable space in the loft was no-one's business but my own…
But things seldom work out the way one expects. It was on a day towards the end of the Summer holidays that my emotional life was turned completely upside down. I was in Dad's workshop. Adam had been given the afternoon off, since I was there. Dad had told me that Lady Hanbury, up at the Hall, had a particularly fine inlaid jewel box which she had dropped and broken, and had asked whether Dad could repair it. Of course, that was all in the day's work to Dad, but he did greatly enjoy working on really fine pieces, and so they had arranged that one of Mr Tootell's men would bring it down from the Hall and deliver it to him. So I was in the workshop, sanding down the seat of a Windsor chair preparatory to staining and polishing it, when there was a knock on the door. Dad called "come in," and the door opened and in came the boy I had seen in the village shop some weeks before. I don't know which was the more surprised, he or I. But his face lit up with the most wonderful smile when he saw me, and I have no doubt that I gaped and grinned like an idiot.
"Hello…" we both said, simultaneously. Dad looked at me curiously. "Do you two know each other?" he asked.
"Not really, Dad, but we met a little while ago in the shop." My heart was beating hard and fast. I desperately wanted to get to know this stunningly handsome boy, but I'd had little practice in the social graces. Aiden rescued me. "I was hoping we'd meet again. Do you work here?"
"No, this is my Dad. I'm just helping him this afternoon. What about you? Do you work for Mr Tootell?"
"How do you do, sir?" He spoke to Dad first, as was proper, then answered my question. "No, my Mum is the Housekeeper. I'm usually away at school. I tell you what, when your Dad has finished the jewel box, why don't you bring it up to the Hall and stay for tea? Mum's always saying she wishes I had some friends my own age. Sir Russell is really kind, he doesn't mind visitors in the Servants' Hall as long as Mr Tootell knows who they are."
So it was agreed. I was nothing short of ecstatic at the thought of going to tea with my new friend. Dad had the box finished in a couple of days, and it was wrapped up in some rags with a brown paper cover, tied up with cord, and I walked up to Ainsworth Hall with it in a sturdy string bag. I had been strictly instructed by Dad to go to the kitchen door with it, and I was met by Mr Tootell. He was a tall, lean, stringy man of about fifty, whose austere professional manner covered a genuinely kind heart. "You must be young Blandy," he said. "Is that Her Ladyship's jewel box in that bag?"
I fished it out and Mr Tootell removed the coverings and looked it over. "My word," he said at length, "Your father has worked wonders. I'll take it up to Her Ladyship now. Mrs Mitchell tells me you are to stay to tea with young Aiden. I'll send Betty up to fetch him."
So saying, he put on his formal black coat and went upstairs. At the same time, the youngest housemaid, who I later discovered was Aiden's sister, also went up and very shortly there was a clatter of feet on the stairs (at which Mrs May, the cook, tut-tutted) and Aiden came in, smiling broadly in welcome, his hand extended to me.
We all took tea together, sitting at the big kitchen table, Mr Tootell, Mrs May, Mrs Mitchell, Aiden and his two sisters, Betty and Maggie and me. It was a good meal, too, with scones and cake as well as a pot of good strong tea. Far better than I ever got at home! Afterwards Mrs Mitchell said, "Why don't you two boys go outside? Aiden, you could show your friend the stables."
Well, I'd have gone anywhere and done anything that meant spending time with Aiden, but as it happened I liked horses – well, most animals, really – and so I spent a very enjoyable hour or so with my new-found friend. Several times he stood very close to me, so close that our arms were almost touching, and I'd have given anything to have taken his hand in mine, but adolescent diffidence got in the way. Perhaps something said to my inner ear, The time will come.
Of course, I couldn't stay nearly as long as I would have liked to. I had to get back home, so after an hour or so I said a reluctant goodbye to Aiden, and left for the village. But my heart was singing. Aiden had explained that he would be returning to school shortly, but he would be back in October for the half term break. I gave him my address, and he promised to write to me and arrange to meet again when he was home.
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