Dressed as my brother I took pleasure in the scramble.
Having reached the shadow of the wharf keeper’s cottage, I stood to watch and listen as was my habit. The resident tabby padded towards me from across the yard, pressing its brow to my outstretched hand, knowing me by scent. I could feel it purring as it leaned its body against my leg.
The evening air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves. A factory steam whistle sounded in the distance. Some poor workers’ shift had ended. To start one’s labours before dawn and return home after the sun had set was not a life I wished to contemplate. My frugal existence amid the peace of the cut would seem as luxury to the uncounted masses who laboured in the mills of North and South Leicester.
Loose chippings of gravel crackled under my boots as I stepped to the door which, on my knocking, was opened by Mrs Simmonds. She beamed, taking my gloved hand and attempting to pull me into the brightly lit hallway.
“Such a pleasure,” she said. “So unexpected.”
“I should not,” I said, letting the words resonate in my chest, keeping the pitch low. “I have a cold. You wouldn’t want to catch it.”
“Nonsense.” She pulled again, but I slipped her grasp and dipped into my pocket for the coins.
Her husband stepped into the hallway behind her, receipt book and pencil in hand. Where his wife’s sharp movements suggested a heron on the hunt for small animals, he put me in mind of a sleepy toad, an impression heightened by the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. I passed him the money, which he accepted with a slow nod.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “I believe we should respect Mr Barnabus’s wish.”
“But I want him to meet our guest.”
“Nevertheless–”
“He would be enchanted to meet her. And her him.”
Mr Simmonds slipped a sheet of carbon paper between the pages and wrote out a receipt in blocky, deliberate letters. “Thanking you kindly,” he said.
His wife muttered something under her breath, then stepped back into the house. A moment later she had returned, leading her guest by the hand.
“Mr Barnabus, I have the honour of introducing you to Miss Julia Swain. Miss Swain, may I introduce Mr Edwin Barnabus.”
Julia curtsied, her eyes averted from mine. In the light of the hall, I could see she was blushing. “I was just leaving,” she said.
Mrs Simmonds smiled with the satisfaction of one whose plan has just come to fruition. “Then you must walk her home, Mr Barnabus. It isn’t safe for a young lady to be out at this time of night.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” I said.
“Then I shall accompany you as chaperone.”
Shoulder to shoulder, I would have stood two inches taller than Julia Swain, but the boots I wore had been made to include lifts. Thus I found myself looking down on her from an unaccustomed angle as we walked the road up the hill towards her house. Mrs Simmonds insisted we go ahead, though she kept close enough to be able to listen in on our conversation.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Julia said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And November on us already. Ned Ludd Day will be here before you know it. Do you prepare through the winter or leave it to the last moment?”
“I don’t really... that is, I was brought up in the Kingdom.”
“Then you give gifts at Christmas? To your sister perhaps?”
“Indeed.”
“Surely you must have built models of the Infernal Machines or seen them smashed.”
“Never.”
“It’s hard to imagine not doing. It’s such a part of our winter. Evenings by the fire. Gluing and painting. Together as a family.” She paused for a moment as if gathering her courage, then said in an artificially casual tone: “Perhaps you could come to our house on Ned Ludd Day. With your sister of course. We would eat the feast and sing the hymns together. Then you could see Father smashing the Infernal Machines for another year.”
We walked on in silence for a while. Though I kept my
Having reached the shadow of the wharf keeper’s cottage, I stood to watch and listen as was my habit. The resident tabby padded towards me from across the yard, pressing its brow to my outstretched hand, knowing me by scent. I could feel it purring as it leaned its body against my leg.
The evening air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves. A factory steam whistle sounded in the distance. Some poor workers’ shift had ended. To start one’s labours before dawn and return home after the sun had set was not a life I wished to contemplate. My frugal existence amid the peace of the cut would seem as luxury to the uncounted masses who laboured in the mills of North and South Leicester.
Loose chippings of gravel crackled under my boots as I stepped to the door which, on my knocking, was opened by Mrs Simmonds. She beamed, taking my gloved hand and attempting to pull me into the brightly lit hallway.
“Such a pleasure,” she said. “So unexpected.”
“I should not,” I said, letting the words resonate in my chest, keeping the pitch low. “I have a cold. You wouldn’t want to catch it.”
“Nonsense.” She pulled again, but I slipped her grasp and dipped into my pocket for the coins.
Her husband stepped into the hallway behind her, receipt book and pencil in hand. Where his wife’s sharp movements suggested a heron on the hunt for small animals, he put me in mind of a sleepy toad, an impression heightened by the magnifying lenses of his spectacles. I passed him the money, which he accepted with a slow nod.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “I believe we should respect Mr Barnabus’s wish.”
“But I want him to meet our guest.”
“Nevertheless–”
“He would be enchanted to meet her. And her him.”
Mr Simmonds slipped a sheet of carbon paper between the pages and wrote out a receipt in blocky, deliberate letters. “Thanking you kindly,” he said.
His wife muttered something under her breath, then stepped back into the house. A moment later she had returned, leading her guest by the hand.
“Mr Barnabus, I have the honour of introducing you to Miss Julia Swain. Miss Swain, may I introduce Mr Edwin Barnabus.”
Julia curtsied, her eyes averted from mine. In the light of the hall, I could see she was blushing. “I was just leaving,” she said.
Mrs Simmonds smiled with the satisfaction of one whose plan has just come to fruition. “Then you must walk her home, Mr Barnabus. It isn’t safe for a young lady to be out at this time of night.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” I said.
“Then I shall accompany you as chaperone.”
Shoulder to shoulder, I would have stood two inches taller than Julia Swain, but the boots I wore had been made to include lifts. Thus I found myself looking down on her from an unaccustomed angle as we walked the road up the hill towards her house. Mrs Simmonds insisted we go ahead, though she kept close enough to be able to listen in on our conversation.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Julia said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And November on us already. Ned Ludd Day will be here before you know it. Do you prepare through the winter or leave it to the last moment?”
“I don’t really... that is, I was brought up in the Kingdom.”
“Then you give gifts at Christmas? To your sister perhaps?”
“Indeed.”
“Surely you must have built models of the Infernal Machines or seen them smashed.”
“Never.”
“It’s hard to imagine not doing. It’s such a part of our winter. Evenings by the fire. Gluing and painting. Together as a family.” She paused for a moment as if gathering her courage, then said in an artificially casual tone: “Perhaps you could come to our house on Ned Ludd Day. With your sister of course. We would eat the feast and sing the hymns together. Then you could see Father smashing the Infernal Machines for another year.”
We walked on in silence for a while. Though I kept my
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