NO BRIDGE TOO FAR

by Richard Banks                           

Mother often said that she had crossed many bridges. For someone not much travelled this was a surprising if not fraudulent claim until one understood that it was merely a figure of speech, a metaphor for the many problems she had encountered and overcome. If there were bridges too difficult for her to cross mother never spoke of them. To her logical but inventive mind, the obstacles in her way were not the bridges across rivers too deep to ford but the difficulties placed in our way by those determined to keep us poor and beholding to them. Despite their uncaring neglect mother would always find a way that paid the rent and kept us children clothed and fed.

         There were three of us, myself John Caleb, and my sisters Beth and Agnes. Our playmates in the village were ragamuffins like ourselves except that they had both mother and father, our father lay in the churchyard below a wooden cross. Without his wages, we should have been in the poor house or on outdoor relief but because of her, we not only survived but sometimes thrived.

         That mother worked hard was evident for anyone to see. In the mornings and until three o’clock in the afternoon she was housekeeper to a gentleman farmer bringing home his washing and that of other households, in addition to which she spun thread for Harris the weaver and plaited straw dollies for selling to travellers stopping at the Fox and Hounds on the turnpike road. It seemed that she never stopped, being at her wheel each evening until we fell fast asleep. Although sometimes abandoned to our own devices mother always found time for us and those she deemed less fortunate than ourselves.

         In the context of our village this consisted of only one person, an old woman racked with rheumatism who lived like a hermit in the woods that lay beyond the corn and meadow. Discovered by boys who daily tormented her with hard words and the throwing of stones mother stopped their mischief and henceforth became a regular visitor to her home reporting her needs to the churchwarden and making sure she received every penny of relief that was due. In the village, she was known as Old Meg and those still not free of superstition whispered that she was a witch who had once been seen on a broomstick flying circles around the moon. But mother knew better, telling us that no such thing happened and that Meg was a wise woman who made potions for the healing of the sick. These we drank and although the taste was not to our liking we seldom had a day unwell.

         When I was eight and the girls ten and eleven mother gathered us to her and told us of the plans she had made for our future. She had watched us grow, taken stock of our talents, such as they were, and decided the different routes by which we would become valued members not only of the hundred but of the whole shire.

         Beth, the firstborn, was the blithe child, fair of face whose sparkly blue eyes and ready smile warmed, if not melted, the hearts of all those setting eyes on her. For three years now she had sold mother’s dollies outside the Fox receiving more pennies for them than the landlord took for mild ale. Her face was her fortune and mother was determined that it should win her a grand match and by that means raise her far beyond her present station in life.

         Agnes, although far from plain, would have to settle for less. Her marriage, when it came, would be to a tradesman of the better sort who would be needing not just a wife but someone able and willing to assist him in the running of his business. The world was changing and the prosperity of merchants was beginning to rival the landed interest of ancient families. A daughter in both camps, said mother, would ensure our fortunes and those of generations to come. Who knows what time might bring.

         As for myself, mother marked me out as the scholar of the family who through dint of effort might gain preferment in the established church. That none of us had attended church in over a year was no impediment to mother who affected a religious conversion that some thought more striking than the one turning Saul into Paul on the road to Damascus. Fortunately, the road to the parish church was a short one and having said our prayers and listened to the Vicar’s sermon on a Sunday we were soon back home and playing our rough and tumble games with the other children. But slowly the demands of our new allegiance began to eat more deeply into our free time. The Curate started a Sunday school that mother insisted we attend and when it was discovered that I had a good singing voice I was made a member of the choir. But mother was not content with that. My book learning at Mrs Price’s penny a day school was extended to three days a week, while Agnes and Beth were taken out of school, mother saying that they had schooling enough and that from now on she would teach them all that they needed.

         Agnes became mother’s apprentice in the running of our household, learning the practical skills that for so long had kept us fed and clothed. From Meg she learned the herbal remedies that kept us healthy, and for two days a week worked as an unpaid assistant to Mr Reeve, the butcher, who, in lieu of wages, taught her the commercial and practical skills of his trade, including the keeping of accounts.

         Beth was also set to work. In accordance with mother’s plan, she was found a scivvying job at the country home of Viscount Berkley. There she washed dishes and swept rooms at a wage that undercut those demanded by the parents of other girls. But, for once, earning money was not mother’s objective. Beth’s role was to observe the several young ladies of the house, to learn, without their knowing, their way of behaving and speaking. It was a task to which she was well suited; from early childhood, she had exhibited a talent for mimicry and acting that, in time, might have made her a living on the London stage. Soon the only discernable difference between Beth and the daughters of the house was the finery of their clothes and the fashioning of their hair.

         Her insight into their lives deepened when she became maid to Amelia, the eldest daughter,  accompanying her to dances at the Assembly Room in Chelmsford and the taking of waters at Hockley and other spas. She learned the etiquette of such places, observing the polite formality of noble persons that for Amelia often included chaperoned conversations with young gentlemen, and others somewhat older. If Beth imagined that courtship was a kiss on the lips and a tumble in the hay she now came to understand that for her social betters marriage was principally about the joining of estates and fortunes. In this Amelia was no better than an item for sale on viewing day of an auction, observed, assessed and sometimes admired but on bidding day receiving offers only from those seeking a quantifiable benefit.

         When Amelia was twenty-one and Beth seventeen William, the son of Earl Stafford came visiting and, having found Amelia’s charms insufficient to compensate for the additional allowance of another potential wife, came across Beth dressed in one of her mistresses old gowns. Mistaking her for a daughter of the house he asked her name and when told in the sweetest of voices and with the most captivating of smiles that it was Elizabeth departed for home with the news that his search for a wife was at an end. His mother perplexed that the Earl had a daughter of whom she knew nothing, immediately made enquiries that soon discovered the object of her son’s ardour to be a domestic servant. That Master William was momentarily heartbroken by this revelation can not be denied but being a practical young man, who had already seduced two of the maidservants in his father’s house, his plans for Beth were modified to provide himself with a gratifying diversion until she became of child.

         It was, therefore, no coincidence that one evening he came across Beth returning on foot to the village and, being the polite young gentleman he sometimes was, conveyed her to our home in his carriage, observing on his arrival its mean condition that confirmed, if confirmation was needed, the absurdity of a legal union. A day or two later at their next meeting he suggested that they break their journey at a country inn and on finding Beth easily persuaded conveyed her to the Golden Lion where there were upstairs rooms for the hiring. For now, their dalliance was conducted in the saloon bar of the house where William introduced Beth to the drinking of fine wine. If he calculated that she would soon succumb to a pleasant, light headed intoxication that would enable him to transfer proceedings to the floor above he was much mistaken. While Beth seemed unaffected by the several wines pressed upon her, William found his mind reeling with the strange but undeniable conviction that he was in love and that his love was of a purity that could only be satisfied within the sacred institution of marriage. Having conveyed Beth back to our home and briefly, but courteously introduced himself to mother, he continued back to his own home where in raptures of joy he informed his parents for a second time that he wished to marry Beth. That William’s joy was not reciprocated by his father came as no surprise to everyone but the young man who was told in no uncertain language that at eighteen he needed his father’s permission to marry and that under no circumstances would this be given until he found a bride within the first three ranks of the peerage. Distraught beyond reason he sought Beth’s agreement to a slitting of their wrists in the hope that their souls be united forevermore in Heaven, to which, she suggested, it was better to elope.

         And so it was that two days later at the midnight hour William’s coach arrived at our door and mother dispatched her daughter with a chest of necessary things that included another of Meg’s potions in case, as mother said, the first one be not enough.

         If, on their return from Gretna Green, William expected his father to relent and give his blessing to their legal union he now found himself berated and cast adrift. As the younger son of only two children, William’s share of his father’s estate now passed to his brother who in any case was to inherit the main part. The four hundred pounds that had been set aside for William was now replaced by a shilling piece.

         If mother was perturbed by this overthrowing of her plan she showed no outward sign. Indeed her optimism that all would be well was undiminished. But how could it be, I reasoned. The connection to the nobility she thought so much to our advantage was now an empty glass. But before the year was out mother was proved right, as she always was, and the glass quickly filled back to the brim. As often happens one person’s gain is another’s misfortune. William’s father suffered a fatal convulsion while out riding with the hunt to be succeeded by his elder son who a month later, to the consternation of the shire, but mainly to himself, fell off Beachy Head and having survived the descent was swept out to sea and drowned. Being dead, intestate and childless his father’s lands and estates now passed to William who immediately abandoned his lodgings and creditors in Colchester to claim his inheritance.

         While it cannot be claimed that William was particularly generous to his wife’s family he was at least anxious to relieve our poverty in case it became an embarrassment to his noble dignity. He, therefore, brought us a fine brick house on the outskirts of the village and granted mother a comfortable annuity on the understanding that we live there quietly, out of sight and out of mind. However, the news of our noble connection was common knowledge to the village folk who often saw Beth’s carriage at our door. From being the least of the least our social standing rose almost to that of the Squire.

         We were now people worth knowing and Agnes had suitors aplenty from whom mother chose Joe, the miller’s son, whose family also owned a bakery. Here was a business that through hard work and ambition could be made large and ever more prosperous. They married in the parish church by special licence which, they were told, was the fashionable way to wed, and by so doing signalled their intent to rise high above their present situation.

         So what of me, the boy put to his lessons at Mrs Price’s school? Could she teach me what I needed to become a Minister of the faith? The answer was no and although she taught me well in reading and writing she knew nothing of the Latin and Greek that I needed for holy orders. If mother’s plan for me was to work, another teacher would be needed, and on my fifteenth birthday, he duly arrived. In fact, as Rector of the parish he had been in clear sight for many years and during that time had often observed me singing in the choir and at prayer which mother urged me to do as conspicuously as possible. Knowing of our new-found status within the village he visited us one afternoon and partook of refreshments that included a cup of Meg’s herbal tea. If the Rector intended to pass the time in polite conversation and a parting prayer he was soon knocked off course by mother who acquainted him with her son’s passionate desire to enter the church and his thirst for that knowledge that would enable him to be a true servant of God. It was, I judge, at this moment that the Rector looked upon me with new eyes and seeing the son he never had was suddenly infused with an ambition to be my teacher and benefactor. Through him, I acquired the classical education that qualified me for an Oxford college and from Beth and William the money that paid for my upkeep during the three years of my study. I returned to the village as the Rector’s new Curate and within a month was saying prayers over the body of old Meg.

         There were no potions now but no need for them. Our lives were set fair on a steady course that like a stately galleon was sailing serenely down waters far broader than the meandering streams of our village. Beth became one of the most admired women of her generation, a favourite of King George and mother to six children one of whom was to become a Duke. Her sister if envious never showed it and devoted herself to her husband, their business and four strong sons that have since become partners in a business that is now the largest of its kind in the eastern shires.

         As for myself, I administer to the flock as Dean of York Minster. There are those who say I will rise higher still but only I know that for sure. Mother also knew, for everything that has happened was according to her plan. That Meg helped her we never doubted until we discovered in a box beneath mother’s bed the devices of a witch. It was she, not Meg, who enchanted William and the Rector and, sadly, it was she who struck down all those who stood in our way.

          As the son of a witch now dead I have become a warlock. In this,

the only choice I had was to use or not use the powers that are as natural to my being as speech and sight. Believe me when I say that everything I have done has been for the benefit of the church and its people. If I have sinned it has only been to raise myself level with those having the advantage of noble birth.

         But enough of me. Let’s talk of the future, of those yet to come, the great leaders of religion, state and business that will shape the destinies of nations and bring them together as one; a world united, one government, one religion and an untroubled, compliant people freed from want, living well like the gentry of my own time. No more war, no need for revolution, a world forged by sorcery for the especial benefit of our kin to come, who knowing their part in mother’s plan will take it forward through the centuries to come. Only at the end of time will they be gone. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks