Oy Yew (The Waifs of Duldred Trilogy Book 1) Page 12

  Oy had one ear tipped towards the ceiling, but the ceiling was heavy and blank; it yielded nothing.

  Alas met the first faint sounds from the banquet as he approached the hatch: braying voices, the scraping of chairs, the clack-clack of Mrs Midden’s trolley, the word ‘wolf’ rising like cream above the babble and laughter.

  What sort of laughter was it? Jeopardine asked himself as he flicked his coat tails and took his seat gingerly, as though his very movements could tip opinion one way or the other.

  The servants began placing puffballs in front of the guests. Skinnitar leaned towards his neighbour and made some remark, and then it came, laughter edged with sneers. Jeopardine lifted his eyes to the grapes and horns of plenty bunched around the ceiling. His grip tightened on the fragile stem of his glass. He stood abruptly.

  ‘Gentleman, before we dine, I’d like to propose a toast to our outgoing president. Among his many achievements was securing us seventh place in the Eight Lands League. However, his term is over and if change must come, let us embrace it; gentlemen, let us open ourselves to the new. I give you, President Ralphs.’

  Jeopardine raised his glass. The bowl tipped sideways, the wine splurged, turning the tablecloth purple and spotting Odol’s shirt. Jeopardine was left toasting the president with a stem of broken glass.

  ‘Glide ’n’ slide,’ Mrs Midden hissed.

  Birkin and Firkin glided forwards, slid away plates, whipped off the cloth, dabbed at the guests, and placed a new glass in the Master’s frozen hand.

  ‘President Ralphs,’ echoed a scattering of voices.

  The whispers and titters continued. Jeopardine hid behind his napkin and peered out through slitted eyes. ‘…hoping for the famous Duldred pies,’ someone said. Mrs Midden gave one emphatic nod. Odol prodded the fungus with his fork and turned it over as though looking for grubs. The other men watched and waited. Odol cut a tiny piece of puffball and smeared it with a sliver of pate. He tasted. His eyes widened. He ate more and faster; he leaned towards Jeopardine and pointed at his plate with his knife. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said. The talking ceased. The only sounds were the click of knives, ‘mms’, ‘aahs’, ‘didn’t expects,’ and the scraping of plates.

  With each course the praises grew. Even Skinnitar could not refuse fourth helpings. Jeopardine began to relax, and then to smile. As napkins dabbed at the last traces of berry juice and cream, President Ralphs stood up:

  ‘I’d like to repay the compliment now, and propose a toast to our host. Will you join me in thanking him for a dinner which was brave, imaginative and primevally satisfying. I give you Master Jeopardine and his cook.’

  ‘Here, here,’ they brayed, ‘Jeopardine and his cook.’

  Mrs Midden was pushed forwards. She curtsied and grimaced at the floor.

  ‘And now,’ said President Ralphs, ‘to the serious business of my replacement. Shortly, we’ll go down to the marquee where you can advise your members on how they should vote. Think about each candidate in the round and try not to be…’

  ‘If I may,’ Jeopardine cleared his throat modestly behind his napkin, ‘before we leave the table, there’s one more thing I’d like to present as a fitting finale to our meal.’

  The room fell quiet but for Odol’s wheezing while Jeopardine moved to a heavy gold rope, anchored to a hook on the wall, and released it. The rope fed through his hands lowering a massive bundle swathed in gold damask. When it hung just above their heads he pulled a cord. The cloth rose in gathers like a theatre curtain, revealing the tree-sized, age-pocked bone.

  ‘…not to be dazzled by the last thing you see,’ Ralphs finished. Then, ‘Rabidus,’ he breathed star-struck.

  ‘Rabidus,’ the rest of them echoed.

  Skinnitar snatched the napkin from under his chin. He mopped his brow and his ruddy jowls which hung like another pair of ears.

  Odol walked around the table and slapped Jeopardine on the back. ‘First one ever found in Affland. Quite a coup my boy. You must tell me all about it.’

  Figures of eight of blue smoke hung above them, ruby and amber decanters passed and passed again, but still there was no result. The cigars were arranged on a table in front of the waif hatch. As the men chose their cigars Alas listened to them talking.

  ‘What do you suppose the delay is?’ said one.

  ‘Recount I should think,’ said another. ‘It must be close.’

  Alas decided then to take a very large risk. When the backs of those nearest were turned he opened the hatch, stretched his arm through the crack, hooked his fingers over the edge of a cigar box and pulled it towards him.

  ‘The gentmuns sent you these cigars,’ said Alas, emerging into the library where the balloteers, Larch and Waffle, were busy with the count.

  ‘I think it’s one of those waifs,’ said Larch, ‘just sprung out of the wall.’

  ‘Good of the gentlemen to think of us,’ said Waffle. He took a cigar and sniffed it. ‘That’s quality. We’ll take a puff before we do the last count. Help clear our brains.’

  ‘We’ve been at it too long already,’ said Larch. ‘Better finish off first.’

  Waffle sighed and pulled a pile of slips towards him. He was a half-height man, as round as he was tall. The edge of the table reached the top of his chest. As he stacked the papers they slipped from his hands onto the floor.

  Larch rolled his eyes. ‘Take care, man.’

  Waffle tried to get off the chair but his legs swung above the floor and his rear was wedged between the arms. The chair fell over and struck Larch. Waffle rolled off to the side while Larch rubbed his shoulder and swore.

  ‘Sirs,’ Alas interjected, ‘I see you’re having a bit of bother. Let me help.’

  The dazed balloteers watched as Alas gathered slips from under the table.

  A piece of paper was handed to Ralphs. Jeopardine straightened and swallowed. Skinnitar’s fat, spit-shiny lip drooped. Ralphs cleared his throat:

  ‘There were three nominees for the presidency. The votes have been counted and the results are as follows: Dinmont Calkin, twenty-two votes; Arnald Skinnitar, one hundred and seventy nine votes.’ A thrill ran around the room; Jeopardine kept his eyes fixed on the horns of plenty. ‘Jeremiah Jeopardine, one hundred and eighty votes. I declare the new President of the Affland Grand Society of Ossiquarians to be Jerrr-em-iah Jeopardine.’ He stretched the syllables thunderously.

  Jeopardine sprang up and twisted with one arm in the air as if he would twirl balletically around the room. He called Curzon over and made the only heart-expanding gesture of his life. The upservant jerked up rod-like. ‘You sure, sir?’

  ‘Don’t question me. Of course I’m sure.’

  Curzon turned his back, scandalised.

  The servants dining hall led off from the kitchen to one side of the pantries. As the upservants sat down to feast on the leftovers, collars were loosened, caps and aprons thrown carelessly aside.

  ‘There’s not much left. We’ll have to pad it out with some bread,’ said Larkin.

  Birkin stacked a pile of stained menu cards. ‘It all looks good but I don’t know if I like the sound of it.’

  ‘Well don’t worry ’cause you won’t be getting any.’ Molly bustled in and started putting lids over the dishes.

  ‘Come on Molly, what’s the game?’ said Larkin. ‘We’ve been run off our feet today.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘Run off our feet, and I for one could eat the hind legs off a mularoo. We been looking forward to this.’ Larkin dipped his finger in the cream.

  Molly slapped his hand. ‘Not a mouthful. I’ve got my instructions; the leftovers goes to the waifs.’

  ‘To the waifs,’ Inch beat the table with her cap in disgust.

  ‘You’re pulling my tash,’ said Firkin.

  ‘I’d like to. How you can bear that woolly caterpillar under your nose I don’t know.’

  Molly loaded Raymun’s tray watched by the outraged servants.

  ‘There’ll be s
ome growin’ to pay for this,’ grumbled Pashley. ‘Where’s Mrs Midden?’

  ‘Gone to bed with a headache,’ said Molly.

  Curzon came in looking sweaty and harassed. ‘Birkin, Firkin; back upstairs, it ain’t over. Skinnitar is demanding a recount.’

  The news filtered back to the basement. ‘I did what I could,’ said Alas, throwing the stolen voting slips into the fire, ‘let’s hope they got it right first time.’

  20 Bad Apples

  The weather was sappingly hot and humid, the usual precursor to the storm season. The waifs looked forward to this week each year as others look forward to festivals and holidays. The reason was this: they were allowed to eat the spoiled fruit. (For Jeopardine it was a chance to boast to the inspectors and the Doctor that, yes, the waifs had a varied diet.) It was fruit that furred over with mould even as they looked, but it didn’t stop them from eating it. Strangely, they were never tempted by the sounder fruit. They couldn’t bear to see the poor stuff go to waste or to the pigs and they wouldn’t risk this single privilege, this one chance at festivity. So at noon they took their bread to the orchards and sat in a circle under heavy-laden trees on grass studded with windfall. There was a party atmosphere. Each one made their own mound of plums, apples and pears; and then after a momentary delicious pause, they began to feast.

  Alas was eating his way around a mushy, puckered bruise. ‘Did you hear?’ he said ‘Election recount was a draw. Master’s going head to head with Skinnitar. Rules say it’s all down to who can come up with the rarest bone in eleven weeks.’

  Raymun came to take his share of the windfall.

  ‘How’s Master’s campaign going, Raymun? Will he win the second vote?’ Alas asked.

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Raymun. ‘Skinnitar’s playing dirty. He’s got undercover diggers on all the big sites. Gets his pick of the rare stuff before the museums. Pays a fortune for the privilege, mind. They say he’d sell the handles off his father’s coffin for a decent specimen. Rumour is he’s sitting on a big find, a complete black crackerole with cauli joints; not pretty but very, very rare. Bigger than the one under guard in the entrance to Odol’s, Master says.’

  ‘Can Master beat it?’

  ‘He don’t want to get in bidding wars out on the sites, but he’s got something up his sleeve.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ said Alas.

  ‘Just something he said. Said it might be big – the crackerole, but it wasn’t unique, and unique wins every time, and then he gave a little smile.’

  Ripe, musty juices dribbled down chins and up sleeves, but they all looked as though they’d eaten something sour, and many eyes turned to Oy.

  ‘Master’s very close and clever,’ Raymun went on. ‘I’ve got a lot of faith in him. I’m glad to see you taking an interest; he ain’t all bad. Don’t be too long here, you know you’ve got heavier schedules this week.’

  ‘In case a bit of bad apple makes us grow too much,’ said Lucinda as Raymun left them. ‘He’s right, we ain’t got much time left,’ she paused, regretting the double meaning, ‘to eat the fruit,’ she added, ‘so let’s get on and enjoy it.’

  Gritty threw an apple core bouncing across the grass. ‘I heard something this morning,’ she said, ‘about Oy. He says it’s alright to tell.’ She looked at Oy uncertainly and he nodded. ‘I’m passing the Pot Parlour and I hear Master and Mrs Midden. He’s telling her that Inch overheard Oy and Molly plotting.’

  ‘Plotting?’ Alas said, baffled.

  ‘Oy asked Molly to poison Master’s food. He’d already done Mrs Midden.’

  ‘What?’ Blinda’s mouth hung open. The others were no less amazed.

  ‘Oy, that was madness,’ Lucinda spoke with gentle concern.

  ‘It wasn’t poison, it was powder out of grave flowers,’ said Oy, ‘and I wanted to make them better. It worked on Mrs Midden, and I thought Master would be in a better temper if his legs stopped hurting.’

  ‘But what made you think that would work?’ said Lucinda.

  ‘I just knowed it. I felt it here,’ Oy put his fingertips together, ‘and here,’ he held his ribs, ‘and here,’ he rubbed his thighs. ‘I tried it myself first, it was all goodness.’

  ‘Well Master thinks you’re out to poison him,’ said Gritty. ‘Mrs Midden was near blubbing. “I’m afraid to ask,” she says. “Did Molly agree to it?” He says, “No, Molly is loyal.” Then Mrs Midden turns furious against Oy, says that explains why she’s been so tired and poorly since he arrived. “Aren’t you going to punish him?” she says. “Oh yes,” he says, “in my own way and my own time.” “Make it harsh,” she says, “make it harsh.” He says, in the meantime don’t let Oy anywhere near his food. Then the room gets lit pink and thunder follows. He goes to the window. “Storm over the Glumaws,” he says. “A week in the sewers will do him good.”’

  ‘Cinda’s right, Oy,’ said Alas. ‘It was madness. You’re always looking out for others, but you got to start looking out for yourself. You’ve put yourself in a lot of danger. Cinda, we’d best go through with it. She’s got this plan,’ he told the others. ‘Tell about it, Cind.’

  Lucinda got up and peered every way through the trees. ‘Everybody come close.’

  The circle closed in. When Lucinda had finished there was a silence as thick as the water-laden air.

  21 Lost

  Just as Gritty said, Oy found himself on sewer duty for a week in the flood season. Even as he walked away from the halls the world was changing tone. The yellow came out of things. The grass turned to bile. The sky was all war and peace. It was like the last story in Lands of Milk and Honey. Dark high clouds with red bellies were the death-eyed generals. Small grey clouds marched quickly underneath, making for the last strip of light in the east. Raymun handed Oy a bag and unlocked the round metal grating which was the entrance to the sewer. The stench rolled out.

  ‘I started on drains myself when I was your age,’ said Raymun. ‘I used to run round to get away from the smell, but take it steady till you’re used to it. You don’t want to slip in there. One, you’ll get covered in you-know-what, and two, you might put your lamp out. You need to check for build-ups of sludge that might cause a blockage. If you see anything, get in with your spade and clear it. If you catch it before it gets too bad it can save you a nasty job later. This part is the overflow. There’s a ladder further on, takes you into the main system. When the sewer starts to branch, take alternate left and right branches till it gets too narrow, then the opposite on the way back. Let’s light that lamp for you.’

  ‘Left then right?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Oy walked away from the daylight into the stench. He came to the ladder and took one last look at the daylight before descending. It was awkward climbing down the ladder in the tall boots. He must remember all that Raymun had told him. Protect his light at all costs and be very careful to remember the way. The large tunnel branched into two smaller ones.

  ‘Left then right,’ he said to himself.

  The roof and walls were suddenly much closer. Pulses of water slushed past and the tunnel became slippery in parts. He got his spade out of his pack and used it like a walking stick to steady himself. His feet kicked into a low wall of sludge and debris. He stopped to break up the fat and grit and food and other nasty things. As he moved on, his lamp picked up some movement ahead: rats pouring into a narrow side channel. A large rat paused, lifted its front legs, and inspected him with boldly twitching whiskers. ‘Friend,’ said Oy, and he felt, as he often did, something flow between himself and the other. For a while then the sewer smell became a homely one. The dark tunnels seemed safe and familiar.

  But he was meant to be concentrating. Don’t drift off, Alas had said. Now, was it right or left? Right, he thought. He stopped and looked back, then down at his feet as though they could tell him the way. ‘Left,’ he said decisively.

  Through the gurgling of water and the skittering of rats he could hear whistling, bright and tunefu
l. The left hand tunnel brightened, then Oy saw a bobbing, yellow light; and behind it was the outline of a person. The person drew closer, stopped whistling and held the light up towards Oy.

  ‘Chirriday,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re a little ’un. Duldred waif?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oy.

  ‘I’m Bram,’ he held his hand out.

  ‘Oy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s my name, Oy.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Oy. I used to be a factory waif myself but I got away. They got no right to take me back now. I’m overgrowed. Still, they don’t make life easy for me. I’m paid next to nothing when I work for them, so I must hunt and scavenge where I can. It’s surprising what slips down the drains under the big houses. One nice gold ring would feed me for a year.’

  ‘Are there gold rings down here?’ Oy looked around wonderingly.

  ‘I keep hoping. I find coins often enough, and a pearl and silver button once, washed up on one of these ledges. Not the pleasantest place to be but it’s worth a scout round when the pickings are poor at the dump.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I got a place in the woods, halfway between here and Crust. Very cosy I’ve made it. You wouldn’t know it was there from the outside. You must come for tea some time.’

  ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘I got in here didn’t I? I could show you the way out again. It’s a squeeze but you’d be alright.’

  ‘Really?’ Oy’s face lit up. ‘There’s something I have to do, you see, but… I wouldn’t want to leave the others, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s something going on at the house. Waifs keep getting killed and it looks like accidents but Alas don’t believe it, and the leavers, we reckon they don’t always make it to the boats. And Cinda, she’s got a plan that could finish Master if we get it right.’