Stories of Adelwreth

A Mason Pocket

Jimmy Mason looked at the pocket watch in his hand. The short hand was almost completely to the left and the long hand trailing behind it. The constant tick of the other needle was mesmerizing. It captured his imagination. How on earth did people tell time with this thing? What did this thing cost? How many people does it take to make this thing? What do the insides…

A loud burst of laughter and merriment broke his concentration. He looked up from where he was sitting on a barrel, tossed the pocket watch up, caught it and slid it neatly into his pocket. He stood up, taking his cap he had been sitting on, fitting it neatly atop his head, and strode out through the alley between the stalls to see what the commotion was about.

A man in a black suit stood by the stalls, exchanging niceties with one of the vendors. He was smiling broadly as he shook the man’s hand. His white moustache curled with perfection but his eyes were cold. Jimmy stood there and felt a slight dampness on his checkered jacket as he put his hands into his pockets. Must have been from the rain a night or two ago. 

Anyway – he thought as he broke his gaze and walked through the crowds of lords, ladies and common folk – at least I know who’s thinking what when I’m around them. He stopped for a lady with an enormous feather in her hat for her to pass in front of him. Her strut was self-assured, arm-in-arm with some somewhat important-looking gentleman. His shoes were shined, but not to perfection. Any shine on a shoe was better than going barefoot, Jimmy thought, then tilted his head, but how would you run away if everyone could hear you clapping down an alley or jumping on a roof?

He made his way from the centre of the Market Square towards Duke’s Way, bobbing to the tune of some ditty that he had heard at the Lutz tavern. He nicked an apple from a cart while the owner and a client were bartering, and bit into it. Up ahead through the crowd he saw a familiar sight. A cap to the left, a cap to the right, a few caps near a stall. This meant something big was about to happen. He walked over to a couple of caps standing together.

“Donkin,” he said and nodded to the other.

“Jimmy,” the older one of the teens said, without looking up. He was carving something into a piece of wood. “Ita’s throwing away bread again. They know better than that.”

Jimmy nodded, contemplating. He gave the half-eaten apple to the younger one. Lorkey wasn’t that young, maybe a year or two younger than Jimmy. 

“High and broad?” Jimmy suggested.

“Yeah.” Donkin put away his carving and stuck his knife into his trousers. “Coppers should be elsewhere I reckon.”

“Volty could keep Constable busy for a while.” Jimmy motioned to Volty to come over. Volty surveyed one last time, then skipped and hopped over to them.

“Pay your friend a visit,” Jimmy told him. “Play some ball or something, high and broad.”

The group nodded to each other, then parted ways, disappearing into the crowd.

***

The sun travelled high into the sky. People hustled and bustled through the market square, spending, buying and bartering, conversing, joking and entertaining. It was a beautiful day in Adelwreth, 1832.

***

At noon – broad daylight – the hands on the pocket watch were both pointing to the top. That’s probably how they know what time it is, Jimmy thought, the short hand shows the position of the sun if you hold it in front of you. Well, in front and aligned with Duke’s Way with your back towards Peasant’s Way. 

He sat on his cap, hessian bag over his lap, on the steps of the post office in Third Street. 

“Constable! Constable!” he heard in the distance. Volty had started with the copper on this beat. He looked up. Donkin was across the street, keeping watch. Jimmy stood up, put on his cap, neatened it and walked into the alley by the bakery. He checked his knife in the inside of his jacket pocket and strode towards the corner. Before rounding it, he looked back. Donkin nodded at him from his vantage point. Jimmy peeked around the corner and was met with an interesting sight.

The man – the big man from whom he had nicked the pocket watch a few days before, was arguing with the baker. What are the chances, he chuckled to himself. The argument was apparently over some ingredients and some money.

Jimmy waited a while, checking in with Donkin across the street a few times. The argument grew and died a few times while he stood there listening. The big man was not happy about the baker dumping bread, and even more unhappy about dumping meat-filled pastries. Jimmy did not feel bad about the pocket watch though. It was a nifty thing, it told time – and he had figured out how on his own; he deserved the pocket watch. After a while, the big guy threw his hands in the air and restrained himself from – what Jimmy could only imagine – wanting to strangle the baker. Both men went inside.

Jimmy darted for the dump. He ducked and slid to the piles of bread, sticking half a loaf into his mouth and stuffing as much as he could into the hessian bag. Volty, Donkin, Me, Jack, Kent, Josh, Polsky, Scrussian, he counted. That should be enough for everyone. He started stuffing in another round of bread, sweating. His heart was pounding in his neck.

The door swung open…

Time stopped. An imaginary hand gripped Jimmy around his throat and squeezed.

He ducked back and turned. The baker stood there, fury in his eyes.

These people don’t like scavengers, hawkers or beggars. Gave the streets a bad name. Made them look bad. Chase away their customers.

The things that Old Man Greg used to teach them flashed through his mind. He threw the bag over his shoulder and charged out of the alley, the baker shouting and in hot pursuit. 

He rounded the corner, stopping himself from crashing into the wall using his hand, and made eye contact with Donkin, who was being shoved up against a wall by two coppers. A surprise patrol!

Everything was going wrong.

He charged across Third Street, slid under a horse and carriage, ran over to the copper detaining Donkin, jumped, and drove both his bare feet into the copper’s ribs. The man groaned and doubled over. Donkin split the other way and Jimmy was heading to Peasant’s.

Whistles blew. That is bad, he thought, very bad.

At the intersection, a copper saw him and started after him. If Jimmy could get to the Furniture Factory he was safe. There were enough alleys and corners to hide from the coppers for years. It was also their fort, as it were. A lot of the old-timer caps worked at the furniture factory – that is where they held all their big meetings.

More whistles blew. Coppers were surrounding the Furniture Factory – this was a big thing. Someone had tipped off the coppers, somehow they knew everything.

He turned down Seventh Street and ran up to Duke’s. Only that one copper was still behind him. Jimmy was getting tired and this bag over his shoulder was making him stand out like a sore thumb. He looked over his shoulder. All the rich folk were pointing towards him as the copper passed them. He headed for the alley going to Eighth Street and Lutz Tavern. He swung the bag into the servant quarters window and ran up to Duke’s Way. 

More whistles from ahead.

He stopped, panting, hands on his head. He didn’t know what to do. The city seemed so small now, there was nowhere to turn. There was nowhere to run. He knelt down, stifling tears of frustration and desperation. The clapping of copper shoes grew in intensity from ahead and behind him.

This was it. He would spend the rest of his days in a jail.

Coppers would beat him. Make fun of him. Insult him. Punish him for the other caps’ deeds. They wouldn’t give him food. They wouldn’t keep him warm. The teachings of Old Man Greg echoed through his mind.

“Hiy’all Cappins,” came an angelic voice. “What ya’ doin’ here prayin’ on the sidewalk?”

Jimmy looked up. Through hazy vision, he saw a girl with brown curly locks, sharp face and blue dress. She was wearing brown boots – worn but well taken care of, and carrying a bag of vegetables. The one thing that struck Jimmy beyond everything else, were those kind eyes.

He tried saying something but instead, stuttered and gasped. She chuckled, opening the door to the house.

“Come awn in. Police huntin’ down anyone wearin’ a cap today.”

He nodded and obeyed. She closed the door behind him and set the vegetables on the table.

“Papa says caps tried robbin’ Mister Wilhelm Wickgen. Big nono that one. Ever’bawdy knows yeh ain’t gonna get away with that.”

A knock came on the door.

She came out of the kitchen and shooed the awestruck Jimmy Mason out of the hallway into a side room before answering the door.

“Excuse me, ma’am, seen a young man with a cap run by here?” said a man out of breath.

“Papa says not to talk to strangers even if they wears a uniform,” she answered. “And besides, why would I be sittin’ peerin’ out my front window at passersby? I got chores to do mister, go do yours job and stop peskin’ young little ladies.” She slammed the door.

She came to Jimmy and whispered: “Papa will be here any minute now, best y’get goin’.”

She shooed him to the back of the house. “Papa is a butcher so he’ll butcher you if he finds yeh here without permission.” She shoved him into a room. “This here window here leads to the alley out to Seventh Street.”

Jimmy nodded and walked to the window, removed his cap and asked: “Who are you anyway?”

“Maggy Parsons,” she replied. “You?”

“Jimmy, Jimmy Mason,” he stuttered. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be sure to return the favour whenever there’s a chance or need.” He started towards the window and climbed out. Halfway out she said:

“You know, you’re kinda cute, Mr Mason. Get some shoes and my daddy’ll let you take me to the midnight harbour fair some time.” She blushed.

Jimmy stopped, smiled sheepishly, then clambered out the window, fell, laughed and jogged away, back to the Market Square.

***

A week or two later in the black of night, Jimmy Mason, wearing shoes he nicked off some important-looking man who didn’t particularly take care of shining them, stood in front of 152 Eighth Street, ready to ask whoever Maggy Parsons’ father was, to take her to the fair. He checked with Donkin across the street who was standing watch. Donkin nodded and smiled. Jimmy knocked.

A familiar man opened the door.

It was a man he had wronged. A man who had been in an argument. A man whose smile and eyes were coincidingly genuine. It was the man whose pocket watch Jimmy had nicked. 

“S…s…sss,” Jimmy cleared his throat. “Sir, my name is James Catonby Mason, and I would like to have your permission to take your daughter to the fair.” He straightened up and waited for a reply.

The big man thumbed at his moustache, looked down for a second and then straight at Jimmy, knowingly.

“Well, if I had my pocket watch I could have given it to my daughter and give you two a curfew.”

Jimmy grew ice cold.

The butcher started closing the door ever so slowly.

Inside, Jimmy heard Maggy storming down the stairs. His throat was again being squeezed by that imaginary hand. Jimmy’s hope and future seemed to be closing with that door, and at that moment, he looked back, shook his head at Donkin, reached into his jacket and handed the pocket watch over to the butcher.

The butcher took it admiringly, put a hand over his mouth and then wiped away a tear. He turned his gaze back to Jimmy, those eyes saying things that Jimmy had never heard or experienced.

“I’m proud of you, thank you for returning it, change your ways and you will always be welcome here.” He opened the door, revealing Maggy in her bottle green dress and bonnet. “Maggy, this fine young gentleman found my pocket watch.” He gave it back to Jimmy. “Be back at three. Have fun.”

***

At about half a rotation on the long hand, Jimmy knew that Maggy was going to be his wife. He still needed to ask her how to tell time at night. It would be a few weeks before she taught him how to count. After that, he counted every second, hour and day that they were together.

 

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