Page 3 of The Captain of Betrayal
True to his word, for the next few years James did not stray from his promise to look after Polly, who had been forced to abandon her schooling to look after the baby Sarah. He visited the Jenkins' small house every afternoon after classes, and once Sarah was old enough to be swaddled and brought outside, they simply incorporated her into their explorations of Newcastle. The only thing that James could not help with was the fact that Polly's father had substituted his daughter as a punching-bag after his wife's demise. The dark bruises on Polly's face would not go unnoticed and the young lad would often vehemently swear when he saw them.
"I will run him through with a sword," he would say.
"No, you won't," Polly would reply, as she wiggled her fingers at little Sarah.
"You're right. I will put a bullet right between his eyes."
"You have no pistol."
"Not yet, but when I do..."
Apart from those occasional dark moments, Polly and James rubbed along nicely, enjoying their childhood adventures together. They both had a fondness for words and Polly would beg her friend to help her with her reading and would often drag him down to Westgate Road, where The Literary and Philosophical Society's library stood. Membership of this prestigious organisation was one guinea a year and was top of Polly's list of things she would do when she was grown up and had money of her own.
"I shall read in the library every morning, then visit with you in the afternoon for tea," Polly informed James one day, as they peered through the windows of the grand building at the rooms lined with books.
"I shall only serve cream buns when you visit," James, who seemed to grow an inch every day and was perpetually hungry, replied. "In fact, I shall only eat cream buns when I'm grown. No more ruddy vegetables for me."
Nothing seemed impossible at that tender age, and Polly believed that though the present had its bleak moments, the future would be bright if she had James at her side. They were both on the cusp of adulthood —James was nearly thirteen and Polly had turned twelve just a few weeks before. Childhood would soon be behind them and Polly worried if the rules of the world of grown ups might hinder their friendship.
"Do you promise you'll still want to be my friend in years from now?" she asked, as another bolt of trepidation hit her on the walk home to Strawberry Lane. Sarah, who was now old enough to walk, but still had not mastered talking, trailed along between the pair silently, their words seeming to fly over her blonde head.
"Of course," James looked startled by her question. "There's nothing in the world that could make me not want to be your friend Polly Jenkins--nothing at all."
Polly smiled at his answer and changed the topic of conversation to lighter things, though as she and James parted ways at Amen Corner, she wondered if he was right. For who knew what the future held?
CHAPTER THREE
James' mother had always been rather proud. As a child he had once overheard her refusing a proposal from a suitor, who had promised to take her away from the grimy back streets of Newcastle and look after her and James' every need.
"Thank you for your offer, but I can make my own way in the world." James had heard Flora Black reply gently, from his listening post at the door. "Besides, I am still inextricably attached to James' father after all these years."
"Ah yes, the late Mr. Black —how lucky a man to have such a devotedwidow," the suitor had replied, in a mocking tone that James had not quite fully understood, though he would hear it again over the years, whenever he mentioned that his father was dead.
Pride had left Flora Black however, in her final days.
"Go into town and post this for me," she had beseeched of her son, one afternoon in James' thirteenth year. "And no dawdling James, I beg you, this is important."
James had taken the folded page, which was covered in his mother's familiar looped hand, and hurried out of their house on Percy Street. His mother had come down with a cold two months prior, but the cold had never left her. Instead it had invaded her lungs, so that her every breath seemed laboured and James had become afraid to look at her properly.
His mother was dying, he knew that, and so too did Polly Jenkins.
"How is she?" Polly asked, as she fell into step beside him. She had been waiting for him on Percy Street, along with little Sarah, who never spoke and followed Polly like a shadow.
"No better," James replied tersely, fear eating away inside him and making him ill-humoured.
"Do you have anything for her?"
"I have nothing," a helplessness so great had overwhelmed James, that his voice caught and he could feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He blinked them back fiercely, afraid that if he began to cry, he might never stop. If only he was older, he had thought, old enough to work so that he could pay for some kind of care for his mother. As it was, he did not even have enough money for an apothecary —let alone a physician.
"Pa has a secret stash of coin in our house," Polly whispered, glancing with worry at Sarah, who as usual seemed oblivious to what was being said. "I can take a shilling or two and run down to fetch a draught from Mr Oldham."
Mr Oldham was the druggist, whose shop was located in a lane just off the Flesh Market in town. James' own mother considered him a charlatan who sold nothing but nostrums, but for the poor of Newcastle Mr Oldham was the only source of medical care they could afford.
"If your Pa finds out that you've taken the money..." James did not finish his sentence, for they both knew what would happen once Ted Jenkins realised that his savings had been looted. This did not deter Polly however; she merely squared her jaw in determination and took Sarah by the hand, promising James that she would return with a cure for his mother.
James watched her turn at the top of Percy Street, before he himself headed in the direction of the Waverly Inn, located on the London Road. Once there he would pass the letter to the inn-keeper, who in turn would add it to the pile of correspondence for the next Mail Coach bound for London. James stole a glance at the letter, noting with some surprise that it was addressed to the Earl of Ludlow. The postage specified that the recipient of the letter would pay - though James supposed that an Earl would hardly bat an eyelid at having to fork out four or five shillings for receiving a letter.
He of course wondered why his mother would be writing to a member of the aristocracy, but these thoughts quickly vanished on his return home. His mother's breathing was almost like a rattle in her chest, and when Polly arrived with a tincture of laudanum, Flora Black drank it down with little protest.
