Page 5 of The Captain of Betrayal
Instead of looking angry at his outburst, as James assumed he would, Mr Plinkton took on a rather sympathetic air.
"My boy, while your anger and pride are most noble, I'm afraid that they are blinding you to common sense. Your mother wrote to the Earl and begged him to feed, clothe and school you, knowing that nobody else would. If you stay in Newcastle, you will be consigned to a life of grinding poverty, and I dare say that your mother wanted more for you than a career as a pot boy. You can't deny her dying wish, now can you?"
James shook his head; even in his grief he knew that this Mr Plinkton was right, and even despite his anger and bruised pride, there was a feeling of a weight being lifted off his young chest at the idea that there was someone who might look after him.
"Will you help me to bury my mother properly?" he asked.
"Aye lad, I will."
Perhaps it was the solemn, respectful way in which Mr Plinkton answered him that truly made up James' mind. The anxiety that had filled him at the thought that his mother would have to be buried in a pauper's grave left, and the relief left him giddy. For the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, James followed the steward across town as he arranged Flora Black's funeral. Mr Plinkton had a purse full of coins, and these coins set in motion events that James could not have instigated alone. Flora was afforded a proper coffin, a church service and a burial in Jesmond cemetery and once that was done, Mr Plinkton declared that James must fetch his things from Percy Street, before they departed for London.
It was only when the pair arrived at the house, with its grey walls and sagging roof, that James realised the enormity of what was happening. He was leaving his home, leaving Newcastle and leaving Polly Jenkins, who sat waiting for him on the front step of his house, shivering with the cold of the blustery March afternoon.
Polly stood as James and Mr Plinkton approached, her expression immediately wary at the sight of the strange man.
"What happened?" she asked, her freckled nose scrunched up in confusion. "I called back but Mrs Acreage next door said that your Ma has already been buried. Who's that?"
The last question was asked in a furtive whisper, though Mr Plinkton had obviously heard, for he bristled in annoyance.
"Inside lad and fetch your things," he commanded, in a rather haughty tone, completely ignoring Polly. "We want to be on the road before three."
"The road to where?" Polly cried, looking at James in alarm.
"To London," he replied, going to speak more until Mr Plinkton gave him a rather sharp poke in the shoulder.
"I said inside lad, and fetch your things," the steward seemed to have lost his patience at the sight of Polly. "You can say your goodbyes when you've packed. Away now lass, and let the lad finish his business."
The steward spoke to Polly in the same tone that James had heard some folks speak to a stray dog; his inclination was to protest, but the steward took him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him in the door.
"You have five minutes," he said, giving James a stern look, "And only take what you need. The vicar is going to come and fetch the remains, to distribute to the poor."
Codswallop, James thought mulishly, the vicar was surely coming to line his own pockets. Still, he raced around the house, packing clothes and a few of his mother's meagre possessions — a miniature of her when she was a girl, her well-thumbed Bible and her shawl, which still held traces of her scent.
His eyes welled as he closed the door of her bedroom, but he pushed the feeling of bleakness down, knowing that he was yet to say goodbye to Polly. There would be time enough for sorrow later.
"Here, what's happening?" the red haired girl asked, as both James and Mr Plinkton exited the house onto the drab Percy Street, where it had begun to drizzle. "Who's that and why are you going to London?"
"You have one minute," Mr Plinkton called sternly.
"I don't have time to explain properly," James whispered, his voice scratchy and raw with emotion. "My ma wrote to my father's family and they sent someone to care for me--but in London."
"But London's so far away," Polly replied, her own huge green eyes filling with tears. "I'll never see you again."
"No, you will," James said earnestly in reply. "I'll come back for you when my schooling is finished, and I'll take you and Sarah away somewhere better. I promise you Polly, you have to believe me."
His friend's expression was doubtful and James was filled with an urgent need to let her know just how serious he was, for she was his family and her blood ran through his veins.
"Here," he said quickly, reaching into his pocket where his mother's ring still rested. "Take this--it's only costume mind--but I'll come back in five years time Polly and give you a real one. Until then, take this to remember me by."
Polly accepted the box, slipping it into the pocket of her apron with a nervous glance at Plinkton, who upon hearing the lull in their conversation, cleared his throat.
"We must leave now, James," he called, "Best say goodbye."
"Don't say it," Polly shook her head, "Don't ever say goodbye James Black."
"I shan't," he mumbled, embarrassed by the hot tears that pricked at his eyes. "You must write to me Polly--care of the Earl of Ludlow. Do you promise?"
"I promise."
