Pringles of Stone-ridge

by     

Thomas Leathan-drum 

This day for Tom Pringle had been similar to others of near same age and gender; most, if not all had lost a father to the sea or a mother to sickness, missing a brother or a sister taken; all with a story to tell.     This story is Tom’s as told.

Chapter 1         

“Stone-ridge”

Tom lay in silence under the flannel sheet, a sheet both a sheet, and a blanket, for the night is warm.    His head upon the straw packed pillow, firm but for the impression formed by his head.    His body upon the bed of woven wire and mattress of straw and goose feathers — the mattress old and formed to the centre — for it was once shared with his brother Jack.   Jack is brother, heaver in weight and longer in length — dominating the form.    The bed frame and mattress is old; older than the flannel sheet, for the flannel sheet — replaced when Jack left three years previous.     Jack who left to sail the seas, to catch the winds, to take the ship he sailed upon (as cabin boy) far from the bed, Tom now occupies and from the place they call home.     Jack left those three years previous, when he touched just fifteen, and no one had heard from since.    This day much like the day when Jack touched fifteen, and encouraged, by the brother of their true father — the man they were instructed to call father, and by their mother, who had taken this man as her husband into their house and into her bed.     That day much like this day — now Tom has touched fifteen, is encouraged without the right of refusal, by his second father and his only mother to follow in the foot steps of his brother, three year previous and his true father before him.    In a state of peace and tranquility, protected in a cocoon like thought, in the bed of his youth, in avoid carefully next to him and to his left, are toys.   One a hard stringed ball enclosed in leather, and a bat made of willow — with a handle encased with twine — the other a puppet, manipulated by hand and rods and strings, to move jointed arms and legs, made of wood painted to complete (sometimes call marionettes) given to both sons when their true father was present    Darkness lifts from Tom’s eyes, as the foggy light finds his young face; a young face, soft, smooth and with innocent skin — no stubble for a blade.    The same foggy light, ten minutes previous, found itself below the hill, where God’s breath has no intervention.     The light is so weak his eyes require no squint nor shading, the weak light through the window climbs the bare walls without  shadow — casting no image of what it covers; resting itself upon the ceiling — there it will stay until returning to where it came.    Un-moved and hidden from God’s sun, is “Stone-ridge” —  better described as “Stone-valley” (for is not on a ridge but in a hollow)      Here in his bedroom, Tom and the open window wait, the open window for the light of dawn to present itself and light up the dark sky and Tom for the light of dawn to shine to his bedroom on his last day.    The docks lie east of the window — a small window with thin glass and timber shatters.     Timber shutters which Tom had parted some short time before — parted to encourage the light of dawn to shine into his bedroom and upon his face.     A young face belonging to a young boy — just touched fifteen and to be casted out to make his own way in life.    A life as a cabin boy (a cabin boy as his brother before him) and recommend to him by his second father, the brother of their father — their father that went to sea ten years previous, and no one had heard from since.     Their first and true father before departure - once employed, within the walls of the local Inn “Dockside Inn” named after the street it supports – a shorter distance from his home than to the docks.      The weather beaten sign over the door reads “The finest of ale” Proprietor (Daniel Clotty) and never once, did their father partake in the wares of his work — sober to the day of departure.     On that day not unlike this day, and not unlike the day three years previous, to this day, he was not sober for the first time, that day.      The father and husband rose from his bed, nothing that followed, was not as it would have happened the day before,    His wife of sixteen years, sister to his brother’s wife for the same — has embers from last nights fire revived.     One the stove a pot of boiling water to bathe his face and on the table boiled milk to warm his oatmeal.      No quantity of words of encouragement and affection, tenderness and fondness, extended to each by touch — nothing to integrate the events that were to follow.     The trip to the Inn this day was not his destiny — his destiny this day once free of the house was not taken for granted or planed, for within the short distance from his house to his place of employment was brought to an end by the most unexpected event he could have imagined.     There waiting him, three large pungent, robust gentlemen (not that you would call them honourable) nor did they act in a gentlemanly manner — as he was bundled into the wagon so placed to received him, and others near, and those coming near him.    The second father called Edward, with his wife dead to sickness — sickness un-known, has become both master of the house and husband of the mother; commanding total privileges within the house of living, and in the premises of occupation.    The house of which Tom and his brother Jack were born to, is of two floors, two rooms upstairs (one the room Tom is now in) and one across from him.    The room where at this moment, his second father and his father’s wife now sleep, but are awake planning the renting of the room where Tom now sleeps, and where his brother Jack once slept, and once did together.    Freed from the flannel sheet and with one step from the bed to the floor, Tom has accomplished the first of many achievements required of him today.    Tom downed the stair of worn timber treads, avoiding the squeaky steps known my heart — learnt from many nights when he and Jack escaped to meet and play with friends.     Tonight, avoiding the broken planks or missing risers, guided by a handrail loosely held to vertical balusters, celebrates his arrival to the lower floor of one space.   This space acting as one room, one room as kitchen, same room with two curtained windows.    One to the front and one to the back, unlike that of upstairs, where there are none — no curtains hang in either room, for those windows spy no other.    Upon the wall opposite the door, a picture hangs of the scene no one in the house now remembers, of where or of what it is of.     In the centre, a rectangular timber table, and four chairs; four chairs of same size and colour; two only with back supports — one broken over the flesh and bones of the eldest son Jack, by his second father and the other to inflict authority the previous week, in disciplining the younger son of the father long gone.      There are two doors; the first to the back, to the lane that runs north south to the house — where the coal man calls and the mother lets in; when the man called Edward and mother calls husband, is out.    The second opens to the street and opens into the lower floor space that is one room — one room of three identities.    It is at the table where his second father and his mother are in conversation — both with eyes upon him.   The smoke from the extinguished candle still lingers and the heat from the stove adding to the heat of the morning, and the night passed.    Tom is presented with a bundle of clothing, restrained by twine yet to be cut — given by his second father.     In the bundle presented, yet to be opened; a woollen cap, woollen trousers, a short woollen coat — with leather buttons and a pair of leather boots (brown in colour) all matching the same.     The second father instructs his wife to place a loaf of yesterday's bread — bread made from yesterdays dough, made from yesterday's flour, made from yesterday's meal and yesterday's yeasts (into a canvas bag)    Before Tom surrenders his right — a bath he must endure.     The tin bath waits — just four foot long and two foot deep and there on the coal range, the blowing water yet to merged to the cold that waits it.    Beckoned to remove the clothing he had the night before worn — told his new clothes need a clean body to appreciate them.    This is the last bath Tom will have in this place, called home.   His mother takes the discarded clothing now removed and adds the hot water to the cold that waits for it.    The tin bath sits in the centre of the room of three identities, providing no privacy upon Tom as he lingers in water —  not too hot, not too cold.     Tom's mother for the last time, scrubs her boy’s body with a small bar of sand soap,    They will likely never meet again, and if they do meet again, this will be the last time, she will scrub her boy’s body, for if, or when, they meet again, the boy she will meet, will be a man, and will not require his mother to wash his body.    So sits Tom in the tin bath of lukewarm water covering over the lower part of his young torso.    The boy’s skin of her youngest son is pure and un-scared from any marks like those suffered on the back of her oldest son Jack - inflicted there by the chair, the time her new husband broke, the one chair of four, across his flesh and bones to learn Jack a lesson.     The dawn has past and brought the time to depart.    The door facing the street is open — the same open door when Jack (Tom’s brother) left, with no words spoken and with no tears shared.Now on this day Tom will leave through the same door, this day words in a whisper “take care” from his mother and a tear shared.     His mother remained at the door for a short stay; the man, the second father did not — not even from the window on the upper floor where he had gone — to make ready for the new lodger, the new lodger a fellow Inn worker; a worker not known to Tom’s mother — but known to the coal man.     So fifteenth years of his short life past; five with his true father, fifteen with his mother, and eight with his second father - a father without patience; longing to see the back of Jack (which he had achieved) and now Tom - the youngest son of his brother, and his brother’s wife.     The mother who is saying goodbye from the door of the house — the house where her first husband brought her once married, and with child.    The child nine months later born Jack, and then some three years plus, a son born Tom – last born to the happy couple — for no more children were born, for her first husband left and no one had heard from since    The picture Tom has of his true father (Henry Pringle)  cradled in his head, an image of a tall provider, casting a shadow over all he stood aside.     A man large of structure, with a rounded puffy face, a rough short nose, two large round eyes, one green one brown (inherited), neither set far apart.     A man of pleasant nature, a man of fondness for his family, fondness for his wife and fondness for his sons Jack and Tom.     The picture of his mother (Molly Pringle) now larger in size and weight; gained since those ten years passed.     The mother he will never see again, will be one of care and jealous love.    The image to remain in his head from now, will be a mother lent against the door as he walks the cobbled street, passed the houses of neighbours; some friends to her, and some friends to her new husband and some not friends (time never spent together)    There is no picture in Tom’s head of the man (Edward Pringle) the second husband to the mother of both, is large in shape and tall in height —  but here the resemblances ends.    Jack more like his true father and Tom (no resemblance).

Chapter 2

“Stone-ridge way”

The front door swings on two large iron hinges — black iron hinges and a latch in the centre, and of the same colour, with a large key of the same colour, the key hangs on a hook left of the door, when not in the door — the door locked only at night.     “Stone-ridge way," leads to the Docks which Tom steps on — the fog now exchanged for mist, fine mist, dampest of all mists, making those walking in it, damp and more so with distance covered and time spent in the fine damp mist.      Alone at first, now accompanied by stray and friendly dogs; taking Tom passed those houses still standing, as families similar to his own, awake or have woken by the same foggy light that woke Tom.   The same light leading them to their employment — the employment making the rich richer, the employment making the young older, the employment that puts food on tables, clothing on backs of some – the employment drawing men and women and boys and girls of all ages from their warm beds - old and young leaving loved ones, both old and young leaving dreams of the night; men leaving their old wives; men leaving their new wives; men leaving children, not yet old enough to follow their parents to these places of employment.    For most but not all, this is not their first day of employment — of employment on the docks, in the tannery, in the warehouses, in the shops; that is "Stone-ridge village".      The same eyes see the same square stones of the houses that are the same square stones of the street — but called cobbles.    These cobbles direct Tom without a hand or a guide, or a string or a map — passed the houses built from local stone, now with no windows, no roofs, no doors, and land that no houses stand upon; but where houses had stood before the fire — the fire three years to the day; destroyed, houses not to different to which Tom and Jack's father brought his new young bride, before either born.     This is the first day Tom walks this cobbled street as a man, not a boy; just yesterday with his mates of near same age and gender, travelled this cobbled street to play.     Jack and Tom, and others of near same age and gender to each, walked this cobbled street before  - Jack and Tom walked this cobbled street with their true father to his place of  employment often, leaving him there as they played elsewhere.    Jack and Tom failed to walk this cobbled street the last day their true father left, forever.    As a family before their mother took their father’s brother and were to call him Edward, walked this street — but never again will they call him father or Edward.      From the window of the room now validated by both Tom and Jack; Tom just today and Jack those three years prior, the man they have called Edward those years once their true father left and their mother took him to her bed and call husband, the man, once Jack turned fifteen, sent to sea.     Now today Tom is fifteen and with no word of disapproval by his mother, will send him to sea.     If Tom had looked away from his mother, his mother standing at the door; he would have seen his father’s replacement looking down on him, with a smile of content and the sounds of coins warming his heart.    The distance from the house — the stone house; home for his fifteen years and the home just vacated, is only a one-quarter of an hour of walking time.     The street starts at house with the number one (some houses support numbers' some do not) so the street starts at the house most distance from the end. The house at the start, it's neighbour — pasture with wide flowers and domestic cattle, and to the slops of the valley walls.    The house at the end, it's neighbours — the red iron fence running east west and the coast with the distant lands that draw the people of "Stone-ridge" (more than once and more than one).     Friends of Tom of near same age and of same gender, equals six pairs of feet, three are to the right of him and three to the left of him; — avoiding the centre for the drain there provides relief for the spills of living.     Those to the left have less struggle than those to the right, to walk in comfort, for the street leans that way more than the other; three eager to follow in his foot steps, and the foot steps of Jack, Tom's brother, who did the same walk years passed, and three who wish not to follow in his foot steps (of the six) George, Tom's true friend and best friend, would be the friend best suited to follow once of age (a day only six months wait)      Attached to the parade, extra to the six friends of near age and same gender, strides one only female figure, who answers to the name of Polly.     Polly a tall girl of similar age — with no female figure to provide temptation — no friends of her own and no schooling; spending time as mother to her brother and three sisters, doing unpleasant household chores as her mother spends her time in drink and when not fetching for the butcher and the baker; both whom pay her in kindness and a coin or two; which half is spent and half is not.     Before Tom and his friends reach the office and the person whose name is on the note given to Tom by his second father (Polly showers Tom with full on kisses)     The canvas bag, of coarse unbleached cloth, old in age, but new to Tom, has a loaf of yesterday's bread and a slice of sated pork and a wedge of moulded cheese, the bag saddling his shoulder (odours from in) breach the canvas bag — not that the odours escaping are un-desirable or desirable, invite stray and friendly dogs to follow and sniff at his kneels, scoffing birds scope and hover, necks ajar, eyes bright, falter unsteady above, eager for a share of the spools, of a canvas bag contents (if we're ever to be shared).     The number of houses passed equals the number of thirty-three, and now he has reaches his destination, that of the office to the left of the red iron fence and the red iron gates — one gate open, the other closed.    The office with one window seen, Tom knows is where he must head and seek the man whose name is on the letter given after his bath, washed by his mother for the last time as a boy.     Tom’s second father gave the note, with the words. “Be off now, head to the docks, through the red iron gates to the office not far inside and seek out this man whose name is written upon it, waste no time as he expects you by nine o'clock and before the ship with your name as crew waits for you and sails without you”.   

Chapter 3

“Sea Bound Companions”

Tom left home as a boy and has reached the red iron fence as a man, as his brother Jack so did three years prior.    That day Jack had Tom to say goodbye (not today) not his true father, not his second father just his mother and she from the front door.     Within the red iron fence and out of site of his six only friends as the seventh, Polly called (to satisfy nature) after showering Tom with kisses.      The building specified as office — fabricated of sawn timber exterior wall claddings and slate roof, describes the office (leaning to the west) held against more lean, by circular timber drums,(cylindrical container, called a barrel) bulging larger in the centre than at both ends — doubled stacked, two tiered, diminishing in size, some empty, some not; some with lids, some with not; wagons singled bound, doubled strapped, timber crates doubled stacked, two tiered, some vertical, some flat; some slim, others over lapping as packed.      Horses black, six black horses, two to the front, two to the back, two held for particular purpose.    The men of “Stone-ridge way” street, employed to tender the load to the wagon and to the wagon to the horse, for a fixed price.      The man with authority on his shoulders, barks (more so, than his dog) standing to his left and far from any foot coming its way.       The same small building, called office, owns a small door and the man there who welcomes Tom with a toothless smile; he who is welcoming Tom is small and not fashionable, un-attractive in both looks and manner and smells (a puzzle to Tom for the air around the small man is fresh and smells of sea air)    The small man belonging to the name on the paper, the same name as on the letter, pointing with his small forefinger for Tom to sit (a stool under the window) in the small office to wait for the captain of the ship designated to carry Tom off.      From the break of dawn to the hour now reached, Tom has had the last sleep in the bed both he and his brother Jack had done so for twelve plus years.     Tom has had his last bath where is mother scrubbed his back; eaten his last meal and left by the door of the housed lived with his true mother, his true father and oldest brother; both left and not see or heard from since.     (Here in the office) familiar to his eyes a table of timber planks, like the table Tom this morning eat his last meal upon and witnessed through watery eyes of his mother and the glare of his second father.       His last meal in the house that claims number eleven, “Stone-ridge way”.      A chart of what will be Tom's new world — part rolled and part flat, lies on the table; of the corners that can be seen, one corner turned the other torn.      One object on one corner as a weight, a pewter canter, dented with no lid; as a weight to the torn corner, a brass ring of small diameter and narrow in thickness.     Hung to the wall and to the right of the door, a small picture painted with a confident brush; a rural scene, strange, Tom thought; for such a picture should hang in such a place; one of green rolling pastures, trees, hay stacks and cattle (to himself he thinks — for there on one there to ask) the picture could be of another life; once enjoyed by the name who's name is the letter given to him by the his second father.     With time still waiting and no sign of movement towards the out come of Tom's future employment, he opens the trunk there under the picture of the rural scene.    The latch with no lock attached gives up its hold, allowing the lid to open with little effort and strength, but for short rusty groans provided by one of the two hinges; no other noise was made, bar the rumbling noise of Tom’s excitement and eagerness to discover the secrets (the trunk held no mysteries) only transferring the musty smell of places it has seen and places it had travelled to the nostrils of the onlooker - Tom was sure the trunk belongs to the man he now waits upon.    Minutes of hours pass, and the wish for the man to return to ease his enthusiasm to embark this new life thrusted upon him and now desires.      From the open door of the small office the view provides uninterrupted access to the dock -  there tied to it, two ships of the fleet - which one has his name written and takes him like his true father and his brother, those years passed.   No sooner had Tom stepped though the opened door, was he garbled by his ear.    The person with the hold was a large burly man of some fair age and strength; this same man with the authority on his shoulders of the others (has Tom by his ear) with no word spoken by the man, the words are of Tom - begging for his ear to be released from the painful grip (it was not) and no other words uttered until Tom found his voice to claim the missing canvas bag, left  — packed with yesterday's bread, and the pork, and cheese his mother had provided without the consent and knowledge of his second father.    The man with authority who now releases his ear but with a greater grip to his arm, would have nothing with retrieving it (the just described bag) left free for general ownership.    Fifty-seven steps counted singularly — fifty-seven steps from the office to ship’s gangway —  released from his attackers grip,  yet still accompanied by his attacker (or escort, a more accurate description) words, mumbled merely perceived by his prisoner "On your way boy".   Tom, encouraged by his escorts words and the firm shove from behind, provided all the encouraged required to climb the gangway and towards his new sea bound companions; there waiting to own the fresh new young sole to exercise their minds upon.

 The End