Beacon's River

Beacon’s River

James Haydock

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© 2009 James Haydock. All rights reserved.

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First published by AuthorHouse 6/2/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-8239-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-4442-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009904404

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Beacon’s River

Onward it flowed, the shining silver stream,

Down from the mountain and through the low land,

Through the warm fields of May and winter cold,

Under the frosty moon to a sunlit sea.

To a phosphorescent sea, green and pure,

Where time and change and destiny do melt,

Where no living creature breathes hurt nor pain,

Where like a dry leaf in autumn tempest,

The sailor’s bark is lifted to bright air!

Beacon’s River

As the river surges onward in frost and sun,

so flows the stream of a thousand lives.

This is the story of one life.

Daybreak came raw and bleak with an icy wind. Dark clouds hovered low in the eastern sky and a damp chill promised snow. Heavy carts and wagons were already in the narrow street, rattling and grinding on the pavement, the cries of the drivers adding to the noise. In the early morning the traffic passed a building of three stories in the marketplace of Harrogate. On the ground floor stood the shop of Thomas Beacon, a chemist and dealer in pharmaceutical products. Its wide window displayed the tools of his trade, an over-sized mortar and pestle. Near them, artfully arranged, were gallipots of medicinal drugs and bottles with long necks filled with brightly colored liquid. In a bedroom above the shop, closed now for three weeks, Thomas Beacon lay sick and near death. A family of seven lived in the residence. Customers visiting the shop could often hear laughter and the screech of children playing on the floor above. Now in the cold and half darkness of a winter morning all was quiet and somber. A woman came into the cluttered room of a boy who had just turned thirteen and drew back the drapes. She glanced mechanically at the street below, becoming wet with patches of snow, and went to her son’s bed.

‘Wake up, Andrew,’ she said almost in a whisper. ‘Your brothers and sisters are already up, and I’m fearing this will be the day.’

The boy opened his large, blue-gray eyes and rubbed them with his fists. Two beds in the room were empty, his brothers having got up and gone out. Dressing quickly, Andrew descended the stairs to the chamber below and moved close to the bed where his father was propped on pillows. The room smelled of an antiseptic compound unlike any the boy had known in his father’s shop. He tried to associate the scent with something he knew, and he thought of lemons in a bowl of onions. Both windows were closed tight and shaded by heavy drapes. A small gas lamp burned in a corner. Two boys and two girls, all younger than Andrew, were standing stiffly and quietly against the wall. The invalid reached out to touch the hand of his eldest son. His fingers were bony and cold and did not soothe the boy’s agitation. He mumbled familiar words that seemed in this situation curiously inappropriate.

‘Break, break, break on thy cold grey stones, O sea ….’

He paused as if puzzled, leaving the line unfinished, his eyes flashing.

‘Look after them, my son. They need you.’

His voice was feeble and seemed to come from a great distance. His hand trembled as he pointed toward the children and fell to his chest. The boy nodded obedience. A moment later he managed to speak.

‘I shall do that, Father. I promise.’

He looked into the dying man’s face, saw a glimmer of recognition, and stepped away from the bed. From that moment until he could do it no longer, he viewed himself as the mentor and guardian of his brothers and sisters.

Dr. Flint, the family physician, had hurried from his home in cold and darkness and was standing beside the bed. He had brought all five children into the world and was now watching the father and breadwinner leave it. Tall and thin and unassuming, he sounded a hesitant note whenever he spoke, and seldom did he give a direct answer to any question. Many years of practice had taught him never to offer false hope to loved ones. He was a kind man and wanted to speak good and positive words in a bleak situation, but found it safer to be blunt. He lifted his patient’s wrist and checked his pulse. It was melting and draining away like the snow outside.

‘It won’t be long now,’ he said to the shaken wife. ‘He’s very tired.’

The figure on the bed opened his mouth to speak but found no voice. Huge tears, glistening in the gaslight, rolled down the gaunt cheeks and wet his beard. He knew he was dying, and to die before his time was hideous. The physician bent down to examine his patient’s face. It was drawn and haggard but calm. The gray-brown eyes were wide-open but unseeing. Dr. Flint closed the eyelids with the tips of his fingers and placed his hand on the sweating jaw and neck. He paused and looked with awkward self consciousness around the room. He sought his patient’s pulse once more and found nothing. Though he had clung tenaciously to life, cleaving to earth, Thomas Beacon lay dead at forty-one. The machine had worn out and the heart had ceased to work.

‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can do,’ said the doctor, glancing at Nora Beacon. ‘I understand your clergyman was here for last rites. I’ll have him come back and talk to you. I’ll call again if you need me.’

He picked up his bag, hustled smartly to the door, and looked at the children standing sedately and silently against the wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, speaking to no one in particular. ‘I did all I could.’

‘I’ll show you out, sir,’ said the children’s mother.

They walked downstairs in silence. The woman’s eyes were dry. Though a searing sense of loss churned within, her face was calm. In her youth she had been a beautiful woman. Now a widow with five children and weighted by grief and uncertainty, she was less beautiful but tall and stately. At the doorway they paused for a moment.

‘Will you continue the business?’ he asked.

‘No, sir, I don’t see how I can. But don’t worry, sir. We shall manage.’

‘If you need anything, let me know. Parson Weeks will be here shortly.’

‘Thank you, sir, and we hope you and your family have a festive Christmas.’

The doctor nodded and buttoned his coat. He lifted the collar, opened the door, and walked heavily into the wind. It was December and cold and the year was 1870.

2

Two weeks passed slowly, and the children returned to their daily routine. Andrew sat on the floor in the room he shared with his brothers. Scattered around him were several of the many books left behind by Thomas Beacon. He had been a man of active mind with an interest in botany, painting, music, and poetry. Once he had traveled from Yorkshire to London and had seen Queen Victoria as she passed by in her carriage. He brought home a portrait of the Queen, massed produced in those days, and put it on display in the parlor. The family owned a piano, and he had taught his sons how to play a few chords. For amusement in the evening hours he coaxed music-hall tunes from the instrument. His children listened with delight and learned to love music and books. Seven years before his untimely death he had published a little book on the ferns of the locality. He was a botanist and a lover of poetry and often recited Tennyson. Thumbing through the revered poet’s collected poems, Andrew recalled that his father had once persuaded him to memorize favorite lyrics and recite them with theatrical flourish before the family. Now he went on to complete the line his father had mumbled as the last words he would speak. ‘And I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me.’

In another book the boy found the drawings of Albrecht Dürer. He remembered how much his father liked those marvelous drawings. Dürer was the most famous painter and printmaker in the history of German art. He was also a scholar and author, and it pleased Andrew to look at the drawings with his father in mind. Putting the volume aside for later perusal, he gathered up several novels by Dickens and placed them carefully on a shelf near his bed. He had read all of them at least once but planned to read them again. A vellum-bound folio of Hogarth’s etchings caught his curiosity, and eagerly he examined Lemprière’s Classical Dictionary. He flipped through its limp pages with gentle care. It was his now. At thirteen he was already developing a fervid interest in the classical past.

The door opened and Will, who seemed always out of breath, entered the room. He was a freckled youth, two years younger than Andrew, with round shoulders, large hands, a round head with a tuft of reddish-brown hair, and a lumbering gait. He was a jolly, easy-going boy, not as shy as his brother but talkative and cheeky.

‘I came for my medicine,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You know I must take it in cold weather to keep the coughing and wheezing down. Didn’t want to bother you ‘cause I know you’re looking at some of Papa’s stuff.’

‘Just a trip through sunny fields,’ said Andrew, smiling. ‘Nostalgic remembrance you know, nothing serious. It’s no bother, Will, believe me.’

‘I can tell Mama is worried about us. Worried about us and the future, you know, and Christmas coming so soon after Papa died.’

‘Of course she’s worried,’ Andrew nodded, ‘but she doesn’t want us to worry. She said we are to go on doing the things we like. I like to read and write and study new subjects. You like music and building. Any more work on your boat model?’

Will’s round eyes brightened and a smile crept over his face.

‘Did a little yesterday and hope to do more today! Can’t wait to see her finished!’

‘Have you chosen a name for your vessel?’

‘Not yet, well not yet for sure. I must give it more thought.’

‘And what about that steam engine you started building? Any progress on it?’

‘I put it aside to finish the boat. I wanna launch her in the spring, y’ know, down by the river. She’s big, y’ know, and I can put a mouse on her to do the steering!’

‘Well I dunno how Mum would take to that,’ laughed Andrew. ‘You know how she is when it comes to small animals. Remember last summer? She came along and we had to throw the fish we caught in our favorite fishing hole back into the river. Anyway, they were too small and too bony to eat.’

‘Yeah, scrawny,’ agreed Will with a chuckle.

He selected two bottles from the medicine chest in the corner of the room and turned to go. ‘I’m gonna get back to my boat, and maybe Cullen will help. I sure hope the girls don’t interfere too much.’

The girls were younger than their brothers. Maggie when her father died was seven and Emma was almost four. Maggie was reserved and quiet, but little Emma was loud and talkative and eager for attention. Her mind was quick and she learned fast. She was probably the brightest of them all and knew exactly how to get her way among the older children. Yet by the time he was ten or twelve Andrew was feeling a surge of insight and intelligence that made him think he was destined for great things. At an early age he resolved to work hard to reach his goals and never waste time.

After dinner that evening, as the children pitched in to wash the dishes and set the table for the next meal, he asked his mother a private question.

‘How are we gonna live, now that Papa’s gone?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied softly. ‘Your father left us enough to live on, and I can rent the shop for extra income. Also, if I have to, I can become a milliner or dressmaker and take in sewing. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.’

‘I hope so too. Papa said women of our class don’t have to work outside the home. He liked what Tennyson said about women and their place in the home.’

‘That’s the ideal,’ she smiled, ‘but sometimes our lives are far from ideal.’

As they talked out of the hearing of the younger children, Andrew realized he was no longer a carefree child to be guided by a loving father and mother. In the traditional sense he had become head of the family, and the family could soon be facing hard times. He did not know that his father had left a trust fund in the name of his wife. It gave her a small income for the rest of her life. It would always be enough, aided by the woman’s native frugality, to keep the wolf from the door.

3

Another week of raw Yorkshire weather came and went. The time was Christmas and people in a holiday mood thronged the streets and shops of Harrogate. During the holidays Nora Beacon was able to rent the shop for a reasonable fee, and the tenant agreed to pay extra for its chemicals and equipment. She signed an agreement with Peter Finch, a pharmaceutical person who said he would run the business with his wife in much the same manner as in the past. He was a lean and rangy man of more than average height with thinning gray hair and pale, tired eyes. He had the look of a man who could benefit from walking in the open air but spent most of his time indoors. His manner was open and honest, and he readily agreed to pay the widow the sum she asked for in advance. That and the money she had managed to put aside before her husband died allowed Nora to prepare a memorable Christmas in a time of loss. But it troubled her when Finch informed her that he would have to occupy the quarters above the shop to be close to his work. It was more than a mere convenience, he said, because people would be coming to him in the middle of the night seeking medication. He would have to be nearby to accommodate them. Nora understood his position; her husband had been in the same situation. Reluctantly she agreed to look for another residence after the beginning of the new year. She dreaded having to move but knew it was necessary.

Christmas fell on a Sunday that year, and the entire family went to church. Before and after the sermon they prayed for peace and happiness and good will among men. They prayed for the soul of the husband and father who had been called away from them when they needed him most. With puritan sincerity, and sensing no irony whatever, they thanked a loving God for all he had done for them. All five children, sitting side by side in their pew, dutifully bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Andrew looked furtively around the large room to see what others were doing. He saw only bowed heads and moving lips and the face of his brother Cullen, who quickly closed his eyes. The little girls and Will were praying fervently, and so was their mother. He and Cullen lacked the religious turn of mind that governed their mother’s daily life and let their curiosity get the better of them. Eventually they would lose the religion they were in church to practice but not the morality it preached. After the service the family chatted for half an hour with the women of the congregation and with Parson Weeks. In the early afternoon they went home to open small presents and to eat a good dinner. Andrew was selected to say grace.

He was tempted to say, ‘Good bread, good meat, good God let’s eat!’ but dared not. Already he had become impatient with the custom of thanking a mysterious almighty Being for a meal so obviously earned by mortals. He was beginning to question the passionate protestant beliefs passed on to him by his father.

He wanted to say, ‘Thank you, Mother, for your strength in these hard times, thank you for loving us and looking after us and preparing this dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. And I do wish Father could be here with us on this day to share it.’

But habit and hard instruction required him to mumble a few traditional words of thanks for the bestowal of blessings, and that he did. For a moment there was silence at the table, and then all the children began to talk at once. The youngest of the family, little Emma, was the loudest. She was a chubby and cheeky child with bright eyes and braided flaxen hair. She was the baby of the family and spoiled.

‘I want some jam on my bread,’ she cried, ‘I want some butter on my bread. I want some rice pudding and mince pie. I’m thirsty! I want some punch! Where’s Mummy?’

‘Shhhh,’ scolded her sister Maggie. ‘Your mum is in the kitchen, you little pest, now stop the noise and be patient!’

‘I don’ wanna be patient! I wanna eat and open presents and sing carols!’

The child keenly enjoyed the commotion she was causing. She delighted in being the center of attention and wanted to make the most of it.

The boys, chattering among themselves, stopped to listen and then laugh. Their merriment was infectious and within minutes the room exploded with laughter and giggling and horseplay at the table, a forbidden activity.

Nora Beacon entered the room with a platter of lamb chops. She was a comely woman and slightly taller than average height. She had once been slender and delicate of frame but was now a matron with ample breasts and a thick waistline. She wore her dark hair long but arranged in a bun at the back of her head. When she combed it before bedtime, it came almost to her waist. She had a pleasant face and a clear complexion, and it was easy to imagine that in the bloom of youth she had been quite lovely. Around her neck she wore a tiny, gem-encrusted cross on a golden chain, a gift from her husband. On this Sunday of Sundays she wanted quiet decorum, but the children were raising a ruckus. She had to speak louder than usual to be heard.

‘Settle down, children, settle down! This is the Lord’s day, you know, and a very holy day it is, and we must be dignified. Each of you will have a sweet and juicy lamb chop and a slice of roast beef, but only if you behave! We have potatoes au gratin and Yorkshire pudding and the best bread I ever baked. In the oven, its juices bubbling, is an apple pie! Let’s remember last year when your father was here to celebrate with us. Let’s remember also, and without bitterness, that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’

‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh,’ repeated Cullen under his breath, emphasizing the old forms and not able to suppress a snicker. Jostling one another, the children snickered with him. His mother wore a frown.

‘No lamb chop for you, young man!’ she announced with mock fierceness, pretending to remove the succulent chop from his plate.

‘Awww, Ma,’ grumbled the jokester in the family with a sly grin, ‘I didn’t mean to be mean. Can’t we have a little fun even though it’s Sunday and Christmas Day?’

‘I want my rice pudding now,’ cried little Emma. ‘I want plum pudding!’

Protestant tradition, grounded in puritan rigidity, generally restricted the activity of English children on Sunday. And when Christmas Day fell on a Sunday, making it doubly holy, any number of rules had to be observed. Nora Beacon was a good dissenting Christian and often stern when she had to be, but now after tragedy had struck her family she was disposed to be liberal in attitude and permissive almost to a fault. In that way her love came through to support her children in a time of loss. She knew with conviction that her children were more important to her than anything else in her life, and that included religious rules and teachings. So when she did not reply to Cullen’s question, the children in high spirits celebrated just being alive. Each of them ate with a hearty appetite as they joked and laughed. Emma forgot her plum pudding when a big slice of fruit pie, topped with hot custard sauce, was placed in front of her. After dinner they sang carols and played simple tunes on the piano.

‘It was a jolly Christmas Day,’ Andrew wrote to his mother years later.

4

When the new year began there was talk of finding a smaller house and sending the three boys off to boarding school. In the cold and flickering light of a January afternoon Nora sat by the window and discussed the matter with Andrew. Will and Cullen were excluded because she knew they would talk at the same time and add confusion to a serious discussion. Also her eldest son had become the nominal head of the family. She wanted intelligent and thoughtful replies from him, and she knew he would listen carefully. Important decisions had to be made and quiet talk with Andrew was the way to do it.

‘Your father didn’t leave us very much,’ she began. ‘From now on we must look at every penny we spend. We have little more than his life insurance, a small investment, and what we can get from the lease of the house and shop.’

‘Does that mean we’re poor, Mother? Papa always joked about the workhouse. He urged us to study hard and prepare for the future, or we should end up there.’

‘Well, it’s never been as bad as that, you know. Your father was joking but I have to be serious. I’m not good at managing money, and so I worry. I do know we shall have to move to a smaller house. What we get from letting the shop and living quarters should keep us afloat. Mr. Finch and his wife want to move in next month.’

‘So that means looking for another place soon. Then what?’

‘The girls will stay with me, of course. But you and your brothers will go away to school, a boarding school. It will be hard on us financially but we can afford it.’

Andrew listened to all this with no surprise. The family was rooted in the Yorkshire middle class but had struggled to make ends meet for as long as he could remember. On the table, spread in a half circle, were several recent bills. Printed on blue, white, and pink paper, they caught the boy’s eye and he began to finger them idly.

‘We shall have to pay those as promptly as we can,’ his mother said.

He picked up a bill and looked it over. It was from the local florist who had delivered flowers to adorn his father’s casket, and his fee astonished the boy.

‘Did Caruthers really charge us that much for the flowers?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘Maybe there’s some mistake here.’

‘No mistake,’ Andrew. ‘The only mistake was ordering too many. I shouldn’t have. Flowers are expensive in the middle of winter.’

He picked up another bill. It was from the funeral parlor and detailed the costs of the funeral and burial. The amount seemed enormous.

‘I never knew it was so expensive to die,’ said the boy. ‘Is it just as expensive to be born? Seems to me from cradle to grave we have to pay and pay just to breathe.’

‘The bill is not unreasonably high,’ said his mother quietly. ‘They perform a very necessary service, and all of them have to live.’

‘And die too,’ retorted Andrew, unable to resist the witticism. ‘How much do you suppose they will charge themselves?’

His gentle mother looked at him with mild reproach. She did not respond.

‘We can pay these bills and then live frugally, Mother. The wolf may be at the door, as they say, but we don’t have to let him in.’

Nora smiled at that and touched his hand.

‘The bills will certainly be paid and the wolf will keep his distance. I’m sure of that. Now let’s talk about school, the boarding school in Cheshire.’

‘We’re eager to go but what about the cost?’ Andrew asked.

‘The cost is not exorbitant. It’s more than I’m able to pay probably, but not exorbitant. I’ve heard it’s a very good school. You will learn all kinds of good things there that will help you later in life. Don’t worry about the cost, at least for now. I’m fairly certain the rental money from Mr. Finch will cover most of the school expenses. And with three mouths to feed instead of six, our food bill here will be cut in half.’

‘Or less than half,’ Andrew laughed. ‘Will alone eats as much as you and the girls.’

In a somber mood, she did not respond with laughter.

‘You and Will and Cullen must do well in school,’ she instructed quietly. ‘All three of you must remember to make your father proud. The girls and I will do all right here, and of course you’ll spend your summers at home.’

5

March came with cloud and drizzle. The west wind, blowing hard, brought warmer weather and a taste of spring. In the Beacon home the boys were packing for school. Their sisters stood by and watched as item after item went into three pieces of luggage and a large wooden box made secure by straps. Andrew, William, and Cullen were going away to Godolphin Grove School. It was a Quaker institution in the village of Wilmslow in Cheshire. It catered to boys of the middle class and was well known for its strict, no-nonsense efficiency. The school’s well-designed brochure highlighted words of praise from former students and boasted of a government official, a naval officer, and an Oxford don who had studied there.

The county was famous for its cheese and for Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat, grinning and fading until only its grin remained. Also for many years its famous wild white cattle had roamed unmolested on the moors but were now becoming domesticated for their milk. Cheshire was a small county compared to Yorkshire and not terribly far from home. Its industrial centers were of little interest to the boys, but they were delighted to hear of castles, ancient villages, and haunted houses. The county also had picturesque farms, rivers, and the sea. William wanted to know where the ships were built. Andrew wanted to learn all he could about the Quakers.

In the parlor overlooking the street below they gathered to receive their going-away presents. Nora had decided on the gifts but allowed the girls to present them. Maggie, straight as a stick and pale with dark hair, conducted the ceremony in her best school-marm manner. Her role was to make a little speech for each present and then allow Emma, keeper of pretty things, to pass them to each boy.

‘There will be no special order,’ said Maggie, demanding silence. ‘No boy in this room is any more important than the other. So these presents will be presented ….’

‘Hurry up,’ interrupted Emma. ‘I wanna see what’s in the wrapping.’

‘Hush, Emma!’ cautioned Maggie as she went on with her patter. ‘There will be no special order ‘cause no boy in this room is better than the other. So the first present goes to … goes to … Will! Come forward, brother, to receive it!’

Wheezing softly because of the change in weather, Will went over to Emma and held out his hands with his eyes closed. His chubby fingers touched a rectangular package that seemed sturdy and heavy in his hands. He opened his eyes, quickly tore off the paper, and smiled broadly. It was the toolbox owned by his father. Inside were the tools he had coveted for a long time.

‘Thanks so much!’ he said with feeling. ‘Thank you, Mama. I’ll use Papa’s tools well and take good care of them and pass them on to my son!’

Maggie made another little speech and Cullen came forward. Emma placed in his hands a present smaller than Will’s. He opened it to find the pocket knife he had often borrowed from his father. He was delighted.

‘Last but not least – at least I don’t think he’s least – is … Andrew! Come forward, big brother, to receive your present!’

Andrew was gifted with high intelligence but was socially awkward even among members of his own family. He had his father’s good looks but his mother’s reticence and reserve. He moved cautiously to the center of the room as if expecting a trick to be played on him. Emma gave him a present even smaller than the one Cullen had received. He took it in his hands and slowly unwrapped it. He opened the cardboard box and pulled away the tissue paper. A round object all shiny and ticking nestled in the little box.

‘It’s Papa’s watch!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know what to say! I shall ƒkeep it with me for the rest of my life and pass it on to my son!’

‘I gave it to you,’ said his mother, ‘because your father wanted you to have it. You’re old enough now to know all about the importance of time. At school the watch will help you make good use of your time. Now make haste, boys, the cab will be here any minute. It will take you to the station, and away you go by train to Cheshire!’

‘Don’t touch any of my stuff,’ Cullen warned his sisters. ‘Leave it be as it is.’

‘Yeah,’ said Will, ‘and don’t monkey with my models, you could break them.’

‘You can look at my books,’ said Andrew, ‘but don’t bend the pages or mark in them and be sure to hold them gently.’

‘We won’t even go to your room,’ the little girls retorted with feigned anger. ‘So don’t worry! We’ll close the door and lock it!’

‘When I don’t have anything else to do,’ added Maggie, ‘I’ll look at some of your books, Andrew, ‘cause most of them belonged to Papa.’

The cab rattled to a stop and the boys ran into the street shouting, hooting, and laughing. Full of excitement, they were eager to accept the challenge of the first real change in their lives. They stuffed their luggage and storage box in the vehicle, kissed their smiling though tearful mother on the cheek, hugged their obstreperous sisters, and waved good-bye as they sped away. Nora and the girls stood in the street. She drew them close to her.

6

April came with showers that made the grass green. Something was happening in the ground and winter was surrendering to spring. Nora Beacon found a house she liked and planned to move there with her daughters at the end of the month. It was smaller and less imposing than the dwelling in Market Square but large enough for three. Maggie and Emma would share a room, and the extra bedroom would be reserved for their brothers when home from school on holiday. The house with its two stories was in good condition. It was located in a dreary but respectable neighborhood not far from the center of town. A school was situated nearby and the girls would become pupils there. Peter Finch would move into his new quarters, leased for five years, and the new address would become the Beacon homestead. Finch would rent at what he considered a reasonable sum and what Nora felt was quite generous. The rental income would help pay for the new house with some left over for the boarding school. The trust fund would bring them money also, and the insurance fund had been invested to provide the family with additional income. Andrew was relieved to learn that while his mother would have to live frugally, she would not suffer want of any kind.

From Godolphin Grove in Cheshire he sent a thoughtful letter, hoping she would like the new house and find it as comfortable as the old one.

‘I’m afraid we shall never like it quite as much as the old house,’ he said. ‘Father lived with us there, and that made a difference.’

He was already experiencing some homesickness and some nostalgic remembrance of better times. Near the end of the letter he reminded his mother that Maggie could look at his books any time she liked, and he hoped by doing so she would learn to read very well indeed and love to read. On another day he spoke of visiting ‘a very old town seven miles away.’ He had walked there with friends on a sunny but chilly May Day to witness the traditional ceremony around the May Pole. As the shadows lengthened they hiked back to the school and sat for examinations from seven to ten.

‘So it was a hard day’s work,’ he wrote, ‘but good.’

In most of his letters he spoke of taking numerous examinations so that he might obtain a scholarship to a reputable college that could open the door to Oxford. He was already behaving like a person destined to do memorable things in the world.

One year he won so many prizes, pompous little statuettes and worthless books on bad paper, that he had to take them home in a hansom. A boy they called Dawson was standing nearby and hooted with derisive laughter but with unrestrained envy.

‘You jolly well took it all, my friend. Didn’t leave much for the rest of us, did you?’

Andrew had never liked Dawson. The boy tried to get by doing as little as possible. He was lazy and too familiar and too big for his age. He was cocky at times and something of a bully. Andrew replied with banter, hoping to avoid a scene.

‘Some of the books will come in handy,’ he joked. ‘I can always use a few as a good, sturdy door stop, y’ know.’

‘Oh, don’t you dare!’ Dawson scolded, admiring their appearance. ‘They’re beautifully bound in tooled leather and carefully stitched. Oh my, they’re handsome! My father would like them so very much.’

Later Andrew heard that Dawson’s father had inherited the family business – bookbinding – and was making it profitable. As he got to know Dawson better he found that his braggadocio was mainly a show to mask his loneliness.

The brothers eased into the life of the school and began to breathe its social and academic ambience without difficulty. William and Cullen reached out to make friends and worked at their studies with just enough diligence to please the masters. Andrew worked around the clock. To do well in all his courses and to prepare for examinations that could win him a scholarship, he allowed himself only five and a half hours of sleep in a narrow bed that was never comfortable. He plunged into his studies with abandon, admitting that he had a compulsion to do the best he possibly could. In his leisure time, precious because of the regimen he had set for himself, he composed plays in blank verse and wrote passable poetry. In the spring of 1872 he was cramming for ‘my great exam, the Oxford.’

If he could do well on that, his future would be secured. He passed the exam with a remarkably high score and won free tuition for three sessions at Thatcher College in Manchester. He was finding a deep but dour satisfaction in his books, and the Thatcher news made him cheerful. Even though Godolphin was good for him, at times he found it difficult to ward off depression and fatigue. Also, even though his brothers were at the same school, he suffered like Dawson from feelings of loneliness and isolation. Not yet fifteen, he sought a boon companion to be his intellectual equal but found no one. In the fall of 1872 he went off to Manchester, a grimy industrial city as unlike the quiet village of Wilmslow, or the small town he had grown up in, as any place could be.

He made his way to Thatcher College and quickly lost himself in academic labor. In no time at all he was winning prizes at Thatcher as he had done earlier at Godolphin Grove. His intense application to his studies was due in part to his love of learning, but in a practical sense he strove for scholarships as a way to advance academically. He was a student with thin financial backing, and those who fell into this category invariably had to work harder. Thatcher was a new college of red-brick buildings founded in 1852 to educate young men of uncertain future. Those enrolled in the college were mainly sons of businessmen and small professionals. Like himself, they hoped to earn a college degree to advance in the world. The college was primarily a scientific institution, but to his great satisfaction Andrew was able to specialize in literature and the humanities.

During his first year he won the poetry prize for his long poem on the capital of Byzantine Italy. In twenty-one dignified and technically correct Spenserian stanzas, he displayed his love of England’s romantic past and Italy’s convoluted antiquity. In the next year he won prizes in classical studies and gradually accumulated one academic distinction after another. By 1876 everyone who knew him was certain he was ready to enter Oxford or Cambridge to pursue a scholarly career. His dream was to publish definitive books in his field and become a distinguished classical scholar. He wanted to be held in high esteem by academicians of the first rank. He would settle for nothing less.

7

In 1875 as Christmas was coming, Andrew Beacon was living alone in a shabby rooming house in sprawling Manchester. The dreary weather of fall and winter, and his penchant for solitary study, had produced a desperate loneliness that mitigated during the holiday season but soon returned. He went home to Harrogate to spend Christmas with his family but remained there only a few days. Before the new year came he was back in Manchester deep in study and feeling very much alone. He had made a few friends at the college, but they were away from school and he saw no one. Living in a cold, impersonal rooming house inhabited by strangers was very different from the warm atmosphere of his boyhood in Harrogate, or the sheltered days spent at Godolphin Grove. At school he was lonely at times but had his two brothers for company, took long walks with a boy named Emeritus Gifford, and was a friend of the headmaster.

In Manchester his awkwardness in a social setting and his compulsion for hard study left him largely alone. But one day at the college he met a young man named Dylan Crenshaw. They had lunch together and talked into the afternoon. They were very different in personality but shared similar interests and liked each other immediately. Crenshaw was a tall and healthy fellow with a mane of reddish-brown hair, fair skin with freckles, and blue eyes. His nose was large, his mouth ample, and his voice loud. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. With high spirits and easy laughter and no small degree of swagger, he was one of those fortunate students whom everybody liked. The quality that endeared him to others was a vitality which seemed to give vigor and gusto to anyone he came