The Crimes of Tom Callow

When the steamship Chusan set sail from Swan River, in the west of Australia, the seas were calm and everything was steady. The girl soon grew accustomed to the regular beat of the engines down below. After a time, the mechanical sounds became soothing and to that pulsing rhythm, she could lie in her narrow bed, and softly sing:

Half a pound of tuppenny rice,

Half a pound of treacle.

That’s the way the money goes,


Pop goes the weasel.

Three days later, when the ship had steamed much further north, there came a change. Chusan turned her bows to meet a tropical squall that everyone knew was coming. The girl’s bunk bed no longer stayed still, but rolled and tossed with every pitch and yaw of the vessel; she had to hold the side rail to prevent herself from falling out. At times the sound of the steam engine was drowned out by crashing waves and howling wind. There was no rhythm to those noises; the girl no longer sang, nor was she in the mood for it. Sleep was impossible; there was no light. She was afraid.

Night-time commotions came from here and there — things came loose and slid or rolled about the floor of her cabin. The door, which had no lock, tended to fly open and bang against the wall outside. From time to time she got out of bed and did her best to secure it, but somehow the door always worked itself open again.

She had a piece of twine in her bag, which would do to fasten the thing, keep it from making its persistent racket. The girl leaned out of the cabin to reach for the door handle, but in the darkness someone was waiting for her.

Whoever it was said nothing, but suddenly hit the girl with some hard object, a fist maybe, knocking her half-senseless. She fell, partly in but mostly out of the cabin. The figure picked her up bodily, then with one hand about her breast the other over her mouth, began to drag her along the deck towards the stern of the ship. In a flash of tropic lightning, she glimpsed a face, broke free and screamed out, ‘I know you! I know who you are!’

They were the last words the girl uttered. Chusan steamed on without her.

Chapter One

The idea of murder came to me later. Before that I had to grow up and find out my history, so, to begin: I, Tom Callow, am three years old, maybe four, a small boy, having one of my first memories. It is of me in the stable yard with my mother, who is a servant in Deerfield Estate, somewhere outside of London, and in the country. Mother is doing something domestic. It involves emptying a bucket of dirty water, which runs away along a gutter then down a drain. Comes the Big Man and Mother stops pouring the water then stands upright. I somehow know the Big Man is a very important person in this place where we live; everyone calls him sir, but I don’t use any name, because I’ve never had the chance to speak with him. At my age such opportunities are rare.

When the Big Man comes near to us, my mother does the little bob that all servant women do. It’s called a curtsy. The Big Man says to her, in a hearty voice, ‘Hallo, Mistress Callow. How is the lad faring, then?’

‘Well enough, sir.’ My mother pulls me away from whatever mischief I am doing to allow the Big Man to see for himself.

‘Well, fetch Tom inside here. Let’s see what he’s made of.’ The Big Man marches in through a nearby doorway. My mother takes my hand and tosses away a stick I had been using to whack the head off a yellow flower. She says some words to me, but I ignore them. We follow the Big Man into the gloom of the stables where the horses are kept.

‘He’s growing tall,’ my mother says. ‘He’ll be a strong one.’

‘Course he will,’ the Big Man agrees, then with two hands he picks me up and holds me at the full length of his arms. He wouldn’t want to be too close, not with my grubby face and general smelliness. He speaks to me, ‘So, Tom, what are you going to be when you grow up, eh? What are we going to make of young Tom Callow?’

I don’t answer because he is not asking the question of me, but my mother. He puts me down again, then turns to my mother, who quickly checks outside to make sure no one is in the yard. ‘All clear,’ she tells him. This time there is no ‘sir’.

The Big Man ruffles my head, which dislodges my cap. ‘Now, Tom, off you trot outside and play while I have a word or two with your dear ma.’

I do as I’m told, which is a servant thing I have learned. But just outside the door I loiter to hear my mother laugh like a girl and say to the Big Man, ‘Oh, stop it, you silly, silly boy.’ Then they become quiet together and after a time she alone comes out of the stables with a smile on her face, patting her hair to make it sit straight. The Big Man has already gone out another way. My mother picks up the empty bucket and calls me to join her. She says in a kindly, winning voice, ‘You’re not to speak of that, Tom. Do you hear?’

I nod. We go up the stairs to the two rooms we call home. They’re over the stables where the horses live below. At night I hear them champing and stamping.

So that is an important memory. Another is of my father, the head groom, who barely ever speaks to me. At times he will say some rough words, such as, ‘Get out of here, you. Stop making that noise.’

My mother usually takes my side, appealing to him, ‘He’s only prattling, George, so let him be.’

I know not to venture near my father when he’s at home and it is better when he goes downstairs to look after the horses, which is his job in this place.

So, who is who, and what is what?

My mother is a servant in a large mansion sort of house. It is part of the estate called Deerfield which is owned by Sir Ernest Carmichael, the Big Man, and his wife Lady Charlotte. She is not a big woman, except in rank and the amount of money she has to command.

Deerfield Estate has a high stone wall all around it and large iron gates, that are closed to keep ordinary people outside where they belong. We are safe inside and my father, the man who rarely has a word to say to me, is the head groom on the estate. This becomes clearer as I grow older and have more memories. There are many events to recall, some of which don’t make sense and leave me puzzled.

•

Then I am five years old or so, and it is time for school. This is a small building inside the grounds of the place where an old dame tries to teach us reading, writing and adding numbers up, then taking different ones away again. We pupils are the sons and daughters of Deerfield Estate workers, reminded each day how fortunate it is to be blessed with Sir Ernest’s generosity. Every morning we pray for him and his wife.

A sign on the wall says: Lord, Make us Truly Thankful. I guess the lord in question is Sir Ernest. Unless there is another one somewhere.

It is not long before I have an enemy, not that one is needed since I already have the head groom. The new foe in this case is Billy Boyce and before I describe him and his nastiness, I must see off my dear father.

There comes a noon time, the dinner hour, and I am home from school to eat some food. On this day, my mother says, ‘Whatever is keeping your pa? Go, Tom, and call him to the table.’

Taking a slice of buttered bread for myself, I step down the stairs to the stables below, look inside and call out in a loud voice, ‘Ma says you’re to come right away, and hurry up about it.’ I am only the message bearer, so it’s easy to be bold. I can also add things my mother didn’t say. My father never hits me; only his words are violent.

There is no answer from the stables, but one of the horses is whinnying in a curious sort of way. I don’t care for the horses very much, but I go closer and see one animal’s back quarters, retreating from his stall, then moving in again. Out and in, out and in, all the while the beast snorts and stamps. It is then I see my father’s legs on the ground, poking out of the stall where the big horse remains agitated. Father is lying down with straw and dung kicked all over his body and legs. I don’t need to go closer; there is nothing I want to see here.

I fetch a junior groom who tells me not to look, but to go and let my mother know that things are bad.

Someone brings a surgeon to the scene, but even a magician from my storybooks could do little for the head groom. The man is dead, but there is no wailing from mother or from me. I have seen such shows of sadness in other bereaved families, but not with us.

They bury George Callow in the nearest parish churchyard outside the walls of Deerfield Estate. Sir Ernest pays the expense of the funeral and says a few words at the open grave — a good man, honest, faithful, loyal employee, years of dedicated service, did more than his duty, and so on. I keep wondering what I should do in front of these mourners. Oughtn’t I cry? Or at least try to squeeze out a sob? Mother wears a dark veil so I can’t see if there are any tears falling down from her eyes. The affair is soon over and we two hush away with lowered heads to grieve in private. And that’s it. For me it is school next day and life goes on.

•

We stay in the two rooms above the stables. These are married quarters and now that Mother no longer has a husband, nor I a father, we are not entitled to live here. That’s the rule; the dwelling is tied to the man’s job, not the woman’s. There is a cottage inside the estate grounds which we could share with Mistress Jeremy, another widow. But nothing happens; nor does my mother seem concerned about the prospect of us moving to less grand lodgings.

That’s another memory, but it’s a questioning one. Why is it like this? I wait for our removal to happen, but it doesn’t.

Then comes the muttering. Deerfield Estate has many young women servants, some toil in the kitchen, others work as maids who clean and dust, lay fires in fireplaces, do laundry, help Lady Charlotte get dressed or undressed, fill her bath or empty the water out again. I can’t keep track of those young women, nor tell which is which, so it’s a good thing they know their place, as well as everyone else’s.

After a decent time has passed, some women servants begin to ask questions. ‘You’ll soon be moving out of them rooms, won’t you, Mistress Callow?’

‘I expect you’ll share a cottage with Mistress Jeremy.’

Mother just ignores them. We stay where we are.

•

So, as promised, now we come to my enemy, Billy Boyce, the son of Sir Ernest’s gamekeeper. He is older than me, and taller by a whole head. I don’t like being looked down upon, so that is a mark against him. It also annoys me to see him so amiable with his father — hand on the shoulder, smiles when they meet, showing each other things. The girls in the schoolhouse run to Billy with their girlish cares, ‘Billy, will you fix my peg doll? The string keeps coming undone.’

The others cry, ‘Please, Billy, oh, Billy, please.’

‘Right-oh,’ Billy says in a voice that’s already manly. Before long a throng of girls gather around him, watching as he puts the peg doll right. The girls never ask me for help, although I am just as useful with string as Master Boyce. I once strangled a rabbit with a length of it. My first murder.

Each day we have a break from our schoolroom labours. Our teacher orders us outside for twenty minutes or so, whether there be gale or snowstorm. On this particular morning, it is frosty with a chill in the air. Billy comes to me, wanting to be friendly. ‘Come on, Tom,’ he says, ‘let’s play a game. Warm us up, eh?’

An imp of jealousy gets into me. ‘What game is that, then? Play with your peg doll?’

‘No, Tom, I have a ball. We could kick it around.’

‘Ha!’ I wave him away, then go and sharpen my slate pencil on the sandstone wall of the schoolroom.

•

Older now, and against my will I am given work in the stables before and after school, for everyone who lives on the estate has to contribute in some way. Even the children. Lord, Make us Truly Thankful. It is my chance to show appreciation, but surely there is another way? There isn’t. I am the lad who mucks out the horse stalls. A rake, a big pitchforks sort of thing and a wheelbarrow are my tools. There is a new head groom, a single man who shares quarters with the pair of coachmen, so he does not need our two rooms. That is the story everyone is told. The head groom chivvies me endlessly, ‘You’re late, lad. Do you call that clean? What, are you afraid of the horse? A fine groom you will make. Put your back into it, boy.’

And Billy Boyce, no longer friendly, has turned to teasing, which, as with everything, he does well. ‘Pooh,’ he says when I come into the school room after my early morning labours. ‘You can smell him coming as far away as Twick’nham.’

I’d fight him, but he has longer arms so I could be hurt and seen for a weakling. The girls are quick with a label, so all that is left for me is sulking and sitting on my own. Billy fires another barb. He calls across the classroom, ‘And why’s your ma still in them big rooms, eh? What’s she been doing to earn them?’

I don’t answer. There are reasons for my silence. One: it is the best way with Billy Boyce. And two: I don’t really know why we stay where we are, although I’m beginning to guess. It is a monstrous thought, which I put aside to deal with Billy Boyce in an indirect sort of way.

He turns up one morning with a small dog, which is no more than a puppy. A white