The Silent Orphan Read online

  The Silent Orphan

  Rosie Darling

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  Gideon Cobbler stood beside the workhouse master’s desk with his eyes fixed on his ragged shoes.

  “Look up when you’re being spoken to, Master Cobbler,” the workhouse master boomed.

  Gid did so, reluctantly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the undertaker who had appeared out of nowhere that afternoon to take him away from the workhouse. Johnston Flatley was a tall man with broad shoulders and a narrow, pinched face. The sight of him made Gid’s stomach turn over.

  Still, he knew a boy was lucky to be chosen as an apprentice. Mr Flatley would take him with him and Gid would be free of the workhouse. There would be no more gruel for supper, no more sleeping in a bed with four other boys. No more scrubbing floors, crushing bones and cleaning chimneys. No more taunts from fellow boys when he didn’t understand his lessons.

  Gid could deal with Mr Flatley’s pinched face if it meant he might no longer have to stay in this place.

  The workhouse master turned back to Mr Flatley. “As I told you, the boy’s name is Gideon Cobbler. Nine years old.”

  “It’s Gid, sir,” he piped up in his tiny voice.

  The master turned to glare at him, his eyes flashing at the boy’s insolence, “I beg your pardon?”

  Gid cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing. No one ever spoke back to the workhouse master. Not ever. But this was a desperate situation. “My name, sir,” he said shakily. “If you please, it’s Gid. Not Gideon.”

  Mr Flatley looked down at him with raised eyebrows. “And why is that, exactly?”

  “My father’s name was Gideon,” he said, feeling his throat tighten. “And I don’t wish to be called by his name.”

  The workhouse master raised a fluffy grey eyebrow and began to flip through the yellowing pages of his ledger. “Indeed,” he said. “It seems the boy’s father was sent to the gallows. His mother hanged herself shortly after out of grief.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “I suppose one might understand why the boy does not wish to take his father’s name.”

  Mr Flatley rubbed his stubbled chin, his forehead creased in concern. “What was your father’s crime, boy?”

  Gid shrugged. He had never known much of his father. Gid’s most prominent memories of the man were of him stumbling back into the house late at night, waking him and his mother, stinking of tobacco and liquor. When Gid’s mother had sat him down one night and told him his father had been arrested, it had not crossed his mind to ask what his crime was. Instead, Gid had just nodded, and returned to eating his broth. His father’s arrest had felt as natural as breathing, as inevitable as death. The trial had followed soon after, and then the execution. Gid had not gone to watch his father die. The man had never felt like more than some distant, dark figure who had made their lives troublesome. At his death, Gid had felt nothing beyond a vague sense of satisfaction that the man had received his just deserves. But then his mother had seen fit to hang herself out of grief…

  Mr Flatley hummed noncommittally, clearly irritated by Gid’s vagueness. He looked back at the workhouse master. “The boy’s father was a criminal. Has there been any sign of the son showing similar tendencies? I don’t want a thief working for me.”

  “No. Of course you don’t.” The master clasped his hands in front of him, “There’s been no sign of Master Cobbler displaying similar traits.”

  Gid clenched his teeth. He wanted to tell the two men he would never do a thing that might see him likened to his father. He wanted to distance himself from the man as much as possible. He hated that Gideon Cobbler’s blood ran through him.

  “The boy seems insolent,” Mr Flatley said, folding his arms across his wide chest. “A troublemaker.”

  The master shrugged, “No more than most boys his age. And nothing that couldn’t be beaten out of him.” He jabbed Gid’s arm with the blunt end of his nib pen. “Look at the boy. Thin as a rake. Won’t take much feeding. And just look at his face. As pale and sorrowful as you’ll ever see. Such a face will suit you well, will it not?”

  Gid frowned. He had never considered himself particularly pale and sorrowful. And just what work did Mr Flatley have in mind for him?

  After a moment, the undertaker nodded. He scratched his bristly chin. “Very well,” he said resignedly, sounding entirely unimpressed. “I’ll take him.”

  * * *

  Before he could fully comprehend it, Gid was marching out of the workhouse behind Mr Flatley, the enormous iron gates disappearing behind him. He turned to look back over his shoulder at the drab grey stone building that had been his home for the past two years.

  He would not miss the place. Not a scrap.

  “Boy!” Mr Flatley barked, making Gid start. “Hurry yourself.”

  Gid strode quickly along the road to catch up with Mr Flatley. The early dusk of winter had settled over the city and the streets were streaked with mist. Gid turned up the collar of his coat against the bitter cold.

  Mr Flatley dug his hands into the pockets of his black greatcoat. “I’m in the business of death. Funerals.” he told Gid, not looking at him. “You’re to work as a mute. Do you understand what that means?”

  Gid gave a hesitant jerk of his head; neither a nod nor shake.

  Mr Flatley gave a snort of disgust. He sighed. “You’re to stand vigil by the coffin as the mourners arrive,” he explained wearily. “Following that you will accompany the deceased throughout the funeral procession. You will look as though you’re grieving.” He paused, eying Gid carefully. “And you will not speak,” he said firmly. “Not a sound. Not a squeak. You’re a mute! You understand me?”

  Gid nodded, feeling rather unsure whether the instruction of silence was to begin immediately.

  “Funerals; they’re a big business these days,” Mr Flatley told Gid. “Everyone wants to see their loved ones sent off with the right amount of pomp and circumstance. Plenty of money to be made.” He fixed Gid with hard eyes. “I take my business very seriously. And I expect you to do the same.”

  Gid nodded obediently.

  Mr Flatley quickened his pace, forcing Gid to skip to catch up with him. A fox scuttled across their path and turned back to look at them with glowing yellow eyes.

  “And my wife,” Mr Flatley said suddenly, “She does not suffer fools gladly. She’ll stand no nonsense. Any trouble from you and you’ll be back in the workhouse quicker than you know what’s happening.”

  Gid nodded again.

  “‘Yes sir,” Mr Flatley instructed darkly.

  “Yes sir,” Gid squeaked.

  And then they turned the corner and were standing in front of a square stone house, darkness in every window. In the flickering glow of the street lights, Gid could see the house was painted in sombre greys and whites. A large sign above the door read ‘Flatley and Sons: Undertak
ers.”’ Gid swallowed.

  Mr Flatley unlocked the front door with a large brass key. He ushered Gid inside.

  The front of the house was quiet. A door lined either side of the passage, each tightly closed. Not a hint of light peeked from beneath them.

  This was the perfect place for an undertaker to run his business, Gid found himself thinking. The house seemed utterly lifeless, soulless. The perfect place for the dead to congregate.

  He shivered at the thought.

  Mr Flatley led Gid up the creaking staircase at the back of the hallway and finally there was a sign of life— of dim, orange light peeking beneath a doorway at the top of the stairs.

  Mr Flatley opened the door. Three children sat around the table, all with the same hard, dark eyes as their father. Their boisterous conversation fell silent as Gid stepped into the room.

  Two boys with identical faces sat side by side, sly grins turning their lips. They were far older than him. Almost men. Sixteen or seventeen, Gid assumed. Perhaps even older. He did not like the hard shine of their eyes. Did not like the humoured snort that came from one as his eyes moved over Gid.

  On the other side of the table sat a girl much younger than her brothers. No more than a few years older than him, Gid guessed. Her face was plain, but faintly pretty, with strands of dark hair escaping out the side of her cap. She met Gid’s eyes for a moment, tapping a narrow finger against her chin. After a moment, she looked away, seemingly unimpressed. Gid swallowed hard and he found himself wishing fleetingly to be back at the workhouse.

  One of the twins got up from the table, his chair creaking noisily. He made his way slowly towards Gid. He chuckled. “Look at those spindly little arms. Looks as though we could break him like a twig.”

  Gid kept his eyes down, the back of his neck prickling.

  The other one snorted again. “He’s a perfect mute. Looks as though he’s ready to cry right now.” He gave a howl of laughter.

  Gid clenched his jaw and looked at the floor. Though a part of him did, very much, feel like crying, there was no way he was going to give these boys the satisfaction.

  “That’s enough out of you two,” Mr Flatley said sharply. He thumped Gid on the arm, forcing him to look up. “My sons, Able and Arthur,” he said, gesturing to each of the twins in turn. “And my daughter, Martha.”

  Gid managed a small nod in greeting. The twins had already looked away, but Martha managed a tiny smile.

  Mr Flatley eased himself into a chair and kicked off his boots. Martha stood hurriedly and made her way to the stove, spooning broth into a bowl for her father.

  Mr Flatley raised his spoon. “Where’s your mother?”

  Martha set the bowl on the table in front of him. “Upstairs resting.”

  Mr Flatley murmured in response.

  Gid shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling entirely invisible. Finally, Mr Flatley glanced at him. “You’d best feed the mute, Martha. Or he’ll likely float away.”

  One of the boys gave a snort of laughter.

  Obediently, Martha filled a bowl for Gid and handed it to him without speaking. She broke a tiny scrap of bread from the loaf in the centre of the table and dropped it into his bowl.

  Gid edged his way towards the table.

  “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Able demanded, making Gid start. It was all he could manage not to drop the entire bowl on the floor. “You think you’re eating up here with us? Not likely.” Able pushed open the door, gesturing to the lightless staircase and hallway beneath. “You’ll take your meals down there in the parlour.”

  Gid felt fear tighten his chest. He swallowed heavily. He found himself seeking out Martha’s eyes.

  “Door on the left,” she said, her face expressionless.

  Gid sucked in his breath and stepped onto the staircase, listening to it groan beneath his feet. He carried his broth bowl along the passage, careful not to spill a drop. He pushed open the door on the left. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of a table, with a lamp sitting in the middle. He edged his way towards it and set his bowl on the table, fumbling around in the dark for the tinderbox. The light flared suddenly, illuminating Gid’s surroundings. He gasped in horror. The parlour was lined with coffins, all made of different woods, each varnished in different colours. Each lid was opened, revealing the silky lining inside.

  Gid swallowed heavily.

  So this was where Mr Flatley conducted his business.

  They’re just coffins, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  He had best grow used to the sight of such things if he was to work for an undertaker. He sat at the table and began to eat, his eyes not leaving the rows of polished caskets. Behind them, he could see a door, leading into another part of the house.

  He found himself wondering what lay behind it. A part of him longed to know. Another part of him was terrified of finding out. Where in this maze of dark hallways did Mr Flatley store the dead bodies?

  Gid felt suddenly hot, and strangely curious. He lifted the lamp from the table and made his way across the parlour. He pushed open a door at the side of the room. It opened into a wide, stone-floored workshop that smelled of wood and beeswax polish. Inside the workshop were more coffins, some nearing completion, others little more than polished boards.

  Gid felt his heart hammering in his chest.

  They’re just coffins, he told himself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  The stairs creaked and he hurried back to the table. He set the lamp down and slid into his chair, spooning a hurried mouthful of broth, doing his best to look innocent.

  Into the room shuffled an older woman, her hair greying beneath her cloth cap. Her shoulders were rounded and her waist was thick, her eyes small, dark beads in her pale skin. She folded her arms and looked Gid up and down.

  “Don’t think much of my husband’s choice,” she snorted. “You’d best be a quick learner, boy.”

  Gid nodded, “Yes ma’am. I will be ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “If you please, Mrs Flatley, where am I to sleep?” He glanced edgily around him.

  Not the coffins. Please not the coffins.

  “In the stables,” Mrs Flatley replied. “Plenty of hay there beside the horses.” Her voice was cold and unfriendly. Disinterested.

  Gid felt the thudding in his chest slowing a little. “Yes ma’am. The stables,” he tried for a smile. “I were afraid you’d want me in the coffins.”

  Mrs Flatley snorted. “Not likely. They’re far too precious for a workhouse boy to sleep in. Can’t you see how fine our linings are?”

  Gid swallowed, “Yes ma’am. Of course.”

  She glanced at his bowl. He had taken just two mouthfuls of broth and the bread sat uneaten beside the bowl.

  “You finished your supper then?” she asked.

  Gid realised his stomach was rumbling, “No ma’am.”

  She snorted again, “Well hurry yourself. Able and Arthur are waiting to take you out to the stables. Can’t have them sitting about all night.”

  And before Gid could respond, she had disappeared up the stairs with a huff.

  He sat hurriedly and gulped down the broth.

  The stairs creaked again. Down thundered the twins. One clapped Gid over the ear, making his broth spill down his chin. The boys let out a howl of laughter.

  They pulled the other chairs from beneath the table and sat either side of him, fixing him with their matching grey eyes.

  “You know what happened to the last boy, don’t you?” said one of the twins, leaning close to Gid.

  He shook his head stiffly.

  “Fell into a grave,” said the other. “Got buried with the coffin.”

  Gid swallowed heavily. He let his spoon drop into his bowl. It clinked loudly in the silence.

  “Ignore them,” said a voice behind them.

  Gid whirled around to see Martha standing at the bottom of the stairs. She glared at her brothers.

  “It�
��s a lie,” she told Gid. “They’re just trying to scare you.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked from one of her older brothers to the other. “Leave him alone.”

  One of the twins laughed, “We’re to take him to the stables. Show the little fellow to his bed.”

  Martha planted her hand on her hips. “I’ll take him to the stables,” she said icily.

  One of the twins shrugged, “If you wish.” He tapped his brother on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Martha watched them leave with cold eyes.

  “Thank you,” Gid murmured.

  She looked back at him, “You finished your supper then?”

  Gid nodded, though he still had half of the broth left. He slid the remains of his bread roll into his pocket. Martha took the lamp from the table and led him out of the house.

  Night had fallen thick and fast, and their breath made silver plumes in front of them. In the pale light of the lamp, Gid could see the outline of the enormous black hearse through the ajar doors of the cart shed. A shiver went through him.

  “Watch yourself,” said Martha. “The earth’s a little uneven here. Don’t want you to fall now.” Was she being sarcastic or caring? Gid couldn’t quite tell. Her voice was soft and flat; empty of emotion.

  Gid made his way carefully across the barren garden, following Martha into the stables. The space was large and dark, and smelled of hay and animals. Martha cast the light around the stables and Gid started as two huge black horses moved through the shadows towards him.

  Martha gave a short giggle at his sharp intake of breath.

  “They’ll not hurt you,” she said, reaching up to stroke the nose of one with her free hand. “This is Shadow. And Midnight. Aren’t they beautiful?”