the Beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as an official ought to indulge in. Mr. Crossmore was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. ‘Well, well, Mr. Campbell,’ he said at length, ‘there’s no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the shoes are something much narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Crossmoor. Well seasoned Leather is an expensive article sir and bows and buckles have to be bought from the City of Belfast. ‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, ‘every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.’ ‘Of course, of course,’ replied the shoemaker; ‘and if I don’t get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see, he! he! he!’ ‘Just so’ said the Beadle. ‘Though I must say Mr. Crossmoor,’ that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the thin and skinny people go off the quickest. The people who have paid rates and taxes for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the Workhouse; and let me tell you, Mr. Crossmore that one or two shoe sizes less than one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.’ As Mr. Campbell said this, with the air of an ill-used man; and as the Beadle felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Kirk Hansen being uppermost in his mind. ‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, ‘You don’t know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial ‘aprentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms Mr. Campbell, liberal terms?’ As the Beadle spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words ‘five pounds’: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. ‘Gadso!’ said the shoemaker taking Mr. Crossmoor by the gilt-edged lapel of his official coat; ‘That’s just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Crossmoor! I never noticed it before.’ ‘Yes, I think it rather pretty,’ said the Beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. ‘The die is the same as the parochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick. The board presented it to me on New Year’s morning, Mr. Campbell. I put it on I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that Street Urchin, who died in a doorway at midnight.’ ‘I recollect that event,’ said the shoemaker. ‘The jury brought it in. Died from exposure to the cold and want of the common necessaries of life didn’t they?’ The Beadle nodded. ‘And they made it a special verdict, I think,’ said the shoemaker, by adding some words to the effect that ‘if the relieving officer had‘- ‘Tosh Foolery!’ interposed the Beadle. ‘If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.’ ‘Very true,’ said the shoemaker; ‘they would indeed.’ ‘Juries,’ said Mr. Crossmoor, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: ‘jury is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches. ’‘So they are’ said the shoemaker. ‘They haven’t any more philosophy or political economy about them,’ said the Beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. ‘No more they have,’ acquiesced the shoemaker. ‘I despise ‘em,’ said the Beadle, growing very red in the face. ‘So do I’ added the shoemaker. ‘And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the Workhouse for a week or two,’ said the Beadle; ‘The rules and regulations of the Board would soon bring their spirit down for ‘em.’ replied the shoemaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Crossmoor lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and turning to the shoemaker, said in a calmer voice: ‘Well; what about the boy?’ ‘Oh!’ replied the shoemaker; why, you know, Mr. Crossmoor, I pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.’ ‘Hem!’ said Mr. Crossmoor. ‘Well?’ ‘Well,’ replied the shoemaker, ‘I was thinking that if I pay so much towards ‘em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ‘em as I can, Mr. Crossmoor; and so I think I’ll just take the boy myself.’ The Beadle grasped the shoemaker by the arm and led him into the building. Mr. Campbell was closeted with the board for five minutes; before it was arranged that Kirk should go to him that evening and that ‘upon liking’—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master finds upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of ten years, to do what he likes with.
When fourteen year old Kirk was taken before ‘the gentlemen’ that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a shoemaker; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would this time definitely be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, Kirk showed so little emotion because of his innocence, that the Board by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Crossmoor to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the Board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance.
The simple fact was that Kirk, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and having had his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry, in as much as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep, he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to The Beadle’s coat cuff and was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Crossmoor drew Kirk along, without notice or remark; for the Beadle carried his head very erect, as a Beadle always should: and it being a windy day, young Kirk was completely enshrouded by the skirts of the Beadle’s coat as they blew open and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches.
As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Crossmoor thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master before they arrived at Kirk’s new home, which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. ‘Kirk’ said Mr. Crossmoor. But there was no reply. ‘Kirk’ he bellowed but it was too late Kirk had fled into the night under cover of the flapping skirts of the Beadle. He was on his way to Belfast.
Belfast that great place. Nobody, not even Mr. Crossmoor could ever find him there! Kirk had often heard the old men in the day room of the Workhouse say that no lad of any spirit need want in Belfast; and that there were ways of living in that large city, which those who had been reared in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a country homeless boy, to die on the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped to his feet, the stone that he had been sitting on told him that to the right was Larne 5 miles and to the left was Belfast 15 miles as he again walked forward towards his destination.
After five days and nights on the streets of Belfast Kirk was found lying on a Park Bench by a kindly old lady who offered him shelter. The old lady contacted the Salvation Army who found a new home for Kirk in the City where after some investigation it was revealed that he had a Brother called Alan who was a resident in the City and where Kirk for the first time in his young life found a sense of belonging. With the help of his Brother and his Foster Parents Kirk went to college and got a Degree before joining the Army.
CHAPTER 3
Lipton’s Grocery Store
It was one of those cold dull and dark Fridays in the late afternoon of December 1941 when assistant Bank Clerk Vera Roberts wished that winter would get on with its job of covering the town in snow. She had found a temporary job in the Northern Bank in Upper Main Street opposite to the Town Hall, in her home town. She had been sharing a small flat over one of the nearby shops with an old school friend Nellie Stewart who was working as a retail assistant in a hardware shop. But on their meager wages, they were struggling to pay the rent and adequately keep themselves in food and clothing. They were therefore
