Writing for Fun
February 2017
Another World - Jan Osborne
Master Apothecary Thomas Burbage urged his weary steed onwards with a tired flap of the reins. Rufus picked up his pace for three or four more footfalls then collapsed back into his normal raggedy stumble. Thomas sighed. It had been a long and unpleasant day. He only had one more mile before he reached his home of twenty years – his Apothecary shop in St John’s Square, Clerkenwell – even though it would be empty and soulless now without Sam.
He had just come from Sam Turner’s funeral in the church of St Marys in the boy’s home village of Islington. To make the occasion even more poignant, the boys own father had presided over the funeral rites as was his duty as reverend of that parish.
Fifteen year old Sam had died of consumption, a condition that, in those days, was rife and also incurable. The best his master could do for him was to help alleviate his pain and suffering in his last days.
In 1750 the roads into London were little more than rutted quagmires and as he passed Islington Common he longed for his hearth and a mug of ale. He also worried over the fact that the shop had had to be closed for the day, no trusted apprentice of course, to leave in charge.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, his attention was caught by the sight of an emaciated, dirty and dishevelled urchin sporting a swollen half closed eye barely visible in a sea of livid red and purple bruises that masqueraded as a face. He was sitting by the roadside clutching a sad cloth bundle and a drooping bunch of agrimony – a healing herb of the hedgerow used to stop bleeding and relieve pain – a concoction of which would do a power of good to the boy in his present state. It was an irony that had not escaped Thomas.
Intrigued and not a little moved by the sad picture before him he reined in Rufus and spoke to the boy who looked to be about twelve.
The youth’s tale made sad listening. Apparently his mother had just died in childbirth and his perpetually drunk and brutal father had taken out his rage and frustration by hurling the newborn at the wall to stop its incessant wailing and then turned on him, beating him half to death before throwing him out of the door yelling obscenities and shouting what was the use of keeping a lame son either. He might as well have two less mouths to feed – his and the now silent infant who, if not dead now, would soon be with no mother’s milk to sustain it.
Why the bunch of agrimony? well his mum had knowledge of healing herbs and had bartered homemade remedies in the village in return for food . . . something his father could not drink away. She had taught him to read and write and, lame though he was, he had roamed the surrounding countryside foraging for the precious plants and helped her to make the remedies. Sometimes he would try to sell a few to passing trade.
Now his life had turned upside down and he had decided to get as far away from his father as he could. He was going to London to seek his fortune. In desperation he had picked a few herbs figuring that he could use them on the road tomorrow to barter for a few scraps of food from fellow travellers.
Looking up in desperation and with a flicker of hope in his eyes he grabbed Rufus’ stirrup and cajoled, ‘Come to think of it would you like this agrimony in return for a drink of water or a crust of bread?’
Thomas thought quickly. He desperately needed another apprentice. The normal practice was for affluent parents to pay an Apothecary to provide their son with a seven year apprenticeship, at the end of which the boy would have acquired enough knowledge and skills to become a healer. This indenture also required that the youth to be fed, clothed and housed for the duration. Professionals like Thomas, in return, would get cheap labour in running their businesses.
As a middle aged man with no family Thomas had amassed a healthy fortune healing the sick and, having a compassionate nature, he made a quick decision. Leaning down from the saddle he explained his position and, gaining the boy’s trust, offered the lad a lift into the capital.
Three hours later he hauled the now almost comatose boy from the saddle and carried this frail, half starved and exhausted youngster into his house. After charging his housekeeper Adelaide to bathe and feed him he anointed his many and varied injuries and laid him on a straw pallet in front of the kitchen fire to sleep and heal.
Tomorrow would be early enough to acquaint the lad of his plans for him. Plans that he hoped would transport this poor scrap of humanity into another world – far different to the one he had experienced so far – hopefully a much kinder, loving and more prosperous world than he could ever imagine.