The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

letter, A—’ Miss Bowler then added two more shapes with a flourish, ‘—becomes a word: Ann. One word becomes a sentence, which in turn becomes a paragraph and then into a story, or a letter, or a recount, or a biography! From these two humble pieces of rock come poetry, newspapers and books; wonderful books on every subject imaginable!’

Ann had sat quite still, listening to Miss Bowler’s enthusiastic speech, her initial impatience having been quelled. Still, though, she had questioned herself about being there, again wondering what good an ability to read and write would do for someone like her.

Miss Bowler had then rubbed a piece of damp cloth over the slate. ‘We’re going to start with the first two letters in Greek, alpha and beta—alphabet.’

Ann pulled herself free from the memory of that first visit, startled by the progress which she had made to this point. She picked up the chalk and held it, as Miss Bowler had shown her, poised above the slate.

‘Are you ready?’ Miss Bowler asked with a kindly smile.

‘I be ready, Miss,’ Ann replied.

‘I am ready,’ Miss Bowler corrected.

‘I am ready,’ Ann parroted.

‘Good.’ Miss Bowler straightened her back and lowered her shoulders. ‘My friend’s dog sat at the gate.’ She enunciated slowly and clearly, then she repeated the phrase twice more whilst Ann wrote down the words.

Ann handed the slate over to Miss Bowler and watched as she read.

‘Very good, Ann! Just one mistake: you’ve spelt it f-r-e-n-d, the way that it sounds, but it needs an i before the e.’

‘Because why?’ Ann questioned.

Miss Bowler laughed. ‘A very perceptive question. The rather convoluted reason is because three hundred years ago many of the first English book printers were Dutchmen, not used to our language. Sometimes they used Dutch spellings, adding an h after a g, like the word ‘ghost’ or ‘ghastly’ and sometimes they deliberately lengthened words like ‘friend’ or ‘head’, which suddenly acquired additional letters which served no purpose whatsoever.’

‘Because why?’ she said again.

‘Because they were paid by the numbers of lines they printed; thus, the longer the word, the more money they earnt.’

‘Why don’t we be getting rid of them other letters now, then?’ Ann asked.

‘Another super question, Ann, but one which I fear is not in my capability to answer.’

Ann, finding herself strangely interested in this new peculiar world of words, was disappointed by Miss Bowler’s answer. She wanted to press her further, but Miss Bowler said, ‘Right, wipe the slate clean and I shall dictate another phrase.’

After one hour precisely, Ann paid Miss Bowler four shillings, and then left the building with the same sense of lament which she had felt after previous lessons had ended. Inside that hall Ann had keenly felt the sense of separation from her old life. Sitting opposite Miss Bowler, who had never sought to ask about her past or present, she was a different woman; a woman who could read and write with the possibility of a different future to that which destiny seemed to have prescribed her. Within the seclusion of that room, Ann was able to quarantine her past and view it as though it had belonged to somebody else, and she was merely observing those pitiful misfortunes from afar. But now that she was back out on the familiar streets of Dover, she struggled to hold on to the idea that she could be somebody else, somebody better. The notion was so terribly fragile in her mind, like a glass egg that might shatter at any given moment.

Ann walked quickly, crossing back and forth across the street in an erratic manner which she knew would make anyone watching her believe her to be drunk or quite mad. But she did it for a reason: to avoid the seductive beery plumes of tobacco which wafted out from the various public houses which she needed to pass in order to reach the quay.

On Strond Street she stopped. In front of her, from where she would need to catch the coach, was the Packet Boat Inn. She caught herself feeling the weight of the guineas in her purse and dropped her hand away. It was useless to deny that she craved a glass of rum. Again, she rebuked herself after glancing across to the clock tower, which told her that she had almost two hours yet until the 3pm coach departed for Ashford.

She stared at the inn for a long time, wishing that the coach stop was anywhere else but there. The more she looked at it, the more she knew that she had to go inside. Her thirst would be sated but her purse would be empty and that delicate glass egg, which promised a new future, would be cracked.

Ann forced her eyes away along the line of shops—drapers, tallow chandlers, watchmakers, notaries, bakers, auctioneers and warehouses—which edged the busy quay. Her gaze came to an unexpected halt at one of the businesses. J. Minet, Fector & Co. She strode quickly towards it, sweeping aside the doubts and questions that began to skulk out from that unspecified part of her which begged for alcohol, and marched confidently inside.

The outside of the building, tall and grand with long leaded windows, gave a very different impression to that which Ann now found inside: a small room, brightly painted, yet surprisingly dim. Three bookcases, laden with heavy leather-bound volumes, dominated one wall and at the very end of the room was a long wooden counter, which might well have originated from a public house. Behind it stood two gentlemen in matching grey morning coats and white cravats. They had long but neat hair and both had clipped dark moustaches and a fixed moue. Their shared look of curiosity rebounded off Ann to each other and then back to Ann.

‘May we help you?’ one of them said, stepping forwards and squaring his hands on