The Potato Factory

'Don't you want your letter?' the urchin said and then added, 'I ain't no toff what needs to learn to read.'

Ikey still refrained from taking the letter. 'Can you count, boy?' It had been several days since he had sustained any sort of conversation, and the bright morning sun had ironed out some of his aches and pains, and it was like old times talking to the urchin standing beside him.

'Yessir, I can count real good.'

'Pennies in a shilling?'

'Twelve!' the boy snapped back.

'Shillings in a pound?'

'Twenty,' the boy said with alacrity, then added spontaneously, 'Four farving in a penny and two 'a'pennies, a guinea be a pound and one shillin' and I can count good to one 'undred and poss'bly even a thousand, but I ain't tried yet!'

'Bravo!' Ikey exclaimed and clapped in applause. 'Bravo! Methinks you should still learn to read, but you've got the right idea.' Ikey smiled at the boy. 'I'm sorry, lad, but I 'aven't got a ha'penny nor even a farthing to give you for this splendid delivery of yours.' Ikey now finally took the letter from the boy's hand.

'That's orright, sir,' the boy replied. Then he cocked his head to one side and squinted down at Ikey. 'You ain't got even a farving, eh?' he asked somewhat incredulously.

Ikey shook his head, ashamed. 'Nothing, lad… I'm sorry. Next time I sees you I might 'ave one, or even a penny and you shall 'ave it!'

The boy dug into his trouser pocket and produced a sixpence which he rested on his thumb and forefinger and then flipped high into the air. The sunlight caught the bright silver coin as it spun, arched and descended and the boy slapped it onto the back of his hand and glanced down at it.

'It's 'eads! You lose!' he proclaimed happily. Then pocketing the coin he squinted at Ikey again. 'I suppose you is now gunna tell me you earned your present fortune 'cos you was so good at readin'?'

'Cheeky bugger!' Ikey shouted and made as if to rise. But the boy had already turned on his heels and was running up the steep bank of the river, his bare feet sending small pebbles and clods of red earth rolling into the water below. 'You'll go far, lad, that I'll vouch!' Ikey called after him, laughing.

'Cheer'o, mister,' the boy shouted back. 'See you in the library, then!'

Ikey looked down at the envelope in his hand. Mr. Isaac Solomon Esq., was all it said, in an annoyingly familiar copperplate script. Ikey opened it very slowly, as though it might explode in his hands, and carefully unfolded the note. To his surprise it contained two one pound notes. He held each note in turn up to the sunlight to ascertain that they were genuine, then he began to read.

Hobart Town.

25th October 1837

Dear Mr Solomon,

I have need of a good clerk who can keep an accurate ledger. If such a position should interest you, I urge you to come to Hobart and to make yourself known to the undersigned. I enclose the sum of two pounds to defray any expenses involved.

I remain, yours sincerely,

Mary Abacus. (Miss).

Chapter Thirty

Mary's first triumph in the brewing of beer did not come from the amber liquid itself, although it was conceded by most to be an excellent ale, crisp and clean to the taste and light on the stomach, but came instead from the label she placed on each bottle. As labels go it lacked any sign of the artistic but made up for this with words that caused the Temperance Society to recommend her product to all who had taken 'The Pledge'. Those of her customers who could read took great pleasure in the story on the label, and those who could not would soak the label off and have someone read it aloud so that they might share the exquisite feeling of righteousness it gave them.

Sold into Slavery

'Tom Jones is sold into slavery!' said a man to me the other day.

'Sold into slavery!' I cried. 'Is there anything like that now-a-days?'

'Indeed there is,' was the answer.

'Who bought him, pray?'

'Oh, it's a firm, and they own a good many slaves, and more shocking bad masters.'

'Can it be in these days? Who are they?' I asked.

'Well they have agents everywhere, who tell a pretty good story, and get hold of folk; but the name of the firm is Messrs. Rum, Gin amp; Spirits.'

I had heard of them, it is a firm of bad reputation, and yet how extensive are their dealings! What town has not felt their influence? Once in their clutches, it is about the hardest thing in the world to break away from them. You are sold and that is the end of it; sold to ruin sooner or later. I have seen people try to escape from them. Some, it is true, if they should take 'The Pledge', do escape to find the heavenly delights of Mary Abacus' most excellent and unadulterated Temperance Ale, sold at threepence half-penny a bottle, or threepence if the previous bottle be returned empty.

The Potato Factory.

Mary's Temperance Ale became such a success that the large Hobart breweries decided at once to bring out a version of their own. But here again Mary was not caught napping. With the help of Mr Emmett she had registered the names Temperance Ale and Temperance Beer, and also Pledge Ale and Pledge Beer, so that these names could be used exclusively by the Potato Factory.

This caused great annoyance among the beer barons, and they thought to take her to court for registering a name which they claimed was in common usage. But the advice of their various lawyers was to leave well alone.

The label also caused great annoyance to the local importers of rum, gin, brandy and sweet Cape wine, as well as to the local manufacturers of the various ardent spirits available on the market. But the more they bellyached, and shouted imprecations against Mary in the newspapers, the more popular her Temperance Ale became, not only among those customers who had signed the pledge and sworn off spirits, but also among those who liked a drop of the heavenly ambrosia as a matter of preference.

There was nothing the common people liked more than a poor, defenceless woman, only recently granted her conditional pardon, winning a point of law against the first raters, the whisky and beer barons, who grew rich on the pennies of the poor. To keep up demand, Mary was obliged to take on additional help. Soon she had three men working for her, as well as a girl of fifteen who came directly from the orphanage and who possessed the pretty name of Jessamy Hawkins.

Late one morning at the Potato Factory Jessamy came to Mary while she was testing the fermentation levels in the hop tanks.

'Mistress Mary, there be an old man what's called to see you.' The young maid looked concerned. 'I told him to go away, but he says he knows you, says he has a letter.' Then she added gratuitously, 'He's most smelly and has a shaggy beard and long hair, but is also bald and wears a coat what you might expect on an old lag what's a proper muck snipe, not ever to be redeemed.'

'Hush, Jessamy, do not speak like that, for all you know he could be a most loving father!'

'Gawd! I hope he's not mine!' Jessamy said, alarmed at the thought.

Mary laughed. 'Old lag what's a drunk, that description could fit half the bloomin' island. So, where be the letter, girl?'

'No, Mistress Mary, it weren't no letter what's for you! It were a letter he said he got from you. He says he comes because o' the letter you sent.'

Mary's heart started to pound. 'Dirty is he? And ragged?'

Jessamy nodded, brought her thumb and forefinger to her nose and pulled a horrid face.

'It's Ikey!' Mary said and her poor, crippled hands were suddenly all a-flutter, touching her hair, patting her apron, her hips, not quite knowing what they should do next. 'Bring my cotton gloves!' she commanded of Jessamy. Then she thought better of this. 'No, I'll get them, you take him into the bottle room and give him a glass of beer, tell him I'll be along presently.'

Mary removed her apron and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it as best she could in the absence of a mirror. Then she found a pair of clean cotton gloves and, with a feeling of some trepidation, entered the bottle shop.