'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.
Ikey crouched on a stool, clutching a glass of ale in both hands. He gasped as Mary entered, and his hands jerked upwards in alarm sending half the contents of the glass into his lap.
'Oh, Jesus! Oh, oh!' he exclaimed, looking down at the wet patch on his dirty coat and the mess at his feet. He wiped his hands on either side of the threadbare coat.
'Ikey? Ikey Solomon? It's you all right, Gawd help us!' Mary laughed, the spilt beer overcoming her nervousness. 'You always were a most nervous old bugger!'
Ikey grinned, which was not a pretty sight. Mary had forgotten how tiny he was, and he appeared to have lost several teeth and looked a great deal older than his fifty-two years. Jessamy was right, he stank to high heaven, even by the high standard of stink set by much of the local population.
'Nice to make your acquaintance again, my dear, news o' your remarkable success grows far and wide,' Ikey cackled. He looked around at the barrels of beer, and the racks of bottled ale stacked to the ceiling, as though weighing and valuing the contents to the last liquid ounce.
'Nonsense! News o' my remarkable success goes all the way down Liverpool Street and into Wapping, and not much further.'
'I is most proud of you, proud and honoured and most remarkably touched, my dear, and oh…' Ikey dug into the pocket of his coat and produced a pound. 'This be what's left o' the money you sent in your most kind letter, after the boat ticket and vittles eaten and five shillings paid for a week's board and lodging 'ere in town. That is, only until I can get back into my own 'ouse.'
'Change? You giving me change?' Mary looked incredulous. 'My goodness, we has reformed, hasn't we, then? Whatever could have come over you, Ikey Solomon?'
Ikey gave a phlegmy laugh and shook his head slowly. 'I admits, honesty ain't a habit what's come easy, Mary, my dear.' Mary saw that his back had become more hunched, though now he pulled himself as straight as he was able, wincing at a stab of rheumatism in his hip. Then he jerked at the ragged lapels of his coat and grinned, pushing his chin into the air.