Owen Oliver

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

A turbulent tale of a young man's growth from innocence to maturity in the harsh world of Victorian England. In the teeming heart of nineteenth-century London, Owen Oliver walks out of his gloomy, unwelcoming lodgings and doesn't stop his travels until he reaches Kent. There, Owen's life is dramatically altered. An orphan, he is adopted by a loving old lady and her roguish amicable son, Tom. With Tom's help, he secures employment in the shipping agency of an old sea captain and his fortunes start to increase. But Owen is not content. All around him he sees a widening gap between the comfortable middle classes and the helpless destitution of the poor. He is horrified by the plight of the thin and hungry and the evils of child labour. So when he takes the matter into his own hands and rescues a beautiful ragged child with haunting blue eyes and long golden hair, his fate is sealed . . . *************** What readers are saying about OWEN OLIVER 'This book kept me enthralled' - 5 STARS 'Excellent' - 5 STARS 'A lovely story' - 5 STARS 'Sad and funny . . . hard to put down' - 5 STARS 'Brilliant' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 236

Sample

1

Good-bye, London

Owen Oliver sat in his bare attic with his head in his hands thinking gloomily about his predicament. Outside the sooty window all he could see were London chimney pots. Immediately around him were the bare necessities he needed for living – a few books, a low bed in the corner and a plain wooden table which served as both desk and diner.

Twiddling his long quill pen around in its ornate green inkstand, he was reminded of his father. This quill was a relic of more prosperous times and it had belonged to his late father before he was sent off to the debtors’ prison.

Today Owen was feeling very lonely as his mind wandered to thoughts of his lost love, a sweet, high-bred and very pure young lady. But how cruel she had been! He had been such a fool to aim so high! He had loved her desperately. Running his fingers nervously through his brown curls, he picked up the sheet of perfumed paper which lay before him. He had read it so many times but it hurt him anew as he read it again: ‘I never want to see or hear of you again.’

Screwing the paper up in his hand he threw it violently on to the floor. Tears rushed to his dark blue eyes as he looked despairingly about the gloomy room, at the dirty grey walls, the smoke-blackened beams over his head and the cheerless fireless grate. It was so depressing, spelling of nothing but poverty.

He suddenly felt very claustrophobic and had an overpowering urge to get out, away from his grim surroundings. He could escape from his attic room but he was unable to get away from that whispering voice in his head which taunted him constantly.

‘You,’ it said. ‘You are nothing, a nobody, just like your initials.’

Grabbing his hat from behind the door, Owen placed it on his head and then wriggled into a tight, faded jacket. Within seconds, he was running down the stairs and out into the crowded streets outside.

It was Saturday afternoon and a huge crowd of people milled towards London Bridge. Like a leaf in the breeze, Owen let himself be carried along by them. In his confused, depressed state of mind he was hardly aware of the jangle of unknown voices, the jostling fat buttocks of women pushing against him, or large bonnets and huge bundles which obscured his vision as the local population went home from the market or fought to get to the wrestling match on the other side of the bridge. Everyone was determined to get across that river and they pushed and shoved and trampled on each other in their effort to do so.

Owen had not got very far. In fact he had only just reached the bottom of the slope which led up to the bridge when he suddenly had to stop and cling to the railings. A gargoyle grinned down at him with a hideous expression. Owen was breathless and realised that he was now panting with fear. For in fact crowds made him nervous. They made him feel as claustrophobic as he had been in his lodgings. The panic he experienced always took him back to his childhood, with memories of dark cupboards and screeching, quarrelling parents.

The two-way traffic on the narrow road was causing havoc. Fighting for space to move were wagons loaded with farm produce, stage coaches with high roofs, and horse-drawn buses which competed with coster barrows and gentlemen on horse-back. Whips cracked, wheels collided, drivers swore loudly while the women on the pavements giggled and screamed as horses reared up in terror. It seemed that all sign of sanity had disappeared on that Saturday afternoon on London Bridge.

Owen held on tightly to the railings and looked down into the river, at the swirling rubbish floating on the surface of the foaming water churned up by the mail boats. Suddenly the pressure of the crowd loosened its hold and Owen was on the move. He allowed himself to be carried along again, like that rubbish under the bridge.

‘Keep calm,’ he told himself repeatedly. ‘Don’t panic. Eventually you will get out at the other end.’

He was almost half-way over when his passage was blocked by a huge dray, full of barrels and pulled by two dapple-grey shire horses. It was stationary and the big muscular driver was holding a heated argument with a bucolic gentleman on horseback.

‘Git over!’ the driver roared. ‘Git that bleedin’ old nag on its way afor it drops dead on yer!’

Recognising the voice, Owen looked up to see the rugged face of an old acquaintance, Jed, looking down at him. Jed saw him at the same time and leaned down to give Owen a poke in the ribs with his long whip. ‘Hey there, lad,’ he called in a throaty voice, ‘What are you doing down there? Get up on the cart. It’s safer among them barrels than with those dratted maniacs down there!’

With a sigh of relief, Owen climbed up onto the cart and sank down between the barrels of wine. As he closed his eyes in relief, he was aware of how weak he had become. But whether it was fear or the fact that he had not eaten much food recently, he did not know. How foolish he was to get so nervous! Surely it was time he learned to control these feelings!

The old wagon rumbled on over the cobbles with Jed swearing under his breath and cracking his whip until they were at last over the bridge. Now the traffic was slowly levelling out and the crowd of pedestrians dispersed in various directions.

‘How far yer going, mate?’ called the carter. ‘You’d better come on up to this end and we can have a chat. It never ought to be allowed, having all these folk on the bridge. It’s going to collapse one day, mark my words, and drop the whole blooming lot in the river.’

Owen moved up to the end of the wagon and seated himself on a barrel. He was beginning to feel much better as a fresh breeze blew across the fields at Greenwich.

‘It was rather overcrowded,’ he agreed quietly.

‘Seen it worse,’ replied Jed. ‘Takes me nigh on an hour to come over some days. It didn’t ought to be allowed, I say. You’re off to the fair, no doubt?’ he queried.

‘No, sir,’ replied Owen. ‘Just taking a breath of fresh air.’

‘Well, that’s free and it’s all we’ll be able to afford soon. Look at me – working overtime when I should be home with the wife and children,’ he complained.

Jed hardly paused for breath as he kept up his patter while the strong grey cart-horses pulled the wagon up the steep hill.

Owen leaned back. He felt warm and comfortable sitting in his seat just behind Jed’s broad back and in the wagon which smelled so sweetly of wine. Jed was just like a ship’s captain, a husky soul, so fearless and brave on that high seat. It was strange how these earthy folk soothed and calmed Owen. With them he almost felt secure and happy. What could be their secret?

‘I’ve got some deliveries to make at the White Hart,’ Jed continued to talk in his slow voice. ‘Then it’s back down the road for me, lad, to me little old house in Woolwich. You coming all the way with me?’

‘No, thank you, I’ll get off at the top of the hill, if you don’t mind,’ replied Owen.

‘Well, don’t get lost,’ warned Jed. ‘It’s not safe up here after dark, what with footpads and gawd knows what evils.’

Owen slipped quickly down from the cart and said good-bye to Jed as the old wagon lumbered on.

For a while, Owen Oliver stood still looking down at the big city of London lying down in the valley. He could see church spires, it seemed, everywhere, and behind the banked-up storm clouds, the sun cast red and grey shadows across the scene. Yes, the world itself was really beautiful, he thought, watching how a breeze rustled the tree tops, and the setting sun turn the tips of the leaves to gold. Owen sighed. He was surrounded by so much beauty and he wanted so much to express it in words or pictures. But he always failed. Other people distracted him, brought out his nervousness, and caused him to stammer. Invariably he would find himself withdrawing into glum silence.

In his mind’s eye there appeared again, his lost love, with her soft fair hair under the little bonnets, and that unforgettable, demure expression as she passed him the billet doux she had pulled from the fur muff when she came to the bookshop where he worked.

Owen had been instantly smitten and poured out his heart to her in pages of passionate verse. And then she had mocked him, read his poetry out loud to her giggling companions.

Now he wished he had not crept into the garden unannounced! A true gentleman would have known how to retire gracefully, but he, fool that he was, had screamed and shouted, danced and gibbered like a monkey. Yes, it was quite obvious to everyone that he was not well-bred. So why did he bother? He was as poor as a church mouse. Why could he not be simple, hard-working and happy like the carter?

On top of that lonely hill, Owen Oliver commiserated with himself as the chill evening air made him shiver. The sun, a great ball of red fire, had now begun to disappear over the horizon. Soon it would be night. He had better return to London.

So back to the noise and violence of the big city at night Owen turned. Automatically he headed for a footpath and walked in the direction of the city. Soon the moon was up, casting its silver light on the long figure crossing the rough heath.

The rutted path seemed endless as it wound its way over heathland. Owen had lost all sense of direction. He was not at all sure where he was going. The fingers of bracken glittered in the moonlight and strange shadows were cast across his path. Ahead there seemed to be a grey mist and a vast expanse of blackness.

Owen felt as though he were walking to the edge of the world. Breathing deeply, he filled his lungs with cool sweet air and swung his long thin arms energetically. His spirits were suddenly surprisingly higher. Here I am, he thought, a nobody going nowhere.

Sometimes he jumped a ditch, sometimes he climbed a gate. Rabbits scattered ahead of him, owls hooted in the trees. Driven by some uncontrollable force, he went on and on.

The moon had begun to wane, and a wet mist penetrated his coat. As his legs began to feel numb, his eyes ached and sanity began to return. What a fool he was to walk so far! Owen pulled his jacket collar up about his ears as far as he could and shivered. Around him it looked very creepy. He could just make out thick woods and a vast misty plain. Perhaps he ought to turn back. He slowly came to a halt and stood with hands in his pockets wondering what to do, when suddenly a black and white bull terrier came bounding towards him. It did not seem very friendly as it growled and bared its teeth. Owen was afraid of dogs and his knees went weak.

Suddenly a gruff voice from the hedge called, ‘Come back, Old Dawg, come back I say.’

Then there was much grunting and swearing as a huge figure rose from the wayside. The man towered over Owen, and he seemed to be as wide as he was high, and virtually shapeless, bundled up with thick clothes. Around his neck was wound a long woollen scarf, and a heavy top coat was hitched about his shoulders. Although his voice was gruff, it was not unpleasant. He puffed for breath as he spoke. ‘Don’t let that little tyke worry you. He’s only guarding me. I was having a little kip, though I didn’t mean to sleep so long.’

The man looked up at the sky. ‘It must be getting nigh dawn,’ he said.

Owen gazed at the fellow with apprehension as he watched him reach out for the thick nobbly stick, but he relaxed when he said, ‘Coming my way lad?’

Owen eyed the dog warily. ‘I was thinking of turning back here,’ he said.

The man snorted. ‘Turn back?’ he cried. ‘Why, it’s bloody miles to the road. Where are you heading for, then?’

‘Nowhere in particular,’ Owen replied lamely.

Two deep brown eyes surveyed him shrewdly. Then the man coughed loudly and spat into the hedge. ‘You’re on the road, then?’ he stated.

Owen nodded. He could not think of anything to say.

‘Well then,’ said the huge man, ‘you’d better come along with me, ’cause we knows the way, don’t we, Old Dawg?’

So the man’s burly shape rolled on, with the dog skipping and jumping beside him. Owen tagged along behind.

The pace was brisk because it was now all downhill. Owen’s new acquaintance sang sea shanties and occasionally broke into conversation. ‘Knows this path like me own backside,’ he boasted. ‘I’d like a sovereign for the times I walked it – drunk and sober.’

Owen was still a little afraid. He said nothing and just listened.

‘We’ve been down to Bexley to do a bit of ratting,’ the man explained. ‘See that there Old Dawg? He can kill seven rats at one go. Champion, he is. He’s won me a packet tonight. That’s how I got a drink too many and missed the wagon. But it doesn’t matter. I walk home more often than I ride on Saturday nights,’ he chuckled.

The man turned and gave the glum-looking Owen a shrewd glance.

‘On the way to Dover, I suppose, are you? Most gents that come this way are going to find better prospects abroad, they say. Baloney, says I. There ain’t no place like England. And as for Kent, why, Kent’s the best place in the whole world.

‘Are we in Kent then?’ ventured Owen timidly.

The man nodded. ‘Where I met you it was the border. From now on it’s the Weald all the way down to Rochester. If you are wise, you will rest up in Rochester and wait for a hitch down to Dover, because it’s a bloody long road otherwise.’ He seemed to have convinced himself that Owen was heading for Dover and Owen was too tired to disillusion him.

Through muddy ploughed fields they trod, and on through apple orchards where the trees stood like lines of soldiers. Daylight came slowly, pink and silver intermixed. A cold wind had blown up and the birds were beginning to rustle in their nests and get ready to greet the day with a song.

‘Come on, lad,’ said Owen’s companion, ‘get a move on. We’ll just get down there at daybreak in time for refreshment with the shepherds.’

Once down the hill the land flattened out into low-lying meadows washed by the morning dew. Now a pale sun peeped over the horizon. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of bleating sheep and barking dogs. The bull terrier went wild with excitement and dashed ahead as fast as his four legs could carry him.

‘Tired, boy?’ The man asked, as he saw Owen trudging along with his eyes half shut. ‘We’ll be down there soon and we’ll get a nice hot brew.’ He rubbed his large hands in anticipation.

Soon they came to a large barn. The sound of sheep bleating in the pens inside was almost deafening, while outside the barn, seated around a bucket fire, were half-a-dozen shepherds, the long crooks of their trade beside them.

‘Howde, lads!’ roared the big man.

‘Howde, Tom!’ they all cried back in unison.

Owen crouched beside the fire, scrutinising the shepherds’ wrinkled faces, as they slurped down a hot beverage from tin mugs. A young lad produced two mugs for Tom and Owen and one of the old men filled them with the hot milky liquid.

Owen drank it gratefully. It was very satisfying, and suffused him with warmth right down to his toes. It was hot milk spiked with something delicious. He felt so drowsy, he nodded in the heat of the fire until a hefty poke in the ribs from Tom suggested that he go into the barn and take a nap before he fell into the fire itself.

Owen went to the barn and crept into the warm sweet-smelling hay. Within seconds he was asleep.

An hour later a large boot nudged him. ‘Get moving lad.’ It was Tom.

The young lambs were calling plaintively for their mothers. Owen yawned. He felt wonderfully relaxed and just wanted to remain snuggled down in the sweet warm hay.

‘Hi, there,’ growled Tom. ‘Come on, let’s hit the road.’

When Owen finally pulled himself up and staggered into the bright sunshine, Tom was engaged in a long conversation with one of the old shepherds whose accent was as thick and rich as country butter.

‘Roit,’ he was saying, ‘Be orf naw then, oi be getting a bit low on the hard stuff, Taamy lad.’

‘See you in town on market day, old son,’ replied Tom, giving the old man a thump on the back. ‘A nice drop o’ the ol’ Jamacy, how’s that?’

So it had been rum that had spiced the morning brew thought Owen. Rum presumably provided by this amiable giant, too.

Tom whistled to Old Dawg, who came bounding over the fields, and the threesome set off once more over the hills and dales. As they jumped wide dykes full of water, and negotiated the wooden stiles, Owen’s jovial companion talked, sang and whistled.

‘Look down there,’ Tom said suddenly. ‘That, mate, is the old Thames.’

Owen thought he could have been talking about a personal friend. He gazed down at the long silver strip that wound over the green marshland. ‘It is a magnificent view,’ he said mildly.

‘Why, that’s the best damned sight in the world,’ shouted Tom. ‘How many deep sea sailors would give anything to see the old Thames and home port?’ For the first time he looked rather aggressively at Owen. ‘Don’t suppose you ever went to sea, sonny. It don’t look as if you got enough guts in yer.’

Owen felt downcast. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I never did much with my life, and what I have done has not been of my own choice.’

The serious brown eyes under the wide slouch hat immediately became sympathetic. Tom placed a gentle arm about Owen’s shoulders. ‘Take no notice of me, lad,’ he said. ‘I’m a rough ol’ fella but I do know what you mean – little kids slaving in mines, honest men rotting in the debtors’ prison. That’s why I love the country life, and the things that God provided, not man.’

Owen was curiously comforted by this boisterous confident character.

Soon they approached a little hamlet where field workers hailed them, and children came out to run and laugh beside them.

‘The next cottage we come to is my home,’ Tom informed Owen. ‘You’d better come and have a bite of breakfast with me. Then I’ll put you on the right road for Rochester.’

Owen was about to confess that he intended to return to London but Tom had forged ahead and was waving one great arm at a lady who stood in front of the most picturesque cottage Owen had ever seen. It had low eaves, a tall brick chimney, and a tiny porch hung with honeysuckle. At the gate stood a tiny lady whose hair was held neatly in place by a small lace cap with frilled edges which fell about a small waxen face. The bright blue eyes stared out sharply at the two men. Her black dress curved out from a wasp waist and a wide lace collar covered her neck and shoulders.

‘It’s me, Ma,’ said Tom. ‘Go on, Old Dawg,’ he muttered, ‘Go tell her we’s home.’

The terrier sped off towards the gate, yelping a loud welcome. Reaching the woman, he suddenly put his tail between his legs and slunk off towards the back of the cottage.

‘It don’t look so good,’ muttered Tom.

The lady stood perfectly still, her face stern and unsmiling. Her hands in their lace mittens were crossed passively on her white apron.

‘What’s yer name, boy?’ whispered Tom.

‘Owen Oliver,’ Owen replied.

‘Hello, Ma,’ said Tom brightly as they drew close. ‘Here’s me friend Olly come to see yer.’

The woman did not smile or even move a muscle except her lips. ‘You have been out all night,’ she said accusingly.

‘I know, Ma; couldn’t help it,’ Tom shouted straight into her ear.

Owen assumed that the lady was stone deaf. ‘Meet me friend Olly,’ he said. ‘Walking to Dover, he is.’

‘Who?’ his mother demanded, casting a sharp glance at Owen.

‘His name is Olly. He’s down on his luck. On the road, he was, Ma.’ From that moment Owen was always called Olly by his new friend.

‘Don’t know no Ossies.’ Tom’s mother grumbled. ‘Where does he come from?’

‘From London, Ma,’ Tom proclaimed loudly.

There was a glint in those stony eyes at the mention of the capital city.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘better come in and have some breakfast. I’ll deal with you later, young Tom.’

With sly nudges and sniggers, Tom edged Owen into the cottage. Owen realised that he was being used as an excuse for Tom’s night out.

Soon he was sitting in front of a table loaded with hot milky porridge, bacon and eggs and freshly baked bread. What a feast! Such a feast for an empty stomach!

Neat and precise, Tom’s mother sat at the table. A stern light appeared in her eyes every time she looked at her errant son. ‘Eat hearty, Ossie,’ she told him. ‘You look undernourished, boy. Still, I know times can be hard up in London and good food is not easy to come by.’

‘We are Londoners, you know,’ said Tom proudly.

‘’Tis now a very dirty town by all accounts,’ said his mother. ‘I’ve never regretted leaving it behind.’

‘It is a very crowded city, ma’am,’ said Owen politely.

‘You are a very well-spoken lad. Why have you left home?’ the old lady asked.

‘My parents are dead, ma’am, and for a long time I have earned my own living.’

In spite of her deafness, Tom’s mother was well able to converse, her keen eyes watching every movement of Owen’s lips. But each time her son addressed her, he leaned forward and shouted in her ear, as he did now. ‘Shall I tell him, Ma?’

A strange, secretive smile crossed her tight lips as she nodded assent. Tom told Owen of how he and his mother had also walked from London many years before. ‘Me Pa was injured in the seamen’s hospital in Chatham and me two brothers were missing at sea. We came to get news of them, but it was no good. My brothers’ ship was lost and Pa only lived a few days.

‘We had run out of money, so we started to walk back. I was only a lad, just ten year old, wasn’t I, Ma?’ Tom shouted in her ear.

Tom’s mother patted her son’s hand indulgently as if giving him permission to proceed.

As he watched them, Owen was acutely aware of the warm bond of affection that existed between this tiny mother and her big childish son. ‘So we got lost,’ Tom continued. ‘We were ragged and starving, and didn’t know where we were. Then one stormy night a curate came riding by and picked us up. We’ve not looked back since.’

Now Tom’s mother picked up the story, and described to Owen how ill she had been but how she had recovered and subsequently taken a domestic post in the curate’s household. It was, she said, a post she still held.

‘So you see, Olly,’ said Tom, ‘we know all about being on the road.’

Owen smiled sheepishly. He was feeling very warm and relaxed with these two kind people, though deep down he did feel a little shifty. Tom and his mother seemed to believe that he was a homeless lad, and had been so spontaneous in their desire to feed and sustain him. And, of course, that was not the case at all. He wanted to tell them the truth, to be frank and open with them, but his confounded nervousness prevented him from doing so.

‘There’s no need to hurry away, Olly,’ said Tom. ‘Ma likes you, and anyway, it’s Sunday. Stay a while, come for a walk around the village with me.’

‘Why not?’ chirped Tom’s mother. ‘It will keep Tom out of mischief, the company of a nice lad like you.’

Owen shook his head. ‘But I can’t accept your hospitality. I’m a very poor lad and am unable to repay you,’ he protested.

‘Bosh!’ declared the old lady. ‘Take him away with you, Tom, by all means, but there are a few chores to do before you go gallivanting.’

So Owen helped Tom collect wood from the forest behind the cottage and stack it against the side wall. They pulled up large green cabbages and onions, and collected the eggs from the hens.

With the chores done, the two men washed under the pump in the yar. . .