Historical Short Story: One Step Ahead

HISTORICAL SHORT STORY BY SARA PARTINGTON

In this story, set in the 1790s, Beatrice prided herself on the workmanship of her shoes…

But, my lord, the work is done,” the grey-haired cobbler pleaded with his customer.

“In what manner is it lacking, please?” he added. “We agreed a price and the task has been completed most excellently.

“Will your lordship honour the deal, or tell me of the deficiency in the repair work?”

The gentleman’s nostrils flared as he sneered at the elderly man.

“The stitching is small and clean, I grant you,” he conceded. “But the leather you have used to patch the heel? It has obviously been used before.”

Martin Tate wrung his hands in consternation at the gentleman’s rationale, as if struggling to conjure a courteous reply.

“It’s of the best quality but, naturally, it is not brand-new,” the cobbler explained. “The Ordinances prohibit a cobbler from using virgin leather.

“Your lordship would not wish me to be fined for using Cordoba leather to repair old shoes.”

The customer stiffened.

Do you dare to call these boots old?

he shouted.

His lordship threw the shoes down on the counter with the melodramatic pique of a thwarted infant.

“Hello!” A girl with dark hair and laughing eyes came through from the back.

Feigning surprise to see the customer, she dropped a respectful curtsey.

“My apologies, my lord, I had not realised my grandfather was engaged in a transaction,” she said.

His lordship lowered his chin in acknowledgement.

“It’s of no matter,” he said and picked up the boots again.

“Send your bill to my steward,” he instructed the cobbler, “who will attend to it.”

He turned on his heel and marched out of the cobblery.

“I confess I did overhear some of that,” Beatrice Tate admitted.

Her grandfather smiled ruefully.

“What fault did he find?” she challenged.

“You are mistaken,” the cobbler assured her. “Indeed, he pronounced your stitching tidy and neat, and quite as good as he is accustomed to.

“It was the leather he complained of. He just wasn’t minded to pay for it.”

Beatrice pursed her lips, torn between pride at the praise and annoyance.

The old man sighed and leaned on his stool.

“I should have known better,” he said. “From the state of the heels of his lordship’s own boots, I’d say he needs to make economies where he can.”

“But he has not given up his carriage,” Beatrice stated indignantly. “I saw it parked on Bread Street.

“In any event, it’s hardly decent behaviour.”

“Cobbling is not prized as once it was,” her grandfather pointed out. “All the young bucks want new things these days.

“People don’t seem to understand about mending like when I was a boy,” he muttered under his breath. “The sooner the rules change and we cobblers may make shoes, too, the better for all!

“But it’s not so long since George Turberville was prosecuted for practising as a cordwainer without apprenticeship.”

Beatrice shifted nervously around the counter.

Perhaps now was not the time after all to raise the subject with her grandsire?

But the topic was forced upon her.

“Where have you been today?” he asked.

The girl took a deep breath.

Her face must have betrayed her disquiet, for Martin put his hand on her arm.

“Please don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “I know money is tight, but you cost nothing to keep.

“Your mother sends what she can, and I have several new commissions that will be paid for very soon . . .”

“No, that’s not it at all,” his granddaughter rushed to reassure him. “The fact is . . .”

She touched the sharp point of a cobbler’s awl to her fingertips.

“The fact is,” she continued, “I’ve been talking to William Sutherland. He was Master of the Cordwainers Company a few years ago.”

Her grandfather bowed his head.

“I know of Master Sutherland,” he said. “He has a shop on Cheapside.

“He oversaw the new livery hall back in 1790. The newspapers reported it cost nearly three-and-a-half thousand pounds!”

Beatrice felt her cheek redden under his accusatory stare as he went on.

“Master Sutherland’s establishment makes and sells new shoes. He is a cordwainer, a worker of cordovan from Spain. The finest goat-skin leather.”

Martin Tate crossed his arms in emphasis.

“He is not a cobbler,” he stated. “As we just agreed, the world of a shoemaker is still far from ours.”

The conversation was going as badly as Beatrice had feared.

“No,” Beatrice conceded. “Cordwainers are not the same as cobblers.

“But,” she added optimistically, “I’ve heard you speak well of him. You said his craftsmanship was admirable.”

He shrugged in reluctant acknowledgment.

“What did you have to speak of with Master Sutherland?” he asked.

In front of Beatrice’s eyes danced images of the small shoes she had been making over the past six months.

Her shoes were perfect in every detail. Footwear fit for a prince or princess.

She swallowed hard.

Perhaps she should have consulted her grandfather, after all. Confided in him what she was planning.

Would he have approved of her evidencing her skills by making an assortment of miniature shoes as proof of her talent?

“I wanted to talk to Master Sutherland,” Beatrice spoke carefully, eyes lowered while she gauged her grandfather’s reaction, “about becoming an apprentice of the Worshipful Company of Cordwainers.

“Seeking a bursary, as well as tuition,” she finished.

A chill had somehow descended. The shop was deathly silent.

It was now or never.

Beatrice finally dared raise her eyes to meet his gaze.

“I want to design and assemble. To – well, to make my own shoes.

“And for now, at least, I need to be a cordwainer to do that.”

“Your workmanship is exquisite, my dear.”

William Sutherland adjusted the small glasses on his long nose to inspect the item that Beatrice had handed to him.

It was a sample, a small shoe intended for a small child.

It was no longer than six inches from toe to heel, but perfect in every respect, even with her own private flourishes of design.

Master William Sutherland and Beatrice Tate sat by a bay window of the cordwainers’ livery hall in St Paul’s churchyard.

Above their heads hung the company’s coat of arms: a gold chevron rising between three billy-goats’ heads, atop the motto beneath: Corio et Arte.

“Leather and Art,” Beatrice had said when she first summoned the courage to present herself to William Sutherland.

Now she sat beside him, hands clasped together as she attended nervously to his observations on the quality of her work.

Sutherland’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

“The only minor fault I can find is the tongue might be more cleanly attached,” he stated.

He tugged gently at it by way of illustration, and she pressed her lips together with a serious expression, making a mental note.

Sutherland sat back, nodding in satisfaction and, in a proprietorial fashion, wiped a mote of dust from the leather.

“Although, of course . . .” He chortled. “You have made the job much harder for yourself by bringing together narrow strips of different tones in such a complicated pattern.

“Just the cutting out must take so much longer, let alone the seaming and assembly.”

Beatrice wondered if she should point out to Master Sutherland that this was the only way she could lay her hands on sufficient pristine-looking leather to make up the whole uppers.

Surely he understood that, with her grandfather a cobbler, she didn’t have the luxury of access to virgin goatskin cordwain like others might?

“It is a most attractive little shoe, though,” Sutherland was saying, rotating the specimen thoughtfully in his hand.

He smiled benevolently at her, then shook his head as though dismissing a private fancy.

His thought was interrupted by a knock at the door and Sutherland straightened, although he barely looked up.

“Enter!” he called.

A lad of about Beatrice’s own age strolled in confidently, smartly dressed and carrying a basket filled with gleaming leather shoes.

He stopped abruptly, surprised to see an unknown girl seated so close to Master Sutherland.

“Ah, there you are, Cuthbert.” Sutherland glanced up briefly. “Put your submission down, there’s a good fellow.”

Radiating curiosity and scarcely taking his eyes off Beatrice, the boy lowered his basket to the floor.

“There’s one more pair to be added, sir,” he announced, eyes moving to Mr Sutherland. “I’ll try to have it in my basket by noon tomorrow.”

“See that you do.” Sutherland nodded, waggling Beatrice’s shoe at him.

“The decision will be made by the end of the week,” he told her, “and this year’s apprentices chosen, with any bursaries they will be granted.

“You will receive the guild’s direction the day after tomorrow.”

Beatrice felt a tingle of excitement. Was her life about to change?

“It is not my decision alone, of course,” Sutherland reminded them. “It is Master Griffiths who has the final say, but I shall certainly tell him what I . . .”

He stopped, his nose twitching like a rabbit’s.

He threw back his head and sneezed violently, then extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and blew vigorously.

“My apologies,” he said. “I must be sickening for something.”

He leaned forwards to place Beatrice’s sample into a basket.

He nodded to signify that the meeting was over and, with a last furtive look at the girl, Herbert excused himself.

The communication had arrived nearly a week ago.

It was unambiguous, and would not alter by rereading, even after time elapsed and the sun had risen and fallen again.

Still, Beatrice couldn’t help herself, and picked up the letter – thick, weighty paper with the familiar goats’-head crest – to check the precise wording.

At least Mr Griffiths had written in person. That was something, she supposed.

There had not been a word from William Sutherland, who had seemed so pleasant and supportive.

To her face, at least.

She’d dared walk past his shop yesterday but, although it had looked very busy indeed inside, the gentleman himself hadn’t been there.

The paper crackled in her fingers.

The company thanks you for your interest, but regrets that it is not possible to take further your application for apprenticeship.

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t bear to read on.

Instead, she focused on her grandfather’s voice coming up from the workshop below, muttering in animation over a commission.

A pair of boots had come in needing a complete resoling.

He had looked energised by such a huge and lucrative task, but still she had better get downstairs in case he needed any assistance.

Martin Sutherland looked up from his bench and smiled as she approached.

“I had thought you might have gone to the livery hall,” he remarked. “To reclaim your samples?”

“Not yet,” Beatrice replied.

She didn’t want to explain that she couldn’t bear to go back and was putting it off.

Her grandfather put down his knife.

“I know it is disappointing, but perhaps next year . . .” His voice trailed off. “I understand for you it’s as much about designing and assembly.

“But Beatrice, you may yet come to love the craftsmanship of bringing new life to a well-crafted boot like this one.”

She forced a smile to cheer him.

“You’re right,” she said, “and, to start, I will go to the livery building now to collect my submission shoes.

“Then I’d like you to show me how we’re going to revive these fine boots!”

The white facade of the livery building gleamed in the sunshine as Beatrice approached, her heart thumping at the chance she might face Master Sutherland again.

She averted her gaze from the coat of arms above the door.

“May I please collect my basket of apprenticeship samples?” she asked the porter, having explained her enquiry.

He led her to a corner where a solitary basket remained, and Beatrice saw immediately that the samples were hers but one pair was not there.

Missing? Stolen? Disappeared?

Her beautiful sunset work. This was the final straw!

She struggled to control her voice.

“May I speak to Master Sutherland, please?” she asked.

“What’s this about, Hobbs?” a voice said.

A red-faced man with an extravagant moustache addressed the porter.

“A pair of shoes has been removed from my basket,” Beatrice said shortly. “I would like them back, please.”

The gentleman regarded her calmly with unblinking eyes.

“And you are?” he questioned.

“Beatrice Tate.”

The red-faced man’s expression changed.

“I am George Griffiths,” he said with a soft bow.

I regret we had to decline your application, Miss Tate.

“Your submission was most impressive, but you faced a strong field this year.”

“Good day, Master Griffiths.” Beatrice remembered herself and dropped a small curtsey. “Is Master Sutherland here, by any chance?”

“I am afraid,” Master Griffiths answered with a sigh, “that he has been in his sickbed for a week.

“We almost put off making a decision until his return, but I am glad we did not, since I have heard nothing from him.

“Business must go on, you see.”

He was making to move on when the porter cleared his throat.

“There’s also the strange matter of the missing shoes, Master Griffiths,” Beatrice told him.

“What? Missing, you say?” Griffiths pulled at his moustache. “Yes, I remember now.”

He nodded to himself in recollection.

“There was one submission that was a pair short, Miss Tate,” he told her. “It was your basket.”

Beatrice wasn’t sure where she found the nerve, but she couldn’t help herself.

“I must beg your pardon,” she answered stoutly, “but it is only missing now.

“I gave it to Master Sutherland on the last occasion I was here.”

“Hmm? Most irregular.” Griffiths sniffed. “You’d better come to my office.”

Beatrice picked up her basket and followed Master Griffiths through a warren of corridors.

They passed room after room, some with open doors with bent heads and hushed whispering.

Other doors were closed, and from behind one could hear the clanging of hammer on shoe-tack, or the whistle of steam as it moulded leather.

All around was the smell of tanning and fresh skins, warmed and worked on.

It seemed an age before Master Griffiths stopped and opened a thick oak door.

“You had better come in and explain yourself,” he stated.

Beatrice stopped dead.

There they were. Her missing sunset shoes.

In a different basket.

“What?” Master Griffiths exclaimed as she pointed. “You claim these are your work?

“How, then, do they come to form part of another student’s submission?”

“I don’t know, sir, but they are my work.” Beatrice could barely speak. “Master Sutherland told me that . . .”

Griffiths cut her off impatiently.

“Did you not hear me say he is very ill indeed and I have not heard a word from him?” he asked.

But a strange ringing took over in Beatrice’s head, and she could not hear any more of what he was saying as the answer fell into place before her eyes.

Master Sutherland had not been able to pass on his views before the decision was taken.

Her finest piece had not been taken into consideration.

“As a matter of interest, Miss Tate.” Griffiths was languidly stretching out in his chair.