LIKE FATHER, LIKE SONS

From The Thornton Tales

PART 2 OF 5

Margaret sucked in a breath as she observed her husband step aside and grouchily supervise the expedient expulsion of whatever pest had interrupted his pursuit of pleasure and wrenched him away from the warm embrace of his wife. She halted, her heart thumping, as she lingered and deliberated as to what or who might emerge. Surely it must be the most terrifying of vagabonds to provoke such a surge and squall of frantic fury in John. Her mind conjured up the image of some penny-dreadful villain who belonged to a faction of wrongdoers from Manchester or Liverpool. She had heard tales of a particularly wicked band of goons known as the Peaky Blinders, who apparently had the majority of Birmingham under their thumb. Their ringleader, a Mr Thomas Shelby, was meant to be as devious and disreputable as the Devil's spawn. Perhaps he was here to pilfer metal from the machines, for such robberies were not unheard of, due to the lucrative value of the various parts.

But Margaret quickly chastised herself for being so foolish and fanciful. Really! She had been spending too much time with Fanny, who was forever reading about and expounding upon the perils inflicted by these good-for-nothing ruffians. Still, Margaret had a sneaky suspicion that her sister-in-law found it all terribly thrilling and fantasised that one such dashing rogue might break into the Watson home one night and whisk her away as a most willing hostage.

Goodness! That was a thought…if only.

No! Margaret dismissed such poppycock from her head and concentrated on staying rational. She was sure that whoever was about to be banished from the mill was no loutish hooligan of the far-fetched variety, but still, she remained transfixed, her nerves as jittery as jelly, for she was anxious for John's safety. Then suddenly, the cause of their concern emerged from the shadows and skulked into the inky midnight hue.

'Ah, of course,' she sighed, allowing her whole body to seamlessly relax as her breath floated out of her and misted the glass like a spectral fog.

She watched as two vagrants materialised, both considerably shorter and scrawnier than their intimidating accuser. With no more than their nightshirts on, one could almost have mistaken them for a pair of miniature ghosts. But no, they were not phantoms, but were two small boys as real as you and I. With their hands shoved in their pockets, and their heads bowed in surrender, they both plodded back towards the house, like two criminals who had been caught by a constable.

'Oh,' Margaret tutted, struggling to hold back a slight chuckle. 'The cheeky rascals.'

She smirked as John grumpily thrust out his arms like the branches of a great Oak tree, and the little lads obediently, but timidly, placed their tiny hands in his much larger and stronger ones. Gripping onto them for dear life, John marched across the yard at a punishing pace, dragging the scalawags behind him, who both had to gallop and skip just to keep up with his swift steps. Every now and again, they would warily glance up at him, but after seeing his stern frown, they would immediately drop their gaze and keep their eyes trained on the cobbles.

Margaret clicked her teeth.

'Oh dear,' she cooed.

Unfortunately, this was not the first time the Thorntons had been narked by this type of tomfoolery. Margaret and John had so far been blessed with five children, two girls and three boys. Their eldest, Maria, was seven, with Nicholas aged three tottering about the nursery, then finally, Elizabeth was the most recent to arrive, now almost ten months old. Then somewhere in the middle, they also had two charming, but utterly puckish little imps, Richard and Daniel, who were twin boys, aged six.

Margaret adored her sons with a fierce devotion. Without a doubt, she cherished all her little cherubs more than she could explain or express. They were the most wonderful of children and they were their mother's pride and joy. Yet, it would seem that some of her angels were more angelic than others. From the moment she had first held Richard and Daniel in her arms and seen their first playful grins, her maternal instincts had foretold that these tiny scamps would soon be running their parent's ragged, causing untold mischief and mayhem…and she was right.

In their defence, the twins were not wayward, they were just…lively. They had enough fire in their little bellies to compensate for all the children of Milton, and John often joked that if he could find a way of harnessing their energy, he believed one hour of their verve could fuel the factory for a year. They had so many winning qualities that made Margaret want to smother them with soppy kisses. They were curious, eager, adventurous, inventive, friendly, determined, and full of hijinks. Yes, Richard and Daniel filled the Thornton house with merriment, but alas, it had landed them in a sticky spot and scrape or two…or three…or four.

Hmm, yes.

As much as their beloved boys brought such gladness to John and Margaret's life, they did also possess a tendency and a talent for keeping their parents on their toes. What made it worse, is that since there were two of them, they did have a habit of egging each other on, both huddling in corners and conspiring together like a couple of knee-high crooks. If one were to look up the phrase double trouble in the dictionary, then the description would read: 'Richard and Daniel Thornton of Milton, born 1853.'

When they were no more than weans, swaddled in their napkins, their horseplay was easier to manage. At the age of one, they would squeal with delight when they hurled their dinner across the room, propelling mushy vegetables and meat in all directions. Mealtimes had become a matter of military strategy, in which one should only approach if equipped with the weapon of a long-handled spoon, by which to feed the munching monsters at a safe distance; an apron to protect one's clothes from flying food; and a keen sharpness, so that one could outmanoeuvre the twin's skill for speedily snatching their plates and throwing them asunder in one energetic toss.

She recalled one day when unlucky Jane had been required to stand atop the dining room table, battling to mop the ceiling, for the remnants of a perfectly good beef-steak stew was now streaking and sullying the paintwork and threatening to take up residence as an obstinate stain. That would certainly have taken quite a bit of resourceful explaining and profuse apologising to gawking guests at dinner parties, who may have complained if left-over morsels of gravy had dripped onto their carefully arranged hair.

At the age of two, the boys would grin like Cheshire cats when they scribbled on the walls with bits of chalk or charcoal, appearing to reproduce those remarkable ancient murals that had been unearthed in caves. Yet somehow, their father was not amused by their artistic abilities, but was more preoccupied and dismayed by the exorbitant expense of repapering the wall…well, almost every wall in the house to be precise.

John had really lost his rag when the toddlers had by hook or by crook, managed to get past Dixon's eagle eye, tottered into the private sanctum of his study. They had proceeded to scrawl all over some important paperwork, that is, the ones that their podgy hands had spared from being scrunched up or shredded. Margaret had been in her personal morning-room, attending to some correspondence, when John had slowly walked in. She had looked up and ceased, for she had distinguished his expression, and it was not one to be trifled with. It was a mien he rarely wore, and was defined by a sedate but surreal composure, which may sound marvellous, but in fact, it was a sign that John was so far beyond the point of anger, that his annoyance had now vanished and had been replaced by a stupefied silence. In these cases, John was so flummoxed by his frustration, that the irritation seemed to stun him, almost paralysing his fabled aptitude for working himself up into a fit of wrath. Yes, this expression was not to be ignored or taken lightly and would require a wife's soft and sympathetic touch.

'John?' she had asked warily.

Still donning his mask of tranquillity, John had strolled over to her desk and handed her a bit of paper with a drawing on it. 'Tell me, sweetheart,' he began, 'What is that?' he questioned, his finger stabbing the page.

Margaret had been bewildered. 'What is this? Well, dear, it is a picture.'

'Yes, but what is it?' his voice shaking slightly from suppressed exasperation.

Margaret turned her attention to the sketch and scrunched up her eyes as she examined it. 'Well, I do not really know,' she confessed. 'It is not something I recognise.'

'Exactly,' John had replied with a snort. Sitting down next to his wife, he progressed to educate her on this piece of abstract art. 'Now, this is an animal,' he clarified, rather matter-of-factly, although his tone carried a hint of sarcasm. 'It has the head and body of a lion, oh, but look,' he noted with raised eyebrows, 'It has the wings of a bird, the ears of a rabbit, and the tail of a fox.'

Margaret was not entirely sure what she was supposed to say and did not wish to risk being scolded by his bad humour, which she could see simmering below the surface. 'I suppose it is rather imaginative,' she ventured, trying to sound encouraging, although she had a feeling that her positive stance would not distract him from his festering temper.

'Oh, it is!' John agreed, nodding his head. 'Now, in normal circumstances, I would praise our boys for their visionary illustration of this…well, what can only be described as a mythical beast. But…not when they have doodled it all over my court memorandums for tomorrow's trial.'

Margaret nearly spat out the tea she had just sipped. Snatching the paper from his hands, she studied the text. Underneath the squiggles the twins had drawn, she could just about make out a sequence of solemn printed letters, all standing side-by-side like soldiers in a regiment. Oh dear! If she inspected it closely enough, she could decipher a series of formal words, all conveying legal jargon:

Bona Vacantia ─ Defamation ─ Accused ─ Liabilities ─ Blackmail ─ Vexatious ─ Litigant ─ Bailiff ─ Witness ─ Decree nisi ─ Prosecution ─ Affidavit ─ Certiorari ─ Poaching ─ Defendant ─ False representation ─ Res ipsa loquitur ─ Security of tenure.

Margaret bit her lip and peeked back at her husband, who was conspicuously calm, like a volcano before it erupted and spewed forth its inferno of ire. 'I am terribly sorry, John,' she apologised, rubbing her nose against his cheek, like a repentant cat trying to make amends. She knew it was not her fault and that he did not blame her, but still, she could not help but feel culpable, for she should have kept a more vigilant watch over their tottering toerags. 'Is there nothing to be done? Can the papers be salvaged?' she suggested.

He shook his head jadedly and stood to leave. 'No,' he muttered. 'I shall have to take this to the court tomorrow and explain myself,' he sighed, as he kissed his wife on the cheek before sauntering out of the room. But turning he added: 'Oh! And that is not the best part, Meg! William Bingham will be presiding alongside me. He is the most senior magistrate in Darkshire and I was very much looking forward to making his esteemed acquaintance. I wonder what he will make of this lion-bird-rabbit-fox crossbreed. Who knows, he may even know the scientific name for it. Darwin might like this picture for one of his books,' he concluded cynically.

'Do you think Mr Bingham will understand?' Margaret asked hopefully, calling out after his retreating form.

'Oh, I should think so!' he hollered back. 'He is a father of ten boys after all. I think he will most definitely understand…and empathise!'

From that day on, John had added three sturdy locks to his study door, and he kept the keys on his person at all times, even when taking a bath, for one could not be too cautious when it came to security.

At age three, Richard and Daniel had even turned their attention towards the poor dog, who had put up with his fair share of their nonsense. Three years ago, John had given in to his family's pleas for a puppy and one day, he had astounded them all with a canine addition to the Thornton household. They had all been convening in the drawing room when they had heard a faint whining and scratching coming from a downstairs cupboard. The family had exchanged bemused glances and John had feigned ignorance, suggesting that they all go and investigate the rumpus at once. With Maria in his arms and the twins clambering and clinging to his back like monkeys, the four musketeers had set off in pursuit of the racket. After some daft and rather outlandish guessing about what could be the source of the hubbub, they had opened the door to find a Labrador, no more than eight weeks old, shuffling and sniffing about, his tail twitching in excitement. John pretended that he had no idea where the hound had come from but promised that they could keep him. Little Maria had been bursting with jubilation and begged her father to let her name the pet. John had willingly agreed, but much to his alarm, she had landed on: Lord Ruff Wagtail Woofington, Duke of Barkshire, (to quote his full title).

Needless to say, John had not approved and had deployed his extensive arsenal of bartering techniques acquired over many years in trade, in the sure faith that his shrewd bargaining would convince his daughter of changing the name to something more suitable. But no, her choice was not to be bought as easily as a loaf of bread in the market and the determined girl would not budge. It would seem that negotiating cotton on an international scale was more straightforward and fruitful than parleying with Miss Maria Thornton. He had then tried a different trick and had reverted to the tried and tested tactic of bribery and corruption, attempting to entice her with assurances of unlimited gingerbread treats or a new pretty dress, with as many bows or frills as her heart desired. They had come ever so close to signing a contract in John's office over a glass of milk and cookies, but at the last minute, the peace talks had fallen through after John had called her ragdoll, (Princess Pricilla), names. No, nothing would dissuade her decision, for she was unyielding as steel. In the end, John had begrudgingly admitted that he admired her tenacity, smiling and saying that she was a chip off the old block.

So, it was with his head held high, that the rather sober and severe master of Marlborough Mills would henceforth stalk the streets of his formidable city, with Lord Ruff scampering at his heels, his tongue lapping, his tail wagging.

Anyway, it came as no surprise that the boys were absolutely besotted with Ruff, but their gusto was not always welcomed by the mutt, who would conspicuously disappear every time they were near, and Margaret had a feeling he was avoiding them like the plague. It was no wonder, for the lads were always crawling over him, trying to ride him like a horse, or tugging his tail. They had even challenged him to many barking and growling competitions, which Margaret was sorry to say, Ruff was more than pleased to participate in, causing the rowdiest hullabaloo as their howls could be heard at the most unreasonable of hours, waking the whole household.

At the age of four, they would shriek like banshees when they escaped their baths and charged down the corridor, gushing behind them an Amazon sized river of soap and water. They would then proceed to dive onto their beds and jump or summersault into the air like a pair of acrobats. Dear Dixon was forever running after them, huffing and puffing like a train, her face as red as a radish.

They had also taken a shine to pulling the bells that connected the residential quarters to the servant's hall, alerting them to when a member of the family required the presence of a butler, footman, or maid. The boys would yank the cord, then hastily scurry off and hide behind curtains or in cubbyholes, giggling with glee as the gullible servants fell folly to their hoaxes. John was livid when he had uncovered their ploy, for he had paid a handsome sum to have a questionable expert from Leeds come to call, just to inspect and repair the intricate pulley and chime system.

Perhaps the most mortifying of their pranks began when they were five. At this stage, they had developed a fancy for concealing themselves in various rooms of the house and waiting to be found. It was like a game of hide and seek, except, the seeker had no idea that they were partaking in the pastime at all. On one occasion, they had disappeared under John and Margaret's bed, expecting to scare one or other of their parents.

The married couple had entered their chamber, locked the door, and their father had been heard to say: 'I only have fifteen minutes before my next meeting, so we'd better be fast.' The boys had been awfully confused as to why their parents had started laughing, for what was funny? Then, they were equally puzzled as to why stray items of clothing had been discarded on the floor, for they were always being ticked off for such messy behaviour. But what had really intrigued them, was when their parents had started to seemingly bounce on the mattress and chuckle. The boys had then agreed that it was no fun missing out on the apparent excitement, so they had sprung up from under the bed and cried:

'SURPRISE! CAN WE JOIN IN?!'

The most bamboozling bit of all had been their reaction. Their father had shouted at them, (using some very rude words), and their mother had screamed, hauling the bedsheets around her even although it was not bedtime. The uproar had been so ear-splittingly loud, that their grandma had come rushing in. Hmm, if everyone was having such a jolly time, then why did their mother look embarrassed, while their father looked cross, and their grandma looked horror-struck? The boys had ruled there and then that grownups were a very odd bunch indeed and they had no intention of ever becoming one of them.

So, there we have it, a catalogue of the twin's misadventures spanning their early years. Thankfully, so far, their shenanigans had been more silly than serious. But that was then, and this was now, for age six had seen a dramatic development in their devilment.

Regrettably, in recent months, their focus had drifted from trivial tricks and had taken an unfortunate turn in the direction of all things dangerous. It was the previous August that Margaret had been crouching on the drawing room floor, building a tower of bricks with Nicholas, while Maria had been sitting sewing with her grandmother, and Lizzie had been dozing in her bassinet, that it had happened. The peaceful group had all startled and recoiled at the sudden roar that whipped and echoed throughout the house. It was so boisterous, that the sleeping babe had awoken with a cantankerous wail, while the noise had caused Nikko to knock over his blocks, and he too was now sobbing at the sight of his collapsed castle, and darling Lizzie had pricked her finger and spoiled her embroidery. What had been a happy haven, had soon descended into a circus of hysterics, with Margaret not knowing which child to comfort first.

'NO!' the deafening voice had growled once again. 'Inside! Now! Come on! I won't tell you again! Hop-it!'

Margaret and Hannah had shared a quick and quizzical glance, but they soon had their answers. John proceeded to troop into the parlour, impatiently pushing the unruly twins along before him, who were squirming and protesting under his firm hands. He had then hotly explained that after spotting his workers craning their necks and scanning the ground with enquiring gazes, his surveillance had revealed two rapscallions ducking and diving between the spinning jennies like the factory floor was their own personal playground. The master had bawled so loudly, that his boom had resounded over the blaring drone of the machines, causing everybody to flinch with fright.

John had paced the parlour floor, his features ablaze with fiery indignation. In his gravest authoritative tone, he warned the boys of the risks of playing at the mill and had told them in no uncertain terms how angry and disappointed he was with them.

'You're Thorntons!' he had bellowed. 'My sons should know better!' he had reprimanded. 'I never – NEVER – want to see you larking around the mill again, am I clear?' he demanded.

Both boys had sulked, scuffing their shoes against the floorboards in a moping mood.

'WELL?!' John had shouted, his rumble like a crack of thunder.

'Yes Father,' they had responded resentfully. Their pledge was so feeble that everybody in the room took it with a pinch of salt and were not convinced that any lessons had been learned that day.

As the weeks rolled on, the problem only got worse and John had had to evict the boys from the mill buildings no less than five times. It seemed that his strictness only seemed to intensify their stubbornness. By now, he was pulling his hair out and getting precious little sleep, for he was at a loss of how to educate his children on the perils of their insubordination, or how to punish and rectify their defiant streak. As a father who refused to smack or beat his offspring, he was finding words only went so far.

So, it was on this frosty January eve, that Margaret hauled her robe closer around her slim frame, shivering in the crisp chill of the northern night that had snuck indoors like an unwanted guest. With a groan of resignation, she began to trudge along the passageway, ready to witness her husband's latest efforts at discipline…Lord help him!

As she tip-toed along the corridor, her mother-in-law's door creaked open and Hannah emerged, candle in hand and a peevish frown plastered across her wrinkled face. Margaret's eyes went wide as she took the matriarch in, standing there in her starched dressing gown and her hair in a loose plait. Margaret still could not get used to the idea of seeing John's mother attired in anything but her stiff black dresses, like a great black crow guarding the nest.

'Did I hear something?' she asked blearily.

Margaret felt terribly guilty. It was not fair that other members of the household should be disturbed just because of her and John's parenting problems. Hannah's bedroom was situated at the top of the landing, meaning that she had probably been alarmed by her son's shouting and his speedy stomping down the stairs. Margaret blushed, for Hannah's chamber had once been closer to their own, but just a few weeks after their wedding, she had politely decided to up sticks and move, for she felt she would have a better chance of achieving an uninterrupted respite if she were not quite so close to the newlywed's personal quarters.

'I'm afraid so, Hannah,' Margaret replied regretfully. 'It's the boys,' she confessed with a flush.

Hannah let out a sigh of recognition. 'The mill again?' she ventured to guess.

'Yes,' Margaret grumbled. 'John is so cross; I dread to think what he will say or do. I fear he might lock them up in their bedroom and hire a prison guard,' she said with a derisive smirk, although, the idea did not seem too farfetched.

Hannah smiled as she stepped out into the corridor and closed her bedroom door behind her, to prevent a draft from blowing in. 'Oh well, let us go and hear what the little toerags have to say for themselves,' she advised. 'I am quite sure John will require your calming presence and steady temperament, my dear,' she said, gifting Margaret one of her rare compliments.

Margaret knew that she and her mother-in-law would probably never be firm friends, for indeed, such affability was not in the woman's nature. But over the years, Hannah had come to respect her daughter-in-law, appreciating her spirit and sensibilities. The older lady could see that Margaret was the perfect partner for John to have at his side and she privately thanked God that he had brought this girl into their midst. The women had cultivated a genial alliance, in which they unobtrusively acted as each other's companions and confidants, and when necessary, comrades in arms.

'You know, I really cannot think where the boys get it from,' Margaret mused. 'The other three are such placid pups.'

Hannah grinned to herself, for she knew exactly from where, or more accurately, from whom, the boys had inherited their stubborn nature, for John and Margaret were as tenacious as the mules on Brighton beach. Yet, for now, she would keep her perceptive comments to herself.

'That's easy,' Hannah responded reflectively, 'The good ones take after me.'

Then with a hearty chuckle, the two Mrs Thorntons linked arms and continued to traipse down the stairs, ready to take their ringside seats at the clash of wills that would surely be starting below as a furious father struggled to scold his rebellious sons.