Expendable?

There’s a lot to be said in favour of being gifted. But on the other hand I’ve know those without any obvious gifts make their way in the world. Take Honsi. Frankly he struggled to count to ten and nobody, after five minutes acquaintance, would waste their time trying to teach him to read. But still he was biddable, and given that the world had given him nothing, he expected nothing.

I honestly don’t know where he came from but apparently at the age of ten or eleven (they think) he appeared at the Flensers. They found him sleeping in the stable. I realise most people don’t realise that the Flensers have a stable, regarding it as the purveyor of an excellent buffet with a few rooms upstairs for the informally romantically entwined. In reality at any given time most rooms will be occupied by perfectly respectable people from out of town who have come in to Port Naain for business and need somewhere to stable their horse. Also the Landlord has a horse or two which he has been known to hire or even lend to his better and more trustworthy patrons.

The problem with the stable was it was not so busy that it would pay for an ostler but was more work than could be easily absorbed into the routine of assorted kitchen maids and similar. Thus Honsi was lucky. Rather than being chased out into the street, the maid who found him merely passed him the fork and set him to work. Half an hour later she went back and discovered he had cleaned out behind all the horses and was waiting more instructions.

Hence he drifted into acceptance. The staff realised that as long as you told him exactly what he had to do, he would do what you told him. One or two of the maids had to be taken to task over this by some of the older women, but still. Indeed he appeared to like horses and horses seemed to like him. Unkind comments were made that this was because he smelled like one but you could tell them apart because he wasn’t as well groomed.

There was one unfortunate adventure. A man-at-arms, a young Cavalier Qualan, short of a groom, took him south into Partann. The man-at-arms arrived back, slung over a horse, which Honsi was leading. Honsi himself had acquired several severe cuts which he had doctored in the same manner as he’d seen horses treated. Indeed it may be Honsi’s horse doctoring that kept the young soldier alive as well.

Still after this Honsi shunned adventure and remained firmly attached to his stables. But his travels had brought with them changes. Honsi now washed. He would strip in the middle of the yard and pour buckets of water over himself from the horse trough. Similarly he had taken to running the comb through his hair, normally, but not always, before he started grooming the horses.   

Honsi’s domestic arrangements were simple. Hay and straw were stored in the loft above the stable. Honsi merely curled up in that, burrowing more deeply in winter. As for his vittles, one of the maids would come out of the kitchen with something for him three times a day. Because he was happy enough to cut kindling, carry water and similar jobs for them, he was something of a favourite. Indeed even the old termagant who used to guard the entrance to the buffet was known to put titbits aside for him from what hadn’t sold.

When it came to dress, Honsi just wore what he stood up in until it fell apart. Indeed when he started washing it made life more difficult as when he dressed afterwards he now had to work out which hole he pushed which appendage through. Again it was one of the older maids who solved the problem. In any establishment offering rooms, garments tend to accumulate. The owner has forgotten them, discarded them, or even cast them vehemently aside. Also the maids started keeping an eye open for cast-offs. Many a gardener, awarded a hand-me-down jacket by his employer, passed on his old jacket which thus graced Honsi’s undistinguished frame. Hence for some months, Honsi wore a cavalryman’s undress jacket, its previous owner having left it behind when he exited his room through the window pursued by an irate husband.

Indeed at times he was a figure of spurious grandeur, marching to the drumbeat of fashion heard by nobody else. A top hat which rested on his ears, a jacket where the embroidered knot had been unravelled to use the cord as a belt, harem britches of generous cut, and a set of clogs several sizes too big, stuffed with rags for warmth and to ensure they fitted.

But in spite of the eccentricities of diet and dress, Honsi was widely regarded as happy. If left alone he would just sit in the straw with the horses, singing some nonsense songs which he’d picked up in an unknown past. But he wasn’t often left alone. Firewood doesn’t chop itself, and coal scuttles are heavy. Also, he got a reputation as a horseman. If a gentleman’s horse seemed somehow under the weather, he would often lead it round to the Flensers to let Honsi have a look at it. Indeed I’ve seen reputable horse doctors lead a patient to meet Honsi for a second opinion. He would just sit and talk to the horse, burbling nonsense and eventually the horse would rest its nose on his shoulder. One horse doctor swore to me that the horses talked to Honsi. Eventually Honsi would stand up and recommend to tonic or powder he’d seen used with success over the years.

Then disaster hung over the Flensers. The stable yard round the back of the main building was in point of fact owned by a different landlord, who wished to sell. I confess that at the time, the reason for the sale was vague. Perhaps the cost of maintaining a wife, a mistress and two slow racehorses had proved too much for him? But he needed the money and the owner of the Flensers didn’t have any. One of the maids was deputised to explain the problem to Honsi, as the loss of the stables would leave him homeless and unemployed.

Honsi was seen to sit in silence for several hours, then as night fell, he appeared at the kitchen door carrying a bucket. The landlord invited him in and Honsi emptied his bucket onto the large kitchen table. Across the table rolled a mixture of brass and bronze coinage mixed with some small denomination silver. The accumulated tips that Honsi had never felt any need to spend. But in amongst as fine a collection of small change as you could hope for was a signet ring. This was examined carefully and eventually it was recognised. It belonged to Cavalier Qualan who Honsi had brought home so many years before.

After checking to see where the man and his family lived, the landlord’s wife went to see them to return the ring. She handed it to a maid who came to the servants’ entrance. The girl promised to take it straight to her master. Five minutes later the landlord’s wife was standing in a carpeted withdrawing room, explaining the whole story to the great man himself, his wife and family. An hour after that, the Cavalier, one of the city’s leading condottieri captains, stood in the kitchen of the Flensers, drinking a glass of beer and talking to Honsi and the Landlord whilst the rest of the staff listened quietly.

The matter was soon resolved, in partnership with Honsi, the Cavalier purchased the stables, Admittedly the Cavalier paid nine tenths of the money but claimed it was worth the cost just to watch the vendor’s usurer counting a bucket of lose change. The stable was then rented to the Flensers at the same rent they had been paying. Honsi, struggling to understand his change in status, coped, as many wiser folk have done before him, by just ignoring it.

The Cavalier had insisted that the rent be paid into an account for Honsi, in case at some future time he needed money. After all, we all grow older and as our aches and pains multiply, we’re perhaps no longer as limber as we once were. As it was, as the years drifted past, Honsi did slow down a little. But horses weren’t minded to take advantage of him, and the maids would bully one of the younger kitchen boys into carrying coal. Then one afternoon Honsi sat down in the straw with his horses, leaned backwards against a favoured horse and dozed off. He just neglected to ever wake up.

♥♥♥♥

If you wish to learn more of life in Port Naain

As a reviewer commented, “

When unavoidable circumstances meet with unfortunate events, as Tallis Steelyard could no doubt tell you, the only option is to run like hell.

However for Tallis that meant winding up on a flatboat being towed behind a steamer. His adventures include a contribution to opera, absconding with religious tomes, a friendly – if at times rather dangerous – rivalry with the crew of another flatboat, being the judge of a local flower show, nomad attacks, a well-educated mule and a mysterious ancient cult.

Jim Webster is one of those authors who makes me wish for a louder voice so more might hear about and discover his works. They are simply wonderful.

There is nothing quite like a Tallis Steelyard adventure. It has pathos, humour, danger and a uniquely engaging, secret, unidentifiable ingredient all of its own which Mr Webster must keep as close to his chest as Coca-Cola.

So if you have never been introduced to Tallis Steelyard before, this is a great place to meet him. If you know him well and have yet to take his boating adventure then delay no longer.

Either way, this is a wonderful book that will surely delight you.”