Yoredale

Yoredale

I first published this story in serial format over five days in August 2023. It’s a self-contained extract from my work-in-progress, The Descent of Chloe Jackson, and it tells the story of George Calvert, one of Chloe’s great great grandparents.

The Yorkshire Dales. 1900. George Calvert is hurt, and scared. It probably serves him right...

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Yoredale

(Chapter 3 of The Descent of Chloe Jackson)

by

Paul C. Mercer

The room was silent, but for Mother’s light snoring. Outside, boots and hooves scraped on the cobbles, harnesses rang, and quarrymen jabbered amongst themselves, gathering for another day’s work.

George must have slept, despite the pain, but it hadn’t done him any good. A clammy restless exhaustion clamped him to the damp sheet. His right foot lay above the blanket, bandaged. A hot dull weight that he daren’t move.

Mother slept in the chair by the fireplace, her face relaxed and peaceful. Attractive, even. He should shout. That would wake the worry-lines back into her stupid face. She’d insisted on staying, but she hadn’t even kept the fire going, so, really, what was the point? Mind, it was hot, even without the fire. Really hot.

There was something in the corner of the room. Hidden in the half-light, camouflaged among the leaves and fronds of the wallpaper. A grimace, halfway up the wall, snarling and shifting in the breeze. What breeze? The room was stifling, but the curtains stirred like something was trying to get in. Something. Someone. The wallpaper came alive, shadows shifting and straining, pulling faces out of the pattern. Noises outside the room, outside the window. Rock falling. Stone falling onto stone, onto earth, flesh, and bone. God, it was cold. And she was snoring. How could she sleep? It was so hot. So cold. So unfair.

The face resolved, and settled. Kit Morland stood in the shadows by the wardrobe, staring. He hadn’t even removed his filthy cap. The dust lay thick on his waistcoat and trousers, in his beard and whiskers. His eyes were red with it. Jesus, the man had his hammer, the heavy maul clutched in his fist.

George pushed back up the bed, kicking and scrabbling, dragging his bound foot up the blanket, and screaming as fire shot through his ankle. But Morland was gone. The only movement came from Mother, stirring in the chair by the fire.

‘He’s here.’

‘There’s no one here, George. Just thee and me.’

‘He were standing there. With his hammer.’ If she hadn’t been snoring fit to wake the dead, she’d have seen him.

*

It was all Webster’s fault. The big quarrymaster drove the men hard enough, but he had no eye to quality. How many times had George explained, in terms a child could understand, it wasn’t enough to win rock from the ground, rough-square and split it? A fettler had to do more than take off the edges. And Kit Morland was a case in point. He worked the hours, and he filled his tally, but the flags were a disgrace.

George had marched through the drizzle over to the row of open-fronted dressing sheds, with Webster slouching after him through the mud. Morland and the other fettlers laid down their tools to watch as George and the quarrymaster drew close. Morland removed his cap, but only to wipe his brow. He put it back on again after. The man was impertinent.

George scowled, and turned to the newly hewn flagstones, stacked and ready. Each man’s share stood apart, between the sheds where they’d been worked and the platform where they’d be loaded down onto the wagons. Truth to tell, Morland’s flags were no worse than the others, but that wasn’t the point. George hefted the nearest one up on to his thigh, but he couldn’t hold it there. The men tossed them around like plates, but they were damned heavy. He hid the grimace as he let the wet flag slide ‘til it rested in a puddle, leaning upright against his knee. ‘Look at this.’ He ran a hand over the fresh gritty surface, pulling at loose flakes and exaggerating the uneven bumps.

Webster wouldn’t see it. ‘It’s slate they’re paying for, not marble.’

Never mind that it was sandstone. ‘The Company’s reputation, my father’s reputation, depends on the quality of the flags we deliver. These are…’ George sought for the right word, something authoritative, with plenty of syllables, but the best he could come up with was, ‘unacceptable.’ It wasn’t quite right. Sounded petulant.

Webster stood silent. George pulled his leg back, and let the flag drop flat in the puddle. It splashed his boots, and scraped his shin on the way down.

‘It’s not good enough.’

Webster reached down one-handed, and stood the flag up against the stack. ‘Mr Calvert’s never complained.’

‘My father’s a busy man.’

‘Like as not.’

It was a dismissal. The quarrymaster wasn’t even defiant. He was simply indifferent. As far as Webster was concerned, George had no more authority than one of Father’s bloody dogs.

They were out in the open air, a fresh wind blowing up the Dale with its unhurried spatter of rain, but the air in his lungs was bound tight. If he let it loose, he would choke on his words, or stutter. It would come out high-pitched like a girl, or a young lad.

One of the fettlers picked up his tools, the metal ringing against stone. At the barest nod from Webster, the work began where they’d left off. Morland smirked, and turned to his mates, ‘Now then, lads, keep it tidy. Smooth as a bairn’s arse, for Mr George.’

George found his voice then. High, but clear as a hammer blow on a fettler’s scutch. ‘Get out.’

The smirk fell from Morland’s face, but he didn’t move. His eyes shifted from George to the quarrymaster, questioning, fearful.

The man’s insolence was unforgiveable. ‘He’s dismissed, Webster.’

Webster took his time, like a horse unwilling to lean into the harness. ‘He’s a good man. I’ll speak to him.’

‘No.’

‘He has family.’

‘He’s not the only one. Think on it.’

Webster stood four inches taller than George. His hands and arms were testament to a lifetime spent hewing rock and hauling it to the surface. But George knew his man. Webster was too proud to mind sheep, or knit for a pittance. He could have broken George in two, but he didn’t. He nodded. A sullen, grim, half-inch dip of the head.

George stood taller in his spattered boots. Finally, a bit of respect. He took his time, daring each of them to look him in the eye, before moving on to the next. Only Morland met his gaze, for an angry moment. George sneered. The man had a wife and family, but his sister worked at the candle mill, so none of them would starve. George turned back to Webster, ‘Let him work his shift, then pay him what he’s owed.’

Another half-inch nod from Webster.

‘And those flags need re-working. All of them.’

George enjoyed the moment, then jumped down from the loading platform, and followed the cart track home.

*

An empty wagon pulled up through the big pasture, and George stepped back out of the way. It was uphill, but easy work with an empty wagon and three horses. Coming back down with a full load was very different, gravity on your side, sometimes, and sometimes too much. He’d pressed Father to construct a proper incline, even drawn up plans, but, as usual, he’d been ignored. So, they continued to use men and horses when gravity and physics could be doing the job for them. The rain was getting heavier, but he glanced again at the route he’d mapped out, down through the pasture, skirting the cattle market, bridging the road, and pulling in at the back of the Calvert yard, right by the station. It was elegant, but Father wouldn’t have it. Too expensive.

He should bring him here, make him watch one of the teams struggle in the mud, then turn him around and sketch out the path of the incline for him, show him the full skips trundling swiftly down the hill, their cable hauling the empty ones back up on the other track. One down, one up. One up, one down. The skips passing each other halfway, right in front of him, about a hundred yards to the left of the candle mill.

The mill held his eye, ripped the vision from his mind, and put another one in its place. A distraction. Soft flesh, warm lips, and, from her skin, the gentle, fascinating stink of tallow. He took a pointless half step towards the mill, but the mist was coming down off the Fell now and took the mill from view, taking all temptation with it.

*

George had been late to the table, so the family had eaten without him, and now he ate alone. He should try to be late more often. He drained his glass, his second or third, and made up his mind. It was about time Father accepted that he, George, was the only Calvert who showed the slightest bit of interest in how the quarry was run. William wouldn’t come home. Even if the Boer didn’t do for him, he’d be off on some other campaign, or living it up in London, hiding his Yorkshire roots as best he could. Frederick was no better, buttering up Father, and waiting for William to come home in a box. And Charles, bringing Christ to the heathen of Abbottabad, but never likely to bring that woman or her offspring back home to Allersett. None of them cared tuppence for the quarry. And nor did Father.

He’d be in the stables, with his dogs. He showed more interest in that lemon and white bitch and her pups these days than he did in his own children. George reached for the jug, but it was empty, and the servants would look at him queer if he called for another. He stood. The floor lurched surprisingly, but he staggered with a purpose, making his way out through the kitchen into the stable-yard.

He kept his head down, watching for wet shit on the slippery flags as he aimed for the stalls at the far side, the ones Father and Frederick had started calling “The Kennels”. As he reached the passage into the stalls, a tall, broad figure stepped outside, and shuffled sideways, acknowledging George with an awkward, almost embarrassed, nod of the head before making himself scarce. It was Webster, which made no sense at all. The quarrymaster had no business being there. He didn’t belong up at the house, not even out here in the yard.

But George had more pressing matters. The cogent arguments he’d thrashed out over his beer were a little vague now, but they’d come back to him once he got the old man’s attention. He stepped into the gloom of the kennels.

Every time he came out here, which wasn’t often, there were more dogs. Father must have had half a dozen foxhounds by now, and a lad from the village to look after them. George ignored the yelping pack and made straight for the far stall where Father and his kennel-boy would be paying court to Daphne. Stupid name for a dog. The whole idea was stupid. Pointless. But it meant Father could ride after the hounds in a scarlet frock coat, and play the local squire to his heart’s content. Frederick also wore scarlet for the hunt, only he called it Pink. Idiot.

Daphne was meant to whelp any day, her belly taut with a slowly writhing mass of pups. He and Frederick would have their pick, apparently, though Frederick would get first choice. The ungainly bitch trotted across the stall to greet him, tail wagging, up on her hindlegs against the woodwork, looking for a scratch behind the ears probably. Daphne was a dumb brute, a stupid animal, but at least she didn’t judge him. Not like everyone else in this household. She just wanted his attention. He put his hand out and the dog licked it enthusiastically, her tongue hot and sticky. Daphne nipped playfully at his fingers, and George whipped his hand away just a moment too late. He laughed, surprising himself. He looked up at Father and the kennel boy, grinning at them and shaking his hand to get rid of the slight sharp pain.

‘She bit me.’

No-one else was smiling. Father had his dour expression on, and the bloody kennel boy was keeping his head down like he knew what was coming. Which was more than George did. What was it this time? There were gradations to Father’s dourness, and this was more than the usual disappointment.

It took George a befuddled moment or two to recognise the look. He’d seen it a few weeks back when one of the hounds had taken a bite from a cornered fox, and come home limping. The Master had laughed, apparently, and the rest of The Hunt had laughed with him. Father too. George hadn’t seen any of this, of course, but he saw that look in Father’s eye when he got home. Not a hint of laughter as he fetched his gun into the yard, and shot the stupid dog in the head. Achilles. The fox had bitten it in the heel. It was quite funny at the time.

And now Father was looking at him the way he’d looked at Achilles.

‘You’ve got no business dismissing anyone. My men. My decision.’

Ah. So, that was it. Mystery solved. Webster had come running to Father.

*

The light hurt his eyes, but the shadows were gone, taking Morland and his hammer with them. Mother tied back the curtains, and tried to smile. Her disappointment was harder to bear than Father’s. The more so because she would never put it into words. There was never any reproach. No censure. No rebuke. Just a lowering of the eyes, and a turning away. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

What did she care? Snoring all night by the fire.

‘How can I sleep? With this.’ He forced her to look at him, to look at the bloodied, swollen bandages. Dear God, with the curtains open he could see himself for the first time properly. It wasn’t good. The blood was dark, still wet, and he could smell it. The putrid, gag-inducing stench of rot. She smelt it too. She reached out as if to caress his foot, but he panicked and pulled away from her, the pain driving up his calf and shin once more, his head suddenly faint, his eyesight falling away as he fought to stay in the moment. He breathed hard. Cleared his head. Struggled to hold down the panic he’d felt as the sour sweet stink hit the back of his throat.

She was smiling again, a forced, insipid, empty smile that was probably meant to reassure him. What was he? A child? Yet, there was some comfort in her presence. She stepped closer, and laid the back of her hand across his forehead as she’d done so often when he was small. Her hand was cool. Pleasant. Familiar. But she pulled it away, and he could see the fear in her eyes, the fear of losing him, the fear that the heat burning through his body might take him from her. He felt sick. But he’d puked up the beer and his dinner back in the quarry two days ago as the dressed rock crushed his foot and ankle. Yesterday was spent bound up in a heavy laudanum blanket. He’d eaten nothing. So, here he was, dry-retching in fear over the side of the bed, his stomach clenching at the thought of the slow rot eating his flesh.

Mother knelt by his side, pulling the chamber pot out from under the bed to catch the weak, dribble of acid phlegm. She took his hand, and stroked his hair. ‘Doctor Ellis will be here soon. You must think on it. What he said.’

He retched again, the drug-dulled memory of the Doctor’s words twisting into his guts. Of course, Ellis hadn’t said what he really meant. It was just a suggestion. A precaution. A just-in-case. The new hospital at Richmond had all the best facilities. Professional nurses. Respected doctors. It was the best place for him. Under the circumstances.

*

The kennel-boy had kept his eyes to the ground while Father let rip. Afterwards, standing in the kitchen, emptying the glass he’d filled himself, straight from the barrel, it was the presence of the boy that had galled George the most. Humiliation he could handle. He was used to it. But Father had picked his witness, ordered the lad to hold his ground when he looked to slink off, deliberately chosen to dress George down in front of some ignorant miner’s adolescent whelp.

Webster had come to Father, pleading Morland’s case. Father hadn’t even considered asking George to account for the dismissal. His own son’s opinion meant less to him than his hired man’s. Morland’s welfare more important than his own son’s standing. He filled, and drained, another glass, bitter anger rebounding from one target to another. Father, Webster, the bloody kennel-boy who couldn’t wait to get home and tell all. And Kit Bloody Morland.

He slammed his empty glass down, and threw himself out into the yard. Ignoring the shit on the cobbles and the rain, heavier now, merging into a distant mist. He staggered out through the gate, down the muddy track, and up onto the big pasture. Up ahead, he could hear the ring of hammer on scutch, and scutch on wet stone, Morland and his ilk taunting him with Morland’s continued presence. A heavy wagon stood at the loading platform, three horses, heads down in the traces. The wooden bodywork shook and rolled as the waggoner and his mate loaded up the sandstone flags, each one heaved across from platform to waggon box, and dumped down onto the rain-soaked timber.

George paused, drawing breath, shivering without the coat he’d left behind. The rain ran through his hair, and down his neck. Steam rose off the patient horses. And some small part of George turned back, drawn to the warmth and shelter of home, the comfort of a decent fire in the solitude of his room where he could nurse his grievances in private. But the greater part of him was still angry, angrier still that he’d been forced outside into this miserable weather, forced to confront this insolent, Methodist peasant.

He stalked past the horses, slipping in the mud, his hand slapping down onto an iron-rimmed wheel for support. Round past the end of the wagon. Looking up, the platform edge level with his shoulder. Rain in his eyes. ‘Morland!’

*

Mother wiped his face with a cold, wet cloth. The panic had subsided, but the dread lay over him still. He pushed her away. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? Why couldn’t everyone just let him be? Mother, Father, Webster, Morland, the kennel-boy, Doctor Ellis. The list of his tormentors kept growing. But one man stood alone, head and dusty shoulders above all the others. ‘I want him arrested.’

‘Who?’

‘Kit Morland.’

She looked away again. Disappointed, again. ‘It were an accident, George. Poor Mr Morland is quite grieved.’

‘He tried to kill me!’

‘Why would he do that?’

Because he hates me. That was the simple truth. He could see it now, Morland’s face, through the rain, looking down at him from the loading platform with disgust and untrammelled rage. A pure, virtuous hatred. The great stone flag in his arms dripping wet.

‘He’s a God-fearing man. Why would you say such a thing?’

Morland’s furious yell. The flag, lifted up, and launched, dropping through the air. His own feet, slipping in the wet as he backed away. The cold rain on his face. His hand on the ground. The horrified waggoner, tracking the rock’s fall. The heavy thud, and the simultaneous crack, as a hundredweight of dressed Yoredale sandstone drove his outstretched right foot deep into the thick mud.

*

He was sick. Violently, catastrophically sick. His beer, his dinner, his life, seemingly, vomited out over his chin, his neck, his chest, and the wet ground he was lying on. He breathed it back in, and choked. He went to rise, but couldn’t move his leg. And then the pain, his scream breaking off as he coughed the vomit back up, spluttering a stream of drunken profanities.

He could hardly breathe for the fire searing through his ankle. Around him, bodies moved, men cried out, arms reached out to support him, to lift the flagstone from his foot. Shock and horror, mixed with excitement. Then, order restored. Webster arriving and taking charge. A neckerchief appropriated, and tied tight round his ankle. Many hands laid upon and under him, lifting him up and onto the half-laden wagon, in among the poorly dressed flags.

George caught a brief glimpse of Morland, still standing up on the platform, pale-faced, soaked to the skin, watching, muttering. Praying? Then a jolt as the waggoner released the brake and urged the horses on. Webster, crouched by his side, rolling with the waggon. ‘Hold on, Mr George.’

Back at the house. His parents summoned to the door. Mother in shock. Father concerned, until he came close, the stink of vomit doing nothing to hide the smell of beer. ‘The boy’s drunk.’

‘He’s hurt.’ Mother, taking his side. By his side, as more hands carried him indoors, and up the stairs to his room.

*

She’d gone. He could hear them downstairs, Doctor Ellis’s riding boots harsh on the stone floor in the hallway, Mother’s whispering update on the patient, Father’s gruff intolerance of the whole situation, and Ellis again with his calm, professional, Southern reassurances. George stared at the spot on the wall where he’d seen the vision of Morland. It was just wallpaper. He squinted at it, but there wasn’t even a hint of the man. Just flowers and leaves, repeating up the wall.

If he didn’t move, there was no pain. The smell? It was surprising what you got used to. He was hot and sweaty still, but calm. Jumbled memories began to sort themselves into something like a narrative. He could tease awful reality from the awful fantasies brought on by alcohol, laudanum, and fever.

That first day, when Doctor Ellis rode over to look at him. A nasty break. A compound fracture. Bruising. Swelling. A deep cut. The Doctor had cleaned it up, tutted, joked with him, fake manly camaraderie about some drunken scrape he’d gotten into at medical school. Lessons learnt, and all that. Keep it clean. Keep it elevated. And a touch of poppy to help you sleep. Back in the morning.

And he’d come back. The next day. Yesterday? George wrestled with the memories, grappling them into some kind of order, weeding out the nightmares. The room had been full. Mother, Father, even Freddie. And the Doctor, looking serious, whispering his concerns to the family, ‘There are signs of necrosis, infection. The wound was deep, and contaminated. I’ve cleaned it out again, and that might do the trick, but it might be sensible to remove him to Richmond. It’s a first-rate facility. Just in case.’

Freddie had turned to him then. Father wouldn’t, and Mother couldn’t, but Freddie had looked at him across the room. The brother who’d whipped George all their lives, who cared for nobody but himself, gave him a look of such tenderness it hurt. ‘Daft bugger.’

Father wouldn’t hear of it. No son of his would be made a cripple.

Mother flinched at the word.

Doctor Ellis took Father to one side, ‘The lad’s crippled already. That foot is crushed. It might be the better option and, frankly, time is of the essence.’

And George had lain there, the laudanum wrapping him close, wondering why his brother was even there.

*

He hadn’t gone to Richmond. Father wouldn’t have it.

Doctor Ellis was back in the room. Him and Mother. He had taken a sniff as he came into the room, and looked worried. No joking today. No memories of student escapades. He’d gone straight to the window, and let in some air.

The Doctor was examining his foot now. It didn’t hurt so much, but it was swollen, red, black in parts, wet. Ellis avoided looking at George, and turned to Mother, ‘Where is Mr Calvert?’

‘He’s occupied. His dogs.’

Daphne, probably.

‘The infection has spread rapidly. The smell? You’ve noted the fever. Has he been restless? Delusions?’

Mother nodded.

‘It will continue to spread. And it will kill him. The Cottage Hospital would have been better.’

‘I’ll speak to Mr Calvert. We can use the buggy.’

‘I’m afraid, it’s too late for that. But I have everything I need. The kitchen would probably be best, or the scullery.’

The fever must have been returning, because it took George several moments to realise what the Doctor meant. He could feel the panic rising. A shadow in his vision. A tightness in the chest.

Mother had tears in her eyes. She went to speak, but there was nothing. Doctor Ellis laid a hand upon her arm, ‘Show me the kitchen, and then we really must find your husband.’

They left him there. Alone. Terrified. Trapped. Some instinct told him to run, to get away, and he was halfway from the bed before the pain stabbed into his ankle, and hit him hard in the gut. He fell, his head hitting the chamber pot, his unbandaged foot and ankle howling hard against the floorboards. The darkness swept in, and Morland was there, crouching over him, mocking him, praying for him, the great stone flag clutched to his chest. George pushed him away, turned from him, pulled himself up against the bed. And then it was Annie, her weight upon him, her fingers scrabbling at the buttons on his flies, hot breath in his ear, tallow-stench, hair unbound, groaning as she pushed against him.

He wept. Great heaving sobs of pain and misery. Alone, on the floor, with the cool Summer breeze sucking the sweat from his brow.

*

They brought two men from the quarry to carry him. Not Morland, thank God. Two strong men, with the stretcher they’d used to carry out Tom Kettle two years ago. George fought them, but there was no strength left in him. They took him from his room, out onto the landing. The light was dim. Father watched from his study door, then turned his back. Freddie was at the top of the stairs, a tiny damp puppy in his arms, ‘This one’s yours, George. The finest one. What will you call her?’

Mother held his hand the whole way, as they carried him downstairs. It seemed to get darker, the further they went. The deeper they went. The stairs became stone steps, a ladder, a sloping tunnel. Water ran down the black walls. The quarryman up front led them down to the deepest levels, past flanking crowds of hunched, stooped men in filthy .jackets, Webster and Morland among them. Annie too. Silent, respectful figures, removing their caps to Mr George on his stretcher, the sacrificial lamb laid down upon a great flat slab of rock standing square in a dark opening cavern.

Doctor Ellis was there. And Cook.

Ellis asked for more light, and the cavern was swept away as gas lamps were brought to the kitchen table. The men took his shoulders and hips, and hefted him off the stretcher. On Doctor Ellis’s instructions, they bound him to the table with long leather harness straps.

George stared round the room, helpless. It was still the kitchen, but surfaces had been cleared and the room was filling with steam from great pots of water boiling on the stove. Mother had released his hand, and stood back, by the door. The quarrymen had left. Cook stood by her stove, grim-faced. Doctor Ellis wore a canvas apron. He stood at the door to the scullery, his hands and forearms pink from scrubbing.

‘No.’ It was his own voice, weak and barely audible.

The Doctor took up a small bottle and a cotton cloth no bigger than a handkerchief. He measured out a few colourless drops from the bottle. ‘Ether, George. You won’t feel a thing.’

‘No!’ His voice strengthened with desperate panic as the Doctor drew near. As Morland drew near. The canvas apron couldn’t hide the man’s filthy shirt sleeves. He still wore his damn cap. And an evil grin. He held a hand out to Cook, and she passed him his fettler’s hammer and scutch, hot and steaming from the pots of boiling water.

‘No!’ A scream this time. He struggled against the leather straps, but it was no use. And he was outdoors. Staggering, drunk, through the rain, in the heavy mud, behind the wagon, staring up wildly at Morland on the loading platform. No tools in the man’s hand now. No apron. Just a solid square of sandstone, clutched to his chest. ‘Morland!’ George yelled up at him. ‘Morland, you stinking piece of shit! I fucked her. You hear me? Your pretty little sister. Fucked her behind the candle factory. Where is she? Where’s Annie? Bring her to me, and I’ll fuck her again. Right here.’

He bawled his defiance at the man, and his voice echoed off the kitchen walls. Cook looked as shame-faced as the kennel boy. Doctor Ellis took a step back, the ether rag still in his hand.

Mother stood by the door. Unreadable.

‘Please, Mother. Don’t let him. Don’t let him take my foot.’

She took a pace towards him, across the room. Looked him in the eye. Calm as you like. ‘It’s your decision, George. Take your chances with the gangrene, and pray? Is your soul that clean you think He’ll hear you? Or Doctor Ellis can take your foot. Now. Before it’s too late.’

---

Thank you so much for sticking with George and me right through to the end. My apologies to those of you of a sensitive nature. I hope you enjoyed it, despite the threat of gore.

William’s story is just one of thirty such stories in my Work-in-Progress, The Descent of Chloe Jackson. Members of my Readers’ Club can read A Very Small Pond and A Yellow Scrap of Paper right now, and Your Affectionate Friend can be read by anyone who wants to right here on the website.

There’ll be other Readers’ Club Freebies from time to time and maybe another Reading Week for everyone in the Summer.

One day, it’ll all come together and look something like this…

In the meantime, I hope you’ll sign up for the newsletters and keep in touch. It’s a long and laborious journey ahead of me, and it’d be nice to have friends come along for the ride.

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