The Tailor of Horsemarket

On the 2nd of February 1838 a tailor was hard at work at the front of his shop in Barnard Castle’s Horsemarket when he looked up to see two smartly dressed young men watching him through the window. He beckoned them to come inside.

“Good morning”, he said in his strong County Durham accent, “You don’t look to be from round these parts. I’m not sure that my skills are up to making clothes like you two are wearing.”

“That’s not a problem.” said one of the visitors. “I hope you don’t mind being watched, but you reminded me of a time in my own young life when I worked in a factory window and everyone stared at me from the street. May I ask your name?”

“My name’s John Welford. And you?”

“This is Charles Dickens, the writer”, said the other young man. “Surely you have read The Pickwick Papers?”

“I don’t read”, said the tailor. “I’ve had to work hard all my life – no time for an education”.

“Please excuse my friend Mr Browne”, said Dickens, “his early years were not quite as poverty-stricken as yours or mine. He is an artist who goes by the name of Phiz and he has kindly agreed to illustrate my latest novel.”

“So what service can I give you?” asked John Welford. “I am neither a writer nor an artist, merely a tailor”.

Charles Dickens explained. “You spoke a moment ago about education, and that is what concerns us. I read recently about a court case that took place a few years ago in which a schoolmaster from around here, William Shaw, was accused of terrible cruelty to the boys at his school, some of whom went blind. I have since found out that children are sent up here because schools like Shaw’s give no holidays and parents who want to forget about their children can do so for years at a time. I want to write about these schools and get them closed down if I can, but in order to do that I need to know exactly what is going on. It is local people like you who hear stories, and so if you know anything I’d like to hear it”.

“Oh I can tell you some stories all right”, said John Welford, who had not stopped sewing since his visitors had entered the shop. “But I can tell you one thing to start with, and that is that William Shaw is by no means the worst of the schoolmasters – he’s just the only one who’s been caught.”

And so the tailor worked on while the writer and the artist sat on a bench and he told them everything he knew about the local schools, based on what his customers had passed on to him over the years. He told them about the abuse, the savage beatings, the terrible food, the starvation rations and the frequent administration of “brimstone and treacle”. He also told them that they should visit the local churchyard where they would find the graves of children who had died from their treatment.

“Some of these schools are hell-holes. I’m glad I’m a poor man and can’t afford to send my son George to one of them.

“And do the boys howl! Folk say they can hear the screams from half a mile away when the birch is being applied. Whack! Whack! Whack! For hour after hour! There’s precious little learning done, I can tell you.”

When the tailor had finished, Charles Dickens and Hablot Browne took their leave. Before he did so, Dickens turned to John Welford and asked him: “Did you say that your son George doesn’t go to school?”

“That is true, Mr Dickens. The Vicar will take pupils for reading and writing lessons at his Sunday School, and treat the youngsters as a Christian should, but I can’t even afford the few pennies he charges.”

“I hope you can do so one day, Mr Welford. Being able to read opens so many doors, and your son could have a great future ahead of him”.

As they walked over the road back to their hotel, the King’s Head, John Welford’s words went through Charles Dickens’s mind. “Do the boys howl?” he said. “That sounds like a good name for the school in my new book – how do you like the sound of ‘Dotheboys Hall’?”

“That sounds fine”, said Hablot Browne. “And what name do you propose for your schoolmaster? You can’t call him William Shaw.”

“I thought I’d call him Squeers”, said Dickens. “How about ‘Welford Squeers’ as a way of acknowledging the help of our new friend?”

“You can’t use his name for a character like Shaw!” said Browne. “How about ‘Wackford’ instead?”

So that was what Charles Dickens did. Wackford Squeers became the head teacher at Dotheboys Hall and the new novel started production before the month was out.

Not long after, a slim package arrived at the tailor’s shop in Horsemarket. It contained the first monthly part of Nicholas Nickleby and a shiny new shilling. John Welford had to ask the Vicar what was written on the accompanying note and was told that Charles Dickens had sent the shilling as payment for lessons for young George. Every month a new instalment and another shilling arrived, and George, helped by the Vicar, was soon able to read the story to his father.

Eleven years later a much less welcome visitor came to Barnard Castle. This was cholera, which killed 145 people in the town, including John Welford. He was buried in the mass grave that was eventually marked by a simple stone cross outside the parish church, and his family is recorded as having been aided by the Cholera Relief Fund that was established to replace the bedding and blankets that had to be burned in the belief that this would stop the spread of the disease.

George Welford survived and in time passed on his new love of learning to his own son, Alexander, who became a Primitive Methodist Minister and left Barnard Castle to take his ministry to other parts of England. Alexander’s clock still ticks away as his own grandson, another John, writes this story in a room lined with books, including some by and about Charles Dickens, including one with the name John Welford on the title page.