by Cameron Nunn
I nodded. It were one thing to go without shoes by summer but as the winter settled down and the frosts grew thicker, a man’s feet could freeze on the London cobbles. Amos said, “If a man’s feet is warm, then the rest of him will warm sooner or later.” I liked the shoes most because I knew Amos had bought them for me. Bran would never have thought of it and I would’ve had to find a pair myself.
“Oh, and I found something else what might interest you. Not that I expect you’ll be grateful.” He slapped at the pockets of his large coat, and then scratched his bald head. “For the life of me, I can n’ think where it could be. Me being as old as Methuselah and what.”
It were his game. Amos never forgot naught. Then he smiled as if he’d just remembered and reached inside his overshirt. “Not sure whether you want this or not. You being fussy ’n all.” And with that he pulled out a brilliant white penny pipe. “And before you go asking whether it were him what owned the shoes, I should tell you I bought it new from a shop.”
He might as well have handed me the crown jewels themselves. It were the most beautiful pipe I’d ever seen. Its bowl had been fashioned into the shape of a face, with a ridiculous grin and an eye shut as if it were winking. The stem were long and curved as were the fashion then. And it gleamed white against the light from the window.
I reached out to hug him but Amos pulled back. “You’re near fifteen. You ain’t a child. Not now you’ve got your own pipe. It’ll be enough to shake my hand and give me your thanks like a man. And I think I’ve got some baccy here somewhere, to give that pipe of yours a sort of christening, as it were.”
We sat smoking in his workshop like two old men all that afternoon until evening came. Once a customer came in and Amos gave him such short shrift that he left without even asking about prices. Amos laughed and said it were our afternoon and he didn’t need to be interrupted by business. He talked of his adventures at sea and about a near shipwreck off the African coast, and I sat and listened and longed for adventure. He stoked the fire and made tea in two tin cups he kept on the mantelpiece in his workshop. He talked about navigating by the stars and about how a man could find his way home from anywhere in the world if he could read the heavens. T’were more stories in the sky than in any book learning, he told me. Most of his stories I’d heard many times, but each time he spoke I sat forward on his wooden stool and listened like it were the first time. As I’d walk back across the old London Bridge, I’d recite the stories and try and remember how Amos told them.
That night, I dreamed the dead man had come back for the boots. His face were like it’d been beaten with a brick. His eyes were bulging from his head and his tongue were thick and black. He still had the rope ’round his neck and made thick gurgling noises as he grabbed me. He were pulling at my legs, trying to wrestle the shoes free. I were too frightened to move and even though I wanted to run, I were trapped in the one spot. Suddenly, in the struggle to get the shoe, he pulled my whole leg off and I woke up with a start.
It were an ill-omened dream and I should’ve taken warning. My brother must’ve been dreaming too, because he called my name and then began crying. I sat up and tried to make out the shapes of the others in the room. We lived in a sixpence room, not more ’n four paces across in a lodging house in the Rookery at St Giles. There were always noise about from the comings and goings of Irish beggars and fancy girls. The house would whisper and groan in the smoke and mist what wound its ways in and out of the alleys and lanes what made up the Rookery. I could make out the shape of my brother, George, in the bed with my mother, and I knew Bran were out. He’d never allow George to be in the bed, even on a winter’s night. It were different for me. I were older and not Bran’s son. There were no fireplace in the room and the only light were from a candle my mother lit before going to bed. She were dead scared of the darkness. Shadows danced and swung against the crumbling wall and the house groaned its hidden secrets.
I tried to go back to sleep but each time I did, the dead man returned for his boots. I must’ve been dreaming when Bran returned. He pulled on my ear and at first I thought the dead man were trying to now pull off my head. But I realised it were Bran, and I wished the dead man would return.
“You can sleep later,” he said. His breath were sour and stank of old tobacco and cheap gin. “There’s a job for us to do.”
Bran were not to be put off. He pulled my ear so hard he lifted my whole head and neck and shoulders from the ground. “The Devil take you,” he hissed. “Get yourself up now.”
I picked up my shoes and my old coat and walked slow down the stairs. I were hoping Bran may’ve already gone by the time I arrived but he stood below, hanging onto the corner of the building for support.
Outside the air were colder than a parson’s kiss. It were one of those clear nights after heaven had wept herself dry. But it were so cold I couldn’t stop myself from shaking and my teeth chattering. Bran paced, like he done whenever he were thinking. Like the Devil, he were unable to feel the cold. I knew it were another bad sign. He only returned early when he’d lost his money gaming or drinking. He were drunk but not drunk enough to bind his mean streak.
“Amos has a place he wants us to visit. It’s just a quick job, no more ’n a mile’s walk.”
“Amos didn’t say anything to . . .”
“Ssss,” Bran hissed. “He don’t tell you everything. Are you going to do what you’re told or will I have to drown you in the river.” Bran’s eyes glowed like coals. I didn’t doubt he meant it.
He strode off ahead and left me to catch up. Even though I’d packed my shoes with straw they flopped around like a loose sail.
Even on a winter’s night London never dozes. Gin shops do their best business after dark and with them follows all sorts of human flotsam and misery. The city wheezes and coughs like a factory boy’s lungs but she never sleeps. Every now and then Bran would stop and look up one street or another before marching on with renewed determination. We’d gone fair along Oxford Street and past Regent when he suddenly turned right and we were standing outside Oxford Chapel. Bran stopped and gave a bit of a shuffle. Amos would never send us this far from the river. It weren’t his way. It were too far to get back if something went wrong.
“Wait here until I say, right?” Bran whispered hoarsely but there weren’t no one around to listen. It must’ve been the quietest part of the whole city.
I looked up the street where Bran were heading. Soon he disappeared around a corner. ’Tis bad luck to stand outside a church and plan a robbery. God can hear you. I should’ve walked away and just taken a beating from Bran later, but instead I stayed and waited.
It were real late, but some houses still had flickering light in their windows. I thought back to my mother’s room with her lone candle and wondered if rich people were also scared of the dark or whether they just burned lamps all night because they could afford it. ’Tis a fool thing to go to sleep with a candle. I stepped back into the shadows as a carriage passed along Henrietta Street, the hooves clattering on the cobblestones. This weren’t the kind of place where the likes of Bran nor me could be seen without someone keeping a watchful eye on what were theirs.
There were gas lamps along the street but the moon were near full and high, so anyone could’ve seen Bran as he walked back towards me, even without the lamps. Bran weren’t the kind of man who could hang in shadows, even if he’d a mind to. He were much more like one of those big dogs what strut down the street bidding others to get out of their way or be bit. I guessed he had more drink in him than usual because anyone watching out a window would’ve seen the burly stranger staggering down the middle of the road and knowed he were up to no good.
“I found a place,” he began when he returned.
By now he’d dropped the pretence Amos had fixed it. I didn’t like it. It were safe when Amos told us where to go. I knew he would’ve it fixed so we wouldn’t get caught. I padded behind Bran until we stood outside a building where the windows were blacke
ned. Not counting the basement, it were only two-storeys high with a blue door what glistened in the moonlight and a fan window above.
“How am I supposed to get up there?” I asked.
“’Round the back alley, there’s pipes ’n stuff.”
“But someone lives here,” I said more urgently. “They’ll be awake as soon as I get on the roof.”
Bran snarled. “Get up there before I strangle the life out of you.”
His voice were loud enough that I imagined there must’ve been faces peering against darkened windows, but a drunk fool is always deaf to his own voice. I hesitated and stared down at my shoes. I knew I couldn’t climb with them on, but I weren’t going to leave them there with Bran. I reckoned he might’ve thought a pair of shoes easier currency than a few sheets of lead.
“Where’d you get those? You finger ’em from somewhere?”
I didn’t want to answer him, not standing out in the middle of a street with all eyes watching. “Amos give me them,” I said reluctantly.
“What for?”
The thought of someone doing a kindness were too much for Bran to understand, so I said, “For doing some stitching.”
“Did he give you coin?”
“I told you, he give me these shoes.” I think he were about to shake me upside down to see if I were telling the truth but instead he said, “Give me the shoes. I’ll mind them for you while you climb.” Bran were already calculating how many gins he could get for them.
I didn’t answer, instead I hurried to find where the back lane began. The lane opened up to a series of mews. Somewhere in the dark a horse stamped and snorted. I searched around for the easiest place to climb. Bran were right. I couldn’t climb with the shoes, but I couldn’t leave them where he might find them. I tried holding them in my teeth and then putting them in my pants. In the end I tied the bits of string together and hung them about my neck and scrambled up the back of the building like a rat. My feet were hard and knew where to find holds even in what looked like a flat brick wall. This house were easy and I were sitting on the edge of the roof quicker than the Devil can curse.
To anyone watching, it were easy to spot a small boy hunched in the moonlight. Amos would never have chosen a lit street and a full moon to clamber around on rooftops. It were another ill omen. It were at that moment I made my biggest mistake. Perhaps I weren’t thinking straight or perhaps I were thinking about the moon, but I put those cursed boots back on and clambered up the wet slates. As I peeked over the ridge I seen Bran still standing like a madman in the middle of the street for all to see. He’d have us both hanged.
I worked my way along to where the rooftop met the brickwork and one house joined another. In the light the lead were easy to see against the dull grey of the slates. As gentle as I could, I slipped back the slates to get at the first sheet of lead and worked my fingers along its seam to pry it loose. It were bigger ’n I’d have liked and I knew all the time it were taking, Bran were standing there like a signpost pointing to the thief on the rooftop. The mortar crumbled and the lead began to come loose. It weighed more ’n I could easily climb back with and I knew I’d have to throw it to Bran. It were another weakness in the plan. After the clatter of it hitting the cobblestones, I’d still have to scamper back down.
I raised my head above the ridge line and signalled to Bran I wanted him to come around the back lane but he appeared not to understand and instead called in what could barely be called a whisper to throw it to him.
I thought about my choices. If I climbed across the rooftops, there may be a place where I could climb down with the lead sheeting folded under an arm. Bran signalled again for me to throw it to him. I climbed onto the next rooftop and sidled my way along the darkness. By the time I reached the third house, Bran must’ve thought I were trying to cheat him of what were his and he were becoming more and more wild. “Throw it to me,” he called again.
I were on the point of doing so, having reached the end of the row of houses when the shoes betrayed me and I slipped. I made a wild grab at a chimney pot and sent it tumbling to the cobblestones below, shattering as it hit the ground. Slates scattered and smashed and still I slipped. Just as my feet slipped into nothingness, I managed to grab a hold. I could hear Bran below cursing wildly that the Devil would take me. But now there were other voices from inside the houses.
“Throw down the lead and I’ll help you,” Bran practically shouted.
I tossed it to him, and called again. This time there were no answer. I could feel the slates what I were gripping on to beginning to slide and voices gathering beneath. I knew none of them would be Bran. I wriggled and shuffled and began to haul myself back up the roof. I knew if I could just get my knees back up then I could find somewhere else to try and escape. The slates slipped further. I wriggled my body a little higher. I could hear the crowd below pointing with their voices. The slates slipped more, but I were as nimble as a rat and my fingers could grip even the smoothest surface. I found another hold, and then another. I’d have been clear, had that dead man not been holding onto my legs and pulling me with all his vengeance. The slates slipped and I tumbled into the cries of my accusers.
I went to stand but my ankle gave way and I slumped to the ground. A hand grabbed my shoulder with a grip so hard it dug into sinew.
“Find a constable,” someone said.
More hands grabbed hold of me, keeping me on the ground so that even if I’d wanted to run it would’ve made no difference. I reached inside my shirt and felt for my pipe. If it weren’t the worst of luck, my pipe had snapped in two.
Will watched Rosie twist the hem of her dress over and over. “Will Mum be okay? She’s not going to die, is she?” Rosie asked.
“Of course not,” Mrs Pap reassured her. “The ambulance is just taking her to hospital to make sure that she’s alright. Your dad’s with her. He’ll make sure everything’s okay.” Her thick, brown arms were wrapped around his sister.
It was Mrs Pap who’d called Joy. She was Will’s aunt but he could never have called her Aunty Joy. Joy, with blue-black hair and blood-red lipstick that ran from her mouth in little streaks like a river delta.
Joy’s name couldn’t even be mentioned without Will’s father adding a negative comment and Will had felt guilty even picking up the pink address book that his mum kept. But there was no one else and Mrs Pap had insisted that they needed to stay with a family member. Will had tried to say that he could look after Rosie, but Mrs Pap shook her head. “I know you’d be fine, but Rosie needs to be with family. And you could do with someone looking after you as well.”
Mrs Pap took the phone into the room next door. Rosie stared blankly at the carpet. Will wanted to say something but the words choked even as they came to his lips. Fractured slivers of Mrs Pap’s conversation cut through. Soft, round Mrs Pap was no match for Joy’s sharpness. In the end, Mrs Pap resorted to pleading. When she returned, she picked up Rosie’s hand and smiled. “Your Aunty Joy will come over later and pick you up. She’s busy at the moment, so I’ll stay until she arrives.”
It was some time after midnight when Joy appeared. Mrs Pap had fallen asleep in the big chair. Only Will was still awake when the doorbell rang. He half-closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Joy smiled insincerely at Mrs Pap.
“I suppose he was in the shop when it happened.”
Mrs Pap tried to hush her voice and guide her into the kitchen. Will couldn’t hear what Mrs Pap was saying but Joy’s jagged voice carried. “She wouldn’t want him at the hospital. I called the hospital and they said immediate family only. As if I’m not immediate. Tell him I’m not his babysitter. I can keep them two days. Make sure that you tell him that.”
They returned to the lounge room and Mrs Pap put her hand on Will’s shoulder, shaking him gently. Joy pressed her lips into what might have been a smile.
Joy lived about fifteen minutes away, but Will and Rosie hardly ever saw her. His mother used to meet up with her every now and then, but
each time she’d come back sad. She’d close her bedroom door and Will would know that he’d have to cook dinner for Rosie and himself.
Joy lived near the beach, in a unit that’d been decorated with what she called a Balinese theme. On one wall there were grotesque masks with upturned noses and eyebrows that made them look as though they hated everyone in the room. That night Rosie lay stretched out along the couch but Will had to sleep sitting up in the armchair. Joy had given them both a blanket but they smelt so much of tobacco smoke that Will couldn’t bring it near his face.
“It smells funny,” Rosie said, when Joy had left the room.
“Shhh,” Will said softly. “Don’t say anything.”
“Why couldn’t we stay with Mrs Pap?”
“Because we couldn’t.”
“Will Mum be okay?” Rosie asked.
“You heard what Mrs Pap said. They’ve taken her to hospital so she can get better.”
“Why wouldn’t she wake up?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got to go to sleep.”
Rosie nodded. She was trusting him to know what to do. But he didn’t know what to do. He sat there, the masks staring hatefully back at him. When he finally did fall asleep, they began speaking to him in words that were red and black. But somehow he understood what they said. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.”
At breakfast Joy sat Will and Rosie down around a small table. “I want you to know you’re very welcome to stay here.” She flashed them a smile. Her teeth were unnaturally white. “It’s just not that convenient at the moment. I should be at the hospital. It’s what your mother would want.” She paused. “I just think it should be . . . I think your father should show some responsibility.”
She pulled out a cigarette and flicked it round her fingers. Will could feel Rosie staring at him. He was afraid she might tell Joy that she shouldn’t be smoking. Joy’s nails were blood-red like her lips.
