The Boy Who Flew

by Fleur Hitchcock

  She must have been waiting for me.

  “Go on, more!” she shouts at Polly, who tips steaming water into the large tub Ma uses as a dye bath.

  “You pong, Athan,” says Beatty from her stool.

  I throw the folded birds at her. “Here – you can have these. Maybe you can make some more.”

  Ma pulls at my jacket. “It’s all right, Ma, I can manage.” I clamp my armpit hard to keep the oilskin parcel safe.

  “Told you he’d stink,” says Ma, her face screwed up.

  She’s right. I do stink. And after only one privy. One hour.

  “Ma, is it a fact about the nightmen?” I ask. “Are you sending me to work with them?”

  Polly and Ma swap looks.

  “Who told you that?” Ma asks.

  “Uncle says.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I’m not proud of it, but you have to pay your way. You’ve got till new year to find something better.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but Polly hisses at me so instead I dive for the back door. “I’ll take my clothes off in the yard if they smell that bad.” Moving crabwise so that they can’t see the parcel, I shake off the jacket, keeping the ball inside the lining, and leave them both on the ground in the yard.

  It would be icy cold, but the ground’s coated in the hen straw, which crunches under my feet and around my ankles. I take off almost all my clothes and stand shivering, using the dark to try and get the wrappings off the ball.

  “Hurry up!” yells Ma.

  “Yes, I’m just trying to undo my breeches.” My fingers slip on the oilcloth and, partly because of the cold, but mostly because I can’t see what I’m doing, I fumble. Looking up, I can see the fog has a slight glow. So there is a moon, just not down here.

  I try to find a way past the cloth to the object inside.

  “Your bath’s ready, monsieur,” calls Polly from the door.

  “Coming,” I call.

  Half frozen, in nothing but my underwear, I have another frantic go at the wrappings. My fingers catch on a thread and I tug it from the oilcloth.

  “Come on, the water’s getting cold – it took me ages to heat it.”

  I wrench at each stitch, until it gives way. “I’m not having a bath with you all watching.”

  “She’s seen worse,” says Ma, coming to the door. They can’t see me, but the two of them are clear against the red glow of the kitchen.

  It’s taking forever to open this thing. At last, the final thread breaks and I reach into the wrappings. A small smooth sphere tumbles out. Free of stink and feeling like polished wood.

  I hear more water pouring into the bath as I look about for something to hide it in. My hat? It’s the only thing that doesn’t smell. I thrust the ball inside and drop it just inside the door, leaning the fire sticks against the front, hoping they might act as camouflage.

  Ma and Polly stand like a pair of jailers, their arms crossed as I pass between them.

  In spite of their protests, I keep my drawers on until the water’s dirty enough to hide my privates.

  They chat as they add hot water and scrub my hair and back.

  “Keep still, Athan. You’re such a wrigglebum.” Ma slaps my hands away from my face and attacks my ears with a bar of hard soap.

  The bath’s so short that my knees stick yards out of the water if my feet are in it. The last time they got me in the bath was when Tod and I swam upriver all the way to the weir and nearly froze. It was too short then and if it wasn’t for the hot water that pours over my head whenever it suits Polly, I’d die of cold now.

  Ma bundles up her skirts and takes herself upstairs. “Just to give you your modesty, boy, I’ll check on the fire.”

  “I’m glad you’re having a bath, Athan,” says Beatty, smoothing one of the paper birds flat. “You pong of cheese.” She thinks a moment. “And pickle.”

  “Shhh,” says Polly. “Give him his privacy.” She picks Beatty from her stool and staggers over to Ma’s sewing chair.

  I scrub at the dirt under my nails. Polly comes back and pulls at my hair, twisting it behind my head into a plait.

  “Did you know about Ma sending me to be a nightman?” I whisper.

  She shrugs and pulls my hair harder.

  “You did?”

  Polly leans forward into the tub. She’s got tears in her eyes. “I did,” she hisses. “Of course I did. They made me swear not to tell you. Athan, I don’t want you to go to be a nightman, I need you here, to help with Beatty and Ma and all of this.” She waves her arms round the dark kitchen, where Beatty lies in the shadows folding and unfolding the birds from Mr Chen’s house. “I need you.”

  I look up at her. Big tears race down her cheeks. She looks far older than her years. “Will they really do it?”

  She stands up and lays a drying sheet over the stove. “Yes, I think they will.” She turns back, new tears still fresh in her eyes but a bright smile on her face. She speaks so that Beatty can hear. “Anyway, if you get yourself dressed, there’s a clean shirt and drawers behind the range. I’ll go up to the parlour. You bring Beatty when you’re ready. I’ve got a present for you.”

  Chapter 8

  “Me, me.” Beatty puts out her arms to be carried.

  Dressed in a clean shirt and drawers, I run up the stairs, Beatty slung over my hip. On the way past my bedroom, I shove the ball, still in my hat, into my bedding.

  “What you hiding?” asks Beatty.

  “Nothing. None of your business.” I kiss her and carry her into the parlour. It’s warm, even steamy. Uncle’s arrived while I’ve been washing, and he’s been scrubbed too. His round cheeks are red. A newspaper lies on his knee.

  Grandma dribbles in her chair, her mouth open in sleep, an empty cider mug in her hand. That’s why she’s got no teeth.

  Polly sits with a brown paper parcel on her lap.

  “I know what it is,” says Beatty. “It’s a—”

  “Don’t you dare!” says Polly. She holds the parcel out to me.

  Everyone falls silent. Uncle’s hands lie on the newspaper. Ma sits up. Beatty’s eyes glitter in the near darkness.

  “Is it my birthday?” I ask, wondering.

  “Is it?” Beatty asks Ma.

  Ma looks confused. “Oh – I don’t think so.” She rubs her eyes. “I think he was born in the summer.” She stares at me as if the date should be tattooed on my forehead.

  “Here,” says Polly.

  I take the parcel and undo the string. The brown paper unfurls and something rolls on to the rug. Green and gold. I reach for it and hold it up. A jacket. With lapels, and hooks, and tiny neat pockets.

  “Oh!” I say, silenced. No one ever gave me anything. “Oh!”

  “Is that all the boy can say?” snorts Grandma, waking up.

  “For me?” I say to Polly as I stroke the cloth. “But it’s brocade, the silk…” I mean that the material must have cost a fortune.

  “Go on, try it,” she says, smiling. So I stand up and slip it on. It fits like a second skin. I pull my arms across my chest and thrust out my elbows.

  “Oh my! Doesn’t he look good?” Ma rocks back and forth in her chair and claps her hands together.

  “Fine as a cow turd stuck with primroses,” mumbles Grandma. “Much good it’ll do him when he’s cleaning out the cesspools.”

  Uncle looks over his spectacles at Grandma and raises an eyebrow.

  The cloth stretches smoothly across my shoulders. I stand in the gleaming jacket and my drawers, turning before the fire. Happiness soaks through me. This is a proper jacket, a coat made with love and skill, not the clothes of someone who digs out the sewers. Surely Ma doesn’t expect me to creep round the streets in the dark dressed like this.

  “And these,” says Polly, laughing and throwing a pair of buff corded silk breeches at me. I drag them on. I close the waist hooks and stand on my toes to see myself in the mirror above the fire. Someone else looks back at me. A smart young man, his hair in a plait, his collar o
pen, his jacket loose.

  “Me?” I say, asking the mirror. “Me?”

  “Yes – you,” squeals Beatty. “Shall I tell you a story? It’s about a boy who falls in love with his ref-el-ction and drowns in a pond. There was no one but a flower to save him.” Her voice trembles on the last word. She gazes at me, then smiles and falls back to folding and unfolding one of the birds I found in Mr Chen’s cupboard.

  “Doesn’t that fairy child ever think of anything but death,” Grandma mutters.

  “Shh, Grandma.” Polly settles by Beatty and helps her make a new bird from a corner of newspaper.

  The fire crackles and Uncle snores. “You’re wasting the cloth, Molly.” Grandma turns to Ma.

  “For why?” Ma answers.

  “Dressing him up like a parrot, when he’s off to do dirty work. What a waste of good cloth.”

  “I’m giving him five weeks, Mother. He might yet find work with the Quality.”

  I wonder if they even remember I’m in the room.

  “And it isn’t right that that idiot boy should be so vain,” Grandma shouts suddenly. Her face puckered. “He’ll shatter the mirror if he goes on looking at himself like that, and if he does that, there’ll be more bad luck in this house, seven years at the least.” She leans back and crosses herself. Her lips form silent words.

  Ma stares straight ahead. Polly sniffs.

  “Eight years since the fairy child was born,” says Grandma. “And eight since their father skipped off to who knows where without a by your leave.”

  “He went for adventure,” says Polly.

  “He went for the work,” says Ma firmly.

  “He went for the women,” mutters Grandma.

  Uncle holds up his newspaper. “They’re offering a reward. A big one – ten thousand guineas.”

  “Who? What for?” asks Polly.

  “First person to fly. It says here: The Duke of Roseberry challenges anyone to fly over a distance of two miles, without recourse to the ground, using wings or power. Reward 10,000 guineas to the first proven flight.”

  I go cold. Then hot, then cold.

  No one else notices.

  “Ten thousand guineas?” I say.

  Beatty holds up one of the folded birds and flaps the wings.

  “’S’impossible, of course,” says Uncle. “No one’s ever going to claim it.”

  “Why would they want someone to fly?” asks Ma. “I mean, what use is that?”

  “Ma?” Polly’s mouth falls open. “You could cross the seas, and the mountains.”

  “Yes,” I say. “You could.” I watch the smoke curling up the chimney, thinking of the wooden ball hidden under my pillow and the kite on the church roof. And I wonder if Mr Chen knew about the reward. He probably did, he probably knew that someone else would want the flying machine to get the reward. But he wouldn’t have wanted it himself. Mr Chen wasn’t interested in money.

  I feel Polly’s hand on my shoulder. She pushes me towards the mirror. I gaze at our reflections. Her eyes are the same as mine, dark and wide, but where my hair’s brown and ordinary, Polly’s is copper beech, darkly red. It curls over her narrow shoulders like a fur.

  “Can you win it for me, Athan?” she says. “With all Mr Chen’s knowledge, you must be able to fly.”

  I stare into her eyes, but she doesn’t know; she’s mocking me.

  I smile back, she squeezes my hand and whispers, “Find a good job, Athan. Find one tomorrow. Don’t let them turn you into a nightman.”

  “Is that why you made these clothes?”

  Polly nods. Her eyes swim and she turns away to sit on the sofa. The firelight flickers over her delicate face.

  She’s so thin. We all are, except for Ma and Uncle, who get fatter by the week. I don’t know how they get fat on porridge, porridge and soup. I can see Polly’s ribs beneath her dress. I glance across to Beatty. She’s no more than bones and down. A chick.

  10,000 guineas. What would 10,000 guineas do for us?

  Uncle reaches for his fiddle. He uses his neckerchief to wipe off a thin layer of dust and begins a tune. He plays a dirge that breaks into a jig. A smile spreads over Polly’s face and she curls sideways, her heavy shoe beating time to the music.

  “Go get a jug of cider from the Griffin, boy, be a darling.” Ma’s chair creaks as she leans back.

  “Oh, Ma, I’m lovely and warm at last. And my boots are in the yard.”

  “Take your uncle’s.”

  “Oh, Ma,” I plead. But I know she won’t let it go, so I button my jacket, put on Uncle’s boots and set off for the inn.

  Chapter 9

  Closing the door on the lights from our shop I step into darkness. Barely a glimmer shows behind the shutters in the other houses. The winter fog’s rolling in from the river and, mixed with the coal smoke, it’s spreading its blanket across the town. I pause to let my eyes get used to the darkness.

  Something cold brushes my face. Snow? I grope past the front of the shop and around the block until I smell the cider from the Griffin.

  The heavy door grates on the flagstones; I’m barely inside before Columbine Good shouts at me. “Shut the door!” She’s sitting in the fireplace holding her skirts up to let the heat at her horrible legs. They’re blue with veins and red with ulcers.

  I close the door behind me and look about. There’s hardly anyone in here. Only Columbine by the fire, and someone to the side I can hardly see. No sign of Peter, the landlord. I walk towards the cellar steps, ready to call down, when the person in the shadows catches my eye. All I can see is large knotted hands in a pool of candlelight cutting a yellow block of cheese into miniature cubes with a dagger. The hands arrange the cut yellow squares like soldiers on a slice of bread.

  I watch as the hands pick up the slice and take it into the darkness where there must be a waiting mouth.

  Behind me, by the fire, Columbine starts to sing.

  “Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong, farewell, farewell to thee…”

  “Someone shut her up!” Peter sticks his head up from the cellar.

  Columbine takes no notice. “…Macpherson’s life shall not be long, on yonder gallows tree…”

  “Cider?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Wait here, boy.”

  He dips back down to the cellar, and I sit on a chair.

  “… Sae wantonly, sae hauntingly, played he…” Columbine’s eyes close, and her head falls back; she’s giving the song all she can. Her old voice cracks on the high notes and goes breathy on the low ones.

  Then the owner of the hands steps out from darkness, rises to his feet, light as a cat, and tiptoes towards her. He halts and I see who it is. The scarred man from the auction. His grizzled head moves close to hers and I sit still, staring.

  Columbine takes an age to reach the high note and I watch as his head gets closer and closer.

  “…Be-low the gallows tree…”

  He holds his hands out on either side of her neck. “Quiet, woman,” he whispers.

  Then he clamps her throat.

  “Aaaah!” she screams, and grabs him.

  He shakes her off and for a moment they stare at each other, his huge shaggy head no more than a hand’s breadth from her red cheeks. Something crosses her features, a tiny glimpse of recognition, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone and she slumps back against the wall and sips from a mug, her eyes dull with drink. When I look for the scarred man, he’s back at his table, arranging his supper in neat lines.

  It’s as if it never happened.

  He never looks up.

  A clock ticks.

  The fire steams and spits.

  I keep my eyes on the floor.

  Peter clanks downstairs. Hurry up.

  I sit on the chair and fiddle with the binding on my jacket. I try to think good thoughts. But they keep on coming back to the man arranging cheese in the gloom and the blood on Mr Chen’s kitchen floor.

  “Come here then, lad.”

  I l
ook around. There’s no one else, he has to be talking to me. My skin prickles. “Yes, I’m talking to you.” His voice is soft and dark. Definitely from the north.

  “Sir?”

  “Join me then.”

  I think about running and then I think about murder. I won’t find out more if I don’t stay.

  Moving slowly, I slip into the settle opposite him. Eight squares of cheese face me. Above them the bright-blue eyes look out from the battered face. Not just pox, knife scars too.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Athan Wilde.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Fancy a bit of cheese?” He barely moves his mouth when he speaks, but his eyes dance.

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s southern muck. The landlord says it’s from hereabouts.” His mouth stretches into a grin. Rat’s teeth with a single gold one, right in the middle at the front.

  I pull my feet back as far as I can and keep my hands on the table top.

  “Live round here, do you?” He leans back, and I see the buttons on his coat. Expensive, nice. “Did I see you come out of the tailor’s shop?” He reaches across the table for a jug and swills his mouth round. “If I hadn’t known, I should have guessed.”

  “Should you?” I ask.

  “Aye – good clouts you’re wearing there. Now. Not the togs you was wearing at the auction. I mean, I ask m’self, what’s a boy like you doing dressed as a marquis, unless they’ve someone on the inside. I notice things, me.”

  So he does recognise me. I finger my jacket. It’s fine, very fine. But so’s his.

  I stare at his cold eyes, his scarred face and his battered sword. If I keep staring, he might back down. I’m not going to let him know he scares me.

  “So, if you come from round here, why don’t you tell me about the old man, and while you’re at it, who cleaned up the house today, after the auction, eh?” While he’s talking, he slides to his feet, steps round the table and sits next to me. His arm rests against mine. His little pieces of cheese all lined up for attack.

  The room’s dead cold, but the sweat’s breaking out on my palms and on the back of my neck. Where’s Peter?

  “Everything was sold at the auction, I swear.” As I say it, my mind fills with pictures of Uncle’s loaded cart and my own arm stretched deep down the privy.