It was a sad and sorry time, imbued with uncertainty and loss, until the good connections of my mother’s cousin, the renowned instrument-maker Mr Greatorex, procured for me an indenture with a well-regarded carpenter with the apt name Mr Wood at his house in Hampstead. Though not much inclined in the ways of trade, I was able to take an intellectual interest in the doings of the craft, for example, the varying botanical natures of the timbers we used, how one wouldn’t yield to the heaviest hatchet and others were supple enough to carve with a thumbnail, or how to glue broken joins with a mixture of egg, mortar and sap and how to dissolve those same bonds with solvents made from alcohol and nettle &c.
As Master Wood often contracted on large buildings worth tens or sometimes hundreds of pounds I also learned of bolts and locks, bars and windows, beaming and strutting, roofing and tiling. Within a few years I was more skilled at the trade than any other in Master Wood’s employ, even more than the man himself. I suppose it was owing to my disablement, just like the blind man who develops a bloodhound’s powers of smell, some people able to fill one vessel very full rather than a multiplicity of vessels only someway each.
WILD
I venture into the world, nature calls
1700
I had me a Philosophy and here was a world to test it on. I set towards High Street, Wolverhampton, like a prisoner released, with the day clear and blue, and the sun hanging yellow as hen yolk over the bell tower. Of my worldly possessions I had the following:
1) One suit of clothes, that which I was wearing
2) Two sleeping shirts
3) One spare of stockings
4) One tinderbox
5) Two pennies
6) One collar
7) One velvet pheasant AKA King Richard.
My stomach was full from morning oats and unripe apricots, and I had the belief (false, as it would shortly be proven) that victuals and necessaries would present should I make it my aim to acquire some. At the post office, after standing in a lengthy queue thanks to an elderly widow who counted and recounted her monies, I was able to enquire the clerk of coaches driving to London, of which there was one departing that very day.
‘I’d like a ticket,’ said I, reaching for my two pennies. ‘To London.’
I was besieged with excitement, the gums in my mouth a-tingling.
‘Return fare to London Town?’ confirmed the clerk, pulling out a book of tickets.
‘One way,’ said I, now feeling the excitement moving to my bowels.
‘One way,’ confirmed the clerk, running his ink-stained finger down a table of figures. ‘That is four pennies, three farthings.’
‘Four and three,’ repeated I.
‘Yes, four and three.’
‘I have only two.’
The clerk let out the whinny of a bored horse.
I implored him with my eyes, but it was to no avail; he looked over the top of my head and shouted, ‘Next!’
My design had been thwarted but the excitement, or anxiety, as I’ve heard it once called, had been set loose in my biology like an army of ants trooping through my innards, and I felt a great need to unburden myself of the morning’s oats.
‘Sir,’ said I to the clerk. ‘Is there a private space and chamber pot available where I might relieve myself?’
‘Here?’ replied the clerk. ‘In the post office?’
‘Aye.’
‘There is a chamber pot, but not for you. Next!’
I moved to the street, walking with great speed, but I was in the middle of town on a Tuesday morning, with people all about; no private cranny where I might take down my pantaloons and purge, and being prescient of the type of purging it would be, I would need to remove my stockings and boots too.
The dairy farmer’s boundary reached the town, and I saw him approach with a bale.
‘Sir,’ I called out. ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
‘What?’ said he, setting the bale on a stump, and grabbing at his pitchfork.
‘I’m not well. Nature calls and I have nowhere to go. Would you be so kind as to allow me a moment by that cluster of trees?’
‘Number one or two?’ asked he.
I held up two fingers.
‘Disgusting,’ he said, driving the prongs of his instrument into the feed, the motion of which seemed to replicate inside me.
I was now at a run, stumbling over the stones, looking this way and that. I burst into the alehouse, my eyes scanning for my father or anyone else who might help me, but there was only the owner, Mr Bubo, as he was known, for the galaxy of pustules surrounding both his eyes.
He stood rubbing down the counter.
‘Mr Bubo,’ said I. ‘I’m in need of help.’
‘Ale is my only business.’
‘My stomach’s not right, and I need a moment with your chamber pot. I’m sorry to ask.’
I gripped at my stomach, wincing.
‘Forget it, kid.’
‘Sir, please, I’m not well.’
Mr Bubo thought a moment, continuing to rub at his counter. ‘I charge for the use of my chamber pot. One penny for number one, and two pennies for number two.’
‘Sir, please, I am but a poor child.’
‘And I am but a poor barkeep.’
I felt the contents of my stomach inch to the very precipice of the outer world.
‘For this,’ said I, handing him the coins, ‘I will never forgive you.’
He took the money and opened a door behind the counter, behind which was his living room. His wife sat at the table looking at two dead fish.
‘The young Wild needs our chamber pot,’ Mr Bubo said.
‘No way,’ said his wife.
‘He is paying two pennies for it.’
Mrs Bubo shrugged and pointed to her bedroom, where I presently sprinted, unbuckling my coat and breeches as I went.
I was grateful that it was clean and empty, and as soon as my bare thighs hit the cool porcelain, great quantities were discharged. I was finished with my business in only a few moments, and took up a cloth at their bedside to wipe myself, a great insult to Mr and Mrs Bubo, but for two pennies I should have wiped myself with her hat; for I had been swindled out of my last money on earth, and now I would have to go back home, defeated.
I returned to Mr Bubo’s counter and asked him for a warmed ale. ‘An inclusion of the two-penny fee, if you would be so charitable.’
He poured a mug and pushed it towards me. ‘One and one only. How was your shit?’
‘Almost worth two pennies,’ replied I, taking the mug to a bench in the far corner of the room.
I sat accompanied by my ale, reproving my dismal situation; without a penny to my name, no place to stay and not a single friend who might take me in. Aye, what a situation indeed. The Philosophy that had resounded only hours before – a Philosophy of self-reliance – now appeared foolish; the impractical meanderings of a youngster forced to spend his last money on shit.
WILD
Employment for my mother, enjoined to a new master
1700
I was slowly nursing my single mug in Bubo’s Alehouse, ruminating on my failed enterprise, when two drunk men in aqua livery bounded through the door.
‘Two of your finest ale,’ demanded one. He threw a handful of coins at Mr Bubo’s chest. His fat friend twisted a finger inside his ear.
‘I hear the Wolverhampton ale is better than urine,’ the other jeered.
‘Drunk in the morning,’ muttered Mr Bubo, pouring two mugs and gathering up the coins.
‘Johnny,’ said one to the fat other, looking around. ‘What a shithole.’
‘True,’ agreed Johnny.
‘From where do you hark?’ asked I, looking upon their gold embroidered epaulets.
‘Middlesex,’ burped Johnny.
‘What brings you to Wolverhampton?’
‘Questions, questions,’ said the other.
They laughed, at what I wasn’t sure, but I perceived it to be me.
Now that Johnny was seated, he began to sway.
‘We need women,’ the other finally garbled. ‘Are there women in this godforsaken town?’
‘Of course,’ replied I, bringing my mug to their bench. One of Johnny’s elbows slipped from the table.
‘What is your name, sir?’ asked I.
‘James Saltwell,’ replied the man, expanding his chest. He was shaved cleanly, unlike his friend. ‘Head coachman for Lord Uxbridge the First.’
‘Lord Uxbridge,’ repeated I. ‘What will he say of your absence?’
‘He is drunker than we, passed out at some general’s house. We have two hours before departure.’
‘The General?’ asked I. ‘General Bainbridge is the richest and most important man in all Wolverhampton. He lives in a mighty estate.’
‘Ha,’ scoffed Saltwell. ‘Estate? More of a chicken coop.’
In truth I had only ever seen the entrance gates and finely manicured lawns, the house being at too great a distance. But I’d seen paintings, a great building with near two score windows in the façade.
‘Excuse my ignorance, I am only a prentice boy.’
‘You’re excused, Wild. Now tell us where we might find some action.’
‘Tell me a little of your requirements,’ replied I, still unsure to what it was they were referring.
‘Requirements,’ spoke Johnny. ‘I’ll explain our requirements, but listen carefully as our tastes are very complicated.’ His breath was a foul steam.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘We need two holes, but if you can only find one, it will do. And we won’t pay more than threepence a turn.’
Saltwell chuckled, slapped me on the back. ‘Johnny, he’s only a youngster. He doesn’t understand such things.’
‘You’re in a small town, gentlemen,’ said I. ‘There are no ladies of the night here.’
‘No punks, hey,’ said Johnny. ‘A true shithole.’
‘Well, actually, I’m planning a move to London.’
The men ignored me; they were of a mind for only one thing.
‘I might have a solution for you,’ said I. ‘Regarding your requirements.’
‘Out with it then, what is your solution?’
‘First, we must discuss my fee.’
‘Oh ho ho,’ Johnny laughed. ‘Fee! Ho ho ho.’
‘Very well,’ said I, picking up my satchel. ‘Enjoy your visit.’
As I stood to make my exit, a hand gripped my arm.
‘Where are you going?’ Johnny said, widening his mucus-coloured eyes.
‘Hands off me,’ said I, deepening my voice.
‘Not till you tell us where these women are,’ growled Johnny.
‘I’ll have no fighting in here,’ muttered Mr Bubo, hitting the counter with his fist.
‘Says the freak,’ laughed Johnny, falling off the bench and hitting the stones hard. ‘My arse!’ shouted he, rolling onto his stomach and gripping at his behind.
Saltwell dragged the man to his feet, held him steady and then pushed him out the doorway. Outside, he staggered on like a losing pugilist.
‘This man can’t hold his liquor,’ said I, following them out. ‘What is his position?’
‘Third coachman.’ Saltwell continued laughing, watching him stumble.
‘Third coachman,’ repeated I. ‘What sort of duties is he obligated?’
‘Doing as I say.’
‘And the second coachman?’
‘He drives the second coach.’
‘And yourself, the first coachman?’
‘You’re awful curious, aren’t you, Wild?’
‘Fascinated, sir.’
‘I’m the navigator and driver of the fleet.’
‘Do you open the doors for the Lord and Lady?’
Saltwell laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I would be fired for such a thing.’
His fat friend turned back, grabbing me by the collar with both his pudgy fists. His wig was now lopsided to the right. ‘Are you taking me to the punks, or not?’
‘Yes, yes, calm yourself,’ answered I, a plan now fully assembled in my mind. ‘You’ll have to walk with me in this direction. About a mile. Can you handle it?’
He slapped me on the cheek. ‘I can handle more than that.’
‘We don’t have time, Johnny,’ dismissed Saltwell. ‘Forget it.’
‘I’ll not forget it,’ blasted Johnny, spittle flying outwards. ‘I’ve come this far.’
Saltwell shook his head. ‘See you at the General’s then, you have an hour. Nice to meet you, Wild.’
Supporting Johnny by his elbow, we ambled down High Street. The morning quite perfect, I stared directly at the sun, as though engaged in an optical duel, seeing at first a fiery disc, then an icy blackness at its centre surrounded by blazing yellow, like staring through a glowing pipe. During this game of mine Johnny’s knees gave way, and he fell face first into a pile of builders’ sand. He tried cursing, but his voice was a wet spray of grains. A blacksmith paused his hammering.
‘So who is this whore?’ asked he, batting his sandy eyelashes.
‘A fine woman,’ said I. ‘Experienced, you can be sure.’
‘You’re a good man,’ muttered he, adjusting his wig into a worse position.
‘But she is a most private lady,’ said I, lowering my voice. ‘She practises her trade in secret. You promise me absolute secrecy?’
‘Of course. Mum’s the word.’
‘It is indeed,’ responded I.
Completing the final dogleg towards my childhood home, the sun now at our backs, I saw the last curlicues of the morning fire ascend.
‘There is the place you will be treated,’ spoke I, pointing.
Johnny squinted, wetness oozing from his right eye. ‘All right then.’
‘There is a certain protocol,’ said I, my tone matter-of-fact.
‘Protocol?’
‘I will let you in. You are to undress and leave your livery in the kitchen. You will allow ten minutes for your lady to undress and prepare for intercourse. When she is ready, she will enter the privy. You are not permitted to speak to her until she is there, and are not permitted to see her in daily dress.’
Johnny swayed, nodding. ‘Whatever.’
‘Her fee, which I will hand directly to her, is one pound, three shillings, and my fee is one pound and two, making a total of two pound, five shillings.’
‘Get fucked, I’m not –’
‘That is the fee. If you are unhappy with the price you are welcome to search elsewhere.’
‘She better be damned high quality.’
I bowed. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’
I checked the house was indeed empty, which I knew it would be during market hours, then entered, plying Johnny with several more drams of gin from Mother’s stash. I helped him out of his boots.
‘You can lie in the bed beneath the meat,’ instructed I. ‘It is the place for such a purpose. Now remember, wait ten minutes after you hear her enter.’
Johnny groaned and then was asleep, one of his eyes half open and the centre of his mouth at an aperture just right for a whistle.
I began dressing in his uniform, rolling and pinning his trousers so they wouldn’t drag along the earth. I plumped his foul-smelling collar and perched the triangulated cap upon my head; taking my reflection in Mother’s looking glass, I thought myself a very fine third coachman indeed.
I paused to take one last look upon my childhood home; the walls in which I had grown to maturity, the meat beneath which I slept, the grainy mid-morning light filtering onto rusty tins of spices and pulses, the empty buckets at the doorway, the timber beams, whose knots and variegations I had once studied every night.
I felt not a thing.
My pockets now lined with two pound, five shillings, and dressed in aqua and gold livery, I set out at a hurry, you ca
n be sure. The one Wolverhampton taxi wasn’t in sight, so I jogged as fast I could towards General Bainbridge’s estate, whereupon the grand wrought-iron gates were presently being opened by two footmen, one man per gate.
‘I seek James Saltwell,’ said I.
‘Who?’
‘Head coachman to Lord Uxbridge.’
‘You’re in deep shit,’ the footman said. ‘They’re already departing.’
And indeed they were, the sight being one very imperious; all three coaches set in line as the General himself waved them on, the black coaches polished and each with a set of four horses trotting along. The driveway was beset on each side by topiary trees fashioned into green globes, and the roadbed was covered in some form of white crystalline substance that glittered randomly. The procession approached at a slow pace, my heart running much faster. Saltwell was high and straight-backed on his seat, the leather reins held in a smug grip of thumb and finger.
‘Where the devil is Johnny?’ he spat.
‘He is with the whore, dead asleep. Or maybe actually dead. I’m not sure which.’
‘You’ve stolen his clothes?’
‘Give me this chance and I’ll be the most diligent and devoted prentice. Tell me to jump and I’ll ask how high. Please, sir.’
‘God help me,’ responded Saltwell, bristling. He pulled the reins with a reluctant yank and dismounted. There was braying between the beasts, the sun rippling off their freshly brushed backs. Saltwell swept his jacket with the backs of his fingernails, straightened his back, and tapped lightly on the carriage window, his mouth prepared into an obsequious smile.
I couldn’t see the Lord inside, but heard him repeat Saltwell’s words. ‘Change of staff.’
‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Saltwell, turning.
‘Wild, sir. Jonathan Wild.’
‘My Lord wishes to speak with you.’
I stepped to the open window of the carriage, through which I could see a luxurious interior, seats pinned with burgundy leather, walls panelled in polished wood and windows curtained in patterned velvet. The smell of leather eked outwards, along with the lavender perfume of what I presumed to be several ladies. The Lord then appeared, his head poking out the fenestration, both eyebrows leaning into each other in the manner of simultaneous curiosity and hatred.
Wild Page 6
