Smith

by Leon Garfield

  At last he found himself in a long, wide street, where the moon had widowed all the houses, with black hatchments under their porches . . . Vaguely, he thought he knew where he was. There was a narrow turning any minute now . . . an alleyway that would lead him, deviously, back to the Red Lion. He fancied he saw it. He turned—

  “Watch out! Watch out! Oh! Oh! Ah!”

  At the very moment Smith had turned into the alley a gentleman had come out of it. They met and, though the gentleman was tall and stout and huge beside Smith, he was struck with such speed and force that he fell with an angry frightened cry.

  Smith struggled to his feet, was about to rush on, when a hand grasped at his ankle.

  “Let go!” he shouted.

  “Damn you, no! Help me, first—”

  Smith glared wildly down. He saw the gentleman’s face, gray as a puddle. His eyes were sunken and dark: no spark of light in them.

  “Help me up! Help me, I say! For pity’s sake, sir! Can’t you see I’m blind?”

  “A blind man!” gasped Smith. “Oh Gawd! A mole-in-the-hole!”

  The gin’s tempest dropped abruptly away and left a glum wreckage behind, bleak and forlorn in the freezing night.

  A boy—a child, thought the blind man, uneasily. Most likely a young thief. Most likely he’ll rob me and run off—frightened out of his miserable wits. Oh God! How am I to get home?

  “If you let go me ankle,” muttered Smith, “I’ll help you up; that’s if you’re really blind. Can you see me?”

  The gentleman shook his head.

  “What am I doing now?” asked Smith, pulling a hideous face.

  “I don’t know—I don’t know! I swear I’m blind! Look at my eyes! Any light in ’em? Look for my smoked spectacles. They’re somewhere about. Look for—”

  “What am I doing now?” demanded Smith, pulling another, even more monstrous face; for he’d help no one who didn’t need it.

  The blind man loosed his hold on Smith’s ankle and heaved himself up on one elbow. He’d lost his hat and his wig was awry, but otherwise he’d suffered no harm. He began to feel the adjacent cobbles for his possessions. Smith watched him and his face returned to normal, but as a last measure he fished inside his coat and pulled out the document.

  “What have I got in me hand?” he asked gruffly.

  The blind man sighed. “My life, my boy . . . my life’s in your hand.”

  Smith scowled and put away the document. “Here you are, Mister Mole-in-the-hole! Here’s me ’and, then! Up with you! Up on yer pins! And ’ere’s your ’at and stick and black spectacles . . . though why you wears ’em foxes me! My, but you’re a real giant of a gent! Did you know it?”

  This last as the blind man stood up and fairly towered over the helpful Smith.

  “Thank you, boy. Now—tell me if I’m in the street or the alley and I’ll give you a guinea for your pains.”

  “You’re on the corner.”

  “Facing which way?”

  “The Lord knows! I’ve been sick meself.”

  “Fever?”

  “Half a pint o’ gin.”

  Suddenly, Smith felt a strong desire to confide in the blind man. After all—it could do no harm.

  “Smith,” he said, and held out one hand to be shook while with the other he guided the blind man’s hand to meet it. “Smith. ’Unted, ’ounded, ’omeless and part gin-sodden. Smith. Twelve years old. That’s me. Very small, but wiry, as they say. Dark ’aired and lately residing in the Red Lion Tavern off Saffron ’ill. Smith.”

  Helplessly, the blind man smiled . . . and his questing hand grasped Smith’s firmly.

  “Mansfield,” he said. “Blind as a wall for these past twelve years. Well-to-do—but not much enjoying it. Mansfield. Residing at Number Seven Vine Street under the care of a daughter. Mansfield. Believe it or not—a magistrate!”

  “Gawd!” gasped Smith. “Oo’d ’ave thought I’d ever be shaking ’ands with a bleeding Justice?”

  If Mr. Mansfield heard he was too gentlemanly to remark on it. Instead, he fumbled in his coat for the promised guinea.

  “And now, just point me toward the church that should stand at one end of the street and the guinea’s yours, Smith, with my deepest thanks.”

  Smith obliged—and took the guinea.

  “Seems a lot for a little,” he said.

  “Good night, Smith.”

  “Same to you, Mister Mansfield, J.P.”

  He watched the blind man tap his way down the street, bumping, here and there, into the posts—and sometimes raising his hat to them and mumbling, “Sorry, good sir . . . couldn’t see you . . . so sorry.”

  Smith smiled indulgently and was about to make off, when a strangely familiar feeling of pity stirred in him. He had been reminded of the murdered old gentleman. He scowled at his own indecision, stuck his ancient pipe defiantly in his mouth, and hastened in the blind man’s wake.

  “That you, Smith?”

  Smith grunted.

  “Didn’t expect you—”

  “Going the same way meself.”

  “To Vine Street?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Glad to hear it, Smith.”

  Smith grunted again. “Oh well—’ere’s me ’and, then . . . you old blind Justice, you! Just tell me where to turn and where to cross and I’ll see you ’ome safe an’ sound. After all—I ain’t done much for that guinea.”

  Mr. Mansfield found the offered hand and, once more, grasped it. He sighed and reflected in his heart (which was far from being as blind as his eyes) that it was an uncanny thing to be the cause of kindness in others.

  Vine Street lay about twenty minutes away. Mr. Mansfield had strolled far that night, having a troublesome problem that gnawed him. But now, holding Smith’s thin hand, the problem sank somewhat.

  “Were it a sickness?” asked Smith after a while.

  “My blindness, d’you mean? No. Lost my sight when a house burned down. Lost my wife as well. A costly fire, that!”

  “Oh.”

  “Take the next turning on the left, Smith.”

  “What’s it like—being blind?”

  “Dark, Smith. Very dark. What’s it like having eyes?”

  “The moon’s gone in again—so we’re two of a kind, Mister Mansfield, you an’ me.”

  The blind magistrate felt somewhat taken down—but was cautious not to show it. Twelve years of his misfortune had taught him that a bland face was the best security for one in his situation and that, for a blind man to frown, scowl or laugh, even, was like a fool discharging his pistol wildly in the night. The Lord knew who’d be hit by it.

  “If you can see a new-built church with a round tower, cross in front of it and walk with it to your right.”

  Smith obliged. Hand in hand they passed by the church—a very curious pair indeed: small Smith, half a pace ahead, and huge, stout Mr. Mansfield walking somewhat sideways and behind—for Smith tended to pull, rather.

  “Vine Street is the next street that crosses this one. My house is to the right. I’ll be safe enough now, Smith.”

  “No trouble. I’m going the same way. To the door, Mister Mansfield.”

  They came to Vine Street. Said Mr. Mansfield: “If you’ve nought better to do, will you come in and take a bite of late supper with me, Smith?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Mister Mansfield.”

  “Care to stay the night, Smith?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Mister Mansfield.”

  “Any family, Smith?”

  “Sisters. Two of ’em.”

  “Likely to worry?”

  “Not much.”

  “Then it’s settled?”

  “Just as you say, Mister Mansfield.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, Smith?”

  Smith sighed ruefully. The only thing he really wanted, Mr. Mansfield was unable to provide.

  “No, thank you, Mister Mansfield. You done all you can.”

  They came towards the door
of Number Seven. In spite of himself Smith grinned at the irony of his situation. Of all the men in the Town to bump into and befriend, he’d lit on the one who was blind and so could never teach him to read!

  6

  THOUGH SHE WAS AMIABLE, charitable and kind to a degree, no one with a pair of eyes in his head would have mistaken her for a saint. She was made of a commoner humanity than that, and took full advantage of her father’s blindness to scowl and grimace—and sometimes shake her small, fierce fist—when the blind man’s disability caused her irritation or annoyance: which it often did. Thus, when Mr. Mansfield blundered and broke some precious piece of porcelain, she’d cast her eyes to the ceiling with a look of phenomenal rage, but declare: “ ’Twas only a chipped cup, sir! I promise you, I’m glad it’s gone! Come, sir, let me help you.” And her voice was always gentle and kind.

  For all of twelve years this outward show of her human feelings, unseen by her father, had somehow created within a disposition of rare excellence, so that, at one and twenty she stood—not very tall but of great consequence—the most kindly but peevish and altogether remarkable young woman in the length and breadth of Vine Street.

  Miss Mansfield stood on the topmost step, full in the light of the porch lamp. Below her waited a footman, ready to help his master.

  “Papa!” she cried warmly. “I was so worried! You’ve been gone so long, sir! I thought you was—”

  Here she paused as Smith came into the light and she saw— what the blind man could not—that Smith was the filthiest, wretchedest and nearly the most sinister-looking object in the Town. “—Lost,” she finished up, and her face expressed wonderfully her opinion of Smith.

  Smith tugged at Mr. Mansfield’s hand, for he feared Miss Mansfield would set the footman on to do him a mischief.

  “Daughter,” said the blind man. “Here’s Smith. As good-hearted a child as the Town can boast of.”

  Miss Mansfield did not look as though she believed it. Her face said very clearly: So. You’ve deceived him! Very well, then. You won’t deceive me! I’ve a pair of eyes in my head! But aloud, she said: “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Smith. Any friend of my father’s is more than welcome.”

  “Daughter,” said Mr. Mansfield, mounting the steps and pulling Smith after him, “my young friend’s taking supper with us, and then he’ll stay the night. For it’s very bitter in the air and he’s far from home.”

  At this, Miss Mansfield looked so little pleased that Smith was amazed that even the blind man couldn’t see it.

  “Any friend of yours, sir—” she repeated, and bustled back into the house to attend to her father’s wish.

  They took supper in a back parlor—as clean, spacious and handsome a room as Smith had ever dreamed of, furnished with mahogany and with much neat silver on display. There were pictures on the walls and a fire in the grate, and it was a shame the blind man could see none of it, for a deal of trouble seemed to have been taken.

  While they ate Miss Mansfield came and went some dozen times, with amiable inquiries or amusing observations (she was very talkative and spoke rather quick), but always with a look of the sharpest suspicion at Smith followed by a glance round the room to see what had been stolen. (I know what you’re up to, her angry face said. But you’ll not succeed. Not while I’ve a pair of eyes in my head!)

  “A saint,” remarked Mr. Mansfield once, when he was assured his daughter was gone from the room.

  “Oh,” said Smith.

  “You don’t meet with a saint every day, Smith!” said Mr. Mansfield, sounding somewhat offended by the cool response.

  “No. You don’t.”

  Just then the saint came in to say Smith’s bed was ready in a small room at the top of the house—and to shoot him as venomous and disgusted a look as ever he’d received in his life. He shivered, for he found his haven for the night uncanny . . . what with the blind Justice and the daughter at odds with herself.

  None the less, he was, at bottom, an affable soul, and continued to talk with Mr. Mansfield a while longer. He talked about life in the streets of the Town, life in the Red Lion’s cellar, life in Newgate Jail, death at Tyburn, and—death in Curtis Court. Yes, indeed, Smith mentioned—almost in passing—the happening that had turned him upside down and inside out.

  “Indeed, I heard of it,” said the magistrate gravely. “For the gentleman was known and wealthy.”

  “Poor old so-and-so!” said Smith.

  “Did you see him, then?”

  “No!” said Smith, quickly; for how could he have known which was the old gentleman unless he’d seen him murdered? And if he’d seen that unlawful act, why hadn’t he come forward?

  Yes, indeed, Smith knew the law. And he suspected that the magistrate knew it even better.

  “No, I never saw ’im. But I ’eard about it. Poor old so-and-so!”

  Even as he spoke, some movement in the air—most likely due to their voices—caused the sideboard candle to flicker and jump and glint ironically in the blind man’s dark spectacles . . . and a shadow was cast upon the opposing wall, strangely like the shape of the murdered old gentleman come quietly into the room to reproach Smith for denying him and to see what was becoming of his document.

  “A Mister Field of Prickler’s Hill in Hertfordshire. I knew him, Smith. A good but sad old gentleman. I’d like to have his murderer before me.”

  “And so would I, Mister Mansfield!” muttered Smith somberly, for he remembered well the old gentleman’s look as the knife had gone in. “Why was ’e done in?”

  “I don’t know, Smith; I don’t know. But it’s a vile, dark business . . .”

  Mr. Mansfield’s ordinarily bland face grew hard and grim.

  “It troubles me,” he murmured, more to himself than to Smith.

  “What troubles you, Mister Mansfield?”

  “My blindness. Because I shall never clap eyes on that murderer. Because, till the day I die, I’ll never know what such a monster looks like. D’you understand me, Smith? D’you understand that, to me, devils and angels are all one?”

  Smith did not entirely understand the blind man’s strange sorrow; maybe because his mind was filled with the news that Mr. Field had been wealthy. Hopes of the document were now very high.

  “D’you understand me, Smith?”

  Smith nodded, then recollected Mr. Mansfield couldn’t see him and said, “Yes, indeed!” and went on thinking of his prospects.

  Soon after this Miss Mansfield came into the room and declared that it was growing too late to be talking.

  “Not so much for you, Papa, but for your young friend. Truly, he looks tired, sir! His bed is ready—and he ought to be in it.”

  Which remark, delivered most affably, was accompanied by a casting of eyes to the ceiling which said very plain: And the sheets he sleeps in will have to be burned! Oh Papa! This is outrageous!

  Smith’s room was small and oddly shaped, owing to its situation under the roof. It was as though the builder, arriving nearly at the summit of his labor, had come upon this extra space by surprise and, on the spur of the moment, had popped a door and a window to it so’s not to embarrass the stairs with leading to nowhere. A bed, a chest and a chair were the sole furnishings—and a pot of strong sweet herbs. For, though Miss Mansfield could burn the sheets after Smith had slept in them, she could not burn the room, so the herbs were the next best thing.

  Now Smith, though he’d slept on straw all his life, wasn’t so ignorant as not to know a bed when he saw one. He prodded it; he sat on it; he lay on it; he lay in it. He grinned—and directly went to sleep. This had not been his intention. He’d meant to have a great brood on his curious situation and enriched hopes. But the day had been too long for him, and the night too fierce. He was tired almost unto death. He slept without dreaming, without moving . . . He slept so long and so deep that Miss Mansfield, poking her head round the door in the morning, thought for the instant that he’d perished in the night and left behind him a small, black corpse.


  “Smith!” she cried. “Boy! Wake up! Directly!” And she poked at him with a walking stick she seemed to have brought especially for the purpose.

  Smith woke up, saw Miss Mansfield’s ferocious concern—and rolled deftly away. But he forgot he was sleeping two feet off the floor. He fell, and swore.

  “Language!” shrieked Miss Mansfield and poked at Smith furiously with the stick. He howled.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Mansfield cried from below.

  “Nothing, Papa! Your young friend fell out of bed. Ha-ha! No harm done!”

  Smith, unable to reach the door, had bolted under the bed. And there he crouched, very like a mouse, staring at Miss Mansfield’s neat ankles and brisk, black shoes.

  “Come out!” she muttered, and down flew her head, with her braided hair falling bolt downward to the floor like a pair of handsomely turned table-legs. “No one’s going to harm you!” And she prodded him with her stick to prove it.

  “Are you here, daughter?”

  Came a second pair of feet, large and slippered. Miss Mansfield’s head—with a last furious scowl—vanished.

  “Papa! You shouldn’t have come without help! You might have fallen, sir!”

  Mr. Mansfield laughed. Miss Mansfield’s feet shifted impatiently. The point of her stick kept prodding her toes—as if in default of another target.

  “Morning, Smith. Sleep well? My daughter has a fine breakfast for you. She’s a saint, child! As I told you—a real saint!”

  Down came the saint’s head. Come out! said her angry eyes. Come out, you disgusting object! Up went her head and vanished from view.

  “Mornin’, Mister Mansfield.” Smith had no quarrel with the blind man.

  “What? Back in bed?” The slippered feet moved towards him. “The voice betrays you! Give me your hand . . .”

  Miss Mansfield’s head was back again, peering round her father’s ankles. Her lips moved. “Please come out!” Sourly triumphant, Smith shook his head.

  “Where’s your hand, Smith?” Mr. Mansfield’s voice—puzzled.

  Miss Mansfield’s eyes were filled with tears! (I beg you—for pity’s sake, boy! Don’t shame me in his blind eyes.)

  Bewildered, Smith stared back. The mouse had made a discovery. The cat was as frightened and lost and lonely as he. Which was no comfort at all. Gloomily, he came out.