Foulsham

by Edward Carey

  A little further on I read,

  Sometimes, in the night, if I am very quiet, I can hear myself splitting. My skin when I tap it lightly makes a noise. It should not make a noise. I should not sound like porcelain. I look at cups and saucers, at plates and bowls with disgust now. Is that what I am? A china thing?

  I heard her outside then, and was quick to put the diary back. The next chance I had I read further and longer.

  My parents were from Italy, from Napoli, they were cheap performers, they sang and danced a little. They had a dog who did tricks, and they had me too. The theatre they were working in, The Heaving Heap in Filching, always a braced-up building, never a steady place, one day collapsed. So many died that night, the night that I was left alone. I hadn’t been performing with them. I was outside the theatre with the sandwich board trying to get people to buy tickets. I was ten then already and so able enough to stand up on my own. My family name was Crenzini and that came with much prejudice; it showed us up as foreign and alien, so I called myself Cruickshanks after Mama and Papa died because I thought it sounded hard and respectful and English. And no nonsense. The Ada I have always had with me.

  I found work as an assistant to a Filching schoolmistress. I was very strict. I worked so hard not to sound Italian, and I must have had some of my parents’ theatrics because people found me clipped and upright and quite believable. “You’re quite a woman already, Ada, aren’t you? I suppose you were born grown up,” she told me. I learnt from the mistress and soon could teach English myself. A great bully she was, Mistress Winthrop, but so thick with gin that she was ever more gin than human, more bottle than body. It may as well have been that transparent perfumed stuff swilling through her veins and not blood at all. I did more and more of the teaching.

  She could not be blamed perhaps; she had been brought low. Her husband who had been the schoolmaster was nowhere to be found. He’d upped and left, and the mistress remembered him often while polishing a small rubber truncheon that she never let out of her sight. This truncheon, it now seems to me, actually was her husband only in his changed state.

  And then one morning several of the children had gone missing, one whole form – my form. There was no one there, but such a chaos of objects that I had never known before: a brass cymbal, a milk jug, a horse whip, a fish hook. I said I did not know how such a thing had happened. I was called forth and given something to eat by a very kind-seeming man and that is the last I remember.

  That much, and no more. It is enough. I wish to go forwards not back again. I wish to remain Ada. To make her more solid than she has ever been before, it was a tenuous hold I had on life when I worked in Filching schools. I would like to live. This is the testament of Ada Cruickshanks. I am Ada Cruickshanks.

  The last time I read from the diary, I found this passage:

  Each person in the Iremonger circle must keep his thing to him, his birth object. You shall not last long without it; the disease shall come upon you. But I have lost mine. It was a clay button I am told, but is lost, lost for ever. And to think I must spend my precious time with the child who takes his birth object, that shining sovereign, and polishes it and plays with it not knowing how he thus mocks me. How he clings to it, and how they make such a fuss of it, for, they tell me so, there’s a person trapped inside that half sovereign, an important person.

  The person that is trapped in the sovereign has power over objects enough to rival Umbitt. I have been told that he, when he was a person, had somehow – because he had fallen in love with a common servant – sent all the objects into a turmoil. And so, if he could do that, if he could upset all because he had fallen in love – because in those moments he had such feelings – then what else might he be capable of? He was dangerous, I am told, and a wonder. For now, he must be kept as a sovereign where he may do no harm. He may be terminated. Umbitt might murder him, it has not been decided yet. They debate whether to ever let him out again. How could I tell the child that they are waiting to decide if he should live or no?

  Sometimes I look at the sovereign and I wonder if it were a person again could it help me? And what then, I wonder, should happen to the poor dumb child? How I should dearly like to warn him, but what good should that do?

  We are bound by some dark love. We are its opposite, its reverse. We suppress it, James Henry Hayward and I. We have snuffed it out, that forbidden loving. It is not our choice perhaps. And yet it is so.

  And yet, and yet, despite their efforts, I think it is already coming undone.

  They who live here around us see it, that old passion finding itself again. The truth of it is in my cracking. I am breaking up.

  I could not fully understand the passage, though there was surely that within the diary which terrified me. I resolved that the first ever opportunity I had I should be out of there and run into the Foulsham streets. I should search for my family. I should find my people. All my thoughts were on my escape, on my freedom, all I could think of was breathing air beyond Bayleaf House. I should have to take their precious coin with me, for a half sov was a deal of money and I should need to have that about me.

  I waited. I tucked myself up in my bed and waited. I waited for them to make a mistake. I lay blank before them, feeble and compliant, but my head inside me raged and raced!

  It happened right enough one morning. One early morning before the sun was quite up, when there were less people about, before the ritual of medicine and prodding and coin lifting.

  The mornings should generally begin with Miss Cruickshanks shaking herself up from the room beyond and then coming to talk at me through her veil. But she never came, not that morning.

  I crept out then. I looked over. Still nothing. I slipped out of bed. I crept over to the door, even braved myself to look beyond into her room. And she was not there. No Cruickshanks not for love nor money. She had been there though, sure enough. Her bed was unmade. Very unlike Cruickshanks that was. Then I saw that there was something in her bed, something other than sheets and blankets, something in the middle where the Cruickshanks body should generally be. I couldn’t see it very clearly. It was still dark, but a grey light was beginning to come. I got closer and even put my hand out towards it. It was a box of matches, an ordinary box of matches. How did that get in there? Perhaps it had fallen from her bedside table, for there was a candle there in a brass holder, and yet there was a lucifer beside it. Bringing the box from the bed up to my face I saw that it said SEALED FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE.

  I needed more light, some light to help me, so I tore it off and straight away took out one of the matches. Struck it, it didn’t light. Struck it again, and what a sizzling strange flame came off it! A weak, sad flame, barely enough to light the candle before it fizzled out.

  ‘Miss Cruickshanks? Miss Cruickshanks?’ I whispered.

  Not a sign of her, her clothes were there though. Her black dress laid out on the chair ready for her to put on, lying there like a deflated Cruickshanks, and there too was her terrible bonnet with its black veil, and all them outer things of Cruickshanks, waiting in the place. Waiting for Cruickshanks to tug them on to herself to cover herself up. Had she gone out in her nightdress?

  And that was what gave me the idea.

  Could I?

  Could I do it?

  The sun was still not all awake. It was dark yet. It was better to do it now. I’d have a greater chance if I was about it straight away. Yes! I would do it! I would dress myself up in Cruickshanks’ clothes. I’d be Cruickshanks with the veil over me and that way I’d get me out of there. What a plan! What recklessness! To wear all them women’s things! It wasn’t to be countenanced. Well then, show me another plan. Give me another way. There was no other way. It was only this or nothing else.

  So then.

  I put my own clothes on underneath. I tugged Cruickshanks’ dress over me. It was tight, she was such a lean one. It felt horrible, but I must do it. On, on! Hurry yourself James Henry Hayward. You’re more James Henry Hayward today tha
n you have been in many a day, whether you wear women’s clothes or no. I tied the bonnet on, I pulled the veil down. I picked up Cruickshanks’ looking glass and looked through it, well there was a shadowy face beneath the veil, one that was not like Cruickshanks, but maybe, I thought, maybe in the half-light: get you going!

  I was in her black lace-up boots, which gave me some extra height. I was all ready by the door. I had the key, it was around her belt. I had the key in the door, ready to head out. Wait though! Wait up! I went back to my bed, lifted my pillow, took up my half sovereign. There then! I plopped it fair and square in Cruickshanks’ pocket and then, only then did I turn the key in the lock and open the door.

  There was a guard there. I was expecting that, right beside me, upon a high stool. He stood up when he saw me, drowsy he was, napping I think. He stirred himself.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Cruickshanks,’ he said, ‘I was awake, honest mum.’

  I made a Cruickshanks-like snort. That was the advantage of pretending to be such a strict one that grunted so: I did not have to speak.

  ‘Going out are you, Miss Cruickshanks?’ the guard asked.

  I locked the nursery door, put the key back on the belt.

  ‘Not like you is it, Miss Cruickshanks? Not like you to go out of a morning. Everything all right is it?’

  I gave a single brief nod.

  ‘Anything I could do?’ he asked.

  A very brief shake of my bonneted head, and I threw in a grunt for good measure, to tell the guard he should not presume. I went down then. I clacked down the stairs in that horrible bootwear. I wobbled a bit I suppose, and nearly fell upon my face.

  ‘Are you sure you are quite all right, Miss Cruickshanks?’ the guard called down.

  My answer was a furious, ‘Sssssshhh!’

  I had to hope that had done it. I turned the corner then, the nursery was out of sight. I went down, down Bayleaf House, even to the ground floor. No one had stopped me yet. Every trembling footstep took me closer to victory. I was soon enough in one of the offices below, people readying for the day’s business, all the desks there, all the pipes and people running this way and that. I passed through them.

  Sometimes people stopped and bowed to me, but on I went, on and on. There was a sudden loud shriek which nearly set me screaming: I’ve been found out, I’ve been discovered. But it was only the noise of the black steam-engine coming in from the heaps. The old man would be arriving now, coming up into Bayleaf House for the day’s business. In former days I should be made happy by that sound, comforted by it. But not now, not any longer. I walked on, people passed by. Keep going, I told myself, keep going, with purpose. And there, there right ahead was the main door, the entrance way out of this place, and I walked to it, didn’t I, and the doorman opened it, didn’t he. And I walked on, just me doing that, no one else, I walked to the gate, right up to the gate. I spoke then, clearing my voice,

  ‘Let me out,’ I said, as strict as I may.

  ‘You want to go out, miss, into Foulsham?’

  ‘Out,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, miss, if you’re certain.’

  I nodded, and the gate was opened, and I was through. I hurried on down the street, I was outside! Passed the tall white building that I had often watched from the nursery window. I could see the other side of it then, see more of it than I ever managed before. There was writing on the front wall of it, MRS WHITING’S CLEAN HOUSE it said. ROOMS TO LET. There was an odd little man sweeping the steps with a broom who quite glared at me. And so I rushed on then, into Foulsham!

  It was so cold out there. Hadn’t felt it at first, so cold out from the factory, cold like I’d never be warm again. Steam out of my mouth, like I was an engine. How I missed my physic then, what I should have done for a spoonful. But I was free, I was out. There were tumbled down houses and not many people about, not that early. The sun up now, but only just, doing its best to break through. I could hear the waste heaps in the distance, waves of it smashing against the wall. There was ash in the air, and soot.

  I hid behind a gloomy hut. I tugged off the clothes, ripped off all Cruickshanks’ things and stood in my own togs, myself again. I had no shoes, I’d forgotten to bring them. It did not matter much. Most of the children of Foulsham I had seen from my window had no shoes or wore rags on their feet. I ripped some of Cruickshanks’ dress and tied myself some shoes from them. There I was then, out of it, away from Bayleaf House! All I wanted at first was to get me as far from that great factory as I may, so I just stumbled along, not looking in anyone’s face, not daring to, just making progress. I would have to ask questions, get directions. I knew that I must. I had my half sovereign in my pocket. I held onto it. I warmed it. It felt a little like company. Perhaps this sov was a person once after all. Only how could that ever be so, that was some fancy surely? Oh my own sov, whatever and whoever, I’m that glad to have you.

  Here I was then, back again in what was Filching and is now Foulsham.

  There I was at last.

  I plunged in. I told myself, go on, make a meal of it. I turned a corner and entered more populated streets, rough people in dirty clothes sitting in gutters, rag children running around, so different to how I was, so dirty. I walked on, less and less happy. I hadn’t thought I’d stick out so. Despite my rag feet, I was too well dressed for them. People everywhere looked up at me. I didn’t fit in, I didn’t belong there. And yet I could hardly go back.

  ‘Can I help you?’ someone said.

  And rather than answering I turned and ran.

  ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Up to no good.’

  ‘What’s he done then, to make him run like that?’

  People came after me, more of them, calling out, ‘Who are you? What’s your name? Stop a moment. Stop and have a word with us. Not the Tailor himself, are you? Hey, Nice Togs! Come and talk to us.’

  Children got up and followed me, finding the whole business delightful, running and skipping after me, singing,

  Spit spat sputum,

  Whither are you walkin’,

  Forlichingham Mound

  You are bound.

  Crick crack sternum

  You shall fall in.

  Slip and trip and smack your head

  Foulsham Mound, that’s your bed.

  I knew that song. I felt in my head that I knew it, that I had sung it myself as a child, no doubt skipping along these same dirt streets. Help me, oh help me. There must have been twenty of them and more coming along after me.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ I called, but still they followed. My way was blocked suddenly by a tall gruff man in a battered hat.

  ‘Have you got something?’ he said. ‘Something I’d want? Do you? Have you? What have you got? We share here in Foulsham, give it me. Hand it over. I mean to have it. Who says it’s yorn when it’s mine all along.’

  A huge ugly hand was put out, and I pretended to search my pockets, but then I bent down and I sprinted for all I could into a different street.

  ‘It’s mine!’ I heard the man call. ‘Whatever he has it’s mine! Grab ’im! Take that fat child down!’

  There was a house in front of me now with a crooked chimney pouring smoke from it. There was writing on the window, FOULSHAM PIESHOP. And in there I rushed. People at rickety tables in the half-light of the smoky room. Everyone looked around when I came in. I shut the door behind me. There were the grubby children peering in at the window. I couldn’t go out there, I shouldn’t go out there. I’d stop here a while. I’d stop here and catch my breath and after a time those children were certain to get bored, then I’d step out, but not a moment before.

  A very skinny girl with a filthy apron came up to me.

  ‘Do you know the House of Rats?’ I asked.

  ‘What are you havin’?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘truly I am. I don’t mean to disturb, but do you –’

  ‘Don’t care about your sorriness. No interest in it. What are you havin’?’


  ‘I am hungry,’ I said, ‘and that’s the truth. I haven’t had breakfast, I’ve usually had breakfast by now.’

  ‘Quite a regular one, are you then?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose, yes I am.’

  ‘What are you havin’? Can’t stay here if you’re havin’ nought, don’t cater for that lot. Got any money have you?’

  ‘Yes, yes I have.’

  ‘So then, sit you down and for the fiftieth time, what are you havin’?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Pies!’ she bellowed as if there were no other way to utter the word, and she followed it with one even louder, ‘Buns!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a bun, please, thank you, and a pie.’

  ‘Well then, hand it over, nothink for nothink.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Your lolly, you clown. Pay first, pie follows after. That’s how it is, if not you’ll be back out with your chums there. They look most eager for it.’

  ‘I need to find the House of Rats,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for my family, for the Haywards, do you know them? Could you give directions? Could you tell me? Hayward. House of Rats. Most urgent.’

  ‘What’s the rush? Done something have you?’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t. No rush, no rush. It’s just … do you know the House of Rats?’

  ‘Certainly I do, but sit you down have something to eat first, then I’ll tell you anything. That’s if you have any money.’

  ‘I do have money.’

  ‘So you says.’

  ‘Though I’d rather not spend it.’

  ‘And that’s a common enough sentiment. E’en so, cough up!’

  I put my hand in my pocket. I felt my half sovereign there. Held on to it.

  ‘I’ve no time for this,’ she said. ‘I’ll set Charley on you and he’s a brute. Charley! We’ve one that won’t pay here, he needs tossing out. Charley!’