London Folk Tales

by Helen East

  Stephen winked at his friend, and they both crept up close, as quiet as could be. Then Stephen carefully slipped the halter off the donkey, and fitted it on to his own head, falling straight into the same easy ambling way of walking as the donkey. Meanwhile, his friend took the animal and slipped away through the trees with it, going to the market by a roundabout route.

  Stephen kept going until they were safely away, and then he stumbled slightly, jerking on the rope. The old man looked round, and nearly fell over backwards in surprise when he saw that instead of a donkey he was leading a man.

  ‘What on earth are you doing there?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh master,’ sighed Stephen, on an almost braying mournful note. ‘You don’t want to know. It’s too bad to tell.’

  By now, of course, the old man was beside himself with curiosity. ‘I insist on an explanation,’ he said.

  ‘Then we’d better sit down,’ said Stephen. ‘For it is a sorry tale indeed.’ He settled himself with a sigh, leaning back against a tree, and after a moment, the old man followed suit. ‘It’s like this,’ Stephen went on in a confessional whisper. ‘You see, I was a man too, before. But not a very good one. In fact, a very bad one indeed. I committed a sin. So bad I was punished. Just like that! I was turned into a donkey.’

  ‘A donkey?’

  ‘Yes. As you saw for yourself.’

  By now the old man could hardly believe his ears. But it was true, he had seen the donkey. In fact, he had been making it work all year long. ‘What sin was it?’ he asked, all agog.

  ‘I don’t like to say,’ said Stephen hanging his head.

  ‘But you must! I might need to know myself!’

  So Stephen leant slowly forward and whispered something into the old man’s ear. What exactly it was, nobody knows, for no one else was there to hear. But the old man’s eyes went as round as a silver shilling. ‘You poor, poor fellow,’ he said. ‘Well take that halter off your head. You have certainly been punished enough. Just make sure you don’t do it again.’

  ‘I blame the drink. I’d had too much,’ admitted Stephen shamefacedly. ‘But now you’ve given me a second chance, I swear I’ll never touch a drop again.’

  The two men parted like good friends, and went their separate ways. The old man returned home with nothing in his pocket; Stephen went to share out the money from the donkey. He didn’t make very much. It wasn’t a particularly good beast. The man who bought it sold it on almost at once.

  Meanwhile, the old man needed a replacement. It took a good few months before he scraped up enough to be able to go back to the market. But what was his astonishment on his arrival there, to see his same old donkey standing waiting to be sold. ‘Drink again, I bet,’ said the old man sadly. ‘Well, you know where that leads. It’s no use expecting me to help you out again.’ And off he went to find himself a better behaved beast.

  Stephen Bunce, he was a fast one. No stopping him. Although, sometimes he found walking slowly led to quicker money. Another time, he was strolling through the forest when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the road nearby. Climbing up a tree, he could see it was a gentleman, riding an extremely fine horse. He flung himself down on the side of the road, pressing his ear to the grass.

  The gentleman naturally stopped when he saw someone lying like that. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Shush,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Listening to what?’ asked the other in surprise.

  ‘The fairies of course!’ whispered Stephen. ‘Such beautiful music isn’t it?’

  ‘But I can’t hear anything,’ the gentleman said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Stephen. ‘You don’t want to miss this. I’ll tell you what, this must be an especially good listening spot. You can have a turn here for a minute, just so you get a bit of it.’

  ‘But my horse is a bit lively,’ said the man. ‘I don’t want it to run off.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ exclaimed Stephen, pretending to be getting annoyed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to hold it for you then. But hurry up.’ So he got up and the man got down, quick as you can. He lay down on the ground, while Stephen took his horse.

  ‘Press your ear right down,’ he said as he climbed on the horse’s back. ‘Can you hear anything now?’ But all the man could hear was his horse’s hooves on the road, as Stephen galloped away laughing.

  He was a merry man all the way through. Right until he climbed his very last tree. The one that all highwaymen, however witty and tricky they were, expected to meet with in the end: Tyburn tree. Only one way down.

  18

  LODGER OF

  SOHO SQUARE

  When Soho Square was new, it was a much grander affair altogether, laid out with tall elegant trees, and beautiful flowers and a playful fountain. In the middle of the sparkling water was a splendid statue. It was meant to be the perfect place to take your ease, which, of course, it was. For it was all done in honour of the restored monarch Charles II, and the statue was of his royal self. And no one could have known better than him what pleasure it was to be able to sit back and relax, surrounded by ladies and other such beauties, in the centre of your own capital city. The statue is still there, restored to almost its original position, if not its original graceful state. For much has changed, not least the square’s name. Back in those days it was called King Square. And a sought-after spot it certainly was, with high-priced houses all round. Even after the merry monarch had gone, and the new century had begun.

  At that time, there was a house in the square that was too big for the current master. He and his wife lived in the main part of it, and the rest was let as furnished lodgings. A wealthy gentleman had recently taken up occupation. A charming man, but rather retiring, only desiring to keep himself to himself. ‘The perfect lodger, in fact,’ as the mistress remarked.

  The servants, especially the maids, were also relieved. The mistress liked everything to be ‘just so’, which meant there was always plenty for them to do, without having anyone else traipsing in and out, or leaving dirty marks on the carpets. At that time the list of servant’s tasks was daunting, and the lower you were in the pecking order, the longer it was. For the ‘maid of all work’, who was right at the bottom, it seemed endless. She was only thirteen, and new too, and already wishing she could go back home. She’d get up in the dark, haul water for baths, clean the grate, lay and light the fires, sweep and dust, wash and scrub and even mend clothes, empty the chamber pots, make the beds, help in the kitchen as required, and sometimes run out to the shops. By the time she was finished it was dark again, and she was ready to drop.

  One day the butler called her, and gave her a letter to be taken to the lodger. It had been delivered to the front door, and it seemed to be rather important. Later she glimpsed the gentleman himself, looking rather pale, on his way to talk to the master and mistress. Word soon seeped out downstairs. It seemed his brother had died; it was all very sudden and sad. And now there was a lot to arrange. The coffin would have to be taken to the family vault, which was a day’s journey away. So the lodger had asked if it might stay in the house overnight, and they would go on the next day.

  Of course the master said yes. The poor gentleman was obviously in such distress. But it didn’t seem right to have the corpse carried to his rooms upstairs. Then the mistress had an idea. There was space for the coffin to be laid in the library, which wouldn’t be needed that evening.

  So that was arranged, but the coffin bearers didn’t arrive until well after supper. It was a bit of a nasty night, which had delayed them, apparently. Although the mistress had stayed up to see the coffin brought in, and taken to the library, and the coffin bearers ushered out all politely, it was up to the servants after that, of course, to clean up that bit of mud they’d brought in from outside and to make sure all doors were locked fast, and the lights put out. And naturally, the poor maid of all work still had to do the final tasks, damping down the fire in the kitchen and so on.


  Actually she was quite glad of a bit of time on her own in the warm and the firelight because she thought it was a bit ghoulish to have a coffin in the house like that. It’d be different if there was a wake, and people sitting round it, but not sitting in there on its own.

  She must have sat down herself for a moment, and dozed off, for all of a sudden she was woken by the sound of the kitchen door creaking open. Looking up, still half-asleep, she thought at first she was dreaming. In through the door glided a terrifying apparition. Tall, deathly pale, wrapped in a shroud – it was the corpse itself out of the coffin and walking. Too shocked even to scream, she managed to dodge around it and race upstairs to the master and mistress’ bedroom. She was that upset she didn’t wait to knock – she just burst straight in.

  As you might imagine they woke in a state of confusion, and hastily lit candles to see what was going on. But once they had, there was no need for the girl to try to explain, for the awful corpse had followed after her. There it stood, blocking their exit, grinning and grimacing in such a menacing fashion that the mistress had the vapours, and the master, brave though he was, didn’t dare to move an inch.

  Then suddenly, the whole house seemed caught up in the nightmare, with odd noises and clatter and confusion, as if an army of the dead was storming through. The servants in the attic tried to come down, but the door was mysteriously locked, so they started hammering and shouting, to add to the mayhem. The master attempted to get up then, but the corpse pointed a finger at him, and he collapsed in terror, while the maid and the mistress dived under the bed.

  Eventually they realised the noises had stopped. The girl emerged from under the bed, and saw that the ghoul in the doorway had gone. But when they all went out to look, they saw a number of other things had gone too. Silverware and gold ornaments, some fine ivories, and all sorts of other valuables. Precious pictures had been pulled off the walls, the master’s portmanteau rifled, and drawers emptied out all over the floor. The coffin was empty too, of course. So was the lodger’s bedroom.

  It seemed that the spectre and corpse had in fact been very much alive, and was the theatrical half of a duo of thieves. His counterpart was rather more private, the quiet brains behind the scheme. And a perfect gentleman lodger.

  19

  BECKY OF BEDLAM

  There was a merchant in Fish Street Hill, by London Bridge. He had several servants, amongst them a young maid who was pretty enough and worked hard, too – although if you didn’t do that you would soon be out on your ear. But she was a bit of an innocent, easily impressed by the things she didn’t know about, and there were plenty of those! Her name was Rebecca, quickly reduced to ‘Becky’. She was certainly at everybody’s beck and call.

  The merchant took in lodgers, and one of them was a student. One of Becky’s many jobs was to clean his room. Oh, how she loved that job! She would save it till last, so she could look forward to it all day. For he had many books, and since she could neither read nor write, to her they were things of great mystery and strange beauty. She loved to touch them, and once, greatly daring, she opened one, and ran her fingers along the letters, pretending she could read. She liked to imagine what they were about, making up stories in her head to fit. Being rather a dreamer, she sometimes got lost in her ideas and spent far longer in his room than she realised, which was why one day she got caught. She actually had the book in her hand when she heard the door opening behind her, so there was no denying it. She was so scared she started to cry, thinking she would lose her place because of it, and then what would she do?

  But he was more than kind. He said he was glad she liked his books, and even offered to show her them one day. When he heard that she couldn’t read, he patted her on the shoulder, and smiled. ‘Maybe I will have to teach you,’ he said.

  And so they began to meet. Just for a few minutes at first, but it soon got longer. And he soon got interested in teaching her other things. More entertaining for him than books. Once she got to know him, she realised that he was younger than she thought, not all that much older than her, and not that bad looking either. And he was so kind to her. Nobody had ever taken an interest in her before, not like that. She knew it was wrong, but she liked to please him in return, and before the year was out, she was wildly in love with him. And he her, she was sure of that. The way he kissed her! So it led on, naturally enough, and he got her to slip into his room at night. She was a bit afraid something would come of it, but then even if it did, maybe it was a bit early to start a family but they would manage, she was sure. Plenty of people did. When he talked about what he would do after he finished his studies, she saw herself in his plans. Little Becky the wife of a learned man – whoever would have believed it!

  And then the time came when he had to take his exams, and of course there were no moments free for Becky then. But she understood. It was all for her good too.

  And then they were done. And then she heard from the cook that he was going to move on. And she was hugging her secret to herself, waiting for him to ask – she was ready to go. And then he was packing and the boxes going downstairs and no one else looking for a moment. And he came up to her with a smile on his face, and she smiled back. Oh she was so happy! And he reached out and caught hold of her hand – the left one, the wedding hand – he opened it up and kissed it. And then put a gold sovereign right on her palm, and turned away.

  She just stood there, staring. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The gold so cold on her warm skin. And then she began to scream.

  They said she’d had some kind of a fit. And she’d fallen so hard on the ground it must have hurt something, for after that the blood came pouring out, and her skirts all soaked, and she thought she was dying. And it might have been better if she had, cook said. Because there was all the fuss and the disgrace, and of course she lost her place. Not that she’d have been able to go on doing the work she’d done, even if she still had any sense. Because whatever it was in her left hand she wouldn’t let it go, she held it so, and cook almost got bitten when she tried to pry it free. She was out of her wits altogether, that girl.

  Nothing the master could do, even if he’d wanted to. No use throwing good money after bad. The only place that would take her in was Bedlam. She was lucky not to be just left in the street. Not that she showed any proper gratitude.

  Bedlam had moved to Moorfields by then and it was as nice as pie now for the lunatics. Didn’t hardly get chained up at all, and they weren’t all together in one big hall. Mind you, that was more for the sake of the warders – it would drive you mad yourself, to be in the same space with all the bellowing and roaring and screaming. Like Hell. That’s one reason it got the name Bedlam. St Mary of Bethlehem, it had been in the beginning, when it was a priory, but that was hundreds of years before – no one remembered that any more. But the place it was at now, at Moorfields, well that was like a holiday. Far more than they deserved, most people with any sense said. They had different ‘wards’, as they called them now; one was for ‘Curables’ that they thought the doctors could cure – doctors, yes! They had them and all! ‘Talk about lucky!’ people said.

  But when they got Becky there, she was wild as a cat. Screamed and fought and all sorts. It took two men to force her hand open, and get that sovereign out. And afterwards she kept on searching and searching, trying to find it, in her hand, up her skirts, in a crack on the floor that was much too small, you name it, she looked there – it was laughable.

  But after a few months she began to look like she’d managed to lose herself too. Eyes all empty, not even seeming to hear, just sitting there, rocking, rocking, rocking. That’s when they moved her on, into the incurables. She wasn’t any bother then, at least. You could forget her altogether until something sparked her off. No one ever worked out what it was, maybe a sound that got through, or a movement, but it would switch her on again, like a wind-up toy. And she’d do all that searching stuff again. Or sometimes cry and tear her hair. Only for a bit, but it was enough to sat
isfy spectators.

  For this was the time of George III, when even royalty were mad. It was almost a fashion. And it was certainly fashionable entertainment to go and have a peep at Bedlam. For a penny you could peer into every cell, and see what the lunatics got up to. It was a real laugh sometimes.

  And the first Tuesday of every month it was free. Mind you, it was packed, hundreds there, you could hardly move. What you’d do, if you knew the ropes, was to shuffle through with everyone else in a long queue, but when you got to the cell that you liked best, you’d step out of line and hang on the window bars as tight as you could, face pressed against them. Then everybody else just had to go on past.

  Becky didn’t get many of those dedicated visitors, because most of the time she wasn’t doing anything. But you might strike lucky, and get one of those moments worth watching. Besides, you didn’t have to fight so hard for the window spot.

  Perhaps it wasn’t a Tuesday when he came. At any rate it wasn’t so full that he couldn’t get through. He didn’t know she was there, of course. And he wasn’t there just to stare, either. Or at least that’s what he told himself, although there was an awful fascination in seeing them, one after another. But it was his job now, in a way, to see how people behaved. All that endless studying and those terrifying examinations he thought he’d never pass. But he had, and now he knew that it had all been worth it, because it had led in into a branch of medicine that was quite fascinating. And potentially a promising career too, although he was only a lowly assistant so far. But he was ambitious. Which was why he was here, on a rare day off, to learn whatever he could. If only the large woman in front would hurry up and move along. She was almost blocking the whole corridor, and certainly monopolising the window to the next cell. He was about to push on past, and get ahead at least, but something made him glance through the little gap between the woman’s fat shoulder and her hat.