London Folk Tales

by Helen East

  Inside there was a young female, sitting on the floor, facing sideways to the door. With her right finger she was tracing lines on the ground, as if she was reading something in the dust. The fat woman laughed, and the inmate looked up. Her eyes met his, and in that moment of shock, before he could stop himself, her name was on his lips. ‘Becky!’

  She froze. For an instant he thought he saw a spark of recognition; then she turned away. ‘What did you say?’ the fat woman asked curiously. ‘Is that her name?’

  ‘I … No … She just reminded me of someone, that’s all,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea who she really is.’

  ‘They call her The Sovereign,’ the woman said, with a laugh. ‘Funny that – I don’t mean the King. It was a gold sovereign, they say. She fought like mad to stop them taking it away. A lover’s gift they reckon it was. Or maybe a tip, once he’d done with her. Nobody really knows.’

  Becky was still quite young when she died. Perhaps it was her only means of escape. And yet her ghost stayed; they say it is seen to this day. Has she been held there by her sad search for the sovereign? Surely then she would have stayed in Moorfields.

  Instead, she followed Bedlam out of the city, first to new premises in St Georges Fields in Southwark, and then later when it moved again, into the countryside near Beckenham. By then, the old name ‘Bedlam’ had been dropped, and the old ways were also changed for good as knowledge grew, and sympathy too, for illness and trauma hidden inside the mind. In the sunshine and fresh air, surrounded by true care, it was felt that people had a better chance to reshape their lives.

  Perhaps Becky’s spirit felt this too. And maybe there, at last, long after she died, she found the love and peace that she was due.

  20

  LUCKY SWEEP

  Mrs Montague was one of those ladies envied by her whole circle of acquaintances. She seemed to have everything one could require in life: a wealthy and pleasant husband, a delightful little boy, a splendid house on the corner of Portman Square, and the health and leisure to enjoy it all. And she did, for she was one of those rare but welcome creatures who fully appreciated good fortune.

  Her little son was almost five years old, and a dear little thing, although full of high spirits and boyish energy. Luckily he had a nurse who was well used to dealing with children, and seemed the ideal choice for the position. Unfortunately, she had one or two failings, which she kept well hidden. The first was a most unsuitable man friend, who she would meet when out, but who had, of course, never been to the house. The second, possibly even worse, was an occasional taste for the bottle.

  That winter was particularly severe, and the Thames had entirely frozen over, and there was tremendous excitement about the Frost Fair on the ice. There were all sorts of fairground booths, and roundabouts, and games, but the highlight was an elephant that was being led across the river just below Blackfriars Bridge. The Montagues’ little boy, having been told about that, and the puppet shows and other delights besides, begged and pleaded with his mama to be allowed to see them. As nobody knew how long the ice would last, there was an extra note of urgency in his plea. Fortunately, his nurse was more than happy to take him, and so the treat was agreed for the following afternoon.

  The nurse, however, privately informed her man friend of this jaunt, and so he was there at Blackfriars to meet their carriage. And the afternoon at the fair, with his company too, became an altogther different kind of day out. The little boy had his pleasures, including going on one or two somewhat unsuitable rides. But the adults also wanted to have their fun, of course. And it being cold, there were cups of hot spiced wines and ciders to be had, and brandy for the gentlemen, as well as porter and other drinks, which the nurse and her friend participated in with great gusto, and increasing jollity, trailing the little boy behind as they visited the various stalls. At some point, having long since forgotten to hold firmly onto his hand, the nurse suddenly realised that her young charge, bored and ignored, had wandered away.

  Now, of course, there was an outcry, but search as they would he could not be found. Gypsies were suspected, but nothing could be proved. The nurse of course, was sacked, but that didn’t bring the little boy back. Mr and Mrs Montague, with all the money they had at their disposal, had the whole of London combed for their son, to no avail. Their dreadful distress was beyond all description, and Mrs Montague went from being one of London society’s most envied women to being one of the most pitied.

  Whether it was gypsies or others who had picked up the child, his smart clothes were soon sold, and he himself was cared for until he was old enough to be worth selling on, too. Being small and lithe, with, they claimed, ‘a good head for heights’, which was true in so far as he loved climbing trees, he was taken on by a chimney sweep who needed a boy.

  Now, as the king’s own grandfather had declared, when saved from a nasty fall by a sweep who soothed his startled horse, ‘Chimney Sweeps should be regarded as Lucky!’ And the Montagues’ son was lucky, because he happened to get a master who was kind to him. But he was not at all fortunate to have a job as a chimney sweep’s climbing boy, for it was horrible hard and dark work for anyone to be crawling through the chimneys of great houses in order to ensure that they were cleaned. However, perhaps because the chimney sweep took care of him, he survived.

  And perhaps because the chimney sweep was a pleasant fellow, they worked in many of London’s best houses. So it was that when the boy was nearly eight years old, they happened to be cleaning the chimneys in the house on the corner of Portman Square. These chimneys were large, and extensive. The young boy grew tired. Climbing down one of the smaller flues he found himself in a beautiful little bedroom. The bed in the corner looked so inviting, he could not resist going up to it. Sitting on the bed was a small cloth doll dressed like a tiny soldier. There was something about it that was so familiar, the little boy could not resist climbing onto the bed to take it in his arms. And the bed was so soft and the doll so comforting that he fell fast asleep.

  When the sweep’s boy did not re-emerge from the chimney, there was a search for him. He was not in any of the main rooms. The housemaids went upstairs and looked in the guest bedrooms, and the master and mistress’ room too, but still they found no one. There was only one room they had not visited, but they were reluctant to look in there. For that was the bedroom of the Montagues’ little son, who had been lost all those years ago. And on Mrs Montague’s orders, the room had been left exactly as it was on that fateful day.

  In the end they asked the mistress herself if she would mind checking that last chimney. It was Mrs Montague, therefore, who found the little sweep, fast asleep with the doll in his arms. She cried out in shock to see a child there, and he stirred, and opened his eyes. He was dirty, he was different, but she knew in that moment that he was her son returned. A little birthmark on his back soon had this confirmed.

  You cannot imagine the joy in that house. Or the gratitude poured on the old chimney sweep for sparing his stick on that child. The boy was sorry to say goodbye to him, and made him promise to come and visit. Which he readily agreed to do, since he wouldn’t be working so much anymore. Not now the Montagues had given him the reward they insisted he should have! From then on, the only work he’d be doing was weddings. A lucky sweep indeed!

  And from then on, too, Mrs Montague had a personal concern for London chimney sweeps and for climbing boys especially. For the rest of her life she opened her doors every year to all the sweeps of London town, for a May Day luncheon feast. And every single one of them was treated to roast beef, plum pudding, and porter, with a shilling or sixpence apiece to take home after. And since it had become such a tradition, and chimney sweeps are ones to keep good traditions going, it went on long after Mrs Montague was gone. Even today, the doors of that house are often open to all. But maybe that’s because it is now part of the British Museum.

  21

  WONDERFUL WIFE

  There was a lad who lived round Cripplegate way, and he wa
s courting. At least he hoped it might turn out that way before too long. They had talked, several times, and he was sure she also felt there was something special sparking between them. The trouble was, he was poor. He didn’t have two shillings to rub together. And the girl – well she deserved something more. Not that she was a toff. But she was nice. Brought up right. And he was – well, if anybody asked, he liked to say that he was on his way to learning the shoemaking trade.

  In fact, he was nowhere near that. He was absolutely at the bottom of the heap. He was one of the ones who helped the leather to tan. Not a very salubrious process because they used faeces for that, any they could get, but usually the dirt that the street dogs left. He’d be sent out with a bucket to pick up what he could. So as you could imagine, he didn’t smell too good, although he was quite particular about having a good scrub whenever he got the chance. For he was a good lad at heart, and honest as the day is long. People said he was stupid that way.

  Like the time when he heard a chink as he was running down the street and, turning round, he found a silver sovereign on the ground. What luck! But it was just behind a gentleman who had stopped to buy a paper, and it flashed through the lad’s mind that maybe he’d pulled the sovereign out by mistake, when he put his hand in his wallet to pay. So without thinking twice, he picked up the coin and said, ‘Sir, does this belong to you?’

  The gentleman was amazed. But when he checked his pocket he was so pleased with the young fellow, you wouldn’t believe. ‘You’ve restored my faith in human nature,’ said he. ‘I’m delighted to meet a young man like you. Where are you from youngster, and what is it you do?’

  Well, the lad started to stammer something about working for a shoemaker, but the gentleman was looking at him so intently he found himself slipping into the truth. ‘Well Sir,’ he explained, ‘that is to say, I help with shoes in a way, for I’m a tanner’s bucket boy. But I pretend I’m in the trade, ‘cause I wish I could learn how shoes are made – and anyone can dream, can’t they?’

  ‘They can indeed,’ said the gentleman, ‘and sometimes dreams come true. I’ve a cousin who makes shoes, good ones too. I’ll see if he needs an apprentice, an honest boy like you. Meet me here this time tomorrow, and I’ll let you know.’ And with that, and a tip of his hat, he was off and away down the street.

  Well first the lad was so excited he was walking on air. Then he couldn’t believe it at all; tomorrow the man wouldn’t even be there. Of course it was only a gentleman’s joke, he thought, as he waited next morning. But just as he was giving up hope, the man came round the corner. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but it’s all arranged,’ he called out with a cheery wave. ‘As for apprentice fees, let me pay them now, please. You’re honest enough to trust. Pay me back when you start to trade.’

  So that was the start of a whole new life, and the young lad worked like a fiend. He was determined to be the best ‘bespoke shoemaker’ you could find. His fingers were nimble, and his eye was very good, and he was so eager to learn, he did everything he should. At the end of his seven years he was an absolute master. He could do a stitch so very small he did sixty-four to the inch. And he sewed at such speed if there was need for it, no one could work any faster.

  The old gentleman, who’d often pop by to visit his cousin, was delighted with his protégée. Once he’d finished his apprenticeship, he paid the lad’s freeman fees. ‘Just so you can trade,’ he said. ‘I look after my investments.’

  Now he was a shoemaker, and a freeman of London town, he had the skills to make good shoes, and the right to sell them too. A fine future lay ahead. And there was still only one person he wanted to share it with. Whilst he was an apprentice he had been busy most of the time, but that young girl he wanted to court had always been on his mind. And he wasn’t just seeing her in his imagination, because once he knew he was all set for a real profession, and he’d scrubbed off the lingering stink of his old one, he’d summoned up courage to ask her out. He’d been right about that spark, she’d said ‘Yes’ at once. So he and she had been walking and talking – and so on – ever since.

  Where they went depended on when he was free, as he worked all hours. If it was dark, they’d go down by the river, watching the stars gleam on the water. If it was early, in the summer, their favourite place was Golden Lane. The goldsmiths would be working late on tables just outside their shops, taking advantage of the evening light. He’d admire the way they worked; the detail. She’d admire the work they’d done; the design. And they both enjoyed the sparkle. Secretly he also took note of the kind of rings she looked at most, promising himself he’d get her the best one day.

  So he started saving a bit from every job he did, putting it aside for that ring. The trouble was, although he had the skills and the rights to do good business, he didn’t have the money or the place to start one. All he could do was work for other people, which was alright to get by, but no way to let him buy. Not the ring he wanted anyway.

  And the next thing was, when they were out one day, they both of them got a bit carried away, and he popped the question and she said ‘Yes!’ straight away, like before. So they were to be married, and now he just had to get the best ring he could afford. Which turned out to be the thinnest of gold bands. He only hoped that she would understand. Being the kind of girl she was, she did. When the day came and he slipped it on her finger, she said it was the loveliest ring she had ever seen. She meant it too. He knew that, but it made him all the more determined to give her a ring anyone would be proud of, when he could.

  Fortunately luck was on his side. So was the old gentleman. Since his cousin was getting old, and not wanting to work much longer, he persuaded him to take on his apprentice as a partner. So now that lad had half a shop and all the work that he could want. Then he was earning money alright. Before long, enough to buy that ring. The sparkliest one you’d ever seen. Thick gold with a diamond on it. She loved it, but you know what? She kept her little band as well, wouldn’t take it off.

  Next thing he had to buy was a little house. Just in time before the baby came. It was right near St Giles-without-Cripplegate, which was handy for the christening. And for the next one too. Lucky the little house had a spare room. And space in the garden if they needed some more. Which was fortunate because she ended up having four. But his shoes and boots were in such high demand by then that money was no longer a real problem. Business was booming and he’d paid all his debts. As he got older he settled into being a man of wealth. Although he was generous with it too, helping other youngsters as he’d been helped himself.

  He never complained about doing so much work. The only thing he minded was that now he had to travel a lot. People all over England, and Europe too, wanted to hear what he had to say about handmade shoes. For now there was competition from machines. That was why he was not there when his wife fell ill. They thought she had just fainted, but they couldn’t bring her round. Her breathing grew shallower, and she simply slipped away. Of course they called the doctor, and he came at once. But her heart had stopped, and there was no pulse. There was nothing he could do.

  When her husband returned and found she was dead he nearly went out of his mind. He couldn’t forgive himself for being away; perhaps if he’d been there she might have been saved. He walked like a corpse himself with the cortege, and although it was only a step to the church, he had to be helped. Afterwards the children went to a neighbour’s house, and he went home by himself.

  It was all so sudden, the grave was not dug, so the coffin was laid in the crypt for the night. Rest In Peace she should have had then. But the sexton had noticed her diamond wedding ring. It had sparkled so, before the coffin closed, and it glittered in his head as he went back home. It was worth such a lot, and she didn’t need it now. No one would know anyhow.

  So, he crept back that night with a candle and the keys, and a knife in case of need. He unlocked the doors and went down into the crypt, and prised open the coffin lid. There she lay, arms crossed, and the cand
lelight caught an answering shine from the stone. What a waste it would have been to consign it to the dark. A diamond so large and hard against his palm.

  Her finger was cold, and although it was bent, he managed to ease the ring free. He slipped it in his purse and reached to shut the lid. Then he saw the glint of another ring too, gold and lonely left behind. Waste not want not. He’d have that as well. He reached out again, to repeat his success.

  But this little ring seemed to be held fast; he could get it to the knuckle but he couldn’t get it past. He pulled and he twisted. The ring wouldn’t move. But he refused to give up. If the finger wouldn’t straighten it would have to be cut. So he took out the knife, and he sawed and he sliced at the finger of the lady in the coffin. And she, lying there, felt a searing pain that cut through the cold, and cut through the coma, and cut through the numbness that had held her like a corpse. She screamed herself awake and up in her box, and her eyes wide open too.

  And the sexton, seeing this avenging ghost, dropped her hand and fled. No time to take the candle, nor to lock the crypt, nor to spare a second glance and see her rising to her feet.

  Dazed and confused but joyously alive, she let the candle light her up and out, and home to her husband. That thin little golden band he’d bought had brought them together again.

  They say in their second lease of married life, she had four more children before she died, and returned to be buried in St Giles.