Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Sparrer Fart looked up and pointed to Bob Marley and then to Ikey. ‘Oh yeah, ‘ow come Mr Marley’s got ‘arf a sov what’s yours and I’ve got a sov? Be that the wisdom o’ Solomon?’

  The boy ducked as Ikey swatted at his head with his free hand.

  Marley laughed, delighted at the boy’s quick mind. ‘You’ve not lost yer touch, Ikey, yer still the best o’ the kidsmen, there ain’t no one knows better ‘ow to pick the fly ones!’ He too patted the top of Sparrer Fart’s greasy cap. ‘Stay away from the gin, you’ve got all the makin’s, son.’

  Sparrer hadn’t moved. ‘What about t’other lads, Ikey? You promised them a shillin’ fer lookin’ and a good tightener wif a pint o’ best beer to follow.’

  Marley looked suspiciously over at Ikey. ‘That true?’

  Ikey gave him a sheepish grin and a reluctant hand went into the interior of his coat and shortly returned with two sovereigns which he handed to Sparrer. ‘Mind you give this to Sweetface Mulligan to share out. He’s the kidsman when I’m away. Now scarper! Bugger orf!’ He turned to Marley. ‘Shall we go upstairs, there’s a fire in the ‘earth.’ Then remembering Marley’s reluctance he added, ‘It ain’t dangerous, only a tad rickety but the stairs be solid enough.’

  ‘What, up them?’ Marley said in alarm and pointed above to the dark shape of the stairs where Sparrer Fart had disappeared as though swallowed into a deep black hole. ‘Not bleedin’ likely! We’ll talk down ‘ere if ya don’t mind.’

  Ikey clasped his hands together in front of his chest. ‘I needs a lair, a place where somebody what’s lookin’ ‘ard and knows what they’s lookin’ for, can never ‘ope to discover who it is they wants to find.’

  ‘Hmm, a good ‘iding place o’ that nature, cost ya ‘eaps,’ Marley said speculatively. ‘Big reward out, Ikey, ‘arf London Town’s lookin’ for. . .’ grinning he quoted The Times, ‘the Jew what’s financially undermined England!’ Marley shook his head in a melodramatic way. ‘ ’Fraid ya ain’t got no friends no more. City police is spreadin’ five pounds notes about just for keepin’ a sharp eye out. There’s a fortune on yer ‘ead.’ Marley paused and gave Ikey an evil grin. ‘Matter o’ fact, I could be interested meself!’

  Ikey reeled back in horror, his eyes large with fright. ‘Don’t talk like that, Bob Marley! I taught you everythin’ you knows. Was I not your kidsman?’ Ikey smiled, his voice somewhat calmer as he remembered. ‘You was a good snakesman though, that I’ll freely admit. In and out o’ the smallest openin’s, a natural eye for good stuff too!’ Ikey spread his arms and smiled disarmingly. ‘Look at you, my dear! Not a copper’s dirty great ‘and on your shoulder in all these years. Never stood in front o’ the bench, never seen the judge’s dreaded gavel come down pronouncing a sentence, nor ‘as you ‘ad the misfortune to look out from the inside o’ the bars o’ a Newgate cell.’

  Ikey paused to emphasise his point, jabbing his forefinger at Bob Marley. ‘That don’t come natural, my dear! That’s trainin’, expert trainin’, what you got young from a certain someone what is present and is beseechin’ you to offer an ‘elping hand in ‘is hour o’ most urgent need!’

  Ikey cleared his throat and his tone became unctuous. ‘I’m a bit short at the moment, unforeseen expenses and the like, but you knows me credit to be good. Me lovin’ wife Hannah will pay you when she comes to see me.’

  Marley shook his head. ‘Don’t know ‘bout lovin’ wife, Ikey. Yer missus weren’t none too pleased findin’ out ‘bout Mary and yer high-class brothel in Bell Alley an’ all!’

  ‘Oh shit, she knows about Mary? ‘Ow’d she know about Bell Alley then?’

  Marley laughed. ‘S’pect she read it in The Times. The ‘ole of London’s talkin’ ‘bout you, Ikey. What ya done an’ all, inta-nash-nil forgery ring, plots to send the ‘ole country broke wif fake English longtails floodin’ the European market. Britain’s credit in question by the Frenchy parley-ment! Austry-’Ungarian empire financially embarrassed and undermined! Yer a right notorious bastard, you is. If ya wasn’t in so much shit you’d be the bloomin’ toast o’ the London criminal class. You is the biggest thing what’s ‘appened since Queen Caroline’s trial!’

  Ikey ignored Marley’s exaggerated banter. ‘Well, you may be sure Mary will pay you, then,’ Ikey whined.

  ‘Mary? Mary’s in Newgate! She’s been in front o’ the beak and is awaitin’ sentencin’ at the Old Bailey. She’s Botany Bay bound for sure.’ Marley sniffed and looked ominously at Ikey. ‘City arrested ‘er three days after ya scarpered, charged ‘er wif runnin’ a bawdy ‘ouse, but that were only the excuse.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Ikey cried. ‘Mary get the boat for runnin’ a bawdy house? It ain’t possible, runnin’ a respectable brothel ain’t no crime what merits transportation!’

  ‘That’s what folks is sayin’ in the Lane. There’s talk she’ll get the full fourteen years.’ Then Marley added darkly, ‘On account of you, ya bastard. City ain’t convinced she don’t know nuffink ‘bout that printin’ press and what you’ve been up to wif the deaf and dumb Frenchy.’

  Ikey looked up astonished. ‘She kept stum? She didn’t bleat?’ If Mary had turned King’s evidence and Ikey were caught there wasn’t a judge in England who wouldn’t find her information damning.

  ‘She didn’t say nuffink to nobody! That’s a bloody good nemmo that is.’ Marley jabbed a finger into Ikey’s scrawny chest. ‘Better’n what the likes o’ you deserves, Ikey Solomon.’

  Marley paused and shook his head. ‘ ’Fraid I can’t give ya no credit, Ikey. I can’t take no chances.’ He shrugged. ‘So that’s it, it’s all a matter o’ business, knows what I mean? Pay up and I ‘elps you to escape, don’t and I marches ya straight to the City constabulary and collects me considerable reward for the heroic happrehension of England’s number one notorious villain.’

  Ikey examined the tops of his mittened hands, shook his head slowly, then looked up at Bob Marley accusingly. ‘You got a bet each way, is that it!’ In a broken whisper he added, ‘Shame on you, Bob Marley!’

  Bob Marley shrugged. ‘ ’Fraid so, me old matey. Business is business!’ He paused, grinning. ‘Now who was it taught me that?’

  ‘ ’Ow much?’

  ‘Twenty sovs down.’

  ‘Twenty sovs!’ Ikey wailed. ‘That be pure daylight robbery!’

  Marley, not bothering to reply, shrugged and held out his hand.

  ‘Fifteen? Fifteen sovs!’

  Marley shook his head slowly. ‘I’d like to, Ikey, but this ain’t no ordinary deadlurk what’s needed. I got expenses. Twenty sovs now and ten fer every week what I keeps ya safe in ‘iding.’

  Ikey made one final attempt. ‘Twenty and five!’

  ‘Twenty and ten, take it or leave it. I ‘asn’t got all night.’

  Ikey sighed and, turning his back to Bob Marley, he foraged deep within his great coat and fished into a bag of coins which he knew contained two hundred and seventeen gold sovereigns, the last of the money Silas Browne and Maggie the Colour had paid him in cash for the Bank of England watermarked paper.

  Getting back from Birmingham had proved an expensive business. Twice he’d had to pay heavy bribes when he’d been recognised from his picture on posters which seemed to be sprouting like crocuses in April on the walls of every village or town through which he passed on his circuitous route to London.

  Ikey slowly counted the twenty sovereigns into the slasher’s hand. Marley counted the coins for himself, biting every second one as a test. Satisfied, he placed them in the pit pocket of his vest, then held his palm out to Ikey, wiggling the ends of his fingers.

  ‘What?’ Ikey asked, his eyes large and innocent.

  Marley wiggled his fingers again. ‘The ten sovs what’s the first week’s rent in advance,’ he said quietly.

  Ikey seemed at the point of tears as he counted ten more coins into Marley’s outstretched maw.

  ‘Cheers, Ikey!’ Marley said, acknowledging the payment, then added, ‘I got a nice
little place, a dead-lurk on Jacob’s Island what is perfect for the purpose o’ bein’ in lavender. Lots o’ bolt holes. Mind, ‘iding a man o’ yer extreme notoriety what everyone’s lookin’ for ain’t easy and is very dangerous to me own safety.’

  Bob Marley, now all business, placed his hands on his hips and looked quizzically at Ikey. ‘You’ll not be goin’ out wif me dressed like that. Ain’t a magistrates’ runner or nark in London wouldn’t recognise ya in an instant in that schemata. Buggered if I know ‘ow ya got this far. Ya stick out like a bloomin’ whore at a christening, ya does!’

  Ikey opened his arms wide, palms outwards, and looked down at his chest in surprise. He had always assumed himself totally disguised in his long coat with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead. ‘I’m as invisible as the very night itself, my dear,’ he said, clearly bemused at Bob Marley’s uncharitable remark.

  ‘Quite right! Invisible as the bleedin’ ‘arvest moon on Chatham Common.’ Bob Marley pointed at Ikey’s coat. ‘Take your’n orf and put mine on.’ Then removing his battered top hat he retrieved a cloth cap from within it and placed this upon his own head. Removing Ikey’s hat, he dropped it gingerly to the floor, replacing it with the top hat which he set firmly on to Ikey’s head, giving its crown a solid thump. The brim immediately dropped over Ikey’s eyes and kept sliding until it stopped, trapped halfway down Ikey’s nose.

  Ikey gave a small squeak of alarm. ‘Not me coat, I can’t take leave o’ me coat, not now, not never!’ he pleaded.

  ‘Christ, Ikey. I’ll wear it! Ya won’t lose it!’ Marley said impatiently. ‘Ya can ‘ave it again when we gets to the isle.’

  Ikey now pushed the top hat furiously off his head so that it tumbled backwards bouncing on the floor and rolling. ‘Never, not ever, no, no no, not me coat!’ he moaned.

  Marley watched in amazement as Ikey clasped his arms about his chest hugging his coat, whimpering and rocking as though his life depended on it remaining on his back.

  Which, of course, in Ikey’s eyes was most certainly the case. Without his coat Ikey considered himself skinned and in no way different to an animal being led to the slaughteryard. Once skinned of his coat he believed he’d soon enough be hooked and hanging like some freshly peeled beast.

  Marley appeared to be thinking, his hand cupped to his chin, ‘I tell ya what. . .’ He was about to say something, then changed his mind, paused and looked at Ikey. ‘But it will cost ya another two sov.’

  ‘What?’ Ikey asked tremulously, backing away. ‘You’ll not have me coat, Bob Marley!’

  ‘It be cold enough outside to freeze ya balls orf, but ya can wear me coat over your’n.’ Bob Marley gave Ikey a fierce look. ‘Mind, if I catches me death of this act o’ extreme generosity, I’ll cut yer bleedin’ throat, Ikey Solomon!’ He began once more to remove his coat, though first he removed the woollen scarf from its pocket and placed it about his neck.

  For once, at the mention of money, there was no hesitation from Ikey. Almost before Bob Marley had ceased speaking, and long before he’d removed his coat, Ikey held out the two extra gold coins. ‘Not me coat,’ he whimpered. ‘Not never me coat!’

  Marley’s coat proved sufficiently voluminous to accommodate Ikey within his own, but when it was fitted to his tiny body it dragged nearly ten inches on the ground. Furthermore, the sleeves extended six inches beyond Ikey’s mittened fingers. Though this was of little consequence, the hemline of the coat dragging on the floor made it almost impossible for Ikey to walk at anything but a snail’s pace.

  Bob Marley looked puzzled, then suddenly he grabbed the back of the collar of the outer coat and lifted the entire garment so that the collar dropped over the top of Ikey’s head in the manner of a monk’s cowl. With his whiskers mostly concealed behind the lapels of the borrowed coat, Ikey now looked like an old crone.

  Marley then produced a large silk handkerchief and, twirling it from corner to corner, tied it about Ikey’s neck so that the hoisted top of the coat would not slip from his charge’s head. This gave Ikey an even greater likeness to the shape of an old woman who, if casually observed in the darkness of the street, might be thought to be wearing a shawl about her head. Furthermore, with the lifting of the coat over Ikey’s head, the sleeves now almost fitted, the tips of Ikey’s mittened fingers protruding from the ends. It was an altogether admirable arrangement and Bob Marley stood back and felt well pleased with himself.

  ‘Perfect! Even if I says so meself. If we’re stopped by a crusher, you is me dear old muvver what’s come up from the country. ‘Ere, wrap this around yer gob so they won’t see no whiskers if the law wants to take a closer gander at ya.’ Marley handed Ikey the woollen scarf which hung from his neck.

  Ikey reached out for the scarf. But with two coats on his back he could barely move his arms, much less wrap the scarf about his already tightly cowled head. Bob Marley grabbed the scarf and wound it around the bottom half of Ikey’s face so that all that showed were the bright points of Ikey’s bloodshot eyes.

  ‘ ’Ullo, old darlin’,’ Marley said and blew a kiss in Ikey’s direction. His expression became suddenly impatient. ‘C’mon, then, let’s scarper. I’m ready so chilled me arse’ole thinks it’s suckin’ on a lemon!’

  ‘What about me ‘at? You’ve left me ‘at!’ Ikey cried in a muffled voice, pointing at his hat discarded on the floor.

  Marley walked over to the banister and retrieved the candle. ‘Fuck yer ‘at, Ikey!’ he said, kicking the hat into a dark corner. ‘Fer Gawd’s sake let’s be rid o’ this place before the law adds two and two and comes up wif a very popular arrest!’ He rolled the jar containing the smoking candle back into the hallway and closed the door behind them.

  Outside the wind howled and a sudden flurry of snow beat down on them, so that neither man heard the door open and then close again, or noticed the small shape of Sparrer Fart as he too left the Academy of Light Fingers. Under his arm, its broad brim almost touching the ground, the urchin carried Ikey’s hat. He watched carefully as the two men turned towards Rosemary Lane and then he began to follow them into the bitter London night.

  Hannah was woken to the loud knocking at the door of her Whitechapel home. The knocking seemed to have been going on for some time for she remembered it in her sleeping as she struggled to emerge from her laudanum-induced stupor. She’d returned home from the last of her brothels in the dock area just hours before dawn and had expected to sleep until midday.

  She was too bleary-eyed to think why the Irish maid-of-all-work who slept with the two younger children hadn’t responded to the knock. Wrapping herself in a blanket and thinking only that the slut had probably been at the gin again, having first fed it to the children to quieten them for the night, Hannah made her way down the stairs. She opened the front door to see Sparrer Fart standing on the snow-covered bottom step clutching what appeared to be a large hat.

  At first the small urchin holding the hat made no sense. The street about her was transformed from its usual greyness and was white and clean from a fresh snowfall. It was still too early for people to be making their way to the Whitechapel markets around the corner, so that the street had the quality of a dream, enhanced further by the residual effects of laudanum. Hannah’s face screwed up in vexation at the sight of the small boy who had the temerity to hammer at her door. She was about to send him packing with an oath when he stammered, ‘Itttt’s ‘bbbout Ikkkey Ssssolmon, mmmissus!’ Then slowly, her confused mind focused on the shape of Ikey’s hat clutched under the urchin’s arm.

  Hannah rubbed her eyes, now suddenly fully awake, though the vestiges of the drug caused her words to slur when she spoke.’Ikey? Ya got news?’

  ‘Iiiit’s urrrrgent, mmmmissus!’ the small boy managed to say through half-frozen lips, his breath smoking in the freezing air.

  ‘Come in, boy!’ Hannah opened the door wider to let Sparrer Fart pass into the hallway. ‘Keep walkin’ to the kitchen in the back, I’ll not ‘ave such as you in me parlo
ur.’ Her head was surprisingly clear as she directed the urchin to the rear of the house.

  ‘We ggggot ‘immmmm missus!’ Sparrer said, turning to her as they reached the kitchen.

  ‘Got ‘im, who’s got ‘im? Who’s we?’

  But the boy now seemed in a state too frozen to communicate further. He silently held up the hat for Hannah to see. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering so furiously that it was plainly impossible for him to talk. Ikey’s hat jerked and shook as though it might jump of its own accord from his tiny fist.

  Hannah took a key from around her neck and opened a cupboard from which she took a quart bottle of brandy. She unhooked two small pewter mugs from the dresser, poured a small splash into one and handed it to Sparrer Fart. ‘ ’Ere, get that down yer gob, do ya the world.’

  Sparrer dropped Ikey’s hat and grabbed the mug with both hands, gulping greedily at the raw liquor. He began to choke and cough as the fiery liquid hit his stomach and chest, though he showed that he was well enough accustomed to such a reaction. Soon enough he took a second, more cautious, sip from the mug.

  Hannah, clutching the blanket around her with one hand, poured a dash of brandy into the second mug and seated herself at the table.

  ‘Well, what ‘as ya to say for y’self, boy?’ she demanded, pointing to Ikey’s hat. ‘No way Ikey would o’ parted with ‘is ‘at.’ She looked suspiciously at Sparrer, who was still shaking and clapping at himself. ‘Ya ain’t done Ikey no ‘arm now, ‘ave ya?’ she demanded.

  Sparrer shook his head and lifted the mug to his still chattering teeth for another sip.