Another figure of importance, whose role was not altogether foreign to that of the public house landlords – although he would have denied this fiercely – was the Reverend Rupert Hobbes. A fellow utterly removed in character from the wizened Bowrib, he had, from a dingy church of recent construction, taken upon himself the task of reforming the area – in very much the same spirit as missionaries sent to darkest Africa – an ambition that acquaintanced him with many of my neighbours. His face exuding joyless determination, he answered my questions willingly enough, if with a faint odour of disapproval. I suspected he was unhappy at another stranger come to this territory of squalor that he had come to regard as his own; had I been more abjectly crushed and purposeless he would perhaps have welcomed me more kindly.
And then? Smart Jermyn Street shops, gin palaces, dingy hotels. I interviewed scornful receptionists, shop managers, loiterers and more, until the questions rang in my head with the familiarity of prayers.
‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m searching for a woman who disappeared close by here. This is her likeness, though it was taken a few years back.’
With time I had a growing sense of being recognized by people I did not know, but who had heard of me by repute. All across the society I found myself regarded with near identical glances – wary – as if those questioned had heard already of my enquiring. Nor was this an illusion; they HAD heard. ‘So you’re the one, eh?’ I would be told. ‘Like asking questions, don’t ya?’
A wearying task, the constant accosting of suspicious strangers. It was with some relief that I found myself standing outside a familiar doorway, above which a face known to me was likely to be found. I glanced at Katie’s window, considering whether to go up. What harm could she do me now? I was beyond blackmail.
‘Why if it isn’t Mr Aldwych, come after all this time.’ She smiled as she opened the door. ‘What a treat to see me gent again. Katie’s liked to think sometimes of Henry up on some lonely mountin’, buildin’ his rileways.’ Inspecting me more carefully, she frowned. ‘What you been up to? Had yourself an accident?’
For a moment I was puzzled. Then I realized she must be surprised by my appearance. Probably I looked a touch tired about the eyes. My clothes, too, were in something of a state. In my enthusiasm for selling I had rid myself of all but one of each garment – one top hat, one frock coat, one pair of trousers, one shirt, and a single pair of boots – and, though I cleaned these frequently (usually in the small hours of the night, that I might avoid the derisive shouts of passing urchins) I was inexpert at the art of washing, and they seemed to finish hardly cleaner than before I began. Indeed, the constant scrubbing brought new difficulties; none of the garments being in their first youth, shirt collars soon grew frayed, cuffs and elbows likewise, while my frock coat and trousers lost all shape, and would billow and sag like ships’ sails in squally weather.
‘Nothing like an accident,’ I informed her. ‘I’m most well.’
She shrugged, still doubtful. ‘Coming inside, then?’
‘I won’t. Not today.’ I had no wish to give her the wrong impression, short of shillings as I was. A pity. Seeing her so close before me, her warm form so evident beneath her loose dressing gown, I felt stirrings within. ‘In fact I’ve come to ask you a question.’
‘As you like.’ Distant at my refusal, she leaned against the wall, examining the locket with something like disapproval. ‘No, I ain’t seen this one. Who is she, then?’
This I was not prepared to have her know. ‘A friend of mine.’
‘More than a friend, I’ll guess.’ My rather transparent deceit seemed to annoy her.
‘Try and remember her face,’ I urged. ‘You might see her in the future. If so, then tell me at once – it’s most important. You can find me easily, as I’ve rented a room close by here.’
‘Round here?’ Her eyes narrowed as I told her the address. ‘That’s ’orrible bad, it is. What you doin’ with yourself in such a place?’
There seemed no reason to be secretive. Perhaps I imagined I might even win a little sympathy; a commodity I had had little enough of, after all. ‘I’ve rather fallen on hard times.’
My expectations proved wide of the mark indeed. ‘You?’ She regarded me with something like anger. ‘What about your job buildin’ all them rileways?’
‘I had to stop.’
‘Stop? But how can you ’ave?’ She spoke as though I had deliberately let her down. ‘’Tisn’t right.’
As if it were anything to do with her. I replaced the locket in my pocket. ‘You remember my address?’
She was not to be distracted. ‘Why should I then? After you’ve been gone cheatin’ an’ deceivin’ honest folks.’
‘I’ve done no such thing.’
She eyed me coldly. ‘Told Katie yer was a real gent, didn’t yer? A gin’rous rich gent, an’ she believed yer. Now it turns out you’s no better than a common scrounger. I’m not surprised none that you’re dressed all ragged and looking so mad.’
It was ludicrous logic. ‘I had money, now I don’t. I’ve told you nothing but the truth.’
‘Probably you never even built a rileway, did you? Never built nothing. You’s nothing but a cheatin’ fraud.’
Probably, I thought to myself, she was drunk. Seeing no point in prolonging such a dispute I did not offer a retort but, uttering brief thanks for her help, turned and departed down the stairway. I was pleased I did so. As I descended the steps I heard her cries calling after me.
‘Don’t bother yerself to come back, you lying bugger. Katie don’t want to see yer face no more. Yer not welcome.’
To be bawled at by a tart outside her bedroom. A lowly comic incident. Probably no less absurd, I pondered as I walked into the street, was my earlier fear that the poor drunken creature had been a cunning and scheming blackmailer. Though it was a pity to have fallen out with someone who might have been useful as an ally in my search, I was not greatly troubled.
In the event, of course, the row was to prove more important than I would know.
As my questioning continued, my knowledge of my neighbours increased. I had always assumed Katie was the only person known to me in my adopted district; after all, I had hardly courted the company of such people as beggars, vagrants, loiterers and the other tribes found wandering its ill-smelling streets. The following afternoon, however, I learned I was not quite so bereft of old acquaintances as I had thought.
The day was another hot one and, parched after several hours of keen enquiring, I had stopped at the only source of water close by my room; a street pump whose liquid was discoloured and foul-tasting, though quenching to the thirst for all that. In the midst of drinking, water spilling down my chin, I found myself greeted by a raucous cry.
‘The drain man.’
It was Jem. A Jem transformed, however; indeed, only by his squealing voice did I recognize him. Gone was the grime all but masking his features; a beady-eyed face beamed at me, clean of stains. Gone too were the rags of fustian and corduroy held together with string; he now had a suit and waistcoat of fashion, better of cut and cloth than ever I had worn. His boots were of good leather, from his waistcoat pocket hung a watch chain that looked real gold, while in his hand he grasped a stick – short, as his changed appearance had not extended to growth in height – with a fine brass knob at the end.
‘What a friggin’ lark meeting you here, eh?’ His manner of speech, too, had altered; he had adopted an important way of uttering phrases in one quick-fire delivery, even if they bore little connection with one another. ‘’Ow’s ya drains then – still runnin’ round them sewers with the baldy bloke, is ya – what you doin ’ere anyways?’
I was aghast. Also, to be honest, a little envious at this unjust transformation – dishonestly won I was sure – so grotesquely differing from my own. ‘At least I’ve not resorted to thieving.’
Jem was not in the slightest put out. ‘Per’aps you’ve bin missing out – come up an’ see me rooms, why don�
�t ya – just round here I lives now – grand place as you’ve never seen with two fireplaces an’ a real chandelier on the ceiling – got me own gal too as is called Sal – almost fifteen she is, that’s a yer older than me an’ she’s got tits like you’d never believe – come up an’ see why don’t ya – ’ave som’it to eat – look like you need it – what you bin doin’ with yourself – bin livin’ in them sewers of yours or som’it?’
‘I’ve been leading an honourable life. While as for you…’ The fellow’s latter pronouncements I found especially hard to digest. ‘Your own girl?’ He reached up hardly higher than the water pump. ‘You’re no more than a child.’
He merely grinned, swaggering all the more. ‘I’s old enough I can tell ya – stop bein’ such a snoot – you should git some fun into ya.’ He turned about in a kind of pirouette. ‘Meet me partners.’
At his wave two wan adults who had been lingering a few yards back stepped into view; doubtless his accomplices in some pickpocketing racket. Though both were twice him in age and height, they were strangely subordinated to the boy, watching him quietly, as if awaiting his next utterance. Their clothes, too, were noticeably cheaper than his. Evidently it was Jem’s talents that were the source of the gold.
‘Slim Jimmy and Robbo,’ he introduced them – both looked a shade unhappy at having the names recited to this stranger – with a certain pride, as if they were his own creation, cleverly assembled from small parts. ‘This is the sewer bloke I told you ’bout,’ he added, for their benefit. ‘The one as let me boss round his old death rattle of a servant.’
‘I was trying to give you a little well-needed learning,’ I told him sternly. ‘A thoroughly wasted effort, by the look of it.’
He waved his hand in denial. ‘Don’t be such a snoot – a good lark it was – what a thought meeting you here – come on, drain man, come up and see me rooms and me gal an’ ’ave a bite of som’it why don’t you?’
Nothing could have been further from my wishes and I told him so. He merely grinned, as if this too were some joke. ‘As ya like, mister – it’s your own loss.’
Costermongers’ stalls, pawn shops, cheap lodging houses, even dingy courts reachable only through covered passages half blocked with street dirt. Pure finders, beggars, bird-duffers, thieves, vagrants, madmen. Until, finally – with the exception of those places from which I was rudely driven forth with shouts and hurled filth – there was not a nook or cranny of the neighbourhood left to visit. Short of extending my enquiries outside the district – a notion that seemed of little purpose – I had reached the end.
And what had I learnt? ‘The answers given had varied enough in style; from the polite, ‘Sorry sir, I can’t say I remember seeing that’un,’ to the wary, ‘Certainly I ’aven’t,’ through to the abusive, ‘Who’er you, staring so hard and poking your nose where it’s not wanted?’ and finally the yelled, ‘Git outa here yer snot nosed bugger’. In essence, however, all were the same; uniform in their uselessness to me. Nobody had seen her. Or, at least, nobody was willing to admit so.
Was this chance? Mere coincidence? That every single soul I addressed denied knowledge of the matter? The uniformity of their utterings seemed to me to point rather in another direction. Felicia, or some agent of hers, hurrying through the streets – watchful for my step – darting into doorways, whispering threats, offering coins? The balding lecher seen by the dog seller? The one so pale of skin, who had been seeking her? Even some creature of the aristocratic son? Or, of course, unknown drainage enemies. In my watchfulness I had, after all, seen more than a few suspicious characters. In fact so many that I had been quite at a loss as to which to consider most likely candidates as spies upon me. Perhaps all of them.
Whoever might be involved, the result was the same. What choice did I have – dispiriting though it was – but to accept the campaign of questioning as a failure? I must again concentrate my hopes upon the Cafe Castlenau.
The slum room, then – my vigils at the telescope having proved no more effective than my interrogations – had proved of little usefulness. Still I felt no regrets; indeed I grew ever more attached to the place. Squalid though it was, it at least had none of the deafening emptiness of the house in Lark Road, with its rooms that echoed one’s every step, as if to better point out people and objects absent. To wake in the now bare parlour was to wake very alone. By contrast – the walls of the slum room being thin – I was never remote from the company of shouts, of bustle, and every kind of life.
Though I had intended it to be only a daytime haunt, I thus found myself spending nights there: at first infrequently, then more often. I even grew accustomed to the vileness of the privy, and to washing myself from a bucket filled at the street pump; this last was near by, in a road named Boot Lane. Little by little I carried thither useful possessions – among those few that remained to me – from the house. Mostly these were tools of draftsmanship – ruler, pencils, quills, trisectors, great quantities of paper, and even a large table-top to draw upon – for my continuing work on the Drainage Plan for London.
‘I’m most sorry but there’s nothing we can do.’ Hove seemed to grow more awkward and unwelcoming with each news-seeking visit I paid the Metropolitan Committee for Sewers: the way he blinked and fidgeted it was almost as if he were fearful I might grow suddenly violent. ‘What with the Cholera everything’s been much delayed. I asked Mr Sleak-Cunningham about the drainage competition only yesterday, but he still couldn’t give a date.’
I suspected his embarrassment was worsened by my having invited him to dinner; Hove was that very English kind of soul who suffers agonies if he has to say hello to the same fellow at a drinking table and from behind his own office desk. Certainly I found it increasingly difficult to reach the man.
‘Mr Hove says the matter will be dealt with as soon as possible, of course. But he reminds you the Committee is struggling with a great crisis.’
Not that I had any wish to distract the Committee from its pressing duties. I simply wanted to know the result as quickly as I might. The thought of my plan, so neatly described and illustrated, lodged in the Committee’s offices, was finely warming to my spirit. Indeed, having achieved so little in my search for Isobella, it was a rare source of hope.
I felt it was only wise to add further to the number of sets of the plan I had, that I might keep them in quite separate locations; places where no jealous rival could possibly anticipate their being stored. Only thus could I outwit some onslaught of malevolent fate. Two full copies I completed, three, four; the increasing number lodged in my possession seemed only to add to my enthusiasm to manufacture more. Thus I worked on, through the nights, copying and copying again, until the phrases written became as some epic poem to me. One set I kept in the fireplace – concealed in the flue – and another in the mattress of the bed, which I tore open and carefully sewed together again. A third I dangled from the window at the end of a thick piece of string; an experiment I came to regret as, during a heavy summer thunderstorm, the lettering dissolved into strange blurrings, as if representing the language of some sea creature. As hard as I laboured upon duplication I racked my brain for more ingenious places where copies might be hidden.
My visits to Lark Road became rare. The rent on the house was paid for several months to come, but this was as nothing to me; the place served to depress my spirits so. The building grew more distant even in my thoughts, all the more so after the last living reminder of my wife’s existence there – Pericles – chose to go.
The animal kept up his lonely guard on his mistress’s room for a remarkably long time, it must be said. Weeks after her vanishing he still lingered, barking furiously when I passed by the door to her room. I never fed him myself – my liking for the creature had not altered with time – and was never certain how he survived, though I suspected he left the house through a small window in the kitchen – one low enough for him to reach, that had long been stuck half open – to maraud about the area, scavenging.
What canine notion caused him to so suddenly abandon his place is hard to say even now. A wild change it certainly was. One afternoon I came to the house to collect any remaining preserved food; jam, sugar and the like. Having found precious little – probably Miss Symes had made away with it without my noticing – I was on the point of slamming shut the door, when the dog hurtled after me. At first I thought his purpose was simple escape from the building, but then I observed his path was not towards the open street but to my feet. Without so much as a warning bark he sank his teeth into the toe of my boot; not actually drawing blood, but leaving a most unfashionable mark upon the leather. The difficulty of kicking at a creature that has attached itself to your toes. Doubtless those practised in such matters have devised subtle techniques, but I was obliged to resort to mere hopping and cursing until – having come close to toppling over – I managed to catch the animal under his front legs with my free limb, distracting him enough to send him into a graceless arc through the air.
Though he did not resume attack, instead vanishing into the din and scamperings of the street life, I had not rid myself of his attention. Even as I walked back to the rented room I thought I heard a low growling from close by – so quiet as to be half lost among the clatter of carriages – as if the creature were deliberately following. The impression was not a false one. Only a few days later, when making my way to the water pump, the animal sprang out at me, barking and lunging until I threatened him with the bucket I held.
Thereafter I kept a sharp watch for him – regretful that I had sold my walking stick with its lead knob – and sighted his sharp eyes more than a few times. He seemed to have established a kind of home for himself: a nest of evil-smelling vegetable refuse, rotted wood and mixed abomination, whose colour he himself quickly came to assume. The spot was only a few dozen yards from my new lodgings, and I had a strong sense that he was quite deliberately keeping watch upon my movements. Perhaps he wondered if I might lead him to his mistress. Or he hoped to catch me unawares, and exact some canine revenge for the slights he believed he had suffered.
Sweet Thames Page 19
