The Toymakers
Page 1
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Robert Dinsdale
Title Page
Dedication
Surrender!: Papa Jack’s Emporium, London 1917
In the Beginning …
Situations Vacant: Dovercourt to Leigh-on-Sea, November 1906
The Girl in the Toyshop: Leigh-on-Sea to London, November 1906
Paper Forests: Papa Jack’s Emporium, Christmas 1906
Wargames: Papa Jack’s Emporium, Christmas 1906
Stowaway: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 1907
The Brothers Godman: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 1907
The True History of Toys: Papa Jack’s Emporium, May–September 1907
Many Years Later …
The Home Fires Burning: Papa Jack’s Emporium, August–November 1914
The Toymaker’s War: Papa Jack’s Emporium, November 1914–August 1917
Childhood’s End: Dollis Hill to Papa Jack’s Emporium, September 1917
The Rising: Papa Jack’s Emporium, Winter 1917–1918
Imaginarium: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 1918
The Forever War: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 1919–1924
The Little Act of a Long Goodbye: Papa Jack’s Emporium and Highgate Cemetery, 1924
The Ghost in the Toyshop: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 1924–1940
Many More Years Later …
This Ordinary World: London, August–November 1953
The Great Loneliness: Papa Jack’s Emporium, 30 November 1953
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
Do you remember when you believed in magic?
The Emporium opens with the first frost of winter. It is the same every year. Across the city, when children wake to see ferns of white stretched across their windows, or walk to school to hear ice crackling underfoot, the whispers begin: the Emporium is open!
It is 1917, and London has spent years in the shadow of the First World War. In the heart of Mayfair, though, there is a place of hope. A place where children’s dreams can come true, where the impossible becomes possible – that place is Papa Jack’s Toy Emporium.
For years Papa Jack has created and sold his famous magical toys: hobby horses, patchwork dogs and bears that seem alive, toy boxes bigger on the inside than out, ‘instant trees’ that sprout from boxes, tin soldiers that can fight battles on their own. Now his sons, Kaspar and Emil, are just old enough to join the family trade. Into this family comes a young Cathy Wray – homeless and vulnerable. The Emporium takes her in, makes her one of its own. But Cathy is about to discover that while all toy shops are places of wonder, only one is truly magical...
About the Author
Robert Dinsdale was born in North Yorkshire and currently lives in Leigh On Sea. He is the author of three previous critically acclaimed novels: THE HARROWING, LITTLE EXILES and GINGERBREAD. THE TOYMAKERS is his first venture into magic.
Also by Robert Dinsdale:
The Harrowing
Little Exiles
Gingerbread
The Toymakers
ROBERT DINSDALE
For Esther, who was there in the toyshop
SURRENDER!
PAPA JACK’S EMPORIUM, LONDON 1917
The Emporium opens with the first frost of winter. It is the same every year. Across the city, when children wake to see ferns of white stretched across their windows, or walk to school to hear ice crackling underfoot, the whispers begin: the Emporium is open! Christmas is coming, and the goose is getting fat …
If, at a certain hour on a certain winter night, you too had been wandering the warren between New Bond Street and Avery Row, you might have seen it for yourself. One moment there would be darkness, only the silence of shops shuttered up and closed for business. The next, the rippling snowflakes would part to reveal a mews you had not noticed before – and, along that mews, a storefront garlanded in lights. Those lights might be but pinpricks of white, no different to the snowflakes, but still they would draw your eye. Lights like these captivate and refract the darkness. Lights like these can bewitch the most cynical of souls.
Watch out, because here one such soul comes, hurrying out of the night.
He is a barrel of a man, portly to those who would look on him kindly, corpulent to those who would not. Outside the Emporium, he stops and gazes up, but this is not the first time he has been enchanted by these lights, so he steps through the door to be met by the whirlwind smells of cinnamon and star anise. Ribbons of navy blue stream apart and, in the vaulted ceiling above, miniature bells tinkle, spiriting up memories he has tried hard to forget: sleigh rides through parks too painful to remember, wassailing on the village green, Christmases in better, more innocent times.
Come, go in after him. You would not be the first. Children are already tugging on their parents’ hands; a pair of young lovers hurry to make secrets of their gifts to one another; an old man unwinds his scarf as he hobbles in, if only to feel like a boy again. If you follow after, there will be much to see.
He is already disappearing into the throng when you come through the doors. What had seemed a tiny shop from without reveals itself to be a grand labyrinth within. At your feet a miniature locomotive glides past on rails set into the floor and, beyond that, each aisle explodes into a dozen others, floors stacked upon floors like the illusion of a master mathematician. Shoppers disappear along one aisle, only to reappear, bewildered, on the galleries above.
It would be easy to get lost in a place like this, but the man we are following knows the way. Alone among the shoppers, he does not stand to gawk at the displays – and nor must we. There will be time for lingering later. For now, do not let yourself get distracted by the bears whose eyes follow you from every shelf, nor the tin soldier who stands to attention as you pass (he is only playing a parlour trick to tempt you into taking him home). Forget, for a moment, the whinnying of the hobby horses eager to be ridden. If you see a doorway through which there lies a wintry grove bedecked in lights, do not give it a second glance. Keep your eyes on the man in front, for he is almost at his destination. Come closer now, that we might listen.
The man, let us think of him as a friend, queues at the counter. Before his turn comes there is a family laden down with a nest of silver satin mice, and a lady who must keep the Russian dolls in her basket from clambering out of one another in their haste to be bought. By the time our friend reaches the counter he is purpling with impatience.
‘Madam,’ he begins, ‘you may recall me. I have been coming here more Christmases than I remember. I came here not one week ago, to find a present for my sons.’
The storekeeper may or may not have been the one to serve the gentleman. The Emporium has been a maelstrom of activity since before this century was born; its storekeepers are many, and increasing year on year. Every new toy demands a new assistant; new atriums and playhouses are being discovered with every exploration.
She does not remember, but she nods all the same. All are welcome at Papa Jack’s Emporium, for everyone was once a child, no matter what they’ve done or whom they’ve grown up to be.
‘How are your boys enjoying those toys?’
Our friend is incandescent. He sets his leather briefcase upon the counter and opens it to reveal a battalion of toy soldiers, wrapped carefully in the crêpe paper in which they were bought. Upon bringing them out, he lines them up in formation, sparkling creations of varnish and wood.
‘Well,’ he says, and here he pauses, as if he is himself confounded by the thing he is about to say, ‘picture it, if you would. It is Christmas morning, and two boys are tearing open their presents. Imagine how thrilled they were to see these. So noble and pro
ud, so lifelike! Well, they wanted to play their battles there and then – but it is Christmas, and first there must be church, and then there must be dinner, and then, only then, can the boys set out to play. I tell you this so that you can see – they had waited all day for their battle. So when the time came and they lined up their soldiers across the parlour floor, you can imagine how excited they were.’
‘And what happened?’
‘It is, perhaps, better if I show you.’
The customer takes three soldiers and positions them at one end of the counter. With great care he places an opposing force at the other end. ‘If you would,’ he says to the storekeeper, and as he winds the first soldiers up, she winds up the second.
At opposing ends of the countertop, the soldiers start to march.
‘You can quite imagine their excitement. Noah was crying out for victory. Arthur could barely contain his delight. Which one would win out? they started asking. Father! Arthur cried. Come and see! So I did. And what do you think I found?’
On the countertop, the fronts have advanced. Some other customers have drawn near, lured by the commotion. See the woman with the cage of pipe-cleaner birds, the vagrant soldier marvelling at the stuffed dogs lounging in their baskets? Keep a careful eye on them; you will see them again. But, for the moment, bring your gaze back to the battle. The soldiers are almost on top of one another. Three more paces and the fronts will collide; according to the rules of boyhood battles, the last soldier standing will reign supreme.
One pace, and rifles still drawn. Two paces, and the barrels of those rifles hang so closely that the opposing soldiers can see into their beady black eyes. Now, at last, is the moment all have come to see.
Then – the soldiers stop. On each side the soldiers spin their rifles, holding them aloft.
And, on the end of those rifles, hang rippling white flags.
Each figurine lifts a hand to grasp the hand of the soldier it was sworn to kill.
‘Well?’ our friend demands. ‘What is the meaning of it?’
The storekeeper has stooped down to study the soldiers, the forces so interwoven that only a boy of the keenest eye could separate his own from his playmate’s. Our friend is telling her how it happens every time, how Christmas morning has been ruined and reparations must be made – but the storekeeper is silent, and none could miss the beatific look she is trying hard to keep out of her eyes.
These simple toy soldiers, these lifelike recreations on which the Emporium has built its Empire, these playthings that have sat upon the shelves for as long as the store has existed, who have provided generations of boys with untold delights, have, for the very first time, lain down their arms.
‘They have surrendered,’ she whispers – and she doesn’t care at all for the outrage of our friend, for the money she must pluck from the till and return to his hands. The soldiers she is staring at are happy now, and it is the most incredible thing.
IN THE BEGINNING …
SITUATIONS VACANT
DOVERCOURT TO LEIGH-ON-SEA, NOVEMBER 1906
They brought her down to Dovercourt to sell her unborn child.
Mrs Albemarle’s Home For Moral Welfare did not have a sign to proclaim itself outside the door. A wandering eye might have caught the curtains closed during the day, and the neighbours could not overlook the steady stream of girls who passed through its doors, but to passers-by it was just another palatial home off the seafront, a double-breasted affair of Georgian design with whitewashed walls and balconies garlanding its bedrooms. To Cathy, who had known nothing of it even as she was bundled on to the omnibus this morning, the door had a magical effect: by filling her body with dread, it somehow quelled the nausea she had been feeling for days.
They stood in silence outside the door, with seabirds wheeling overhead. Cathy’s mother flicked her finger, and Cathy knew without asking that this was an instruction to knock. She did so tentatively, hopeful she might not be heard. But such good fortune had been in short supply this winter. After some time, the door drew back, revealing a hallway bedecked in floral designs. The woman in the frame was wearing a bright gingham house dress. Her square shoulders and significant chin gave the appearance of a woman unused to idleness – and, indeed, her sleeves were rolled up, her forearms dusted in flour and shreds of dough.
‘You must be Catherine,’ she said, acknowledging Cathy’s mother with barely a flutter of her eyes.
‘Cathy,’ Cathy began. It was the most defiant thing she had said all day.
‘When the time comes for you to reside with us, you’ll be Catherine,’ the woman returned. ‘We deal in propriety here.’ At this, she stepped aside. ‘Come in, Catherine. We’ll have this sorted in a trice.’
The Home had once been a minor hotel, and in the common room the décor had not been changed. Cathy sat alone in the bay while her mother and Mrs Albemarle (for so the woman had introduced herself) spoke about the essentials of Cathy’s future stay. As they were speaking, other sounds drifted through the common room, past the little table with its pile of dog-eared Reader’s Digests and Lilliput magazines. Somewhere, in this building, babies were squalling. There were no words, only shrieks of glee, the bleating of a creature still growing used to the sound of its own voice. Cathy was listening to them so intently that she did not hear Mrs Albemarle calling her name. It was only when her mother added her flinty tones that she turned.
‘This way, Catherine.’
There was no choice but to follow. Mrs Albemarle led her along a back hall and into the cramped office at its end. Here, behind a desk on which sat a tarnished typewriter, Mrs Albemarle took a chair. She had produced a form with black boxes and now she ferreted in a drawer for an ink pot and pen. When none was forthcoming, she settled on a pencil, using it to direct Cathy into a seat.
‘How old are you, Catherine?’
Catherine. That had been what her mother called her as well. Her father had been unable to utter a word.
‘She’ll be sixteen by the time you take her,’ interjected her mother, but Mrs Albemarle lifted an admonishing finger. ‘She must speak for herself, Mrs Wray. If she’s old enough to be in this position, she is old enough to do that.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps you had better …’ Out came the pencil again, to indicate the door. Flushing crimson, Cathy’s mother retreated into the hall.
‘There, that’s better. We can speak freely now, can’t we, Catherine?’
‘I’m fifteen,’ Cathy said. ‘And my name is Cathy, not—’
‘And the date of your birth.’
‘The twenty-fourth of May, 1891.’
Mrs Albemarle made notes, stopping intermittently to press her tongue to the end of her pencil. ‘And how far along are you?’
For the first time, Cathy’s skin darkened.
‘Catherine, dear. It isn’t a test. Do you know how far along you are?’
‘No.’
‘But you have visited a doctor.’
She had, because her mother had taken her. His fingers had been gnarled and cold; she had felt his wedding band icy against her inner thigh.
Deciding to take a different approach, Mrs Albemarle asked, ‘How did you know you were carrying a baby, Cathy?’
By God, but she hadn’t. It was her mother who’d come to her, because it was her mother who brought fresh linens each month. She had been feeling unsettled for days, hardly wanted to eat, even when her sister was baking rye cakes on the range, but only when her mother crept into her bedroom at night had the pieces fallen into place. You’re late, she’d said, in hushed but virulent tones. By the look of her, she’d been brooding on it for days. She’d even waited until Cathy’s father was away, drinking in that squalid little hole down by the cockle sheds, just in case she was wrong. But no: the moment she said it, something broke inside Cathy, something made sense. There was a chasm inside her – she wanted to call it an emptiness, only that was the opposite of what it was. Something was growing; a seed had sprouted shoots. In that moment she knew that ther
e were the buds of arms and legs, the four tiny valves of a heart. She had sensed it beating as she tried to embrace her mother, but her mother had staggered backwards, refusing to be held. She’d probably said things after that, but sitting here now, Cathy couldn’t remember. After her mother was gone, she had turned around and been sick into her bedsheets. Strange how you could keep hold of it when the sensations were without explanation. As soon as she knew, it came out of her in floods.
‘And the father?’
Those were the words which jolted her back into this cold, stark room.
‘I’m presuming you do know who the father is.’
‘Now, look here—’
‘Understand, Catherine, that we need to know these things. They’re the sorts of questions people ask. Why, nobody wants to bring a cuckoo into the nest. They want to know where their baby comes from. They want to know about the mother and the father, if they’ve got breeding.’
‘He’s a local boy,’ she admitted. ‘He’s my—’
‘You’re courting.’
No, she wanted to say. It wasn’t like that. Daniel lived in the house at the head of the lane, the house with the big gables and the grounds and the wrought-iron gates she had stopped to peer in every day on her way to school. By rights they should not have been friends. And yet they had been friends since they were small, and that summer her mother worked in the grounds. Theirs was the purest form of friendship: the one that begins even before you can talk; a friendship of gestures and grunts, toys quietly offered and toys eagerly snatched away. They had walked to school together and caught first trains together. They had gone carolling, picked dandelions, eaten pastries at the harvest festivals (held in the grounds of his home, such a lavish affair) – and when, one afternoon, she had met him by the back gate and they had done other things together, well, it didn’t feel unusual and it didn’t feel like courting at all. Even afterwards, when she had decided it was a thing they would not do again, it did not feel so very strange. She did not know, even now, why a thing like that had to change the world.