Shoddy Prince
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
I
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Part Two
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Copyright
Shoddy Prince
Sheelagh Kelly
For my grandson, Paddy
Part One
I
The woman had thirty-seven knife wounds. Nat had stopped counting at twenty; not because he was squeamish, but at eight years old and a regular truant, this was the limit of his numerative power. He peeked between the stone balusters of Foss Bridge, facing downriver as the policemen hooked her nude body from the rubbish-laden water. It was very white – bloodless. Of course it would be, thought Nat, with all those punctures in her.
There were few murders in York. Nat had been born in 1881 – just in time for the last census, his mother had told him – and this was the first one he could recall. Stepping back a few paces, he took a running jump and scrambled onto the parapet of the soot-engrimed bridge for a better view. Looping an arm round the iron lamp standard which adorned it he sat, legs dangling, watching the long dark hair move with the current as the body was hauled nearer the bank. The air reverberated with the grind of carriage wheels and horseshoes on granite setts. Today being market day, the traffic was particularly heavy and the resulting noise provoked bad temper amongst the shopkeepers who had to endure it from dawn till dark; there had been several arguments to entertain Nat this morning.
It was September. The air held a chill yet there was brilliant sunshine and the grit-stone was warm to his touch. One hand came up to shove at his hair; this was very dark, looking almost black until caught by sunlight when it took on the more reddish sheen of a plum. It was quite long and straight, apart from one wave at the temple that often fell down to obscure his vision. Parting in the centre, it swept past his ears, framing a face too serious for that of an eight-year-old. The eyes had pink circles under them, the irises were blue and habitually grave, and there were lines of anxiety on the brow above – not always a reflection of his inner feelings, for Nat could feel quite happy and still present this same expression. However, it was his cheekbones which most detracted from his youth: too defined for a child, they produced an overall image of starvation. Only the nose was that of a little boy, a tiny point of upturned flesh. All in all, Nat was an inoffensive-looking child, not a boy that would immediately spring to mind when the word troublemaker was bandied; yet trouble did seem to gravitate towards him.
The woman’s body had reached the bank. Her long hair emerged dripping and plastered with duckweed as she was unceremoniously slapped onto dry land like a fisherman’s catch. Many of the knife wounds were deep. Nat decided they looked like mouths opening and shutting in mute objection to this treatment. The sight was horrifying yet at the same time held his fascination. She was fatter than his mother. There being only one room at home, Nat had sometimes chanced to see her without clothes if she had accidentally woken him when retiring herself. He wondered now why she lacked the strange body hair of the woman below.
The sergeant-in-charge looked down at her, one thumb tucked into the belt around his navy blue tunic, the other pulling thoughtfully at his moustache. With each move of his body the sun would catch the row of metal buttons down his front, causing an intermittent glare, like miniature heliographs. Nat squinted and used his arm to shade his eyes. The sergeant chanced to look up and caught the boy’s observation. ‘Be off with thee! This is no sight for a lad.’
Nat did not budge.
‘I said, run along or I’ll tan your backside!’ The sergeant’s eyes were concealed by the peak of his helmet but there was threat in his voice, and when Nat’s response was to pull a face, he uttered, ‘You little…’ and wearing an expression of menace, advanced on the boy. Nat, well aware that he could not be reached from up here, stood atop the bridge and began to contort his face and body into postures of disrespect. The sergeant made firm his helmet and, hanging onto an elder bush which grew from the water’s edge, tried to dislodge the parasite with the hook that had just pulled the body from the water, but Nat danced nimbly along the parapet, still offering insults.
It was unfortunate that Nat had quite a few enemies, for at this stage one of them chanced to be strolling over Foss Bridge on his way home from school for lunch, saw Nat’s gyrations and, with the casual employment of one hand, sent him toppling into the water. His mouth agape, Nat sampled a good quarter-pint of the stagnant brew before gasping for air. ‘I can’t swim! Help!’
A cheeky face laughed down at him, then was gone. The hook that had failed to shift Nat from the bridge now grappled with his collar and hauled him towards the muddy bank, whence the policeman extracted his carcass. Sodden, Nat barked twice more, nipped the water from his nose and found himself next to the corpse. He jumped to his feet and backed away, panting.
‘Aye, not so nice, is it?’ mocked the sergeant and gave him a clout round the head for his cheek. ‘Now clear off home!’ He rejoined his associates who were wrapping the body.
‘What happened to her?’ Nat rubbed his smarting head.
The sergeant put his hands on his hips and flopped his body with impatience. ‘She was standing on the bridge making fun of a police officer – now will you clear off home!’
‘They’re watching.’ Nat raised a dripping arm at the crowd that had gathered behind him. Word had reached the ears of schoolchildren emerging for their midday break. Besides those from Dorothy Wilson’s school nearby, the pupils of St George’s had postponed their meagre dinners to tear up Walmgate for a glimpse of the corpse, some travelling half a mile out of their way for the spectacle.
The sergeant wearied of arguing. ‘Oh, suit thiself!’
Encouraged by Nat’s proximity to the body, another boy edged closer and asked, ‘D’you know ’er?’ Nat shook his head, sprinkling the other with droplets. ‘I do,’ said the older boy with a leer. ‘She’s a prostitute. Know what one o’ them is?’
‘Course I do.’ Nat’s small hands took hold of a corner of his jacket and wrung it out. He had begun to shiver.
‘Bet you a penny you don’t.’
‘It’s the opposite of Catholic,’ announced Nat and held out his hand.
The other cackled. ‘What’re you talking about? A prostitute is a woman what takes money for jiggering with men.’
Nat showed derision. ‘That’s not a prostitute, that’s a whore. Gimme the penny!’
The boy stopped laughing. ‘It’s you who owes it to me.’
Nat weighed him up, noticing that he was big but not dangerous. ‘I haven’t got a penny.’ Employing great pathos, he wrung out another section of his jacket.
‘Cheat!’ spat the other. ‘You shouldn’t wager if you’ve no money.’ He moved away.
‘You don’t know owt,’ muttered a shuddering Nat under his breath and moved his attention to his knee breeches.
While he was still trying to remove the moisture from his clothes, he felt another presence and revolved to see a girl of about his own age who would not take her eyes off him. She had hair of a colour hard to define, not light enough to call blonde yet too attractive to dub brown. The image she evoked in Nat was one of a baby thrush, legs all spindly, eyes dark-brown glittering beads, and face covered in a rash of fr
eckles. Not prickly by nature, he tolerated her attentions for as long as he could before demanding, ‘What’re you staring at, throssle-face?’
The whippet-thin creature did not respond but continued to stare. She wore a crumpled pinafore, black stockings with holes in them and high boots with no laces that looked comical on such skinny legs. He released his wet breeches, marched up to her and pushed her in the chest.
She tottered and fell over, looking bewildered. ‘I didn’t know ye were talking to me. I wasn’t staring at you. I’m blind.’
Nat felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, passed grudging apology and helped her up. She smiled forgiveness, her sightless eyes directed over his shoulder. He asked how long she had borne this affliction. She replied that she had been blind from birth – then impulsively jabbed a finger, shouted, ‘Look at that!’ and when he turned to look she delivered a shove that almost catapulted him back into the river. Laughing her glee, she made an ungainly dash out of harm’s way, whence she continued to giggle into handfuls of grimy pinafore at his undignified sprawl, the brown eyes no longer visionless but oozing mischief.
Her laughter was non-malicious, but Nat projected fury. ‘You shouldn’t say a thing like that! I hope you do go blind!’ He tried to wipe the darts of mud from his wet trousers, shunning her.
In the realization that she was not to be chased, the grinning creature edged her way back to him, boots slopping on and off. ‘Can’t ye take a joke?’
Nat turned his back in exaggerated gesture. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to joke about!’
Her innocent glee tainted, the girl bobbed down beside him. ‘Maungy.’
He sought a way to even the balance. ‘See her?’ He jerked his nose at the corpse. ‘She’s a prostitute. Know what one o’ them is?’
The girl had overheard Nat’s conversation with the other boy. Wanting to appease, and not knowing what a prostitute was anyway, she said, ‘They go to a different church than me.’
He showed approval. ‘That’s what I told him there, but he’s stupid. Are you a Catholic then?’
She nodded. ‘Are you?’
‘No, but I know all about them ’cause Sister Theresa – that’s a friend o’ me mam’s – she’s one.’
The conversation flagged then. Nat wasn’t much of a talker and was really quite shy unless angered, as a moment ago. Becoming aware that his feet were squelching inside his boots, he sat down, took them off and produced a dribble of water from each.
It was left to the girl to find a new topic. She embraced her bony knees and asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Nathaniel Prince.’ It was actually Nathaniel Smellie, but he had suffered enough humiliation and had lately decided that his years of being called Smellie Nat were over. It was too late to re-educate those who already knew him, of course, but each new acquaintance was provided with the more regal appellation. However, there was a deeper reason for the choice of Prince than its noble ring: Nat had never known his father and though his mother always changed the subject whenever it was raised, Nat was convinced he must be someone of note. When his mother was in a good mood she would tell him stories about a poor little boy who was forced to live in poverty but was in reality a prince. Nat had the feeling that she was trying to convey some message and this reinforced his opinion that his father had been of high birth. For what other reason would she be so secretive? Obviously he couldn’t go around calling himself Prince Nathaniel in these plebeian quarters, so he had turned the names about, secure in the private knowledge that he was much better than his neighbours.
He laced up his boots. The drenched neckerchief had begun to chafe. He removed it and wrung it out, damning the unfairness that condemned him to wear this lower class rag instead of the attire befitting his true rank. To Nat, a white collar and a proper necktie said everything about one’s status. When he grew rich this would be the first thing he would buy.
He didn’t ask the girl’s name, but she told him anyway. ‘Mine’s Bright Maguire.’
‘That’s a queer name.’ He crammed the wet neckerchief into his pocket.
‘Tisn’t.’ She looked offended and inserted a finger into one of the holes in her stocking, stretching it for a while, then used the explanation that was by now familiar lore to tell him how the name had originated.
She had been baptized Bridget, but her father, unable to spell, had written it on a census form as Bright. He had asked if the official collector would scrutinize the paper for inaccuracies and in doing so the man had smiled and exclaimed, ‘Bright – that’s a pretty name!’ And her father had looked at his golden babe and said approvingly, ‘Bright – yes, it suits her.’ Hereafter, this was how she had been known, and her nature had come to match her name.
Bright rattled on. ‘I live just over yon side o’ the river behind The Three Cups and the Pig Market. Me mam and dad’re Irish.’ That explained the accent which, although sprinkled with regional words, was definitely not local. ‘They came from Ireland in 1880, driven from their home by rack rent – I don’t know what that is exactly but it sounds awful cruel, doesn’t it? An’ the famine o’ course. There’s always famine in Ireland.’ This was a quote of her father’s. ‘I’m the only one of us to be born in York. I got six brothers and two sisters. I go to St George’s School…’ and so it went on and on. Nat merely listened. It was a pleasure just to have company.
At the end of her introduction she asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Eight.’
‘Same as me. Ye don’t talk much, do ye?’
How would I get a word in edgeways, thought Nat, but merely shrugged. The girl smiled, extended her limbs and tilted her pert face to the noonday sun, presenting the underside of her chin. A dark-brown mole stood out, which Nat mistook for chocolate. If she had been eating chocolate she might have saved a bit for later. He was curious and greedy enough to ask, ‘What’s that on your neck?’
‘A mole.’
‘A mole?’ He looked confused. ‘Moles are animals.’
At the thought of having an animal stuck to her chin, she laughed, displaying a cavern of gaps where the milk teeth had been pushed out by half-emerged adult ones. Nat suddenly found himself bewitched by that cheeky little face. Her parents had been right to call her Bright for, shabby clothes apart, everything about her was: bright hair, bright eyes, bright smile.
He was not given much to grinning, but she drew one from him. His front teeth were more advanced than hers, looking huge in such a little face.
Then abruptly she announced, ‘I’m off for me dinner now – tara!’ and with a flash of grubby drawers, performed a clomping skip along the riverbank.
Nat’s smile faded. She was only leaving in order not to share her chocolate with him – he didn’t believe the tale about the mole for one minute.
He stood awhile. The cadaver was lifted onto a two-wheeled stretcher and toted away. Now added to the earthy hum of the Foss and the reek of the Pig Market, was the aroma of luncheon being cooked at a nearby restaurant. Driven by hunger, Nat turned towards home, and caught a last glimpse of the girl waving merrily as she lolloped over Foss Bridge.
Fossgate was a street of much antiquity, a melange of buildings, some of which had been in existence for centuries. Nowadays, the medieval beams were hidden beneath rude and crumbling stucco, their jettied upper floors teetering over the cobbles. Like those of neighbouring Walmgate the leprous façades belied the commerce that thrived within. Linked by the bridge, these decrepit Siamese twins formed the longest and busiest thoroughfare in York.
Nat was ignorant of their history, seeing only the goods that he could not afford. The quaint buildings were festooned in wares: tin and copper, leather, sheepskins, pheasants, hares with dripping noses and white bobtails hanging limp, slabs of wet fish, candles and clogs, books and journals, blacksmiths, whitesmiths, dead smiling pigs, their eyes squeezed shut against the blade, and pub after pub after pub…
A tattooed navvy approached on the other side of the road, st
rutting like a prince with swelled chest and head high. That’s what I need, exclaimed Nat to himself, a princely walk to match the name, and his next few steps were an imitation of the workman’s.
Outside the Blue Bell Inn a drayman hefted barrels from his cart. Nat hopped nimbly around the obstruction and carried on. His gait became erratic as he took up the game that all children played of avoiding the joints in the paving flags – stand on a line, marry a swine. Being perverse in nature Nat jumped on every line. Who wanted to be like the others? The idea of being married to a swine was much more amusing. He faltered. There were some boys in his path crouched over a game of marbles. Nat knew better than to ask if he could join them, having grown up with the answer: ‘Me mam says I’m not allowed to play with you ’cause you haven’t got a dad’. Observant of people, if not of his surroundings, he had learned to watch folk closely in case they should suddenly turn nasty on him, as folk were wont to do. Wary of attack, he tried to edge past them unnoticed, but just when he thought he had won, one of them glanced up. Nat’s lips formed a defensive smile. If you smiled at people they would be less inclined to hit you… at least one could only hope. This time it failed, and there came the baying of hounds: ‘Smellie! Gerrim!’ And the instant he took flight they were after him.
They were bigger and older than himself, but if he could just reach a certain lane ahead then he knew they would not dare to pursue, for at the other end of that lane lived tougher rogues than them. Hampered by his ill-fitting jacket that slipped from his shoulders and caught the wind to drag him back, Nat moved his little arms and legs for all he was worth and pelted up Fossgate with the horde chasing him, getting nearer and nearer, reaching out for him… almost there! Keep running!
Just before The Old George Hotel, between a grocery and a wine merchant’s, was a lane. A triumphant Nat had almost reached it when he felt an almighty thump on his back which knocked him into the sharp corner of the wall. Disregarding the pain, he cannoned off the wall and hurled himself at the passageway, down which he kept on running. Their footsteps followed him for a while, then petered out. Knowing he was safe, he drew to a breathless halt and spun to face them.
Shoddy Prince Page 1
