The Great Stink

by Clare Clark

  Hawke's mouth twisted in grim amusement as he brushed imaginary specks from his sleeve. William stared back at him, his face ashen. Words whirled in his head and were gone. His tongue, his lips, they recognized none of them.

  'I believe our business is complete. But I would reassure you that I am a man of my word.' Hawke's smile twitched. 'It would be inadvisable to put me to the test. Good day, sir.'

  William did not remember how he found his way back to his cubbyhole or the hours that followed as he sat quite rigid, staring at the wall. His finger ran automatically down columns of figures and across sectional drawings but the pencil marks blurred and swayed and he made no sense of them. The fear and the self-hatred reacted together like yeast on dough, swelling inside him till he could hardly breathe. He had thought himself almost safe. He had not cut for weeks. Outside the November afternoon was already darkening. It had been a long dry autumn. Fallen leaves were pounded into coppery dust by the incessant traffic and in the early afternoons the melted-butter sun pooled on the sooty back step. Not that William was in Lambeth to see it. Now that Bazalgette's great project had begun the offices at Greek-street were frenzied with activity. Every day there were queries and calculations and contracts to be resolved. William was frequently at his desk before seven, not returning home until late into the evening. But on Sundays he had begun once again to sketch. He bought a new journal in soft tan leather in which he might record in ink and watercolour the flowers that flourished in the scrub ground around the railway line. At the same time he purchased a cloth-covered sketchbook and a quiver of coloured pencils for Di so that he might sit beside his father, his tongue jutting from his teeth as he formed his own ragged petals and leaves. In late September, William had brought home spoiled sheets of onion-skin on which he had started, tentatively at first and then with growing warmth, to plan the garden. There would be vegetables, naturally, but he thought little of those. He concentrated instead on the sunny southern strip of the yard. There he and Di would plant flowers for Polly. For Polly and the infant. For Polly was once again with child. Night after night, as she slept beside him, William cupped the swell of her belly gently in his hands and planned the cradle he would make for it. Di had never had a cradle. At the old woman's house in Battersea, Polly had told him, the children had lain wrapped in fruit-box rows like apples. But this baby would have a cradle, a rocking cradle with drapes and a tiny quilt, a cradle fit for a fairy tale. And William would open the door in Lambeth and the cradle would be set before a blazing fire and Polly would smile and hold her finger to her lips because in the perfect cradle the child would be sleeping, its tiny pink mouth curved in a tiny pink smile. And all would be as it was supposed to be. As they had dreamed it would be.

  The fire in the surveyors' room had sunk and the ash sighed as it dropped into the grate. William's hands were frozen, tinged blue around the knuckles. He was quite alone. Hawke's vicious words blundered around his head but they were no more than black shadows that evaded him and made him dizzy. He had to confront them, even as he sat shivering in his cold stall he knew that. He had to grasp them, to bend them to his own will, or he would lose everything. You will lose everything. But, however stridently he repeated this terrible mantra it slithered away from him so that somehow he could not hold on to the truth of it. His mind was sealed shut. His heart shrivelled, clenched as hard as a walnut, and refused to allow it in. William saw this and he loathed himself for his weakness. He knew already that he would stand aside, watching the inexorable onslaught of his own ruin, and that he would do nothing. He would feel nothing. He clenched his fists, driving his knuckles into the flesh of his thighs as the blackness began to fill him, slowly at first, drifting like soot and then in an unstoppable flood of such intensity that it crushed the organs in his chest and poisoned the marrow of his bones. It crammed into his eyes until he could see nothing but blackness, wadding his head with a kind of incessant merciless screech. He could not breathe. The blackness choked his lungs and closed its sinewy tentacles around his throat. Discarded on his desk was a knife of the kind used for cutting newspapers. Its silver blade flickered, a slice of perfect light in the blind blackness. It was blunt but one edge of the blade was serrated so that if you bore down on it hard enough and sawed with sufficient savagery —

  Afterwards he supposed he had walked around the city for many hours. His feet ached and the cuffs of his trousers were thick with dust. Shortly before sunrise he returned to the cottage in Lambeth for a fresh shirt. The sleeves of the old one hung in bloody tatters. He rolled it into a ball and concealed it in the narrow cupboard beneath the stairs. Polly and the child were not yet awake. In the kitchen he poured out water and washed. The ragged wounds in his arms were filthy and rough with cotton fibres but his hands did not shake as he cleaned and wrapped them and quietly left the house. He felt calm and very clear.

  It was going to be another fine day. The sun was a freshly-washed lemon against the pale blue of the sky and the last of the brown leaves drifted from the low branches of the plane trees like wizened hands. As he crossed the river he looked downstream to where the first iron ribs of the new Westminster Bridge drew thick black lines against the sunlit lace of the river. Beyond it, alongside a vast trench dug into the north bank of the river, great heaps of scaffold jostled with wooden huts and piles of earth and clay and, presiding over the magnificent chaos, a giant crane, its mighty arm held aloft in triumph. Across the city, London was in a state of siege and barricade, fortifications bristling in every street as the mud was carted away and in its place the foundations laid for new and better buildings, faster railways, straighter, broader thoroughfares. The force of progress was constant and unstoppable. It drove tirelessly through the London clay, pushing upwards through the mud into colonnades and spires, downwards into tunnels and buried palaces. The most a man could hope for was to harness that energy, to refine it, so that the spires might be glorious against the morning sky, and the course of the tunnels forever solid and true. And long after the sordid stories of ordinary lives ill-lived had been lost from memory those spires and tunnels would endure. And, although there might be no other witnesses, perhaps in time those spires and tunnels might come to stand, in some unseen way, as a testament to the possibility that something approximating to honour might at last be coaxed from the broken seeds of a dishonourable life.

  Alfred England was a big man, broad and aggressively bewhiskered, but he had an unnaturally high-pitched voice and a jumpy demeanour. Often during their encounter that day, and on other days that followed, his features would shift through a number of expressions as though trying them out before settling upon one.

  Hawke, for his part, oozed an oily complicity He clapped William chummily upon the shoulder when he effected the introductions and spoke in smoothly confidential tones of the partnership he hoped to broker between the two men. William shook the yard-owner's hand reluctantly. He had hoped that he would have the opportunity to speak to Hawke earlier in the day and thereby avoid such a meeting altogether but, whether intentionally or otherwise, Hawke had proved elusive, making his own way to the brickyard and sending a hansom to bring William from Greek-street. The roads south were crowded and, despite the shouts of the driver and the skittish energy of his horse, the cab made slow progress. Inside the seat was dusty and smelled sharply of stale sweat. William set his feet wide on the floor as the vehicle jolted along Victoria-street, pitching steeply to avoid a sheep that had skittered away from the flock grazing outside Westminster Abbey. He felt cold and perfectly calm. Beneath its bandages his forearm throbbed comfortingly. England's brickyard would never be considered for tender. It specialized in the type of cheap brick used by speculators to throw up the back-to-back terraced housing that squeezed itself into the cramped spaces alongside factories and railway lines and which sucked rain and soot into their flimsy walls as greedily as a sponge.

  A pair of tall wrought-iron gates bore the legend ENGLAND & SON across them. The porter yawned as he slowly dragg
ed them open, displaying the half-chewed fragments of his lunch. Stepping down from the cab William took a yellow brick from a quantity stacked beside a wall and weighed it in his hand. It was as light and porous as pumice. Many others in the heap were obvious clinkers, bricks that had been severely burned or had cracked and warped during firing. The yard itself was oddly quiet. A few men lugged pallets of bricks to a covered wagon that stood at the far end of the yard and the chimneys of the kiln belched black smoke but there was none of the usual bustle and clamour of a busy enterprise. Against one wall a pair of heavy-shouldered men with the shaggy muscularity of carthorses leaned and stared at William as he picked his way across the rough ground. One of them held a pipe concealed behind his back. In the dry weather the mud had hardened into deep ruts and rising up from their serrated foundations the vast mounds of bricks looked as raw and desolate as abandoned dwellings.

  'Business slow? Goodness, no!' England's glance flickered uneasily towards Hawke, whose face twitched into a frown as he gave a barely perceptible nod. 'There continues to be a great demand for our bricks. This is England's, after all. We have one of the finest reputations in London. But we have slowed our production to enable us to concentrate exclusively upon the requirements of the Board.' England cleared his throat. 'We understand you need us to move with all possible speed.'

  William had a sudden image of a woman, one palm cradling her swollen belly, the other clasping the hand of a small boy. The hands were rough with work and with the effort of holding on. Polly. And his mother. Both of them, distinct and yet indistinguishable, like the picture his teacher had shown him once that was both a bird and a rabbit depending on which you chose to see. He had never forgiven his father for dying, even though he had seen with his own eyes the grocer's desperate struggle to stay alive. Others in their small town had observed the same. It was generally agreed that the death of the shopkeeper, unlike some they could mention, had been managed in an exemplary fashion. And so, even in their poverty, his family had retained something of their old respectability. When they had been forced to accept the helping hand of charity it had proffered a lofty glove but never a punitive one. It would not be so for Polly. The disgrace would hang about her, layer upon layer, like mourning veils, stifling her light, trumpeting her forever as one apart, as untouchable. All that she had determined not to know would be known by all. Her husband would be proclaimed a coward, a lunatic, a mortal danger to himself and — the leap was small, little more than a step — to others. Who could know what terrors the madman concealed in their midst had intended? Hawke's whispers would carry on the wind, titillating London's parlours and clubs with their hints and intimations. Right-minded people would shun them, quivering with self-righteous disgust. Their merciless grind of poverty would be appropriate punishment, their shame God's will. What then? Where would they go? What would they do?

  As he opened his mouth William prayed for Polly's blessing and forgiveness.

  'Mr England, there can be no possibility of a contract between England's and the Board. Such a contract would be in breach of both the letter and the spirit of the work the Board has undertaken for the healthful future of London. I thank you for your time and wish you fortune in all your future enterprises. And now, if you will excuse me, I am afraid I must return to Greek-street immediately.'

  Although William had hardly thought beyond the necessity of making his position perfectly clear, he realized when it did not happen that he had half-expected Hawke to hit him. As it was the man remained quite still, caught in the dusty beam of sunlight that sliced through the high window. His face was turned away from William, his shoulders set with fury or shock. It was England who leaped to his feet, his limbs jumping and twitching like a tangled marionette. His cheeks were an ashy white blotched with red and he raked his fingers through his bushy hair until it stood up on its ends.

  'What is it that you want from me? More, is that it? You — you leeches! Would you see me —?'

  'Be quiet, you fool!'

  Hawke slammed a hand down on the desk, palm flat, but his face was clenched with barely suppressed fury. Abruptly the door of the office banged open to reveal a burly-looking foreman in a canvas apron, his thick arms crossed across his chest. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high to expose the faded blue outlines of a seaman's tattoos. William backed towards the door. The foreman braced himself, blocking the doorway, and cleared his throat.

  "Speriencin any trouble, Mr England, sir?'

  Hawke gave a little snarl. His nostrils were white with contempt. Slowly, his gaze never leaving England's, he raised his hand and closed it into a fist which he brought slowly upwards, pressing his knuckles fastidiously against the corners of his mouth. The brickyard owner smoothed his lapels. His hands trembled but the colour was returning patchily to his face.

  'No trouble, Briggs,' he said. His voice was gluey and he cleared his throat before continuing. 'Although I think it would be appropriate if you remained in the outside office while I complete my business with Mr Hawke. There may be matters upon which I will wish to consult you.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  The door closed again. William inclined his head.

  'If you will excuse me, gentlemen —'

  'We are not yet finished.'

  It was Hawke now who blocked the path to the door.

  'You appear not to appreciate the gravity of your situation, Mr May,' he said. His voice was smooth, almost congenial, but his eyes flickered like a snake's. 'It is my opinion that we have reached a critical point in our negotiations. A wrong turning at this juncture would be ruinous for you, I fear.'

  England watched William's face and his fingertips tap-tap-tapped in tiny movements against the polished wood of his desk.

  'It would be sheer folly to leave this room, Mr May,' Hawke murmured. 'I commend you to consider your reputation, your responsibilities to your family. There can be no returning from this.'

  William gazed steadily at Hawke and then, turning to England, he touched his hat.

  'Good day, gentlemen.'

  Perhaps it was the recognition of defeat that rooted Hawke to the spot. More likely it was simple astonishment. In the small anteroom outside the foreman half-raised himself from his seat, his neck straining against its collar like an impatient dog's, but no instruction came from his master. He could only watch as William walked briskly past him and out into the yard.

  In the days that followed William waited for the summons to the Board. His belly crawled with the certainty of disaster. He saw Hawke only once, at a committee meeting to discuss the progress of excavations beneath the heath at Hampstead. Shortly before the meeting was brought to a close Hawke made a show of passing a hastily scrawled note to Lovick which Lovick placed unopened in the pocket of his coat. As William passed him in the shadowy corridor at the close of the meeting Hawke shook his head and smiled.

  And so William waited. The days stretched into weeks and still there was no word from the Board. Lovick and his fellow engineers treated him as they always had, with a tolerant disinterest. He worked late into the nights preparing his formal recommendation to Bazalgette that the Board accept the tender of the Strowbridge brickyard. He assembled samples. He calculated measurements and drafted sectional drawings. He continued to make his regular visits into the sewers. At home he labelled his botanical drawings and added details to his plans for the garden. But he felt no urge to cut. A calmness had settled upon him, a calmness that both relieved and baffled him. He grew thin and pale but he didn't grow desperate. He watched as Polly ripened and slowed and complained contentedly of the idleness of the girl who helped in the house. He noticed with a squeeze of his heart how Di's hair had thickened and how his baby wrists had hardened and sprouted from the cuffs of his jacket, and he felt a deep quiet shame and regret. But the terrible blackness did not come. At first he did not trust its absence, probing for it, as a tongue will seek out the pain from a rotten tooth, despite itself. After all it had happened before, this slippage o
f time when the blackness had held off for days, weeks sometimes, but always it had come, darker and more warped by its delay. And still it did not come. William hardly dared believe it — that, just as Hawke was fashioning his trap, he might at last be free.

  X

  Only a fool'd have taken a man like the Captain at his word and Tom was no fool. Whenever the tides were right he took Lady down the tunnels. And at night, when there was a fight on, he went to the Badger, by way of keeping an eye on his arrangements. He didn't talk to the Captain, not at first, but he was careful to make sure the Captain saw him there. It wasn't that he said or did anything to draw attention to himself. It was enough in the beginning that the Captain saw him with the Fancy and understood he was a part of things here, part of a tight-bound order where fists carried more authority than fancy arguments and the constraints of law and conscience were as likely to stop the way things were done as the sun was to burn off a London particular. An order where outsiders did well not to try anything on.

  Tom mightn't have had much in the way of a gentleman's polish or a gentleman's schooling but his sense of smell remained sharp as ever. It wasn't long before he found himself drawn into a discussion with the Captain's associates as the deal the pair of them had struck was described and marvelled over. It wasn't long before the Captain called for drinks to seal their agreement and the habitually word-shy Tom found himself encouraged to tell tales of the pit and of the violence that had been done there. The Captain's associates thrilled with shock and horrified excitement. And a little later, when the first rounds of fighting had been completed and the gentlemen leaned back in their chairs, sweating and glazed with bloodlust and their own audacity, it was Tom who let slip that, for a tosher, the life down the sewers beat into a cocked hat anything a man might see on the surface, if it were the thrill of danger he was after.