by John Marsden
Twice I arrived too late with Mr Ogwell’s medicines. The first time was in an attic room, at the top of countless flights of stairs. The building was so rickety that the higher I went, the more I became afeared that it might collapse. It seemed to shudder and sway even at my light tread upon the steps. When I reached the door to which I had been directed, it stood ajar, and when no one answered my knocks I pushed it open and went inside. It was a cramped space with hardly room for a bed and dresser, but there they were, along with a small table and two stools. In the bed lay a man, and I could see at a glance that he was dead. His eyes were open but he stared at nothing. His mouth was open too, and as I stood gazing in horror a large bluebottle flew slowly out of it and came towards me. I turned and fled, jumping down the steps five or six at a time, not caring whether I might send the whole building toppling to its doom. I ran from the house without even telling anyone that the man in the attic was deceased. I told Mr Ogwell when I got to the shop; he merely shrugged and without a word took the bottle of pills and emptied their contents back into one of his large jars.
The second time was, by strange coincidence, in the next house to the one occupied by the corpse in the attic. The scene here was very different. I descended instead of ascended, for I was told that the person I sought was in the basement. However, as I arrived at her door, a woman flung it open before I could knock. Her face was contorted by strong emotion, and when I said, ‘Pills for Mrs O’Rourke from Mr Ogwell,’ she cried, ‘No use to her now!’ and pushed past me, bursting into sobs as she did so. Glancing into the room I could see another woman tearing at her hair and lamenting, as she crouched over a woman lying on the bed, so I went away quietly and informed Mr Ogwell that another customer would have no further need for his medicines.
By and large I believe I served Mr Ogwell well enough, and he seemed satisfied with my work, though he never said a word of praise, being more inclined to criticise my every defect. He was a man entirely without humour; indeed, the very notion of humour seemed to make him angry. One day, as the rain poured down unceasingly for the third consecutive day and the streets ran wet with mud and slush, a big red-faced man came lurching into the shop, remarking: ‘A drop of rain is just what we need, to dampen the dust out there.’ Mr Ogwell responded, in his usual cold voice, ‘Facetiousness is the mark of a petty mind, sir,’ at which the man’s laughing face turned in an instant to a scowl and out he stamped again, without making a purchase.
On the second day of my employment, I told Mr Ogwell how I had seen nothing less than a gold sovereign lying in the street that morning, and I and two or three others had all started for it at the same time. A beggar sitting paralysed at the corner, his crutches beside him, his hand outstretched as he entreated passers-by for money, saw it too. He leapt to his feet, dashed across the street to the coin and picked it up, ran back, grabbed his crutches, and was off down an alleyway, leaving us all dumbfounded.
I told it as a funny story but Mr Ogwell listened without a flicker of expression and said merely: ‘There is a Judgement Day coming for all such as he,’ and continued mixing his potions.
Every time I entered the shop I felt a kind of gloom steal over me, so it was a relief to go on my delivery rounds and escape the oppressive atmosphere. The only exception was when Mrs Ogwell brought in their little daughter, which she did about once a week. The child, whose name was Josephine, brightened up the whole street. She was about three or four years old. These were the only occasions when I saw Mr Ogwell smile. Even if he did not, the little girl smiled enough for two. She was the opposite of her father, a sunny little thing with golden ringlets cascading to her shoulders. The mother seemed timid and hardly spoke a word, not to me at any rate. It was as though I did not exist; she looked through me as if I were the air itself. I don’t think it was anything special about me; she seemed too scared of life to speak to anyone. Every time the door opened she looked apprehensively over her shoulder. This was in the days before the London Monster, the fellow who went around pushing needles and knives into women, but from the look of her you could have been forgiven for thinking she was expecting the London Monster at any moment, years before anyone else.
Mrs Ogwell spoke with a thick accent which made her difficult to understand; I believe she may have been Norwegian or some such.
For some reason the child took a fancy to me, rough spoken and rough in my ways though I was. She took to running to me and wanting my attention as soon as she arrived in the shop. I am bound to say that, as time went on, she seemed almost to fancy spending more time with me than with her father, of whom, as best I could judge, she appeared to go in some fear, despite his treating her with more warmth than he did anyone else.
I got in the habit of making little dolls for her, tiny things I whittled with a knife in the evenings. I became quite a dab hand at it. Before I gave her the first one I of course asked Mr Ogwell for his consent. He looked at it long and hard where it lay in the palm of my hand, picked it up and scrutinised it with one eye, sniffed it, turned it over and over, and studied it from about sixteen different angles. I wondered if he were about to take to it with his microscope, or even dissect it maybe, but finally he said, ‘I suppose there’s no harm in it,’ which was about as close as he ever went to paying a compliment.
When I gave it to the child, saying, ‘Here, miss, I made this for you,’ it was like giving her the Crown Jewels. She seemed hardly to believe that such a thing as a doll was possible. I felt well rewarded by her expression of wonder and astonishment. As if that were not reward enough, she then threw her arms around me and, before either of her parents could intervene, gave me a kiss to my cheek. Mr Ogwell started forward with an ugly look on his face, which I did not like at all. There was no harm in what she did; she was just a child. Mrs Ogwell called out, ‘Josephine, come here at once,’ but there was no need for that, because she was already running to her mother, saying, ‘Look, Mama, look, see what the boy gave me.’ She did not even know my name.
I gave her five dolls all up, but after the fifth one Mr Ogwell said to me: ‘My daughter has enough dolls now; she has no need of any more.’ So that was the end of dolls for Josephine. But not for me entirely, because Quentin persuaded me to make more so we could sell them to the fine folk who promenaded along the Embankment.
I made a baker’s dozen of the little things, and one bigger one, and went with him on a fine Sunday afternoon to try our luck. I left it to Quentin to do the selling, as he was better at talking than I, but we had no luck. People drew away when he approached them, and some waved their walking sticks or rolled-up umbrellas to drive him off. After nearly two hours we had not a single sale. The discouraging thing was that they were not even looking at the dolls. Then Quentin said to me: ‘I need to go for a piss, Barnaby, you take over.’
I didn’t want to, but he pushed the basket at me and ran off like he was about to burst. So I approached a couple who were walking along slowly, a little girl following behind. To my astonishment they peered closely at the dolls and the lady said to her husband: ‘Oh they’re lovely, George, let’s get her one.’ And it was the big one they took! I couldn’t believe my eyes, and as they walked on I stood there holding the money in my hands like a fool.
I tried three more lots of folk without success, then sold another one, and a couple of minutes later another one again. I thought Quentin was taking a long time about his pissing, but then he came back. I knew something was wrong the moment I saw him. His lips were shut tight but they hung down like a crescent moon tipped over sideways. ‘What ails you?’ I said to him. ‘Look at this now, I’ve sold three of the little blighters.’
‘Aye, I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I knew you would. I’ve been watching.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve been watching?’ I said. ‘I thought you went to piss in the river?’
‘I didn’t need to piss,’ he said. ‘I went and hid in the garden over there to see what would h
appen when you set out to sell them. I know why they wouldn’t buy from me.’ He touched his birthmark. ‘Respectable folk won’t have naught to do with me. It’s not so bad in Hell, they’re used to anything there. But respectable folk, they see this and they think it’s the Devil’s mark, or I’m the spawn of a witch, and they don’t want me near their children.’
I’d known Quentin for so long that I hardly noticed his birthmark any more. I conveniently put aside my own thoughts when I had first met him, for I knew by now that there was nothing demonic about him. I was sorry for him, that folk could believe such nonsense. Yet the evidence of their convictions was in my pocket, in the form of the ten pence we’d made from selling the dolls.
Chapter 9
Things went fairly kindly for me for a while. Quentin and I agreed that he would make clothes for the dolls, for he was a dab hand with a needle, having learned it in the convent. Putting clothes on the dolls meant we could double our prices, and when the weather was favourable we generally sold a dozen or more.
When the weather was bad we sold none.
I still stayed in St Martin’s occasionally, with Quentin when I could persuade him. He was gradually becoming better reconciled to the delights of my great cold stone refuge. Other nights we’d sleep under a bridge or in a dosshouse, or sometimes behind the stalls in the markets, but the markets were not our first choice, as we had to be up and out of there early, given that many of the stallholders were at their work by five in the morning.
Mr Ogwell treated me well enough and by now I had learned the tricks of the trade and could get around the streets with sufficient speed to satisfy him, insofar as he could ever be satisfied. One brave day I asked him for a pay rise. He looked at me bleakly and said: ‘The day you ask that question again will be the last day you work for me.’
So, Quentin and I still had to use our wits and our light hands to survive. By that I mean we continued to steal in order to keep our bellies somewhere near full. In a good week the money from the dolls and from Mr Ogwell might have been enough to get us through, but not every week was a good one. And besides, when we had money, I have to confess we sometimes lacked the moral character to spend it wisely. We were not always strong enough to resist the temptations that life in London threw our way. When we were cold or tired or feeling miserable we were as likely as not to waste money on sweetmeats, biscuits and ices, for we both had a terrible partiality to sugar. One afternoon we stood in front of the Pot and Pineapple, the establishment of Mr Domenico Negri, the Italian confectioner, in Berkeley Square, and the juices ran in my mouth at the sight I beheld there: a whole garden laid out in sweetmeats, with glass fountains and porcelain swans and gravel made of sugar. Sadly, after just a few minutes, we were chased away by the doorman.
At every opportunity we paid a visit to a fair. The best of these was Bartholomew Fair, staged at Smithfield every September, where we could see the prize fighters going at it hammer and tongs, and the strong men lifting weights that seemed marvellous to us with our puny little limbs. We saw the tallest man there ever was, the Glasgow Giant, Mr Hamish Dunhill, seven foot three inches. And oh, there were so many things: puppet shows, African savages, gymnasts, and a man who could fold himself away in a barrel that looked as though it would barely accommodate little Josephine Ogwell. We were, I am afraid to say, bloodthirsty little creatures, and at every opportunity we watched the bear-baiting and cockfights, half in horror, half in fascination.
We liked going to the New Spring Gardens, to watch the slack rope vaulting and the jugglers, the wire dancing and the hot air balloons, or to Ranelagh Gardens, to see the Chinese Pavilion and the fountain of mirrors. At night-time the pretty lights of Ranelagh were a marvel to behold. When I was older and read Mr Tobias Smollett’s The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker, although I was by then in New South Wales, I recognised Mr Bramble’s description of the crowds at Ranelagh ‘devouring sliced beef, and swilling port, and punch, and cyder’ for I fear Quentin and I were in that very crowd, but I believe Mr Bramble was unkind to say that those who went there were ‘possessed by a spirit, more absurd and pernicious than anything we meet within the precincts of Bedlam’. I thought it a wonder to see the white pavilions, the lush lawns and the artificial waterfalls, the statues and the paintings. These entertainments illuminated our lives as the infinite lights of Ranelagh illuminated the night sky, but they were expensive, and seldom enough were we able to sample them. More usual for us was the daily challenge of staying alive, trying not to sink to the bottom of London’s society, though it was clear to me that we were not far from it. We could dream of being lords and dukes, but dreams did not put clothes on our backs or food in our bellies.
I remember well – how could I not? – when my life took a savage turn for the worse. Like Job I had no warning. I would not presume to compare myself to that benighted soul in other ways, for he was a righteous servant of God and I could make no such claim for myself, but the blow fell on me with something of the same suddenness and heaviness. It was a Thursday morning, some time late in July I believe, and the only thing out of the ordinary was that Mr Ogwell was late in opening the shop. Such a thing had never happened before, and I sat on the step, in the sunshine, waiting for him to arrive. The bells of St Martin’s struck eight and little did I know as I counted them that they were ringing doom for me. As the last chime sounded through Hell I perceived Mr Ogwell coming along the street, looking most agitated. He was hatless and wore neither coat nor tie, and his hair was as though he had been running his hands through it until it pointed in all different directions. I did not immediately realise that he was accompanied by a number of other men, but I soon became aware that he was at the head of a group of half-a-dozen, which included two Bow-Street Runners.
I stood as they approached but no sooner was Mr Ogwell within twenty yards of me than he sung out: ‘There he is, gentlemen, that’s the boy.’
The two Robin Redbreasts came at me at once, looking very important at their business. I did not know what to make of this but soon enough realised that I was being accused of something, and the Lord knew, there was plenty I could be accused of. The situation had an aspect that looked altogether too serious for my liking, and I turned to make a run for it, but I had left it too late and barely covered five yards before they seized me and dragged me back to my employer and his confederates.
‘What do you mean by it, you foul creature, to despoil such as her?’ Mr Ogwell shouted. It was as though he were half-mad, or fully mad more like it. I had never seen this in him before. He was always so controlled.
As I stood gaping at him, held by the arms, he suddenly produced a knife from inside his shirt and lunged at me, aiming to run the blade through my chest. My legs went from under me with terror and I pushed backwards against the Runners. The only thing that saved me was that my captors gave a little with the suddenness of my movement, and Mr Ogwell in turn overbalanced in his attempt to reach me. The knife stabbed into me sure enough, but lower than Mr Ogwell was aiming, and not as deep. Nevertheless, blood spurted from below my ribs and it was more scarlet than the waistcoats of the Runners and it scared me mightily to see it falling on the cobblestones, for I did not know how badly I was hurt.
‘Now then, that’s enough of that,’ one of the men with Mr Ogwell said, and they dragged him back. ‘That won’t help matters, sir,’ the man said to him. ‘The boy must stand trial and the law will deal with him as is fit and proper.’
I did not know who this man was but he seemed to be in charge. Mr Ogwell sagged suddenly in the grip of his attendant. He looked at me as if he blamed me for cheating him of his satisfaction, but they took the knife off him and the man came forward and inspected my wound. ‘That is your shop I believe?’ he said to Mr Ogwell, who signified his assent with a nod. ‘Very well, sir, you must have bandages in there, fetch one at once, and God willing we’ll save this boy’s life and you will not have to answer to my brothers on the bench for your
rashness.’
Mr Ogwell looked so furious now that had he still been in possession of his knife I believe he might have run the two of us through. He showed no sign of obeying the man, who, it seemed, was a magistrate, but the gentleman said, ‘Now then, sir, look sharp, do as I say,’ and he had such an air of authority that even Mr Ogwell had to obey.
In truth, by the time he came back with a bandage the bleeding had almost stopped and I was fairly confident that my life would not immediately be forfeit, but I did not like the way things stood, and wondered if my life was soon to be forfeit in another and most uncomfortable way. The magistrate applied the bandage himself and did so with such skill that I had the feeling he could probably do anything, from skinning a rabbit to making a macaroon that would rival those of Mr Domenico Negri’s.
As he finished the bandaging I asked him in a low voice: ‘What is it I’m supposed to have done, sir?’
His head was bent over my wound as he secured the dressing, but he glanced up at me sharply and stared at me for a long moment. Then he went back to his work, saying nothing. Yet I had a strangely comforting feeling as I looked into his eyes, as though he at least would not condemn me out of hand.
Some strength was coming back to my limbs, but there was no getting away, for the Runners continued to hold me tight, as though I were the most dangerous criminal in the whole of London. I became aware that quite a crowd had formed. They stood in a ring around our group watching and speculating and taking the greatest interest in the proceedings. I suppose were I not the one under arrest I would have been looking on with the same rapt attention. It did not take much to attract a crowd in Hell.
