The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  Yet still underneath all these happy thoughts, there's a small worried one buzzing away. I try stamping on it but it just comes back like a fly round the big bin that's my brain. Don't trust him, it says. And why it should say that, I don't know. Because nobody in my life has ever been this good to me – not even Travis.

  That night I dream about Dog-woman again, prowling restlessly through all the rooms of the house. And I follow her but I can't speak. And when I get to the kitchen, there's Travis, sitting at the table. There's food spread in front of him, but on the table itself, not on a plate, and he looks as if he doesn't know what to do with it. And there's a vast army of knives and forks and I can tell he doesn't know which ones to use. Somewhere in the background there's Quivel, humming like a great fat bee.

  Travis picks up a knife and puts it down again. Then he picks up a fork. He doesn't know what to do and I can't tell him. He can't even see me. He drops the fork and his head sinks into his hands. Then I wake up.

  It's morning and my head aches. Milly's pulling back the curtains. ‘Mrs Quivel says you have to have a wash,’ she says.

  ‘Again?’ I'm outraged. But Quivel comes in and sets about me herself, with the bowl and a little towel, scrubbing hard behind my ears. I mean – how dirty can they have got since my bath?

  All the same, I put up with it, because today's the day I might start learning to read.

  Milly brings breakfast. An egg in a silver cup. I pick it up.

  ‘Use the spoon, boy!’ Quivel thunders, and timidly Milly shows me how to tap the top of it, then take the top off.

  I eat while Milly dusts and Quivel glares. That seems to be the main thing she's good at, glaring.

  Then after breakfast, a visitor's announced. Mr M brings him up himself. ‘Mr Silver, my tailor,’ he says.

  Little man, big nose. I have to get out of bed while he measures my height (four foot six) and round my chest (nineteen inches) and up my legs. ‘Watchit,’ I say.

  ‘The young sir would like me to make a suit for an elephant, maybe?’ he says. ‘Or a dancing bear?’ He fixes me with eyes hardly higher than my own.

  ‘No,’ I say, and let him get on with it. Though it doesn't seem dignified. Can't believe Mr M has to go through all this palaver for his clothes. Fact is, I can't believe any of it at all. Feels like I'll wake up soon, back in the den with Queenie.

  He takes a lot of measurements while I try not to sigh and shift about. He writes them all down, muttering to himself. Mr M watches me with half a smile on his face. Glad I'm good for something, if only to keep him amused.

  ‘Now for the cloth,’ he says, picking up a book full of material. He shows Mr M the samples, rather than me, while I stand there like a dummy. Mr M's wearing purple with a waistcoat in like a pale pink silk, and he seems to be picking the same for me. No way, I'm thinking.

  ‘The cerise,’ says Mr Silver, ‘and a coral lining.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. I put my hand out and Silver snatches the book away. ‘Now just hold on,’ I say. ‘I'm the one who's going to be wearing this get-up, right?’

  Silver stares at me like an offended hen. Mr M's eyebrow shoots up, but he says, ‘No, no, the boy is right.’ He waves his hand at Silver, who can hardly believe his ears, and sits himself down in the chair.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Hand it over.’

  Silver looks like he knows what he'd like to do with the book and me, but he says, ‘I will handle the samples, please.’ And still looking outraged he holds the book up towards me and turns the pages.

  ‘That'll do,’ I say, when he comes to one that's dark green, like the forest.

  ‘And the waistcoat?’

  For the waistcoat I'm torn between gold and a pale blue-green, finally settling on the last.

  ‘Very good,’ says Mr Silver, after Mr M nods at him. ‘Tomorrow we make a fitting, yes?’

  Mr M shows the tailor out. And I'm tired already, though I've done nowt, so I crawl back into bed. But I've hardly closed my eyes, or so it seems, when I hear voices outside my door again.

  ‘Mr Mosley, you are too too kind!’ says the voice and then the door opens.

  Come right in, I'm thinking. Don't mind me.

  A plump woman comes in and I have to stare. She's all done up in pale-blue silk, with ruffles at the neck and blue ribbons gathering up her ringlets into big bunches. Her face is pink and white, like a doll's, but as she gets closer I see that it's painted on and there are lots of lines beneath the paint, like cracks in a pot.

  ‘More than kind,’ she's still saying. ‘Kindness itself.’ She comes right up to me and peers down with her watery blue eyes. ‘And how is our little patient today?’ she beams, nodding so that all the ringlets quiver and bob.

  I mutter something, looking away. I wish I had my clothes.

  ‘This is Miss Chitters,’ says Mr M, looking pleased with himself. ‘She teaches the Sunday School at the Cross Street Chapel, and has graciously consented to teach you for one hour every morning.’

  ‘In return for a very handsome donation to our Little Helpers of the Poor,’ Miss Chitters puts in, beaming and wagging her head. Then from her large flowery bag she draws out a book with a picture on the front, and despite myself I'm craning to see. Mr M draws up a chair, then goes and sits in his usual place, watching us.

  ‘And have you had any kind of instruction before?’ Miss Chitters asks. She speaks slowly and clearly as though I might be deaf. I shake my head. Don't want to go into all that stuff about the workhouse.

  She holds the book up, but away from me. ‘And what would you say the true purpose of learning to read is?’ she says, wagging her head.

  That throws me. I think back to all the books I've seen that I haven't been able to read, to the stories about giants and dragons, then to Barney Bent-nose telling us about how you can be hanged for trespassing.

  She's still waiting.

  ‘So I won't be hanged?’ I say. She looks a bit shocked by this, then laughs merrily and Mr M smiles. I feel myself going red.

  ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘I hope it hasn't come to that yet. A lack of education may cost you many things, but in this country at least one cannot be hanged for it.’

  Not what I've heard. But she lowers her jiggling ringlets towards me and raises her eyebrows. ‘Shall I tell you the true purpose of reading?’ she says.

  How old does she think I am?

  ‘The true purpose of learning to read,’ she says solemnly when I don't reply, ‘is so that you can receive the word of the Lord. Now, can you say that after me?’

  I'm blushing scarlet now, glaring down at the bedspread. But she's waiting and something tells me she can wait a long time. There's something unbending in her, in spite of the ribbons and frills, and I groan inwardly but mutter the words.

  ‘That's right,’ she says, satisfied. ‘I think we're going to get along famously. Now –’ she puts the book down on the bed and turns to the first page. There's a picture of an angel on it, but not like the ones I imagined when Travis told his tale. Don't look much like Queenie's gang, neither. This one's got golden curls like Miss Chitters and a flowing nightgown like me. He holds a book in one hand but he's not looking at it – his eyes are raised to the sky. Perhaps he's bored with it, I'm thinking, but Chitters says, ‘Notice how the book is open but his eyes are raised heavenwards, because he receives the Word of the Lord direct.’

  If you say so, I'm thinking.

  ‘You can hear the sound of the letter in the word – A and angel, but here…’ she turns the page and there's a picture of a man, a woman and a snake, ‘a makes the sound a in apple. Like the apple in the Garden of Eden. You know that story, surely?’

  I nod, just to stop her telling it me.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Now, can you think of any words that you might know that begin with a as in angel, or a as in apple?’

  Is this a trick question? I have to think for a bit. ‘'anging?’ I say, though I know what the response'll be.

  Mr M c
oughs and Miss C looks at me reprovingly.

  ‘The poor boy has had his head filled with the lowest kind of knowledge,’ she says to Mr M. ‘It is high time indeed that he learned of higher things.’

  Mr M looks grave, yet I thought I caught him smiling. ‘But do you think you can teach him?’ he says.

  ‘I'm sure of it,’ she cries. ‘Miss Amelia Chitters is not one to take things on lightly, but when she does, she does not give them up. And not even the hardest heart is immune to the purest knowledge. Why, I've known even hardened criminals weep when I read to them from this book!’

  No doubt, I'm thinking.

  ‘But, if I could ask one thing, my dear, kind Mr Mosley?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Might we take our lessons unaccompanied? I feel sure that we would make more progress that way – and you must have other, more urgent business?’

  Mr M looks as though he might disagree, but thinks better of it.

  ‘Very well then, Miss Chitters. I'll leave the boy in your capable hands. But I should like to know how he's getting on.’

  ‘Depend upon it,’ Miss C says. ‘After each session I shall make you a full report.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Nat?’ Mr M says, getting up. ‘I hope to hear that you've been a model student – dutiful, industrious and grateful.’ He gives me a look.

  ‘No doubt of it!’ replies Miss C, saving me the trouble. ‘We'll work through the next half hour, and I'll come to you directly.’

  ‘Very well then,’ Mr M says, though he still shuffles about a bit, not wanting to leave. I'm not sure whether I'll prefer her without him or what. The minute he's gone she draws her chair up closer to the bed.

  ‘B is for Bible,’ she says. ‘And blessing, which is what little children receive when they are brought to the Lord at baptism. Can you say baptism?’

  ‘Miss Chitters,’ I say.

  ‘You can call me ma'am.’

  ‘Ma'am,’ I say, ‘I don't know if you've had a word with the doctor, or owt, and I don't know what he's told you – but I've not gone daft.’

  She looks astonished at this, so I try to explain. ‘My body might be ill but there's nowt wrong with my head.’

  Miss Chitters takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. She picks up the book and for a second I think she might hit me with it, but she just says, ‘Nathaniel, have you ever tried to learn anything before?’

  I think back to practising with my sling. ‘Yes… ma'am.’

  ‘Good. Then you'll know all about starting at the beginning. Learning to walk before you can run?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Then I want to hear no more about it. And just for this once,’ she fixes me with blue eyes that are no longer watery, but like steel, ‘I will overlook your rudeness. Just this once. Do you hear me?’

  I stare at her, astonished. I can be a lot ruder than that, I'm thinking, but her chins are wobbling in anger and I don't want a scene. And I still do want to learn to read, so I say, ‘Yes, ma'am,’ and try to look as though I'm studying the book.

  ‘Good,’ she says, more calmly, and turns the page. ‘B is also for brimstone,’ she says.

  It takes a long time because for each letter she tells me a Bible story. So that first session we get all the way to D.

  ‘D is for –’

  ‘Dinner,’ I say, hearing the trolley, and she laughs.

  ‘You've learned something today at any rate,’ she says, and she gets up, tousling my hair. ‘I'll be back again at the same time tomorrow.’

  I try to look pleased. And wonder what she'll report to Mr M.

  Still, I am learning something, and that makes the time go faster. Especially since Miss C's not the only visitor. There's a regular stream of them, every day, from the Provident Society, and the Literary Club, the Sanitation Society and the Statistical Association, whatever they are. There's even one from the Daily Herald who draws a picture of me lying in bed, with Mr M leaning over in a concerned way.

  They all come by to have a good look at me, the invalid from the streets. And one thing they're all agreed on is, Mr M's doing a wonderful thing.

  ‘Oh, it's a wonderful thing that you're doing for that poor dear boy,’ say the Misses Plum, holding their hand-kerchiefs to their eyes. ‘A wonderful, wonderful thing.’ And they have to be shown out, quite overcome.

  Some of them speak to me; others don't.

  One day a very grand lady comes to visit. Very grand, very tall. She's introduced to me as Lady Shadbury. She sits on one side of the bed and Mr M on the other, but she addresses all her questions to him. Just like I'm not there. The conversation wanders on for a bit while I pick at a thread on the bedspread.

  ‘So you found him –?’

  ‘Dr Kay found him, madam, although strictly speaking, he found Dr Kay. Brought one of his little friends to the hospital. She was suffering from cholera.’

  Lady S shudders delicately. ‘I hear the new hospitals are teeming with the poor wretches. And more where they came from, I shouldn't wonder. That's the trouble with the poor. They're so terribly… incontinent.’

  Two red spots appear on her cheeks. ‘And if only they'd learn the basic principles of sanitation, so much trouble would be spared. That's why I came to see you today, Mr Mosley. To ask if you'd like to contribute to our little scheme.’

  Lady S's little scheme is to dole out free soap to the poor. Mr M listens politely then he leans over towards me.

  ‘What do you think of that, eh, Nat? Free soap to every household?’

  Thought they'd forgotten about me. ‘Can they eat it?’ I say, not meaning to be funny, but Mr M laughs and Lady S looks considerably put out.

  ‘One has to think round the situation,’ she says, still talking to Mr M. ‘The problems of the poor cannot be solved by food alone.’

  Then there's a thin gent with narrow eyes and a long black beard. He's from the Statistical Association, and he sits with Mr M at the back of the room discussing river pollution for a long time. Then the talk turns to overcrowding.

  ‘Do you know,’ says the thin gent, leaning forward, ‘that the last figures reveal that in the worst areas of the town there are as many as 3,000 individuals crammed into ninety houses. That's an average of over thirty per house.’

  He sits back and Mr M looks at me. ‘What about that, Nat?’ he says. ‘Does that back up your experience?’

  I think back to the teeming cellars by the river, and the one-room shacks. ‘Sounds about right,’ I say.

  ‘No wonder there's dirt and disease, the thin gent says. ‘What's needed is some form of population control.’

  ‘Or better houses,’ I say, and they both look at me.

  ‘Is that your considered opinion, Nat?’ says Mr M. ‘If we carry on building more and better houses, will the poor not simply breed more?’

  I shrug. Though it does seem to me that the poor have lots more children than the rich. And why that is, I don't know.

  ‘They need to be educated,’ says the thin man, ‘to have fewer children.’

  In his view, if they stop the poor having children, they solve a whole barrowload of problems in one go. Don't know how he thinks he'll manage that, though.

  ‘If you have kids,’ I say, ‘they earn money for you. And there's more chance of being looked after when you're old.’

  ‘True,’ says the thin gent, looking at me through narrowed eyes. ‘But how if you can't support them? And what does the money go on, eh? Food, or drink?’

  Then there's a short discussion of the evils of drink, how it leads to riots, and the possibility of closing the gin shops.

  ‘That would cause riots,’ I say, butting in, and they look at me again. Seems like I'm expected to say more.

  ‘If you take the five-shillings-a-week men,’ I say, ‘living in shacks by the river – what've they got but gin? What'll five shillings buy you?’ I say, warming to my theme. ‘Maybe four loaves of bread? Or rent and two loaves. But my guess is, they skip the bread and the r
ent, and just buy gin.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says the thin man, as if I've just proved his point, which I haven't at all.

  ‘But if you take the gin off them,’ I say, ‘what've they got then? Stone cold sober they'll just realize what a bad deal they've got.’

  The thin man sucks in his cheeks and Mr M looks at me with a gleam in his eye. ‘I hadn't suspected you of being a radical philosopher, Nat.’

  ‘What's one of them?’ I ask, and they both laugh, in a relieved kind of way it seems to me.

  I've had enough of them and I'm glad to see them go. But I am getting better. Between visitors I practise walking round the room, picking things up, a jewelled casket, the little fat man carved in black – heavier than I thought. And I look out of the window, on to Mosley Street, as I've been told this place is. Named after Mr Mosley's family, no less.

  It's a broad street, and fine carriages parade up and down it all day. At night the blue locusts patrol it – several of them, not just one. Which is funny if you ask me, because in the streets by the river, or the rookeries, or the courts off Angel Meadow, where all the trouble is, you'd never catch one. Yet here they are in droves where there's no trouble at all. Protecting the rich from the poor.

  Almost opposite the window is a grand building with great pillars and letters on the front: P-O-R-T-I-C-O. I asked Miss C to spell it out for me, and she said it was a great library, full of books. That whole building, full of books! And that's something that Mr M does in the day. Every morning around ten he crosses the street and goes into the library, and sits reading for a couple of hours at least.

  That's something the rich are good at, reading. That and sitting around discussing the poor. Hard to believe, really. When you think of all the poor going about their business, with no idea of how interesting they are. And just as poor as they ever were.

  One day two gents come to visit: one tall and thin and fair, and the other one round and red-faced, with black eyes. Mr M introduces them as the brothers Grant, lawyers who have offices further up Mosley Street. The little round, red-faced one does all the talking, and each time he says something he laughs loudly, whether anyone else laughs or not.

  ‘That's the spirit, Mosley – regenerate the urban poor, what? Ha ha!’