room, though his breath wheezed and the sweat dripped down his shanks. When she struck him the man's face flinched with delight. The woman looked towards the hole in the wall, stuck out her tongue, grinned.
'The delineations', whispered Gummer, 'of human pleasure.'
For the first weeks of their new alliance, James accompanied him around the city: a rat-run of taverns, bagnios, gaming-rooms, cockpits. Men eyed the boy shrewdly, weighing him up as they might another man's horse, another man's luck. The women, tempted by the prettiness of his face, approached him with a cautious, weary kindness.
At the end of June, sitting in the room in Denmark Street, sunlight in an orange flag unfurled over the black floorboards, a fly indolently tapping the diamond-patterned glass, Gummer hinted at the means by which he - no, they - should make their fortunes. He had already, on several occasions, satisfied himself that what he had witnessed in the parlour in Blind Yeo was no accident. Pins, candles and slaps had met with no more response than if he had tortured the table. To be quite sure, he borrowed a tool from a builder and extracted one of James's teeth. The result was so convincing, so overwhelming, he had stooped and hugged the boy, his shirt smeared with the child's blood. The boy was incapable of suffering! The boy had never suffered in his life! More than this, any wound he received healed at such a rate one could almost sit and watch the flesh draw together, knit, blanch, resolve. The site of a burn would be quite invisible three days after it was given, and though the child's hands had been pierced a dozen times the skin was smooth, untroubled.
The plan was simple. If they carried it out boldly they would make more in one summer than Gummer had made in ten years of laborious swindling and sharking. Naturally it was not without some attendant risks. People did not take kindly to deception,
to being made fools of. The greatest danger lay in James being recognised. To avoid this they would do fairs that lay at some distance from each other, move swiftly from one part of the country to another. It was vital, however, that the child should be convincing. He must learn to imitate suffering, he must study it, its effects. He should study it like a foreign language and for this he must have a teacher.
Gummer had a man in mind, ran him to ground in a drinking-shop by Christmas Steps where, among the sloped backs, the insensible roar, the close stink of the place, Cato Leigh, decayed thespian, legs swollen with the dropsy, his face a dozen faces, each slapped redly upon the other, underwent the familiar inferno of his nights.
He was declaiming, for the price of a drink, lines from Faustus, when he saw, out of the side of one large eye, through the prism of a tear, the lank figure of Marley Gummer, a hound on its hind legs, with whom, in the year seventeen something, he had passed himself off as a Spanish grandee in an elaborate scheme to defraud a cartel of sherry merchants. And next to Gummer, a boy with eyes like blue stars.
'This fellow, James,' said Gummer when they had lured Leigh back to Denmark Street with the promise of strong drink, will be your tutor.'
Leigh looked down at the boy. He was uncomfortable with children. He found it hard to believe he had ever been one. He said: 'And what, pray, Mr Gummer, am I to teach the boy?'
'You are to teach him how to suffer.'
'Life, sir' - Leigh's arm flourished through the air - 'will teach him soon enough.'
'But you shall teach him sooner, Mr Leigh. Start tonight. He must know how to scream, how to writhe, all the usual horrors. He must be good. He must convince. You have a week.'
'What manner of child have you discovered, Mr Gummer?'
'One I conjured up in the country, Mr Leigh. A most delightful, cold-blooded monster of a boy. Now then, where shall you begin?'
At first James did not understand what was required of him. The man's antics were utterly mysterious, but Leigh persisted and the boy caught on. Soon, the bawd who ran the house complained that it was driving away her business. A constable beat at the door with his iron-tipped pole and had to be shown from room to room before he would believe there was no murder, no witchcraft.
From quotidian miseries they progressed to the mimicking of more spectacular disasters; the contortions induced by poisons, and all possible woundings from daggers, pistols, toledoes. At the end of the week Gummer tested the boy, having him fall down on the street and clutch his knee, or howl in dismay upon receiving a slap, or run about hopping and bellowing from a scald. The first experiments were too fulsome or too feeble. Onlookers were confused, suspicious. But James was no sluggard. What he did not learn from Cato Leigh he took from others, following a man being whipped through the streets, squatting down to observe the torment of a street crier, her leg shattered by a cartwheel. One bright afternoon he sat on Gummer's shoulders to observe, over the heads of the crowd, the hanging of a felon outside the gates of Bristol gaol. It was everywhere, this thing called suffering. And such an infinite variety! People skulked in horror of it, prayed to their god to be spared it, and yet it seemed that nobody was; no one, that is, apart from himself. Even Gummer was not immune, living like the others at the mercy of a rotten tooth, a loose slate, a tainted oyster.
They set out in July through the green gut of a country road. The city ended suddenly; there was a house, a brick stack, smoke, ugly children. Then only fields and the scrolled canopies of the trees,
and farmhouses where old dogs, eyes ajar, stunned themselves in the sun, and a woman in iron pattens paused outside an open door, shading her eyes with her hand to watch them pass. Marley Gummer, Adam Later, James Dyer and Molly Wright - first of the 'mothers' -jolting, shoulder to shoulder in a high-sided wagon, piled high with boxes and poles and rolls of canvas.
The first fair was a market town in Gloucester. The show was an unqualified success, almost too smooth, so that Gummer fretted that they would be unable to repeat such a marvel. Three days later, in Somerset, they did so, and again, a week later, across the border in Wales. They rode east then, through the harvest to Oxford, then east again through a flat land, travelling from spire to spire, to Norwich, the great roll of its cathedral bells heard on the breeze while the city was still invisible.
'Mothers' came and went. The potion itself was rarely the same, the ingredients bought from local apothecaries who were well paid to keep their curiosity in bounds. Only the crowd was always the same, the crowd and the act, though on occasion Gummer would extemporise, convolute his tale of secret recipes, bearded magi, magical ingredients.
By his own lights Gummer treated the boy well; new clothes and shoes, sugar plums, a neckerchief as green and dark as the sea they had walked by at Cromer. He taught James secrets of the underworld: how to cut out a purse, how to cheat at cards, how to conceal a blade so that it drops neatly into the hand when needed. And stray, unprovoked advice on women, what they care for and how. In the country outside Lincoln, after a lunch of rabbit cooked on the spit, Gummer showed James a length of lamb's gut he called a London Overcoat. Protection, he said, from Signor Gonorrhoea, and he winked and wiggled the thing in the air, laughing. Only once did he feel it necessary to chastise the boy. It was nothing he had done, nothing he had said. It was a look, a quite shocking look, such as Gummer had seen once before, in the eyes of a
hanging judge at the end of a long quarter session at Dorchester. For this insubordination he strapped James tight to the wheel of the cart and left him there all night. Grace Boylan, now James's 'mother', swore that she could find a way to hurt him, her with her background, her talents, and for a minute or two Gummer let her try. Then he pushed her away, freed the boy and tenderly walked the life back into his legs. James,' he sighed, where would we be without each other, eh?' And as they walked back to the cart through the shadows of the trees he sang:
In summer when the shaws be sheen And leaves be large and long, Full merry it is in fair forest To hear the fowles song . . .'
Grace wakes him with the toe of her boot. It is time to go. James moves easily into wakefulness, shrugs off his dreams, inhales the pre-dawn air. He takes up his
bundle, pulls on the coat he has been sleeping under and waits by the flap. Grace comes, shivering, rubbing at her face with the heels of her hands. She is at her worst at this time, fiall of speechless fury at the darkness, the chill air, the long walk ahead of them. Also at fate, the too-many years on her back, and this strange untouchable boy walking the road beside her. An old soul he has, or no soul at all. You'd think he might whistle or ask how far it will be or when they will eat. Not this one.
Black; black and gold. Night disperses. Light hangs in rags from the trees. Clouds the size of villages drift westwards. For
five minutes the tips of the corn-stalks catch the sun and scintillate. Already there are gleaners at work, women gathering the left-behind, the second crop. They gather a clutch, bind it and pass it to one of the children who run to the gate where a boy stands guard.
Grace and James breakfast in the corner of a meadow. When they have eaten, Grace lies back in the grass, belches, sinks the lids of her eyes. The breath whistles in her nose; a horse-fly settles on her belly. James opens his bundle. The orrery is wrapped in an old coat. He sets the box on top of the coat, slips the catch. The planets reflect the morning light. He turns the handle. There is some rust on the cogs, just a little, but it means he must use more force to turn them. The wires shudder, the planets vibrate. When Grace sits up he is still with it, Liza's old toy. Grace has not seen it before. She comes close, kneels heavily in the grass and watches. A smile unfurls across her face; she touches the brass sun. James lets go of the handle, closes the box, wraps it in the coat. They go. It is a long empty road.
Tain, friends, is from the devil. It is his touch, his caress . . .'
Salisbury, 10 October 1752. The sides of the booth are buffeted by winds; enormous soft fists beating at the canvas. Gummer must raise his voice above the noise of it. The wind makes the crowd restless. It distracts them. They think of roofs, lost washing, journeys home. Only when Gummer begins his exchange with Grace Boylan do they
hush and lean slightly towards the woman and the pale handsome boy in his blue coat beside her.
'Let me go, Mama. Let me be brave like Father.'
Well spoke, boy! Pass him up! Pass him up!'
On stage again. This time it is a young man, forearms thick as hams, a cast in his left eye, who will help with the torture. The pin, the flame, the potion, the pin once more. There are some marks, red freckles where the pin has been before, but nothing to arouse suspicion. His flesh seems to have no memory.
As Gummer brings the candle, James sees again, at the back of the booth, the same green eyes he has seen now in four of the shows. He has not told Gummer. He is waiting to see what the man will do. The flame laps at his hand. The green eye studies him. The crowd gasps, a voice calls. Til take two!' A commotion, a swirl of figures, the wind beats twice, thrice upon the canvas, and the green-eyed man is gone. Gummer rubs his hands, gets down to business.
Outside, the wind flings birds around the chimney-stacks. A man chases his wig towards the river. A newspaper torn from the hand of a lawyer suddenly wraps the head of a beggar. Grace and James head for the cathedral. Inside, the wind has a solemn echo. Grace slumps on a pew, wriggles a bottle from beneath her skirts, empties it and slides the bottle under the seat.
'Better, by Christ.'
She looks round for the boy, does not see him. She closes her eyes. There is a tiredness in her, a black water in her bones that no sleep can ever ease now. A dozen voices in the choir sing the first lines of the Te Deum. High above her bowed head bats swim through the arches, disappear into the shadows.
James walks towards the altar, looks at the boys in the choir. They are much of an age with him, faces candle-pale, their eyes following the hands of the music master. There is one boy with a face like Charlie's. James thinks of his dead brother, then of
his mother; he remembers her lifting him - how clearly! And he remembers the smell of her. Flesh, milk, the warm appley breath. The blood thuds in his ears. He raises a hand to his chest, then to his face, touches his own hot face. There is something on his hand - water. He licks it. Salt water. The boys are singing; their voices rise like a fountain, fall like rain. He goes towards one of the side doors. A man is standing by the door, hat in hand. He nods to James, pulls aside the curtain in front of the door. James stops, looks around, looks for Grace Boylan. In a distant pew he sees a shape that may be hers, a figure bowed in sleep or prayer. When he looks back the man has gone. From different points in the cathedral voices, hushed and unintelligible, are murmuring. James steps forward. Behind the curtain someone is waiting for him. From across the body of the church there comes a blink of light; Gummer strides in, tiny among the pillars, the great tombs, the cliffs of grey stone. He sees James, waves at him. James moves towards the side door, goes through it. He does not see the man but feels the grip on his arm. A voice says: 'Hurry!', and pushes him forward through yards of disordered air. A carriage and four is waiting. James and the man are running now, down an alley, over a bridge. The river flashes, an empty boat scuds crazily on its surface. As they reach the carriage another man leans out, hauls James up, snaps the door shut. The coach lurches backwards, then forwards. Gummer's face shows suddenly at the window, an arm snakes about his neck, drags him off. James stares back and sees at the side of the road two men knock Gummer down. One has a stick. They start to beat him. There is no noise other than the wind. The man with green eyes gently pushes James back into his seat and draws down the window blind, hooks it. From out of darkness he says: 'You are safe now, child.' A hand reaches out, pats the boy's knee. 'Quite safe.'
A land smooth as bottle glass. Trim gold woods, the green and steel snake of a stream. A lake of manageable size with the spire of a submerged church just breaking the surface. A driveway stippled with the shadows of young trees; Italian gardens; avenues; prospects; miles of red-brick wall, iron spikes.
James opens his eyes. He does not know what has woken him. A bird is staring at him, cocking its head from side to side on the top of a bush. James looks at the shadows to see how long he has been asleep. Two hours at least. The sunlight surprises him. He has been dreaming of snow, a world of snow, and a voice, calling him, closing on him.
He clambers to his feet. He sleeps so much now, so deeply, as though his body were preparing for another life. He claps his hands; the bird flies off, takes the dream with it.
In the evening air the house is splendid. The pale stone soaks up the pink and honey of the light; each window bears its own unique sun. Generous Palladian arms stretch out on either side of the main house. As he approaches, his feet crunch on the raked gravel. He walks up a flight of shallow steps to a double door. He does not need to knock. Invisible eyes have always seen him. Hands, tightly gloved, admit him. Servants in yellow coats.
This is the door through which he entered when he first arrived, the green-eyed man beside him, his hand sometimes brushing the boy's shoulder as though to reassure him. The gentleman had passed James into the care of a servant and James had followed the
man beside a swirl of banisters, through corridors broad as roads with doors leading off as far as the eye could pierce. There were voices in the air, a language he had not heard before, a leisurely, expressive chatter, and looking up he saw men on scaffolds, dark-haired with elegant faces, long brushes in their hands. They were working on a frieze above one of the great windows. They paused in their work, looking down at James, grinning, shaking their heads. 'Ah, povero ragazzoP
He was shown into a room with a curtained bed and a fire burning quietly in the grate. The servant had looked at the boy then, his expression no longer deferential, like an actor stepping suddenly out of his part.
When you wants to eat you pulls that wire there.'
And James had asked: Will the man come? The man I came here with?'
'Mr Canning?' The servant shook his head. 'He'll send for you when he wants you. He's a busy man. You're not the only one, you know.' The door was already closed before James thoug
ht to ask: '"Only one" of what?'
No one comes to see him other than servants, though not the same as the one who led him up on that first day; not as familiar or sly or informative. They order the room and bring trays of food. After the greens and bacon and penny loaves of his life with Grace and Gummer, the diet is gamey and sweet. A rich diet that makes him restless. He cannot decide if he is a prisoner or a guest. Certainly no key is ever turned in the door, and no one stands on the corridors playing gaoler. He begins to explore, candle in hand, going out when the house is quiet, his own footfall swallowed in the plush of the carpet and nothing but a stream of cream-coloured light to betray him.
The first time he meets nobody; the house is ostentatiously empty. After an hour, he becomes lost, deceived by symmetries.
and only recovers his room towards dawn, his candle long since gutted, his door suddenly appearing before him when still he thinks himself on the wrong floor, the wrong corridor.
The next night he goes further. Two servants, the light of their candles draped over their yellow coats, cross ahead of him through some large stately space, linger an instant to look towards the finger of James's flame, then disappear. What secret lives these people lead, secret as eels. When James tries to follow them there is no sign of where they have gone, no betraying glow.
It is the third or fourth night before he encounters anyone with whom he can speak, a night so sharply lit by the moon its light penetrates even into the windowless corridors, lying like sheets of new paper under the doors. He has been walking the greater part of an hour when midnight chimes from clocks in a hundred rooms and he hears a voice, soft yet querulous, and traces it to a great door that stands just wide enough to admit him. He enters and sees by moonlight a man, the silvery shape of a man, standing in a kind of pulpit at the side of a shelf of books. The man, reaching up to replace a book, turns and peers at the boy.
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