He trusted himself to stand up. There wasn’t a sound. He whistled softly for the dog, who padded back through the hedge to him, ran up and then danced away. He was alone again, and this time it was the silence that made him afraid. He crawled into the hedge, hoping to sleep, but the silence boomed around him.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ the little voice whispered. ‘You’ve left your master to suffocate, and you’ve strangled his dog on the rope. You’ve killed them both, you have. Now you’re for it, Jim.’
20
The Green Caravan
Jim woke to the sound of horses, a thudding of hooves that made the earth shake. He ran to the edge of his field and scrambled through the thickness of trees till he came to a wide clearing in another field. There must have been twenty or more horses being exercised, all in a ring. In the centre of the ring a man stood with a whip, lashing the ground with it and shouting out commands which made the horses stop, rear, turn and trot in the other direction. They were nothing like the workhorses that Jim had seen pulling carriages, or Lame Betsy’s bony old knock-kneed dairy horse. These horses were powerful and lively, high-stepping like dancers.
At the other end of the field was a monster tent. Men and children were shouting and laughing out loud, hauling on the ropes to pull it upright. The tent was like a huge green bird that wouldn’t lie still. And all round the sides of the field were vans, all painted with bright colours.
The biggest of them had words painted on them, and Jim knew for sure that they would say ‘Juglini’s Champion Circus’. The van had a green door with a brass knocker, and cabin windows with muslin curtains, and a funnel at the back with smoke curling from it. From the back window a woman gazed out at him, as if she were day-dreaming, not really noticing him at all. Jim guessed that this would be Madame Juglini herself. He remembered how her children had danced and waved to him from the river bank, and instinctively he put up his hand to feel for the rope that had tied him round the neck. But he was free of that; forever, he hoped.
A wonderful smell of cooking arose from the van. Jim couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. Whenever it was, it had only been the scraps from Grimy Nick’s pockets. As Jim watched the woman disappeared and was replaced by two small children. Jim recognized them as the two younger ones who had been carried on their parents’ shoulders the day before. They caught sight of him and pointed at him, laughing.
The woman opened the door to the van. Her children squirmed on to the step in front of her and giggled at Jim.
‘Please, ma’am …’ Jim began. If he hadn’t been so hungry he would have run back into the trees to hide, but the smell of food was stronger and sweeter than ever. He waved his hands to where the men were heaving and straining at the tent ropes.
‘I’ve come for a job if you’ll give me one,’ he faltered. Memories of Nick came floating up to him. What have I done? he thought. What’s happened to Nick? Immediately, hunger chased the thoughts away. Eat first, and then think. That was best. ‘I’ll help to put the tent up. I’ll muck out the horses, and clean ’em up bright and smart. And I don’t want money, missis.’
‘Don’t want money?’ Madame Juglini frowned down at him. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’
‘If you’ll feed me, missis,’ Jim said, all his confidence gone. ‘I’ll do anything.’
He gazed at the little van, and his old longing rose up in him again. How good it must be to live in this green van with the shining brass knocker on the door and the chimney curling out smoke. He dug his hands deep in his pockets. There was nothing more he could say. A boy came running across the field to the caravan. He stopped short, staring at Jim.
Madame Juglini went back up the steps. ‘Antonio, you bring the boy inside.’
Jim followed the boy Antonio into the van, and gazed round at the bright cushions and curtains, at the small fire crackling in its burner, and at all the neat shiny fittings. He had never seen anything that looked so much like a home. He was conscious now of his filthy hands and broken, blackened nails, and of the tattered state of his clothes.
Madame Juglini gave him some food and watched him while he ate. She knew the white marks round his eyes for what they were. She sighed. ‘We have a busy day. We have a costume to make for the Strongest Man in the Universe. The last Strongest Man ran away with a Flying Lady and took his loin-cloth with him.’ Her children giggled. ‘You don’t sew, I suppose?’ she asked Jim.
Jim could have told her about the weeks he’d spent making sacks in the workhouse, but he daren’t in case it was a trick question. He shrugged. ‘I might be able to,’ he said. The small children laughed at him. Mr Juglini came in, rubbing his hands together, and tousled Jim’s hair as if he was quite used to seeing him sitting at his table. A cloud of black dust rose from Jim’s head and Antonio pretended to dodge away from him, coughing.
‘This boy says he wants a job,’ his wife said.
Mr Juglini sat down opposite Jim and stared at him. Then he leaned towards him.
‘Now tell me true,’ he asked. ‘Have you run away from home?’ His black eyes seemed to burn right inside Jim’s. Jim felt the scorch of tears, and tried to rub them away.
‘I used to live on a coal-lighter,’ he said. ‘I … I think the lighterman might have died, sir. I think he might have got trapped. It was … I … did …’
Madame Juglini and her husband exchanged glances.
‘He can whiten the harnesses with Antonio. There’s a job. Let’s see how well he does it.’ Juglini smoothed his moustaches and went quickly out of the van.
Jim gazed after him, so many words tumbling about in his head that he couldn’t find a single one to say.
21
Circus Boy
By midday the huge tent was up, and sawdust had been scattered in its ring. Madame Juglini was away for most of the day, but came back at dusk, just as the lanterns were lit around the field, hanging from trees like ripe orange fruit. The tent glowed with yellow gas-light. Jim and Antonio stood by the gates of the field beating drums, and the circus band paraded round the tent, bugles and trumpets blaring into the twilight. Bats skittered over their heads like black rags.
Up the lane came a rumble of wheels, and the children of the circus cheered. ‘The people are coming, the people are coming!’ At the door flap of the tent Madame Juglini was taking money and shouting; ‘Roll up! Roll up, for the greatest show on earth! See the Flying Horses of Arabie! See Madame Bombadini as she flies through the air! See the Strongest Man in the Universe!’
Jim and Antonio ran inside the tent, and wriggled underneath the tiers of benches. They squatted there, arms folded, beneath the drumming feet of the impatient audience. Bits of orange peel and nut shells showered down on them. Antonio smiled at Jim.
It would be all right now. Everything would be all right. Tonight Jim would sleep in the green caravan with the brass door knocker, and tomorrow he would help to take down the big tent with the men and the children. He would march in the procession with his drum. Roll up! Roll up! He closed his eyes, letting the music and the voices swirl round him.
Antonio nudged him. The drums started up a booming roll. The crowd roared. Mr Juglini ran in to the ring and cracked his whip for silence. The band blazed, and into the ring ran the horses, the beautiful, powerful horses, scudding and shining, the thundering, billowing horses. Juglini cracked his whip again, and the horses reared on to their back legs, and into their circle another horse galloped with a woman standing on the saddle, her muslin skirts tucked up high. As the crowd cheered she leaned right back, her arms outstretched, and somersaulted: ‘One, Two Three!’ Juglini shouted. ‘Four! Five! Six!’ the crowd roared. Over she went, and over again, and came up each time smiling and proud. Jim cheered and clapped. He wanted to stand up and shout, ‘Hooray for Juglini’s circus!’
It was then, as the horses turned with a swish of their tails and a prancing of long legs, that Jim saw the thing he had never thought to see again in his life. The entrance flap of the t
ent was lifted up briefly. He could just make out the face of Madame Juglini, peering and anxious. He saw her hand, stretched up to receive a coin. And next to hers, like a spectre, another face, looming in the glow of the lantern; a blackened face, and square, with hair like a slipping thatch, and eyes that bulged through like lamps.
22
On the Run Again
Far away behind him Jim could hear the beating of the drums and the blare of the trumpets and trombones, the roar of the crowd. When he paused to look round he could see the glow of the huge tent and the dark shapes of the caravans parked round the edges of the field. He could just make out which one was Juglini’s.
He turned away again and ran until he could run no more. He reached a barn near a farmhouse. The door was open. He crept in and curled himself up in a pile of straw. His last thoughts, as sleep overtook him, were of something that Shrimps had said, long ago.
‘I’d rather sleep in a barnful of rats, and I’ve done that a time or two.’
Jim listened to the scurryings round him. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘rats is charming company, bruvver. At least they knows where it’s warm and dry.’
The cry of the farmyard cockerel woke him up, and the sun striping through the barn roof. Jim lay still and tense, listening to the sound of the farm-workers making their way to the fields. When their voices had died away he went out of the barn. Hens cluttered round him and squawked away again. An old woman, swaying as she walked, came out of the farm building carrying two large pails. She swayed past the barn where Jim crouched, afraid, her skirts sweeping up the hens’ grain as they bobbed around her. She went into the milking shed. Jim could hear her talking to the cows, and the low muttering the beasts made.
He dared himself to creep out of the barn again. The old woman had left open the kitchen door. Jim peered in. He could see bread on the table, left over from the men’s breakfast – pies and cheeses, a big jug of milk. He slipped in to the kitchen. Maybe if he asked the woman she would give him food. Maybe she would shut him in a back room and go and fetch Grimy Nick. He didn’t feel he could ever trust anyone again. He glanced round the yard and sneaked into the kitchen, stuffing as much food as he could in his mouth, cramming his pockets till they bulged. He heard a creak on the stair, swigged from the jug and grabbed one last desperate handful of cheese, and turned to see a girl on the middle step, her hand to her mouth. He dropped the jug and ran. The girl followed him, shouting, the jug clattering still on the flagged floor. The old woman hurried out of her milking shed, and all the farm dogs barked. Jim was away like a hare before a hound, streaking up to the lane.
He had no idea, now, where he was. The river was a long way away, and he could no longer see any signs of villages. A stage-coach rumbled past and he flung himself into the trees, turning his face away from the dust and the staring eyes of the passengers. What if one of them was Grimy Nick, glittering with revenge?
He limped steadily on. His leg hurt a lot now. He passed a family of beggars, trudging in their bare feet, bundles on their backs.
‘At least you don’t have to carry anything,’ he said to himself. ‘You count yourself lucky, bruvver.’
His boots flapped as he walked. The nails had worked their way out and the soles were like lolloping tongues.
‘Chuck them in a ditch,’ he told himself, but he knew he couldn’t do that. They were Lizzie’s boots, from long ago. They were the only things he had to call his own, beside his name. He shoved one in each pocket. Now he couldn’t even hear his own footsteps. Every now and again a lapwing squeaked in a ploughed field, or a small animal rustled the hedgerow leaves, startling him. He seemed to be walking forever along the silent lanes with the huge grey sky arching over him. He was tense with listening. He imagined he saw Grimy Nick lurking behind every tree, his shadow flittering every time he turned round, his thin, mocking whistle piercing through every bird song.
‘Keep going, bruvver,’ he urged himself. ‘This must lead somewhere.’
At last he came to a signpost. It was a magic thing, he felt that. He traced the letters with his fingers, one by one. ‘“LONDON TOWN”. It has to be,’ he said.
‘You’re going home!’ he whispered. ‘Rosie lives in London Town, Jim!’
Home. He ate some food under his magic signpost and set off again, faster this time. The sun was setting low and red across the fields, but the air was becoming hazier and sootier. London was near, he knew it was.
23
Shrimps Again
Everything was growing familiar, yet everything was wrong. He was near the river, near the wharves and the warehouses, but the houses had gone. Everywhere he looked men were hammering and digging, lifting loads of rubble onto carts, heaving great planks of wood down to the water’s edge. Skeletons of houses crumbled into piles of dust. And Rosie’s cottage, and the boatshed where he had first watched the river, had gone.
Jim stared in disbelief at the wreckage around him. It was as if the whole city was being destroyed in order to build a new one.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked someone, a woman who reminded him of Rosie, with fat arms and a brown shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders.
‘They’re building a big new dock here, for all the boats,’ she told him, never taking her eyes off the workmen. ‘Wunnerful, ain’t it! Wunnerful. They say there’s more than two thousand men working here. Fancy! I never knew there was two thousand men in the whole world!’ She laughed, a coarse, grating laugh.
‘But what happened to all the houses?’ Jim asked her. ‘And all the people who lived here? Where’s Rosie?’
The woman laughed again and rubbed her arms. ‘Rosie? I know a dozen Rosies, and they’ve all lost their homes now. Don’t know where any of the Rosies have gone. Pastures new, I hope!’
Jim wandered away from her. She was so fascinated by the builders that she would stand and watch all day, there was no doubt of that, her fat arms folded with patient curiosity, her weight shifting from one leg to the other.
‘You’re on your own now, bruvver, and no mistake. You ain’t got no one.’
Nothing was familiar to Jim any more. He’d lost his bearings. He’d been so used to the slow journey of the Lily and the silent company of Grimy Nick that he’d forgotten what it was like to be in the city with its mucky streets and the constant push and stench of the crowds. He wandered round, hoping in vain to see Rosie. He did see one woman selling seafood and he ran up to her to ask her if he could help.
‘Help me?’ she laughed down at him. ‘What can you do to help me, little chap?’
‘I could dance for you, and shout out, “Shrimpso! Whelkso!”’ he told her. ‘It would bring all the people round to buy from you. I used to do it for Rosie.’
‘And as soon as they come, you’d pick their pockets and we’d both be done for it,’ the woman said. ‘Not likely. Clear off.’
Jim moved away from her. Then he started to skip, glancing at her to make sure she was watching, a little, helpless dance. He was sad and tired and hungry. He didn’t feel like skipping at all. His leg hurt. He felt wretched, deep inside himself, black with wretchedness. The woman shook her head at him and walked away.
‘Give us some shrimps, lady?’ the street boys called after her in their whining voices. She ignored them.
Jim sank down on to his heels. One of the boys hunkered down next to him.
‘You remind me of Skippin’ Jim,’ he said. ‘He used to come round ’ere.’
Jim looked at him. ‘You don’t know a boy called Shrimps, do you?’
‘Course I do!’ the boy laughed. ‘Everyone knows Shrimps.’
‘Know where he is?’ Jim asked.
The boy jumped up and darted off, and Jim followed as best as he could, dodging between barrows and stalls right round the back of the market-place. It was dusk, and the stalls had their red wax candles glowing among their fruits and fishes. The little boy snatched at some apples on his way past one stall, and so did Jim. They grabbed out at cheeses and pie
s, and the child took off his cap and stuffed it full with his takings. Jim’s spirits were up. He could hardly believe he was really going to see Shrimps again, after all this time. He knew for sure, as he ran along, that the voice that had been in his head all these months had been Shrimps’s.
‘Wait till I tell you everything I’ve done, bruvver!’ he thought as he ran. ‘Make your ears tingle, it will.’
At the back of the market there were some piled up wooden crates that had held tea from India and spices from Zanzibar, and the little boy wriggled his way through them. He stopped by an upturned crate that was filled with straw. Lying on top of the straw, deep in the shadows, was a thin, pale ghost of a boy, a bundle of bones dressed in dirty rags.
‘Here’s Shrimps,’ the child told Jim. ‘Only he’s badly now. Awful badly.’
He emptied his cap of the stolen food. ‘Here y’are Shrimps,’ he said. ‘Some bits to eat and that, like I promised. Only I can’t stop, there’s work to do. But someone’s come to see you.’ He motioned to Jim to take his place and ran off again.
Jim crawled between the crates.
‘Shrimps?’ Jim said. He felt awkward and shy. ‘It’s Skipping Jim. Remember?’ The boy didn’t answer. Jim could hear the rasping of his breath.
‘You all right?’ He could hardly see him, except for the orange tufts of his hair sticking up above his white face. His fingers fluttered like pale moths, edging and fumbling as he pulled his sack towards his face. Jim knelt down and broke open an orange with his thumbs, squeezing the juice into Shrimps’s mouth.
‘When you’re better,’ he said, ‘we’ll go round together, like you said.’
He kept his voice bright, but inside he was deeply afraid. He sat for a long time listening to the way Shrimps’s breath rasped and shivered in his throat. The market sounds clamoured into the night, and long before they died down Jim crawled into the teachest next to Shrimps to try to keep him warm.
Street Child Page 9
