Alchemist's Apprentice (2 page)

Dobbs, recognising that Jack had no authority, had slowed to an idle, dawdling pace. He took interest in very little that happened, though he would occasionally raise his head in curiosity if they passed another horse. Jack made a few futile attempts to hurry him along, then gave up. It didn't seem fair, somehow. The pony was old; slack and bony. His bay coat was dull, and his soft, brown eyes were hollow with endurance. Jack knew that he wasn't the first apprentice to have served time behind Dobbs' slow-swinging rump, but he suspected that he might be the last. A sudden fear sprang up that the pony might just fold up between the shafts and not rise again. He had seen it once before with a cart-horse not far from his home. He remembered the light fading out of the old eyes as the horse died, and was afraid of it happening again, and of seeing Dobbs reproach him.

But he wouldn't, if he understood. In many ways Jack's life had been even harder than the pony's. He shook the reins, feeling suddenly restless. He didn't like thinking about things that made him uncomfortable. It was one of the reasons he loved the smithy so much, despite Tom's temper. He was always busy with one thing or another.

There was never any empty time to sit around and reflect upon the series of misfortunes that constituted his existence, or to contemplate what possible future a boy like himself might expect.

W
HEN JACK ARRIVED AT
the quayside where he and William had previously collected charcoal, there was nothing to be seen but a large area of black dust on the flagstones. He pulled Dobbs to a halt and looked around. He remembered the river wall to be a busy place, with boats drawing in regularly to load or unload, but now it was remarkably quiet.

Dobbs swished his short tail listlessly and rested a hind leg. Jack looped the reins around the front rail of the cart and slipped down on to the ground. The river smelled foul in the afternoon heat and it was with a slight feeling of distaste that Jack approached the quay. Two men were sitting on a pile of sacks, but there was no activity. There didn't even seem to be any boats.

‘Looking for something?' one of the men called.

‘Charcoal,' said Jack.

‘It's there all right,' said the man. ‘Over there, see?'

Jack followed his pointing finger to a small boat at anchor in the middle of the river, and now he saw what the problem was. The tide, which backed up the river from the sea, was right out. A long spell of dry weather had left the water level low and there was no way that any boat could unload until the tide lifted it up nearer to the level of the docks.

‘Will it be long?' he asked.

‘No. Not too long.'

Jack sat down on the warm stone of the river wall and dangled his legs over the side. The water was so low that a pair of swans near the opposite bank were grazing the river-bed, dipping their long necks and emerging with mouths full of slimy green weed. Beneath him, a little further upstream, another boat was sitting on its keel, listing over away from the wall. Jack sighed and settled down to wait.

He had no way of knowing how fast or how slowly the afternoon was passing. The two men settled themselves down on their bulging sacks and went to sleep, but Jack could find no release from the gruelling pressure of wasted time. The swans finished their meal and swam on, out of sight. Occasionally a fish jumped and broke the murky surface of the water. Most of the time there was nothing.

Jack's anxiety increased with every minute that passed. It didn't matter that he wasn't to blame for the delay. He was going to be in trouble with Tom, and the longer he was away, the worse the trouble would be. By the time he thought of going back to the forge, he had already left it too late and the tide was beginning to come in. But it was slow, much slower than he had expected. The sun dipped behind the houses on the opposite bank and an evening feel crept into the air. The two men were joined by two more, who woke them up. Their boat was rising up the side of the wall now, and after a leisurely conversation, they shortened the painter and began to lower the sacks into the hold.

Still the charcoal boat did not come in. Jack was joined by another cart and a handful of women and children with buckets and baskets, all waiting in cheerful companionship. Jack wished he felt half as cheerful. He could feel Tom's anger already.

Eventually the boat lifted anchor and was punted across the current and tied up. It was still a good deal lower than the top of the wall but the crew seemed to have decided that the water level was about as high as it would get. The coals were shovelled into large, soft baskets, which were hauled up on to the quayside. The number of waiting customers seemed to double with the arrival of the boat, and they joined in, hurrying the work along. Jack moved forward to help, trying to get his cart loaded and away, but he hadn't a chance. Everyone else seemed bigger and stronger than he was. He was shouldered out of the way time after time, with the result that instead of being first, he was one of the last to get his load. By that time, most of the others had gone. He brought the patient Dobbs up close to the dock, but he couldn't lift the baskets up to the height of the cart and had to empty them on to the ground and shovel up the charcoal from there.

It was back-breaking work. The little cart seemed to be bottomless, the shovel both too small and too heavy. Further along the wall, the men finished loading their sacks and went home. The crew set full sails and the boat drifted languidly upriver before a light breeze. Jack wished he was on it. He had never been out of London. Up the river, he knew, were fields and farms and open countryside. His mother had been born among them somewhere, but he could only guess what they looked like.

When, at last, the coals began to roll back down from the top of the heap in the cart, Jack stopped and slung the shovel underneath the driver's bench. He paid the boatmen, climbed up behind Dobbs' scrawny rump and shook the reins.

The pony set off willingly, eager to get home. He knew the way better than Jack did and took each turn without any prompting. The streets were quieter now, smelling of smoke and cooking, making Jack hungry. He was hot from his work, and he took off his shirt. He was tired, too. Very tired.

‘Whoa! Whoa there in the cart!'

The shout jolted him awake, but it was too late. Dobbs seemed to be asleep as well, ambling along between the shafts. His head was lolling on a level with his knees, and no matter how hard Jack hauled on the reins he would neither stop nor turn back on to his own side of the street. There was nothing that anyone could do.

It was not a dramatic accident. The speed of Dobbs' progress was minimal and the horse pulling the other cart was more attentive and had already stopped. There was a grinding crunch as the two wheel-hubs encountered each other. Dobbs, eager to get home, leant into the battered collar of his harness despite Jack's opposition and turned a minor delay into a disaster. Jack's wheel hub rolled up over the other. The weight of the charcoal caused its rusted iron cover to shear and bite deeply into the bare wood of the bigger, newer wheel, locking the two together. Dobbs admitted defeat and relaxed. Jack dropped the reins and covered his face with his hands as the cart driver jumped down and came round to examine the problem.

People began to drift out of the nearby houses to see what was happening. A young man on his way home from work with a bag of tools slipped in between the carts and looked on, scratching his breast-bone. Dobbs stood four square, leaning into his collar slightly as though he was trying to take the weight off his feet. Jack looked up, just in time to see a couple of boys of about his own age filching pieces of charcoal from his load. He yelled at them and they backed away, giggling.

The other driver walked up beside Jack. He was a tall man and heavy set, with a slight squint which made Jack uncertain about where exactly he was looking.

‘Back up,' he said. There was an underlying threat in his voice which reminded Jack of Tom, and the nightmare still to be faced. He gathered the reins and hauled on them. Dobbs put his head up and opened his mouth, but continued to lean towards home and the armful of sweet hay that would be waiting there.

‘I said pull him back!'

Jack heaved again. ‘I'm trying!' he said. ‘He won't come.'

The man gritted his teeth and shook his head. He kicked the iron rim of the near wheel. ‘Who does this contraption belong to?'

‘Tom Bradley,' said Jack, still pulling fruitlessly at the reins. The young workman stepped forward and took hold of the bridle.

‘Go back,' he said, pushing hard on the pony's nose. But Dobbs just dropped his dusty old forehead against the newcomer's chest as though seeking refuge from the confusion.

‘I'll give that Tom Bradley something to think about if I catch him,' said the other driver, moving back towards the pony's head. ‘What does he think he's up to, sending children on his errands?'

‘I'm not a child! I'm fourteen!' Jack's voice was high, strangled with emotion.

‘And a liar as well!' The workman stepped back as the bigger man snatched the reins from him and clouted Dobbs squarely on the nose. Dobbs recoiled into the traces and began to back up.

‘Get off him!' Jack stood up, ready to jump down to the pony's defence. There was a grinding sound as the cartwheels scrunched across the cobbles, both vehicles swivelling around the axis of the joined hubs.

‘Whoa, whoa!' called one of the onlookers. ‘It's no good!'

The men left Dobbs alone and went to look. If anything, the effort had made things worse. Some other solution would have to be found.

The young workman turned out to be a carpenter. He spent some time with his tool bag, trying to prise the hubs apart, but nothing came of it. After that, a few men from the growing crowd joined in, and there were several attempts to lift Jack's cart off the other one. At every failed attempt, the big man let fly a new hail of abuse at Jack and his carelessness, until Jack became immune to it and turned a deaf ear. Someone suggested that the charcoal be offloaded, but Jack pleaded for sympathy and the idea was forgotten. There was renewed discussion among the huddle of men around the wheels, with a great deal of nodding and shaking of heads. Everyone took it in turns to bend down close and inspect the situation. Then someone made a swinging motion with both hands together through the air. There was a long pause, followed by a unified murmur of assent. The carpenter left his tool bag under Jack's seat and ran off down the street.'

The other driver glowered at Jack and went back to his cart. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something, but Jack didn't dare ask what it was. After a while the excitement of the situation wore off and people began to wander back down the street and into their houses. The few who stayed on relaxed and chatted cosily in the warm evening. A woman took pity on Jack and brought him a muffin from her house. He ate it gratefully as he waited.

When the carpenter eventually returned, he was carrying a sledgehammer over his shoulder. Jack's heart sank. The other driver took it and swung it a few times, feeling its weight.

‘Jump down, lad,' he said to Jack. ‘Go and stand at the pony's head.'

There was some more discussion then, about where the blow should be aimed, and how hard it should be struck. Jack stroked Dobbs' nose and spoke to him quietly. The carpenter came and joined him, taking the other side of the bridle, just in case.

There was no need. The old pony had seen and heard everything. Nothing scared him any more. When the blow came, the carthorse jumped and skittered, sending up sparks from the cobbles, but Dobbs barely pricked an ear. Jack would have been proud of him, had his attention not been taken by the disaster that was happening between the two carts. The sledge blow had freed the wheels, but Tom's cart hadn't withstood it. Beneath its iron cap, the wooden hub was old and decayed. It caved in under the pressure and, deprived of their anchorage, the spokes clattered out on to the road. The wooden rim collapsed inwards and the outer, iron one fell over with a clang as the axle of the cart dropped to the ground.

The silence that followed was broken only by a small landslide of charcoal which bounced and rolled among the cobbles. For a long time after it had settled, no one spoke. The big man stared, his good eye on the broken wheel and the other on the horizon. His mouth was open in horror at what he had done, but a moment later he closed it again.

‘It was full of worms,' he said self-righteously, kicking one of the redundant spokes out of the road. ‘And the pony is, too, by the look of things.'

‘And the boy,' called the woman who had given Jack the muffin. Everyone laughed, except for Jack. The big man led his horse clear of the wreckage and climbed up on to the seat of his cart.

‘You'd better run and get your master,' he said. But Jack was stuck to the cobbles where he stood. How could he leave the cart and its load abandoned in the middle of the street? And what about Dobbs? The old pony was hanging his head, utterly dejected.

Jack looked up. There was still light but stars were appearing in it, seed crystals around which the night was beginning to thicken. Birds and bats were in the air together, wheeling above the chimneys, changing the watch. There was something ominous about their joint sovereignty of the skies and Jack shivered. His shirt was tied by the sleeves around his waist. He didn't remember putting it there. As he fumbled with the knot he felt, rather than heard, the high voice of a bat which swooped for a moth above his head. Something gave way in his mind. The effects of the catastrophe came rolling in upon his imagination. He would suffer for what he had done. Tom would thrash the daylights out of him, and that would be the least of it. It was over, his apprenticeship in the hot forge. No more bellows, no more sweet smell of horses. There would be no second chances for him, a puny, rickety boy with nothing but failure behind him.