Street Child (9 page)

For several days Jim lay in the hold, too weak to move. His leg hurt so much that he thought he would never walk again. Nick worked round him, watching him and scowling.

‘Get up, can’t you? Get up!’ he shouted at him one day. ‘I’ve got something for you, if you get up.’

Jim struggled to his feet. He was afraid of what might happen to him if he didn’t show that he was willing to work. Nick watched him, whistling.

‘Come over here now.’

Jim limped across to him, pleased with himself for doing it without letting Nick know how much it hurt. As soon as he reached him Nick pushed Jim’s head down and tied a rope round his neck. He fastened the other end to a hook on the deck board.

‘Caught you now, my wild bird!’ he chuckled. ‘There’ll be no flying away now!’

Jim turned away, saying nothing. ‘I’ll get my revenge,’ he thought. ‘One day, Nick. You’ll be sorry you did this to me.’

One summer morning Jim limped from Cockerill’s yard with a brimming pail of water. There was no
need these days for Snipe to follow him to the pump yard and back. He would just squat at the gate, watching, his tongue lolling out and his ears up sharp. Even if Jim had managed to untie the rope he wouldn’t have been able to run away from Snipe. It had taken months for the scars in his leg to heal, and even so he couldn’t put his weight on it properly.

He lifted the water on board and made porridge, just as he did every morning when they were moored at Cockerill’s, while Nick shovelled coal into the basket. When the porridge was ready he banged his wooden spoon on the cooking pot. He never spoke to Nick these days. Nick yelled up to White-face to haul up the basket, and as it creaked past him Jim noticed how frayed the rope had become. The strands were taut and straight instead of twisted into a plait, and even as he watched one or two of the threads began to snap. Slowly the basket swayed up. Jim stood up, watching it. The hairs on his neck began to tremble, and his heart began to beat a light, rapid rhythm; a dance of warning.

Nick was groping his way slowly out of the hold. High above his bent back the basket began to tilt.

Then, ‘Nick!’ Jim yelled.

Nick looked up sharply, saw Jim’s upturned face, and flung himself sideways. At that very instant the rope snapped and all the coals rained down.

And then the air settled into a choking silence. Snipe howled, snuffling into the scattered coals. White-face shouted from his top window and came hurrying down the iron stairs of the warehouse, his boots clanging on every step. Jim didn’t move from the spot.

White-face shoved past him and stood gazing down at the heap of coals. He ran back and shook Jim into life.

‘Don’t stand there, boy. Help me.’

With his bare hands White-face scrabbled, moaning out loud. Cold and quiet, Jim knelt down beside him. He eased the coals slowly away, picking them out one by one and placing them behind him. He was deeply frightened.

‘Look!’ he whispered at last, and White-face stopped his scrabbling. The coals seemed to be stirring of their own accord. It was as if they were breathing. A pair of blackened hands groped through, then a face, blinking into the light, and like a monster rising from the deep Grimy Nick emerged. He staggered up, shaking sprays of black dust. Snipe hurled himself against him. Nick crouched down on to the boards again, breathing heavily, staring round him as though he couldn’t believe where he was.

‘I’ll get a doctor for you,’ White-face said. He was shaking.

‘No, yer don’t,’ Nick snarled. ‘I can’t afford a doctor. I’ll live.’

‘And you can thank your boy for that,’ White-face told him. He scrambled back onto the landing-stage, checking the time on his pocket watch. ‘I reckon he saved your life.’ He clanged back up the stairs, counting them out loud as he went.

Jim couldn’t bear to look at Nick. It wasn’t that he was afraid of him. He would never be afraid of him again now, he knew that. But what he couldn’t bear was the noise that was coming from him, little
whimpers, bubbling up out of him, blubbers of sound, and when he looked he saw white trails running down Nick’s cheeks, coursing through the coal-dust, filling up and coursing through again, as if they would never stop.

It was autumn. The procession on the river was headed by a washing-tub drawn by six geese. Men swam behind it. All the barges and lighters were decorated with flags and flowers and white rags that fluttered like the feathers of swans. Some of the men were being rolled down the river in barrels, to hoots of laughter. The banks were lined with watchers all dressed in bright rags and shiny coats, playing bugles and beating drums. A family of beggars was singing hymns, and the tiny voices of the children piped like birds. It was the miners’ pageant, and the
Lily
drifted along in the procession, freed from work for the day. Nick and his fellows shouted to each other and sang.

Drawn up among the watching people were some painted wagons. Two clowns stood with mournful faces, holding up a green and crimson banner. ‘Juglini’s Champion Circus’, Nick read out.

‘What’s a circus?’ Jim wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. The showman’s family came out of their wagon to watch. The man and the woman each carried a child and older children danced round them. A boy of Jim’s age did a handstand and waggled his feet at the
barges. Jim waved to him and the boy dropped down, waved, and swung up again.

‘See,’ the voice in his head said. ‘Another bruvver, Jim. They’re all over the place, ain’t they?’

For a time, as the procession sailed past, the circus boy ran alongside the
Lily
; waving and shouting. ‘Come to the circus! Come to the circus!’ he shouted, then fell back as the crowd became thicker. Jim cupped his hands round his mouth. ‘I will! I will!’ he shouted back. They were nearing another village. Jim stood up and strained to keep the boy in sight. He could hear the circus band, the roll of drums, the tooting of trumpets and trombones. He imagined he could still hear the boy’s voice.

The main point of the pageant seemed to be for the coalmen and lightermen to pull up at every village and visit the local ale-house, and get as drunk as possible on their pageant money. Grimy Nick lurched and stumbled with the rest of them, and his singing became louder and more slurred. He stowed his long oar inside the hold and laughed down at Jim’s excited face.

‘Want to go pageanting, do you?’

‘Please Nick … Can I?’

Nick whistled in his scornful way and stumped off. Jim watched him go, hating him. He crouched down by Snipe, fingering the rope round his neck. Night was settling down on the water, though it was still warm. Families were gathered on the banks, and children were being called together by their mothers. They eyed him curiously as they went past, and whispered to each other, their hands across their mouths. Jim knew they were laughing at him.

‘What are you doing here,’ the voice in his head asked him, ‘tied up like an animal, eating and sleeping like an animal, no one to talk to? Time you went. Time you skipped away, bruvver, and no mistake.’

He stood up, and Snipe snarled at him. Jim thought about his lucky chance at the workhouse when he had decided to escape with the carpets, how he had leapt at it, how well it had worked. If he had managed that time, he’d manage again. His last attempt had been reckless; he’d jumped without thinking. He would be mad to think of taking a chance like that again. But this time his thoughts were calm and steady. He wasn’t going to leap at anything. But he was going to get away. He knew that.

By the time night was out, he knew, Grimy Nick would be drunker than he’d ever been before. It was Jim’s perfect chance. He knew exactly what to do.

While he waited, he lowered himself down into the hold and found some big heavy chunks of coal. He carried them up on to the boards and hid them. Then he found a small, sharp piece. He ran his hand along the edge of it. Just right.

He laid the boards down across the coamings till they covered the hold completely, except for the small hatch board. Then he took the piece of sharp coal and rubbed it against the rope that was round his neck. It seemed to take hours. He thought the rope would never begin to fray, but all at once he felt the strands fluffing up and beginning to weaken. His wrist was aching. If Nick came while he was doing it, he thought, he would just put his head down and pretend to sleep. It was only a matter of time now.
The rope had to give. Bursts of sound erupted on the river and from the village. Jim worked on, scraping and scraping at the rope. It had to give.

At last he was through. The last slice of the coal cut his neck as the final strand snapped, but he didn’t care. He held the frayed end in his hand and edged up to Snipe, careful not to startle him. The dog opened his yellow eyes and growled.

‘It’s all right Snipe. It’s all right.’

He forced himself to stroke the dog’s matted fur. Again Snipe growled. Jim kept on stroking him and talking to him softly, all the time listening out for Grimy Nick. At last he judged the dog to be calm enough. He slipped the rope round Snipe’s neck and secured it. Good.

Then he heard Nick coming back, singing and stumbling along the river bank. It didn’t matter. Jim had a plan for that. When Nick lumbered on deck he raised the lantern and saw his boy and his dog sleeping side by side, the boy with his hand on the dog’s neck. He was touched by their peacefulness. He tried to creep past them, lost his footing; and tumbled into his hold. Jim and Snipe both strained their ears, listening. Almost at once Nick’s breathing steadied into a rumbling snore.

For a long time Jim waited. Onshore, all the voices had quietened down. The hens and dogs, the cows and pigs in all the backyards of all the villages had settled in for the night.

Jim stirred slowly. Snipe half woke. Jim sat for a bit and then sidled his way to the hold. He watched the dog till it sank its head back into its paws.

‘Come on. You can do it, bruvver. You can.’

And he knew that he could.

Slowly, slowly, he stood up, took hold of the hatch cover, and lowered it down. The dog slept on. One by one, and taking what seemed to be an eternity over it, he lifted up the big chunks of coal that he had brought up earlier and, without making a sound, placed them on the hatch. He worked slowly and steadily, and still the dog slept. Then he straightened himself up. Nothing moved. Not a sound.

He crept over to the side of the deck, glanced quickly round at the dog, and with one swift movement rolled himself off the lighter and on to the bank. He righted himself, and began to run.

Instantly Snipe was awake. His howls rang across the night. He strained to pull against the rope, in a fury to be free. Grimy Nick hollered himself into wakefulness and pummelled his fists against the hatch. Across the fields all the backyard animals sent up their clamour. Lights blazed across the water.

Jim sprinted on steadily, head down, dodging between bushes and trees. He could hear his own breathing, and the flapping of his boot soles. Brambles tore at his breeches and his jacket. An overhanging branch snapped at his cap and held it trapped, and Jim had to run back and tear it free. He loped on, his chest tight and bursting, his legs as heavy as lead weights. He had no idea where he was going.

He heard rustling in the undergrowth behind him and knew that he was being followed. The rustling became a snuffling and panting. It was a dog. Jim’s leg hurt so much now that he couldn’t run any further. In total weariness he flung himself down, head-first, covered his face with his hands, and waited for Snipe to spring.

He was aware that everything had gone silent
again, as if the world had sunk back into sleep. At last he made himself turn his head. The dog was not Snipe at all, but a small terrier. He licked Jim’s outstretched hand and ran away again through a hedge. There wasn’t a sound. If Snipe still howled, he couldn’t be heard from here. If Nick still hammered and swore then the noise he made was lost in the night.

‘What if they’re dead, bruvver?’ the voice crept into his head. ‘What if old Nick’s suffocating down there in the hold? What if Snipe’s strangled himself on that rope?’ He sat up, drenched with cold sweat. ‘What if you’ve killed them?’

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.’

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.