The Angel of High Holborn
Ernest walked quickly along the busy streets from
Spitalfields towards Billingsgate, carefully avoiding the city gentlemen
strolling towards their clubs, and the boys who attended them, leaping out into
the dust to flag down a handsom cab, or to sweep the worst of the filth from
their path. Ernest did not want to be seen as one of these street children. He
had a job, a full time occupation, recorded on the census, and he did it to the
best of his abilities, with all the strength he had. Which was sometimes
insufficient, he thought, although for a nine year old he was strong enough. His day in Spitalfields had been spent lifting
great cartons and sacks of fruit and other provisions, and tallying them out
for the costermongers who scrabbled over the goods before making off with them
to sell on their barrows; their cries could be heard before they had left his
sight – ‘Sweet apples a penny’ ‘Fresh cress from the country.’ Ernest’s value
was in his ability to count, to write figures and words and to keep something
like a receipt book – most children with these abilities were still in school,
and a fully-grown clerk would have cost Mr Triskit, the wholesaler, at least
twice as much in wages. Triskit knew this, but it did not stop him working
Ernest hard whenever anything needed shifting, which was often.
Now Ernest willed his tired legs towards home. He had in his pocket a large apple which he had, not stolen, he would never do that, but it had fallen out of a sack and lain unaccounted for under his table all day, and it was, he had decided, too bruised to sell. He hoped that if he chopped it up and boiled it, he could persuade his Mother to eat some of it, or at least to drink the juice. His need to attend to his Mother had kept him away from school, but Mother had taught him all he needed to get by, to earn his own living and just enough to pay the rent on one room, saving them the last indignity of sharing their sleeping quarters.
He rounded the last corner into the ‘Rookery’ of Billingsgate, the maze of shared houses and tiny courtyards where he felt safest. It had such a terrible reputation in the rest of London that he had learned almost before he could talk to keep his address a secret, but to Ernest it was nothing more or less than his home. And home meant rest, and his dear Mother. He ran up the narrow stairs and pushed open the unlocked door – to lock your door here was to declare you did not trust your neighbours, and that was a declaration of war.
His Mother was lying on what had once been a fashionable day bed or divan, but was now a large, shapeless, sagging piece of cushioned firewood. She was almost completely covered in a velvet cape, with some silk dragging from its lining onto the swept floor. Ernest hurried to check her, resting his small hand in a calm and practised manner on her forehead. She was warm, but pale, and her hands, exposed to the chill of the room, were cold. Ernest did not attempt to wake her, but began to construct a fire in the tiny grate. There was fresh water remaining in the pitcher, and as he watched the first flames to ensure the fire took hold, he peeled the apple and chopped it into a battered saucepan. Intent on this, at first he did not notice as his Mother propped herself up on one elbow, but he turned round to smile at her as she spoke.
Now Ernest willed his tired legs towards home. He had in his pocket a large apple which he had, not stolen, he would never do that, but it had fallen out of a sack and lain unaccounted for under his table all day, and it was, he had decided, too bruised to sell. He hoped that if he chopped it up and boiled it, he could persuade his Mother to eat some of it, or at least to drink the juice. His need to attend to his Mother had kept him away from school, but Mother had taught him all he needed to get by, to earn his own living and just enough to pay the rent on one room, saving them the last indignity of sharing their sleeping quarters.
He rounded the last corner into the ‘Rookery’ of Billingsgate, the maze of shared houses and tiny courtyards where he felt safest. It had such a terrible reputation in the rest of London that he had learned almost before he could talk to keep his address a secret, but to Ernest it was nothing more or less than his home. And home meant rest, and his dear Mother. He ran up the narrow stairs and pushed open the unlocked door – to lock your door here was to declare you did not trust your neighbours, and that was a declaration of war.
His Mother was lying on what had once been a fashionable day bed or divan, but was now a large, shapeless, sagging piece of cushioned firewood. She was almost completely covered in a velvet cape, with some silk dragging from its lining onto the swept floor. Ernest hurried to check her, resting his small hand in a calm and practised manner on her forehead. She was warm, but pale, and her hands, exposed to the chill of the room, were cold. Ernest did not attempt to wake her, but began to construct a fire in the tiny grate. There was fresh water remaining in the pitcher, and as he watched the first flames to ensure the fire took hold, he peeled the apple and chopped it into a battered saucepan. Intent on this, at first he did not notice as his Mother propped herself up on one elbow, but he turned round to smile at her as she spoke.
‘Darling child. Do we have
company for dinner? Must I dress.’
‘No Mother. Just you and I. We can be – informal.’ Said Ernest, using the word carefully.
‘Informal. Exactly. An informal supper. Family only.’ Said his Mother faintly, and made an attempt to recline once more, but Ernest caught her and propped her up against a cushion. Even this exertion, he noted, caused a pulse to bound in her neck, and a cough that began as a tremor across her whole body escaped from her. Ernest anxiously tried to check her cuff and her handkerchief for any spots of blood, but she turned away from him, smiling through closed lips. She consented to eat some of the stewed apple, but then collapsed into her cushions once more, her ladylike posture undermined by the strong snoring that soon carried across the room, making her young son smile. He had, from necessity, shared a bed with his Mother every night of his young life, and she would never admit to snoring. Now he hoped that it was a sign of the strength of her lungs, rather than of their weakness.
He saved what remained of the apple, covering the saucepan with a cloth, and, keeping on most of his clothes, crawled under the velvet cape. Despite his hunger, his exhausting and long day saw him soon asleep in his Mother’s fragile arms.
Ernest woke in the night, expecting that he had heard the usual hue and cry outside, or a drunk singing in the street. But there was little noise outside the tiny room. Then he realised that he was alone in the bed. As he sat up he saw his Mother, standing by the window, looking up at the full moon that struggled above the smoke and shone a pale beam over his Mother’s face.
‘This is the night, Ernest.’ She spoke in a strong whisper, urgent and quick. ‘This is the night when he walks. We must warn them, my darling we must tell the girls, those beautiful girls. They can’t know the danger they are in from the beast that he is. I know. Ernest, I know. I have seen him. I have looked into those eyes, those terrible eyes. You must tell them. Quickly, before the moon sets.’
Ernest sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. This speech was not new to him. He knew from experience that it would take many hours now to settle his Mother once again, and that he might have to resort to allowing her access to her laudanum, even though he was aware that too much of it could send her into a sleep from which she would never awaken.
‘Mother, come and sit down. Tell me again about Lady Harriet. Tell me the story of how you painted her portrait.’ He said, hoping to distract her.
‘I could never do her justice…her hair. The blue of her eyes. Still she said it was charming.’
‘And she invited you to the ball, to let everyone see this talented artist and the wonderful painting’ said Ernest, filling in the fairy tale, but not really hearing the words any more, just waiting for the moment when he could take her hand and settle her back to sleep.
‘And she stood there, under the painting; my painting, and she said ‘This was painted for me by the beautiful and talented artist, Rosalina Lowe.’
‘And you bowed…’
‘And I bowed, and everyone applauded, and the Prince of Wales gave me a red rose.’
‘And he said he was delighted to meet you…
‘Me..’
‘Because you were the beautiful and talented…
‘Because I am, dear’ she said, correcting her son firmly, stepping back into the centre of the room, taking the moon’s adoration as her right and due. ‘The Prince of Wales was delighted to meet me, because I am the artist du jour, the talk of the London art salons. Because I am the beautiful and talented Rosalina Lowe.’ She sat on the divan, her eyes shining in the blue night. Ernest held her hand, stroking her wrist.
‘Yes, you are. And I am very fortunate to be your only son.’
‘To be my son.’ This again sounded like a correction, but Ernest could not understand of what. He repeated. ‘I am the fortunate son of the beautiful and talented artist’ but his Mother was already asleep, and the words sounded like something less than a prayer, a chant to keep the cold and poverty away from the charmed circle of a boy and his Mother, to keep out the spectre of consumption and the smell of shame.
Ernest was old enough, and had been working in the forthright company of the costermongers and barrow boys for long enough, to realise some of the implications of having no Father at home. Except when a comment was flung in his direction, knowingly or just as a figure of speech, he did not miss what he had not known. He had been acting the part of comforter, protector and bread-winner for so long, that his ideas of what a Father might be extended to no more than another mouth that Ernest would have to provide for. He saw enough slack jawed and useless so called fathers around the Rookery, he heard the quarrels, the fights, saw women and children with black eyes and marks of a beating from the head of their households. Fathers seemed to be something that took the household money and spent it, and whose return was never to be depended on. Ernest was usually glad, therefore, that his family was himself and his Mother. She had never told him who his Father was, and he had now grown sensitive enough not to ask her. She had her reasons, he told himself, for not burdening him with the knowledge. But his increasing worldly experience had begun to pick holes in the cape of his Mother’s respectability, and sometimes, especially on these cold nights in a cheap room, he found himself wondering if his dear Mama actually knew anything, even a name, of the man who had, so she claimed, broken her heart.
‘No Mother. Just you and I. We can be – informal.’ Said Ernest, using the word carefully.
‘Informal. Exactly. An informal supper. Family only.’ Said his Mother faintly, and made an attempt to recline once more, but Ernest caught her and propped her up against a cushion. Even this exertion, he noted, caused a pulse to bound in her neck, and a cough that began as a tremor across her whole body escaped from her. Ernest anxiously tried to check her cuff and her handkerchief for any spots of blood, but she turned away from him, smiling through closed lips. She consented to eat some of the stewed apple, but then collapsed into her cushions once more, her ladylike posture undermined by the strong snoring that soon carried across the room, making her young son smile. He had, from necessity, shared a bed with his Mother every night of his young life, and she would never admit to snoring. Now he hoped that it was a sign of the strength of her lungs, rather than of their weakness.
He saved what remained of the apple, covering the saucepan with a cloth, and, keeping on most of his clothes, crawled under the velvet cape. Despite his hunger, his exhausting and long day saw him soon asleep in his Mother’s fragile arms.
Ernest woke in the night, expecting that he had heard the usual hue and cry outside, or a drunk singing in the street. But there was little noise outside the tiny room. Then he realised that he was alone in the bed. As he sat up he saw his Mother, standing by the window, looking up at the full moon that struggled above the smoke and shone a pale beam over his Mother’s face.
‘This is the night, Ernest.’ She spoke in a strong whisper, urgent and quick. ‘This is the night when he walks. We must warn them, my darling we must tell the girls, those beautiful girls. They can’t know the danger they are in from the beast that he is. I know. Ernest, I know. I have seen him. I have looked into those eyes, those terrible eyes. You must tell them. Quickly, before the moon sets.’
Ernest sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. This speech was not new to him. He knew from experience that it would take many hours now to settle his Mother once again, and that he might have to resort to allowing her access to her laudanum, even though he was aware that too much of it could send her into a sleep from which she would never awaken.
‘Mother, come and sit down. Tell me again about Lady Harriet. Tell me the story of how you painted her portrait.’ He said, hoping to distract her.
‘I could never do her justice…her hair. The blue of her eyes. Still she said it was charming.’
‘And she invited you to the ball, to let everyone see this talented artist and the wonderful painting’ said Ernest, filling in the fairy tale, but not really hearing the words any more, just waiting for the moment when he could take her hand and settle her back to sleep.
‘And she stood there, under the painting; my painting, and she said ‘This was painted for me by the beautiful and talented artist, Rosalina Lowe.’
‘And you bowed…’
‘And I bowed, and everyone applauded, and the Prince of Wales gave me a red rose.’
‘And he said he was delighted to meet you…
‘Me..’
‘Because you were the beautiful and talented…
‘Because I am, dear’ she said, correcting her son firmly, stepping back into the centre of the room, taking the moon’s adoration as her right and due. ‘The Prince of Wales was delighted to meet me, because I am the artist du jour, the talk of the London art salons. Because I am the beautiful and talented Rosalina Lowe.’ She sat on the divan, her eyes shining in the blue night. Ernest held her hand, stroking her wrist.
‘Yes, you are. And I am very fortunate to be your only son.’
‘To be my son.’ This again sounded like a correction, but Ernest could not understand of what. He repeated. ‘I am the fortunate son of the beautiful and talented artist’ but his Mother was already asleep, and the words sounded like something less than a prayer, a chant to keep the cold and poverty away from the charmed circle of a boy and his Mother, to keep out the spectre of consumption and the smell of shame.
Ernest was old enough, and had been working in the forthright company of the costermongers and barrow boys for long enough, to realise some of the implications of having no Father at home. Except when a comment was flung in his direction, knowingly or just as a figure of speech, he did not miss what he had not known. He had been acting the part of comforter, protector and bread-winner for so long, that his ideas of what a Father might be extended to no more than another mouth that Ernest would have to provide for. He saw enough slack jawed and useless so called fathers around the Rookery, he heard the quarrels, the fights, saw women and children with black eyes and marks of a beating from the head of their households. Fathers seemed to be something that took the household money and spent it, and whose return was never to be depended on. Ernest was usually glad, therefore, that his family was himself and his Mother. She had never told him who his Father was, and he had now grown sensitive enough not to ask her. She had her reasons, he told himself, for not burdening him with the knowledge. But his increasing worldly experience had begun to pick holes in the cape of his Mother’s respectability, and sometimes, especially on these cold nights in a cheap room, he found himself wondering if his dear Mama actually knew anything, even a name, of the man who had, so she claimed, broken her heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment