Incomparable World
Page 18
Charlotte had given birth to a son, and for over a year she had been living with her parents in Staffordshire; that much he had gleaned from his constant interrogation of Lizzie (the poorest keeper of secrets). From her he had obtained their address, and since March of this year he had posted a fortnightly stream of letters to Lichfield in which he implored his beloved to accept him back into her life, or at least to acknowledge his correspondence. It had been in vain. Finally, during the first week in August, he received a reply. The response was not from Charlotte. It was from her father. Buckram remembered how feverishly he’d broken the seal on that letter and the strange mixture of joy and disappointment he’d experienced on reading its contents. It was a brief note in an artless hand written in turquoise ink and littered with random capitals. The family was faring well, it said. The boy was in good health. And would Buckram be so kind as to visit Lichfield on the last Monday of the month to see his first-born?
Buckram’s elation was unbounded, and he spent the month preparing for his trip. On the day of his departure he set off on his black Morgan mare (newly imported from the American States), laden with gifts and hopes of redemption in the bosom of his family. It was not to be.
It was Mr Tell alone who met him at the gates to the Stanford estate. From their first greeting it became evident that Mr Tell – a man he dearly wished to call ‘father’ – was to be the only adult family member he would meet that day. Mondays, he explained, found Mrs Tell at the market and Charlotte at the village school in Burntwood some miles away. He had planned this as a meeting of males. There was no invitation to stay the night, and Buckram knew he would return to London alone and half-fulfilled.
It was a bonny child that Buckram held in his arms.
‘His name is Hosea,’ Mr Tell informed him. Buckram guessed this was a name chosen by Charlotte’s mother. The happy brown child beamed up at his father. Buckram wallowed in the love pouring from the pair of great swift-swallow eyes, and heard his son gurgle k-k-k.
‘My daughter is a very proud and unforgiving soul,’ said Mr Tell. ‘She and her mother speak of naught else but you, and that with shame and sorrow. Know that you may never be forgiven for your misdeeds. But there is always hope, Buckram. It will take time. Much time.’
Buckram had time.
When the clock struck three Mr Tell simply said, ‘Go, go now.’ Buckram left a sum of money and went on his way.
He mounted his mare and galloped off, but not to London. He reached Burntwood just before four o’clock. The schoolyard was empty and Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. He waited for almost three hours, till darkness fell, in fact. She never appeared. They had missed each other by minutes, he realized.
But he had time.
Returning to London, he flung himself with renewed vigour into the world of commerce. Business was brisk and there was money to be made. Here was a world large enough to absorb any man’s energies. There were debtors to chase (13), and creditors to avoid (2). He needed to find a hay merchant reliable enough to supply him through the cold spell. He had to learn how to unfreeze tallow (all horses stabled with him were guaranteed an ‘African Lustre’). There were problems with Cato: was he inviting friends over to sleep on the premises? But all his frantic bargainings and efforts to displace stress were to no avail. Charlotte and Hosea remained foremost in his mind.
Buckram braced himself against a cold wind sweeping down Long Acre and tramped on to his workplace. He hated Christmas; this pagan festival, adopted by Christians, now waylaid by merchants. It was a week for solid burghers and their kin to congratulate themselves on their own survival in this coldest of months in this coldest of lands. It was Christmas Eve and the streets of London were empty except for solitary shoppers and hordes of the homeless. Vagabonds had wedged themselves into almost every doorway of Long Acre.
In an alley on the St Giles’s side of the road, a band of destitute black men had made a shelter for themselves out of old timber and packing cases. They stood over a small, smoky fire and sang sea-shanties as they passed round a jar of All Nations. One of their number held out a pewter cup to passers-by at the mouth of the alley. It was just as William Supple had said, Buckram reflected: there would always be black people starving about the streets of London. Every now and then there would be a public outcry and demands for their expulsion would be followed by yet another cruel, half-baked scheme to drive them from the land. For two hundred years this had been their condition here. Would another two centuries bring any change?
As Buckram felt his pockets for spare coins he saw the beggar with the pewter cup crossing the road to address him. The man shivered constantly, even though he wore four layers of heavy clothes. His bushy hair and full beard were twisted into rough, ugly plaits. Instinctively, Buckram tilted his head to avert his gaze. He abhorred making eye contact with black tramps. More eyes, more pain, more memories.
‘Beg a penny, brother. Beg a penny. Just one penny, sir.’
The stench from the beggar was that of old sweat and urine. Buckram held his breath as he extended his fistful of money.
‘God bless you, brother. Thank you, thank …’ The mendicant dipped his head into Buckram’s line of vision and Buckram felt every hair on his body stand on end. The face, now inches from his own, began to smile. And as it smiled, its features assumed a familiar configuration beneath all the crusty skin and hair.
‘Buckram!’ Julius Bambara beamed uncontrollably. ‘I knew I’d find you. They said you were still here. I’ve been searching for you since … since …’ A tearful, terrified look flashed across his face. He grabbed Buckram’s lapels.
‘I’m in trouble, Buckie-boy. Real trouble this time. You’ve got to help me. I haven’t eaten for days. I’m near the end this time, I swear. Look, I’ve got something here …’ Julius began a frantic, fumbled search through his many pockets. ‘I’ve got something … something for you … No, wait!’
Buckram shrieked and shoved the crazy seaman aside. The last thing on earth he needed was another Christmas with Julius Bambara. He was too old for this kind of acquaintance. He had been there before, barefoot and bleeding, powerless and unloved: a hostage to the world’s weakness, and his own. His soul craved rest and reconciliation, and there was only one place that could be found. He clutched his satchel to his side and marched stiffly down the street.
Julius was in no condition for a chase, hunger and influenza had sapped his strength. He hobbled after Buckram as best he could, but his well-dressed friend had vanished amongst the stables and workshops of Langley Street. He was nowhere to be found, and no footsteps were traceable in a street full of straw and horse manure.
He smoothed the creases out of William Supple’s envelope and tore the letter in half, then into quarters, eighths and sixteenths. ‘To the devil with you!’ he growled. He flung the shreds to the icy wind and watched them flutter and fall to the filthy ground.
Cato was playing cribbage and enjoying a Christmas cheroot with the blacksmith’s apprentice when Buckram came bursting through the door.
‘I thought I told you? NO SMOKING!!’ Buckram whipped the cigar from the stable-lad’s mouth with his left hand while his right swept up at an ear-clipping angle. Cato ducked deftly under the blow. The smith’s apprentice, seeing the expression on Buckram’s face, stubbed out his cheroot on his leather apron and slunk back to his workplace.
‘And get that thing out of here!’ Buckram kicked the cribbage box, sending the tiny pins flying into a loosened bale of hay.
‘This isn’t a gaming horse! Any callers?’
Cato shook his head.
‘No work to do, boy?’
Cato hunched his shoulders and looked across the quiet stable. The only occupant was Juno, Buckram’s Morgan horse. Accounts aside, there’d be no more business today.
‘Make yourself busy, lad. Polish up my best tack and saddle the mare.’
The stableboy nodded briskly and set to work with beeswax and ashes, eager to redeem himself in his master�
�s eyes and relieved to know that he’d soon be on his way.
Buckram chuckled to himself as he observed the young man’s efforts. Silent workers: the best kind. He eased a loose half-brick from the wall beneath the workbench and removed seventy pounds in notes of various denominations.
‘Cato, I’m going away for a couple of days.’ Buckram’s employee mimed concern and trustworthiness. ‘You are to officiate in my absence. Ensure the shop is locked at all times. Keep the place tidy. No assemblies. No friends, male or female. And NO SMOKING. Understand?’
Cato led Juno out to the street. Buckram put on a pair of fur-lined leather gloves while waiting for the stableboy to steady the stirrups for him. He mounted the horse in a smooth, unbroken motion.
‘Here, Cato, a seasonal token for your good self.’ Buckram pressed a folded pound note into the young man’s hand. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you!’
Cato’s jaw dropped in amazement. He mouthed silent thanks as he stared at the money. And when he finally raised his eyes, Buckram was at the top of the road waving farewell.
Buckram let his horse canter down Long Acre and into Hog Lane. The ice was thick and smooth on the Tottenham Court Road where a deep chill muted even the smell from the brewery. He tied his scarf about his face while his steed trotted true. He enjoyed the feeling of being gloved and muffled on horseback. With just his eyes visible, he could have been anyone or nobody at all. A harsh wind buffeted them as they hit the open spaces along the Hampstead Road. He spurred Juno to a gallop and raced under the darkening skies, glad to be leaving London, if only to relish the taste of sweet, clean air.
He’s charging through the white of winter, a black man on a black horse. He throws back his head and laughs in the cold, wild air. He is heading north now and speeding into Christmas Day, ready to claim whatever present the heart of England holds for him.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Quartet Books Limited 1996
First published with a new introduction by Penguin Books 2021
Text copyright © S. I. Martin, 1996
Introduction copyright © Bernardine Evaristo, 2021
The moral right of the copyright holders has been asserted
Cover art: Tomekah George
ISBN: 978-0-241-99199-2
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