by Penny Dolan
As Mr Punch’s song ended Toby reappeared, holding a velvet collecting bag edged with bells and tassels in his sharp white teeth. Hopping on to his hind legs, he carried it round the crowd, dancing in front of people until they dropped a couple of coins into Punch’s pouch. His whines shamed those who tried to leave without paying.
I watched Toby carry the jingling, jangling bag back under the canvas. Now what was I to do? Then, as the crowds wandered away, a finger reached out of the booth, beckoning me inside.
Sunlight slipped through gaps in the canvas tent, making it easier to see out than to peep in. I blinked as I entered, and saw a man perched on an upturned wooden box. His thinning curls were streaked with grey, and his face was like that of a kindly woodland imp. He gave one last squawk and removed a wooden reed from his mouth, slipping it securely within his yellow waistcoat.
‘Charlie Punchman. Pleased to meet yer!’ His eyes twinkled as he fished around in his green jacket until he found a bottle. He uncorked it, swigged a few drops down, then stowed his medicine away. ‘’Scuse my brandy and water,’ he said. ‘Any man who strains his voice box like I do needs strong physic. Now, who do we have here?’
He slapped his knees and studied my face, turning his head to one side and then the other. ‘Hmmm. You don’t seem to be a very terrible villain. Mind you, you’ll be even finer once you’ve thanked Dog Toby for hearing Wayland’s call.’
Embarrassed, I shook the dog’s offered paw and was rewarded by a friendly bark.
Punchman grinned and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Though we does wonder exactly why that old wanderer Wayland sends Charlie Punchman a runaway boy. What say you, my wooden friends?’ He addressed the gallery of puppets that hung from hooks around the wooden frame. ‘Shall we let him stay? Speak now, folks, if you have anything against the child. It is your right.’
Was my fate to be decided by the gaping skull of a ghost, scarlet-cheeked Mrs Punch, a bawling baby in a shawl, a stern constable, a frowning judge, a hangman and the click-clacking jaws of a green crocodile?
‘No answer, eh? I take your silence as assent, friends. Thank you for your advice. Boy, you is approved of. Now, what’s your name?’
‘Mouse,’ I mumbled.
‘Mouse? A remarkable name for a remarkable guest, ain’t that so, friends? Well, young Mouse, you’ve arrived at the right place. There’s nowhere so quiet as the inside of Punchman’s private castle when the guests has gone. Want some lunch?’
Fumbling in a bag, Punchman brought out hunks of cheese, cold chicken legs and fragments of leftover pastries.
‘Not exactly unthumbed, Mouse, but mostly vittles of the highest quality,’ he informed me. ‘Tuck in.’
So I munched away, with Mr Punch and his painted gang staring at me from their hooks. Dog Toby bolted down his share, then squeezed beneath the canvas so he could investigate the orchard. Charlie opened up the flaps of the booth a fraction, tying them into place, then leaned back, full of ease, beaming.
The day was softly warm, and I smelled the sweet grass of the orchard and heard the donkeys’ gentle braying. Though Ma and Isaac still hurt in my heart, a smile crept on to my face. Silently, I thanked Wayland from the bottom of my heart for sending me to this new companion.
‘You stay in here, boy,’ Charlie Punchman said, once our meal was well digested. ‘Got a bit of business to do.’
He returned after a while, carrying a neatly patched shirt and a ragged oversized jacket he’d wheedled from a widow woman he knew.
He winked. ‘Put them togs on soonish, and keep them on. If wise old Wayland sent you to me, sure as eggs is eggs he thinks there’ll be someone coming after you.’
He also handed me a battered top hat, so large that it fell down across my forehead and rested on my ears. Dressed in my new garb, I felt brave enough to snooze under the apple trees while Punchman performed another show.
Then we ate half an apple pie, and later we had supper too. What a life of plenty was this, after Murkstone’s thin meals!
Overnight we slept in the widow-woman’s shed, and were back on the road early next morning with the booth and puppets packed into the deep basket that Charlie Punchman heaved up on to his back.
‘Let me help.’ I reached out, but he refused.
‘No, Mouse. Not yet, boy, but thank you,’ Punchman said, shaking his grizzled curls. ‘Might weaken my poor old sinews.’ Panting slightly, he lurched forward along the road. ‘Besides, if I can’t do this on a fine spring day, I’ll be finished, won’t I? Eh, Toby? But I’ll be most glad of your company as we go, boy. Now, let me tell you about this Punch and Judy lark . . .’
And so I started on a strange new life, a time when I played with puppets and talked to wooden dolls.
Charlie Punchman was peaceful to travel with. He and his gaudy family didn’t ask anything of me. He didn’t ask why, or what, or who, or anything I didn’t want to think about, such as where had Ma and Isaac gone. Nor did he ask why Wayland believed that someone might come following me. I was glad to live day by day and let my head be like the wooden painted puppets, feeling nothing.
I learned plenty from Charlie Punchman. I learned all the lines and gags and songs of his old familiar show. I learned how he turned crowds from bewilderment to laughter in a moment. I learned to read Toby’s barks, both the quick yaps that were part of the act and the growls that warned us when pickpockets were about.
I began to be a real help to Punchman. At first I watched out for any too-happy farmhands who might barge into the booth and spoil the show. Then Punchman sent me around with Toby and the jingling purse, which taught me to watch every hand, because some fingers slipped more coins out than they slipped in.
In my brash rig of clothes I felt altered enough to bark up Punchman’s trade. Over the weeks I learned how to call up audiences, whether in noisy markets or on calm village greens. I learned to parade about boldly in my baggy jacket and tall top hat. Niddle would not have known me now, with my face browned by sun and wind, and the miles I’d walked and the food that put strength in my bones.
Once Punchman began to let me help with packing his bag of puppets he had more breath for his tales, and gradually he heard some of mine. One day he learned rather more.
The dust was thick around our ankles as we arrived at a village for the annual feast. The journey had been long and tiring.
‘Should be a good day, Mouse. Feasts and markets are most profitable occasions.’ Punchman pointed to the village green. ‘See that spot over there? That’s our site today. Big old oak will give us shade or shelter, no matter how the day turns out.’
The crowd collected around us before Punchman had unpacked his cast or hung them up for their parts, and he was more tired and slower than usual setting up.
Some folk started to shout out, demanding that the show begin, and a pair of drunken lads threatened to break the booth apart. Some of the waiting children cried and grizzled, like those babies back at the farm, and I saw customers turning away for their homes.
‘Oh Lord, I’m too old for this today,’ groaned Punchman, ‘and I think we’re in for trouble from this lot. Heaven help us, boy.’
The crying and grizzling reminded me that I, Mouse, was not helpless.
I snatched a spare swozzle out of Charlie’s pocket and sprang up, crowing and bowing and waving my hat in the air. I did the old running-around-on-the-hands trick, and then covered the ground with somersaults, one, two, three, ending on my feet.
‘That’s the way to do it!’ I squawked once the swozzle was tucked inside my cheek, so I sounded like Mr Punch myself.
I did one-hand and two-hand balances, and rolled into somersaults and did high handsprings. I shinned high up the oak tree and walked along the branches, all for the joy of it, and with no Grindle threatening me this time. I balanced one-handed on this bough, then hopped ac
ross to another, swinging round it.
Down in the green shade, the faces looked like newly fallen apples scattered across the grass. I crowed out at the people, making them laugh, and I sang one of Mr Punch’s songs.
Then down I came, scampering from branch to branch, leading everyone’s eyes back to the booth, because by now Charlie and Mr Punch were ready. The show started at full tilt, and everything went well.
‘Mouse? They named you well, my boy,’ Punchman chortled as we counted up our takings. ‘You’re as nippy and quick as a mouse all right! Well done!’
From that day onwards, whenever we were pressed, Charlie asked me to do my somersaults and hand-walking and balancing along fences or walls to attract the punters to his little show.
‘But no acrobaticals on church gates or holy market crosses,’ Punchman insisted. ‘Them vicars and parsons won’t be pleased to see a travelling lad upside down on their property. A show of respect is important in this line of business, Mouse, if you want to stay clear of trouble.’
So I travelled on, spending days and nights in the company of Mr Punch and his friends, as if that was where, for now, I was meant to be. No matter what Wayland feared, nobody did come asking for me. I almost stopped watching every shadow, and pretended that this was how I could live, although the leaves and skies told me the season was changing.
It was no different to any other day when it happened. A small crowd had gathered round the booth we’d set up in the stable yard of a tavern, near where the horses were being led in and out. As we began our show, a straw-haired stable hand wandered out and leaned against an upright beam.
I stared. He bent down and whispered to a young woman beside him. The fellow had the same wide, innocent smile as Isaac. Though he was not Isaac and she was not Ma, I remembered. I remembered too much, and was afraid that I had forgotten my search. I felt empty inside.
That night, as we sat over our supper, I was silent.
‘Is it come then, Mouse?’ said Punchman.
‘What?’ I faltered.
‘Your time to go? To move on? I knew it would one day.’
‘But I won’t . . .’ Words were like chalk in my mouth.
‘Mouse, not everything happens as we most want it to happen. If it is time for you to be on your way, then that is what you must do. We have had good times together, so let us be thankful for such happy days, even if they must end. Let us be glad to have been happy, and enjoy this last night together.’
He took a deep swig of his brandy and water. Then, as we shared slices of fine strong cheese and plum cake, he added, ‘You know, Mouse? I think I might try that nice widow woman again. Old Punchman will want somewhere warmer than a hedge to sleep under once the winter nights are here.’
Dog Toby nuzzled my hand and snuggled tightly against me.
‘Don’t you fear! The road to the city ain’t far off, Mouse,’ Punchman murmured as we drifted off to sleep. ‘Every show must have its ending.’
We parted, eventually, at a crossroads beside a steepled church, with autumn just about to begin.
‘Who knows, Mouse? We may meet again,’ he said, but I could not give any answer. I felt sore about leaving him and his wooden family because, for a while, they had given me another, happier life.
Punchman looked proudly up at my tanned, outdoor face. ‘You done well by me, boy, and I will always remember you,’ he said briskly. He whipped out a bright silk kerchief from his pocket, tied it around my neck and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Bye now.’
‘Bye,’ I said, as he hugged me quickly.
The last I saw of my good friend was a tiny figure, weighed down by his booth and puppets, travelling back the way we had come. I was glad I had shoved my worn, warm jacket secretly into his pack, for Charlie Punchman might need it in the cold times coming.
Then I took the road to the city, and to what I would find there.
.
CHAPTER 26
THE CITY
The dome-crowned city! Do you know, I was dazzled by it. And I was scared by it too, if I am to tell the truth.
When I first saw the great conglomeration from far off, high on the misted heath, it seemed a magnificent place. There, where fog and ferns surrounded me, the distant city seemed full of hidden promises, but whether for good or ill, I could not tell. Perhaps I would know by the time I saw the wide silver river. There was a long way still to go. With Punchman and Toby far behind me, this last part of the journey seemed endless and uncertain. If I ever met Ma, would she even know me? Would I know her?
‘Ma, Ma, whoever you are . . .’ My boots trudged on, taking me with them.
Then I heard a cart coming closer, jolting and rolling across the ruts, bound for the city market, and bound to save me too, though the driver would never know it. He let the reins slip so he could refill his baccy pipe, and the horses slowed their pace.
Up into the back of the cart I scrambled, pushing myself under the sacking, in among the vegetables. The sacks of spuds and turnips would not budge, so I squeezed in among the knobbly cabbages that oozed claggy water and occasional thin, pale worms. Closing my eyes, I slept for long, sweet miles, and so I was brought to the city.
‘Hey up! Hello, Joey boy!’
‘Hallooo, Gringold, you neep-head!’
‘Hey there, Lucy, my dear one, my darling!’
‘Steady, steady!’
The shouts were what I heard first, as drivers urged their horses into the surge of traffic. We were jolting along a wide befouled road, where wagons and carts and omnibuses and cabs filled the highway, and on either side the pavements streamed with hurrying crowds.
I lifted up the crusted sacking and stared around at this new world of mine. The spires! The domes and towers, and the high roofs and the chimneys, the many hundreds of chimneys!
A mighty train, with its own blazing chimneys, rushed across an iron bridge overhead, enveloping all below in a swirl of smoke and smuts.
We passed buildings and shops and pubs and stalls and penny gaffs and street pedlars offering their wares. There were calls and cries at each corner, and so many, many people, so much noise. Was this web of noise what Wayland hated?
The streets of cities in stories are paved with gold, but not this one. All was mud. Ragged children darted into the mire, armed with brooms and buckets, eager to sweep a crossing for a few coins or to scoop up dung and droppings to sell on where they could.
At once I was happy, and hopeful. If there were horses, then surely I would find Isaac. And Ma.
Another cart ran too close to the vegetable cart, wheels scraping. ‘Get out of my way! Move yourself, you spotted oaf!’ my driver roared, lashing to the side with his whip.
Move yourself? Move myself? I would, I would.
I moved. I jumped out and scarpered away. It was me, Mouse, darting off into the city, with harsh words slapping at my back, but what did I care about such names in that great moment? Nothing!
And what did the city care about me? The answer to that was also nothing. Soon my running turned to a walk, and then to a trudge. I realised I did not even know what I was looking for, and a dull anger rose in my heart. Suddenly my hope of finding Ma and Big Isaac was like believing in fairy tales.
Stories describe cities as places of order, but this city was not a neatly settled place. The streets were being ripped apart and old patterns of stone were being broken. Bridges were half-thrown across roads, and great holes were being dug into the ground. It was as if giant invisible moles were burrowing through the whole place. This was a city that moved and grew with each passing day.
Some of it was beautiful. I wandered along fine, swept pavements and spied tree-filled garden squares surrounded by high spiked railings. The grass within would be sweet as a meadow for a night’s sound sleep. I paused.
As a
church clock chimed, a uniformed man with a bristling moustache strutted from the area of one of the tall houses and entered the garden. He must have just drunk tea with sour milk, because he searched every inch of the garden. He thrashed his cane under bushes and behind trees, to drive out anyone hiding there. He took a watch from his top pocket and checked the time. He left abruptly, locking the gate behind him as if he was the very angel at the Gates of Paradise. I would not be sleeping under those sweet roses that night.
I walked on, afraid of the weariness sweeping over me. I had no Wayland or Punchman at my side, and no Dog Toby. Where could I go? To the workhouses? I had heard of them. Once in, never out, and if Murkstone Hall was called a school, what must life in a workhouse be like? If I was caught and locked up in such a place, I would not be able to find my Ma.
On and on I went. The fine gardens changed into stench-filled streets, the tall houses became shabby tenements. I saw warrens of foul alleys, full of filthy puddles and ragged children. Their bitter, grey faces reminded me of Grindle, ready to attack, so I turned, and went another way.
On every crowded street, a patchwork of scents and smells wrapped around me, teasing my stomach. Dark velvety aromas wafted from coffee houses. Rowdy pie shops offered warm, oniony greetings. I sniffed the air greedily, as if this would cure my hunger.
Sweet scents rose from the trampled blossoms around the flower stalls, but not all was delightful. Acrid stenches crawled out from slaughterhouses and glue factories and tanning works and midden heaps. The people who lived here must have no need for street names or maps. Their noses would tell them where they were.
The dusk turned into night, and the crowds were going home. Shop after shop turned off the globes of their gas lamps and locked their shutters. The tumult of carts and coaches quietened. Elderly link-boys passed me, lifting their long poles to extinguish the lamps. There was no need for light when all good folk were safe indoors and only wanderers and vagabonds were outside.