A Boy Called MOUSE

by Penny Dolan

  So what happened after the arrival of the important fairy I didn’t ever discover. At last the show ended, with a final roaring from above. That – so Kitty told me – came after Hugo Adnam had recited one of his most well-known speeches.

  ‘Shakespeare,’ she said. ‘Macbeth. And I know who’s the missing witch.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind, Mouse. You will. She’ll be back soon.’

  With no bundles to carry, the walk home didn’t feel as long as the night before. No dark carriage alarmed the little girls, and my feet didn’t hurt as badly, but Kitty was very, very quiet, and so were we.

  .

  CHAPTER 33

  IDLE WORDS

  No news of Mouse. The roads were dull, the journey was dull and the talk was worse than dull. Button and Bulloughby rested in a village inn, where a roaring fire thickened the air and stifled the breath.

  Bulloughby, with two large pork pies secure beneath his belly, slumped against the settle. Eyes closed, he snuffled into a dream.

  Mr Button wiped the corners of his own mouth very clean with a folded napkin. Neatly and quietly, he placed it beside his knife and fork. Nobody would know it, but Button was listening extremely hard.

  In the corner of the bar, three old farmboys gossiped over tankards of ale. The oldest scratched his bristled chin and sniffed sadly. ‘All the old things are going. Last village feast weren’t as good as before. We never got that big bear that used to come a-rattling his chains.’

  ‘Old brute frit maids something terrible, he did,’ the second laughed wheezily. ‘Got me an extra cuddle if that great scary Bruin was around.’

  ‘That’s enough of your saucy talk, young William,’ grumbled the third glumly. ‘That ill-tempered beast whopped my terrier across the bear pit and fair broke its back. Lost a sovereign there, I did.’

  ‘Reckon poor old Bruin’s dead by now,’ the first man declared. ‘Some of the old acts came this year, didn’t they, Seth?’

  ‘Aye, Nathan’s right,’ agreed Seth. ‘We got the old peg-leg sailor with his hurdy-gurdy music and monkey, didn’t we?’

  They maundered on through old songs, humming words they had forgotten. Button smiled almost benignly at the tuneless trio, who soon ordered more ale.

  ‘I’ve thought of another one who came. Old Punchman!’ Seth said triumphantly. ‘Him with Dog Toby and his rattling painted puppets. ‘That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!’ Remember?’

  ‘Were even better this year. He had that boy helping him. Tufty-headed lad, skinny little thing, and such sharp brown eyes! Bet Charlie Punchman was glad of that lad, skipping and dancing while the booth was being put up!’ said William.

  They all nodded and clapped their hands together at the thought.

  ‘Hee hee! The little rascal clambered along the blooming boughs as if he was a blooming little mousekin,’ Nathan cried.

  ‘Hee hee hee!’ they wheezed.

  Seth turned to Button. ‘You should have seen that boy, mister! Life and soul of the show he was.’

  ‘Indeed I should.’ Button was full of fun too. ‘In fact, I’ll make it my task to look for him right away. Do any of you smart fellows know where this merry Charlie Punchman might be found?’

  .

  CHAPTER 34

  TIME PASSING

  Nick Tick had simple habits – just one boiled egg and an apple for breakfast, and a pot of tea and sponge cake for supper – so I was very glad I was going to eat with the Aunts in Spinsters’ Yard.

  I had swept the shop floor with a damp mop, to keep the dust down from the clocks. My insides rumbled for breakfast, but Mr Nick called eagerly, ‘Come, Mouse!’ With a key in his hand, he was almost ticking with excitement. He wanted to share something with me.

  We went through to a secret room, tucked even deeper away than his workshop. This was Nick’s treasure house, where he kept his most precious tools and minutely written notebooks, and his cleverest metal-boned children.

  Nick Tick, their creator, was showing me his world of tiny machines. He darted among the magical metal toys like an inventive elf.

  ‘Ready? Watch!’ One by one, all Nick’s inventions moved into motion. Pendulums shone like tiny suns. Lead weights rose and fell, cogs turned and rods twirled and twisted. Long chains ran up, down and around, muttering gently to themselves. Metal arms signalled or stretched. It was amazing!

  ‘See, if I turn this switch, how this spindle moves in another direction,’ he sang, hurrying up and down his workbenches, commenting as he went.

  An old tea caddy, dripping with tarnished silvery chains, stood on a shelf, and I was reminded of my night in the Aunts’ wash-house. I waited until Nick Tick’s display had ended.

  ‘Mr Nick, please could I have one of those chains?’

  ‘Certainly, though for what purpose exactly, my dear boy?’ Nick pushed his glasses up on to his forehead, very precisely. ‘What weight? Length? Type of catch? What is needed?’

  ‘It’s a small token that I’ve promised to wear, but the string has snapped. I think it’s some kind of medal.’

  ‘Well then, dear boy, you don’t want any of those chains. Poor quality. Links too frail, metal too soft. Try one of these.’

  Within a drawer filled with dismantled pieces, springs, links, screws and cog-wheels of all sizes was a box of sturdier chains.

  I hesitated. ‘I’ll pay you back when I can, Mr Nick,’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘I know you will, Mouse,’ he answered. ‘May I see this important item?’

  Could he see it? I had kept my medal secret through all the gloom of Murkstone Hall, and through all my time on the road, just as I promised Ma. I had, I had, I had. But now I didn’t know who this Ma was. To whom exactly had I made my promise?

  I was so tired of secrets, and if kindly Nick Tick couldn’t be trusted, who could? I placed the tarnished medal in his hand.

  ‘I was given this long ago by . . . by a friend. It’s my secret,’ I said, ‘and please don’t tell Kitty or the Aunts about it.’

  I wanted to keep my secret to myself. It was my one true clue, one that my fingers had read like a book in dark corners and had held tight in times of trouble.

  Now, as the medal glinted in Nick Tick’s palm, my neat namesake looked almost unfamiliar. I could see that some of the careful detail of its fur and whiskers had been smoothed by so much wear.

  ‘This is most remarkable,’ said Nick, reaching for a magnifying lens. He turned the disc one way, then another. ‘Fine, fine indeed . . . Aha! Very, very clever!’

  Nick slid a practised fingernail along an invisible groove in the medal, and one half flipped open, revealing a floating arrow rotating within a glass disc.

  ‘What is it?’ I squeaked.

  ‘This, Mouse, is a pocket compass, and probably made for a grand lady.’ He turned it over. My name, engraved in curling letters, appeared. ‘Intriguing, isn’t it, my boy? A compass is a strange gift for a sweetheart. Do you know who owned this before you?’

  I shook my head. Not my Ma, for sure, nor Isaac.

  Nick Tick selected a chain, running the links through his fingers and tugging it to test for strength. ‘A satisfactory chain for a remarkable piece,’ he said. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Nick.’

  Wasn’t a compass something that helped you find your way? I’d been carrying this device for so very long, but my life had no sure direction. Was Ma, whom I knew so much and so little about, truly where my path was pointed?

  ‘There’s damage along the edge,’ Nick added. ‘If the hallmarks had been clearer, I could have traced it back to where it was made.’

  ‘Oh!’ Quickly I threaded the chain through, hung the compass round my neck and slipped it back under my shirt. Was it stolen pro
perty? My Ma could not be a thief, could she? Or Isaac? Surely not.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mouse.’ Nick put his finger to his lips and winked. A quizzical smile lit his face. ‘If I say a word about your medal, may my clocks never strike again! Now off you go and see young Kitty,’ he ordered. ‘Ever since that bad thing happened to her, she’s needed a good friend.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘That’s Kitty’s secret, and no doubt she’ll tell you one day.’ Nick turned back to his workbench and was immediately lost in his clocks again, coaxing a mechanical bird to sing the hours.

  For me, this was a new kind of life. I got used to being clean, to eating and to watching the scars heal on my shins and arms. I helped the Aunts by doing odd jobs, and helped Kitty take Flora, Dora and the laundry to the theatre and home again. It was a life that felt comfortable.

  I helped Nick Tick, but what he liked best was having me at hand to chat about how one or another of his small machines worked and could be made better. I think talking helped him think things through.

  ‘Here, boy.’ Nick would open up his notebook and draw a rapid diagram across one of the pages. ‘Now this is what I mean. Do you see?’ And then we would discuss his idea.

  As I was interested, he gave me a notebook too. ‘Take it, Mouse. Sketch, draw, write. Whatever you will. Do not let your mind grow idle.’

  Nick said that we were living at the start of a great age when machines would help mankind to build an organised, punctual world. He talked about steam engines, and telegraphy, and about an invention made by a certain Babbage that might one day count until time itself ended. Nick believed each machine was a small miracle, and that gradually they would create a world of precision and perfection. These were odd imaginings, but I’d known people with far worse intentions, hadn’t I?

  So I was glad to listen to Nick’s dreams. I was glad of the Aunts, and Flora and Dora, and Kitty, and the comfort of their home. I was not unhappy with this new life that had wrapped itself around me.

  Yet when I least expected it, memories rose up, ready to drag me down. As we gathered for supper around the friendly hearth, my mind flashed back to long-ago suppers with Ma and Isaac, and often in the early hours, when I was alone in the shop, I woke trembling from dreams of fireweed and burnt buildings.

  It was time for me to search until I knew the truth about Ma, about the compass and about myself.

  ‘Kit,’ I said, as we came to the Albion one morning, ‘I have to go and look for Ma.’

  ‘I’ll tell Smudge to let you in later.’ She gave a smile and patted my arm. ‘Good luck, Mouse.’

  So my search began again. I walked through the streets and alleys and nooks of the city, looping further and further. I traced and retraced my steps, wondering what clues I should be seeking. So often I thought I’d seen Ma or Isaac, but when I sped after what seemed a familiar figure, I’d discover that I did not know them at all. I would follow an easy country lope that could be big Isaac’s walk, but as I passed and swung around to stare, the face showed me at once I was mistaken. Nor were the women ever Ma.

  Every time this happened, it was like Grindle punching me hard all over again. I had to rest and catch my breath.

  I searched some of that week, and the next, and the week after. Occasionally that long-ago time at Roseberry Farm seemed so hazy that I was not sure it had existed at all.

  How would Ma and Isaac live, here in this city? If I could guess that, I might have an answer. Were Isaac’s great and gentle horses pulling around some mighty load, or had they already gone to the knacker’s yard? Were Ma and Isaac toiling in some busy factory, or were they paupers, one in each wing of a workhouse, never to meet again? Or were they . . . ? Yes, there were other things I imagined too.

  I hated the crowds who got in my way and the people who obscured my view. I hated the excavations that blocked the paths and scratched out the landmarks.

  People said that this was a modern time, that we had the penny post and bicycles, steamships and railways, tunnels under the ground and manufactories larger than cathedrals. But in such a marvellously modern time, why could you not find someone when you really needed to?

  .

  CHAPTER 35

  A DIFFERENT LAUGHTER

  Mr Punch proudly took his final bow, and the show was ended. Charlie Punchman hung up his puppets, and stepped out into the yard. Dog Toby waltzed around on two legs, encouraging the crowd to drop their coins in the velvet purse, while Punchman beamed at one and all.

  He greeted the giggling children, the pigtailed girls, the crop-headed boys, the big sunburnt lads and lasses leaning against the wall, the wives glad to be away from their hearths, the men young and old, all cheered by his show. He felt the weight of the purse that Toby returned to his hand. Today life was good to him.

  As the crowd thinned out, Charlie Punchman saw two smiling faces waiting at the back of the yard: a large red-faced fellow, rather too full of beer, and a small neat man in a beetle-black coat whose small eyes glittered and whose mouth widened into a somehow sinister smile as they approached.

  They beckoned Charlie Punchman. Maybe he was too tired to think. In any case, he went over to meet them. His little dog ran too.

  Suddenly the big man grabbed Toby’s collar, so the dog twisted and turned but could not get free.

  ‘A word with you,’ said the small man, ‘about a certain boy. I want you to tell me everything you know.’

  Punchman’s mouth closed tightly.

  .

  CHAPTER 36

  CAUGHT IN THE ACT

  On the Albion stage, I saw Chinese acrobats balanced in pyramids, gypsies hurling knives and eating flames, magicians plucking doves from thin air, funny-man singers in the gaudiest of outfits, and performing parrots and monkeys who cried from the stage for their lost jungles.

  Between such acts, Flora and Dora and the littlest girls flitted prettily around the stage. The older dancers trailed around in romantic gauze, or hopped and skipped in comical cottons and clogs. Whatever the dance, whatever the night, the orchestra kept on playing.

  After the interval, when half a hundred gas lamps flickered and glowed, came the most important part of the night: the play. It might be a scene, an act, an important speech, or, best of all, a play whole and entire. These were the best. These were proper stories.

  Kitty and I often crept backstage to watch the actors at work, but not always.

  ‘No. Why should I spend my time watching their silly faces?’ she told me, grieving because she was not part of the show. ‘Go up there by yourself if you want to.’ So I did, and that is how I first saw part of a famous play.

  Miss Day and Mr Knightley were onstage, limelight softening the paint on their faces. Marianne Day was acting Juliet, the heroine, and Knightley was Romeo, her sweetheart. After long speeches between them, Knightley climbed up the rose trellis towards Juliet on the balcony. The conductor urged the orchestra to play louder, because they had orders to hide Romeo’s creaking knees.

  Knightley made Romeo’s words resound mightily, which was very much needed, because some of the audience booed and called for Hugo Adnam to speak the speech instead.

  Romeo and Juliet was a famous play written many years ago by someone called Shakespeare. It was a good play because it had exciting sword fights and midnight meetings and poisons and daggers. It had death scenes where everyone thinks the lovers have died, but in fact, when Knightley acted it, they woke up and lived happily ever after.

  Kitty and the Aunts argued about this play. Apparently Adnam wanted to put on a new, true version of the play one day, where the lovers do die, just like Mr Shakespeare said.

  However, the Aunts insisted that people liked happy endings best. Aunt Violet said that maybe Shakespeare did not understand how to write plays that people enjoyed. Aunt Indigo thought
that Shakespeare had probably written a happy ending, but that it had got lost.

  What interested me was this whole backstage world, so much bigger than Punchman’s canvas booth. How did everything work within the great Albion?

  So I kept my eyes open wherever I went. I saw the low trolleys that could wheel leafy trees, golden thrones or tumbledown hovels onstage at a moment’s notice. I discovered the enormous wheel that raised the velvet curtains. I found the wheeled boat that usually appeared among rippling waves of cloth, rocking as if it was atop real waves, while the giant metal sheet hung in the wings roared out its thunderstorm. The Albion was a place of trickery and craft, where plain, ordinary materials were turned into a moment’s magic.

  As often as I could, I sneaked up one of the ladders and on to the fly floor. Up there, in the vast space above the stage, drops of cloth hung suspended like banners. Gauzy screens were ready to descend, trembling, and transform the stage. Up there, where the lantern’s beam was changed by artful filter glass, the stagehands ruled the walkways and gantries, to create the world the actors inhabited down below. How Mr Nick would love to see all this cleverness!

  Hah! I was not concerned with Romeo or Juliet. Sketching and scribbling, I captured tricks and devices to share with Mr Nick. I filled page after page of my notebook. I even copied down the running lists nailed to the wall for everyone to see. Here the cues and changes, scene by scene, were written down. Here were the lists that explained how they managed to make the Albion work like . . . like . . . like clockwork. That was what I wanted to tell Mr Nick.

  Then, as I turned a page, a large hand clamped itself over my face. I could see nothing, and I felt myself carried away roughly. The performance was still going on, so I dared not shout. Someone carried me lurching and bumping, along echoing corridors. Then there was light.

  .

  CHAPTER 37

  ELSEWHERE, A CART STOPS

  Elsewhere, a cart stopped. A driver climbed down to see what lay in the ditch by the roadside.