John Diamond (Vintage Childrens Classics)

by Leon Garfield

  I shivered. It was cold, so high up in the air. I went back to the fire and coughed over it, and thought of home.

  Suddenly the trapdoor moved aside and out came a woman’s head. It was so unexpected, and she was cut off so sharp, that it was as if a ghastly murder had been done downstairs, and the rest of her would be heaved up any minute. She saw me.

  ‘Where is ’e? Where’s Shots?’

  ‘Gone on the snick-an-lurk,’ I said.

  ‘Bleedin’ little varmint,’ said she. ‘Allus missin’ when yer wants ’im. You ’is mate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind this, then.’

  She vanished and then reappeared up to her waist. She pushed a bundle onto the flat path.

  ‘Don’t you drop ’im, mind!’

  It was a baby. The mother sank out of sight and the trapdoor closed over her. I supposed that she, too, had gone on the snick-an-lurk.

  I picked up the baby, which gave one or two irritated cries, and put it inside the house next to the fire. I sat down and watched it, and wondered if the woman had been Shot-in-the-Head’s mother. Even if she had been, I don’t suppose she knew; and I don’t suppose Shot-in-the-Head knew, either.

  I wondered what would happen if she didn’t come back, if she was caught on the snick-an-lurk, and hanged. What would I do with the baby?

  I wondered if that was what had happened to Shot-in-the-Head—that he’d been left on a roof in the charge of another Shot-in-the-Head, who’d been stuck with him thereafter.

  These thoughts occupied me until Shot-in-the-Head came back with a loaf of bread and a lump of raw meat. He saw the baby and said: ‘You oughter ’ave fixed ’im.’

  He produced a long piece of cord and tied one end round the baby’s middle, and the other round his own.

  ‘’E gits abaht,’ said Shot-in-the-Head with unwilling admiration. ‘Quick as a pidjin. You should see ’im! I thort ’e’d never move at fust. Then ’e started. All at once, it was. I nearly lorst’im. Yus.’

  He gazed on the parapet, and I got a sudden picture of Shot-in-the-Head hanging on to the baby by one of its feet.

  Soon after, the baby’s owner came back. She produced a jug of ale.

  ‘Brung extry fer yer mate, Shots,’ she said; and took her property away.

  ‘Me mates is arter yer,’ said Shot-in-the-Head, passing me the jug after he’d had a drink. ‘Liverguts ’as got a squashed-in eye orf Mr Rob-a-Son fer losin’ yer. Squashed right in, it is. ’E’ll ’ave yer wiv’ that ’ook, I ken tell yer! Yus.’

  I shivered. Shot-in-the-Head said:

  ‘If yer wants to keep warm wiv’out bein’ spifflicated by the smoke, yer wants to sit up agin the pots. They’s allus warm.’

  He didn’t go out again that day. He cooked the meat and divided the loaf into three: one part for himself, one for me, and the last between two starlings, Pankuss and Mary Bone, who seemed to be friends of his and perched in his hair.

  He showed me round his estate, which extended for about six roofs in all directions. He was very proud of it and pointed out various beauties of the landscape, such as the sudden jewelled sight of the river, winking between clustering stacks.

  But most of all, he admired St Paul’s which sometimes, he said, made him laugh.

  As he pointed to the great dome I began to realize that, from its situation relative to the river, I could not be far from Mr Seed’s.

  ‘Is this,’ I said uneasily, ‘in Whitefriars?’

  ‘Yus. You wanna watch yerself dahn there.’

  I grew colder than ever as I remembered Mrs Carwardine and Mrs Branch and their tales of Whitefriars where screams were as common as dirt, where dead men lay in the gutters as frequent as cats, and where people went in and never came out.

  ‘Do—do they really cut you up down there?’

  ‘Yus,’ said Shot-in-the-Head. ‘But allus very small.’

  That night I didn’t sleep so well. Every noise I heard coming up from the street, I thought was a murder being done; every sound of dripping, I thought was blood; and every shadow that passed across the roof and loitered by the chimney-stacks, I thought was Liverguts with his hook.

  Next morning was Sunday, and the air was bright with bells. They rang and chimed and pealed and rolled, and none of us could speak. Shot-in-the-Head put his hands to his ears and only took them away to shake his fists at St Paul’s. Then he opened his mouth and made a little belfry of it, and tolled his tongue inside.

  In the afternoon he went on the snick-an-lurk again; and back came the baby for me to mind. This time I tied it up properly, and tried to get it to move.

  Shot-in-the-Head came back with a gold-topped cane and three meat pies; and we got an apronful of coals for the baby, and a complaint about coal smuts in its eye.

  That evening I sat by the fire with Shot-in-the-Head, and we talked and talked till the cows came home, wherever that might have been in the town. He only stopped me when the sun went down, and that was because he wanted to show me the western rooftops all torn up with red.

  Then I went on and told him about my house, and Woodbury, and Hertford, and the trees and fields and streams.

  I told him everything; about my Uncle Turner, my mother and sisters, and even Mrs Alice. I told him about the footsteps and the watch, and about my running away.

  It was all a marvellous tale to him, as he sat with the red light on his face, and hanging on to every word. And when I came at last to him, he got enormously excited, and begged me to begin again.

  Most of all he loved the footsteps, and the parts about my uncle. Cissy, Rebecca and my mother he quite dismissed as belonging to those parts of a story which were necessary, but dull. He liked Mrs Alice and the raisin wine, and had quite a soft spot for Mrs Small and her horror of leaves.

  At last he went to sleep, murmuring drowsily that he would hear it all again tomorrow night; and I felt like the person in the Arabian Nights, whose life hung by the thread of an endless tale.

  He himself was like something out of the Arabian Nights, with his little cave filled with glittering treasures; and I remember thinking once that, when Christmas came, we could hang all the gold and jewels from the buttonholes, and when the snow fell, we could huddle by the fire like shepherds, awaiting the wonderful news.

  I felt a little sad, I admit, when I thought about Christmas, and my mother and my sisters, all of whom must have supposed me to be dead. But then I comforted myself and thought that they’d get over it, and think a good deal better of me for being in heaven. When you are living on a rooftop, among birds and chimney pots, in a small private residence, with the sky for a garden and a baby to mind, it’s hard to worry much about what’s happening on the ground.

  I don’t know how long I might have lived up there with Shot-in-the-Head, eating and drinking and exploring the roofs. It might have been forever. The nights by the fire were best of all, when I told him about my home, and he told me of his adventures down below, during the day. In the end, it was the watch that stopped it.

  He had laid out all his possessions and had invited me to add mine. I took out my watch. It was just after eleven o’clock. He wanted to wind it up. I told him it was only to be six turns; but of course he couldn’t count.

  He wound and wound until there came a sharp little snapping noise, as if something had broken inside. I got angry and snatched it away. He got angry and snatched it back. He looked at it and shook it and got out his knife. He opened the back.

  ‘Yus,’ he said. ‘I sees.’

  He gave it back to me. There was a small piece of paper wedged inside the lid. I took it out and unfolded it. There was writing on it. ‘Club Cottage. Shoulder of Mutton Alley. Limehouse Hole.’

  I stared at it, not understanding. And then, little by little, I remembered how my father had given me the watch. I remembered how he had told me how valuable it was.

  Suddenly I realized why he’d given it to me. He must have known that, sooner or later I’d find what he’d hidden insid
e. This was the only written thing he’d left me. These were really his last words.

  I wondered briefly why he hadn’t told me at once? Then I remembered all his hesitations, and I guessed he’d thought I wasn’t ready yet for whatever it was that I would find … in Club Cottage, Shoulder of Mutton Alley, Limehouse Hole.

  There was no help for it. My rooftop life was over; and the ground and all its concerns were dragging me back.

  What was there in Club Cottage? Was it the lost ten thousand pounds; or something else, something he valued even more?

  16

  LIMEHOUSE HOLE WAS six fingers down the River Thames. I didn’t know whether this meant six miles, six hours or six shillings by waterman’s boat, as Shot-in-the-Head represented everything in terms of his fingers. If he was going out, it would be for two fingers; if he wanted to tell me where he’d got something (on the snick-an-lurk), it was four fingers to the right.

  As I had no money—having thrown away my purse that night in the Sun in Splendour—I was to be taken back to Mr Seed’s house; which, it turned out, was just five fingers away.

  We left the roof at I don’t know what time, as my watch seemed to have died. We had waited until everything was quiet; I think it must have been long after one o’clock.

  It was a clear night; the clearest I can remember in London. There was a quarter moon and you could even see some stars.

  Shot-in-the-Head went down the trapdoor first, and I followed after. As I began to descend, I took one last look round what had been my home for, I suppose, seven fingers.

  Shot-in-the-Head’s fire glowed mysteriously inside his house; and beyond, the chimney shadows divided up the roofs into long narrow slices. As I pulled the trapdoor back into place, I fancied that St Paul’s tipped its enormous hat to me, as if to say, ‘Pleased to have met you.’

  I wanted to say the same, having got into the habit, during my days of being alone, or minding the baby, of talking to objects like St Paul’s, one or two well-dressed steeples and several affable chimney pots.

  I felt Shot-in-the-Head tug sharply on my foot, so down the ladder I went, into the swaying dark. He never said a word to me. It was all kicks and pinches as it had been when first he’d taken me up into his residence.

  The house sighed and moaned and grunted, as before; and the rubbish on the landings stirred.

  Outside in the street, it was odd; after the roofs, it was like being in a pit. We began to walk.

  I could hear nothing beyond our own breathing and soft steps; but I thought Shot-in-the-Head was worried. He kept stopping and sniffing the air, as if he’d found one smell that was worse than all the rest.

  I didn’t think he was frightened, I thought he was just being cautious; so that when he suddenly gripped my arm with tremendous fierceness, I was taken by surprise and began:

  ‘What’s the—’

  Instantly he put his hand over my month. There was a moment’s silence; and then, sweet and clear, and not very far away, came the old familiar whistling:

  ‘I care for nobody, no, not I;

  And nobody cares for me!’

  There was no time to be amazed, or to wonder at the strength of John Diamond’s hatred that made him haunt the streets, still looking for me. Shot-in-the-Head pointed to the beginning of a black slit between the tenements and gave me a violent push. It was the way back to Hanging Sword Alley.

  I began to run. Already I could hear the other whistles, the needle-sharp whistles of the boys. I heard the scattering of the little hailstones; and then I heard the most hideous and dreadful screech.

  It was the same screech I’d heard when the dwarf had caught Shot-in-the-Head and dragged him up the stairs in his house.

  The hailstorm stopped; and so did I. I looked back. Liverguts and his friends had caught Shot-in-the-Head. They must have seen him cheat them by letting me go; and, like John Diamond himself, their hatred had boiled over.

  They had him against a wall. I saw the iron hook lifted up in the air; and then I heard the screech again. It went right through me.

  Although it was almost certain that they’d killed him already, I had to go back. There was nothing I could do; I knew that. But it was impossible not to try.

  I ran a little way back and shouted out:

  ‘I’m here! I’m here! William Jones is here! This way!’

  I paused just long enough for them to turn, and then bolted for my life back through the slit.

  I could hear them beginning to run; but I had nearly a dozen yards start. Down the passage I rushed, with the hailstorm in pursuit. I crashed against the close, rough walls and dragged myself round corners; until at last, a fully grown man—a man, thank God! and not a boy—stepped out into my path. With a great cry of relief I flung myself into his arms. They folded round me.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, William Jones,’ he said.

  It was John Diamond!

  I won’t tell you how I felt; but I can promise you that I’ve never felt worse in my life.

  I did the only thing I could. I bit his wrist. He wasn’t wearing gloves and I remember he smelled and tasted of soap; which I have never liked since.

  He let me go. I fell on the ground and heard the hailstorm roar. John Diamond kicked me in the head; and, in the middle of shooting, dancing stars, I remembered Mrs Carwardine and shrieked and shrieked:

  ‘BOARDERS! BOARDERS! BOARDERS!’

  I don’t suppose I can really remember it; but I still have a looming sensation of doors and windows opening and huge, lumbering shapes with murderers’ faces and harsh pirates’ hands come crowding in upon me as the inhabitants of Whitefriars emerged to answer the cry for Sanctuary.

  17

  I MUST HAVE said something about Mr Seed, or else my shout of ‘Boarders!’ had identified me as belonging to his household, because I have a confused recollection of being passed through his doorway by I don’t know how many strange hands, and being received by I don’t know how many more.

  ‘Mind his head! Mind his head!’

  ‘Oh what a sight he looks!’

  ‘Like somethin’ the cat’s brought in!’

  ‘That’s enough of that, you two—or you’ll feel the back of me ’and!’

  I saw the two Miss Carwardines, all curl-papers and skinny arms twined in complicated patterns round each other’s necks. And there was Mr Seed, in cap and nightgown, jumping up and down and apparently in a great rage.

  I tried to explain that I was sorry for having got him out of bed; but that it had been a matter of the greatest urgency and I had nearly been killed.

  ‘What’s he saying? What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Oh the poor young gentleman! I’ll go and fetch some soup!’

  ‘His head! Look at that bruise! He’s been kicked …’

  ‘Maybe they kicked some sense into it! Here, let me look.’

  The dwarf was bending over me, with a candle as bright as the sun. I was lying in his bed and I could feel his short thick fingers touching my head very gently.

  ‘Oh! Oh! ’Is lovely clothes! That coat’ll never be the same!’

  ‘No bones broken. Solid right through, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘I could sew it up for five shillin’s, maybe …’

  ‘He ain’t got five shillings, Mrs Branch. He ain’t got five pence. He’s been skinned, like a rabbit!’

  Faces, faces … looming over me and going away. I said to them that I hadn’t been robbed but had thrown away my purse in the Sun in Splendour. I said we all had to go back at once, not to the Sun in Splendour, but to pick up what was left of Shot-in-the-Head.

  ‘Kicked, dear, kicked. You was kicked in the head. You wasn’t shot, you know …’

  I said I wanted to go to Club Cottage in Limehouse Hole. I wanted to go directly. There wasn’t a moment to be lost.

  ‘Be quiet there! Be quiet! I can’t hear a word he’s saying!’

  ‘Put that down, you two! Or I’ll smack you both till your ears fly off.’

&n
bsp; I repeated my determination to go back into Whitefriars and find Shot-in-the-Head; but somehow mixed it up with John Diamond and Limehouse Hole. In order to make it clear to everybody, I tried to whistle ‘The Miller of Dee,’ and to explain about the baby on the roof that had begun to worry me greatly.

  ‘Deleterious,’ said Mrs Branch. ‘That’s what ’e is. Poor Mr Branch was like it in ’is cups. Very deleterious’

  ‘Thank God, I say, and I’ll say it again! Thank God ’e left one good shirt be’ind and a pair of stockin’s, too,’ said Mrs Carwardine; and I couldn’t help feeling that, although everybody was glad I was back, their joy was rather gloomed over by the state of my clothes. It was as if it wasn’t really me who had returned, but a friend bringing my tattered remains.

  Mr Seed was sitting next to me with a satisfied smile on his face that quickly changed into sternness when he saw that I was awake. It was morning.

  ‘That’s a shilling you owe me, Mr Jones,’ he said. ‘And seven shillings and sixpence to Mrs Carwardine and Mrs Branch for work on your clothes. How do you propose to pay?’

  ‘My watch,’ I said. ‘I’ve still got my watch.’

  ‘Broken,’ said he. ‘Spring gone. Cost a mint to put it right.’

  ‘I’d better go then,’ I said; and tried to get out of bed.

  He pushed me back and told me that my clothes had already gone for repairs and he wasn’t going to have me running about outside on a Saturday morning stark naked. It would get him a bad name. ‘But I must go!’ I cried, thinking suddenly of Shot-in-the-Head, lying somewhere in Whitefriars and maybe still alive.

  ‘Must,’ said Mr Seed, ‘is for the king.’

  I told him he didn’t understand, and that I had urgent business in Whitefriars concerning a certain boy who had saved my life. I begged him to fetch my clothes and let me go.

  He shook his head. He told me that the men who had brought me back had scattered all the boys. I’d never find the one I wanted though I searched till Kingdom Come. If he’d been killed, he’d be in the river by now; if not, he’d be hiding like a rat.