“I’d rather you did pictures of your own,” she would tell him. Charlie’s drawings were beautiful in their own smudgy way.
Nan enjoyed the poems well enough—certainly more than the pictures—though she couldn’t quite determine whether they were meant for children or merely about them.
She learned the truth soon enough.
“Aha,” she said upon turning the page.
Charlie, who had been drawing a picture of a lamb with three legs and a spiked tail, looked up from his work. “What’s ‘aha’?”
“ ‘Aha’ means ‘I’ve learned the truth!’ It’s something inventors and explorers say when they make a discovery.”
“Did you make a discovery?”
“I did.” Nan showed him the book. “This next poem is called ‘The Chimney Sweeper.’ ” Surely this was why Miss Bloom had chosen the book for Nan.
“The Chimney Sweeper?” Charlie’s eyes widened. She could almost see him putting thoughts together. “It’s a poem about Nan?”
He leaned toward the book, but Nan kept it out of view. “No peeking,” she said, and then she read the poem aloud.
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep.
So your chimneys I sweep and in soot I sleep.
Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curl’d like a lambs back, was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned and Jack,
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open’d the coffins and set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run,
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
Nan was silent for a long moment. The fire crackled in the hearth. She had too many things to say but no words to say them.
The poem was confusing. That was sometimes the way of poems. But there were other parts that she thought she understood all too well.
“Those boys sound very happy to be in the clouds,” Charlie said.
“They sure do,” Nan said. Her jaw was set. She could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple. Was this really what Miss Bloom thought of climbers? That they were happy little angels, eager to climb up into cramped chimneys? Was she really that blind?
She thought of Newt in the slush—cold and hungry and scared. Then she looked at the picture beneath the poem: a parade of little naked children with shining curls and plump cheeks prancing up to Heaven. Nan had known hundreds of real climbers, and a few dead ones. None of them had shining curls or plump cheeks.
Charlie apparently agreed. “Who are all those little people with no clothes?” he asked, peeking over her shoulder. “Are they sweeps?”
“No,” Nan said. “They’re not.”
“What are they?”
Nan snapped the book shut. “They are rubbish.”
“Aha,” Charlie said. “Maybe we should put it in the Rubbish Room?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Nan tossed the book into the crackling hearth.
And that was the last of Songs of Innocence.
THE GREAT CHRISTMAS CAPER
“Who is Mary Christmas?”
Charlie asked this one morning during breakfast. He had heard people calling this woman’s name on the streets all week and had become quite worried. “I hope they find her.”
Nan was eating cabbage stew—her favorite breakfast—from a cracked teacup. “Not Mary Christmas,” she said through slurpy mouthfuls. “Merry Christmas. ‘Merry’ means happy. It’s what folks say to each other when the baby Jesus is born every year—that’s Christmas.”
“Every year? I thought born only happens once?” This was all too confusing for Charlie.
So Nan told Charlie about the whole thing. How the baby Jesus was born in a basket and how a wicked king tried to kidnap him but then a big bearded angel named Father Christmas fought the king. “And then he tossed the baby Jesus down the chimney of a girl named Mary, and that was the first Christmas present.” Nan had never set foot in a church, so you can forgive her for not knowing better. “Now, every year in winter, Father Christmas spends one night bringing presents down the chimneys of all the good boys and girls in the whole world.”
“Is that true or a story?”
“It’s in the Bible,” Nan said, wiping stew from her chin.
Truthfully, Nan had her doubts. If there were a fat giant hopping down chimneys once a year, she would probably have spotted him . . . or at least heard him stomping on the roof. Chimneys were her business, after all.
“I’m merry that Father Christmas saved the baby,” Charlie said, pressing his fingers together. “Only I’m not sure I’d want to find him inside our chimney. Is he very frightening?”
“Oh, he’s terrifying. Dressed all in red, with long white whiskers. And big fat hands like a pair of bear claws.”
Charlie nodded vaguely. “How does he fit inside the chimney?” he said.
“Same as you, I’ll bet.” Nan slid down from her stool. “He just squeezes himself in there. I suppose he has to tuck his whiskers in his belt so they don’t catch fire.”
Charlie drew a little rabbit onto the table with the tip of his finger. “Will . . . will Father Christmas come to our chimney?”
“If he did, I’d tell him a thing or two,” Nan said. “He only gives presents to rich children who already got more than enough. I’ve worked in rich houses the day after he’s come. You wouldn’t believe all the heaps of toys and sweets and new clothes—more than any one kid could ever want for. But do you think he comes by Crudd’s and gives so much as a handshake to the climbers who clean the chimneys for him? Never once. Doesn’t seem fair to me.”
Charlie stared at the icy window, and Nan could tell his brain was working hard. “If Father Christmas won’t give presents to the climbers,” he said slowly. “Maybe we should do it for him.”
And that was how the Great Christmas Caper was born.
Nan and Charlie made a list of the people who deserved presents. They included Newt, Whittles, Shilling-Tom, and Miss Bloom. She even thought of a “present” for Roger.
“What about Toby?” Charlie said. “Do you think he would like a present?”
“Not Toby.”
“What about Prospero?”
Nan rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
They spent the rest of the day collecting things that might pass for presents. Charlie went slowly from room to room, determined to find just the right gift for each person. “Folks should be good and grateful for whatever they get,” Nan said, putting a fresh horse apple she had collected from some nearby stables into a pretty little box—the perfect present for Roger. “Just pick something already.”
Charlie wanted a Father Christmas disguise, and so he and Nan made beards for themselves out of dander taken from the inside of a throw pillow that had split open during a pillow fight. They stuck the dander onto cut-out paper with gum paste and then tied the paper around their ears with twine.
When they were done, they bowed to each other.
“Ho-ho-ho, Father Nan,” Charlie said.
“Ho-ho-ho, Fat
her Charlie,” Nan said.
Miss Bloom was the first stop. Nan remembered the woman saying something about a “Festival of Lights.” She found a book in the captain’s study called Into the Holy Land that said Jewish people celebrated the festival by lighting a magic candlestick that had nine arms. She decided to give her a pair of candelabra from the captain’s dining hall. Each candelabrum only had four arms, so she had Charlie fuse them together to make eight, which seemed like plenty.
Miss Bloom’s room was on an upper floor of the school, and so Nan had little trouble reaching her window from the roof. She carefully pried the window open. She set the candelabrum on Miss Bloom’s bed stand and lit the eight candles. Then, quickly, before the woman stirred, she closed her window and slipped away.
After that was Prospero. Nan led Charlie across the river. They found Toby sleeping, nestled beneath Blackfriars Bridge, Prospero curled up next to him. She was alarmed to see Toby—muddy, shivering, his cheeks gaunt in the moonlight. It was hard to imagine that this was the same smiling boy she knew in the daylight. She wondered if he was still cross with her after their argument over Roger.
Nan hadn’t been sure what sort of thing a rat might like as a gift. Charlie came up with the idea of giving him a little ember from his own body that might keep him warm all through the winter. Nan resisted at first, but Charlie was firm. “Just a little bit of my elbow or tummy.”
They decided he could afford to lose some tummy, and so he carved a small piece out of himself, and Nan buried it beneath a loose stone, right near where Toby’s head lay. The snow on that spot melted right away, and Nan could feel Charlie’s warmth emanating up from the ground.
“How long will that spark last?” Nan asked, wiping her wet hands on her false whiskers. A few feathers came off. “Forever?”
Charlie lowered his head, as though he were suddenly ashamed. He tightened his grip on the sack of presents. “Not forever.”
Nan pretended not to hear this. “Next stop, Tower Hamlets.” They crossed back over the river and headed into the East End. It was slow going, traveling by rooftop wherever possible. She remembered Toby’s warning and needed to be certain that no one spotted her. Eventually they reached Crudd’s rooftop. Charlie looked out past her, his eyes fixed on St. Florian’s Church. She wondered how much he remembered of Bonfire Night.
“I should go down without you,” Nan said, taking the bag of presents. “We can’t afford to make too much noise.”
She quickly found herself in the coal cellar that had been her home for five long years. It was even danker than she remembered. The hearth was a bit warm, and she supposed that Crudd had let them make a small fire that night—just enough to keep them from freezing to death.
She scratched under her false whiskers while she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Newt and the others were huddled together, no doubt to keep warm. She picked her way across the floor and set to delivering her gifts.
Whittles was the easiest. She gave him a penknife from the captain’s arsenal; it had a real mother-of-pearl handle.
Shilling-Tom got an empty billfold for all his future riches.
Nan had wrapped the horse apple for Roger, but Roger was not in the bin. Part of the reason she had agreed to doing Christmas was the thought she might be able to swipe her hat back—but no luck. She put the wrapped horse apple in Roger’s spot under the stairs so it would be waiting for him when he returned.
Newt was last. Nan had found a fur cap with a bushy striped tail in back—she had no idea what animal it might have come from. She knew how sad Newt had been when Crudd shaved off his curls. Now, at least, his head would be warm. She crept close to him and carefully placed the wrapped gift in his arms.
She must not have been careful enough, because Newt opened his eyes. He broke into a sleepy grin.
“Nan,” he whispered. And then, “Why’ve you got feathers stuck to your face?”
Nan shoved a finger under his nose. “I’m Father Christmas,” she said. “If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll come back here and slit your throat.”
Newt didn’t seem to get the message, because he kept on smiling. “You brought me a present,” he said, already tearing open the package in his hands.
Nan slipped back into the chimney. She didn’t want to be there when he opened his gift. When she reached the roof, she found Charlie waiting for her. He was still looking at the church. “Did you get your hat back?”
“Roger wasn’t there.” She tore off her beard, which had begun to itch. “We should get out of here in case he comes back and spots us.”
“I wish we could be there when they all wake up,” Charlie said, following behind her. “Do you think they will like their presents very much?”
“Don’t matter what I think.” She was already on to the next rooftop. “Gifts are meant to be left behind, not waved under a person’s nose like a boast. It’s a very private thing to open a present, and a person deserves to do it in his own way.” Nan had actually never received a Christmas gift before, but she imagined that if she did get one, she would like to open it without anyone looking over her shoulder to make sure she smiled or said thank you the right way.
“Maybe Father Christmas thinks that, too,” Charlie said. “And that’s why no one sees him.”
“Or because he’s a fairy tale,” Nan said. “We’ve been out here for hours and not seen so much as a stray footprint.”
The Christmas Eve air was still and quiet and had a pleasant bite to it when Nan took it in her lungs. Even the fog seemed to know the season, and she could almost make out stars overhead. Nan remembered growing up with the Sweep—how some nights they would lie on their backs and tell stories about the constellations. She wondered now if the stars had really been visible through the fog.
Perhaps the Sweep had just made her believe.
AULD LANG SYNE
The following week brought New Year’s Eve.
Toby came to celebrate with them. “It’s bad luck to cross a threshold without gifts.” Toby opened his tattered emporium and producing three crowns made from golden paper. “Just the thing for a Hogmanay celebration!”
“Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “That is a holly-day with many hogs.”
“If only!” Toby took a crown and perched it on Charlie’s head for him. “Hogmanay is how the Scots celebrate the new year. Old Queen Vickie’s gone dotty for the day. It’s one last chance to say farewell to auld lang syne.”
Nan sniffed her crown. The points were crumpled, and it smelled like food. “Where did you find these? Digging through rubbish bins after someone’s Christmas dinner?”
“Don’t worry about where I got them.” Toby scraped a daub of what looked very much like dried pudding from his. “It’s very important that we’re properly dressed for the last day of the year.”
“Very important,” Charlie said. “What is a year?”
“A year is a bunch of days put together,” Nan said.
“Oh, it’s much more than that!” Toby perched himself in front of Charlie. “A year is a little lifetime. A year is how long it takes for the world to dance around the sun. A year is how long it takes to build a house. A year is how long it takes to grow proper whiskers. A year is how long it takes for a baby to learn to walk. A year—”
“A year is how long it takes Toby to explain things,” Nan said.
She scrounged some food from the larder, and they made a picnic on the roof. Ordinarily it would be much too cold for a picnic, but Charlie kept them warm. The three of them watched the revelry in the streets. Men and women in coats and hats came calling on friends and relations, bearing gifts and glad tidings.
“Why is everyone awake?” Charlie asked, snuggling himself against Nan. “Isn’t this sleeping time?” He was very fond of sleeping time.
“It’s different on New Year’s Eve,” Nan explained. “In order to properly celebrate, you’re supposed to be awake at the exact moment when the bells toll midnight.”
“The secr
et is to not let yourself yawn,” Toby said. “Once you yawn, it’s the beginning of the end.”
“I will keep all my yawns in my mouth,” Charlie said. “I am very excited to stay awake until midnight.”
Charlie was asleep by ten o’clock.
Nan was determined to make it to midnight. She had never understood the point of it before. But tonight it felt different.
Charlie was slumped over on the gable. His body radiated warmth against her back. “Why is it that when I want to sleep, I can’t?” she said through a yawn. “But when I want to stay up, I feel sleepy.”
Toby shrugged. “You are an enigma, Nan Sparrow.”
“Enigma?” She considered the word. “Think I’d take that over most of the other things you try to call me.”
“See what I mean?” Toby said. “The only compliment you’ll accept is one meant in jest.”
“That’s because the rest is rubbish,” Nan said. “Why can’t you just treat me like a normal person?”
Toby gave her one of his looks. “Now, what would be the fun in that?”
“Fun for you, maybe.” She turned away from him and rested her head against Charlie’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She could feel him breathing beneath her. The sounds of celebration wafted up from homes below. She thought about how nice it might feel to fall asleep like this.
Toby broke the quiet. “He asked me to watch you, you know.”
Nan opened her eyes. “Who asked you? Crudd?”
“Not Crudd.” Toby was staring into the horizon. He released a breath of steam. “The Sweep.”
Nan sat up. “The Sweep?” She knew that Toby had met the Sweep once before—she’d been there, too. But this sounded like something else. “When? How?”
Toby looked her right in the eye. “He made me promise not to tell you.” He lowered his head. “I was six years old. All alone. I didn’t even speak English.” He blinked into the distance, as though trying to remember things he would rather not.
“The Sweep found me sleeping under the bridge. I recognized him as the man who had helped me days before. ‘Du bist alleine,’ he said.” Toby shook his head. “He spoke Deutsch like me. They were the first kind words I’d heard since I had lost meine eltern—my parents.” He pressed his lips together, and Nan realized that he must miss them as bad as she missed the Sweep.
Sweep Page 11