by Avi
As soon as it did, Lord Kirkle pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Laurence. The boy, kicking out furiously, scurried away, crablike.
With a sigh, his father turned to a window and looked out onto Belgrave Square, which the thickening fog was rapidly obscuring. His agitated hands clasped and unclasped. “Laurence,” he said at last, “take your punishment like a man.”
Laurence, whimpering, shook his head.
“You must learn to control your reckless temperament,” his lordship said. “Albert is the elder. He stands before you. Always.”
Laurence, his crying slowed to an occasional sob, continued to shake his head.
“Besides,” his lordship said soothingly, “it’s all over now. Done.”
“It’s not done,” Laurence muttered vengefully.
Lord Kirkle looked over his shoulder. “What am I to make of that?”
“I will run away.”
“Oh, Laurence,” his father responded with a burst of exasperation, “why must you talk such rubbish? It pains me to hear it.”
“You let him give me pain!”
“It was necessary.”
“I will run away!” Laurence shouted.
Lord Kirkle turned. “May I be so bold as to ask where you will run to?” His tone was softer, and a smile played upon his lips.
Laurence tried to recall the most distant place he’d heard of. India was the first that entered his mind. But that seemed too far, even for him. The name of another land sprang into his head. “America,” he replied.
“Quite,” Lord Kirkle snorted with sarcasm as he went back to the window. “The United States of America. Where no titled elder brother may lord it over you. Folly, my boy, but, to your credit, at least well-chosen folly.”
Laurence, his body smarting with every move he made, stood up. “Albert did lie,” he said.
At first Lord Kirkle made no reply. Then, very mildly, he said, “Why should he do that?”
“Because he knows you despise him. That you only defend him because he’s the elder.”
Lord Kirkle’s fat fingers thrummed his waistcoat. But he remained silent.
“You always take his side to make people think it’s not so,” Laurence pressed. “But you’re …” He faltered, afraid to say what he felt.
“I’m what?” Lord Kirkle demanded, facing Laurence now.
“You … are the liar!” the boy finally blurted out. “You are!”
Lord Kirkle scowled angrily but said nothing. Emboldened, Laurence glared back.
“Go to your room,” his father said, waving a weary hand of dismissal.
“I will run away,” Laurence repeated in taunting fashion. “I will! To America!”
“Laurence, my boy, it is exactly that kind of hotheaded talk that continually undermines you. Run away! I shall not mention any of this to your mother. It’s … balderdash!”
“I’m telling the truth!” Laurence screamed.
With a heavy step, Lord Kirkle moved toward the door of the room. At the threshold he paused. “Laurence,” he said, “I try to do what’s in our family’s best interest. Unless, my boy, you accept your position, your life will be most unhappy.”
“I will go!” Laurence shouted again.
“The only place you will go is to your room,” his father replied firmly. “I will have your tea sent there.” So saying, his lordship stepped out of the room.
For a moment, Laurence remained standing where his father had left him. Then he gave way all at once, weeping in earnest, covering his face with his hands to shield himself from the censorious eyes of his ancestors.
Fifteen minutes later the sobbing eased. Laurence smeared away the tears and, starting with the welt on his face, where his brother had first struck him, touched the raw wounds on his body.
He stared into the mirror. Not only did the red welt on his cheek look like it would last forever, but his hair was in disarray and his jacket was badly torn. His whole appearance was that of a street beggar, not the son of a wealthy lord, which he certainly was. “I hate Albert,” Laurence said aloud.
He tried to take the jacket off, but it hurt so to twist about that he left it on. He did pull off his cravat—saw blood on it—and tossed it away with disgust.
Standing before the fire—the warmth soothed him—Laurence tried to think of ways of gaining revenge. No one else in the family would help him. As far as he could see, his mother always took Albert’s side in disputes. The same went for his two sisters, three and five years older than he.
Laurence thought of what he’d said about running away. The idea was appealing. The whole family would be sorry and regret treating him so badly. If he reached America and if it were true—as his father said—that his brother could no longer bully him there, why, then … But, no, running away was impossible. He was doomed to a life of unfairness.
Suddenly very tired, Laurence sat in his father’s chair behind the table. His feet barely touched the floor. Idly, he speculated as to how he might go to America. He had heard talk among the adults about the large numbers of people sailing there. They embarked—he recalled—from the city of Liverpool. He had only a vague sense as to where—or what—it was.
Regarding America, Laurence knew even less. He supposed it was rather like England, though different in ways he could not readily imagine. Something to do with a wild and rude people. He recalled someone saying that although Americans had foolishly broken away from Great Britain, they did speak English. Why they broke away Laurence had no idea. Some quarrel. He wondered if it was like his quarrel with his brother. If so, perhaps the people in the United States would side with him. “It’s so unfair! They should,” he murmured.
While mulling over such random thoughts, Laurence stayed at the table, picking up papers, reading bits, putting them down. Most were business reports about lands his father owned throughout the kingdom, full of strange names like Dundee, Borking, Kilonny, Glasgow. All Laurence knew about these places was that his father never went to them. Agents looked after his interests. Sent him money. Lately though, his father had been grumbling about money. Things must have been rather bad for him to have spoken on the subject. Talk of money was considered grossly impolite.
Finding the papers uninteresting, Laurence put them aside and pulled open the table drawer. There lay a great stack of money in one-, twenty-, and one-hundred-pound notes.
Startled, Laurence stared at the bills. He touched them carefully, as if they were charged with sparks. Finally, he picked the bundle up and sorted it. Two thousand pounds!
Laurence wished he knew the worth of two thousand pounds. He had never handled money. On excursions, if he desired something—a toy, a book, food—servants always made the purchase for him. In all his eleven years, Laurence had never bought a thing.
A new idea filled him: Would this money in his hand be enough to take him to America? He had heard Cook say to one of his sister’s upstairs maids that she earned twelve pounds a year. Whether that was a lot or a little, Laurence was not sure. Even so, it began to dawn upon him that if he really wanted to run away, here was the money to do it. Just the possibility brought a surge of excitement.
Laurence considered his reasons for going: He would always be beneath Albert. He would always be treated unfairly. He would never be believed. His father had not believed him when he’d said that he would run away—no more than he believed him when he spoke the truth about Albert.
“But if I did run away,” Laurence reasoned, “Father would know I had spoken the truth about going. Surely then he would know I spoke the truth about Albert too!”
Laurence sat back in the large chair. Though he considered the idea from many viewpoints, what he found most appealing was the thought of his father admitting his error. Why, his lordship would have to come after him, beg him to come back before the whole family. In such a scene, Albert would be humbled while he, Laurence, would be triumphant at last.
It was the moment of returning that
Laurence thought most about. How wonderful that would be! How much fun! Just thinking of it made him feel better.
He gazed at the money again. To take it, he told himself, would not really be stealing. After all, he had been accused of stealing when he’d not done so. Therefore, he reasoned, since he had been wronged, to take the money would not be wrong. Rather, it would enable him to run away, and the running away would prove he spoke the truth, that he was not a thief!
Laurence wondered how much he would need. Not all of it. That would be excessive. But perhaps half….
With meticulous care, he divided the pound notes into two even piles. One he returned to the drawer. The second pile—of one thousand pounds—he stuffed into his jacket pocket.
Heart pounding, he went to the door of the room, opened it, and peeked out. No one was in the hallway. He looked toward the gleaming mahogany front door. Not a soul stood between him and escape. Everyone was at tea. Once again he had been forgotten. They were ignoring him—again.
With a burst of determination, Laurence raced back into his father’s study, picked the thrashing cane up from the floor, snapped it in two over his knee, flung it on the table, then ran out of the house.
Within moments, Sir Laurence Kirkle, aged eleven, was swallowed up by the fog-bound streets of London.
Laurence had no plan. Mindlessly, he ran down one street after another as if America were just a few blocks away. But though the boy had spent all of his life in London, he had never been on the streets alone. He had visited many places, from the Tower of London, where his ancestors had died, to the House of Lords, where his father sat whenever Parliament was in session. But always he had been with others: his nurse, his nanny, his brother, sisters, or parents. Now he was on his own.
What’s more, the London fog into which he had fled was no sweet, soft mist but an eye-stinging murk, a yellow-black airborne stew of soot and ash. It turned the brightest street lamps into sickly glowworms. It hid one’s hands from one’s own eyes.
So it was that, thirty minutes after leaving his home, Laurence was lost—utterly.
Trying to catch his breath on a corner where the surrounding houses loomed like the shadows in a lantern show, Laurence made up his mind to find someone to tell him where he was. In that neighborhood of grand homes, however, the streets were all but deserted. Only a few people were brave enough to confront the January weather. These people, moreover, fairly flew by, their scarves, shawls, and hands over their mouths and noses as they tried to keep their lungs free of the rotten air.
“You there! Fellow!” Laurence called to an older gentleman who was moving by at a slower pace.
The old man stopped and peered at Laurence over half-spectacles. Through the veil of fog, he saw a boy with a torn jacket and a dirty, bloody face. Alarmed, he lifted his cane to defend himself. “Be off with you!” he cried, and scuttled away.
Laurence was shocked. Usually when he addressed people they paid elaborate attention to him. They’d stop, doff caps, bow or curtsy, and say, “Yes, Sir Laurence. How can we help you, Sir Laurence?” But when he approached two other passersby, they looked apprehensively at him and fled as well.
Bewildered that anyone should refuse his civil requests for help, Laurence wandered down one street, then another. At last he recognized what he took to be Lady Glencora’s house. She was a friend of his mother’s, and he had often visited her home.
He dashed up to the iron fence, clutched the bars, and tried to see in. “Hello!” he called. A snarling dog charged the fence and began to bark furiously. Laurence backed away in haste.
A carriage for hire burst out of the fog. Laurence sprang to the curb and tried to hail it by holding up a hand. He had seen his brother do so. But this driver, high in his seat, did not so much as glance in his direction. He whipped up his horses and clattered by, leaving Laurence spattered with mud and humiliation.
“Blockhead!” Laurence called after the carriage. “Dunce!” Though he tried to wipe himself clean, he did not accomplish much. And rubbing his right cheek caused him to cry out with pain.
Struggling to be brave, to think calmly, Laurence sat down on a curb beneath a street lamp. He chided himself for being so uncertain. Here he was, merely starting on his journey. But, oh, he wished he knew how far America was and how long it would take him to get there.
First, he had to find Liverpool—wherever that was. He was aware that many faraway places—even within England—were best reached by railroad, so he made up his mind to find a railway station.
Having a clear goal served to soothe him. Seeking further reassurance, he patted his jacket pocket, where he’d stashed his money. He took out the wad of bills and counted it carefully. One thousand pounds. He hoped it was enough.
After stuffing the bills back into safekeeping, Laurence looked up. A few feet away from him—like some ghost fashioned from the very fog itself—stood a man.
At first glance he appeared to be an old fellow, stooped with age, leaning on a makeshift crutch. An unkempt gray beard dangled from his chin. Over his rather broad shoulders was draped a tattered army greatcoat whose ragged hem hung to the tops of broken boots. The cap he wore, loose and ill fitting, was pulled so low it almost covered a patched eye. But the good eye—piercingly bright—was staring directly at Laurence.
“Yer there! Laddie!” the man called.
Not sure how to respond, Laurence ventured, “Were you addressing me?”
“I was,” the man said. “And wot I’m wantin’ to know is this: Wot’s all that ready clink yer got there!” With a hop and step, his greatcoat flapping about him so he looked like a crow with a lame leg, the man lurched forward.
Laurence sprang up and backed away.
The man leaned over his cane and leered wickedly. “’Onest up, laddie,” he sneered, “yer didn’t prig that money fair an’ square, now did yer?”
Laurence noted that the man’s lower lip was bruised and puffy, as if he had been in a fight. And indeed, there was a palpable air of violence about him.
“I—I—,” the boy stammered. “I got it from my father.”
“Did yer now? Well, then, I’d as soon be yer governor as anyone. So, yer best ’and that money over to me.” With a sudden movement, he whipped up his crutch and flung it—javelinlike—straight at Laurence’s head.
Laurence saw the crutch coming just in time. He ducked, whirled, and fled. Nor did he stop running until he had passed ten streets. When finally he did look back—gasping for breath—the old man with the eye patch appeared to be gone. The fog, however, was too thick for Laurence to be sure.
“Not fair …,” he murmured. “Not fair….”
Ever more anxious, Laurence pressed on, hoping he would recognize a building, a sign, anything that would tell him where he was. Houses—those that he could see—were smaller here. More people and carriages were passing on the streets. No one, however, paid the slightest attention to him. It was all very strange and shocking. He might have been invisible.
The farther Laurence traveled, the more upset he became. He veered from one confusing place to another more confusing. All the while he kept reminding himself that what he needed was the railway station. But where to turn?
The fog was thickening. It slipped into every crack and crevice until it seemed to swallow night itself. It grew colder too.
Sidewalks became narrow, clogged increasingly with stalls, stands, and people. Shops were forbidding in their busyness. Again and again Laurence had the sensation that buildings were about to fall on him. But when he darted past, they did not crash, only faded. People pressed in on him from all sides, stepping in and out of the fog like taunting imps. A few banged into him. Once, he was knocked to the ground. He cried out. No one bothered to help. No one bothered to care. In pain, Laurence picked himself up and sought refuge in a filthy alcove, where he stood and shivered.
A noise made him look up. Across the way—watching—was the patch-eyed lame man who had accosted him before. He had be
en following.
Laurence dived from his alcove and plunged into the crowd. He began to run, weaving frantically. A few blocks later, his side ached so severely he had to stop.
He had reached a crowded crossroad. The streets were jammed with a snarl of carriages, wagons, and carts pulled by snorting, prancing horses whose hooves clattered and banged on glistening cobblestones. The air was filled with the shouts and swearing of the men who drove the horses. The din was deafening.
Laurence glanced over his shoulder. The man with the crutch was there again. Terrified, Laurence raced across the street. He managed to avoid one wagon, then another, but almost ran into a third. The driver, trying to avoid him, swerved sharply only to lock wheels with a carriage. With an earsplitting crack, a wheel snapped in two. The wagon collapsed. From its bay, huge wooden barrels tumbled onto the street. One barrel smashed. The air filled with the stench of cider. Someone cheered. Another cursed. Three other barrels rumbled free. One struck a huge dray horse. The horse reared. Another, backing up, slipped and stumbled. People began to run and shout. Laurence, horrified by the pandemonium, felt petrified. Even as he stood there, unable to decide which way to go, he was struck from behind. Sent spinning, he tried to catch hold of something, failed, and fell. Hands gripped him, carried him up, set him down, and just as quickly vanished.
Confused, his body aching, Laurence leaned against a hitching post, gasping for breath. Impulsively, he slapped a hand against his jacket pocket. The money was gone!
He jerked his head up just in time to see the old patch-eyed man. The man, however, was no longer old. A false beard—half off now—was trailing behind him like a scarf. And, far from being lame, he was racing around a corner like a sprinter, clutching Laurence’s money.
“Stop, thief! Stop, thief!” the boy cried. He tore after the man. A few heads turned, but no one helped. Laurence pressed on. He began to gain. The thief sped around a corner. Laurence followed, only to trip over the crutch. The man had turned and lain in wait for him.