The sedan chairs were something Nathan had never seen before, but he recognized at once how much more nimbly they progressed on the crowded streets than the horse-drawn carriages around them. They were essentially enclosed cabins on a pair of long, rail-like poles, with two men, one fore and one aft, using the poles to carry the conveyance from place to place. The poles also had leather thongs threaded through hooks, which the chairmen wore around their shoulders for extra support.
The clatter of carriage wheels, the warning cries of the sedan chair teams, the sales pitches bellowed by stall-holders, and the ringing of small bells on the gingerbread woman’s push-cart all combined into one discordant sound, and smoke from countless chimneys darkened the sky.
After the Great Fire had reduced London to ash and debris in 1666, the city’s wooden buildings had been replaced by rows of brick houses. The effect might have been attractive at first, but, over the intervening century, every wall and roof had accumulated a layer of soot. The dawn of the Industrial Revolution around 1760 had not helped matters.
Nathan’s clothes still bore the marks of his journey, but, as he stood watching, the air left grains of soot on them, too. It got into his throat and made him cough.
Placing his portmanteau at his feet, he leaned against a bridge’s railing. The Thames was as brown as sewage, and smelled the part too. On the river were flat-bottomed boats rowed by four-man teams, larger vessels crewed by sailors hired by the day, fishing boats, and barges. Local people preferring to be ferried across descended stone steps to a landing place, where Nathan could hear ferrymen shout “Grab the whore” at them. In broad daylight! On second thoughts, however, he realized that they were only telling their passengers to grab the oar.
The stench of the river must have been something one grew accustomed to. The banks were roamed by ragged children picking through the mud and silt: bottles, jars, hats, umbrellas, bits of rope, lumber, even coins and watches—any useful litter that fell or was thrown off a bridge or boat was added to their collection.
Nathan asked a passer-by for directions, showing him the address he had been given. Not bothering to hide his disrespect, the man shrugged and jerked his thumb behind him, almost directly back towards where Nathan had just alighted from the carriage. He prodded at Nathan’s luggage with his foot as he walked on.
This made the buckles of the portmanteau, packed to overflowing, abruptly give way. The bag flew open and disgorged its contents everywhere, from shirts to underclothes, making Nathan scramble to retrieve it all rather than remonstrate. At least his papers had been secured with a cord. If his precious writings had blown into the river, he would have been tempted to throw himself in after them.
Nobody offered him any assistance. He was ignored at best, and a few tittered as they passed.
Finally, he had stuffed everything back in the bag. He sat on the bulging lid to close the buckles again, then picked it up and set off in the direction that the man, however impolitely, had indicated.
Crossing back over the bridge, he let his feet wander where they would.
Soon he came to a square. Women crowded around a row of grocers’ stalls, baskets on their arm. The sales cries here were just as loud. In another part of the square he saw a series of butchers’ stalls, where men hacked at ribs with greasy cleavers and kicked at the stray dogs that roamed the area.
He was relieved to catch sight of a church tower. A man of the cloth would give him the correct directions without sneering at him. Back in his village, it had been the parish priest who had discerned his talent and made it possible for him to come to London.
Stepping inside, he thought for a moment he had entered the wrong building. This looked like a bawdy-house!
He averted his eyes and withdrew. “Right lost, little lamb, ain’t you?” a woman in too much paint and powder to be a housewife called out to him. False beauty spots dotted her cheeks, and her neckline was so low that her ample breasts seemed on the verge of spilling out.
Being a pious Christian, Nathan felt obliged again to look away as he asked her for directions.
She laughed, showing blackened teeth. “Shoreditch, is it? Just over that way.” She pointed behind the church. Nathan could not help seeing her swelling bosom when she made the gesture.
He took the road she had indicated and found that it led to the church’s graveyard.
Standing among the many gravestones, he offered a brief prayer for the souls of these unknown dead. A chill wind nipped at his neck. He noticed how the little drops at the tip of a weeping willow’s branches had turned gold, and realized that the day was near its end.
Two gravestones stood on either side of him: one buried in the grass as if forgotten, the other brand-new, with flowers laid beside it.
The graveyard was a peaceful place. But he could not allow himself to rest; his goals in life prevented it, reminding him that he had only just set out on the path he hoped would lead to fame.
He sensed that he was not alone. Though doing nothing wrong, he backed away all the same.
Partly silhouetted against the setting sun, two figures approached the fresh grave and placed a bouquet of their own before it. Both of them looked slightly older than him.
Noticing Nathan, the two froze for a moment.
“Are you family?” the taller one asked him, pointing at the grave. Were they not family themselves, then?
Nathan shook his head. They smiled and, with a wave, turned to leave.
“Wait!” he said. “I have a question.”
Looking wary, the two exchanged a glance.
“About what?” asked the taller one.
“The way to Shoreditch,” said Nathan.
They seemed relieved.
“It is quite a walk from here,” said the smaller one.
“Two, two and a half miles, I’d say,” the other nodded. “Do you have an address?”
Nathan recited the address he had memorized. “I am to call on a Mr. Barrett,” he added.
“Not an acquaintance of ours, but no matter,” said the smaller fellow. He pulled out a scrap of paper and quickly sketched a map on it. “Your address should be hereabouts,” he said, marking an intersection where two roads met, Shoreditch High Street and Folgate Street. He handed the map over, then glanced at the bag at Nathan’s feet. “Going straight there?” he asked.
“After travelling?” asked the other.
“Yes,” said Nathan.
“From where?”
“Sherbourne.” He realized suddenly that he was famished. “Is there anywhere nearby where one might dine cheaply?”
They glanced at each other again.
“We were just about to sup ourselves,” said the smaller one finally. “Would you care to join us?”
“I cannot afford anything costly.”
“Then we have something in common already.”
Oxtail stew, eightpence a bowl. The dish was no better than the low price it commanded, but on an empty stomach it was delicious. Black bread and beer completed the meal. Starting tomorrow, Nathan would have to be more frugal. He would live on bread and water.
His beer mug was soon empty. He filled it again.
Despite the lit candles in the place, it was quite dim inside.
“What business did you have in that graveyard?” asked Edward.
The three had exchanged names by this point. Edward Turner and Nigel Hart: the first people to show him any kindness since his arrival in this cold city. Nathan stored their names away inside him.
“I asked someone the way to Shoreditch. Their directions led me to the graveyard instead. A joke—at my expense!” The beer and stew had Nathan in high spirits. “They shall regret it soon enough.”
“Oh?”
“D’you doubt me? Before long, having shared a meal with me shall be a point of pride for you.”
“A big inheritance coming, perhaps?”
“God forbid! Do you approve of the rich?”
“Not particularly,” said Edward, smiling indulgently to calm the other’s agitation. “But better to have money than to lack it, surely?”
“Oh, I shall make enough,” said Nathan confidently. “But such is not my goal. A poet does not write for money. If his work is well received, sales will inevitably follow.”
“You are a poet?” asked Nigel.
“I am. I have already written enough to fill a book.” He pointed proudly at his bag. “Tomorrow I take the manuscript to Tyndale.”
“Tyndale?”
“The name is unfamiliar to you? He prints and sells books.”
“My word!”
Nathan basked in their admiration.
“Will you read us something?”
“Here? Now?”
“The customers here are quite civilized,” said Nigel. “The uncultured and the immoral do not patronize this place. Neither, it must be admitted, do the high-born, but many of the regular patrons have some intellectual pretensions—students of the law, aspiring writers, and so on. Of course, more than a few are quite objectionable. In any case, some read their work aloud here.”
Nathan opened his portmanteau and produced a sheaf of papers.
“What is the book?” asked Nigel, noticing as he peered into the bag that the papers had lain on top of a volume bound in leather.
“A treatise on heraldry,” said Nathan. “My parish priest gave it to me. I had wanted it for some time, so he made it a parting gift.”
“Looks interesting,” said Edward, picking it up. Nathan was slightly put out to see him show more apparent interest in a rare book than any poetry recital. It made him suddenly lose confidence. To be criticized by the ignorant in a place like this had no appeal at all.
“Let us leave aside the poetry,” he said weakly. “… Did that grave belong to someone you were close to?”
The two of them gave non-committal replies.
Feeling the conversation flag, Nathan lowered his voice and tried to regain their interest. “I am carrying something of great value,” he said.
“You mean this book?” Edward asked, leafing through it.
“No.”
“Jewellery, perhaps?”
“No. But precious all the same. Publishers will beg for it.”
Edward and Nigel raised their index fingers to their lips.
“Better not to mention it even in here.”
“You never know who might be listening. London is a dangerous town.”
“There are footpads and cutpurses at large, and even armed robbery is not unheard of. If you’re headed for Shoreditch, you had better make a start.”
“The Bow Street Runners have mounted patrols, but they can’t be everywhere. Just dealing with the crimes reported to them must keep their hands full.”
They explained who the Bow Street Runners were.
“Prime Ministers, Lord Mayors—even the Crown Prince. No one is safe.”
“The bands of thieves are brazen. They once posted notices on the front doors of the rich: ‘Let no person, of whatever quality or condition, go out of town without ten guineas and a watch about them.’”
“Why, that’s virtually a toll!” Nathan laughed to conceal a certain trepidation.
“The roads are getting dark. Be careful.”
“Think of yourself as a soldier sent into battle,” Edward warned him.
“One hears of people beaten senseless and waking up at sea.”
“At sea?”
“The Navy press-gangs new recruits.”
“With the wrong luck, you might even be shipped off to the colonies in the New World.”
Nathan was now genuinely alarmed.
“We must be off,” said Edward. He and Nigel stood up.
“Can I see you again?” asked Nathan, wishing he sounded less pathetic.
“If you’re in Shoreditch, not very often.”
“I shall visit Mr. Tyndale tomorrow. His shop is—let me think—in a part called Covent Garden.”
“Which is where we are at present. What is the address?”
Nathan told him.
“Tomorrow, we shall probably finish our work not long after four,” said Edward. “Then we retire to a coffee-house. You are welcome to join us there.”
“‘Matthew’s,’ beside the Covent Garden Theatre,” added Nigel. “Facing a small square with a fountain. Let me have that paper again.”
He turned it over and drew a map of how to reach the coffee-house, adding a rough sketch of the area around Tyndale’s shop for good measure.
Nathan offered Edward the book of heraldry. “If we are to meet again tomorrow, would you care to borrow this?” he asked. “You seem to have an interest in the subject.” His unease at lending such a valuable book to someone he had just met was outweighed by his determination to cement this unexpected new friendship.
“Are you sure?” asked Edward.
“Provided you return it tomorrow,” said Nathan.
“Of course.”
“Might I ask what interests you about heraldry?”
“The same thing as you, I imagine. I take an interest in anything rare and unusual.”
“So you have an inquiring mind.”
“Not unlike yourself, apparently.”
“Yes, although it does depend on the topic.”
“I should also like to see this valuable thing you say will be of great interest to publishers,” said Edward.
After a moment’s thought, Nathan replied, “I shall lend you the book, but save the other for tomorrow.” This, he calculated, would encourage Edward to keep his promise.
As they were leaving the public house, a drunkard rather generously insisted on treating the three of them to some gin. Edward and Nigel smoothly brushed him off, but Nathan was less successful and drank what he was offered, which felt like fire in his belly.
Parting from the other two, he set out for Shoreditch.
The road was already a channel of darkness. The street lamps were dim and sparsely placed, but to Nathan they shone like lighthouses along the way. His pace quickened as he headed from one light to the next. The globes of glass were attached to pillars or hung from rods protruding from the walls, but most were so grimy that the flickering wick inside was of doubtful value.
Nathan came upon a lamplighter using a pulley to raise one of the globes again after lighting it. The gin had begun to take effect; he lost his balance and stumbled into the man, who cursed and flung some oil on him.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the lamplighter’s dark, hostile face made him hurry away, as if nothing had happened.
Groups of women in bright but patched clothing began to gather in the pools of light, some calling out to him.
He stepped knee-deep in a dunghill and was sprayed by a chamber pot emptied out of a second-floor window. Leaving the main commercial district and the comfort of fires set by tramps and whores by the side of the road to warm themselves, he found himself in an area lit only by the stars and occasional lanterns at the gates of the larger houses.
He began to worry. Would he wander aimlessly all night? Have to sleep outdoors?
Passing into an area where houses stood like crooked teeth between vacant lots, he saw a sign with street names on it at a crossroads. Made of two crossed wooden boards, the sign was just barely legible in the starlight: one board read Shoreditch, the other Folgate. He blew the sign a kiss.
It took him another twenty minutes to find the nameplate reading T. Barrett. He felt as if icicles were forming inside him in the biting cold.
Beyond the front door was a space that served as both kitchen and dining room. Nathan introduced himself to Barrett, a man slouched in a makeshift chair
resting a bottle on his round belly. Behind him a woman stood washing dishes in the sink.
Barrett looked at him blearily. “So you’re Nathan Cullen, eh?” he asked.
“We had a letter from your mother,” said the woman. “I’m her cousin. You can call me Mrs. Barrett. Welcome.” But there was little welcome in her eyes as she offered him her damp hand.
Three children were at her feet, squalling and pulling each other’s hair.
“Your room’s made up in the attic,” Mrs. Barrett told him. “First, let’s be clear about the arrangement. Rent is two shillings fourpence a week. Meals not included. Cook or buy your own; you can use the stove in the kitchen when it’s free. The coal to heat your room is charged separately. If water’s boiled, you’re free to use it—for tea, I mean. Hot water for washing in is extra. When you do use any water, be sure to fetch some more. For your mother’s sake, you’re getting a very reasonable price. Even an attic room in a rookery goes for three shillings a week, and if you want to live somewhere nice, you’ll pay eight at least.”
Nathan didn’t say a word.
“First two weeks’ rent in advance,” Mrs. Barrett added.
Taking a live coal or two for his stove, Nathan climbed up to the attic. It was as cold there as it had been outside. He lit the stove. There was no bed; instead, a straw mattress lay on some boards placed across the beams of the ceiling below. He noticed a piece of cloth stuffed into one of the walls; when he removed it briefly, a blast of chill wind came in through a hole leading directly outside. The Barretts, he realized, had not wanted to pay the window tax, and had simply extracted a few bricks. In summer the hole would probably let in a cooling breeze along with the moonlight.
Nathan collected himself and opened his portmanteau.
There was his treasure, safely inside.
The following morning, Nathan put on the new shirt he had been saving for this day, along with a jacket and a pair of breeches in relatively good condition. He polished his shoes to a respectable sheen, gathered up his prized possession—a sheaf of parchment—together with his own poetry, and descended to the kitchen. Mr. Barrett was already at the gin.
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 4