Yes. Oh yes; he really did think that.
In his defence, I should say that the project of having an apprentice doubtless gave Mr F some kind of much-needed fixed point to concentrate on amidst all his private turmoil. He was probably unconsciously grateful to the boy in some sort of way — grateful to have something else to think about for a change. It must have been that. That, or the boy’s looks.
Certainly it was true that since he’d started working with this boy — since he’d had Beauty to take his mind off things, if you like — Mr F’s dream had been bothering him less. In fact, as he stirred the teapot, replaced the lid and lit the first cigarette of that Monday morning, he was able to congratulate himself on the fact that his dream had not woken him for twenty-three nights in a row. True, the fact that he knew exactly how many nights it had stayed away tells you that it must have been still preying on his mind — and, true, his sleep on many of those twenty-three nights, though unbroken, had not been particularly deep. He still often felt more tired than he ought — which was annoying, now that he was responsible for the boy’s work as well as his own. Sometimes, when he got off the seven-twenty at London Bridge, he found himself flinching slightly at the rush-hour musket-volley of slamming train doors — and as he told himself, that really was a sound he should have been used to after all these years.
And of course he did still find himself occasionally staring at someone instead of reading his paper on the train like he’d meant to.
Though perhaps less often, recently.
And certainly not in the mornings.
That’s right, he told himself, as he stubbed out his cigarette and poured the tea. After over three weeks, surely he was going to be left in peace now. He looked up at the kitchen clock to check the time, knocked back his tea, collected his hat, locked his door and set out for Peckham Rye station with a clear mind. Quite looking forward to the day, in fact — looking forward to showing the boy how to handle a blade. And then, barely half an hour later, Mr F found himself doing something he had never done before in his life. He followed a man in the street.
eleven
It was a bright, brisk morning. He had nearly made it into work, and at the moment when it happened, he hadn’t been thinking about his dream or any of his questions at all. In fact, he’d been thinking about Beauty. About how he felt the boy was coming along, and about whether he was right after all to have promised him on Friday afternoon that come Monday morning they would take a look at the knives together. It wouldn’t do to rush him, he thought. Preoccupied with these thoughts, he turned left up out of All Hallows Lane and onto Upper Thames Street, bowing his head to protect his face from the gritty wind which was whipping through the tunnel under Cannon Street Station. Nothing unusual in that. He can’t have been properly looking where he was going, however, which was unusual, because just as he reached the mid-point of the underpass, the point where it is darkest, the point furthest away from the bright rectangle of daylight at either end of it, he let someone coming the other way — someone walking against the flow of the crowd — run almost straight into him.
Now, as you know, Mr F hated to be bumped into or touched like that — and he didn’t always have the best of tempers, our Mr F, and especially not first thing on a Monday morning when he was trying to think something through. He recovered his balance, and turned, fully intending to shout something at the culprit’s retreating back. But by the time he had collected himself, the man — who hadn’t stopped or said sorry, but had just kept on walking, fast, as if he had some urgent appointment to keep — had reached the eastern end of the underpass; Mr F opened his mouth to shout at him, but at that exact moment the man walked out of the darkness of the tunnel and in one stride emerged into the sudden April sunlight of Upper Thames Street. Something about the sight of this made Mr F stop; stop dead, and stare. What was it?There was nothing obvious to distinguish this man from all the other men in dark suits in that crowd — except of course that he was the only person who was walking the other way, the wrong way, you might say, against the westward tide of early morning faces. He was striding out into the light, while they were all trudging down into darkness. In fact, to be particular, at that moment, he was the only man in all that crowd whose face Mr F couldn’t see. Perhaps that was what did it — that, or the fact that his hair, when the light suddenly caught it like that, at the moment when he moved from the dark of the tunnel into the sunlight, it was —
Was what, exactly? Mr F couldn’t say. His voice died in his throat.
He didn’t set off in pursuit at once. He stood there, staring at the man’s retreating back, and the rush-hour crowd parted around him as if he was a pile or bulwark in the river. As I said, he’d never done anything like this before — he’d stared at men, yes, I’ve told you about that, but he’d never actually turned around on his way to work and followed one. All he could think of was that he had to make his mind up quickly, that he had to move now, or lose the man in the crowd.
In which case, he would never see his face.
So he decided not to think; he stepped forward, and breasted the oncoming tide.
His quarry was now at least a hundred yards ahead of him, and was turning left up Arthur Street. This is the street that curves up and away from Upper Thames Street, back up to where the north end of London Bridge becomes King William Street, and at ten to eight on a Monday morning, people literally pour down it. It’s quite a steep hill, and Mr F was walking against the crowd; but our Mr F has a surprisingly strong stride when he needs it. All the time, he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the man’s back and on the back of his neck, hoping for him to look left or right, so that he can at least catch a glimpse of his profile. As he emerges at the top of the hill he loses sight of him for just a moment, and has to stop and scan the pavements of King William Street left and right… There he is; on the traffic island in front of the Monument, waiting to cross onto the opposite pavement. The rush-hour traffic coming south onto the bridge is heavy, and this gives Mr F time. He doesn’t want to get too close, not yet — but by the time they have both crossed the road, turned left, crossed Eastcheap and started heading north up the eastern pavement of Gracechurch Street, he is only twenty paces away from the man’s back. Now Mr F can see more of him; he’s young, and neatly built — but there’s still no sign of his face. He’s moving just how a young man should move at the start of the day — swift, neat and determined. Cutting easily through the crowd in his dark suit. Dark blue, it looks like. Mr F wonders if he should try and pass him — pass him, and then look back, and — and while he’s thinking this, suddenly, without warning, the young man turns right, into a hidden alleyway, and disappears. Mr F didn’t see that coming; he didn’t even know there was an alleyway there. Undaunted, he picks up his pace and turns down it. It’s dark, and narrow, and apparently empty of people, and for a moment he thinks he’s lost his quarry. No; there he is — and there he is, at the far end, emerging from the dark into bright sunlight again, walking straight round the corner to the left, giving away just a swift glimpse of his face as he turns the corner, and as that happens, his dark hair catches the light again. Mr F almost breaks into a run.
If he stopped for a moment to think, he would realise that this route is taking him further and further away from Skin Lane, into the labyrinth-like lanes of the northern City. Even if he can retrace his steps accurately, this wild goose chase is going to make him badly late for work — but he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t think. He doesn’t think at all. He doesn’t remind himself that he has promised himself to stop doing all this. No; what he tells himself as he tries to control his urge to break into a run is that it’s alright, he’ll find him again as soon as he gets out of this alley. He tells himself that he’s sure he knows where the young man must be heading; he’s going to cross Fenchurch Street, and then head up Lime Street to Leadenhall and the City. Where else, at this time of the morning? He can afford to hang back a bit. After all, he doesn’t want the young man to kn
ow he’s being followed. He doesn’t want him to spin round suddenly and confront him right there on the street. He doesn’t want to talk to him; all he needs from him is to see his face — but not just quite yet. He has to manage this properly, you see. Do it the right way. Get his breath back, for a start.
Get somewhere where it’s safe to look at him, but not be caught doing it.
There he is, up ahead again. Good. That’s better.
Mr F lets the young man walk well ahead of him round the slow, crowded right-hand curve of Lime Street. Well ahead; at least fifty or sixty feet.
Which was a mistake.
When he reaches the entrance of Leadenhall Market, Mr F realises he has hung back too far; suddenly, he can’t see his quarry anywhere. He stops dead, and looks around — and now he does actually break into a run; a panic-stricken run, ploughing through the morning crowd right into the middle of the market, not caring what people might think, right to where its four covered arcades meet in a crossing like that of some great high-roofed church. North, south, east and west. He stops, and stares wildly about him.
Where is he?
The central crossing of Leadenhall Market is held up by eight silvered, snarling dragons; the mythical wyverns of the City of London. Four pairs of the beasts support the glass and girders of its high-arched roof on their outspread wings, writhing under its weight. As all the guidebooks tell you, they are one of the sights of London — but Mr F has no time to look up at the Victorian wonders of a market roof. He’s searching — south, north, east, west — searching for some glimpse of that tell-tale dark hair and white neck and retreating back. West, north, east, west again — but it’s hopeless, it’s as if some great human anthill has been ripped open and its inhabitants sent weaving and scurrying in every conceivable direction. There are faces everywhere. There are at least twenty dark-haired young men in every direction he looks.
It’s hopeless. Hopeless.
He’s gone.
Mr F stands there under the wyverns’ outspread wings, and he is forced to admit defeat. He can hear a strange sound, which he eventually recognises as himself. He hadn’t realised he’d got quite so out of breath. A slight film of sweat begins to turn cold on his skin, and as he stands there, he gradually becomes aware of everything that is happening around him. Shutters are rattling up, orders are being shouted; a whole cacophony of activity is being trapped and amplified under that high glass roof. And then he sees the rows and rows of black iron hooks, and he remembers what it is that Leadenhall Market actually sells.
Although there are a few office workers taking their morning shortcut through the market, most of the young men he can see are wearing white aprons; and all of those aprons are stained with blood. That thick sweet smell which is just beginning to make itself apparent is the smell of meat: cut meat. Something about this smell feels very wrong; there is too much of it. One or two of the butchers’ boys look at him and wonder what this old man thinks he’s doing, standing there in everybody’s way like that. One of them brushes past him with a wicker skip of dead hares, spiking the smells of pork and beef with the richer stink of furred game, and Mr F becomes very aware of the movement of his heaving chest, and of the trickle of sweat which is beginning to make its way down the small of his back, and of the thumping noise in his head. This unsettling awareness of the clammy fact of his own body, combined with the sight of the rows and rows of carcasses hanging by their feet from the metal hooks, makes him realise what the problem is. This is exactly how he feels in his bathroom, in the middle of the night, when he discovers that the door has slammed itself shut behind his back; except that now, he’s feeling it by daylight. Despite himself, he closes his eyes, but it’s no good. It might as well be four o’clock in the morning. He can’t help it — and with a sudden rush of blood to his face and neck, Mr F realises his big mistake.
His dream hadn’t left him in peace at all; it was just biding its time. And now that it’s brought him out here, it’s going to teach him a lesson.
Standing stuck out there in the middle of the market, Mr F suddenly desperately wishes that there was somewhere he could wash his hands — he even tries shoving them in his pockets to hide them. He can feel the skin on the back of his neck and all over his face beginning to redden, and he looks down at his feet to try and hide it from the people around him — he’s sure he can feel them staring. There’s blood mixed in with the sawdust between the cobbles, and a roaring sound in his ears. If you had actually caught up with that young man, thinks Mr F, clenching his teeth and trying to make himself heard over the din inside his head, what would you have actually done? Grabbed him — grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round? Looked him in the eye? Well, then you’d have had to have said something to him, wouldn’t you. Yes you would. Well, what, exactly? What?
Worried that he is about to start shouting, Mr F takes hold of his left wrist with his right hand — he does that sometimes these days, when he is trying to get a grip on himself. And of course as he does that, his right hand closes over his wristwatch. Without thinking, he looks at it, and sees the time.
It’s just gone three minutes past eight.
Without stopping to think, he turns on his heel and walks straight out of the market. He turns left into Gracechurch Street, then right on Cannon Street, heading for Dowgate, College Hill and the Lane — he reckons he can make it in less than ten minutes if he keeps this pace up. He doesn’t run; there’s no need to make even more of a fool of himself than he has already. The crowds on Cannon Street are murder, and he nearly steps in front of a bus. Dowgate Hill; sharp left, and down. Another four minutes to go at most. Of course, if he had been walking up this hill and not hurtling down it, say if he had been out at dinnertime, getting one of his leisurely dinnertime breaths of fresh air, he might have stopped to admire the strange wrought iron snakes which twist themselves head down through the acanthus leaves on the gates of Dyers Hall, or that little gilded, dancing fox that crests the coat of arms above the doorway to the Skinners Hall so gleefully — but not this morning, thank you. This isn’t a guided tour. He’s not looking at anything unnecessary this morning, thank you very much, he hasn’t got the time. He has to get to work. Has to get this bloody jacket off as quickly as possible. He has to get inside, wash his hands, get his white coat on, and get down to some bloody work for Christ’s sake.
His face is like thunder.
Arriving at Skin Lane at just gone a quarter past eight, he takes the stone steps at the front door of Number Four two at a time, and goes straight upstairs; no one sees him on the way up, of course, because everyone else is already hard at work. He pauses just outside the workroom door, with his hand on the door handle, very aware that the other cutters are all going to have smiles on their faces the moment he walks in. They’re all going to really enjoy how late he is — and now he is really angry with himself, angrier than he’s ever been before. He takes a deep breath, and unclenches his fists. And then of course when he does open the door, and walks in, the first thing he sees is that blasted boy standing there waiting for him at his bench with his white coat all ready and buttoned right up like he’s been told it should be, all smiling and eager and ready for him.
twelve
Mr F didn’t even wish him good morning. Ignoring the more or less obvious stares from his colleagues, he hung up his jacket with only slightly more briskness than usual (he hoped the patches of sweat under his arms were not dark enough to show; he could feel their sudden coolness), and then collected his own white coat from its peg. The first thing he said to the boy, using a noticeably more cheerful voice than was customary at this time on a Monday, was an offhand
“Good weekend?”
This, of course, was highly unusual. And Mr F’s voice sounded — well, as if it was making a point. The boy hesitated for a moment, and his face showed a flicker of dismay; just for a moment, he wondered if something of what he’d been up to that weekend showed in his face. No, it couldn’t possibly. Whatever was
up with the old boy this morning, it was best to humour him.
“Yes thank you, Mr F,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”
Mr F still wouldn’t leave it, however.
“Sleep well?” he asked, turning away to look for something — which was just as well, because otherwise he would have seen Beauty half-raising an eyebrow for the benefit of his fellow workers. All of them, of course, were discreetly enjoying the sight of their notoriously punctual Head Cutter trying to pretend that nothing was wrong — and making such a clumsy job of it. Egged on by a couple of expectant glances, Beauty found he just couldn’t resist extending the scene. Looking round to make sure everyone was watching him, and using his best butter-wouldn’t-melt voice, he replied
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