by Robin Jarvis
The boy thanked her and sipped it thoughtfully.
The miller eyed his sister as she left the room and hurried back to the kitchen, the keys which hung from her waist jingling like bells.
“Fuss, fuss, fuss,” he grumbled pulling himself from the chair to resume his position before the fire. “If she’s not fussin’ she’s frettin’ about popish plots.” Several minutes passed in which he warmed his posterior and took great swigs from his tankard. During this time he regarded Will most keenly. Mr Balker had a great liking for the Godwin family; he remembered how kind Mistress Sarah had been to him after he had lost his own wife. Until Hannah had arrived to take him and the Millhouse in hand he had eaten all his meals at the Godwins’ farm.
“How old be you now, Will?” he asked breaking the silence.
The boy stirred from the mellowing effects of the spiced ale and replied, “I shall be twelve years old come next July.”
John Balker wiped the froth moustache which had appeared on his lip. “Well, I know ’taint easy, lad, but you’ll have to become a man quicker ’n most. You’ve got responsibilities now—land that needs working, servants with wages to pay and that big house to run. Won’t be time fer malarkin’ about and tomfoolin’, you’m got to put all that behind you—boyhood’s over. Think you’re ready fer all that?”
Will lifted his face and gazed steadily into the miller’s eyes. “I’ve thought about this, sir,” he answered soberly, “thought about little else since... since they’ve been gone like,” He put the beer down on the table then said, “Yes, it’ll be difficult but I think I can manage the estate. I saw how my father ran things, I shall try to continue in the way he would wish.”
A great and hearty roar issued from the miller. “Bless me but you’ve some surprises in you!” he laughed. “Why, that might have been Daniel himself speakin’.” He gave a throaty chuckle and raised his tankard but it was empty. “Where’s that sister of mine with the jug?” he grumbled. “A man could die of thirst with her around.” He called her name loudly, then sat on the chair again. “Don’t you get frettin’,” he told Will, wagging a thick, chilblained finger. “I’m always here if’n you want advice or assistance. Bound to be tough goin’ at the start and that’s what I’m here fer—to give you a helpin’ hand.”
Will finished his ale and pulled a stray clove from his mouth. There was something he had been meaning to ask the miller and it had been nagging at him to mention it. “Mr Balker,” he ventured.
“Now that’s enough of that talk,” chided his host, “it’s plain John I’ll be to you from here on. We’re neighbours now an’ I ain’t no better ’n you. Mind,” he added leaning his portly frame forward, “I’m not sayin’ as there aren’t those round ’ere I am better’n.”
“John, then,” the boy continued. “What I said just now still holds true, I mean to be the man my father was but...” he lowered his eyes and looked into the fire, “but I have something to confess which shames me.”
The miller raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes?” he began with interest.
Will pressed his lips together until they went white before he managed to spit it out. “I cannot read!” he said bitterly.
The fat man’s face broke into a wide grin. “Bless us all!” he rumbled. “Why there’s nowt shameful in not knowin’ yer letters. Will; you can learn if’n you’ve a mind to. Hannah can do the house accounts fer you till then, there’s a quick little mind in that Puritan head of hers.” The mention of his sister’s name reminded him of something else and he shouted for the jug once more.
Will looked relieved; that was a great weight off his mind and he turned to another matter which had been worrying him since that morning. “Mr... John,” he began, taking a folded sheet of paper from the inside of his shirt where it had been spared the ravages of the weather. The miller looked at it in puzzlement. “It’s a letter,” the lad explained, “it arrived at daybreak, only I don’t know what it says—could you read it for me?”
Mr Balker took it and bent towards the fire in order to see more clearly. The flickering yellow light danced over his round features as the expression which he reserved for business crept onto his face and his lips mouthed the words on the page. “Well bless us all!” he exclaimed with surprise. “After all them years.” He sat up straight and peered at Will down his strawberry blob of a nose. “Ever heard mention of an Uncle Samuel?” he asked.
Will frowned and shook his head.
The miller slapped the letter with the back of his hand. “That’s who this be from,” he said. “I recall that yer father once talked about a brother. But I had to coax it out and it was the only time he ever referred to him.”
“Are you sure?” asked Will. “He never said anything about him to me or my sisters—of that I’m certain.”
Mr Balker stroked his whiskers as he strained to remember. “Seems there was bad blood ’tween them,” he said, “and I think I’m right in sayin that uncle of yours was a lot older than your father. A mite too clever for his own good was how Daniel put it when I pressed him. Well, well, fancy him sendin’ you this, an’ all the way from London too.”
“London?”
“That’s where the letter’s from and that’s where Samuel Godwin lives now it seems.”
“So what does it say?”
The miller shifted uncomfortably in the chair and, for an instant, seemed reluctant to tell the lad. “Your uncle’s heard about your sad loss,” he eventually began, “though bless us I can’t think how—it being a day’s hard ride to London from here.” He shivered as though something cold had touched his heart before continuing. “Says he knows how you must be feelin’ an’ invites you to stay at his lodgings until you’ve a mind to return as there is a matter of the most import which cannot wait to be settled. ’Parently there’s some business of a financial nature which he needs must discuss with you. He ends by askin’ you to respond swiftly as the roads will worsen as the winter sets in.” Mr Balker passed the letter back and Will wondered at the troubled expression that had stolen over his face.
“If’n you want my advice,” he said, “this be a matter best left alone—if your father never talked about him then your uncle can’t be worth much.”
Will turned the paper over in his fingers, he was not sure what to do and yet a curious feeling began to grow inside him. To be honest he was greatly excited by this invitation; a mysterious uncle he had never heard of before and the chance to see the wondrous city of London thrilled him.
“I would like to go,” he said softly, “I need only be gone two weeks—I could leave instructions for the management of the farm while I’m away.” He looked across at the miller who was studying him in silence. “You don’t think I should, do you?” he murmured.
“That I don’t,” returned Mr Balker. “I’ve been to London, lad, I know what it’s really like. The river is as stinkful as anything on the Lord’s earth and the city’s as sinful as the Devil’s bedchamber. Folks are bad there. I know—I’ve seen ’em.” He paused and looked at the floor, but his gaze penetrated beyond the rush matting and for a moment he was lost in some dreadful memory. Just as quickly the mood left him and he glanced back towards Will. “But it’s not just that vile place I’m warnin’ you of,” he told him, “there’s summat not right about that letter. Just what sort of business is he referrin’ to? I know Daniel never ’ad no dealin’s wi’ ’im. If that piece o’ paper were mine I’d cast it into the fire.”
Will was startled by the miller’s earnestness but he had already made up his mind. “Just now you told me that I must leave behind me my boyhood,” he said. “This then is my first decision as a man. The memories here are too painful for the present, I am loath to stay with the ghostly faces of my family staring out of every corner. A journey to London may well be the cure I need to shake off the melancholy which has been creeping upon me, and who is to say that my uncle’s motives are not what he says them to be? Perhaps he knows about some inheritance of which I am unaware?�
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Mr Balker realised that he would not be able to weaken the boy’s resolve; he had seen the same determination in Will’s father. “Then I shall help you all I can,” he said at last. “We must answer swiftly as the letter instructs. Stay here, I shall fetch quill and paper.”
So the reply was written, but the hand which scrawled the spidery words trembled, and not from the cold.
Soon all the arrangements had been made. Another letter had come from Samuel Godwin making it clear that he would expect Will on the fifteenth of November and would meet him at the Sickle Moon tavern in Bow Lane. He also enclosed six shillings to cover any expense that Will’s journey might incur. Will’s excitement mounted as the days crept by and his spirits were lifted even more by Mr Balker’s announcement that he would travel with him to the city as he had business there of his own.
“Now’s as good a time as any to see to it,” the miller had said briskly, “and I’ve let it lie for far too long. I’ll ride with you into the city and see you safe within its walls.”
A bleak dawn saw Will clamber into the saddle. Mace was rather too large for him; she had been his father’s horse and the boy sat uneasily on her back. Still, she was a good-natured animal and what he lacked in horsemanship she was experienced enough to make up for. With a light heart he waved farewell to the servants who had gathered to see him off and turned the mare to leave.
The first hint of winter was in the chill air and a white frost covered the ground. Will was glad of the gauntlets made of soft leather which his mother had given him on his last birthday—no icy wind would nip his fingers. As he rode the short mile between his farm and the Millhouse his mind was filled with the journey ahead and who he would meet at the end of it. There were so many questions still left unanswered; the second letter had still not specified the exact nature of the business and the boy’s head was filled with fanciful ideas. But rising over all of these was the mysterious character of his uncle. What would he be like and what would he have to say to the nephew he had never seen? All these thoughts were running through his mind when he came across the stream which fed the millpond and Mace followed it obediently. The low roofs of the Millhouse came into view and he discerned two figures standing in the yard.
Mr Balker was already in his cart and shooing his sister indoors out of the damp morning mist that rose off the pond. As Will approached, he heard their never-ending squabbling and he smiled to himself. For as long as he could remember the Balkers had been at odds—yet he knew they would be lost without one another. He was too young to remember the miller’s wife; she had died before he was born but his father had told him how deeply it had affected the man.
“Get you in, woman!” bellowed the miller. “I’ll not be governed by an old spinster like yerself.”
“You’re a fool, John Balker,” Hannah ranted lifting her skirts off the damp ground. “Let the past stay in the past. There’s nothing you can do to mend matters now. She’s gone from you and won’t never come back.”
“You’ll cut yourself on that sharp tongue of yours,” he spat bitterly. “People change—I’ve changed and it’s time to find out if’n she has also.” At that moment they became aware of Will and the argument lapsed into the more usual bickering.
“Well just you mind to keep out of them inns, John Balker. A sot’s an easy target for the Devil’s arrows.”
“Mornin’, Will,” hailed the miller, sweeping off his hat in greeting.
“A good morning to you, John,” returned the boy cheerily, “and to you Mistress Balker.”
Hannah smoothed her starched white collar and beamed up at him. “Oh can’t you talk sense into my foolish brother, Master William?” she pleaded. “Make him stay here. He’s too old and too addled to go all that way, and London’s an evil place I’ve heard.”
Before he could answer, the miller screamed back at her, “Peace, Hannah! I will not be gainsaid in this! Now get you indoors!”
There was such an edge to his voice that his sister stepped back in alarm and bowed her head meekly. “I bid you farewell then, brother,” she muttered, “and a safe and pleasant journey to you, young master.”
The door to the Millhouse closed behind her and Will stared at it in surprise. He had never heard the miller take that tone with her before and he wondered at it.
Mr Balker shuffled on the board of the cart and avoided the boy’s eyes. “Won’t never get to London if we idle here,” he said clicking his tongue and twitching the reins. The old, dappled carthorse pulled back its head and began to plod out of the yard. Will urged Mace to follow and, at a leisurely pace, she trotted after.
For the rest of the day they rode side by side, the rattling of the cartwheels filling their ears until they forgot what silence was. The miller soon shook off his ill temper and the talk became less strained. They chatted freely about all manner of things until the nature of the roads forced them to concentrate solely on the journey. Many times the wheels of the cart struck unseen stones, and once the mud was so thick that it threatened to hold them firm. They met little other traffic on those rutted roads; several waggoners, a vagrant who begged for passage, two milkmaids balancing wooden pails upon their heads who giggled when they saw Will on his father’s horse, and a drover taking cattle to market.
They spent that night at a small and friendly inn where the miller restrained himself and drank only the penny ale which was weaker than the tuppenny and had little effect upon his massive bulk. Will staggered to his room with his eyelids almost closed. He had never felt so tired; his legs and backside ached from the saddle and he quickly dragged his clothes off and threw himself onto the bed. Within moments he was fast asleep, dreaming of what he would see tomorrow.
The miller’s loud voice woke him the next morning. The sun was just edging into the sky and its delicate life beams slowly stole into the room. “Up you get, Will,” he boomed, “there’s a tidy bit of ground to cover till we make London.”
After a good breakfast of bread, butter and a selection of cold meats they paid the bill and went to the stables.
“When shall we get to London?” asked Will once they had left the inn behind them.
Mr Balker yawned and picked his teeth with a splinter of wood. “Soon enough,” he replied. “At the rate we’re goin’, I fancy we’ll see it at noon an’ be there early this evenin’.”
The bright morning continued and they travelled on with the countryside opening up around them. From the woods and forests on either side of the road trails of smoke drifted up and, although Will knew that it was only the fires of the charcoal burners, the miller told him stories of robbers and wild men who dwelt in the trees. He was full of entertaining and thrilling tales and the boy loved to hear them. Even the call of a fox was woven into the story, becoming the shriek of some unearthly creature that brave men had perished trying to slay.
And as the sun rose to its highest in the clear wintry sky, they found themselves looking down into the Thames Valley and there, in the distance, was a vast blue blur.
“There she is,” breathed Mr Balker almost reverently. “London—city of cities. Where dreams and nightmares mingle and come as one.”
Will stared at her in awe; he had never beheld anything like it in his life. “She’s beautiful,” he gasped.
“So was Grandmother Eve,” commented the miller, drily, “and that’s how she seduced Adam and damned us all. It’s the same down there, lad. London might seem fair and lovely from here but the closer you get to her the more you’ll be able to discern the truth of it. First the smell’ll get yer and then you’ll see just how unlovely she really be. All them tiny houses that look so pretty from here are wretched slums an’ the streets are filled wi’ rottenness of every sort. My sister would tell you that the Devil himself stalks through those streets and I would’na decry her in that. If ever there was proof that the Antichrist was at work on this earth then London is it. Everything you never wanted to know is taught and practised in yon ravishing vision—even u
nder the shadow of those steeples you can see pricking through the haze.” He turned to look at Will and his face was drained of colour. “It’s a terrible place,” he uttered. “Are you still set on entering there?”
But the majesty of the city, whether it was an illusion or not, had overwhelmed the boy and he nodded fiercely. “I’ll not turn back now,” he said.
“So be it then, but I’ll warn you one last time, William Godwin. Don’t you go looking to find any of your father in that uncle. I’ve a notion they were from different moulds—if not different makers.” And with that Mr Balker clicked his tongue, the wheels of the cart turned once more and, still mesmerised. Will followed.
2 - ‘Where Dreams and Nightmares Mingle’
The narrow streets closed about them and the ramshackle houses on either side jostled and fought with each other for space. Will had never seen so many squalid and cramped dwellings. Most of them were constructed around timber frames and many leaned or lurched at peculiar angles out over the bustling thoroughfare. Dominating all this, however, was St Paul’s Cathedral. It was the grand dame of all buildings; soaring almost into the clouds, it dwarfed churches and palaces for miles around. Even without its spire, which had collapsed some time ago, the central tower was the tallest thing Will had ever beheld. Surely God lived there, he thought to himself and he humbly lowered his eyes.
In the streets, the sights were strange: street traders advertised their wares in loud and harsh voices; dogs barked at the piemen and growled at the horses; an old dancing bear shambled round in a circle for the bored onlookers who had seen it all before and who poked the unfortunate beast with sharp sticks to make the performance more exciting. Children with no shoes on their feet but sly looks on their faces ran in and out of the crowd pulling at the merchants’ clothes and stealing from the stalls. A pock-marked woman with long, lank hair leaned out of an upstairs window and emptied a slop bucket onto the crowd below. In the ensuing uproar fists were raised and oaths spat out but the woman simply threw back her head and laughed—toothlessly.