Seeking Hyde

by Reed, Thomas;

  The cab turned east on Euston Road and shortly pulled up at King’s Cross. Modestly invigorated by all the fresh air, the writer leapt down from the cab, paying the driver and adding a generous tip. He glanced up at the station clock. Half past nine.

  “You’ve made good time,” he called up to the man. “Thank you.”

  “And thank you, sir, for making it worth my while.” The fellow pocketed the coins with a grin.

  “Well, good day, then.” Stevenson expected he knew exactly where the fare and aptly named pourboire would go—most likely before the man took on his next passenger. There was a row of already-busy public houses just to the right, a half-dozen empty cabs pulled up in front of them.

  “Your bag, sir?”

  “Ah, yes,” sighed Stevenson. It pained him to be this dull and distracted.

  “G’day, sir.”

  Stevenson turned and raised his eyes to the terminal’s façade, two huge glassed archways flanking an Italianate clock tower. With a half-dozen entrance doors from which he was free to choose—or so the anti-Calvinist within him presumed—Stevenson made for the centermost portal of the right-hand arch, aiming for Platform 10. He did not have the slightest notion how he missed seeing the little flower girl standing just inside the entrance. In a trice, she was down on the pavement in front of him, and it was all he could do to keep from treading on her. He extended his stride to avoid crushing a slender arm, but his heel landed squarely on a tangle of flower stems and skidded away in a slick green mash. Fortunately a stout man in a bowler, just to his right, caught his arm as he made to crash over backwards, holding him up as he got his feet back under himself.

  “Oh my!” sputtered Stevenson, dropping his bag and reaching down to the blonde mite who lay there in a scattering of bright yellow daffodils. “Have I hurt you? Are you injured?”

  “Just frightened, I expect,” said the man with the bowler. “Isn’t that right, little miss?”

  Frozen at first, the girl soon nodded, though biting back tears. Stevenson helped her to her feet and brushed ineffectually at her threadbare frock. There was more bone than flesh to her. “Aye!” she replied.

  “What a brave girl you are!” said Stevenson, gathering up the flowers. “And what a clumsy sod I am, running you down that way. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  The girl stood and gazed uncertainly then slowly nodded. A single tear coursed down over pale skin the thinness of which Stevenson thought he had never seen. It was like a dusting of flour on glass.

  “Here, I’ll take them all,” he said, stooping again to pick up the last of the flowers. “Will a shilling do? Two shillings?”

  The girl’s eyes widened and she nodded energetically.

  “We’ll make it three shillings then,” he declared, dropping the coins one after the other into her dirty palm. “Will you forgive me, milady?” He went to one knee, taking both of her tiny hands into his own. “Will you accept a gentleman’s sincere apology?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” she piped, blushing as she grinned. “Bless you, sir.”

  “All’s right, then?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. And bless you, too.” He caught the bowler man’s eye as she scampered away. “Would that all of our carelessness could be put right so easily.”

  “That’s the gospel truth,” said the other. “We’d all of us sleep better, would we not?”

  Stevenson had dreaded the eight-hour journey north, alone with his thoughts. In the event, he found himself sharing a compartment with most agreeable company. Mostly agreeable, that is: a dour Scots barrister-type peered judgmentally over the top of his Times every time the writer lit a cigarette, which these days was increasingly often. Stevenson’s wife berated him endlessly for what she histrionically referred to as his “addiction,” claiming that a man with tender lungs could ill afford to fill them with tobacco smoke every time he had the chance. Often enough he simply nodded and allowed that it was a wretched habit. Now and again, though, he indulged the urge to reply that if her affection for him were as tender as she took his lungs to be, she might be less censorious. Then again, she and her son had willingly left the sun-drenched heaven of California and followed him back to a bleak insular climate about as salubrious as the inside of a drainpipe. They had cast in their lots entirely with his own, with no reservations he had been able to detect. It seemed only fair that he should try to keep himself alive—as long as he possibly could—for their collective welfare. If only Fanny worried less. Or stopped smoking herself.

  The pretty young woman sitting across from him looked up and he suddenly realized he had been staring. She cast him a benign smile, easy enough to return. She was a governess, as he learned after a polite inquiry, on her way to York with one of her charges, the seven-year-old lad perched just to her left. The aesthenic scamp peered intently out the window as the landscape rushed by, his eyes wide with wonder.

  Stevenson smiled. He had been a similar age when he took his first trip to Glasgow, along with his mother and father, but virtually glued to the side of his austere nursemaid. He remembered as though it were yesterday the dizzying thrill of the occasion, as the varied countryside hurtled past at an impossible pace. Ever since, whichever of his mental faculties it was that brought him his dreams had found an occasional but highly effective use for that vertiginous feeling of momentum, that enthralling sense of helpless acceleration.

  Stevenson leaned towards the boy. “Is this your first journey by rail?” he asked.

  The boy looked at him and shook his head, slightly apprehensive, it seemed, at being addressed by a perfect stranger.

  “William has been to Edinburgh before,” explained the young woman as she adjusted her trim figure in her seat. “And to Bath as well.”

  “Ah, Edinburgh,” nodded Stevenson, leaning back on the plush bench. “That is where I am bound, in fact. All the way to Edinburgh. And do you enjoy riding on the train, then?”

  The boy looked towards his custodian, who nodded her reassurance.

  “Yes, indeed,” he answered in a reedy little voice.

  “And riding backwards? Are you happy enough to ride backwards?”

  Again the look for approval. Another nod.

  “Very happy, thank you.” The boy blinked at him uncertainly.

  “Well if you tire of it,” declared Stevenson, folding his hands neatly, “I would be more than happy to exchange seats with you. I am perfectly content riding along backwards. Seeing where I have been, you know. Surprised by where I’m arriving. It’s most exciting!” He gazed over at the girl, who smiled in frank amusement. She was remarkably attractive: pale oval face, glowing chestnut locks, grey-blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and wit. Where was she headed, he wondered? Beyond York. In life. Her finished manner spoke to good breeding, although the prospects for a young woman in her position were not particularly scintillating. He turned, with a sniff, back to the lad, who now studied him closely.

  “If you were to ride a horse, shall we say, would you prefer to ride backwards or forwards?” asked Stevenson.

  “Why, forwards, of course.”

  “And why is that?”

  “So as not to ride under a tree branch…and clonk the back of my head,” said the boy with a grin, “and tumble off into the dirt.”

  “No, we shouldn’t like that, should we?” laughed Stevenson. “Dirt being so…dirty and all.”

  The boy giggled. “And heads not liking to be clonked and all.”

  “Not in the least,” agreed the writer. He struck his brow lightly with the heel of his hand, crossing his eyes for effect. Again that giggle, liquid as a freshet bubbling off a heathered hill. There was such joy to be had in childhood, ready to burst out anywhere at all, on the instant, even in the least likely of places. His thoughts slid back to the little flower girl at King’s Cross and he wondered if she had moments of joy. What might they entail? A minute or two resting in the sun? A sliver of warm pie?

  “Can you read?” S
tevenson asked the boy as he pulled his thoughts back to the speeding train.

  “A bit. I’m just learning.”

  “He’s a very good reader,” the young lady affirmed, patting the boy’s hand. “An extremely apt pupil.” A blush warmed the lad’s face.

  “And are there things you especially like to read about?”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Of course there are! I like to read about knights who are heroes. And dragons. And fairies. And sometimes pirates.”

  “Ah, fairies and pirates. Are you frightened of pirates, then?” asked Stevenson. “I am. Constantly. Even on trains.” He looked apprehensively from side to side, and then pointed slyly at the paper-reading gentleman, who took no notice.

  “There’s no pirates on trains,” declared the boy sagely. “Are there, Miss Winton?” He looked at the young woman, who shook her head. “You see? You needn’t be afraid of pirates here, sir.”

  “That’s most reassuring. Thank you. And do you like poems?”

  “Very much.”

  “And how might you like a poem about riding on a train? And perhaps fairies?”

  “Do you know one?” the lad asked eagerly.

  “Not yet. But perhaps I shall write one for you.”

  The boy peered at him quizzically, as though he had just suggested they all sprout wings and fly off together to the moon.

  “You don’t believe me?” Goodness! Why ever had he asked that? Now the little chap looked cornered, as though he were sensing all this chatter had been calculated to tease him rather than to woo him. Stevenson recalled his earliest days with Sammy, when Fanny’s son had seemed as inaccessible to him as the North Pole. “Let’s just see, then,” said the writer, bending to extract a notebook from his bag and snatching a pen from his pocket. The cap flew off in his haste and skittered across the carpeting, coming to rest against the governess’s buttoned shoe.

  “How clumsy. May I?” Stevenson made to reach down to retrieve the item.

  “Of course,” said the young woman, moving her foot slightly to make room.

  “There,” said Stevenson, as he sat back up, fighting the vague dizziness that still haunted him. “I shall take this as a challenge.” He adjusted his trouser legs and looked squarely at the boy. “I solemnly swear that, well before we reach York, I shall have written a poem about riding in a railway carriage—backwards or forwards—which I shall present to you in token of my esteem for the gifted young reader you are reported to be. And there shall be fairies in said poem. Whether they wish to be in it or not.” He looked up and caught the young lady’s eye before he turned to her beaming pupil. “Satisfactory?”

  “Satisfactory,” nodded the boy, with a wriggle of excitement.

  By the time they had reached Sheffield it was done. Not perfect, perhaps, but passable enough for a quick and distracted draft. Stevenson realized, in passing, that he hadn’t lit a cigarette the entire time.

  “There. Ink barely blotted. May I read it to you?”

  “Please do,” said the boy, scooting up to the edge of his seat.

  “Very well. Off we go.”

  Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

  Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

  And charging along like troops in a battle

  All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

  All of the sights of the hill and the plain

  Fly as thick as driving rain;

  (Oh my! I think we’re missing a foot there!)

  And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

  Painted stations whistle by.

  (And again. My goodness!)

  Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

  All by himself and gathering brambles;

  Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

  And here is the green for stringing the daisies!

  Here is a cart runaway in the road

  Lumping along with man and load;

  And here is a mill, and there is a river:

  Each a glimpse and gone forever!

  Stevenson set the notebook down with a moderate flourish. “Well, do you like it?”

  “Ever so much,” replied the boy, beaming anew. The other man glowered at the three of them as though all this were the quintessence of uselessness. The girl, in contrast, looked positively charmed.

  “Very well, then. Let me make a fair copy for you. I shall tear it out of my book and you shall have it forever and ever. The original I shall keep against future need—should I ever write a book of poems about, well, trains and fairies. One never knows, does one? Now, to whom shall I dedicate it? William…?”

  The boy looked confused.

  “To William Forbes, if you please,” volunteered the governess, now in an unguardedly appreciative voice. Under the circumstances, Stevenson found it curiously unsettling.

  “To the Honorable Master William Forbes then,” trumpeted Stevenson, “from his most humble wandering bard, Robert Louis Stevenson.”

  The sullen man’s head jerked up. Was he familiar with the name? The fellow shook his paper and looked back down with a snort. Perhaps it was only compounded disdain for a modestly renowned waster of words, the writer first of a vapid pirate story and now this stranger-wooing silliness. It was oddly satisfying, though—giving a little something to this wee sensitive soul as he hurtled northwards, his back to an unknown future. To pay a tribute to another boyhood, glimpsed and then gone forever from his ken. Was it better than the three shillings, Stevenson wondered, that he had given to a hungry London waif? It was certainly less likely to put a meal on a table. Either for the boy or, now that he thought of it, for himself.

  2

  Poor Harry Jekyll…, my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long time ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations.

  —GABRIEL JOHN UTTERSON, ATTORNEY TO HENRY JEKYLL

  EDINBURGH, APRIL 1883

  St. Giles tolled midnight as Stevenson and Baxter rounded into Advocate’s Close. They had visited a good half-dozen old haunts before they wound their way up West Bow to the High, and both men were well into their cups. There were few nights now when Baxter was not, if truth were told. As for the oenophile writer, he was finding that an evening’s forced resort to whisky, relieved only by the occasional ale, was leaving him a trifle wobbly. There was powerfully little drinkable claret to be had in Old Town Edinburgh, and had Stevenson even managed to find a decent bottle, Baxter would surely have savaged him for his newfound Froggish tastes.

  As they trundled into the vaulted narrow at the head of the sloped alleyway, their laughter swelled up hollowly around them. The sound bore Stevenson back even more relentlessly to student days and student nights, more than a few of which had found the two of them just here and just so, stumbling down the slick steps and landings of the constricted way.

  “And you remember Ferrier would lean his shoulder into the wall here, and slide along like…who was it in Bleak House? Bill? Old Bill?” Baxter slapped at the wet stone, drew his hand back with a sneer, and wiped it on Stevenson’s sleeve.

  “Phil!” laughed Stevenson, brushing disgustedly at his arm. “Phil’s mark it was. But yes. I do. Ferrier’s…um…what? Ferrier’s smudge! Wearing down Auld Reekie, one drunken ramble at a time. Like rain on stone. Like…”

  “Here’s to ’im, Johnson!” erupted Baxter, raising his right arm with an extravagant flourish. He overbalanced and lurched heavily against his companion.

  “Easy, Thomson! Ye havnae a drop in yer han’. Ye canna toast wi’ nae glass.”

  “Nae technicalities, Johnson. Dinna pester me wi’ nae technicalities.”

  Twenty yards further on, two undergraduates exploded from a low door, one of them missing the step and crashing to the cobbles in a muffled thump. He spat out an indistinguishable curse.

  “What be these?” queried Stevenson. “Pickled Ghosts of Christmas Past?”

  “Ach, mon!” exclaimed Baxter as he lur
ched to a querulous halt. “Are ye thinkin‘ nou yer Scrooge?”

  “Scrooge?”

  “Eleazer Scrooge!” Baxter sneezed violently and his hat tumbled from his head. “Must you always, Lou-ee? Must you always fancy you’re livin’ in a soddin’ book?” He bent to retrieve the headgear and slapped it carelessly back onto his pate.

  Stevenson grinned indulgently at his old friend. “Was it I, laddie, conjured up the venereal Dickens just now? ‘Old Bill!’ Trust a lawyer to bugger the facts.” The writer turned and stooped to help the fallen stranger to his feet while the man’s fellow stood back from the three of them, giggling insipidly. Once erect, the fallen student pawed at his trousers and coat, belched loudly, and staggered towards the head of the close.

  “This way, ye daft catamite,” yelled his companion, wobbling down towards the bend that emptied into Cockburn Street. “D’you mean to sleep in the High?”

  “I’ll sleep where I want,” barked the youth, struggling mightily to reverse his direction. “And I’ll drink what I want. And I’ll fuck whomever I want. I’ll fuck…”

  “Not in your condition, you won’t fuck anyone,” shot Baxter, sidling recklessly up in front of the man. “Not with breath like”—he sniffed extravagantly at the air around the lad’s head—“like a bilious fart.”

  The drunken youth took a long moment to register the insult and then squared up in an attempt at belligerence. Baxter smirked at Stevenson. He turned back to the lad and wagged his chin, whereupon the fellow cocked his arm and swung gamely. He missed his mark, twisting again to the cobblestones and toppling sideways off his rump with a pitiful “Ow!”