When that day came, the boy found himself standing, morning and night, so close to the kitchen fire that he was sure he would be set alight, and the sweep’s wife would scrub brine into his elbows and knees until he thought he would scream at the pain of it. Unlike the others of Crockett’s chimney boys, however, the small boy did not cry nor make a single sound as they worked on hardening his skin. In fact, he barely spoke at all, and when he would not give up his name, Master Crockett declared he would be called Tom, the name of the boy who’d gone before him.
At night, when gathered under dirty blankets on their beds that were sacks of soot and before exhaustion sent them quickly to sleep, the other boys would tell tales of the Tom-who-died and how he’d cried when he’d become lost in the flues and then burned to death coming down into the wrong hearth in a panic. There were other stories too, of pins in feet, and fires lit under them, and they all laughed at these as they spoke, but under the laughter, black as the soot they slept on, was fear. Occasionally the other boys would huddle and whisper and talk of things they did not share with Tom and he did not mind this. He still felt somewhere between life and death, the soot like grave dirt, just as he had since his mother breathed her last in that freezing alley, and in many ways it was a relief to him when they forgot he was there and he could drift in his memories of her.
The days fell into a routine. Rising well before dawn, following the master sweep as he called out in the streets, and then hours of cleaning chimneys until his skin bled and he could barely breathe, before hauling back the sack of soot upon which he would collapse and sleep. Time passed in something of a dream, not exactly a life, but an existence that sat between the burning black heat of the hearths and the freezing cold of the streets in between, until a fortnight and an eternity had passed since the boy’s recovery.
One morning, however, there was a great excitement in the town, everyone from the wealthiest to the poorest rising and breakfasting early in anticipation. This was an event that all could attend, a moment to feel entirely alive, whatever position luck gave you to be born into in this world. It was still dark when people began to gather, but the streets were noisy with chatter, and Arthur Crockett had his boys out early to be well-placed to pick up business once the main event was done and the well-to-do were filled with thoughts of warm fires in their grates. He sent some toward the back of the gathering horde, but kept Tom and two others close by as he weaved his way toward the front. The mist was thick and even in the crowd people appeared dismembered as they drifted in and out of the boy’s sight—a leg, an arm, a leering face—and he tried to keep his eyes on the master sweep’s tails for fear of losing him. This life might be hard, but it was better than the workhouse or freezing to death on a street corner, or forever being lost in this blinding fog.
Arthur Crockett paused at a pie stall and bought himself breakfast, and he must have been in a fine mood, for he bought another for the boys with him to share. Tom thought he’d never tasted anything so good and would happily have walked up to the noose himself for another bite—but Crockett would never have allowed that. Chimney boys needed to be thin, and even Crockett’s favorite boys—those now devouring the biggest chunks of pie—were never far from starving.
The master sweep eased them into a position where he at least could see the wooden gallows erected in front of the grim prison building. “They say it’s the Gentleman Hangman today.” His eyes were shining with glee. “He don’t take no payment for his services, that’s what they say. All he asks is that he can study their faces after. Sometimes he sits with them for hours, just looking.” He paused and his shiver had nothing to do with the bitter cold. “Especially at those of the dead women.”
“A gent? A proper one?” Harry asked, licking his fingers clean of gravy. Harry had come from the workhouse more than a year before and like Tom was small and agile. If any of them were thought of fondly by Arthur Crockett, it was Harry. Harry did the chimneys of all the best houses. Harry was one of the boys who whispered at night.
“A proper one. Rich beyond anything we can imagine,” Crockett said ruefully as if he too bled from the knees morning and night and cried as brine was burned into his skin. As if he too had to shimmy up naked into that black hell for hours. “His father ran ships to the East. Built up a trade there. House full of treasure, that’s what the Chinamen down at the docks tell me. Godwin’s Shipping, that’s them. He was a proper businessman. Traveled the world. Until two years or so ago when suddenly he took up the hanging.” His voice hushed. “Make sure you don’t find yourselves at the end of a rope, boys. I won’t come to try to save you.” Although he winked at Harry, his expression was grim.
Tom’s mind drifted as the proceedings started. Death had been too ever present in his short life, and he had no desire to watch a life snuffed out no matter what their crimes might have been. Thankfully, being as small as he was, all he could see were the bodies of those around him. The fog having lifted somewhat, like a stage curtain on the action, Crockett hoisted Harry onto his shoulders, and Tom was glad it wasn’t him who saw the sobbing man being led to his death. He dozed on his feet, enjoying the slight relief from the cold that so many people pressed together could bring—a clammy almost-warmth that at least protected him from any gusts of sharp wind, and the catcalls and gasps from the crowd of hundreds were just sounds that drifted through him until the final gasp and thud of the drop.
Even before the unfortunate criminal had finished twitching, the master sweep was about his business, dropping Harry so suddenly that he stumbled and was nearly caught underfoot in the dispersing noisy crowd. Crockett’s voice was deep as he called out, “Sweep, oh! Sweep, oh!” expertly keeping close to the broadsheet sellers, following in their wake, knowing that many housekeepers and butlers would be eager for such salacious—and more than likely false—confessionals.
The housekeeper who did stop the sweep, however, had not purchased such an item but instead, strode with purpose, directly to Crockett. She was not exactly as one would expect a housekeeper to look in such a winter’s tale as this, as she was neither austere nor forbidding, but instead comfortably stout in body, firm in bosom, and with a ruddiness in her cheek that exuded warmth. In many ways, she looked more like a cook than a housekeeper and if it wasn’t for Arthur Crockett’s obsequiousness, Tom would have thought her quite ordinary.
“It’s time some life returned to the house, and I’m determined we shall all be merry this year,” the woman said, as she and the master sweep turned to face the boys. “And that requires lit fires whether they like it or not. Between his moodiness and her peculiarities, I’m fit to burst with irritation. Enough is enough.”
“Tomorrow morning first thing it is, Mrs. Pike,” Crockett said. “I’ll bring Harry here, he’s my best boy—and you’ll find—”
“That one.” Mrs. Pike pointed a gloved finger at Tom. “He’s smaller. The chimneys at Thornfields are a maze and God only knows how narrow they get. I want the house full of heat and good cheer, not screaming boys stuck in a flue.” She said this with a smile, as if it were simply jesting, but all Tom could think of was his faceless namesake, the boy who’d burned, and how awful that must have been.
“And clean him up first, please. He can be as filthy as you like leaving, but I can’t have Mr. Godwin or Miss Darkly seeing him crossing the threshold like some black devil.” She pulled a coin from her purse. “For your trouble.” And with that, she turned her back on them and bustled away.
“Until tomorrow, madam!” the master sweep called after her, his face alight with a wolfish grin. “Until tomorrow!” He looked down at Tom with fresh enthusiasm. “You know where you’re going tomorrow, lad?” He clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder in a way that made Harry’s face tighten with envy. Tom shook his head.
“You’re going to the house of the Gentleman Hangman himself. Oh what a day we shall have.” His hand tightened uncomfortably on Tom’s scrawny s
houlder. “Time for you to learn the real business of the day. Harry, that’s down to you. Explain it well, and you can have young Tom here’s bathwater when he’s done tonight, and some bread with your broth if you’re lucky.”
* * *
—
And so it was that the next morning, Tom, scrubbed pink and wearing clothes that, if too big and close to rags, were at least clean, followed the master sweep as they walked out past the edge of town and across the wetlands to the hangman’s house. It was still so dark that Crockett carried a lamp to guide them, and the only sound was the crunch of their feet on frozen earth. The journey took more than an hour, Tom pulling the sweep’s barrow behind him, and by the time they reached the heavy iron gates that signaled their arrival, his feet were numb and his hands scalded raw with cold. The metal creaked too loud in the darkness, and then, when they clanged ominously shut behind them, and the austere building at the end of the drive hove into view, only then did thick white flakes begin to fall, the gentle heralding of a blizzard to come.
“You know what you’ve got to do?” Arthur Crockett muttered, his foot tapping, as they waited at the servants’ entrance tucked away around the back of the house. Tom nodded. “Don’t mess up, boy.” The mutter turned into something of a snarl. “Because if you do, you’re on your own. You got that?” Snow landed on his dark-suited shoulders, thick as volcano ash, and there was a stillness in the air that whispered of a wind to come. Crockett sniffed and stared at the door with a hungry longing. “They say all the treasures of the Orient are in this house. Hidden away in rooms no one uses. Do your job right and this could be the first visit of many, so work hard and make them think you’re an angel. I’d tell you to keep your mouth shut but too much talk’s not a problem you have, is it? Cat ate most of your tongue in that alleyway, I reckon.” Some of his teeth matched the black of his suit as he grinned, the rest a raggedy line of yellow. “Now, what’s the rule, boy?”
“Take something small and forgotten.” Tom forced the words out. Harry had explained it to him while they’d shared the barely warm bath the night before. ‘The big houses don’t have many chimneys, but they have lots of fireplaces,’ that’s what Harry had said. ‘So you start cleaning one and then use the flues to come down into another room. See what you can get from there. If anyone’s in the room, you just pretend you got lost. Crockett’ll beat you for that though, and there won’t be no supper. Don’t take anything big. Just something simple. A chain maybe. Silver. A teaspoon. An ivory comb. Something he can sell to the Chinamen.’ A few items like that gathered in a week could make a difference to the wily master sweep’s finances, and his mood, and Tom hadn’t seen the worst of his moods, Harry had whispered, but the Tom-who-died had.
It was barely past seven in the morning, the sky still dark outside, but the household, such as it was, appeared to be awake, as Mrs. Pike led them into the heart of the building. “Not much sleep goes on here,” she said as she took them into the vast wood-paneled hallway. Huge portraits hung on the walls leading up the sweeping staircase, and a large model ship sat on an imposing side dresser. Everything shone, spotless, and even the walls smelled of polish. Tom had never seen anything like it. Away from the warmth of the kitchen, however, the house was so cold Tom was sure that he could see the ghostly smoke of his breath. Mrs. Pike, looking somewhat more formal in her dark housekeeper’s dress and with her chatelaine hanging from her waist, wore a thick shawl around her shoulders as she directed them toward one of the drawing rooms. “You can start in there,” she said, nodding the master sweep forward.
Tom, trailing behind with the sheets and sack and brushes, passed a door that was slightly ajar, and with the curiosity of a child, he peered in. Although there was no discernible change in temperature, he could see a small fire burning in the grate of what appeared to be a library. Stacks of various books and papers were piled on shelves, but as if abandoned, and a long strip of silk hung with strange black shapes on it. It was Japanese, but Tom couldn’t possibly know that. He couldn’t read or write in English, let alone translate the intricacies of such a foreign language. For him it was just a strange art, and in itself something beautiful. A chair was turned in, toward the fire, much as mine is now, and a man’s hand was resting on the arm. As if the occupant could hear Tom’s shallow breath, he twisted around and peered back. A somber face, mouth downturned and lips pressed tight together as if holding back a thunderstorm of rage. For a moment their eyes met, the hangman’s and the chimney boy’s, and Tom recoiled. The chill that possessed Thornfields could have come from the coldness radiating from that expression. Tom had never seen the sea, but those eyes were as black as he imagined its depths.
“Mrs. Pike,” the hangman said. “A word, please.” He didn’t shout, but his voice carried on the waxy air, well-spoken and yet gravel rough, empty of any expression.
“One moment, Mr. Godwin, sir,” she answered, not pausing as she walked, even though his voice made Tom want to crawl into a corner. He scurried to catch up to the familiarity of Arthur Crockett, and soon the drawing room door was closing behind them.
“There are guests coming to Thornfields for Christmas, and so make sure you clean up after yourselves. I don’t want any muck left behind.” She gave the master sweep a stern glare. “You’ve a good reputation, Master Crockett. Don’t disappoint me and should all go well we may retain your services into the new year.” She turned and bustled out, heading no doubt to answer Mr. Godwin’s questions.
“You hear that, boy?” Crockett smiled, his rotten tombstone teeth on show. “We’re in. Now get to work.”
Tom’s stomach tightened. The fireplace was dominated by a huge painting hanging above it, of a ship on a tortured ocean as a vast creature, tentacles spreading out from his bulbous body, rose from the black depths to suck it back down. Tom found the enclosed spaces of the chimneys terrifying enough without the sense that he’d be climbing up into those depths.
He wanted to stay in the vastness of this room and browse the books on the shelves, only ever having seen one book before and that being a Bible, and do as Crockett was, while covering the largest items of furniture with sheets, perusing all the knickknacks and ornaments that gave the room at least a little life. A ship’s compass. A decorated china egg. A white vase painted in blue with strange-looking women and the same odd writing he’d seen on the wall of the library. This room alone was a fascination to Tom, and he found it hard to comprehend that the house was filled with what seemed like hundreds more, and he wondered how so few people could need so much space.
Being a good boy, however, and fearful enough of his master, he took off his clean shirt, leaving on the trousers with the secret sewn-in pocket, and hung the heavy sheet as he’d been taught to do from the fireplace. Armed with his brush and scraper, he was about to take a deep breath and start his shimmy into the darkness, when a gasp from the doorway stopped him.
“What on earth are you doing?”
A woman stood there, frozen, eyes wide in horror. Her dress was dark, a midnight blue that served to highlight the lines on her gaunt face, and hung, ill-fitting, from her thin body. Her face was pale as was her hair. At first Tom thought she must be of Mrs. Pike’s age, but when she stepped in closer, her hands worrying at her nails, the skin there was smooth and young, like his mother’s had been, and her hair wasn’t silver but the lightest blond.
“Cleaning the chimney, ma’am,” Crockett said, nodding to her. “Mrs. Pike—”
“There can be no fires.” The hands fluttered to her throat. “No, no. no. Not in these rooms. Not where I go. I read in here. I—I cannot have a fire in here. I cannot.”
Her speech and breath came more rapidly and Tom was sure she would faint or scream or whatever else hysterical women were wont to do, when Mrs. Pike returned. She took in the scene before speaking, at once no-nonsense and yet also warm.
“Breakfast is served in the dining room, Mis
s Beatrice.”
“But Mrs. Pike, these people—they—”
“Mr. Godwin is already at the table. You should hurry. You know how he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
The mention of the hangman’s name silenced the breathless, fluttering woman, and she gave Tom one last horrified glance and then contained herself, her back stiffening. “Of course,” she said, as quietly as snowfall, and then left the room.
“Don’t mind her,” Mrs. Pike said. “That’s Miss Beatrice Darkly. Mr. Godwin’s adopted sister, taken in when she was small. She has had some recent troubles. Nothing to concern yourselves with but I’d rather you didn’t engage her in any conversation. She is prone to flights of fancy.”
Arthur Crockett nodded, but Tom could see that despite the wealth around them, he thought the household as unsettling as Tom did himself. He had never imagined that he would yearn to be on that cold sack of soot in Crockett’s basement, but he longed for the hours between to vanish and for it to be night and this day done. Of course, before then, he had to clean these flues and commit a crime that could get him sent away on the convict ships or to prison or worse. There was no escaping it. He was the chimney boy and this was his fate. Resigned to it, and with a tremble in his knees, he pulled back the curtain of the sheet and clambered into the hearth.
* * *
—
All thoughts of prison and crimes had evaporated within ten minutes of starting the job. The flues of a house such as this were like a maze, and they grew tighter and tighter as Tom scuffed his knees and elbows wriggling through them, pausing to scrape at tar and free soot from their walls. His lungs were filled with the now familiar taste, the dust lining them as if meaning to drown him, and with each turn there was no sight of the chimney up above.
Hark! the Herald Angels Scream Page 30