‘I remember the first day she arrived here. She was one of the first ladies to walk through that gate outside, just after the workers had finished putting it up. Those of us who were already here thought she was lost. Such was the innocent sparkle that she radiated. That’s why the captain, your father, loved her. She never lost that sparkle, your mother, even after all those years. Just like many of us, your father knew that she didn’t belong and wanted to take her out of here, probably to give her back that what people outside this place would call “a normal life”.
‘Unfortunately, that sparkle was the very same reason Madam took a liking to her. See, son, before your father came along, the men who had visited her also sensed that difference, an aura of normality around her. It was something that many of them desired, and with Sara, there was no pretentiousness, only sincerity.
‘To them, she was a loving wife, a friend, a mother, a shoulder to cry on, all done with a love so unconditional that it made them feel safe and wanted. It was like the goodness in her made her rise above the other ill deeds that occur in this place. Remember Luc? I’m sure you do.’ Tristan smiled shyly. She knew. ‘Imagine Luc in his cage, singing to one person, then think of him out there singing and spreading cheer to the world. She was caged up here but as to why, that I cannot say, child. She never told me her history, where she grew up, how she ended up here. Perhaps she had mentioned it to your father and would be a question best put to him.’
For the next hour, Sissy continued to tell him everything she knew about Sara Conway, the little intricacies that made Sara the being that had made others love her so. Next to her, Tristan sat stock-still, letting her words wash over him, transporting him to days gone by and giving him insight into his mother’s life. Strangely, Sissy’s soothing voice helped him to find some solace in the peace and love that Sara had so graciously exuded. When Sissy finished, Tristan did not want to return to the present for his pain had been subdued. But his happiness was brief as suddenly, Sissy made mention of his father, a person whom in his mind was partly to blame.
‘I don’t know much about him and his whereabouts,’ Sissy carried on. ‘Only that he was a captain in the Royal Navy and he had lost his wife many years ago to some damned disease. He was a good man, and when he learned that your mother was pregnant, he desperately wanted to get her out of this place. But neither time nor luck was on his side.
‘See, child, over the last few years, this man paid in full for your mom, to be with her exclusively, and to protect her and eventually you, his unborn child, as best he could. Of course, he wanted to purchase your mother’s freedom outright, but Madam made it difficult for him by asking for an extortive amount of money. They finally came to an agreement just before he shipped out to an island somewhere in the New World, if I recall correctly.
‘He loved your mother, Tristan. That’s why I said that your mother was different. People come here for many reasons, but the captain, he only visited this place to be with the woman he loved. And your mother knew this, but Madam had a hold on her, so strong that your mother never considered fleeing this place. Besides, no one dares to do it anymore because Madam knows how to get to runaways. And how to deal with them too. Broken souls, after she’s done with them.’ Sissy shook her head, remembering the last girl who had tried it. The bones in her feet had healed, but the scars on her soul would remain forever.
’We never knew the circumstance under which your mother arrived at this place, but it was certainly not like the others’, whose mothers were harlots themselves, which caused them to be born into this way of life. Or those girls who were so poor they had little choice. Then, of course, there were those without any virtue.
‘Like a slave, she was confined to this place, but at least she had love, dear. And love overcomes whatever cruelness life can throw at you. You remember that.’ Sissy looked through the only window in the room. The bright blue sky was getting painted over by thick greyish clouds that slowly drifted in. She turned her attention back to the sombre-looking boy sitting next to her and knew she had to finish the story.
‘Your father was going to put everything right when he got back from his last voyage, but he never returned. Nobody knows what happened to him or his ship, but I’ve heard and read some horror stories coming from that part of the world. When it became apparent that he wouldn’t return, Madam wanted your mother to abort the baby – you – but your mother wouldn’t let her. One night she even threatened Madam with the very same stiletto that you now have.’ It brought a smile to both their faces. ‘You were the only thing she had left of him, and when she fell ill she made me, Lucy and the others promise not to let anything happen to you for she knew very well Madam’s wicked ways of solving problems.’
Sissy went on to tell him that living or dying was not man’s choice but rather God's wish. He wondered if this was Finn’s God, the same one who had created him and the animals. The one who makes all living things also has the power to kill? Tristan was sceptical and decided that if he was ever to meet him that he would confront him and demand some answers. Sissy told him the same God would also bring him peace and take away the hurt inside.
She told him that praying was like speaking to a friend, but instead, you are speaking to God with no one else in the room. Even though Tristan got a vision of those bedlamites that wandered London’s streets while speaking to imaginary people, he decided that he would still try. ‘It’s not because of you she died, Tristan. It was the fault of that damned disease. Now God might’ve taken her from us in a cruel manner, but he has given us you in return. See, son, you weren’t born.’ Sissy shook her head. ‘No, instead of being born, you were delivered from death, and while we may not understand all of it, we can only trust that God has a great plan for you and as for your mother, ‘tis through you that she still lives in our hearts.’
It was almost noon when Sissy started rising to her feet, her back sore and her throat parched. Tristan remained seated, his addle mind filled with a cacophony of thoughts, the strongest being hatred towards Madam for it overrode what little common sense he still had left.
Later that night, after Tristan had handed the last gentleman his jacket and the house finally went quiet, he prayed just as Sissy had told him to do. At first, he did not know what to say. He asked God how his mother was and to look after her. Then the floodgates opened, and he told God everything that troubled him. Tristan did not know if anyone listened, but he kept on praying anyway. It was almost easier to talk to no one for there was no discerning face, no expectation and above all, no judgement. He knew that some questions would never be answered and he asked for happiness instead of sorrow and calm instead of hatred, only for the here and now.
The next morning he asked Sissy to take him to his mother’s grave and it was there that he eventually broke down in tears for the very first time, sitting on his knees next to the gravestone, letting all the tormenting demons flow out of him and fall onto the ground, seeping into the soil, down to where they belonged. Sissy and Lucy stood silently by his side and let him grieve in his own way, and the tears kept on flowing until there was nothing left but dry sobs.
It was then that the healing began and very slowly, with Sissy’s help, Tristan started getting back into a routine. Despite his apprehension at first, she insisted that Tristan join her for a trip to the market two days later, something he had not done in a long while and much to his surprise, he soon started to enjoy the familiar walk. On the way, while feeling the warm winter sun on his back, they stopped and talked to familiar faces. Listening to the hustle and bustle of a market in full swing, he found comfort in the familiar sounds. Sissy’s plan was working.
Later that afternoon they stopped at The Smoking Cod and talked with Mr Sullivan whom Finn had informed of Tristan’s misfortune. Finn was out on a delivery run, but the man invited Tristan to take the rowboat out the next day for he knew how much the lad enjoyed being out on the water. Tristan thanked him and asked Sissy if he could walk to the wharf whe
re he and Finn used to watch the tall ships. She stuttered at first, knowing it would be the first time that he would be by himself, but an inconspicuous nod from Eoghan helped her make up her mind, and soon Tristan headed east, past London Bridge all along the bank of the Thames to Chamberlain’s Wharf where they sometimes watched the large ships sail in and out. He took a seat not far from where a merchant ship was moored.
So close she was that he could hear her creak as the Thames gently tugged at her hull, making her bob up and down. She was speaking her own language, telling him stories of the faraway countries she had visited and the untold riches she had carried in her belly. She was resting now, getting ready for her next voyage, wherever that might be.
Off her stern, a larger vessel made for a busy scene as lighters ferried sailors and passengers from the nearby stairs to the ship, while from wharves along the riverside barges carried all sorts of produce to be placed in her hold. Soon she would cast off and set sail for a place or even places he could only dream of.
The loud voices of a rowdy group of seamen got his attention. A feisty bunch they were, banging on crates and barrels, whistling at the girls who worked at the nearby slop-shop and making way for no one. Tristan knew their ways well. Once they had disembarked, they would visit the Southwark inns and brothels, spending their money freely like they were celebrating their escape from the confines of the ships they had sailed in, living their days on land as if it were their last.
Tristan had finished pondering on all he had been told. For some strange reason, sitting here at the port watching the ships come and go gave him hope that, if ever things got too much, all he needed was to come down here and get onto one of those ships to sail away from his troubles. The fact that he had a choice diminished the burning fire inside of him to a gentle simmer. He cast his worries and sorrow onto the deck of the nearby ship, stood up and walked away. It was done. He was done.
It was just after noon when Tristan arrived back home, and he found Sissy upstairs instructing a new maid of her duties. Seeing him, she immediately dismissed the young woman and gave him her full attention. Tristan asked for the tin box that Sissy had kept for him. Upon taking it back, he realised that it might have been a good idea that she had held on to it for him. Perhaps, in a moment of madness, he might have finished what his birth mother had threatened to do. Tristan took it into his room, and after he had cleared away more rubble from underneath the floorboard, he stashed it away with his coin pouch.
The next morning, he took it out again and measured the stiletto blade’s length by lining the point up with his fingertips and letting it lie on the length of his arm. Once he got the measurement, he used his fingers to measure the width of the blade and the guard. Afterwards, he took several coins from the pouch and stashed everything neatly away again.
When he said farewell to Sissy and kissed her on the cheek, she could see traces of the old Tristan. The sparkle in his eyes, which constantly reminded her of Sara, was back and so was a newfound spring in his step. After he had scampered out of the kitchen with an apple in his mouth, she sat down at the kitchen table, clasped her hands together, looked up and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Tristan made his way to the tannery on Long Lane, on the other side of the borough. The fumes of rotting skin and the distinct ammoniacal smell of old urine that rose up from the tanning pits told him that he was getting close. Once he got inside, he looked for the owner, an elderly man who regularly ordered fish from Mr Sullivan. He located him near the back where the man was inspecting a fresh load of hides, his workers already busy removing hooves and horns so that they could take the skins down to the river for a proper wash. Although most of his processed hides eventually found their way to the curriers and leather workers located all over London, Tristan also knew that the man had a hobby of handcrafting speciality items.
When the greetings were concluded, Tristan wasted no time asking for the man’s help. Using the measurements that he took with his arm and fingers, he made a drawing in the soft soil of the item required, showing the man exactly what he wanted. ‘It can be done,’ said the older man, taking Tristan up some wooden stairs to a small room at the back of the tannery. There he painstakingly transitioned Tristan’s drawing onto a crumpled piece of paper.
Afterwards, the tanner took Tristan to a stack of finished hides and asked him to pick out a piece that he liked best. Tristan made his choice, selected a colour and gave the man all the coins in his pocket as a deposit, and in return, he received a promise that the item would be ready within the week. ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he said and shook the man’s hand before he set off for home once more.
Early the next morning at The Smoking Cod, Eoghan was busy brining butterflied herring, getting them ready for the smokehouse when he saw young Conway walk up to the shop.
‘A good morrow to you, Mr Sullivan,’ said Tristan, looking around but only seeing the father, not the son.
‘Morning, lad. You just missed the fella,’ Eoghan said of Finn, and immediately enquired about Tristan’s wellbeing. ‘You seem to be in good spirits today…’
Tristan smiled sheepishly. ‘Aye, sir. I’m here to take the boat out if your offer still stands?’
‘Why, of course,’ laughed Eoghan and together they headed down to the small jetty where he helped the boy launch the small rowboat.
The flood tide was strong, and Tristan battled the current while steering the boat through the morning chaos on the Thames. Shortly after, higher up the river, traffic started to quiet down, and he pulled in the oars. The water was much clearer this far upriver. He lay down on his side, stuck one hand into the cold water and enjoyed the gentle drift in quiet serenity.
His thoughts were calm. The last remains of madness from the past week mellowed away with the water lapping at the side of the boat, gently rocking it from side to side and by the time the tide had turned, he felt reinvigorated. On the river that day he made peace with who and what he was. His name was Tristan Conway, son of a whore and a father whom he would probably never meet. By all accounts a bastard. But he was a lucky bastard who got a chance in life. He had a mother and a brother, and nothing else mattered.
Chapter 5
The Southwark fair was in full swing. It was a time when the borough came alive for a two-week-long festival when city people and rural folk descended on the centre of Southwark. The whole place buzzed with excitement as inhabitants and visitors tried to squeeze the last ounce out of summer before the grisly cold arrived once more. The fair was one of the few occasions in a year where London’s rich and poor rubbed shoulders and congregated in one place to share and indulge in a variety of gaieties on offer and forget their common plights of fire and disease.
It was a time for those of the highest social class to flaunt their splendid attire. Donned in doublets, waistcoats, jackets and capes, cravats, lace collars, framed and long dresses, they strutted forth like peacocks with their powdered wigs, wide-brimmed hats, canes and umbrellas, their noses firmly in the air. They said that they came for the entertainment and culture, the plays and the food, yet many of them indulged in the more sinister side of the fair, a place which had become renowned for the most vulgar activities if one cared to search them up. For a week even the aristocrats could pander to their hearts’ content with their heads held high and not sneak in, under cover of disguise or darkness.
For the less fortunate, it was a time to forget about their perilous circumstances. They packed the playhouses to watch the many shows on offer or headed to the bear and bull gardens, and much different than their rich counterparts, they made their opinions known through loud catcalls if a play was not delivering as promised or the odds favoured the dogs much more than they did the bear or the bull.
Pickpockets ran rampant, as did those who offered dice and other games of the gambling sort. From dark corners, they spilled onto the streets, trying to dent the bulging pouches of the gullible ones. But as the street gamesters appeared and disappeared with the c
omings and goings of the local lawmen, it was the cockpits that pulled in the big crowds and big money. They ran from morning until night, taking bets from anyone who had a coin to spare, preying relentlessly even on those desperate beyond choice.
Alehouses and inns brought thirsty and hungry fairgoers together, and while those of the cloth condemned the general impiety that reigned, it was the one time that patrons of all walks did not give a damn, and therein lay their comradeship.
Before the break of dawn, Tristan, Finn, Ralf and Timmy made their way up onto the roof of the Black Swan Inn, courtesy of empty wooden crates that someone had stacked against a sidewall. Eoghan had given the boys the day off and tended to the shop himself. The rest of the Hungry Ones gang dealt with the few deliveries from their other employers and would link up with the four boys when they were done.
The inn was situated on the southern corner of the square, close to the Church of St George the Martyr and from the rooftop, the boys had a good vantage point over the fair. It was Tristan and Finn’s first time, and they watched as vendors set up their stalls, entertainers started practising their routines, and the first of the patrons arrived. It was a sight to behold, and the four boys had the best seat in the house.
Not far from them, the Sullivan women had a stall set up, and people were already queuing for the delicious pies. It had not taken too much begging on Finn’s part to secure them each an eel pie. They all munched on the scrumptious pasties and took in the sights and sounds that rose up from the splendid spectacle that unfolded in front of them.
Vendors from all over London filled the square and surrounding streets to pawn their wares. Makeshift platforms had popped up everywhere as musicians, magicians and just about any performer imaginable took to stage. Fortune tellers hid behind curtains gazing painstakingly into their crystal balls. There were dancing puppets and strongmen who lifted iron balls as large as fish barrels. The most delightful of exotic displays entertained the curious eye, from tigers, lions, and camels, to jugglers and contortionists who put on their best shows trying to charm crowds out of their coins, while merry andrews had spectators in stitches with their comedic antics.
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