South of Darkness

by John Marsden

  The next thing I knew was the warmth of a room and a couple of lamps burning and a woman bending over me. She seemed dreadfully old and ugly, with a large mole on her nose that had hairs growing from it. I wondered if she might be a witch.

  ‘Pooh, the stink of it,’ she said. ‘It’s brought the river with it and no mistake. What in the name of God did it think it was doing, going for a swim at this time of night?’

  A man whom I could not see laughed and said: ‘Aye, queer thing to be doing.’

  Indignantly I tried to explain that I had been thrown into the river, but she poked me in the chest and said: ‘There, there, don’t be distressing yourself, it’s only teasing you we are.’

  She said to someone else, ‘What is it then, a boy or a girl?’ at which I felt further indignation, but was too tired and felt too strange to attempt another answer. But the man told her: ‘Why, it be a boy I reckon.’

  ‘Oh well then, it might be some use,’ she said with a cackle. ‘Fetch me something dry of Johnny’s to be putting on him.’ She unwrapped the blanket and peeled me as though I were one of those funny little mandarin fruits. It was a relief to be relieved of the wet clothes, but the cold still pressed in on me. She rubbed me hard with the blanket, and although I tried to protest the rough treatment, it did help get my blood moving. A big bearded man, whom I thought I recognised from the boat, handed her a pair of pants and a pullover, both of them too big for me, but I was pleased to be able to cover my nakedness, and I felt a little warmer in the clothes.

  ‘Get rid of them,’ she said to the man, and he took my wet rags, holding them at arm’s length, and threw them outside somewhere. Another, younger, man, with vivid red hair, followed him as he came back into the cottage. I thought he was probably the second man from the boat.

  ‘Here, I’ve got what he needs,’ this new arrival said in a cheerful voice. I did recognise him now, by his voice. He was the one who had said, ‘Good fishing, Silas’ earlier. He came over to me. I began to realise that I was lying on a table. The redheaded young man proffered me a bottle and pushed the neck of it between my shivering lips. I took a gulp and immediately coughed and spluttered, spraying half of it out again. But some of it ran down my throat, sending a burning heat through me. I had drunk gin before, on the few occasions when I could procure it: gin was known to us as Hell water, and for those who could afford it was a better and safer drink than the water from the pumps or the river. But this was different from gin. It was as if a hot cat with sharp claws was rushing through every inch of my body, yowling with terror because its fur was on fire. I sneezed any number of times, and felt as though hot cat fur was coming out of my nostrils.

  ‘It’s terrible muck,’ said the young man, watching me and laughing at my discomfort. ‘She calls it brandy, but it tastes like she distils it from pigs’ piss. It’ll scald your insides, that’s for sure.’

  ‘There now, hush your mouth,’ cried the old woman. ‘Don’t be giving him any more, whatever you do. You haven’t plucked him from the river just to drown him with that poison. Put him to bed now. Put him in Johnny’s bed.’

  ‘Johnny’s bed?’ asked the young redheaded man, turning serious in a moment. ‘Are you sure?’

  The old woman shrugged. ‘Yes, yes, it’s a good use for it. This one’s been brought back from the grave tonight, so yes, it’s a good use for Johnny’s bed.’

  It was true I had been brought back from the grave, but during the next few days I could easily have been returned to it at any moment. I fell into a kind of feverish illness, no doubt brought about by my immersion, or by the foul water, or both. I had moments of lucidity, but I do not believe that they lasted more than a few minutes each time, and even in those moments I was only dimly aware of my circumstances. Frequently when I awoke it was to vomit, and I know that on more than one occasion I fouled the bed with bowel motions that ran like water from me. I reached the stage where I felt that there was nothing left inside my body but the vital organs, and even they could not be trusted to continue to function. But most of the time I was unconscious or in a delirium. I do remember one night waking to the flame of the candle burning at the foot of my bed, and believing it to be a giant fire threatening to consume me I started up and leapt at the candle, and it took both the men to wrestle me back under the covers. Another time I thought I was in bed with a dead horse, no doubt recollecting in some part of my diseased mind the encounter with the corpse at the bottom of the river, and I fought like a madman, screaming and beating my fists, and again I believe it was one or both of the men whom I was actually fighting.

  I also remember the old lady constantly at my side, wiping my face, replacing the blankets which I often kicked from me in my thrashing-about, and all the time muttering words of solace. I wondered that I had ever thought her ugly, because she came more and more to resemble a ministering angel. There were times when her eyes were bloodshot and rheumy and she smelled of alcohol, and at such times she often called me Johnny, but even then I clung to her and I believe to this day that she was the lifebuoy that saved me from drowning a second time.

  One morning, as the grey light spread across the sky on the other side of the river, I awoke. I found myself looking at a wooden carving hanging from the wall. It was a replica of a new moon, but the moon had been given a nose and lips and a red-edged eye that made the face look both curious and determined.

  I knew at once that I had passed out of the valley of death and re-entered the green kingdom of the living. The old lady was sitting on a chair beside my bed, as I suspect she had been doing almost without cessation since first my illness began, and now she smiled at me and said, ‘Why, you may be restored to us yet. Silas,’ she called, ‘fetch a cup of tea.’

  ‘I just made you a cup,’ he called back from the other room.

  ‘It’s not me that’s wanting it,’ she answered him. ‘It’s the lad, God be praised.’

  Silas appeared in the doorway in an instant. ‘Well now, look at you,’ he said, smiling down at me from his great height. ‘If I’d known how much trouble you were going to be I’d have left you in the river, but at least now maybe I won’t have to dig a hole to bury you in.’

  ‘We could have just thrown him back in the river,’ said the young redheaded man, appearing in the doorway at Silas’s side. ‘There’s plenty who do. Anyway, catch a great lazybones like you digging a hole? Not likely! I would have been the one with that job.’

  ‘Fetch the cup of tea and stop your fooling about,’ the old woman said. ‘And make it strong. And while you’re at it, you can be mindful that I’ll have no jokes about digging graves in this house.’

  Both the men looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ said the big man, Silas. ‘We meant no harm, nor no disrespect.’

  She looked at me bleakly. ‘There’s been graves dug in this family all too often. But men forget. Women never do.’

  Chapter 6

  So now I was to experience kindness of a sustained and consistent nature. I had learned the lesson of Job, and indeed the lessons of life, well enough to have no faith in the permanence of it, but while it lasted I basked in it like a cat in the front window of a shop, soaking up the warmth of the sun through the glass. The tiny cottage, I soon learned, was set a few hundred yards back from the river and had three residents: wife, husband and son. The big black-bearded man was named Silas, as I had already ascertained; the old lady’s name was Abigail; their redheaded young son was Thomas. The family name was Piggott.

  They made their living by fishing and by pulling salvage out of the river. As I regained my strength, they found me some clothes that fitted well enough, and which I believe belonged to the missing Johnny, whom I deduced to be now occupying one of the graves of which Abigail had spoken. I conceived this to be a delicate subject and so asked no questions about it.

  The clothes may have been poor but were of much better quality than my discarded rags. They wer
e all too big for me, by a considerable margin, but I rolled up the bottoms of the trousers, rolled back the cuffs of the shirts and tied a length of twine around my waist, and felt well satisfied with my new wardrobe.

  Silas and Thomas started taking me out in their boat, and I assisted them by baiting their lines when they were fishing and helping haul in their catches. As well, my eyes soon proved to be sharper than theirs, and I took pride in my ability to see possible salvage that had escaped their view. On one of the first days I accompanied them I drew their attention to an object floating in the water, and persuaded them to investigate it. They rowed there reluctantly, against a strong tide, and it turned out to be a sailor’s trunk, so heavy that it was already almost completely submerged. It took the three of us to haul it on board. I was excited to see what was in it, but it was padlocked, and Silas and Thomas did not have the tools on the boat to open it. It was not until we got back to the jetty after dark and dragged it up the path that we were able to explore its contents. The men were delighted by what they found: a set of tools, from a ship’s carpenter no doubt, including saws, planes, adzes, hammers, chisels, braces and bits, and a great variety of nails. ‘Aye, someone’ll be ruing the day he lost this lot,’ said Silas, running his hand along the teeth of the biggest fret saw. ‘There’s years of collecting gone into it, and it would have sunk in another minute. Poor fellow. If I could return it to him I would, but we’ll never find him. He’ll be a miserable man this night, and for many a night to come.’

  ‘Never cry over something that can’t cry over you,’ said the old lady.

  ‘Well, he may be shedding tears, but it’s our good fortune, and thanks be to our lucky charm here,’ said Thomas, alluding to me.

  ‘Aye, but why does one man’s good fortune have to be purchased at the cost of another’s misery?’ Silas asked. ‘We climb to happiness on the backs of our fellow man.’

  Although Silas was a kind-hearted fellow, as evidenced by his saving me from the river and his care of me afterwards, he was given to melancholy at times. They were all kind folk, but Mother Abigail ran the household and did so on stern lines. She had a severe tongue in her head.

  Whilst I was ill with the fever I did not of course question my place in their house, for I was too far beyond reason to think of such abstractions, but now that I was recovered I began to wonder how long they would allow me to stay. For the first time I was experiencing the way countless of my fellow Britons lived, under the same roof year in, year out, patching up holes and stopping leaks, gradually collecting furniture and suchlike around them, planting and harvesting their vegetables. The Piggotts asked me where I lived, so that they could assist me to return to the bosom of my family, but I told them I had no place to stay at present, as my family were farm labourers who had gone to the country in search of work. Some sort of discussion took place around the kitchen table that night, where I believe my position was discussed. They supposed me to be asleep. Strain as I might, though, I could not hear much of what was said, but they did not raise again the topic of my leaving.

  Their life was conducted at such a calm and even pace that while I was convalescent, I found it restful. It was Thomas’s job to get up first in the mornings and light the fire, after which Mother Abigail would appear, wearing a huge purple nightcap which, with a button on one side but not on the other, had a strange resemblance to a malevolent one-eyed cat. She made porridge each day in a great black saucepan on the fire. When it was ready we sat in a line on a wooden bench while Silas said a long prayer invoking God’s blessing on the food. As might be supposed from this, they were a pious family, who lived their lives according to the injunctions of Holy Writ. After that we tucked into the porridge, which, when money was in the house, was embellished with sugar or honey.

  Very good was Mother Abigail’s porridge, and most heartily did we eat it. After breakfast was over Silas said another prayer, of thanks, and Thomas took the dishes outside to clean them, which was the prelude to other domestic chores.

  The only variation to this routine occurred when booty from salvage had become scarce. During these periods, Silas and Thomas would go fishing in the dark early hours of morning, so as to be on the river at dawn when the fish were at their hungriest. On such days, breakfast was delayed until they returned.

  When my recovery was more or less complete, I started, as I have described, going out in the boat with them, during daylight at first, and later, on some of their early morning fishing trips too.

  We’d be on the river most of the day, until after dark. When we got home, as hungry as horses, there’d be an evening meal, perhaps pease soup, white soup, pottage, fish stew or Irish stew. Mother Piggott was a good cook, who managed to add extra delicacies to most dishes, often from herbs growing in her garden. These gave the food a piquant flavour which placed it outside my previous experience but which I came to enjoy.

  After dinner, Silas read from the Good Book, and we had more prayers. Then he sat beside me at the table to give me lessons in reading and writing, for he had soon ascertained that I was interested in my letters. I am sure I do not know how it was that I had acquired the ability to read. It seemed to come naturally and quickly to me, as I believe it does to some. I have memories of different people teaching me my letters and numbers when I was but a wee lad, though I do not know who they were. But I remember at the age of six venturing out to the Strand, where every house bore signs at every window on every floor, proclaiming the occupation of those who resided within, whether dressmakers or jewellers or haberdashers or ironmongers or confectioners, and I could read every sign pretty well, which caused people to marvel that one of such a tender age could do so.

  Because I had picked up what little learning I possessed from here, there and everywhere, I was consequently advanced in some respects and backwards in others. Still, I was a quick study according to Silas, and he was not the first to have said it, so I had hopes of becoming proficient enough one day. And Silas was a good teacher, patient and thorough.

  Whilst he and I sat at the table the other two generally sat in front of the fire, Thomas sipping at ale and Abigail at her foul home-made brandy, until slumber crept upon them. Ale made me sleepy, but even without much of it I was usually the first to take to my bed, especially after Silas’s lessons, which I found the most taxing part of the day.

  The only worry which niggled at my mind was my abandonment of Quentin, whom I imagined to be lonely and miserable on his own in Hell. I had no way of knowing his situation, of course, but he had come to be considerably dependent upon me. I would dearly have loved for him to share my new good fortune, but I dared not broach the matter with the Piggotts, as I could not confess my deceit with regard to the story I had told them. I had formed the view that they were intolerant of falsehoods, or indeed of any breach of the Commandments.

  After several months of this life, however, I started to feel bored and restless when we were not out in the boat. As I recovered from my fever, Mother Abigail set me to domestic tasks the like of which I had never done before, and much vexed she was at the standard of my work, for she often considered my ignorance to be idleness. One day out on the river, as he rested on his oars for a few moments, Silas spoke into the air, saying: ‘Barnaby, you know Mother was aggrieved something awful with you this morning, over the emptying of the chamber-pots. What on earth possessed you, lad, to tip them out the window? You made a nasty-smelling mess right in the garden, and fouled a couple of the chard plants.’

  I dropped my head, for already I hated to be in the wrong with him. ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled. ‘I thought that was what you do.’

  ‘It’s maybe what they do in the city,’ Thomas interjected, ‘but down here we know better.’

  ‘They do it all the time in London,’ I offered. ‘When you go past the huge tall houses in the mornings you have to be quick on your feet if you don’t want a shower of the stuff.’

  ‘But the
n yesterday,’ Silas went on, ‘you were meant to scatter the seeds for the chickens and you put them all in a heap, where the birds fight over them and tread them into the mud, so that half of them are wasted.’

  ‘I didn’t know any better,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘But it’s everything you’re a-told to do, lad. You don’t know how to make a bed or clean a window or scrub a floor or chop wood for the fire. I mean, some of it’s lasses’ work, fair enough, but it does no harm for a lad to do it, and both ours did and no complaint.’

  ‘No complaint?’ Thomas said with his usual cheeky grin. ‘I seem to remember hiding up the beech tree once or twice when it was my turn for chores.’

  ‘Aye, and you got a switching for it more than once or twice,’ his father said grimly. Still resting on his oars he said to me earnestly: ‘Now Barnaby, what’s the truth of the matter? You say your family are farm labourers and they’ve gone to the country. I want to know what manner of family is it that they teach their son nothing, and then go off leaving him on his own in a city as wicked as London? At your age?’

  ‘Yes, and the rags you was dressed in when we pulled you out of the river,’ Thomas added. ‘What kind of dress is that for a child from a respectable family?’

  ‘I never said I was respectable,’ I said darkly.

  ‘You’ve been welcome here, of course,’ Silas said, ‘but it can’t last. You must have people somewhere we should be sending you to. It’s not right to keep you away from them. We know what it’s like to lose a child. It’s the greatest grief of all. Nothing can compare to it.’

  I guessed he was referring to the mysterious Johnny, whose bed I had been occupying. I stayed silent. I feared that as soon as I told them the truth they would throw me back out onto the streets, as a vagrant not fit to be under the same roof as decent people. I wished I could invent a family who would somehow send word to the Piggotts that they were welcome to keep me for as long as they cared.