With one rapid movement Nick tossed away his blanket. He hauled himself up out of the hold and onto the boards.
‘Forgot, did I?’
‘I think so, Nick.’
‘Here’s food for you.’ Nick bent down and snatched the bone from the dog’s jaws. Snipe’s teeth snapped down on it and Nick kicked him off. He grabbed Jim’s hand and thrust the boy’s face into the bone, so his mouth was pressed against it. He could smell the dog’s breath on it. Jim squirmed to get away. The dog sprang and fixed his teeth round Jim’s hand, and as Jim tore it away Snipe bit again, worrying and snapping, till with a shout of laughter Nick flung the bone across the boards. The dog pounded after it and lay guarding it, growling, his eyes fixed on Jim.
‘There’s food for you, if you want it,’ Nick said. He stood with his arms on his hips, watching Jim. The boy sank back on his heels again.
‘No time for eating now, nor sleeping.’ Nick lifted up his head, sniffing the air. ‘I reckon we’ve got the tide.’
With the hold full of coal the lighter lumbered slowly back upstream. Nick stood working the oar, staring ahead of him, yelling sometimes to other lightermen as they drew close. The whole fleet of rivercraft was moving home at the same time, like flies swarming.
It wasn’t until they were in sight of the wharves again, and all the bridges and domes and towers of the city, that Nick leaned round to look at Jim.
‘You done all right,’ he told him, and taking a handful of scraps of meat out of his pocket he threw them at him, laughing at Jim’s surprised face.
But Jim didn’t dive for them, as Nick expected. Nothing would have tempted him to pick up the meat. He wanted to kick the meat overboard into the river, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he had even seen it. Better to pretend it wasn’t there at all. He turned away, fists clenched, and thought of the big bowl of meat Nick would have eaten on the Queen of the North, with gravy and mustard and hot potatoes. He could have called to Jim to come up with him and share it with him. Instead he had shoved the left-overs of his plate into the grimy dust of his pocket. Jim hated him for it. When he turned round again he saw that the dog had eaten the lot.
‘You wouldn’t have ate it anyway, bruvver,’ the voice in his head muttered. ‘Would have stuck in your gullet.’
Nick stood with his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly and watching the dog. ‘Well, you’re an odd one,’ he said to Jim. ‘I don’t knows if I understands you.’
‘Don’t answer him, Bruv,’ Jim thought. ‘If he can’t be bovvered to give you proper food, don’t you be bovvered to talk, see? Just pretend he ain’t there at all.’
As soon as the Lily had nosed into the wharf outside Cockerill’s coalyard Jim and Nick set to work. White-face lowered down the basket and they filled it up, watched it being winched up to the chute, waited for it to come down empty again. Jim knew the pattern of his life now, filling up the hold of the Lily from the big coal-carrying ships that waited outside the port, bringing it upriver to the warehouse, emptying it so it could be taken by horse and cart to the people of London. Backwards and forwards, filling and emptying, shovelling and piling, day after day after day. And never a word spoken between him and Nick. He would sleep on his hard bunk every night of his life. He would eat when Nick thought fit to feed him. He was Nick’s slave, and he was treated worse than an animal.
‘I wish I was Snipe,’ he thought sometimes, when Nick fondled the dog’s head and fed him tasty scraps from his pocket.
Once or twice when they moored up to the Queen of the North again Nick showed by a jerk of his head that Jim was to follow him on board. Jim looked round eagerly for Josh, but he never saw him again. ‘He got a job on shore,’ one of the men told him. ‘Wanted to see more of his family. Said he’d met a little boy who made him long to be at home again.’
Jim didn’t like the rough company of the men any more than Josh had done. Their voices were loud and boastful, but at least they were a change from the silent, brooding company of Grimy Nick, and he was sure of food when he went on board. But he never again thought of hiding on deck and sailing off with them. If he did the men would find him and take him back to Nick, he was sure of that. There was no escape, ever.
But Jim did try to escape one night. He had been living with Nick nearly a year before his chance came.
There was a sudden storm that was so wild that they made straight for the river bank instead of heading back to the wharves. The river rolled and heaved like a boneless beast, tossing the Lily as if she was made of matchsticks. Jim clung to the side, weak and afraid, but as soon as they pulled in and tied up to land he felt better. Nick and Snipe settled again into sleep.
Jim heard the faint sound of bells. Through the slant of rain he could see a village in the distance, and a church tower. He could run to it for shelter. Maybe the storm was making such a noise that Nick and Snipe wouldn’t even hear him going.
‘Come on, bruvver!’ the voice in his head urged. ‘You can do it! You can do it!’
Jim slid over to the coamings. They were awash with rain. He swung one leg over the edge, then the other, and just as he was about to lever himself up to jump his arm caught on the oar, which had been propped up across the boat. It slid down with a sickening thud. Snipe’s ears jerked up to listening points. Immediately into the storm were tossed strange pieces of sound – the barking of a dog, the shouting of a man, and the crying of a boy in pain.
‘Thought yer’d try it, did yer?’ Nick bellowed. He picked Jim up and threw him down into the hold of the Lily on top of the coals. ‘Yer’ll know better next time!’ He slid the hatch boards shut over Jim’s head.
Jim lay in the dark, nursing his leg where Snipe had ripped his flesh. It was hot and wet with blood. He had never known such pain in his life before.
17
The Monster Weeps
For several days Jim lay in the hold, too weak to move. His leg hurt so much that he thought he would never walk again. Nick worked round him, watching him and scowling.
‘Get up, can’t you? Get up!’ he shouted at him one day. ‘I’ve got something for you, if you get up.’
Jim struggled to his feet. He was afraid of what might happen to him if he didn’t show that he was willing to work. Nick watched him, whistling.
‘Come over here now.’
Jim limped across to him, pleased with himself for doing it without letting Nick know how much it hurt. As soon as he reached him Nick pushed Jim’s head down and tied a rope round his neck. He fastened the other end to a hook on the deck board.
‘Caught you now, my wild bird!’ he chuckled. ‘There’ll be no flying away now!’
Jim turned away, saying nothing. ‘I’ll get my revenge,’ he thought. ‘One day, Nick. You’ll be sorry you did this to me.’
One summer morning Jim limped from Cockerill’s yard with a brimming pail of water. There was no need these days for Snipe to follow him to the pump yard and back. He would just squat at the gate, watching, his tongue lolling out and his ears up sharp. Even if Jim had managed to untie the rope he wouldn’t have been able to run away from Snipe. It had taken months for the scars in his leg to heal, and even so he couldn’t put his weight on it properly.
He lifted the water on board and made porridge, just as he did every morning when they were moored at Cockerill’s, while Nick shovelled coal into the basket. When the porridge was ready he banged his wooden spoon on the cooking pot. He never spoke to Nick these days. Nick yelled up to White-face to haul up the basket, and as it creaked past him Jim noticed how frayed the rope had become. The strands were taut and straight instead of twisted into a plait, and even as he watched one or two of the threads began to snap. Slowly the basket swayed up. Jim stood up, watching it. The hairs on his neck began to tremble, and his heart began to beat a light, rapid rhythm; a dance of warning.
Nick was groping his way slowly out of the hold. High above his bent back the basket began to tilt.
Then, ‘Nick!’ Jim yelled.
&
nbsp; Nick looked up sharply, saw Jim’s upturned face, and flung himself sideways. At that very instant the rope snapped and all the coals rained down.
And then the air settled into a choking silence. Snipe howled, snuffling into the scattered coals. White-face shouted from his top window and came hurrying down the iron stairs of the warehouse, his boots clanging on every step. Jim didn’t move from the spot.
White-face shoved past him and stood gazing down at the heap of coals. He ran back and shook Jim into life.
‘Don’t stand there, boy. Help me.’
With his bare hands White-face scrabbled, moaning out loud. Cold and quiet, Jim knelt down beside him. He eased the coals slowly away, picking them out one by one and placing them behind him. He was deeply frightened.
‘Look!’ he whispered at last, and White-face stopped his scrabbling. The coals seemed to be stirring of their own accord. It was as if they were breathing. A pair of blackened hands groped through, then a face, blinking into the light, and like a monster rising from the deep Grimy Nick emerged. He staggered up, shaking sprays of black dust. Snipe hurled himself against him. Nick crouched down on to the boards again, breathing heavily, staring round him as though he couldn’t believe where he was.
‘I’ll get a doctor for you,’ White-face said. He was shaking.
‘No, yer don’t,’ Nick snarled. ‘I can’t afford a doctor. I’ll live.’
‘And you can thank your boy for that,’ White-face told him. He scrambled back onto the landing-stage, checking the time on his pocket watch. ‘I reckon he saved your life.’ He clanged back up the stairs, counting them out loud as he went.
Jim couldn’t bear to look at Nick. It wasn’t that he was afraid of him. He would never be afraid of him again now, he knew that. But what he couldn’t bear was the noise that was coming from him, little whimpers, bubbling up out of him, blubbers of sound, and when he looked he saw white trails running down Nick’s cheeks, coursing through the coal-dust, filling up and coursing through again, as if they would never stop.
18
You can do it, Bruvver
It was autumn. The procession on the river was headed by a washing-tub drawn by six geese. Men swam behind it. All the barges and lighters were decorated with flags and flowers and white rags that fluttered like the feathers of swans. Some of the men were being rolled down the river in barrels, to hoots of laughter. The banks were lined with watchers all dressed in bright rags and shiny coats, playing bugles and beating drums. A family of beggars was singing hymns, and the tiny voices of the children piped like birds. It was the miners’ pageant, and the Lily drifted along in the procession, freed from work for the day. Nick and his fellows shouted to each other and sang.
Drawn up among the watching people were some painted wagons. Two clowns stood with mournful faces, holding up a green and crimson banner. ‘Juglini’s Champion Circus’, Nick read out.
‘What’s a circus?’ Jim wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. The showman’s family came out of their wagon to watch. The man and the woman each carried a child and older children danced round them. A boy of Jim’s age did a handstand and waggled his feet at the barges. Jim waved to him and the boy dropped down, waved, and swung up again.
‘See,’ the voice in his head said. ‘Another bruvver, Jim. They’re all over the place, ain’t they?’
For a time, as the procession sailed past, the circus boy ran alongside the Lily; waving and shouting. ‘Come to the circus! Come to the circus!’ he shouted, then fell back as the crowd became thicker. Jim cupped his hands round his mouth. ‘I will! I will!’ he shouted back. They were nearing another village. Jim stood up and strained to keep the boy in sight. He could hear the circus band, the roll of drums, the tooting of trumpets and trombones. He imagined he could still hear the boy’s voice.
The main point of the pageant seemed to be for the coalmen and lightermen to pull up at every village and visit the local ale-house, and get as drunk as possible on their pageant money. Grimy Nick lurched and stumbled with the rest of them, and his singing became louder and more slurred. He stowed his long oar inside the hold and laughed down at Jim’s excited face.
‘Want to go pageanting, do you?’
‘Please Nick … Can I?’
Nick whistled in his scornful way and stumped off. Jim watched him go, hating him. He crouched down by Snipe, fingering the rope round his neck. Night was settling down on the water, though it was still warm. Families were gathered on the banks, and children were being called together by their mothers. They eyed him curiously as they went past, and whispered to each other, their hands across their mouths. Jim knew they were laughing at him.
‘What are you doing here,’ the voice in his head asked him, ‘tied up like an animal, eating and sleeping like an animal, no one to talk to? Time you went. Time you skipped away, bruvver, and no mistake.’
He stood up, and Snipe snarled at him. Jim thought about his lucky chance at the workhouse when he had decided to escape with the carpets, how he had leapt at it, how well it had worked. If he had managed that time, he’d manage again. His last attempt had been reckless; he’d jumped without thinking. He would be mad to think of taking a chance like that again. But this time his thoughts were calm and steady. He wasn’t going to leap at anything. But he was going to get away. He knew that.
By the time night was out, he knew, Grimy Nick would be drunker than he’d ever been before. It was Jim’s perfect chance. He knew exactly what to do.
While he waited, he lowered himself down into the hold and found some big heavy chunks of coal. He carried them up on to the boards and hid them. Then he found a small, sharp piece. He ran his hand along the edge of it. Just right.
He laid the boards down across the coamings till they covered the hold completely, except for the small hatch board. Then he took the piece of sharp coal and rubbed it against the rope that was round his neck. It seemed to take hours. He thought the rope would never begin to fray, but all at once he felt the strands fluffing up and beginning to weaken. His wrist was aching. If Nick came while he was doing it, he thought, he would just put his head down and pretend to sleep. It was only a matter of time now. The rope had to give. Bursts of sound erupted on the river and from the village. Jim worked on, scraping and scraping at the rope. It had to give.
At last he was through. The last slice of the coal cut his neck as the final strand snapped, but he didn’t care. He held the frayed end in his hand and edged up to Snipe, careful not to startle him. The dog opened his yellow eyes and growled.
‘It’s all right Snipe. It’s all right.’
He forced himself to stroke the dog’s matted fur. Again Snipe growled. Jim kept on stroking him and talking to him softly, all the time listening out for Grimy Nick. At last he judged the dog to be calm enough. He slipped the rope round Snipe’s neck and secured it. Good.
Then he heard Nick coming back, singing and stumbling along the river bank. It didn’t matter. Jim had a plan for that. When Nick lumbered on deck he raised the lantern and saw his boy and his dog sleeping side by side, the boy with his hand on the dog’s neck. He was touched by their peacefulness. He tried to creep past them, lost his footing; and tumbled into his hold. Jim and Snipe both strained their ears, listening. Almost at once Nick’s breathing steadied into a rumbling snore.
For a long time Jim waited. Onshore, all the voices had quietened down. The hens and dogs, the cows and pigs in all the backyards of all the villages had settled in for the night.
Jim stirred slowly. Snipe half woke. Jim sat for a bit and then sidled his way to the hold. He watched the dog till it sank its head back into its paws.
‘Come on. You can do it, bruvver. You can.’
And he knew that he could.
Slowly, slowly, he stood up, took hold of the hatch cover, and lowered it down. The dog slept on. One by one, and taking what seemed to be an eternity over it, he lifted up the big chunks of coal that he had brought up earlier and, without making a sound, placed them on the
hatch. He worked slowly and steadily, and still the dog slept. Then he straightened himself up. Nothing moved. Not a sound.
He crept over to the side of the deck, glanced quickly round at the dog, and with one swift movement rolled himself off the lighter and on to the bank. He righted himself, and began to run.
19
Away
Instantly Snipe was awake. His howls rang across the night. He strained to pull against the rope, in a fury to be free. Grimy Nick hollered himself into wakefulness and pummelled his fists against the hatch. Across the fields all the backyard animals sent up their clamour. Lights blazed across the water.
Jim sprinted on steadily, head down, dodging between bushes and trees. He could hear his own breathing, and the flapping of his boot soles. Brambles tore at his breeches and his jacket. An overhanging branch snapped at his cap and held it trapped, and Jim had to run back and tear it free. He loped on, his chest tight and bursting, his legs as heavy as lead weights. He had no idea where he was going.
He heard rustling in the undergrowth behind him and knew that he was being followed. The rustling became a snuffling and panting. It was a dog. Jim’s leg hurt so much now that he couldn’t run any further. In total weariness he flung himself down, head-first, covered his face with his hands, and waited for Snipe to spring.
He was aware that everything had gone silent again, as if the world had sunk back into sleep. At last he made himself turn his head. The dog was not Snipe at all, but a small terrier. He licked Jim’s outstretched hand and ran away again through a hedge. There wasn’t a sound. If Snipe still howled, he couldn’t be heard from here. If Nick still hammered and swore then the noise he made was lost in the night.
‘What if they’re dead, bruvver?’ the voice crept into his head. ‘What if old Nick’s suffocating down there in the hold? What if Snipe’s strangled himself on that rope?’ He sat up, drenched with cold sweat. ‘What if you’ve killed them?’
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