The Elephant Thief

by Jane Kerr

  It was soon obvious to Boy that she didn’t entirely trust her husband—and that was even before she’d learnt about the bet.

  “Sheer stupidity. That’s what it is. Whatever possessed you? You’ll have to back down.” She took a deep breath and finally gave Mr. Jameson a chance to speak.

  “Me dearest dove, I know what I’m doin’. This will be the makin’ of Belle Vue. I promise you.”

  “But, Jamie, you can’t win. That elephant is no racehorse. He’s slow and heavy; he can’t cover that distance in seven days. What if he gets ill? What if there’s an accident? It’s impossible, even for you, and Albright knows it. Why do you think he made the bet?”

  “Poppycock, me sweet love.” Boy was amazed Mr. Jameson’s confidence didn’t waver. “This’ll be the biggest, most talked about event since the coronation. And this is the lad who’s goin’ to make it happen. Him and Maharajah.”

  He gestured Boy forwards. Boy shuffled nearer. He’d been waiting there since the train steamed out of the station. Part of him—the small, optimistic part that seemed to have survived against all the odds—still hoped this was the chance he’d been waiting for. But his other self, who knew nothing ever came for free, sneered at the idea.

  “This here is Danny. Danny, this is Mrs. Jameson herself. The kindest, most lovin’ wife a man could want.”

  “Don’t try that flannel with me.” Mrs. Jameson folded her arms over her chest and glared down at her husband. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  She wasn’t the only one. Boy was desperate to find out as well. What could he possibly do for Belle Vue that was so important? His only skills were as a pickpocket. He knew nothing about animals and certainly nothing about elephants. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Come on, Jamie,” Mrs. Jameson demanded. “Sandev’s already agreed to look after Maharajah until we get to Manchester. If you need more help, we could ask him to stay on. At least he knows what he’s doing.”

  “No, me love, you don’t understand. I’ve got it all worked out. Once we get to Belle Vue, we won’t need Sandev. Because we’ll have Danny.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy, me darlin’. He’s me secret weapon. After he’s been cleaned up and had a bit of trainin’, he and Maharajah will be the biggest draw in the park. You’ll see.”

  Mrs. Jameson snorted down her long nose. “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s nothing but a dirty, scrawny urchin.”

  Boy didn’t even blink at the insult. He’d heard lots worse. All his attention fixed on Mr. Jameson. Exactly what was his plan? However much he turned over the possibilities, he just couldn’t work it out.

  “There might not be a great deal to him now, me dove, but he’s worth his weight in gold. Thanks to the auction, there’s stories of him everywhere. Him and the elephant. Look at the front of the Herald. And the Scotsman. People would pay thousands for publicity like that. And I can bet anything you like, there’ll be more tomorrow.”

  Mr. Jameson swiped his hand in the air as though reading a newspaper headline. “Can’t you see it?—‘Elephant Boy Tames Wild Beast.’ ‘Orphan Saves Maharajah from a Vicious Whippin’.’ ”

  “Don’t you bet me anything, James Jameson. That’s what got us into this trouble.”

  “Me pet, you know as well as me that what the public really love is a story. A drama. A tale of triumph over adversity. Well, we can give it to ’em, thanks to Danny here. He’s the boy that bought an elephant. The urchin who’s a friend to wild creatures. The only one that could calm a raging beast. And he’s the boy that’s going to ride Maharajah all the way to Manchester.”

  Ride an elephant! Nerves quivered in Boy’s stomach. And yet underneath it all, he felt a spark of something that might actually be hope. He moved a little closer. But not close enough that he couldn’t still escape.

  “Think about it.” Mr. Jameson paused. “That journey’s more than two hundred miles, through Scotland and England. Think of all those towns and villages. All those people. All those newspapers. All those customers.”

  He rolled out the last word so it lingered between the three of them. Mrs. Jameson’s anger seemed to fade a little. Her arms loosened from their tight hold against her chest.

  “That’s all very well. But if you think Arthur Albright is going to sit back and let us win, then you really are a fool.”

  It was too late. Even Boy could sense she was weakening. Mr. Jameson put a hand around her waist to pull her close.

  “I’ve already thought of that. Whatever he tries, I can handle. Trust me, me dove. Just trust me.”

  Gently, he kissed her cheek. The skin turned pink. For a moment, Boy could picture Mrs. Jameson as a young girl, soft and full of laughter. There was a sigh.

  “Very well, Jamie. You’ve got your wish. And I hope you don’t drag us all down with you. I’ll never forgive you if you lose Belle Vue.”

  “I won’t, Ethel May, I promise you that.”

  Boy’s insides cramped as Mr. Jameson stepped nearer. At long last, this was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He couldn’t have been more certain if a herald of angels had flown down to Waverley Station to sing it out loud.

  “First of all, I’m glad you came back to us, lad. I had a feeling in me gut that you would. And I’m hardly ever wrong.”

  Mr. Jameson put a hand on Boy’s shoulder. Boy worked hard not to flinch. The contact prickled. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be touched.

  “Now I’ve got somethin’ I need to ask you—and it’s important. Is there anyone here in this city who you’d miss? And who’d miss you?”

  The question was so blunt it was almost cruel. A succession of faces filed quickly through his mind. Robbie, Mrs. Sweets, and the other Fergus brothers were all there. And the mystery woman who he only ever saw in his dreams.

  But the truth was, no one would really care if he disappeared—and it was entirely possible that only Frank Scatcherd would actually notice. Blinking, Boy lifted his chin and shook his head. The pat on his shoulder was brief, so he allowed it.

  “Then this is a golden opportunity I’m offering you, lad. A chance for fame and fortune. A chance of a lifetime, some might say.” Mr. Jameson’s voice turned silky. He slipped a gold sovereign from his wallet, and dropped it into Boy’s hand. It was hard and cold and comforting.

  “That’s for you. There’s only one now, but I can promise you if you stick with us, there’ll be more. I want you to come to Belle Vue. You’ll have enough food to fill your belly twice over. A fine suit of new clothes. There’ll be a real bed with cotton sheets. And in the winter, we always have fires burning in every hearth.”

  A sly look crossed his face. “And there’s the elephant. You’ll have Maharajah. He’d be yours to look after. And you can ride him in style all the way to your new home. So what d’you say?”

  Boy knew Mr. Jameson must have worked out exactly what to offer. Comfort. Safety. And Maharajah. Nothing had ever sounded more tempting, but could he believe it? It seemed too incredible to be real.

  Of course, in the end, the decision was easy—because he didn’t have much of a choice. This was what he wanted. A chance to escape. He curled his fingers around the sovereign, then nodded.

  “That’s wonderful, lad.” Mr. Jameson grinned. “And remember you’re Danny from now on. I want you to have a name in those newspapers. I want people to know who you are. And where you come from—Danny from Belle Vue. They’re both names to be proud of. Remember that.”

  Boy didn’t return to Cowgate. If this worked out, he’d never have to go back there again. And he’d never have to see Scatcherd. Or feel his fists. Or the cut of his knife. Every time he realized the possibilities, his heart seemed to lift right out of his chest.

  Instead, Boy left Waverley Station in a hired carriage alongside the Jamesons. There was a lot to be done, according to Mrs. Jameson, and very little time to do it. She ticked off the jobs on her gloved fingers.

  “A bath. A decent me
al. And most definitely a lesson in basic manners … but first we’ll have to arrange some new clothes.” She swept a look from Boy’s head to his feet. “Perhaps a suit in green silk? You’ll need something elegant but that’ll also attract attention.”

  “He’ll be sittin’ on an elephant, me dove,” said her husband. “If that’s not goin’ to attract attention, I don’t know what will.”

  A little later, the carriage stopped at a parade of wealthy shops. Boy recognized George Street. He’d been there once before, but a grubby pickpocket stood out among the rich shoppers like a cat in a dog race, so he hadn’t returned.

  Out of habit, he looked around for thieving opportunities. Grocers and chemists clustered next to clockmakers and drapers. On one side, an emporium stretched three stories high, and every window was full of bedding, glassware, and china. Next door, a cobbler worked on a pair of lady’s shoes, while the smell of peppermint drifted from a nearby sweet shop. Boy’s mouth watered. But he wasn’t allowed to linger.

  Like a battleship in full sail, Mrs. Jameson stormed through one doorway. A bell jangled as they went inside.

  Boy swallowed a gasp.

  The room was filled, floor to ceiling, with shelves of folded cloth. Each fabric had been sorted according to color and type, from muslin and cotton to velvet and tweed. He’d never seen such choice.

  The clothes he stood up in were all that he owned—a tattered shirt earned by bartering with a fellow thief; trousers and a jacket stolen from a busy washerwoman; and, his proudest possession, some ill-fitting boots. They weren’t a matching pair, but still worth every hour he’d spent scouring Edinburgh’s rubbish dumps.

  Yet here, amid this rich finery, Boy felt every inch of what he was—a dirty, ragged pickpocket. In the slang of the streets, he was nothing more than a tea leaf. A dipper. A fine wirer. A tooler. A thief.

  A small man, sharp-featured and pale, came out from behind one of the shop counters.

  “Welcome to Fairgreave and Sons, tailors to the gentry. Can I help you, madam?” He bowed to Mrs. Jameson and turned a calculating eye on her husband. “Sir?”

  He ignored Boy. Boy tugged at the sleeve of his shirt and tried not to care.

  “I need a suit of clothes made up, the best you have, for Danny ’ere. We’re thinkin’ of somethin’ bright, in silk maybe.”

  The tailor didn’t even pretend to think it over. “Sir, I’m afraid it’s just not possible. We’re a high-class establishment, serving refined and fashionable tastes. We don’t cater for beggar children.” He gave a loud sniff. “And to put it frankly, the boy smells. I suggest you go elsewhere.”

  A familiar feeling flooded over Boy. He wasn’t good enough. Not good enough for this place or anywhere else that would ever matter. He hated that the tailor’s reaction even bothered him. Why hadn’t he learnt by now?

  “He smells, but he can have a wash. You’re a fussy snob, but there’s nothin’ you or I can do about that.”

  Shocked, Boy stared at Mr. Jameson. It was the first time he could remember anyone ever defending him. In Cowgate, asking for help was a certain way to disappointment; he’d got used to standing on his own. Warmth unfurled in his chest.

  Mr. Jameson took out his wallet and tipped a handful of coins on to the counter. “Perhaps these could change your mind. I’m a cash man, meself. Don’t believe in credit.”

  The tailor’s fingers closed over the money before it could roll to the floor. He gave a smile so thin it looked like a line had been drawn across his face.

  “On reflection, sir, we might be able make an exception. I’ll see what I can do. Just this once.” He gestured to one of his assistants. “Fetch the silks, Turpin. The jewel colors.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fairgreave.” The man scurried off towards a ladder at the back of the shop.

  Turning to Boy, the tailor pulled a measuring tape from around his neck. His nose twitched. “Legs apart and raise your arms.”

  Boy glanced at Mr. Jameson, who nodded. So, bracing himself, he did as he was asked. The urge to run had rarely been stronger. Mr. Fairgreave made a series of rapid measurements, scribbling notes as he worked.

  “He’s very … brown, isn’t he?”

  Boy was used to people talking around him—and about him. He always listened. But this time, he waited for Mr. Jameson’s answer with more than normal interest. Of course, he knew he wasn’t the same color as everyone else. His skin didn’t freckle in the sun, or turn pasty white, even in winter. He looked different. What he didn’t know was the reason why.

  “Well, what’s not dirt is all him. So I expect he’s got some foreign blood in him somewhere.” Mr. Jameson had settled himself into an armchair. Now he raised an eyebrow. There was a challenge in his expression that Boy was glad wasn’t directed at him. “Have you a problem with that?”

  “No! No, sir. Of course not.” Mr. Fairgreave blinked rapidly. “And what style of clothing were you considering, sir? For what sort of occasion?”

  “A suit of Sunday clothes for a start. Then somethin’ more in the Indian style. Those big trousers. Like ladies’ bloomers. They might be the most comfortable. He’s goin’ to be riding an elephant.”

  “An elephant?” The tailor’s pencil jabbed into Boy’s arm. It hurt, but Boy didn’t mind. The expression on Mr. Fairgreave’s face was worth it. He looked appalled.

  “Yes, the story will be in all the papers. If I were you, I’d watch out for it tomorrow in the Herald. And the Scotsman. You could make your name sewin’ clothes for this lad. He’s goin’ to be famous.”

  “Famous, you say?” Boy could almost hear the deliberations going on in Mr. Fairgreave’s head.

  “Yes, no doubt about it. You’ll see.”

  Mrs. Jameson had been examining swatches of silk at the counter, now she came to stand by her husband. He patted her hand. “What d’you think, me dearest?”

  “Is the Indian costume really necessary, Jamie? Won’t Maharajah be enough?”

  “I’ve told you already, me dearest. We want to squeeze every last bit of publicity from this. I don’t reckon it’s ever goin’ to happen again.”

  Mrs. Jameson frowned. “Very well then. If you must. But make sure you order a few waistcoats—one in each of the colored silks. And enough white shirts to go with them.”

  “Perfect, me dove. And we’ll add in some slippers. A pair to match every outfit.”

  For the rest of the morning, Boy was pulled and prodded. Lengths of cloth were flung across his shoulders, while patterns were cut and tacked. He endured it only because he knew he had to, but each touch felt like a hot iron.

  Finally, to his relief, Mrs. Jameson seemed satisfied. She nodded to her husband, who rose from his seat and opened his wallet again.

  “I need at least one complete costume for tomorrow. I don’t care how you do it but it must be delivered to my hotel by seven o’clock in the mornin’. The Cavendish on Albany Street.” Mr. Jameson placed another stack of coins on the counter. “There’ll be a bonus on top of that if you do.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Mr. Fairgreave was all politeness now. He cleared his throat. “It’s been an experience to serve you, sir. I don’t think we’ve ever outfitted a person for an elephant ride before.”

  Mr. Jameson blew out a cloud of cigar smoke as he opened the shop door for them to leave. Boy heard the bell set tinkling again before Mr. Jameson replied.

  “Oh, this is not just a ride, me good man. This is an adventure!”

  “If he causes trouble, he’s out.” The man behind the hotel desk glared at Boy as though he were only one move away from committing a particularly monstrous crime.

  “He won’t.” Mr. Jameson took a puff of his cigar and leant a little farther over the desk. “And can I say how grateful we are that you were able to put us up for an extra night? Me and Mrs. Jameson always stay at the Cavendish when we’re in Edinburgh. We’d have hated to take our business elsewhere.”

  He let the threat hang in the air for a moment, but it took the
landlord a little time to appreciate the message. Then he smiled nervously.

  “You know we’re always glad to have you, Mr. Jameson.” He jerked his head. “The maid will show him up to the room. The Indian fella’s already arrived. The boy’s sharing with him.”

  It took three flights of steep stairs to reach the attic chamber. The room was small and plain, but compared to what Boy was used to, it was a palace. Tonight would be the first time he’d ever slept in a hotel. Or in a room with a fire in the hearth. Or without mice and rats. The list could go on and on.

  There was only one bed—which Sandev had already claimed, judging by the abandoned suitcase—but a mattress had been laid out on the floor, near the fire. Boy sat and felt the softness of the cotton sheets with something close to wonder.

  He had nothing to unpack. His only belongings were the bundle of pennies, the newspaper cutting, and Mr. Jameson’s sovereign. He pushed them all under the pillow, making sure everything was well hidden.

  But Boy had no more time alone. Footsteps stomped along the corridor, then Mrs. Jameson marched in, towels tucked under one arm. Behind her, two maids carried a tin bath, and others followed with buckets of hot water.

  “Over there, please. Quickly now.”

  Boy watched as the tub filled and the steam rose. This would be a new experience. He did wash, but not often, and only when the stench became so strong that even he noticed. Usually, he stripped to the waist in a trough of rainwater, except for one summer’s afternoon spent scavenging in the River Leith with Robbie. He still remembered how the cold had stolen his breath, and chased shivers across his skin.

  Mrs. Jameson was brisk. “Take off your clothes. Put them in a pile over there. The sooner you’re clean the better.”

  Boy hesitated. He wasn’t shy. No one living in the slums could stay prudish, but trusting other people was hard.

  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing you’ve got that I haven’t seen before. I brought up two younger brothers.”

  She rolled up her sleeves and knelt to test the bathwater. All but one of the maids left the room. Boy peeled off his trousers, shirt, and jacket, and grabbed a towel. Naked, he huddled inside the folds. On the floor, his clothes were a heap of dirty rags. He struggled not to feel ashamed.