The one swept the crossroads near Exchange Square, and the other was a clean-up lad, working amidst the pig butchery and suet rendering house at the Smithfield Mart. I recall them but vaguely and always as taciturn lads, their long hair scissored in front: closely so for the darker and elder one, to be neat for all the gents who might tip him at the Exchange Square, almost not cut at all for my second eldest and more ashen-haired sib, since it veiled him from the splash of hog blood and of swine guts.
He would come home and wash his face and hands very long minutes at a time at the open font out of doors before coming in, even in foul, freezing weather. Tom was his name. Davey was the other. I have no idea what has become of either lad, or if even they still live, since my destiny was soon to sweep me out of their ambit.
This happened when I was just half past four years old. My mother took a spring ague badly, and her unmarried older sister from six streets away was called on to take her care and mine too, which she did with a bad grace, brief though it was. Mother coughed and wheezed thereafter whenever the weather grew rank, which was nearly always, until she became too ailing to do more than feed me and see that I didn’t harm myself.
I was told I was a tranquil infant who amused himself with whatever was at hand to become my toy and game. I seldom cried, and even when I was hungry rarely made an annoyance of myself. Unwell, unmedicated, penurious, alone, my mother took to her bed for extended hours. I was left alone until nightfall when my brothers returned home with a hot-pot of tavern soup and market leavings or whatever crusts they could cadge on Commercial Street.
As my mother grew weaker, ’twas a neighbour woman, Mrs. Gillip, who took me in more. She had a daughter named Susan whom she doted on, although she’d also doted on me since the time I was born, herself lacking any boy child. Though my Ma felt Mrs. Gillip had always wanted me for her own, and Ma tried not to let me go, what could she do? One morn, Davey carried me across the street to the Gillips’ with what little toddler gear I possessed, and there stayed I, fed and dandled, and eventually taught my numbers and alphabet too, as it was a sort of school for infants.
Mrs Gillip prided herself upon her education on Brick Lane. And so Gillip’s Nursery it was, formed on the model brought over from the Continent by the consort of Queen Victoria, called a kinder-garten or garden of little children. It was the talk of our northern vicinity of the city, I may well say. Clean and quiet, save for when Mrs. Gillip led us in singing. Every child washed hands and face several times per day and when coming in and leaving. Our food was healthy and without vermin—porridges and soups mostly, but with recognizable hunks of meat in the latter, a true rarity in the Villas Sheen.
No wonder other mothers got wind of it and left the little ones there for a day while their Mam went out buying a day’s provender; or two days and nights running, while they visited family that resided outside the London Wall. Susan and myself stayed at Gillip’s all the time, and we were paradigms of children: adorable to look at, unsoiled and cleanly clad, well fed, cheerful and intelligent. We were the smartest little things, Susan with her banana curls and satin bows, me in my little sailor’s suit and dickie.
Mrs. Regina Gillip was herself nothing to look upon. A pox had taken her early in life and had left its visiting card upon her face so that it was scarred from her pug nose on down. But her big blue eyes were as innocent as a china doll’s. Her Harry Gillip doted upon her, and upon his very pretty Susan, who favoured her dam. After I had been there a bit, Harry even doted upon me too, as a new family member.
He worked at sundry occupations requiring a broad man with good shoulders and a deep voice. He’d worked the many boats that plied the docks at Southwark, and he had helped construct the new Thames river concrete and stone embankment that ran down from Strand to Westminster-town, and the newer bridges across the river, where I came to understand his booming voice was de rigeur for any construction team. His extensive back made him a rolled-sleeve model for several important painted pictures that were later on shown at French and English art salons.
Soon, more than a half dozen kinder might be found at supper and sleeping over nightly at the Nursery, with another half dozen day boarders. Mrs. Gillip had aspired to such; and she now dwelt in educational glory. I was all but a second child, second apple of Regina’s eye, receiving as tasty morsels as Susan, as sweet a part of an apricot tart, a thick soup, and when Harry was flush, he brought home from the tavern a spicy East Indian stew, called a Vindaloo.
Paradise, alas, as our bard, Mr. Milton, shows us, is only recognizable when lost. I had resided in comfort and good vittles with the Gillips something like three years when my downfall occurred. Like that of our common ancestor, it was brought about through Woman. One of seven and a half years, and a flirt and grimalkin if ever one existed. Little Susan spread her feminine wiles about widely to each and every boy or man she came upon, sitting for a half hour upon dear Harry’s lap, for example, fidgeting and fidgeting until she found a comfortable spot, upon which Harry would sigh aloud, put her down, and hurriedly leave the room. Still, I was her greatest attraction, partly because I saw her wiles for what they were. Even so, I couldn’t help myself one late afternoon during our general laying down and mid-afternoon nap, but at her whispered urging followed her into the laundry corner.
Mrs. Gillip was sound asleep, snoring away from her labours. Susan then lifted her frock and said in a most seductive voice, “Show me what’s in your pants.”
“Same as you,” I said, for I’d seen her make water in a pan once, even though she must bend down while I stood up.
“Silly. Silly. Silly! It’s not the same.”
I was taken aback. “It’s not?”
“No, look!” said she and pulled down her pants just enough for me to look. Well! It was indeed quite different than mine or my brothers’, and so I shook myself out of my flies to show her and she giggled. “See, silly!” Well, I saw, then she touched, then I touched, then she bussed my lips, and I bussed hers back, and it was in this very situation that Regina Gillip found us.
“Why! You! Fiend! You!” said Mrs. Gillip. Her face got almost purple, and I thought she might be taking a fit. Then she charged at us and grabbed me up, and before I could utter a word, she had thrashed me to pieces and tears. I’d never been touched in that fashion and was confused, wounded, and thoroughly out of sorts. When her arm had grown tired, she threw me down in a corner and covered me with old clothing. “Stay right there, filthy boy! Among the filthy clothes. And don’t you dare move an inch!” She then took up Susan, but rather than thrash her as she done me, she cooed at her, and kissed and caressed her and asked was she unhurt and fed her a sweetmeat and then brought her out to the other kinder, who had been awakened by the noise she’d made beating me.
I remained hidden under old clothing all that afternoon, and had no tea and bread and butter. Once when I crawled out to look at what treats the others were eating, one boy saw me, and Regina Gillip saw him see me and she leapt up and chased me back into the corner and under the old unwashed clothing, kicking at me.
The day the boarders left, Harry returned home and I heard him taken aside and told of my sin. “The blackguard!” he yelped. “The whelping little cur. Shall I thrash him again?” But I was not thrashed again. Instead, I was left to remain where I was by Mrs. Gillip after she had fed and put the other children to sleep, and there I lay, hungry, and cold, wrapping soiled petticoats about me for warmth, utterly unclear as to my offence.
The next day I was allowed out to wash up and join the others. But Mrs. Gillip pretended I was not in the house. I received no food, and when I tried to sleep, no place was left for me and I had to go back into the laundry corner. The same went for the afternoon and night. I was ravenous, and after the others had gone to bed, I got up and sneaked to the cold larder and there fed myself on what crusts were left over.
I might have gone on like that for weeks more had I not been caught by Mrs. Gillip. She thrashed me again and the very next
morning, Harry grabbed me up like old laundry before I could even open my eyes for the day, and carried out by my middle like a dead fowl. After he had strode near on a mile without saying a word or heeding my pleas, I was dropped onto the cobblestones and next to me was tossed a tied-up bundle of the clothes that I had arrived in some years before. Before I could gather my wits, he was striding off into the fog, and it was not yet seven of the morning.
I cowered cold in a corner as the day began, and then that shop door was opened and I was kicked aside. I begged and got a half-eaten brown bread roll. Soon enough, some toughs twice my age arrived and announced that this was “their kingdom” and if I knew what was good for me, I would “establish myself elsewhere.”
I asked a passing charwoman what that large building was and was told it was St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I recalled my brother Davey saying it was near the Smithfield Market where brother Tom worked. So I dragged myself through Smithfield Circle, with its grim statue of Henry the Wife Killer, until I found the market.
So immense it was, I was lost on an instant. But then I recalled it was hog butchery my brother Tom worked at, and so little by little, I worked my way to that end. Once found, I went into every shop and asked for Tom. But there was none of that name, and the blood-splattered boys and men all seemed listless as they answered me no. I’d just given up hope when one of the oldest men there with a great beard pointed like a spade, came to me and said, “Is it little blond Tom with the long hair you’re looking for?”
“Yes, from Villas Sheen in Bell’s Lane?” I said.
He shook his head a while and then described him well enough, concluding, “Gone.”
“Gone, sir?”
“Gone to sea, the boy is. Over a fortnight. He laboured for me.”
“To sea?” It was as good as Tom having died and gone off to heaven.
I was at least able to get directions to Exchange Square and slowly wended my way back east into the city, whence I’d been hauled that morning. There I sought my brother Davey among the sweeping boys. But he was not to be found, and when I asked the sweepers they said he got a real job working for a gentleman far outside the city, beyond Westminster in the country somewhere.
One boy asked if I’d eaten and kindly shared a small two-day-old meat pie with me. For Davey’s sake, I supposed. Looking at my bundle, he asked what they were, and when I showed them, he said he could take me to a shop where I might sell the clothing for money. I got sixpence for the pretty but now useless things. I bought another meat pie and then, since I was almost there, I walked dejectedly back to White’s Row.
The woman who lived in front of us at Villas Sheen recalled me, and she marvelled at how tall and well I had grown. Of my brothers she said, “Once yer Mam was dead, they wuz trown bodily from the rooms. Poor lads. Slept under the street bridges or in constriction of the rail termeenuss, or so I gaither.” She fed me soup, but there was not even space on the floor for me to huddle, and so I left.
The few street bridges I found were already filled with children and men jostling for a place to sleep. She had given me a ragged half-blanket, and I wandered about in a trance of sorts, despondent at my destiny, until it was very long past midnight.
I was about to fall down right there in some doorway to sleep when I spotted a few boys hurrying in a particular direction. I followed them to the Bishopsgate Railway Terminus. Adjacent to it, via a little wooden doorway, turned out to be an enormous construction site, of what would in a year or more become the Liverpool Station, the grandest in all England. There, the boys entered, then slid under some wooden hoddings and were quickly out of sight. I followed and entered into a Herculean excavation.
I saw the lads headed toward one particular area, and I followed them to where the building of what would be the lowest portions of the new railway terminus was already in progress. Of course there was a night watchman and a dog, but they were old and half deaf. Anyway, the place was gigantic, bigger than all of London, I thought, I who had seen so little of it. So, I did what I saw other young boys doing. I climbed up until I was on a high rafter, out of sight of watchmen and dogs, and then I wedged myself into a wall space where I slept.
That night and a week more nights. All the while spending money on pies and bread rolls, the cheapest food I might get, asking if anyone knew Davey or Tom. But there were so many Daveys and Toms and I had only their Christian names.
Soon my food and money gave out, and it was then I remembered seeing a little knot of the dirtiest boys all gathered about in one portion of the terminus site which was that best covered with canvas against the weather. These were called by the others Grimmins Lads. Unlike the other boys and men who scattered like so many black beetles at the approach of dawn, these lads remained as they were, in a group of ten. They were met at morn by an open-backed, horse-drawn dray which took them away and brought them back there to sleep after nightfall. Unlike the rest of us, too, they were a compact and unified group, staunchly defending their little territory and sharing drink and vittles amongst themselves and even lighting a fire for warmth. How they had treasoned the watchman and dog I never found out. Those guardians never went near them.
One morning as they gathered where they were used to meeting the dray, hunger sparked me to dare approach them, and I asked if they were going to work.
Two of them my age looked me up and down slowly, and one said, “Dustbins!”
Before I could utter more than, “Might I come work there too at Dustbins?” we heard the clopping of a well-shod horse. They all clambered up into the open back of it behind the driver.
He turned round, seeing me standing there, and said, “What’s this then?”
“He wants to come,” said one of the boys I had been talking to.
“Dustbins,” said I, not knowing what I was saying, thinking perhaps that it was a place of especial manufacture.
“Well, then, let’s take a look.” He leapt off and came down to look me over. If the boys were the dirtiest I’d ever seen, he was the very cleanest man. He was tall, and not yet forty years of age, with yellow hair which shone as though newly washed. His face and neck were pale yet not quite pink, and so astoundingly clear they had a sort of glow. His jacket and coat were simple, his trousers equally so, but immaculately unsoiled. His gloves, albeit ecru, were the most unspotted I had ever laid eyes on. Coming up to me, he spun me about like a top, then pulled up my lip as one does a horse. He felt of my arms and legs. All the time making little comments. Of the teeth, “Straight!” Of the arms, “not fat,” and of the legs, “strong.”
“I need employment, sir.”
“Do you now? But does employment need you? Does…” He paused for dramatic effect and stared me down. “Does the Dustbins need you, you young Scallop?” He looked back at the boys gathered to watch. “Crayfish, how much did you earn last year?”
“Six quid to keep for myself,” the filthy boy said.
“Lobster Tail? You?”
“Seven and six.”
“Prawn?”
“Nine and three.”
“Nine and three!” the man remarked with a little whistle. “Now that’s employment, my little Scallop, for you are tarty looking like a lower Thames scallop, isn’t he, Oyster?”
“Fat as an oyster,” replied little Oyster.
“We labour six days and rest the Sabbath,” this very clean man said. “The sixth day is your earning. All the rest, you labour for me. For this labour, you shall receive ale, pies, broth, bread and tarts and stews. Is this satisfactory, my young Scallop?”
“It’s satisfactory.”
“Good! I am Andrew Marvell Grimmins, yes, yes, named after the great poet. You from henceforth are Scallop. And you are henceforth a Grimmins Lad. Welcome him, all.” And so doing, he lifted me with one hand and tossed me atop the others. I tumbled and was pinched and pummelled in welcome by three or four lads. And soon enough our free-for-all was made even more chaotic when Grimmins got on the driver’s shelf and started
up the dray. Then we had to hold on to either side as she bucked and cavorted.
✥ ✥ ✥
I’ve mentioned I’d seen very little of London-town. Indeed, the previous day’s sordid and difficult journey was the greatest amount of travel I’d ever done in my short life. You may imagine then how, once all the jostling was at last done with, how I sat and gaped almost open-mouthed at all about me.
“Catching flies, is he?” said Lobster Tail and shut my mouth for me.
The dray headed directly south along Bishopsgate, crossing Threadneedle Street then Cornhill Street and suddenly becoming a new thoroughfare called Grace Church Street, surrounded by much older structures. To our left was Leadenhall Market, “a cinch to pinch,” according to Prawn, though what he meant I only would come to know later.
There ahead of us was the oldest part of the city, with Eastcheap Street’s many shops, and the enormous monument sitting there on its own little island amidst all the dray, cab, hackney, omnibus, landau, closed-coach, horse, and pedestrian traffic. Soon we had attained King William Street, and there in the distance lay the amazing, the stupefying, the astonishing London Bridge and Tower themselves. I’d heard and read of them often enough in my Kindergarten Reader. We swung suddenly left onto Lower Thames Street. Events happened too quickly for me to make them out or follow the other boys’ words, and what follows is more a reconstruction from many such rides over many more months, allowing me to point out the enormous and greatly pungent Billingsgate Fish Market, and the equally elderly Customs House, put up by Sir Christopher Wren, that bird of beauty.
Our way lay just beyond those contrasting edifices: one slapdash and seething with life, the older starched and reticent. And there, in a tiny cul de sac with only a few multi-levelled house fronts, lay what would become the new centre of my life. The dray stopped, and A.M. Grimmins slid off his driver’s box, but not before checking the rutted street below for traces of ordure and dirty water. As he got down, he undid the whitest handkerchief I’d ever laid eyes on and wiped the driver’s seat, then covered it over with sort of a canvas tarpaulin.
Pursuit Page 10