Snap

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I expect the baron threatened him.”

  “Or bribed him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alice said. “I’m lucky the baron had to gallop off to court to pay his respects and condolences to the king, and be dutiful like all the nobility. But I’ve agreed to marry that loathsome Edmund if he gets rid of the baron.” She sighed again, looking down at her shoes. “Perhaps, if he does what I’ve asked, I should really do it.”

  “Never.” Alfie shod up with a lurch, and then sank down again. “They’d plot together ta kill you, so they could have all the money and everything. Once he were yer husband, you’d really be in their power.”

  Looking very close to tears, Alice groaned and lay back flat on the concrete slabs. Mouse immediately cuddled up, purring.

  “We need to talk everything over in detail,” said Nathan, very determined. “We need to agree on what to do next. And clearly you can’t ever go back to that house until we get rid of the baron.”

  There was a short pause, and then, “Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry,” said Alice, sitting up again and rubbing her eyes. “We’ll have to go and see them. They have a little house away out in Hammersmith.”

  “Well, what a coincidence,” smiled Nathan.

  Cuddled against the heated wall, his pyjamas back as his soft striped pillow, and the blanket to his nose, Nathan dreamed of his grandmother, and little sister Poppy. Throughout the dreaming he was convinced that he was awake, thumping on a magical window, determined to tell his Granny that he was still alive.

  He saw her in the bright cosy kitchen baking scones, light, fluffy and tinged with vanilla sugar, just the way he liked them. But Poppy, who was sitting beside the kitchen table watching, was telling her not to make so many.

  “After all,” sighed Poppy, “there’s only two of us now.”

  Granny October shook her head. “He’ll be back,” she said. “Just you wait and see.”

  Poppy, slumped in her old pink fluffy dressing gown, brown and golden hair in a ponytail, said with dramatic exaggeration, “He’s having an adventure. He’ll never want to come back to boring old home. He’ll never leave all the excitement.”

  “Then,” his grandmother said calmly, not looking up from her rolling pin and flour covered fingers, “We shall have to start making adventures and excitement happen here too, shan’t we. And then he’ll come hurrying home.”

  “I want to come home anyway,” yelled Nathan, thumping on the window and then kicking at the kitchen wall. “I miss you so much.” But no one in the dream heard him.

  He was, however, most disconcerted to discover that everyone in the cellar had heard him clearly. He had woken them all up while yelling his head off in the middle of the night. Alfie had thrown his new pillow at him. But Nathan had continued sleeping until sunup. He eventually opened his eyes to five glaring faces.

  But after finishing off the last of the pottage, which Alice prepared for them all but did not eat herself having eaten more the day before than she had in a month previously, everyone sat around to plan the day.

  “Hammersmith is too far to walk.”

  Well, Nathan certainly agreed with that. From close to the Tower of London and back to home, he would normally have taken a tube train, or perhaps a bus. But there was no chance of either here.

  “I’ll go and hire a horse and cart,” said Alfie, scrambling up.

  “I’ll go,” John said quickly.

  “No.” Alfie straightened his shoulders and walked to the doorway. “My back feels a bit better. I ain’t no invalid and I don’t want no fuss.” His face was still swollen and discoloured with large darkening bruises, but one blackened eye was now fully open and, Alfie assured them, hurt less. Once he had climbed the steps outside, taking two large coins with him, the others, sharing the one comb, began to prepare themselves. There was water in a small barrel by the outer doorway which collected rain, and they used this for drinking and cooking, and also to briefly wash their hands and faces.

  “My Aunt Margaret,” Alice was explaining when Alfie came skipping back down the steps, jumping the last one to prove he was feeling well, “is rather shy. She is my mother’s younger sister and we saw a lot of her when my father was alive. But when Mamma married the baron, he frightened everyone away.”

  The horse and cart was tethered outside and they already heard the wheezing of the horse. “A bit tired, I reckon,” Alfie admitted. “But tis a good cart with space for all of us. No awning though so it better not rain.”

  “How long you paid fer?” asked John dubiously.

  “Till sunset. Come look.”

  They eyed the horse as the horse eyed them. Slightly shaggy with a raggy black mane and a wispy tail, it was small for a sumpter horse, rather hungry looking, and bleary eyed. “Pimple.” Alfie introduced the horse with a grin. “I hired the cart from a big fellow in Beer Lane. Says they used to carry the beer tubs and deliver all over the city. But now Pimple’s too old and he don’t like pulling anything too heavy.” Alfie was patting Pimple’s neck, and the horse narrowed its eyes in suspicion.

  “Reckon it ain’t used ta much affection,” decided John.

  “We shall buy nice fresh turnips and good hay,” said Alice at once. “But with all of us in the cart we’ll surely be as heavy as the beer.”

  They clambered, one by one, into the cart and tested Pimple’s capacity to take them all the way to Hammersmith. Alfie sat on the front bench and took up the reins. Pimple sighed. Shook his mane, and set off with a slow clomping amble. Alfie shook the reins and muttered a few choice expressions aimed at the back of Pimple’s head, but the horse adamantly refused to walk any faster. As for a gentle trot, clearly it was not going to happen.

  First they headed towards the stalls in East Cheap where they stopped, much to Pimple’s appreciation, and Alice hopped out of the cart and approached the first market stall selling root vegetables. She bought a basket full of turnips and went straight to the horse’s head. Offering a turnip, Alice said, “How about a little bribery, Pimple? Two turnips first, and if you manage a nice little trot then I shall give you two more.”

  She barely had time to clamber back into the cart, grabbing John’s hand to help her in, when Pimple, chewing merrily, set off again at a far more acceptable pace.

  Chapter Eleven

  The cart, wooden planks on small wooden wheels, bumped across the cobbles and bounced over the gutters. Everyone sitting in the back bounced too. First they made their way down to the river, as this would be the easiest path to Hammersmith which followed the Thames almost all the way with few deviations. They passed their old home in the warehouse, and Pimple, still slurping on turnip, decided to vary his diet and munched on the grass as they clomped along the sloping banks.

  Lower Thames Street gradually led to the Ludgate, where Nathan had his first look at the ancient stone walls of the old city, and the huge gateway through which everyone had to pass when travelling west. It was a bottleneck, and crowds merged, pushing and shoving to get through. The gatekeeper shouted at some, and when a flock of squawking geese appeared coming in the opposite direction, he insisted they wait until Pimple and the cart had squeezed through the gateway first. The goose-boy, who was guiding the flock with a long stick, shouted out that he was in a hurry, but the gatekeeper ignored him. As Pimple trotted through, the goose-boy yelled, “Them birds keep pecking at me legs. I gotta get to market.”

  Nathan felt sorry for him, as his bare legs and feet under a dirty old shirt to his knees, were bruised. The geese flapped, complaining and hissing. Their large webbed feet were painted black with tar so they could walk long distances along the rough unpaved road to the market. Nathan shook his head. He decided he never wanted to eat roast goose as he felt sorry for the boy and the birds too.

  The cart crossed a small bridge over the River Fleet and soon trundled along the grand road of the Strand. Here were enormous palaces and huge manor houses with large gardens full of trees and flowering bushes. Their high roofs we
re topped with a multitude of great brick chimneys puffing smoke, and liveried servants stood grand beside their front doors.

  “Is that where the king lives?” whispered Nathan.

  “Not likely,” said John. “Don’t you know nuffing, Nat? The Strand is where all them rich nobles live, and bishops and earls and stuff. Wealthy traders an ‘all When I gets knighted as a hero, reckon I’ll buy a house here too.”

  “That one.” Peter pointed, first removing his thumb from his mouth. “I like that one.” It was four storeys high and a hundred windows reflected the pale sunshine. Above the front door was a huge coat of arms.

  Nathan said nothing. He just wanted his own home back in Hammersmith and was curious to see what the old village looked like, but it was taking a long time to get there. Although delighted with his turnips, slobbering with newly found happiness, Pimple was certainly not capable of a smart swift canter. The cart tipped, rolled and bumped to such an extent that Nathan felt bruised as he hung on tightly to the rackety wooden sides and wondered how on earth Alfie must feel since his bruises were already far more serious.

  Westminster was at least partially familiar and Nathan recognised the Abbey, which had changed very little, and part of the old palace which he knew in modern times was now the home of government. But the old palace was only very slightly similar, and he asked, “The king? The court?”

  “King Richard’s palace,” nodded Alice. “Poor man. He’ll be missing his queen. He has other palaces too, but this is the principal one.”

  And then the countryside began to change entirely. Open fields, little muddy pathways, old farm houses and tiny scattered villages stretched around them. Sometimes they still glimpsed the river, winding and glittering in the sunbeams. Occasionally a little boat would row past but there was no busy river-traffic such as had been continuous in the city. Mid-March and many of the trees were only just budding new fluttering leaf, and there were spring bulbs growing from the scraggy grass along the roadsides.

  Along the hedgerows, some folk had spread their washing to dry and sheets, tablecloths and shirts were lying, caught in place by the twigs and twists of the hedges. They flapped in the breezes but did not fly away. Beyond in the fields some farmers were mowing, spreading seed and raking away old clover, leading huge farm horses by their bridles.

  “Look there,” John Ten-Toes laughed, pointing, “you should be ashamed, Pimple. Look at them great big farm horses, going twice as fast as you.”

  Pimple ignored him with disdain and trotted on down the country lanes.

  With no seats, and nothing except the wobbly sides to hang on to, the bare planked interior of the cart was extremely uncomfortable. Everyone bounced, rolled, lurched and rebounded over every rut and hole in the pathway, and there were many hundreds of those. By the time they reached the outskirts of Hammersmith, everyone was sore and aching but were delighted finally to have arrived at their destination. At a pretty cottage with a thatched roof, tiny windows and early bluebells by the door, Alice hopped down, saying, “Well here we are.” She gave Pimple the last turnip, tethered him to the branch of a birch tree, and waved to everyone. “Come on, I’ll see if Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry are at home.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so,” said Nathan, rubbing his backside, “after coming all this way.”

  But as she reached out to knock on the little door, there was a sudden peel of unexpected noise. Several voices were yelling with high pitched excitement and there was the vibration of pounding feet on the street of beaten earth. Scrambling and pushing, figures in the distance were running at each other and yelling. “Is it a fight? What’s wrong?” asked Nathan, quite worried after the long peaceful drive where the only disturbance had been from a few squawking crows being mobbed by magpies protecting their nests.

  Laughing, Alfie and John both pulled faces at each other, indicating that Nathan was being daft as usual.

  “Football,” said Alfie.

  “Calcio, as some folk call it,” said John.

  “Football? In the streets?” asked Nathan, confused.

  “Well, where else is they supposed to play it?” said Alfie with a slight snigger. “On the rooftops?”

  The rules had definitely been quite different, thought Nathan, and soon decided that actually there had been no rules at all. As he watched from outside Aunt Margaret’s little cottage, a hoard of young men and boys came hurtling down the street, cheerfully insulting each other, grabbing at arms, tripping up legs, and generally brawling to get at the ball. This was an inflated pig’s bladder, covered in mud and wet grass, but was the desired aim of at least thirty players, who were each fighting for themselves, and not for any organised team.

  With elbows stuck out to poke at anyone trying to pass, the men of all ages raced from street to street, eventually aiming for the village green. They crossed the little church courtyard, covered in worn grass and daisies, much to the annoyance of the priest, who hurried out from the church’s shadows.

  “Get off my holy grass,” shouted the priest, his long robes swirling out behind him as he danced in fury. “And the queen dead too, and the country in mourning and you ungrateful fools desecrate other folk’s graves. Shame on you. You should all be locked up until you apologise for your behaviour.”

  But in spite of the priest’s rage, no one appeared to care or even notice, and ran on regardless. John and Sam started to run after them, excited and eager to join the game. Alfie clearly would have loved to do the same, but did not yet have the energy, and Peter, thumb back in his mouth, said he was too sore. Managing to get close enough to kick the ball, men laughed, whooped and called, yelling, “I got to it, I got a touch.”

  Then the whole crowd disappeared with gleeful shouts up into the centre of the village where the green, filled only on market day, lay ready for play. John and Sam ran with them, kicking out proudly with their new shoes.

  When Nathan stopped watching, and turned back, he realised that a tall man supported by a wooden crutch was standing in the open doorway. Alice hurried forwards and flung her arms around the man’s muscular chest, and smooth brocade doublet. “Uncle Henry. It’s lovely to see you again after so many years.”

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed the man, swaying slightly on his crutch. “My dear niece. It’s an age, to be sure, but what has happened to you?” He was looking at her clothes.

  Nathan nodded. “You go in and explain everything. Peter and I can wait outside until you’ve finished all the private stuff.” He turned to Alfie. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Alfie said, “I’m staying out here. I don’t reckon on being in the way and shall sit on the doorstep.”

  At that moment, as Alice skipped happily inside the shadowed interior, John reappeared, hugging the large misshapen ball. Then he set it on the ground, turned, and with a mighty kick he sent it flying backwards into the following crowd, which whooped and cheered and went bustling to catch it.

  Nathan stared in surprise at John. “I thought this was football? That’s feet, not hands.”

  Laughing and flopping down next to Alfie, John grinned up at Nathan. “Don’t know much about football, do you, Nat? Reckon you don’t know much about nuffing!”

  Nathan sighed, then looked around. This was certainly not the Hammersmith he knew. The small village with its little lanes and pretty thatched cottages, was clustered around the large open green. It was larger and less defined than the modern green, and was filled with men running and laughing as the ball bounced and flew.

  Only a few moments later, a small pink face appeared at the open door, and the woman smiled, beckoning. “All Alice’s friends are welcome here,” she said. “Do come in. I have warm Perry and oatcakes with honey. Come in by our little fire.”

  Inside the rooms were tiny, low ceilinged with whitewashed beams supporting the ceiling, and a little central fireplace on a stone slab. There was a cushioned settle and several stools, but no comfortable furniture, and no proper chimney. Nathan felt they were more co
mfortable in their dark cellar, and at least they weren’t so squashed. As for the grand house in Bishopsgate, there was no comparison. He sat politely on one of the stools, and accepted the little cup of Perry, which he realised was cider made with pears instead of apples. Warmed and smelling of cloves, it was a very pleasant drink on a slightly frosty day.

  Aunt Margaret and Uncle Henry sat together on the settle, and listened to the explanations as Alice, sitting in their midst, told all about the baron, the baron’s brother, and the possible marriage arrangement.

  “You cannot marry that man,” murmured Aunt Margaret, quite horrified at the prospect. “Those brothers would take everything once you were in their power, and you might end up being locked in the attic.”

  “Or killed,” sniffed Alfie.

  “But,” explained Nathan, “this is just a ruse to get the baron out of the house. Alice doesn’t want to marry anyone.”

  Uncle Henry stood up, balancing on his crutch. “I shall go to the sheriff, and the mayor too,” he announced. “In your dear Mamma’s last testament, Alice, she never named your step-father as your guardian, you know. She stated your next of kin and closest living relative. And that is most certainly Margaret and myself. But on the parchment after that statement, where surely the name would have been spelled out, there was a huge ink blot. I was convinced at the time that this had been added afterwards by the lawyer in the baron’s pay. I tried to claim guardianship at the time, but my poor dear Margaret was frightened off. The baron threatened us, you know. And because he was already living in the house, it would have been extremely difficult to get rid of him.”

  “Still is. That’s the problem,” Muttered John.

  “We need people in authority on our side,” said Alice at once.