Around the World in 100 Days (2 page)

The city of London has a well-earned reputation for being foggy, chilly, and damp. But sometimes in late summer it displays a different temperament altogether. This was one of those times. Gusts of hot, dry air swept through the streets, creating miniature cyclones of dust and grit that stung the eyes. They made fools of fashionable folk, tumbling gentlemen's hats just out of their reach and turning ladies' elegant parasols inside out.

Aouda Fogg, on her way up Marylebone Lane, just managed to keep her ivory tea hat in place by clutching the brim with both gloved hands, but could do nothing to keep the veil from whipping at her face. As she stepped from the curb and into the street, she reached down with one hand to lift the hem of her skirt. The wind took advantage of this unguarded moment to lift the hat from her head and send it sailing.

“
Kosana!
” she exclaimed as she watched it dance insolently along the cobbles. Though Aouda had studied English as a schoolgirl in Bombay and could speak it flawlessly, there were times when nothing but her native language could properly express her feelings. There were no men in sight whom she might prevail upon to rescue the hat, and it certainly wouldn't do for her to go chasing after it herself. She could easily afford a replacement, of course, but it had been her favorite hat.

Feeling exposed without the veil to mask her face, she crossed to the station house. When she opened the door, the wind threatened to tear it from her hands but she wrestled it closed, in as ladylike a fashion as possible, then smoothed down her tousled dress and hair and approached the desk clerk. “Good afternoon, sir. I understand that my son is being detained here.”

The clerk gave her an impatient glance, then a second, more searching one. He was, she knew, taking note of her skin and of her hair, both of which were of a darker shade than is usually seen on English women. She longed for the lost hat and the veil. “We haven't arrested any Indian boys lately,” said the clerk. “That's what you are, I take it? An East Indian?”

“I grew up in India, yes. Now I am English.”

The clerk gave a slight, sarcastic grin. “If you say so.” He turned back to his paperwork.

“Would you please check to see if my son's name is on your list of persons being detained here?”

“They're called prisoners.”

“Then would you please check your list of
prisoners
?”

The man sighed. “All right, madam. What's his name?”

“Harry. Harry Fogg.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That's no Indian name.”

“Nevertheless.”

The clerk quickly scanned his blotter and shook his head. “No, there's no such person here.”

“He is seventeen years old, perhaps five feet ten inches in height, with curly black hair—”

“I've told you, there's no one by that name. It must have been some other station. Now if you'll excuse me.”

Aouda sensed that, like most Englishmen, he disapproved of anyone from a different culture or country—even one as nearby as Ireland or Scotland. But she also guessed that, like most Victorian men, he had been taught to treat all women with respect, and she played to that part of his nature. “Please, sir. I am a mother, asking for your help. I have reason to believe that my son is being held here. If you would kindly allow me to view the prisoners, I could see for myself whether he is among them.”

The clerk frowned at her for a long moment. “The jail is not a fit place for a woman.”

“If that is so,” replied Aouda, “then it is not a fit place for my son, either.”

The clerk shook his head again, but he called the warder. “Mr. Thompson, will you show this person to the holding cell?”

As they walked along the corridor, Aouda braced herself, expecting to find a scene of degradation and squalor. But nothing could have prepared her for what she actually witnessed when she stood before the bars of the cell.

Most of the prisoners were ranged in a half circle at one end of the cell. At the other end stood a huge one-eyed man, gripping a flat piece of wood perhaps three feet long—a bed slat, it appeared—as though about to hit something with it. Directly behind him were three more bed slats set upright with a fourth laid atop them.

In the center of the cell stood a barefooted Harry, making a windup motion with his arm. “All right, now, here it comes!” he called. A moment later he launched some sort of ball at the man wielding the bed slat. The man swatted the ball, which shot across the cell, past the other prisoners, and caromed off the wall.

“A solid shot!” exclaimed Harry. “Now run! Run!”

The man, still holding the bed slat, took off for the far wall, whacked the wood against it, then scrambled back to his original spot while another man retrieved the ball and flung it at the upright slats, missing them by a few inches.

“Two runs!” shouted Harry. “Good for you!”

While the one-eyed man thrust his arms in the air and roared in triumph, the others let loose a volley of raucous jeers and boos. Grinning, Harry flapped his hands in an attempt to calm them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he called. “You'll all get your chance!” Just then he caught sight of the two figures who stood outside the cell and his face sobered. “Mother,” he said.

“What are you doing?” demanded Aouda.

“Teaching these men to play cricket,” said Harry, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I see. Well, they seem to be enjoying it. But it's time for you to go.” She turned to the warder. “Will you please release my son? I will pay whatever fines are owed, and I will pay for any damages that—”

She was interrupted by a chorus of protest from the prisoners. “You can't leave!” bellowed the one-eyed man. “We was just getting started!”

Harry shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, fellows. Another time, perhaps.”

“Not unless you get nicked again,” said the thief named Swingle, who then added confidentially, “Insulting an officer of the law is always good for a nice short sentence.” He handed Harry the cricket ball, which, it now became clear, was made of the boy's rolled-up stockings. “Don't forget these.”

As Harry started to exit, another prisoner, a stocky, bald-headed man, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “Wait a bit. That there's your mum?”

“Yes, it is.”

“She's from Inja, ain't she?”

“Originally, yes, but—”

“I thought so. I served in Inja, you know, and, same as your da, I had me a
bibi
. But I weren't so daft as to drag her back to England with me.” He peered through the bars at Aouda. “Although if she'd looked as good as that one, I must say, I'd've been tempted—” The man broke off in midsentence as Harry's fist caught him in the jaw. He staggered backward a few steps, then gave a long sigh and sagged to the floor.

The other prisoners descended upon Harry, scowling and grumbling, but when he picked up the makeshift cricket bat and turned to face them, they hesitated. “He had it coming, gentlemen,” said Harry. “If he had insulted your mother, which of you would not have done the same?” With that, he tossed the piece of wood aside and slipped out into the corridor.

TWO
In which

H
arry was fined ten shillings for careless driving and instructed to pay two pounds to the drayman for the damage done to his cart. The clerk handed him a printed leaflet. “If you plan to go on piloting motorcars, I suggest you read that.”

It contained a set of rules for self-propelled vehicles: They were to go no faster than two miles per hour; they must be preceded by a person on foot, twenty yards ahead; they must emit no smoke or steam; at the sight of a horse, they must stop altogether. Harry had thoroughly broken all four rules. “Thank you,” he said, and tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket. Outside the station house, the wind had died down a little. “Would you like to take a cab?”

“Please,” said his mother. “But first, let us walk that way for a little distance and see whether we can spy my hat.”

Harry laughed. “The wind claimed it, eh?”

Aouda wrinkled her nose. “I wish you would not use that term.”

“What term?”

“You know.”

“Oh, you mean ‘eh.' It's a very useful term, Mother. Like the French phrase ‘
n'est-ce pas?
'”

“French has a refined quality. The other makes you sound like a day laborer.”

“Well, I shall do my best to avoid it, if it displeases you.” He leaned down and gave her a swift kiss on the cheek.

“You are a good boy, Harry, if only you would try to be a bit more ...”

“Stuffy?” said Harry. “Stiff-necked? Straitlaced?”

She couldn't help smiling. “I was about to say cautious.”

“But I do try. Honestly I do. I just can't seem to get the hang of it. Oh!” He suddenly broke into a run, startling Aouda until she saw where he was headed—toward a white object that had caught on the base of a lamppost. He snatched it up and came trotting back, grinning triumphantly.

Aouda shook her head and sighed. Her son was young yet, she reminded herself. Surely in a year or two his high spirits would begin to ebb and he would learn to behave suitably. As if reading her thoughts, he gave a gentlemanly bow when he handed her the hat. The brim was smudged with dirt and the veil was partially torn off, but all in all it had survived the adventure remarkably well.

Harry hailed a hackney and helped his mother inside. “Number Seven, Savile Row, please,” he told the driver. As they clattered along, he said, “How did you learn where I was?”

“Your friend Jonathan told me.”

“Jona—? Oh, Johnny. Well, I wish he hadn't. Does Father know?”

“Not yet,” she said. “You must tell him before someone else does. And you must apologize to him.”

“Apologize? It wasn't his wagon I ran into. And it wasn't his motorcar I banged up.”

“No, but it is his reputation that you have damaged by your reckless behavior. And I hardly need to remind you that this is not the first time.”

Harry certainly did not need to be reminded of his past transgressions, which had increased in severity as he increased in age. At six he had taken apart his father's pocket watch to see what made it tick—or rather what had once made it tick. When he was eight, the family lost a perfectly capable housemaid after she discovered the carcass of a cat boiling on the back of the stove. To Harry's credit, the animal had been dead when he found it; he had planned to salvage the bones and assemble them like the skeletons at the Natural History Museum.

At thirteen, he came home bruised and bloodied from playing football with the working-class boys; though a doctor was called in to set his broken nose, it did not heal quite straight, giving him a slightly raffish look. At sixteen, he disgraced himself by flunking out of Eton, having spent far too little of his time studying the classics and far too much playing cricket.

It wasn't that he disliked learning; he just didn't seem to have the patience it required. A scholar might pore over dry, dusty volumes written in dead languages for years and have precious little to show for all his effort, whereas on the cricket field or the rugby pitch, a single second of brilliant play could make a fellow the toast of the school.

In the year since he effectively ended his academic career, Harry had not done much of any consequence, either to shame his family or to make them proud. Most of his time was spent on what he called “tinkering,” and what his father called “wasting time.” Since an early age he had been fascinated by machinery, and especially by vehicles—everything from windup toy helicopters to bicycles to electric submersible boats. His parents had tried diligently to steer him into more gentlemanly pursuits such as riding and shooting, but Harry continued to prefer gadgets to guns and horseless carriages to horses.

The cab stopped before a narrow, two-story brick town house. As Harry helped his mother down, he called to the driver, “Would you mind a bit of advice?”

“I s'pose not,” said the man, warily.

“Harry!” whispered his mother.

He ignored her. “If I were you,” he told the man, “I'd get myself a steam carriage, and soon; mark my word, within a year or two horse-drawn vehicles are going to be obsolete.”

The driver was clever enough not to scoff at a customer outright, but he couldn't help smiling at this absurd notion. “Are they, now? Vell, I'll give that some thought, sir.” As Harry walked away, the driver said, “You're forgettin' one fing, sir.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“You 'aven't paid the fare.”

 

By the time Harry reached his room, Hudson, his father's valet, had a warm bath waiting for him and a fresh suit of clothing laid out on his bed. Though Hudson was undeniably efficient, Harry sorely missed the old valet, Passepartout. The good-natured Frenchman had taught his charge how to juggle, how to fold a piece of paper into the shape of a frog, how to make and fire a slingshot—and how to glue the vase back together so that no one would even notice.

But the things that Harry loved and admired most about Passepartout were the very things that led to his dismissal. As his parents explained it, they felt the valet was having a “disruptive influence” on Harry. Phileas Fogg had given Passepartout enough money to set up a small tobacco shop near St. James's Square. The little Frenchman had found himself an equally good-natured wife and seemed quite content.

Harry passed close by the shop on his way to the Reform Club, where he would have to confront his father and make a full confession. He considered stopping in to talk with his old friend for a moment, just to boost his own morale, but concluded it was best to get this over with as quickly as possible.