Burning Bright (4 page)

“Varnish and paint for the chairs. You get used to it.”

“I don't plan to. Don't worry, I'll see myself out. Bye for now, then.”

“Z'long.”

“Come again!” Maisie called out from the other room as Maggie clattered down the stairs.

Anne Kellaway tutted. “What will Miss Pelham think of that noise? Jem, go and see she be quiet on the way out.”

As Miss Pelham came up to her front gate, having spent a happy day visiting friends in Chelsea, she caught sight of some of the wood shavings Maisie had scattered in front of the house and frowned. At first Maisie had been dumping the shavings into Miss Pelham's carefully pruned, O-shaped hedge in the front garden. Miss Pelham had had to set her straight on that offense. And of course it was better the shavings were in the street than on the stairs. But it would be best of all if there were no shavings at all, because no Kellaways were there to produce them. Miss Pelham had often regretted over the past week that she'd been so hard on the family who'd rented the rooms from her before the Kellaways. They'd been noisy of a night and the baby had cried constantly toward the end, but at least they didn't track shavings everywhere. She knew too that there was a great deal of wood upstairs, as she'd watched it being carried through her hallway. There were smells as well, and thumping sometimes that Miss Pelham did not appreciate at all.

And now: Who was this dark-haired rascal running out of the house with shavings shedding from the soles of her shoes? She had just the sort of sly look that made Miss Pelham clutch her bag more tightly to her chest. Then she recognized Maggie. “Here, girl!” she cried. “What are you doing, coming out of my house? What have you been stealing?”

Before Maggie could reply, two people appeared: Jem popped out behind her, and the door to no. 13 Hercules Buildings opened and Mr. Blake stepped out. Miss Pelham shrank back. Mr. Blake had never been anything but civil to her—indeed, he nodded at her now—yet he made her nervous. His glassy gray eyes always made her think of a bird staring at her, waiting to peck.

“Far as I know, this is Mr. Astley's house, not yours,” Maggie said cheekily.

Miss Pelham turned to Jem. “Jem, what is this girl doing here? She's not a friend of yours, I trust?”

“She—she's made a delivery.” Even in the Piddle Valley, Jem had not been a good liar.

“What did she deliver? Four-day-old fish? Laundry that's not seen a lick of lye?”

“Nails,” Maggie cut in. “I'll be bringing 'em by reg'lar, won't I, Jem? You'll be seein' lots more o' me.” She stepped sideways off Miss Pelham's front path and into her front garden, where she followed the tiny hedge around in its pointless circle, running a hand along the top of it.

“Get out of my garden, girl!” Miss Pelham cried. “Jem, get her out of there!”

Maggie laughed, and began to run around the hedge, faster and faster, then leapt over it into the middle, where she danced around the pruned bush, sparring at it with her fists while Miss Pelham cried, “Oh! Oh!” as if each blow were striking her.

Jem watched Maggie box the leafy ball, tiny leaves showering to the ground, and found himself smiling. He too had been tempted to kick at the absurd hedge so different from the hedgerows he was used to. Hedges in Dorsetshire were made for a reason, to keep animals in fields or off of paths, and grown of prickly hawthorn and holly, elder and hazel and whitebeam, woven through with brambles and ivy and traveler's joy.

A tap on the window upstairs brought Jem back from Dorsetshire. His mother was glaring down at him and making shooing motions at Maggie. “Er, Maggie—weren't you going to show me something?” Jem said. “Your—your father, eh? My pa wanted me to—to agree on the price.”

“That's it. C'mon, then.” Maggie ignored Miss Pelham, who was still shouting and swatting ineffectively at her, and pushed through the ring of hedge without bothering to jump it this time, leaving behind a gap of broken branches.

“Oh!” cried Miss Pelham for the tenth time.

As Jem moved to follow Maggie into the street, he glanced at Mr. Blake, who had remained still and quiet, his arms crossed over his chest, while Maggie had her fun with the hedge. He did not seem bothered by the noise and drama. Indeed, they had all forgotten he was there, or Miss Pelham would not have cried “Oh!” ten times and Maggie would not have beaten the bush. He was looking at them with his clear gaze. It was not a look like that of Jem's father, who tended to focus on the middle distance. Rather Mr. Blake was looking at them, and at the passersby in the street, and at Lambeth Palace rising up in the distance, and at the clouds behind it. He was taking in everything, without judgment.

“Ar'ernoon, sir,” Jem said.

“Hallo, my boy,” Mr. Blake replied.

“Hallo, Mr. Blake!” Maggie called from the street, not to be outdone by Jem. “How's your missus, then?”

Her cry revived Miss Pelham, who had sunk into herself in Mr. Blake's presence. “Get out of my sight, girl!” she cried. “I'll have you whipped! Jem, don't you let her back in here. And see her to the end of the street—I don't trust her for a second. She'll steal the gate if we don't watch her!”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jem raised his eyebrows apologetically at Mr. Blake, but his neighbor had already opened his gate and stepped into the street. When Jem joined Maggie, they watched as Mr. Blake walked down Hercules Buildings toward the river.

“Look at his cocky step,” Maggie said. “And did you see the color in his cheeks? And his hair all mussed? We know what he's been up to!”

Jem would not have described Mr. Blake's pace as cocky. Rather he was flat-footed, though not plodding. He walked steadily and deliberately, as if he had a destination in mind rather than merely setting out for a stroll.

“Let's follow him,” Maggie suggested.

“No. Let him be.” Jem was surprised at his own decisiveness. He would have liked to follow Mr. Blake to his destination—not the way Maggie would do it, though, as a game and a tease, but respectfully, from a distance.

Miss Pelham and Anne Kellaway were still glaring at the children from their positions. “Let's be going,” Jem said, and began to walk along Hercules Buildings in the opposite direction from Mr. Blake.

Maggie trotted after him. “You're really comin' with me?”

“Miss Pelham told me to see you to the end of the street.”

“And you're goin' to do what that old stick in a dress wants?”

Jem shrugged. “She's the householder. We've to keep her happy.”

“Well, I'm goin' to find Pa. You want to come with me?”

Jem thought of his anxious mother, of his hopeful sister, of his absorbed father, and of Miss Pelham waiting by the stairs to pounce on him. Then he thought of the streets he did not yet know in Lambeth, and in London, and of having a guide to take him. “I'll come with you,” he said, letting Maggie catch up and match his stride so that they were walking side by side.

Dick Butterfield could have been in one of several pubs. While most people favored one local, he liked to move around, and joined drinking clubs or societies, where the like-minded met at a particular pub to discuss topics of mutual interest. These nights were not much different from other nights except that the beer was cheaper and the songs even bawdier. Dick Butterfield was constantly joining new clubs and dropping old ones as his interests changed. At the moment he belonged to a cutter club (one of his many occupations had been as a boatman on the Thames, though he had long ago lost the boat); a chair club, where each member took turns haranguing the others about political topics from the head chair at a table; a lottery club, where they pooled together on small bets that rarely won enough to cover the drinks, and where Dick Butterfield was always encouraging members to increase the stakes; and, by far his favorite, a punch club, where each week they tried out different rum concoctions.

Dick Butterfield's club and pub life was so complicated that his family rarely knew where he was of an evening. He normally drank within a half-mile radius from his home, but there were still dozens of pubs to choose from. Maggie and Jem had already called in at the Horse and Groom, the Crown and Cushion, the Canterbury Arms, and the Red Lion, before they found him ensconced in the corner of the loudest of the lot, the Artichoke on the Lower Marsh.

After following Maggie into the first two, Jem waited for her outside the rest. He had only been inside one pub since they arrived in Lambeth: A few days after they moved in, Mr. Astley called to see how they were getting on, and had taken Thomas Kellaway and Jem to the Pineapple. It had been a sedate place, Jem realized now that he could compare it with other Lambeth pubs, but at the time he'd been overwhelmed by the liveliness of the drinkers—many of them circus people—and Philip Astley's roaring conversation.

Lambeth Marsh was a market street busy with shops and stalls, and carts and people going between Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, toward the city. The doors to the Artichoke were open, and the sound poured across the road, making Jem hesitate as Maggie pushed past the men leaning in the doorway, and wonder why he was following her.

He knew why, though: Maggie was the first person in Lambeth to take any interest in him, and he could do with a friend. Most boys Jem's age were already apprenticed or working; he had seen younger children about, but had not yet managed to talk to any of them. It was hard to understand them, for one thing: He found London accents, as well as the many regional ones that converged on the city, sometimes incomprehensible.

Lambeth children were different in other ways too—more aware and more suspicious. They reminded him of cats who creep in to sit by the fire, knowing they are barely tolerated, happy to be inside but with ears swiveling and eyes in slits, ready to detect the foot that will kick them back out. The children were often rude to adults, as Maggie had been to Miss Pelham, and got away with it when he wouldn't have in his old village. They mocked and threw stones at people they didn't like, stole food from barrows and baskets, sang rude songs; they shouted, teased, taunted. Only occasionally did he see Lambeth children doing things he could imagine joining in with: rowing a boat on the river; singing while streaming out of the charity school on Lambeth Green; chasing a dog that had made off with someone's cap.

So when Maggie beckoned to him from the door of the Arti-choke, he followed her inside, braving the wall of noise and the thick smoke from the lamps. He wanted to be a part of this new Lambeth life, rather than watching it from a window or a front gate or over a garden wall.

Although it was only late afternoon, the pub was heaving with people. The din was tremendous, though after a time his ears began to pick up the pattern of a song, unfamiliar but clearly a tune. Maggie plunged through the wall of bodies to the corner where her father sat.

Dick Butterfield was a small, brown man—his eyes, his wiry hair, the undertone of his skin, his clothes. A web of wrinkles extended from the outer corners of his eyes and across his forehead, forming deep furrows on his brow. Despite the wrinkles, he had a young, energetic air about him. Today he was simply drinking rather than attending a club. He pulled his daughter onto his lap, and was singing along with the rest of the pub when Jem finally reached them:

At the last line, a deafening shout went up that made Jem cover his ears. Maggie had joined in, and she grinned at Jem, who blushed and stared at his feet. Many songs had been sung at the Five Bells in Piddletrenthide, but nothing like that.

After the great shout, the pub was quieter, the way a thunderclap directly overhead clears the worst of a storm. “What you been up to, then, Mags?” Dick Butterfield asked his daughter in the relative calm.

“This an' that. I was at his house”—she pointed at Jem—“this is Jem, Pa—lookin' at his pa making chairs. They just come from Dorsetshire, an' are living at Miss Pelham's in Hercules Buildings, next to Mr. Blake.”

“Miss Pelham's, eh?” Dick Butterfield chuckled. “Glad to meet you, Jem. Sit yourself down and rest your pegs.” He waved at the other side of the table. There was no stool or bench there. Jem looked around: All of the stools in sight were taken. Dick and Maggie Butterfield were gazing at him with identical expressions, watching to see what he would do. Jem considered kneeling at the table, but he knew that was not likely to gain the Butterfields' approval. He would have to search the pub for an empty stool. It was expected of him, a little test of his merit—the first real test of his new London life.

Locating an empty stool in a crowded pub can be tricky, and Jem could not find one. He tried asking for one, but those he asked paid no attention to him. He tried to take one that a man was using as a footrest and got swatted. He asked a barmaid, who jeered at him. As he struggled through the scrum of bodies, Jem wondered how it was that so many people could be drinking now rather than working. In the Piddle Valley few went to the Five Bells or the Crown or the New Inn until evening.

At last he went back to the table empty-handed. A vacant stool now sat where Dick Butterfield had indicated, and he and Maggie were grinning at Jem.

“Country boy,” muttered a youth sitting next to them who had watched the whole ordeal, including the barmaid's jeering.

“Shut your bonebox, Charlie,” Maggie retorted. Jem guessed at once that he was her brother.

Charlie Butterfield was like his father but without the wrinkles or the charm; better-looking in a rough way, with dirty blond hair and a dimple in his chin, but with a scar through his eyebrow too that gave him a harsh look. He was as cruel to his sister as he could get away with, twisting burns on Maggie's arms until the day she was old enough to kick him where it was guaranteed to hurt. He still looked for ways to get at her—knocking the legs out from the stool she sat on, upending the salt on her food, stealing her blankets at night. Jem knew none of this, but he sensed something about Charlie that made him avoid the other's eyes, as you do a growling dog.

Dick Butterfield tossed a coin onto the table. “Fetch Jem a drink, Charlie,” he commanded.

“I an't—” Charlie sputtered at the same time as Jem said, “I don't—” Both stopped at the stern look on Dick Butterfield's face. And so Charlie got Jem a mug of beer he didn't want—cheap, watery stuff men back at the Five Bells would spill onto the floor rather than drink.

Dick Butterfield sat back. “Well, now, what have you got to tell me, Mags? What's the scandal today in old Lambeth?”

“We saw summat in Mr. Blake's garden, didn't we, Jem? In their summerhouse, with all the doors open.” Maggie gave Jem a sly look. He turned red again and shrugged.

“That's my girl,” Dick Butterfield said. “Always sneakin' about, finding out what's what.”

Charlie leaned forward. “What'd you see, then?”

Maggie leaned forward as well. “We saw him an' his wife at it!”

Charlie chuckled, but Dick Butterfield seemed unimpressed. “What, rutting is all? That's nothing you don't see every day you look down an alley. Go outside and you'll see it round the corner now. Eh, Jem? I expect you've seen your share of it, back in Dorsetshire, eh, boy?”

Jem gazed into his beer. A fly was struggling on the surface, trying not to drown. “Seen enough,” he mumbled. Of course he had seen it before. It was not just the animals he lived among that he'd seen at it—dogs, cats, sheep, horses, cows, goats, rabbits, chickens, pheasants—but people tucked away in corners of woods or against hedgerows or even in the middle of meadows when they thought no one would pass through. He had seen his neighbors doing it in a barn, and Sam with his girl up in the hazel wood at Nettlecombe Tout. He had seen it enough that he was no longer surprised, though it still embarrassed him. It was not that there was so much to see—mostly just clothes and a persistent movement, sometimes a man's pale buttocks pistoning up and down or a woman's breasts jiggling. It was seeing it when he was not expecting to, breaking into the assumed privacy, that made Jem turn away with a red face. He had much the same feeling on the rare occasion when he heard his parents argue—as when his mother demanded that his father cut down the pear tree at the bottom of their garden that Tommy had fallen from, and Thomas Kellaway had refused. Later Anne Kellaway had taken an axe and done it herself.

Jem dipped his finger into the beer and let the fly climb onto it and crawl away. Charlie watched with astonished disgust; Dick Butterfield simply smiled and looked around at the other customers, as if searching for someone else to talk to.

“It wasn't just that they were doin' it,” Maggie persisted. “They were—they had—they'd taken off all their clothes, hadn't they, Jem? We could see everything, like they were Adam an' Eve.”

Dick Butterfield watched his daughter with the same appraising look he'd given Jem when he tried to find a stool. As easygoing as he appeared—lolling in his seat, buying drinks for people, smiling and nodding—he demanded a great deal from those he was with.

“And d'you know what they were doing while they did it?”

“What, Mags?”

Maggie thought quickly of the most outlandish thing two people could do while they were meant to be rutting. “They were reading to each other!”

Charlie chuckled. “What, the newspaper?”

“That's not what I—” Jem began.

“From a book,” Maggie interrupted, her voice rising over the noise of the pub. “Poetry, I think it was.” Specific details always made stories more believable.

“Poetry, eh?” Dick Butterfield repeated, sucking at his beer. “I expect that'll be
Paradise Lost
, if they were playing at Adam an' Eve in their garden.” Dick Butterfield had once had a copy of the poem, in among a barrow full of books he'd got hold of and was trying to sell, and had read bits of it. No one expected Dick Butterfield to be able to read so well, but his father had taught him, reas oning that it was best to be as knowledgeable as those you were swindling.

“Yes, that was it.
Pear Tree's Loss
,” Maggie agreed. “I know I heard them words.”

Jem started, unable to believe what he'd heard. “Did you say ‘pear tree'?”

Dick shot her a look. “
Paradise Lost
, Mags. Get your words right. Now, hang on a minute.” He closed his eyes, thought for a moment, then recited:

His neighbors stared at him; these were not the sort of words they normally heard in the pub. “What you sayin', Pa?” Maggie asked.

“The only thing I remember from
Paradise Lost
—the very last lines, when Adam an' Eve are leaving Eden. Made me sorry for 'em.”

“I didn't hear anything like that from the Blakes,” Jem said, then felt Maggie's sharp kick under the table.

“It was after you stopped looking,” she insisted.

Jem opened his mouth to argue further, then stopped. Clearly the Butterfields liked their stories embroidered; indeed, it was the embroidery they wanted, and would soon pass on to everyone else, made even more elaborate, until the whole pub was discussing the Blakes playing Adam and Eve in their garden, even when that was not what Jem had seen at all. Who was he to spoil their fun—though Jem thought of Mr. Blake's alert eyes, his firm greeting, and his determined stride, and regretted that they were spreading such talk about him. He preferred to speak the truth. “What do Mr. Blake do?” he asked, trying instead to guide the subject away from what they had seen in the garden.

“What, apart from tupping his wife in the garden?” Dick Butterfield chuckled. “He's a printer and engraver. You seen the printing press through his front window, han't you?”

“The machine with the handle like a star?” Jem had indeed spied the wooden contraption, which was even bigger and bulkier than his father's lathe, and wondered what it was for.