Folly (6 page)

Mrs. Wiggins?
I'd say.
Well ... Mrs. Wiggins's legs look as if they've been poured into her stockings and settled wrong, with swellings and lumps at odd spots. If I poked a hole with the darning needle, or one of the skewers she uses for the roast, we'd certainly see sand dribbling out across the floor in a faint ribbon behind her
.

I could hear Nan giggling and I'd carry on.
You might like to meet Nut
, I'd say,
and certainly your brothers would
,

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him being everything we taught them not to be. He's an odd little chap, and most wouldn't notice him on the streets of London. He's small, of course, not having eaten his share of any meal since birth. Grubby little face, tough knuckles scabbed and ready for use. You see that look in his eyes and you're like to step out of his way rather than cross him
.

Eliza says he arrived wearing a shirt must have belonged to a man twice his size, worn so thin you could count freckles through it
.

It were Mrs. Wiggins asked Bates to fetch her a boy from the workhouse. "There's enough nasty jobs in any scullery to occupy a workhouse brat," Bates claims she said
.

"Ha," says Nut to that. "There's nothing called a nasty job if'n you grew up in a workhouse."

He tells us tales sometimes, as fierce and fraidy as one of our dad's, only he says they're true. About the spiders he found crawling in the gruel, about how the spiders'd die after eating the gruel, about how the boys'd mash the spiders up and eat them to double their ration ...

Oh? You want to know more about London? Well, I saw a bear on Saturday, yes I did! But I weren't afraid, because he were an old one and led on a chain, with a patchy pelt and moist eyes that looked more sad than hungry. The bear's boy were hanging about outside an alehouse. He'd got a whistle, blowing out a song without much music in it. The bear rose up to stand on his rear paws, sniffing and shifting his haunches till the whistle stopped. Some toff threw down a penny and the boy fed the bear a wee slice of
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meat before they ambled off to the next spot. It weren't so much, but I wish you'd seen it
.

There's a cow, too, though that's nothing new to you. But here, in St. James's Park? You'll laugh when you hear, Nan. Fancy nursemaids bring children every day to line up and pay a penny for a cup of milk!

But wouldn't you rather taste something you've never tried? You could drink peppermint water, or coffee, or lemonade or ginger beer. If you're hungry, there's no end to the marvels being hollered about by hawkers and street vendors on every corner. Would you like to try pigs' feet? Or a rhubarb tart? Gingerbread? Hot eels? Plum cake? Oysters? A roasted corncob? Whelks? Pea soup?

Oh, but mentioning pea soup, I've got to say, you've never seen such a pea-soup fog as ladles itself over us in the afternoons. It's nothing like a bit of mist in the lane at home. The fog is so thick here it hides the gas jets in the street and you'd swear it's night, so thick you can almost swallow it
.

"What are you thinking about, Mary Finn?" asked Eliza.

"Nothing really," I told her.

"Is your head so empty, Mary? You need a beau, so you can moon about him all day, instead of nothing."

I only wished I could write that letter. And receive one in return, telling me how Nan and our brothers were thriving. Our letter carrier had the name of Mr. Daniel. He were ever so smart-looking, in his scarlet coat and gold-banded hat. There were a time when I felt a little brighter

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hearing his double knock, meaning he'd put something in the box. If I were close by the door, I'd pop out and wave, and he'd wink and dash off, Eliza never missing the chance to tease, saying, "Ooh, Mary's got a soft spot for a man in uniform!"

I shushed her back then, but it turned out to be true, didn't it?

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JAMES 1884 The First Night Turned into Many Nights

Could it be only his first night? In the cot to his right was the freckly boy from the hair-cutting room. To the left was a slightly bigger boy with surprised-looking eyebrows. He'd been living there since summer, so he knew all there was to know, but not as much as Martin.

"My name is Frederick Mills," he announced. "Only not really. That's the stupid name they've given me and there's a better one that's mine."

"What do you mean?"

"Same for you," he said. "When you were a baby, they gave you a new name. What is it now? James? Don't you wonder what your
real
mother named you?"

"I ... no," said James. Mama Peevey had called him Jamie. He was pleased with James, or Jamie. He hadn't

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thought much about being Nelligan instead of Peevey. It was a name, that was all. Was there something wrong with James?

"I'm just ... James."

"Huh."

"Who named us?"

"Those gents downstairs. They don't even know us, and they made up names! I think all the time about who I really am. I'm pretty certain my father is ... a prince, or possibly a famous general."

"My name is Walter," said the freckled boy. "Walter Raleigh."

Frederick laughed.

"What?" Walter hopped off his cot, fists up and ready. "Why should that be funny to you?"

"Only I wish it were mine," said Frederick, ignoring Walter's fists. "Do you even know who he was? Sir Walter Raleigh was a knight and an explorer. They've given you one of the best names!"

James looked at Walter with new eyes, hoping for sudden acts of daring. But Walter sat back down and put a thumb in his mouth.

"I want my mother," he said.

James thought of the row of mugs holding Fry's cocoa lined up on the painted table at home, Mama Peevey blowing on each of them so's there'd be no burned tongues.

"I do too," he said. He nearly put an arm around Walter's shoulder.

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"Ah, forget home," said Frederick. "You're here now. Don't be babies. You're starting over. You'll stop thinking about them soon enough."

Not likely
, thought James.

"There's more to worry about here than long-gone mothers."

"Like what?" said Walter.

"You keep sucking that thumb?" said Frederick. "They'll cut it off. Cut it right off,
phttt
"--he mimed a knife slicing down--"and feed it to the pigs."

Walter yanked his thumb out, his eyes welling up in the same moment.

"Baby." Frederick's mouth shaped a sneer.

James took a quick measurement. Pick your friends wisely, Mister had said. Did he want to be a baby?

"Feed it to us, more like," said James.

"What?" said Walter.

"What do you think that stew was made of? Boys' thumbs, that's what."

Walter made a squeaking little gasp as though James had pulled out a thumb saw. Fiercely, he shoved his hands under his bottom. Remorse tickled in James's throat.

"I'm teasing," he said. "It only tastes like thumbs."

He'd sniffed his chance at bossing, though, as delicious as a brown sugar tart. He suddenly knew he could get along by pretending to be Martin. As days went by, he tried swaggering, and even whispered Martin's naughty words for company.

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"Devil's piss," he favored, and "God's bum." Or "damned," like "My damned bootlace just broke!" They were wicked words, but he said them quietly.

The new boys wore their nightshirts for two whole days until uniforms were assembled for them.

WHAT THEY WERE GIVEN TO WEAR:

That pimply boy who had taken away his clothes on the first day had worn all the same things. Oh, and a

James's fingers slipped under his cap many times a day, rubbing the soft, new bristles. Not Jamie's curls

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anymore. Nor James's, either. What was his real name? His trousers prickled, the jacket was too tight, the shoes were like
damned
cheese boxes strapped to his feet ... but somehow there was comfort in rubbing a palm over the warmth of his scalp.

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ELIZA 1877 Getting Sulky

Eliza had no complaint with Mary through the spring and summer, apart from her needing directing and reminding on certain points of being in service. The odd lot in the kitchen were actually chummy most times, if you could abide Nut's chatter, Mrs. Wiggins's spoffling at them to hurry up, and Bates being a moody blighter, only amorous when it suited him. Mary being a bit slow was nothing really. Only, the day come when it seemed to Eliza that Bates was a bit soft where Mary was concerned, and that made her sit up and take notice.

Mary was filling the hot-water jugs, to deliver them up to the bedrooms, so's the family could wash before dinner. She was telling the brat yet another story, with all

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the characters having the name Nut or Nutter or Nutty or some nonsense.

Mary acted out voices for the different people, so she growled when the wicked duke was talking. "'Get down from that fine mare,'" said Mary. "The wicked duke threatened him with a sword. 'I'd like that horse in my own stable.'"

"'It is not my horse to give,' said the loyal boy, Nuttwick. 'It belongs to Prince ... Prince ...'"

"Prince Nuttelberg," said Nut.

"If you say so," said Mary. She laughed as if it were a sweet, funny thing to say instead of his being pigheaded full of himself. "'The horse belongs to Prince Nuttelberg, my lord.'

"'All the more reason for me to have him,' growled the wicked duke. 'Dismount at once.' So the poor, loyal boy climbed down--"

"No!" said Nut. "He wouldn't do that! He would never climb down!"

"You're right," said Mary. "Whatever were I thinking? ... The poor loyal boy sat taller in the saddle. 'No!' he cried, 'I'll never climb down, as long as I live and breathe!'"

Bates sat there, swishing the beer around in his mug, being the lord of the manor while Mrs. Wiggins had a "little lie-down," her being poorly. He did like to strut a bit whenever Cook hid herself.

"You know, Mary," he said, leaning back in his chair, tipping it up as would have had him scolded fierce if

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Mrs. Wiggins were there. "It was me who brought Nut here from the workhouse."

Nut was hunched over, brushing the boots while he listened to Mary, but he looked up sharp when Bates said his name.

"Well, you picked a good boy, Mr. Bates," said Mary, and she tousled the brat's lousy hair like a mother would. Nut flattened it straight back down with his palm, smearing blacking across his forehead.

"Yes, I did," says Bates, "didn't I?" As if he'd had anything to do with the selection. "I walked into that place ... and it was an awful place, I tell you. It stank like a sailor's socks ... and I thought to myself, 'If I can find one child, if I can help one boy pull himself up by his bootstraps ...'"

"Funny as how you've never mentioned those fine feelings until today, Harry Bates," sulked Eliza. "Until certain persons was here to listen."

He threw a haughty look that stabbed a needle into her heart. "Some
certain persons
care to hear about
finer
feelings," he said. "While others are unduly concerned with more sordid cravings--"

Well, Eliza didn't wait around for more of that kind of talk. "Unduly, my
bottom
." She grasped two of the pitchers Mary had filled. "I'll take the jugs up," she muttered.

"Oh, you're taking the jugs up, all right," said Bates, ever so crass. And wouldn't you know? That loathsome Nut actually snickered.

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JAMES 1884 Breakfast

James was hungry, wishing for toasted oatmeal bread with butter and apple jelly. The boys were marched into the dining hall while one of the masters struck a table with a mallet.
Tap. Tap. Tap
.

"Stay in time," Frederick had warned. "You get strapped otherwise." There were empty places at Frederick's table and James slid onto the bench.

"Don't sit down!" They were to wait for the mallet's signal.
T-tap
. "Now!" said Frederick.

Two hundred boys sat together. Another
tap
. Two hundred boys bowed their heads. James bowed his head but swiveled his eyes to know what should happen next.
T-tap
.

Two hundred boys spoke together. "Bless to me, O God,