The Deadly Fire (6 page)

Jack nodded at Alfie's whispered joke, but his face was very pale, each freckle standing out like smallpox scars on the white skin. His eyes were everywhere, but the friendly butcher was right. This fair was full of boys: boys helping with the animals, boys carrying trestles, boys hammering stalls together, lifting boxes, holding horses; there were as many boys as cows at Smithfield market.

Mutsy was making steady, leisurely progress through the fair. He did not go near the menacing figure of Mary Robinson, dressed in her usual man's overcoat and hat, her stout, heavy boots planted firmly on the wet, stinking filth of the ground. Luckily, she did not look towards the boys – she was too busy shouting at a woman in a torn shawl with three small children clutching at her threadbare gown.

‘It's no good. I'm not lending to you again,' she was yelling. ‘Yes, I know you paid me back the money last week, but you were sixpence short on the interest. Just you understand this, all of you,' she shouted hoarsely at the waiting crowd. ‘I don't lend money for fun, or because I want to do you a kind deed. I lend money at interest and my rate is twelve
per cent, per week. I give you eight half-crowns, you give me back nine. And if you think you can get money cheaper than that, then off with you to Threadneedle Street.'

This raised a big laugh. Threadneedle Street was the place where the banks and the moneylenders of the City congregated. It was a place for the rich, not for the poor stallholders, who lived from day to day – hoping every morning that they would manage to make enough money to feed their families.

‘Get off with you, you're wasting my time!' yelled Mary Robinson, and the unfortunate woman slunk away. What would she do now, wondered Alfie. There was only one thing left to her and that was to go on the streets and to beg. London was full of beggars; he had known that since he was six years old. Most of them earned very little cash. It did little good to stand at a street corner and whine. Value for money, that's what you had to give the people of London, the people who had the money to spare. He and his gang did all right. They performed tricks, sang songs, held horses, swept crossings so that ladies and gentlemen could cross roads without getting the muck and mire on their shoes and clothes, worked for shopkeepers, scavenged for coal and wood by
the riverside, occasionally stole from stalls and bread vans or even from the pockets of the rich ladies and gents that came to Covent Garden Theatre or Drury Lane Theatre. They did all right and it was up to Alfie to look after the gang and keep each member safe, warm and well-fed.

‘Twelve per cent per week comes up to six hundred per cent in the year. Banks only charge rich people eight per cent a year.' Alfie had learned that from Mr Elmore, but his cousin didn't seem interested.

‘Mutsy looks like he is going somewhere,' said Jack in a low voice.

Alfie said nothing in reply to this. He did not want Jack to get his hopes up too much, but there was a steady, purposeful pull on the rope from Mutsy, now heading towards the gate.

Outside the gate many large carts were parked. It had been a very cold night with freezing fog everywhere and even now the ground under the carts was still frozen and white with hoar frost.

‘Find Tom, Mutsy,' repeated Jack, but since Mutsy had left the market things were not looking too hopeful. Alfie kept a tight grip of Sammy's arm and said nothing. He was still not sure whether Mutsy had even understood the command.

And it began to look again as though Mutsy had not understood. He was checking the carts – looking for rats, thought Alfie. Now the dog pulled impatiently against the rope and Alfie came forward and untied it. Let Mutsy catch another few rats and then they would go back and check the cellar again – perhaps Tom had returned – and if not . . .

And if not . . . then what? Alfie's mind ran out of ideas and he stayed there watching Mutsy. The big dog had checked the grass, and then the wheels of a large, handsome wagon, painted blue with the farmer's name on the front board. The horses were probably still in some cosy, straw-filled stable at the Bishop's Finger Inn, because the shafts rested on the ground.

Mutsy ignored these and went around to the back of the wagon. Before Alfie could stop him, he leapt lightly up and thrust his nose under the tarpaulin that covered it.

‘Stop it, Mutsy, come back,' yelled Alfie. They would be in bad trouble if a farmer came out and found the dog in his cart.

For once, Mutsy took no notice, though usually he was very obedient to Alfie. His head had now disappeared under the tarpaulin and his shoulders
and body soon followed. Only his tail was left outside and that was wagging with delight.

In despair, Alfie dropped Sammy's arm and swarmed up the side of the wheel.

The tarpaulin was well tied to the sides of the wagon, but he just managed to get his hand in.

And what he felt was soft, stone-cold, and lying as still as any piece of meat.

Frantically Alfie struggled with the string and managed to achieve a gap in the side of the tarpaulin. Hastily he threw it back.

The light was not good. The freezing fog hung in almost solid yellow veils over the whole of London, but there was just enough light to see what was lying there. It was the body of a boy, badly dressed in a ragged pair of trousers, an old waistcoat and a coat too small and too tight with holes here and there.

The boy did not move, but lay there with closed eyes. Above his mouth and nose there was a thin skim of ice.

It was Tom.

For a moment, Alfie thought that Tom was dead. He heard Jack gasp from behind and knew that his cousin feared the same.

Mutsy, however, had no doubts. Within a moment, he had licked the ice from Tom's mouth and was now busily washing the rest of the boy's face. His large, warm, hairy body was stretched out over Tom's body. Jack rubbed the stone cold feet and Alfie chafed the icy hands and after a minute, Tom groaned and then started to shiver violently.

‘Let's get you out of here.' No doubt the farmer was tucking into a plate of ham and eggs at the
Bishop's Finger Inn but he would soon be out. Quickly, he and Jack dragged out Tom and then Alfie laced up the tarpaulin ties.

‘Let's get you over to the chestnut seller's fire.' He hoisted Tom up on to Jack's back, grabbed Sammy's arm and then went quickly through the gate over towards the place where smoke and flames rose up from an iron brazier. Quite a few people were standing in a queue, waiting for the roasted nuts.

‘What about a song, Sammy?' Alfie asked.

‘
The Catsmeat Man
?' enquired Sammy with a grin. ‘Or would they prefer
Don't Eat Tripe on a Friday
.'

Alfie cast a quick, professional glance over the queue for the hot chestnuts. ‘Let's have the
The Catsmeat Man
and start it straight away,' he said, noting the well-dressed, prosperous look of those who could leave their stalls so early in the morning. None of them were sellers of cat's meat, he was sure, so they would not take offence. He ushered Sammy to a place near to the fire. The chestnut seller turned to protest, but then stopped as Sammy's high sweet voice rang out.

Sammy was an extraordinarily gifted singer. He had been taught a wide range of songs by their grandfather, who had travelled from Ireland with his fiddle.
‘The boy will need some means of earning his living,' the old man used to say, and with Sammy's bright mind and retentive memory, he was always adding to those songs. But it was the quality of his voice that attracted the crowd. He could reach and hold the highest notes effortlessly and was clever enough to vary his songs and keep his audience.
The Catsmeat Man
was making them all chuckle now and keeping everyone in good humour while they were waiting for their roasted chestnuts. When that finished Sammy's voice soared up effortlessly into the sad Irish song,
The Meeting of the Waters
. One or two of the women in the queue wiped a tear from their cheeks, and the pennies and groats pattered into Alfie's cap, placed at Sammy's feet.

Alfie jerked his head at Jack, still patiently holding the frozen body of his brother. It was now quite safe for the other two boys to crouch down before the fire. The chestnut seller, with an appreciative nod towards Sammy, tipped a shovelful of roasted chestnuts towards Alfie and he passed them to Jack. Even if Tom wasn't able to eat anything, the warmth of the chestnuts placed in his half-frozen hand would help.

The queue grew and grew as the stallholders and the shoppers were attracted by the sound of Sammy's
voice, now singing ‘
The harp that once . . .
'

‘Give you a hand,' said Alfie, and without waiting for an answer from the chestnut seller, he fetched some more charcoal and carefully placed some more pieces on top of the burning coals and earned himself another nod from the man. Jack, quick and unobtrusive, started to take some more chestnuts from the sack and as the chestnut seller took the money from the buyers, Jack carried on with toasting the next lot of chestnuts. After a few minutes, Tom sat up and held his frozen hands to the flames.

‘That your brother?' The man was looking at Tom.

‘Cousin,' said Alfie. ‘He's been out all night. We've been looking for him everywhere.'

‘One of the tarpaulin boys,' grunted the man, efficiently tipping a scoopful of chestnuts into a paper bag and accepting the twopence. ‘I hear that a couple of them died last night in this freezing fog.'

‘Tarpaulin boys?' questioned Alfie, tipping some ale from a large bottle into a cone-shaped container and thrusting the bottom of it into the glowing charcoal. On a freezing morning like this, the man was selling as much hot ale as chestnuts.

‘Yeah, a gent came around and counted them one night. There were seventy boys, all told, sleeping
under tarpaulins in carts and in corners of the market. He said it was a disgrace, but what can be done! Here, take a bit of that ale and pour it down his throat. Run away, did he?'

‘That's right, had an argument with his dad,' said Alfie, lying with his usual ease. No one knew who Tom's dad was and of course his mother had died many years ago. He had a feeling, though, that the man would be more friendly if he thought they were from a respectable family, and he was right, because he was told to give some ale to Sammy and to take some for himself and Jack. Another shovelful of chestnuts was poured into his hands and he munched some while Sammy sang,

‘
The sun came through the frosty mist,

Most like a dead-white moon . . .
'

‘Tell him to sing more of these cold weather songs,' whispered the chestnut seller in Alfie's ear. ‘That's what brings the customers. If I do as much business as this in the next hour, I'll stand you all a slap-up meal at the pie stall.'

And so Sammy sang every winter song that he could think of, sprinkling the light-hearted ones with some Christmas carols and ending up singing plaintively in his beautiful voice,

‘
Good master and good mistress,

While you're sitting by the fire,

Pray think of us poor children

Who are wandering in the mire.
'

Several pitying glances were sent at the four ragged boys and their dog, and a couple of bright silver sixpences sparkled against the grimy torn lining of Alfie's cap.

‘Here you are, lads.' The chestnut seller handed over another sixpence. ‘Off you go now and have a good meal. I'll be here on the same day next week if your brother wants to come and sing a few more songs like that,' he said to Alfie.

‘Thinks I'm deaf as well as blind,' said Sammy with a grin once they were out of earshot of the chestnut stall. ‘Or else stupid,' he added. There was no bitterness in his voice, but Alfie felt bad for a moment. If only Sammy was not blind, or if they had not been born poor and left as orphans to fend for themselves . . .

‘With a voice like that and the brains and musical talent to match it, we'll have you singing in Covent Garden one day,' his grandfather used to say to Sammy. Still, thought Alfie, he sings outside Covent Garden and who knows what might happen. At least they had a roof over their heads and food to put in
their mouths most of the time.

‘You all right, Tom?' he said aloud. His young cousin was managing to stumble along now, but it was obvious that his feet were still half-frozen. It worried Alfie that they were not red, but still an odd, blotchy shade of white through the dirt and grime. There was a curiously blank look on Tom's face and he said nothing in reply to Alfie's question.

‘You all right, Tom?' repeated Jack. He put his arm around his brother's shoulder, giving him a little shake and looking into the vacant eyes.

‘Frost got into his brain.' Alfie was sure that he had heard of this sometime.

‘What will we do with him?' Jack looked aghast.