Folly (8 page)

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Below the chapel,
far
below,

Through the darkness you must go.

Find him, see him,
touch his bones
,

Or you shall surely die alone ..."

James couldn't help shivering. He knew the Big Chaps were trying to be scary ... but he didn't quite believe they'd
hurt
him. And huddled on his bed in the dark with older boys all around? It was almost like being at Martin's house with his noisy, bothersome brothers. It was almost like having friends.

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MARY 1877 Telling About the First Encounter

We scurried down Arthur Street, Eliza pulling on my hand while I banged into people left and right with the basket, suffering their curses and scowls without her heeding any of it, she were so bent on her endeavor.

"Oh, can't you hurry!" she scolded. "We mustn't be gone any more time than it takes to buy a fish!"

"The fish mar ... ket ... is the ... other way," I puffed. "Covent Gar ... den, is it not ...?" I pointed over my shoulder.

"Of course it is, you ninny! That's why we're running! We'll circle back that way. But you must see, you'll--"

We rounded the corner and the reason for Eliza's tizzy were clear at once. Forty men or more, in one small street; sitting about, leaning on walls, smoking, laughing,

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brushing horses, polishing boots, spitting, cursing, and generally strutting their manly selves.

"What--?"

I began to skitter backward but Eliza gripped me as a pair of tongs grips a cutlet.

"There's a barracks here," she whispered. "It's a girl's dream come true!"

"No, Eliza, not me." I were blushing already, guessing the kind of girl who might dream that way!

I were surprised at the gall of her. Under usual circumstances, Eliza thought of one man only and his name were Bates. But even with him, she complained when he took his jacket off in company, if you can call us in the kitchen company. Yet here she were, gawping at a crowd of
dozens
, and these men were not entirely clad. Indeed, several lolled about without shirts at all!

"Eliza! We should not be here!"

I yanked my hand from hers and turned to flee, but at that moment saw an urchin, smaller and much dirtier than Nut. His grimy fingers closed around Eliza's purse and gave a mighty yank, us being otherwise distracted.

"Stop!" I cried. "Stop, you! Hey!"

Eliza spun about, thinking it were me who pulled on her. Seeing the boy, she screamed, tripped, and fell forward over her own clodhoppery feet, landing on the muddy cobbles with a
thunk
and a moan. I stared at her upended bottom and missed snatching at the boy.

All about us now were
men
, utterly confusing the

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situation. They tried to right Eliza and each report what he had seen, each clamoring to say the most.

I held Eliza's arm and tried to wipe away the mud.

"My purse!" she sobbed. "I shall be whipped--"

"Not whipped, Eliza," I muttered. "Surely not whipped."

"Whipped!" she wailed. "Alack this day!"

It were not until the word
alack
that I saw her game. She shook free my hold to accept assistance from the whole company of men around us.

If she had seen herself in a glass, she'd have delayed her drama, for she were smeared with mud and horse dung from hem to cap, with her nose blazing scarlet to match the men's jackets.

"It was my lady's money!" explained Eliza, to the few men who listened still.

I'm not proud to say, but a giggle tickled at my throat, so I looked away while she flirted. I stood on tippy-toe, though I had no hope of spying the boy, who would be vanished and cheering his luck by now.

But then, up went a cry.

"What? Tucker?"

"Tucker's got it!"

"He caught the brat and trounced him!"

"Is it true?" I asked, pulling on the sleeve of the nearest soldier. Eliza paused in her performance.

A grinning lad approached, holding high a muddy prize that were the stolen purse. He were nearly as bespattered as Eliza, but his comrades clapped him on the

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shoulders as he passed and set up a chant in jest, "Tuck
er
! Tuck
er
! Tuck
er
!"

He put the purse in Eliza's outstretched hand and then bowed low and clicked his heels, causing huge hilarity amongst the others. Now that he were near, we could see that he were closer to boyhood than most of them and dressed in the fashion of a groom, not the full uniform of the Coventry Guard.

"Caden Tucker, at your service." He ignored the friendly jeers.

As Eliza's mouth still hung open, I had the wits to bob.

"We thank you, kind sir," I said, matching his elegance. "This is Eliza Pigeon, whose whipping you have averted, and who will speak again when she has caught her breath."

I pinched her, and she blurted, "Aye!"

Caden Tucker now turned his eyes to me, and sure I felt the crackling blue heat of them, alongside a glimpse of a cheeky smile and a head full of shining dark curls, not that I were thinking so poetic at the moment.

"And you?" he asked.

Eliza began to moan about the state of her dress and tried to wipe it with her hands, which only moved the muck around. The men had lost interest and were wandering back to their boot polishing and arm wrestling and tobacco chewing.

"I'm Mary, sir. Mary Finn." I bobbed a second time. "We were meant to be buying fish, but got waylaid...." I

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tugged Eliza's arm. "Come on, we'll catch it something terrible now."

She let me lead her just a step before she winced and bleated, grabbing at Caden Tucker as she stumbled.

"How far are you from home?" he asked.

"We live in Neville Street," I told him.

"I could walk with you for a bit," he said.

"Oh, would you?" Eliza leaned on his arm. "I feel a weakness in my knee and a terrible pain about the ankle."

This time I saw her plan as clear as Mr. Tucker's blue eyes. "Rot," I muttered. She screwed up her mouth at me, though not so's he could see it.

But then a drum were banged in the alley where the men lingered and Mr. Tucker were instantly at attention, as if prodded with a stick, along with every man in sight.

"I'm sorry," he said, rapidly straightening and attempting to brush himself off. He were gone before we could reply, and Eliza's mouth were still open.

"You are not truly injured?" I asked as nicely as I could.

"Me? I'm right as rain," she said. "But we haven't got the fish!"

"It's a lucky thing you landed in mud. We can tell the truth about what happened, and just not mention where."

Eliza smiled at me. "That's good," she said. "But did you tell him the
number
of the house on Neville Street?"

"What?"

"You must confess," she said with a sigh, "it worked out perfectly! And he very nearly walked us home! Was he not the
handsomest
boy?"

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His laughing eyes darted across my mind.

I glared at her. "Eliza!"

"He liked you, too, I think," she said.

"Shall I go alone to fetch the fish?"

"No, no!" she said. "You must come back with me and tell Mrs. Wiggins how we nearly lost the purse."

Eliza bore her scolding with surprising good humor. We were pronounced useless and Bates were sent to the shops. He commenced to scowling and spluttering, such an errand being so far beneath him.

"I could go," offered Nut.

"Ha," said Bates, pulling on his boots. "No point sending out another one who'll not get what's wanted."

"Oh, I'd say we got exactly what was wanted," murmured Eliza, with a saucy wink at me.

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OLIVER 1884 History

As dry as dead bugs, was how the students might categorize Oliver Chester. He knew that. They called him Fester Chester or Blister Chester, somewhat uncreatively, he thought. It had been the same in his day, coming up with rhyming or alliterative nicknames for the masters and matrons. Full-of-Snot Aldercott had arrived when he was in the fifth form. Only the good Lord knew how old she must be by now!

Oliver usually included Captain Thomas Coram in the lesson about mad King George III. The boys liked to hear that Queen Charlotte had fifteen children of her own and had probably convinced her husband to grant the charter to start the Foundling Hospital. They all knew about the charter, as Charter Day dinner was the one time apart

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from Christmas when they could depend on having dessert.

Oliver would move on to Captain Coram's daily walk past the dung heap where he witnessed dying babies and conceived the idea of a home to care for abandoned children. Dung and dying babies were certain to absorb them. But, thanks to the legend of the crypt, passed down through the generations, the boys were well acquainted with Coram's ghost and did not care a plate of figs for tales of the real man.

As a five-year-old, nearly thirty years ago, Oliver had narrowly dodged pissing in his pants during his own initiation. Now he occasionally slipped down to the chapel on Saturdays following Reception Day, telling himself he was keeping an eye out for misdoings. But truly? Those nights were rare spots of fun for Oliver, watching his childhood from afar.

Oliver waited for the creaking and whispering to pass along the corridor before he followed, not quite on tiptoe, but putting his feet down carefully, softly, to avoid dull scuffing on stone. He skated in the near-dark across the chapel floor, sliding into a back pew with a clear view of the stairway that led down to the crypt.

There were four Big Chaps, as far as Oliver could make out. They sat on the top step goading four or five new boys into creeping down to where nightmares were inevitable. The single candle stayed at the top, causing

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ghastly shadows to flit against the walls like prehistoric moths. The smallest boy was already shaking with sobs.

Oliver, bent low to remain secret, sternly asked himself a question, not for the first time. Was he behaving indecently by not stepping in at once? Or was he allowing the boys a rare moment to be something other than little tin soldiers?

"It's too dark down here!" More than one of them was wailing now.

"Stay where you are, you stupid babies."

"And don't come out without fetching a bone from Coram's coffin."

Time for Oliver's favorite interlude. With his lips closed, he began to moan far back in his throat. A hum, but the gloomy hum of a dying man.

The Big Chaps were startled to attention, shifting their eyes, flexing their fists.

"Do you hear that?"

"What the
hell
is that?"

A scream tore up from below, the candle fell and was extinguished. The Big Chaps bumped into one another in the scramble. The noise was so fearful that Oliver stopped his nonsense and stepped out of hiding.

Three small boys in nightshirts raced up the stairs, faces wild and breathing ragged. Behind them came a creature, another white-clad boy, of course, but his skin was smeared and his hair was spiky with gray dust. His hands formed swiping claws and he released a piercing

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shriek that sent the whole pack running--straight into Mr. Chester.

"Aaaaaahh!" Worse even than an apparition was the sight of the history master finding them out of the ward at half past ten at night.

"Settle down, boys." Oliver waited. "Hooper. Franklin. Tubman."

"Sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir."

"Correct me if I am mistaken. Your purpose here is to frighten children."

They hung their heads while the smaller boys finished up whimpering. Oliver turned to them.

"I am Mr. Chester. I teach history and will meet all you boys in a couple of years. One of the things you will learn during your history lessons is how wrongdoers in the past have been punished. Isn't that right, Franklin?"

"Yes, sir."

"In his coffin, eh? There he lies ... Tattered coat and hollow eyes?"

"Yes, sir."

Oliver looked down at the huddle of new ones.

"A phantom seems to have come up with you from the crypt."

The dusty boy grinned and made claws again. Very plucky.

"What's your name?"