Mr. Timothy: A Novel (6 page)

Although I don't know, honestly, if I will recognise her if I see her again. She strikes me as the kind of vision that can only be granted, not sought, and it may be that the mere act of my seeking will just drive her further from view, until finally she is nothing but a residual warmth.

And then, through the day's vapour, I
do
see her.

Exactly where she should be--crouching once more by the Rollicking Tar--and virtually the same as when I saw her last. Gnawing on the now-familiar biscuit--the same biscuit as yesterday, for all I know--wearing that misshapen apron, the red ribbon in her hair. Only two changes to her ensemble, at least so far as I can detect: a woollen scarf, distractingly blue, wrapped around her neck like a beehive; and something less tangible, a slight jiggering of attitude, perhaps, a reorientation of the internal compass. Yesterday, she was a product of the haste that had brought her here. Her posture, the way she ducked her head round corners-- everything suggested conditionality. Now she lounges against the storefront like a discharged midshipman, waiting for the next ear to bend. Twenty years on, who knows? She may still be slouched here, assuming she can find warm places at night and stay away from the wrong people and find a few of the right ones and escape the cholera and scrounge up food even when the holidays have passed.

But fate doesn't always allow, does it? Someone needs to tell her that. Things
happen
to girls like her. One day chewing on biscuits; next day stretched out in an alley off Jermyn Street, constables on either side of you, strangers bending over you....

And that's all it takes. That vision. I'm on my feet: climbing the pier steps, stepping gingerly along the embankment wall. Every tread is calm and measured, and as I walk, I am risibly conscious of the symbolic freight I carry. I am Society's civilising impulse. I am England's outstretched hand.

And then she sees me, and I'm just one more man.

Does she remember me? Did she even
notice
me in that brief flurry of candlelight the other night? All I know is that her face has stopped like a watch; even her eyes have ceased their blinking. She pulls her scarf tight round her and steps carefully away--one step, two steps-- feeling her way along the front of the building like a blind seer. Refusing to let me either out of her sight or any nearer. Her mouth falls open as if to scream, but no sound emerges, only-- I imagine--the slow...leaking...of air.

--Wait. It's all right.

And what a sound comes from my mouth! High and weak and bleating, a dying fall. And somehow this sound has a greater effect on her than if I had bellowed. She whips her head away.

--It's all right! And now she's running, running almost as quickly as she did in my dream. And my own feet, as in a dream, cling stubbornly to the earth, drag behind me like anchors. Helpless, I watch her clamber to the embankment wall, perch on the edge, and then, after the briefest of backwards glances, pitch herself over the side.

How terrible the silence is. As I dash to the wall, I have to fill it with my own calculations:
Fifteen-foot drop. Nothing more. Twenty feet, perhaps
.

But when I peer over the edge, I find something I haven't calculated. A body not broken but stilled. Tipped forwards onto its hands and knees, crouching in the riverbed, squelched in Thames mud, while shoeless children sprint heedlessly past.

And then the hands twitch into life, the torso levers upwards. Her face lifts to the sky--no, not to the sky; to
me
. She slaps the mud from her hands and knees, readjusts the ribbon in her hair, hoists herself to her feet--and the entire time, her eyes refuse to part from mine. I can half believe she is waiting for me to say something. And so I do.

--I won't follow you.

But she knows that already. I wouldn't dare. Which affords her all the time in the world, really, to saunter downshore: no sign of twisted ankles, bruised knees, her gait almost insolent in its ease. And as I reverse direction, as I run back along the embankment wall, back to the stairs, the receding glimpses I have of her are like schoolyard taunts.
Catch me
, she is saying.
Just bloody try
.

By the time I lower myself from the pier into the riverbed, she is gone, once again. No amount of searching will bring her to earth this time. And even so, I wander down the shoreline she followed. I track her footprints in the pebbly grey sediment, curiously dainty outlines except where the heels of her boots have sunk in, and round me echo the hilarious chants of children, other children, too rapt in their frenzy even to notice this intruder from the upper world. How absurd I must look to them anyway, in my top hat and lounge coat, the very image of the gentleman slummer. And that absurdity is almost enough to send me back, but then a flash of red, ten yards downshore, calls me on.

Strangely unanchored at first, hovering in the air. Only when I come nearer does the ribbon attach itself to the embankment wall, and only when I'm actually touching it--reassuring myself as to whose it was--only then do I realise it's not the wall that has snagged it, but an opening in the wall. An opening perhaps three feet across, lined with crumbling bricks and tunnelling away into blackness. As I lower my face to the opening, the blackness breathes back, a squall of fumes that has me diving in my pocket for a handkerchief.

I press the white silk to my mouth, and as I wait for the next wind to clear my head, it occurs to me that in the midst of all those other effluents, I must have smelled fear.

What else could have made her leap twenty feet? What else could have plunged her into a sewer hole?

I won't follow her; I made her that promise. And how easy it is to keep, now! Hard, too. Hard to think that within a few short hours, the tide will come in, and the river will rise up and swallow everything in this noisome tunnel, from here to the far side of London. Everything and everyone.
--Here! What d'you want with her?

It comes at me from behind. A high, radiant, runny-nosed treble, like a congested bit of cloud falling to earth. I turn round slowly, pivoting on my heels, and my eyes fasten on a boy, not skyborne at all but earthbound, standing in the riverbed like a tiny pugilist, one foot thrust forwards and one hand balled in the other. Barely into his teens, by the look of it, with a wild scruff of black hair pulling away from a high, almost intellectual brow. A blackened smile behind an avidly protruding lower lip. Shoes easily two sizes too large for him, and a cap missing its bill, and pinning everything together, that street attitude, worn like a vest. Cheek and affability and pugnaciousness, all mixed together, as though he were spoiling for a good fight and a good laugh and didn't see much to distinguish between them.

--Well, you see, I thought she might be hungry...thought I might fetch her some food....

--And you done a good job scaring her off. Bit clumsy at this, ain't you?

--I'm not, if you must know, this isn't something at which I normally practice.

--At which you prak-tiss, he says, slapping my consonants silly.--Normally prak-tiss.

A chafing spirit sweeps across my face. It lingers only a moment, but it's enough to make him even bolder.

--I know some other poppets, if that's your line....

--Quite all right.

--Plumper gals. Quite athletic. One of 'em does this
trick
, sir, most alarming, the Hungarian cartwheel....

And in fact, just hearing the words "Hungarian cartwheel" does the trick. I no longer feel obliged to take any tone at all with him.

--Don't be disgusting, I say.

And as I turn away, I hear his voice blow in a new direction.

--Didn't mean to offend, sir. Heaven forfend, sir.

--You don't offend. You would have to do much more to offend.

So saying, Mr. Timothy Cratchit takes his leave. Observe him now: promenading along the embankment, stately as a dowager in a sedan chair, social position intact, dignity restored.

But the boy keeps interfering with the dignity. He runs alongside me now, his feet breathtakingly agile in their outsize shoes, his hands providing an extended accompaniment, sawing and circling and planing the air, never quite touching me, just wrapping me round in gossamer thread--a folk dance, improvised on the spot and gibing with thousands of other dances being performed at this very moment by legions of boys just like this one.

--Sir, it was an awful, a terrible misunderstandin'. --Apparently.

--I see now, it's this gal in particular, ain't it?

--Go away, please.

--Old acquaintance, sir?

--No.

--'Course not! Silly monkey! Family member, is what I'm guessin'. As has run away from home....

--I don't see that it's any business of yours.

--'Course not, sir, but I'm a man of business, ain't I? Anyone's business'll do.

He almost breaks my stride with that one. It's maddening to feel that twitch of humour in my cheeks.

--You may run along now.

--How about a song, then?

--No.

--A few bars, sir.

With a small grunt, I thrust myself forwards, and for a moment, I could swear I've broken free, but then something calls me back. A voice, that's all. Much like the one I've just been listening to, except this one really does fall from the sky. All the defiance, all the glottals and sinus obstruction that marred the boy's speech have been cleared away, and there's nothing left but sound, pure and lustrous, rising and swelling with no discernible effort.

Oh, the summertime is comin'
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'
...

I used to sing this very song for my family. A retired Scottish hussar from round the corner taught it me, and I could reproduce his exact burr to charming effect when I sang it after Sunday dinners. My brothers and sisters would sit round the table in peaceful, half-enforced attendance, and as I sang, I could see my parents' eyes widen in response to certain tremolos and cadenzas. I knew precisely how to elicit these responses, how to break off phrases, when to raise the volume. I could stand outside myself and watch it all happen.

Will ye go, lassie, go
?

And we'll all go together
...

But even at my best, I never sounded like this boy. Never held myself like him, either: so calm and still, so respectful of his muse. Cap pressed against his chest, gaze fixed on some rewarding vision in the middle ether.

To pluck wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin' heather Will ye go, lassie, go
?

And just like that, the sound ends, and the boy stands quiet, almost estranged from what he has produced.

--There's two more verses, sir. If you're willin'.

I move a few paces towards him. A flush of slyness steals back into his eyes.

--What's your name? I ask.

--Colin. Colin the Melodious, as I'm known professionally.

--Thank you, Colin.

My hand is already closing round a coin, and as I draw it from my pocket, the sun's rays set it smouldering in my palm.

A half sovereign. My last gold piece.

Colin flinches with surprise.

--Thank
you
, sir.

I nod and turn, but the boy isn't about to let it rest now. His limbs jig back into life, and the harder I press on, the more nimbly he trots alongside me. After a few yards, he spins himself about and pedals backwards, so that the two of us now resemble a pair of amorous paddle wheels, pulling against each other.

--See here, sir. You and me ain't done, is we?

--I think perhaps we are.

--Oh, sir, you break my heart, you really do. Here you are, a gentleman in need of service, and here am I, a young cove ready to supply it.

--What are you going on about?

Still facing backwards, he darts ahead a few paces, then stops suddenly and leans into my chest. It's the first time he has allowed himself to touch me.

--I knows people, sir. Me and my mates, between us we got eyes 'cross town, all 'long the river. You want that gal found, sir, depend on it, Colin's your man.

--Who says I want her found?

--No one, sir, no one. I was purely speculatin'.

--And what makes you think I can't find her myself?

--Well, you frighted the bollocks off her, didn't you? She ain't never goin' back
there
. And what with the, what with the little catch in the old locomotion, you won't be runnin' her down, sir. Not so's anyone'd notice it right off, sir. You carries yourself right elegant.

It doesn't exactly turn my head, but it does stop me in my tracks. I have to wipe my face clean of any pleasure.

--How old are you, Colin?

He doffs his cap. His cheeks puff with vanity.

--Half a month shy of eleven, sir.

--And you're not in school? You have no other pressing business to occupy your time?

--Depends what you mean by "pressing," sir. Got my career to think of, naturally, but being a nighttime artiste and all, why, I've got packs of daylight time. Eternally at your service. Beck'n Colin, that's me.

The wind has whipped up now. The piers sing, the water shushes beneath Hungerford Bridge, and a patch of twigs and leaves--the remains of a bird's nest--rolls down to sea. But, as far as this boy is concerned, none of this is happening. He has eyes only for me.

--Thank you, Colin. I'm afraid I cannot accept your generous offer.

--Reasonable terms, sir, if you're--

--I've no doubt you're reasonable. The answer is no.

--Ooh, sir!

--Sorry.

--Ooh, you're killing me, sir! You're
murdering
me!

--I hope you get better.

By the time I reach the top of the hill, the sound of him--his dancing feet, his mercantile panting--has faded away. And even so, how surprising to turn and find him gone. I squint hard, as though I were trying to spy a ship, and there, at the bottom of the hill, he stands, his cap leaping almost autonomously from hand to hand, his head thrown back like a cock's as a raucous crowing swells the reedy column of his throat: