The Clay Dreaming (14 page)

The orb did resemble a cricket ball. What was more, the boy in the painting had Cole’s eyes, those same dark pupils, eerily ablaze.

‘Yes, it’s ironic,’ said Dilkes. ‘Cricket was supposedly the death of him.’

According to popular tradition, Frederick, in line to the throne, was slain by the pitch of a cricket ball. Sarah recalled the cruel Jacobite verse commemorating the event:

She turned aside.

The ceiling of the Upper Hall was no less impressive than that in the Grand Hall. From the four points of the compass, the Four Corners of the Known World, feminised, paid homage. To the west, Europe was accompanied by a white horse; Asia, in the north, adorned with a particoloured turban, presented
a camel; Africa, east, a lion at her side, modelled a nonsensical elephant hat; and finally, to the south, rose the Americas – personified by Pocahontas, the Indian princess who had so tragically fallen for a stranger to her shores.

If London, the nation’s capital, was the seat of Empire, then standing in the middle of this room effectively situated them at its dead centre.

‘Where is Australia?’ asked Sarah.

‘When this painting was done?’ replied Dilkes. ‘My dear,
Australia
was yet to be discovered.’

Sarah Larkin looked from the Naval clerk to her Aboriginal companion, but said nothing.

No sign of his energies flagging, Dilkes Loveless turned to face Miss Sarah Larkin.

‘You were hoping to see life on one of the
wards
, were you not?’ he said. ‘King Charles is closest. Let us go
there
.’

The Hospital clerk opened a small door and stood aside to let them pass. In the lobby area, a fine stairwell of dark wood curled its way up and around the interior. As they began their ascent, Dilkes Loveless regained the lead.

‘Just as it would have been for your man George Bruce,’ he said, ‘the daily routine for Pensioners remains
much
the same.
Excepting
, of course, their various comforts.’

He pointed to wall fixtures, overhead – the gas-lamps.

‘When I joined staff here nearly 30 years ago,’ he said, ‘
many
areas, these staircases for instance, were only lit with oil…whale for the officers’ corridors, and fish for the ordinary seamen.
Only
the Painted Hall and Chapel had gas. Eventually, we hope to extend it to the wards as well.’

On entering the room at the top of the stairs, Sarah’s first impressions were of scale: the doorway itself must have been at least eight feet across, wide enough for them to walk all three abreast.

‘Accommodation,’ Dilkes was saying, ‘is a mixture of smaller rooms, space for between four and eight curtained beds, and large wards such as
this
one, either side of the spine wall.’

In support of the lofty ceiling, a double row of pillars neatly divided the spacious interior. At the centre a large fireplace dominated, with wood-panel
surround. A room of such size, thought Sarah, must be very hard to heat in the wintertime.

‘The old sailors have never found these quarters much to their taste,’ confessed Dilkes. ‘Too
big
for their liking. Lest we forget, these men have spent years of their lives at sea. They become inured to life on board ship, where conditions are
cramped
, to say the least. In concession, a system of smaller enclosures has been introduced, reducing the available space to something more
palatable
.’

The clerk indicated little wood cabins dotted about the room, suggestive of a haphazard street of tiny shop-fronts: wainscoted and curtained, their glass windows were filled with prints and knick-knacks, as if on sale. The group approached one of these cabins, the curtain of which was drawn aside. About a dozen feet in height and the same in depth, but only nine feet across, there were four bed-spaces crammed inside – very homely. Canopied with curtains, the individual iron-framed beds each included a sea-chest to the side, covered over with a cluster of sentimental keepsakes.

Sarah had one, just the same, at the foot of her own bed; it had belonged to her mother. She ran her fingers over the gnarled wood, and gently warmed the brass.

‘Lockers for their worldly possessions,’ said Dilkes, ‘and souvenirs of their sea-voyages.’ Other chalets they passed contained anywhere between one and eight berths. Hammocks sometimes slung across in preference to beds reinforced the illusion of life below decks. It struck Sarah as immeasurably sad, that conditions at sea had left the old sailors so institutionalised; equally, that they lived out their days evidently wishing themselves elsewhere.

‘But, where is Mr Cole?’ she said suddenly.

Even as the words left her mouth, he reappeared at her side. His ability to blend into any background could be at times disconcerting.

He looked, and with obvious interest, towards the far end of the ward: only here were any of the beds actually occupied. Sarah noted the subtle presence of a few womenfolk, not so much in attendance as they were idly hanging about.

‘Are these…are these nurses?’ she asked.

‘Oh, heavens,
no
,’ said Dilkes. ‘
Widows
, mostly.’

They drew close to a bed somewhat marooned out in the open. A body lay on it, insensible.

‘Having dropped anchor, and snug-moored,’ said Dilkes, ‘our patriot and hero finally earns a modicum of peace here in a Greenwich harbour.’

Sarah almost begged for the clerk to stop, but he continued.

‘As you see, the old sea-dog lacks for vigour.’

They looked again at the body inert in the bed. The man had no legs.

The clerk cut for himself a slice of Hazlitt. ‘“Stung with wounds, stunned with bruises, bleeding and mangled, an English sailor never finds himself so
much alive as when he is flung half dead into…”’ Dilkes Loveless froze,
mid-quote
‘“…the cockpit.”’

The Greenwich Pensioner lay awake, staring at them. His beady eyes, bloodshot, glittered with suspicion.

‘WHO ARE YA?’ he shouted. Although minus a pair of legs, he retained a healthy set of lungs.

‘
Salty
old sea-dog…’ said Dilkes. He moved to the head of the bed and laid a hand on the old sailor’s shoulder. ‘Many of our residents exhibit a
supernumerary
vitality…’

‘BUGGER ORF!’ yelled the sailor. ‘Who are ya?’ The inmate’s body jerked in the bed as he tried to get a better look at who stood beside him. ‘Lieutenant Loveless!’ he said. ‘Beggin’ y’r pardon, sir, only I was sleepin’ and not expectin’ ta meet with anyone. I didden know quite wheres I was f’r a moment!’

‘That’s quite all right, Siddon,’ said Dilkes. ‘Settle down.’

Sarah gave a gentle smile. King Cole peeped out from behind her skirts.

‘Siddon,’ said Dilkes.

‘Sir?’

‘This is
Miss
Sarah Larkin. Oh, and a
Mister
Cole.’ The clerk bowed on his ward’s behalf. He said, ‘May I present Percival Siddon, R.N.’

The inmate’s beady eye rolled over them, exploring Sarah’s charms only briefly before settling on Cole’s black face. He squinted in a most unfriendly fashion.

‘Siddon celebrated his 75th birthday less than a week ago,’ boasted the clerk. ‘Didn’t you? And that is nothing unusual. At the turn of the century, records state we had near to a hundred inmates, disabled, mind, at well over 80 years of age. One particular fellow was still going strong at 102!’

‘I remembers him,’ grunted the sailor. ‘Awkward old – ’

‘Then,’ Dilkes said, ‘there was John Rome, the signalman of Nelson’s
Victory
. “England expects”, and all that! The
very
man to hoist the flags before the Battle of Trafalgar. He passed on only
eight
years ago.’

‘
Arrrh
,’ roared Siddon. ‘The Battle of Trafalgar! I was there! We showed those F – ’

‘Now, Percy,’ said Dilkes, ‘you know that isn’t true.’

‘Those flaming Frenchies had – ’

‘Percival.’

‘
Ahhh
…’ Siddon rolled his head, defiant to the last. ‘Well, Rome isn’t ’ere to tell it any more, iz’e?’ he said. ‘So I might as well! If it warn’t for our spinning a yarn now and then, why, sir, we should spit and sputter at each other like a parcel of cats in the gutter!’

Disconsolate, the old seaman started to cast around. ‘Who’s got my bottle?’ he shouted.

Sarah worried over which end of him had need.

‘Anybody seen my bottle? Who’s nicked my drink?’ roared Siddon. ‘Blarm me, I needs a drink! Me stumps is plaguin’ somethin’ rotten!’

‘The Governor recognises,’ galloped in Dilkes, ‘that for many veterans, life can be a little dull – ’

‘Yurrr, the Guv’nor,’ Siddon interjected. ‘Tha’s very big of ’im. More of a man than me…he’s still got hisself a leg to stand on!’

‘Unavoidably,’ Dilkes persevered, ‘shut out from
wholesome
interests – ’

‘I saw ’im,’ said Siddon. ‘In the middle of the night it was, only a day or two gone.’ He flicked his head towards one of the east windows.

The clerk’s face dropped.

‘They’d sat me in a chair and forgot me,’ Siddon shouted. ‘Sat there all night I was, staring out that damned window like an owl! Saw him out on the Court. Raisin’ a toast to King George, he was, then fell over backwards!’

Dilkes Loveless rushed at them. Before they knew it, Sarah and Cole were through the next set of doors.

The old sailor could still be heard, blaspheming away behind them. ‘
Arsy-varsy
, ha HA!’ he cried. ‘Such a laugh came ’pon me, I ’ad like to beshit meself!’

‘Admiral Sir James Alexander Gordon, the Governor,’ gabbled the clerk. ‘Roses in his cheeks, lovely fellow, very kind. Heart of gold, but
wooden
-
legged
… Not a
well
man, sadly.’

Dilkes Loveless smiled and frowned and looked about, assessing their next move.

‘You will find it
quieter
out here,’ he said.

‘The man’s bottle?’ said Sarah. She searched the face of the clerk. His eyes met hers, and in that fleeting instant she witnessed a spark of panic.

‘The Pensioners,’ he said, firmly, ‘are given a daily allowance,
much
as they were in the service. They have ways and means of getting their hands on more, of course, and are often found…’ His voice trailed away. ‘The Trafalgar Tavern,’ he said, recovering, ‘the Red Lion, the Man in the Moon, the Victory…all a hop, skip and a jump away. When it comes to pubs and taverns, we enjoy a
surfeit
.’

Sarah recalled the Chalk Walk: perhaps the men needed places where they might smoke in company, and keep warm at the same time. What with the grog, and the London fogs, it was no wonder that their chest ailments were aggravated.

‘Things in general, however,’ said the clerk, ‘are not as
bad
as they used to be.’

He led the way down a back staircase, smaller than the first.

‘And how
did
they used to be?’ said Sarah, a slight note of challenge in her voice.

The angle of the dim stairwell was tight, the party almost turned back on themselves.

‘Drunkenness, quarrelling…fighting…’ Perhaps for the first time, Dilkes hesitated to speak. They had rather left behind his regular patter. ‘It was, in truth, an absolute pandemonium,’ he said. ‘A personal filthiness prevailed that would stand your hair on end.’

They emerged into a stone-flagged foyer of sorts, open at one side to the grassy sward of the Grand Court.

‘The Surgeon-General himself made complaint,’ said Dilkes. ‘Unless he be a patient in the Infirmary, it was difficult to find a Pensioner who washed his feet or body from the time of his admission till his death.’

‘They were not made to wash?’ said Sarah.

‘There was no
means
of washing back then, other than in the chamber pots they had just emptied,’ said Dilkes. ‘There are washbasins in the wards
now
. Conditions, I assure you, are very much improved!’

The clerk pointed out a set of stone troughs at one side of the lobby. Underneath each, Sarah noted a second trough intended to capture and recycle the spilt water.

‘The water-closets originally stood outside, a good hundred feet or so away from any building. In consideration of sanitation, you see. That did prove a trial for many of our less
capable
veterans…’

To say the least – Sarah tried, but not too hard, to imagine their struggles in the depths of winter. She shivered.

Dilkes entertained only fond memories of his own designated toilet, out on the west lawns. It was in the same approximate spot where he chose to take his lunch.

They passed through another set of double doors, into a ward that was completely empty.

‘Lieutenant Loveless…’ said Sarah.

She heard the echo of her own voice, and looked around the stark white room. ‘You – um – you refer to the inmates as those “remaining”. May I ask… where have all the others gone to?’

‘Dear lady,’ he replied, ‘to the only better place there is.’

‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

Dilkes Loveless threw open the next set of doors with a flourish. ‘My office,’ he said. ‘Or my sometime office, I suppose I should say now.’

The room was spacious, under-furnished, and utterly charmless.

‘Please, sit,’ urged Dilkes. ‘May I offer you some light refreshment?’

Already his hand clasped a small bell. Sarah consented. The bell was rung, and in short order a smart young purser appeared through a smaller side door to receive his orders. They were soon settled and, indeed, glad of the rest.

Dilkes Loveless leant forward across his desk.

‘The Hospital opened 100 years already, it was following Trafalgar that numbers reached their peak,’ he said. ‘We hit full capacity by 1814, housing nearly 3,000 sailor-Pensioners!’

He felt gratified to see her thickish eyebrows raised.

‘The end of the Napoleonic war brought with it
peace
,’ said Dilkes. ‘Our source of income was sharply reduced, just when the payment of pensions was at its greatest. Out-pensions especially cut into our capital at an alarming rate…two million pounds
wiped
out
inside of four years!’

This, then, would have been around the time that George Bruce was admitted; and shortly thereafter died.

The clerk took up his teacup and slurped.

Sarah’s cheek twitched, while King Cole idly twirled a quill feather between his fingers.

‘Our resources stretched,’ resumed Dilkes, ‘affairs struggled on in this un-Bristol-fashion for the next 30 or so years, before the men began to die off. You’ll forgive my bluntness. These last two decades have seen a sharp
falling off
in numbers.’

Dilkes Loveless gathered up a sheaf of papers and tapped them briskly on the desktop, before moving them over to the opposite side.

‘Disarmament, you see, cuts down Royal Navy ships,’ he said, ‘while the Merchant Service ever expands. All part and parcel of increased settlement of the colonies, the very
fruits
of our exertions. The real problem is we haven’t had a Naval conflict worth its salt in over 50 years!’