Burning Bright

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘I do,’ Jem answered with pride.

‘You’re a bottom catcher, you are!’

Jem frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘They call footmen fart catchers, don’t they? But you catch bottoms with your chairs!’ Maggie barked with laughter as Jem turned bright red. It didn’t help that Maisie joined in with her own tinkling laugh.

Indeed, his sister encouraged Maggie to linger, turning back as she and Jem reached the door with the hoops looped around their arms. ‘What’s your name?’ she called.

‘Maggie Butterfield.’

‘Oh, you be a Margaret too! In’t it funny, Jem? The first girl I meet in London and she do have my name!’

Jem wondered how one name could be attached to two such different girls. Though not yet wearing stays the way Maisie did, Maggie was fuller and curvier, padded by a layer of flesh that reminded Jem of plums, while Maisie was slim, with bony ankles and wrists. Though intrigued by this Lambeth girl, he didn’t trust her. She may even steal something, he thought. I’ll have to watch her.

Immediately he felt ashamed of the thought, though it didn’t stop him from glancing out of the open front window of their new rooms a few minutes later to make sure Maggie wasn’t rummaging in their cart.

She wasn’t. She was holding Mr Smart’s horse steady, patting its neck as a carriage passed. Then she was sniggering at Miss Pelham, who had come back outside and was discussing her new lodgers in a loud voice. Maggie seemed unable to keep still, hopping from one foot to the other, her eyes caught by passers-by: an old woman walking along who cried out, ‘Old iron and broken glass bottles! Bring ’em to me!’, a young girl going the opposite way with a basket full of primroses, a man pulling the blades of two knives across each other, calling out above the clatter, ‘Knives sharpened, get your knives sharpened! You’ll cut through anything when I’m done with you!’ He pulled his knives close to Maggie’s face and she flinched, jumping back as he laughed. She stood watching the man go, trembling so that the Dorsetshire horse bowed his head towards her and nickered.

‘Jem, open that window wider,’ his mother said behind him. ‘I don’t like the smell of the last people.’

Jem pushed up the sash window, and Maggie looked up and saw him. They stared at each other, as if daring the other to look away first. At last Jem forced himself to step back from the window.

Once the Kellaways’ possessions were safely upstairs, they all went back out to the street to say goodbye to Mr Smart, who would not stay the night with them, being anxious to make a start back to Dorsetshire. He’d already seen enough of London to provide weeks of anecdotes at the pub, and had no desire to be there still come nightfall, when he was sure the devil would descend on the inhabitants – though he didn’t say so to the Kellaways. Each found it hard to let go of their last link to the Piddle Valley, and delayed Mr Smart with questions and suggestions. Jem held on to the side of the cart while his father discussed which travelling inn to aim for; Anne Kellaway sent Maisie up to dig out a few apples for the horse.

At last Mr Smart set off, calling ‘Good luck an’ God bless’ee!’ as he pulled away from no. 12 Hercules Buildings, muttering under his breath, ‘An’ God help’ee too.’ Maisie waved a handkerchief at him even though he didn’t look around. As the cart turned right at the end of the road, slipping in among other traffic, Jem felt his stomach twist. He kicked at some dung the horse had left behind, and though he could feel Maggie’s eyes on him, he didn’t look up.

A few moments later, he sensed a subtle shift in the sounds of the street. Although it continued to be noisy with horses, carriages and carts, as well as the frequent cries of sellers of fish and brooms and matches, of shoe blackeners and pot menders, there seemed to be a quiet pause and a turning of attention that wound its way along Hercules Buildings. It reached even to Miss Pelham, who fell silent, and Maggie, who stopped staring at Jem. He looked up then, following her gaze to the man now passing. He was of medium height, and stocky, with a round, wide face, a heavy brow, prominent grey eyes, and the pale complexion of a man who spends much of his time indoors. Dressed simply in a white shirt, black breeches and stockings, and a slightly old-fashioned black coat, he was most noticeable for the red cap he wore, of a sort Jem and never seen, with a peak flopped over, a turned-up rim, and a red, white and blue rosette fixed to one side. It was made of wool, which in the unusual March heat caused sweat to roll down the man’s brow. He held his head slightly self-consciously, as if the hat were new, or precious, and he must be careful of it; and as if he knew that all eyes would be on it – as indeed, Jem realised, they were.

The man turned in at the gate next to theirs, stepped up the path, and hurried inside, closing the door behind him without looking around. When he had disappeared the street seemed to shake itself like a dog caught napping, and activity was renewed all the more vigorously.

‘Do you see – that is why I must speak with Mr Astley immediately,’ Miss Pelham declared to John Fox. ‘It’s bad enough living next door to a revolutionary, but then to be forced to take in strangers from Dorsetshire – it’s too much, really!’

Maggie spoke up. ‘Dorsetshire an’t exactly Paris, ma’am. I bet them Dorseters don’t even know what a bonnet rouge is – do you, Jem, Maisie?’

They shook their heads. Though Jem was grateful to Maggie for speaking up for them, he wished she wouldn’t rub his nose in his ignorance.

‘You, you little scamp!’ Miss Pelham cried, noticing Maggie for the first time. ‘I don’t want to see you round here. You’re as bad as your father. You leave my lodgers alone!’

Maggie’s father had once sold Miss Pelham lace he claimed was Flemish, but it unravelled within days and turned out to have been made by an old woman just down the road in Kennington. Though she hadn’t had him arrested – she was too embarrassed that her neighbours would find out she’d been duped by Dick Butterfield – Miss Pelham spoke ill of him whenever she could.

Maggie laughed; she was used to people berating her father. ‘I’ll tell Pa you said hello,’ she simpered, then turned to Jem and Maisie. ‘Bye for now!’

‘Z’long,’ Jem replied, watching her run along the street and disappear into an alley between two houses. Now she was gone he wanted her back again.

‘Please, sir,’ Maisie said to John Fox, who was just setting out with the circus boys to return to the amphitheatre. ‘What’s a bonnet rouge?’

John Fox paused. ‘That’ll be a red cap like what you just saw your neighbour wearing, miss. They wears it what supports the revolution over in France.’

‘Oh! We did hear of that, didn’t we, Jem? Tha’ be where they let all those people out of the Bastille, weren’t it?’

‘That’s the one, miss. It don’t have much to do with us here, but some folks like to show what they think of it.’

‘Who be our neighbour, then? Is he French?’

‘No, miss. That’ll be William Blake, born and bred in London.’

‘You leave him be, you children,’ Miss Pelham cut in. ‘You don’t want to get in with him.’

‘Why not?’ Maisie asked.

‘He prints pamphlets with all sorts of radical nonsense in them, that’s why. He’s a stirrer, that man is. Now, I don’t want to see any bonnets rouges in my house. D’you hear me?’