Black Hearts in Battersea Read online

  ‘You can do it tomorrow morning –’ then there was a stifled grunt and a creak of springs as if someone had jumped back into bed, slamming the door behind them.

  Simon went out wondering if the Twites had a particular reason for not wanting him to see the mail. In case there might be a letter for Dr Field? However, as soon as he stepped outside he was obliged to direct all his energy to keeping himself upright and the kitten dry in the wild gusts of wind and rain that seemed threatening to knock him off his feet. He was glad that it was not far to the Academy, and thankful to gain the shelter of its great portico. Here he was approached by the young man whom he had seen yesterday washing socks.

  ‘Hallo, my cocky,’ said this individual. ‘Old Fur-nose told me to watch out for you. So here’s poor old Gus, eyes like cannon balls from lack of sleep, hoisted from the downy before the Chelsea cocks have left their watery nests – particular watery this morning, wasn’t it, Fothers? Ugh!’ he added, shuddering. ‘Eight o’clock! To think such a time exists! There ought to be a law against it, so there should!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, sir,’ Simon apologized.

  ‘We’ve only just this minute got here,’ interposed the young man with Gus whom he had addressed as Fothers. ‘We’ve orders to take you to the Mausoleum, but I daresay you could do with a cup of coffee first?’

  ‘Here, young ’un, just hold that bit of tinder, will you?’ Gus pulled out flint and steel and a handful of carpenters’ shavings from his pouch and soon expeditiously kindled a small fire under the shelter of the portico.

  Meanwhile, Fothers had run down to the river-shore – only a stone’s throw from the Academy – and returned with an armful of driftwood and tarry splinters, damp, to be sure, but ready to blaze up with a little encouragement. In no time a handsome fire was burning, over which Fathers dexterously slung a tin paint-pot full of water. ‘No cooking at our lodgings,’ he explained, tossing in a handful of coffee, ‘ever since Gus started a fire and nearly burnt the landlady in her bed. So we have breakfast here.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t succeed in frizzling the old skinflint,’ Gus remarked morosely, dropping three eggs into the coffee-pot. ‘Seven minutes for mine, Fothers. I fancy ’em hard. Hey, you, whatsyourname! have you any bread on you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Simon had purchased a long loaf and a sausage on the way to Chelsea. He was delighted to contribute to the meal.

  ‘Ah, that’s good, devilish good,’ exclaimed Gus, his eyes lighting up. ‘I haven’t had my grinders in a bit of solid prog for three days; had just about enough of nibbling old Mrs Gropp’s parsley and spring onions from her window-boxes. But you mustn’t call us ‘Sir’, young ’un, we’re only poor students, same as yourself. This is Democracy Hall, this is.’

  While he waited for his egg to boil he pulled a cake of soap from his pocket, held it out in the rain a moment, rubbed up a lather on his jaw, and then, with a palette knife which he drew from his painter’s satchel, calmly proceeded to shave, using the lid of the coffee-tin as a mirror. By the time he had done, Fothers, who had been timing the eggs with a large turnip-watch, pronounced them ready.

  Simon, who was wet and chilled, found himself very glad of the drink of hot coffee. He noticed that his new friends, though they were plainly very hungry, showed great delicacy in eating only sparingly of his bread and sausage. He pressed more on them.

  ‘No, thank’ee, young ’un,’ said Fotheringham. ‘You’ll be wanting it yourself come dinner-time. Sausages don’t grow on trees in London, you know, and they aren’t giving away any half-crowns yet, that I’ve heard. Come along, now, and I’ll show you the way to the Mausoleum.’

  This proved to be an enormous room containing a regular forest of statues: sitting, standing, lying, in marble, metal, and granite, they seemed as if they had sprouted from the floor like mustard-and-cress.

  ‘Old Fur-nose always makes you start by drawing these,’ Gus explained.

  ‘All of them?’ Simon looked round in alarm.

  ‘Bless you, no! Depends if he likes you – then he moves you on quick enough. You’ll be all right – anyone could tell he’d taken quite a shine to you.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Simon called after them as they left. Presently Dr Furneaux came bustling in, directed Simon to draw a statue of a lady who appeared to be wearing nothing but a fish-net, uttered words of instruction and encouragement in his ear, and then surged round the room, praising, scolding, and exhorting the other students.

  The day passed quickly. As usual when Simon drew he hardly noticed the passage of time. The kitten foraged among the statues and received a share of bread and sausage at dinner-time. At last the light began to fade, and Simon rubbed his stiff hand.

  ‘Enough, enough, now, boy,’ exclaimed Dr Furneaux, materializing beside him like a whiskery ghost in the dusk. ‘Ze ozzers zey all pack up and finish long ago. To draw in ze dark is to r-rruin ze eyes. Away wiss you and come back matinalement, in good time, tomorrow morning.’

  He peered at Simon’s drawing, said, ‘Good boy,’ and bustled away. Simon went off to Mr Cobb’s yard, where he worked hard at splicing shafts for a couple of hours. Mr Cobb himself was in the smithy, superintending the shoeing of an excitable little bay mare. Presently he came out, rubbing the sweat off his brow.

  ‘Proper handful she be,’ he said with a grin. ‘Artful as a curricle-load o’ monkeys. She come in a-hobbling from her cast shoe, and now she’ve lamed the young feller as brought her – kicked him on the knee-cap and he’s limping like a tinker’s moke. He allus was an unhandy chap, was my wife’s cousin Jem.’

  Another explosion of whinnies came from the forge. The little mare danced out, making circles round the smith who was leading her. Another man followed, limping and cursing.

  ‘Here, Jem, boy, you’d best goo up to Floss. Ask her to rub some liniment on that knee,’ Mr Cobb said. ‘If a knee like that goes proud on you, you’ll be lame for months. I dessay his Grace the Dook won’t mind waiting for the mare.’

  ‘ ’Tain’t his Grace,’ Jem said sulkily. ‘It’s for my young Lord Whippersnapper. Nothing would please his fancy but he must go riding by torchlight in the park, and no other mount in the stable but this one would do for him to set his lordly seat on. Dang me, was there ever such a pother when ’twas found she’d a shoe loose! Nowt would serve but I must take and have her shod this instant. And he’s waiting for her now.’ He moved to take the mare’s bridle, limped again heavily, and let out an involuntary groan.

  ‘You bide here-along, Jem, boy,’ said Mr Cobb concernedly. ‘One o’ the others can take the filly back.’

  ‘I’ll go!’ said Simon instantly, putting a finished shaft with a pile of others. ‘Where shall I take her?’

  ‘Ah, that’s me boy! ’Twon’t take you but a minute. Only a step from here it be. Duke o’ Battersea’s stables. Goo in the back way, through the tunnel, ask for Mr Waters, he’s the head groom, give him my compliments, and say my Floss is putting a tar poultice on Jem’s knee and he’ll be right as rain before Goose Friday.’

  ‘Is the boy trustworthy?’ Jem asked, shooting a doubtful glance at Simon. ‘He won’t take the filly over to Smithfield and sell her for cat’s meat?’

  ‘Trustworthy as my old mother,’ said Mr Cobb heartily. ‘Come on now, Jem, boy, what you need is a drop of Organ-Grinder’s Oil.’ He helped the limping Jem up the stairs, shouting for Flossie to get out the tar and a large saucepan.

  Simon tucked the kitten into his jacket, took the mare’s bridle from the smith, and led her out of the gate and along the river-bank to Chelsea Bridge. Beyond, across the river, was the noble pile of Battersea Castle.

  Gus had pointed out the Castle that morning while they were breakfasting. Simon had been delighted to learn that the place where his friend Sophie lived was so near, and had been planning to go to the servants’ entrance as soon as possible and ask to see her. Returning the mare offered an excellent opportunity and he had seized it at once.

 
; He paused a moment, gazing in awe at the huge mass of buildings composing the Castle. It stood close to the river; on either side and to the rear stretched the extensive park and gardens, filled with splendid trees, fountains and beds of brilliant flowers in shades of pink, crimson, or scarlet. The Castle itself was built of pink granite, and enclosed completely a smaller, older building which the present Duke’s father had considered too insignificant for his town residence. The new Castle had taken forty years to build; three architects and hundreds of men had worked day and night, and the old Duke had personally selected every block of sunset-coloured stone that went to its construction. ‘I want it to look like a great half-open rose,’ he declared to the architects, who were fired with enthusiasm by this romantic fancy. It was begun as a wedding-present to the Duke’s wife, whose name was Rosamond, but unfortunately she died some nine years before it was completed. ‘Never mind, it will do for her memorial instead,’ said the grief-stricken but practical widower. The work went on. At last the final block was laid in place. The Duke, by now very old, went out in his barouche and drove slowly along the river-bank to consider the effect. He paused midway for a long time, then gave his opinion. ‘It looks like a cod cutlet covered in shrimp sauce,’ he said, drove home, took to his bed and died. But his son, the fifth and present Duke, who had been born and brought up in the Castle, lived in it contentedly enough, and was only heard to utter one complaint about it. ‘It’s too dry,’ he said. ‘Not enough mildew.’ For the fifth Duke was a keen natural scientist, and moulds were one of his passions.

  At this time of day the great pink structure was lit by a circle of blazing gas flambeaux, which vied with the smoky rose-colour of the London sunset and were reflected in the river below.

  Glancing about him, Simon noticed a sign at the foot of the bridge: ‘Battersea Castle. Tradesmen and Servants Turn Left.’ Obediently he turned, and found the entrance to a large tunnel which ran under the river. The mare went forward confidently into it with ears pricked; plainly she knew her way home and was not startled by the booming echoes which her hoofbeats called out from the curving walls. The tunnel was not dark, for gas-lamps hung at regular intervals from the roof, but it was rather damp; rain from the morning’s storm had collected on the floor in large pools. Towards the middle one of these extended for some twenty feet.

  Simon, leading the mare, splashed unconcernedly through; having lived in the woods for years he was not worried by a trifle like wet feet. But he saw a girl some way ahead of him pause at the edge of the large puddle; then a man, who had been walking some paces behind her, overtook her and picked her up to carry her through. When the man was well into the middle of the pool, however, he evidently began to tickle the girl, for she screamed and struggled. Simon, approaching, heard him say:

  ‘You’d best promise to come with me to the bear-baiting on Saturday or I’ll drop you in. One – two – three –’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing!” exclaimed the girl with spirit. ‘You know I can’t abide the bear-baiting.’

  ‘Then I’ll drop you.’

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the girl furiously. ‘How I’d box your ears if my hands weren’t full of grapes and thistles. Will you stop being so provoking and let me get on! My lady’s waiting for these things.’

  ‘I shan’t budge till you promise.’

  Neither of the pair had noticed Simon: their voices had covered the sound of the mare’s hoofs. He recognized the girl as Sophie and was about to come to her aid when there was an unexpected interruption.

  A painter’s cradle had been slung from the roof, and an elderly man who had been lying on it, attentively regarding the stonework, suddenly loosed a rope, letting himself down with a rattle of pulleys, until he dangled in front of the disputing couple.

  ‘Midwink!’ he barked. ‘Leave the girl alone!’

  The man was so startled that he almost dropped Sophie.

  ‘Y -y-yes, of course, sir!’ he gulped.

  ‘Put her down! No, not there, dolt –’ for Midwink made as if to deposit Sophie in the pool – ‘take her along to the dry road.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly, sir.’

  ‘And don’t let me see you up to such tricks again, or you’ll go back to Chippings and stay there.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! Please don’t send me back there, please!’

  ‘Well, behave yourself!’ said the man on the cradle severely, and he hauled on the pulley and shot up to the roof again muttering, ‘Where had I got to? Aha, what have we here? Something of definite mycological interest, I feel positive.’

  The man Midwink carried Sophie across the pool and put her down. Then he noticed Simon and gave him a malevolent look. He was a hatchet-faced individual, dressed in black plush with buckled shoes and a stiff white collar. There was something mean, shifty, and bad-tempered about his appearance; he looked as if he would be a nasty customer to cross.

  ‘Who might you be?’ he said, eyeing Simon up and down, at the same moment as Sophie cried out in joyful recognition, ‘Simon! It’s Simon! How in the world did you get here?’

  ‘I’ve brought the bay mare from Mr Cobb,’ Simon said.

  ‘Horseflesh is not my province,’ Midwink remarked loftily. ‘You’d best take the mare to the stables.’

  ‘I’ll show you the way,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m going there myself. But Simon, how amazing it is that you should be in London. Oh, I am so pleased! I was beginning to fear we should never see each other again.’

  ‘I see you’ve found a friend, Miss Fine-Airs,’ sneered Midwink. ‘Nice sort of riff-raff you slight decent folk for, I must say! What would her Grace think if she saw you consorting with horse-yobs and gutter-boys – there wouldn’t be so much of “my pretty Sophie” then!’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Midwink – I do not find you interesting at all!’ snapped Sophie.

  Simon chuckled quietly to himself. Sophie’s speech was so very characteristic that he wondered how he could have forgotten it. She had a trick of rattling out her words very fast and clearly, like a handful of beads dropped on a plate. He wondered where he had recently heard somebody else speak in the same way.

  ‘I know when I’m not wanted,’ said Midwink sourly. ‘But you’d best guard your tongue, Madam Sophie – a pretty face isn’t the only passport to fortune here, as you may find!’

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Simon, as Midwink walked ahead of them and took a turning to the right.

  ‘Oh, he is the Duke’s valet – he is of no account,’ Sophie said impatiently. ‘He would be turned off if it were not for his knack of tying cravats. The Duke has grown too short-sighted to tie his own, and Midwink is the only person who can arrange them to his liking. But tell me, how do you come to be in London? Did you ever go back to Gloober’s Poor Farm? What have you been doing all these years? Oh, there is so much to ask you! But I must run to my lady with these things – she is waiting for them. Can we meet tomorrow – it is my evening off. Are you free then? Ah, that is good, excellent, I will meet you, where? Not too near the Castle or Midwink may come bothering – Cobb’s yard? Yes, indeed I know it, that will do very well. Now, here are the stables and there is Mr Waters. Good evening, Mr Waters. Here is my friend Simon who has brought back your horse.’

  ‘That ain’t no horse, Miss Sophie, that’s as neat a little filly as yourself,’ said Mr Waters.

  ‘Ah, bah, horses and fillies are all the same to me! Simon, it is wonderful to see you again. Now I must fly. Till tomorrow!’ She stood on tiptoe to give Simon a quick peck on the cheek, then ran off with her basket.

  ‘And where’s Jem Suds got to?’ asked Mr Waters. ‘Come up, my beauty, then, hold still while I put a saddle on your pernickety back.’

  Simon explained about the kicked knee and Mr Cobb’s tar poultice.

  ‘That lad’s born to get his neck broke,’ sighed Mr Waters, tightening a girth. ‘Ah, there’s his young lordship. You just brought the mare back in time –’

  ‘Aren’t you ready yet, Waters?’ called an irr
itable voice, and a boy came out of a doorway. Simon recognized Justin, the unwilling art student. He swung himself rather clumsily into the saddle, then looked down at Simon. ‘Oh, hallo,’ he said carelessly. ‘What are you doing here?’ He did not, however, wait for an answer, but gave a flip with his crop and trotted across the stable-yard and out through a gateway that led into the park.

  ‘Wait, your lordship!’ called Waters. ‘I’ve got Firefly saddled. I’ll be with you directly.’ He led out another mount, but Justin impatiently called back, ‘I don’t want you, Waters, I want to be on my own,’ set spurs to the mare, and galloped off into the dusk.

  ‘Pesky young brat!’ growled Waters. ‘He knows he’s not allowed out alone. Now I suppose I shall have to chase him all over the park, afore he breaks his neck.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Young Lord Bakerloo, the Dook’s nevvy. He’s the heir, as his Grace never had none o’ his own … Goodbye, my lad. Thank you for bringing back the filly,’ Waters called as he rode out of the gate.

  Simon made his way back through the tunnel.

  The elderly gentleman was still slung up on his painter’s cradle halfway along, gazing at the roof through a magnifying glass. Simon had forgotten about him and was rather startled at being addressed by a voice above his head as he waded through the largest puddle.

  ‘It’s rather damp down there, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is rather damp,’ Simon agreed, pausing and looking up politely.

  ‘You find it inconvenient?’ the old man asked, betraying a certain anxiety.

  ‘Bless you, no!’ Simon said cheerfully.

  The man brightened up at once.

  ‘You don’t mind a bit of damp? You’re a boy after my own heart! I don’t mind damp either. In fact I like damp. You don’t find it troublesome? That’s excellent – excellent.’