The Forgotten Garden Part 11

At the bottom of the stairs Eliza stopped and scanned the shadowy lumps and b.u.mps of the shop. The fingers of fog had found their way between the bricks and flattened out across the room, hovering heavily over the displays, cl.u.s.tering yellow around the flickering gas lamp. Sammy was in the back corner, sitting on a stool cleaning bottles. He was deep in thought: Eliza recognized the mask of daydream on his face.

With a glance to confirm that Sarah wasn't lurking, Eliza crept towards him.

"Sammy!" she whispered as she made her approach.

Nothing, he hadn't heard.

"Sammy!"

His knee stopped jiggling and he leaned so that his head appeared around the shop counter. Straight hair fell to the side.

"There's a fog out."

His blank expression reflected the self-evidence of this statement. He shrugged slightly.

"Thick as the gutter muck, the streetlamps have all but disappeared. Perfect for the Ripper."

That got Sammy's attention. He was still for a moment, considering, then he shook his head. Pointed at Mr. Swindell's chair with its stained cushion, stuck where the bones of his back pressed into it, night after night, when he returned from the tavern.

"He won't even know we're gone. He'll be ages yet and so will she."

He shook his head again, with slightly less vigor this time.

"They'll be busy all afternoon, neither would pa.s.s up an opportunity to make some extra coin." Eliza could tell she was getting to him. He was part of her after all, she'd always been able to read his thoughts. "Come on, we won't be long. We'll go as far as the river and then we'll turn back." Nearly, nearly. "You can choose who you want to be."

That did it, as she'd known it would. Sammy's somber eyes met hers.

He lifted his hand, clenched it in a small, pale fist as if he clutched a knife.

WHILE SAMMY stood by the door, waiting out the ten-second head start always accorded to the person playing Mother, Eliza crept away. She ducked beneath Mrs. Swindell's laundry lines, around the ragman's wagon, and started towards the river. Excitement had her heart hammering. It was delicious, this feeling of danger. Waves of thrilling fear crashed beneath her skin as she sneaked along, weaving her way around people, wagons, dogs and perambulators hazy with fog. All the while her ears were p.r.i.c.ked for the footsteps behind her, creeping, creeping, catching her up. stood by the door, waiting out the ten-second head start always accorded to the person playing Mother, Eliza crept away. She ducked beneath Mrs. Swindell's laundry lines, around the ragman's wagon, and started towards the river. Excitement had her heart hammering. It was delicious, this feeling of danger. Waves of thrilling fear crashed beneath her skin as she sneaked along, weaving her way around people, wagons, dogs and perambulators hazy with fog. All the while her ears were p.r.i.c.ked for the footsteps behind her, creeping, creeping, catching her up.

Unlike Sammy, Eliza loved the river. It made her feel close to her father. Mother hadn't been one for volunteering information about the past, but she'd told Eliza once that her father had grown up on a different bend of the same river. Had learned his sailor's ropes on a collier before joining another crew and heading for the high seas. Eliza liked to think about all he must have seen on his river bend, round near Execution Dock. Where pirates were hanged, their bodies left to sway from chains until three tides had washed over them. Dancing the hempen jig, the old-timers called it.

Eliza shivered, imagining the lifeless bodies, wondering what it might feel like to have a final breath squeezed from her own neck, then scolded herself for becoming distracted. It was the sort of lapse to which Sammy usually fell victim. And it was all very well for Sammy; Eliza knew she had to be more careful than that.

Now where were Sammy's footsteps? She strained to hear, concentrated her mind. Listened...Gulls by the river, mast ropes creaking, hull timber stretching, a trolley trundling by, the flypaper man calling, "Catch 'em alive-oh," the quick steps of a hurried woman, a paper boy singing out the price of his rag...

Suddenly, behind her, a crash. A horse whinnying. A man's voice hollering.

Eliza's heart thumped, she nearly turned. Ached to see what had happened. Stopped herself just in time. It wasn't easy. She was curious by nature, Mother had always said so. She'd shaken her head and clicked her tongue, and told Eliza that if she didn't learn to stop her mind racing on ahead of her she'd end up running into a mountain made of her own imaginings. But if Sammy chanced to be near and saw her peeking she would have to forfeit, and she was almost at the river. The smell of Thames mud mixed with the fog's sulfurous odor. She had almost won, she only had to make it a little further.

There was a hullabaloo of voices now, clattering away behind her, and the jangling of a bell drawing near. Silly horse had probably run into the knife grinder's wagon-the horses always went a little mad in the fog. But what a pest! What chance had she of hearing Sammy if he chose to attack her now?

The rock wall at the river's edge appeared, floating faintly in the haze.

Eliza grinned and broke into a run for the last few yards.

Strictly, to run at all was against the rules, but she couldn't help herself. Her hands. .h.i.t the slimy rocks and she squealed in delight. She'd made it, she'd won, outwitted the Ripper once again.

Eliza hoisted herself onto the wall and perched triumphantly, facing the street from which she'd come. She drummed her heels against the rock and scanned the sheet of fog for Sammy's creeping shape. Poor Sammy. He'd never been as good at games as she was. He took longer to learn the rules, was less able to adopt the role in which he'd been cast. Pretending didn't come naturally to Sammy, as it did to Eliza.

As she sat, the smells and sounds of the street rushed back upon her. With each breath she tasted the oiliness of the fog, and the bell she'd heard was loud now, coming closer. The people around her seemed excited, all rushing in the one direction, the way they did when the ragman's son had one of his epileptic fits, or when the hurdy-gurdy man came to visit.

Of course! The hurdy-gurdy man, that explained where Sammy was.

Eliza jumped from the wall, sc.r.a.ping her boot on a rock that jutted out at its base.

Sammy never could resist music. He was no doubt standing by the hurdy-gurdy man, mouth slightly open as he gazed up at the organ, all thought of the Ripper and the game evaporated.

She followed the people who were ma.s.sing, kept apace past the tobacconist's shop, the bootmaker, the p.a.w.nbroker. But as the crowd thickened, the bell faded, and still no organ music could be heard, Eliza moved faster.

A nameless dread had settled in her stomach, and she used her elbows to force her way past other people-fancy ladies in their walking skirts, gentlemen in morning coats, street boys, washerwomen, clerks-as all the while she scanned for Sammy.

Reports were beginning to ripple back from the center of the gathering and Eliza caught bits and pieces being exchanged in excited whispers above her head: a black horse that had loomed out of nowhere; a small boy who didn't see him coming; the terrible fog...

Not Sammy, she told herself, it couldn't be Sammy. He'd been right behind her, she'd been listening for him...

She was close now, had nearly reached the clearing. Could almost see through the fog. Holding her breath, she pushed to the front of the band of onlookers and the gruesome scene was before her.

She took it in all at once, understood immediately. The black horse, the frail body of the boy lying by the entrance to the butcher's shop. Strawberry hair matted deep red where it lay upon the cobblestones. Chest opened by a horse's hoof, blue eyes blank.

The butcher had come out and was kneeling by the body. "'E's gone, all right. No chance, the little fellow."

Eliza looked back at the horse. He was frisky, frightened by the haze, the crowd, the noise. Sighing great huffs of hot breath, visible as they displaced the fog a little.

"Anyone know the name of this here boy?"

The crowd moved about, jostling as a whole while individuals turned to one another, lifted their shoulders, shook their heads.

"I mighta seen him round," came one uncertain voice.

Eliza met the horse's shiny black eye. As the world and all its noises seemed to spin around her, the horse stood still. They regarded each other and in that moment she felt as if he saw inside her. Glimpsed the void that had opened so quickly she would spend the rest of her life trying to fill it.

"Someone must know him," said the butcher.

The crowd was quiet, the atmosphere all the more eerie for it.

Eliza knew she should feel hatred towards the black beast, should despise his strong legs and smooth, hard thighs, but she didn't. Eyes locked with his, she felt almost recognition, as if the horse understood, as no one else could, the emptiness inside her.

"Righto," said the butcher. He whistled and an apprentice appeared. "Fetch the cart and clear the lad away." The apprentice hurried back inside then returned with a wooden cart. While he loaded the boy's broken body, the crossing sweeper started brooming the bloodied road.

"I believe he lives on Battersea Church Road," came a slow, steady voice. It sounded like one of the men at the law firm where Mother had worked, not a toff's voice exactly, but more plummy than those of the other river dwellers.

The butcher looked up to see where the voice had come from.

A tall man with a pince-nez and a neat but worn coat stepped forward, out of the fog. "I saw him there just the other day."

There was a murmur as the crowd digested this information. Looked anew at the small boy's ruined body.

"Any idea which house, gov'nor?"

The tall man shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know that."

The butcher signaled to his lad. "We'll take him to Battersea Church Road and ask around. Someone ought to know him."

The horse nodded at Eliza, ducked his head three times, then sighed and looked away.

Eliza blinked. "Wait," she said, almost a whisper.

The butcher looked at her. "Eh?"

All eyes turned to take her in, this speck of a girl with a long plait of rose-gold hair. Eliza glanced at the man with the pince-nez. The lenses were shiny and white, so that she couldn't see his eyes.

The ambulance man held up his hand to silence the crowd. "Well, then, child. Do you know the name of this unfortunate lad?"

"His name is Sammy Makepeace," Eliza said. "And he's my brother."

MOTHER HAD set coin aside for her own burial, but no such provision had been made for her children. Naturally enough: what parent ever allowed that such a thing might be necessary? set coin aside for her own burial, but no such provision had been made for her children. Naturally enough: what parent ever allowed that such a thing might be necessary?

"He'll have a pauper's funeral out at St. Bride's," said Mrs. Swindell later that same afternoon. She sucked some soup from her spoon, then pointed it at Eliza, who was sitting on the floor. "They'll be opening the pit again Wednesday. Till then, I expect we'll have to keep him here." She chewed the inside of her cheek, bottom lip pouting. "Upstairs, of course. Can't have the stink keeping customers away."

Eliza had heard of the paupers' funerals at St. Bride's. The large pit, reopened every week, the pile of bodies, the clergyman gabbling a quick service so that he might rescue himself from the dreadful neighborhood stench as soon as possible. "No," she said, "not St. Bride's."

Little Hatty stopped chewing her bread. She let the lump rest behind her right cheek while she looked, wide-eyed, from her mother to Eliza.

"No?" Mrs. Swindell's thin fingers tightened on her spoon.

"Please, Mrs. Swindell," Eliza said. "Let him have a proper burial. Like Mother's." She bit her tongue to save from crying. "I want him to be with Mother."

"Oh, you do, now, do you? A horse-drawn hea.r.s.e, perhaps? Couple of professional mourners? And I s'pose you think Mr. Swindell and me should be paying for your fancy funeral." She sniffed hungrily, enjoying the sour rant. "Contrary to popular belief, missy, we ain't a charity, so unless you've got yourself the coin, that boy's going to spend his after at St. Bride's. Good enough for the likes of him, it is, too."

"No hea.r.s.e, Mrs. Swindell, no mourners. Just a burial, a grave of his own."

"And just who do you propose to arrange all that?"

Eliza swallowed. "Mrs. Barker's brother is an undertaker, perhaps he could do it. Surely if you you ask, Mrs. Swindell..." ask, Mrs. Swindell..."

"Waste a favor on you and your idjit brother?"

"He's not an idiot."

"Stupid enough to get himself trod on by a horse."

"It wasn't his fault, it was the fog."

Mrs. Swindell sucked more soup across her bottom lip.

"He didn't even want to go out," said Eliza.

"Course he didn't," said Mrs. Swindell. "It weren't his sort of caper. It were yours."

"Please, Mrs. Swindell, I can pay."

Twin brows shot skyward. "Oh, you can, can you? With promises and moonbeams?"

Eliza thought of the leather pouch, the shilling it now contained. "I...I have some coin."

Mrs. Swindell's mouth dropped open and a trickle of soup escaped. "Some coin?"

"Just a little."

"Why, you sneaky little wench." Lips tightened like the top of a coin purse. "How much?"

"A shilling."

Mrs. Swindell screeched with laughter; a horrendous noise so foreign, so raw, that her little girl began to bawl. "A shilling?" she spat. "A shilling won't buy you the nails to drive shut the coffin."

Mother's brooch, she could sell the brooch. It was true Mother had made her promise not to part with it unless the Bad Man threatened, but surely in a situation such as this...

Mrs. Swindell was coughing now, choking on her unexpected mirth. She gave her bony chest a slap, then set little Hatty scuttling across the floor. "Stop with your caterwauling. I can't hear myself think."

She sat a moment, then narrowed her eyes in Eliza's direction. Nodded a few times as a scheme took shape. "All your begging's set my mind. I'm going to see to it personally that the boy gets nothing better than he deserves. He'll have a pauper's funeral."

"Please-"

"And I'll have the shilling for me troubles."

"But, Mrs. Swindell-"

"Mrs. Swindell nothing. That'll learn you for being sneaky, keeping coin hidden. Just you wait until Mr. Swindell gets home and hears about this. Then there'll be h.e.l.l to pay." She handed Eliza her bowl. "Now get me another serving and you can take Hatty up to bed."

NIGHTS WERE the worst. Street noises took on a garish quality, shadows lurched without reason and, alone in the tiny room for the first time in her life, Eliza fell victim to her nightmares. Nightmares far worse than anything she had imagined in her stories. the worst. Street noises took on a garish quality, shadows lurched without reason and, alone in the tiny room for the first time in her life, Eliza fell victim to her nightmares. Nightmares far worse than anything she had imagined in her stories.

In the daytime, it was as if the world had been turned inside out, like a garment on the line. All was the same shape, size and color, but utterly wrong nonetheless. And although Eliza's body performed in the same way it had before, her mind roamed the landscape of her terrors. Again and again she found herself imagining Sammy at the bottom of the St. Bride's pit, lying, limbs askew, where he'd been tossed among the bodies of the nameless dead. Trapped beneath the dirt, eyes opening, mouth trying to call out that there'd been a mistake, he wasn't dead at all.

For Mrs. Swindell had got her way and Sammy had received the burial of a pauper. Eliza had taken the brooch from its hiding spot and gone as far as John Picknick's house, but in the end she couldn't bring herself to sell it. She'd stood out front a full half-hour, trying to decide. She knew if she sold the brooch she'd receive enough money to bury Sammy properly. She also knew Mr. and Mrs. Swindell would want to know where the money had come from and would punish her mercilessly for keeping such a treasure secret.