If you take a walk through one of London’s many parks, the chances are you will see a parakeet. Indeed, the likelihood is you will see dozens of the things, caterwauling amongst the trees in rowdy flocks of yellow and green. I’m sure you’ve heard some of the stories about how they came to be here on our damp little island in the North Sea. You might have heard they escaped from the film set of the African Queen, or that that they were released by Jimi Hendrix as he wandered down Carnaby street lost in a purple haze. I’m afraid to say that none of these stories are true. But I have heard a different tale about how parakeets came to London. I won’t insist that it is God’s honest truth, because you look like a canny sort who can make up their own mind. But I did hear it from a reliable source who was present to witness the events unfold. And I will relate it to you now, as faithfully as I can, and leave my esteemed reader to judge the tale’s veracity.
This story does not start once upon a time. We can do better than that. The events I relate began shortly before 5am on the 12th October, 1892. And no, we’re not going to pretend it was a dark and stormy night. This is a London story, and so it begins in fog. A thick mist had rolled in off the Thames to shroud the streets in ambiguity. All was quiet on Leather Lane in the parish of St Alban’s Holborn. The last of the drinkers had staggered off home, and the lamplighters had not yet come to put out the gas lights ready for the day. Not a soul stirred save for a brutish mog with ragged ears who strutted down the cobbled street like he was the emperor of China.
In the dead hour before dawn something strange happened outside the Clock House pub on the corner of Hatton Wall. The cat stopped and watched with interest as a patch of fog took on a queer aspect, giving an impression of great depth and distance, as if a new road now adjoined Leather Lane, but a road formed only of mist. Then a shadow appeared, advancing slowly yet persistently down this strange new pathway. The cat arched its back, hissed, then bolted away down the lane. The shadow resolved into the shape of a boy. He was a slight fellow with torn clothes and a cloth bag slung over one shoulder. As his bare feet padded onto the cobbles he stumbled and nearly fell. It was clear that he had walked a long way, but his journey was nearly over. He squinted about him looking confused. After a moment’s deliberation a decision was reached, and he staggered over to a doorway and collapsed upon the floor.
~
As morning came the London fog gave way to a persistent London drizzle. As always Mrs Price was first out onto the street. She swept the steps of her husband’s cobbler’s shop, catching a quiet moment to herself while Mr Price attended to his breakfast. She needed that moment alone with her thoughts to set out her defences for the day. She hadn’t been blessed with good health, but while the Lord gave her breath in her lungs she went about her business and counted what blessings she had. She stooped to pick up the door mat, quietly cursing the damp weather that played havoc with her knees. Then she beat it mercilessly against the wall as if it was personally responsible for every ache or gripe that had ever assailed her person.
It was only as she bent down to return the mat to its rightful place that she noticed the bundle of rags that had been discarded in her doorway. She tutted and stooped again to pick up the disgraceful mess, but the bundle let out a groan. She shrieked as it unravelled to reveal a bedraggled looking boy.
“Christ in heaven!” Mrs Price exclaimed. She wasn’t usually the sort to utter such curses, but it was early and she hadn’t quite collected her sensibilities about her yet. The young man blinked up at her, but didn’t say a word.
“What’s all this fuss about Ada?” asked Molly Driscoll as she drifted over from the Clock House.
“It’s a bit early for you isn’t it, Molly?” asked Mrs Price. “Or are you late to bed? I think one of your clientele has mistaken our doorstep for his lodgings.”
Molly ignored the jibe and took a good look at the young man. “No, he’s not one of ours. I would recognise him, distinctive looking fellow such as he is.”
And distinctive he was indeed. The young man had a long face with high cheeks. His hair was fine silver that shimmered faintly as it moved. But his eyes were his most catching feature. They were brilliant green, all run through with flecks of gold, and they seemed to have a light of their own on that damp October morning.
“Funny looking fellow,” said Mr Price as he emerged from the shop carrying the sign. “Now then lad, this isn’t a doss house. Up with you. Time to move on. We’ll have customers along soon.”
But the young man just looked from one to the other and made no hint to move.
“I don’t think he speaks English,” said Molly.
“Time. To. Go.” said Mr Price, very slowly and very loudly, so that even the most backwards of sort couldn’t fail to understand.
“I said he doesn’t speak English,” chided Molly. “I didn’t say he was a simpleton.”
“He could be the Prince of Persia for all I care,” said Mr Price. “He’s got to move.”
“Doesn’t look Persian to me,” said Lizzy Preeley, turning up to begin her day sweeping and mopping at the Clock House. “Maybe he’s a Hebrew?”
“The poor lad looks half starved,” said Mrs Price. “And he must be freezing.”
“I could send for Mr Cohen on Petticoat Lane,” mused Mr Price. “He might be able to help the lad. And his boots are ready for collection. But he can’t stay here. Customers will be along soon.”
“Definitely not Jewish, with eyes like that,” said Mr Alterman as he started getting his market stall ready. “Maybe he’s arrived at the docks on a steamer in from Bombay?”
“Why don’t you come inside love,” said Mrs Price, ignoring the look she knew Mr Price would be giving her. “We’ll make you a nice cup of something to warm you up, and then you can be on your way.”
“That would be very kind of you,” said the young man in clear English much to everybody’s surprise. He had a subtle accent that was hard to place, which everybody took as confirmation of their own personal theory as to his origin.
“Come on in then lad,” said Mr Price, proffering his hand. “And thank your stars that Mrs Price is such a charitable Christian soul.”
~
The young man sat at the kitchen table while Mrs Price fussed over the kettle and Mr Price went out to the shop to get ready for the day. Before long Mrs Price placed a cup of steaming brown liquid in front of him. He picked it up and sniffed at it. It had a strange but not entirely unpleasant odour. He gave her a quizzical look.
“It’s Bovril dear. Beef tea. It’ll warm you up and put hairs on your chest.”
He sniffed it again, took a tentative sip, then guzzled it down in one go.
“Well, that’s got some colour back into you,” said Mrs Price with a smile. He gave her a faint smile in return. “I’ll see what else I can rustle up for you.”
“I suppose you’d better tell us your name then,” said Mr Price as he came back into the kitchen. “I presume they have names wherever it is you come from?”
The young man gave him a thoughtful look. They did, of course, have names where he came from, but they were long and complicated things. They told of their history and their lineage, and their relationships to the land and the sky and the forest. They told of the stars that shone on the night of their birth, and the patterns the wind would blow on the water on the day that they would die. And while the young man had the impression that Mr and Mrs Price were kind and decent people, something told him that they might not appreciate the intricacies of such a name. He offered a much-abbreviated version that would have made his grandmother utter such curses as to make the angels blush.
Mr and Mrs Price just stared at him blankly.
“Come again?” said Mr Price.
The young man tried once more, cutting it even shorter this time, but to no avail.
“Well, I’m not sure I could quite get my mouth around that, if you beg my pardon,” said Mr Price. “But you look like a canny Jack the lad to me, so if it’s ok with you we’ll call you Jack.”
A complicated look spread across his face. It started at mild horror, took a layover in annoyance, but finally resolved into quiet resignation. “Of course sir,” he said with a polite smile. “That’s quite all right with me.”
“So then Jack,” said Mrs Price as she put a plate of bread and cheese and cold cuts of mutton down in front of him. “Where is it you come from then? And how did you end up on our doorstep, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Jack paused for a moment, weighing up how much of his story he should tell. Then he picked up a lump of cheese, stuffed it into his mouth, and began to talk.
“I come from a land that is far away, beyond the high mountains, across the silver sea. My father was a carpenter, and he worked in the fields at harvest time. My grandmother cooked and weaved and sang healing songs when people had need of them. We lived in a house by a lake where the forests dip their leaves in the cool waters. We lived happily for many years but then the Princes of the High Towers declared a war. Soldiers came to the village and my grandmother hid me in a log pile behind the house, but they made my father and the other men go with them. We never saw him again.
“The soldiers came back the following year, but wearing different uniforms, and they put our house to fire. I escaped with my grandmother and we set out on the mist road. There were many of us to begin with, all walking together looking for a place of safety. But as time went by some grew faint and started to fade, and our number grew less and less. There was a girl. Her mother faded so she walked with us. She held my hand, and I held hers, but then she faded too. I did not know her name. Then only the two of us were left, my grandmother and me. We walked and walked but my grandmother became ill and she too started to fade. Then she was gone, and I was alone. I carried on walking until I could walk no more, and then I came to this street earlier this morning, and I lay down to rest in the door of your shop.”
They sat in silence while Jack carried on eating. Mr and Mrs Price had children in the past, though none had made it beyond the age of three. They looked upon the lad sat at their kitchen table, and felt great pity for him.
“Do you have people here in London?” asked Mrs Price. “Somebody you could go to?”
“London?” said the boy with a mouth full of bread. “Until just now I did not know the name of the place I had come to. Alas, I have no people here. I suspect I have no people anywhere.”
Mrs Price sought out her husband’s eyes. He gave her a faint nod so she squeezed his hand beneath the table and looked back at the boy.
“Well,” she said in a tone that declared all was settled. “You shall stay here with us, for a short while at least, until you’re up on your feet. We can clear out the garret at the top of the house, and put a blanket down for you.”
Jack’s face lit up, but then he gave Mr Price a wary look.
“You’ll have to make yourself useful mind. We don’t take in idle sorts who lounge about while there’s work to be done. You’ll earn your keep helping out in the shop and run errands for Mrs Price when she needs something fetching.”
“Yes of course,” said Jack, beaming from ear to ear.
The bell on the shop door jangled as the first customer of the day came in.
“Right then,” said Mr Price as he stood up. “Come along, I’ll show you what needs doing.”
~
The work was hard and the days were long, but Jack was a quick learner. He helped Mr Price in the cobbler’s shop, sorting and polishing, fetching and carrying. He ran errands and delivered shoes, and swept the shop down when the day was done. When Mrs Price’s health allowed, she did needlework to make ends meet, so she made him some clothes to replace his tattered rags. She made him a pair of trousers, a shirt and coat, and a cloth cap to cover his silver hair. And by the time she was through you’d look at him and think he no different to any lad you might pass on the busy streets of London.
His room at the top of the house had a small window under the eaves that looked out across the rooftops. He kept his cloth bag stowed away beneath his blankets, carefully hidden from sight. In his spare time when the shop chores were done and Mrs Price didn’t need anything fetching from the market, he would walk the streets of London.
He walked amongst the market stalls and listen to the traders singing their wares, and watch the barrels of ale being rolled out of the brewery on Portpool Lane. He would head down to Holborn Circus and marvel at the carriages and omnibuses that rumbled through the streets, or stand and watch the steam trains pulling into Farringdon Station. The drinkers outside the Clock House would teach him bawdy songs and they would roar with laughter and drink toasts to him until Molly Driscoll came out to box their ears.
But his favourite thing was to cross High Holborn into the fields at Lincoln’s Inn. He would walk there in the early evening and watch the people come and go. He would stroll amongst the trees, taking time to stop at each one and lay his hand on their trunks as if he were greeting an old friend. If anyone had been watching they might have noticed him whispering softly to the trees. They might have thought it a strange sight indeed when he stopped whispering and held his ear to the trunks, as if he was listening to a response. He would sit on a bench as the sun went down eating from a bag of roasted almonds, and the birds would gather and hop onto his finger and whisper secrets in his ear.
The days turned to weeks, which ripened into months, and before long the winter rain gave way to the hopeful drizzle of spring. Now barely anybody noticed the silver haired boy with the green-gold eyes as he walked down Leather Lane. Or if they did, they said “there goes young Jack, Mr Price’s lad,” and went about their business. It was as if he was London born and bred, having sprung right up out of the ground. But in his heart he still longed for that house upon the lake. He ached to hear the sound of father’s chisel in the workshop. He yearned for the songs of his grandmother as she sung in the flickering light. The crackle of the logs on the fire. The dark silence of the forest outside their little hut.
~
One morning in early May Jack was out the back sweeping the store room while Mr Price was at his buffer wheel, finishing off a handsome pair of boots. The doorbell jangled and two men walked in, raindrops glinting on their shoulders. Jack glanced in at them from the back, but he didn’t recognise them as regulars of Leather Lane. One of the men was tall and thin, with restless eyes under a threadbare bowler hat. His companion was shorter, with a thin face and a coat that seemed far too big for his slight frame.
“Good morning gentlemen,” said Mr Price looking up from his work. “And how can I help you today?”
“We’re here to collect the shoes for Mr Revel of Bedford Row,” said the taller one as his companion looked about the shop.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Price with a smile. “But I think you might be in the wrong place. I have no order from a Mr Revel. Perhaps you’re looking for Mr Finch’s cobblers over on Theobalds Road? It’s much closer to Bedford Row.”
“We’re not mistaken, sir,” replied the man with a leering smile that Jack did not like one bit. “This is the shop my master sent us to, so kindly hand over the shoes.”
Mr Price looked puzzled. It was not like him to forget an order. “One moment please,” he said as he rummaged around for his order book. “No, I’m quite sure I don’t have an order for any Revels, or Ravels or Rovellis, or anyone from Bedford Row. Now, why don’t you wait here and I’ll send my boy to check with Mr Finch…”
“You’re a swindler,” growled the man. He placed his hands on the counter and leaned over so his face was just inches from Mr Price’s. “My employer gave clear instructions. He is a thorough and meticulous man. Hand over the shoes or there will be trouble.”
“Why… I never…” Mr Price was flustered now.
“What’s all this fuss about?” asked Mrs Price as she came out of the kitchen.
“I should step out into the street and tell all who pass that this ‘ere cobbler’s a mighty swindler and a crook.”
“Now you listen here!” shouted Mr Price. “I’ve had this shop near twenty years and I’ve never been anything but honest in my dealings.”
Jack watched from the storeroom and noticed the shorter fellow was peering round the shop, entirely forgotten by Mr Price.
“Swindler is what you are!” shouted the man as he tipped a rack of shoes onto the floor.
“Stop that!” shouted Mr Price.
“Swindler!” he shouted again and heaved the heavy iron skiver over sending it clattering to the ground.
Mrs Price was screaming now, as the tall man upended the work bench, sending the tools crashing to the floor.
Jack watched as his companion glanced around to make sure he was unobserved, then reached behind the counter and grabbed the takings tin. He slipped it under his coat, gave a nod to his companion, then turned and headed for the door.
“Hey!” shouted Jack as he burst out of the storeroom. “He’s got the takings!”
Mr Price lunged for the shorter fellow but the tall man grabbed his shoulders and sent him flying into the counter. Then they both turned and ran out into the street, followed by the sobs of Mrs Price. Jack ran out of the shop and sprinted after them as fast as he could.
He chased them between the market stalls but as they turned onto Beauchamp Street the tall fellow turned one way while the smaller fellow went the other. Jack chased the smaller man as he weaved between the people in the street, then turned off into a narrow alleyway. Jack followed as the man ducked through a maze of washing lines, but the alley was a dead end. He stopped running and turned to face Jack.
“Turn around and walk on,” growled the man. “Or you’ll regret it.” A knife glinted in his hand.
“Give me the tin,” said Jack. Then he saw it wasn’t a man. It was just a boy, no older than seventeen. His cheeks were flushed from running and his keen brown eyes flashed wild with fear.
“It’s ok,” said Jack, stepping forwards. “Just give me the tin and I’ll let you go.”
“Don’t come no closer or I’ll…”
Jack stepped forwards. The knife flashed towards him. He closed his eyes and muttered under his breath. His finger met the blade, but then it was not a blade but a bloom of silver flowers that grew and grew, cascading onto the floor where they dissolved into fine mist. The boy fell back in terror, grabbing at his arm as the last tendrils of the ghostly bloom evaporated from his cuffs. The tin fell out of his jacket and clattered onto the ground in a shower of coins. They could hear police whistles now, and the sound of running feet. The boy ducked behind a washing line and Jack turned to meet them.
“He got away,” Jack said as the policemen came running round the corner. “Jumped over the wall onto Greville Street. If you hurry you might catch him.”
The two policemen stood there panting for a moment looking bemused and quite exhausted. Then they turned and ran back out of the alley, blowing dejectedly on their whistles.
Jack stooped down and gathered up the box and the takings then he turned to leave.
“Thank you,” said the boy, peering out from behind the washing line. Jack met those brown eyes with his, then he turned and walked away.
~
The shop was closed when Jack got back to Leather Lane. He slipped in through the door to find Mr Price sat on a stool amidst the chaos, his head buried in his hands. When he saw Jack his face lit up and he jumped up and hugged him tight.
“We were worried about you boy,” he said. “We thought something might have happen to you.”
“I’m fine, really Mr Price,” said Jack. “And look.” He produced the takings tin.
“Well done my boy,” said Mr Price, patting him on the shoulder. But his smile quickly faded.
“What is it, sir?” asked Jack. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mrs Price,” he said, his shoulders bent with worry. “The commotion in the shop has brought on one of her turns. She’s resting in bed, but I’ve not seen her this bad in years.”
Jack went out the back of the shop and climbed the narrow staircase. He slipped quietly into the bedroom at the far end of the landing. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Mrs Price lay in bed with a wet flannel across her eyes.
“Bartholemew, is that you?” she said.
“No Mrs Price it’s me, Jack.”
With great effort she sat up. Jack went to her and took her hands in his.
“Oh Jack I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, laying her hand on his silver hair. “We were worried something would happen to you.”
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. It’s just one of my turns. I’m as tough as old boots. I’ll be up and about in no time, mark my words.”
But Jack did not reciprocate her hopeful smile. He held onto her hand, moving his fingers gently over her skin until he found the spot he was looking for. Then he closed his eyes and he listened. He listened to the music of her body, soft and sonorous like an old pipe organ left out on a hilltop, cooing gently in the breeze. He could feel pulse of her heart, the ebb and flow of her breath. The rush of her blood. He could feel the erratic melodies of nerve and mind that danced like birdsong between the rhythms of her life. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. It was in her left breast. A crackle of jagged dissonance, buzzing beneath the harmonies of her life. It was black and cold. Remorseless death. Growing and dividing. Jack opened his eyes let go of her hand.
“This isn’t just one of your turns is it?” he said.
She looked at him as if she was about to tell him poppycock and balderdash, but instead she sighed and turned away.
“I’m afraid not dear. My cancer is back. I’ve feared so for some time. It’s been a good while since it last troubled me, but I don’t think there’s any mistake. I didn’t want Mr Price to worry, but he knows me well enough to understand. I could see that look in his eyes as he laid me down to rest.”
Jack sat in silence for a moment, turning the corner of the counterpane over in his fingers. Then without a word he got up and left the room.
He climbed the tiny staircase to his room at the top of the house. Outside the window the sun was sinking over the rooftops. He wished his grandmother was here. She would have known what to do. She would have known the song to sing to make this right again. She had begun teaching him her healing art a few years prior, and he had developed some skill in it. But his training was incomplete. The art she worked was a delicate thing, for the songs of life are fickle, and without proper binding will run to their own tune.
The sun had gone now, the twilight shading to darkness, but the gas lamps were being lit and the city began to glow. He opened the cloth bag that was stowed beneath his pillow, and took out the small wooden bird that his father carved for him. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the fine detail of the carving, imagining his father’s fingers brushing the sawdust from the grain. He turned and went back down the stairs to the room where Mrs Price lay in darkness.
Ada made to speak as he sat down beside her but he put his fingers to his lips and eased her back onto the pillow. He took her hand in his and allowed the music of her body to flow over him. When he was certain that she was calm and still, Jack began to sing.
His song was quiet at first, soft and lonely, in the language of the first days when the trees and the flowers were yet to be named, and the stars were still singing themselves into the heavens. He allowed his song to swim alongside the melodies of Mrs Price’s body like a fish in a cool ocean current. Then he was gone, lost inside the music, delving deeper and deeper into the melodies of life.
Mrs Price closed her eyes and let his voice wash over her. The song felt like the summer breeze on the hills above Abergavenny when she was a lass. She felt it creeping up her arms and through her veins, making her feel so light she thought she might be floating above the bed. Behind her eyelids darkness gave way to showers of golden light, as if she was now encased inside a glowing jewel, but a jewel made of sunlight.
He sang to her body, the healing songs of old. He sang to the darkness that was growing inside her, easing out the dissonance, turning it all to light. Eventually Jack fell silent. Mrs Price struggled up and tried to speak but found that language had quite escaped her. A look of confusion spread across her face but Jack settled her back down to rest.
“Hush now,” he said as he patted her gently on the arm. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake.”
Jack slipped out of the room, hearing the first faint rattles of Mrs Price’s snoring as he quietly closed the door.
Downstairs Mr Price was putting the shop back in order after the commotion of the day. Jack joined him and they worked together in silence. Mr Price’s heart felt as heavy as a stone as he thought of his poor wife. She had struggled long and hard against her draining malady, and yet she continued about her business with great fortitude and cheer. But she looked worse that night than she had done for a long time. She had that hollow look about her, all grey and empty like a daffodil drained of colour, and his head was filled with thoughts about what a wretched thing life would be without his beloved Ada.
Jack’s face too was a picture of worry, but he was not concerned for one minute about Mrs Price, her health or her general constitution. And this was not because Jack was a callous lad without a care for his benefactor’s wellbeing. He was as certain she would wake up as bright as a button as he was that the grass was green and the sky was blue and that the sun would rise come morning. But Jack knew that what he had done that evening was something that could not be undone. It had been the right thing to do, he was sure of that. But after the night the soldiers came, and they had fled through the fields behind the village, Jack had thought he would never again find a place of safety. He had arrived in a strange city full of strange people, and yet he had found a home. But he knew that his delicate balance was all about to change.
~
When Jack came down the stairs the next morning he heard a great commotion coming from below. He leapt down the last few steps and burst into the kitchen, thinking for moment that the robbers had come back to finish the job. And he did interrupt a robbery of sorts, because Mrs Price had stolen her husband’s hat, and was dancing around the table while Mr Price looked on with his face set part way between bewilderment and delight.
As soon as Jack stepped through the door Mrs Price rushed over to him and swept him up in a bone crushing embrace. She pulled away and took his face in her hands, then with a joyful laugh planted a kiss upon his forehead.
“How do you feel?” asked Jack, a little sheepishly.
“How do I feel?” she repeated. “Well, I’m not sure I have the words to tell it, or maybe it’s that I have too many words. It’s like I’ve eaten a dictionary and it’s bubbling inside me waiting to come whooshing out like a steam train out of a tunnel. I feel wonderful. I feel like I’m glowing all over. I feel as light as a feather and foolish as a school girl. I feel like running out into the street and jumping around like the lambs on my old pa’s farm. That, my dear Jack, is how I feel, as close as I can tell it.”
She planted another sloppy kiss on his forehead and relinquished him from her grip.
“Now, I’m going to leave you fine gentlemen to your breakfast,” she declared. “I’m going out for a walk.”
And with that she swept out of the kitchen like a whirlwind, still wearing Mr Price’s hat.
Jack sat down at the table and cut himself some bread. Mr Price sat across from him, not eating, just watching the boy with a strange look in his eyes. Eventually he spoke.
“I don’t know what you did to her boy,” said Mr Price. “I don’t know what strange customs you keep wherever it is you came from, or whether it’s Lord Jesus or some heathen gods you pray to on Sunday.”
Jack kept his eyes on his plate, too terrified to look up, but Mr Price reached across the table and gripped Jack’s hand in his. Jack met his gaze. Mr Price’s eyes glistened with tears.
“But whatever you did, I thank you for it. Truly. I’ve not seen her this happy well, not ever come to think of it.”
“Really sir it’s nothing,” said Jack. “My grandmother was a healer in our village. People would travel many miles to see her. Before the soldiers came she was teaching me her art, hoping I would carry on after she was gone. But her craft was complex and took years of learning. My knowledge is far from complete and I can’t be sure…”
“Now lad that’s enough false modesty for one morning. Come on. It’s time we were opening up.”
~
Mr Price set to replacing the heels of some balmoral boots that were due for collection that afternoon, while Jack swept the steps and tidied the offcuts and put the tools back in order. Jack could see Mrs Price through the window flitting about the market laughing and talking with all who happened to pass. She had a look of pure delight on her face and he could see that she was telling anyone who cared to listen about her boy Jack and his miraculous healing song. He felt a knot in his stomach that wound a little tighter with each minute that passed.
Just before noon Mrs Price came in with Mary Ginty and Michael, her youngest, who Jack new well from the market. The boy had a pale look to him, like so many of the children he saw on London’s streets. His skin was sallow and he coughed that grim, rattling cough as he clung to his mother’s skirts.
“Go on dear,” said Mrs Price to Mary, “tell it to him, just as we discussed.”
Mary stepped forward and pushed young Michael towards Jack.
“Mrs Price was telling me what a kind and wondrous thing you done for her. And how she closed her eyes and you sung a song that took her ailment away. My boy, young Michael here, is afflicted with the consumption. If you could find it in your heart sir, to sing for my son, I would be forever grateful.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck and tried to avoid the boy’s bloodshot eyes.
“I’m sorry Mrs Ginty, I would love to be of assistance. But really, I don’t think it best as I was never fully trained by my grandmother. Her healing arts are complicated and I wouldn’t know…”
“Now Jack,” said Mrs Price as she took his hands in hers. “What you did for me was a wonderful thing. I feel like a new woman, so light on my feet as if I might float off into the air. If you could see your way to sharing this gift with poor Michael here, it would truly be a decent thing.”
“I’ve got a shilling and four pence,” said Mary, with a pleading look in her eye. “I know it ain’t much but it’s all I have. And we would be so very grateful for your trouble.”
Mr Price had stopped his work and was watching Jack closely.
“Alright,” said Jack. “I will try my best. And really, there’s no need to offer any money.” And he took the boy by the hand and led him back into the kitchen and shut the door.
He sat Michael down at the table and took his hand in his. The boy was clearly nervous, having been seen by doctors before, and knew that there was always some sting or scratch or bitter taste that accompanied their remedies. Jack gave him a reassuring smile, then he closed his eyes and he listened.
As a child of seven this boy’s body should have sung with the carefree melodies of youth, but sadly the music of his body was muted and subdued. Jack heard the problem as loud as cannon fire. The growling static of consumption buzzed inside his chest like a swarm of locusts. Jack opened his eyes and looked at the boy again. He was sat on the chair, rigid with fear, his eyes squeezed shut waiting for whatever might be coming his way. Jack laid his hand on the boy’s forehead, closed his eyes, and he began to sing.
~
That evening Jack and Mr Price sat in silence eating their cabbage and salted beef, but Mrs Price insisted she felt no need for food. Music was the only sustenance she required. Instead she paced around the kitchen trying to remember the words to the songs form the Mikado she’d heard at the music hall a few years before. After ten minutes of butchering Three Little Girls From School, she moved onto renditions of the Welsh folk songs her granny used to sing back on the farm. And while her delivery had the energy of a new-born lamb, her execution was closer to the slaughterhouse.
Jack pushed his cabbage around his plate, and shot worried looks at Mrs Price. Every now and then he would wince as a particularly enthusiastic high note made the backs of his eyeballs tingle. Mr Price on the other hand seemed oblivious to his wife’s newfound joie de vivre. He just watched Jack across the table with a strange look part way between wonder and suspicion, that made him feel like a bag of sugar on the scales.
“I think I’m going to turn in early,” said Jack, leaving half his food.
“But Jack my dear the night is still young,” exclaimed Mrs Price. She ran around the table and swept him up in her arms. “Let’s go out into the street and dance the night away. We should go to a music hall and shout abominable heckles at the performers. Let’s go and find a policeman and knock his hat off!”
Jack extricated himself from her grasping arms and made his way to the door.
“No, I think I should probably get an early night. Lots to do in the morning.”
He slipped out of the kitchen, trying to ignore Mr Price who was still giving him that unnerving look.
~
They were already queuing at the door when Jack came down the following morning. There were dozens of them, all shouting and clamouring and coughing and wheezing as they jostled to be first in line. There were mothers with their babies and beggars on crutches, labourers and unwashed children and street sellers of every variety. Between Mrs Price and Mary Ginty word of the healing songs of silver haired Jack had spread through the streets around Leather Lane. When they saw him through the window a huge roar went up and he turned and fled into the kitchen.
“You have to make them go away Mr Price,” pleaded Jack. “You have to make them leave.”
“Now Jack,” said Mr Price. That strange look in his eye from the night before was still there, glinting and cold. “That wouldn’t be a Christian thing, would it? You’ve got a gift boy, and you’ve seen the wretched souls of hereabouts. They can’t afford fancy doctors like those up the West End. If you can help them, then you should.”
“But I don’t have the training. I don’t know the proper bindings or how to balance the melodies. I did what I could to help Mrs Price because I knew it was that or she would surely die. And I’m so grateful to you both for taking me in off the streets and for being so kind. If my grandmother was here then she would be able to help, but there’s no way of knowing…”
“Just do your best boy, that’s all anybody is asking.” Mr Price stood up from the table and made to leave. “Now take a moment to get yourself ready, and I’ll start showing them in.”
Mr Price let them in, one by one, and Jack sat them at the kitchen table and listened to the songs of their lives. He heard pain and sorrow flowing in the music of their bodies. He heard the growling of consumption and the dry rattle of rickets, the dissonance of twisted bones and the moan of malnutrition. He heard it all and it flowed into him, clinging to his bones like a miasma off the Hackney marshes.
But he sang the healing songs to each one of them, as best he could with the training he had received. Each of them sighed as the music started, those soothing words from before the world was set into its place. They each basked in that light glowing yellow and green that made them feel like they could reach out and touch the angels.
When the day was done Jack slumped over the table, his soul felt utterly spent.
“You did good today boy,” said Mr Price as he sat at the table counting out the collection of loose change people had left as marks of their appreciation. “They all looked much restored as they left.”
Jack said nothing but he went to his room and collapsed upon his bed. He felt utterly exhausted after his day’s exertions, but try as he might he could not sleep. The songs of illness buzzed in his ears, accompanied by the sound of Mrs Price singing sea shanties until the early hours.
~
MARVELLOUS JACK AND HIS RESTORATIVE SONGS – A PRINCE FROM A FAR-OFF LAND COME TO HEAL ANY ACHE, GRIPE OR MEDICAL INDISPOSITION, 2d PER CONSULTATION
So read the sign that greeted Jack when he came into the kitchen the next morning. It was lying on the table, the paint not yet dry.
“You’d better get yourself ready,” said Mr Price coming in from the shop to pick up the sign. “There’s a line forming all the way down Leather Lane. There are some new clothes laid out for you, so get yourself changed quickly.”
The new outfit comprised of a sequined hat with a tassel on top, and a velvet coat on which Mrs Price had stitched some stars and moons from offcuts of yellow cotton.
Jack glanced over Mr Price’s shoulder and saw that he had cleared the tools out of the way, and set the shop up as a reception room. A mass of humanity was pressed up against the window, waiting to be let in.
“I’ll take their money out the front then show them in to you. If you could do your thing as quickly as possible, we’ll be able to get through quite a few.”
“Why does it say I’m a prince?” asked Jack. “I grew up in a hut in the mountains.”
“People don’t want to be seen by some peasant boy. They want to feel regal hands on them.”
“But I can’t Mr Price. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me. But this just isn’t right.”
“Enough.” There was a hard edge to Mr Price’s voice. “You talk of gratitude at the kindness we’ve shown you, but I can’t see none of that from where I’m standing. We won’t charge much, them being destitute and all, but I don’t see why we should house you and feed you, and you having this wondrous gift but refuse to share it. Mrs Price and I have worked hard all our lives, all hours of the day and night. Now it’s time for you to give something back.”
Jack sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the first person to be showed in.
~
By the end of the day Jack felt as wrung out as a dish rag. He had sung to boils and bunions and distempers of all categories. To skin conditions and heart conditions and colic and diphtheria. The music of illness and poverty resonated through his bones. Mr Price sat at the table tucking into pork chops and apple sauce, while Ada butchered the words to every hymn she could remember. Neither of them noticed Jack as he pulled on his hat and slipped quietly out the door.
His head was swimming as he walked down Gray’s Inn Road, crossed High Holborn and made his way towards Lincoln’s Inn. He fancied he could hear the music of every person he passed calling out to him in needy, demanding tones. But as he came to the park the weight on his chest eased a little, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed. The trees still whispered their own, slow music that paid no heed to the human world that teemed beneath their branches. The birds still sang their gossiping songs that danced on the evening air. He slumped down on a bench beneath a sycamore tree, closed his eyes and tried to melt into nothing.
“So you’re a prince from a far off land then?”
Jack sat bolt upright and turned to find the owner of the voice. It was the boy who had tried to rob Mr Price’s shop.
“Should I bow or curtsey?” The boy’s eyes were smiling.
“I should call for the police,” said Jack.
“You won’t though, will you?”
Jack said nothing. Of course he wouldn’t.
“I was just passing by and saw you here, and wanted to thank you for what you done for me the other day. I’d be banged up in Newgate if you’d have spoken up when the rozzers came.”
“You’d deserve it too,” said Jack. “It was wrong what you did. Mr and Mrs Price are good people, they never hurt anybody and they don’t have money to spare.”
“Well they’re going to have a few bob to spare now that you’re healing the masses,” he replied. Jack gave him a look, cold and level. The boy met his gaze, then relented and looked away.
“I know it was wrong. I’ve never done nothing like it before. I came here to find work like everyone else, but when you’re barely scraping a few shillings a week and these fellows are strolling around the boarding house with fancy clothes and money to burn, and they buy you rum and say “come stroll with us young man we might be able to put some work your way and it won’t be hard floors and hard work for you no more,” well, it’s hard to say no to a proposition like that. Not all of us are princes from far off lands who can sing strange songs of healing.”
“I’m not a prince,” said Jack. “I wish Mr Price hadn’t said that I was.”
“I know you ain’t no prince. He’s just doing what any cove would. Talking up the goods to make an extra shilling.”
“It’s not like that. Mr Price has been good to me. He took me in when I was alone and cold, sleeping on the street. It’s only right that I do what I can to repay his kindness.”
The boy gave him a long look, then decided to keep whatever was on his mind to himself. “So this far off land then. India? China? The moon?”
“Oh it’s much further than the moon,” said Jack and the boy laughed. He had a nice laugh, Jack thought. His eyes were bright, and his black hair spilled out from under his cap.
“How did you do that thing you did, turning my knife into flowers?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
Jack looked away across the park. The trees that lined the paths were decked with the fresh green leaves of spring. Over by the bandstand a cherry tree cast the last of its blossom into the warm breeze. Eventually he turned back to the boy and spoke.
“My grandmother was a healer and she taught me her craft as best she could. But my true art is changing, and that I get from my mother. She was a changer from the high forests, sometimes a bird or a wolf or a mountain lion. But when she came to visit me in the village she would come in human form. I would walk with her in the woods by the lake and she showed me what I truly was, and what I could do. She showed me how to sing myself into a fish or a bird, or sing a stone into a flower. The healing songs are something I need to practice and learn, and even then my skills will only go so far. But changing is as natural to me as breathing.”
The boy looked into Jack’s eyes, trying to work out if he was joking, then he laughed. “Ok, I get it. The showman never reveals his tricks. I understand.”
Jack didn’t try to correct him.
“I wish someone would change me into something else,” said the boy looking across the park. “Maybe one of these trees so I could stand at ease and watch the world go by. Or a bird so I could fly away to some place far from this stinking dump. Anything to get me out of here.” He trailed off and smiled, then shook his head at the foolishness of this talk. He turned again to Jack.
“Well, you might look like a miserable sod, but you can still pull my leg as well as the next cove.”
“I don’t look miserable,” said Jack. “Anyway, what is it you’re actually doing? Are you just lurking around in parks looking for people to annoy?”
“I’m taking an evening constitutional,” said the boy. “Well, more like killing time before I go back to my lodgings. The less time I have to spend in that overcrowded flea pit the better. Come on, walk with me. Stretch those legs. It might cheer you up.”
Jack looked at him for a moment. He really should be getting back before Mr Price wondered where he’d gone, but he looked into those wry, smiling eyes and wanted to look into them some more.
They walked out of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, past St Clement Danes then they made their way along Fleet Street through the teeming crowds. They said little as they walked, and Jack was glad of that. Everybody seemed to want something from him at that moment in time, but this boy had an air about him that he didn’t want anything from anyone in all the world. Jack stole glances across as they picked their way between the fine ladies and gentlemen who strolled in the evening light. Though Jack was a stranger in this country he could tell by his accent that he wasn’t born in London. He wondered where he came from, and if anyone back there thought about him or wrote him letters. The boy had an easy walk and an easy smile, with a glint in his eye as if everything he saw before him was the grandest jest of all.
As they came to Ludgate Circus the boy looked up and caught one of Jack’s snatched glances. He laughed as Jack looked away, hoping his cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt.
“Well here is where I leave you,” said the boy. “My lodgings are off that way and you’ll be heading back towards Leather Lane before Mr Price wonders where his golden cow has gone and sends a search party looking.” Then he turned and walked off down the street.
“Hey!” called Jack. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Very perceptive of you,” said the boy with a lopsided smile. “It’s Tommy. Tommy Carrow.” And then he turned and disappeared into the crowds.
~
And so Jack’s work began in earnest. He sat at the kitchen table and Mr Price showed them in one by one. He would take their hand in his and listen for the music of their bodies. He would sit and absorb as their troubles came flowing out into his soul. Then he would pick up the tune, and do all he could to sing them back to health. Each of his patients left greatly restored with a smile on their faces and a lightness in their hearts. But Jack would see another piece of himself go walking out the door.
As the money came in Mr Price did away with his scruffy old shirt and waistcoat. Now he wore fine trousers and a silk shirt, with a tailored coat and hat. He employed a burly man called Mr Dearblood with a face like a paving slab to keep the queue in order and turn away the scroungers who couldn’t meet the fee that was rising by the day. His cobbler’s tools were long discarded, useless remnants of a different life.
In the evenings when his work was done Jack would slip out the door and walk to Lincoln’s Inn. He would sit on the bench beneath the sycamore tree until Tommy came sauntering up and they would walk the streets. Sometimes Tommy would tell him of the comings and goings of the boarding house where he had his lodgings. Or he would tell Jack about his life before London, in the cottage in Lincolnshire. About walking beneath the oaks and the alders, and slipping out into the moonless night to poach pheasants with his father. But mostly they would walk in silence, through the winding lanes and busy thoroughfares, and if Tommy noticed Jack’s sideways looks, he pretended he did not.
The weeks drew on and spring turned to summer, and the streets took on that tired smell as the city baked in the heat. News of the exotic Prince and his healing songs spread far and wide and soon the people who filed into his room were of a different sort entirely. Fashionable ladies in crinolines and smart bonnets would sit and pour out their troubles. And Jack would grimace as their distempers and their melancholies resonated through him like a buzzing fly trapped inside his bones.
“We’re going to need to move to new premises,” declared Mr Price one evening as he sat at the kitchen table seeing to the day’s accounting. “We’re bringing in an altogether higher class of customer these days. It isn’t seemly for them to come to such a neighbourhood as this. It won’t do to have them dirtying their boots in the grimy streets of hereabouts. Up the West End I’m thinking. Maybe Marylebone, or even Mayfair. Somewhere more in keeping with our prestigious clientele.”
Jack felt a little stab of terror at the suggestion. If they moved out west it would take him an age to get to Lincoln’s Inn of an evening and Tommy might not wait for him to arrive.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you Ada?” asked Mr Price.
“Hmm?” said Mrs Price as if waking from a dream. She was stood in the corner in a silk dress and brand new bonnet, humming softly to herself. She did a lot of that these days. Just humming or whistling, with a distant look on her face, as if she was trying to tune into faint music that was coming from very far away.
“To move to the West End dear,” said Mr Price as if talking to an infant.
“Oh, yes, the West End, that would be…” Ada didn’t finish as she drifted back into that distant music.
“That’s settled then,” said Mr Price. “I shall make enquiries and arrange some viewings,” and he settled himself back into his chair and carried on counting the takings.
~
The carriage rocked gently as it bore them back towards Leather Lane. Jack looked out the window as the unfamiliar streets slipped by. The broad road was lined with grand, wisteria draped houses. Mr Price fidgeted with his new silver handled cane, trying to work out the natural way of carrying it.
“Well that was a fine residence indeed,” declared Mr Price, still not losing the well-to-do accent he had adopted before the viewing. “You won’t find a more prestigious address than that.”
In truth it had been quite a small apartment, not much bigger than their place on Leather Lane. But it was smart, there was no mistake in that. And the area might have well been on the moon compared to the crowded streets Jack was used to.
“And I liked that Brook-Stanley fellow who showed us around,” continued Mr Price. “He seemed a fine gentleman indeed.”
Jack looked back out the window and held his tongue. The man was barely able to hide his contempt as he showed them around the apartment, but Mr Price had been oblivious to his condescension. When it came to shaking on the agreement Mr Price had gripped his hand so hard the agent had to wring it out once it was released. His obsequious smile had not been dented one bit, however, when the down payment was made in cash.
“We’ll have an altogether higher class of customer once we move our surgery here,” said Mr Price. “We’ll have men of consequence and great standing. Lords and ladies. Members of Parliament. Royalty too, I dare say. The highest echelons of society coming for personal consultations. I’ve no doubt that some of our more exclusive clients will insist we visit them at their country residences and send their carriages to bring us hence. And you will be invited to the most fashionable engagements my dear.” He reached across and patted Mrs Price on the arm. She looked up for a moment and gave a wan smile, then returned to staring out the window, her face drawn, desperately trying to reach that lonely, distant music. Jack gave her a worried look, but Mr Price seemed barely to notice.
“But surely our work is most needed where we started on Leather Lane.” There was a hint of desperation in Jack’s voice. He knew that if they moved to the West End his walks with Tommy were over. “The people there need us more, and they don’t have access to the same physicians as the people do hereabouts. Should we not stay where we are? Or move to a bigger premises in the vicinity?”
“We’re done with that place boy,” said Mr Price. His airs were gone now. His voice was cold, and level. “There’s a stink that clings to the streets round there, and not just the smell of all the people and the filth. It’s a stink of striving, of desperation. I just can’t get it out of my nose. I know it’s not all bad round there, but I’ve lived in those narrow streets with half the world all crammed in together for far too long and I’m done with it. We’re better than that, Jack. We’re better than them. Out here, in these wide streets, a man could breathe properly.”
The carriage jolted at a bump in the road and rocked them all to silence. Beyond the window ladies in broad brimmed hats strolled in Portman Square.
~
Jack sat on the bench beneath the sycamore tree, watching the people flow through the park in the sticky evening heat. It was only a week until the planned move, and the day was drawing ever closer like the shadows creeping across the grass in front of him. A group of young lawyers from Lincoln’s Inn sauntered past, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Across the other side of the green a girl in a blue dress looked to be dying of boredom as she trudged dutifully behind two elderly dames.
Should he run? Should he leave the Price’s and take himself away from that suffocating house, the streams of suffocating people with their humours and distempers? He was glad that he had a chance to use his gift to help people, but every time he sung his song a little piece of him drained away. Yet the sad truth was he had nowhere else to go, and the Prices had taken him in when he had nothing. He owed it to them to stick with them and pay back what kindness they had shown. But he didn’t recognise Mr Price these days. He had the same cold look in his eye when he counted his money as when he looked at Jack across the kitchen table. Maybe he should tell Tommy that he was done being a magical Prince? Done with singing his songs of healing. Done with London. Done with all of it. They could both get out of this city. He was probably owed some money from Mr Price. Maybe he would give him enough to get a train or a steamer and they could take off and see what else this world had to show them?
But no. Mr Price would never give him money. Board and lodgings and make sure you’re ready at the strike of eight to sit for hours and soak up the misery of all the world. The shadows were lengthening, darkness closing in. Over by the bandstand two stray dogs snarled over a discarded scrap of food.
Jack sat up and looked around. Where was Tommy anyway? It wasn’t like him to be late for their walk. They never officially made an appointment, but Jack just walked over and sat on his bench every evening after work, and he knew that Tommy would come sauntering up before long, just like usual. He’d made a mistake telling Tommy about the move. He wasn’t going to wait around for some pathetic boy such as him.
~
The streets jangled with a discordant din as Jack struggled through the crowds. He didn’t know how far he had walked or in which direction, he just paced streets hoping the feeling of dread building in his chest would somehow leak through his soles and dissipate into the pavement. Every face looked the same to him as the people came barging past. Every shop looked identical. Every street or alleyway was tinged with the same unwelcoming hue.
Eventually Jack came to a halt and looked about him. He found himself to be on Drury Lane, not far from Lincoln’s Inn, but whether he had paced the whole way around London’s streets or come there directly he could not say. He stood for a moment amongst the stream of people, then took himself to the side of the pavement and slumped down to the floor.
People stepped over and around him and paid him little heed, but why would they not? Why would they consider him any different to the countless other wasted souls who cluttered this wretched city? The street seethed with people, slum dwellers and costermongers and well-heeled theatre goers blending together. Across the street was a public house called The Mogul, with drinkers spilling out into the sticky London night. Jack watched as they shouted and laughed and howled hilarity in each other’s ears. But then he saw him. It was Tommy, leaning back in that easy way he did, a drink in one hand and the thumb of his other tucked into his waistcoat pocket as if he was lord of all he surveyed. He was with that tall fellow, the one he’d robbed Mr Price’s shop with. They were talking away like the finest of old friends, but it wasn’t just the two of them. Two girls stood beside them in colourful dresses, each with a drink in hand, laughing and chattering like budgies in a cage.
Some grand jest was made and the girl next to Tommy let out a whoop and lifted her hands in the air, only to bring them down around his shoulders as if it was the most natural place to rest them. Tommy didn’t push her away though. He didn’t seem to mind at all.
Jack lifted himself off the floor, and leant against the wall. The girl was whispering something in Tommy’s ear and a smile spread across his face as he looked off into the distance.
Jack knew he should leave right that instant. He should not be here. He should not be seeing this. But as much as he wanted to turn and run his legs would not move, as if his feet had been lashed to the spot. Tommy’s smile broadened as the girl whispered in his ear, but then his eyes found the other pair that were watching him from across the street.
A momentary flicker of that cat-like smile. Their eyes remained locked for an excruciating moment. Jack wanted to run away more than anything in the world. No. He wanted Tommy to push off this woman and run to him. But then his tall companion finished his drink and declared that it was time to go, and they all made to leave.
Tommy looked to heaven as he drained his glass and, when his gaze came down, he stared directly at Jack with such intensity he almost could not bear it. But what burning in those eyes? Was it anger? Pity? Rage? Disgust? Jack could not ascertain. Then they turned and left. Jack watched them walk away down the street, arms linked, laughing the song of mockingbirds.
~
“Why it’s an outrage! Quite monstrous! It must be undone right this very minute!”
Mr Bertram Cavendish paced up and down the consultation room, waving his hands, stamping his feet, huffing and exclaiming to let the world know just how outraged he was at the beastly thing that had transpired. Young Petunia Cavendish just sat there making muffled noises with a look of perplexed terror shining in her eyes, while her mother wept loud, extravagant tears.
“What have you done boy!” cried Mr Price. “My good sir,” now to Mr Cavendish, in a fawning, remorseful tone, “I apologise wholeheartedly. We shall fix your daughter for you right this instant, won’t we!” He turned his gaze back onto Jack. “Or this boy will be sorry he was born.”
“It’s what you wanted,” said Jack. “You brought your daughter to me to curb her chattering tendencies. You wanted her to look meek and mild, and not to answer you back or say things more intelligent than you or make you look like the simple fool you seem intent on making yourself every time you open your mouth. You wanted her dumb and docile until you could find a husband for her and be rid of her once and for all.”
The girl made some more grunts, trying to speak with the skin of her mouth quite closed over and unable to open. Her lips were fixed into a rigid smile, but her eyes were wild with fear.
“I asked you to temper her disobedient nature and quell her pretentions towards intelligence that are quite unnatural, indeed detrimental to the members of the delicate sex. I did not ask you to make her into some kind of grotesque gorgon such as this!”
“You got what you asked for. What you wanted in your heart.”
“Enough!” Mr Price struck Jack around the head, causing his sequined hat to fall off. Jack glared at him through the strands of silver hair that had fallen across his face.
“Now you put right what you have done to this girl this instant.”
Jack said nothing as he laid his hands on poor Petunia and sung her lips back into their original state.
“What’s come over you boy?” growled Mr Price once the Cavendish family had left. “We’ll be in the West End next week, tending to the health of important people such as these. Now you’d better get your head straight before then, and sing your healing songs just the way you did, or I’ll beat you bloody until you see right!”
Mr Price’s last words were shouted down the street as Jack fled out the door.
~
Tears streamed down Jack’s face as he ran through the sweltering streets. He made his way to Lincoln’s Inn and slumped down on his bench. The sycamores sang their slow, creaking songs, but try as they might they couldn’t sooth the cracks in his broken soul. Jack pulled his legs up to his chin, buried his face in his knees and squeezed his eyes closed.
He felt loose, untethered from the world like a leaf plucked from a branch, so he let himself drift over the streets and the rooftops, above the fug of soot and grime that clung to the smouldering city. He drifted through the broad blue sky that links uncounted worlds, until those familiar mountains loomed beneath him, and he saw the little house in the forest beside the turquoise lake. He drifted with the wind through the trembling leaves, danced across the cool clear waters. For a moment he thought this vision might be true, but then he saw his father sitting on a stool by his workshop, lost in his work as he carved a small wooden bird and he knew it was a dream. He saw his grandmother looking out over the lake, singing softly to herself as she wove her patterned cloth. He saw a boy with silver hair playing with sticks, listening to the gossip of the yellow-green birds that chattered amongst the trees. Oh, to be that wind. Oh, to be back beneath those open skies, before the soldiers came, before his father was taken off to war, before they set off on the mist road, before he ever knew of a place called London with its busy streets and busy people, beside the sluggish Thames.
When Jack opened his eyes he sensed that someone was sitting next to him on the bench.
“I thought you were going to sleep for ever,” said Tommy. His voice was soft, caring. “I was about to leave.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” said Jack, not wanting to turn and look at him.
“Well you were doing a good impression then, I said hello when I got here and you ignored me.”
“I was somewhere else,” said Jack.
“You seemed to get yourself in quite a tangle yesterday when I saw you,” said Tommy. “Did you think I kept no other company save yourself?”
“I didn’t think you kept the company of such as them. You were with that man who came to rob Mr Price’s shop that time. I thought you only did that once?”
“Everybody has to earn his keep in this world. Why shouldn’t I have food in my belly and a drink in my hand and a few shillings to go to the music hall? We don’t all have gifts like prince Jack of the magical lands. Some of us have to get our hands dirty to earn our crust.”
“But those girls you were with…” Jack trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“Now we’re to it.” Tommy’s voice was hard now, brittle about the edges. “I like you Jack, you’re a good lad and easy company. But what did you think this was? What is it you want from me? We walk together. We have a laugh and pass the time. Then you go back to your comfy bed and I go back to my lodging house and try to sleep while a dozen other flea ridden beggars grunt and fart and snore. Did you think we were going to run off together and live happily ever after?”
“I thought…” Jack began but he trailed off. The pain he felt deep in his bones spoke no language. The yearning that ached in every cell of his body knew no words, no expression.
“Now, I thought we might take a walk like we always do.” Tommy stood up and looked about. “But if you’ve got other plans…”
Jack looked up into those eyes, at that easy smile. He jumped up and planted a kiss on Tommy’s lips. As their lips met Jack felt the song of Tommy’s body surge into his own. But he felt the shame of it too. The loathing Tommy felt for himself, for Jack, for the world.
“Enough!” shouted Tommy, pushing Jack back down onto the bench. “I ain’t no fucking Mary. I see it now. I see what this has been about all along.” Tommy looked down at Jack where he lay crumpled on the bench. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned and strode away. Jack watched him receding into the evening crowds. He felt a seething blackness rise up inside him like the gathering of storm clouds. Tommy was almost out of sight, nearly gone. Two more steps and he would slip from view, never to be seen again. But as Tommy reached the gate Jack stood up and followed through the crowds.
~
The sun was gone by the time Tommy got back to his lodging house. It was in a little cobbled courtyard crossed with washing lines. Even though it was night the yard was filled with people. Working girls heading out to see to their night’s hard business. Labourers staggering back from the gin houses where they had pissed away their wages. He paid his shilling to the landlady and stalked up the stairs. He crept between the sleeping figures until he found his mattress on the floor and slumped onto the bed. He lay awake for some time, listening to the sound of bodies in the darkness, and eventually he fell to sleep.
Nobody noticed the silver mouse with green-gold eyes who slipped into the yard, climbed the drainpipe, then entered the upper room through the open window. That night Tommy’s slumber was filled with strange music, and he dreamed dark and troubling dreams. He dreamt of a forest that stretched unbroken to the horizon. He dreamt of creaking boughs and sighing leaves. He dreamt his toes reached down into the cold dark earth between the stones and the soil and the burrowing things. He dreamt his arms grew long and hard and reached up towards the sky. He dreamt of beetles boring and birds nesting, of fungus and lichen and slow turning seasons. He dreamt of the deep voices of the other trees, speaking in a language older than any human tongue, a language he understood.
~
Chaos reigned at the premises that, until recently, had been a cobbler’s shop on Leather Lane. Men and boys ran this way and that shouting and hollering as they carried boxes out to the waiting carts. Mr Price hovered in the midst of it all like an angry hornet, remonstrating at any bump or scratch to his new bought furniture.
“Careful with that chest! It’s worth two of you!”
“Easy with that mirror, boy; crack it and I’ll crack your skull!”
Jack sat on the sole remaining chair in his empty room and looked out across the rooftops. He held the little carved bird in his hand, turning it over, feeling the smoothness of the wood against his skin. Then a noise on the stair outside his door roused him from his daze.
“Jack,” said Mrs Price in a voice so soft it was barely more than a whisper. “My dear, delightful Jack.”
She leant on the doorframe in a fine silk dress and pretty new bonnet, but her face was drawn and her grey skin seemed to hang loosely from her bones. She looked like a skeleton standing there, her eyes sunk into their sockets. But they burned with a cold hunger that made him shiver in spite of the heat.
“Oh, hello Mrs Price,” said Jack, wondering how long she had been standing there. She didn’t reply, but carried on watching him with that hungry glare.
“I’ll miss this place,” said Jack, looking back out the window. “It feels like a lifetime since I came here, though not even a year has passed.”
He jumped as he felt her hand on his arm even though he hadn’t heard her cross the room. She slid her hand across his shoulder and onto his chest. He lurched up off the chair and backed away but she moved with him, pawing at him with bony fingers.
“Sing for me Jack,” she whispered. Her voice was faint but it insistent. “Sing for me again. I can hear the music, Jack. But it’s so far off I can’t reach it.”
Jack tried to move away but she gripped tight to his shirt.
“Sing for me Jack,” she moaned, shaking him with a manic light burning in her eyes. “I need to hear that song again Jack. I can hear that music every waking moment but it’s so far away.”
“Please Mrs Price, there’s nothing I can do. If my grandmother were here, she would know how to put this right but I…”
“Sing Jack!” She hissed then she let out a wail like a wounded animal. “Bring it closer Jack! Bring it closer!”
Jack cried out and pulled away but she wouldn’t let him go. He pulled again and she fell to the floor with a piteous howl.
“Sing to me Jack,” she called again, and her wretched sobs chased him as he fled down the stairs.
“Where are you going to in such a hurry boy?” growled Mr Price as Jack erupted into the kitchen.
“I’m… uh… I’m just off for a walk sir,” he replied, trying to keep his composure. Mr Price grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a long suspicious look. Jack shot glances over at the door. He could hear shuffling and moaning coming down the stairs but Mr Price seemed oblivious.
“Well don’t be long,” said Mr Price at last. “We’re all packed. The carriage will be here within the hour to take us to the West End.”
Mr Price smiled and let him go, dusting off Jack’s clothes as if he had spotted some fluff upon his shoulder.
“Now then Jack,” he said, switching to a warm and fatherly tone. “Time for a new start, eh boy? You’ll not be sleeping in a tiny loft room no more, with blankets on the floor. A nice big bed with an eiderdown for you. Let’s start over, with a new understanding of friendship between us. Things will be different in the West End, I know it. We’ll be happy there.”
Jack smiled as convincingly as he could and made his way out to the shop.
He was just about to leave when he heard a commotion in the street outside.
“Clear off!” shouted Mr Dearblood to somebody Jack could not see. “He’s not seeing anyone. And you don’t look like you could afford him anyway.”
Jack couldn’t make out the reply, but he recognised the voice. He crept to the window and peered out into the street. There was a figure outside, hunched over in pain.
“I need to see him! He’s done this to me I know it!” Tommy’s voice was twisted and pained. His body was bent over. His skin hard and dark, his arms and legs contorted.
“Get on with you!” shouted Mr Dearblood, and pushed Tommy to the ground. Tommy picked himself up and staggered away down the street. Jack watched as he disappeared around the corner, then he slipped out of the door and followed.
~
Jack found Tommy in the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, behind the bench where they always met, in the bushes a little way off the path. His skin was hard now, riven through with deep cracks. His toes sank down into the soil, his outstretched arms locked into a contorted pose. His fingers were long and spindly, drooping under the weight of the leaves that sprouted from his nails.
Jack stood a few feet away, afraid to approach, unable to speak. Tommy had been the only person in this whole city who had accepted him for who he was. Or at least he thought he had. He knew Tommy didn’t deserve this, but when he had seen the shame and loathing in his eyes, all Jack’s love had burned away to ashes. He wanted to say he wished it hadn’t ended this way. He wanted to say he thought Tommy was the only person who had understood him but it turned out he was just like the rest of them. He wanted to say so many things but all he could manage was a whisper.
“I’m sorry.” His words were barely audible above the relentless growl of the city.
Tommy let out a creaking groan, and the leaves on his fingers shivered. His eyes were still just visible, amber brown as they filled with sap, keeping their gaze locked with Jack’s. His mouth was curling down the side of his trunk, like a gash left by a fallen branch. Soon it would close up, just another groove in a sturdy trunk.
“I wish,” said Jack. “I wish…” And then he turned and ran.
~
“It’s time to go!” shouted Mr Price as he banged upon the door. “Mrs Price is already in the carriage. She’s not well and it won’t do to keep her waiting any longer.”
“I’m not going!” shouted Jack. “I shall not. I cannot,” he broke off into sobs.
“Get out here now, or I’ll break down this door.”
Jack did not reply. Mr Price pressed his ear to the door and heard sobs and groans and cries of pain.
“That’s it. I’ll have this door down and have you out!” Mr Price’s feet thundered away down the stairs. When he returned with Mr Dearblood, Mr Price banged on the door again.
“Come on boy don’t make me do this!”
But there was no reply. All they heard was commotion from the other side of the door, as if a whirlwind had been unleashed inside the small room at the top of the house.
“Jack? Boy? Listen, I’m sorry. Just tell me you’re ok!”
But no reply came. Just screams and fluttering and tearing sounds that made Mr Price’s blood run cold. Then no more screams, just a swirling, flapping commotion.
“Break that door!” called Mr Price and Mr Dearblood heaved to it. With two heavy pounds of his shoulder the wood splintered and the lock gave way.
Inside the room was a chaos of motion, flapping and screeching, all yellow and green.
Mr Price dashed into the maelstrom looking for the boy.
He flung open the window and the birds went soaring into the sky. Then suddenly all was still again, and Mr Price was left standing alone in the deafening silence of that empty room, feeling that all light and colour and goodness was gone from his life, and never would return.
That oak still stands there in the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, casting a dappled shade across the path. It has stood all these long years, in the rain and the wind and the hot summer sun. Some say they can still make out the vague form of a figure in the bends of the trunk, but most people pay it no heed as they go about their business. And the parakeets still perch amongst those broad, sturdy branches. They seem happy here at last, in this city on the banks of the Thames. They pay little attention to lives of the people who teem through the London streets. They squawk and chatter to each other, as if they haven’t a care in the world. And as the sun sinks towards the horizon and turns the world to gold, they lift off across the rooftops into the endless, waiting sky.
JB SMITH IS A WRITER OF BOTH FICTION AND NON-FICTION WHO GREW UP IN SHROPSHIRE AND IS NOW BASED IN SOUTH LONDON. OVER THE YEARS HIS JOURNALISM HAS TAKEN IN TOPICS SUCH AS MUSIC, ART, SCIENCE AND MENTAL HEALTH. HE RECENTLY STUDIED FOR AN MA IN CREATIVE WRITING AT BIRKBECK, UNIVERSITY OF LONDON.