Horatio Lyle (34 page)

Later still, as the bells struck in the city and shutters were pushed back on to streets smelling of dead leaves in decaying forests, the rich smell you get after a cold storm in a warm morning, a soldier, picking through the stones of a staircase where a small chemical explosion had shattered half the steps, saw a hand in a dirty white glove lying underneath a pile of rubble. A few seconds later, the voice echoed through the high halls, bouncing off the sad faces of the saints, off the giggling cherubs, off the martyrs and the flickering candles lit to the dead, ‘This one’s still alive, sir!’

CHAPTER 26

It is night in the city of London, a cool empty night, full of stars ahead and a thin moon rising over the river, twinkling in the still water, bouncing off a thousand panes of glass and back again, so that the city almost glows.

In the grandeur of Drury Lane, Hamlet puts his hand to his forehead, takes up the stance that audiences across Europe recognize as ‘tortured pain’, and announces in a rich voice that carries to the back of the black auditorium, ‘To be, or not to
. . .
’ In the audience, someone sneezes. It is an ordinary night.

The hansom cabs flock around the Strand, and the shouts carry above the clattering of horses’ hooves on the cobbles. ‘Move over, move over!’

‘You’ve got a bucket for things like that, mister!’

‘You want to tell that to the horse?’

‘What’ve you been feedin’ him?’

‘None of your business!’

On the battlements of the Tower, the ravens croak at each other, eyeing up the large ship sailing past Traitor’s Gate, laden with meat, as they concoct their schemes for a feast. Below them, a lock turns in a particularly heavy iron door, a foot pads on a particularly cold stone floor, and a voice says from the darkness, ‘You haven’t won, you know?’

Iron chains clink in the darkness. Lord Lincoln lights a long wooden pipe, and puffs.

‘We will still win. You can’t stop us, you don’t know how. We will come and we will finish what was started. This world cannot hold us back for ever, don’t you see?’

Lincoln smiles. ‘My lord,’ he says politely, removing the pipe from his lips, ‘
I know
.’

Down by the river, the colliers drag sacks of dusty coal up on to the banks, backs bent, faces filthy, some wearing loose yellow cloths across their nose and mouth to keep out the dust, some coughing until black spittle clings to their teeth, while from the ships the sailors pour, searching for food, drink and company away from the sea. The houses stand on poles sticking out of the tidal mud, creaking in the wind that blows up from the estuary. Geese fly overhead in a V, heading home.

 

Milly Lyle rocks backwards and forwards in her armchair, staring up thoughtfully at the picture of old Harry Lyle hanging over the fire. Then, after a while, she stands up, takes the picture down, turns it over, gently pulls away the paper across its back, and from inside takes out a small gold box that sits neatly in the palm of her hand. It is engraved
ML
. She opens it. The needle of the compass swings towards North. She smiles, closes the compass and drops it into her apron pocket. When she goes back to the armchair, she puts her head on one side, and sleeps.

 

A door closes in a house near Hyde Park. There are footsteps on the stairs. A lock clicking. Another door opening. A door closing. Footsteps on empty, neglected planks.

A voice in the darkness. ‘
Xiansheng
.’

A cat miaows somewhere outside. A horse neighs down in the mews below, stamping its foot.

‘
Xiansheng
.’

‘It is finished,
xiansheng
?’

‘It is.’

‘And Lyle?’ Silence. ‘The Emperor will be pleased. You can go home, if you wish. The Empire may have need of you in other places. There are always needs.’ Silence. ‘What will you do now? You can have any place, any country. For the glory of the Empire, and our cause. Here is finished. Here is the past. There will be other battles.
Xiansheng
?’

Silence. Then, very thoughtfully, ‘I think
. . .
I think I’ll see if Mrs Oak has any more of her fine ginger biscuits left,
xiansheng
.’

A door opens. A door closes.

 

In the dark slums of Bethnal Green, the Missus of a house of some repute looks out at a room full of smoke, and breathes deeply the mist of forgetfulness. In the offices of the East India Company, a man with a portly belly closes a book, looks up into the candlelight and says, ‘Does that mean the import of lychees is
unviable
? Goddammit, at this rate we’ll have to switch to bananas!’

 

In the Palace, a small, dumpy woman with a tight-lipped expression and pasty face looks round the room. A chamberlain clears his throat. ‘Her Most Royal Majesty Queen Victoria, by the grace of God Regina Britannicae, Defender of the Faith
. . .
’

In a corner, another woman sobs happily into her handkerchief. Next to her, a man with too many sidewhiskers mutters, ‘Madam! You are embarrassing yourself,’ and then leans towards the tall boy with the determined expression. ‘And you, young man, if you think that the praise of the Queen is excusing you from your Latin verbs, you are
greatly
mistaken.’

Thomas just smiles. Inside his jacket pocket, a thick sheet of paper rustles ever so slightly. On it, he has drawn, in immense detail, a bird. Made entirely of bamboo struts and cloth.

He thinks about it, and his smile grows wider.

 

The thieves eye up purses as they hulk together around one of the factories of Stepney. One whispers, ‘
Him
.’

Another whispers, ‘Tess could do ’im in a second.’

‘Where is Tess?’

‘Ain’t seen ’er for days.’

‘I ’eard something ’bout a fight. Said a man got ’urt.’

‘Who?’

‘A bobby.’

‘Christ. She’ll’ang if she ’urt a bobby.’

‘I dunno if
she
’urt ’im
. . .
’

‘Then where is she?’

‘Dunno. Perhaps she made big?’

‘Nah. Not our Tess. That’s like sayin’, “Perhaps there’s elves” an’ all!’

 

Later the moon shines down on a stone building of domes and corridors, nooks and crannies, ghosts and ghouls, and in a hall buzzing with low, expectant noise, like a congregation waiting on a priest, someone says, ‘So
,
this Faraday: he’s all right, is he?’

‘Faraday? He’s a genius, he’s the father of modern science, he’s
. . .
’

‘All right, all right, bigwig, keep your hair on. Give Tate another biscuit.’

‘I think he’s had enough
. . .
’

‘Tate’s never had enough, have you, Tatey-watey. No you haven’t, no you haven’t, have you?’ The voice descends into incomprehensible baby talk. A dog whines in appreciation. There is the sound of healthy teeth closing over a biscuit. There is a long crunching sound.

‘I’m
bored
.’

‘He hasn’t got here yet.’

‘This place is full of bigwigs.’

‘They’re scientists.’

‘
He’s
not!’

‘Well, no, he’s not, he’s just an enthusiast
.
’

‘Like you?’

‘I’m
. . .
I
want
to be a scientist. Father’s given me an allowance now, and Lord Lincoln said that he’d be willing to allow me access to the Greenwich Observatory and if I can just
. . .
’

‘But you’re a bigwig. You don’t have to do nothin’!’

‘But I want to be something
more
.’

And a door opens, and someone comes in. The audience starts to clap.

‘You all right?’

‘It’s
. . .
it’s Faraday
.
’

‘Father of modern science? You said.’

 

A little later a voice whispers hoarsely, ‘What’s he doin’?’

‘I think he’s demonstrating the interaction between electric and magnetic forces.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a static generating thing. It uses a lot of static to generate
. . . things
.’

And a quiet voice says, ‘It’s a static discharge generator, Thomas.’

‘Erm
. . .
quite. A static discharge generator, Teresa.’

‘Oh. Is it complicated?’

‘Well, obviously there’s a lot going on
.
’

‘I made one out of a kettle once,’ says the quiet voice.

‘Really? How?’

‘I’ll tell you when the lecture’s over.’

In the darkness, an electric crackle, and an ‘
ooooh
’ from the audience. Tess hisses, ‘How’d he do that?’

‘Well,’ begins Thomas’s edgy voice, ‘there’s a lot of charge things on the dome, because of static and
. . .
’

‘Do you mean there’s a build-up of negative charge rubbin’ off from the belt thing what’s carryin’ the positive charge from the metal comb inside the insulatin’ tower?’

‘Yes.
How do you know?
’

‘I read it,’ Tess says simply. ‘In a book.’

Next to her, Horatio Lyle starts to smile.

 

And the moon rises and sets over the streets of London, looking down on a million lives bumping into a million other lives, a million shoulders brushing against a million others in the street, transferring static charge from one jacket to another as they go, until the whole city buzzes with it, until every street hums with life and noise and the cries of the street sellers rise up:
‘Bunch’a turnips, not sixpence, not threepence, but ’cos I see my lucky stars, today just tuppence!’ ‘Come ’ear the ballad of the Dutch sailor, lost at sea . . .’ ‘Hot cross buns! One a’penny, two a’penny . . .’ ‘You wan’ it, I’ve got it . . .!’ ‘Birds’ nests, magpies and sparrows . . .’ ‘Penny cures, penny cures for all ills, you ma’am . . .’ ‘Snakes, shillin’ a snake . . .’

. . .
And the cries rise, spread out across the slanting rooftops and the crumbling chimney stacks, wake the pigeons and scare the cats, set the dogs barking and bounce off the still brass bells of St James’s and St Anne’s and St Mary’s and St Giles’s and St Paul’s, and echo away, to leave just a few voices, climbing through the air.

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes, Teresa?’

‘’Bout breakfast
. . .
’

‘You can’t be hungry again!’

‘No, no! It’s just ’cos Thomas has been tellin’ me ’bout this thing called
chocolate . . .
’

‘
Thomas
.’

‘Sorry, Mister Lyle.’

‘
. . .
an’ I was thinkin’, seein’ as how I help look after Tate an’ ’ave been so good with all the books an’ how I ain’t picked your pocket
once . . .
’

‘Teresa, that is not a recommendation towards moral enlightenment
. . .
’

And the voices fade away, into the slowly spreading dawn.

In the east, the sun is rising.