London Folk Tales (14 page)

Although his first beloved cat never came back, cats continued to feature in Dick’s life. For as his mercer business grew, he began to consider dealing in other goods. One of these was coal. Looking for ways to transport it, Dick heard of coal barges nicknamed ‘Black Cats’. ‘Cats will do for me!’ he said. ‘We’ll bring them down the River Lea.’

Nobody else had thought of this shortcut, so coal barges on that route were called the ‘Black Cats of Whittington’. And these cats too made him rich. So much so that within ten years he was Sheriff of London, and soon after was made Lord Mayor.

True to the peal of the bells, he was Lord Mayor of London for a second and a third term, which also meant that he was first to be told of the monarch’s death, and twice became then, temporarily, the Principal Officer in the Kingdom. But Londoners knew him more as the familiar figure in his glorious robes, waving from the golden Lord Mayor’s coach, flanked on either side by the effigies of Gog and Magog, the Giant Defenders of the Realm.

Even as Lord Mayor, Richard Whittington never forgot what it was like to be poor in London. He passed a law to prevent apprentices having to wash animal skins in the Thames when it was too cold or wet. He created drinking fountains, where anyone could get clean water, drainage systems, and a public toilet too. He founded the Whittington Hospital, and funded St Bartholomew’s and St Thomas’, creating a special ward for unmarried mothers. He also rebuilt Newgate Prison.

When he died, he was buried with his wife in his church, St Michael Paternoster.

Here lies Sir Richard Whittington, thrice Mayor

And his dear wife, a virtuous loving pair.

Him fortune raised to be beloved and great

By the adventure only of a cat.

His tomb is now lost, but a mummified cat was found in the church tower in the 1940s. And on Highgate Hill you can see still the Whittington milestone marker. Sit there and perhaps you’ll hear the bells of Bow ring out for you too.

The place in London most ridden with ghost stories is surely the Tower. There are boxfuls of them. For me the saddest tale is the one about the two princes, imprisoned by their uncle Richard III, and presumed murdered there – a theory borne out by the discovery of the bones of two boys secreted underneath the stairs of the Bloody Tower.

I was therefore pleased to hear, from a friend who knows Beefeaters at the Tower, that one of them saw two young boys, who he thought might be the princes, playing on the green, one evening.

I was even more pleased to hear this second story from her:

A warden at Wakefield Tower has a young son, and he was looking for him one day, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Eventually he found him in the Bloody Tower. ‘What on earth were you doing in there?’ he asked.

‘I’m just talking to my friends,’ the boy said. But it was after hours, the Tower was empty, so of course the warden was taken aback.

‘What friends are they?’ he wondered.

‘The two boys who live here,’ his son explained.

From his description they must have been the princes – ghosts maybe, but still playing happily with each new generation of friends.

When I was a bachelor I lived by myself

And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf.

But the rats and the mice they made such a strife

I had to go to London to buy myself a wife.

He might have done that, but she, on the other hand, might have come to London to lose herself a husband. And where could she do that? Why, Old St Paul's of course, at the shrine of the Maid, St Uncumber. Some folk had fancier names for her, like Wilgefort and Dignefortis, Reginfleid and Liberata. But whatever her name, she was the one women called on, when they needed a bit of help in unencumbering themselves.

If ye cannot sleep nor slumber

Give oats unto Saint Uncumber.

It hadn't been so easy for her, way back whenever it was that she'd been young, resisting some persisting pagan prince. She'd had to grow a beard to put him off, a big bristly, bushy one right down to her knees, and as if that wasn't uncomfortable enough, she was crucified as well.

But by the Middle Ages – well, people prided themselves on being a bit more civilised – all you had to do was to select the right saint and pray. And then – naturally – pay.

Some gave the Maid Uncumber gold, some gave her silver, some gave her wild oats and nightly thanks forever. It all depended on the size of the purses and the results of the pleas. They must have been successful by and large, because, by the time my story starts, her effigy was encrusted with coins, her beard studded with silver and her little wooden feet encased in solid gold shoes.

Golden Shoes! What a wonderful sight! To most people in London at that time, any kind of shoe was a sign of wealth. Plenty went without, inside and out cold soles slipping on the cobble stones. And such a one was a young musician come up to town for Bartholomew's Fair. He did well enough while it was there, but he'd stayed on once it was gone, fiddle under his arm all battered and worn, tunic and hose all tattered and torn, and nothing to keep him going now but the wind at his back and the hope in his heart. If hopes were horses we'd all ride high! But he was walking; round and round and round. Billingsgate to Bishopsgate and back, playing for scraps – and fighting for them, too. Then there were the nights snatching brief respite in doorways, with dogs and draughts and one eye always out for the Watch. And on this particular day it was just beginning to snow.

Our wandering fiddler lad, wondering where to go, found his bare feet had stopped on the steps of Old St Paul's. Inside was dry and dim, infinitely welcoming: the smell of incense on the air, and the gentle murmuring of prayer. Timidly he tiptoed in. No one seemed to notice him.

In the flickering light of the tapers, shrines of saints stood side by side. The fiddler went to St Uncumber's; it seemed to him that her face was kind. As he sank down to the ground he saw wild oats piled round her feet, and, delirious with hunger, snatched them and began to eat. Only when he'd swallowed them down did he realise what he'd done. Stealing from a Holy Shrine! Sacrilegious capital crime! On his knees he begged forgiveness, and tried to think of ways to pay. All he had to give was music. Would that satisfy the Maid?

Gently he took up his fiddle, and with heart and soul he played. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, he was anxious at first, afraid his sort of music would not be allowed in this awesome, sacred place. But as his fingers stroked the strings a song of thanks rose up in him, and found its voice in the violin. And as it flowed, the music rose, soared like a bird, and hung, divine, wreathing the statue, filling the shrine. Feeling its strength, the boy stood straight, and for the first time raised his eyes to the saint. Surely she had heard.

He scarcely saw the shining silver of her clothing, nor the gleaming golden shoes. He was looking at her face, carved so carefully out of wood. The eyes … the cheeks … the chin … the lips … they almost seemed alive.

And as he looked – yes! He was right. The mouth twitched, and she smiled.

Weak with relief, he played a tune so sweet that now he made the lady sigh, and caught a crystal tear from her painted eye. Then with a laugh he bent back to his task with a lilting, rhythmic courtly dance. And as he did, her body too began to quiver and tremble and – so gracefully – to move. Now he drew his bow so fast that the music almost laughed and her toes began to tap and her feet began to dance, ‘til she kicked out all at once – and a shoe fell in his lap.

A Golden Shoe! The shoe of a Saint! He stared at her and she seemed to nod, as if to say, ‘Yes, take it away. A gift for you.' And then she was wood again. And he, in a dream, fiddle under his arm, golden shoe in his hand, turned and walked to the door. Never again would he be poor.

He stepped outside with a cry of delight – and a heavy hand fell on his shoulder as a cry went out. ‘Stop thief! Capital crime! Look! The golden shoe from St Uncumber's Shrine.'

Sobbing and protesting the little fiddler was dragged to St Paul's Cross, the official place for public announcements. There he was hoicked up high for all to see, while his guilt was proclaimed, and the golden shoe was displayed. In no time at all the churchyard of the cathedral was crammed with gawping onlookers.

‘It's the three-legged mare for him!' someone sang out with glee; and 100 more joined the refrain: ‘Aye! He's for Tyburn Tree!'

What if you should catch a thief,

Catch a thief, catch a thief,

What if you should catch a thief,

My Fair Lady

Hanged he'll be at Tyburn Tree,

Tyburn Tree, Tyburn Tree,

Hanged he'll be at Tyburn Tree,

My Fair Lady.

So the fiddler was to be hanged and everyone was well-pleased because hangings were famous fun in those days, a free spectacle for all the family and rich pickings for all the ale, eel and oyster sellers – not to mention the pickpockets, peepshows and pedlars. Besides, he was a good-looking lad, all the better to sigh and cry over and he'd stolen from the Maid of St Paul's, not your average everyday crime at all. But best of all, he was a musician, his fiddle cradled in the crook of his arm, so there were high hopes of getting a last good tune out of him.

So when the day came, the crowd was already calling out choices, as it clustered round the cart of the condemned when it emerged from Newgate. And there was a fight for a glimpse of the lad as they followed it on its way.

First to St Giles in the Fields, where, at the Leper Hospital, all criminals condemned to death were given ‘their last refreshing in this life' – the St Giles bowl of ale. (And whether he drank to his own health or not, at least the fiddler did sip something, which all did agree was right and proper, and better than the foolish teetotaller. He wouldn't even touch a drop, and so they hurried him on. And he was hanged the quicker for it – minutes before his pardon came.)

When the drink was done they all went on, some marching much more merrily, though they showed respect with a more solemn step when they heard the bellman from St Stephens toll. ‘Good people pray for the soul of these sinners …' it rang for the ones to be hanged. Some did, and some meant to, but soon all forgot in the growing excitement and anticipation. For now they had come to the end of the town, where Tyburn Tree waited and ‘the West' began.

But just before the gallows was the place you could stand, and speak whatever was on your mind, before you stepped up to be hanged. And to the procession's enormous pleasure, the young fiddler said ‘Nay'. Being a musician, he didn't want to talk, he just wanted to play. And what was more, although he said he would play for them all, he asked if he could so beside the saint's shrine in St Paul's.

The hangman's thoughts could not be heard amongst the crowd's great roars, and the priest's protests were drowned as well in an outburst of applause. The crowd decided it was fair enough, since the lad had stolen her shoe, that reparation – and celebration – should include St Uncumber too. Ignoring the other offenders who were waiting their turns to swing, they bundled the fiddler onto the cart and back to the city again.

The church had never been so full, with people three deep round the walls. But silence fell upon them all when the lad began to play. The sounds he drew out of his fiddle! Low lilting laughter and sweet sobbing sighs; dreams of young maidens and fishmonger's cries; dirges that froze them to stone in their seats; dances that brought the half-dead to their feet; the rafters were ringing; the belfry bats singing; fish skipped from the water; pigs jigged at the slaughter; fathers forgot to care who kissed their daughters …

Only the lad and the saint seemed unmoved. His face, looking up, was like ice, while she, looking down, was just wood.

Hard wood. Not a trace of last time's living face. It was dead, as he would be too, before long. So his hopes and his music came to an end, and the fiddler fell to the ground. And the crowd, forgetting its purpose, pulled out purses and threw money down. The fiddler lay still in a hail of bright coins past caring anymore. Until a gasp of surprise made him open his eyes … to see the saint smile as she threw her last shoe, to land with a gleam in the musician's pile.