Printer's Devil (9780316167826) (12 page)

“He wrote a note to Coben and Jiggs,” I remembered, “and drew a big eye on it to warn them. Seems everybody’s watching everybody
else.”

Suddenly there was a clatter from downstairs.

“Oh no! Someone’s come back!” Nick flung the camel into the chest and grabbed my arm. “Run,” he said, “get lost, or we’ll
both be killed.”

“Lash!” I hissed, and his startled head popped up from behind a chair. “Come here boy!”

But feet were already stomping up the stairs. “NICK!” came a bellowing woman’s voice.

“It’s too late,” I said, looking around in a panic, “We’ll have to hide.”

“NICK!” As the door burst open I dived behind it out of sight, and Lash skidded to a halt by my side, leaving poor Nick standing
in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.

“Who let you out?” the woman screamed, and as she advanced into the room I saw that she was huge, her bulk wobbling like a
badly stacked haycart. Her arms were bare, and as she moved them angrily they reminded me of hams swinging in a butcher’s
window. In one of her fists, I suddenly saw, she was holding a big square meat cleaver. Anyone who got in the way of that
wouldn’t stand a polecat’s chance. I saw Nick glance towards me, and he moved his head slightly to tell me to be gone.

“What are you twitching at?” the woman bawled at him. She moved forward with her arm flexed as though to clout him, and Lash
responded with a sudden growl which made her stop in her tracks.

“What was that?” she screeched. “Is there a dog in ’ere?”

I wasn’t going to let Lash anywhere near the meat cleaver, with which the fearsome woman could have split his head in two
with a single stroke. The only thing for it was to run; and, dragging Lash by the lead, I slipped between the door and Mrs.
Muggerage’s back and launched us both headlong down the stairs. Too late, she wheeled around and saw us half-running, half-falling
towards the scullery.

“OY!” she roared, so loudly that the whole house seemed to vibrate. Tripping over one another in a tangle of arms and legs
at the bottom of the stairs, Lash and I struggled to run as Mrs. Muggerage’s footsteps began clomping down the steps after
us. Lash’s lead was caught around my ankle and I yanked it in a panic, making Lash yelp as the rope snagged and bit into his
neck as he tried to right himself. After what seemed like a lifetime, we finally scrambled onto our six feet and ran; and
as we did so, the meat cleaver whizzed past my ear, missing me by no more than an inch.

Cramplock was busy in the printing shop when we came in, but that didn’t stop him eyeing me severely over his half-moon glasses.
Guiltily, as though it were all his fault, Lash slunk up the stairs to his basket — leaving me to face the music.

“Now
you crawl in, Mog Winter,” Cramplock said reproachfully, “where do you suppose you’ve been for the best part of the day?”

“Sorry, Mr. Cramplock,” I said, “I had meant to come back sooner, only—“ What was the use of explaining where I’d been? “I
was feeling a bit ill,” I mumbled, making a show of holding my bandaged head, but knowing it was a poor and transparent excuse.

“Not too ill to gallivant round the city with your dog,” he responded sharply. “If you weren’t feeling well you could have
stayed upstairs and got some rest. I might have been able to spare you, if you’d asked.” He was speaking quietly, but it was
obvious he was furious. “I just expect to be told if you can’t work, Mog,” he pointed out. “It’s not unreasonable.” I didn’t
say anything. He was quite right, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment at his scolding. I went over to the bench where
some blocks of type were waiting to be dismantled. I’d become good at reading the type before it was printed, even though
it was back to front and all the letters were the wrong way round. I could see the blocks had been used for an advertisement.

“Been doing advertisements?” I asked. I was trying to sound bright, but there was a lump of shame in my throat as big as a
plum.

“Yes, Mog, seeing as you weren’t here to do them,”
Cramplock replied sourly. “Fifty for the chemist.”

I picked up a sheet of paper to lay over the inky type, and lifted it off. It had printed a little square advertisement with
a picture of a medicine bottle, and the proud announcement:

We’d printed this advertisement many times before. I’d always wondered what “recalcitrance” meant: I had a suspicion it was
just a long word for wind.

“Stop wasting time, now that you’re here, and
take those forms apart,” Cramplock was telling me, “I’ve an important job coming in this afternoon and I’ll need the type.”
I set to work quietly, knowing I’d be in real trouble today if I stretched his patience any further. I began the slow, messy
job of taking each tiny little metal letter and throwing it back into the right compartment of the type case. It was sometimes
difficult to tell the letters apart, and if I got them mixed up I used to get shouted at, or worse. Capitals weren’t so bad
— but with the lowercase letters, because you had to remember that they were back to front, it was often hard to get “d” and
“b” and “p” and “q” in the right boxes if you weren’t concentrating. I once printed a whole five hundred playbills in which
the name of a celebrated actor called Mr. Thomas Tibble came out as “Mr. Thomas Tiddle,” and I hadn’t noticed until they were
all done. Cramplock wasn’t normally a violent man, but I thought he was going to knock my brains out of my ears that day.

“When you’ve done that,” Cramplock said, “you can pull a hundred of these.”

He’d set up the type for another elaborate poster; and after he’d disappeared into the back room to do some accounts I went
over to have a look. Even without taking a copy I could make out what it said. It had type of several different sizes, and
an engraving which seemed to be of some sort of animal.

The engraving was of an absurd-looking creature with two large ears, and a person standing next to it holding up his hands
in what was meant to be astonishment.

Laughing, I reached for some scrap sheets of paper to make a couple of test copies, to make sure the poster was properly laid
out.

“Do you suppose this ass really
can
tell fortunes, Mr. Cramplock?” I ventured to ask, pulling out one of the tests and examining it.

Cramplock grunted. “Not if Hardwicke’s got anything to do with it,” he said. “Biggest swindler in London. The poor fools who
flock to see it will probably find it’s an ass standing in front of a curtain, with his wife hiding behind the curtain shouting
out.”

I printed off five or six more and looked them up and down with admiration.

“Did you give my bill to Flethick?” Cramplock suddenly asked.

I froze.

“Ah, Yes,” I said.

“Good. That’s all right then. He owes me plenty, and it’s high time he settled his account. The number of things —“

“But,” I butted in, “he didn’t give much impression that he’d pay.”

Cramplock looked at me intently and rubbed his cheekbone. “Why? What did he say?”

“He, er — he told me to tell you he wanted no bill, Mr. Cramplock,” I said, my face going bright red with embarrassment again,
“and he, ah — burnt it up.”

The little man’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, and would have done if his glasses hadn’t stopped them. “He
what?”

“Erm — burnt it up,” I said, starting to wish I’d never told him. He still showed no sign of understanding. “Burnt it,” I
repeated helpfully, trying to smile. “Up.”

Cramplock made a noise like a chicken. “But — but — but — why did you let him?”

“I didn’t have much choice,” I said. “He’s not a nice man, Mr. Cramplock. There were lots of his friends there. He was behaving
very strangely.”

“He’ll behave more strangely when I get my hands on him,” squawked Cramplock. “Burning my bills! Who does he think he is?”
He wasn’t just cross now, he was enraged. He pushed me out of the way of the press and started printing the rest of the posters
himself, working the machinery furiously and almost throwing the ink at the roller. For the next ten minutes he carried on
muttering to himself, occasionally slamming things down on the table. I sat
picking at the type in the cases, not daring to say any more.