The Black Book of Secrets (3 page)

I hadn’t meant to tell Joe I was a pickpocket and I don’t
know why I told him the truth. As for pawnbrokers, naturally
I knew what they were. I’d been in and out of their
shops enough times when I lived in the City. Whatever Ma
and Pa managed to steal and had no use for, they pawned.
Or they sent me to do it. There were plenty of pawnshops,
practically one on every corner, and they were open all
hours. They were busiest after the weekend, when everyone
had spent their wages on drink or lost them at the card
table. By mid-morning on Mondays a pawnshop window
was quite a sight, believe me. People brought in every sort
of thing: shirts, old shoes, pipes, crockery, anything that
might fetch even a ha’penny.

The pawnbroker, however, wouldn’t take just anything.
And the money he paid wasn’t good at all, but when people
grumbled that he was cheating he would say, ‘I’m not a
charity. Take it or leave it.’

And usually they took what he offered because they had
no choice. Of course, you could always buy back what
you pledged, but you had to pay more. That’s how a pawnbroker
made his money, getting rich from the poor.

But Lembart Jellico wasn’t like the others. For a start
he was hidden away down a narrow alley off Pledge Street.
You would only know he was there if you knew he was
there, if you see what I mean. I found him because I
was looking for somewhere to hide from Ma and Pa. The
entrance to the lane was so narrow I had to go in sideways.
When I looked up I could see only a thin sliver of the smoky
city sky. Mr Jellico’s shop was at the end of the lane and at
first I thought it was shut, but when I pressed my nose
against the door it swung inwards. The pawnbroker was
standing behind the counter, but he didn’t see me. He
looked as if he was in a daydream.

I coughed.

‘Sorry,’ said the man, blinking. ‘How can I help you,
young lad?’ he asked. Those were the first kind words I had
heard all day. I gave him what I had, a ring I had taken from
a lady’s finger (a particular skill of mine, to mesmerize an
unfortunate passer-by with my sorrowful gaze while relieving
them of the burden of their jewels). Mr Jellico’s
eyebrows arched when he saw it.

‘Your mother’s, I suppose?’ he said, but he didn’t push
me for an answer.

Mr Jellico looked as poor as his customers. He wore
clothes that people had never come back to claim (and he
couldn’t sell). His skin was white, starved of the sun, and
had a slight shine to it, like wet pastry. His long fingernails
were usually black and his lined face was covered in grey
stubble. There was always a drip at the end of his nose and
occasionally he wiped it away with a red handkerchief that
he kept in his waistcoat pocket. That day he gave me a
shilling for the ring, so I came back the next day with more
spoils and received another. After that I returned as often
as I could.

I don’t know if Mr Jellico made any money. His shop
was rarely busy, the window was dirty and there was never
much on display. Once I saw a loaf of bread on the shelf.

‘Young lass,’ said Mr Jellico when I asked him about it.
‘She swapped the bread for a pot so she could boil a ham.
She’ll be back tomorrow with the pot and she’ll take the
bread, a little harder maybe, but it will soften in water.’

Such were the strange arrangements between pawnbroker
and customer!

I don’t know why Mr Jellico showed me such kindness,
why he chose to feel sorry for me over the hundreds of
other lads roaming the perilous streets. Whatever the
reason, I wasn’t complaining. I told him what Ma and Pa
were like, how they treated me, how little they cared for
me. Many times when it was too cold to stay out, and I was
too afraid to return home, he let me warm myself by his
fire and gave me tea and bread. He taught me the AlphaBet
and numbers and let me practise writing on the back of old
pawn tickets. He showed me books and made me copy out
page after page until he was satisfied with my handwriting.
It has been remarked that my style is a little formal. I blame
this on the texts from which I learned. Their authors were
of a serious nature, writing of wars and history and great
thinkers. There was little room for humour.

In return for this learning I carried out certain chores
for Mr Jellico. At first I wrote out the price tags for the
window, but as my writing improved he let me log
the pledges and monies in his record book. Occasionally the
door would open and we would have a customer. Mr Jellico
enjoyed talking and would detain them in conversation
for quite some time before taking their pledge and paying
them.

I spent many hours in the back of the shop engaged in
my tasks and Ma and Pa never knew. I saw no reason to tell
them about Mr Jellico; they would only have demanded that
I steal something from him. I had the opportunity, many
times, but although I would not hesitate to cheat my parents
out of a few shillings, I could not betray Mr Jellico.

I would have gone to him every day if I could, but he
wasn’t always there. The first time I found the shop closed
I thought he must have packed up and left. I was surprised
that he hadn’t said goodbye even though it was the sort of
thing I had come to expect from people. Then a few days
later he came back. He didn’t say where he had been and I
didn’t ask. I was just glad to see him.

This went on for almost five months until the night I fled
the City. As I lay in the fireplace that first night at Joe Zabbidou’s
I had only one regret, that I had left without saying
goodbye to Lembart Jellico. There was little chance I would
see him again.

So, when Joe said that he was a pawnbroker I was
pleased. He seemed different from Mr Jellico and I knew
that Pagus Parvus was nothing like the City, but I felt safe.
I thought I knew what to expect. But of course I didn’t
know then what a Secret Pawnbroker was.

Pagus Parvus was indeed very different from the City. It was
a small village clinging for its life to the side of a steep
mountain in a country that has changed its name over and
over and in a time that is a distant memory for most. It comprised
one cobbled high street lined on either side with a
mixture of houses and shops built in the style that was popular
around the time of the great fire in the famous city of
London. The first and second floors (and in the case of the
home of wealthy Jeremiah Ratchet, the third and fourth
floors) overhung the pavement. In fact, sometimes the
upper levels stuck so far out that they restricted the sunlight.
The windows themselves were small with leaded
panes, and dark timbers ran in parallel lines on the outside
walls. The buildings were all at strange and rather worrying
angles, each having slid slightly down the hill over
the years and sunk a little into the earth. There was no
doubt that if just one collapsed it would take all the others
with it.

The village was overlooked by the church, an ancient
building mostly frequented these days when someone was
born or died. Entry into this life and exit from it were
deemed noteworthy occasions, but for most villagers the
intervening existence did not require regular church attendance.
On the whole this suited the Reverend Stirling
Oliphaunt very well. He didn’t seek out his flock; he preferred
them to make their own way to him.

Besides, the hill really was unusually steep.

Despite this, and the snow, by mid-morning a small
crowd had already gathered outside Ludlow’s new home.
Even before the sun had fully risen behind the clouds, a
rumour was circulating that the old hat shop had a new
occupant. One by one the villagers puffed and panted their
way up the hill to see for themselves. The murky windows
were now clean and transparent, although the varying
thickness of the glass distorted the display somewhat, and
the people pressed their faces up against the panes eager to
see what was on show.

‘Is it a junk shop?’ asked one man. A reasonable question
under the circumstances, for the contents of the
satchel, excepting the food and drink, had been priced with
tags and placed in the window. The wooden leg was
propped in the corner but there was no indication of its
cost.

‘It’s animals,’ said another.

Joe’s frog was clearly visible, sitting in its tank on the
counter. In the daylight it was quite remarkable in appearance:
its glistening skin was a patchwork of vibrant reds,
greens and yellows. It was most unlike any frog that lived
in the soupy ponds of Pagus Parvus. Its feet were not
webbed, instead they were more like long-fingered hands
with knobbly joints and toes, which would have made
swimming quite tricky.

As if on cue, Joe’s face appeared in the window. He was
holding a sign which he placed carefully at the bottom of
the display. It read:

Joe Zabbidou ~ Pawnbroker

The villagers nodded to one another, not necessarily in
approval, more as if to say ‘I told you so’, even though they
hadn’t. Joe then emerged with a ladder which he propped
against the wall over the door. He climbed confidently to
the top and unhooked the old hat-shaped sign. He fixed
to the pole the universal symbol of the pawnbroker: three
polished golden orbs stuck together in the shape of a
triangle. They swung on their chain in a lazy arc, glinting
in the low winter sun.

‘Is the frog for sale?’ someone asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe solemnly. ‘She is my companion.’

This admission amused the crowd greatly and their titters
created a cloud of breath around their heads.

‘’Ow much for the leg?’ asked another.

Joe smiled benevolently, descended the ladder with
remarkable speed and stood before the crowd.

‘Aha,’ he exclaimed. ‘The leg. Now there’s a tale.’

‘A tail?’ queried a youngster known less for his wit than
for his inquisitive nature, while beside him his two brothers
sniggered.

‘A tale indeed,’ said Joe. ‘But one for another day.’

There were sighs of disappointment and Joe cleared his
throat and raised his hand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Joe Zabbidou,’ he
announced, pronouncing the ‘J’ with a sort of shooshing
noise so it sounded more like ‘sh’. ‘And I am here to serve
you. I stand under the sign of the three golden orbs because
I am a pawnbroker, a respectable profession in existence for
centuries, of Italian origin, I believe. I give you my guarantee
–’ here he placed his right hand on his heart and cast his
eyes heavenwards – ‘that I will pay a fair price for your goods
and take a fair fee when you choose to redeem them. All
items accepted: linen and shoes, jewellery and watches—’

‘Wooden legs,’ shouted out a voice.

Joe disregarded this interruption and continued
smoothly.

‘You have my word. You will not be cheated by Joe Zabbidou.’

For a moment there was silence and then generous
applause. Joe took a bow and smiled at his audience. ‘Thank
you,’ he said as they came forward to shake his hand.

‘You’re very kind.’

Inside Ludlow jerked awake from a dream in which he was
being pricked with a thousand tiny needles. He sat up to
find that the fire had been revived and one of the logs was
spitting, sending burning sparks on to his cheeks. Joe was
nowhere to be seen, but there was bread and milk on the
table, and a jug of beer, and Ludlow realized that he was
very hungry. He drank some frothy milk and ate a thick slice
of warm bread. He sat back, satisfied, but not for long.
Hearing the commotion outside he went to the door to have
a look.

Joe was still shaking hands with the villagers. When he
saw Ludlow he nodded in the direction of the crowd, who
were milling around, loath to leave this object of curiosity.
Joe’s arrival was an exciting event for Pagus Parvians. Few
strangers ever came to their village.

And a pity they don’t, thought Joe as he scanned the
eager faces in front of him. There was that hook nose again
and again, those close-set narrow eyes, the crooked
smiles, each in a different combination on a different
countenance.

This place could do with some new blood, he thought.
Then out loud to Ludlow he said, ‘Quite a welcome, eh,
Ludlow?’

He turned back to his audience and continued to greet
them while Ludlow wondered idly if any had a pocket
worth picking.