The Great Trouble (7 page)

Later that morning, I was back on Broad Street, looking up at Mr. Griggs’s window. I’d already walked miles. I rubbed a crick in my neck. I felt stiff from spending the night outside.
No use complaining
, I reminded myself.

I was still a bit hungry, even though Mrs. Miggle, in honor of my special day, had given me two fresh biscuits to stick in my pockets when I left. I’d stopped at the Warwick Street pump to wash the rest of the mud off my legs. I’d doused my head too and had a good drink of water.

I was about to go upstairs to see Mr. Griggs when Dilly came trotting around the corner and rushed right at me, putting her paws up on my chest and whining softly.

“Where have you come from, then?” I asked, scratching the soft spot behind her silky ears.

I looked up, half expecting to see Mr. Griggs himself strolling down Broad Street. Dilly often tagged along with him when he made deliveries to his best customers.

There was no Mr. Griggs in sight. What would happen to the dog—to the whole family—if he didn’t recover? Mrs. Griggs wouldn’t be able to keep the shop, I knew that. Things would be hard. I thought of what Mum had told Henry and me after Pa died: “It’s no small thing to lose a father. The world is a cruel place for fatherless children.”

But even she had no idea how cruel. I thought Mr. Dickens had named his last book well:
Hard Times
. In front of me the tailor shop was closed and dark. No sounds came from the room above. I should go in, I knew. Instead I stood there, talking nonsense to a dog.

“Well, if I still had my situation at the Lion, I’d take you with me on an errand this fine day,” I told her. “But my destination is right here—to check on your master, Mr. Griggs.”

Still, I didn’t move. I stood squinting in the thick, oily sunlight. I wiped sweat from my forehead.
I don’t want to go in there
, I thought suddenly.
I can’t do it
.

“Eel!” It was Florrie. She and Betsy hurried toward me, with the Reverend Henry Whitehead behind them. Everyone who lived near the Golden Square knew the young assistant curate at St. Luke’s. The reverend was a tall man, bright and curious as a robin.

When we’d first met and he’d asked if I could read, he’d
told me, “Schooling is important. I was lucky in that regard, lad. I grew up by the seaside, in a town called Ramsgate. My father was headmaster of Chatham House, and I was able to attend because I was his son. It was a better school than we could have ever afforded. That’s how I got the chance to go to Oxford.”

I thought it strange that such an educated man would bother to talk to me. But that was Rev. Whitehead. He knew everyone in the neighborhood, and greeted young and old with the same friendly smile, whether they turned up in St. Luke’s for Sunday service or not. (And mostly, I did not.)

My heart sank as I looked at his grim face. It wasn’t hard to guess that Mrs. Griggs had sent for him. The reverend said softly, “I’m afraid we have a sad errand at Betsy’s house.”

“I was here yesterday afternoon and looked in on Mr. Griggs then,” I said. “Has there been a change?”

“Why don’t you come along, Eel?” he suggested, not answering me directly. “You and Florrie can stay in the shop with the children while I have a word with their mother.”

Then he leaned over and put a hand on my shoulder. His voice was low but calm. “I fear the worst.”

Despite the heat, a shiver ran over my skin.

“I want to see my pa,” Betsy piped up. “Don’t make me stay downstairs in the shop. I don’t like it there without Pa.”

Florrie and I glanced at Rev. Whitehead, who nodded. “It may bring him comfort.”

At the top of the stairs, the reverend knocked and
pushed the door open. At first everything appeared to be much the same as the day before. Then I looked closer and swallowed, trying to keep from crying out or, worse, losing the breakfast Mrs. Miggle had given me.

It was hard to tell that Mr. Griggs was alive. His eyes had shrunk in his face, which now seemed as pinched and dried as that of an elderly man. His poor body was no more than an old gray rag that had been wrung out to dry, or the light, papery carcass of a bird left to crackle in the sun.

Worst of all, his lips were a dark blue. Suddenly I understood.
This is why they call cholera “the blue death.”
He’d lost so much liquid from the inside that his skin and lips were no longer pink and healthy, but blue and dried out.

Mrs. Griggs turned to nod at Rev. Whitehead, then put her fingers gently on her husband’s wrist. The reverend stepped forward and knelt beside Mr. Griggs. Bernie lay huddled in the corner, sucking his thumb, his eyes wide. He looked too scared to cry.

“Come and say your goodbye now, Betsy,” Mrs. Griggs said softly.

Betsy hung back, her bony shoulders quivering under her thin dress. Beside me, Florrie had started to shiver too, even though the room was stifling hot.

“Take my hand, Betsy,” I whispered.
I know exactly what this is like
, I thought.

“Go ahead, dear girl,” Rev. Whitehead encouraged her. “Kiss your father’s forehead and whisper in his ear. He can still hear your voice.”

I watched Betsy put her small hand on her father’s shoulder, careful-like, as if she were afraid to cause him more pain. She was a brave girl, Betsy. Her hand didn’t tremble.

But if Mr. Griggs did catch his daughter’s whisper, it was the last sound he heard.

We stood without saying anything for a long time. I can’t exactly explain it, but I remembered feeling this way before, when my father died. It was as if the moment was bigger than any of us. It was like Death had tiptoed in among us, freezing us in our places until he’d done his work and left. And what Death did was solemn and awful.

I remember my mother telling Henry and me, “Don’t worry about touching your pa. He can’t feel any pain now.”

Not long after, two men with bored, blank faces had come knocking at our door. I remembered those men, stumbling up the stairs, making jokes about dropping the corpse. They had stopped talking when they reached the top. For I was there, standing at the open door, waiting and watching them.

“Sorry, lad,” one whispered as I stepped aside to let them go by.

Bernie began to cry. He ran to his mum, who let out a hoarse, exhausted sob. Rev. Whitehead pulled the sheet over the tailor’s face. He nodded to Florrie and me. “Maybe
the little ones would like a bit of air while I speak with their mum.”

Florrie got Bernie to his feet. I took Betsy’s hand again. “Dilly’s downstairs. We’d better go see her before she gets into some sort of trouble.”

Outside, I found a piece of rope and threw it for Dilly to chase. Betsy and Bernie watched, looking dazed.

Annie Lewis came down to fill a bucket at the Broad Street pump. She stared at Betsy and Bernie, then came to me and tugged on my shirt. “Is Mr. Griggs dead, Eel? My mum told me he was awful sick.”

“Yes, Annie Ribbons, I’m afraid so. Can you come and be with Betsy later? I’m sure she’d like to have you near.”

Annie bit her lip and shook her head. “Mum needs me.” Then she went back inside without another word.

After a while Rev. Whitehead came out, rubbing a clean white handkerchief across his forehead. “Take Bernie to your mother now, Betsy,” he told her gently. “She’ll find your company a comfort.”

He looked up and down Broad Street and sighed deeply. From where we stood we could see people going in and out of shops, or heading to the pump with buckets to fill. A man called out in a cheerful voice, “Good day to you, Reverend Whitehead. Have you ever seen anything to beat the likes of this heat?”

The reverend answered him pleasantly. But when the man had gone, he turned to us. “Ah, children, it breaks my
heart to see this bustling street now. Before long it will be full of nothing but coffin carts.”

“It’s truly the blue death?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Yes. The symptoms leave no doubt of it.”

“Maybe Mr. Griggs will be the only one,” Florrie said hopefully.

“I’m afraid not, my dear.” Rev. Whitehead shook his head. “I’ve already received word that others were taken ill last night.”

“Can anything be done to keep it from spreading?” Florrie asked, twirling one braid about her finger. It was what she did when she was nervous.

“Well, men will pour lime to try to clean the infection from the streets,” Rev. Whitehead told us. “But as for the poison in the air that causes the cholera, there is little people can do except flee this polluted place.

“And now I must be off to visit other families,” he added. “Take care of yourselves.”

He squared his shoulders and strode away, like a soldier going into battle.

“What do you think will happen now?” Florrie asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

But then, right before our eyes, the street began to change. A woman rushed past, a pillowcase stuffed with
belongings bouncing against her back. A little boy trotted behind her, sobbing, trying to keep up. A man carrying a screaming toddler burst out of a nearby house and almost ran into us. Florrie and I jumped back out of his way.

“I guess Reverend Whitehead was right,” I said. “Families are leaving. And fast.”

“What about you, Eel?”

“Me?” I hadn’t thought that far. “I don’t actually live on Broad Street anymore. But this is my neighborhood. My friends are here—well, at least you are. I’m staying. Maybe I can help. Besides, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

A man came by and hung a yellow flag on a post on Berwick Street.

It’s a warning for people to stay away
, I realized. A warning that the Great Trouble was upon us all.

A little while later, we saw the first coffin cart rolling toward us. It had come for Mr. Griggs.

Betsy and Bernie were with their mother. Dilly lay inside the shop, curled up in the shadows, almost as if she were waiting for Mr. Griggs to appear and take up his scissors and needle again. When she heard the horse and cart, she rushed to the doorway to bark at the men.

“Quiet, girl,” I ordered.

“Hold my horse’s head, will you, laddie?” asked one of the men, who had orange hair so like Nasty Ned’s I wondered if they were related. He was so cheerful it was hard to think of him as a coffin man.

The men lifted a wooden coffin out of the back of the
cart. They carried it past us, and we could hear them struggling to get it up the stairs. They came stumbling back down a few minutes later. A shiver went through me as I watched them load the long box into the cart. You could tell it was heavier now.

“Poor Mr. Griggs,” Florrie said, tears filling her eyes. “He was the first, I guess.”

The man with the orange hair overheard her.

“This poor man might’ve been the first, but it won’t be long before we’re cartin’ folks off by the tens. We’re headed over to Peter Street now.” He climbed into the cart and took up the reins. “Word is that whole families were struck sick last night.”

“Might be hundreds before it’s over,” the other man remarked, scrambling up beside him. “Nasty business, especially in this heat. I’ll be sweatin’ like a—”

At that moment a girl came rushing toward us, waving her hands. “Wait!”

“What is it, lass?” asked the friendly driver.

“Come and take them away, will you, sir?” she begged, breathing hard. “My mum’s gone. My big sister too. Please, sir. Please come.”

I wondered how many people had been watching the coffin men from their windows. Even before the cart had turned the corner, more houses began to empty out. The cobblestones
rang with the trampling feet of wild-eyed mothers and fathers, hauling toddlers by the hand, with bulging pillowcases of clothes tossed over their backs.

“But where can they go?” said Florrie, stepping back into the tailor’s doorway so as not to get hit by a woman with a basket of bedding on her hip.

“Anywhere away from here.” I shrugged. “Maybe they have relatives or friends somewhere else in London, or even the countryside.”

“I’m not afraid to stay,” Florrie declared. “Are you, Eel?”

“Not me. I’m strong.” I tried to sound confident.

But Florrie’s face had gone white and she tapped her foot nervously. “I’d better head home, though. Mum will be worried.”

I watched her run off, her braids bumping against the thin fabric of her dress. “Florrie!”

She stopped and looked back at me.

“You be careful now, Florrie Baker,” I called. I wasn’t sure how to put the feeling I had into words. “Be careful, on account …”

My face turned red. Florrie grinned. “On account of we’re friends, silly.”

As she ran off, I said to myself, “Be careful ’cause you’re grand, Florrie Baker.”
The grandest girl I know
.

I stood alone, a small knot of fear in my stomach. No one was safe from the cholera. Not Florrie or the Griggses or the Lewises or Rev. Whitehead. Or me.

I wasn’t scared so much for myself. But if I got sick, what would happen to Henry?