The Iron Master (4 page)

‘There is but one man who has the official time,’ said William, ‘and he is sitting on the box outside!’

Night was lying on the close streets still, but London was astir. Silent shadows glided from alleyways and joined the host of early workers. Farmers were driving in their wagons full of produce for the markets. Late revellers turned for home in private carriages. But all made way for the Mail without question. Here, in the capital city, where new enterprises began, they were rather proud of it. So over the cobbles dashed the muddy little coach, with Mr Walter’s horn heralding its arrival, to draw up at last with a flourish outside the General Post Office in St Martin’s-le-Grand. The guard clambered down for the final time on this eventful journey, and opened the door. His face, dirty and unshaven and exhausted, was nevertheless triumphant. In one frozen red hand he held out his official timepiece for all to see.

‘Twenty minutes after five o’clock of the morning, lady and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The Royal Mail is on time!’

Up on the box, Jacob Sorrowcole emptied the last of his flask.

Longe’s of Lock-yard

Two

Sustained by his best clothes, his ruddy good looks and a very fair opinion of his capabilities, William had expected to take London by storm. After all, he had thought, it is but Birmingham on a greater scale — with the King in his palace. So he asked for directions to his sister’s home at Lock-yard with supreme confidence, almost expecting the stranger to cry, ‘What? Longe’s of Lock-yard? Why, my wife drank tea there but yesterday!’ and to gain recognition in an instant. But the first man had not heard of it, and the second hurried away, muttering to himself, ‘Why do they come here, these fellows?’ while the third spoke loudly as though William’s speech was that of a foreigner. ‘First turn to your right, down past Newgate Prison, along Holborn, turn left down Farringdon Street and you find yourself on Fleet Street. Keep the dome of St Paul’s at your back, sir, and you will not go wrong!’ He set out obediently, though a little disheartened by this reception, and was immediately transfixed by the sight of Newgate Prison: a cruel legend come to life again, rebuilt after Lord George Gordon’s rioters had burned down the jail and released the prisoners, five years since. And as he walked and reflected upon this recent piece of history, William went too far, and on turning left found himself in the noise and hustle of Covent Garden.

Here the onlookers enjoyed themselves at his expense, passing remarks about his dress, his parentage and his intentions. Here, too, a nobleman somewhat the worse for wine jostled him into the mire and then, at William’s remonstrance, threatened to draw his sword and show him who should have precedence. Lost and angry, the young man took refuge in a barber’s shop, and while he was divested of a two-day beard listened to a monologue of good advice.

‘Keep a grip on your baggage, and button up your watch and purse,’ said the barber, trimming William’s hair without being asked. ‘There’s pickpockets a-plenty round here. Stay on the main thoroughfares. The side-lanes is full of murder and wickedness. If you want a nice quiet breakfast take it at Plates Coffee-house — I’ll point it out to you as you leave. If you want a whore to go with your food then find a coffee-house that shows a woman’s hand or arm holding the pot, on the sign outside.

‘You’re a stranger round here, aren’t you, sir? Yes, I can always tell. Now that’s the reason I’d choose Plates, rather than a better-known establishment. In London, you see, the coffeehouses have their favourites, as you might say. Actors go to one, wits to another, politicians somewhere else, scholars here, professional men there. But Plates welcomes everybody, even Scotchmen — you’re not a Scotchman, are you, sir? No, I thought not. They speak a sight thicker. You’ll feel at home, sir, at Platt’s.

‘Now, sir, you’re looking more like yourself again. Would you be wanting anything else? An aching tooth drawn, sir? A little blood-letting after the journey? Travelling often brings on vile humours, sir. No? There you are then, sir. Ready to meet King George!’ Jocularly. ‘Oh, thank you, sir!’ As William, in his embarrassment, tipped him far too much.

But Plates was an excellent choice, a poultice on the wound of his self-esteem. Though poorly furnished, and dingy with years of smoke, the place was warm and comfortable, and above all it was not jouncing along at ten miles an hour. At this time of morning it was fairly empty, since the bulk of customers arrived between eight and ten o’clock. And the woman who served William was stout and homely, which relieved him very much, for he had been troubled by the notion of whores.

She gave him the choice of chocolate, tea, coffee, wine, punch or ale. He would have preferred ale or tea, as his usual beverage, but feared to seem unsophisticated, so ordered coffee as though he drank it often, and was pleased to find it a hot and agreeable drink with a rich aroma. Since toast was a rare treat, and his stomach felt unsettled, he ordered several slices. And, the morning papers coming in soon after, he found himself in possession of the news of the day for tuppence. Now regular customers and passing strangers began to fill the benches and form into groups. Most of them smoked, and the air became thick. All of them talked freely; for coffee-houses were regarded as the bastions of English liberty, taking pride in the fact that any topic could be discussed, and even the monarchy criticised within their walls.

Listening, while pretending to consult
The
Morning
Post
, William deduced that the company at the adjoining table was composed of a titled gentleman, a shoe-maker, a wool merchant and a physician. He was accustomed to open debate, having spent seven years in the Scholes’s household where any opinion warranted serious consideration — provided it had been formed by serious thought — but this conversation sounded highly seditious, and smacked of revolution, and he was somewhat amazed that nobody went for the constable. By and by he folded his newspaper, paid his reckoning, and wandered out again into Covent Garden feeling braver and better for his breakfast. He buttoned his coat over his waistcoat to protect the silver watch, took a firm grip of his wicker basket and carpet-bag, and headed for the Strand: mindful that he must now keep the dome of St Paul’s Church in front of him. Though anxious to heed the barber’s warning, he found himself in narrow streets from time to time, which he trod cautiously for a number of reasons. Chamber-pots were being emptied from high windows. Little piles of excrement stood outside the doors, waiting for the farmer’s cart to collect on his way back from market. The stench from the open gutter was appalling, but dirty children were floating paper boats down its foul stream and splashing through it in their play. There was nothing childlike about these wretched creatures. Though the poor of Garth village could show ribs as sharp as theirs, and shout abuse as rudely, there was a difference between the city and the country starveling. In London they were unknown members of the army of want, whereas even the feeblest child in Garth belonged to the people and the place.

Morning had come, and the city was wide-awake and hustling. The rumble of iron-clad wheels and iron-shod hooves on the cobbles assaulted him, and against this constant roar of traffic came the piercing cries of street vendors bent on selling a multitude of wares. A Bow Street Runner passed William, looking supercilious in his scarlet uniform; and soon after him an impudent beggar who actually caught hold of William’s coat as he pleaded for money, and must be thrust aside before he would desist. Then once more the young man lost his way in the press of people, so busy staring at the splendours in shop windows, and found himself on the Thames bank, all mud and ships and grey water. One stench cast out another, one clamour outdid the other, and everywhere were crowds in a hurry to get somewhere else. In his weariness and excitement William felt the great city like a single bully at his heels, dogging him wherever he went, bent on mindless pursuit. It compelled him to take notice, and was indifferent to his opinion. It showed him extreme poverty and extreme wealth, without caring a fig for either. It was at once the most magnificent place he had ever experienced, and the most arrogant, and the most brutal.

Gathering his wits, he stopped short in his ramblings, checked the progress of an inky printer’s boy who was dodging through the throng, and followed him meekly into Fleet Street

‘Third left!’ said the lad, and took William’s copper without thanking him.

The traveller turned sharply down into an airless court full of overhanging houses. On the wall opposite, a plaque read LOCK-YARD. Close by, a shabby swinging sign bore the familiar name of LONGE & SON, Printers, Publishers, Booksellers. He had arrived at last.

The door stood open, for air or customers, and William stepped inside. A tawny man of middle height and slender build was bending over a press. An apron covered his shirt and breeches. His sleeves were rolled above the elbows, his Cadogan wig hung on a peg, a tankard of ale stood near at hand. He was just past thirty but his movements were those of a youth: eager, supple, blithe. He was humming to himself as he worked, completely absorbed in his task, utterly self-contained. Then, aware of a shadow across his threshold, he looked up in quick good-humoured question.

‘Mr Tobias Longe?’ William asked, uncertain of his reception (and wondering whether he should shake the seducer’s hand or kick him down his own front doorsteps). ‘I am Charlotte’s elder brother, sir. I am William Howarth.’

Toby Longe straightened himself and wiped his hands upon a piece of rag. His brown eyes were wary. A muscle twitched in his brown face.

‘I am come to London upon business, Mr Longe,’ said William, dignified and calm as befitted a good liar. ‘So I thought to see Charlotte and make your acquaintance. I must be back in Millbridge by the end of the week.’

Toby Longe had reached a rapid conclusion. He held out his hand, smiling.

‘Welcome, William. Don’t sirrah me, Will, for we are brothers. My name is Toby. Come, Charlotte should be awake by now and will be glad to see you. She is near her time, and lies abed in the morning. She is well, but not over-cheerful. You shall fetch the smile back to her face!’ Then he shouted into the dark recesses of the shop, ‘Davy, take over for me, will you? I shall
be
upstairs for a while.’ And putting his arm about William’s shoulders in the most natural manner, he rattled out a volley of questions as they mounted the wooden stairs. ‘Have you breakfasted, Will? When did you arrive? Have you tried the new mail-coach? Now there is progress for you. I am solidly behind Tasker in this project, but mind you those damned rogues in Parliament will try to squash it! Watch your step. I meant to move those books an age ago, but there is no more room. We live pretty comfortably here, Will, like two mice in a great cheese … ’

All the while, though charmed by the ease of Toby’s manner, and amazed to find him very likeable, William could not help noticing the squalor. No. 3, Lock-yard, was a tall, thin, dilapidated house: three storeys, attic and basement. Since it looked upon a courtyard and was bounded by a street at the back, it was dark and damp and smelled of mushrooms. The lower staircase served double duty as a library and a storeroom. Piled against the stained walls were parcels of old tomes tied with string, packets of paper, battered manuscripts, bundles of quills, bottles of ink. On the second floor — whose rooms were used as the Longes’ sitting and dining quarters — the stair contents changed to lop-sided stacks of unmatched china, bundles of bent cutlery and baskets of table linen. Up again they went, and on the third landing William was not surprised to see the night’s chamber-pot, a heap of unwashed clothes, and several pairs of slippers and shoes.

Toby knocked upon the door and called softly, ‘Are you awake, love?’

A muffled voice answered that it thought so.

‘There is a gentleman come to see you, Lottie!’

The voice said wearily that it would be down very soon, and sighed.

‘Very soon?’ cried Toby joyously. ‘Is that the welcome you give to your brother William, who has come all the way from Lancashire in the Royal Mail?’

The voice gave first a shriek, and then a sob. Bare feet pattered across bare boards. The door swung open, and Charlotte — great and clumsy with child — was crying and laughing in William’s arms, while Toby stood triumphantly to one side as though he had organised the entire reunion.

‘Come now, Lottie,’ said William, patting her thin shoulders, ‘stop all this weeping and wrap up warm. You must take care, so near your time.’

‘Aye, so she should,’ said Toby heartily. ‘You will breakfast with her, Will? Then I shall leave you both to wag your tongues in peace. I have an appointment at the coffee-house. You are staying with us, Will?’

‘Nay,’ William replied uncertainly, torn between his fear of unknown lodgings and the obvious drawbacks of Lock-yard. ‘Nay, I have an address given me by a barber in Covent Garden. I would not trouble you.’

‘Oh, fiddle!’ cried Toby impatiently. ‘You can sleep on the parlour sofa and we shall all be merry. Wine for supper, Lottie, and a feast from the bakehouse to celebrate our meeting!’

Then Charlotte added her entreaties, and looked so pitiful with her swollen belly and childlike face that William agreed and thanked them; while Toby clapped him on the back, and shouted downstairs for the girl to make breakfast; and Charlotte changed her nightshift for a pale blue morning gown, and pinned up her fair hair in a jaunty knot.

It was one of the strangest meals William had ever eaten. The slattern who waited upon them fetched out an old heel of cheese from a side-cupboard, and a misshapen loaf from the basement kitchen. Charlotte discovered the butter in a dish beneath the sofa, and picked out the best of the crockery on the landing. Now the initial delight and surprise were fading she was embarrassed, and kept stealing little looks at William to see what he thought of her ménage. But he tactfully busied himself getting the parlour fire to draw, which it did at last though the chimney clearly needed sweeping. Alone, they sat down at the round table, and Charlotte poured his tea and drank hers, and for a while they were silent. An expression on her face told him that she was about to voice an unpleasant truth. He hoped it did not concern his uninvited presence, for he was now so tired that he could have lain down on the scuffed carpet and slept like a dog. Charlotte began directly.

‘You see why I cannot ask Mamma to stay, do you not?’ she asked.

‘I can see,’ replied William, unable to soften the statement without lying, ‘that it would be difficult on all sides.’