The Potato Factory (23 page)

'Mr Silas Browne, is it? 'Ow does you know such a name, then?'

'Business! We is in the exact line o' business. Mr Browne is what you might call a colleague, though, I'll freely admit, I 'aven't exactly 'ad the pleasure of 'is personal acquaintance.' Ikey shrugged his shoulders. 'You see, we share what you might call a vocation. Yes, that's it, precisely and nicely and most specifically put, my dear, an exact and precise and similar vocation!'

'Oh, a voca...' the voice gave up trying to pronounce the word, 'and what line o' business does you share, then?'

Ikey was surprised at the sharpness of the boy. He'd come across similar boys before, but these were few enough to be an exception. Most street lads this age were already dulled from gin and the lack of proper nourishment, and would not have the wit to become involved in a conversation the likes of which the two of them were now conducting. This one would have made an excellent addition to his Methodist Academy of Light Fingers.

Now that he'd properly gathered his wits Ikey was impressed at the boy's sudden appearance behind him, seemingly rising out of nowhere. Ikey's eyes missed very little and even though he was unfamiliar with open terrain and the lack of shadow in daylight to reveal the bumps and undulations in the grassy field, it was no simple task to deceive him. The boy who crept up could not have followed him for any distance, for Ikey was in the constant habit of glancing over his shoulder. He must have walked right past the boy without seeing him, and this Ikey found both admirable and very disconcerting.

'The copper business... copper plates that is.' Ikey paused, 'Also, you could say, also the paper and inks business. I can say no more, from this moment me lips is sealed and can only be opened by Mr Silas Browne 'imself!'

'Does you 'ave an affy davy to say who you is, then?'

'Affidavit?' Ikey held an additional penny behind his back, wiggling it invitingly, but the boy did not take it this time. 'Most certainly and o' course absolutely right and correct to ask, my dear! An affy davy you shall 'ave, right away and immediately, for 'ow would your master know the manner o' person who 'as come so far and taken so many risks to talk with 'im? 'Ow indeed? All the way from London, that is, with barely a wink o' sleep and not a morsel o' nourishment from sunrise to sunset. I asks you, 'ow is 'e to know the 'umiliations and vicissitudes inflicted or the extreme importance o' the mission? Quite right of you to ask, quite right and proper.'

'Your affy davy,' the boy repeated bluntly, seemingly unimpressed by Ikey's verbosity and still not taking the proffered coin. 'Give't me, sir, or you get nowt more from us!'

Ikey carried no personal identification whatsoever, and even if he had papers to prove himself, he would not have willingly let them into the boy's hands, especially without having first seen his face. He was on the run, and young likely lads like this one schooled in the rookeries learned early the value of informing, of keeping their eyes peeled for the opportunity of a little crude blackmail.

The engraved plates he carried concealed in the lining of his coat would be instantly recognised as masterpieces by any competent forger and a glimpse at one of them, Ikey knew, would be likely to have Silas Browne scurrying out to meet him, his voice a bluster of apology and his hands all apatter. But if he let the boy have only one plate as a proof of his integrity, and if his master should choose not to see him nor to return it, the single engraved plate in the right hands was still worth a considerable fortune.

'I shall give you a piece o' paper, a small piece o' paper you must promise to take to your master, to Mister Silas Browne 'imself and to no other. Do you understand, my dear?'

'It'll cost,' the boy added cheekily.

Ikey sighed and retrieving the copper coin he held it once more behind his back.

'A sprat! Cost you a sprat or nowt 'appens.'

'Sixpence!' Ikey howled, though he did so more for the form of it than anything else. The boy was good, very, very good and he wished he could have him under his tuition. The boy reminded Ikey of the young Bob Marley, same cheek and quickness of mind. He smiled to himself, for he knew he could now trust him to take the paper directly to Silas Browne. Ikey returned the copper coin to his dumby and found a silver sixpence which he handed backwards to the boy.

'This paper what I want you to take to Mr Silas Browne, it is concealed upon me person. I shall need to stoop down to reach it and to cut open the 'emline o' me coat to remove it. I 'ave a small razor to do so, but my dear, do not be in the least alarmed, we, that's yours truly, is not at all a creature o' violence and disputation.'

'Don't turn about now!' the boy said threateningly, trying to put a deeper tone into his voice.

'No need, absolutely no need! No need in the least, you have my guarantee upon that, my dear.'

Ikey reached for the cut-throat razor in his pocket and opening it he stooped down and cut quickly at the line of the hem, though above the hidden plates, and only a cut wide enough to ease one of the plates sideways through the slit. He untied the twine and removed the wrapping from around the engraving. With the razor he sliced a small triangular corner from the square of paper, which he handed backwards to the boy.

'Take the paper to Mr Silas Browne, my dear, it's me affy davy.'

Ikey waited.

'Hey, mister, 't ain't say nowt onnit!' the boy exclaimed. 'It be blank paper what's got nowt writ onnit!'

Ikey chuckled. 'On the contrary, my dear, it speaks most eloquent to those what knows 'ow to read its message.'

There was silence behind him and Ikey imagined the confusion the boy was feeling. Seeking to put the lad out of his agony, he added, 'It's invisible like, but to such as Mr Silas Browne Esquire who knows the trick o' reading it, it's a magical paper.' Ikey spread his hands. 'Trust me, my dear.'

'You'll stay 'ere, see! You'll not be doing nowt 'til I returns!' The boy added threateningly, 'There's dogs, big bastids what can be let loose and sent after you in a twinklin', you'll not get t'gate before they's torn you t' bits!'

'Not a muscle, my dear, not a single twitch, not a cat's whisker, not a scintilla o' movement until you gets back. Quiet as a mouse, silent as a ferret in a chicken coop, that's yours truly, Ikey Solomon, late of London Town. Tell your master there's more, much more where that come from, 'eaps and 'eaps more! 'E'll be most pleased, most pleased indeed to know that.'

The boy ran past Ikey and towards the house, laughing, not caring now whether Ikey saw him. He carried a long stick which he waved in the air. He was tiny, small enough even for Ikey to box his ears or place a sharp-toed boot into his scrawny little arse.

The boy, at first delighted to have made sevenpence so easily, grew anxious at his own reception as he drew nearer to the house. Silas Browne and the half dozen men and boys who worked with him stood waiting at the head of the ladder for him to climb into the room above. The lad, afraid he might lose the paper, held it between his lips as he climbed the ladder.

'Wotcha got then, Josh lad?' Silas Browne asked as the boy stepped from the ladder into the room.

Together with the others he'd stood watching from the windows at Ikey's original approach. They'd seen the boy Joshua, who'd been earlier sent on an errand, waylay Ikey from behind, before they could send an adult out to accost the stranger. Josh, though only ten years old, was known to be bright enough to make a judgement, yet young enough not to arouse any suspicion if the stranger was thought to be from the law. Silas knew that if the lad decided the man was up to no good he would drop his stick on the ground and then pick it up again. Whereupon he'd send one of the other lads down and set the dogs after the intruder to see him off their land.

One of the men pulled the ladder up after the lad had climbed clear and closed the trap door behind him, bolting it firmly back into place. The boy Joshua looked somewhat sheepish at the greeting given by his master and, removing the tiny slip of paper from between his lips, handed it to Silas Browne.

' 'Tain't much, sir, but 'e sayed it was magical like, that you'd understand immediate like?' The boy, a most concerned expression upon his face, looked up at Silas Browne. 'Did I do wrong, sir?'

Silas Browne took the paper and rubbed it for a moment between his forefinger and thumb, whereupon he jerked back in surprise.

'No, lad, methinks you done good!'

He moved immediately to the window, where he held the paper up to the light.

'Jaysus!' he exclaimed.

' 'E says there's more, lot's more where't come from, Mr Browne, sir,' Josh shouted across the room, much relieved at this reception.

'Bring sponge, lad... a wet sponge!' Silas Browne shouted at one of the boys nearest to him. ' 'Urry!'

In a few moments the boy returned and handed Silas Browne a damp sponge. Placing the scrap of paper again against the window glass, Silas wiped carefully over it several times. Then he lifted it from the window with the edge of his thumbnail and called for a pair of tweezers. Holding the paper at one corner with the tweezers, he walked over to a hearth where several cast-iron pots of blacking plopped slowly on the open coals. He held the pincers and paper to the heat of the embers, and the tiny scrap of damp paper took only moments to dry. Silas Browne returned to the window and held the paper once again to the light.

'Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!' he shouted, ' 'Tain't possible, watermark's stayed! Bloody watermark's stayed put right 'ere on paper! Quick! Call Maggie!'

Another young lad dashed off while the rest of the men gathered around, astonished to see that the faked Bank of England watermark had remained undamaged, as though it was woven within the very substance of the paper.

'What's 'is name, Josh?' Silas demanded. 'Ikey... Ikey Sausageman, sir . ..' Josh looked uncertain. 'Sonomins, summit like that, sir.'

'Ikey Solomons! Jaysus Christ!' Silas pointed to one of the men. 'Go with the lad, Jim, bring 'im along, 'e be famous like in London!' He looked around impatiently. 'Where's bloody Maggie?'

Not twenty minutes later Silas and Maggie looked on in amazement as Ikey produced the first of the engravings. Ikey unwrapped the watermarked Bank of England paper covering the copper rectangle, and leaving it lying in the centre of the paper he straightened out the sheet, smoothing its sides with the edges of his palm without touching the shining copper plate, so that the rectangular etching lay pristine, a precious slab of polished metal catching the light. Then Ikey tried to lift the etched copper plate from the centre of the paper but his hands were too cold and his fingers were quite unable to function. Maggie, seeing his distress, bid him warm himself at the hearth while she brought him a plate of bread and a deep bowl of beef and potato broth.

'There you be, then, Mr Solomons, a bowl of broth will soon warm you proper well!'

While Ikey greedily slurped the creamy broth, thick almost as a good Irish stew, Silas and his wife, who, in her wooden clogs, stood as tall as her husband, examined the etching but did not touch it or the bill paper on which it lay. Halfway through the large bowl Ikey stopped and pointed to the sheet of paper with its corner missing, and nodded to Maggie the Colour. 'Take a good look then, my dear! Never was there a better drop o' paper for your marvellous colours and tinctures, and never a plate etched more perfect!'

Maggie picked up the etched copper plate while Silas examined the paper, neither saying a word, as Ikey went back to slurping his soup. Maggie the Colour handed the copper plate to Silas, holding it carefully between her fingers at each end and took the paper Silas had placed back on the table and walked over to the nearest window. She carefully flattened a portion of it against the window pane.

After a few moments she turned to Silas. 'What you think, then?'

'Never seen nothin' the likes o' this engravin' before! Never... and that's Gawd's truth!' exclaimed Silas, examining the plate through an eyeglass.

'The paper?' Maggie asked, turning now to Ikey. ' 'Ow'd you do it, Mr Solomons?'

'Solomon, it don't 'ave no "s",' Ikey said, placing down his spoon, the bowl close to empty. He was suddenly aware that hunger and cold had driven him to show too much without the attendant patter required to work them up to the first unveiling. He had neglected the basic tenet of business, to reveal only a little at a time, enough to whet the appetite, so to speak, while holding sufficient back to feed the urgency of the bargaining that must inevitably follow. Now he attempted to recover somewhat from this poorly managed beginning.

'I've 'ad the pleasure o' being a regular customer for your work, my dear. Marvellous! Ain't no personage in England, perhaps even the world, what can mix tinctures, colours and gradations as subtle as you. Work o' pure genius, madam! Pure and simple and undisputed genius, no less.'

Maggie the Colour smiled thinly and looked down, embarrassed. 'Now, Mr Solomons, 'tain't
that
good!'

'Not a scrap less praise and 'onour is due to you!' Ikey declared. 'Them colours is o' the 'ighest possible magnitude, the work of a genius!' Ikey cleared his throat and grinned at Maggie. 'Now supposin' I was to ask you 'ow you come about them colours, asked Maggie the Colour the secret o' her dyes and tinctures and the mixtures for your ink galls? What say you then, my dear?'

'Quite right!' Silas Browne laughed and with the eyeglass still clamped in his eye, clapped his hands. 'You'd be gettin' nowt from our Maggie! Them inks and dyes, tinctures and juices, they be 'er secret to 'er final dyin' breath, till grave an' beyond!'