Page 11 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Thames, 1854

T he year Arthur turns fourteen he gets to see the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations. The glass-and-iron behemoth, known to all as the Crystal Palace, was first opened in 1851 in Hyde Park by Queen Victoria, accompanied by Prince Albert and a phalanx of royals, diplomats and politicians. Since then it has been visited by more than six million people. Although desperate to witness this wonder that everyone has been raving about, the boy was not able to afford the entrance fee until now.

Recently the entire exhibition has been taken down and rebuilt in Sydenham Hill, overlooking London from the south. The entrance fee has been reduced, at first from a pound to five shillings, and then to one shilling. Once the rich have satisfied their curiosity and enjoyed the spectacle, and the middle classes have had their chance as well, it is finally time for the poor to be admitted. Today, at long last, Arthur’s turn has come.

On a warm day in early summer the boy begins his journey south. The cerulean sky glows, and the sun casts intricate dappled shadows on the pavements. Arthur clutches his shilling, worried that a pick-purse might snatch it from him. As he approaches his destination, a convoy of carriages passes by in an unbroken stream, the clatter of wheels and hooves ceaseless. All around him, people scurry in the same direction, leaving a trail of chatter behind them.

Arthur does not like crowds, and, now that he finds himself in the midst of one, his palms sweat and his breathing becomes shallow. To quell his racing heart, he starts multiplying twelves in his head. At school he was taught to write down multiplication sums on a board from right to left, and only up to two digits each time, but he has his own method, calculating from left to right. This way, he can easily reach higher amounts. If he multiplies fast enough, numbers spin before his eyes, emitting glints of light, like sparks from a grindstone.

Finally, amidst the plane trees, he catches sight of the Crystal Palace. Massive and majestic – a towering mass of plate glass, cast iron and bold ambition. On both sides of the building are fountains that soar to a height of two hundred feet. The boy looks up, squinting, his jaw slack. Never in his life has he thought such a thing possible. Water flowing against gravity! Water so abundant it takes on every shape and colour, and so effortless that it seems to grow out of the earth like mighty plants.

Before he can collect his thoughts, Arthur is shoved towards the main entrance along with hundreds of others. It takes him a while to wriggle through the queue, pay the fee and pass the turnstiles. With every step he can hear a vibrating din, ever-increasing, like the flutter of a thousand wings steadily getting closer. His sense of bafflement grows as he scans the colossal space. It is filled to the gills – every gallery and passageway swarms with visitors. Dazed, Arthur surveys this vast array of men, women and children. Do all these people live in the same city as he does, looking at the same patch of sky every morning?

Inside, the building is spectacular. Displayed on two massive floors, a hundred thousand exhibits are spread beneath this high glazed canopy; a cornucopia of products, crafts and machines are showcased from Britain and all around the world – a mishmash of imperial pomp, national pride, colonial rapacity, scientific achievement, technological progress and cultural discovery. The eclectic nature of the enterprise makes it appealing to individuals who otherwise have little in common. There is something here for everyone – from the devout believer to the atheist, the reactionary to the liberal, the utilitarian to the freethinker.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, come get a map! Don’t lose your way!’ cries a salesman.

‘Is it free?’ asks Arthur, clenching the hand where the shilling had nestled until a moment ago.

‘Free?’ The man repeats the word as if it is new to him. ‘What are you, a halfwit? Everything worth having has a price, lad.’

Blushing up to his temples, Arthur walks away. Without a map to consult, he will have to follow his instincts. Ahead of him, as though emerging from a dream, materializes a crystal fountain. It glistens bewitchingly in front of tall elm trees, and its sparkling water, perfumed with eau de cologne, gives off a heady scent.

A kind of urgent power in his limbs, the boy stalks down the aisles. To his left and right appear pavilions representing places he has met only in books: China, India, Spain, France, Portugal, German Zollverein, Russia, Sweden, Canada, United States of America, the Ottoman Empire … In each is displayed a plenitude of objects – spices, minerals, textiles, jewellery, pistols, tapestries, agricultural products, surgical tools and stuffed animals with eyes that gleam like marbles … A coruscating kaleidoscope of colours and patterns. There is a foldable piano with a collapsible keyboard, a machine that produces the brand-new uniform cigarettes and a steam-hammer that can gently crack an egg. There are artificial teeth fashioned from hippopotamus tusks.

In the American display, draped with stars and stripes, are portraits of presidents, farming implements, cotton-gin machines from Connecticut, soap from Philadelphia, sailcloth from New York and a range of firearms. But the centrepiece is a sculpture of extraordinary beauty and finesse called The Greek Slave . She stands naked and chained on a rotating pedestal beneath a canopy of red velvet, a young woman sold into captivity by the Ottomans. As Arthur approaches, he notices people gathered around the statue, most of them observing it with open admiration, while some others – a group of abolitionists – are holding up signs and protesting. One man waves a copy of Punch magazine, pointing to a scathing comment piece recently published, asking why a white woman from another country was chosen to depict the horrors of slavery and not a Black woman from Virginia.

In the Tunisian quarter, Arthur sees skins of leopards and lions; and in the Persian section, he touches rugs so soft he suspects they must have been woven by angels. In the India Gallery, he admires fine mats, silks and tiles. There are specimens of ostrich feathers, elephants’ tusks, ox horns, tortoise shells … He joins the throng of people admiring the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and then the Daria-i-Noor, with its pale pink colour. He gawps at a massive vase from Sweden, a suit of Cossack armour, a malachite urn from Russia, a ceramic jar from Portugal, optical instruments from France and elaborate machinery from the Zollverein. He marvels at a carved ivory chair, presented to Queen Victoria; a Singer sewing machine whose needle does the stitching for you; a bed that sets the sleeper upright when it is time to wake up; a hydraulic press that enables one man to move thousands of pounds of iron; and he blushes at the sight of marble statues with their genitals dangling close to eye level.

In every hall, he is greeted by the latest inventions and the newest technology – locomotives, telegraphs, cameras, air pumps, mechanical toys, hydraulic jacks, horticultural machinery; telescopes that pull the Milky Way into your lap and microscopes that reveal organisms invisible to the eye. Arthur examines himself in the gilded mirrors that line the pavilion – a skinny adolescent looks back at him, painfully shy.

He cannot exactly say what thrills him more – being in the presence of so many exquisite objects under one roof or finding himself amongst them. For a boy who has known nothing but destitution from the day he was born, the experience is exhilarating and unsettling in equal measure. Something wells up in his chest – a new desire. The world is immense, and the life he has tasted but a mere speck in the spectrum of possibilities and destinies available to human beings. Beyond the shores of the River Thames, there are other capitals, old and modern, each with its own tempests and tides, meandering, flowing. He is seized, and not for the first time, by an urge to travel far and wide, a frightening impulse for an introvert like him. He longs to see distant kingdoms and provinces whose tongues are foreign and customs different, not just to read about them in books.

In the next section, there are tea rooms where visitors can enjoy refreshments and cakes, but the boy steers clear, unable to pay for such indulgences. Nor can he afford to use the new-fangled public toilets, however curious he is to see one. Each visit costs a penny.

In a showroom bursting with light, he finds globe lanterns, gilt candelabra and pendants dripping with crystal lustres. He stares for a long while at a brass lamp with a cranberry-coloured stained-glass shade that curves gracefully downward like the petals of an upended tulip. The aura it radiates is so soft that entering its bounds feels like sliding into a warm bath.

Arthur gapes at a chandelier adorned with white lilies and green leaves that extend tendrils of such fragility that the slightest breath of wind could break them. How lucky must be the man who could afford to have all these pretty things in his home, turning night to day. If he had one such lamp or chandelier, he would read from dusk till dawn and never go to sleep.

Towards the end of the afternoon, desperate to relieve himself and no longer able to tolerate the crowd, Arthur threads his way through a final anteroom, anxiously looking for the nearest exit. That is when he arrives at an area bordered by carved stone blocks. He stops in his tracks. There before him, towering over everything and everyone, their eyes piercing like flaming arrows, are the lamassus . They must be on loan from the British Museum. A host of visitors is clustered around them, murmuring in hushed tones, as if fearful that they might wake the giants from Mesopotamia.

A stone arch curves between the two statues, and on it is a sign that reads:

The Nineveh Court

Come and marvel at the infamous biblical city of

sin, avarice and annihilation!

Arthur’s eyes turn into grey-blue pools of sadness. Sin, avarice and annihilation are not what he sees when he looks at these hybrid creatures. They are haunting and woeful and unimaginably old but also calm and peaceful, as if nothing can surprise them any more.

Ignoring the sign’s censorious tone, the boy approaches one of the lamassus. He studies the exquisite craftsmanship that has gone into its feathered wings, its long, curly beard, its cloven feet, the legs skilfully carved to show muscles and veins. He notices the front right hoof is scarred with a dark brown mark, as if it has been singed in a blaze. He touches the patch gently, wondering about its origin. What terrible inferno could have discoloured the alabaster like this? Has it survived a fire in Ashurbanipal’s palace – but, if so, how did the rest of it remain unscathed?

Arthur glances left and right, making sure no one is paying attention to him. He whispers: ‘What happened to you? Did someone hurt you?’

The boy waits. The statue waits.

‘One day, I shall visit the place you come from. They say you guarded a royal library and it was built on the grandest scale. That must have been fascinating! Did you meet King Ashurbanipal? Was he nice?’

The boy waits. The statue waits.

‘I must go now,’ says Arthur, sighing. ‘I know you are a protective spirit. I beseech you, please keep my mother and my little brothers safe when I make my way to Nineveh.’

As he moves away from the lamassu , a tiny sphere next to the colossal statue, Arthur lifts his head to look at it one more time. The hair on the nape of his neck stands up. It is the strangest feeling, but he cannot help it. In that very moment, he could swear the creature is returning his gaze.

The next day, after everyone has headed home, only the boy and Mr Bradbury are left in the office. The man has been unusually quiet all afternoon and there are dark crescents under his eyes.

‘Young Smyth, come over and take a peek at this.’

It is a print of the Thames, reproduced from an original watercolour made a century ago. But the river in the picture looks nothing like it does now. It is bright azure, joyful, clean. There are ships nosed up to a dock in the background, a sense of calm.

‘You like it?’

‘Beautiful,’ says Arthur. ‘It’s hard to believe it’s the same river.’

‘Imagine.’ Mr Bradbury sighs. ‘All too often, we humans destroy nature and call it progress.’

The boy is startled by the sadness in his employer’s voice. But whatever melancholy has descended upon the man, he does not wish to discuss it. Instead he says, with a thin smile, ‘You have learnt so much in so little time. It feels like only yesterday that you arrived here with your father and surprised us with the power of your memory. You’ve been an excellent apprentice – honest, assiduous, reliable. You will go on to achieve amazing things in life.’

Not knowing how to respond to such gratifying remarks, Arthur blushes. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I have always set great store by you,’ says Mr Bradbury, his gaze filled with compassion. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy the Great Exhibition?’

Arthur’s face brightens. ‘Oh, it was fabulous! I cannot stop thinking about it. I saw a lamassu in the Nineveh section. I even touched its hoof!’

‘Nineveh,’ repeats the man dreamily. ‘Yes, of course, I had forgotten your fascination with ancient civilizations. You must also visit the British Museum and see the tablets.’

The only tablets Arthur knows of are slate pieces that school pupils write on with chalk. He senses his employer must be referring to something very different, and if it has anything to do with Nineveh he is more than happy to find out. There is, however, a hurdle he cannot reveal. He needs to save up money to buy a decent jacket first. He fears they will not allow him to enter the grand museum in his threadbare garb.

As if he senses the boy’s thoughts, Mr Bradbury asks, ‘Are you able to keep some of your wages?’

Arthur lowers his gaze. There is no point in saying that his father pockets whatever he earns, and on those rare occasions he can spare a shilling or two for his mother he feels lucky, retaining nothing for himself.

‘You are a good boy,’ says Mr Bradbury. He extracts two half-crowns from his pocket and places them on the table. ‘Will you oblige me, son? Buy yourself something. A little treat from me.’

‘Oh, sir, you are most generous, but I could not possibly accept.’

‘I insist, get something for yourself. When is your birthday, do you know?’

Arthur has heard that some families have a queer custom these days, celebrating their children’s natal day by eating cakes and drinking cordials, though he neither understands why nor knows of anyone who follows this practice.

‘I was born in wintertime, sir. It was snowing. I remember snowflakes dancing around in the air and one of them falling on my tongue.’

The man draws in a breath, nodding his head. He has long ceased to be surprised by Arthur’s oddities.

‘Wintertime, eh? Still, let’s imagine it is your birthday, shall we? Now run along and find yourself a present.’

King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums leaves the office soon after. But he does not rush to see if there are any shops still open. Instead he decides to save the money until he can think of the perfect gift to buy. Despite his excitement, there is a nagging feeling in his heart, and for a moment he almost stops and turns back. But he keeps walking. For as long as he lives, he will rue this decision. He will regret not having stayed with his employer to help the only man in this world who had ever looked out for him, instead of walking out into the damp night.

The following morning, picking up the iron key from under a stone by the entrance, Arthur unlocks the door. By now he is used to being the first to arrive in the mornings, and they trust him enough to open the office.

No sooner has he walked in than he is assailed by a smell – putrid and pungent, as if the damp of the river has seeped through the walls overnight. Drawings and engravings are strewn all over the floor. A chair has been knocked over, and beside that lies a bronze candelabra with candles burned down to nubs, lying in a puddle of wax. His first thought is they have been burgled, but a cursory scan reveals that nothing has been stolen. Quickly, the boy tidies the place, arranging the books and magazines into piles, organizing the woodblock prints, collecting up the imprints scattered here and there.

That is when he notices the empty cage.

‘Lapis! Lazuli! Where are you?’ Arthur calls, glancing around.

A muffled flapping is heard from the office at the back, where the publishers hold meetings with clients. As soon as he enters this room, the birds flutter through the open door.

‘Oi, what’s wrong with you two?’

On a table by the window there is a jug of wine and some leftover cheese. Mr Bradbury must have stayed late, the boy thinks to himself.

He opens the shutters. In the altered light, he makes out a shadow by the bookshelves. If it weren’t for the familiarity of the figure, he would have screamed. Mr Bradbury must have fallen asleep on the armchair, his body bent at an awkward angle.

‘Sir …’

Arthur takes a step forward … and then he understands. It is not the silence but the man’s pallor that makes him grasp what is too awful to put into words. Mr Bradbury’s skin has turned grey, the colour of the Thames on a stormy day. A line of foam trickles from the corner of his mouth, some of which has dripped on his collar and dried there. By his side is an empty bottle of prussic acid.

The boy starts to shake. It is not as if he has never witnessed death before. In his brief life he has already seen more than his fair share. But this man was not killed by a pitiless murderer or a terrible illness. He has chosen to end his own life. The one person who has been kind to Arthur is also the one who has not been kind to himself.

When his trembling subsides, the boy brings a washbasin. He wipes Mr Bradbury’s chin and scrubs his collar. He hides the wine and brushes the crumbs from his lap. He wants him to look clean and dignified, as elegant in death as the engravings he has immortalized. He feeds the birds and tempts them back into their cage. With nothing left to do, he sits beside the dead man and waits for the others to arrive.

Nothing changes and everything does. Arthur neither stops coming to work nor neglects his duties, but he no longer takes delight in learning new printing techniques. He still looks after the birds and makes sure their cage is well kept, yet he has ceased to chat to them. Already a contemplative boy, he withdraws into the shell of himself. His usually pensive face is set fast in worry lines that make him look older than his age. It is the senselessness of it all that eats at him. Mr Bradbury had everything – an adoring wife, beautiful children, a lovely house and even his own carriage, a profession that earned him a decent salary and a respectable position in society. Why would anyone so successful, wealthy and accomplished want to end their life? Arthur understands poverty; he even understands crime and delinquency; but the malady of the mind, an ailment that also hounds his own mother, puzzles him more than anything.

Mr Evans, moved by the boy’s grief, keeps a close eye on him, and the other workers, even those who used to have a laugh at his expense, tread carefully around him. But Arthur barely notices. Unless it is absolutely necessary, he does not converse with anyone, carrying out his tasks silently. He is still the perfect apprentice.