Page 5 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Thames, 1852

K ing Arthur of the Sewers and Slums is an eccentric child, though it is a long while before anyone pays much attention to him. By the time he turns five, the boy knows the names, ages and ailments of every person who lives on their street, and he can mimic their accents and mannerisms with uncanny perfection. The following autumn, he astonishes his mother by speaking Yiddish, having picked it up listening to a Jewish–Russian family that has moved to the building. Aged seven, he will glance at a shuffled pack of cards splayed open on a gambler’s stall and repeat the complete sequence without pausing. Aged eight, he will draw with closed eyes an exact depiction of the whole neighbourhood, down to the obscure alleys and narrow lanes where more immigrants have taken up residence. When he reaches the age of nine, he is enrolled in a school by some respectable ladies from the Charity for the Uneducated Poor, who have visited the slum tenements looking for children in need.

School is a drab red-brick building with a tall clock tower, surrounded by a lofty garden wall and separated from the rest of the city by a pair of wrought-iron gates that creak in the slightest breeze. It was founded, just a few years back, to provide free education to the poorest of the poor. A brass plate mounted at the entrance announces:

Ragged School for Boys

and

Working Girls’ Home

The students are a mixed bunch. Children so destitute and deprived they have no chance of receiving an education elsewhere. They span various ages and stages of development but come from similar backgrounds: the sons and daughters of paupers, prisoners, addicts, thieves, murderers, fugitives, beggars, forgers, swindlers, pimps, procurers, prostitutes … Amongst them are orphans or the otherwise abandoned. Some are so malnourished that their bodies are deformed, their growth stunted; others sport cuts and festering sores that will leave permanent scars. Whilst their counterparts in private schools are attired in smart uniforms – dresses and pinafores for girls, and ankle boots and tailored jackets with waistcoats for boys – the pupils here wear hand-me-downs, most of which are mere rags.

Many of these children will attend school for a few days and then stop coming, but some will stay on. It is better than being on the streets overall. The classrooms, though bare and draughty, are not as freezing or as dangerous as the world outside. Besides, food is provided once a day. It does not hurt to study the Bible in return for a bowl of gruel. They are also taught the three r ’s: reading, ’riting, ’rithmetic. It is this solemn institution that Arthur attends six days a week, along with 425 others.

At first glance, there is nothing remarkable about the boy. He looks just like any other pupil, only quieter and perhaps more shy. He is too dreamy and too distracted to be popular. This month he turned twelve, though everyone assumes him to be younger. Slim and nimble, he has a wide forehead, jutting ears and dark eyebrows over cerulean-blue eyes that appear green in a certain light. His lips, dry and cracked, peel like old paint. His hair is the colour of chocolate sponge – a delicacy he has heard people rave about but never tasted himself.

On this bleak day in late November, as Arthur rushes to school, having already missed the morning lesson, he dashes past small shops, each with its own distinctive sign. He does not need to look at them to know where they are located. Even with closed eyes he can recall every thoroughfare he has ever wandered; every baker, butcher, cheesemonger, glass-blower, hat-binder, butter-carver, tallow-chandler, toy-maker or confectioner he has walked by but could never afford to buy from. Yet, as he crosses the street now, stepping aside to avoid an oncoming hansom cab, his mind is crowded with other thoughts. He is worried about his mother. Arabella is unwell – again. People tell him something is the matter with her head, an excessive sentimentality strains her fragile nerves – a quintessentially female condition, they say. But Arthur believes that if only his mother could eat better and not have to be cold and in penury all the time, she could be cured. She could be happy. Last night she spent hours pacing up and down, mumbling incomprehensibly to herself, because she was not able to sleep; and, therefore, neither was the other family with whom they share their room. If such behaviour continues, Arthur fears, they may soon find themselves homeless – he, his mother and his twin baby brothers. As for his father, he comes and goes as he pleases – mostly, he just goes.

Sniffling, the boy pulls up his collar and rubs his hands. It is no good. The wind pierces through his frayed garments, chilling his bones. He does not mind the cold as much as the hunger. Hunger is a beehive inside his abdomen, one that has been stirred with a stick, buzzing day and night, jostling, irritated and frantic. He reckons the bees need a distraction, something to keep them busy and out of mischief. So he seeks help from mathematics. Whenever he feels worried, he does sums and multiplications in his head. He takes a gander at a lady with a parasol strolling along the park or a gentleman in a top hat sprinting across the square, and he sets himself the task of calculating how many ruffles are on her skirt or how many lines pattern his frock-coat. Numbers, with their unwavering reliability, comfort him and make him forget the pangs in his belly.

Hearing the snap of a whip now, Arthur instinctively recoils. As he has reached a busy high street, he needs to be extremely watchful. Last winter on this very spot a man was trampled to death by a hansom cab. The horses slipped in a rut in the road, pulling the carriage at full tilt even as they charged on over human flesh and bones. No sooner does the boy reflect on that day than the word ‘accident’ flashes through his mind, leaving a curious taste in his mouth. Words always come to him with their distinctive flavours. ‘Accident’ is gamey, like burning fat and stale sausages, bags o’ mystery, whose ingredients no one really knows. ‘School’ has a pungency that lingers on the tongue, like licking old boots. And ‘mother’ is buttery, warm and sweet, though with an acidic undertone, reminiscent of an apple pie gone sour. For years, Arthur assumed it must be the same for everyone, that other people also experienced similar associations, until he realized this was not the case. Since then he has been careful not to mention it to anyone. A quiet boy by nature, there are lots of things he keeps to himself.

It is past eleven when he reaches the school gates. He hopes that the teacher, Mr Hopkin, will not be cross with him. For Arthur is a good student. The best in his year, if the truth be told. In a classroom whose population fluctuates between seventy and eighty-eight depending on the season, he is the first to complete each assignment, no matter how difficult the subject. So quick is he on the uptake that the teacher has chosen him as his chief aide. Several other boys are appointed to assist Arthur. Together they are called ‘the monitors’. To facilitate teaching in a room this crowded, Mr Hopkin often beckons the monitors to the board to study every new exercise and then they return to their seats to instruct the others. Each is responsible for a group of about ten pupils. Arthur always does his best to support those who are lagging behind, not only to ease the teacher’s load but also because he genuinely likes helping people. In the past, more than a few times, he had an inkling that Mr Hopkin was fond of him, though the man has never said as much.

As he crosses the schoolyard, the boy slows down. Running on the premises is strictly forbidden, as are jumping, whistling, humming, singing, swearing, sulking and grinning. Careful not to make any noise, he enters the building and climbs the stairs, his hand closing around the worm-eaten banister, cracked and discoloured in places. At the end of a long, ill-lit corridor is his classroom. The door is closed. From inside he can hear a male voice – thick, throaty, unfamiliar.

He knocks, waits a heartbeat and walks in. A broad-shouldered man is standing by the board, addressing rows of students, his back turned to the entrance. Arthur feels his stomach drop. This is not Mr Hopkin. It is someone he has never seen before.

The child makes a mistake then. Instead of walking up to the new teacher and apologizing for his tardiness, he tries to sidle into an empty seat, hoping not to draw attention to himself.

‘Someone is sneaky!’ The man swivels on his heel and scowls.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ Arthur says, blushing.

‘Why were you late? Enlighten us.’

‘My mother was unwell, sir. I had to stay home and take care of her.’

‘Oh, spare me the deceit! You surely do not expect me to fall for such a pitiful fib.’

Arthur blinks. ‘I am not lying, sir.’

‘Enough, be quiet. I will make an allowance this time. Do not, I am warning you, let it happen again.’

A high-pitched ringing filling his ears, Arthur sits back, uncomprehending. He knows that his words, which he uttered honestly and with conviction, correspond to the truth, so why won’t the teacher believe him?

In the following hour, the students parrot the formulas on the board, chanting in unison the same sentences over and over again, like a music box churning out the same old melody until it winds down completely.

There are 4 farthings to a penny. There are 12 pennies to a shilling. There are 20 shillings to a pound …

What they repeat out loud they are instructed to write down on a sand tray with the help of a stick. Arthur awaits his turn, wishing he had a quill pen instead. He has seen one in the window of a shop on the high street, the feather so soft and bright it still sang of the bird it had graced. Smiling at the thought, he completes the exercise, flattens the sand and passes the tray to the next boy.

‘All right, everyone!’ The teacher claps his hands. ‘Now listen carefully for I shall not say it again. A gentleman left his four heirs a substantial inheritance. He gave his eldest son 488 pounds and 5 shillings more than the youngest. The middle two received 300 pounds and 10 shillings. The third child was granted 60 pounds more than his youngest brother, who received a quarter of that bestowed on the eldest brother. Calculate the total amount bequeathed by this benevolent father to his sons.’

The pupils, many of whom are so poor they risk frostbite from sleeping in cheap lodgings, groan as they set to calculate wealth the likes of which they have never known and never will.

‘Looks like you are struggling. Clearly your previous teacher didn’t get very far with you, did he?’ The man scribbles a number on the board, which he then circles with a flourish. ‘This is the answer you ought to arrive at. That’s enough help. Now get on with the work!’

The children fidget in their seats. Those holding the trays scratch in the sand, pretending to work out the sums, whilst others look vacantly at the ceiling, hoping not to be called upon. Meanwhile Arthur sits still, staring at the sum written on the board. The numbers squirm and wiggle in front of him, flopping their tiny bodies, like fish trapped in a net. They look miserable in each other’s company. The boy realizes with horror that the teacher has got his calculations wrong.

Arthur knows he must hold his tongue. But he is sleepless, tired. His breath smells of hunger and his hands of the laudanum that his mother has been taking each day without fail since the day he was born. He tries to distract himself by scrutinizing his surroundings, not that there is much to explore. A world map, worn at the edges, dangles from a crooked nail. Next to it hangs an abacus, the beads of which are greasy from the touch of many fingers. There is a dunce’s cap in the opposite corner – dirty, tattered and pointed – which the children who are slow to learn are made to wear. A symbol of ridicule and shame. Feeling increasingly uneasy, Arthur glances towards the windows through which rays of light trickle out. The windows have deliberately been built too high for any passer-by to see inside the classrooms and, most importantly, the students cannot see what is outside.

‘Right, time is up. Have you all arrived at the figure I’ve provided?’

The monitors, eager to earn praise, nod … all but one.

Arthur lowers his head. If he can keep quiet and let this moment pass, later in the afternoon a different teacher will come to instruct them. They will learn a bit of carpentry. He can whittle a bird out of a slender branch, and he adores the way solid wood takes on a new shape beneath his hands, although he has no desire to follow in the footsteps of his father. No, he will not become a carpenter. He wants something different for himself, though what that may be he cannot tell.

He wishes he were in the girls’ section now. It seems to him that girls study more useful things than boys – how to repair a dress that has been mended too many times, how to prepare a meal on a tight budget, how to prevent milk from curdling, how to weigh sugar and measure flour and which substitutes to use when these ingredients are unavailable. He would have loved to learn these things. Instead here he is biting his bottom lip so as not to blurt out the solution to an arithmetic problem posed by a joyless man.

‘All right, monitors, stand up,’ orders the teacher. ‘It’s your duty to demonstrate to all these dullards how to arrive at the answer I have provided.’

‘But it can’t be done,’ Arthur mutters to himself.

All heads turn towards him. The boy pales, appalled that he has voiced the thought loud enough to be heard by everyone.

‘Who said that?’

Silence falls into the classroom, sudden and irretrievable, like a stone dropped into a well. The students at the front point fingers at Arthur. They will not miss an opportunity to snitch.

The teacher takes a step forward. ‘What was it you were saying?’

Slightly shaking, Arthur stands up. ‘I was just doing the numbers in my head, sir.’

‘Well, it was not in your head, was it? Or we would not have heard.’

‘That is right, sir.’

He can sit down now; with a display of contrition and a bit of luck the danger can be averted. There is still a chance. But his eyes slide towards the board. The numbers, penned in a circle, trapped in a mistake, look miserable, begging to be put right.

‘However, that figure on the board is wrong, sir.’

The expression that crosses the man’s face is one of mere shock; there is neither anger nor annoyance in it … not yet. He does not move for what feels like a long moment, his eyes bulging.

‘Are you trying to humiliate me, lad?’

The boys at the front cover their mouths to suppress a snigger. Those at the back chuckle.

‘No, sir. I’d never do such a thing,’ Arthur says, his heart beating fast. ‘I just corrected your error.’

The entire classroom ripples with nervous laughter.

‘You shameless, impudent rascal! You are coming with me to the headmaster,’ says the teacher, his eyes narrowing on the last word. ‘Right now!’

Arthur shivers as if touched by an icy blast of air. He has heard the stories, of course – stories about boys crammed inside baskets hanging from the ceiling, beaten so hard that it takes them days to be able to walk again. Since he has been enrolled in this school, he’s had his fair share of caning and smacking, mostly because of the misdeeds of others, but he has never had reason to visit the headmaster’s office, which is not a place anyone ever wishes to go.

‘Move!’

His eyes on his shoes, Arthur follows the teacher outside. As soon as the door closes behind them, a hubbub erupts inside the room. A maelstrom of raucous shouts and obscenities. In stark contrast, out here in the corridor there is only silence. They march on, the man in front, the child trailing behind. Their footsteps echo along the walls darkened by years of woodsmoke, mould and boredom. Even when they reach the end of the corridor, they can still hear the rumble from the classroom. Arthur has never left London, but he has read a bit about other lands, distant shores, and it occurs to him now that this is what it must sound like when you hold a seashell to your ear and hear the ocean roar.

The headmaster is a hefty man with drooping eyelids and a waxed, ginger moustache whose ends he likes to twirl. Arthur stands in a corner whilst the teacher offers a summary of his version of events. No one asks the boy for his account.

‘Such unruly behaviour is utterly concerning and unbefitting of our values and principles,’ says the headmaster. ‘Leave him with me.’

The teacher, not wanting to be excluded from a spectacle he has unilaterally initiated, pauses. He must have been hoping to watch the punishment being administered. ‘I would not mind staying longer if I could be of further help.’

‘No need,’ says the headmaster. ‘You may return to your students.’

The teacher departs without so much as a glance at the boy. On his way out, he pulls the door shut with considerable force.

Alone with the headmaster, Arthur feels even more afraid. In an attempt to calm his nerves, he sneaks a glance around the room, looking for anything – a sequence of patterns – that he can count or calculate. The contrast between this study and his classroom cannot have been sharper. This place is sumptuous, brimming with expensive objects and trinkets. A massive mahogany desk with hand-carved legs, a cabinet with glass shelves full of porcelain figurines and snuff boxes, a silver tray bearing tumblers and decanters, high-backed chairs with velvet upholstery and antimacassars, and one draped with an oriental rug, a spinning globe that glows in the light of a brass gas lamp, portraits of important personalities glowering from their gilded frames … The walls are covered from floor to ceiling with wallpaper in marigold yellow and vivid crimson. In a flash, Arthur detects their patterns – the vines, the roses, the thorns. He finds it odd that in a school with pupils so poor the headmaster is surrounded by such visible luxury.

‘Go stand by the window,’ says the man. He opens a drawer and extracts a rattan cane with a leather-wrapped handle. ‘Lower your trousers and bend forward with your palms flat on the desk.’

‘Sir, please, I was only –’

‘Be quiet and do as I say, now!’

Slowly, as if in a dream from which he cannot wake, Arthur shuffles towards the window, unties the string that holds up his breeches and waits. Silence expands in all directions.

A slackening to his jaw the only change to his expression, the headmaster eyes the boy’s naked buttocks. His hand holding the cane goes still. He raises his other hand aloft, the fingers plucking the air, as if picking imaginary wool from a thornbush. Then, furtively, he bends forward and paws the boy’s crotch. Arthur winces instantly, flinching aside. Once again the man tries to fondle him, but the boy, more agile, twists away. This time the headmaster stands frozen, as if considering what to do next. Then, with an abrupt movement, he shoves the pupil down towards the edge of the desk. A second later the child receives the first blow on his upper thigh. The pain is excruciating.

‘Count!’

And for once in his life Arthur cannot. Numbers have abandoned him.

‘Count!’ the man orders, as he takes a step forward, lifts the cane and hits again, harder.

‘Two …’ Arthur manages.

‘Louder!’

‘Three … four … five …’

On the desk – which the child is clutching so hard that his knuckles have turned white – there is a book. Bound in green cloth with gilded edges, it has debossed lettering in a delicate, cursive script on the cover, and a red silk ribbon bookmark peeking out from its middle. For Arthur it is a thing of exquisite beauty that shines amidst a fog of pain. Despite his tortured flesh, he focuses his gaze on that spot and nowhere else.

‘Six … seven …’

The book is by someone called A. H. Layard. The boy can make out its title: Nineveh and Its Remains.

‘Keep going!’

‘Eight … nine …’

Underneath the title, there is a lengthy description. Arthur reads the first line, just as he receives another blow: An Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of the Ancient Assyrians …

‘I cannot hear you!’

‘Ten … eleven …’ Arthur’s shoulders curl forward, his breath falters. ‘Twelve … thirteen …’

Forcing himself to concentrate on the publication in front of him, the boy glances at the next line: And an Account of a Visit to the Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan … Bizarre words, but the more bizarre the better, as he needs to take himself out of here, find a way to leave his body in this room whilst his mind escapes, and so he clings to this strange book, like a drowning person seizing driftwood floating past.

‘Carry on counting, Smyth!’

‘Fourteen … fifteen … sixteen …’

It takes the effort of every muscle in his body not to collapse. Yet the boy manages to read the last words of the subtitle: And the Yazidis, or Devil-Worshippers.

And the rattan cane continues to strike.

The headmaster stops at thirty-five, panting hard. He tosses the cane aside as if he can no longer stand the sight of it.

‘This will teach you to respect your elders. Bear in mind, I have been lenient with you; others would not have been so kind. A strict disciplinarian might have given you fifty, or even sixty strokes! I am too soft on first-time offenders; it’s an irredeemable weakness of mine. When you have healed, come and visit me. You will need my guidance to stay on the straight and narrow. I’ll take care of you. Now stand up, lad.’

Arthur tries to do as he has been told, but his knees buckle and he staggers sideways. He would have keeled over if he were not still holding on to the desk. Taking shallow breaths, he manages to pull up his trousers. His legs are heavy as though they have been replaced by sacks of wet sand.

‘I’ll give you some valuable advice,’ the headmaster says. His back turned to the room, he is staring out of the window. He does not sound furious any longer. Whatever wrath possessed him to thrash a twelve-year-old boy is gone, replaced by something akin to boredom. ‘Are you listening?’

Arthur does not respond.

‘You’d better get along with this new teacher. Mr Hopkin has left the institution. He won’t be working here henceforth.’

Still, Arthur says nothing.

‘Before he went away, Mr Hopkin wished to speak to me in private about you.’

‘About me?’ Arthur asks in a whisper, incredulous that a grown-up might show any interest in him.

‘That’s right. Would you like to know what your teacher said about you, Smyth?’ The man surveys the boy from the corner of his eye. ‘Or should I call you King Arthur of the Sewers and Slums – that’s the ridiculous name you have been given, I believe.’

The child compresses his lips. He never imagined the headmaster might be aware of his presence, let alone know the circumstances of his birth.

‘Mr Hopkin thinks you are extremely intelligent – adept at numbers, patterns, languages … He says you have an uncommon ability, perhaps even a talent.’ The man casts a suspicious look at the boy. ‘Have you?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

‘Well, your former teacher seems to believe so. He claims your memory is extraordinary and you can remember even the smallest things from the past with miraculous clarity.’

Arthur’s chin quivers as a tear rolls down his cheek. Cruelty has not broken him, he is used to it, but this unexpected compliment, however indirect, has thrown him off balance.

The headmaster pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket – crisp white with embellished corners and crocheted edges. He offers it to the boy.

‘Take it.’

Arthur stares at the precious thing. He can sell it for a penny and buy food for his mother.

‘You may keep it,’ says the man, as though he has read Arthur’s mind. But the boy looks away.

‘Oh, I see, you are upset. Petty, churlish behaviour.’ The headmaster replaces the handkerchief in his pocket and consults his pocket watch. ‘I don’t have much time – let’s see if your memory is as good as Mr Hopkin claims. Tell me, two years ago … say, the 10th of June. Which day of the week was it and where were you?’

Arthur closes his eyes. On the tenth day of the sixth month of the year before last, which was a Monday, he was with his mother. His father was there, too. As though emerging from a curtain of fog, the day appears to him, vivid and distinct. He recalls how his father, having been commissioned by a merchant to build a chest of drawers and the deposit paid that very morning, seemed a different man – less angry and accusatory. His mother, too, looked happier, a touch of colour tinging her waxen pallor as she pulled him close to her swollen belly and let him listen to the mystery growing inside. Late in the afternoon the three of them went to the zoo to see the creature everyone was raving about. An exotic beast named Obaysch – a hippopotamus, the first in Britain since prehistoric times. A present from an Ottoman pasha in exchange for English greyhounds. Captured in the River Nile, the animal was loaded on a boat to Cairo, and from there sent on a steamer to England.

Arthur, always eager to learn new things, had been rattling on about the hippopotamus for weeks, and his parents did not decline his request, even though the trip cost more than they could afford. Months later his father would finish the chest of drawers and engrave his mark on it – a hammer and anvil to signify ‘smith’. The day the piece was due to be delivered, the merchant would suddenly pass away and the payment would never materialize. But on that unusually jovial day they had every reason to believe that money was on its way. Cloaked with the warmth of this promise, off they went to the zoo. Whilst his parents enjoyed themselves, Arthur left the place feeling deeply sad for the captured animal with its small ears, soulful eyes and shiny skin sweating the colour of blood.

Now, as he blinks away the memory, Arthur purses his lips. He has no intention of telling the headmaster any of this.

‘No response?’ says the man with a sigh. ‘I am not surprised. You can’t possibly remember. Mr Hopkin was clearly misguided. You may leave now. Go and beg your new teacher’s forgiveness and do not misbehave again. Next time, I won’t be so indulgent.’

Arthur raises his chin, still saying nothing.

‘Here is another piece of advice, Smyth. You may be clever, but vanity is a terrible sin. If you manage to avoid becoming a thief or a murderer or a layabout, like most of your kind, a surfeit of which the Lord knows we have in this city already, one day, you, too, might teach in this institution and lead boys such as yourself into the right path. Understand? Now thank me and leave.’

‘Thank you … sir.’ Arthur swallows, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, like globules of bile.

Dragging his feet, the boy lurches on unsteady legs towards the door. The pain has intensified, searing like hot irons pressed into his flesh. Just as he is about to see himself out, he hears the headmaster say behind his back: ‘That old fool, Hopkin, what was he thinking? No genius ever came from the slums.’

Arthur stops. His breathing quickens as he stares at the doorknob. ‘Sir, there is something I wish to tell you.’

‘Go on, Smyth. Hurry up!’

‘You were appointed headmaster,’ says the boy without turning around, ‘three years, four weeks and four days ago precisely. The 25th of October, it must have been. It was a Thursday. You arrived with your wife. She had wrapped a lace shawl over her dress – teal blue with a matching bonnet. Her hair was parted in the centre with ringlets on both sides of her head. You were wearing a paisley tie, and there was a drop of blood on the collar from a nick on your left cheek. Perhaps you had shaved in a hurry. Your wife noticed a boy with a swollen ankle, limping. She said, “Oh, you poor little thing,” and she wished to speak to him. But you rebuked her. “I would advise you not to touch any of them, my dear. They are all covered in fleas like stray dogs” – that’s what you said. You pulled your wife by the arm, and the two of you left shortly after, just as the clock chimed eleven. You were dastardly then, and you are dastardly now.’

Arthur lets himself out, closing the door behind him. He walks down the empty corridor, past the classrooms from which he can hear the voices of hundreds of pupils reciting times tables by rote. He listens, taking in every little sound and sigh. When he reaches his classroom, he halts for a moment, his eyes lingering on the threshold he knows he will never cross again.

Outside, the fog has dissipated into mere gossamer. Shafts of amber light streak across the sky, the sun peeking from behind the clouds in a welcome surprise. The boy gives a moan of pain as he tries to fall into step with the other pedestrians and fails. His stomach growls.

It dawns on him, with sharp dread, that by insulting the headmaster and leaving the school he has given up the only food he would be having today.

Striding with what little energy he can summon, he darts glances at shop windows displaying treasures beyond his reach. He can hear customers playing a game of Skittles in a corner pub; a knife-grinder singing as his wheel whirrs round, sending sparks into the air; a tinker shouting for trade, ‘Any pots, pans or kettles to mend?’ The pavements are crowded with costermongers selling fruit and vegetables from their barrows and carts, and hawkers with every kind of delicacy imaginable – jellied eel, sheep’s trotters, hot green peas, stewed mussels, pickled oysters, baked potatoes, boiled meat, crumpets, toffee apples, kidney puddings … The smell of food clings to his hair and tickles his nostrils. He hobbles away, still doing his best to hurry. When the wind shifts, he catches a whiff of the stench rising from the Thames. Somewhere behind these streets, the river coils like an ailing serpent, its breath rank and rotten.

Wincing inwardly with every pace he takes, Arthur passes a heap of rubbish. Two children, no older than him, are scavenging through the refuse. A third boy, grubbing around in a pile of manure with bare hands, lets out a chuckle. Something is reflecting light in the filth. He has found a button, which he holds up proudly with soiled fingers, as though it were a trophy of war. Arthur turns his head away, feeling sick to his stomach. He does not like to be out on the streets. Given the chance, he would have loved to stay inside the headmaster’s office, on his own, surrounded by all those pretty objects and curious books.

He needs to be home before the gas lamps are lit, but he is not ready to head back. So he keeps walking and promises himself he will not drift any further than the end of the road where the British Museum heaves into view, silhouetted stately and majestic against the crepuscular sky. He has never been inside the building and always wondered what mysteries it guards.

As he approaches the museum, Arthur is surprised to notice that a crowd has gathered at the front entrance. Although by nature cautious, curiosity gets the better of him and he edges closer to take a look. People are tumbling over one another to catch a glimpse of something on the other side of the iron railings. The boy joins them, trying to squeeze in. At first, he cannot see much – only the shoulders of grown-ups, blocking his view. A man in the front yells with excitement, but it is impossible to fathom what he is saying. In the ensuing commotion, an elderly gentleman faints and has to be carried away.

‘Move aside! Make room!’

The crowd presses forward, pushing and jostling for every inch of empty space. Swept off his feet, Arthur is lifted up, as if he were airborne, almost weightless. His head spins and his battered haunches throb. When he manages to stand upright, he finds himself by the main gates, and that is when he sees, just a few feet away, inside the yard of the British Museum, something the likes of which he has never in his life come across.

It is a massive stone beast. A creature plucked from another world. Spectacular, breathtaking, frightening. It has the head of a human, the body of a bull and the wings of a mighty bird. It has been lashed to a huge wooden frame that sits on a wheeled platform. More than two dozen workers are straining to tow it up the staircase and pass it through the doors of the museum.

Arthur gasps. When he and his parents visited the hippopotamus at the zoo, there was no doubt in his mind that the animal, however exotic, was part of God’s Creation. But this statue, albeit lifeless and inanimate, exudes so much vitality and mystery that it must have descended from another universe altogether.

The boy is still reflecting on this when he notices, about thirty feet away, to the left of the courtyard, another beast of similar proportions waiting to be hauled. There are two of them! A pair of giants!

Such is the child’s sense of wonder and delight that, unable to contain his excitement, he turns to the nearest person. Eagerly, he taps on the arm of a man with a silvery beard that reaches down to his waistcoat, a wealthy gentleman by the looks of him, even though it is a dangerous thing for the boy to do, as he may be taken for a beggar or even a pickpocket.

‘Sir!’ Arthur exclaims.

The man glances down at the child, and a mixture of surprise and suspicion collide across his broad face.

‘Please, sir. Could you tell me what these things are?’

The stranger’s mouth, drawn into a line, breaks into an amused smile. ‘You like them, lad? They are very important archaeological discoveries.’

Although he does not understand what that could possibly mean, Arthur is unwilling to give up. ‘Are they … are they monsters?’

‘Monsters?’ The man chortles. ‘Not at all. They are protective spirits – that’s what the Ancients believed them to be. The guardians of the palace. They’re called lamassus .’

‘ La-mas-sus ,’ Arthur repeats.

‘That’s right. The pair you see here were guarding the royal library – built by a great king named Ashurbanipal.’

What a curious name! The boy’s face puckers as the word leaves a pungent taste in his mouth.

The man, intrigued by the child’s enthusiasm, carries on. ‘These monumental statues were buried under the ground for thousands of years.’

‘Pray, sir, why did the Ancients put them in graves?’

The man chuckles again. ‘No, not like that. The whole city was destroyed by its enemies. It was tragic: everything Ashurbanipal built was reduced to rubble. Nothing remained, only ruins. Precious artefacts were covered under hills of sand. Until we British arrived and rescued them from oblivion. Well, the French were excavating, too, but never mind them. This was solely our discovery!’

Arthur listens, leaning in close.

‘Each lamassu you see here is about sixteen feet tall and weighs more than thirty tons. These things are extremely difficult to transport. How do you move them across continents? That, my boy, is an extraordinary achievement. We managed to bring them over in one piece. Indubitably, Austen Henry Layard and his team have accomplished a marvellous task.’

Upon hearing this, the boy flinches. As the book in the headmaster’s room bursts into his mind, he blurts out, ‘I know that name! He’s the author of Nineveh and Its Remains .’

A look of surprise flashes across the man’s features. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘I saw the cover of the book, but I have not had a chance to read it yet,’ says Arthur truthfully, and adds, ‘ An Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of the Ancient Assyrians and an Account of a Visit to the Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan and the Yazidis, or Devil-Worshippers .’

The boy pauses, unsure whether it was appropriate to utter these last words. He has no idea what kind of people the Yazidis might be and if they really worship Satan, and, if they don’t, why they have been described so disparagingly, but he worries that it might have been disrespectful to introduce the Angel of Darkness into polite conversation.

The man surveys Arthur with renewed interest. ‘You saw the cover once but you remember the full title? You are a strange boy, I must say.’

Arthur shrugs, not knowing how to respond to that. ‘So these statues, then … are they from King Ashurbanipal’s library?’ he ventures.

‘Indeed, son.’

‘And this library is in a place called Nineveh?’

‘Indeed, son.’

Nineveh … Arthur rolls the three soft syllables on his tongue, like a boiled sweet. Where exactly is this arcane capital, he wonders. He is certain he has not seen it on the map that hung on the classroom wall.

‘Pray, sir, could you tell me where Nineveh is in relation to the River Thames?’

The man smiles at the boy’s naivety. ‘Mesopotamia is far away. These lamassus have been worn away by the waters of another river called the Tigris.’

Arthur’s eyes grow wide and then narrow. An insight that he has long suspected dawns on him with startling clarity: that the world, too immense and untravelled for any one human mind, is full of exciting places.

‘There is not much of value in the region any longer, I’m afraid. Backward, primitive tribes. The locals are simple villagers.’ The man pulls a watch out of his pocket and checks the time. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see young people take an interest in biblical archaeology. What is your name, lad?’

‘Arthur, sir.’

‘Nice to meet you. I work at the museum. Do come visit us sometime. You can observe the statues close up.’

‘I could do that?’

‘Of course – they shall be on display to the public. If anyone asks where you are going, tell them I have invited you – Dr Samuel Birch is my name, and I am the Keeper of Oriental Antiquities.’

‘I shall remember that, sir.’

‘I am sure you will. Well, I must be off now. Good day, my boy.’

Arthur knows he, too, has to be on his way, but he can barely tear his eyes from the ancient statues. He wishes he had asked the man why the sculptors of olden times gave them five legs or, for that matter, imagined them as human, bull and bird in one. He has so many questions about the creatures from Nineveh and the people who once upon a time both respected and feared them.

In a little while, dusk paints the horizon bright orange, until the smog, back with a vengeance, blots out all colours with its dull brush. A lamplighter passes by whistling a tune. In his hand he carries a long pole with a burning wick. One by one the gas lamps along the street come alive, casting a brave glow into the gathering darkness. Tomorrow morning, the same man will appear again to snuff out each one. An unwavering pendulum swings between day and night. Light and shadow. Good and bad. Perhaps it is the same with past and present – they are not completely distinct. They bleed into each other.

A church bell, not far off, strikes the hour. Arthur thinks about his mother – the pale crescents under her eyes, the raw cracked skin of her hands. She will have started to worry about him by now, fearing that he has come to harm, perhaps having fallen under a carriage or been set upon by a cutpurse. That is the last thing the boy wants, to add to her anxieties. Still, he finds it hard to leave. Alone, starving and aching in a gradually thinning crowd, he holds on to the railings, pushing his face through the bars to peer at King Ashurbanipal’s protective spirits.

Something peculiar happens then. The giant sculptures from the banks of the Tigris, though still majestic, begin to seem less intimidating, somewhat defenceless, almost vulnerable. The boy feels a surge of empathy for the bound stone beasts as he watches them being hauled with hemp ropes through the lofty doors of the British Museum, where they disappear into perpetual exile. Creatures of the river trying to adapt to dry land; lonely and lost in this grinding city, just as he has been all his life.