Page 7 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Thames, 1853

L ondon is shrouded in a blanket of fog this morning. There is an unusual stillness to its streets and parks, an uneasy silence that closes in on itself, like a purse pulled tight by its drawstrings. Even though the bells from a nearby church have just tolled ten o’clock, it feels like dusk has already descended. Neither grey nor white, the air is a soupy ochre that glows green in places. Particles of soot and ash float above, as domestic coal fires and factory chimneys belch sulphur-laden smoke, clogging the lungs of Londoners, breath by breath.

Arthur – thirteen years of age, pale skinned, gangly after a recent growth spurt, with a trace of down on his upper lip – turns a corner into a narrow alleyway of cobblestones. The brume is so dense that the boy can barely see beyond a few paces. He takes care not to step in anything nasty whilst keeping sight of his father striding ahead of him.

‘Stop dawdling, lad!’

‘I am trying.’

‘Well, you’re not tryin’ hard enough – dragging your feet like a damn’d infant. Get a move on.’

The boy accelerates his steps. After months of absence his father has returned home, having lost weight and what little tenderness he had in him. Work is scarce, and the few odd commissions he managed to get when sober have gone unpaid. He constantly complains about the lack of money. This morning he pulled Arthur out of bed, saying the child has been sponging off his parents for too long, and that it is time he found an apprenticeship to learn a trade.

Not that Arthur has been at all lazy. Ever since he left school he has taken on all kinds of odd jobs. He goes scavenging in the sewers with the toshers who gave him his moniker, collects horse manure to sell to tanners, gathers old clothes to trade with rag-pickers, helps a chickweed-vendor to feed pet birds, and, at times, wades into filthy ponds with a team of women, using his bare legs to catch leeches. With two small children on her hands, his mother cannot work long days as before. Although his father pretends otherwise, the boy has already become the breadwinner of the family.

A part of him misses school. The predictability of the daily routine, the joy of solving a mathematics problem or losing himself in a passage of history, the prospect of learning something new and exciting – these are the things he most longs for. There is a great deal he is glad to have left behind, too, especially the fear of setting foot in the headmaster’s study. Yet this is of no consequence. His days of schooling are over. He has joined the droves of adolescent workers in the capital. There are plenty of children across the country, many younger than he is, grinding away in shipyards, cotton-spinning mills, nail factories and coal mines; out on the streets catching rats, sweeping night-soil or crawling up chimneys too narrow for adults. Arthur knows how exhausted they are, their eyes lustreless and sunken in their sockets. He has come across girls employed in matchstick factories, their jaws disfigured by the white phosphorus they use every day. He has heard terrifying stories about railway boys torn to pieces by oncoming freight trains or dressmakers inhaling particles of fibre so fine that they do not grasp how ill they are until it is too late. He is aware of all this. What he does not know is where exactly his father is taking him now. Every time he raises the question he receives a curt response. He tries once more.

‘What kind of work is it?’

‘Told you, son,’ his father says, his voice muffled through the fog. ‘They’re printers. They have big machines to publish stuff. All kinds of stuff. It’s a serious job – stable and respectable.’

‘If it’s so important, why would they want to hire me?’

‘’Cos they need an errand boy. Every business needs one. Why d’you ask daft questions?’

‘An errand boy to do what?’

Abruptly, the man turns around. He grabs the child by the collar and pushes him against the wall.

‘You bastard, you think you can leech off me for the rest of your life? Bleed me dry?’

Arthur struggles to free himself from the man’s grip. Even as his stomach clenches in fear, he says, ‘It is my mother who looked after me. She is the one who raised me, not you.’

A smack across the face. The force of the blow sends the boy tumbling sideways. Arthur climbs to his feet with a quiet intensity.

They walk on without exchanging another word. Somewhere inside the fog a dog barks, a baby whimpers, voices multiply.

In a little while they enter another alley not far from New Oxford Street. The fog is thicker here, oppressive. Holding out his hands in front of him, the boy takes careful steps into the murkiness stretching out on all sides. He can hardly see beyond his wrists. The air is bitterly cold.

‘Stay close to me, lad.’

Arthur senses why his father suddenly sounds concerned. Further down the road is St Giles, one of the roughest rookeries in the city, notorious for its forgers, pickpockets and prostitutes. Recently the authorities set out to clear the slum by joining Oxford Street to Holborn but little has improved for the people who live here.

Father and son plough on, picking their way through the maze of lanes. All around is the acrid stench of rotting vegetables, mouldering rubbish and stale urine. Every now and then, when the curtain of haze parts, Arthur catches a glimpse of the inhabitants: children so skinny that the rags they wear hang from their bodies; men with sunken cheeks and gaunt expressions; and women too busy with their chores to notice him, whilst others are ready to offer themselves for a pittance, even to a boy of his age.

‘So you brings your son for his first time, do you, then?’

Turning his head, Arthur sees a figure half hiding in a dim passage, almost camouflaged against the soot-stained bricks. Her skin is scarred by smallpox, her hair matted and uncombed, her face pale and pinched. An old wound runs down one side of her mouth, making her look as if she is smiling even when her gaze remains full of despair. The boy feels embarrassed, not so much by the woman’s remark but by the helplessness in her tone. In his distraction he does not notice the bemused expression spreading on his father’s face, until he hears him say, ‘Now why would I bring my boy to an ugly wench like you?’

The woman tries to make light of the affront. ‘Come, sir, if you was to get me some nice clothes, I could look pretty.’

‘Nay, miserable maid – who would waste a ha’pence on a wretched hussy like you? No one can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’

Arthur stares at his father in astonishment, unable to believe he has said such a horrible thing. A deep sense of shame chokes him, lodging in his throat like a fishbone. He wants to apologize to the woman for his father’s rudeness, but what can he possibly say to her that won’t sound like ridicule and cause even more hurt?

‘Move on, lad.’

His face burning, his eyes down, the boy follows the man, feeling increasingly small. Even as they turn a corner at the end of the street, he can still hear the prostitute muttering under her breath, cursing the two of them.

After they leave St Giles behind, they walk for a while eastwards towards the river. They stop in front of a two-storey building. A brass sign hangs above the door:

Bradbury a large mahogany desk sits on either side. Behind them sit the owners of the company – the junior partner, Mr Evans, and the senior partner, Mr Bradbury.

By the window, hanging from an ornamental brass standard, is a birdcage housing two budgies, their breasts a vivid blue. These birds have become very popular ever since Queen Victoria was given a pair as a present. The craze, for that is what it feels like, has spread fast. Each week fresh cargo is brought from South Australia to England, and, from there, transferred into homes and aviaries across the country. The boy is so captivated by these two that it takes him a moment to focus on the conversation going on around him.

In rapid speech, his father is explaining that a customer of his, an apothecary, delighted with the quality of the cabinet he built for him, promised to help find a job for his lad. The chemist suggested that they pay a visit to Bradbury he promised to put in a good word for the boy. Given the blank expressions of Mr Evans and Mr Bradbury, he has clearly done no such thing.

‘I’m afraid there must have been some misunderstanding,’ Mr Evans says, with a suspicion he feels no need to hide. ‘We were not expecting you.’

‘My good sir, I don’t know why my customer has not kept his promise. He assured me he was going to speak to you.’

Mr Bradbury shakes his head. ‘Even so, that would not have changed anything. We are not in need of hiring anyone at this moment.’

Arthur watches his father blanch. The man who berates his wife, rains blows and curses on his children, and has callously insulted a poor prostitute on the way here now looks utterly servile. Even his voice has changed.

‘Please, sirs … why don’t you give my son a try?’

Arthur senses his father has no chance, no matter how much he toadies before these well-dressed gentlemen with their brocaded waistcoats and silk cravats. They look at him with obvious disdain; in their eyes there is only contempt. Witnessing this makes the boy sad. We never want our parents’ weaknesses to be seen by others. Their failures are our own private affair, a secret we would rather keep to ourselves; when they become public, for everyone’s consumption, we are no longer the children we once were.

‘I fear you have come all this way for nothing,’ says Mr Evans, setting his fingers into a steeple under his chin. ‘We are not in need of an errand boy.’

‘Come on, Father, let’s go,’ says Arthur as he motions towards the door without looking at anyone.

But the man does not budge. ‘Sirs, you do not understand. I have good reason to insist. My boy is a genius!’

Arthur halts, startled. His father never has words of praise for his children – or anyone, for that matter.

‘Come here, lad. Show them what I mean!’

Arthur stands still, too mortified to move. Grabbing him by the shoulders, his father pushes him towards the two proprietors.

‘You also print calendars, don’t you, sirs? Ask my son a date from times gone by – pick any you want.’

‘I do not understand what you are trying to do,’ says Mr Bradbury.

‘This boy of mine is a curious child. He has an extraordinary memory. It never fails, I can assure you. Give him a chance and he’ll prove it. You won’t regret this. Choose any date from previous years, ask him what day it fell on.’

The two publishers glance at each other, a shared concern passing between them. Mr Bradbury nods, musing. ‘Fine, we’ll indulge you. How about this very date last year?’

The three men stare at the boy. Arthur blushes under their scrutiny. He has no intention of telling them about this day last year, which was a Tuesday. Arriving home, he found his mother on the floor, having consumed a full bottle of laudanum and then vomited all over herself. The awful smell, settling into everything it touched, did not disappear for a week. He screws his lips shut and looks away.

A flicker of apprehension appears in his father’s eyes. ‘Come on, boy … so what day was it? Tell these good gentlemen. Do not embarrass me.’

Arthur says nothing, his gaze growing intense and distant.

‘You are doing this deliberately to annoy me! How dare you!’

Mr Evans interjects, ‘I think we should not pressure the child.’

‘No, no! I don’t understand why he’s acting so. Ask him another date, one more chance, I beg of you.’

‘All right,’ says Mr Bradbury. ‘How about 1849, the 12th of October?’

Arthur inhales and speaks in a slow, steady voice. ‘That was a Friday, sir. It rained all afternoon. They carried out the bodies of five labourers. In Pimlico, that’s where the accident happened. They were poisoned by sewer gases. I saw the corpses; I was there. The police came. There were journalists, too.’

The boy closes his eyes for a moment, recalling the faces of the dead, glazed as if made of bronze, and their hands, smudged and smeared with mud and clenched into fists, even though drained of all the fight in them.

Mr Bradbury clears his throat. ‘My boy, you should know that we also print newspapers here. If you are making this up, it would be easy for us to refute what you just said. Now tell me, do you actually remember this happening?’

Arthur lifts his chin. ‘I am not lying, sir.’

‘All right, we’ll see about that.’ Mr Bradbury turns to his younger partner. ‘Would you mind checking what the lad just said?’

An awkward silence descends after Mr Evans leaves the room. As they wait for him to return, they listen to the sounds of the street – a carriage drives by, dangerously fast. Hooves echo on cobblestones, muffling the cry of a vendor peddling ginger cakes.

Eventually, Mr Evans strides back in, waving a newspaper in his hand. He is smiling. ‘It’s exactly as the boy said!’

‘Very strange,’ mutters Mr Bradbury with a new interest in his eyes. ‘Let us try another date. The 13th of June 1851?’

Arthur cocks his head to one side, his face brightening with the recollection. ‘That was the day of the costume ball at Buckingham Palace. I waited outside the royal gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of the outfits. I heard they were going to be dressed as historical figures, but it was too crowded to see anything. The weather was good, though windy. That, too, fell on a Friday.’

‘Shall I go to check?’ asks Mr Evans, clearly enjoying himself.

‘No need,’ says Mr Bradbury. Peering over his spectacles, he studies the boy. ‘You have a peculiar talent, young man. I must say I am impressed.’

Arthur notices his father straightening his shoulders, as something like relief crosses his face, and he says, ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

Mr Bradbury ignores the remark. ‘Fine, we’ll give it a try. But only for a week. If, by the end of the week, we are not satisfied, for whatever reason, we shall part ways in a civilized manner. In that case, I would not want to see either of you again. Is that understood?’

‘Most certainly, sir. You have my word. He’s a fast learner, my son.’

Mr Evans, his eyebrows raised in mild amusement, claps his hands. ‘Well, well! Young Smyth, welcome to the world of engravers and printers.’

Arthur smiles shyly. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘When would you like him to start?’ his father interrupts, making sure he is not overlooked.

‘Actually, he may start right away,’ replies Mr Bradbury. ‘You, my dear fellow, may therefore take your leave now. I am sure the boy can find his way back home.’

‘Oh, in that case … I hope, most esteemed sirs, you will appreciate that I had to sacrifice my day’s wages to bring my son here. I’m sure gentlemen such as yourselves would not want me to be out of pocket … and you might see your way clear to advance a little of his wage?’

‘You are asking for money?’ Mr Evans chides. ‘For the boy’s sake we will pretend not to have heard that. Good day to you.’

Arthur watches his father, his forehead puckering into a frown and his jaw set, walk out, without so much as a glance at anyone.

A heartbeat later, Arthur feels a friendly pat on his shoulder. It is Mr Bradbury.

‘They are called Lapis and Lazuli.’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘The birds – I noticed you looking at them earlier. Those are their names. Together, they make a precious stone.’

The boy blinks.

‘Oh, you are not familiar with the bright blue rock? Lapis from Latin, meaning “stone”. Lazuli from Arabic and Persian, meaning “heaven, sky, dark blue” … This lovely gem was treasured by many civilizations – Egypt, Greece, Rome, China, but especially Mesopotamia.’

Arthur listens, spellbound.

‘You have a lot to learn, young Smyth. I hope you like learning.’

‘Oh, I do, sir,’ Arthur says, his eyes brimming.

‘Good. In that case, come give me a hand.’ The publisher opens the door and walks into the hall.

Arthur follows Mr Bradbury into a room in the basement, where an extraordinary scene greets him. Before him lies a bewildering proliferation of books, pamphlets and magazines, piled high on the floor and stacked higgledy-piggledy on the shelves. At the centre of this paper kingdom sits a machine – squat, pitch-black, steam-powered and massive. It has automated rollers, cylinders and metal plates.

Mr Bradbury smiles. ‘A remarkable piece of engineering, don’t you think? What do you say, do you like it?’

‘What … what is this, sir?’

‘It’s a printing press. Everything you see in this room came out of this invention.’ Mr Bradbury gestures towards a wooden tray with dozens of compartments, each containing letters, numbers and symbols. ‘We compose these by hand on a metal plate. We get our type from the best foundries and we use the handsomest fonts. If you work hard, we’ll teach you how.’

Gingerly, Arthur approaches the machine, though he does not dare touch it. There is a page at the other end, recently printed. Mr Bradbury picks it up and reads out a line: ‘ Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. ’ The man surveys the boy. ‘Do you recognize these words?’

Arthur shakes his head.

‘Poetry, my boy – Tennyson. Are you familiar with verse?’

‘I am not sure I would know what it is, sir. At school we sang hymns and memorized mathematical formulas and studied the Bible. No one said anything about poetry.’

‘What a pity.’ Mr Bradbury reaches out for another page.

‘ Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clears

Today of past Regrets and future Fears:

Tomorrow? Why – Tomorrow I may be

Myself with Yesterday ’ s Sev’n thousand Years. ’

Arthur’s eyes widen. ‘Is that poetry, too?’

‘It is indeed. This one little known yet, by Omar Khayyám. My friend Edward FitzGerald, a poet and writer himself, is translating from the Persian. It is taking time, though. All being well we shall publish it soon.’

Tennyson … Khayyám … FitzGerald … The boy ponders. There is a great deal he does not know. How frightening it is, but also how strangely invigorating to realize that the world he has experienced is only one of many possible worlds.

Watching him, Mr Bradbury offers an encouraging smile. ‘Don’t worry, you have plenty of time to learn. Remember, Arthur, life is full of surprises. Who knows, you, too, may be seduced by the joys of verse. One day, you may even be known as a connoisseur of poems and a lover of the written word.’

It is in that moment that Arthur’s gaze, scanning the room inquisitively, alights on the cover of a book. He recognizes the words that have haunted him ever since his eyes first fell upon them – Nineveh and Its Remains. The very same title he encountered in the headmaster’s study, emerging in his life again, like a meandering river that winds its way alongside him and reappears just when he thought it had dried up.

‘Sir,’ says Arthur, ‘are you also printing that book?’

The man turns to see what the boy is pointing at. ‘Why, yes. It has proved highly popular – sold more than twenty thousand copies! We are charged with the second edition, which will be shorter and cheaper for wider distribution. I venture we shall be hard pressed to satisfy demand. The public are eager to learn about biblical archaeology – they are also rather keen to know about the devil-worshippers, I must say.’

‘But who are they, sir? I have been wondering myself.’

Mr Bradbury winks at him as if they are old friends. ‘Well, you will need to read the book to find out, dear boy.’

‘Oh, thank you, I would be most happy to. Provided both you and Mr Evans are satisfied with my work, might I be allowed to borrow a copy when it is printed?’

Not anticipating that he will be taken at his word, the man regards the child. ‘Are you genuinely interested in a scholar’s account of his journey to Mesopotamia and discovery of an ancient Assyrian city? That is indeed unexpected. Perhaps you could explain to me the source of your enthusiasm?’

‘It’s merely that … to me Nineveh sounds like a dream of a place, unlike anything I have known or seen before,’ says Arthur, after a heartbeat. ‘That’s where the massive winged bulls came from – the lamassus . I saw them outside the British Museum. And ever since I have been intrigued by them.’

His expression unchanging, Mr Bradbury listens.

‘I have also been wondering about all those people mentioned in the title – especially the Yazidis,’ Arthur carries on with conviction. ‘Do they really worship the devil, or have they perhaps been mistaken for something they are not, accused of things they have not done, because, you see, sir, I … I think I kind of …’ The boy stumbles a little then, but manages to finish his thought: ‘I do know what it is like to be misunderstood and treated unjustly.’