squeeze. “I promised your father I’d take care of you.”
There is a note of concern in the man’s voice which certainly sounds genuine enough and which causes the boy, for the first and, as things would turn out, the last time, to feel something like sympathy for his employer.
“No, Mr Lamert. Thank you, sir. But I believe I recognise the name.”
O UTSIDE ON THE squalid street, beside the steps which lead to something more closely resembling civilisation, stands the man whom the boy had spied earlier that afternoon—saturnine and black-clad though, for all of that, smiling with clear sincerity.
“Charles?”
“Mr Cannonbridge?”
As the boy approaches, the man bends down to the child’s level and extends his hand.
“I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Warily, he takes the offered hand and shakes it. “What do you want with me, sir?”
“Only to talk.”
The boy juts out his chin imperiously. “Then I am to walk home. You may walk with me.”
The man smiles again and seems to be about to speak when another boy, a little older than the first and with a wild crop of red hair, pushes past them and trots spryly up the steps, calling over his shoulder as he goes. “See you tomorrow, Charlie!”
The younger boy replies. “Tomorrow, Bob!”
Cannonbridge looks with gravity at the boy. “Let us walk,” he says.
And walk they do, for the best part of three miles, up the Hungerford Stairs and the maze which lies immediately beyond and then, breaking into the relative sanctity of the Strand, up St Martin’s Lane and Broad St Giles, along Tottenham Court and Hampstead Road, heading, eventually, towards open spaces, to the green of Camden Town.
They talk, a little nervously at first, a little stiffly but then with increasing warmth and honesty. It is a conversation that the boy shall remember for the rest of his life. He will also remember this—that the man, with some regularity, glances behind him and, imagining that his companion does not notice, seeks out reflections of the street in window panes and polished surfaces, as if he believes himself to have been followed. Though he will hug the memory close, on this the boy does not remark.
“I trust you will forgive me,” Cannonbridge begins, “for introducing myself in this way.”
The boy does not reply directly but only asks another question: “Do you know my father, sir?”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Oh. I thought that you might. It is only that...”
“Yes?”
“He has lately proved himself... rather clumsy.” The boy pauses, thinking of the arrest, his mother’s shame, the great and terrible fortress of the Marshalsea. “He would be grateful, I am certain, of a friend.”
“I understand. But I do not believe that I have ever had the pleasure.”
The boy nods glumly, expecting this answer. “You are a writer, sir, are you not?”
“I am. Three works of fiction now. Though I have hopes in the future of applying my talents to the theatre and even to verse.”
They negotiate the streets largely in silence until the boy pipes up. “I think that I should like to be a writer also.”
“Indeed?” Cannonbridge does not sound surprised. “I think that you would be well suited to the life.”
“Thank you, sir. Though I fear at present that I must spend the chief portion of my adult years in paying off my father’s debts.”
“Is he... greatly embarrassed?”
“He is a bankrupt, sir.”
The boy would not, with many others, have been so forthright. In the company of this man, however, he feels curiously able to be frank.
“Our family has much to pay and we all must do our part. That is why they sent me to the factory. So that I might contribute and earn my keep.”
“Charles?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Given all that you’ve said, I don’t wish to trouble you with my own concerns.”
“No trouble, sir. Not that.”
“You are most kind. Suffice to say that certain of my origins are obscure even to me. I am
There is a note of concern in the man’s voice which certainly sounds genuine enough and which causes the boy, for the first and, as things would turn out, the last time, to feel something like sympathy for his employer.
“No, Mr Lamert. Thank you, sir. But I believe I recognise the name.”
O UTSIDE ON THE squalid street, beside the steps which lead to something more closely resembling civilisation, stands the man whom the boy had spied earlier that afternoon—saturnine and black-clad though, for all of that, smiling with clear sincerity.
“Charles?”
“Mr Cannonbridge?”
As the boy approaches, the man bends down to the child’s level and extends his hand.
“I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Warily, he takes the offered hand and shakes it. “What do you want with me, sir?”
“Only to talk.”
The boy juts out his chin imperiously. “Then I am to walk home. You may walk with me.”
The man smiles again and seems to be about to speak when another boy, a little older than the first and with a wild crop of red hair, pushes past them and trots spryly up the steps, calling over his shoulder as he goes. “See you tomorrow, Charlie!”
The younger boy replies. “Tomorrow, Bob!”
Cannonbridge looks with gravity at the boy. “Let us walk,” he says.
And walk they do, for the best part of three miles, up the Hungerford Stairs and the maze which lies immediately beyond and then, breaking into the relative sanctity of the Strand, up St Martin’s Lane and Broad St Giles, along Tottenham Court and Hampstead Road, heading, eventually, towards open spaces, to the green of Camden Town.
They talk, a little nervously at first, a little stiffly but then with increasing warmth and honesty. It is a conversation that the boy shall remember for the rest of his life. He will also remember this—that the man, with some regularity, glances behind him and, imagining that his companion does not notice, seeks out reflections of the street in window panes and polished surfaces, as if he believes himself to have been followed. Though he will hug the memory close, on this the boy does not remark.
“I trust you will forgive me,” Cannonbridge begins, “for introducing myself in this way.”
The boy does not reply directly but only asks another question: “Do you know my father, sir?”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Oh. I thought that you might. It is only that...”
“Yes?”
“He has lately proved himself... rather clumsy.” The boy pauses, thinking of the arrest, his mother’s shame, the great and terrible fortress of the Marshalsea. “He would be grateful, I am certain, of a friend.”
“I understand. But I do not believe that I have ever had the pleasure.”
The boy nods glumly, expecting this answer. “You are a writer, sir, are you not?”
“I am. Three works of fiction now. Though I have hopes in the future of applying my talents to the theatre and even to verse.”
They negotiate the streets largely in silence until the boy pipes up. “I think that I should like to be a writer also.”
“Indeed?” Cannonbridge does not sound surprised. “I think that you would be well suited to the life.”
“Thank you, sir. Though I fear at present that I must spend the chief portion of my adult years in paying off my father’s debts.”
“Is he... greatly embarrassed?”
“He is a bankrupt, sir.”
The boy would not, with many others, have been so forthright. In the company of this man, however, he feels curiously able to be frank.
“Our family has much to pay and we all must do our part. That is why they sent me to the factory. So that I might contribute and earn my keep.”
“Charles?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Given all that you’ve said, I don’t wish to trouble you with my own concerns.”
“No trouble, sir. Not that.”
“You are most kind. Suffice to say that certain of my origins are obscure even to me. I am
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