Authors: Peter Sirr
Black Wreath (2 page)
J
ames crossed the bridge and made for the archway that gave onto the quay where the ships docked. This was his favourite spot in the city, the place where he felt happiest on his escapes from the gloomy house across the river that he could never think of as home. He dodged a cart bearing a cask of wine and watched as Harry the shoeboy finished polishing a customer’s boots.
‘You here again?’ Harry laughed. ‘Yer shoes need shinin’ again?’
‘Alright then,’ James said, though his boots were still gleaming from the last time Harry did them. The two talked and swapped gossip as the carts trundled around them and loud men went in and out of the taverns and coffee houses. He gave Harry a coin but neither of them looked at it; they just kept up their talk as Harry slipped the invisible coin into his coat.
‘How’s your new mother?’ he asked with a grin. Everybody in the city seemed to know about Miss Deakin. ‘Or should I say Lady Dunmain?’
James flushed hotly. ‘She’s not my mother, and she’s not Lady Dunmain! And well you know it, Harry Taaffe!’
He almost felt like fighting his friend, he was so angry, but James knew Harry meant only to tease him and he let it go. His father might well have married her, even if James didn’t know how this was possible, but to James she would always be a stranger.
‘Something’s going on, Harry,’ he said to his friend. ‘I don’t know what, exactly, but I think they mean me harm.’
Harry looked up sharply. ‘Who means you harm?’
‘My father and that woman, Miss Deakin. It’s something to do with money. I heard them speak about it. They want to get rid of me.’
Harry whistled softly. ‘They can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You can’t just go round getting rid of people. Not even them. I know the rich can do pretty much what they like, but they can’t kill their own. Maybe you heard wrong.’
‘It might not be killing,’ James said. ‘There are other ways to get rid of someone. I think they mean to give me away.’
Harry looked worried, then touched James’s sleeve. ‘I can’t see anyone wanting to give you away. Just let them try. They’ll have Harry Taaffe to worry about.’
James smiled. He always felt better after talking to Harry, even if he didn’t think Harry really understood how serious this was. He went back in his mind to the scene in the cellar.
Had he really understood it properly? The woman’s cold voice still chilled him.
A drunk came crashing out of the Elephant and filled the street with a stream of oaths. James bade his friend farewell and slipped away down the covered arcade they called the piazzas. He wasn’t ready to go home yet. He went into a bookseller’s and browsed the shelves for as long as he could; when he came out, the evening had begun to darken. It was time to go home but he was in no hurry to return, so he took a winding route towards the river again. Boats and water were what he needed. If only he could be on one of those boats on its way back to the sea and off to some great land far from here.
It was late when James entered the house by means of the back lane. Smeadie was sitting at the kitchen table while Mrs Rudge was ladling some mutton stew into a bowl for him. She took another bowl when she saw James and poured some for him too. James ate hungrily.
‘Is my father at home?’
‘Aye,’ Smeadie said. ‘He’s in the drawing room with Miss Deakin …’
‘Lady Dunmain, you mean,’ Mrs Rudge chipped in, a faint smile playing about her lips.
‘Miss Deakin,’ James insisted. He would never grant her that title as long as he lived.
‘How and ever,’ Smeadie said. ‘They’re upstairs.’
James was only half interested. He was tired after his trip around the city and as soon as he had finished eating he went upstairs to his room. He tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t
come. He went back to the scene in the paddock, riding the little pony under his father’s proud eyes. It was a long time ago. He wasn’t even sure what age he was then. But it was real, and even now it gave him hope. He would talk to his father tomorrow …
The next morning Smeadie brought in a bowl of warm water.
‘You’re late this morning, master,’ Smeadie said. ‘It’s almost breakfast time.’
James leapt from the bed, furious that he had overslept. It had taken him so long to get to sleep, he hadn’t been able to wake up early and carry out his plan of getting his father alone. He washed and dressed hastily.
Down on the street the Drogheda coach was setting off on its journey. All the coaches to the north started out from this street, and James often liked to sit and watch the preparations: the luggage being loaded onto the roof of the coach, the people alighting, the horses stamping their feet, and finally the coachman cracking his whip and the horses snorting as the coach clattered over the cobbles and went echoing off towards Drumcondra. He didn’t have much interest in the scene this morning, but as his eyes travelled back towards his own house he saw a knot of people on the pavement outside. Although he couldn’t hear them this high up, they were gesticulating and talking animatedly. They looked angry. James recognised one as his father’s linen merchant; he had seen him in the house before, speaking anxiously to his father. The other men had been in the house before too. James wasn’t sure who they were, but
he could imagine why they were here. Lord Dunmain owed money to half the city, and James had often come home to angry scenes in the hall as his father roared and, by sheer force of character, drove his creditors from the house, oaths raining down on their heads.
Yesterday’s overheard conversation kept flooding into his mind. He thought about leaving the house immediately and not returning until night-time. They might have forgotten their conversation by then, and life would go as before. He could run down to the ships, maybe even board one bound for London or some other far place. He could learn how to be a sailor and spend his life on board a ship, crossing the wide seas and exploring the great places of the world. But he had no sooner entered this world when he heard the breakfast gong and knew it was too late to do anything other than descend the stairs and take his place at the table.
Lord Dunmain and Miss Deakin were already at table when he entered. Smeadie put some smoked fish on his plate, but James could hardly look at it. He drank some tea, just to be doing something and not to draw attention to himself, but it made no difference, since both Lord Dunmain and Miss Deakin were staring hard at him. Miss Deakin sat up stiffly, the light pink of her dress contrasting with her dark expression. She looks like an eagle about to pounce on its prey, James thought. Lord Dunmain was making swift work of his herring while looking silently across at his son. All this silence was making James very nervous. Neither his father nor Miss Deakin were in the habit of saying much to James
at the breakfast table on those occasions when all three were gathered together, which was certainly not every day. But his father could usually be relied on for a grunt or two, while Miss Deakin hardly ever stopped talking, not really to anyone, but just to the world at large.
‘My lady would talk the hind legs off a donkey,’ Mrs Rudge would mutter in the safety of her kitchen.
James could see the bonnet twitching on Miss Deakin’s head, as if her brain was bubbling over with speech desperate to get out, and sure enough her lips soon began working hard. ‘James, your father and I have been thinking about your future.’
James did not even dare to look at her.
‘It’s evident that this house is no place for a boy. Your father is taken up with his many concerns.’
And what were those? James wondered. Drinking, gambling, shouting, cursing? Lord Dunmain continued to eat. The fish was demolished. Now he was well through the beef.
‘I have my own concerns and, much as I may like to, I can’t be looking to the needs of a child …’
‘I’m not a child,’ James found himself blurting out in spite of himself.
‘You’re barely twelve summers,’ Lord Dunmain said, setting aside his fork. ‘That’s child enough for me. And I’d ask you to listen to Lady Dunmain.’
‘My mother is not here.’
Why did he say that? Some things just say themselves. The whole room seemed startled at the affront. Even Smeadie froze
like a statue as he brought another dish to Lord Dunmain.
‘What did you say?’ His father’s voice was thunderous.
Miss Deakin, for James could not call her anything else, was white with anger and seemed temporarily robbed of the ability to speak. But it came back, in a choking, indignant gasp. ‘William, will you let him speak of me so?’
Lord Dunmain rammed the handle of his knife on the table. ‘How dare you dispute the honour of this lady. She is Lady Dunmain, James, and so she will remain. Your late mother does not enter into this.’
She is not my
late
mother, James said silently. He closed his eyes and saw his mother’s face as it was on the day she left, drawn and tear-stained. Then he banished that image and thought of her when they had been alone together, talking softly. Sometimes she would read to him – he held now to the sound of her voice, trying to blot out the unpleasant voices of his father and Miss Deakin.
‘He ought to be whipped,’ Miss Deakin hissed. ‘This is why he cannot stay here,’ she added, as if she was only too glad James had furnished her with a reason to be rid of him.
‘It is in your own best interest that we have decided you should reside under the guardianship of a most excellent gentleman, a relative of your step-mother. His name is Arthur Kavanagh. There is one other thing …’ Lord Dunmain paused and looked at Miss Deakin. James kept his eyes on his father. ‘You will not be James Lovett there; you will be a simple boy and not the son of a lord, is that clear?’
James thought back to the conversation he had overheard.
They wanted him out of the way; they wanted to erase even his name.
‘What of my school? Who will I be in Barnaby Dunn’s?’
There was another pause as his father and Miss Deakin looked at each other again. Eventually Lord Dunmain spoke. ‘There will be no school, for the moment. Later, perhaps, it may be possible to resume your education, but for now …’
He didn’t finish the sentence, but James understood that he was to become someone who didn’t need schooling. He thought of his school, the crowded desks and the stern features of Barnaby Dunn, who was impatient but not unkind. It was peaceful to sit and write at a desk. James loved the feel of the quill and the flow of the black ink across the page, and he loved to look up at the big shelf where Barnaby kept his books, thinking about all the knowledge that was wrapped up in them, waiting to be discovered.
‘What are you dreaming about now, young Lovett?’ Barnaby Dunn would often ask.
He called James to his desk once when he was gathering his books to go home. ‘You’re a clever boy,’ he said. ‘And quick to learn. What do you think you’ll be in life, other than a great lord?’
‘An explorer,’ James said. ‘I want to see everything in the world.’
‘Well,’ Barnaby said, ‘I can see you’ll do great things.’
James felt his eyes stinging at the memory. How could he do great things if he wasn’t allowed to learn? And to be in some other house, with a stranger, and without even his own
name to comfort him – they couldn’t mean it.
‘I don’t understand,’ James said. ‘How can I leave here?’
There was no reply. His father simply stared at him.
Smeadie hovered beside the table, offering more dishes, but Lord Dunmain waved him away and got up. Breakfast was over, and with it all discussion. The decision was made – there would be no appeal.
T
he very fact that James’s departure had been spoken of at breakfast seemed to demand that the plan be put into action at the earliest possible moment. Perhaps Miss Deakin felt that if the business wasn’t concluded speedily, there was a danger that it might be postponed or simply forgotten. In any case, it was she who bustled about making the arrangements. She sent word to her relative and told Smeadie to pack a small bag for James with hardly anything in it but a spare shirt and some stockings. James hoped his new host would have a good supply of linen and extra coats should he need them, but he had no desire to make inquiries of Miss Deakin on the matter.
As soon as his bag was packed, Miss Deakin herself took him in hand and bundled him towards the door as if he were an old carpet.
‘I must speak to my father,’ James said, twisting out of her
grip. ‘I need to speak to Lord Dunmain now,’ he insisted, as if the title might intimidate her. It didn’t. He had to get to his father and straighten out this confusion. His father couldn’t just forget him, after all. He thought of the moments they’d had, when Lord Dunmain wasn’t maddened with drink or pestered by debtors. Then, he would seek James out for a playful wrestling match, or he’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell tall tales from his past. Even if he knew those moments would quickly pass, James loved them, and he knew his father cared for him, whatever anyone else might think.
‘Do you dare defy me, foolish boy?’ Miss Deakin said, pulling him firmly by the arm and slamming the door behind her, leaving James to lift the heavy brass knocker and bring it down repeatedly until the whole street must have heard the racket. But no one answered, and no one came to his aid. If his father heard, he gave no sign.
Once she pulled him away from the door, Miss Deakin flagged a hackney and dragged James into it.
‘Stop fussing, boy,’ she said. ‘It will do no good.’
James sank into his seat and kept his eyes away from her. The hackney clattered away from the house and sped down in the direction of the river. When they got to the busy district near the castle Miss Deakin rapped on the roof with her cane and they descended into the crowd. James looked around desperately as if rescue might lie somewhere in the throng. But all he saw was the hectic life of the street: messengers running up and down with their baskets of groceries, hawkers standing in the middle of the street crying out their wares.
It was not easy to walk this street with its crowds and dirt, and the carriages that came thundering with their drivers shouting at people to get out of the way. Miss Deakin did not seem very comfortable here.
‘Is it far?’ James finally asked.
She didn’t reply but kept on walking. An elderly woman hobbled towards them, carrying a basket of hot cakes.
‘Buy one of me cakes, missus, diddle, diddle dumpling cakes. A cake for the young gentleman, missus. A handsome son indeed.’
Miss Deakin pushed by her impatiently, stung equally by the woman’s brazenness as by her assumption that the boy was her son.
‘Bad cess to you, missus,’ the woman called after her.
Miss Deakin pulled James after her as she strode away. They passed through the narrow exit where the old walled city ended, and suddenly they were in the Liberties. Lying outside the city walls, this part of Dublin was a law unto itself, James had heard, but it was not a place he was familiar with. He was surprised how thronged it was. They came to a market with many stalls selling meat and fruit and greens and, in the middle, a ballad singer in full spate, something about a footpad on his way to the gallows. He was cheered on by a crowd of ragged onlookers. The herring-women were marching up to the throng, their red faces even angrier than usual.
‘Would you buy a herrin’ and not be blockin’ the street listenin’ to that racket?’
Some of those watching directed their attention to Miss
Deakin and James, looking them up and down.
‘Part the Red Sea, lads,’ said one, ‘the quality is passin’ through.’
Miss Deakin hesitated, as if put out by the attention, or as if she wasn’t quite sure of the way. But she managed to push through the stalls, holding tight to James’s arm until they came to a church. She glanced briefly at the facade and, satisfied by whatever she saw there, walked quickly past, more confident now, then turned down the lane at the side of the church. A gate off this lane led in to a little graveyard at the back of the building and this is where she led James.
What are we doing here? James looked around in confusion and fear. Miss Deakin walked among the gravestones, stopped in front of one and began to study it closely.
In memory of Jonathan Digges’s beloved wife
…
Out of nowhere, it seemed to James, as if he might have climbed out of one of the adjacent graves, a man appeared and tapped Miss Deakin on the shoulder. She started, and turned to him. He was a small man in a shabby coat, though his stockings were clean and his shoes were highly polished. Harry would have been proud of them. Maybe Harry had shone them. His wig had seen better days and his hat was grubby. The face beneath the hat and wig was angry and now engaged itself on looking Miss Deakin and James up and down.
‘Master Kavanagh,’ she began, but he waved all introduction aside.
A strange uncle, James thought.
‘Have ye got the money?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Miss Deakin, a trace of irritation showing in her face.
‘Boys are expensive. Always wantin’ food or linen or the devil knows what. And I’m not in a position to be a provider of comfort to gentlemen.’
‘Oh you don’t need to trouble yourself about James,’ Miss Deakin smiled. ‘He needs no special treatment. And less of the gentlemen, if you please.’
The dancing master didn’t reply, but satisfied himself by rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. Miss Deakin reached inside her coat and produced a bulging purse which she handed to Kavanagh. He weighed it in his palm and nodded, then opened it and glanced inside.
‘It’s all there,’ Miss Deakin said.
His tone was obsequious now, ‘Oh I’d never doubt you, ma’am.’
‘Are you really her uncle?’ James couldn’t help asking.
Kavanagh raised his eyebrows and looked at Miss Deakin. ‘Uncle, is it?’ he said, seeming to measure the word in his mind. ‘Uncle indeed. Of course I’m her uncle. And I’ll be yours too now, boy. Come on, we can’t be hangin’ out in graveyards all day, the rector’ll be out after us. I’ll bid you good day so, Miss Deakin. Niece, I should say.’
But Miss Deakin had already turned on her heel and walked off without a word.
‘No!’ James said to her back. Vile as she was, James knew he was watching his home, his father and everything he had known vanish before him. A huge emptiness clutched at him
as he heard the creak of the gate, worse than anything he had felt before.
‘No,’ he said again, more weakly this time. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he would find he had imagined this bleak scene. It would still be morning, and there would still be time to go and talk to his father. He opened his eyes. The gravestones stared back at him.
‘Come on,’ his new master said roughly. ‘Do you think I have all day?’