Burning Bright. Tracy Chevalier
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of dilapidated warehouses, flanked by rows of workmen’s cottages. The warehouses were shut today, which added to their menacing atmosphere; normally the bustling action of the work made them more welcoming. Anne Kellaway took her husband’s arm again.
Though Jem and Thomas Kellaway had been down to the Thames to buy wood and have it cut at the timber yards, the female Kellaways had only seen it briefly when they first arrived at Astley’s Amphitheatre, and had not really taken it in. Now they had unwittingly chosen an unimpressive moment in which to get their first good look at the great London river. The tide was out, reducing the water to a thin murky ribbon running through a wide, flat channel of grey silt that reminded Anne Kellaway of an unmade bed. Granted, even in its reduced state it was twenty times bigger than the Piddle, the river that ran alongside the Kellaways’ garden in Piddletrenthide. Despite its small size, though, the Piddle still had the qualities Anne Kellaway looked for in a river – purposeful, relentless, cheerful and cleansing, its sound a constant reminder of the world’s movement.
The Thames was nothing like that. To Anne Kellaway it seemed not a river, but a long intestine that twisted each way out of sight. It did not have clear banks, either. The bed slid up towards the road, awash with pebbles and sludge, and it was easy enough to step straight from the road down into it. Despite the mud, children had done just that, and were running about in the riverbed, some playing, some picking out objects that had been left exposed by the low tide: shoes, bottles, bits of waterlogged wood and cloth, the head of a doll, a broken bowl.
The Kellaways stood and watched. ‘Look how dirty they’re getting,’ Maisie said as if she envied them.
‘Hideous place,’ Anne Kellaway stated.
‘It looks better when the tide’s in, like it were when we first arrived.’ Jem felt he had to defend the river, as if it were the embodiment of London and his family’s decision to move there.
‘Funny it has a tide,’ Maisie said. ‘I know our Piddle runs down to the sea somewhere, but it still always runs the same way. I’d feel topsy-turvy if it changed directions!’
‘Let’s go to the bridge,’ Jem suggested. They began to step more quickly now, past the warehouses and the workmen’s cottages. Some of the workers and their wives and children were sitting out in front of their houses, talking, smoking and singing. Most of them fell silent as the Kellaways passed, except for a man playing a pipe, who played faster. Jem wanted to step up their pace even more, but Maisie slowed down. ‘He’s playing Tom Bowling,’ she said. ‘Listen!’ She smiled at the man; he broke off playing and smiled back.
Anne Kellaway stiffened, then pulled at her daughter’s arm. ‘Come along, Maisie!’
Maisie shook free and stood still in the middle of the road to join in singing the last verse in a high, clear voice:
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life’s crew together,
The word to pipe all hands:
Thus death, who Kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom’s life has doffed,
For though his body’s under hatches,
His soul has gone aloft,
His soul has gone aloft.
She and the pipe player finished together, and there was a small silence. Ann Kellaway stifled a sob. Tommy and Maisie used to sing the song together in beautiful harmony.
‘It be all right, Ma,’ Maisie said. ‘We has to sing it still, for we don’t want to forget Tommy, do we?’ She bobbed at the man and said, ‘Thank’ee, sir. Ar’ernoon.’
On the approach to the bridge, the road curved briefly away from the river and passed the amphitheatre, with its grand pillared entrance where they had first met Philip Astley, and posters plastered on the wall in front announcing ‘SHOW TONIGHT!’ It was only early afternoon and yet people were already milling about. Jem felt in his pocket and curled his hand around the tickets Philip Astley had sent them.
Anne Kellaway had a handbill thrust at her by a man running past calling, ‘Only a shilling and a penny to stand, two shillings tuppence a seat!’ She stared at the crumpled paper, unsure what she was meant to do with it. Smoothing it against her skirt, she turned it over and over before at last starting to make out the words. When she recognised ‘Astley,’ she understood what it was and thrust it at her husband. ‘Oh, take it, take it, I don’t want it!’
Thomas Kellaway fumbled and dropped the paper. It was Maisie who picked it up and brushed the dirt from it, then tucked it into the stays beneath her dress. ‘The show tonight,’ she murmured, sadly to Jem.
He shrugged.
‘Do you have those tickets on you, Jem?’ Anne Kellaway demanded.
Jem jerked his hand from his pocket as if he’d been caught touching himself. ‘Yes, Ma.’
‘I want you to take them to the theatre now and hand them back.’
‘Who’s handin’ back tickets?’ called a voice behind them. Jem looked around. Maggie Butterfield jumped out from the wall she’d been idling behind. ‘What kind of tickets? You don’t want to be handin’ back any tickets. If they’re good you can sell ’em for more’n you bought ’em for. Show ’em to me.’
‘How long have you been following us?’ Jem asked, pleased to see her but wondering too if she had witnessed anything he’d rather she not see.
Maggie grinned and whistled a bit of Tom Bowling. ‘Not half a bad voice you’ve got, Miss Piddle,’ she said to Maisie, who smiled and blushed.
‘Away you go, girl,’ Anne Kellaway ordered. ‘We don’t want you hanging about.’ She glanced around to see if Maggie was on her own. They’d had a visit a few days before from Maggie’s father, trying to sell Thomas Kellaway a load of ebony that he quickly spotted was oak painted black – though he was kind enough to suggest that Dick Butterfield had been hard done by someone else rather than trying to cheat the Kellaways. Anne Kellaway had disliked Dick Butterfield even more than his daughter.
Maggie ignored Jem’s mother. ‘Have you got tickets for tonight, then?’ she asked Jem coolly. ‘Which kind? Not for the gallery, I shouldn’t think. Can’t see her—’ she jerked her head at Anne Kellaway ‘—standin’ with them rascals. Here, show me.’
Jem wondered himself, and couldn’t resist pulling out the tickets to look. ‘“Pit,”’ he read, with Maggie peering over his shoulder.
She nodded at Thomas Kellaway. ‘You must be makin’ lots o’ bum catchers to buy pit seats, and you only a couple o’ weeks in London.’ A rare note of admiration crept into her voice.
‘Oh, we didn’t buy them,’ Maisie said. ‘Mr Astley gave ’em to us!’
Maggie stared. ‘Lord a mercy.’
‘We’re not going to see that rubbish,’ Anne Kellaway said.
‘You can’t give ’em back,’ Maggie declared. ‘Mr Astley’d be insulted. He might even throw you out of his house.’
Anne Kellaway stared; she had clearly not thought of such a consequence from giving back the tickets.
‘Course if you really don’t want to go, you could let me go in your place,’ Maggie continued.
Anne Kellaway narrowed her eyes, but before she could open her mouth to say that she would never allow such an impudent girl to take her place, a deep drumbeat began to sound from somewhere over the river.
‘The parade!’ Maggie exclaimed.