to sit and wait, Otis strode towards her, smiling that restrained half-smile which usually did more to soften the hearts of women than the effusive lace-handkerchief-sweeping charm of so many men trying too hard to please. He knew she despised them anyway, for if it’s one thing a woman with such a disability can cut through with a knife, it’s cant and false flattery.
He kissed her hand. She waved him to sit down opposite her. The double candlestick with its broad flapping flame favoured him, while leaving her in a kinder shadow from which she could scrutinise her visitor without effort.
Meshak settled on the floor with his arms clasped round Jester. The ale had made him sleepy.
‘What about him?’ Mrs Peebles indicated Meshak.
‘No need to trouble yourself. His body’s got bigger, but his brain is still soft as it always was. He won’t say nothing.’
Meshak knew that his father and Mrs Peebles had been doing business together since before he was born. Otis had just been a lad when she spotted him. He was born a wheeler-dealer, already knowing how to make himself useful, dependable and indispensable. She took him on as a boy and liked to think she turned him into a man – the kind of man she could use and control. She liked to gather young men around her – those she felt she could groom and manipulate and trust to get involved in her various enterprises.
‘I hear they’ve given you a new name,’ she said, pouring out some gin from a large earthenware jug.
‘Pots man, charity man – even Mrs P’s man – so? What’s in a name?’ He shrugged.
‘They are calling you a Coram man. What’s that?’
Meshak looked up. How did she know? He himself had only heard it for the first time today by the river.
Otis shrugged.
‘Come on, Otis, don’t play coy with me. What does it mean?’ demanded Mrs Peebles. Her eyes gleamed at him with intense curiosity. ‘What have you been up to that I don’t know about?’
‘Nothing that you don’t know about, Mrs P.’ Otis leant back, still smiling. ‘It’s the same old business: brats. Just another angle. Haven’t you heard of Coram?’
‘I know of a Thomas Coram, the sea captain. I thought he was in America. Came this way sometimes. Didn’t have anything on him though. Clean as a whistle. Do you mean him?’
‘Look, Mrs P,’ said Otis, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘I think I may have hit on something good, something which can benefit us both, if we cooperate.’
‘You have always cooperated with me in the past,’ muttered Mrs Peebles. ‘Are you asking me to cooperate with you?’ She cackled scornfully.
‘Suit yourself. Yes, it is Captain Coram. He’s in London now. Given up seafaring and turned to good works. He’s something of a benefactor!’ There was derision in his tone as Otis said, ‘Wants to save the poor children of England. He’s set up a hospital, an institution for foundlings. But I tell you something, it’s not just the poor children he’s saving but the brats of the rich. Word has spread about the thousands of pounds being poured into his enterprise to feed, clothe and educate bastards – thousands, Mrs P. Money coming from the wealthy to salve their consciences and purchase their respectability. I saw it for myself. I was in London last year. I saw the rich carriages, the fine weeping ladies hiding their faces behind Spanish lace veils, leaving their illegitimate babies in satin-lined baskets with a pouch of gold coins tucked under their pillows. “Otis,” I said to myself, “if there’s not something to be gained in all this for me, I’ll eat my hat.”’
‘So? And have you turned this to your advantage?’ enquired Mrs Peebles softly. ‘Blackmail?’
‘That – and other sidelines.’ He took another swig of gin straight from the jug. ‘You know things develop for themselves if you let them. I’ve been developing my sidelines.’
Mrs Peebles leant forward into the light. ‘Tell me more.’
Meshak’s head lolled as he drifted into sleep. He thought about Captain Thomas Coram, a charity man like his father. Loves little children. His brain filled with images; dreams overwhelmed him. He saw angels and children soaring among the stars, but he was drowning and, as he drowned, he called out, ‘Save me, save me!’ But no one heard him.
Then there came a great galleon with billowing sails, tossed in an ocean of sky and clouds. Meshak could see the outline of a captain at its helm. ‘Save me, save me!’ he yelled, but his voice was lost in a chorus of singing angels and children, their voices mingling with the gulls as he sank down, down beneath the waves.
He awoke suddenly, just when he thought he had drowned. Jester had jumped to his feet, his body taut, his fur raised, his ears pricked, and he whined softly between bared teeth. Meshak looked around. The room was empty, the candle almost out. His father and Mrs Peebles had gone. In the predawn darkness, when most of the city was finally silent, even the people of the night were subdued. The gambling had ceased, the drunkards were asleep, the servants, lackeys, labourers and traders had all surrendered their limbs and brains to the secret world of the unconscious. Only sailors watching for the dawn tide were up, and the nightwatchmen, huddled near fires in between doing their rounds. They could be heard whistling at regular intervals all over the city or calling out the time on the hour to reassure their employers that they were still alert and that all was well.
One of the inn dogs started to bark frantically. It set off the other dogs, including Jester. His fur bristled all along his spine. ‘Hush, boy, hush!’ Meshak clamped a hand over his muzzle. Wide awake now. Keeping his hand over the dog’s mouth, Meshak staggered to his feet. He should check the mules and the wagon. He peered out into the yard. The wind buffeted a lantern hanging from a hook, causing shadows to swing like a ship tossing at sea. Then from an upstairs window he saw another light, a steady flame which lit up the pale face of Mrs Lynch peering out into the night. Meshak thought she would close her window and return to bed, but she didn’t. She seemed to be observing something going on in the lane, which only she could see from upstairs. Curious, Meshak wandered across the yard with Jester padding silently beside him.
He pushed open a door in the wall and stepped into a side lane. In the clouded moonlight, he dimly perceived a small carriage harnessed to a single white horse. He glanced up and saw that Mrs Lynch was watching it too.
The cathedral clock had just tolled four. Someone moved out of the shadows carrying a low light; it was the cloaked figure of a woman. Could it be Mrs Peebles? He edged closer. Certainly it was roughly her height. The carriage door opened and the woman went forward. Meshak couldn’t see who was inside. All he saw by the light of the lantern was a basket being passed out. The hands that gave the basket stayed outstretched – the empty fingers seeming unsure – then, abruptly, they were withdrawn and the carriage door was slammed shut, and Meshak glimpsed the coat of arms of a leaping deer entwined in letters he couldn’t read. The figure turned away with the basket as the carriage moved off swiftly. Meshak pressed himself hard up against the wall, hugging Jester into silence as Mrs Peebles hurried past him. Then the tavern dogs stopped barking and the lane was empty again. The transaction lasted a minute.
Meshak looked up again at the window but it was closed. He tapped his thigh softly, ‘Come on, Jester,’ and went back to finish the night in the stables.
Meshak had been dead asleep when he was woken by a fierce kick.
‘Get up, damn you,’ snarled Otis. He looked red eyed
