Crow Boy Page 4

  Lord Kelvin

  President

  There was a long silence and then Missie Grierson pulled the pipe from her lips and spat on the floor, narrowly missing Tom’s feet.

  ‘It’s just as I expected,’ she announced to the room in general. She looked around at the children in the kitchen. ‘Nobody cares about you but me. What’s going to happen to you after I’m gone? That’s anybody’s guess. Still, at least this time it hasn’t cost me a shilling to be told such dismal news.’ She considered for a moment and then asked them, ‘Why have you stopped working? I don’t recall anybody telling you to take a break.’

  The children fell back to their respective chores as though their very lives depended on it and Missie Grierson turned her attention back to Tom.

  ‘Where did you learn to read like that?’ she asked him.

  ‘At school,’ he told her, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ She rubbed her gnarled chin between a plump thumb and forefinger. ‘A rich man’s son, I’m guessing . . . and a Sassenach, judging by your accent. I’ve always maintained that Sassenachs are all . . .’

  ‘Thieves and rascals,’ finished Tom. ‘Yeah, Morag told me. But I’m no thief and I’m not even sure what a rascal is.’

  She seemed amused by this remark. ‘I’d say you fit the description well enough,’ she observed. ‘So what happened to your parents?’

  ‘They . . . they’re a long way away now,’ he said, with what felt like absolute truthfulness. ‘My dad is back in Manchester and my Mum . . . well, she’s in a different place altogether.’

  Missie Grierson clearly misunderstood the last part. A sad look came to her grizzled face. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘Wherever she is, I’m sure the angels are with her.’

  Not in Fairmilehead, thought Tom, but he said nothing.

  ‘And there’s no way you can get back to your father?’

  Tom shook his head. If things didn’t go back to the way they were before the fall, he wouldn’t be seeing any familiar faces.

  ‘Well, I’ll admit that having somebody who can read letters would be handy enough,’ admitted Missie Grierson. ‘But the need doesn’t arise that often. And look around you, laddie; I already have three mouths to feed and it doesn’t get any easier.’

  ‘Couldn’t he take wee Davey’s place?’ asked Morag.

  There was a deep silence after this was said. Tom glanced nervously around the room to see that the other children had stopped working and bowed their heads as though disturbed by the very mention of the boy’s name.

  ‘Who’s wee Davey?’ he asked.

  ‘Ach, he was just a boy who was here before,’ said Morag. She sounded evasive. ‘We all loved wee Davey. He made us laugh.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He . . . well, he died.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tom frowned. ‘Was it the plague?’ he asked.

  ‘No it was not!’ snapped Missie Grierson, leaning forward to glare at him. ‘It was the consumption, everyone knows that. We’ve no plague here.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘Oh aye, there’s plague in the Close, sure enough; you’ll see the white sheets hanging in the windows and some of them not so very far from here. But with wee Davey it was the consumption, and don’t you be telling anyone any different, d’you hear me?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Sure, I was only . . .’

  ‘The thing about wee Davey, as you’ll have guessed by his name, he was only small but he was strong too. He could carry sacks full of potatoes without breaking a sweat. Could you do that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tom. ‘I suppose I could. I’ve never really had much call to do it. Tesco always delivered ours.’

  ‘Tess who?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Tom. He reminded himself that he really should think before he opened his big mouth. ‘I’m pretty strong,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘I played rugby at my last school.’ He saw the blank look on her face and corrected himself. ‘I played sports!’ He bunched his hands into fists and lifted his arms, strongman style. ‘Check them out,’ he offered.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Missie Grierson puffed on her pipe a bit more and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I suppose we can try you out, see if you measure up. But let me warn you, any slacking and you’ll be out on your backside; there’s no room for that sort here. We all pitch in, isn’t that right, children?’

  ‘Aye!’ came back the reply, as though they’d rehearsed it.

  ‘So, do you think you could fit in with us?’ asked Missie Grierson.

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ said Tom.

  Morag couldn’t seem to stop smiling. ‘Shall I show him where he’ll be sleeping?’ she asked.

  ‘No you will not! The very idea!’ Missie Grierson crooked a finger at the red-headed boy. ‘Cameron, you take a break from that peeling and let Morag earn her supper for a change. Then you take Tom upstairs and show him his bed.’ She looked at Tom. ‘Where are your bags?’ she asked him.

  ‘I haven’t got any,’ he told her.

  ‘Oh, come along now, you must have a knapsack or something? A cloth bundle, maybe. Everybody has to carry something with them.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I . . . left in kind of a hurry,’ he said.

  She gave him a suspicious look. ‘Oh, hang on a minute. You’re no’ in trouble with the constables, are ye?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he assured her. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘I hope not, because if I find out that there’s something you haven’t told me, there will be trouble, of that I can promise you.’

  Tom ran it through in his mind. Well, actually, Missie G. there is something I haven’t mentioned. You see, I’m from the 21st century and I’ve ended up here and I’ve no idea how it happened or how I’m ever going to get back . . .

  But she was already gesturing to him to get moving, so he followed the lanky red-headed lad towards the door through which he had first entered the kitchen. Behind him, he heard Missie Grierson giving orders again.

  ‘Right, you lot, that’s enough standing around for one day, get to work! Morag, put down that basket, stop gawping like a fish out of water and start peeling those tatties. I don’t know about you lot, but I am starving!’

  Her words were the last thing he heard as the door closed behind him and he followed the boy called Cameron along the entrance hall and up a dark and rickety staircase.

  Five

  Cameron led Tom up seven flights of stairs. At each landing, the stairs angled back on themselves to rise to the next floor and it was apparent that other people were living up on these levels. Tom could hear the sounds of conversation coming from open doorways and, on one level, he caught the smell of pipe tobacco. On the fourth floor, a fat man in a long, curly wig came out of a doorway and nodded to Cameron.

  ‘You, boy,’ he said. ‘I need the services of a pot clenger.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Selkirk. I’ll be right on to it in a moment,’ Cameron assured him. ‘I just have to show Tom his sleeping quarters first.’

  The man studied Tom for a moment. ‘New boy, eh?’ he said.

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Well, make sure you work hard and keep your fingers out of other folks’ belongings and you and I will get along fine.’ He smiled and strolled back along the landing. Cameron led the way upwards again.

  Tom gave Cameron a quizzical look.

  ‘Who’s he?’ he asked.

  ‘Just one of the neighbours,’ said Cameron, as though it was of no importance.

  ‘And what did he mean, he needs a pot . . .?’

  ‘Clenger. He means he wants me to empty his chamber pot.’

  Tom stared at him. ‘And you . . . you don’t mind doing that?’ he asked, horrified.

  ‘Mind it? Of course not. He’ll pay me a penny for my trouble.’ Cameron nodded towards the next flight of stairs. ‘We sleep up top,’ he said.

  Eventually they came to a
small, dingy room under the cobweb-festooned eaves of the house. It was empty, save for a rough-looking bed. Tom gazed at it doubtfully. The bedding looked grubby and verminous, not what he was used to at all – but, he told himself, at least there weren’t any Hibernian posters blu-tacked onto the rough-plastered walls.

  ‘That’s where you’ll sleep,’ said Cameron. His accent was thicker and more impenetrable than Morag’s. He had a long thin face and bright blue eyes. Scatterings of brown freckles were smeared across the bridge of his nose.

  ‘You don’t snore, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom.

  ‘Good. Wee Davey used to snore something terrible. I’d lie there some nights thinking I’d never get to sleep.’

  ‘Is that why you killed him?’ It had been meant as a joke but Cameron didn’t seem to see the funny side of it.

  ‘I never killed nobody,’ he protested. ‘And don’t you go saying that I did!’

  ‘Hey, chill,’ Tom advised him. ‘It was just a joke.’

  ‘A joke, is it? I don’t think it’s very funny.’

  ‘Er . . . all right, sorry.’ Tom looked hopefully around the room. ‘So . . . where’s your bed?’ he asked.

  Cameron pointed. ‘There,’ he said.

  Tom stared for a moment. ‘But . . . you just said that one’s mine.’

  Cameron rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, that’s where we both sleep. Why d’you think I asked if you snore?’

  Tom was horrified. ‘We sleep in the same bed? But I counted three of you down in the kitchen . . .’

  ‘The girls have their own room,’ said Cameron, looking appalled. ‘We sleep up here.’

  ‘Well, I don’t much care for that idea,’ said Tom. ‘I’m used to having my own space.’

  ‘Lucky old you,’ said Cameron. ‘But beggars can’t be choosers, can they?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ admitted Tom. He went over to the bed and sat down gingerly on the grimy covers. ‘So, what’s the deal here?’ he asked. ‘I mean, how does it work with Missie Grierson and everything?’

  Cameron turned to look at Tom. ‘She feeds us and gives us a roof over our heads. In return, we work for her.’ He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘She takes in laundry and we help to wash it. We do odd jobs for the neighbours, emptying chamber pots, fetching and carrying, whatever earns a penny.’

  ‘And you’re all orphans, right?’

  Cameron nodded. ‘Aye.’ He came and sat on the other side of the bed. ‘Did I hear you right just now? Your father is still alive in England?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah. At least, I think so.’

  ‘So why don’t you just make your way back to him?’

  ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ Tom assured him.

  ‘Let me tell you, if my Ma or Da were still alive, I’d get to them no matter what it took,’ said Cameron scornfully.

  ‘Yeah? Well, respect to that. But you don’t understand. It’s more complicated than you think.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, OK, since you ask . . .’ Tom took a deep breath. ‘I’m actually from the 21st century . . . that’s like about five hundred years from now. I came to visit the Close with a bunch of other kids from my school, but it wasn’t like it is now; it was sort of the remains of it, all buried under these new buildings, the way it’s going to look in five hundred years’ time.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Cameron. His face was expressionless.

  ‘And I saw Morag there, but not like she really is; she was sort of all flickery and that, like an old movie?’ He thought for a moment, realising that this wouldn’t mean anything to Cameron. ‘Like a ghost, you know? And I thought she was this other girl, Annie, that was supposed to have died here, so I followed her into this room where I wasn’t supposed to go and the floor gave way under me and when I woke up, I . . .’ Tom’s voice trailed away.

  Cameron was just sitting there, looking blankly back at him. It wasn’t that he was thinking Tom was a nutcase or anything, it was just that what he had heard meant absolutely nothing to him. Tom might as well have been talking in Chinese.

  There was a long silence then Cameron stood up and said, ‘Well, I’ve shown ye the bed. I’d better get down and see to Mr Selkirk’s chamber pot, before he gives that penny to somebody else. I wouldn’t hang around up here too long if I was you, because Missie Grierson will have work for you too. There’s always work.’

  And, with that, he turned away and went back down the stairs.

  ‘Great,’ muttered Tom. ‘Now I’ve got a job.’ He sat and stared resentfully after Cameron for several minutes, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do now. He looked around the grubby room and then announced aloud, ‘If you want to put everything back the way it was, that’s all right with me.’ He had no idea who he was supposed to be talking to, but whoever it was didn’t bother to give any kind of answer. ‘This is nuts,’ he said and, just in case there should be any doubt, he said it again for good measure. ‘This is NUTS!’

  A thought occurred to him and he reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out his mobile. He pressed the ‘on’ button and looked hopefully at the screen but he wasn’t really surprised to see a ‘No service’ message. He could hardly have hoped to find anything resembling a phone signal in the seventeenth century when he sometimes had enough trouble getting one in the twenty-first.

  He sighed and turned out his pockets. He found a crumpled five pound note, which he’d been given in order to buy some lunch, a few assorted coins, a key to his parents’ house in Manchester (Hamish hadn’t gotten around to giving him a key for the house in Fairmilehead yet), a grubby paper tissue, and a cardboard box containing two blister packs of antibiotic pills. He’d forgotten he had them; they’d been prescribed months ago for a suspected ear infection, which had cleared up the moment he’d started taking them, so only two pills were missing. They’d been in his pocket ever since. Typically, Mum hadn’t even bothered to check the pockets when she’d sewn the new school badge on. He put them down with the other things and stared at them dismally, telling himself that this was all he had left in the world and none of it was any use to him – he wouldn’t even be able to spend the money. He gave a grunt of disgust and crammed the items back into his pocket.

  Just then, his attention was caught by a sudden scuffling noise in the far corner of the room. He turned his head to look and was horrified to see a sleek grey shape scuttling along the base of the wall. A rat, bigger than he could ever have imagined. He suppressed a shudder and got quickly up from the bed. He’d never been fond of rats, even though his experience of them had mostly been confined to films he’d seen and horror stories he’d read. This one was for real and, frankly, way too close for comfort. Without hesitation, he hurried across the room to the staircase and went down, three steps at a time.

  Six

  In the kitchen, Missie Grierson was still issuing instructions to her orphan workforce. When Tom came in, she studied him doubtfully.

  ‘Settled in, are ye?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not really,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got rats up there.’

  This remark seemed to puzzle her. ‘So?’ she murmured.

  ‘Well, I’m not being funny, but . . . that’s not right, is it? Rats . . . in a bedroom. That’s mingin’.’

  Now she took her pipe from her mouth and gave an odd snickering laugh.

  ‘And how would you propose I keep them out?’ she asked. ‘Send them a strongly worded letter? Rats is rats, son. They go wherever they’ve a mind to.’

  ‘Yeah, but you need to get rid of ‘em! What about all the plague that’s around the Close? Don’t you know that rats spread it?’

  Now she looked quite bewildered and Tom realised why. Seventeenth-century people would have had no idea about the causes of bubonic plague. What was it that Agnes Chambers had told the class? They believed it was spread by a miasma – bad air – which was why Doctor Rae always wore that mask, the beak of which was stuffed with flowers and herbs.<
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  ‘I never heard tell of such a thing,’ said Missie Grierson. ‘Rats are everywhere. If they spread the plague, then the good Lord help us all.’

  ‘It’s not just the rats,’ Tom assured her. ‘It’s the fleas, too.’

  ‘The fleas?’

  ‘Yes. The fleas feed on the rats and then they bite the people and . . .’ He broke off at the sounds of laughter from behind him and he saw that Morag and Alison were chuckling as though he’d just told a joke. ‘It’s not funny,’ he protested. ‘It’s what really happens. It’s how plague is caused.’

  ‘The fleas bite the rats!’ sang Alison.

  ‘The rats bite the people!’ joined in Morag.

  ‘We all fall down!’ added Alison.

  Tom glared at them and their laughter faded away.

  ‘I’m being deadly serious,’ he told them. ‘It’s not meant to be funny.’

  Missie Grierson seemed to dismiss the matter. ‘I’ve no doubt there’s lots of strange ideas being bandied about across the border,’ she said. ‘And who am I to say that there isn’t something in it? But like I say, rats is rats; you’ll no’ keep them out of anywhere they want to go and that’s a fact.’

  The door swung open and Cameron entered, carrying a full chamber pot from which issued an unbelievable stench.

  ‘Auld Mr Selkirk’s been eating cheese again,’ he announced and Morag and Alison groaned, as though this were a regular occurrence.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ Tom asked in disbelief as Cameron hurried past.

  The boy gave him a scornful look. ‘What do you suppose I’m going to do with it?’ he smirked. ‘I’m going to take it outside and beat it to death with a stick.’

  ‘You will wash your hands after you’ve finished, won’t you?’ Tom called after him.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ muttered Cameron, as he passed through another door.

  Tom turned to look at Missie Grierson. ‘You must make him wash his hands,’ he told her. He gestured around at the other kids. ‘All of them. If they handle . . . poo, they’ve got to scrub their hands with soap and hot water.’