‘You’ve just got back in time for bad weather,’ Will said, as he handed his grandmother out of her carriage outside the Easter headquarters. The sky above the Strand was the colour of blue ink and seemed to be pressing down upon the buildings as though the air were weighted.
‘I shouldn’t be a bit surprised,’ Nan said, walking briskly into the building. ‘It’s been snowing in the north. When that lot starts a-falling we shall know about it.’
It started a-falling at three o’clock in the afternoon, and by then a strong wind was gusting, so the first downpour was hurled sideways into the open doorway of A. Easter and Sons and blown underneath the tarpaulins that covered the exposed joists in the new extension.
John and Nan were inspecting the site. The first floor of the building, where they now stood, had been completely gutted, with all the inner walls removed and the central stairway left as a perilous ladder. A hoist had been fitted on the floor above them, and a large hole, which would eventually become a double loading door, had been made in the wall overlooking the courtyard. Most of the labourers were on the ground floor converting the rooms to offices, and the foreman was nowhere to be seen, having taken himself off through the back door the minute he heard Nan’s voice.
‘Off to buy wood at four o’clock in the afternoon? That’s a likely story!’ Nan was complaining, when the sudden shower swooshed through the loose tarpaulins that were supposed to be covering the hole. She was drenched from shoulder to thigh.
‘There you see!’ she said, shaking her skirts. ‘That should never have happened. Shoddy workmanship, that’s what that is. Oh, I shall have something to say to that foreman when he gets back.’
‘You must get into dry clothes, Mama,’ John said anxiously. ‘You are soaked to the skin.’
‘Tosh!’ she said. ‘I en’t a baby. Bit of rainwater never hurt nobody.’
He gave her his wry grin. ‘And here you’ve been telling me all about poor Mr Brougham and how ill he’s been with the congestion of his lungs, and what caused that if it wasn’t the damp?’
‘I’m made of tougher stuff,’ she said. But she was wet. There was no denying it. Wet and beginning to feel cold in consequence. So she allowed herself to be persuaded and went back to her office to change into the clean clothes she kept there for emergencies.
She was sitting at her desk afterwards, feeling a great deal warmer and checking through the order books, when Will arrived with a pot of tea and a dish of fancy cakes.
‘Papa thought you might need sustenance,’ he said. The gale was still blowing, roaring so loudly outside her window that she could hardly hear what he was saying.
There were two cups set on the tray, so he obviously wanted to be asked to join her. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said, beckoning him towards her.
‘What weather,’ he said, as she poured the tea. ‘I’ve just been down to the Isle of Dogs. You should see the tide that’s running. They’ve been trying to tie all the colliers to their moorings there, tiers and tiers of them. I’ve never seen them all tied up before. There must have been about eighty of them along the Mill Wall. They were like an armada. I’m going back again presently. I think there’s a story in it.’
‘You still write then?’ she said, sipping the hot tea.
‘Now and then,’ he admitted, ‘just to keep my hand in.’
‘Is this a commission?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Who is it for?’
‘Well actually,’ he said, in that deliberately casual way that showed how very important it was, ‘it’s a commission for Mr Dickens.’
‘The same,’ he said. But then his casual facade was breached by excitement. ‘He’s offered me a job, Nan. On his new paper. He’s been planning it for months and now it’s all set. The first issue will be out in January. He’ll be advertising in the trade in two weeks’ time.’
‘Does your father know?’
‘Not yet. I thought I would tell you first. See what you think.’
‘Curry support eh, you rogue?’ she laughed at him.
‘Something of that.’
‘Is the pay good?’
‘Phenomenal. Almost as much as you pay me here.’
‘Then it is good,’ she said, laughing again. ‘Very well. I’ll plead for ‘ee. Tomorrow perhaps, when Billy and your father come to dine with us. ‘Tis time you went back to your true love, my dear. You’ve played fair by us all these years. You’ve earned your reward.’
He stood up and rushed round her little fireside table to kiss her. ‘You’re a brick, Nan,’ he said.
‘Quite possibly,’ she agreed. ‘Now run off, there’s a dear boy. I’ve work to do.’
‘And I may go back to the river later?’
‘If your father can spare you.’
In the event Will didn’t have to ask for permission, because John Easter was sparing everybody. By five o’clock the gale was so bad it was blowing tiles from the roofs, and two of the Easter delivery vans, which were being chocked into position beside the warehouse gates ready for the morning, were blown right over and with such force that one of them had its side caved in.
John heard the crash and came out at once, lantern in hand to inspect the damage. He’d been so busy that until that moment he hadn’t noticed how bad the storm was. It was like stepping onto the deck of a ship far out at sea. The darkness was so intense that his lantern was virtually useless; the rain whipped like a lash and the gale roared upon him with such ferocity that it was all he could do to stay on his feet.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the storm he became aware that the street was full of struggling figures, some hump-backed with effort, trying to heave the two carts back onto their wheels; some holding the heads of the terrified horses; some too buffeted to move in any direction at all; and two staggering after a tumbling shape that turned out to be the apron of a hansom cab which was being blown along the street cracking like a sail. Why, it’s a hurricane, he thought. I must take action.
‘Leave the carts!’ he yelled. ‘See to the horses. Where’s Mr Mellor?’
Mr Mellor surged towards him, clutching his hat and with his greatcoat flapping his legs. ‘Sir?’
‘Get those horses back to the stables,’ John ordered. ‘They shouldn’t be on the streets. Not in that state. No more carts, tell Joe. And fetch Mrs Easter’s carriage. With the cobs. They’re steady.’
‘Sir!’ Mr Mellor agreed, struggling back to the horses.
Mama must go straight home, John planned as the rain needled his face. I shall have to persuade her. The shutters must go up directly or the gale will blow the windows out. I’ll shut the shop and send all the men home except the night porter. There’s no sense in staying open in weather like this. There’ll be no more business done until the morning. His mind was working like clockwork, checking off chores. Those tarpaulins must be made safe or the extension will be flooded. He was still thinking hard as he pushed his way back into the building.
When Will approached him for permission to leave the premises, he gave it at once almost without thought. ‘Be careful how you go,’ he said. ‘The wind is uncommon strong. Is Mama still in her office?’
She was, and to his great relief she agreed that the shop should be shut and that she would go home as soon as her carriage arrived. ‘It’s a foul night,’ she said. ‘We’d all be a deal better at home in the warm. Where shall you dine?’
Dinner was a long way from his thoughts. ‘At home I daresay,’ he said vaguely.
‘Shall I wait for ‘ee? Would ‘ee care to dine with me?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot to attend to. I could be late. Thank you all the same, Mama. I’ll dine at home.’
‘As you wish,’ she said, kissing him. Her fire was giving no heat at all. It would be good to be home beside a real blaze. ‘Good night, my dear. I shall see you in the morning.’
Over in Clerkenwell Green, Jimmy and Matty were glad to be back in the warm too. They had been to evensong, of course, gale or no, and the short walk back to the rectory had been so difficult they’d arrived home wet to the skin.
Caroline was at the drawing-room window, watching for Henry.
‘He may not come,’ Euphemia warned. ‘It’s a terrible night.’
The green was completely empty. There was no sign of any of the usual street sellers; the inhabitants were all indoors and even the sheep, who usually cropped the grass all year round whatever the weather, had been rounded up and herded into the barn. And since the night when he kicked the tree, Henry had only appeared in the green once or twice a week, although Caroline looked out for him every single evening, just in case.
‘If he stays at home tonight it will be jolly sensible of him,’ she said, as the wind hurled rain against the window. ‘It wouldn’t do to go catching the pneumonia.’
‘I feel so sorry for our poor children on a night like this,’ Euphemia said, adjusting the lamp on the side-table. ‘What they must be suffering, in those awful rooms of theirs, with no food and no fires. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Then don’t think about it,’ Caroline advised practically. ‘I’m ready for dinner, aren’t you? Doesn’t it smell good?’
‘Do you think Will will dine with us again soon?’ Euphemia said as they left the room.
‘How you must miss him,’ Caroline said, torn with sudden sympathy for her cousin. At least she saw her Henry every week at some time or another but Pheemy had to wait ages to see Will, and all through no fault of her own. ‘You are very dear to stay here with me the way you do! We will tease Matty to ask him to dinner tomorrow.’
‘I wonder where he is now,’ Euphemia said wistfully.
* * *
He was striding down Fleet Street, head down, feet determined, storm lantern in hand. The wind was howling up all the narrow alleys that led like canyons down to the Thames, and even at this distance he could hear the crash of waves and a hideous grinding noise like trees being felled. It was extremely difficult to make progress for the gale stopped his breath and hurled him sideways against the walls, but at last he emerged at the water side. He was thrilled and horrified by what he saw. Oh, there was a story here and no mistake.
The river looked like a rough sea, with huge waves thudding together in the darkness and crashing against the bank so that spray spat high in the air against the warehouse walls. But what was worse and more drastic, the ships that he’d last seen lying at anchor with their holds well battened down, were now being tossed about in the middle of the river as helpless as corks. It was impossible to estimate how many there were for they were thrown above the waves one minute and lost to sight the next, but there must have been at least twenty in the short stretch of river above Blackfriars Bridge.
Beneath the cliff face of the warehouse, a group of men in oilskins and sou’westers were sheltering together watching the destruction. They had hung their lanterns on the wall behind them, where they swung frantically to and fro, their little intermittent light making the oilskins gleam like fish and spiking the heaving water with eerie darts of fire.
‘A bad night,’ Will shouted to the watchers as he stumbled towards them.
‘Never known nothink like it,’ one man replied, making room for him on the doorstep. His face was shining wet in the lamplight. ‘Thirty years I been a waterman. Never known nothink like it. My boat’s stove in.’
‘’Undreds a’ boats sunk,’ another man shouted. ‘’Undreds! Gravesend steamer’s gone aground, so they say. Hit a fishin’ smack, be all accounts. Crew run ’er ashore. An’ there’s scores a’ coal barges gone down be London Bridge.’
Will could well believe it, for now he could see that there was a large cargo ship wallowing in the middle of the river with its top mast broken off and its stern completely caved in.
‘Never seen the like,’ the waterman mourned.
Will hung his lantern with the others, and pressed well back against the door. The pull of the churning water looked very strong. Even in the doorway they were in real danger of being sucked into the river.
‘Are we …?’ he was beginning.
But the watermen were groaning. ‘My dear Lord! Look at that, sir!’
A barge, piled six feet high with long planks, was being lurched towards the second arch of the bridge. They watched as the river heaved it nearer and nearer, tossed it almost vertically into the air and finally hurled it against the stonework. The impact was so savage it could be heard above the scream of the wind.
Will blinked the moisture out of his eyes, excited and appalled to see how easily such a sturdy boat could be destroyed. The tide was beating over the sides of it, washing away the planks as though they were no weightier than match-sticks. We don’t stand much chance against the elements, he thought, for all our new inventions. A tide like this could demolish a steam train. And what with the thought and the danger and the penetrating cold, he began to shiver.
There were two dark figures on the bridge, waving and beckoning to them. They looked squat and bulky, even for men in oilskins but their signal was unmistakable.
‘All hands!’ one of the watermen called to his mates, but they’d taken their lanterns already and were trudging off towards the bridge, slithering in the river mud, and leaping back from the impact of the waves, with Will sliding after them.
‘What’s up?’ their leader called as they reached the road.
‘Horse and rider gone in.’
On the other side of the bridge the Thames looked as though it was boiling. There was so much foam on the water and so much spray in the air that it was several minutes before Will caught sight of the horse, flailing wildly, about three yards off shore, and being carried along at an alarming speed with his rider clinging to his neck, despite a rope that seemed to be tangled about their bodies and spread whitely out across the black water to where four men struggled to hold it.
A second rope was uncoiled and hurled, and a white hand grabbed into the air for it, missed and disappeared under the waves. It was hauled ashore and flung out again. And missed again. But the third throw was successful. The hand grabbed, scrabbled, clung, struggled, looping the rope above the horse’s head, as the tide carried them both several yards further on with their rescuers dodging along the shore to keep up with them.
Then there was a faint bubbling shout, as the first rope was secured and at that Will and the watermen took a stand, as close to the warehouse walls as they could get, and began to heave upon the second rope, working as a team, as though they were playing tug o’ war. Will was the fourth man behind the leader and pulled with the best, but it was a long exhausting struggle, and a terrifying one, for the waves broke over them as they hauled and they all knew how horribly easy it would be for them to be dragged off their feet into the river.
But at last their rope suddenly grew slack and they were handing it in almost freely. And the horse was scrambling onto the bank with his rider still clinging to his mane.
Then there was a roar of relief, and one of the watermen went running off to fetch a rug and two penn’orth of gin, and the horse shook and trembled, and the rider tried to tell them his name and address and couldn’t do either because his teeth were chattering so violently. And Will found he was covered in mud and so tired that he had to lean against the warehouse wall for a few seconds to recover.
I’ve got myself a story now and no mistake, he thought.
‘Come along, sir, if you please,’ one of the watermen said close to his ear. ‘Best get out of here sharpish. That tide’s rising by the second.’
They were already leading the horse into the alley behind the warehouse. ‘There’s an alehouse in the Strand,’ the waterman said. ‘Jest a few yards, sir.’
Back in the Easter headquarters, John and the night porter were checking the shutters and damping down the remaining fires. It was very cold in the empty building and the reverberation of the wind was like thunder.
‘You’ll be glad to get home, I shouldn’t wonder,’ the porter said.
‘Yes,’ John admitted, ‘I shall.’
But his long day wasn’t over yet. As he and the porter walked wearily downstairs to the ground floor, there was a crash from the new warehouse next door.
Despite his fatigue John reacted automatically, taking the keys from the hook in the porter’s lodge as the echoes of the crash merged with the howl of the gale, putting on his greatcoat and his hat and muffler as the rain drummed against the window, taking the lantern the porter had lit for him and walking out calmly into the tempest and the crowd that was rapidly gathering outside the door.
He was surrounded by people eager to tell him what had happened. ‘That’s the chimbley gorn, guvnor.’ ‘Half the house more like.’ ‘Tiles, that’s what that was.’ But they made way for him, awed by his calm and the gentle determination of his gait.
‘If you would please stand back,’ he begged, speaking loudly and clearly to be heard above the wind. ‘The structure could be dangerous, I think. I would not wish any of you to be hurt.’
They stood back respectfully while he wrestled with a combination of stiff lock and flapping greatcoat. Two of his carters were among the crowd and when the door was opened they shoved forward to offer their help.
‘Joe, is it?’ John said, peering through the rain at him.
‘Yes, sir, Me an’ Charlie.’
‘I thought I’d sent you home.’
‘Stopped fer supper, Mr Easter sir. D’you need any help?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It is better that I go in alone.’ And giving them his wry smile in that howling darkness, ‘You never know what I might find. I will leave the door ajar and call you if I need you.’
The ground floor was the same as it had been when he had left it that afternoon, but when he lifted the lantern he could see a dust-cloud swirling across the top of the stairs. There’s masonry down somewhere then, he thought, climbing carefully. That won’t please Mama.
At first sight the floor seemed to be covered with bricks. He stepped gingerly across them to investigate. Was it the chimney? But he couldn’t see for all the dust, which was trailing across the light of his lantern red as hell-fire. There was something hateful about this place, something menacing. The tarpaulin was flogging like a cat-o’-nine-tails, and the scream of the wind was the agony of a creature trapped.
‘Come now,’ he said aloud. ‘You have work to do.’ And he tried to shake these morbid imaginings from his brain, deliberately conjuring up images of his dear, dead Harriet, so as to comfort himself, Harriet cool as a lily in the portrait he knew so well, sitting in the garden at Rattlesden, primer in hand, with the children grouped about her, striding through the field of Peterloo, dishevelled and brave and blood-stained, tripping towards him on their wedding day, like a spring flower in her yellow gown and her green stockings, that pale face glowing, his own and only dearest.
There was a sharp cracking sound above his head, like a pistol shot. He dragged his mind back from his dreams and glanced up, raising the lantern. And the ceiling was falling towards him in horrible slow motion.
That second roaring crash made the crowd jump with alarm. ‘Now what?’ they said to one another.
‘I reckon we oughter go in,’Joe said.
But Charlie thought they ought to wait for Mr Easter to come out again.
‘I’m off home,’ another man said, moving away as well as he could for the force of the wind. ‘We shall have the whole damn kit and caboodle down round our ears, you ask me.’
‘Here’s Mr Will,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll know what ter do.’
Mr Will’s decision was as quick as his father’s had been. ‘We’ll go in and see,’ he said to the carters. ‘Will someone lend me a lantern? I’ve left mine down by the river.’ And when one was produced, ‘Follow me.’
The hall was so full of dust that for a few seconds none of them could see anything else. Then Will realized that it was all billowing down upon them from the upper floor and he leapt up the stairs two at a time, with the carters running behind him.
The place was full of bricks and mortar, huge dust-steaming piles, like rubbish dumps, the ceiling was gone and so was the tarpaulin and the wind was howling and screaming through the hole in the wall. There was no sign of his father.
‘Shall I go up ter the next floor, sir?’ Joe asked.
‘There’s no floor left,’ Will said, stepping round the nearest pile of rubble, his heart thudding with the most terrible alarm. Where was Papa? He must be here somewhere. ‘Papa! Papa!’ Answer me, for the love of God!
There was something soft and squashy underneath his foot. Something soft and squashy. Dear God! He recoiled from it, swinging the lantern so that he could see what it was. Wanting to know. But dreading it too. And it was a hand. Streaked with dirt and blood. A hand!
‘Over here!’ he yelled, tearing at the rubble with both hands. ‘He’s under here. Quick! Quick! Get the others Joe. Send for a doctor. Oh, quick! Quick! We must get him out.’
Charlie’s hands swung into the lantern light, clawing frantically. There were feet on the stairs, voices shouting, somebody with a spade. ‘Oh take care, for pity’s sake!’ Long, long minutes of appalled effort, dust everywhere, choking them all, somebody spitting and coughing. And finally, inexorably, terribly, shatteringly, the body was revealed.
The doctor was elbowing his way through the rescuers. But there was no need of a doctor now, for John Easter was dead.