The 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?’