And the Rest Is History(30)

‘You didn’t find Ronan then. Wasn’t he still there?’

‘We don’t know. And there was no time to look for him. You saw the state Matthew was in. We had to bring him straight back. Max…’ He stopped, unable to go on.

I said, ‘I understand, Leon. You did exactly the right thing,’ and rubbed his arm.

‘As soon as they’ve had a breather, Ellis and his team, and probably Guthrie and Grey are going back to find Ronan.’

I nodded, still rubbing his arm.

‘Max, I’m sorry. Please believe we did everything we could to catch him as soon as possible. We’d chased them day and night. I’d done what I could to keep the pods aligned. I worked non-stop, and every day they were even more jumps ahead of us.

‘Leon, I understand.’

‘It was a calculated gamble. To jump ahead to a place where we knew he’d definitely be. And then, when we got there, he was eight years old.’

My heart sank. ‘Eight? He’s eight years old? I thought he was about five or six. Why is he so small?’

He shook his head. ‘Well, malnutrition, of course. I don’t think he’s had a decent meal in his entire life. And let’s face it, his parents aren’t that tall. The doctor thinks he’s about seven or eight years old.’

I couldn’t believe it, saying stupidly, ‘Matthew is eight?’

‘Probably. There’s another thing, Max…’

‘What?’

He took my hands. ‘That’s not his name any longer.’

I was bewildered. ‘What isn’t his name?’

‘Matthew. He was just a baby when he was taken. If he ever knew that name, he’s long since forgotten it. He’s never known his name was Matthew.’

It was all too much to take in. Just one hammer blow after another.

I said, ‘What’s his name now?’ and my voice wasn’t steady. That bastard Ronan had not only stolen him, but he’d stolen his identity too.

‘He doesn’t have one. As far as I can see, Ronan has been jumping around with him, selling him, returning a year later to steal him back, and then selling him on again. Some of his owners didn’t bother to give him a name. Scrope called him Joseph. He doesn’t respond to it. He doesn’t respond to anything very much.’

I remembered his silent watchfulness. With closed throat I said, ‘Can he talk?’

‘A little. I think he understands more than he shows, but over the years he’s learned it’s safer to keep quiet.’

He fell silent again.

‘Leon, what is it?’

‘There’s something else you should know.’

‘There’s more? What else could there possibly be? Isn’t all this enough?’

‘Yes, you’re right.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s get something to eat. I want to hear what’s been happening here.

I pulled him back down again. ‘Tell me.’

He didn’t look at me. ‘The thing is, Max. He hasn’t been well-treated.’

‘Yes, I can see that. I’m assuming he’s been a climbing boy.’

‘Yes, Ronan sold him to Scrope. For about seven shillings from what I could gather. His wife demanded two guineas to give him back to us however, because he’d been properly indentured and strictly speaking, we were breaking the law by taking him away, but Guthrie presented her with a couple of bottles of gin and a hard look, so she was induced to let him go. Eventually.’

I was silent. Most children from poor families worked from the age of seven onwards. In the factories, in the mills, on the land. None of it was pleasant and climbing boys had the worst of bad conditions. Their masters were paid to teach them the trade so that one day they could be master sweeps themselves, but most never made it that far.

Scrambling naked up the inside of a chimney that was sometimes no more than fourteen inches by nine and caked in creosote and soot, those that survived being trapped, suffocated or burned to death frequently fell victim to chimney sweeps’ cancer.

The boys – and sometimes girls – would sweep four to five chimneys a day, their elbows and knees scrubbed with brine to harden them. The sweep would light fires to make them climb faster until that dreadful moment when the climbing boy, weak with hunger and exhaustion, choking in the smoke and soot, allowed his centre of gravity to drop. And once his bottom dropped below the level of his knees, he was – as the official trade name defined it – ‘stuck’.

Whatever it was called, positional asphyxia would kill him. Alone. In the dark. Unable to move up or down. Knowing that if he survived this, his master would beat him severely for losing him his fee, because sometimes the only way to retrieve the child was to demolish the chimney. Only by then it was usually too late.

This had been my little boy’s life for…?

‘How long?’ I said to Leon.

‘About eighteen months.’

‘That long?’

‘Yes. He was one of three owned by old Scrope, who was a nasty piece of work, especially when he’d had a drink or two, but the real cruelty came from his wife. I never learned her name. She was just Ma Scrope and they feared her. Everyone feared her – including her husband.’

He stopped again. ‘He’s learned to be afraid of women, Max. You’re going to find that he’s not as … affectionate as you might wish. He’s all right with me. And with Guthrie, a little. And Ellis. But he doesn’t like women. I’m sorry, love.’