The Sin Eater(37)
Ah, but I had justice in the end, Benedict, and it’s a justice you wouldn’t want to hear about. And it started innocently enough. We came to London to find Romilly . . .
Romilly, thought Benedict, feeling Declan’s world tugging at him. The red-haired waif who looked so innocent the saints would trust her, but who was bold as a tomcat beneath.
‘You lived in that tiny house – the shack.’ The image of the tiny dwelling came again, like old cine footage, uncertain and blurred, but recognizable.
Yes, the shack. There was the impression of sadness – of an ache of loss. He loved that cottage, thought Benedict.
We should never have left it and we should never have left Kilglenn. But we came to London, and whatever dreams we might have had of your London, nothing had prepared us for the reality . . .
London, 1890s
Declan said, and Colm agreed, that whatever wild dreams they might have had of England and London, the reality beat the dreams into a cocked hat.
They did not, as Colm had half-seriously prophesied, actually have to sleep in ditches, but there were a couple of nights when they slept in houses so crowded and so dirty Declan said ditches might have been preferable.
‘Heaving with unwashed humanity,’ said Colm, as they left the second of these. ‘Wouldn’t you die for the scents of Kilderry – the ocean and the grass? But we’re almost there, and travelling like this – begging lifts, working as we go – shouldn’t take more than two days, so that man told me.’
It was an early evening when at last they walked into the city, and the sun was setting. The River Thames was directly ahead with, beyond it, the palace of Westminster, and there was a moment when the dying sun tipped the edges of the buildings with gold and seemed to set the river alight. For several enchanted moments they almost believed the glowing light was tangible – that it was molten gold pouring down over the stones and timbers and glass, and that it would lie in glistening pools on the pavements.
‘Golden pavements after all,’ said Declan, very softly, as they stood still, staring at it.
‘Not really, of course.’
‘Oh no.’
But the image of their childhood dreams was strongly with them, and there was an unreal quality to this final part of their journey, almost as if they might be entering a magical land where anything might happen and where whatever did happen would be wonderful.
As Colm said much later, the pity was that the feeling had not lasted.
At first the sheer size and noise and the crowds of people confused them and, curiously, it was Colm who faltered under the onslaught of London. But then Declan said they should remember this was the fabled city of their childhood dreams, and fabled cities were there to be conquered.
‘You’re right,’ said Colm, squaring his shoulders. ‘We’re on a quest, and we’ll find our way around this place somehow.’
‘We’ll start by asking directions to Holly Lodge,’ said Declan, firmly.
In the event, they had to ask several times, but in the end they found Holly Lodge, which was a large house in a street of large houses.
‘I hadn’t expected it to be so grand,’ said Colm. ‘Rich people live here, d’you think?’
‘I do. Or,’ said Declan, critically, ‘people who were once rich, but aren’t so much now.’
‘Yes. But,’ said Colm, frowning, ‘what will Romilly be doing here?’
‘Working? A housemaid?’ Declan said it doubtfully, because it was difficult to think of Romilly being servile, and yet what other work would there be for her? He did not say this, however, nor did he say that now they were actually here, in the fabled city of golden opportunities, it did not seem as if there would be much work for themselves, either.
They had not worked out a plan for when they actually reached Holly Lodge; they had simply concentrated all their energies on getting there.
This time it was Declan who faltered. He looked doubtfully up at the house and said, ‘What do we do now?’
‘We go up to the door right away, and ply the door knocker and I ask can I see my cousin. What could be wrong about that?’
‘Nothing in the world,’ said Declan.
They were both hoping that Romilly would open the door to them, but she did not. Instead they were confronted by a rather large lady with a fleshy face and curves imperfectly concealed by a scarlet gown. There was a moment when neither of the boys knew what to say, then the lady gave a slow smile, patted her improbably auburn hair with a beringed hand, and said, ‘My my, two new gentlemen. Young ones, as well. Looks like my Christmas ’as come early this year. Come inside, dear, and get acquainted with the ladies of the house.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Colm. ‘It’s a bloody knocking shop.’
Of all the things they had been expecting, this was the very last. They sat awkwardly in a large downstairs room with overstuffed sofas and flock wallpaper, and their hostess introduced herself as Flossie Totteridge – ‘Mrs Totteridge, I’m a widow woman’. She pressed upon them a series of refreshments, starting with Madeira, which she said the house kept specifically for the older gentlemen who visited, to sherry, which they might say was more of an afternoon drink, all the way down to gin, which was what the girls usually favoured.
‘We won’t take anything, thank you,’ said Colm. ‘We just want to know about my cousin, Romilly Rourke. To see her if we can. Is she here? Because she wrote to me—’