London - Edward Rutherfurd [464]
“And they make good money too,” Harry said.
By the age of seven, then, young Sep was in a position not granted to all boys his age. He knew where he belonged, in the bosom of the famous Dogget family; he knew his destiny, to be a fireman; he knew, already, almost all there was to know about the life of the London streets and his place in them.
Indeed, there was really only one thing about himself that he did not know. Though whether it mattered, who could say?
It had been quite early in the morning, seven years before, when Harry Dogget had taken his barrow out into the muddy street by Seven Dials. He had been in a contented mood. His new son, Sam, had been born the week before and this was a double blessing: not only had he hoped for a boy, but the new baby would occupy Mrs Dogget who had started drinking even more. He was whistling cheerfully, therefore, as he approached the pillar with its seven clock faces and noticed the little bundle.
It had been placed just inside the railings that ran round the pillar, and it was crying.
Henry had sighed. There was nothing surprising about a little bundle like this, but he always hated to see them. He didn’t even blame the mothers who abandoned them. Unwanted children were an occupational hazard in a place like Seven Dials, and what was an unmarried girl to do? A certain Captain Coram, he had heard, had recently started a hospital for orphans; but to get her child in, the mother had to turn up and explain herself. And even then, there were so many that the orphanage had had to choose the children by lottery. No chance for this child, anyway. It was going to die and there was nothing to be done. Yet even so, he could not quite bring himself to pass by. He had stepped over to examine it.
The baby was not a newborn, but less than a month old, he guessed. A baby boy. It seemed healthy enough. But then he frowned. It was odd – the baby’s hair seemed to have a tiny white streak in it, like Sam’s. He shrugged, stuck out his finger for the baby to take – and a second later started back in surprise. Another child with webbed hands? What kind of coincidence could that be?
Harry Dogget stood silently and considered his misdeeds.
There had been the shoemaker’s wife. When had that been? But he had seen her often since. She hadn’t been pregnant. There was the girl at the bakery. About the same time. When had he last seen her? A month ago. Not that one therefore. But then . . . . Ah yes. There was the young woman he had met in the fruit and flower market in Covent Garden. She was working on a stall when he had met her. Two or three times they had sneaked off together. That had been about ten months ago – the right time. And then she’d vanished. Could be her, then. Had she, or somebody left the child here by chance, or because they thought the father lived by Seven Dials? No knowing. People do strange things. He inspected the baby again closely. There was no question about the hair and the fingers. Surely this couldn’t be a coincidence. It seemed to him now that the child even had the same face and eyes as Sam.
“Ain’t you the lucky one, then?” he smiled. “Found your father straight away, didn’t you?” And he picked the baby up.
He was honest with his wife. Told her everything, very straight. She sighed, inspected the infant