The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [39]
"Is it open now?" he found himself saying.
"It's always open," Tom said. "There's always a show on at the Egyptian Hall." He looked at Orphan for a long moment, as if trying to decipher something he could only half-see. He said, "Are you sure it's a good idea?"
Orphan said, "No."
Tom slowly nodded.
With a sense of inevitability stealing over him Orphan went to the door and put on his shoes and his coat. He turned to Tom, began to say, "Thank you," but Tom merely shook his head. "You're always welcome at Old Nelly's," he said. "Just be careful, OK, china?"
"I'll try," Orphan said. "But I seem to be doing a bad job of that, recently."
Tom shook his head. "It can't be that bad," he said, "if you're still around."
Orphan smiled in return.
"If you're going to the Hall," Tom said, "say hello to my old friend Theo. He works there as Jo Jo the DogFaced Boy."
"How will I recog… ah," Orphan said. And, "I'll do that."
Then he said goodbye to the two girls, who both hugged him and told him to come back soon and, if they weren't there, to ask for them at the Shakespeare's Head.
"I will," he promised. Then he opened the door and, stepping out into the cold dark night, left both warmth and the Nell Gwynne behind him.
THIRTEEN
A Night on the Town
"Oranges and Lemons," say the bells of St Clement's. "Bull's eyes and targets," say the bells of St Margaret's. "Brickbats and tiles," say the bells of St Giles'. "Halfpence and farthings," say the bells of St Martin's. "Pancakes and fritters," say the bells of St Peter's. "Two sticks and an apple," say the bells of Whitechapel. "Pokers and tongs," say the bells of St John's. "Kettles and pans," say the bells of St Anne's. "Old Father Baldpate," say the slow bells of Aldgate. "You owe me ten shillings," say the bells of St Helen's. "When will you pay me?" say the bells of Old Bailey. "When I grow rich," say the bells of Shoreditch. "Pray when will that be?" say the bells of Stepney. "I do not know," says the great bell of Bow.
– Traditional nursery rhyme
It was a surprisingly warm night, and the residents of the great capital, welcoming this unexpected change in the always-precarious weather, had abandoned their homes and taken en masse to the streets. Orphan walked up Charing Cross Road and listened to the cries of hawkers who, even at this late hour, were busy advertising their wares to the busy burghers of the city.
"Ripe strawberries!"
"Buy a fine table-basket!"
"Eels! Eels!"
"Buy a fine singing bird?"
"Old shoes for some brooms!"
"Fine writing ink!"
"Buy a rabbit, a rabbit!"
"Crabs, fat crabs!"
"Fair lemons and oranges!"
"Buy a new almanac!"
"White mice, see the white mice!"
"Knives or scissors to grind?"
"A brass pot or an iron pot to mend!"
"Pens and ink, pens and ink of the highest quality!"
"Bread, fresh bread!"
"Figs!"
"Sausages, good sausages!"
He stopped in his walk through Leicester Square and bought one of the sausages so advertised, covered in oil, dripping fried onions, held in a soggy bun. Everywhere there was the smell of cooking foods, and the lights in all the public houses were burning, and the cries of the drinking class sounded, merry and loud, from every open window but were drowned by the street merchants.
"Buy a pair of shoes!"
"Buy any garters?"
"Wigs! The best wigs in town!"
"Maps on display! See the wilds of Vespuccia, admire the steppes of Siberia, marvel at the secrets of Zululand!"
"Worcestershire salt!"
"Buy a fine brush?"
"Ripe chestnuts!"
"Buy a case for a hat?"
"Fine potatoes!"
"Hot eel pies!"
"A tormentor for your fleas!"
He stopped at the last one and watched the old man whose cry this was, trying to decipher what the tormentor was, but all he could see was a series of strange, pen-shaped devices that could serve no obvious purpose. He shrugged and walked on through the throng, towards Piccadilly.
"New-born eggs!"