The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [3]
“S’what I said. I got nowhere else to go. I’d rather not sleep on t’streets. I come here to draw. I saw the Museum was for workingmen to see well-made things. I mean to get work, I do, and I need drawings to show… I like these things.”
“Can we see the drawings?” asked Tom.
“Not in this light. Upstairs, if you’re interested. I’ll get my things, like I said.”
He ducked, and began to make his way back amongst the pillars, crouching and weaving expertly. Tom was put in mind of dwarves in mine-workings, and, since his upbringing was socially conscientious, of children in mines, pulling trucks on hands and knees. Julian was on Philip’s heels. Tom followed.
“Come in,” said the grimy boy, at the opening of a small storeroom, making a welcoming gesture, possibly mocking, with an arm. The storeroom contained what appeared to be a small stone hut, carved and ornamented with cherubim and seraphim, eagles and doves, acanthus and vines. It had its own little metal gate, with traces of gilding on the rusting iron.
“Convenient,” said Philip. “It has a stone bed. I took the liberty of borrowing some sacks to keep warm. I’ll put ’em back, naturally, where I found them.”
“It’s a tomb or shrine,” said Julian. “Russian, by the look of it. There must have been some saint on that table, in a glass case or a reliquary. He might still be in there, underneath, his bones that is, if he wasn’t incorrupt.”
“I haven’t noticed him,” said Philip, flatly. “He hasn’t bothered me.” Tom said “Are you hungry? What do you eat?”
“Once or twice I got to help in the tea-room, moving plates and washing them. People leave a lot on their plates, you’d be surprised. And the young ladies from the Art School took notice of my drawings and sometimes they passed me a sandwich. I don’t beg. I did steal one, once, when I was desperate, an egg-and-cress sandwich. I were pretty sure the young lady had no intention of eating it.” He paused.
“It isn’t much,” he said. “I’m hungry, yes.”
He was rummaging behind the tomb in the shrine, and came out with another canvas satchel, a sketch-book, a candle stub and what looked like a roll of clothing, tied with string.
“How did you get in?” Julian persisted.
“Followed the horses and carts. You know, they turn in and drive down a ramp into these underground parts. And they unload and pack things with a deal of bustle, and it’s easy enough to mingle wi’ them, wi’ the carters and lads, and get in.”
“And the upstairs door?” Julian queried. “Which is meant to be locked at all times.”
“I came across a little key.”
“Came across?”
“Aye. Came across. I’ll give it back. Here, take it.” Tom said
“It must be horribly frightening, down here alone at night.”
“Not near so frightening as t’streets in t’East End. Not near.”
Julian said “Please come with me now. You must come and explain all this to my father. He’s talking to Tom’s mother. This is Tom. Tom Wellwood. I’m Julian Cain.”
Major Prosper Cain, of the Royal Engineers and the Department of Science and Art, had an Elizabethan manor house, Iwade House, in Kent. He also lived in one of the small dwelling houses which had grown up round South Kensington’s monstrous steel and glass Boilers. (The purpose-built, cast-iron building, designed by a military engineer for the Museum, had three uncompromising long rounded roofs, which were mockingly known as the Brompton Boilers.) The dwelling houses were largely inhabited by the successors to the sappers who had originally constructed the Boilers after the Great Exhibition in 1851. Major Cain had what was not exactly an official residence, slightly larger than those of his men. There were ambitious projects to extend the museum buildings, and murmurings against the military presence. A competition had been held. Precise visions of palaces, courtyards, towers, fountains and ornaments had been scrutinised and compared. Aston Webb’s project was declared the winner, but no work had taken place. The new Director, J. H. Middleton, appointed in 1894, was not a military man, but a reserved ascetic scholar,