Curious, Zachariah looked out of the fireplace, and by craning his neck was able to see the foyer.
Annoyed, “I’m coming!” Hobbins shouted as, pulling the door open, a gust of wind blew sleet, snow and dirt through the doorway into the foyer. “Yes?” he said in an annoyed, unpleasant tone.
“Mr. ‘obbins, Sir.” One of the two magistrates leaned his head into the foyer. “Sorry to be bother’n ya tonight but…”
Peering beyond the policeman, standing aside, “You may as well come inside so’s we can keep whatever warmth we have.”
Each carrying opposite ends of a heavy pallet, coming inside, the magistrates lowered it to the floor.
Realizing what was on the pallet, Zachariah swallowed.
The Climbing Boy: 16; London, England; December 24, 1843
Slamming the door shut, standing with his back to the parlor, blocking the boy’s view, “But,” the undertaker said, speaking to the magistrates in harsh tones, “it’s Christmas Eve now and if it weren’t for these two…” motioning over his shoulder, glancing into the parlor he saw that the boy was alone. “…cleaning the chimney late me and the missis would be long gone!”
Expecting a bit of a commission, especially on Christmas Eve. “We be knowin’, Sir.”
Speaking with an Irish brogue, the second officer said, “An’ it’s sorry we are to be botherin’ ya on such a night, but you bein’ the closest, we thought a fee—a big fee!” winking his eye, “such as from a gentleman as fine as this…” pointing to the body, “might be’a interest to ya, an’…”
Looking at the body for the first time, Hobbins noticed the expensive clothing.
“… might well be a fee ya’d be wantin’! But if not, we’ll be findin’ another place to be leavin’ the stiff.”
Reaching behind his back, opening the door, the magistrate bent down and lifted one end of the pallet.
“No!” Hobbins said quickly, thinking the magician may well be a rich barrister. “Long as you’re here, you might aswell leave it. Come ahead, carry it down to the workshop.”
The officers lifted the pallet.
Turning, Hobbins saw the boy watching. “You! Boy! Get back to work! Mind your own business and get finished! Where’s Johnson?”
Saying nothing, holding both hands forward, palms up, Zachariah shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll be back to you in a minute!” Turning to the two magistrates, “All right! All right,” he said impatiently, “carry him downstairs!”
Catching the threat in Hobbins words, Zachariah returned to work.
Making the turn from the foyer to the stairway, looking for a larger tip, “Eh!” grunting loudly, “‘e’s a ‘eavy stiff, ‘e is!” one of the magistrates complained as they started to carry the body of the magician down the steps.
The boy could hear the muted sounds of a discussion through the open door, then after a few minutes the clumping footsteps of the magistrates as they came up the stairs, slammed the basement door shut and, closing the door behind them, left the funeral parlor.
****
The fireplace finished, sweeping the remaining ash into the scuttle, carrying the pail outside, no compost heap here, he poured the ash into the trash.
Back inside, taking his scarf off, the boy shook it lightly over the drop cloths thinking, Mousy, what do I do with ya, Mousy? Not knowing where to put Mousy, afraid the creature might run away, holding the pocket closed, he removed his coat, shook it also, then folded the cloths and, anxious to be away from here, not taking the time to put his coat on, laying it on top, the boy stacked the drop cloths alongside the fireplace.
Going to the basement door, opening it a crack, “Mister ‘obbins,” speaking softly, “Mister ‘obbins, Sir. I be finished.” Closing the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps, he stood back… Cracking the door again, calling a bit louder, “Mister ‘obbins! I’ve…” Suddenly pushed open, the door smashed into the boy’s head knocking him backward where, tripping on the rug, he fell flat on his back.
“I’m here! No need to shout.” Stepping over the boy, “Get off my rug!” Going into the parlor, “Where’s Johnson?” Hobbins asked. “Why’s he not here?”
Standing, rubbing the growing bump on his forehead, “Uh, Mister ‘obbins, Sir, Master Johnson, ‘e, uh, ‘e ‘ad’a ‘pointment, an’ ‘ad’a go.”
“ “e ‘ad’a ‘pointment an’ ‘ad’a go’!” Mimicking the boy sarcastically. “He had an appointment, did he? I know where your worthless master’s appointment is!” Leaning into him, breathing his fetid breath onto his face. “With a bottle of gin, no doubt!” Grabbing Zachariah by the shoulders, shaking him, as if to place Johnson’s weakness for gin onto the hapless boy. “Isn’t that where he’s at? Not a doubt! With a bottle of gin!” Pushing him aside, wiping his hands on the bloody apron, waiting for him to answer, daring him to tell the truth, Hobbins glared at the boy.
Rubbing his right shoulder with his left hand, and the painful, rapidly growing bump on his forehead with his right, backing away, “Mister ‘obbins, that’s all ‘e said to me, Sir. ‘e said ‘e’s got’a ‘pointment.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. I know his tricks; he left you here to do my work while he went off to meet his worthless, drunken friends.” Taking angry strides, Hobbins went to the fireplace, stooped, looked in, then, getting onto his knees he leaned inside and peered upward, into the flue. Actually seeing very little in the darkened flue, “Not perfect,” he said, turning back to the apprehensive boy, “but,” adding grudgingly, “it’ll do.”
Standing behind the undertaker, Zachariah had been holding his breath and now let it out.
Going from chair to chair, from settee to settee, the undertaker inspected, looking for a smear, a smudge, a reason—any reason—to take his anger out on Johnson for not remaining on the job; a reason not to pay.
Quiet. Not daring to make a sound, not daring to make a movement, unaware that he was holding his breath, following Hobbins with his eyes only, Zachariah wanted only to be paid and to be out of this place.
One item left: A gold settee.
Walking slowly, inspecting, looking closely, “Mmmm,” stroking his chin, “Mmmm,” Hobbins repeated as, holding his breath once again, standing stock still, still, the boy followed the man with his eyes only.
Begrudgingly satisfied, the sharp clink of jiggled coins could be heard throughout the silent room as the undertaker reached beneath the apron, into his pocket and, extracting his hand, holding it forward…
Taking a breath now, breathing now, Zachariah reached for the money.
“Hmmm?” Thinking he’d seen something, turning, stooping, Hobbins once again looked at the gold settee. Closer this time—much closer. And sure enough… “Ah-ha!”
‘Ah-ha’? Feeling his heart thump, his hand held forward, the boy stood still, completely still.
“What’s this?”
Craning his neck, Zachariah attempted to peer around the tall man’s legs.
“What is this?” Grabbing Zachariah by the scruff of the neck, dragging him forward, forcing his head down. “Boy,” the undertaker demanded, “what is this?”
The boy turned pale beneath the layers of dirt.
Holding him, “It’s soot!” Hobbins screamed. “That’s what it is! Soot! You’ve filthied my settee! You’ve ruined it!” Forcing the boy’s head down, the man rubbed Zachariah’s nose—as one would a puppy’s into a puddle of urine—onto the barely seen smudge, the soot on his nose causing the slight smear on the silky, gold material to become larger and blacker.
“No, Sir!” Terrified, bounding back, Zachariah twisted out of the undertaker’s grasp. “No, Sir,” he said, rubbing his neck with one hand and his nose the other, “It ain’t possible! I never ‘ad been near it!”
Seizing Zachariah by the arm, squeezing, twisting, Hobbins pulled him forward. “Are you calling me a liar, boy? Here! Open your eyes! Look again! No, sir! I told him—that worthless master of yours—I told him I pay only for well-turned work!”
“No, Sir.” Twisting, the boy attempted to pull from his grasp, but the undertaker held on tightly. “No, Sir! I ain’t callin’ ya a liar, Sir!” He pleaded, “Ya sofa’s not been ruined! It’s only a little smudge.” Though by now, with the rubbing of his nose onto the light colored material, the light smudge had become a rather vivid smear. “It’ll come clean. Please, Sir, let me try an’ clean it!”
Hobbins had found his excuse to avoid paying, even though he knew that with the help of a few drops of embalming fluid the smudge could easily be cleaned.
Now, though, “No, by God!” he’d truly worked himself into near hysteria. “Nothing for you and nothing for your worthless master!” His face red, the veins in his thin neck bulging, “Not a farthing!” he screamed. “Out! I want you out of here! Now!”
Hearing her husband, Mrs. Hobbins came from a place in the rear of the funeral establishment and now stood just inside the parlor doorway.
Noticing her, calming slightly, “The gold settee,” he said. “They got soot onto it and still the drunkard’s whelp expects to be paid!”
“Don’t pay him! Where’s the filth’s besotted master?”
“Oh,” Hobbins said sarcastically, “no doubt the good man went off to church for an early Christmas mass.”
“Sir,” turning from one to the other, “Mum,” looking from face to face. “Mister ‘obbins, Sir, your sofa ‘ere ain’t been ruined! Mizz’s ‘obbins, it’ll come clean!” The boy pleaded, “Please let me clean it for ya!” But…
“No!” said Mrs. Hobbins, whom, if anything, was even cheaper than her husband. “Throw the filthy scum out!”
“Please, Mizz’s! Master Johnson’ll beat me! I worked so ‘ard for ya an’ I’ll be beaten’n’punished for nothin’… Please!”
Protected only by his threadbare shirt, his fingers digging painfully into the flesh of the boy’s arm, Hobbins dragged him to the front door.
Mrs. Hobbins yanked it open and together the two forcefully thrust Zachariah through.
The force of the shove sent the boy sliding across the slippery porch and, his arms flailing the air, he tried to regain his balance but couldn’t, and falling down the four wooden steps, landed in a muddy puddle.
Sitting in the mud, looking up, “Mister ‘obbins, Mizz’s ‘obbins…” the boy tried one last appeal, “It’s near Christmas! Please! Please!”
The light from behind casting long, thin shadows onto the porch, the undertaker and his wife stood within the doorway.
“Christmas?” Hobbins looked at his wife. “‘It’s near Christmas!’” he said in a mimicking, whiny voice, then, pointing to Zachariah, his voice high pitched with rage, “You expect me to pay you because…” in the same mimicking voice, “‘it’s near Christmas’?” Thinking a moment, “All right!” Remembering, “All right, I’ll give you your payment!”
Lifting himself from the mud, standing, hardly daring to believe the undertaker’s words, but still, breathing a sigh of relief, Zachariah attempted to brush the clinging mud from his trousers.
Turning into the foyer, rushing to the condolence parlor, going to the fireplace, Hobbins grabbed the item atop the pile alongside the hearth. Stepping outside again, speaking in a patronizing tone, “You’re right, boy,” he said. “It is near Christmas, and because it is near Christmas and because Mrs. Hobbins and myself are kindly people and good Christians, we will pay you.”
“Hubert!” Surprised, Mrs. Hobbins turned to her husband.
His left hand hidden behind his back, “No, no, my dear,” holding his right hand up, stopping her, “the boy is right. He and his master do deserve payment, especially tonight.” Smiling benignly at Zachariah, “It is Christmas Eve, after all!”
Zachariah expectantly stepped forward.
“Here, boy. Here’s something I never gave you, but I see you have it anyway. So here, I do give it to you as a gift, now.” Hobbins’ smile faded. The tone of his voice changed. “As payment for poorly done work, here’s your payment!” Bringing his arm back, he threw Zachariah’s long-coat toward the shivering boy. Falling short—as he had planned—the coat fell in the mud at his feet. “And a good Christmas to you,” Hobbins screamed, “and your drunken sot of a master!” Becoming hysterical once again, “And you tell him not to bother coming back! You tell him I do not want him! You tell him I’ll be finding another sweep!”
“Hubert!” Recognizing her husband’s near uncontrollable hysteria, having felt the back of his hand on many more than one occasion while this hysterical, Mrs. Hobbins went to him.
Catching his breath, grabbing his wife’s arm, pulling her into the foyer, Hobbins slammed the door shut behind them.
To be continued
