Coram Boy. Jamila Gavin

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       Chapter Three Meshak’s Angel

      ‘Come on!’ roared Otis, and flicked his whip across Meshak’s back to hurry him up. Meshak clambered into the wagon and they rumbled out into the street, heading for the dockside.

      Down at the docks, Otis found a press gang and, for a fee, handed the three older boys over to the navy. What a palaver that was. One of the little ones – a younger sister – had screamed and clung to her brother, and would not be prised off until Otis struck her such a blow, she had fallen unconscious. As Meshak carried her away, he could hear the boys hollering and fighting and kicking, and they had to be carted off and tossed down a ship’s hold to cool off. They would be well down river now, heading out to sea and then North Africa.

      Otis came back, grumbling and snarling. Meshak knew to stay well out of arm’s length when his father was in this mood. If it weren’t for the fact that there was money to be earned in this area, Otis wouldn’t have touched snivelling brats with a barge pole. But there was money – much money – especially if he could tap into those wealthy families who would pay any amount to protect their respectability. Having dealt with the older boys, there were the little ones to see to. Once more the wagon rolled on, this time into the city. Mrs Peebles had told him of a weaver and a milliner both requiring small children to work for them.

      Later, Meshak wandered away from the docks among the pedlars and traders, often pausing wide-eyed to gawp at a street entertainer, a dancing bear or a tinker juggling with a dozen plates while yelling out his prices. He headed for the cathedral and at last arrived at the south door. He picked his way through the hordes of homeless children who congregated at evening, like the starlings, to look for the most sheltered niche into which they could huddle for the night.

      It was a late rehearsal after evensong. Boys’ voices drifted through the deep shadows among the massive stone pillars and pinnacles which lined the nave. The sound lapped round the walls, translucent and as cool as water. The cathedral was dark, except for the soft fall of candlelight gleaming in the alcoves.

      He stepped inside. ‘Look, Jester.’ He knelt down to be level with his dog and gazed up at the huge stained-glass windows, awesome in the dark night, their brilliant colours almost absorbed into black. The faces of saints and martyrs bent down to him in their suffering and ecstasy; they reached to clasp his outstretched hands. They drew him through their windows into the throng of all the spirits of the dead, who rose up from beneath the stones and stepped out from their entombment within the walls. But it was the angels he loved, with their huge curving wings and gentle smiles. They were his friends. Sometimes, they leapt out of their lead-encased glass windows and swooped round him, enveloping him in feathers and gentle hands and caressing fingers, and they would fly with him up into the stars above the towers and steeples of the city. ‘Why can’t I stay with you for ever?’ he would cry.

      There was one angel in particular, with blue eyes, auburn hair and a face of the utmost beauty, who, whenever he stood before her, seemed to look directly into his eyes. Often, he would talk to her in whispers. ‘You are my angel. I would die for you,’ and he would lie down on the hard cold flagstones of the aisle so he could see her better and think himself dead. He was always doing that, ever since his mother died, though Meshak wasn’t always sure about the difference between being alive and being dead; wasn’t sure which was best.

      He often looked at dead people – old people, poor people, babies and abandoned children. He sometimes saw them huddled in ditches or crouched in the forest trying to find shelter. They had died from cold or illness, or such strength-sapping poverty that they had lost the will to try to live. And then he would think about his mother and wonder whether she liked being dead. When he was awake, he couldn’t always remember her face, though he had an impression that it had been sad. But in his dreams, she would sometimes come, stroking his head, showering him with kisses, and her face would be smiling. She seemed so happy that he would wake up crying, ‘If being dead makes you so happy, should I not be dead too?’

      When Meshak had ‘dead’ days he would lie for hours, stiff as a board, with open eyes but not seeing anything in this world. Otis gave him such a beating for his ‘stupidity’, but nothing would rouse him, even when his father kicked him and tried to beat him into activity. Gradually, even Otis had to accept that Meshak had dead days and leave him to it, especially when Mrs Peebles told him his boy had fits and that he should leave well alone. What no one knew was that Meshak stepped out of his body and into a paradise where he would meet his Gloucester angel. She would lead him through beautiful gardens of lawns and flowers and playing fountains, and sometimes show him his mother. Somehow, he was never able to touch her or talk to her, but he would see her from a distance, smiling and being happy. Once she waved at him with such sweetness, and he called out, ‘Why can’t I be with you?’ and she said, ‘Because you’re not dead.’ He would have tried to be dead then and there, but the Gloucester angel would lead him away and say, ‘Not yet, Meshak.’

      Today, as he looked at his angel, he didn’t lie dead. The choir was rehearsing and he always loved hearing the singing. He edged further down the nave, wanting to be closer. Beyond the wooden carved Kent screen, in the chancel, men and boys stood in their stalls. He peered round, catching glimpses of their faces in the flickering candlelight as they concentrated on bits of paper held in their hands, with wriggly symbols which they translated into music. Tears welled in his great sloppy eyes. Music always affected him. He wished he could sing as they did. He opened his mouth. A frightful squawk came out. Some boys looked up and giggled.

      ‘Hey, you! Go on, get out of here and take that hound with you!’ A cleric came flapping down the aisle like some clumsy bird, waving his hands at them. He was always on the lookout for vagrants, who would endeavour to sneak into the church out of the cold rain for the night. Meshak and Jester ran out, little as ants beneath the huge flying buttresses and stone walls rising high as the walls of a canyon. They scuttled away across the great paved entrance and out into the mud and mire and filth of the city streets.