The Story of Cirrus Flux Read online

  “Please,” he says, reaching through the bars of the iron gate and clinging to the other man like a prisoner. “It is a matter of life and death.”

  “It always is, sir. It always is.”

  “But I cannot wait,” says the officer. “My ship sets sail tomorrow. Summon Mr. Chalfont. Tell him—”

  “Mr. Chalfont?” says a lady, who has emerged from the lodge behind them. She stops when she sees the dark-haired officer.

  “James?” she says, rushing forward to take a closer look. “James Flux? Is that you?”

  A bashful smile creeps over the young man’s face and he shifts from one foot to the other. Years have passed, but there is no mistaking the woman who once cared for him as a child. She was just a slip of a maid back then, but now her bosom has filled out and her waist expanded. Still, her face is the same, kind and considerate, marred only by the pockmarks on her skin.

  “Come, come, man,” she says, clobbering the porter with her fist and nearly grabbing the ring of keys from his hand. “Let him in, Mr. Kickshaw, and be quick!”

  Unconsciously, she tucks a lock of fading brown hair beneath her muslin cap. “Well, I’ll be. James Flux,” she says. “I’d recognize those devil’s curls anywhere! Sweet Jesus, how ye’ve grown!”

  She pulls James into an embrace, but then, just as quickly, holds him back. “Lord Almighty,” she says, her eyes coming to rest on the bundle under his coat. “What’ve ye gone and done?”

  “Please,” says James, his voice cracking. “I must speak to Mr. Chalfont. It’s Arabella. She’s—”

  Once again, he cannot bring himself to say the word. The crestfallen look on Mrs. Kickshaw’s face, however, tells him that she has guessed it.

  “Follow me,” she says, grabbing the lantern from her husband’s hand and steering James toward the entrance.

  The porter shuts the gates behind them.

  “Poor Arabella,” says Mrs. Kickshaw as they pass down one of the covered walkways. “She was such a good-natured child. Did she live to see the baby?”

  Miserably, James shakes his head.

  “Poor Arabella,” says Mrs. Kickshaw again, this time making the sign of the cross.

  She opens a door and they enter a dark hall. The quiet is broken only by the ticking of a clock above them. All of a sudden memories crowd round him: Felix, fat and heavy, sliding down the banister of the staircase; children marching off in pairs to hear Mr. Handel’s latest composition in the chapel; the sound of sobbing issuing from the Weeping Room upstairs. His mind travels back to the cramped closet under the stairs where he and Arabella once hid after stealing strawberries from the garden. He remembers the thud of their heartbeats in the confined space, the sweet smell of her breath, the taste of strawberry on her lips.…

  “Wait here,” says Mrs. Kickshaw, leaving him alone in the darkness.

  She climbs the stairs, taking the lantern with her.

  Something stirs against his chest. The little weight he has been carrying for miles has started to wriggle, kicking the sleep from its limbs. Carefully, he reaches inside his jacket and brings out the ugly, wrinkled face—a stranger to him still.

  “Ah, would ye look at the wee thing,” says Mrs. Kickshaw, returning. With practiced hands, she scoops the infant into her arms and cradles it against her chest. “God bless his soul. He’s the image of his father.”

  She places a work-toughened hand on the baby’s head and straightens the curl of hair that has swept across its brow. James feels a sickening stab of loss. Just for a moment he thinks of Arabella, wrapped in crimson sheets, and goes numb.

  The baby watches him with unfocused eyes and then reaches out to catch the words gushing from the woman’s lips: a lullaby Mrs. Kickshaw has sung to many a new foundling. The child snatches the woman’s finger in its fist and begins to suck on it, making nuzzling noises in the dark.

  “Ah, ye’re hungry, ain’t ye, poppet?” says Mrs. Kickshaw, cooing over the infant.

  “James?” A voice startles James out of his reverie and he looks up. Mr. Chalfont is peering down at him from an upstairs landing. “Come on up, boy, come on up. Eliza’ll see to the child.”

  James finds himself following the familiar figure up the stairs and across the landing to his study, while Mrs. Kickshaw takes the baby to the nursery. The spry little man he once knew has rounded into a podgy figure with fluffy white hair, and James cannot help thinking of the day Mr. Chalfont arrived at the hospital, fresh from the Navy, inspiring the boys with his tales of adventure.

  Before long, James is standing before a fire in the Governor’s study, surrounded by objects from the gentleman’s past. He picks up a shell from a nearby shelf and listens to it, hearing a distant echo in his ear. Then he notices the painting of Mrs. Chalfont above the desk and goes over to examine it.

  “Tell me, James,” says Mr. Chalfont, sinking into the chair before the fire and elevating his gouty leg on a footstool. “Exactly what has happened?”

  James feels his throat constrict. His cheeks grow hot. Once again he can see the midwife running back and forth, ridding bowls of blood in the yard and calling for more hot water. Then he remembers his wife’s agonizing scream, followed moments later by the tremulous cry of a newborn infant.

  And then the silence. More than anything, the terrifying silence.

  Tears are flowing freely down his cheeks.

  Mr. Chalfont listens patiently while he describes the scene and neither man notices Mrs. Kickshaw, who has returned with the infant.

  “I wish we had room,” says Mr. Chalfont finally, “but you know how it is.”

  “Please,” says James. “I do not know what else to do. I have nowhere to go. The hospital is my only home.” He is aware of the panic rising in his voice and fights to keep it back.

  “I am sorry,” says Mr. Chalfont, “but you must try to understand. We have limited resources. There is nothing we can do.”

  He holds out his hands as if to prove the point, but James cannot accept his answer.

  “I can pay,” he says suddenly, reaching into his pocket for all the money he has with him. “The Guild has promised me much, much more on my return. This must be enough, at least for now, to pay for his maintenance.”

  Mr. Chalfont looks affronted. “James!” he says. “You, more than any, ought to know that your responsibility lies with your child and not the Guild. What the boy needs—and deserves—is love. Be a father to him, James. Do not leave him.”

  James shakes his head. “You do not understand,” he says. “The ship is docked at Deptford Yard. I am due to sail tomorrow.…”

  He thinks of all the preparations the Guild has made, loading the ship with the finest cargo and equipment. He feels the weight of responsibility round his neck and touches his terrella, recalling the celestial light that once hovered above the Destiny.

  A thought suddenly occurs to him. “I can get her back,” he mutters faintly.

  “James?” says Mr. Chalfont. “I do not understand. What are you suggesting?”

  “I can get her back,” he says, with greater certainty. He remembers the icy continent he saw. The very gates of heaven, the clergyman called it. “I can sail to the edge of the world and find her!”

  Mr. Chalfont shakes his head. “James, be reasonable, man! You are not talking sense.” He turns to the picture of his wife on the wall. “Do you not think that I miss my Elizabeth? I know how it is to lose someone so loved, so cherished. But such is the will of God. There is nothing I—or anyone else—can do to change it. We must accept these things.”

  But all James can see right now is the glimmer of otherworldly light beyond the horizon. “I must try!” he cries. “At least let me try!”

  “But James, think of your son,” says Mr. Chalfont one last time, trying to dissuade him. But he can see that James’s mind is already made up; there is a faraway look in his eyes.

  With a sigh, Mr. Chalfont turns to the child. “At least a token, then, for your son, James,” he says. “So
that you can return and reclaim him.”

  James stares at the infant in Mrs. Kickshaw’s arms and chokes back a sudden sob, struck by the enormity of his decision. The child is looking at the silver sphere round his neck and reaching out with shell-pink fingers.

  “Give him this,” James says, removing the terrella and handing it quickly to the Governor, along with all his money. “It is everything I have. Take them! Before I change my mind.”

  Mr. Chalfont’s eyes are glistening, but reluctantly he accepts the silver sphere and places it on the desk, underneath the image of his wife.

  And then, before Mr. Chalfont can prevent him, James flees from the room, rushing past the Weeping Room and tripping down the stairs, not daring to look back, afraid that if he stays even a moment longer he will not be able to leave his son behind.

  Above him, the infant starts to scream.

  The Boy Who Did Not Exist

  Cirrus woke. He was lying on a hard wooden floor, in a narrow room, his right leg twisted under him. A shaft of light hovered in the air in front of him, threading across the interior like the strand of a broken spider’s web.

  Tenderly, he rubbed the nape of his neck and sat up, trying to make himself more comfortable in the small, confined space. What was he doing here? Why was he not safely tucked up in bed?

  And then he remembered. He was hiding from someone.

  The sound of footsteps startled him and he pressed his eye to a gap in the boards—a keyhole—giving him a partial view of the hall outside. Daylight was streaming in through the open windows and he could see Mr. Chalfont pacing back and forth. His wig was askew and his frock coat and breeches looked crumpled and creased, as though he had slept in them overnight.

  “Any sign of him?” asked the Governor, as Mrs. Kickshaw joined him.

  Mrs. Kickshaw shook her head and wiped her brow. “He ain’t nowhere to be found,” she said. “I’ve checked the chapel, the lodge and the infirmary. You don’t suppose he’s wandered into them fields again?”

  Mr. Chalfont wrung his hands and then hung them uselessly by his side. “I honestly do not know,” he said. “I locked the dormitory last night, as I always do, but this morning it was open and his bed was empty. How he could have got out, I have no idea.”

  “The little devil!” said Mrs. Kickshaw. “Wait till I get my hands on him! I’ve warned him many a time to stay away from them fields! They ain’t safe for no one, especially the likes of a child!”

  Only slowly did it dawn on Cirrus that he was the boy they were looking for. He was tempted to rush out and surprise them, but the risk of their displeasure kept him back. He remained very still and quiet in his hiding place.

  “What should we do now?” asked Mrs. Kickshaw, turning anxiously to the Governor.

  “I suggest we keep looking,” said Mr. Chalfont. “I have locked the boys in the dormitory and asked the maids to check on the girls, just in case he’s up to his father’s tricks. You search the grounds, and I’ll … I’ll …” His voice trailed off and he peered up the stairs, his face clouded with worry.

  “Yes, Mr. Chalfont,” said Mrs. Kickshaw, with a curtsy. “I’ll ring the bell should I find him.”

  She gathered up her skirts and bustled out into the yard, while Mr. Chalfont turned and clambered up the staircase, his footsteps passing over the spot under which Cirrus crouched, concealed.

  Cirrus relaxed his hold on the closet door and sat back, deep in thought. From the edge of his mind came the fleeting image of a woman prowling round the dormitory, looking for him. She had held a silver instrument, which she had used to bewitch Tobias. And then he remembered the fiery-headed girl. His fingers closed round the loop of keys she had left for him and which had slipped to the floor. Where was she? Why had she not returned?

  Heart pounding, he wriggled out of his hiding place and emerged, dusty and disheveled, in the front hall. Luckily, there was no one around to see; he was dressed still in his nightshirt.

  He crept to the base of the stairs and listened carefully.

  From up above he could hear the Governor’s footsteps roaming from floor to floor, searching for him. He waited until the sounds had withdrawn into the furthest corner of the hospital and then, as softly as he could, padded up the wide wooden staircase, keeping close to the wall, where the boards were quietest.

  What had the girl said? Something about the Governor’s study and a token shaped like a sphere …

  He made his way across the landing, clutching the keys in his hand, wondering which one to use, but there was no need. The door to the gallery was open and he slipped soundlessly inside.

  The curtains had been drawn and the air had a musty smell of tobacco. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a sullen glow and the portraits on the walls were barely visible. There was no sign of the girl from the night before.

  He opened one of the curtains to let in more light. If anything, the haze above the fields was even thicker than the day before, and he could already feel the heat behind it, pressing against the glass. Below, in the garden, Mrs. Kickshaw was talking to the maids, who were taking baskets full of washing to the laundry.

  The clock on the landing started to chime. He hurried away from the window.

  It had been a long time since he had stepped foot inside the Governor’s study and he was surprised by the memories stirring within him. There, on a little table by the window, was the spyglass Mr. Chalfont had once jokingly told him showed you the other side of the world when you held it to your eye. And next to it lay a spiky seashell, which sounded like a sleeper breathing in your ear.… All of a sudden he remembered the Governor bouncing him up and down on his knee and couldn’t resist a smile.

  The floor above him creaked and he turned his thoughts back to the present. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he started with the cabinets against the wall. They seemed promising.

  Each cabinet was lined with slender drawers and, when he opened them, he found all manner of trinkets heaped inside. Buttons, brooches, coins that had been sawn in half and even scraps of paper containing handwritten notes and prayers:

  His heart started beating faster. Were these the tokens the girl had spoken of? If so, was there one for him?

  He rummaged through the drawers, wondering what secrets he might find. Each object was attached to a loop of red string and identified by a number—corresponding, he supposed, to the medallions the children wore around their necks. A sudden doubt pierced him. He was the boy without a number, the boy who did not exist.… What if the girl was mistaken? What if there was no token for him?

  He continued sifting through the keepsakes, his mind full of troubled thoughts. But each item was already accounted for, labeled with the number of another child, a different child who had been loved, longed for and missed.

  Not him.

  At last, in despair, he turned to survey the entire room. There were no more cabinets to look through, no more tokens in the drawers. And then he spotted a ledger lying on a nearby table and went over to it, curious to know what it contained.

  The pages, each divided into rows and columns, recorded the names and numbers of all the children who had been abandoned at the hospital since its inception many years before. A large proportion of the entries held the words “dead” or “deceased” next to them in faded ink.

  He fanned through the pages until he came to an entry he recognized.

  CHILD NO. 4,018. MALE. ADMITTED 6 JULY 1771. ABRAHAM BROWNE.

  His friend, Bottle Top!

  Cirrus took a deep breath and checked the preceding page. Halfway down was a gap—a missing entry—where, he supposed, another child ought to have been. A ghost.

  A chill crept over him. There was writing near the margin, but it was faint and hard to read. He carried the ledger over to the window to study the words more carefully. Under the column labeled Remarks was a statement: Father paid £100 for the boy’s maintenance. Child to be known as C—F—.

  Cirrus felt a tide of grie
f and shame wash over him, as though he had been abandoned at the hospital all over again. His heart was pounding painfully and he could barely breathe.

  The girl was right: he did have a father. But his father hadn’t wanted him. His father had paid to get rid of him. He had been given away for a sum of money.

  The room dissolved in a mist of tears and he turned away from the window, not sure what to do or think. His legs wobbled under him and he sank into a chair beside the Governor’s desk.

  A young woman was smiling at him from an oval picture on the wall. She had a kind, compassionate face, with bright green eyes and a hint of auburn hair. He laid the ledger down and stared up at the portrait, longing suddenly for a mother’s touch. Underneath the picture was a caption: Elizabeth Chalfont, 1723–48.

  He glanced at the Governor’s desk. It had never occurred to him before that the Governor might have a past of his own—that he might have been married, even. But now that he looked more closely, he could see that the desk was not just a clutter of quills and paper, but a memorial to his wife.

  He found a locket in the topmost drawer, with a curl of hair inside, and a tortoiseshell comb. Delicately, he stroked each item, and then he noticed the tin. He suddenly remembered the playful taste of ginger in his mouth and opened it. Inside was a loop of string. Curious, he fished it out and withdrew a small metal sphere.

  His heart skipped a beat and a strange tingling sensation passed through him. The sphere was attached to a tag with no number!

  He replaced the tin at the back of the desk and rolled the sphere around in his fingers. The surface was encrusted with sticky brown sugar and he wiped it clean on his nightshirt. The sphere was inscribed with the outlines of distant countries. Two words were engraved near its base: James Flux.

  This was his inheritance, his token of remembrance! He was sure of it. It was just as the girl had said. But why was Madame Orrery after it? And why had it been hidden?

  Voices wandered into the adjoining room and he squeezed into the gap between the wall and the door, gripping the sphere tightly, unwilling to let it go. Two figures had entered the gallery and were standing, like duelists, on the rug. Cirrus recognized the Governor immediately.