Death and Mr. Pickwick (98 page)

One of these had a brother who was a respectable alderman; the cousin of another was a priest; another played whist with a banker; the buyer of radical literature had a friend in the Whigs; the nurseryman knew a doctor and several lawyers; the man with the moustache had a friend in the senior ranks of the cavalry; the scruffy man knew several editors.

There was also a little middle-aged hawker called Knox, recognisable on the city streets by his plaid jacket, though his pinched cheeks, pointed chin and combed red side whiskers were never conducive to anonymity. Entering Chapman and Hall's office shortly after the pictures of the first number of
Pickwick
were splashed in the window on the Strand, he said to Hall: ‘I tell you – that
Pickwick Club
– I've been looking at it. It gives me a good feeling.'

Hall passed him a copy.

‘It's nice to pick up,' said Knox. ‘It's so light. You'd want to take it home.'

Knox took a bundle of copies, and began selling
Pickwick
in the streets around Chelsea. His attempts with the first three issues were unsuccessful, with only a handful of copies sold, and Hall was surprised when he returned for a fourth attempt.

‘I told you – I have a feeling about it,' he said. ‘My father allus said to me, “Per-serv-ere. Per-serv-ere.” So I perservere when everyone says give up – I perservere
because
everyone says give up. I am going to try around Whitechapel.'

So Knox stood outside the Black Bull, holding up a
Pickwick
and calling out: ‘Thirty-two posthumous pages and two posthumous pictures for just twelve posthumous pennies which is a bargain, I'd say. Buy it to get rid of me! Buy it to shut me up!'

Whenever his patter attracted a man waiting for a coach to East Anglia – someone who could be induced to hold the number and to look at the pictures – Knox would touch the fellow gently on the shoulder, and such warmth and friendliness would flower from his enchanted fingers, he often secured a sale. He was even more effective with ladies. ‘I'm worse than a barrel-organ player,' he would say, to put a woman in the mood to buy, ‘even they only ask a penny to move on!'

He sold every copy of the fourth number.

*   *   *

Back in the Strand, Thomas Naylor Morton knocked at Chapman and Hall's office.

‘What is it, Mr Morton?' said Chapman.

‘I thought you should know this, sir. Yesterday ten people called in, all with the same question. They wanted to know whether we had any copies of the first three numbers of
Pickwick
.'

‘That is encouraging, at least,' said Hall, as he and Chapman gave the slightest nod to each other, reflecting that encouragement.

‘That was yesterday,' said Morton. ‘Today twenty people have asked the same question – in just two hours.'

*   *   *

The green pamphlets began to appear on coffee tables in homes and in the establishments where men drank. Those who saw the banker, the doctor or the cavalryman laughing heartily at the pamphlet's contents thought that if these men, of some standing, bought
Pickwick
, it was probably worthy of a look. They bought a copy themselves. One such buyer was a talkative bootblack, whose profession brought him into contact with people of all classes.

There were fewer men who worked as bootblacks on the London streets these days, for many people used servants to black their boots, or did it themselves. But there was still a demand, for London mud had to be resisted. Bending over at his box near St James's Church in Clerkenwell, rubbing away at a topboot in the afternoon sun, was a cheerful, trim and muscular fellow, with hair poking out from his rolled-up shirtsleeves; and, as he came complete with a great furry, bear-like head, he seemed the very brother-to-a-brush, as he often said himself. He conveyed the impression – whether it was true or not – that he cleaned boots for the sheer love of doing so. He chattered endlessly to entertain customers as he worked on their footwear, and sometimes, for his efforts, he received a generous gratuity.

Along came a pretty young woman whom he had not shone before. ‘I 'ope you can feel the brush through the leather,' he said, and she blushed saying she could, and he made little circles as he worked his way up and around the boot, removing the mud. The soft brush, to lay on the blacking, was to be applied next; and as he uncorked a bottle of Day and Martin's, he wafted it slightly towards her, for some customers said they found the smell stimulating, and this woman, by a sparkle in her eyes and an enthusiastic sniff, seemed to as well. He spread the blacking on the brush with a sponge tied to a stick, and when he recorked, he laid the stick in a V-shaped notch which he had slashed in the cork. This was then followed by a medium-hard brush, for polishing. ‘Now then,' he said, after the brushing was done, ‘'ow would you like 'em laced?'

‘I thought there was only one way,' she said.

‘I know twenty-two methods of lacin' shoes and 'alf as many different knots.
Just laced
!'

‘Go on, then,' she said, with a smile. ‘Show me some.'

‘I'll show you one way today, and every time you come I'll show you another. I'll show you a way of lacin' very quickly in case you need to scarper somewhere.' This he proceeded to do, to the delight of the woman, and he finished off by tying a knot with one hand – and for a moment he placed his other hand on her calf, through her skirt.

His next customer was a nervous youth with a perfect side-parting in his hair and a perfectly laundered collar and shirt cuffs.

‘You're lookin' smart today,' said the bootblack.

‘I am going for a new position in an hour,' said the youth.

‘You ain't from London are you, lad?'

‘No, sir. From Wales.'

‘First time in the city?'

‘It is.'

‘Where are you livin'?'

‘I am staying with my aunt near St George's Fields.'

‘You just try crossing St George's Fields in a rainstorm! You'll be up to your ankles in mud!'

‘Mud seems to be everywhere in London.'

‘It is, but it varies. Near surgeons and barbers, the mud's redder; near the ditches of Lambeth, it's green and slimy; near Fleet Market, rotten vegetables and bones get mixed in. I bet Welsh mud is nothin' like London mud. I'd go so far as to say there is nothin' like London mud in the world. 'Alf of it's made by 'orses and dogs and people – but added to that is whatever else. And it all gets stirred up by the 'orses, dogs and people that laid it down in the first place. Do you know what I am puttin' on your shoes?'

‘Blacking.'

‘No.
Day and Martin's
blackin'.' From an inside pocket he produced a copy of
Pickwick
, which he had already produced several times that day, to mention to customers. ‘Listen: “Samuel brushed away with such 'earty good will…” and then it says 'e used “polish which would 'ave struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr Warren” – that's another blacking manufacturer, Warren's – because “they used
Day and Martin
at the White 'Art”.

‘Day and Martin was what I used when I first became a boots at Walker's 'Otel and Coffee-Room in Bridge Street. But I'd 'ad enough of getting up early, cos the 'Otel boots is always the earliest riser. So I set up on my own, and I still get up early, but at least I works for myself, and I've kept with Day and Martin and that's what you'll find on your shoes, every time you come to me.'

‘Unless I am taken on, I shall return to Wales.'

‘Well if you go back, you take a piece of advice with you, lad – before you listen to a man's declarations, take a look at 'is boots, that's what 'e is, regardless of what 'e says.'

The boy laughed, but still looked nervous.

‘If you come back tomorrow, I'll tell you the story of 'ow Day and Martin began. It's very int'restin'. I 'eard it from a man who worked at the factory. That's between Kingsgate and Dean streets. Entrance looks on to 'Olborn.'

‘I don't suppose you could tell me now. I don't know how to fill the time.'

‘I suppose I could, if no other customers come. But you make certain you get the position, and come back another day, otherwise I'll have told you for nothin'!'

Settling himself down, the bootblack began his tale.

*   *   *

‘About sixty years ago, in the town of Doncaster, it was a day you wouldn't think could get 'otter, but 'otter it got. Well, standin' in the doorway of a barber's shop was a man called Mr Martin. There are lots of people called Martin, first or second name, but was any Martin in England better with a razor than
this
Martin? He gave old fellers smooth boys' chins. He slashed with a sharp edge better than a dragoon – it's a very good thing 'e was in 'is right mind, because it would be very bad for 'is customers if 'e weren't. I was reading about that in this
Pickwick
, a madman with a razor. Shhht!'

The bootblack sliced the air.

‘But, this Mr Martin was sane as you or me and 'e was just standin' there, tryin' to keep cool, when who should 'e see but a soldier walkin' along the road. Now soldiers, when they're not being blown to pieces, usually take pride in the way they look. And even a soldier who
'as
been blown to pieces would prefer to be seen 'eadless with 'is 'at on than without. But this soldier was
not
smartly dressed – 'e was dusty all over, 'is face bruised, 'is uniform all torn, and draggin' 'imself along, with not a bit of 'ope on 'is face.

‘Mr Martin, thinkin' such a man might be freshened up with a shave, enquired whether the soldier was feelin' as good as 'e might. And the soldier, restin' a moment, said that 'e was going to be feelin' worse soon, when the regiment flogged 'im with the cat-o'-nine-tails. It was 'is own fault – got in with the wrong sort of men when on leave, and they encouraged 'im to spend 'is money on pleasure, and what they couldn't get out of 'im by persuasion and good fellowship, they proceeded to take by force. They punched 'im, threw 'im on the ground, kicked 'im, and took all that was left of 'is money. So the solder 'ad to get back to the barracks the next mornin' before 'is leave ran out – but that was impossible to do on foot, and without a penny in 'is pocket there was nothing to pay for a coach. So, 'e was sure to be arrested and it was the cat for 'im – 'e couldn't even afford another drink in the mornin' to dull the pain.

‘Now Mr Martin was a kind-'earted soul, with a fondness for the army's achievements. And 'e went into 'is shop, and took out a guinea, and gave it to the soldier. Well, the man could 'ardly believe it! There was the fare! The floggin' would be escaped! And 'e thanked the barber again and again, and 'e said there wasn't much 'e could do in return, 'cept 'e knew a recipe for blackin', which 'e used to clean 'is boots. And 'e wrote down a recipe of molasses, treacle, vinegar and other ingredients, some of which made the barber screw up 'is eyes they were so strange. “Is it any good?” said the barber. “You won't find better,” replied the soldier. And 'e said 'e would give Mr Martin the recipe, and 'e might be able to mix it up, put it in pots, and sell it, and say to 'is customers, after an 'aircut, it will make you look nice, from 'ead to toe. “Or use it on your own shoes,” said the soldier, “and see if they don't shine nicely in the sun.”

‘Off went the soldier to catch the coach, and 'e was never seen again.

‘Well, Mr Martin 'ad a cousin, Mr Day, and cuttin' 'air ran in the family, for 'e was also a barber, in Covent Garden, and prob'ly the mud was red in 'is doorway, and decorated quite a few of 'is customers' shoes. And Mr Martin sent 'is son down to 'is cousin with the soldier's recipe. The cousin made some up, and 'e knew a good business idea when 'e saw it. So the two of them started makin' blackin', and the business grew and grew until Day and Martin came to be used by all the best bootblacks in all the world!' He took a bow. ‘And that's why you've got a lovely jet-black shine on your feet.'

The Welsh boy thanked the bootblack and said as he left: ‘I hope I shall get the position.'

‘I know you shall, lad, with the 'elp of Day and Martin and me.'

When the bootblack finished work in the evening, he took a slab of Pittis's soap from a drawer in his box, went to a pump to clean his hands, then adjourned for supper in an inn. As he waited for his meal, he took out
Pickwick
once more, for it was rare indeed to read anything that concerned a bootblack. He re-examined the passage which had given him such pleasure, when Sam Weller made his first appearance:

‘It was in the yard of one of these inns – of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart – that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots.'

The bootblack – the reading bootblack – knew the White Hart; he visited it when he worked in the hotel, and still went there sometimes to meet a friend, a hop-factor's man, when he was up from Kent with his master on a visit to Southwark, and then all three would dine together in the White Hart. It was not one of the smart coaching inns, like those of the City and the West End. It had seen better days, but it still served a good joint of roast beef. He read on:

‘There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction.'

The reader's mirthful noises and exclamations as he proceeded through the pages caught the attention of a dustman at the next table.

‘What's that then?' said the dustman, who was sufficiently bold to reach across and lift the publication so as to see the title. ‘
The Pickwick Club
. What's that then?'