London Folk Tales (19 page)

Bedlam had moved to Moorfields by then and it was as nice as pie now for the lunatics. Didn’t hardly get chained up at all, and they weren’t all together in one big hall. Mind you, that was more for the sake of the warders – it would drive you mad yourself, to be in the same space with all the bellowing and roaring and screaming. Like Hell. That’s one reason it got the name Bedlam. St Mary of Bethlehem, it had been in the beginning, when it was a priory, but that was hundreds of years before – no one remembered that any more. But the place it was at now, at Moorfields, well that was like a holiday. Far more than they deserved, most people with any sense said. They had different ‘wards’, as they called them now; one was for ‘Curables’ that they thought the doctors could cure – doctors, yes! They had them and all! ‘Talk about lucky!’ people said.

But when they got Becky there, she was wild as a cat. Screamed and fought and all sorts. It took two men to force her hand open, and get that sovereign out. And afterwards she kept on searching and searching, trying to find it, in her hand, up her skirts, in a crack on the floor that was much too small, you name it, she looked there – it was laughable.

But after a few months she began to look like she’d managed to lose herself too. Eyes all empty, not even seeming to hear, just sitting there, rocking, rocking, rocking. That’s when they moved her on, into the incurables. She wasn’t any bother then, at least. You could forget her altogether until something sparked her off. No one ever worked out what it was, maybe a sound that got through, or a movement, but it would switch her on again, like a wind-up toy. And she’d do all that searching stuff again. Or sometimes cry and tear her hair. Only for a bit, but it was enough to satisfy spectators.

For this was the time of George III, when even royalty were mad. It was almost a fashion. And it was certainly fashionable entertainment to go and have a peep at Bedlam. For a penny you could peer into every cell, and see what the lunatics got up to. It was a real laugh sometimes.

And the first Tuesday of every month it was free. Mind you, it was packed, hundreds there, you could hardly move. What you’d do, if you knew the ropes, was to shuffle through with everyone else in a long queue, but when you got to the cell that you liked best, you’d step out of line and hang on the window bars as tight as you could, face pressed against them. Then everybody else just had to go on past.

Becky didn’t get many of those dedicated visitors, because most of the time she wasn’t doing anything. But you might strike lucky, and get one of those moments worth watching. Besides, you didn’t have to fight so hard for the window spot.

Perhaps it wasn’t a Tuesday when he came. At any rate it wasn’t so full that he couldn’t get through. He didn’t know she was there, of course. And he wasn’t there just to stare, either. Or at least that’s what he told himself, although there was an awful fascination in seeing them, one after another. But it was his job now, in a way, to see how people behaved. All that endless studying and those terrifying examinations he thought he’d never pass. But he had, and now he knew that it had all been worth it, because it had led in into a branch of medicine that was quite fascinating. And potentially a promising career too, although he was only a lowly assistant so far. But he was ambitious. Which was why he was here, on a rare day off, to learn whatever he could. If only the large woman in front would hurry up and move along. She was almost blocking the whole corridor, and certainly monopolising the window to the next cell. He was about to push on past, and get ahead at least, but something made him glance through the little gap between the woman’s fat shoulder and her hat.

Inside there was a young female, sitting on the floor, facing sideways to the door. With her right finger she was tracing lines on the ground, as if she was reading something in the dust. The fat woman laughed, and the inmate looked up. Her eyes met his, and in that moment of shock, before he could stop himself, her name was on his lips. ‘Becky!’

She froze. For an instant he thought he saw a spark of recognition; then she turned away. ‘What did you say?’ the fat woman asked curiously. ‘Is that her name?’

‘I … No … She just reminded me of someone, that’s all,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea who she really is.’

‘They call her The Sovereign,’ the woman said, with a laugh. ‘Funny that – I don’t mean the King. It was a gold sovereign, they say. She fought like mad to stop them taking it away. A lover’s gift they reckon it was. Or maybe a tip, once he’d done with her. Nobody really knows.’

Becky was still quite young when she died. Perhaps it was her only means of escape. And yet her ghost stayed; they say it is seen to this day. Has she been held there by her sad search for the sovereign? Surely then she would have stayed in Moorfields.

Instead, she followed Bedlam out of the city, first to new premises in St Georges Fields in Southwark, and then later when it moved again, into the countryside near Beckenham. By then, the old name ‘Bedlam’ had been dropped, and the old ways were also changed for good as knowledge grew, and sympathy too, for illness and trauma hidden inside the mind. In the sunshine and fresh air, surrounded by true care, it was felt that people had a better chance to reshape their lives.

Perhaps Becky’s spirit felt this too. And maybe there, at last, long after she died, she found the love and peace that she was due.

Mrs Montague was one of those ladies envied by her whole circle of acquaintances. She seemed to have everything one could require in life: a wealthy and pleasant husband, a delightful little boy, a splendid house on the corner of Portman Square, and the health and leisure to enjoy it all. And she did, for she was one of those rare but welcome creatures who fully appreciated good fortune.

Her little son was almost five years old, and a dear little thing, although full of high spirits and boyish energy. Luckily he had a nurse who was well used to dealing with children, and seemed the ideal choice for the position. Unfortunately, she had one or two failings, which she kept well hidden. The first was a most unsuitable man friend, who she would meet when out, but who had, of course, never been to the house. The second, possibly even worse, was an occasional taste for the bottle.

That winter was particularly severe, and the Thames had entirely frozen over, and there was tremendous excitement about the Frost Fair on the ice. There were all sorts of fairground booths, and roundabouts, and games, but the highlight was an elephant that was being led across the river just below Blackfriars Bridge. The Montagues’ little boy, having been told about that, and the puppet shows and other delights besides, begged and pleaded with his mama to be allowed to see them. As nobody knew how long the ice would last, there was an extra note of urgency in his plea. Fortunately, his nurse was more than happy to take him, and so the treat was agreed for the following afternoon.

The nurse, however, privately informed her man friend of this jaunt, and so he was there at Blackfriars to meet their carriage. And the afternoon at the fair, with his company too, became an altogther different kind of day out. The little boy had his pleasures, including going on one or two somewhat unsuitable rides. But the adults also wanted to have their fun, of course. And it being cold, there were cups of hot spiced wines and ciders to be had, and brandy for the gentlemen, as well as porter and other drinks, which the nurse and her friend participated in with great gusto, and increasing jollity, trailing the little boy behind as they visited the various stalls. At some point, having long since forgotten to hold firmly onto his hand, the nurse suddenly realised that her young charge, bored and ignored, had wandered away.

Now, of course, there was an outcry, but search as they would he could not be found. Gypsies were suspected, but nothing could be proved. The nurse of course, was sacked, but that didn’t bring the little boy back. Mr and Mrs Montague, with all the money they had at their disposal, had the whole of London combed for their son, to no avail. Their dreadful distress was beyond all description, and Mrs Montague went from being one of London society’s most envied women to being one of the most pitied.

Whether it was gypsies or others who had picked up the child, his smart clothes were soon sold, and he himself was cared for until he was old enough to be worth selling on, too. Being small and lithe, with, they claimed, ‘a good head for heights’, which was true in so far as he loved climbing trees, he was taken on by a chimney sweep who needed a boy.

Now, as the king’s own grandfather had declared, when saved from a nasty fall by a sweep who soothed his startled horse, ‘Chimney Sweeps should be regarded as Lucky!’ And the Montagues’ son was lucky, because he happened to get a master who was kind to him. But he was not at all fortunate to have a job as a chimney sweep’s climbing boy, for it was horrible hard and dark work for anyone to be crawling through the chimneys of great houses in order to ensure that they were cleaned. However, perhaps because the chimney sweep took care of him, he survived.

And perhaps because the chimney sweep was a pleasant fellow, they worked in many of London’s best houses. So it was that when the boy was nearly eight years old, they happened to be cleaning the chimneys in the house on the corner of Portman Square. These chimneys were large, and extensive. The young boy grew tired. Climbing down one of the smaller flues he found himself in a beautiful little bedroom. The bed in the corner looked so inviting, he could not resist going up to it. Sitting on the bed was a small cloth doll dressed like a tiny soldier. There was something about it that was so familiar, the little boy could not resist climbing onto the bed to take it in his arms. And the bed was so soft and the doll so comforting that he fell fast asleep.

When the sweep’s boy did not re-emerge from the chimney, there was a search for him. He was not in any of the main rooms. The housemaids went upstairs and looked in the guest bedrooms, and the master and mistress’ room too, but still they found no one. There was only one room they had not visited, but they were reluctant to look in there. For that was the bedroom of the Montagues’ little son, who had been lost all those years ago. And on Mrs Montague’s orders, the room had been left exactly as it was on that fateful day.

In the end they asked the mistress herself if she would mind checking that last chimney. It was Mrs Montague, therefore, who found the little sweep, fast asleep with the doll in his arms. She cried out in shock to see a child there, and he stirred, and opened his eyes. He was dirty, he was different, but she knew in that moment that he was her son returned. A little birthmark on his back soon had this confirmed.

You cannot imagine the joy in that house. Or the gratitude poured on the old chimney sweep for sparing his stick on that child. The boy was sorry to say goodbye to him, and made him promise to come and visit. Which he readily agreed to do, since he wouldn’t be working so much anymore. Not now the Montagues had given him the reward they insisted he should have! From then on, the only work he’d be doing was weddings. A lucky sweep indeed!

And from then on, too, Mrs Montague had a personal concern for London chimney sweeps and for climbing boys especially. For the rest of her life she opened her doors every year to all the sweeps of London town, for a May Day luncheon feast. And every single one of them was treated to roast beef, plum pudding, and porter, with a shilling or sixpence apiece to take home after. And since it had become such a tradition, and chimney sweeps are ones to keep good traditions going, it went on long after Mrs Montague was gone. Even today, the doors of that house are often open to all. But maybe that’s because it is now part of the British Museum.

There was a lad who lived round Cripplegate way, and he was courting. At least he hoped it might turn out that way before too long. They had talked, several times, and he was sure she also felt there was something special sparking between them. The trouble was, he was poor. He didn’t have two shillings to rub together. And the girl – well she deserved something more. Not that she was a toff. But she was nice. Brought up right. And he was – well, if anybody asked, he liked to say that he was on his way to learning the shoemaking trade.

In fact, he was nowhere near that. He was absolutely at the bottom of the heap. He was one of the ones who helped the leather to tan. Not a very salubrious process because they used faeces for that, any they could get, but usually the dirt that the street dogs left. He’d be sent out with a bucket to pick up what he could. So as you could imagine, he didn’t smell too good, although he was quite particular about having a good scrub whenever he got the chance. For he was a good lad at heart, and honest as the day is long. People said he was stupid that way.

Like the time when he heard a chink as he was running down the street and, turning round, he found a silver sovereign on the ground. What luck! But it was just behind a gentleman who had stopped to buy a paper, and it flashed through the lad’s mind that maybe he’d pulled the sovereign out by mistake, when he put his hand in his wallet to pay. So without thinking twice, he picked up the coin and said, ‘Sir, does this belong to you?’