Joan Aiken - Black Hearts in Battersea

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BLACK HEARTS IN BATTERSEA

Joan Aiken

BLACK HEARTS IN BATTERSEA

Do you remember Simon, the boy in The Wolves of Willoughby

Chase, who lived in a cave in the woods and rescued Bonnie and

Sylvia Green from Mrs Brisket's horrible orphanage? Well,

when all those excitements were over Simon went to London.

He really went there to study art, but being Simon he walked

slap into a new mystery.

He planned to lodge with his friend Dr Field at the house

of a Mr and Mrs Twite in Southwark - but Dr Field had disappeared,

and no one would admit that he had ever lived

there. And the cellar was piled full of muskets and gunpowder.

Simon's new adventures include fire, flood, wolves, kidnapping,

poisoning, an air balloon, explosion, and shipwreck;

his companions in danger are staunch little Dido Twite, the

noble Duke and Duchess of Battersea, and Sophie, who is

to become more than a friend to him -- though not a sweetheart.

JOAN AIKEN

Black Hearts in Battersea

PUFFIN BOOKS

Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Jonathan Cape 1965

published in Puffin Books 1965

For

Jessica and Joanna

NOTE

The action of this book takes place in the

same period as that of The Wolves of

Willoughby Chase: the reign of King

James III, in the earlier part of the nineteenth

century, when England was still

sadly plagued by wolves. A family tree of

the Dukes of Battersea will be found on

page 86.

On a fine warm evening in late summer, over a hundred

years ago, a boy might have been seen leading a donkey

across Southwark Bridge in the City of London. The boy,

who appeared to be about fifteen, was bright-eyed and

black-haired, and looked as if he had spent most of his life

out of doors; he carried a knapsack, and wore rough,

warm garments of frieze. Both boy and donkey seemed a

little bewildered by the crowds round about them; the

streets were thronged with people strolling in the sunshine

after their day's work.

Half-way across the bridge the boy paused, took an extra

turn of the donkey's halter round his wrist, and pulled

out of his pouch a grubby and much-handled letter, which

he proceeded to study for the twentieth time.

Come and stay with me for as long as you like, my dear Simon.

I have lately moved from Park Lane to lodgings that are less

expensive, but sufficiently comfortable and commodious for

us both. I have two rooms on the top floor of this house,

which belongs to a Mr and Mrs Twite. The Twites are an unattractive

family, but I see little enough of them. Moreover,

the windows command a handsome view of the river and St

Paul's Cathedral. I have spoken of you to Dr Furnace, the

Principal of the Art Academy in Chelsea where I sometimes

study, and he is willing to accept you as a pupil. Through my

visits to this Academy I have made another most interesting

acquaintance to whom I wish to introduce you. More of this

when we meet.

Yours, Gabriel Field, m.d.

p.s. Kindly remember me to Sir Willoughby and Lady Green,

Miss Bonnie and Miss Sylvia Green, and all other friends in

Yorkshire.

The letter was addressed from Rose Alley, Southwark,

London.

The boy named Simon looked about him somewhat

doubtfully and, after a moment's hesitation, accosted an

elderly and rather frail-looking man with sparse locks who

was walking slowly across the bridge.

'I wonder, sir,' he said politely, 'if you can direct me to

Rose Alley? I believe it is not far from here.'

The old man looked at him vaguely, stroking his beard

with an unsteady hand.

'Rose Alley, now? Rose Alley, dear me. The name is

indeed familiar ...'

His hand stopped stroking and his eyes roamed vacantly

past Simon.' Is that your beast?' he asked absently,

his gaze lighting on the donkey. 'Ah, I remember when I

was a lad in the forest of Epping, I had a donkey; used

to carry home bundles of firewood for a penny a load ...'

His voice trailed off.

'Rose Alley, sir,' Simon said gently. 'I am searching

for the lodgings of a Dr Field.'

'Dr Field, my boy?'

'Yes, sir, Dr Gabriel Field.'

'That name, too, seems familiar. Dear me, now,

dear me. Was it Dr Field who put the bread poultice

on my knee?' He advanced his knee and stared at it,

seeming mildly surprised to find that the bread poultice

was no longer there with Dr Field's bill attached

to it.

Simon, watching him, had not noticed an extremely

dirty urchin who had been hovering near them. This individual,

a sharp-looking boy of eleven or twelve who

seemed to be dressed in nothing but one very large pair of

trousers (he had cut holes in the sides for his arms) now

jostled against Simon, contriving at the same moment to

tread on his toes, flip his nose, and snatch Dr Field's

letter out of his hand. He then ran off, singing in a loud,

rude manner:

'Simple Simon came to town,

Riding on a moke.

Donkey wouldn't go,

Wasn't that a joke?'

'Hey!' shouted Simon angrily. How did the boy know

his name? 'Give back that letter!'

He started in pursuit, but the boy, thumbing his nose

derisively, crumpled up the letter and tossed it over the

rail into the water. Then he disappeared into the crowd.

'Eh, deary me,' said the old man, sighing in a discouraged

manner. 'The young people grow rougher and

ruder every day. Now, what was it you were saying, my

boy? You wanted the address of a Dr Poultice? A

strange name, a strange name - very. So far as I know

there's no Dr Poultice in these parts.'

'No, Dr Field - Dr Gabriel Field in Rose Alley,' said

Simon, still vainly trying to catch a glimpse of the boy.

'Dr Alley? Never heard of him. Now, when I was a lad

in the forest of Epping there was a Dr Marble ...'

Simon saw that he would get no good out of the old

man, so he thanked him politely and walked on across the

bridge.

'Did I hear you say you wanted Rose Alley?' said a

voice in his ear. He turned with relief and saw a smallish,

brisk-looking woman with pale-blue eyes and pale sandy

hair and a bonnet that was most ingeniously ornamented

with vegetables. A small bunch of carrots decorated the

brim, a couple of lettuce leaves curled up rakishly at one

side, and a veritable diadem of radishes was twined tastefully

round the back.

'Yes, Dr Field's lodgings in Rose Alley,' said Simon,

relieved to find someone who looked able to answer his

question, for though the little woman's bonnet was eccentric,

her mouth was decided and her eyes were very sharp.

'Don't know any Dr Field, but I can tell you the best

way to get to Rose Alley,' she said, and reeled off a set of

directions so complicated that Simon had much ado to

get them into his head. He thanked her and hurried on,

repeating, 'Two miles down Southwark Bridge Road,

past the Elephant and Castle Inn, past Newington Butts,

through Camberwell, then take a left turning and a right

fork

But hey! he said to himself when he had gone half a

mile, didn't Dr Field say that from his window he had a

view of the River Thames? And of St Paul's Cathedral?

He turned round. St Paul's Cathedral had been in view

while he stood on Southwark Bridge. But now it was out

of sight.

That woman must have been wrong, Simon thought,

beginning to retrace his steps. She must have been thinking

of some other Rose Alley. I'll go back until I am once

more within sight of St Paul's and the river, and ask

somebody else. What a place this London is for confusion!

He presently reached the bridge once again, and this

time was luckier in his adviser. A studious-looking young

man with a bag of books said he was going to Rose Alley

himself. He led Simon off the bridge, round a couple of

corners, and into a tiny cobbled lane giving directly on to

the river-front. There were but half a dozen tall, narrow,

shabby houses on either side, and at the far end a patch of

thistly grass sloped down to the water.

Simon had forgotten the number of the house where

Dr Field lodged, but when he asked which belonged to

Mr and Mrs Twite the young man pointed to the last

house on the right, Number Eight, which stood with its

back to the bridge and its side to the river.

Simon tethered his donkey to some broken railings and

knocked on the door, which was in need of a coat of paint.

For a long time there was no reply. He knocked again,

louder. At that, a window flew open and a child's head

popped out.

'There's nobody in but me,' she snapped. 'Whose

donkey is that?'

'Mine. Is this the house of Mr and Mrs Twite?'

'Yes, it is. I'm Miss Twite,' the brat said with a

haughty air. 'What d'you want?'

'I'm looking for Dr Field.'

'There's no Dr Field here. Can your donkey gallop?

What's its name?'

'Caroline. Do you mean Dr Field is out?' The child

looked thoroughly unreliable and Simon was not sure

whether to believe her.

'Can your donkey gallop?' she repeated.

'If you'll come down and answer the door I'll give you

a ride on her,' said Simon. She vanished like lightning

and reappeared in the doorway. She was a shrewish

looking little creature of perhaps eight or nine, with

sharp eyes of a pale washed-out blue and no eyebrows or

eyelashes to speak of. Her straw-coloured hair was

stringy and sticky with jam and she wore a dirty satin

dress two sizes too small for her.

'Is Dr Field out? Do you know when he'll be back?'

Simon said again.

She took no notice of his question but walked up to the

donkey and untied it. 'Lift me on its back,' she ordered.

Simon good-naturedly did so, urged the reluctant Caroline

to a trot, and led her to the end of Rose Alley and

back. Miss Twite hung on to the saddle uttering loud

exclamations:

'Mind out! Not so fast, you're shaking me! She's

bumping, make her slow down! Oo, your saddle's hard!'

When they arrived back at Number Eight she cried,

'Give me another ride!'

'Not till you tell me when Dr Field will be back.'

'Don't know.'

'Well, where are your father and mother?'

'They've gone to Vauxhall Gardens with Penny and

Grandpa and Aunt Tinty and they won't be back till

midnight past.'

'Why aren't you with them?'

'Acos I threw Penny's hat on the fire,' she said, bursting

into giggles. 'Oo, how they did scold! Pa walloped me

with a slipper - leastways he tried to - and Ma said I

mightn't go out, and Penny pinched me. Spiteful cat.'

'Who's minding you?'

'I'm minding myself. Give me another ride!'

'Not just now. The donkey's tired, she and I have come

all the way from Yorkshire this week. If you're good you

shall have another ride later, perhaps.' Simon was learning

cunning. But Miss Twite looked at him with a knowing,

weary eye and said:

'Gammon! I know yer "later perhaps"!'

'Would you like to give the donkey some carrots?'

Simon said, visited with inspiration.

'Don't mind.'

He pulled a handful of carrots out of the pannier and

broke them up.

Miss Twite was delighted with the privilege of feeding

Caroline, and almost shed her world-weary air. Seeing

her absorbed, Simon quietly walked through the front

door of the house and up a steep and dirty flight of stairs,

past several landings. At the top of the house two doors

faced one another. Simon remembered that Dr Field had

said there were two rooms; doubtless both of these were

his. But no reply came from either door when he tapped;

it appeared that the child had been speaking the truth and

Dr Field was indeed out.

It could surely do no harm to wait for him here, however,

Simon thought. By this time he was decidedly

weary, and a kitten, which had been asleep in his knapsack,

at this moment woke up and mewed to be released.

Simon opened one of the doors and looked through

into the room beyond.

As soon as he saw the window he recognized the view

that Dr Field had described - the river, and Southwark

Bridge, and an expanse of mud gleaming pink in the sunset

below the tethered barges. Beyond towered the dome

of St Paul's. But, strangely enough, the room, which had

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BLACKHEARTSINBATTERSEAbyJoanAikenBLACKHEARTSINBATTERSEADoyourememberSimon,theboyinTheWolvesofWilloughbyChase,wholivedinacaveinthewoodsandrescuedBonnieandSylviaGreenfromMrsBrisket'shorribleorphanage?Well,whenallthoseexcitementswereoverSimonwenttoLondon.Hereallywenttheretostudyart,butbeingSimonhewalke...

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Joan Aiken - Black Hearts in Battersea

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