Work Text:
street mountebank
Sometimes, he still feels coal dust in his lungs.
The rumble in his stomach has never really left him. Nor did his need to blink more often or the sore in his spine from hunching over. The coal dust, though, scares him. In their scrappy flat, his father lies in bed, coughing the stuff up. When Daniel is overtaken by a coughing fit, the lines between himself and his father start to blur. Is he next?
He’s away from coal dust now. He left the dust and splinters back at the mill. Fleet Street is miles away from the murky part of the city. It almost seems like the sun smiles down on these corners more than they do for the rest of London.
His father would call that ridiculous. Daniel should agree with him. So he doesn’t share that sort of daydream with his father.
Daniel does, however, wonder if he’ll start to feel hair follicles in his lungs. Once all the coal has been coughed out, is that what comes next? Mr. Barker seems to be doing alright. Has Mr. Barker ever been a factory boy?
Whatever the past of his employer is, Daniel can’t bother with it. To him, the Barkers are some sort of angels.
“You know how I can always tell that the work day is over?” Mr. Barker asks, as he folds up his towels.
Daniel doesn’t look up from his broom. “How, sir?”
“You can hear Johanna in the other room, squawking for her supper.”
Daniel pauses in his task, as does Mr. Barker. He doesn’t have to press his ear against the wall to hear the infant’s little hungry cries. He doesn’t have to tilt his head to hear Mrs. Barker singing some sort of lullaby to her.
When he looks back at Mr. Barker, the man is beaming. Daniel gives a short nod before continuing with his work. Maybe a girl would appreciate that more–find it all romantic and sweet and whatnot. But Daniel O’Higgins can’t care much less about another family when he’s a ten-year-old boy.
Mr. Barker gives him his pay and after thanking him, Daniel is off. It’s still light enough that he can take the way through the marketplace home.
“Oi! Come ‘ere, come ‘ere! For the most fantastical thing ever known to man!”
“Herbs! Rosemary, parsley, mint! All fresh! Herbs!”
“And it’ll only cost you a single penny…”
The energy that buzzes between the housewives doing their daily shopping and the vendors trying to sell him products he can’t afford, gives him a sort of bounce to his step. As he passes them, Daniel notes their selling tactics. Some keep it simple by shouting out the name of what they sell (such as the Herb Lady). Others make up lengthy stories about journeying into far away lands to get their hands on whatever-it-is. Daniel’s favorites usually consist of a costume and a stage. A whole theatrical performance for the scum of the earth.
But second-most, he loved the Italian.
It was always a great hit when the man was there. Speaking between English and Italian–sometimes Latin, too! (The only way Daniel even recognized it was by the few times he’d been to church.) Sometimes, he would bow his head and make a cross over his chest. However, he got here… Daniel imagined it was along some sort of road with bright stones and vines growing above it. That’s what Italy looks like, doesn’t it? That road seems to match the man’s personality perfectly.
Daniel watches the man from afar, never daring to get too close. Never daring to talk to him. Just there to admire.
Today, he takes a long sip of the pint in front of him. The Italian looks around with his lazy stare, taking in the animals and the stoney roads. He sighs, then leaves the pub.
Daniel’s eyes widened. Had he even paid for that?
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Evidently, not.
But that doesn’t seem to phase the Italian. He sweeps through the streets, wearing the same cape he always does. Daniel wonders if he’s a fallen actor or magician. If he could disappear, that would get him out of this sticky situation.
“Boy! You there!”
Daniel glances around, blinking stupidly. The owner of the pub reaches him.
“Did you see where the Eye-talian went?”
“Uhh… no, sir.”
The man scowls, though Daniel can’t be sure if he’s disappointed in the fact that he didn’t know where the Italian was or if it was Daniel’s own accent. He begins in the same direction that the Italian went.
If they catch him… Daniel’s life is over!
“Actually, sir! I think he went thataway!”
And Daniel points to the opposite alley.
The man hesitates–just a moment–before following in that direction. It must’ve been the accent he didn’t like either.
If only Daniel was Italian, too. Then people might listen to him instead of just tossing aside a young Irish boy. England would hate him either way, but there are thousands of Irish in this same city. But there’s only the one Italian. That would catch their attention. Maybe the English didn’t much like Italians, but they hated Irish even more. If Daniel was Italian, he could gain their respect. Their trust.
The rest of his walk home is uneventful. He keeps his head down. He keeps a fist around the change in his pocket. Daniel knows all-too well of the dangers of pick-pockets.
After the factory threw him out, that’s what he’d turned to. With Da unable to keep a job with his bum leg and cough, bringing home the bacon had turned to Daniel. Things were tight as they already were between the two of them. He’d had a younger brother once and even a mother before they were gone. Maybe it’s for the best that they’re gone. Would’ve been a lot harder to keep all of them fed.
Daniel gave all of those pocket-funds to his father who would limp down to pay rent and get a bite of bread to eat. It wasn’t nearly enough and Daniel’s stomach grumbled louder than the squeakings of the rat litter that lived next door to them. When that aching became too over-powering, he couldn’t just limit himself to change anymore.
Fleet Street was an unassuming place for a lad like him. He slipped right in, no one ever the wiser. And there was the smell of the pie shop. Always present, never welcome.
Daniel came in with a family. Distracted by their order and who wanted a bite of what pie, he was able to slip one into his pocket. The family hadn’t noticed, but the pie-lady sure had.
“And what do you think you’re doing with that?” she had shouted, yanking the pie right from his pocket. It had been squished, with juice running between her fingers, yet she hadn’t cared. “This is a fine establishment! Not some place for–”
That was when she swept in.
A yellow-haired lady, carrying a baby down the stairs–just in time.
“Nellie,” she said in a voice as soft as Irish lace. “Give the family another pie. I’ll pay for his.”
“Mrs. Barker,” the pie-lady shot back, “there’s no good in rewarding–”
“Mrs. Lovett, please.”
Who could resist such a sweet creature? Mrs. Barker adjusted her hold on the baby, to sit her against her hip. She took the ruined pie and disposed of it before taking Daniel to a table. Mrs. Lovett brought a replacement.
“Are you cold?” Mrs. Barker asked. “You’re shivering, just a little.”
Daniel nodded. Mrs. Barker took them to a table closer to the oven. She assured him that the warmth of the pie would help, too.
“And what’s your name?” she asked.
He bit into the pie. Just as promised, warm. And flaky and meaty.
“Daniel, ma’am.” Mouth still fill of pie. “Daniel O’Higgins.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Higgins. I’m Mrs. Barker.”
Daniel nodded. He supposed adults shook each other’s hands, but he wasn’t an adult. And Mrs. Barker was a woman. Did men shake a woman’s hands?
“Who do you live with, Daniel?”
He swallowed. “My da. That’s it.”
“Is he at work right now?”
Daniel took another bite. This time, he took the time to chew and swallow before answering.
“No. He can’t work anymore.” Daniel gestured to his leg. “He’s got a limp now. And a cough.”
Mrs. Barker was quiet for a few minutes. Her baby seemed to fade in and out of sleep. Daniel didn’t mind it in the slightest, it gave him the chance to eat more of his pie uninterrupted.
“Are you…” Mrs. Barker’s baby began to fuss a little. But once she held her head against her chest and patted her on the back, she calmed. “Are you in need of a job at all?”
That put a pause. It didn’t seem very man to admit to needing a job. That’s something he ought to start paying more attention to. Besides, it wasn’t like Daniel was a baby. He could find one by himself… Maybe.
But his stomach rumbled again. He can’t live like this anymore.
“A job would be nice to have, ma’am.”
Mrs. Barker nodded.
“Would you like another pie?”
Daniel’s eyes widened. Another pie? This must be what Christmas is like for other children.
Mrs. Barker ordered him another.
“While you eat that one, I’m going to ask my husband something–I’ll be very quick. Is that alright?”
Again, Daniel nodded, mouth full of stake.
True to her word, Mrs. Barker was not gone long. She didn’t have the baby with her as she came down the stairs. Must’ve left her up there.
“Well, Mr. O’Higgins, once you’re done with that one, there is someone I would like for you to talk to.”
He was half-hoping Mrs. Barker would offer him a third pie, despite how stuffed his stomach was. But she had already been so generous. He would feel guilty for the rest of his life if he refused to be introduced.
A few minutes later, a curly-haired man came down the stairs, carrying the baby. Mrs. Barker waved him over and he took a seat across from Daniel.
“Daniel,” Mrs. Barker began, “this is my husband, Mr. Barker. Benjamin, this is Daniel O’Higgins.”
Mr. Barker struggled to free a hand, but once he did, he extended it to him. Daniel shook it. Hopefully, just as firm and manly as his father had instructed him to.
“It’s a pleasure.” Mr. Barker adjusted his hold on the baby just before changing his life.
He was a barber, he said. There was always so much hair that needed to be swept up between customers, but lately he’d been falling behind. He needed a boy to sweep in and help him. If Daniel was willing.
The pay was better than at the factory. The work sounded easier, too.
When Daniel went home, his father was sound asleep.
He still isn’t sure if his father is entirely aware of what his occupation is now. Either way, it gets them food on the table and a roof over their heads.
And Mr. and Mrs. Barker are the reason for it. Most other people would have just let him be thrown out of the shop. They gave him a chance to get used to the sound of Mr. Barker’s razor against the leather strap and Mrs. Barker’s bright smile when he comes in for the day.
There’s no better people than the Barkers.
And Mrs. Lovett and the husband that he occasionally sees are nicer now, too. Sometimes, he orders a pie at the end of the day that ends up being free.
No work on Sunday. Mr. Barker assured him that would never change. Sundays, he said, were for church and their family. Daniel doesn’t quite understand what that means.
On Sunday, he and his father do nothing but sleep. No church–there isn’t a Catholic one anywhere close by anyway. No strolls through the park. Why waste their time when they don’t have to rise early or hunch themselves over all day?
The next day, Daniel shows up bright and early. He slips into the shop, seemingly unnoticed.
Mr. Barker isn’t in there.
Not terribly out-of-the-ordinary. Daniel plops down on the trunk and gently kicks at the cradle Mr. Barker occasionally puts his daughter in when his wife is out. Sometimes, Mr. Barker is still with his family by the time he comes in. He’ll be here in just a moment.
“They’re saying Botany Bay! Mrs. Lovett, please–”
Mrs. Barker bursts into the room.
She blinks.
“Dan…” She blinks again, as if she is seeing a ghost instead of her husband’s employee. Her eyes are darker than they normally are. Not in color, just… not quite right. “Daniel… um, Mr. Barker is…” It takes her several moments to continue, “The shop won’t be open today. I’m very sorry.”
Daniel doesn’t question it.
He takes the marketplace route home. The Italian walks between the stalls and Daniel becomes his shadow.
He ordered another drink. This time, he paid for it.
“You think you can work a crowd like that!” the Italian screamed at the people in the streets. “I’d could tell you how to work a crowd!”
Someone shouted something that Daniel could guess was a slur.
He broke into a run, trying to catch up the Italian. To learn all of his business secrets, to become someone bigger than he is now. That way, he wouldn’t have to spend his whole life on the verge of coughing up his lungs. He could actually have a life. And be rich. Live in a nice place, eat lots of pies–
But the Italian turns a corner and Daniel is immediately confronted by a match-seller.
He kicks at the street before getting home.
The next day, Mrs. Barker is again surprised to see him.
“Oh… oh, Daniel…” she says, in a tone that sounds so very “mother”, Daniel isn’t quite sure if he should be offended or comforted. “Mr. Barker is… my husband… Oh! I wish I had the funds…”
She tells him Mr. Barker won’t be in again.
His father dies that night.
Daniel finds him, stiff and cold. It would have been nice to give him a better life once he’s rich. It would’ve been nice to sit there and reminisce, though there aren’t too many memories between the two of them to reminisce about. It would have been nice to give him a proper, Catholic burial.
Daniel yanks his father’s shoes off his feet. He places them next to the window.
When he can’t get his eyes to close, he throws a blanket over him.
His father’s soul has long-gone to Purgatory.
As Daniel sits in the room with his father’s body pushed to the corner, he stares at the wall.
He can’t go the way his father did.
“Botany Bay! They are sending him there!”
It confuses Daniel. How on earth did the baby learn how to wail like that?
That sobbing from downstairs sounds like a whole, weepy adult. But those who are grown don’t cry like that, he knows. They certainly don’t sound like babies.
His heels hit the trunk he’s sitting on between beats in the conversation.
“Botany Bay?” that sounds like Mrs. Lovett. “Well, I’ll be…” A beat. “Stop your crying now, Mrs. Barker. The priest at St. Dustan’s can hear you all the way across the street! I think the kid is upstairs again. Might want to let him know that there’s no need for him to be coming back here… again.”
Daniel’s shoulders jump back. Was that a scream?
It takes a while before he hears someone squeaking up the stairs. When the door opens, he is confronted with the blotchy, red face of Mrs. Barker.
His eyes widened. Mrs. Barker never looks like this. Not this disheveled or exhausted or out-of-sorts. The woman looks half-mad.
She takes a seat next to him on the trunk. She sighs. She stares.
“Mr. Barker…” (She never sounds this hoarse, either.) “Mr. Barker won’t be able to take you on any longer. He’s… gone.”
“Gone?”
All Mrs. Barker can do is nod.
Botany Bay. That’s where he’s gone?
Why would he go to Botany Bay when he has his wife? His child?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to find a job elsewhere…”
Then Mrs. Barker leaves the room.
Daniel continues to sit on the trunk. What else is he supposed to do?
When Mrs. Barker returns, he’s holding a bag. She opens it, pauses, then crumples over herself.
She remains like that for a few moments. Daniel swears he can hear her whispering her husband’s name.
When she composes herself, she hands over a handful of change.
“That should… cover it.”
It doesn't cover the days Mr. Barker was gone.
Daniel thanks her.
He practically has to crawl over her in order to get through the door.
Jobless and fatherless, Daniel finds himself in the market nearly every day. If the Italian is there, he follows him around. If he’s not, Daniel has to remind himself that he can’t afford to buy the things here.
“I am Signor Adolfo Pirelli! And I am not to be toiled with!”
And so, Daniel finally knew the Italian’s name.
He followed Signor Adolfo Pirelli that day. He followed him around on the day he got evicted. He followed him until dusk the next day, before he was forced to figure out where to sleep.
He didn’t forget the name of Signor Adolfo Pirelli in the workhouse.
He did, however, learn that “Signor” is a title, not part of a name.
One day, Daniel tells himself at night, one day he’ll be just as successful as Signor Pirelli. He’ll have tailored suits of every color. He’ll be a successful businessman. He won’t sound like a poor Irish boy anymore.
Maybe he’ll even have a kid like him following him around, wanting to follow in his footsteps.
Maybe he’ll be a little bit like Mr. Barker, too. A barber.
But Daniel won’t be choking on all the hair in the air. He’ll be choking down great feasts and cash.
And it’ll all start in the market.