Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

It was with weary legs and wearier heart that Christopher ended up in front of Mr. Abberton’s house. Standing on the cobbled road, squinting through the gauze of rain, he could almost pretend he was returning home. But that, of course, was impossible.

The house in front of him was similar to the Quartermaine bookshop, with its peeling paint and frail porch steps. But the man standing on those steps wasn’t his father. This home was not his.

It wasn’t as if Christopher had arrived by choice, but by faint common sense. His father had promised he’d be taken care of after his departure. And though the boy barely knew this man before him, he supposed he should be grateful. He could’ve been curling up on a park bench tonight instead.

Closing the distance, Christopher moved up the dirt path, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth. He extended his hand. “Mr. Abberton--“

“No need for the formalities. We’re not strangers now, are we?”

Slowly, his hand returned to his side.

“You remember me, don’t you?”  Mr. Abberton smiled, as if the boy would remember the bare, yellow teeth.

He didn’t recognize it. “Of course, I do. You were a dear friend of my father’s.” It was a guess, but not a completely erroneous one. Why would his father have a stranger take care of his only son?

At this, the smile twitched. The eyes that seemed dim under the porch overhang now turned murky with tears. But only for a moment. A cleared throat, then the sorrow was gone.

If only Christopher was so talented.

“Right in, then. I’ll take your belongings from you. You must be tired after heaving them all the way down here…” His words faded as he glanced to the pack in Christopher’s hand. Had he expected steamer trunks?

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Abberton.”

The man hesitated. Was he so frazzled by Christopher’s arrival that he had forgotten of his friend’s destitution? “Of course.” Another smile, this time a little less strained. “Follow me.”

Christopher had known many drunks in his life: the irate drunk, the somber drunk, the gleeful. Mr. Abberton was an embarrassed drunk.

“These dreadful things. I remember taking only one last night. But it seems they’ve multiplied.” He plucked up an empty bottle, scooting another beneath the chair legs as if Christopher couldn’t see.

Tentatively, Christopher glanced about. The interior of the house was bigger than the Quartermaine’s--slightly. Just feet away from the front door was the entryway to the kitchen, where Mr. Abberton now paced, hurriedly opening the dust devoured curtains. A small cabinet housed worn plates and a battered stove squatted in the corner.

Christopher stepped back into the entrance-way, which was more a spare pocket of space than a foyer, and followed the man down a cramped hallway. “You’ll be staying here, in Alfred’s old room. He headed for Sommersville last spring. Did your father tell you that?”

“No, sir.”

“Took up a job there, and a wife, too. Haven’t heard of either--though I don’t expect my Alfie to send me any letters. Don’t think I could decipher them if he did.” He laughed, and all mirth there was brittle and arid. He paused at the last door and cracked it open. “It’s a bit drab. But I’m sure a little life will bring back its color.”

And drab it was. Like the rest of the house, boards creaked underfoot, and dust clung to the bedsheets. A spider knit a web between a splinter in the mirror. Christopher deposited his clothes in the dresser--and watched in alarm as the knob popped off and rolled beneath the bed.

“A trivial matter,” Mr. Abberton stated. “Just needs a little adjusting.” He closed the door with a polite smile, leaving Christopher to wonder in silence if the man was commenting on himself, the room, or the boy inside.

*

In the morning, they discussed sewers.

Or rather Mr. Abberton did, after spotting a bleary-eyed Christopher hovering in the doorway. The boy had his own topics of discussion, just waiting behind a caged tongue. Of the depressing were his sleeping habits, which had declined every night since his father’s illness. The jovial included the spider, and how, in the dim hours of the morning, he’d nearly named the creature. Was Hubert too dignified for an arachnid? How about Henry? And what of the loneliness that drove like a spear into their hearts all night? Both souls would have plenty to share.

Instead, they talked of grime and gunk.

As he lathered a dry piece of toast with the last dollop of butter, Mr. Abberton smiled. "Have you ever considered working for the sewers?”

Christopher swallowed roughly. “I suppose I had never given it thought.”

“Compared to my time at Ruther’s, I find the work less…” He twirled his knife around as he searched for the right word.

“Taxing?” Christopher offered.

“Yes, yes. And surprisingly not as messy.”

Ruther’s slaughterhouse sat on the corner of the street, six houses away from Mr. Abberton’s. Even still, the skies were clogged with smoke, the air tinged with copper. Thinking of the place dashed Christopher’s appetite--and Mr. Abberton’s next words further diminished it.

“The pay is stable…Stable enough for our line of work, that is. There’s only so much filth you can look at before you end up hurling yourself. It really isn’t too bad--as long as you wear extra socks and stand clear of the passing mire--”

A carriage rumbled down the rugged street outside, swallowing the rest of Mr. Abberton’s words.

“Aren’t you going to eat up, boy?” Mr. Abberton eyed Christopher’s plate, and the gruel that sat there, quickly growing cold.

“Of course, sir.” He strained against hitting a table leg as the substance skidded down his throat.

“The only issue is, we’re short on staff. And when there’s only two or three souls to one segment of the sewers, well…” He tore off a bite of toast. “Things get a little difficult.”

“I can imagine, sir.” He didn’t really wish to imagine it.

“I’d ask Alfred, of course I would. But you know he’s busy, out of town, piecing together his new life. I really am proud of him, you know.”

It was the silence that made up Christopher’s mind. Or perhaps the desperation in Mr. Abberton’s eyes was to blame--and his frown that hardened every passing second.

“It’s the best I could do, sir.”

The frown softened “Your father would be a very proud man. Making your wages early, earning your keep.” He nodded, as if Mr. Quartermaine was whispering his testament to his ear. “A fine thing for a lad to do.”

*

The glass felt cold against his skin. He flinched as the cork unscrewed--almost too easily--and peered into the frothy liquid. He’d never been as religious as his father had desired, but standing in Mr. Abberton’s kitchen, clutching the bottle to his chest, he could swear he felt the priest’s eyes on him. He glanced to the doorway, eyeing the shadows for a smudge of a figure.

Prayers hadn’t worked. Perhaps a drop of gin would.

The candle on the table sputtered. Christopher had lit it just a moment ago, after making sure Mr. Abberton was secure in his room. After returning from work--eleven hours of slime and sweat, he said--the man had retired to his bed and liquor. He’d passed out an hour ago, intoxicated enough that he’d stay numb even if a barrage of horses stampeded across the roof.

Or so Christopher hoped.

Christopher himself would start a few nights from now--"two days is enough to settle in, I suppose” was Mr. Abberton’s explanation. The workers maintained the sewers in shifts--with one division scrubbing during the day and the other taking over at night. Mr. Abberton had never had a say in which segment he prefered. And neither did Christopher. He’d have to rest during the day--it was impossible enough to sleep* at night with the skin-thin walls of Mr. Abberton’s abode--but he’d have to manage. And, perhaps, get his drinking done then as well.

He lifted the drink to his lips, steadying himself for whatever reactions he’d endure, then paused. A toast was required.

“To Sherfield’s newest laborer.” He pointed his glass at a clock sluggishly ticking time in the gloom. His only witness. “May you never find sludge in your shoes.”