William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

sat in an armchair, wrapped around with a light shawl, quite obviously asleep. Mr. Cordwainer's book, a translation of the plays of Sophocles, was lying faceup where he had left it to answer the door.
    It was only as Stella sat down in one of the other chairs that Hester realized with amazement, and then a wave of understanding, that Cordwainer had not guided her in here, nor had he indicated to her where the chair was. She must be sufficiently familiar with the room not to need such assistance, and he knew that. Perhaps for her, they were careful never to move anything even a few inches from its accustomed place.
    Was that the secret that she must not tell? Cordwainer was perhaps twenty years older than she, and quite clearly he loved her.
    There was no time to think of such things. Mrs. Cordwainer had woken up and was full of interest. With very little prompting, she recalled Mary and her mother, and the birth of the baby.
    “‘Ard thing it were,” she said sadly, blinking sharp gray eyes. “She weren't the last I seen die, but she were the first, an’ I dint never forget ‘er, poor soul. Just young, she were, for all that the little girl were about five, near as we could tell.” She sighed. “Got ‘er adopted out in a year or so. Nice family as were keen to ‘ave ‘er. Webb, they was called, or something like that. But they couldn't take the babe, couldn't manage a babe. Woman were crippled. We don't like ter split ‘em up, but we got too many mouths ter feed as it were, an’ they really wanted ‘er.”
    “What happened to the little boy?” Hester asked softly. She couldimagine him, growing up motherless, one of many, cared for but not special to anyone; fed, clothed, possibly even taught, but not loved. It was so desperately easy to see why he had invented a happiness that had never existed.
    “Nice little lad, ‘e were,” Mrs. Cordwainer said dreamily. “Curly ‘air, ‘andsome enough, even if ‘e were a bit of a scrapper now an’ then. But that int something I mind in a boy. Bit o’ spirit. Used ter make me laugh, ‘e did. I were young—then. Got away wi’ all sorts, ‘cause ‘e made me laugh. An’ ‘e knew it.”
    “What happened to him?” Hester said again.
    “I dunno. ‘E stayed ‘ere till ‘e were eight, then we let ‘im go.”
    “Where to? Who took him?”
    “Took ‘im? Bless you, nobody took ‘im. ‘E were old enough to work for ‘isself I dunno where ‘e went.”
    Hester glanced at Scuff, who seemed to understand perfectly. He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. She realized he had almost certainly been more or less alone since he was that age. Perhaps Durban had been a mudlark as well.
    “Was Durban his mother's name?” she asked aloud.
    “We never knew ‘is mother's name,” the old lady replied. “Can't recall as we ever asked ‘er. We called ‘im Durban after a man from Africa ‘oo gave us money one time. Seemed like a good enough name, an’ ‘e din't mind.”
    “Did he ever come back?”
    “Went ter Africa again, far as I know.”
    “Not the man, the boy?”
    “Oh. Not as I can think of. Went to look fer ‘is sister, little Mary, but she'd gone. ‘E did tell us that. Don't know nothin’ else. Sorry. Were all a long time ago.”
    “Thank you so much. You've been very helpful,” Hester said sincerely.
    Mrs. Cordwainer looked at her, her face puckered. “Wot ‘appened to ‘im then? D'you know?”
    “He grew into a fine man,” Hester replied. “Joined the River Police, and died about six months ago, giving his life to save others. I'mlooking for Mary Webber, to tell her, and give her his things, if she's his sister. But she's hard to find. He was looking for her before he died, but he never found her.”
    Mrs. Cordwainer shook her head, but she said nothing.
    They declined a cup of tea, not wishing to put them to trouble, and Mr. Cordwainer escorted them to the door. When they reached it and Scuff and Stella were already outside, he put his hand on Hester's arm and held her back.
    “You'll not find Mary,” he said very softly. He looked acutely unhappy. “It's a long story. Carelessness a bit, lonely, wanting to please, and maybe a bit too trusting, but not fault, not really.”
    Hester was lost again. “What are you talking about?” She found that she was whispering in turn.
    “Mary,” he replied. “She's in prison. My mother kept up with her, for the boy's sake. Then when she got old, I kind of took her