Yet despite these superficial gestures of respectability, Cheapside felt overladen with an atmosphere of cheerlessness. It was ordinary to see men smudged with faint coats of dirt, immediately identifiable as laborers. The children who ran through the streets, too, were less than kempt in appearance. Drunks squatted in the gutters. And the men who gathered around the hand-drawn two-wheeled stalls, sipping coffees, did not, for all appearances’ sake, seem to hold respectable jobs.
But all the same, these men were all accompanied by young women, with whom they seemed poorly matched. Opportunities for flirtation could be found in every walk of life, Ito supposed. Spurred by curiosity, he took a seat upon one of the wooden crates that had been set out in place of chairs. The portly vendor glanced at Ito as if to take his order. “A coffee, please,” he requested politely.
The rim of the cup he was handed was chipped. The aroma only barely suggested coffee. Ito had expected as much, as soon as he realized the stall had no coffee siphon. He rose slightly from his seat and peered across the stall. A rusted tin had been set upon a fire. Crushed beans were simply swept in and boiled. Any other method was probably too unprofitable.
A young woman sporting a gaudy hair ornament sat down next to Ito. “Buy us a cup?” she asked, a lilt to her voice that seemed vaguely coquettish.
Before Ito could reply, the proprietor handed the woman a coffee. The woman stroked her chest eagerly, turning to Ito with an inviting look upon her face.
Despite her heavy makeup the woman was clearly beautiful. Ito’s interest was stirred, but he quickly admonished himself.
Of the five of them who had come to London from Japan, Ito had the reputation for being the biggest rake. For his own part, he was sure Kinsuke Endo was worse than he. The leader of their group, however, Yozo Yamao, had warned them both to refrain from their usual womanizing.
Of course, it was clear what trade the woman was plying. Obviously this stall was a place for laborers to spend what little money they had on the company of prostitutes. As this was central London such business was, of course, prohibited. But perhaps that explained the need for such complicated introductions.
Ito shrunk at the prospect of bluntly refusing the woman’s advances. He had taken a seat at the stall without being aware of the custom. However, he could hardly break the promise he had made to his friends. His only option…
Ito reached into his pocket and retrieved a handful of coins. Four shillings and 10 pence, it marked the extent of the money currently at his disposal. He handed it all to the woman, speaking to her in English. It was a language he had only recently grown serviceable in.
“Another time. This is to help support you.”
Would she find his charity presumptuous? The woman’s eyes widened for a moment, but a smile immediately crossed her face. “Thanks awfully,” she said in an undertone, taking the money without offense. “You’re a gent, though. Where’re you come from?”
“Japan.”
“Eh, where’s that?”
“The farthest East. Even farther than China.”
“And do they all put a hand in the pocket for the ladies there?”
Ito smiled. “Maybe not all…”
“Right then,” muttered the woman, placing the money in her pocketbook. “Thank the mussies for ye. With this I’ll be after some bread ’stead of just currant cake and porridge. And with butter, not drippings.”
“Life is hard?”
“Ain’t it though. Everyone’s busted around here. You’ll want to keep clear of the metal hawkers. Costers, that lot, and set their wares too dear,” said the woman, standing up. “That’s me then. Thanks for the crack.”
The woman’s golden hair, which hung down her back in a braid, swayed like a horse’s tail as she walked away.
The proprietor cleared away the woman’s cup. She hadn’t taken a single sip. The proprietor evidently considered Ito a rube. He could read it in the man’s face.
Not that he was wrong. Ito stood up, feeling lighter, and walked away from the stall.
He glanced about. The fog, which a year or so earlier he had found romantic, he now knew owed half of its density to the coal burning from factories and homes. He was no longer so eager to breathe it quite as deeply as before. The walls of the buildings were also stained with soot, and the cobblestones on the street were significantly damaged. There were cracks and holes as far as the eye could see.
Half of London lived in poverty. Those living in the centrally located City and the West End were upper class. The other neighborhoods were located in the East End. Less prosperous areas, however, could also be found scattered, like the enclaves in East End, throughout the City and West End. Even the bustling commercial Strand district teemed with vagabonds in the side-alleys. Cheapside, too, was an example of such a place.
After Ito’s grueling voyage, which had lasted four and a half months, his first sight of London had been like the glimpse of a promised land: a stonework capital where steam-powered locomotives raced with the wind and lofty cathedrals pierced the sky. It was such a breathtaking sight that he had wondered if he had died at sea and was seeing the afterlife.
Now, of course, he knew better. Once he had believed that England was a land of dreams—but if there was much worth emulating here, there was also much that was not.
Suddenly the air was split with the cracking of hooves. A hansom cab drew up short just as it prepared to round a corner. Directly, a boy ran in front of the cab and dashed across the street. He looked to be around ten years of age. Unlike the other children Ito had spotted along the thoroughfare, this boy was dressed in high quality clothing. His cap, jacket, vest, shirt, and boots all suggested he was middle class or higher. Although the boy was thin, his complexion was healthy. His thinness clearly wasn’t due to malnutrition. There was also a maturity to his face, perhaps due to the proud jut of his hawk-like nose. The tremulous manner in which his eyes darted about, however, as if the world was still new to him, was in better keeping with his actual age.
An older, much heavier-set boy leaned out from the carriage—closer to a man, really, than a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He shouted frantically at the other boy. “Sherlock! Oi, Sherlock. Wait!”
But the boy named Sherlock paid him no mind, slipping between passersby before dashing across Ito’s path.
The older boy finished paying the cab and then alighted onto the street. He lumbered awkwardly as he moved, his bulky form nearly bursting from his frock coat. Although he gave chase, he was not very fast. The distance between the two boys only grew.
Sherlock glanced back at his pursuer several times. Not paying enough attention to where he was running, he collided directly into a stall lined with metal wares. The stall—a two-wheel pull-cart—was hurtled sideways. Pots and ladles careened across the cobblestones with a tumultuous crash.
Sherlock froze in place, a sheepish expression upon his face. The older boy finally caught up to him, now out of breath.
“Ahh…” He scowled, grabbing the young boy by the arms. “Have off. What’s the point of running, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shook the boy’s arm off. “If you want to go you can go without me, Mycroft.”
“You promised today you’d finally see to your lessons with Master Partridge.”
“I loathe Master Partridge. His lessons are a waste of time. He’s a know-nothing. I don’t see why anyone should sit for him.”
“You’re only angry that he scolded you for being disorderly.”
“That’s not true. He couldn’t even answer a simple question. I only asked him why oysters don’t cover the entire floor of the sea.”