It was a fine morning: the great dome of St Paul’s shone white across the water, its outline sharp against the blue sky, and a drift of clouds like a convoy of sails lined the eastern horizon. The river itself was already crowded with wherries and barges. The tide was low, and the scavengers were out on both banks. The gulls wheeled and shrieked and snapped among them. The day was clearer than usual and the smoke that struggled up from innumerable chimneys might have been drawn with ink.
He walked beside the Thames to London Bridge. Only poor people seemed to be about at this hour. Poverty, he told himself as he made his way across the river, was a state that favoured useful instruction in the follies and weaknesses of human nature. He had never really noticed the poor in the days of his prosperity, except as irritants like lice or, at best, as bystanders in the great drama of existence in which their betters performed the speaking parts. He murmured these words aloud and a man who was passing gave him a wide berth. The only knowledge worth having was that a hungry belly made you a little mad.
At Leadenhall Street, one of the apprentices was already taking down the shutters. Holdsworth kept his barrow and what was left of his stock in a small brick outhouse in the yard at the back. In the old days a binder had worked there, but Ned Farmer subcontracted that part of the work because Mrs Farmer believed, probably correctly, that it would be more profitable to do so.
Holdsworth uncovered the barrow and wheeled it slowly down the alley from the yard. He set off down Leadenhall Street. On some days he wandered as far west as Piccadilly. He never stayed long in one place. The multitude of streets was one great emporium, and every itinerant vendor was jealous of the territory he occupied. The books on his barrow were on the whole of little value, the dross left over from the sale. Still, they made it possible to earn something rather than nothing; they kept him from absolute penury and complete dependence on the kindness of Ned Farmer.
That day he ate a meagre dinner of bread, cheese and ale in a mean little tavern in Compton Street. Afterwards he made his way by degrees back to the City. On the corner of Leadenhall Street, a man selling singing birds was packing up for the day. Holdsworth set down the barrow. The pitch was convenient for the shop and he used it whenever he could.
The afternoon was fine, which was good for trade. It was not long before Holdsworth had three or four men turning over the stock. The majority of the books were sermons and other devotional works, but there was poetry also, some bound numbers of the Rambler and assorted editions of the classical authors, their value considerably diminished by damp stains or smoke damage. One of the browsers was a hunched little man in a snuff-coloured coat. His complexion was dark and leathery, almost a match for the binding of the book he was examining, a folio of Horace’s Odes. Holdsworth watched him, though without appearing to do so. The man looked respectable – an apothecary perhaps; something in the professional way – but then so had the fellow the previous week, a man he had taken for a clergyman up from the country, who had slipped a duodecimo Longinus into his pocket while Holdsworth’s attention had been distracted by another customer.
The little man scratched his neck with his right hand, the fingers slipping like hungry little creatures under the unseasonably thick scarf he wore. His eyes met Holdsworth’s. His hand withdrew. He gave a little bobbing bow and edged a little closer.
‘Have I the honour of addressing Mr Holdsworth?’ he said in a hoarse voice, little more than a whisper.
‘Yes, sir. You have.’ It happened not infrequently that a customer from the old days would recognize Holdsworth in his changed situation and would seek to pass the time of day, out of curiosity, perhaps, or pity. He did not discourage them, for sometimes they would buy a book and he could no longer afford to be proud.
‘I hoped as much,’ the man said.
There was a lull in the exchange while a youth with sad eyes purchased Law’s Serious Call. The little man stood to one side, while the transaction was in progress, turning the pages of the Horace. When the customer had departed, he looked up from the book.
‘I called in at Mr Farmer’s.’ He cleared his throat, wincing as if the exercise was painful to him. ‘If that is not an indelicate way to refer to it.’
‘You speak no more than the truth, sir. The establishment belongs to him.’
‘Indeed. Ah – at any event, he said I might find you here.’
‘And how may I serve you, sir? Are you looking for a particular book?’
‘No, Mr Holdsworth. I am not looking for a book. I am looking for you.’
‘Well, sir, you have found me. And what do you want with me?’
‘I beg your pardon. I have not introduced myself. My name is Cross, sir, Lawrence Cross.’
They bowed to each other across the barrow of books. The other browsers had now drifted away.
‘I wish to put a proposition to you.’
‘By all means.’
‘It is not a subject that can be discussed in the street. When will you be at leisure?’
Holdsworth glanced at the sun. ‘Perhaps another half an hour. Then I need only enough time to wheel my barrow to Mr Farmer’s.’
Mr Cross rubbed his neck again. ‘That would answer very well. Would you be so kind as to favour me with your company at St Paul’s Coffee House? In forty minutes’ time, shall we say?’
Holdsworth agreed, and the little man walked swiftly away.
Twenty minutes later, Holdsworth wheeled the barrow down the street and laid it up for the night in the yard behind the shop. He had hoped to leave unnoticed but Ned Farmer bustled out of the shop and laid his hand on his arm.
‘John, that’s damned uncivil, sneaking away without a word.’ He clapped Holdsworth on the shoulder. ‘Where were you this morning? You must have slipped out of the house at cockcrow.’
‘I rose early. I could not sleep.’
‘Yes, but now.’
Holdsworth explained that he had an appointment. He could not give his other reason, that he found Ned’s cheerful conversation almost as trying as his unfailing kindness. Away from the house, away from Mrs Farmer, he showed it without restraint, which Holdsworth found harder to bear than he would have imagined possible.
‘There was a man asking if I knew your direction,’ Ned rushed on, for he was not insensitive. ‘Wizened little fellow like a brown monkey with a bad cold. I said he might find you on the corner.’ A frown passed over his broad red face. ‘I hope I did not act amiss.’
‘Not at all.’
‘So he found you? And?’
‘I am meeting him later. That’s my appointment.’
‘I told you! A man of your reputation must attract offers from every quarter. It is only a matter of time, John. Sit tight, and all will come right again.’ Ned flushed a deeper red. ‘Damn my tongue, always running away with me. I ask your pardon. I meant merely in terms of money, of course.’
Holdsworth smiled at him. ‘I don’t know what he wants yet.’
‘Perhaps he wishes to buy books,’ Ned suggested. ‘And he needs you to advise him.’
‘He did not look like a man who has much to spare on luxuries.’
‘Pooh,’ Ned bellowed. ‘Books are not luxuries. They are meat and drink for the mind.’
Though Holdsworth was before his time, Mr Cross was already at the coffee house, seated at one of the small tables by the door.
‘I have ordered sherry,’ he murmured. ‘I trust that will be agreeable?’
Holdsworth sat down. Mr Cross showed no inclination to rush into the business that had brought him here.
‘You are a tall man,’ he observed. ‘And broad with it, are you not? I marked you in the crowd when you were some distance away. I thought you would be older but you are still quite a young man.’