The Lambs of London Read Free Page B

Charles. On the frontispiece, traced in now faded ink, were the words
“Given to me, Mich. Drayton, by Will Sh.”
    Charles knew well enough that
Pandosto
had been the source for
A Winter’s Tale.
And here was the book itself, the book that Shakespeare had held in his hands—just as he was holding it now. The sheer reciprocity of the gesture almost made him swoon.
    William Ireland was looking at him intently, willing him to speak.
    “It is a most remarkable thing.” Charles closed the book and carefully put it down upon the counter. “How did you acquire it?”
    “From a gentleman’s library. He died last year. Father and I travelled down to Wiltshire. There were treasures there, Mr. Lamb. Treasures.” He placed the book upon the shelf, and spoke with his back turned. “Father owns the shop.”
             
    H E HAD TRAVELLED with his father on the Salisbury coach, three weeks ago. They were late passengers, having booked their tickets only two days before, and were asked to sit in the open seats behind the driver and his three horses. “No, no,” Samuel Ireland had said. “I must travel within. This September air is piercing.”
    “How is it possible, sir?” The driver, like all who encountered the elder Ireland, was subdued by his overbearing manner.
    “I will tell you how it is possible. By doing it.” Mr. Ireland clambered into the coach, and turned to his son. “You may go on top, William. It will revive you.” He took off his beaver hat, offered elaborate courtesies to the only lady in the vehicle, and then slowly inserted himself between two male passengers like a cork being put back in a bottle. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to each of them in turn. “Just one inch more, if you please. Profound apologies.”
    William Ireland had already climbed the ladder, and crouched upon a seat as the stage rattled down Cornhill and Cheapside towards St. Paul’s. He looked up as the horses passed the cathedral. He could not imagine on what principles it had been constructed, or the serenity in the soul of the architect who had conceived it. The great dome was, for him, an alien thing.
    He was by now quite accustomed to his father’s selfishness—except that he never would have used that word. He was peremptory, magisterial, eloquent. But he was a bookseller. He was only a tradesman. And William knew that he suffered exquisitely for that. His father’s regard for himself was his only way of continuing and enduring life.
    There was a lock of horses and carriages on Ludgate Hill, and the stage slowly came to a halt. William looked back at the dome. He would never achieve anything that might rival this. He was the thing he was. Nothing more. In this momentary pause, above the sounds of London, he could hear his father’s voice in the carriage beneath. He was discoursing on the virtues of truffles.
    The stage stopped at an inn in Bagshot, so that the outside passengers might be warmed. William sat by the small coal fire in the parlour, clutching a cup of hot porter; he was sitting with Beryl who, as he had already learnt, was a lady’s maid who had lost her position and was returning to her family in the country. “It’s not so much the leaving,” she said, “as the manner of the leaving.” She was utterly defiant. “Here’s two guineas, and out the door.” William did not wish to enquire too closely into the reasons for her dismissal but, judging by her demeanour, he suspected some back-stairs lust. “I took her shawl, anyway. She’ll never miss it. Where did you come by that kerchief?”
    “My father’s.”
    “Is he the one who does all the talking?” They had been the only passengers sitting on top of the stage, and had formed an unspoken alliance against those more comfortably placed.
    “I’m afraid so.” Samuel Ireland was even then regaling his travelling companions with the true components of the drink known as “Stingo.” He might have been discussing the merits of