Death and the City

By David Charnick

What happens when put-upon prostitutes and workhouse inmates take revenge, or when a royal corpse goes walkabout? Why do the dead call to us, and who are they anyway?

These twelve stories, written by a life-long Londoner, introduce us to the dead of London. We hear their voices, and through them we understand our place within the ongoing narrative of history. Just as we remember them, so one day we will be remembered.

The author draws on London's folk history, each story being based on a place or institution which has been part of the local history he has learned since childhood. As such, each one bears a ring of authenticity, both in its historical detail and in its place in London's story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291292541

Book preview

Death and the City

DEATH AND THE CITY



DAVID CHARNICK

Death and the City

© David William Charnick 2013.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-291-29254-1

This book is dedicated to

DOROTHY CHARNICK

a Mum on whose love I can rely

and

JAMES FELL

a Dad who has helped me more than I deserve

Death and the City

In Globe Road, East London, a small block of flats has been erected on the site of a demolished public house. The block is called Elysium Apartments. Presumably whoever named this block did not find out properly what Elysium is. In Classical mythology, it is where people go after they have died; it is a nice place, equated usually to Paradise, but still it is a place of the dead. Afterlife Apartments, in other words: indeed, moving into Elysium Apartments sounds like a scholarly euphemism for dying. For me, such a slip embodies how we have sidelined thoughts of death. After all, it is the only true certainty in life. Not even taxes seem to be certain these days, but death will come to all of us in due course.

In the following stories, I am asking the reader to meditate on aspects of death in the city, the city being London, my home town. First of all, though, a caveat: this is a work of fiction, not a work of history. The places and institutions at the core of the stories are real, and as such have been researched to ensure accurate representation; the stories themselves are, as far as I know, totally fictional. There was a real Necropolis Railway and a real Execution Dock, but Jack Scarr and the Earl of Beverley are the products of my imagination. These stories are thus not to be probed too energetically by those looking for historical information, lest the narrative fabric break.

Having said this, one of my reasons for writing this collection is to explore what I will call my experience of London’s folk history. I was born and brought up in London, and indeed I live there still. During this time I have heard many stories of those who have walked these streets before me, and have experienced the closeness of their remains. I was brought up next to a park which, before it was landscaped and reopened in 1894 under a new name, was the Victoria Park Cemetery. Traces of its previous function were not eradicated completely during the landscaping, and as children I and my younger brother Douglas played in a swing park which contained graves. My elders John, Carol and Pamela will have done the same. Despite the subsequent removal of most remaining traces of the funereal by the recent forces of ‘gentrification’, an unspoilt grave remains yet, along with two neglected gateways and a bent-over eucalyptus tree marking the grave of the aboriginal Australian cricketer King Cole.

Over the years my experience of the presence of the dead has grown. London has a plethora of buildings with claims to being haunted, and visits to such places as the Tower and Hampton Court introduced me to the idea that Londoners, famous either in themselves or for their manner of death, rub shoulders with us centuries after their passing. My addiction to the theatre and all things connected with it has confirmed this, theatreland it seems being populated by almost as many dead performers as living ones. Being a native Eastender, I grew up with the knowledge that many of London’s streets are soaked with blood. The Ripper and the Twins are part of my inheritance, whether I like it or not.

Despite such morbid reflections, this work is not a perverse celebration of the darkness of the City’s shadows so much as a meditation on its continuity. The dead are an intrusive reminder of the past, their traces jostling for our attention, whether it be London’s ubiquitous graveyards, visible or hidden, or the myriad plaques, statues, drinking fountains or benches which to the passer-by each bear witness to a strand in the rich fabric of London’s story. To embrace our inheritance is to listen to the voices of the dead. Whatever the language, they ask the same thing every time: remember us. This collection is my effort to help amplify their voices that they might be heard above the white noise of indifference, and that we might see how they embody and maintain the continuity of the city.

To highlight the purpose of these stories as an exploration of London’s past and present, they are entitled according to the place or institution they represent. Moreover, a short introduction is given to each to explain the context of the story. In this way, the focus of the collection is maintained.

Old Ford

The Roman settlement on the River Lea at Old Ford served as a disembarkation point for goods coming downriver from the manufacturers in Hertfordshire. Old Ford still exists, north of Bow, though it is no longer a crossing of the Lea, the river having been reshaped over the last few centuries and the A12 being in the way now. When the area was excavated in 1972, a Roman burial was discovered on the site of 114 Armagh Road; a statue of Mercury was found in the area also, implying the existence of a shrine at the settlement.

Carausius, a Britannia-based rebel against Rome, was assassinated in 293 by his subordinate Allectus. When the troops of Constantius Chlorus Caesar beat down Allectus, he and his Frankish mercenaries headed for Londinium. Thankfully, some of the Imperial fleet broke away from the main body and sailed up the Thames. They were thus able to engage Allectus before he could sack the city. Allectus fell in the ensuing fighting.

N.B. It is not recorded what the Romans called the Walbrook or Old Ford, so I have taken the liberty of calling them ‘The Brook’ and ‘The Ford’ respectively.

The hot sunshine, so inviting, is streaming through the library windows, calling her to come out and play, but Mel cannot get out. Instead she stifles in the smell of the dust which the heat is baking all around her. She doesn’t even try to keep her mind focused on what her tutor is saying. Professor Matlock meanwhile believes he is giving her the treat of her life as with the utmost care he lays out the fragile slices of wood. Genuine letters from Roman legionaries stationed in Britannia acquired recently by the university. Yet again, Mel regrets taking this degree course. Unable to get a place to do fashion or design, the mad scramble to get to university at whatever cost has led to her enrolling for a Classical Studies degree. Classical Studies!

Professor Matlock drones on. ‘These precious artefacts, Mel, are genuine windows into the past, revealing moments of real human drama. Just listen to this one from the garrison in Londinium.’ He translates as he goes.

Claudius Varius Longus, to his dearest wife Julia Fortunata:

Military life in Londinium is still keeping me busy. But then, the loss of Marius and Lucius still haunts me, so at least the work stops me from brooding. They say a soldier is supposed to get used to it; I must be an exception. I miss them deeply. Despite the recent upheavals, things seem to be carrying on much as ever they have, and the rebuilding is continuing well. The citizens are very resilient and there is no shortage of items in the shops.

As I had a day’s leave today I spent some time walking around the shops and I picked up some woollens cheap, so you need not send me any more underclothes. The gloves I keep always by me: through them I hold your hand and feel close to you. The new sergeant keeps a tight control on the men, so I’ll have less leisure to write, but I will write as often as I can. I treasure all your letters.

May the gods keep you safe. I send you all my love.

Matlock sighs, in his mind’s eye seeing the soldier scratching away at his letter: each mark is a gesture frozen in time. ‘Just imagine the turmoil in that poor legionary’s heart. In a strange land, and his two friends dead: imagine his grief!’

Mel tries to keep her eyes open; what the Hell does she care about people dead two thousand years ago? As he looks up from the letter toward his student, Professor Matlock sees her gazing abstractedly out of the window. He wonders, not for the first time, why this girl is spending three years studying something which clearly holds no interest for her, and whether the continual struggle to keep up undergraduate admission quotas is anything more than a money game.

    

Julia Fortunata closes her husband’s letter for the umpteenth time and clasps her hands tightly around it. From her perch on the hillside she stares out over the sea. The sun sparkles on the gently rippling surface of the water, and a slight, salt breeze reaches her shapely nostrils. She is not at peace. No word from Claudius since this, a whole month ago. Of course, she understands that he might be busy; after all, order has to be restored to Londinium after all that nonsense with Allectus and his rebels, but a month? She heaves a sigh from deep within and lets her shoulders droop.

From time to time a warm inland breeze reaches her from the olive trees, bringing the smell of baked dust and ruffling stray hairs on her brow, but her features are as immobile as if they were carved. The afternoon sunlight falls on her face, picking out the small hairs on her upper lip and turning her pupils to brown glass. Slowly, she becomes aware of a dull, regular flap of sandals on the dusty path behind her, announcing the imminent arrival of her friend, the rather less stately, and certainly more animated, Maia.

‘Julia! What are you doing up here?’

Reluctantly Julia turns her head to catch her friend’s gaze. ‘I came to think.’

‘Think? Can’t you think while you’re helping me?’

‘Maia, I haven’t heard from Claudius for a month! There must be something wrong.’

‘He is a soldier, dear. I’m sure he doesn’t get much time for writing letters. Perhaps he’s on a mission in the north subduing those Painted People, or whatever they call them. The blue ones.’

‘But up until now he’s written to me regularly, every fifth day. A month is too long. Something must have happened.’

‘Look, Julia. Instead of mooning like this, come back down to the house and help me with the preparations for the Mercuralia feast. Marcus is expecting me to make even more effort than usual to impress the merchants now that he needs to expand the business.’ Maia purses her lips as, without another word, Julia turns her head to look out to sea again.

‘If it helps,’ sighs Maia, giving in, ‘I’ll speak to Gaius.’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

Hearing no reply, Julia turns to see Maia looking intently and meaningfully at her. She sighs again, rises and follows her friend down the slope.

    

At Maia’s house the Mercuralia feast is going well. The food and wine are of a high enough standard to show her husband’s urbane tastes as well as his status, and the merchants he has invited are getting too drunk to care what they are agreeing to do. Maia and Julia are going back and forward, bringing in dish after dish and jug after jug, and removing the empties. The table is full of titbits of every conceivable shape, colour and texture. Suddenly Maia catches Julia by the arm.

‘It’s Gaius. Look.’

Not overly tall, but boyishly handsome with naturally curling hair which even the most severe military haircut cannot tame, Gaius’ broad smile for his sister gets broader as he catches sight of her old friend. Julia sees the kindliness in his smile; she does not however see the inexpressible longing which lies beneath it. He has always yearned for this friend of his sister’s, and knowing that she is married does nothing to dampen his desire, though it prevents his doing anything about it. His only real experience of women close up has been to grow up in a household with two competent but rather shallow females. One, his mother, is the outspoken governor of her husband; his sister also governs hers, but by secret, insinuating methods. Both however have a thoroughly conventional outlook, and are far too preoccupied than is healthy by their place in local society.

Julia though has always been an individual. She chose her own husband, and runs his estate well in his absence, disdaining to use a steward. Julia indeed is the abiding reason why Gaius has no regular woman in his life. A personable young man, he has met a number of eligible ladies, and had a number of liaisons, but they are girls compared to a real woman like Julia. She has set too high a standard.

Gaius has just enough time to pick up a cup of wine as Maia rushes over and grabs him by the arm, pulling him towards Julia, who smiles a hopeful greeting. As they approach her, Maia explains Julia’s situation; when he stands before her, Julia places her hand on his forearm in an urgency of emotion, and he feels her warmth on his skin like a searing fire. The appeal in her light brown eyes causes his stomach to drop into his bowels. He clears his throat.

‘Maia has told me all about your problem, Julia.’

‘Gaius, I’m worried. How can I contact Claudius’ unit in Londinium to find out what’s happened?’

‘Well, that won’t be easy ...’

‘I know, but I’ll do what it takes.’

‘Please, let me finish. That won’t be easy, nor will it be necessary. I can find out for you.’

‘You can?’

‘Certainly.’ He draws close, breathing in her scents, and lowers his voice. ‘Look, don’t tell anybody this, but we’re being sent out to reinforce the legions. Constantius Chlorus didn’t realise what a state Britannia was in after Carausius and Allectus had finished with it, and there’s loads to do.’

‘Chlorus!’ sniffs Julia, her indignant tone showing just what she thinks of the great Caesar who stayed safely on the Continent until his men had cleared up the rebellion.

‘Whatever you think of the man, he has been there, and has seen what needs to be done. There’s the Saxon Shore to organise after Carausius made such a hash of it, and the garrisons need to be refreshed.’

‘Britannia!’ Maia is dismissive of the province. ‘Piddling little place, with no sun and no civilisation! Why do we bother with it?’ Julia declines this opportunity to educate her friend, and instead listens as Gaius continues.

‘There’s a lot of work to be done. I think we’ll be heading north to join the main garrison at Eburacum, but we’ll certainly be passing through Londinium. If he’s there, I’ll ask Claudius why he’s been neglecting you; if he’s not, I’ll ask around before we head off north. Whatever happens, I’ll get word to you.’

‘I would be so grateful,’ Julia smiles.

You’ll never be as grateful as I’d like, he says inside, but tries to keep the thought from his eyes as he smiles at her again. ‘I don’t like to see you unhappy, Julia; we are friends, after all.’

‘Oh, Gaius. If only I had a brother like you, I could be happy in life.’

Brother she says, Gaius thinks bitterly. Brother indeed!

    

Britannia is three things, thinks Gaius as the column marches through the open countryside. It’s wet, it’s cold and it’s windy. Slogging the road towards Londinium, experienced marcher though he is, his feet are sore and his stomach is empty. The trousers he has been issued are soaked through and they do nothing to combat the cold. Besides the weather, the roads are in a right state. Still, at least the marching shuts up the cohort bore Vacuus. No talking in the ranks and all that; got to show these Britons that Rome has discipline if it’s to reassert itself. So, thank the gods, Vacuus’ mouth is stopped, and just as well. He’s done enough damage.

Like many of the others who had never been on a northern sea before, Gaius suffered plenty on the crossing; along with the others, he emptied his guts into the sea at every lurch of the ship. But between bouts, as the cohort sat nursing their self-pity, Vacuus filled their ears with ghastly tales of Britannia, and particularly of Londinium. Vacuus’ family are mostly professional soldiers. This is why so many of them are dead. His great uncle Festus served in Britannia and passed on to the eager ears of Vacuus all sorts of grisly tales of what the Britons are like. The worst tales were those of Boudicca’s attack on Londinium, of her savage treatment of what Londoners she found in the city, crucifying and impaling victims without mercy before firing the place.

It’s not just the Britons Gaius fears though: they have strange gods here as well who live in rivers and trees. And then there are the Druids. They are supposed to have been wiped out when Mona was attacked centuries ago, but you don’t wipe out Druids with their powerful magic. They must be all over Britannia, carrying on their secret rituals in dark groves. Vacuus has told the men about strange rites, about human sacrifices carried out at the full of the moon; he described stone altars with grooves where the blood, rich with the victim’s life forces, is channelled into bowls. Now, every time the column passes a grove of trees or crosses a stream, Gaius shivers to think of the powers they hold, and discreetly he puts his hand inside his tunic and touches the pottery lares in the bag hanging round his neck.

Gaius tries often to reassure himself. After all, Vacuus is such a nobody, it’s no wonder he makes up scary stories to impress people. They’re all soldiers’ tales anyway, and Gaius knows what they’re worth. But knowing this doesn’t calm him, and for all the