Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

John had decided that on his next extended trip to Devon he would leave Gideon in sole charge of the shop, and considering this made him think of getting a new and young apprentice, someone that the older one could order about. He had accordingly written to several schoolmasters asking them to recommend any leavers who might be interested in becoming an apothecary and one answer in particular had caught his attention.

Master Robin Hazell might be just to Your Suiting, Sir. He has a Carefree Disposition but Studies Assiduously Everything to do with the Nature of Herbs etc. He is leaving School on the twenty-third day of February — Easter being so Early — and I can Send Him Direct to You should You so Desire it.

The Apothecary had replied by return post that he did so desire and awaited the arrival of Master Hazell at two o’clock on the 25th. Unfortunately this was the time when the shop suddenly became thronged with customers, all wanting attention and wanting it quickly, and John worked so hard that he noticed nobody enter, and finally, feeling flat as a flounder, collapsed on to a chair behind the counter when the rush was over.

‘Please, Sir, but would you be Mr Rawlings?’ asked a small voice from the corner.

John jumped up, smoothing down his long apron, and peered in the direction of the sound. Wondering whether he needed spectacles, John narrowed his eyes but could see no one there. Then he felt a tug on his apron strings and wheeled round to behold a very small boy who was standing behind him.

‘And who might you be?’ he said rather crossly.

‘I’m Robin Hazell, Sir. We ’ad an appointment — or so I fawt.’

‘But you can’t be sixteen,’ John answered, staring down at him.

‘I am, Sir, honest. It’s just that I’m small, like me mother was.’ The boy, who reached just above John’s waist, looked suddenly folorn. ‘Am I too short, then?’

‘For what?’ answered the Apothecary, slightly irritated.

‘To become your apprentice, Sir.’ The boy’s lower lip trembled and his eyes looked large with tears, though none as yet had trickled down his cheeks.

John suddenly felt profoundly sorry for the little chap. ‘Shall we go into the compounding room and there have a cup of tea?’ he asked in a much gentler tone.

‘I would like that very much, Sir.’ And a small hand crept into the Apothecary’s as they walked together to the back of the shop.

There was absolutely no way that this boy could be much more than twelve, John thought, and wondered what particular kind of trick was being played upon him.

‘Now, sit down,’ he said kindly, ‘and tell me all about yourself.’

Robin — if Robin it actually was — started on some long tale about finishing at school and being recommended by his headmaster to which John listened, not believing a word he was hearing. Finally, the child stopped talking and looked at the Apothecary with boot-button eyes.

‘Well, Sir?’ he asked.

John’s mouth twitched. ‘You’re a good actor, I’ll grant you that.’

‘What do you mean, Sir?’

‘I mean that I don’t believe a thing you’ve just said to me. In other words, you’re not telling the truth, my boy.’

The child opened his mouth to reply but at that moment the door of the shop shot open and another boy whirled in, panting and gasping for breath.

‘Mr Rawlings?’ he managed.

‘Yes,’ said John, going to meet him.

The newcomer held out his hand. ‘I’m Robin Hazell, Sir. And I apologize for the lateness of my arrival but I’ve just been robbed in the street.’

Behind him the Apothecary heard a subdued squeal and, turning round, saw the little chap preparing to run. Gently but firmly John put his hand on the child’s shoulder, thus pinioning him where he was. He turned back to the true Robin Hazell, thinking how well the name suited him, for the boy looked like autumn personified. His hair gleamed in an amber aureole, while his eyes, shining and honest-looking, were like glasses of light sherry. At the moment his freckled skin was bright red with a mixture of annoyance and exertion, but when it resumed its natural hue it was obvious that this young man was the handsomest of creatures. Inwardly the Apothecary sighed, thinking how all his apprentices were interesting and attractive people. Once again he felt slightly old.

‘And there,’ said Robin, catching a glimpse of the urchin standing at John’s heel, ‘is the little jackanapes who did it.’

The Apothecary decided to teach the young miscreant a lesson. ‘You devilish dog, Sir. How dare you come in here with your fancy tales, wasting my time and putting Master Hazell into a fine how-dee-do? Explain yourself immediately.’

He sat down, standing the scrap in front of him and putting a hand on each shoulder. But instead of speaking the little boy wept, loudly and noisily, until John was obliged to produce a handkerchief and dry his face. He glanced up at Robin and saw that he, too, was quite moved by the sight.

‘Don’t be too hard on him, Sir,’ Robin whispered into John’s ear — and at that moment the Apothecary knew for sure that he was going to take young Master Hazell as his apprentice.

The urchin continued to howl until the Apothecary boomed, ‘Be silent! Enough of this caterwauling. Now just tell me your story and I will sit here and listen — and so will Master Hazell.’

He motioned the older boy to take a seat and eventually the little chap said in a voice, punctuated by sobs, ‘I don’t know who me parents are, honest, Sir. I was abandoned at the door of Coram’s when I was a babe. But me mother left a bracelet in me box, so she must have been someone special.’

John’s heart bled for him. The great man Thomas Coram had founded the home for abandoned and deserted children — who had quite literally littered the streets of London — in 1745. Hogarth and Handel had both become governors and Handel had allowed performances of ‘Messiah’ to take place in aid of the institution. The trouble was that there had been more children than there had been room for, so that a balloting system had come into being. Knowing this, mothers had left their babies in bundles and boxes near the gates of the orphanage and, often, they had put a keepsake in with the child. John had seen a few of them and it had moved him to tears. A button, a brooch, a lock of hair; how wretched the girls must have been to give up their children in this sad and melancholy situation.

He looked at the unhappy, skinny, snotty, tiny boy standing before him and said very seriously, ‘Yes, she must.’

‘Anyway, when I was eight I had to leave and go to work and they got me a job as a kitchen boy in a big house. But the head footman beat me — and the cook — so I runs away and steals the papers from Master Hazell, wot was bulging out of ’is pocket, and I thought I would come here first, seeing that I’ve always been interested in herbs and the like. But it didn’t work, like nothing ever does and…’

The child collapsed into tears once more.

The Apothecary ignored them and asked, ‘Can you read and write?’

‘Oh yes, Sir,’ the boy snivelled. ‘They taught us all that at Coram’s. That’s how I knew about the headmaster and to come here and all.’

‘How old are you? And I want the truth this time.’

‘Nearly twelve, Sir.’

John turned to Robin, who had been watching all this with red cheeks and an extremely sad expression.

‘What shall I do with him, Master Hazell?’

‘You can’t turn him out on the streets, Sir. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘No.’

John looked thoughtful and the boy, sensing hope, gazed at him, suddenly bright-eyed.

‘Tell me,’ said the Apothecary, still not smiling. ‘Is it your custom to thieve?’