When he spoke, his tone was measured, but warm. ‘I’m not sure,’ he murmured. ‘Where did you say this came from?’ He peered at the young men over the tops of his glasses.
The pair shifted uncomfortably and Danny’s ears started to redden.
‘Which worksite were you on?’ he probed.
Danny and Freddie looked at each other, and Freddie shook his head in warning.
Mr Lawrence’s eyes narrowed, and in that instant Essie saw he understood.
‘No matter, we can discuss that later. In the meantime, I’ll need to inspect this mess more closely so I can give you a good price.’
He poked at the clay and five gold buttons fell onto the desk with a clatter. The largest was the prettiest of all, with a line of blue stones threading through the petals. The curve of the petal looked so lifelike it might bend with the breeze.
Mr Lawrence picked up the large button and held it up to the light between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so the jewels caught the light.
‘I wonder …’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder who wore this button.’
He gestured to a print of Queen Elizabeth on the wall behind him. ‘Look! See the gold buttons sewn into her white frilly neck ruff and sleeves, the gold chains draped around her body, the bejewelled cross at her neck and rings on every finger? Her ships were crossing the oceans; traders brought jewels back to London from across the seas. This city was the centre of the world …’
Essie blanched, thinking of where her own waistband had been turned inside out and restitched.
‘Why so many buttons?’ whispered Maggie as she poked at one.
‘Well, lass,’ Mr Lawrence continued, ‘I agree it’s a decadent way to hold a coat together.’ He chuckled and patted his own belly then leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Especially when there’s a chance that you might pop one off after too much grouse and port.’
Maggie stared open-mouthed at Mr Lawrence’s waistcoat, as if she expected it to burst right in front of her. Essie remembered the button Gertie had sketched and wondered if her sister had returned it to Freddie?
Mr Lawrence touched the ball of clay. ‘Perhaps I can deliver your payment in person, maybe meet you for a pint. What do you say, gents—Friday after knock-off?’
Essie’s stomach sank as Danny said, ‘Golden Fleece?’
‘Right you are.’
‘Done.’
The men shook hands then Danny and Freddie made for the door, clearly reluctant to spend any more time in this strange shop filled with stuffed animals and ghosts of the past.
Essie turned to leave, but Gertie was still standing at the bookshelf, frowning and trying to piece together a terracotta vase with a relief, as if it were a jigsaw.
‘Ah, I’ve almost given up on this Roman beauty. A boy not older than you brought this in from near the Bourse, where they’ve been digging up the banks of the old Walbrook.’ The antiquarian waved at a shelf of terracotta pots. The one Gertie was holding had the fine features of a deer, its antlers broken.
‘I patch them back together with red ochre and beeswax. Just picture old Londinium, a bustling city between two hills with red-tiled roofs and a marketplace at the centre. I like to think of a Roman girl using this to collect water from the Thames just here.’
He took the deer vase from Gertie, who seemed to have forgotten entirely that they were here on business and was treating the shop like some kind of museum.
‘A girl just your age could live with her family on a tiny alley, just off the Walbrook. Pigs and chickens in the backyard.’
Essie could imagine herself in such a yard.
‘The girl would have spent most of her days at the markets, helping her parents and siblings. Perhaps they were leatherworkers, weaving sandals like this.’
He lifted a blackened sandal.
‘Or perhaps they painted mosaic tiles, or had a kiln for making pottery.’ He waved at the array of terracotta pots. ‘Whatever their craft, at the end of the day they’d come home. The girl would perhaps sew or do some mending, the boys would fetch water and wash. The mother would cook a stew in a shallow terracotta pot, perhaps with hare and wheat. There would be spice merchants at the market, so if they could afford spices from the Orient there might be pepper, cinnamon or ginger. Or maybe a hot sauce for the meat made from dates, prunes and damsons.’
Essie felt her stomach rumble and Flora leaned against her.
Life in Roman times sounded far more delicious than now.
‘In the corner of their central room they might have had clay urns filled with olive oil, red wine or garum.’
‘What’s garum?’ asked Maggie.
‘Rotten fish sauce,’ replied Mr Lawrence as Maggie looked faintly nauseous. Somewhere behind her, Essie heard Danny snigger.
‘And this—’ he held up Gertie’s piece of clay ‘—would have been essential to their life. Think how many hands have held this vessel. Then yet more feet passed over it as it lay in the London bog.’ He pointed to the clump of mud and jewels on his desk before continuing, ‘Each piece that comes here tells me a little more about life in London. But it’s not just the story of our city, child; each piece is the story of a person. How did they come to own it? How did they use it? What did it mean to them—how did it change their life?’
Essie smiled and looked to where the sun was sneaking through the windows and felt it warm her arms.
‘You are all very welcome to come back and visit me anytime. I’m always here on Saturdays.’
Chapter 15
The following Saturday was the day of the school excursion trip to the Greenwich Observatory parklands. The children were dressed in their Sunday best and lined up on the dock in jittery pairs to board the ferry from Southwark: a motley line of children with sarsaparilla-scented plaits, mismatched boots and too-thin dresses. Once aboard, the children stood on the foredeck with open mouths and shivered in the thick fog and filthy smog all the way to Greenwich, exclaiming at every landmark.
‘Tower Bridge!’
‘Westminster!’ whooped Flora between coughs.
Gertie sat with her back against the cabin with her precious notebook, drawing the line of the city among a haze of industrial smog. Somehow it looked more cloud-like, more whimsical, on the page. Essie wondered what it would be like to sail right along the Thames, beyond London, out into the ocean and into different ports. Different cities, different worlds.
Arriving at Greenwich pier, they stepped from the ferry steamer onto the docks and were ushered past a shrimp seller with a sizzling pan atop a wine barrel. The children looked forlorn, leaning towards the enticing smells as Miss Barnes ushered them off the pier, past the gates of the naval college and into the park. Mr Morton clipped the back of the littlest boy’s head as he accepted a shrimp from the ruddy-faced merchant and gobbled it in one bite.
‘You children continue up the path to the park with Miss Barnes. Father McGuire and I have an appointment, but if we catch an inkling that any of you are misbehaving …’ He eyed the impish boy.
The children drew a collective breath. No-one wanted to be struck with a ruler—or the belt—today.
Miss Barnes flipped a pocket watch from her coat and gathered Gertie and Essie together by the elbows as she addressed the children.