Coram Boy. Jamila Gavin

conscience of the nation.

      When I heard this, it was as if my brain became a stage. The story seemed to have been there all along, and my characters made their appearances fully formed and demanding my attention. I think I have loved these characters almost more than any I have ever created, and I still find myself grieving for those who were not so lucky as the Coram boy.

      Once I let it be known that I was writing a book set in the eighteenth century, so many friends and acquaintances fed me with historical facts and details, some trivial, some important – but all of which were of invaluable help to me as I tried to immerse myself in the period. I must thank Peter Patten from whom, over fifteen years ago, I actually first heard the name Coram and who sowed the first seed of the story; Robert Eagle, who thought there was a terrific story to be told; Vivien Richmond, Marlyn Leese, Robin Lunn, Rajan Chet Singh and John Irving, who went beyond the call of friendship in providing me with information and inspiration; Lowinger Madison, librarian at Gloucester Cathedral; and Jenny Uglow, for her encouragement and for taking the precious time off to read the manuscript. Most of all, I must thank my editors: Miriam Hodgson, who never wavered in her patient support through all the doubts and fears as I trod new ground, and Cally Poplak who, with her meticulous eye and rigorous attention to detail, constantly kept me on my mettle.

      The Coram Foundation exists today in Coram Fields. A manuscript of the Messiah is held in their archives (the Messiah was performed at the hospital in May, but for the purpose of my story I have moved it to December) and the portrait by Hogarth of Sir Thomas Coram still hangs there. The foundation’s work on behalf of children goes on.

      The following books were of invaluable help to me in my research: Coram’s Children by Ruth McClure, Hogarth by Jenny Uglow, A History of England in the Eighteenth Century by Roy Porter and The Singing Game by Iona and Peter Opie, from which I adapted a number of rhymes.

      Jamila Gavin

      September 2000

       Prologue

      ‘Afine lady went to Stowe Fair. She was pregnant for the first time and, keen to know what the future held for her, she consulted an old gypsy woman.

      ‘“Why, my dear, I do believe you will have seven babies,” said the gypsy woman studying her hand. The fine lady went away and thought no more about it.

      ‘When the time came for her child to be born, a midwife was summoned to attend the labour. “What have we here?” she exclaimed as she delivered first one baby, then another and another.

      ‘“Oh no!” cried the young wife, remembering the gypsy’s prophecy. “That can’t be so!” She wept. But sure enough, one by one, seven little baby girls were born and laid into a basket.

      ‘The fine lady was upset fit to die. “I don’t care what the gypsy prophesied; I will only keep one baby. Take the other six away,” she begged the midwife. “Drown them in the river, but whatever you do, don’t tell my husband,” and she pressed a purse of silver into her hand.

      ‘So the midwife took the basket of six babies down to the river. But on the way she met the husband, a fine gentleman. He heard little squealings and noises. “Pray, what have you in that basket?” he asked.

      ‘“Oh it’s nothing but six little kittens I am going to drown in the river,” quoth she.

      ‘“I’m going that way myself,” said he. “Give them to me. I shall deal with them.” Whereupon, he took the basket and rode down to the river.

      ‘When the husband got to the riverbank and opened the basket, what did he see, but six little newborn girls. He frowned a dark, dreadful frown, then closing the basket took it away to a secret place.

      ‘Seven years passed. The gentleman and his fine lady prepared to celebrate their daughter’s birthday and to give thanks to God for preserving her through infancy. First they would go to church for a special service, then afterwards throw a party to which the whole village was invited.

      ‘“And what shall our daughter wear for this special day?” the husband asked his wife.

      ‘“Because she was born in October, I shall stitch her a dress of autumn colours,” the fine lady told him.

      ‘The little girl’s birthday dawned and she was all decked out in nut-brown velvet trimmed in red. The gentleman and his fine lady set off for the church with their pretty little daughter between them.

      ‘They sat in the front pew and said their prayers. The organ played, the choir sang. The minister raised his hand to give the blessing and make the sign of the cross, but he was interrupted. The east door of the church swung open. Everyone turned to see who had arrived so late. There standing in the threshold were six little girls, all dressed in nut-brown velvet trimmed in red. All were identical to the fine lady’s daughter.

      ‘At the sight of them, the fine lady gave one dreadful scream and fell down dead.’

      The children clustered round the nursemaid were silent as she ended.

      ‘That’s a sad story,’ one whispered at last.

      ‘It’s a sad world out there,’ agreed the nursemaid. ‘Now come on, Nanny says it’s time for bed.’

       There came six maids on their knee. When do they come? They come by night as well as by day, To take your little child away.

       My little child is yet too young, To stay away from his mam. Whether he’s old or whether he’s young We’ll take him as he am.

Part One – 1741

       Chapter One The Coram Man

      ‘Oi! Meshak! Wake up, you lazy dolt!’ The sound of the rough voice set the dogs barking. ‘Can’t you see one of the panniers is slipping on that mule there! Not that one, you nincompoop,’ as the boy leapt guiltily from the wagon and darted in an agitated way among the overloaded animals, ‘that one – there – fifth one back! Yes. Fool of a boy. Why was I so cursed with a son like you? I don’t have to have eyes in the back of my head to know that one of the mules had his load slipping. What goes on inside that addled brain of yours?’

      A man and his boy were coming out of the forest with a wagon and a train of six mules. They were heading for the ferry at Framilodes Passage, which would take them across the River Severn and on to the city of Gloucester.

      ‘Why I don’t ditch you is more than I can say. Thank your lucky stars that blood is thicker than water. Tighten him up properly. Don’t want no hold ups now. We can just catch the ferry before nightfall if we hurry!’

      Otis Gardiner, pots man, Jack-of-all-trades and smooth-tongued entrepreneur, ranted non-stop. It was a side of Otis that not everyone saw; he could be so attractive, so charming, so sweetly spoken. A young man still, he had wide, appealing, brown eyes and shoulder-length red-brown hair drawn back to show off his broad, handsome brow. He could barter the hind leg off a donkey – especially if the donkey was a lady. By flirting with the wives, bantering with the gentlemen, demonstrating magic tricks to little children, he could persuade a customer to part with twice as much money as they should, all the while making them think they had themselves a bargain.

      Meshak tightened the straps round the mule’s belly. He ignored the faint kitten-like wails which came from the sacks and tried not to look at the sneering face of the man he called his father. From his driving seat Otis peered