he wanted to touch her, but he never did. Topsyâthatâs what Willâm wished her to call himâwas a scavenger himself and provided the girl with cooked meals in hard plastic containers covered with aluminum foil, courtesy, he said, of chefs at the Biltmore. Sometimes the unlikely couple ate high-end spoils under the 4th Street Bridge, where he lived; he threw scraps to a confederateâs dog, a mangled pit bull called Half Dead. He spoke British and the sound of the words was rich and full and coarse and it seemed to her heâd shatter the air itself if ever he gave full voice.
Topsy hailed from a village called Essex, a place ânow terribly Cocknified and choked up by the jerry-builder.â The house he was evicted from had been (might still be) called Woodford Hall, and he said he longed to go backâthough he sometimes referred to the childhood seat as Elm House or Red House, Kelmscott Manor or Horrington; Bexleyheath in Kent, the Retreat at Hammersmith, Queenâs Square or Merton Abbey on the River Wandle near Wimbledon. Among many peculiar things he spoke of were his âbeastly, wondrousâ adventures in Iceland, his beloved wife, Jane, and Jenny, their epileptic daughter; and a current labor of love, the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings. Topsy loathed anything modern, and it seemed to Amaryllis he had the impression the yearâ
this
year of Our Lordâwas 1840 or â60 or â80 or sometime âbigly twixt.â He used words she read in the newspaper but had never understood, and took the time to tell her what they meant (she thought that explaining the English language was all part of being an Englishman).
He lived in a box on which heâd painstakingly drawn a colorful woodsy scene. Underbridge denizens had dubbed this nomadic place the Cadillac because of its capacious dimensions and luxury; Topsy called it the Manor. She had never seen such a lovely thingâgraced by a mural filled with bounteous trees and birds and fruits, leaves and blossoms, flying insects and little branches. On sallow windblown trompe lâoeil banners, Topsy had inscribed
i once a king and chief
now am the tree barkâs thief
ever twixt trunk and leaf
chasing the prey.
He never asked her inside, and of that she was
almost
glad, but Amaryllis heard its sturdy corrugated cardboard furnishings had been fashioned by his able craftsmanâs hands. When visiting, Topsy made sure they sat out of sight of the street; the police, he said, mostly left the encampment unbothered, but the presence of a young girl was something theyâd be forced to look into. The underbridge wasnât gloomyâairy as Union Station, its hilly carpet of dirt was packed clean and firm. On sunny days, a breeze like the sigh of a secret garden blew through. There were sleepy dogs (other than Half Dead, who never seemed to sleep at all), well-behaved âtown-birdsââthatâs what Topsy called themâand bleached white dishrags that on closer inspection showed themselves to be large rats the English colossus had poisoned and deposited by the gray concrete stanchions like so many houseplants. Most of the time, the two didnât take a formal meal; he gave her the boxes to bring home, offering samples from each, along with simple, civilized lectures about their individual ingredients as she tasted. He knew something about her, because sheâd told him things over the months. He knew about her brother and sister and gave food for them that was easy to chew: butter-squash soups, marmalade and mashed potatoes. (She always made certain to bring the containers back, neatly scrubbed.) Lately, when he asked after her mother, Amaryllis lied.
When she tired of Geriâs bedside and the babies were napping or settled and there was no more gathering to be done, Amaryllis sorted through her treasured âclassifiedsââthe cigar box of pages torn from yellowing
Topsy hailed from a village called Essex, a place ânow terribly Cocknified and choked up by the jerry-builder.â The house he was evicted from had been (might still be) called Woodford Hall, and he said he longed to go backâthough he sometimes referred to the childhood seat as Elm House or Red House, Kelmscott Manor or Horrington; Bexleyheath in Kent, the Retreat at Hammersmith, Queenâs Square or Merton Abbey on the River Wandle near Wimbledon. Among many peculiar things he spoke of were his âbeastly, wondrousâ adventures in Iceland, his beloved wife, Jane, and Jenny, their epileptic daughter; and a current labor of love, the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings. Topsy loathed anything modern, and it seemed to Amaryllis he had the impression the yearâ
this
year of Our Lordâwas 1840 or â60 or â80 or sometime âbigly twixt.â He used words she read in the newspaper but had never understood, and took the time to tell her what they meant (she thought that explaining the English language was all part of being an Englishman).
He lived in a box on which heâd painstakingly drawn a colorful woodsy scene. Underbridge denizens had dubbed this nomadic place the Cadillac because of its capacious dimensions and luxury; Topsy called it the Manor. She had never seen such a lovely thingâgraced by a mural filled with bounteous trees and birds and fruits, leaves and blossoms, flying insects and little branches. On sallow windblown trompe lâoeil banners, Topsy had inscribed
i once a king and chief
now am the tree barkâs thief
ever twixt trunk and leaf
chasing the prey.
He never asked her inside, and of that she was
almost
glad, but Amaryllis heard its sturdy corrugated cardboard furnishings had been fashioned by his able craftsmanâs hands. When visiting, Topsy made sure they sat out of sight of the street; the police, he said, mostly left the encampment unbothered, but the presence of a young girl was something theyâd be forced to look into. The underbridge wasnât gloomyâairy as Union Station, its hilly carpet of dirt was packed clean and firm. On sunny days, a breeze like the sigh of a secret garden blew through. There were sleepy dogs (other than Half Dead, who never seemed to sleep at all), well-behaved âtown-birdsââthatâs what Topsy called themâand bleached white dishrags that on closer inspection showed themselves to be large rats the English colossus had poisoned and deposited by the gray concrete stanchions like so many houseplants. Most of the time, the two didnât take a formal meal; he gave her the boxes to bring home, offering samples from each, along with simple, civilized lectures about their individual ingredients as she tasted. He knew something about her, because sheâd told him things over the months. He knew about her brother and sister and gave food for them that was easy to chew: butter-squash soups, marmalade and mashed potatoes. (She always made certain to bring the containers back, neatly scrubbed.) Lately, when he asked after her mother, Amaryllis lied.
When she tired of Geriâs bedside and the babies were napping or settled and there was no more gathering to be done, Amaryllis sorted through her treasured âclassifiedsââthe cigar box of pages torn from yellowing
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