Read Online Printer's Devil (9780316167826) by Paul Bajoria - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Bajoria
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locked up in that nasty little kennel for several hours, Lash must be too. I went to look in Cramplock’s
little larder, where I was thrilled to find the remains of the ham I’d bought from Tassie last night, along with some of the
bread and a couple of pieces of rather hard cheese which had probably been there somewhat longer. I gathered the food scraps
together and scampered upstairs, with Lash close behind, to the little room where we slept, and laid out our feast on the
bed.
Munching, and feeding morsels to Lash little by little, I took down my treasure box from the cupboard. It was really an old
biscuit tin, but to me it was a store of the things which were most precious to me in the whole world — apart from Lash, of
course. I didn’treally have many things I could call my own. I couldn’t afford to buy much with my wages, except just enough to eat, and even
if I had been able to afford any possessions I had nowhere to keep them. But I often took down my treasure box, and admired
the things in it, before I went to sleep. A little peg figure with matted woollen strands of hair which I’d brought with me
from the orphanage and which I was far too old for, but which I couldn’t quite bring myself to get rid of. A fat and rather
tatty bound book of blank pages, which Cramplock had let me make, bearing a title page proclaiming “Mog’s Book,” and into
which I used to write or paste things I found particularly interesting or important. A quill pen; a few coins; and a heavy
and ornate key I’d found once, for which I had no earthly use but which I kept because it seemed grand.
Tonight, though, I had a particular reason for getting out my treasure box. When I’d been looking at the handle of the big
sword I’d found in the chest at the thieves’ den, I’d thought the markings on it looked familiar. And here, in my box, was
the reason why.
My bangle. The only object I own which came from my mother. A small, bright, silver bangle, far too big for my skinny wrist
but still delicate and beautiful; an elegantly stretched and twisted band of pure silver as wide as a couple of fingers. And
all around its outersurface, it was decorated with finely etched patterns: gracefully curving, snakelike lines twining themselves around one another
in a complicated lattice, a pattern which must have taken painstaking hours, days, even weeks to create. It was certainly
the only
really
valuable thing in my treasure box, and I made sure I always kept it hidden away, for fear of its being stolen. Now, as I
turned it over and over, I was gripped by a weird feeling of something momentous which I couldn’t possibly explain. This bangle
had belonged to my mother — who had traveled to India and given birth to me on the voyage home, but had died before she got
here. I had arrived in London very much alive, and hungry, and a couple of weeks old, and in need of looking after. That’s
how I came to be sent to the orphanage, when I was still a tiny child. It had provided me with the companionship of other
children, and walls and roofs for shelter, and just enough to eat; but no love. I was lucky to have found work as a painter’s
devil at Cramplock’s and left the orphanage behind; and this bangle had come with me, the only thing I still possessed from
those harsh years. Its beautiful patterns had been a source of fascination and comfort to me when nearly everything else in
my life was cruel and ugly. Nowadays I barely gave them a second thought — until now, when I’d suddenly seen almost exactly
the same patterns on anotherbeautiful object which had come, I had no doubt at all, from India.
I can’t describe how it made me feel, sitting there in my little room with my dog resting his head on his paws in the basket
by my bed, except that I felt more curious than I ever had in my life. The sword; the ornate chest; the man from Calcutta;
the villains’ impenetrable questions,
little larder, where I was thrilled to find the remains of the ham I’d bought from Tassie last night, along with some of the
bread and a couple of pieces of rather hard cheese which had probably been there somewhat longer. I gathered the food scraps
together and scampered upstairs, with Lash close behind, to the little room where we slept, and laid out our feast on the
bed.
Munching, and feeding morsels to Lash little by little, I took down my treasure box from the cupboard. It was really an old
biscuit tin, but to me it was a store of the things which were most precious to me in the whole world — apart from Lash, of
course. I didn’treally have many things I could call my own. I couldn’t afford to buy much with my wages, except just enough to eat, and even
if I had been able to afford any possessions I had nowhere to keep them. But I often took down my treasure box, and admired
the things in it, before I went to sleep. A little peg figure with matted woollen strands of hair which I’d brought with me
from the orphanage and which I was far too old for, but which I couldn’t quite bring myself to get rid of. A fat and rather
tatty bound book of blank pages, which Cramplock had let me make, bearing a title page proclaiming “Mog’s Book,” and into
which I used to write or paste things I found particularly interesting or important. A quill pen; a few coins; and a heavy
and ornate key I’d found once, for which I had no earthly use but which I kept because it seemed grand.
Tonight, though, I had a particular reason for getting out my treasure box. When I’d been looking at the handle of the big
sword I’d found in the chest at the thieves’ den, I’d thought the markings on it looked familiar. And here, in my box, was
the reason why.
My bangle. The only object I own which came from my mother. A small, bright, silver bangle, far too big for my skinny wrist
but still delicate and beautiful; an elegantly stretched and twisted band of pure silver as wide as a couple of fingers. And
all around its outersurface, it was decorated with finely etched patterns: gracefully curving, snakelike lines twining themselves around one another
in a complicated lattice, a pattern which must have taken painstaking hours, days, even weeks to create. It was certainly
the only
really
valuable thing in my treasure box, and I made sure I always kept it hidden away, for fear of its being stolen. Now, as I
turned it over and over, I was gripped by a weird feeling of something momentous which I couldn’t possibly explain. This bangle
had belonged to my mother — who had traveled to India and given birth to me on the voyage home, but had died before she got
here. I had arrived in London very much alive, and hungry, and a couple of weeks old, and in need of looking after. That’s
how I came to be sent to the orphanage, when I was still a tiny child. It had provided me with the companionship of other
children, and walls and roofs for shelter, and just enough to eat; but no love. I was lucky to have found work as a painter’s
devil at Cramplock’s and left the orphanage behind; and this bangle had come with me, the only thing I still possessed from
those harsh years. Its beautiful patterns had been a source of fascination and comfort to me when nearly everything else in
my life was cruel and ugly. Nowadays I barely gave them a second thought — until now, when I’d suddenly seen almost exactly
the same patterns on anotherbeautiful object which had come, I had no doubt at all, from India.
I can’t describe how it made me feel, sitting there in my little room with my dog resting his head on his paws in the basket
by my bed, except that I felt more curious than I ever had in my life. The sword; the ornate chest; the man from Calcutta;
the villains’ impenetrable questions,
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