The Kids Who Lived In a Hole Page 4

  “Can we take the bus? My feet are getting tired!” she complained.

  Uncle Reggie consulted his map and suggested that they could take the ferry instead.

  “Yay!”

  They headed back the way they had come, going under the rail bridge and discovering another ferry stop on a floating pontoon accessed via a ramp heading down from the Embankment. The tide must have been out because the ramp was quite steep, and they had to hold the bannister. They were lucky with the timing and one ferry was just pulling into the station, disgorging its passengers before allowing the next set on. There was only one section for sitting, so they filed in and grabbed a set of four seats together. The ferry was about half full and it didn’t take the ticket inspector long to get around to them, touching each of their Oyster Cards to his machine and nodding at the little green light that came up.

  From the low tide level, the city loomed over them and the view through the windows was mostly of wooden poles and pilings. Here and there they could see patches of mud at the banks, and someone was actually walking around on one section, the mud coming up to mid-calf.

  They headed towards a bunch of bridges but Uncle Reggie warned them that they were only going one stop, which turned out to be on the other side of the river, so they were ready to get off as the ferry approached Bankside. After they got off, Uncle Reggie turned to them and asked if they were hungry. “Time for a picnic, then,” he said when they allowed that they might be just a little peckish.

  As they walked past an old white round building, Aunt Meredith told them that it was actually a reconstruction of The Globe, a theatre where Shakespeare had shown his plays back in the day. Uncle Reggie wryly told them that no matter how much anyone begs not to watch the play from ground level “standing up for three hours is bloody tiring”, and even if they did get seats to take along a pillow or cushion because “Shakespeare's seats are bloody uncomfortable”.

  Aunt Meredith elbowed him. “You enjoyed it!”

  To which Uncle Reggie begrudgingly agreed.

  Ahead of them, a pedestrian footbridge crossed the river, coming ashore between them and an enormous brick building with a towering chimney. Peeking between buildings on the other side of the river, with the pedestrian footbridge pointing directly towards it was a domed building gleaming white against the surrounding greys and browns. As they got closer to the brick building with the tower, Uncle Reggie told them that it was Tate Modern and it used to be a power station and that the domed building on the other side of the bridge was St Paul's Cathedral, where the icons of British society were buried. Neither building had featured on Marcus’ or Zoe’s lists of places that they wanted to visit so, instead, they used the grass in front of the Tate as the setting for a picnic, opening the Tupperware boxes of sandwiches and snacks that Francine had given them before they had set off that morning.

  After they’d settled in and were each on their second sandwich (egg salad), Marcus asked about the protests.

  “What were all those protests about?” he said between bites.

  Aunt Meredith and Uncle Reggie shared a look. “Well,” he started, “from the placards I read, the one at Parliament was generally about poverty, the one at Number 10 was calling on one of the ministers to be sacked for some sort of scandal and the one at Trafalgar Square was about a particular benefits policy.”

  “What’s poverty?” asked Zoe.

  “I think it’s not having sufficient money to buy enough food to eat, a place to live or clothes to wear,” Marcus tried, looking uncertain at Uncle Reggie.

  “I don’t want to oversimplify things,” responded Uncle Reggie, “but yeah, it’s not having enough.”

  “Not having enough is bad,” asserted Zoe, looking serious.

  “That's true, and there are huge disagreements on how to define that, who should fix it and the best way to fix it. That’s why people get angry and go to protests, because some people think that there’s nothing wrong and those that do think there is something wrong disagree on how to fix it. Are you ready to continue? We’ve still got London Bridge and the Tower to go.”

  They packed the containers away and got the jackets out. The clouds had thickened and the breeze freshened, dropping the temperature a few degrees. Aunty Meredith dropped her crusts into the nearby rubbish bin and they all took drinks out of a large bottle of water.

  “Might as well get our money’s worth from the tickets,” Uncle Reggie said as they made their way the short distance back to the ferry stop. The bridge across from the Tate to St Paul’s was popular, with the end particularly congested with tourists looking for the perfect picture and the ensuing crowding subsequently ensuring that nobody did. They weren’t as lucky this time around and had a fifteen-minute wait for the next boat. When it did arrive it was more densely packed and they could only find three seats together. They decided that since they were only going one stop that they should just stand near the entrance, leaning against the wall separating the awning-covered rear from the passenger compartment for support. As a result, they were the first ones off after they pulled into the stop. The water looked positively brown now, and the muddy riverbed very clearly exposed at the edges.

  The paths along the riverside were modern and in stark contrast to the historic city they had been moving through up to that point. A warship lay just off the bank, connected by a walkway and, in the distance, the most famous ornate bridge crossing the Thames stood with its arms raised to allow a high-masted sailing ship to pass beneath. Marcus had started in that direction before Uncle Reggie called out after him.

  “I thought you wanted to see London Bridge?”

  Marcus turned confused. ‘Isn't that it?” he asked. “It looks like all the pictures.”

  “Nope, that's Tower Bridge,” answered Uncle Reggie, “London Bridge is that one,” pointing to the bridge in the opposite direction.

  Marcus looked at the bridge in question. Describing it as non-descript would not be enough. It was as devoid of ornament and style as Tower Bridge was imbued with both. It was almost an anti-Tower Bridge—everything one was, the other was not.

  Uncle Reggie smirked. “I thought you might have made that mistake. No big deal. Some Americans also made that mistake and bought ‘London Bridge’. Reassembled it back in the US. Would have loved to see their face when they saw it. ‘I spent how much on that?’”

  They headed towards Tower Bridge along the paths that hugged the riverbank, passing an assortment of restaurants with alfresco seating overlooking the river. They then passed the entrance to the warship which turned out to be a cruiser named HMS Belfast. Then the neighbourhood changed again, switching to an open plaza surrounded by glass and steel office towers. They were close enough now to have a really good view of both Tower Bridge and the glistening white Tower of London on the other side of the river. The arms of the bridge were now lowering, the queues of waiting vehicles waiting patiently.

  Uncle Reggie smiled at him, reading his thoughts. “The old and the new, right? The modern offices and Armadillo,” he indicated a weirdly shaped glass oval building very nearby, “opposite the Tower, and the modern cars and buses on the Tower Bridge.”

  They climbed the steps up from riverside level to bridge level and started walking along the bridge itself. They got to about halfway along and Zoe looked up and frowned.

  “Are those windows up there?” she asked, pointing to the upper arms connecting the inner towers of the bridge.

  The others followed her pointing finger and could make out some of the sections of the connecting arms didn’t have the same lattice structure as the other parts and instead had glass with lights beyond. Occasionally the view of the light would flicker as if someone was walking between it and the window.

  “You can go on a tour and walk across those passageways and part of it has a glass floor, allowing you to see the traffic and pedestrians below,” admitted Aunty Meredith. “We can come back for that if you like. I think you have to book your tickets.”

  Marcus wasn’t sure he’d like that but Zoe seemed keen. They continued on to their final stop, the Tower of London, leaving the bridge via stairs which popped them out in a tunnel underneath. From there it was a stroll along a cobbled path to the entrance of the castle, with a little wait while Uncle Reggie went on ahead to get the tickets from the ticket booths which were awkwardly placed further away.

  When he returned, they headed inside and spent a good few hours wandering around the various exhibits. They smirked at the armour of King Henry VIII, the codpiece excessively prominent and unrealistically large. They clambered through the narrow openings in the Bloody Tower and they marvelled at the Royal Mint. Eventually, they went through the Jewel House and queued behind a family of Indian extraction. They stood on the moving conveyor belt as it rotated past the jewels and, as they passed the crown, they distinctly heard the members of the family in front of them hissing at it. The room was incredibly dark, with bright lights shining on the crowns, orbs and sceptres behind the glass, so it was difficult to see who exactly was hissing, but there were enough different hisses to think the whole group was hissing. After they left the darkness and were back outside under the cloudy skies, Zoe broached the subject with her usual tact.

  “Why were those ladies hissing at the crown?”

  Uncle Reggie thought for a while about how to answer the question in a way that she would understand. “Hundreds of years ago there was a huge diamond which was found in a mine in what is now India. Over the years it was included in war booty as one or other empire fought over parts of that area, parts which are now in the current countries of India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Each of those countries now thinks that they have a good claim on the diamond. Britain was “gifted” it,
but there are some reservations on the legality of that gifting. The British put the diamond into their crown, so those ladies were expressing their disagreement with the British ownership of it.”

  “But can’t they figure out who owns it?”

  “Like everything, it’s never black and white. If one army beats another and loots a city, is the loot legally now the property of the victor? If you legally buy something which is illegally gained, do you now legally own it? If an item changes hands under a different country’s laws prior to you getting hold of it and there are disputes under that other country’s laws about the previous transfer, where does that put your claim?”

  “Is it worth much?”

  “Well, for a while it was the biggest diamond known. They said that if a strong man threw a stone in each direction including upwards, and the space outlined by the distance those stones travelled was filled with gold and gems, then they would not be worth as much as the diamond. And that's not even counting the symbolic value to whoever holds it.”

  “Can’t they just share it?”

  “Maybe. It might be hard to persuade people to do that. It might set a precedent, and then everyone would want their stuff back.” He guffawed. “One member of government once used the argument that they can’t give everything back that they’ve pinched over time or else the British Museum would be empty.”

  They headed up the hill to the Underground station at Tower Hill. At the higher elevation, they could see that the clouds had darkened significantly, threatening rain. Marcus felt the first drops as they entered the station. They headed down on the escalators to the platform to wait for the train. There weren’t many other people on the platform waiting with them, and when the train came it was eerily quiet. Not many people at all.

  Each of the other platforms they passed on their way to Victoria were likewise devoid of passengers and the train was just pulling into Embankment when Marcus finally saw some people on the platforms. They were carrying placards and were making their way in fits and starts towards the train accompanied by yelling and shouts of rage and alarm. Looking out the window with mouth agape, Marcus watched as the group came closer, some of them with blood on their clothes and bleeding from wounds on their faces. In the background a second group—this time of policemen—emerged from the base of the stairs and ran after them. The doors of the train closed quickly before the fleeing protestors could get aboard and the train continued on its journey. Beside him Zoe was entrancing Uncle Reggie and Meredith with another of her fascinating stories, all three of them seemed oblivious to what was going on out the window.

  Westminster and St James’s Park were the only stops between Embankment and Victoria and each platform was entirely empty. The train didn’t even stop at either station, just slowing slightly while out in the light before plunging back into the darkness of the tunnel. Marcus was still in disbelief at what he’d seen at Embankment. By the time he thought to ask Uncle Reggie and Aunt Meredith about it, they had arrived at Victoria Station.

  They emerged from the Circle Line at Victoria Station, riding the various escalators to street level before continuing on into the station and finding the next train to take them back to the Manor. On the way back, as the rain closed in, Uncle Reggie got out his phone and arranged for them to be picked up from the train station at East Felstead. Marcus was relieved to be away from the crowds, excited by the things he’d finally seen in person, and exhausted by all the walking. He was also more than a little troubled by the suggestion of violence they’d experienced on the way home. He could see that Zoe was starting to fade, and was glad when they finally pulled into their destination to see William waiting in the Land Rover for them. When they arrived home, they had just walked through the door when Francine bustled over to them, concern written all over her face.

  “Oh! I saw the news, are you ok?”

  Uncle Reggie looked at Aunt Meredith who looked at Marcus in confusion. “Uh… yes, we’re fine.”

  “They said that some of the protests turned violent and the riot police were called out. I was so worried!”

  “Oh, dear! Well, we didn’t see any of that,” continued Aunt Meredith. “We saw the protests, but they were well behaved while we were there.” Marcus nodded to himself. It looked like Uncle Reggie and Aunt Meredith had indeed been distracted by Zoe and hadn’t seen any evidence of the violence.

  “Ah, good,” responded Francine, turning to walk back to her kitchen. “You hear rumours, is all…”

  THE ESTATE

  The next day dawned brightly, the overnight rain creating a layer of mist over the ground as it evaporated in the morning sun. There was still a slight chill under the cloudless sky but this promised to dissipate as the windless day progressed. Zoe and Marcus were breakfasting in the kitchen, chatting with Francine about all the things they’d seen the previous day, when Uncle Reggie and Aunty Meredith came into the room, hair still wet from their morning swim. As they prepared their cereal with fruit, Aunty Meredith casually asked Zoe what she planned on doing today. She couldn’t keep the smile from her face when she asked so Zoe very quickly put one and one together.

  “Riding?”

  Aunty Meredith nodded and told her that the Equestrian Centre’s manager, Molly, was expecting her at 10 am.

  “Squeeeee!” said Zoe, looking delighted.

  “What about you, Marcus? What do you feel like doing?” Uncle Reggie asked.

  “Oh, I thought I’d have a look around the estate, if that’s ok?” Marcus responded. “The grounds are huge!”

  “Sounds good,” agreed Uncle Reggie.

  After a quick brush of his teeth, Marcus walked out along the semi-circular driveway which connected the house to the country lane nearby. The estate was sprawling, but the lack of a huge gate like Buckingham Palace and a driveway up to the house across a perfectly cut lawn rather let the image down, Marcus thought, smiling to himself. As he reached the other end of the semi-circular driveway he noticed that there was in fact a wrought iron gate blocking the driveway, about as tall as he was and held up by two stone pillars with the name of the estate emblazoned on them. He continued along the lane, knowing that he was walking along the eastern edge of the property. Ahead of him he knew from the map that there would be a crossroads at the main road which was at the south eastern corner of the estate. The lane had slight curves and undulations which made it impossible to see the crossroads and was lined on both sides by mature trees which joined above forming a cosy canopy.

  There was a break in the screen of trees to his right and a farm gate with “Warning” and “Private Property” signs led to a track which disappeared into the woods. There was a gap beside the post holding the padlocked gate in place meaning it was probably there to restrict cars rather than pedestrians, so Marcus slipped through and made his way beyond. The dirt track continued on, the trees on each side retreating until their tops no longer touched and a clearing of sorts turned into a carpark on his left. On the other side of the car park was a show jumping paddock, with an assortment of jumps and brightly coloured barrels. The path carried on, so Marcus continued his wandering. Ahead he saw another carpark, this one with a low-slung shed which, on closer inspection, turned out to be more of a hut.

  He moved over to the hut and found out it was an Angling Club’s members room. Leaflets and notices were pinned onto a sheltered noticeboard, alongside signs forbidding unauthorised fishing. Marcus got a little closer and found that there were some phone numbers for prospective members to call and a notification that night fishing would be starting back up in the summer. There were a couple of cars in the carpark and as he finished reading the notices a small man got out of one of the cars and came over with an anxious look on his face. Marcus guessed that he was an accountant. He had no way of knowing, of course, but the man looked the epitome of Marcus’s view of an accountant. He was short, of average build, dressed in slacks and a wore business shirt under a green woollen sweater. He peered through thick glasses as he approached Marcus and asked if he could be of help. Marcus responded that he was just looking around, adding that his uncle was Reggie. The accountant looked relieved and told him that if he wanted to know anything at all about the angling club just to let him know. Marcus smiled and nodded, saying that he would, and continued on along the path. The lake sprawled to his left, a finger of land poking in towards the centre of it. A man on this finger of land had just got to his feet from a folding chair, the tautness of the fishing line in his hand showing that he’d just hooked a fish. Marcus paused and watched the angler wrestle with the fish, eventually landing a specimen about half the size of Marcus’ arm span. Marcus smiled, somehow feeling he’d shared in the angler’s success by watching him, and headed further into the woods.