Five months passed. I had almost forgotten about the plan. Then Mama shook me awake in the middle of the night, or at least, it seemed like it was in the middle of the night to me. I was happy to be roused. I had been dreaming that I was back on the river, in the boat, rolling from side to side. I sat up so quickly I almost bounced my head against my mother’s.
“George Symons is waiting,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“He came to find me last night to tell me all was ready.”
“It’s still night.”
I could feel her smile in the darkness. “No, mpendwa, it’s close to morning. Get dressed.”
Mama had already packed our scant possessions – the chemise she’d bought at the rag fair, a comb, a small blanket and, of course, my lucky poppet. We sat side by side on the saggy bed, pinning up our curls and tucking them beneath our bonnets.
“Now we’re respectable,” she said.
As Mama straightened the bed, I could hear her small purse of coins clinking. I looked out of the window. It was that moment at dawn when the stars are bright, but there’s a faded edge around the darkness. The moon looked like someone had clipped a chip off its side, but it was bright enough to see the shadow of George Symons waiting below. I hoped Mistress Sleet wouldn’t choose that moment to open her window and empty her chamber pot.
Mama and I crept downstairs. We went carefully because the steps are noisy. Also, Mama said that sometimes guests had so much ale they couldn’t make it up to their rooms, and the last thing we wanted to do was to kick a sleeping merchant who would shriek so hard that he brought Master Horstead running. Thankfully our passage that morning was clear.
Downstairs, Mama told me to stay by the door. I would rather have crouched over the embers of the fire to take as much warmth from them as I could. Even I knew that February was no time to travel. But the best time to dive is May and George Symons had said that we had to be sure we had enough time to make Jacques Francis trust us. That gave us three months. Three months until we’d have riches beyond our imagination, he’d said. Beyond my imagination? As I did my best to imagine them, Mama returned with the kitchen boy stumbling behind her. She opened her purse and gave him a coin. When she closed the door, I heard him bolt it behind us again.
This was it. This was the end of our time at the Boar’s Head. I’d lived in enough places to never feel sad when I was leaving them. It was the same this time, except I couldn’t help thinking – when we returned to Southwark, would we be rich enough to buy our own tavern?
I whispered to Mama, “Everything will be fine, won’t it?”
She bobbed down and kissed my head. “It’s a new adventure, Eve.”
Yes, I was an adventurer.
George Symons greeted us with a grunt and hurried ahead. As we scurried after him, through the dark streets of Southwark, I repeated it to myself. I am an adventurer! I am an adventurer. When I return, I will be rich!
Then I realized that we were heading towards the river. Wasn’t that the wrong way? We were supposed to be heading south, not across to London.
“I am an adventurer! I am adventurer!” I said the words out loud as the smell of the river grew stronger, but the words weren’t loud enough to hide my thumping heart.
George Symons was moving quickly through the grey morning shadows. Mama hurried to catch up with him. We passed a baker’s shop. The oven must have been lit already because I could smell warm bread. The mastiffs were baying by the bear garden, where people watched dogs fight captive bears for fun. And I could hear the river whispering to me, the waves lapping at the jetty and the creak of ropes as boats tried to free themselves and float away.
The stars were fading into the morning sky as we came on to Bankside. I found Mama’s hand and squeezed it.
“Are we going on a boat?” I asked.
She nodded. “But don’t worry, mpendwa. It’s a big one. It belongs to a rich merchant who’s sailing back home via Southampton. Master Symons says that it’s our quickest route.”
My stomach started bumping around just thinking about it. It wasn’t just wherries that threw you into the sea. We were here because George Symons had told us about a big warship tipping over.
“Wait here.” He walked towards the wharf.
We were at the steps near Paris Gardens. I could see the bigger boats anchored across the river, while the wherries and rowing boats bumped against each other and the wharf. The sailors were already busy, calling to each other in languages I didn’t understand. Laranjas. Was that oranges? Maybe Mama would know.
“Mama?”
“Shush!” She seemed to be stretching towards the river, listening with her whole body.
“We’re ready.” George Symons was back. He was with a short man whose head barely reached the carpenter’s shoulder. In the dawn gloom, it was easier to smell him than to see him. I wished Mama hadn’t sold all her little lavender bags, though it would take a whole cartload of lavender to make the short man smell good. He was staring at Mama. As usual, she stared back. The way he looked at her made me want to turn back to the Boar’s Head. She put an arm around my shoulders and I felt the solid strength of her body. I had to be more like Mama and remember that adventurers didn’t give up simply because they didn’t like the look (or smell) of people.
The sailor said something to Mama. It was in a different language and the words didn’t sound like anything I knew. Mama didn’t reply. Why should she? She
