Tales from the Grey Void

The sky-docks of Canning Town were alive with all the hustle and bustle of a new, burgeoning industry. To those of you that have grown up after the fact—after the wholesale return of our precious amenities and to whom the opening of the Grey Void is simply an interesting footnote in our species’ history—I find it hard to describe the feeling of that place and time. It was as though all London were congregated there, in the shadow of the docks and upon its sprawling elevated walkways—such movement, and spread over such dimensions, both horizontally and vertically, made it feel as if the air itself were alive.

The trade to which this temple of futurist engineering was dedicated—of sink-fishing and tub-hunting—necessitated such a gathering—of people and resources and supplies—and yet more still were drawn there by the promise of private enterprise; tea-rooms, cafés, pubs and restaurants were squared away amongst its struts, built into its very fabric by ambitious individuals hoping to profit by-proxy from the concentration of human life found there. Food-stalls and merchants of trinkets and tourist-tat littered the walkways, preying on naïve visitors, come to see the rebirth of the empire’s glory days, for there was a sense that we were on the cusp of a kind of second industrial revolution—a tangible quality in the air which seemed to attract curious individuals like bees to nectar. In recent months, it had become fashionable to be seen there and already it had captured the imagination of the nation’s writers, poets, artists and musicians, each of whom had found for themselves some little out-of-the-way place to sit and drink and soak up the atmosphere.

It was into this maelstrom of ambition and movement that Claude and I thrust ourselves, working through the vast throngs of people heading to and from the docks.

“There’s a cable-car in five minutes,” I said, helping Claude with his luggage—a substantial valise, a rucksack which felt as though it contained several bricks and, of course, Florence’s cat-basket. “That will take us to Berth A, on the south side of the docks. From there, I would recommend we hire a rickshaw—they will, naturally, try to rip us off, but the Catuvellauni is docked in Berth X, almost a mile to the north and it would take us half the day to get there otherwise.”

“You certainly seem to know your way around,” said Claude. “How do you manage it? All these people, I find it hard to fix upon a landmark with them moving all over the place—like trying to pin down a patch of ocean at high-tide.”

“I’m used to it, my friend,” I said. “I have been on several expeditions and Canning Town is my home—I watched this place being built from my kitchen window.”

Among the greater feats of engineering was the cable-car itself—a pair of enormous stanchions buried deep in concrete foundations and around which the car zig-zagged like a line of thread on a loom, rising by increments to the lofty walkways of the dock proper. There were several stops along the way—to the Underworks where vast warehouses stockpiled the necessary supplies for voyages, to the growing entertainment district beneath that, where most of the best restaurants could be found, and to a few of the better established cafés and pubs that, for one reason or another, were allowed their own stations—but it was not long before we reached the top and were thrown once more onto the crowded boardwalk. For the benefit of the amateur historians amongst you, I feel I should mention here that the great pillars of the cable-car remain entrenched in Canning Town to this day—an unintentional monument to this all too brief period of our history, for they were buried so deep in the silt of the Thames and held fast with such a weight of concrete that they were impossible to safely dismantle.

Here, at the top of the sky-docks, there is a rarefied feel to the air. They tower above all but the tallest buildings in London and to be atop them is to feel as though one is on top of the world. On a clear day, you can see right across the city, to the mouth of the Thames estuary in the east, to Langley in the north, to the outskirts of Reading in the west and as far south as Crawley. On a cloudy day, however, when the expanse of the city is concealed from view, it is as though you are walking upon the sky itself.

As I expected, the rickshaw driver did indeed attempt to charge an exorbitant price for our journey across the docks, but I knew him of old—being one of the first to strike up the profession when the docks were first completed—and I successfully haggled him down to a mere £100. During the journey, I had taken great pleasure in watching Claude’s reaction to our surroundings, his head turning this way and that, hooked, as it were, by the sights, sounds and smells of the docks—here, a Portuguese bean-cod, rising from its berth, sailing low overhead, its hull seeming to scrape the roof of a nearby rope-shed, there, the earth-shattering clatter of a barge’s anchor chain as it was seated to a spare capstan, everywhere the scent of linseed oil and of the roasted pecan nuts sold by vendors by the scoopful up and down the docks.

“Another voyage is it, Bartleby?” said the driver, making conversation while he scanned the crowd for his next fare.

“Indeed it is, Sam,” I said. “Though I dare say this one is likely to be one for the history books.”

Sam chuckled and patted me on the arm.

“You say that about all of them,” he said. “Well, give my regards to Captain Cruikshank—cantankerous bastard that he is.”

“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” said Claude, turning angrily to the driver. “That is no way to talk of such a legend of my profession.”

To his credit, Sam simply chuckled again and shook his head.

“I meant no harm, lad,” he said. “Bartleby here knows me well enough to know there’s no malice in my words.”

Claude looked to me, still angry, but a little wrong-footed by what I suspect he saw as my tacit endorsement of Sam’s opinion.

“Pay him no mind, Claude,” I said. “I know Harvey certainly wouldn’t—though I am sure he would be touched by your assessment of him as a legend.”

Claude reddened at my words and looked away.

“Come,” I said, taking him by the arm. “The Catuvellauni is to sail at one o’clock and we must make our introductions to the captain and the rest of the crew—I am sure Florence would also like the opportunity to stretch her paws. Sam, I shall see you in six months time, if all goes according to plan.”

“Right you are, squire,” said Sam. “May your plug find its hole.”

And with that, the rickshaw and its driver ambled away on the eight greasy tentacles that propelled it and made it so well-suited to the task of ferrying people around the sky-docks—for the rickshaws of the octopedal variety employed on the sky-docks were capable of slipping through almost any gap in the crowds or, should the way become so choked with people as to be impassable, grasping hold of the handrails and sliding along them, hanging off the side of the boardwalk in a way that, to the uninitiated, must have been quite alarming. On this point, I must admit I felt some pride at the fact that, when this precarious form of locomotion was made necessary during our journey to Berth X, Claude seemed quite unperturbed by the experience, for it validated my choice of him as a member of Captain Cruikshank’s crew—a head for heights being perhaps the first barrier to entry for any would-be tub-hunter.

We were greeted by the bosun at the gangway—as far as anyone could be called a veteran in this profession, Pitt Talbot, the bosun, was one without a doubt and he handled himself with a kind of reckless abandon, knowing the give and take in each of the ropes and chains that lashed the oiled silk envelope of the Catuvellauni’s balloon to its expansive gondola. On spotting us, he had leapt the length of the gangway to join us on the boardwalk, startling Florence in her basket.

“Salutations, Bart!” he cried out in his Lancashire accent, wringing me by the hand. “And what have we here?”

“Claude, monsieur,” said Claude, bowing deftly. “Claude Le Jacques.”

“This the prodigy old Trevelyan was going on about?” said Pitt.

I nodded.

Pitt peered at Claude down his button nose, his face screwed up in mock scrutiny. Claude, apparently under the impression that he was being inspected for faults or weaknesses, stood a little straighter and fixed his eyes on the Catuvellauni’s balloon overhead. I, for my part, attempted to keep a straight face as Pitt circled the youth, as a lion circles a sheep, looking him up and down. On returning to his original position at the foot of the gangway, Pitt nodded once and clapped Claude on the shoulder.

“Welcome aboard, lad,” he said, his face breaking into a broad smile. “Let me help you with those bags.”

Claude met the older man’s eyes and frowned.

“Don’t worry, Claude, he does that to everyone,” I said. “Pitt, don’t tease the boy—I have it on good authority that he is likely to be made third mate by the captain. You wouldn’t want to upset the third mate, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Pitt, laughing genially.

The joke was lost of Claude, who had no foreknowledge of Pitt’s past exploits—of the duel fought in Regent’s Park, or the sordid business that followed it—but the laughter seemed to put him at his ease and he smiled as Pitt hoisted the valise onto his shoulder and tramped up the gangway.

“And by ‘good authority’ you wouldn’t happen to mean your own, would you Bart?” said Pitt, on reaching the Catuvellauni’s deck.

“Naturally,” I said. “What better authority is there? And, for that matter, what better candidate? Claude here is the best I’ve seen—a true natural,” and so saying, I grabbed Claude by the shoulder and shook him a little.

“There’s competition,” said Pitt. “Stiff competition—Hailey Reinhardt, so I’ve heard.”

“Pardon, monsieur,” said Claude. “But who is she? I confess I have never heard of a Hailey Reinhardt.”

“Not unlike you,” I said. “She ran a domestic operation—tub-hunting from a privately owned hot-air balloon.”

“Mon dieu,” said Claude. “But that is a risky business. I have heard of such things, certainly, but it is extremely dangerous. A sink might take a grown man if they are not careful, but a tub is an altogether stronger beast, as I am sure we are all aware. Even anchored into hard ground with a stout rope, there is always a good chance a large enough tub will uproot the anchor, and then were are you? Balloon and hunter, ten-thousand feet in the air at the whims of a wild thing, that’s where.”

“You don’t approve?” I said, shrewdly.

“Approve? Of course I do—I applaud the bravery, mon frère,” said Claude. “I think I should like to meet this Hailey Reinhardt.”

“Bravery’s an important quality, no doubt,” said Pitt. “But caution and a cool head keep the crew alive—mark my words. Come, I’ll show you both to your quarters and then you can make your introductions to the captain.”