Clive hadn’t picked the best time to make his grand entrance into London...

For starters, the comets had vanished from London’s skies (shared with Devon’s, indeed!) before he’d even had a chance to see them. But, they’d served their purpose in getting him out the door (with a little physical Clivehandling from his sister) and, sure as rain, the old tent he’d been sleeping in the previous few weeks had been very poor indeed (likely because it wasn’t a tent, and was actually several pairs of Lady Hucklefish’s old petticoats sewn together).

For seconds, it was Oak Apple Day. This was a relatively new holiday, started five years previous to celebrate the restoration of King Charles II (who had reportedly been hiding in an oak tree for nine years) – and people were still enthusiastic in prosecuting its main tradition: i.e. the pelting with bird eggs (post-date), or thrashing with nettles (fresh), of anyone not wearing an oak sprig (acorns not included). Clive wasn’t good with trees (mutual) and had no idea which ones were oaks, so had opted instead for wearing some manner of fern upon his brow. This hadn’t satisfied the locals at all, so he’d gotten the full treatment.

Thus it was that, itchy, bleeding, dripping and reeking of sulphur, Clive made his less-than-grand entrance to London.

To save time he had kept south of the city, and so he’d already crossed the Thames once at Kingston, the ancient wooden bridge creaking ominously at his every step. Clive had been relieved to see the plaque at the foot of the bridge declaring the bridge to be ‘tolle-free,’ and less relieved when he stepped off it to find a burly Kingstonian demanding a toll.

On the bright side, Clive thought the seats in the middle were a nice touch, and he’d taken advantage of them to stop and enjoy a good ducking that was taking place on the far bank. The scold was a handsome woman and had drawn quite a crowd. But neither the insolent gurgling nor the rickety old pontoon were enough to prepare him for the horror and the wonder that was London Bridge.

From where he was now standing, at the Bridge’s foot beside the more-than-infamous Bear Inn (rowdy e’en now at 11 in the morn), it resembled less a bridge, and more a street laid upon a river. And now he was really looking at it – it resembled less a street, and more a helter-skelter triumphal tunnel of arches and awnings, towers, facades and latrines, all erected in loving memory of gravity’s inglorious rout – as sketched by the Devil’s arch-mock himself.

Between the heavy piers and the boat-like timber starlings protecting them, the corn mill at the Southwark end where Clive was standing, and the water wheels on the northern side that provided that most modern of luxuries – piped water – London Bridge was noisily, and, quite figuratively, throttling the Thames – and the river knew it! Even from where Clive was, bankside, the furious roar of the rapids, together with the regular thunk! of the wheels, was deafening. As Clive watched, a clearly inexperienced waterman drew too close and was sucked between the frothing starlings with a yelp: raft, pole an’ all. Clive had the sinking feeling that the waterman wasn’t going to emerge from the other side...

“Stupid punt!” muttered a fellow observer at his side, a reveller from the Bear by the reek of him. “The wise go over, the fools go under!” he pontificated, before belching loudly and reverse sallying back into the tavern.

Clive looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the waterman’s plight.

Either nobody had, or nobody cared.

Still, the weather was fine, Clive was on holiday, and he was damned if he was going to let anything as small as a little boating accident dampen his spirits!

Besides, he had sight-seeing to do...

Craning at the sky above the rookish Great Stone Gateway, Clive counted 5 heads topping the crenellations: a reasonable turnout, but they were black with tar and he had no idea which one was Cromwell’s (not that he would have recognized him anyway). He dared to quiz a passer-by and was roundly told that Cromwell’s head was on display above Westminster, and not London Bridge. The word “tourist!” was spat at Clive’s feet.

Clive joined the rest of the traffic moving on through the archway and onto the Bridge. There were sinister signs everywhere saying ‘Keep to the Left!’ and, to Clive’s mild surprise, most people were actually obeying them. Though, to be fair, to not do so was to risk getting run over. The confluence of man and beast tramping up gangways reminded Clive of the biblical Noah’s Ark – but this certainly wasn’t two by two, and if there was a flood it was not of water. Indeed, it was impossible for two carts to pass each other at the choke-points (and the entire Bridge was, essentially, one big choke-point) and they had to alternate, like the cogs in a pair of wheels (or be it a pair of wheels fashioned by a five year old with palsy). The pedestrians between the cogs (not to mention the herds of geese and cattle being driven over London’s only crossing point) – well, they took their chances. And people and pack animals were not alone amongst God’s creatures making their way up onto the Bridge to enter London proper. A verminous convoy of black rats were embarking, scampering up in the shadows of the verges, two by two, tight as Roundheads. A lone outrider turned and seemed to regard Clive, nose high and asnuffle, black eyes unreadable... but it soon lost interest and returned to marshalling duty.

Yes, Oak Apple Day was a holiday, but not for the guards at the gates, and they were feeling frisky, meaning that they were extracting overtime pay by frisking anyone who didn’t look monied enough to cause them career trouble – and they were looking for coin more than contraband. Having relieved Clive of every ounce of metal they could find in his purse (which wasn’t much), they gave him pass. Fortunately, Clive had learned from the Kingston experience, and had hidden most of his considerable stash, including several rhomboid half crowns, up where even the Spanish Inquisition wouldn’t pry!

There was an argument going on in the tunnel up ahead – a tall yet oddly bow-legged fellow with a wide-brimmed hat was tilting at a broad swarthy chap who Clive presumed, by his embellished breastplate and air of practised rigidity, to be the captain of the guard. The captain sported a wide shoe-ring through his septum, the which, together with his conjoined brow, put Clive in mind of a bullock that had woken up on the wrong side of the fence – but the bow-legged gallant seemed undeterred. Either that or someone had pinned a facsimile of a winsomely lop-sided smile somewhere beneath his nose.

“So, when they coming down then? They can’t stay up there forever! They’ve got funerals to attend!”

“’Oo says they can’t?”

“Look mate, we get paid to bury people. Whole people, not ‘eadless ones, otherwise the relatives start asking for discounts and whatnot. The boss doesn’t like anything eating into his profits – pickin’s are thin enough as it is!”

“Not my problem! Now move along.”

“I thought this kind of thing was banned now, anyway?”

“By ’oo?”

“’Is nabs, of course! Now I think about it, I do distinctly remember the King saying something about a fresh new start for the capital – no more rottin’ heads on poles over gates, stuff of that sort. Creates a bad impression-like.”

“Is that so?”

“Remember it like I said it m’self!”

“Well, I don’t remember anything of the sort! ’E doesn’t seem to mind old ironsides’ skull over at ’minster–”

The gallant’s face flashed a sudden shade darker, but the affixed smile snapped back into place so quickly it was difficult to say if it had ever truly been absent. “Yeah, well ’e’s a special case, i’n’he? Seeing as he killed ’is dad an’ all!”

“...and besides it brings in the pilgrims. Now clear off or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

The man brightened. “Spaniels?”

“You wish!”

“Yeah, well… You better ’ope for your sake the King doesn’t ’ear of this! Or it’ll be your head being soaked in tar next!”

“The King? Hur hur! He don’t come round these parts! He’s far too lar-dee-dah for south of the river! Now off with ye!”

The boorish guardsman stomped back into the tower and slammed the small door set into the tunnel’s wall shut!

The tall behatted fellow shook his head. “Cretin of a Turkish whoreson!” he muttered, loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the door. He drew a small pocketbook, scribbling a note with a curious silver pen that looked nothing like a quill. Clive felt a curious urge to go over and talk to him, even ask him what he was writing, and fancied he caught the man’s eye – lazy and blue-hooded, but with a glint like a sheathed poniard – but before Clive could cross the street and engage him, a large wagon brimming with barrels rumbled between them, and, when it had passed, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Emerging from the gateway tunnel, Clive found himself in an open space lined with stalls, and ahead of him a long block of buildings fronted by a tall jade lacquered house with many, many windows. Residences that had once stood humbly to either side of the Bridge had greedily grown to span it, with the hautpas providing extra roomage above forming a long tunnel beneath. Remarkable as the many-windowed facade was, Clive spared it barely a glance; nor did he allow himself to be accosted by the hunchback of an ink hawker that drew near, his eager little tap weeping black spots upon the boards – for the next (by now urgent) stop on Clive’s itinerary were the public latrines, accessible from any of several small doors set at intervals between the stalls in the tunnel up ahead.

Spacious, airy, sanitary – they were a far cry from the rude bucket Clive was accustomed to. A long wooden bench below a wide open window with the shutters thrown open, the latrines themselves were simple holes cut above the river (the whole shelf jutted over six feet out into space), but for an extra 1d you could rent a u-shaped straw cushion for extra comfort (which Clive did, being a sensitive hole), and it was possible to swivel round and enjoy the wide vista of the river while taking one’s relief.

Clive found himself rubbing shoulders with a lavishly bewigged fop on his left and a balding sailor on his right. By this point, Clive was getting henflesh – for, only here, in the City of Dreams, united by a common need, was such a mingling of class and status (not to mention effluent) even possible. He peered between his legs at the raucous waters far below – the vertigo that ensued was strangely pleasant (not unlike the draught tickling his nethers).

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Relief brought Temperance to mind. Clive’s sister had generously doled out his share in Dad’s inheritance, such as it was (Clive had a feeling Temperance wasn’t expecting him to come back) – a princely sum of a guinea, 2 sovereigns, 6 half crowns, a dozen shillings and sixpence. Which all meant there was only one thing for our effervescent Clive to do – and that was shop till he dropped!

The shops along the tunnels had laterally hinged wooden shutters: the lower sections thrown down to form shallow counters; the upper halves fastened up to create awnings where further goods could be hung on display. Each shop had a sign nine feet up to clear the passing carriages. Clive had taught himself to read from his treasured playscripts in his local Church library, not to mention his father’s old copy of the English Bible of course, but there remained a shrinking illiterate population for whom the pure visual cues of pictographic signs were helpful, and thus required by law: the Globe indicated a Mapmaker; the Ink Well a Stationer; the Quill a Scrivener; the Ring a Jeweller; the Button a Haberdasher; and the Woolpack a Mercer. Most were literal, some were ingenious, such as the Bald Horse for a Periwig Maker; or the Naked Eve (shy hands covering her modesty) for a Draper; the Drowning Man for the Distiller of Strong Waters; and Poseidon’s Trident for a Salter. There was even a distasteful-looking Brown Bean-like shape that Clive suspected to be one of the newefangolled and much-discussed coffee establishments (surely a passing trend, thought Clive – for who would drink hot bean-juice when there was good honest English ale on offer?).

But, to Clive’s utter joy, by far the most common signs were variations of the Open Book. Clive was not alone in his love of the written word – it transpired that modern Londoners just loved to read: transcripts of political debates; philosophical diatribes; ghastly crime novels: when it came to the printed page, the increasingly literate London population simply could not get enough of it! One enterprising publisher who was clearly enjoying excellent custom had taken the sign of the Bitten Apple, the forbidden fruit of all knowledge, and the sly slogan, ‘ink different!’

Adverts and prices were posted along the walls, colourfully lettered prints hammered in place with short nails – one of which nonetheless managed to tear an impressive gash in Clive’s breeches as he flattened himself against the passage to avoid a hackney. This was deeply annoying: he would have to find a seamstress.

The larger more opulent stores had breakneck staircases to their first floor showrooms, often considerably larger than the ground floor thanks to being simultaneously above the passageway and out over the river. It was up one such staircase that Clive found a haberdasher whose cow-eyed daughter took pity on him enough to put a thread into his breeches for a few d (a little dear, but this was London Bridge after all). Clive was ushered into a tight space behind a screen and stood there with his bare arse pressed up against the window panes as his breeches were mended. From the way the haberdasher had sniffed at him, Clive half-suspected the screen was as much for the shop’s modesty as it was for his. Clive prayed that no one on the river accidentally got an eye-full of his beframed cheekiness on clear display above their heads.

Just when he could no longer feel his buttocks, his breeches appeared back around the screen. He inspected the work, only to find to his consternation that the amorous young seamstress had sewn her autograph (Emily) into the stitching, together with several shapes that looked suspiciously like crimson hearts pierced through with arrows of black thread! And she had looked so innocent!

What followed was an awkward sideways bow for the staircase, as Clive attempted to simultaneously avoid eye contact with the daughter, while keeping the incriminating stitching out of view of her father!

Not all the stores were so grand, however. Some were more mobile, little more than a tray hung from the neck with twine. “Fresh fish! Fresh fish! Fresh from the Thames!” The aproned fishwife was somehow able to enunciate despite the pipe-stem fastened between her gnashers. Clive poked at the glazed eyes of the merchandise. He hadn’t thought fish had tongues, much less black ones. Some seemed to have more than one. “Are you sure that it’s fresh?”

“Course I am, sir! Fish couldn’t wait to get out of the water!”

More worrying than the state of the fish though, was the state of the Bridge itself. Clive was starting to notice signs that the Bridge was severely lacking for repairs – particularly the wooden parts: a warped plank here, a section of missing railing there... Risking being blasted with the ‘T’ word again, Clive dared to quiz a fellow browser outside Botham’s Best Bookbinders – a gentleman of some stature judging by his flowing brown wig, fine silk shirt, and blue coat so slim it was little more than an apology.

“Is it safe?” Clive opened.

The gentleman turned, eyebrows fuddled. “Book-binding?”

“No, I mean the Bridge – it’s looking a bit worse for wear...”

“Good grief, sirrah! London Bridge has been standing for over four hundred years! See!” The gentleman gave the boards beneath him a good stamp with the business end of his high heels, as if to better prove his contention. “That’s English elm that is – you won’t find a stronger timber anywhere in Europe – or the colonies! Why, I’d wager–”

It was perhaps unfortunate that the board beneath the gentleman’s foot gave way at that particular moment, swallowing his right leg right up to his petticoat and milking him of a most ’fane string of profanities that took the Lord’s name not merely in vain, but on tour!

As Clive gaped, a volume, beautifully bound in ribbed red leather and gold leaf, tumbled from the man’s satchel. Mortally embarrassed, Clive stooped swiftly to rescue it from the dust. He peeked inside at the first page before stuffing it back. “Your, erm, diary, Mr... Pepys?”

“Diary be damned! Get me out of here, man!”

Clive dutifully grabbed a frilled limb, and started to tug, which only seemed to add to Pepys’ annoyance. “Lift man! Don’t pull! Have you not an ounce of common sense?”

Bridge traffic to either side of them was already coming to a standstill. They were blocking the passageway, and there was no way anything wider than a horse was getting through. To make matters worse, a circle of a crowd was forming, and a flock of honking geese were finding their way underfoot; a lowing herd of beef cattle were not far behind; at the other end, a hackney driver was starting to holler at the hold up, and angry fingers were being pointed.

Hurriedly changing tactics, Clive came round the front of Pepys, caught him beneath his armpits, and began to tug anew.

To those crowd members standing to the rear and fore of Clive, there was something oddly obscene to the way this queer country fellow was grunting and bucking his hips into the face of the prostrate Londoner. Men elbowed each other with broad grins; ladies fanned themselves and gasped.

Their mounting amusement was not lost on Clive. Oh, for sure, Clive was no stranger to embarrassment – why, he had fluffed lines in front of dozens of audiences! – but that was nothing compared to this! His cheeks felt like they had been soaked in naphtha! Pepys was no help at all: “What the devil are you doing, man?!?”

Desperate now, Clive swung his leg over Pepys to straddle him, effectively riding his shoulder in an effort to gain more leverage on Pepys’ arm and pull him upwards at a different angle. But, try as he might, Pepys just would not budge, and the seesawing ass-buffeting Clive was giving Pepys’ lividly protesting head was no less comical (or obscene). But when a careering goose snatched Pepys’ wig and hat away in its beak and waddled gamely back into the throng, the crowd finally lost it.

Crying, lowing, roaring, honking, gesticulating (crudely) and slapping (roundly) the backs of anyone who chanced to be nearby (several fights breaking out as a result), the citizens of London veritably exploded with mirth!

Clive was simply mortified! He’d come here to conquer the stage, and had not so much as made it across the river without becoming the laughing stock of the entire town! Oh, it was true, it was his bent to entertain, but comedy just wasn’t his thing. The only laugh he’d ever gotten out of an audience was when he’d fallen backwards off a bench after falling asleep onstage during an open air performance of My Summer Night’s Cream. No, cast Clive a nice jealous Moor or a morbidly time-wasting Dane any day: Falstaff and Bottom were for lesser actors. ‘I am what I ham,’ as the man had said. Pepys’ predicament was far from enviable, but, despite it all, Clive was starting to wish he too could sink through the bridgeboards...

He found himself taking an involuntary step backwards into the crowd...

Pepys gawped at him incredulously!

“Where in the King’s NAME are YOU going?!?”

Suddenly, everyone was looking at him.

Everyone.

Expectant.

He had no cue, and no exit either. Clive had once been stuck on stage for half an hour while trying to remember his lines – never again! The urge to improvise his way out was overwhelming. Clive grinned stupidly and took another step back, straightening one leg and bending another, proffering an upturned palm in Pepys’ direction – a winsome master of ceremonies giving away the next act, begging applause...

And then the goose with the wig waddled back into range. Acting on a hunch that bordered on inspiration, Clive snatched the wig from its beak and tossed the knotted heap of curls up onto his own pate, the deprived gander honking about his legs in protest.

And the crowd went wild! This time, some of them actually started to applaud. “More more! Do it again! More of the French this time!”

Clive couldn’t believe it! He bowed, then pirouetted on the spot: men cheered; women waved; geese honked! They loved him! They actually loved him! And, there was no denying it, Clive was starting to enjoy himself too! Maybe this comedy thing wasn’t so hard after all?

Pepys, on the other hand, was most definitely NOT enjoying himself, being closer to apoplexy. “Damn it, man! Stop prancing about like a fool and help me free my leg!”

But Clive had other ideas. What followed could not, by contemporary standards, have been classed as actual ‘dance.’ To be sure, it moved in a wide circle around Pepys, but it was too gay for the galliard (which is saying something), too base for the basse, and too salty for the saltarello. No. what was born that Oak Apple Day afternoon, 1665, to the beat of curse and commination (issued by the man in the Bridge), was something altogether more interpretative.

What is known is that by the final flourish of Clive’s improvised promenade, at least two ladies and one gentleman had fainted, the watch had been alerted, the local Jesuit had been dispatched to report back to Rome, and the Bridge had fallen utterly silent.

Even the geese.

Pepys had lost the ability to breathe—much less speak—and could only gape...

But, like every great entertainer, Clive had one last set piece up his sleeve, a finale that would not be denied! Snatching the wig from his brow, he flapped it to the side, tossing his head and pawing the ground with one foot, torero and bull combined into one glorious buffone – aimed directly at Pepys! Had there been drums present, they would have rolled. Catching Pepys’ aghast expression, Clive steepled his eyebrows apologetically, but didn’t drop the dumb grin. “I really am terribly sorry about this...” he mouthed.

And charged!

The crowd ooohed... Pepys shrieked!... and Clive landed perfectly (three-point) having leapfrogged Pepys and replaced the wig upon the fop’s head in mid-air!

This time, the applause was truly thunderous! Coin ejaculated in glittering arcs to tinkle upon the Bridge boards! Clive ducked and bowed, plucking at the change and stuffing it into his purse before the crowd came to its senses and remembered that coin was far too fine a thing to be left lying around.

Clive swooped again, only to find himself inadvertently nose to nose with Pepys. Pepys’ voice was now very quiet: “When I catch up with you, boy, I’m going to tan your hide so hard that you’ll have to sit, sleep and shit STANDING UP!”

Feeling not a little guilty, but infinitely more flush (and possibly slightly confused by the details of Pepys’ threat) Clive rose, bowed again, turned his back on Pepys, and disappeared into the cheering crowd, many of whom clapped him on the back in passing. Pushing, then weaving his way between jammed man and beast, then Bridge-locked carts and carriages, newfound roosts to a flock of angry curses and shaking fists, Clive trod the tunnel until it finally opened again to a stretch of open sky.