Page 10 of Inventing Vivian

Chapter 2

The next afternoon, Vivian dressedin her plainest gown and set out for Blackfriars. She knew better than to travel to the area near the Victorian Embankment too near evening, especially with the attention her father’s carriage would draw. But the schedule of the man she was going to see was set by the river’s tide. And, of course, she wasn’t going alone. Devon, her father’s carriage driver, was familiar with the area. In fact, he was the person who had introduced her to Mr. Barnaby in the first place.

When they reached the mouth of the alley off Thames Street, Devon helped her alight. He watched the street closely, one hand inside his jacket, where Vivian knew he held a double-action French revolver. He’d shown it to her once, and she’d begged to take it apart to see how it worked. But Devon had refused, and she’d had to make do with disassembling an old rusty pistol with a potentially dubious history.

Vivian lifted her wooden box, left Devon with the carriage, and walked quickly through the alley. She knew the carriage driver was watching, but his presence didn’t make her feel entirely safe. Noises came from the shadows and faces peeked through the cracks of boarded windows as she passed. She held the box tighter and hurried her pace. At the end of the alley was a door with a small handmade sign that readBarnaby’s Mudlark Emporium. Vivian knocked three times, waited, and knocked twice more, then opened it.

A foul smell met her nose, but she’d come to expect it, and instead of repulsing her, it was familiar, and she smiled as she stepped inside. The shop was small, the only light coming from a high window on one wall. It was hardly more than a corridor with shelves and a long table piled with the most haphazard assortment of odds and ends one could imagine. Clothing, furniture, jewelry, tobacco pipes, dishes, the pieces of a Roman sword, a baby pram, hatboxes, taxidermic animals, garden tools, hinges, buttons, a partially broken stained-glass window, inkpots and teapots, children’s toys, and objects that could only be described as junk. The first time she’d come, the sheer quantity of things had nearly overwhelmed her, until she’d learned there was a system to the madness. Though it may seem to be simply piles of trash, the owner organized his merchandise fastidiously. She turned, shifting the box into her other arm and closed the door.

“What a delightful surprise.” Mr. Barnaby came from a door Vivian assumed led to a back room. “If it isn’t Miss Kirby.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnaby.” Vivian’s eyes were still adjusting to the dim lighting.

A ray of sunlight shone through the dusty air and lit on the mismatched brass buttons of Mr. Barnaby’s waistcoat. He was a small person, slender, with eyes that always seemed to be darting in every direction. Mr. Barnaby’s life had not been an easy one. His back was bent, and he walked with a limp. And yet, in spite of his physical challenges, he had built a successful business, buying objects salvaged from the riverbanks and reselling them as scrap metal, parts, or even creations of his own, built from various pieces. He was one of the most talented tinkers in the city.

“Ye’ve come for yer wheels, then, have ye?”

“Yes.” She set her box on the table. “If they’re ready, that is.”

“Aye.” He nodded and went back through the door. “Stuart brought ’em in just this mornin’.”

He rolled a contraption into the shop’s narrow aisle. Two small metal wheels attached together both at the axle and with rods along the edges, setting them six inches apart. “Fixed it up to yer specifications.”

Vivian bent down and rolled the wheels experimentally. They moved smoothly. She studied the bars Stuart, Mr. Barnaby’s son, had welded into place, and the tubes he’d set into the axle. “It is exactly how I envisioned,” she said. She was delighted to see one of her ideas coming to life. “You must pass on my compliments to Stuart.”

“I will at that, miss.” He grinned, showing empty spaces where his teeth were missing, and glanced at the box on the table. “And would ye be lookin’ for anythin’ else today?”

“I need some parts for a cyclic hydraulic pump.” She took the pieces from her box and showed the parts she’d assembled. “You see, the supply pipe needs a better coupling. And the pressure vessel... I was hoping you might come up with something that holds enough air to keep the water pressure steady.” She showed the drawing she’d made of what she intended the pump to look like when it was finished.

Mr. Barnaby nodded. He looked at the drawing and then studied the pipe’s coupling, holding it up to inspect it by the light of the window.

“This here can be fixed right away.” He called over his shoulder, “Will!”

A child in ragged trousers and a worn shirt ran out of the back room.

Mr. Barnaby scribbled on a paper, tore a piece off, and instructed Will to take it with the pipe and coupling to Stuart.

The lad was off like a flash.

“And the vessel itself...” Mr. Barnaby tapped his finger to his lip, his gaze roaming the shelves. He considered for a moment, and then his gaze cleared and he snapped his fingers. He scurried toward a corner, dodging around the table and items on the floor, pushing aside crates and broken bits of furniture as he went, and muttering to himself, “I know ’tis here somewhere.”

As Vivian waited, her eyes roamed around the strange collection, and she wondered how he could possibly locate anything in this mess. She had an uneasy feeling that some of the items hadn’t been found at all but had been stolen, though she knew better than to ask. She wondered what the proud Lord Benedict would think if he knew where the pieces of his fountain pump were coming from.

It would be much easier to purchase exactly what she needed at an ironmonger’s store, but Mr. Barnaby gave much more than simply the right part. His advice over the years had been invaluable, and she’d learned more about building from this dusty little shop than from any physics book or technology lecture.

“Ah, here we are.” He hefted out an old milk jug with a narrow opening that looked to be made of tin. He held it up in the light. “Will you look at that? Only a few dents.”

Moving to the table in the center of the room, Mr. Barnaby pushed aside the box and set out the diagram, pointing to the vessel in her drawing. “A larger vessel like this one here will give more pressure.” He picked up a pencil. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Barnaby enlarged the vessel in the drawing, sketching it to match the shape of the milk jug. He pointed out other, simpler adjustments to the diagram and helped her attach the jug to a check valve. They finished just as the boy returned with the pipe and modified coupling. Mr. Barnaby looked at it, wiggled it, then gave it to Vivian for her inspection.

She wiggled it herself, twisting to make sure it was tight. “Just right. I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

“Oh,sir, is it now?” he said, grinning as he held the lapels of his jacket and struck a dignified pose. “I could get used to that.”

Vivian smiled back at the peculiar man, not sure how to respond. She put the pipe into the box.

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