Festive Ruminations
Rough. That's all I could think, angling myself against the blunt cushioning of our carriage, the blasted thing teetering across the streets of London. The way to McMichael Park, even if only a short distance, was packed with the urban cacophony of Great Britain's gilded capital.
"You would think with all the money at his disposal, Hartley could afford us less stingy transportation."
Ignoring my astute observation, Jacques finally seated himself in the middle of our section at the back of the carriage's innards, a fresh copy of the London Daily Review laid in his lap. No repartee tonight from my favorite Frenchman, I thought to myself, choosing to find more lively conversation with the roaming sights of Picadilly Street that peered in from my window.
PHS&A occupied one of the most glimmering parcels of land the world had to offer, with the West End of our capital the pride of the British Empire: the streets blushed with the zap of lightbulbs from corner to corner, piercing through the foggy sables of London sky and giving citizens a glimpse at the city's panoply of modern architecture. Tall ridges and elongated brickfronts dazzled the eye, arching upward towards buildings that seemed to have improved their posture over the past couple centuries. Stuccos set themselves on the outgrowths of the theaters that studded the streets, the grains of stone seeming to dance amid the surface of the walling—preparing any players walking in for the theatrics to come, I always mused. Gothic spikes mingled with Roman arches across the paths, artifices through the ages in constant conversation, brooding over which past aesthetic was to reign supreme over the London visage of tomorrow.
Picadilly's vivacious masonry was the perfect backdrop for the rumble of London's citizenry. For decades, this slice of the West End had played host to throngs of the British elite—the tailored jackets of London ladies bounded up the walkways, sutured precisely for the female form, yet having slimmed over the decades by feminine fortitude. Between the waving motions of the crowd, some audacious ladies even donned the same ebony waistcoats and trousers of the fellows milling at their sides, camouflaged within an army of British haute couture from any preening bobbies.
Yet, I could only say that if they were ladies, then, insofar as how well my spectacles could see; or if they were to deem themselves ladies, insofar as how a man can peek inside the consciousness of another. (If I deem myself a lawyer, does that esteem myself more in my profession than the badge fastened to my lapel, or the Esquire beside my name?)
No time for such ponderings. Chip, chip, chip, the promenade hurried along its march on the avenues. Ladybugs and chrysanthemums, fluttering by the marble grass blades: lush crimson and magenta gaping to the eye. Every bonnet and homburg seemed at a slant, with their milliners delighted at the brims arching towards Heaven; even though the curvature of the hats' angle was not standard for everyone. Blueblood swan-hats and toppers gazed out to the stars, a wide berth between forehead and fabric, while the fedoras were only poised skyward on the clerks and secretaries, content at their middling altitude yet always pining for that extra inch of air. The soot-fraught bowlers, though, those ramrod headpieces, all but a sliver of Polaris did they capture, brimmed out from the glimmers of the city.
True, at one point even a sliver was worth too much silver for the bowler-ers, golden gateways blocking off the route to Picadilly riches. But why else was the locomotive created than to ferry the smorgasbord of London's peoples from End to End, their sundry hats resting at the windowsill, so even the paupers could have a play at Picadilly? The great kaleidoscope of garment economics, these trains were, allowing for that rare scene of walkway between the classes, such a wide variety of hats and hues present. Even if only a single workman could make merry with the hordes of bosses along the boulevard, a scrap of progress was better than the buffet of the status quo.
I sighed. The grandeur in the air was a miraculous sight for sure—ah, the writing possibilities for a young mind seem endless when fueled by the vividness of one's experience. But I felt a looming imperfection, of those PHS&A couldn't help, couldn't campaign for. There is powerlessness to be found in numbers, no matter how hard or how far I tried to escape that quandary in the cavernous depths of my notebook. A lump sum of people, yet without a crowd of pounds; not everyone could afford the train fare, after all, any more than they could afford a coffin with a bed as decent lodgings.
I sensed Jacques felt the same way, hearing the constant clop of horses and the click of a thousand boots. True, from his seat he could see no evil, as London bodies blocked his view from the mires of horse dung that crowded the gutters like termite mounds, veiling the boys that crouched between their seniors to clean the dung away. And neither could he smell evil, the omnibus windows inoculating us from the trademarks of London stink. But the aural reminder of the hoofprints returned his mind to that murky image of the cleaner-boys on the streets, and he recalled that even the stars that twinkled above were only a figment of what his father and grandfather could see in Paris, the rest having been swept away by London smog.
But even I couldn't settle down into my friend's mind. A mind sobered, yes, but wholly for the broadsheet in his grasp, and not the broadsides of Picadilly society.
"Leopold, look."
He diverted my gaze to the sepia print of the newspaper, where a photograph of none other than Terrance Hartley preened across the cover, his grin contorted into a menacing grimace:
LEGAL RINGLEADER FLIES TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
"It appears that Mr. Hartley continues to make friends in the business world."
The article—penned likely by a paid-off sycophant of one of our legal opponents—tore into Mr. Hartley's character, marring him as a "thankless class-traitor" and a "self-proclaimed Messiah to the masses." My eyes gaped like a chasm as wide as the North Sea's expanse, and my lip shook with frustration at the barbs that blotted the pages. Hartley wasn't perfect (he certainly profited from our operation just like Plantag and Saxe by charging the clients we served, with only a fraction trickling down into the junior lawyers' pockets), but I still found myself inflamed at the heart. Without him, I'd be forced to wander the streets, peddling out my sorry works to walking passersby and just hoping to survive on every pence and dime. I was lucky to have someone who took a chance on the wayward mind of the wharfman's son.
"That isn't the distressing part. Over here," Jacques' finger shot at the sponsor of the publication:
Brought to Readers by Southwell Enterprises
"By God, Jacques! They can't be serious!"
For once, when I stared back into Jacques' gaze, his eyes betrayed a dark twinkle of worry.
"This doesn't even scratch the surface, my friend."
He pointed to a back page buried with reports of violent incidents perpetrated against law firms who'd followed Mr. Hartley's mark of bottom-up justice. Obviously, most law offices kept their corrupt cards close to the chest, blocking greater access to representation for blue-collar clients while intensifying their own brand of war profiteering: raking in pounds by arming skirmishes between corporate empires.
But a few brave colleagues of the Hartley generation decided to join his little movement, and paid dearly in blood and money for it. Not equipped with the boundless zeal of Mr. Hartley, nor the sturdy reputation of Plantag and Saxe, these firms fought and died at the hands of company aims. Potential clients were mugged before they waltzed through the firm doors. Fires started in nearby buildings consumed whole troves of case files and lawyers' savings alike. At the worst of it all, armed thugs came to town to bang up hopeful jurists not much older than I, leaving their broken bodies in the firm lobbies to act as a warning to the firm higher-ups.
"Unbelievable. And the bobbies don't even bat an eye?"
The quake of Jacques' head was as slow as the swirl of the Thames, yet held the ominous mood of the earth's tremors.
"We're playing a dangerous game, Leopold. I know Hartley means well, and the principals have his back, but how long can we keep this up?
How long till those bruised bodies become ours?"
My hands wrung themselves together, trembling at the thought. I always thought Mr. Hartley could curb the monied forces we were pitted against—after all, he was a member of the new British aristocracy himself. However, while men like his father Callow and now Southwell displayed a cruelty inherited from the Plantagenets and Tudors onward, trying to prove their noble stock, I saw Hartley as a soul who broke away from the mold the most he could. Just like Jacques and I wished to unshackle ourselves from the middling positions of our families and garner some purpose in a society we hoped dynamic.
But we were getting close to the crux of it all, the cornucopia of the modern corporation. PHS&A sued Southwell Enterprises for negligence, conspiracy to gouge prices, and workplace endangerment on a massive scale. Even if we were backed by the largest union in the Empire—the Trades Union Congress, made up of carpenters, electrical workers, teamsters, and other skilled laborers, who found in a case of unskilled worker exploitation their chance to grapple power away from company mitts—our firm was David to Goliath.
Yet I couldn't help but feel that there wasn't a slingshot large enough in this world to take down Southwell and the British industrial complex.
I took a breath. It'd all work out. Mr. Hartley was a genius and a fighter, and Plantag and Saxe would go down with him to the end. I offered the gentle palm of my hand on Jacques' shoulder, as we shared a glance. We'll pull through, old bean. I smiled. For once, he did too.
"Attention, passengers! McMichael Park, coming just up ahead! Enjoy the festivities, gents!"
It was just another holiday in London.