Geoffrey ran upstairs and was delighted to find his new jacket had at least eight pockets, and they were all lined with a rubbery material that looked as though nothing could stain or even seep through to the surface. How kind of Grand-mama, he thought. I could collect a lot of interesting stuff wearing this jacket.
Their carriage took them up Nonesuch Street, along Park Lane, past the Opera House and across the Brass Bridge to the Street of Alchemists, where the coach stopped outside the grand entrance to the Plumbers’ Guild, which had a bell-pull that looked just like the chain and lever on Grand-mama’s water closet and a door knocker that was shaped like a long-handled spade with a rounded end.
Grand as the entrance was, nothing prepared Geoffrey for the sight that greeted them when they went in. The room was vast and the walls were completely covered from floor to ceiling with shiny patterned tiles. There were large pictures, also made up of tiles, of serious men with expressions of stern contentment and jobs well done.
‘How nice to see you, Maud, and this must be your grandson Geoffrey.’ A tall, grey-haired, distinguished-looking man with mutton-chop whiskers approached, greeting Grand-mama with a bow, and a smile for Geoffrey.
‘This, Geoffrey, is Sir Charles Lavatory,’ said Grand-mama.
Geoffrey shook Sir Charles’s hand politely like a pupil meeting his master.
‘Now, Geoffrey, in accordance with the rules of the Guild of Plumbers and Dunnakin Divers you need to wash your hands, and I shall do the same.’ Sir Charles pointed to a long line of shiny sinks along one wall, many in constant use as one plumber greeted another. The air had the deliciously sharp smell of lye soap.
Ablutions completed, Sir Charles then led Geoffrey and Grand-mama into a lounge where a number of other gentlemen were seated together in small groups.
‘Sir Charles,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do you mind if I ask whether you like having the name of Lavatory?’
For a moment the hubbub of noise from conversations around them fell silent as the whole room listened. Every eye was watching Sir Charles, whose face was at first blank and then all smiles.
‘What an excellent question!’ he cried. ‘To tell you the truth, young man, as you may expect, I was teased a lot when I went to school, but as they say, that which does not kill you makes you stronger. And so, as soon as I could, with the help of my late father, I set to work to make the Lavatory the marble marvel of the age and a boon and blessing to all mankind. I can truly say that I have ended up flushed with pride, now knowing that the name is associated with satisfaction and ease.’ To his surprise, Geoffrey saw a small tear form in the corner of Sir Charles’s eye as he continued: ‘There are times of an evening when I go down to the workshops, all silent, and look at the work that’s going on on this year’s model, with the seat-warmer and the patented straining bars, and I can’t help thinking that I’ve done my best for mankind. I wonder how many men with hands cleaner than mine can say that.’
Every seat in the house was vacated as the plumbers got to their feet and clapped their scrupulously clean hands together until the echoes piled up. When it had all died away and conversations around the room restarted, Sir Charles took Geoffrey by the hand and said, ‘Now, come with me, Geoffrey, there is someone here whom I know you would like to meet and who, I think, would very much like to meet you as well.’
They walked into the large dining room which was filled with tables laid ready for lunch. Already sitting at one was a large, red-faced man with short, wiry grey hair and a grizzled beard. Geoffrey couldn’t help noticing the big golden rings on every finger and the large golden chain around his neck. ‘I’d like to introduce you, young man, to Sir Harry King,’ said Sir Charles.
Geoffrey was speechless with delight and awe.
‘It’s not like you to have nothing to say,’ said Grand-mama, chivvying him forward. ‘I must tell you, Sir Harry, Geoffrey has a very keen interest in something dear to your heart, that is to say, muck in all its various ramifications.’
‘Then come and sit beside me, young Geoffrey, and tell me all about it,’ said Sir Harry, in a gruff voice. Sir Harry was a man with daughters and granddaughters, none of whom really wanted to know anything about the source of the family fortune that they enjoyed.
‘Well,’ began Geoffrey, ‘I am very interested in poo and I’ve got this museum in Grand-mama’s garden with thirty-seven different sorts of poo and I’m trying to collect specimens from every animal in the world so that people will come and visit and they’ll be able to see rare and unusual poo.’
‘Well,’ said Sir Harry, ‘I am so pleased to find a young man like you keen to make his way in the world, seeing that so many young men are skivers and slackers. But I have to tell you, Geoffrey, that I’m not sure there’s a living to be made out of simply collecting poo samples. I made my money in the bulk market by collecting poo from people who simply wanted to get rid of it – even paid me to take it away – and then selling it on to other people who could find a use for it.’
‘Do you collect from the Royal College of Heralds?’
‘I expect so,’ said Sir Harry, who had an instinct for when a question was more than just a polite enquiry. ‘Was there something in particular you wanted?’
‘Well, I need wyvern poo and hippo poo. Mister Pontoon said that only sirs and lords and nobs can get in there, and sometimes the vet is allowed in when they need help with the wyvern.’
‘I think I can help you there,’ said Sir Harry with a smile. ‘In fact, I have an appointment to visit them this afternoon to discuss my coat of arms. And if your Grand-mama allows it, you could always come with me.’ He winked at Grand-mama.
‘May I go, Grand-mama, may I?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Please? Please? Please?’
‘If you promise to behave yourself and do what Sir Harry tells you and not bother the staff too much, then I think it would be fine.’
At this point large tureens of soup were brought to the table, shaped very much like outsize chamber pots emblazoned with the guild’s coat of arms. For the first time Geoffrey looked properly around the room. A large sideboard ran along one wall with great silver candlesticks and buckets and strange-shaped bowls and platters laid upon it. More pictures of serious men with forbidding beards lined the wall and there was a list of names painted in gold paint under the heading ‘Presidents of the Guild’.
A magnificent pie, that was served in a very deep dish reminiscent of a bucket, with lots of good gravy, followed the soup. But for Geoffrey the real treat was a huge trifle, just like Cook made, but presented here in a crystal glass dish modelled on one of Sir Charles’s recent creations.
‘Now, Geoffrey, before you go off with Sir Harry,’ Grand-mama warned, ‘I think you ought to visit the cloakroom.’ Geoffrey went in the direction indicated and found a large mahogany door with brass handles and a sign saying ‘Gentlemen’. Inside, shining white tiles covered the walls, floor and ceiling. Geoffrey felt as though he were in a giant upturned sink. A row of hand-basins decorated with flowers ran along one wall, and opposite them stood a row of cubicles. Inside these were water closets grander even than Grand-mama’s, with huge brass cisterns above flowery china bowls and polished copper pipes.
Geoffrey washed his hands with the soap provided, noticing that even that had the guild coat of arms on it, then dried them on the spotless white fluffy towel.
‘That’s a very grand cloakroom,’ he said to Sir Harry as he emerged.
‘I’ll tell you this, young man,’ said Sir Harry. ‘The men who do the dirtiest jobs are always the cleanest whenever that is possible, and it is only right they should have the very best for themselves.’
‘Goodness!’ said Geoffrey. ‘I expect that means that you must have an even grander cloakroom.’
‘Personally, I’m not too worried,’ said Harry, ‘but Lady King has what she calls her en suites and I’m not allowed in the house without walking through a tray of disinfectant. Now, it’s coming up to the time of my appointment at the Royal Coll
ege of Heralds,’ he said, turning to Grand-mama. ‘I’ll drop your boy home when we’re done, if that’s all right, ma’am. It’s just around the corner from you.’
They travelled in Sir Harry’s coach, which was painted a dark and glossy green with the letters H and K in shiny gold leaf on the doors. Fortunately for Geoffrey there was enough ventilation for him to escape the very worst of Harry King’s very large cigar.2
As they turned the corner by the Palace Sir Harry remarked, ‘See that, Geoffrey? My lads collect not far short of a tonne a week there. Not much paperwork to speak of because his lordship expects his employees to bring their own – and he expects me to do the collecting pro bono.’
‘What does pro bono mean?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘For nothing, lad; free, gratis, goodwill. Still, mustn’t grumble. At least we’ve got a ruler who understands the worth of your working man.’
They had now reached Pseudopolis Yard, and, gesturing towards the Opera House, Sir Harry continued: ‘Even though the performers don’t eat very much, that place gets through so much fizzy wine it’s a golden river in its own right, and that, my boy, is why they call me King of the Golden River.’
‘Sorry, Sir Harry,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Harry King smiled and said, ‘Well, lad, there’s poo, isn’t there? And there’s piss! And, to tell you the truth, I started my career leaving buckets outside every public house for people to piss in, and me and my lads would take them away when they were full. And we would sell it. Amazing stuff. I mean, it’s almost alchemical really. It’s astonishing what you can get out of it, even explosives if you’re careful – but don’t worry about that yourself, of course, it never actually happens while you’re doing it.’
As the journey progressed, every now and then Sir Harry would bang on the roof of the coach with his stick and give the driver instructions to either detour round the back of a building or turn off into an alley and stop near one of his collection points, where he would lean out of the window to make sure everything was in order. He seemed to know everyone by name and his gruff voice cut through the clamour of the street straight into the un-fragrant ears of his employees. ‘Just you clean up that spillage, Jake,’ he shouted to a young man trying to kick something into the gutter. ‘That’s money straight down the drain, that is!’
Just as the Royal College of Heralds came into view in the distance, Sir Harry said: ‘And after the piss pots I realized that there was money to be made in the things that people were throwing away. Everything. There’s always someone who could use something, and they have to get it from Harry King.’
They drew up at the large green gates, stepped down from the coach and rang the bell. A small wicket gate in the main door was opened by a liveried porter who asked them their business. ‘I have an appointment with the Herald, smart boy,’ said Sir Harry, taking his cigar out of his mouth. ‘To discuss the progress of my coat of arms.’
‘Which herald would that be?’ asked the doorman, seeming a little unnerved.
‘Search me,’ said Harry. ‘Something like, er, reddish breakfast roll?’
The porter let them into the courtyard and Geoffrey looked around. It was much smaller than he expected, but quite smelly. In the middle was a muddy pond with a couple of hippos wallowing in it, and a small owl was perched on the handle of an old broom leaning against the wall.
‘If you would like to come this way, Sir Harold,’ said the returning porter, ‘we have a design mapped out for your approval. And is there anything we can do to help your young friend?’ he asked, eyeing Geoffrey.
‘Oh, I expect he’ll find something to do around here, he likes the animals,’ said Sir Harry, giving Geoffrey a big wink. ‘Very studious boy, this young lad, very interested in what you gentlemen would call, I suspect, animal excrement.’
‘I’ll let old Joseph keep an eye on the young man. He cleans the yard for us and knows his way around all the pens,’ said the porter, leading Sir Harry away.
A small elderly man, his head bent forward, emerged slowly from a shed and, transferring the owl to his shoulder, took hold of the broom, which he used as a support to walk across the yard. ‘Can I help you clean the animals’ cages?’ asked Geoffrey, seeing a definite poo opportunity.
‘Well, I’ve been round the hippos,’ said the old man, ‘but they’ll probably start again soon. You could give me a hand with the wyvern if you like, he always needs scraping out.’
Geoffrey and the old man walked towards a cage where a miserable-looking creature lay slumped on damp straw. ‘Here, use this,’ said the old man, handing Geoffrey a flat wooden shovel. Just scrape his doings into that bucket there.’
Geoffrey did as instructed and contrived at the same time to get a small amount of the surprisingly green poo into one of his lined pockets.
They wandered slowly back towards the hippos. ‘Oh no, here we go, look out,’ said Joseph. ‘Mind your back against the wall, just stand with me in the corner here and we should be all right.’
Geoffrey watched with amazement as one of the hippos emerged from the pond and started whirling his short tail round like a windmill, spraying poo in a wide arc.3
‘Goodness, do they always do that?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Mostly they do,’ said the old man. ‘I cleans up what I can, but sometimes I can’t reach because it goes so high.’
Geoffrey looked at the wall behind him and sure enough there were lumps of dried hippo poo plastered across the stones above him. The old man pushed the broom across the yard. ‘I’ll move what I can now,’ he said, ‘because once it sets it’s a bugger to shift.’ Geoffrey managed to dislodge a dried lump and secrete it in another of his jacket pockets.
He looked hopefully at the morpork still sitting on the old man’s shoulder. The owl, somehow knowing what was required, hunched down and obliged by doing a poo, which landed on the old man’s back.
‘Oh dear,’ said Geoffrey, suppressing a smile, ‘that owl’s done a poo on your jacket. Would you like me to wipe it off?’
He was just scraping his morpork specimen into yet another pocket when Sir Harry emerged into the yard. ‘Ready to go, Geoffrey?’ Sir Harry asked, taking in the scene.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Geoffrey. And so they climbed into the coach and swiftly set off for Nonesuch Street.
‘Well, you certainly take your hobby seriously, young man,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I like a boy with purpose. How would you like to visit my yard tomorrow? I’ll send a coach to pick you up bright and early and we can go down the river together in my launch.’
‘I’d like that more than anything in the world,’ said Geoffrey, enthusiastically.
‘Very well. We’ll check with Grand-mama when we drop you off,’ said Sir Harry.
Grand-mama came to the door as they arrived back home. ‘That is most kind of you, Sir Harry,’ she said, when Sir Harry proposed tomorrow’s outing. ‘I know Geoffrey has become very interested in your enterprise while he has been staying here in Ankh-Morpork, and as his visit’s coming to an end it’s a very good opportunity for him. Geoffrey, I think you probably need to take your new acquisitions into your museum, don’t you? And emphatically refrain from leaving them anywhere in the house,’ she added, her nose twitching in distaste. ‘And while you’re there ask Plain Old Humphrey to help you wash out your pockets with Doctor Painforth’s Hygienic Restorative.’
1 Working at night, gongers or gongfermors are sometimes known as ‘night-men’. It requires a steady hand, nerves of steel and the sense of smell of a turnip to do this job, although the rewards can be great: just consider what may be lost down a privy at night with the only light a candle flame guttering in the wind. I mean, who’s going to notice if a locket has gone or even a ring slipped from a cold finger in those conditions? Where there’s muck there’s brass, as they used to say, or even better than brass, if you’re lucky.
2 Harry King smoked cigars all the time, apparently, but given the way he earned his
money, the acrid cigar smoke probably counted as fresh air.
3 Hippos really are the most dangerous of animals, and at both ends. Not only can they move very quickly to close their jaws on the unwary swimmer, but they can go on to spray any unfortunate onlooker with poo by whirling their tails like propellers as they excrete. Zoologists would say that this is behaviour designed to mark their territory. The author thinks that it is one of nature’s more interesting jokes.
AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR HARRY KING
THE DOORBELL RANG at 9 a.m. and Geoffrey raced to pick up his jacket and find Widdler’s lead. Sir Harry was standing outside on the top step, smoking a fat cigar and wearing a tall stovepipe hat and a coat with a velvet collar. He greeted Geoffrey with a wide smile and a puff of smoke. ‘Are you ready to see Harry’s world, young man? We’ll walk down to the Linnet Landing today; it’s a lovely morning and it’s no distance.’
‘Please may I bring Widdler?’ asked Geoffrey hopefully, indicating the little dog, who was wagging his tail expectantly.
‘Good name for a dog that,’ said Sir Harry with a laugh. ‘I don’t see why not, but be sure you keep him on a lead. And any little deposit he makes on my property belongs to me, especially if it’s white. The tanners love white,’ he said with a wink.
As the trio walked up Nonesuch Street Sir Harry kept a close eye on the ground, using his stick to turn over the occasional pile of leaves in the gutter. Off in the distance a boy was assiduously scraping something into a bucket. As they approached, Geoffrey recognized Louis and waved at him. ‘That’s my friend Louis! I helped him collect dog poo in the park. He works for you, doesn’t he?’