Granny Bennett had been given a very big room, painted cream with pale green soft furnishings. There was a small desk for her to write at, a sewing machine, a sofa and two armchairs with a tea table, and a little scullery to make tea and prepare meals. The tiny bathroom attached to it  was the height of modernity, as Mr Smedley had promised. Everything was modest and simple, yet perfectly neat and charming.

There was only one bed, but it was a double, and as Granny said, Pip was like a little twig, while she was barely larger than a child herself. They went to bed early, and Pip quickly learned he had to keep to his own side and not wriggle around, because that kept Granny awake. He also had to learn to sleep through her snoring. By morning, the two of them would have rolled together into the middle of the bed where it was warm, and Pip often woke to find he was nestled into Granny's side.

''Ah, look at you, stealing my heat!" Granny would say, but Pip somehow knew she wasn't really cross with him.

He would jump out of bed, open the curtains, and make them a cup of tea while Granny washed, got into her uniform, and put a cap over her hair to keep it tidy. Then she had to make her way to the kitchens, where at some point, breakfast would be served to the staff.

Left alone, Pip would eat a crust of bread and jam with his tea, get dressed, and then clean and tidy their room until it shone. It was so much easier keeping one room clean compared to an entire house that it barely seemed like a chore. He would then dash down to the big gleaming white kitchens, and ask if there were any little tasks he could do.

Once he'd been proven trustworthy, he was often asked to nip out to the markets and buy fresh vegetables and fruit for the palace. The first time he did so, he proved his lack of experience with city shopping.

''A copper coin for each carrot?" shouted Senor Montez, the head cook, in furious disbelief. ''How much were they asking?"

''A copper coin each," said Pip, wide-eyed at how much trouble he'd caused.

''Heavens above, boy! You don't give market traders the price they ask. That's for tourists and bumpkins. You haggle them down until they say something reasonable. You shouldn't have paid more than a copperworth for the whole bunch. That's coming out of your Granny's wages."

That was the worst punishment he could have given Pip, who determined to learn city ways very quickly. He was a fast learner, and soon was able to haggle with the best of them, hardening his heart when the market traders cried that they would be ruined, because he knew that was the point that meant he was coming near to a fair price.

Pip was canny enough to make sure he ran plenty of errands for the kitchen close to midday, because that was usually enough to ensure that he was given dinner in the staff dining room, which meant a good solid meal every day. The food for the staff was plain, but of excellent quality - one of the advantages of working in a palace.

In the afternoons, Pip was free to wander and find his way around Camden. There were always things happening, whether it was puppeteers and musicians, vendors selling toys and jewellery on the pavement, or merchants arriving by ship from the Far East, dressed in gorgeous robes. He encountered children playing in the streets and lanes, and they were almost the strangest of all, because he had spent nearly all his time with older people.

The first time he had seen some boys kicking a ball to each other on a quiet corner, he watched until someone kicked the ball too far, and Pip ran and caught it.

''Yah, get orf our ball," the biggest boy said. He was tall and dark-skinned with wild curly hair, and was clearly the leader.

''I was going to give it back," Pip said, throwing it to the boy.

''Ooh, hark at how he do talk!" jeered the boy, hearing Pip's country gentleman accent. ''Ai say, where yoo from?"

''From Cronkshaw Manor, near Langham," said Pip, who was used to seeing his old address on letters. ''But we live at the palace now."

''Yoo never! Filthy liar," said the boy in outrage. ''Yoo ain't posh enough to live with the king."

''I don't lie," said Pip, grandly. ''A true gentleman never does. And I don't live with the king, but with my granny."

''Cronkshaw, plonk for sure, who has a face that can't be cured?" chanted a small comedian.

''Yah, look at that big nose," agreed their leader. ''Yoo ain't harf nugly, Pointy Face."

''Pointy Face, Pointy Face, nugliest of the yuman race," sang a sort of Greek chorus to the main action.

Pip was genuinely stung by these insults. He was used to being told he was a handsome little chap, and his parents had always said that their long noses were a sign of noble blood.

''You take that back! I'm not ugly! And you're a pack of pint-sized pirates, a bunch of back alley brats!" shouted Pip, unleashing some of the insults market traders had used on him since he got good at haggling them down.

''I'm pulling that long nose of yours," said the big boy, making good on his threat immediately.

Pip kicked him in the shins, the big boy punched him hard in the shoulder, Pip tugged viciously at his hair, and in a few moments they were brawling in the street.

''Hey, you boys! Stop fighting!" shouted a man selling hot baked potatoes from a cart. He came over and separated Pip and the big boy, saying, "You're a pair of little ragamuffins, and I'll tell your parents about this if I get a chance."

"My parents are dead, so you won't get a chance," Pip countered smartly, rubbing his tender nose.

"Yoo leave this kid alone, he's a norphan, he is," the big boy said with a virtuous air, putting his arm around Pip protectively.

The potato seller left, muttering imprecations about rotten cheeky little scamps and how they'd all come to a bad end one day, as sure as nuts were nuts.

''Yah, stupid old spud face," said the big boy grouchily. ''They're nalways interfering in our games. Yoo wanna kick the ball with us?"

''Yes, alright," said Pip. ''I'm Pip, by the way."

''Iggy," said the big boy, shaking hands. "And that's Dev, Carlo, Bran, and Lou."

Pip was soon kicking the ball with the others, and proved very skilful, which gained him instant respect. At the end of the game, the other boys trailed after him to see where he went, and gaped when he went into Camden Palace, having a quick word with the guard at the side door before slipping in.

''Blimey," said Iggy eloquently. ''Ai reckon Pointy Face is proper posh after all."

After this, Pip often met up with Iggy and his gang. They kicked balls to each other, ran races, and played games such as tig, marbles, rounders, and high cockalorum. They also got up to a certain amount of boyish mischief, which usually ended with them having to run away very fast from whatever they'd done, Iggy acting as their general, strategist, and defender in all things.

At the very least, it did Pip good to run and play outdoors through the spring and summer, and the other boys managed to thicken Pip's skin and sharpen his wits, so that he became bolder and wilier to meet the challenges of city life.

However, the best afternoon of all was when he saw a handbill advertising A Free Recitation by the Poet, Mr Robert Black. To be held at The White Horse Inn on Dock Street, 4 o'clock of the afternoon, 6th of April.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when Pip saw the handbill pasted on a wall, and rushed down the steep hill, over Battle Bridge, until he reached The White Horse Inn. He waited a few minutes until he caught his breath, because it would be so undignified to see Mr Robert Black while puffing and panting, and then quietly walked in, finding a seat at the back of the dimly-lit inn, which was filled with gloomily-dressed poetry devotees. Pip was glad to be wearing his black velvet suit.

Mr Robert Black was already on stage, looking suitably poetic. His face was painted white, his lips red. He had a shock of tortured-looking inky-black hair, and heavy dark smudges drawn under his eyes, as if he stayed up late every night, feverishly writing poems. Mr Robert Black wore black trousers, a loose black tunic cinched with a loose studded black belt over his hips, and an oversized black coat, along with big black leather boots.

He moved his hands, his face, and his entire body in agonised motions that suggested great pain, great suffering, and declaimed his works in miserable accents.

How many more years must I cry?
How long until my suffering ends?
I have spent half my life in tears
And lost the company of all my friends
The ache in my soul is never ending
So I raise my voice and howl into the winds

It was beautiful: it was tragic: it said everything that was in Pip's heart: it spoke for all the tears he had that remained unshed. He clapped respectfully, trying not to seem too excited and happy, as that would ruin the mood.

He listened to nearly an hour of poetry, enthralled, and then the recitation was over. Mr Robert Black came off stage, and was immediately swamped by admirers. Pip felt annoyed - they were crowding Mr Robert Black, they should let him breathe.

And then it was his turn, and Mr Robert Black gave him a mournful smile, asking if he'd like an autograph. Pip took his poetry book out of his pocket with trembling hands, explaining that he carried it around always, and Mr Robert Black took a beautiful silver pencil and wrote something in it, after asking Pip his name.

Mr Robert Black briefly clasped Pip's hand before he walked away. His hand was very white, and extremely soft. Pip didn't think he'd ever wash his hand again. It had been consecrated by The Spirit of Poetry itself.

Pip opened his poetry book to see what it said. The frontispiece had been inscribed,

To Pip,

Only when you reach the point of utter despair
Only when you are forced to live without hope
Only when your dreams are shattered to dust
Only when you release all the tears in your heart

Only then shall you find your destiny
Only then shall you discover the truth
Only then shall your path become clear
Only then shall your heart begin to heal

Mr Robert Black

Pip thought they were the saddest, most tragic, and wisest words he had ever read. He didn't understand them in the least, so he knew they must be very, very clever, and Mr Robert Black a true poetic genius.

As Pip left the inn, hugging his poetry book to his chest, Mr Robert Black began signing another autograph.

To Cecily,

Only when you reach the point of utter despair ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LINDENSEA LORE

Sir Ignatius Zidane, a gentleman of mingled Castilian and Moorish blood, was born in humble circumstances in the city of Camden, but rose to high degree through the application of his strengths and talents, becoming in the process one of the leading figures of his day.

From The Lindensea Dictionary of Biography, published by Charcross University Press