Free Plague by Ann Turnbull

1
Plague Weather

    â€œSam! Here!”
    The boys were in a courtyard, kicking a ball around. Their shouts bounced off the high wooden walls of the surrounding houses.
    Sam stopped the ball with his foot, and kicked it. His friends yelled. The ball slammed against someone’s door.
    â€œShut that racket!” screamed a voice.
    A woman glared at them from an upstairs window. They ignored her at first, then moved away.
    Sam wiped sweat from his forehead. The sun beat down and there was no breeze. ‘Plague weather’, his master called it.
    â€œA woman died of plague in our alley,” said John Jenks, picking up the ball. He was red-faced from the heat. “Stepped out of her house and fell down dead. Everyone ran a mile!”
    The boys laughed. The plague! One minute you were well, the next, dead as a doornail. It made a great game. Sam rolled his eyes, shouted, “Aargh!” and dropped like a stone.
    His friends ran out into Watling Street, shrieking and pretending to be afraid. As Sam dived after them, he spotted some of the French boys from Cheapside.
    â€œGet the frogs!” he shouted.
    There were three French boys. Sam and his friends often scrapped with them, jeering at their funny clothes and strange frog language.
    At once a fight began. Two of the French boys gave as good as they got. The third was slight and clever-looking, but not tough. He also had a limp.
    Sam’s master was a shoemaker and Sam had sometimes seen this boy in the shop. He needed special shoes.
    â€œGammy-leg frog – hop back to France!” Sam shouted.
    The boy turned and faced him. “I was born in London, stupid,” he said.
    There was a superior air about him that annoyed Sam.
    â€œYou’re a frog! Hop along, frog – you can’t even walk properly!”
    Sam gave him a shove. The boy stumbled and fell sprawling in a pile of horse muck. Sam and his friends hooted with laughter as their victim struggled to get up, then tried furiously to wipe the mess from his sleeves and breeches.
    Sam knew he was in the wrong, buthe didn’t care. He didn’t like the French boy, anyway.
    As the fight rolled on, a brewer’s cart appeared, forcing a path through the crowded street. The two groups scattered, and the French boys disappeared.
    Sam knew he’d be expected back at his master’s shop. He ran off towards Friday Street.
    * * *
    The dog, Budge, was sunning himself on the shoemaker’s doorstep. He saw Sam and got up to be fussed. His tail thumpedSam’s leg. He was a small, scruffy mongrel with a bitten ear.
    â€œCome on, Budge,” said Sam. “Dinner.” He felt hungry.
    There was a smell of cooking inside. Alice, their maid, was stirring stew in a large pot that hung over the fire and talking to William Kemp, Sam’s master.
    â€œFive hundred across London dead of plague last week! And it’s taken hold in this parish now.”
    Sam knew she must have been to Cheapside and seen the latest Bill of Mortality – the list of the dead that was put up once a week.

    â€œHallo, Sam!” she said. “Give those scraps to Budge, will you?”
    As soon as Sam put Budge’s meat down for him the dog began gobbling eagerly, his nose pushing against Sam’s hand. Behind him, Sam heard his master say, “That’s bad news. We’ll have to pinch and scrape to get by. Most of my best customers have left the city already.”
    Sam stood up. “Will we leave, Master?”
    William Kemp laughed. “I wish we could! But I’m old. I’ve no family, and no one to go to outside London. You’re my only family, Sam.”
    Master Kemp had taken Sam fromthe orphanage two years ago, when Sam was about seven, to work as a servant and perhaps, when he was older, to become his apprentice. Sam remembered how happy he had been to leave the orphanage. Master Kemp was kind to him, and Alice fed him well and looked after them both. Of