Walking in pimlico, p.19
Walking in Pimlico, page 19
And how we got to Halls’s Lodgings, Paradise-court, I won’t trouble to tell either (there being enough minuteness already). I delivered the canvas to our circus (Chittick was curious, and came out to have a look – my lady, Mrs Marsh, was sitting on a bale of straw and Mrs C had given her a cup of tea), and then we made for the lodgings. I had half a dozen words with Halls while she stood in the front, but after looking her over, he needed no more persuasion. Indeed, it was dreadful the way he carried on, fawning and creeping like he ran a nobby establishment. He had a nice room for her, he said, first floor, but he hoped there weren’t too many steps. Would she have a cup of tea in his parlour? Should he make her up a fire? Open the window?
She was quiet and steady, of course. Yes, she would take the room and paid up in coins. No, she needed nothing more. When we’d stowed her trunk (which I’d brung on the handcart) and Halls had offered to open it up – ‘to get your stuff aired, missis’ – and which she had firmly refused, she shut the door, saying she wanted a lie down.
Halls was very struck by her. He stood outside the door for a while, and I wondered whether or not he was going to chance his eye at the keyhole. But he thought better of it, and came down the stairs like a shadow against the wall, for he was dreadful thin, and breathing hard, though whether through exertion or the weight of the coins in his pocket I could not say. He quizzed me about the lady within an inch of my life, but I had precious little to tell, and when he was satisfied he got the bottle out and two cups, and poked up a fire. We heard her moving about above.
‘She’s ripe, Corney,’ Halls said in a whisper. ‘Now then, how shall we manage her? Rush her? Or wait till she goes out?’
He had it all thought out and told me so, for he had a ‘quick mind’. And she was, after all, prime. A lady who could not shift for herself and pretty much at sea. With a decent trunk, heavy, and a purse, even if it was on the light side. He had three shillings in his pocket and there was more.
But even as he was wheezing on, and I was nodding to keep him sweet, I had one ear on my lady upstairs. The creaking floorboards made it impossible for her to move about without a sound, and I could hear her go to and fro, opening the window and so on. And the more I listened to the sound of her, the more I thought that there was something about her. And it wasn’t her pale skin and the way she spoke, which had impressed Halls mightily, and in certain had drawn me at first. It wasn’t just that. It was the way she had with her. Like she was play-acting, but very good at it. The way she talked refined, quiet, beautiful-sounding, like she might break into a song, but all put on. And what lady, in her condition, I asked myself, would be travelling alone? And how come she tagged along with me, a stranger, so quickly? Why, I could have done her over, robbed her blind. She must have banked on – something – that I wouldn’t treat her so.
I put my hand in my pocket and felt the folded-up paper with the address on it, what I hadn’t told Halls about. And I let it be. For he was pursuing his own line.
‘Get her out of here tomorrer, and I’ll do over the trunk,’ Halls goes in his low voice. ‘Whatever, we’ll split it two ways,’ and he tapped the side of his nose, like one of your music hall funny men. ‘There’ll be jewellery – I’ll get rid of that. Books, too, by the weight of the trunk. You can have them, Corney.’
I let him know that books were no good to me, and that if anyone ought to have the stones it should be yours truly, seeing as how I found the party. He smiled at me, and spoke agreeably enough.
‘You drive a hard bargain. And I’m a poor man as you know. I can’t work ’cos of me lung.’
Now he told everyone he only had one lung. According to Halls, he was born like it, his mother having been scared by a hot-air balloon exploding in the pleasure gardens. Call me hard-hearted, but I think he told more lies than an egg, for I’ve heard him sprint upstairs like a child when he thought a lodger was trying to flit without paying. And with my own eyes I’ve seen him leg it down the road after a Chinee who walked in on spec and run out with a hat-stand! He could also water his plants better than any mummer, so I didn’t feel bad sticking him out, and, after a while, he shrugged and said maybe she wasn’t as flush as she appeared to be. And then he said what I’d been thinking.
‘Anyhow, what’s a respectable woman doing walking around fit to drop any moment? No ring on her finger.’ He scratched his chin and filled his cup – but not mine – and fell to musing again.
‘Happen she’s rich, a duchess from somewhere? On the run with the family jewels? She’d pay a bit to keep us quiet.’
I said I thought a duchess might have a bit more baggage about her. And why would a duchess run off when she’s up the spout? Anyway, I said, it was time for me to get to the circus and earn some honest money. Indeed, it was half past six and I had barely an hour to transform myself into Funny Foodle. But when I reached the door, there was the young woman herself, standing with her bonnet and coat on, for so set were Halls and I in our conversation that neither of us had heard her come downstairs, loose floorboards or not, and it did cross my mind to wonder how long she had been standing there, and whether she had heard what we’d been saying about her. But, whatever she might have overhead, she gave me a pleasant enough smile, and nodded over my shoulder to Mr Halls. I explained what I was about, that I was in a rush.
‘For,’ I said, ‘if I’m not in the circle sharpish at half past seven, then Mr Chittick will remind me with his stick across my back. He is not a forgiving man, is Mr Chittick.’
She nodded seriously. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Sage, for your kindness, and for recommending this accommodation. I am sure I will be very comfortable here, but I do need to find my friends as soon as possible as they are expecting me. I have a mind to walk into the city now. I am happy to do so. Please don’t be concerned.’
No matter what had gone before, I was still bothered by this proposition, and I said so. It wasn’t the time of night to be walking out alone in streets where she was a stranger. And especially Lower Marlpool-street, which was most undesirable.
She looked sharpish at me. ‘Oh, but I understood you were unfamiliar with that neighbourhood, Mr Sage.’
She had caught me out, and knew it, and the flicker of a smile played around her lips for a moment until she possessed herself once again. I was silent as we walked along together, but had the feeling of Halls watching us down the street and, no doubt, putting on his coat and muffler and trailing us a little, one lung or no. She was chatty as we walked, enquiring now and then about churches and who lived here and there, and was there a concert room to this public house or no. She was pleasant company and a fine figure (although heavy), and though we drew curious glances along the way, she seemed not to notice and I pretended not to. When we got to the circus, she looked tired.
‘Here, miss,’ I said of a sudden, ‘why don’t I give you a free order to the show? You can sit down for a bit and’ – for she was shaking her head – ‘on my word of honour, I will find your friends tomorrow. If they are to be found,’ I added, just in case.
She took a little persuading, protesting that she must be about her business, looking for her friends. But I think her plates were bothering her, and certainly her face was pale as chalk, and her beautiful eyes were ringed with dark bruises.
Mrs Chittick took a look at her and without me saying a word passed her through and found her a seat by the end of a row.
‘What have you been up to then, Corney?’ she says, giving me the eye. ‘She’s a bit above the sawdust, wouldn’t you say?’
But I felt uncommonly protective towards my lady, and didn’t feel inclined for banter, so I passed round the back of the circle, keeping her in my sights all the time, and though the place was filling up nicely, felt comforted that I could see her figure on the end of the row.
People often wonder what a circus is like behind the curtain. Most think it’s an orderly kind of world, with people standing quietly in lines, and animals behaving themselves, chewing on carrots and straw until they’re needed. But it is not like this at all. By no means. Behind the ring curtains is pretty much like Bedlam. Horses stamping and coughing, and grooms (if they’re sober) hanging on to maybe four bridles at a time, trying to keep ’em still and quiet. Tumblers stretching and pulling their legs up and over till you can’t hardly look at ’em for feeling your own tackle tighten up. And lady riders rigged out in spangles and costumes hardly covering their dignity, and the band getting ready, shining up their brass, and combing their hair, for bandsmen are notoriously vain. (Worst of all is the band leader. We had Mr Peabody, the size of a barrel, always short of breath, and more attached to his moustache – the biggest, by arrangement, in the band – than to his instrument.)
As I passed through to the sheds at the back where I put on my whitening and rescued my costume from the damp, my heart sank to my boots as I heard the familiar sound of Chittick belabouring one of the grooms with his stick. His favourite – and today’s victim – was Joe, the Negro. Joe never made a murmur, for he was mute, his tongue having been taken while he was in slavery, so we were told, though how anyone could know it I never found out since Joe himself couldn’t tell it. I felt sorry for the poor devil, who toiled longer and harder than any of us, and earned nothing but regular thrashings for his efforts, and I let Chittick know it once. It did no good, and I too got the end of his stick for my pains, so I let it be. But the thud of his stick on Joe’s back set us all silent and there were looks and rumblings among us, for circus people stick together and hate injustice.
Chittick’s red face appeared around the doorway, and it was clear as water that he was too drunk to see a hole in a ladder, if you get my drift. His eyes were pink and his face was lit up like an oven. It always being the best policy never to have truck with him when he was in his cups, I took no notice and having whitened up my face and put on my tunic and frills, all I had to do was arrange my hair into its accustomed peak and collect my oversize wooden spoon, the property with which I had become associated. But he would have words with me. You can imagine him speaking, with his tongue too big for his mouth and dry as an old tart. He points the finger at me.
‘You, Duke o’ York’ – it was his name for me since I was such a talker – ‘soldiers in tonight. From the barracks. Give a good night. None of yer fancy double-talking. Plain blue and no sweeteners.’
I saluted him, but he wasn’t in the mood.
‘There’s good custom in the promenade,’ he slurred. ‘Gents from London and all. So none of yer wheezes about gents. Or sojers.’
I bowed, and then saluted again. I had some nice wheezes given me by a clown retiring from the business. Wheezes that were insulting of both gents and military, some of whom would laugh like good ’uns within the building but then wait for me outside, and give me a black eye to go with my white face. But tonight these gents and red herrings were regulars, the sort that treated the company and stabled their horses in the stalls, so Chittick wanted to keep ’em sweet. I had my orders: no insults, no fancy talk, just a bit of blue and watch the Fancy. Pity the ladies then. And I thought with alarm about my lady, on the end of the row, and what she might think of me.
The band had begun the overture, a rousing march, and the bell had rung, signalling the whole company to assemble for the opening parade. Mr Humphrey, our ringmaster, at the head of the line, marched smartly out, followed by some of the ladies on their horses, and Herr Klein with his dog, Hector, a natty little procession around the ring with a good rousing tune and the audience a-clapping in time. Of course the military can be wild, and whistle at the ladies and cat-call as well, and Chittick stood at the curtain watching up to the promenade, for if there’s trouble in a circus you have to be on to it sharpish. As I come out of the ring, breathing hard, I hear a crack, like a gun going off, which sets some of the ladies screaming, while the military roars with laughter and gives up more calls and more whistles. We carry on into the circle, doing our second circuit, when another crack follows, then a third, and then a cloud of thick smoke starts to drift from upstairs. Then there is a whole bagful of bangs and cracks, like a company of rifles letting off, and the smoke that goes with them covers the balcony and drops down into the crowd below. Someone shouts, ‘Fire! The place is on fire!’ and then it is hell’s delight, for everyone panics.
Now a panic in a theatre or a circus is worse than a battle, for there soldiers look out for their fellows and sacrifice themselves. In a panic, each man thinks only of himself and would trample wife, mother and the Queen to save his own skin. Children are thrown down or abandoned, men elbow their sisters out of the way, and everyone rushes for the doors, climbing over chairs and benches – and bodies, if they are in the way.
Ours was an old circus, a wooden building built twenty years before, when fires, though they happened regular enough, were still not considered important. The doorways were narrow, the passageways even narrower. There were no attendants or constables, and consequently there was nothing but a crush. The parade in the circle stopped, and Mr Humphrey called for order and rang the bell, but he couldn’t be heard above the din. For as people screamed and shouted, and flung themselves towards the doors, the soldiers (who were the cause of the panic) let off more firecrackers (that is indeed what the bangs were) and created more smoke. Those of us in the ring when the cracks began tried to spy out the culprits, but by the time we got up into the balcony the panic was well under way, and no amount of chiding would stop the drunken military for whom it was all a lark. Herr Klein selected a couple of the ring-leaders and cracked their skulls, and Mr Humphrey was up there as well, laying into them with a whip as well as his fists.
But my thought was for my lady, Mrs Marsh. When I looked to where I knew she should be, I could not see her, and I feared greatly that she had been trampled – or worse. I went back through the ring curtains and around the building, where the horses were tethered, and neighing in agitation and fear. Had there been a fire, they would have been rescued first, for circus people value their animals, but now the grooms were calming them and fetching water, and called anxiously after me.
‘Ho, Corney! What’s to do? What’s the show?’
But I was intent on getting outside and seeing what could be done. The yard was full of people, hurrying to be clear of the building, shouting to each other, and then of course standing back to view the calamity – if there was going to be one. The streets around the circus were lined with people, arms folded, watching for the flames and bodies being brung out, burned to a cinder. Crowds again. There is no accounting for them in my book. But my lady was nowhere to be seen and, when I enquired, no one had seen her. And nobody cared neither. I went back round and into the ring again, where people were still pushing to get out, but fewer now and the smoke was clearing.
It was a scene of destruction, Mr Chittick said the following day. I don’t know about that. I saw some seats smashed up, and someone had nibbled the curtains from across the doorways. Also the cushions from the best seats, and Mr Humphrey’s shiny hat which he’d dropped in the ring. I wandered around, expecting to find the poor woman dead on the ground, but there was no one, not even a child. Out in the yard, I wondered what I should do, when I noticed a commotion over by one of the living wagons. A small crowd had gathered and were making up for their evening’s lost entertainment by having a good eyeful of someone else’s misfortune.
It was her of course. My lady. Mrs Marsh. She was on the steps of the wagon and something was going on. I pushed my way through the crowd, who were tightly packed, I might add, and not inclined to let me pass, lest I spoil their view and enjoyment of the scene. But I elbowed some in the ribs, and trod heavily on some toes, and got to the lady just as she was letting out a groan. She didn’t recognize me at first, for she shrank back as I approached, and then she must have seen past the whitening and the tunic, for she grasped my hand hard. Someone in the crowd shouted words that a lady shouldn’t hear, and it caused a swell of laughter around her that gave her alarm, so I opened the door of the wagon (it was an empty one, having belonged to the clown who had recently done a flit), and assisted her inside. No easy matter, for she was, I realized, about to do the business.
I made her comfortable as I could – there was a cupboard bed and some blankets – and I lit the lamp and drew the curtains, for them outside was climbing over each other to peer in. It was a bare enough place, clean, though not lived in for some weeks. A rug on the floor, and a few pans and dishes on shelves and in cupboards. A man’s wagon. Just enough to keep himself, and no more. It seemed a sorry place to bring a baby into the world. But it could have been worse.
She was quiet now that I had got her into the bed and covered her over. But I had to go and fetch one of the women. Or a doctor. And I told her so.
‘Mrs Chittick’ll know what to do. She’s had six of her own, and all in a wagon.’
She would have none of it, and began to cry.
‘I beg of you, Mr Sage, do not leave me. I am so afraid. I think—’ But she had no chance to tell me, for her face screwed up in pain, and she let out a howl which was terrible to hear. She bent upwards, and laid her two hands on her belly, clutching it and wailing, while big tears rolled down her face. When it was over, she lay back, her shoulders shaking and her face wet with crying. I was distracted myself, and for all the world might have fled from the wagon had she not grabbed hold of my hand again.
‘Please, miss,’ I said, ‘let me go and find help, for I cannot do anything.’
But, no. She would not let go of my hand, even though she closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep. As I moved to go, her grip tightened, and her face once again was twisted in suffering. She groaned and moaned and filled the wagon with her cries until I wanted to stop up my ears.
It sounds poetical, but it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been there for all the world if I could have escaped, and that’s a fact. The lamp flickered and sputtered, and it struck me that darkness might be a blessing, for at least then I wouldn’t have to see her misery! Then, as she sank back again into the pillow, the door opened and through the sea of faces, still assembled for the show, came Joe the Negro climbing into the wagon and closing the door quietly behind him. He smelled of horses and smoke, but he took her little hand in his as gentle as gentle. She opened her eyes and shivered, and then seemed to know, for she let go of mine. He laid his other hand upon her belly and she never flinched. And then he turned to me.
