The Newgate Jig (13 page)
Authors: Ann Featherstone
Outside, the winter
afternoon was transforming, like Mr Lombard's scenery, into evening, and with
it dropped that bone-chilling cold which settles in streets and alleyways. I
had not thought that the theatre passage would still be populated, but it was
crowded with chattering ballet-girls and young women, hopeful of catching Mons.
Villechamps and begging him to 'consider me, sir, if you have any
opportunities'. Little children were there also, stamping their tiny feet and
rubbing their hands and arms and waiting, waiting. There were little pockets of
mothers, all wrapped against the cold, and they turned to look at me, at anyone
leaving the theatre, and then turned back. I was a dog-man, of no consequence.
It was as I passed the last clutch of mothers and their shivering offspring,
that I thought I heard a familiar voice, and stopped to look. And saw - but
surely I was mistaken - Mrs Gifford amongst them. It could not be her! And yet
her tall, spare shape was unmistakeable, despite turning her back into the
shadows. Trying not to be seen. But perhaps I was mistaken, for when I reached
the road and looked back, I saw only the dark shapes of the waiting mothers and
wisps of shadow clutching their skirts.
A
visitor was waiting for me at the Aquarium: Pilgrim. His exotic headgear was
replaced by an old-fashioned tile, and he was wrapped up in a long and rusty
Benjamin that might have belonged to a guardsman many moons ago. Other than
that, he appeared as always - as dusty as his books and much inclined to be incomprehensible.
He was perched on a chair by Pikemartin's box, and had been refreshed by a
glass from the Two Tuns and had no doubt returned the favour twice over, for he
was tipsy: his small, pointed face was flushed at its extremities - nose tip,
ear tips, chin. Also, he was argumentative with his other self.
'Now then, Bob Chapman. I'm not your errand boy.'
('Who
spread it about that you were? I'll draw claret if I hear it!')
'I have a business to mind and no leisure to be your
lad.'
('Give
it over, Pilgrim, and let me at him! Give me a pint of his cochineal dye!')
'Down with you, you beggar! Bob Chapman's a pal!'
It
was an exhausting business when Pilgrim was in this mood, but I have learned to
watch and wait and let him settle his two selves and trust that sense will
prevail. He wrangled
and
wrestled with himself for some minutes, and even hit his palm hard with his
fist, twice or three times, and threatened to spit in his own eye and choke
himself to death. And then, finally, he subdued himself into quietness.
'Bob
Chapman, I have a message for you from next door.'
('For him? Who wants him? Is it the mummers?')
'They
don't
want
him, you fool! They already
have
him, according to this!'
Pilgrim
drew from his pocket a thin, folded sheet ol paper. A playbill of the humblest
quality. One that would dissolve into paste at the first drop of rain. He
spread it out upon his knee and pointed a trembling finger to a black and inky
line.
'Bob Chapman? In a place like this?'
('My eye! Yes he is, you dog!')
'Never he is! Scoundrel.'
I
took the bill from him and read it carefully. From crown to foot. There was a
real crown, indeed, with sparks of illumination bursting from it and balancing
upon the words 'Royal Crown Theatre' and 'Fish-lane' under which, in smaller
letters, the legend:
Where
the Old may laugh, the Young may sigh,
The
Student improve, the Romantic cry
sat hopefully in roman italics. Below that, the
blurred image of a man in armour wrestling with a piebald dog and the striking
announcement:
TALES (from popular
Authors) adapted to delight all who may visit this TEMPLE OF THE MUSES
To the lovers of CANINE
SAGACITY,
CHAPMAN'S DOGS
BRUTUS & NERO
Who have trod the
Stages of all the principal Theatres in the Metropolis
In the well-known
Entertainments of
THE FOREST OF BONDY
PHILLIP AND HIS DOG
THE SMUGGLER AND HIS
DOG
THE PIRATE AND HIS DOG
And their able Master
Mr
BOB CHAPMAN
Doors
open 7, 9, 11, &c. Admission 1d.
Best
order. No spitting.
Pilgrim
had slipped into a doze as I read the bill once, twice. Turned it over. Shook
it. Looked at Brutus and Nero and even showed it to them. And then read it
again. I have heard of impersonators, and even imitators, but never considered
myself important enough to be their subject! In truth, I felt put out and not a
little irritated. There was a bouncefulness about the bill which rubbed me up
the wrong way, and rather than feeling flattered, I had an altogether contrary
impression and would have liked to have met the man who had the nerve to so
ill-use me and poke him in the eye!
'I
said it wasn't you, Bob Chapman,' piped up Pilgrim.
('You never! You bad-mouthed him all the way!')
'Give over, you! Bob Chapman is a pal! But our
neighbours
-
they are a gang of thieves and mountebanks and no surprises.'
('Quiet, you!')
'Now,
will you take advice from an old friend? Don't be precipitate!'
('Bash
'em up, Bob! Draw claret, I say! Make a fist of Bordeaux!')
I
have to say, I was much inclined in that direction, and was debating whether to
make a snack of it now or later, when Pikemartin appeared and squinted hard at
Pilgrim and nodded towards the door - they seemed to know each other - and
before I could make anything of my annoyance, the party, as they say, broke up.
But I folded the bill carefully into my pocket, and the memory of it stirred
about my head the rest of the day, for it was a matter that needed attention.
What would Mr Carrier say if he thought I was moonlighting in a gaff! What
would my new friends - my old friends - say!
But
work needed my attention: I had been away from my stand all morning and some of
the afternoon and, according to Mrs Gifford, who appeared suddenly (but with
the cold whiff of the outdoors still upon her) and lost no opportunity in
bringing me up when we passed on the stairs, there had been enquiries about me
and if I was ever going to return.
'I
said I didn't know,' she told me over her shoulder, snapping on her gloves as
if they were manacles. 'You might have disappeared for the duration, for all I
was aware.'
Which
wasn't true, for I had left a notice prominently displayed. But I wanted to
savour the pleasantness of my holiday at the Pavilion, so I did not let her
spoil a shred of it, and marched her off to a prison ship, there to lock her up
and bolt the door! It is a fancy I have employed all my life - this picture of
locking up my troubles, in chains or stocks or, most recently, in the hold of a
prison ship, which I then cast off upon a high tide. That prison ship had not
been a busy one until these past few months - when I had been visited by
unpleasant dreams and memories of my childhood - but, since the episode with
the Nasty Man, it had done a couple of turns of duty and would come back in
flotilla if I was not careful.
So,
another good reason for keeping busy. And why I was grateful for my new work at
the Pavilion, and my good health (which I have not always been able to rely
upon) and my good friends. By the time Pikemartin had drawn down the shutters
and blown out the lamp in his box, I had completed four good exhibitions, had a
handful of coin and the makings of a light heart, and as I tidied my stand, put
the eggs in the correct box and hung my hat upon its hook, I contemplated
treating myself to a chop from a supper-shop, even though the risk was hours of
indigestion and wakefulness.
This
was my little life and if I could so order it, there would be nothing to
disturb its pleasantness. I would have my show at the Aquarium, regular as the
army, and take my breakfast at Garraway's and an occasional supper at the
Cheshire Cheese with my friends. For amusement, I would enjoy my new
acquaintances and the changing vistas at the Pavilion Theatre, and for the
future, anticipate a life of cabbages and peas, early mornings and crisp
country air. I went through the list like a catechism, and could almost believe
that if I said it over to myself, I could keep unpleasantness at bay. I was
saying it as I turned down the gas and summoned my two boys, as I avoided Mrs
Gifford when our paths crossed once again in the hall, and even as Pikemartin
handed me a note, it was turning in my head.
To my dear Bob Chapman.
Please to attend upon the Princess at yr earliest.
For cups
of tea.
I thank you.
It
is the smallest note you have ever seen, a fairy note on fairy paper, the
draught from mice yawning under the wainscot would have blown it away. But in
its power to command, it was a royal summons, written on old-fashioned
parchment, stamped with red wax and ribbons and delivered by a six-foot
guardsman! It was the Princess's pleasure to 'take tea' late in the evening
when it had, certainly upon me, such an enervating effect that I was
guaranteed not to sleep at all that night. But she could not be refused, so of
course I turned about and presented myself and my two freshly groomed boys at
the door of the attic, what Will called the 'top drawing room', where she had
her strange little 'palace'.
Princess
Tiny was twenty-three years of age, stood only twenty inches high, but was the
most perfect creature. Her skin was as soft as a child's and her hands the size
of a doll's, each finger so fine it might break simply by breathing upon it,
each nail like a piece of pearl. She had pale-golden cobwebs for hair, and the
face of a fairy angel. But if she looked and sounded like a child - for her
voice was no stronger than a newborn baby's - she had the wit and cleverness of
an educated man. When Herr Swann, our seven-foot giant and the Princess's
devoted slave, remarked once, 'Princess, you are a divine creature,' she
instantly replied, in her high bird's voice, 'Then you are the more divine in
divining it!', at which we all laughed, and none more heartily than the
Princess, who put a tiny hand to her mouth and wiped tears as fragile as dew
from her eyes!
What's
more, she is, as we say in our profession, 'a great draw' and although she had
been at the Aquarium for quite six months, visitors still queued around the
corner to see her exhibition when she introduced a new song or wore a splendid
new gown (which she was very fond of doing). But Mrs Gifford, when she was not
bustling to and fro between the Aquarium and some other places (which she kept
to herself), had taken over her supervision and kept her toiling until the poor
little creature almost dropped through exhaustion. I have seen that woman stand
upon the landing and actually call down to the rabble in the hall, 'Hi! Hi! Hi!
In here! Come and see the Princess Tiny! Just about to begin!', when 'Hi-ing'
and 'Just about to begin!' are universally regarded as very common and more
suited to the fairground. 'Shake hands with a real fairy princess!' she would
bawl. 'Only a penny extra to pick her up and see how light she is!'
Of
course, she had no business letting any ruffian off the street handle the
Princess, whose tiny bones are as fragile as a baby bird's. But was Gifford
concerned about that? Not a bit of it. I think she would take over the Princess
entirely if she could.
