Walking in Pimlico (6 page)

I was roused suddenly by a shout and the crash of glass. A huge fellow towered over me, supporting himself upon the table and scattering chairs and bottles. His livid face was inches from mine and his hot, sweet breath fairly took mine away.

‘Your dicky-bird has flown, old fellow! You should keep a tighter hold on her!’ he roared.

I nodded and laughed. ‘She’s certainly flighty enough!’ I rejoined, a feeble enough jest, but it caused the entire drunken company to hoot with laughter.

‘She needs smarter attention!’ cried one.

‘Get soldier Dick out on parade!’ bellowed another, and another thunderous guffaw filled the room.

‘Didn’t you know? Our Bessie’s cock-smitten,’ slurred the leering fellow into my face. ‘She can’t get enough of mine!’

‘Or anyone’s!’ yelled another voice from the back.

There was more raucous laughter and a call for him to ‘Sit down and hold your tongue!’ but he continued in the same vein, and described in a loud voice and lurid terms what Bessie would do for a sixpence or a shilling, finally pushing his finger into my chest to punctuate his words.

‘She’s a filthy whore. The filthiest in all London. Have you asked her how many she’s had today?’ He shook his head in exaggerated seriousness. ‘She can’t count. Too many.’

I nodded and shook my head, by turn, hoping that agreement would pacify him. But he was slowly reaching the crisis of his rage.

‘So she’s saving the last job of the day for
me
. Not you.’ He prodded his finger into my chest again, and from between clenched teeth, spat out, ‘Not you. Not you.’

I was by now trembling at the prospect of the violence which I anticipated at every moment. A fist in my face, or a bottle at the very least. But drunk as the assembled crowd might be, they were not yet ready for a demonstration of fisticuffs, and there were cries of ‘Leave him alone, Charlie!’ and even ‘Shame!’ He was nevertheless determined to vent his drunken anger and made a stumbling lurch towards me, which was, thankfully, interrupted by a chord from the orchestra (a piano and violin) heralding the commencement of the entertainment and eager hands pulled him back to his seat, where he sat glowering at me over his glass.

I was very relieved when the show began, though I soon realized that it was little more than a crude, a very crude, burlesque on certain legal topics recently reported in the newspapers. The part of the Judge was taken by the carroty-haired man, in Judge’s red robes and a large wig. He was witty and sharp, and kept the piece moving along with his own quips when the exchanges between the women began to flag, for it was quickly evident that the performers were young women selected more for their beauty than their histrionic talent, and accounted for why they struck a suggestive pose and stood perfectly motionless for some moments before continuing, the better to display their physical attributes. Some half of them were in male dress, tight breeches and open shirts, though they made no effort to conceal their true sex. All were much powdered and rouged, and some were clenching a cigarette between their teeth or sporting a large and flashy ring, the better to mock the class they were striving to represent.

My compatriots enjoyed it enormously, were inordinately amused, but the greatest roars of appreciation by far were for those Sapphic episodes (of which there were no small number), and the caresses exchanged by Lady C and Countess D were accompanied by constant calls of encouragement and offers of vulgar assistance, which the ladies acknowledged with many smiles and winks. Of
course I watched Bessie with particular interest. She played the part of the Clerk and was required to trip back and forth across the stage, giving her ample opportunity to pause and strike, albeit briefly, a number of fetching poses to draw attention to her legs, bosom, arms and so on, which were revealed to within inches of decency. I was much taken by this and roared my approval. Like my comrades, I enjoyed it all thoroughly, the rawness of the parody, and the sensation of being, unequivocally if ironically, its object. I felt I was one of them.

The drink – I had a great quantity – filled me suddenly with rowdy confidence, and I looked around, feeling a surge of camaraderie and friendship with these fellows. Drink had taken hold of them as well. I noticed empty chairs, where a couple were forced to rush to the side door and relieve themselves in the rear yard. One was slumped across the table, another unconscious in his seat. Others were still drinking, their flushed faces turned towards the performers, wearing expressions of fierce amusement. John Shovelton was quiet, intent upon the stage. He met my glance, but I think he did not see me.

The show concluded and the performers left the stage, trooping off, after bows and curtseys, behind a green curtain where, I suppose, there were dressing rooms.

‘Let’s bring them back for one more!’ said someone, and it seemed a wonderful idea.

‘Pay up and they’ll come back!’ cried another. And suddenly the table was full of coins. I threw in a shilling, though I could barely afford it, and called, ‘More drama!’ A mistake on my part for I was immediately noticed by my earlier aggressor, who staggered over and began his assault once again.

‘Oh, the cock-linnet wants another eyeful!’ he roared.

‘Who wouldn’t want another eyeful of Bessie!’ I returned with drunken confidence, but the room was beginning to swim and tip
now, and I was alarmed when once again he loomed in front of me and pushed his face into mine.

‘Big words for a boy!’ he growled and reached out to touch my cheek.

I backed away, and though I laughed and affected unconcern, I desperately wanted to push him over, to see him stagger back and crash on to the floor. In my dreams he does. Sometimes I hit him squarely on the jaw with a smack, sometimes I carelessly thrust him aside. I favour the punch as much for the looks of amazement and admiration on the faces of the onlookers – and the drunken fellow – as for the crashing, lurching, reeling figure, plunging backward and away from me. He lies there and I stand over him, mutely inviting him to stand up and take another.

In my dreams, I say.

For in fact I stayed in my chair and was relieved when the other fellows took him by the elbow and, once again, sat him down, and plied him with brandy and a cigar. But I felt foolish, and angry too, for though I might have appeared to be a regular fellow, could drink and pay my way, and laugh at the bawdy jests, I looked like a boy, and I could not defend myself. I seethed for a moment, and took a long drink of brandy. A voice was at my ear. Shovelton.

‘Don’t mind Tiverton too much,’ he slurred. ‘He gets wild when he’s had over the odds, and Bessie is a particular favourite of his.’

As if to prove this, when the girls trooped out from behind the green curtain and clustered around us like pretty moths about a flame, Bessie sat on the fellow’s knee and allowed him such familiarities that I had to turn away, which she noticed and in which she seemed to take some pleasure. But they were not alone, for around them was a veritable orgy of lascivious behaviour, with all the fellows finding girls with whom to whisper and cavort.

All except me.

No one even approached me, and I was left sitting alone, feeling
foolish and suddenly excluded, as though, having reached the threshold, the door was shut firmly in my face. It was time to leave. But just as I got unsteadily to my feet, Tiverton staggered to his, thrusting Bessie away from him with such a terrible ferocity that she crashed to the floor.

‘You’re a whore and a thief!’ he cried, lashing out at her. ‘You’ve given me the clap, now you’re trying to steal my money!’

Bessie shrieked her defence and tried to get up, but the floor was slippery and Tiverton was advancing.

‘The clap you can keep! I want the money you took from my pocket!’

Bessie protested loudly.

‘Light-fingers and open legs!’

He kicked out at her and she squealed in pain as his boot struck her leg hard. He was a man in a passion and, though all around him frowned with concern, no one was anxious to intervene, for they clearly knew him and what he was capable of. We all watched and waited as Bessie backed away, begging her giant pursuer to ‘Be kind, Charlie! Don’t hurt me again!’

But here was, as they say in the theatre, the downer, for in the end there was no exciting denouement, and it was the caterer who came to her rescue. Or rather his supporter, a small, stocky, square-headed fellow who throughout stood, unmoved, at the bar and showed little interest. But chairs and tables were being toppled and glasses broken, and Mr Pickuls was understandably nervous of his mirrors, of which there were many ranged about the walls. A nod, and his supporter was despatched to quietly confront Tiverton, who was not at all subdued by the request and continued to kick out at the unfortunate Bessie. A swift glance at his employer, another nod from Mr Pickuls and the stocky individual laid a hand upon Tiverton’s shoulder, who roared and, instead of Bessie, now treated this fellow to his repertoire of curses and followed it with a battery
of flailing fists. But the man, Minter by name and a bruiser by calling, simply caught him neatly upon the chin and Tiverton crumpled, from shoulders to knees, into a heap. There was a moment’s silence and then a laugh and a cheer, and Tiverton was unceremoniously bundled out of the room by the side door.

I helped Bessie to her feet, and she clung to me weeping and shaking, protesting that she never robbed him, that she was a good girl, and if she had sometimes done bad things, they weren’t truly bad for she was sorry the moment she had done them. She was frightened and foolish, and I sat her down and called for gin to calm her spirits, at the same time filling my own glass to the brim.

‘Ah, you understand, cocky,’ she said, her lip trembling. ‘
You
know what a poor girl has to do to keep warm. These gents’ – and she nodded towards the company, now subdued and chewing over Tiverton’s bad character – ‘they don’t know how cold a doorway can be, do they? They don’t know what it’s like to have to oblige a gent when you have no inclination.’

Her eyes were clear and wide, and black as a gully.

‘See, Mr Tiverton, he was a bad lot, cocky, but he paid well.’ She sniffed hard, and wiped her hand across her mouth. ‘He always handed over a shilling when the job was done, fair’s fair. And he liked a soft bed, too. But now he’s out for the night, so am I.’

She tossed off the gin, refilled the glass and made another tearful assault.

‘He isn’t a bad bloke when he’s not in his cups, but he won’t come here again. Mr Pickuls won’t let him in. And Minter will have an eye open for him. So I’ve lost my bed and board, cocky. This time tomorrow some other poor girl’ll be getting it rough, but at least she’ll have a crib.’

I listened intently now, for I knew what was coming, though the conversation was difficult and tedious, and Bessie was almost insensible and much inclined to slide into a stupor. What kept her eyes
open was that, as she reminded me more than once, ‘the Gov’ will not put up with no more ‘slummin” and if he found her sleeping under the tables again, she would be ‘out of a shop’.

‘I’ll see you all right, Bessie,’ I said, as brightly as I could.

‘Too right you will, cocky, or I’ll see you in quod.’

She threw me a knowing look and her voice was suddenly as hard as flint. She got to her feet and staggered a little, for I’d helped her drop the quietener in her drink, and been over-generous.

‘Me and Mr cocky Jim are out for a breather,’ she informed the rest of the company and grabbed my hand. But they were too far gone to take any interest and we reeled unhindered towards the door into the yard. On the stage, the carroty-haired man was dancing and singing, and watched us across the room and out of the door. When I looked back, he was still dancing energetically.

Outside the air was cool, though rank and Bessie’s stale breath upon my face was a sore trial. But I pushed her roughly against the wall and kissed her hard. She laughed drunkenly, and drew the back of her hand across her lips.

‘What you goin’ to do now, cocky?’ she whispered.

It was a good question. Drunk as I was, I was desperate to get Bessie and her free tongue out of the company before she could say any more, but out here in the yard, I was lost. I held her still against the wall, my hands pressed firmly on her shoulders. Her vulnerability was exciting.

However Bessie, for all her young years, was old in the game.

‘Now then, cocky,’ she whispered, ‘you know what’s o’clock. Ready now, pleasure later.’

I fumbled in my waistcoat pocket and pulled out a coin which she swiftly stowed. I touched her breast, I cupped it in my hand gently. She moaned softly. I felt her hair, which was soft and luxuriant, though stinking of smoke and sweat. I ran my fingers across her face and down her neck. Through the thin material of her fleshings, I felt
her belly and explored her legs. I pushed myself upon her. I leaned upon her and felt her breasts flatten beneath me. I held her by the throat and kissed her roughly. She was not unresponsive and returned my kisses, and her tongue explored my lips and mouth. For all its over-use, her body was soft and yielding, and I was surprised when she gave little gasps of pleasure as I explored her bare leg and arse.

I was beginning to enjoy myself, even though the brandy had made my head swim and my mouth was dry and foul. But although I could not imagine how it would end, Bessie’s young body had me unexpectedly hot and excited, and I barely noticed when the door to the concert room opened and closed. Moments later, someone was pissing against the wall, and I was aware of it trickling dully into the drain. He stopped and looked over, and though I could not see his face, I was suddenly self-conscious, and when he made some remark about not spoiling the girl’s looks I was annoyed and provoked into responding. What business was it of his? I demanded. I’ve paid my money. Was he her pimp? Was there no one in this damned place who wasn’t owned by another? Turning on him, I slipped and slid to my knees, and from that ignominious position realized he was the carroty-haired comedian. Bessie realized too, and seemed to think this was the right time to speak.