by Mick Finlay
Nick looked at the ceiling where the sleeping quarters must have been; his jaws bulged and loosened.
‘Me and Sylvia are sweet,’ he said, looking into the hallway. ‘I’d do anything for her, and she wants to protect them.’
‘Does Bruno have S’bu and Mrs Fowler?’ asked the guvnor.
‘They’d never tell me something like that.’
‘Can you find out?’
Nick screwed up his face. ‘Ermano’s the one who tells me what to do. Can’t ask him, can I?’
‘Did you guard the Africans?’ I asked.
Nick shook his head. ‘My job’s to watch over the ladies.’
‘But you came over from Paris with them?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was there another man guarding the Africans?’
‘English Dave.’
‘D’you know where we can find him?’
He shook his head again. ‘I send Ermano a message if I need anything.’
‘What about the boarding house the Africans were staying in?’ I asked. ‘D’you know where it is?’
‘No idea.’
‘We have a plan, Nick,’ said the guvnor. ‘But we need your help.’
He stood and went to the door. ‘Sylvia needs me alive. I got to sleep now. Goodnight.’
The guvnor didn’t move. He took out his pipe and set it ablaze, while Nick stood by the door.
‘You’re afraid,’ he said at last. ‘I’d be afraid too.’
‘They’ll kill me.’
‘Not if we’re careful, Nick. I understand, believe me I do. You want to stay as Mr Capaldi’s guard for the rest of your life, and you want Sylvia to go on show as Baboon Girl for the rest of hers. Of course. You’re happy with what you have.’
Nick stiffened. ‘No! We got plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘When we got enough money we’re going to New York, open a wig shop.’
‘You think Mr Capaldi will just let you go?’
Nick frowned like he hadn’t thought about this before. ‘Why not?’
‘You know a lot about his business. Have you seen any of his men leave?’
‘I only been with him a few month.’
‘And what about Sylvia? How old is she?’
‘Twenty.’
‘And how easy will it be for her to leave, d’you think?’
‘She’d leave like that,’ he said, brushing one hand over the other.
The guvnor gave a sad snort. ‘You think that, do you? How long has Leonie been performing for Mr Capaldi?’
He shook his head.
‘I’ll wager she started when she was Sylvia’s age, and I’ll wager Leonie wasn’t going to stay when she started either. That’s what usually happens. But people don’t leave freak shows, Nick.’
‘Tom Thumb did. He’s rich now.’
‘Tom Thumb was famous all over the world, and he didn’t work for Bruno Capaldi. I’ll wager Leonie and Gisele aren’t earning more than £2 a week. How much does Sylvia get?’
Nick glared at him.
‘These types of performers don’t leave, Nick. They begin to see themselves the way the public sees them, and then there’s no place else they can be. You heard what Leonie said: “I am Pig Woman”.’ The guvnor spoke quieter now. He blew out a long train of pipe smoke. ‘“I am Pig Woman”, Nick. One day that’ll be your lovely Sylvia.’
‘No. She don’t like it.’
‘Imagine how she’ll feel tomorrow, the first time she goes on the stage as Baboon Girl. The people staring. The children with their mouths open in fear. All of them staring at the freaks.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s what they’ll be saying, Nick. And drunken young coves making ape noises to amuse their friends, shouting the ugliest things. The respectable women with disgust in their faces. Will she look back at them? Or will she look up at the ceiling with tears in her eyes, praying she could just disappear. She’ll feel like the most worthless person in the world.’ Arrowood stepped over to Nick, and I watched with pride as he did what he did best: get into people’s hearts. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He spoke in a whisper. ‘It’ll be the worst day of her life. And when finally the crowd leaves the room, when there’s nobody left but the three women and you, she’ll run into your arms and feel such relief. For a few minutes you’ll comfort her, and then the next crowd of oglers will fill the room. She’ll take her position in front of them and hear their insults again, see their faces, the frightened children, the drunken men, and this will carry on, performance after performance, day after day.’
‘I’ll care for her,’ said Nick.
‘Of course you will, but it can never be enough. What’ll happen to her on that stage tomorrow will strike at her very self. You may stroke her. You may say soothing words, but it’s her alone who’ll have to battle with the spectators every time she goes on that stage. And that will change her. You’ve seen how Leonie has won the battle the only way she could, by becoming Pig Woman. When you become Pig Woman, how can you ever go back? How can you ever rediscover who you were? No, Nick, soon there’ll be no way out. That stage will become her prison. She’ll never feel beautiful again. By the time you’ve both saved enough to get out, it’ll be too late. She’ll sit in that wig shop as Baboon Girl, and her only home will be the stage.’
Nick looked at me for help. He rubbed his chin that wasn’t there; his jaws bulged; his eyes darted. He didn’t know what to think.
I nodded, a sad frown on my mug. ‘He’s right, mate,’ I said.
Seeing the guvnor’s prediction confirmed, Nick sighed, his body drooping. Arrowood took his hand.
‘The police might be posting a reward,’ he whispered, nodding real slow. ‘Maybe it’ll help you buy that shop of yours.’
‘What reward?’ mumbled Nick.
‘For helping find Mrs Fowler and S’bu. Sylvia needs a hero, Nick. Someone to rescue her. Are you that man?’
Nick nodded, his every muscle tensed and hard.
‘I knew it,’ said the guvnor. ‘I knew you’d do anything for her, my friend. Now, we need to talk to Dave and we need your help. But I warn you, it’s not going to be pleasant. Here’s what we’re going to do.’
Chapter Eighteen
Charlie Oysters spent most evenings watching the bathers from the spectator gallery of Lambeth Baths. He smiled when he saw us.
‘Willam. Norman. What a lovely surprise. You ain’t swimmers, are you?’
The guvnor shook his hand. ‘No, Charlie.’
‘Enthusiasts?’
‘We need some oysters.’
Charlie’s eyebrow arched. ‘You having a party?’
Charlie Oysters was a big fellow. He was so wide he had to have two suits sewn together to fit inside, and he travelled from his shop to the baths and the pub in a wheeled chair that he was pushed around in by a pin-headed lad name of Cockle. A lot of people avoided old Charlie on account of his face, which was wide as a dinner plate and quite grey, his features swollen and melted from some illness he’d always refused to have named. He loved a party, did Charlie, though there were only certain people happy to have him around: he scared the kiddies and had been known to make a particular type of lady retch.
‘It’s for a case, Charlie,’ said the guvnor. ‘We need them now. D’you mind?’
Charlie took up his two sticks and we helped him to his feet, down the steps and out the door, where Cockles sat huddled on his wheeled chair.
‘Shop!’ barked Charlie.
It was only down the road and not much of a shop either, just a narrow path between two buildings covered over with a bit of corrugated iron. Stacks of oyster crates lined one side and that was about it. But Charlie knew his oysters better than anyone in South London.
Cockles pushed him inside and lit a candle.
‘How many, gents?’ growled Charlie.
‘Half a dozen,’ said the guvnor.
‘You got me out the bloody baths for half a doze
n!’ cried Charlie, then he chuckled. ‘Ah! You’re codding me. Ha ha! Very good. Now, what d’you want?’
‘Half a dozen,’ said the guvnor. ‘But they must be bad.’
Charlie looked at him.
‘We aren’t codding you, Charlie,’ I said. ‘We need to make someone wretched.’
He looked from me to the guvnor and sighed. ‘Cockles, have a look in the bin, lad.’
Cockles scampered to the back of the shop, causing a rat to bolt toward the door. As it scurried past him, Charlie tried to spear it with a walking stick. The lad bent over into a barrel and rummaged around for a little while, pulling out shells and dropping them in a bucket. He brought it over and Charlie had a look through, examining one after the other under the candle and tapping them. He passed the ones he approved to me.
‘There,’ he said at last. ‘Six.’
‘Are you sure they’re bad?’ asked the guvnor.
‘If they ain’t you can have your money back.’
‘How much?’
‘Three bob.’
‘Three bob!’ cried the guvnor. ‘But that’s more than for good ones!’
‘These is more rarer,’ said Charlie.
‘But they were in the rubbish bin! You’re cheating me, Charlie, you scurf!’
‘You don’t got to take them, Willy. It’s your choice.’
‘I’ll give you one and sixpence.’
‘Two and sixpence.’
‘For God’s sake, Charlie. They’re rotten!’
‘You want them or not?’
‘You blooming thief.’
Charlie began to roar with laughter. He slapped his thighs, his face wobbling and reforming, and roared some more. Cockles cackled in the dark at the back.
The guvnor opened his purse and fished out the coins, then banged them down hard as he could on the wet barrel top as served as Charlie’s counter. Muttering to himself, he stormed out.
It was about ten, cold and dark with a wet fog, and I could see from his twitching the guvnor was thinking of going to the Hog. I needed to make sure he went home, as a whole night on the booze wasn’t going to help us solve this case, so I took a tram with him back to Waterloo and followed him along Stamford Street.
‘Go home, Barnett,’ he growled at me as we walked. ‘I don’t need a chaperone.’
‘It’s on my way, sir,’ I said.
‘You’re treating me like a child.’
‘Ettie’ll be on to me if I let you go drinking.’
‘I’m not going drinking, I’m too tired. Anyway, I’m showing Isabel I’ve changed. I haven’t been to see Betts since she returned.’
I kept pace with him. Finally, he stopped and whirled to face me. ‘I’m not going any further with you following me!’
I crossed my arms and stood facing him. ‘Suit yourself.’
After a few moments he turned and walked on. ‘Bugger you,’ he hissed.
I waited a few moments, then began to follow him again, grinning to myself as I heard him continue to mutter and curse under his breath. When we got to the pudding shop, he said over his shoulder, ‘Well, you might as well come in now you’re here. I suppose you want some of my brandy?’
We went through the shop, where Little Albert and his old man were still sorting out the last few punters, along the dark back corridor and up the stairs to the guvnor’s parlour. Ettie and Isabel sat by the coal fire, while under the table knelt a little girl we knew. She was stroking the orange cat.
‘Flossie!’ cried the guvnor. ‘What are you doing here?’
She peered up at him from her hiding place, her blue eyes big and full. ‘I ain’t going back to Mrs Driscoll’s.’
‘But you must. That’s your home.’
‘I ain’t.’
‘We tried to persuade her,’ said Ettie. ‘She won’t budge. Mrs Pudding let her in when we were out with the babies. She was making up a fire when we returned. There was coal everywhere.’ The glimmer of a smile came to her face. ‘She was black as your hat.’
‘Does Mrs Driscoll know?’ asked the guvnor.
‘We’ve sent her a message.’
‘I ain’t going back,’ said Flossie again. The girl was only five years old. We’d found her living in a Soho alley with her brother Davy when we were working on the Gravesend Queen case that summer. She was a strong-minded little thing, had to be with all that had happened to her that year. She’d lost her ma and her brother and had nobody left in the world. Mrs Driscoll, one of the mission women, had taken her in. Apart from her, the four of us were the closest she had to family.
The guvnor knelt on the floor next to the table.
‘But why, my darling? It’s much better than an orphanage.’
‘She’s a witch. I seen her do spells.’
‘Spells! Surely not. You must have misunderstood.’
‘And she beats me.’ The little girl pouted and looked like she might cry. She rubbed her nose.
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry, my dear.’
‘She can stay, William,’ said Isabel. ‘At least until we talk to Mrs Driscoll.’
He patted Flossie’s head and, with a groan and a creak of his knees, got to his feet. ‘How are the babies?’ he asked.
‘Sleeping,’ said Ettie.
‘Any change?’
Ettie frowned. ‘Mercy won’t feed. Leopold’s taken a little milk, but not enough. They both just lie there.’
‘Wailing?’
‘Not so much. They’re very weak.’
Isabel, who was staring at the glowing coals, spoke. ‘The doctor thinks it might be—’ She stopped, clutching her chest.
Ettie gazed at her sister-in-law. ‘He thinks it might be typhus,’ she whispered at last.
‘But it can’t be!’ said the guvnor. ‘How? There hasn’t been any typhus around here since St Olave’s. When was that? Eighty-nine? Ninety?’
‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Ettie, her face frozen like a mask. ‘That doctor of yours was trained years ago.’
‘Typhus?’ said the guvnor again. ‘But why?’
‘Their pulses are up and Leopold has some spots on his chest.’
‘Lots of nippers have rashes,’ I said. ‘Neddy’s sister’s always breaking out.’
Ettie nodded, her grey eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m sure it’s just flu. The spots must be something else.’ There was a little flitch in her cheek as she spoke, and I wished one of them would hold her. It wasn’t something I could do, not after all as had passed between us, and not with the guvnor there anyways, but it seemed like she needed it just then.
‘But what if he’s right?’ asked Isabel. ‘What if Ettie’s brought something back from one of her slums?’
‘Oh, Isabel,’ said Ettie softly, her fist clenched in her lap.
‘That’s where it always comes from.’
The guvnor stepped over and put his gloved hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘They’ll come through, Isabel,’ he said. ‘They’ll be fine.’
She nodded, her eyes vague, but we all knew the danger. Babies were like the first ripe berries on the bush, and it seemed as every evil thing wanted a bite of them. There were so many little angels around us. Arrowood and Isabel had lost two. My sister stepped over when she was five, and my brother-in-law Sidney and his wife Pearl had Emily taken at four. Even little Neddy’d lost his brother two years back. Only Ettie, who’d never married, was free of the mark, but she was a nurse, her hands still bloody from the folk she’d cared for in Afghanistan.
Isabel opened the book she’d taken from the guvnor’s collection and wiped her eye. Arrowood tried to press a brandy into my hand, but I didn’t want to stay. Ettie walked me out to the shop.
‘I’ll just give them a moment,’ she said as we made our way down the dark corridor strewn with sacks of flour and sugar.
‘How are they getting on?’ I asked.
‘Not so well. Isabel says she still wants a divorce, but she’s not doing anything about it. William’s ever hopeful, but I watch him blund
ering about her and it makes me cringe. Her appointment about the scholarship’s tomorrow, did you know?’
I shook my head. As we passed through the shop, the last few punters buying their pies, she whispered, ‘Oh, Norman, I’m so worried.’
I took her hand from behind. She squeezed mine hard.
‘How are you settling in?’ she asked.
‘It’s warmer than my last place,’ said I. ‘There’s a good family in the basement. The landlady’s a bit of a riot.’
A few weeks ago I finally left the room I’d shared with Mrs B to move somewhere a bit smaller on Red Cross Street. I’d missed the rent too many times over the last year and reckoned it’d be the same again this year if I stayed. I needed to get out of that place, anyway, away from Rita’s ghost. Though at first it was a comfort having her around, somewhere over the last year it’d changed, and if I was going to keep the love I’d always had for my old darling I needed to get away from that spirit that watched my every move.
‘It sounds like just what you need,’ she said, standing aside to let a couple of young fellows leave with their hot parcels.
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’
‘Will you pray for them, Norman?’ she asked. She was dressed smart, everything tight and tucked in, but her jaw was slack, her eyes full of care. Her usual determination and certainty were gone. ‘I know you don’t usually, but…’
‘’Course I will.’ I held her eye for some time, feeling her loneliness. Then, when I could take it no more, I drew her close.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
As I walked back to the Borough, I thought about Ettie. I’d seen an aloneness in her that night I hadn’t often seen before, and I remembered the time we’d kissed in the cab back from Newgate. That seemed a lifetime ago now, and the memory made me sad. I shook it out of my head as I pushed through the wet fog, but the feeling still hung around my heart. When I reached the Pelican, Molly gave me a kiss on the mouth and poured me a pint. It was busy in there, smoky and loud, and as she ran up and down serving the other punters, I leant my back against the bar and watched the folk of the Borough getting plastered. A bookie stood in a corner, taking bets for the weekend racing; a couple of sweeps were trying to get to know four showgirls who didn’t want to know them. An argument started up over a domino game, and an old geezer took up his stick and swiped off another old geezer’s hat. The victim grabbed his own stick and prodded the first bloke’s dog, who let out a howl, then all hell broke loose. I’d normally enjoy watching the ruckus, but I was thinking about Ettie, about how the side of her I’d seen that night brought up feelings I thought I’d lost.
