by Maggie Ford
‘Come on, guv’nor, give us anuvver one.’
Quickly he obliged. No need to think of the tunes he played. Think instead of the girl who had just left.
After a year of this instrument, there was little need to concentrate. Much as it had been when performing magic, sleight of hand and illusions so meticulously rehearsed over years of practice that they were to him second nature, leaving him to charm the audience with patter to set them laughing or shivering as he paced the stage. Smooth movements and deft misdirection took eyes away from playing cards plucked from thin air or doves from an empty box, billiard balls appearing between fingers, and so on.
His act had had a darker side, the reading of minds that thrilled and terrified. Eleanor, his wife, had also been his assistant. After her death he’d been unable to carry on. No one else could have matched her – until now.
Mind-reading? Trickery. He’d been a past master. That girl, he could have taught her everything he knew had he but known her in his heyday. His heyday? Theodore smiled grimly beneath the muffler that hid the scar from others. One minute the toast of the town, the next, hiding, shunning social life, a recluse.
It had been so sudden, that knife attack by a demented drunk. The man being consigned to a lunatic asylum had been of little consolation.
Three months previously, Eleanor had fled to her death from one of his dark rages, rages he now fought to curb. Theirs had never been a smooth marriage, constant argument stemming from his suspicion of her having eyes for others, and much later for just one other. He’d sacked that one other the same day that last row had had her fleeing from the dressing room and out along the alley, himself in hot pursuit. She’d run out into the main road, under the hooves of a team of dray-horses, the wheels of the heavily laden brewer’s cart all but cutting her in two.
The sight had torn at him in sleep, plagued his wakening moments, robbing him of his concentration. It also awakened memories he’d thought erased, that once, long ago in his youth, he’d been instrumental in another death, that of a college chum.
By the third month he knew he was slipping, his temper even shorter and fiercer. Theatre managers were soon shaking their heads.
The day he’d failed to cope with a restless audience of common fools, having in desperation taken a booking at a second-rate, East End theatre so as to keep up an extravagant lifestyle, he’d fumbled an easy trick, and had then made the error of rising to the jeers of a drunken group in the audience, ordering them to leave. Worse, he’d unwisely included the rest of the audience, saying that he was above performing before fools. It had been unforgivable. He’d been booed off the stage.
Having stormed at the theatre manager, who had rightly upbraided him, he strode out of the stage door into the alley. Seconds later a figure had materialised from the shadows to confront him, demanding to know just who he thought he was calling him a fool in front of everyone? A blow full in the face had knocked him to the ground. A knife had whipped across his chin, perhaps intended for his throat. The scar from that knife had ended his career. His self-assurance fled. It had never returned.
Discovering the hurdy-gurdy had given him a lifeline. He could never have seen himself labouring, for all this need to do penance. Even so, it was punishment in itself to feel his shame that for days on end he would huddle in his room until hunger drove him out, the lower part of his face hidden from others.
Even in summer he had kept the muffler on. He was becoming known by it, decrying the expensive clothes that although by now well worn brought curious glances from those who had never known any but the cheapest of garments. He was sure people often speculated about him. Had that pretty young girl also wondered about him? In an odd way he found himself hoping that she had as he continued playing; that he would linger in her mind for a while longer.
Chapter Three
What Emma was really thinking about come the next morning was Ben and how angry with him she was. Not so much for coming home so late, gone twelve-thirty in fact, or even waking the neighbours who lived above them – a voice calling down for him to shut up and let them sleep, accompanied by a few ripe expletives, and Ben bellowing back with even choicer ones – but the way he’d spoken to Mum when she’d got up to see if he wanted some stew, telling her to bugger off back to bed.
Emma hadn’t interfered. It would have caused a worse scene that time in the night, with Ben drunk, of course. Instead, she saved it up for this morning to give him a piece of her mind, any thoughts she might have had of the man who played the hurdy-gurdy swept clean away.
Ben glared up at his sister from the couch from where she had awoken him. It was Sunday, his head felt as fat as a full-sized boxing glove and all he asked was to lie in. But what chance was there with her and their mother bustling around? No escape for a man in this one room with two women who insisted on rising early, even on a Sunday.
‘I come in when I like!’ he growled dangerously as Emma stood over him. He saw her lips compress, a fifteen-year-old acting like she was fifty!
‘I ain’t talking about the time yer came in,’ she retorted. ‘What I’m talking about is the way yer spoke ter Mum, and after she’d kept yer supper warm for yer an’ all. Yer ungrateful, that’s what you are. Yer treat me and ’er like dirt! I don’t care about me but yer can’t talk to Mum like that.’
He was up on his feet, his head banging with the effort. He groaned.
‘I didn’t want no supper.’ He saw her sneer, hands on hips, tall for her years.
‘No, I suppose you’d ’ad all yer wanted somewhere else.’
The broad hint that he’d been well attended to elsewhere, alluding to his masculine needs, brought a roar from him, the effort again making his head thump. He was in no state to retaliate. His mother was looking edgy as well and he didn’t think he could take on the two of them just now. Instead, he shoved past Emma, grabbed a faded towel from the hook beside the unlit fireplace and stumbled out. In the back yard he would put his head under the outside tap and wash away his thick head.
Last night had been good; money in his pocket after betting on a fight in one of the boxing booths around Stepney and Limehouse, the girl on his arm gazing adoringly up at him, and him saying he could have knocked the champ down with a single blow. ‘And don’t think I couldn’t,’ he’d boasted.
The champ flexing his huge pectorals and biceps had looked a bit too professional for his liking, but he’d have loved to have Clara see what he could do. There would be other times. He rather fancied Clara.
‘I’m pretty good, y’know,’ he told her. ‘Feel them muscles.’ And she had gently explored the offered arm, giving out an awed ‘ooh!’ as her finger felt the movement under his jacket sleeve. ‘I bet you’re good.’
He was good. Big, strong, well built, boxing was one thing he really excelled at. He wished Dad were alive to see it. There still lurked a sense of failure, remembering him, as a youth resenting his ability to stand up for himself, Dad’s confidence that brooked no interference in looking out for his family, not even from Ben. Dad had taught him to box yet had regarded his efforts with exasperation, and he’d hated the sense of inferiority it gave.
He missed his father, of course. On his death he’d tried to take over, but Mum, having idealised her husband’s forcefulness, saw his own efforts as mere bullying. Didn’t she realise they were lucky to still have a man around the house, two women alone in the world? He could have gone and left them to it, but instead she accused him of being idle, bringing in hardly any money, though he did, sometimes, and having no control over his temper, always looking for a fight. Of course he had fights. It went with living in the East End. He’d fight anyone who crossed him, no matter how big the bloke, and that took courage, an echo of his father’s bull-headeness, who’d fought many a bloke in the docks. If ever he made the big time boxing, he’d show them, show everyone he was as good as Dad any day. He’d bring in more money than Dad ever dreamed of.
It certainly beat dock work, humping blo
ody great sacks of sugar, shoulders sore, sugar grains sticking through the sacking to rasp the skin, or shovelling coal that filled lungs with black dust, or shouldering cow hides that could give a bloke anthrax and often did, and all for lousy wages.
He had promised to put himself forward for a bout on Wednesday and Clara had cooed, ‘Ooh, lovely!’ and could she come and watch him.
She obviously saw him as her hero and he was determined to prove himself in front of her. He’d been going out with her for just over a week and when she learned he was a boxer, her adoration had known no bounds, and already she’d let him have a feel of her tidy-sized breasts.
She’d popped a toffee into her mouth and sat contentedly chewing while he stood up with legs splayed and fists punching the air as though it were he in the ring, bawling encouragement to the champ amid the roars of those around him as the loser staggered and bled.
‘Go on, mate! Knock ’im down! Slaughter ’im! Finish ’im!’
The loser carted off between two chums, the champion circling in a slow walk of triumph to encompass the sea of faces below him, gloved fists clasped above his head in casual, self-opinionated triumph, it had been a short but exciting bout and though Ben’s florin bet had reaped only five shillings, it was enough for a beer for himself and something stronger to impress Clara.
‘I’ll go and collect me winnings,’ he told her, his interest in the next bout waning. He had something far more pleasurable in mind, if his luck held. ‘I’m goin’ ter treat yer, OK?’ he said.
His arm was squeezed in appreciation. ‘Will yer buy me a gin, Ben, instead of a beer?’
‘I’ll buy yer two gins. Doubles if yer like.’
He had felt generous and had thought he might even put a few pence Mum’s way. That was until this morning with Emma having a go at him and Mum looking as if she was ready to take her side. Well, sod ’em! Mum could go for a run before he offered any of his hard-won money. It would be better used on Clara, who’d been very generous after her two double gins, showing her thanks by letting him have a little kiss an’ a cuddle as he put it, but it became more than that, of course.
Her hand wandering to rest against his leg had told him just how much more it could become. After her couple of doubles and not quite in possession of herself any more, he’d quite enjoyed that little kiss and cuddle he’d given her up against an alley wall.
‘There yer go.’ Ben threw eight silver half-crowns down on the table before his astonished mother on Thursday morning.
‘There y’are – two quid! An’ don’t say I don’t bring no money ’ome.’
‘Where d’yer get all this?’ queried his mother. ‘You ain’t workin’. I know that fer a fact. Yer’ve spent the last two days loafing around indoors.’
‘Getting in trim,’ he said proudly. ‘I won it, boxing. Won the purse.’
She shrugged. ‘What about you? You left yerself short?’
Ben guffawed. ‘Me, I’ve got twice that in me pocket. ’Ad a win on a card game too.’
After taking the purse last night for winning that bout he’d boasted on Saturday of taking on, he felt good. The so-called champ last night had been no match for him, big though the man was. Called himself a champ? Where had the manager got him from? The man had been totally out of condition. He’d sized that up even as he’d climbed into the ring. But it had still taken ten rounds to put the bloke down for the count, and though he’d come away with a face like a lump of beef pudding, he’d kept his feet. The loud, coarse approval of the crowd had been like music from heaven as he collected his prize-winnings.
Clara had been all over him, kissing his cuts and bruises, her arms around his neck as they celebrated. He was king. And like a king, he’d taken command of her, twice.
Emma surveyed the scattered coins with derision. ‘If I know you, yer stole it more likely. Yer just telling us a tale.’
Ben glared at her. ‘Oo you callin’ a thief.’
‘Well, yer didn’t come by it honestly.’
‘I bleed’n won it fair an’ square, so don’t you go calling me a tea leaf.’
‘Em, let it drop!’ cried her mother. ‘It don’t matter where it came from. It’s a Gawdsend. This week ’as been so poor, snowing on an’ off, you ain’t been able ter stay out long enough ter do much sellin’.’
That was true. She’d been forced to come home early day after day, chilled to the bone, her thin jacket and skirt white with snow or soaked from driving sleet. How had the hurdy-gurdy man coped?
She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d snubbed her, yet she found herself wondering about him. He probably hadn’t fared much better than she. Despite Christmas being only two weeks away, in this sort of weather people stayed indoors or rushed out and back again, certainly not stopping to buy paper flowers or drop a coin into a street musician’s tin. On Monday evening she did brave the elements to see if he was outside the Swan, which was in the next street, telling Mum she was seeing her friend Lizzy, who lived just a couple of streets away.
‘In this weather?’ Mum had queried, her tone suggesting she thought that if Emma could face being out after dark in such weather just to see a friend, she could face going out selling during the day.
It had been a wasted trip – he hadn’t been there, nor on Tuesday or yesterday. He might be there tonight; the snow had turned to rain and more people were about, trying to make up for the several wasted days. She didn’t know why she wanted to find him but told herself it was just curiosity. It would only take a few minutes’ detour on her way home, or after tea.
Minutes after Ben’s money falling on the table, Mum had grabbed her hat and coat and made off to the shops to buy legitimately. Ten minutes she was back with tripe and onion, carrots and hot green peas in a teacup. In no time at all, the three were sitting around the table like a proper family, Emma even feeling better towards Ben. With everything so comfortable afterwards, just her and Mum, with him sloping out for the evening, she thought better of leaving all this warmth to brave the evening on some wild-goose chase.
Thursday was a fine day if still chilly. Her wares sold, she made her way to the Swan before going home, but again no sign. Perhaps he was only there on Saturdays, working elsewhere during the week. But Saturday brought more disappointment, and a determination to stop being silly. After all, the man had been twice her age, if not more. Why bother with him?
There was snow again on Monday and Emma hurried straight home to huddle appreciatively by the fire. Ben had got himself a few days’ casual dock work, his first day of back-breaking unloading leaving him stretched out after tea. Monday evenings had little to offer for entertainment and he was again broke.
Lying flat on his shabby old sofa like some ancient Roman emperor, he waved a finger towards the white jug on the shelf. ‘Pop out, Em, an’ get that jug filled for us.’
Emma glowered at him from the chair where she sat warming her feet by the fire. ‘Get it yerself, yer lazy bugger!’
For an answer he leaped up, agile enough now, and grabbed the thing down, shoving it in her face. ‘Mind yer bleed’n mouth. I’ve bin working me guts out all day while you stand around in the street doin’ bugger all.’
‘And where’s the money coming from?’ she demanded.
He paused. ‘Mum, give us tuppence. I’m skint.’
‘What ’appened to all the money yer won last week?’ Mum asked.
He glared. ‘None of your business.’
‘Gambled and drunk it all away,’ she concluded in low tones.
‘My business what I do,’ he retorted, his blue eyes, so much like his father’s, threatening trouble. Mum said no more, but Emma did.
‘I ain’t getting yer any beer with Mum’s money. Go an’ buy it yerself.’
The blow, though not hard, took her by surprise. With a cry more of anger than pain, she leaped up and grabbed the jug from him, raising it high above her head. It was Mum who stopped her bringing it down on his skull, snatching it from her. ‘Look, I’ll pop
down there for it.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Emma swung viciously back to her brother, hazel eyes wide and blazing, her voice low and deliberate. ‘Hit me again, Ben, and I’ll scratch yer eyes out if that’s the last thing I ever do.’
‘You what?’ But he did look somewhat shaken. Turning her back on him, Emma went over to winkle tuppence from the tiny pile of takings she’d put on the shelf for Mum to keep them in food for another few days.
‘That’s Mum’s money,’ she stated as she made for the door. He didn’t know that what was left from his earlier generosity had been secreted away to buy a bit of pork for Christmas Day. He’d soon have made short work of it. Already he’d been eyeing what she had on the shelf.
‘Keep yer thieving ’ands off it,’ she warned, and before he could go after her, she was off.
She still felt the slap and she was angry. ‘It’s me what protects yer both,’ he’d said after Dad died. If this was his idea of protection, she was a monkey’s uncle. Emma put him out of mind as she went towards The Flying Swan. Would the man with the hurdy-gurdy be there? But what bothered her more was why she should be interested at all.
Barrington groaned and turned painfully on his narrow bed from which he hadn’t risen for three days. God knows how he’d come by this flu.
Huddled under a single blanket over which he’d spread his top coat for extra warmth, he lay staring at the hurdy-gurdy on the small, thin-legged table, his only chair pushed well underneath for more room.
He’d have to force himself out soon if only to buy food. Despite feeling so ill, he’d had to crawl out of bed on several occasions to get water, had managed to make a drink of tea for himself, but the tea was running out and the condensed milk was no more than a few spoonfuls at the bottom of the tin and developing a sugary crust.
