‘My Betty is a bonny Lass,
my Betty wears a thumb,
and often looks into a glass,
but ’tis a glass of Rum.
Bess, Bess, Bess, Betty, Bett,
hasten to my arms …’
I couldn’t believe it true. I thought myself in a dream and pinched myself very hard, only to discover – to my great satisfaction – it was no dream at all.
No sooner had I realised myself cured than I noticed on the bench in front of me the most beautiful plump woman, her cap askew from drunkenness and her luscious body a-swaying to the wending of our song. I drank in the softness of her arms and the two pads of her pushed-up bust, her beauty greater than any I had known, even in the infinite imaginings I made every night in my musty corner in Hampstead. So at Salisbury Stairs, despite the rest of my troupe bound for Somerset Stairs, I alighted to follow her before my friends had a moment to wonder where or how I’d gone.
The streets of Covent Garden were pressed five deep as I pursued her through the hubbub of Drury Lane and finally into Belgrave’s theatre that was serving hot wine for a halfpenny per mug, while a lascivious interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was playing upon the stage. But I was paying little mind to theatrics. All my focus converged onto the person before me; my two eyes fixed on every pleat in her dress, every loose tendril of her pale hair, every lift in her shoulders, every readjustment to her cap, every finger that wrapped itself around her mug and most arresting of all, as she turned to laugh with a friend, every single one of her teeth that were so present and white it was like she was hiding clouds in her mouth.
She seemed to be having a great deal of enjoyment with her counterparts – two lads and another of the fairer sex – and I was hesitant to impose on their orgy and moreover terrified of trying out my speech, but nevertheless approached to ask if she’d be partial to my supplying her with ‘a drop of Puck’s Potion, so to speak’. This double-barrel P would normally have been impossible to utter, but out it came, clear and crisp. She lifted one of her thick eyebrows.
‘If you mean to say,’ she replied, ‘will I accept a gin paid from your purse, the answer is yes.’
Her eyes were a thrilling and complex hazel.
‘A gin it is,’ said I, in disbelief at my spoken words. ‘Gin, gin, gin. I’m getting you a gin. From the bar. GIN!’
‘Huh?’
‘Gin with vim. Vim and vigour. It’s a miracle!’
‘I see you rather belong on the stage.’
‘A thimble of gin.
Vigour with vim.
It’s a miraculous thing.
Gin, gin, gin.’
She tilted her head, intrigued. ‘I’m Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘Elizabeth Lyon.’
‘I’m Jack Sheppard,’ I replied, taking her hand and shaking it like we’d finally arrived at a deal.
She giggled. ‘Well, Mr Jack Sheppard,’ she said, nodding to the bar. ‘Do you just plan to rhyme about it?’
I made my way to the barkeep, speaking to myself all the way, wishing my mother or brother or my dear friends were present to witness this miraculous cure. I enunciated word after blessed word, ranging from sharp (viaduct, aristocratic, cackle) to mellifluous (Persephone, undulation) to sibilant (susurrus, salacious) to quick (bam, whim, pip) while my neighbours presumed me mad.
We drank to each other’s health and she invited me to stand aside her, which I did, again unable to absorb the narrative on the stage as I marvelled at the brief and inadvertent compression between our two arms (my right, her left). She seemed oblivious to my attention, laughing heartily at each and every turn of the stage.
‘Do you like cats?’ she asked me during the intermission, letting her friends wander off.
‘I have no opinion of cats,’ I replied.
‘So what do you have an opinion of, then?’
‘This evening. And my opinion is a favourable one.’
‘Quince and Nick Bottom are played so very, very humorously.’
‘I’m not speaking of the stage play.’
‘What then do you speak of?’
‘May I be frank, Miss Lyon?’
‘I’m not working tonight, Jack Sheppard.’
I didn’t know the meaning of her statement, so continued in my confession. ‘I think you or Drury Lane or God or gin or all or something, has cured me.’
‘Cured you?’
‘Of an affliction in my sp-p-p-peaking.’
I was dismayed by the stumble. She evaluated my comment, thinning her eyes. ‘I can’t tell if you’re being truthful.’
‘Cert-t-t-tainly, I am-m-m-m.’
I stopped, closed my eyes and sighed.
‘More gin then?’ she suggested, smiling. I nodded, stepping away, practising the same again (certainly I am, certainly I am, certainly I am).
I returned with refilled mugs. Two gentlemen now stood with her.
‘Prithee let’s not discuss it. You’ll see my top-knot is undone,’ Miss Lyon was saying. ‘I came here for theatre only.’
‘Mr Sheppard,’ she turned to me, taking her mug. ‘I believe we must conclude our discussion.’
‘Come now, Bess,’ said one of the men, taking her arm. He held a walking cane tipped with a sparkling ruby. ‘I’ve promised only the finest for my associate, Mr Eckels.’
Miss Lyon shook off the hand. ‘Am I not making myself clear?’
‘I told you she was feisty,’ he said, winking to the man named Eckels.
‘Are you being molested?’ I asked, the latest gin seeming to restore my speech.
‘It’s of no consequence,’ she replied, turning her back to them and as a result fully, and thrillingly, to me.
‘How about we double it, dear Bessie?’ insisted the man. ‘Two guineas for a half-hour. Surely that will satisfy you. I’ll even raise it to three if you’ll have me after.’
Eckels waved the man down. ‘We’ll find another,’ he said. ‘Leave her.’
Miss Lyon now made a queer and fake smile, first practising it to me, then turning towards the men. ‘I’d be delighted to indulge you,’ she said. Her voice was mockingly servile. ‘Mr Eckels, is it?’
He nodded.
‘Your wine. May I try of it?’
He shrugged, handing her the cup, which she slowly brought to her lips, taking a small sip and feigning great satisfaction.
‘Mmm. How delicious.’
She curtsied again.
‘That’s my girl,’ said the other man.
Elizabeth Lyon, smiling even wider, now threw the entire contents onto Eckels’s face.
I looked between the men. Eckels stood dripping and open-mouthed. His rich friend was fuming.
‘You Dirty Lane whore …’
‘Come now,’ I said, stepping between them.
He produced a handkerchief and dabbed at Eckels’s collar. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Please forgive me. That whore is –’
‘Let me help here,’ I said, producing my own handkerchief and dabbing at Eckels too. ‘I’ll hold this for you,’ I continued, taking the rich one’s wine. I took a sip and nodded. Then I threw it on Eckels. Poor Eckels.
‘I believe we ought to run,’ I said to Miss Lyon.
The air entered rousingly to my lungs as we sprinted down Long Acre hand in hand, ducking into Hanover, then back into Crowe, and round once more via Mercer to Seven Dials. We stood in the shadows to catch our breath.
‘I do believe I rather like you,’ she said, panting. ‘Mr Jack Sheppard.’
‘And I’m not impartial to you, Miss Elizabeth Lyon.’
‘We are in agreement then.’
A deep, echoey abyss of silence followed, replete with my inexperience. We hadn’t let go of each other’s hands, and I now leaned towards her silhouette, beginning with a kiss against her jaw, tasting a powdery mix of talc and lavender, then moving towards her lips, which parted with alarming proficiency. Soon our tongues were frolicking, like two puppies gambolling upon their first meeting.
�
��How many years are you?’ I asked, when the blessed moment came to its natural conclusion. My heart thumped and it wasn’t from running down Long Acre.
‘Men prefer me younger and boys prefer me older. Which are you, boy or man?’
‘What I am has no bearing on your years.’
‘So the truth then? I have lived more than thirty of them.’
‘I knew you to be older. I hadn’t expected by so much.’
She touched my cheek. ‘Your face is as smooth as mine. You’re a boy. No more than fifteen.’
‘I’m older than I appear. Just as you are younger.’
‘I’m not working tonight,’ she said, her tone stiffening. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you.’
I had by now intuited what she meant by ‘work’, and that I’d been kissed without paying a farthing was a great contentment.
‘I won’t be an urchin, scrounging for every penny,’ she added.
‘You needn’t justify it,’ I replied. ‘You have something of value and you might as well sell it.’
‘You’re sweet,’ she replied, stepping towards the street, pulling me by the hand. Lamps from the Seven Dials Inn illuminated her breath into pearly puffs that emanated from her silhouette like steam from a blackened kettle-pot. We made a meandering circle around the sundial, stopping to sit upon its steps.
I don’t know how long it was, but we spoke for many hours. I told her of my days as an indentured carpenter disabled of speech, and she spoke of being a whore and consort to a young schemer who she insisted was soon to make her rich. He’s a conniving horse to whom I’ll briefly hitch my wagon, were the words she used. Whole minutes passed in which I wasn’t even aware of the effortlessness of our exchange.
But as the darkness grew precarious and the gin wore off, my speech became tremulous, then entirely hopeless. Miss Lyon attempted to assuage my shame, but shame was not something I would indulge. When the morning sun broke the horizon and struck a fiery orange to the high Monmouth windows, I stood, smiled, and kissed her hand.
‘If you’re willing to break your indenture in Hampstead, as you say, then by all means …’ she said. ‘Find me in Barbican, by the old buttonmaker Segoe’s shop. His name is Jonathan Wild, and tell him you were sent by me.’
I nodded.
‘But …’ She fingered her skirts uneasily, feeding pinches of lace from one hand to the other. Her eyes were stuck upon a thought.
What, I gestured with two upraised palms. What?
‘The work is dangerous. Mr Wild, he will not pause, not for anything or anyone.’
I shrugged.
‘And if you’re coming purely for me, I warn you against it. My nature is not dissimilar. You’re different, Jack, and I don’t want to …’
I waved her quiet and tried to impart as best I could – with seeking eyes, with repeated kissing of her knuckles and a peaceable smile – my intention to ignore whatever misgivings she was unable to articulate.
Each day was one that hitherto could only be appreciated for its quick passing and paltry enjoyments (e.g. Mrs Wood’s monthly veal joint or the long-anticipated new soles for my boots), not for any deeper satisfaction. And certainly not for hope. But in the following moments of that glorious dawn, I was occupied of nothing but hope and could wait not a minute longer to pack my things and go from Hampstead to her associate in Barbican, where I might experience these two miracles once again, both produced by gin and the lips viz. speaking and kissing.
WILD
I am blinded once again, then engaged to a myriad of tasks
1700
It began with a slight tickle in the tear gland of my left eye, like a single hair pricking me in that most tender point. My eye streamed and so did both nostrils. By the time we reached our lodgings, the reflection of my face that flickered in the inn window was more like a bunch of tomatoes than a face. I took to bed and felt my tonsils grow towards each other like reunited lovers, the constriction being such that I was unable to breathe. The local doctor and priest were sent for – it was presumed I was dying. I can’t say I was too pleased about this presumption.
The priest arrived first.
‘Confess before The Lord,’ intoned he. Through one swollen eye I saw his face, shaved very clean, or maybe he was a child. He was enthusiastic like fool or child.
‘I feel like my face is going to explode,’ said I. ‘And I can’t breathe.’
‘Confess, dear child. Avoid yourself the fires.’
I sneezed on the Father’s habit; it spread across his coat like a spider web.
‘Your chance is now,’ said he, undeterred. ‘Spend not your eternity in Hell.’
‘Please open that window.’
‘All will be rewarded,’ spoke he. ‘Who delight in his service.’
‘I have not delighted in The Lord’s service,’ confessed I.
Saltwell stormed in. ‘This is ridiculous. You can’t die on your second day. My Lord will be furious.’
‘The Lord will embrace those who repent,’ the Father said.
‘The Lord wants a third coachman.’
‘I’m feeling better, Jim, by the minute. The fresh air.’
The doctor arrived, a towering man with a monocle hanging at his breast and a timber valise; he set it down and glass bottles clinked.
‘Who is dying?’ he asked.
‘Him,’ said Saltwell.
He lit a candle and bade me sit up, shining his monocle and pushing it into his left socket.
‘I can’t breathe,’ said I, wheezing for example. ‘But it’s getting better. The fresh air, it helps.’
‘When did this begin?’
‘This afternoon, when I brushed the horses.’
‘Does this help?’ he asked, blowing air into my eyes. His dinner was identifiable; beef with carrots, followed by coffee.
‘A little, yes. Do it again.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do, child.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You have aversion. Ever owned a cat?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’ll be bothered by those too. Stay away from horses.’
He set the valise on his knees and opened it – bottles clinked again – running his eyes back and forth over the contents, while making an erudite, clicking sound.
‘Hold him still,’ said he, speaking to the priest and to Saltwell. ‘Each one take an arm.’
‘What are you doing?’ enquired I.
He extracted what looked like a long knitting needle. ‘Bleeding your ducts. T’will clear you up.’
‘I don’t need it, sir,’ implored I. ‘Truly, I’m already feeling much better.’
But my solicitations were not heeded. The two men held me fast as the towering doctor leaned over, piercing the tear ducts of both my eyes with the prong of his instrument. The Lord only knows how I screamed and writhed, the procedure continuing for many eternities until I was once again blind.
The following day the entourage set off once again towards Middlesex, and I was loaded into the second coach with the baggage. My eyes were bandaged over. Two crescents of light smiled at me from their undersides.
‘These are the pains necessary for good health,’ remarked Saltwell. ‘Now don’t squash the hat box.’
‘Aye.’
‘In any case,’ continued he, placing a bucket and a flask of brandy into my hands. ‘You’re lucky My Lord has permitted you to remain. He says you will be employed around the house upon our return. Away from horses.’
And thus I continued to Lord Uxbridge’s manor in Middlesex. For four days I lay locked in the luggage compartment, rattling over unkind roads in a brandied stupor, alternating between the bucket and the flask. Upon the fifth day I was able to open my puffy eyes once again, peering first through my swollen lids then through the fissures of the planked coach walls.
‘Hark, Wild,’ the second coachman called. ‘We approach Lord Uxbridge’s estate!’
I murmured, puked, and looked out again.
I wasn’t sure what sort of plantation it was, except that it was mighty large, cleared fields of crop stretching far into the distance; a slight breeze making the green sheaves of crop roll, as though an invisible hand gently brushed them over. Three donkeys paused in their chewing to observe our procession.
Our coach then hit a paved road, the incessant wobbling and knocking of the wheels becoming a smooth, vibratory hum beneath me; the pleasure of the transition was so great that a near-sexual pleasure coursed through me, the gilded edge of Lord Uxbridge’s rifle case buzzing against my plonker (which, aye, I admit was an enjoyment), and me wondering if this refined road was not the most resplendent thing on earth.
The Uxbridge estate had unfathomable things: two manmade lakes staffed with slowly skimming gondoliers. Topiary hedges trimmed into cherubs. Horse stables larger than Wolverhampton Hall. Arched balconies of newly quarried sandstone. Glittering coats of arms on every keystone. Flagpoled rotundas manned by liveried guards. Pavilion after interconnected pavilion, even one – bugger me sideways – entirely made from glass. Aye, glass!
‘I can’t believe my eyes,’ I called out to the second coachman.
‘Take the bandages off,’ replied he.
I was quartered with a French pastry chef in a small room near the silos. His name was Nicolas Levre – we called him Nicky Lips – and he was a high-pitched snob emboldened by My Lord’s love of profiteroles.
Sharing quarters with a grown man was something I wasn’t too pleased about and Nicky Lips was quick to express a similar sentiment. After two days of cursing he took to pretending I wasn’t there at all. Of the evening he freely undressed to his birth-suit to kneel before a plaster shrine of The Virgin.
‘Dear Mother in heaven, I cannot take the gluggy buckwheat provided …’
‘I can hear what you’re saying, Nicky,’ said I, lying in my bed.
‘Dear Virgin, I am treated like some type of French disease …’
‘What did I say, Nicky? I can HEAR you!’
Wild Page 8
