‘I’ve never seen puppetry like it,’ said the beauty, fanning herself.
‘I thought it was rather ’90s,’ added the second.
‘I too prefer to parley on the performance,’ spoke I, directing myself solely to the beauty, ‘than on the performer.’
‘Should the author not be considered one and the same to his story?’ she offered, looking demurely at me with eyes a peculiar clear brown, the colour of tea too weak to abide.
‘How much for some sex?’ asked I.
Evidently directness was no way to approach the matter, even with one whose employment was such, for I was first swiped with her closed fan, the iron casement cutting my cheek, and then subjected to prodigious laughter. It echoed around me as though I was in a valley and these giggling girls on the cliffs.
‘It’s my first time seeking such a thing,’ I demurred.
‘Your first time, hey?’ said she, laughing once more. ‘No wonder you prefer to parley on the performance than the performer.’
‘I bid you cease this molestation.’
She stepped forward and laid a hand upon my own.
‘Your molestation is my business.’
‘If that’s the product you sell, I’m not of a mind to purchase.’
‘I have a variety of wares,’ replied she. ‘Of which I’m certain you’ll be partial.’
‘Let me see these wares!’
I stepped forward and reached for her skirts. Again I was slapped with the fan. The friends laughed like gobbling turkeys.
‘Are you retarded?’ she asked of me.
‘I am not!’
‘Well if you are no retard and you are no child, why do you behave as both?’
It was odd having fury and desire rise as one. My cheeks reddened and I dug the nails of my right hand in.
‘I will subject myself to this no more!’ ejaculated I, shaking the fist.
The girls were evidently accustomed to such outbursts, their expressions unaltered as I backed away and turned on my heel. I was gladdened to see that there was no audience to my shaming; people were occupied with their own problems and perambulations in Covent Garden. The pigeons that had alighted upon my spotting of the pretty strumpet were now returning, one by one to the courtyard tree, disguising themselves within the foliage and squawking their own taunts, I’m sure.
Planned or providential, whichever you may presume, I turned the Tavistock corner and we almost collided. She laid a slender white hand, smooth as eggshell, upon my own. The whore had escaped her gaggle and was upon me.
WILD
Elizabeth Lyon is her name. Unrelatedly, I am ruined.
1705
I was wily enough by then to know a cozening when I saw one, but in the dim warren of her upstairs room, surrounded by the yellow eyes of many domesticated cats, I found myself welcoming the centre of her maze. She had a small birthmark above her breast, the colour of grape and the shape of Scotland; a handsome and intriguing thing that she introduced by pushing out the smooth round ball of her shoulder from her dress.
‘Oh you are too generous, Master Wild,’ she said to me, as I handed her coins without her asking. ‘Offering me such rich rewards.’
‘Coins are but little compensation.’
‘If you’ll pay thruppence for thighs,’ tittered she, as though chilly and amused at once, ‘I can only wonder the worth of what’s between them.’
‘Ohhh.’
When I grew more heated, and made it known that I wished to couple with her, she laid a hand upon my lower back, urging me forward so that I was in a frottage with the bedpost, and whispered into my ear a story too devilish to repeat. Was it the sound of her vampy voice – a measure of roughness to it – or the putrid things it uttered? Or maybe the moisture condensing in my right ear? I can’t be sure the exact article that caused my eruption, but erupt I did, in my trousers in a standing position with many cats watching.
‘You were in need of release,’ she whispered sweetly, soaking a cloth in a pan of water.
‘Aye.’
‘Let me help you.’
She unbuttoned my trousers, wafting at the wetness with a fan deftly flicked open with one hand.
‘And it’s Elizabeth Lyon that you call yourself?’
‘My name is unchanged.’
‘You haven’t asked of mine.’
‘Tell me,’ she now implored. ‘Tell me please.’
‘’Tis Jonathan Wild. And you won’t have pains remembering it. You shall know of me.’
‘By what reason?’
‘By whichever greatness I allot myself.’
It could have been the darkness but I sensed her piqued.
‘I have a Philosophy,’ added I.
‘Tell me of it, Jonathan Wild.’
She reclined on her bed, pressing her palm against her temple, fingers disappearing into her hair. It wasn’t fitting to detail my Philosophy denuded and among cats, but I spoke it nonetheless, telling her of my upbringing in Wolverhampton, the maltreatment of both my father and Master Dampier, and the insights fathomed upon the banks of a cool river by moonlight. The whore listened intently, not interjecting a single instance.
‘I don’t believe that our fates are sealed shut,’ I summarised. ‘The eyes of God are only that: instruments for observation, not intervention. I may be judged unfavourably when the time comes, but I’ll attend that problem when it’s presented.’
‘Some would consider your philosophy a blasphemous one.’
‘They would consider rightly.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Are these cats all your own?’
‘Not permanently.’
‘You rent cats?’
‘The other way around.’
Elizabeth Lyon hadn’t moved; her eyes were motionless upon my face. I can’t say why, but this tranquillity was in itself a flirtation, too. I dressed until my pea-green coat was buttoned and collar returned to its place.
‘Assistant to Lord Uxbridge, you say?’
‘Aye.’
‘What manner of assistance do you provide?’
I paused, blood rushing to my face.
‘I am … his … I assist in all kind of management.’
‘And you have reprieve from your duties on a Wednesday?’
‘He has returned to Middlesex to be with his Lady Uxbridge.’
A cat jumped to the windowsill and the curtains shifted, light shooting into the thickened air like bullets into water.
She ran a finger along my collar. ‘And I presume Lord Uxbridge isn’t aware of his missing Wedgwood plate?’
I gripped the middle of her dress so the backs of my fingers pressed against her sternum and pulled her close. I reached further down, my fingertips going into the fine cleft of her bosom. It was an exceeding soft place down there, warm and bouncy. Intuiting my rekindled desire, Elizabeth Lyon let her dress fall to her waist, so that I might plant my face against her chest. She enclosed her two bosoms around my ears and held me tight, just as I wanted.
‘I have no more money,’ I spoke into her ribcage. ‘I will return with some.’
‘Shh,’ she cooed, reaching a hand down to my trousers. ‘I’ll unplug you again.’
I nuzzled in, thinking it a majestic death to suffocate in there. With one hand she managed to pull my plonker out, and held it by its base.
‘But promise me the following,’ she said, before embarking upon her stroking.
‘Anything, Miss Lyon.’
‘Return with more than a single plate.’
‘He has fetching oyster forks,’ replied I.
I reached my hands around to her buttocks, squeezing very tight as I exploded once more. A piebald cat who had been arching its back against my calf was the recipient of my culmination, an orange friend leaping over to clean off what I hoped was not so common a meal.
I was surprised to find it still daylight when I emerged, the afternoon sun shining warm and healthy into the street. I suppose most men freshly released from a w
hore’s terrace in Dirty Lane resolve to never debase themselves again. Not I! As I made my way back to the Gate of Queen Anne via Paddington and Hyde Park, hands clasped behind my back and eyes upon the endless vista of chimney and tile, I resolved to return to Miss Elizabeth Lyon ASAP. How I wished to replace the fresh air of Kensington Palace for the dank, linen-y smell of her bosom. I’d witnessed Uxbridge flirt with mortality in the act of sex, and now I understood it, for I found myself wanting to open up her chest and sew myself inside so that I might be entirely decomposed, wholly absorbed into her blood and thus pumped through every inch of her voluptuous body.
I pressed on towards the manor, upon arrival announcing myself to the footman and demanding of the cook a salubrious meal of pheasant liver, with wine and ale.
‘I have bills to write up before My Lord’s return,’ announced I.
‘But sir, I’m already preparing for –’
‘Pheasant liver!’ I shouted. ‘Not chit-chat.’
I opened the door of My Lord’s privy, gladdened to see the fires lit in anticipation of my return. I was now so formidable about this London manor that the staff treated me much like the Lord himself, cooking what I requested, lighting fires, readying the coach. I took a seat at Lord Uxbridge’s desk, setting out my papers.
‘Aye,’ said I, speaking to invisible, envious spectators. ‘I shall have pheasant liver when I request it. And anything else I so demand.’
‘Shall you now?’
I jumped as Lord Uxbridge emerged from his supine position on the couch.
‘My Lord,’ said I, bowing. ‘You must excuse –’
‘Didn’t think you’d see me so soon?’
‘You weren’t anticipated until –’
‘Lady Uxbridge is unwell and gone to a specialist at Rotterdam.’
‘I’m sorry to hear of it. My –’
‘Wild, to business. What of the brewery? And is powder production as we hoped?’
Uxbridge was already in his business suit, ready to start the day at suppertime.
‘I was only now –’
‘I shall also like to know of our tenants at Harrow and Wembley. Are their payments through? I don’t give a damn about their poor harvest.’
I backed away from the desk, colliding with a bookshelf.
‘I … I hadn’t expected your return so soon. Not for another three weeks.’
‘But I presume you’ve drawn up the accounts? Only you’re not yet sure how to improve them?’
The last time I’d seen his face, Uxbridge’s brows were in a curl, eyes searching the face of his little chick. Now he looked upon me as if I were a page of disappointing results.
‘My Lord,’ began I. ‘I’m … I’m not prepared.’
‘If you haven’t drawn up the bills,’ said he, ‘tell me then, exactly what have you been doing?’
I stammered, but nothing intelligible emerged. The fire blazed. Shadows of My Lord reached high into the corner of the room.
‘You’ve nothing to answer?’
‘I can only admit my negligence,’ said I.
‘’Tis more than negligence, Wild,’ said he, speaking with a cruel evenness. ‘’Tis an insult.’
‘It won’t happen again, My Lord.’
The fires crackled nimbly, like whispered criticisms from a darkened audience. Uxbridge stood fixed, hands high upon his waist, his little pupils swivelling.
‘It certainly won’t, Wild. It certainly won’t.’
His tone indicated knowledge. Had he arranged for someone to follow me? Did he know that I’d visited two whores the two days past, one with a timber leg? Was it even possible that Elizabeth Lyon was his agent? I reassembled the circumstances of my day (Covent Garden, the alighting of many birds from a tree, Elizabeth Lyon in profile, puppetry, the catacomb of Elizabeth Lyon’s bosom, requesting pheasant liver), and decided it wasn’t possible, for it was me that had spotted her.
‘Wild?’
‘Sorry, My Lord,’ said I. ‘I was thinking about … about you.’
I moved towards him, mustering softness. Think of Shearsby, I told myself. I stood close, pressing my cheek against his breast, and rotating my fingertips where his other nipple was.
‘I must be punished,’ muttered I. ‘In ways befitting insolence.’
Only the briefest glimmer of weakness crossed My Lord’s face.
‘I’ve no time for games.’ He pushed me away. There was a mark of powder on his suit where my cheek had been.
‘My Lord. What has happened in your absence?’
‘I’ve already explained it. My wife has gone to Rotterdam and I am returned early. I am behind on my business and I won’t hold another minute to attend it.’
‘Shall I presume your … your affection … shall I presume it gone?’
‘What you should presume “gone” are the responsibilities I charged you.’
My mouth was open, only this time not to let his plonker in, but to push my disbelief out.
‘You shall return to Middlesex,’ Uxbridge continued, refusing to look at me. ‘And report directly to Samways.’
‘But My Lord, how can you be so … so swift? Tell me what has …’
But I had no more words.
The last time I’d wept I was but a child of seven or eight. In our Wolverhampton croft, my father had taken the miniature turret I’d constructed from twigs, and shoved it inside the stove. I don’t remember what I’d done to deserve it; in fact, I only remember that it wasn’t deserved. My throat burned along with the turret, my heart along with the tiny glued cannons. Now, as I reminisce on my reminiscence, they are one and the same – my father, My Lord Uxbridge – in their abandonment of fairness, their abandonment of causality, their abandonment of me. But it matters not upon whom my tears can be blamed, nor the mutability of that source, for in that moment, in Uxbridge’s privy – the many grand portraits and paintings staring down on me – tears rose with potent force. They poured from my eyes, turning my face-powder the colour of trodden-on snow.
‘It seems there is one last lesson you need ascertainment of,’ said he. ‘No second chances. Return my largesse with laziness, and you’re out.’
With this pronouncement, Uxbridge opened his door. The hallway was dark by comparison, light from the privy illuminating the direction of my future obscurity.
I’d spoken plenty of parting proclamations in the last years: to my former wife, to my mother, to Henry Winterbottom the pawner. And now I needed the most incisive of all.
‘My Lord,’ said I, rising up with both chest and chin. ‘I have heard it said –’
‘I’ve work to do,’ interrupted My Lord Uxbridge. ‘Close the door behind you.’
‘But –’
‘LEAVE!’ he bellowed.
I’ve known only two men that have brought me to submission, and aye, I can’t deny Uxbridge was one of them. I left without another word, my chest ejecting the poorly repressed staccato sobs of a caned child. Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh.
WILD
London is my home
1705
Men have been thrown to London’s unforgiving streets with less, for I had:
Quite some handsome plate plus four oyster forks
A garnet bracelet lifted from My Lord’s antiques cabinet
A purple pheasant, still not sold
One guinea, four shillings
A handsome business suit.
That is, enough to last me weeks or months, depending on my choice of penny-lodging. I had no intention of returning to Middlesex, nor to Wolverhampton, nor to any other bucolic parish or pocket. I wasn’t kneeling yet. If you asked me what my plan was, I would have told you none, for indeed I had no plan. I had no destination either, but walked like a man running late to an important one.
The day was gloomy and dry, a cowl of rippled cloud set high above the Somerset Spire. I passed Winterbottom’s shop. Through the poorly blown panes I could see him two rungs up a ladder, apron strings tied against his bac
k. I continued on, past the Piccadilly boutiques where I perused wares for the well-to-do: gilt doorknobs, cushioned bedpans, brass candelabra, ivory looking-glasses &c., and remembered My Lord Uxbridge’s advice when we once passed the same stores by coach: ‘Cater to the rich and you’ll eat with the poor.’
Grimacing at the thought of him, I decided on Blackfriars my destination, where I rang at the door of Mr Gyssels. Through the frosted glass door panel I saw the dance of his maid Tina’s dusting feather. She opened and curtsied low. Her perfectly combed hair was split two ways in a precise division, and the colour of fresh butter.
‘Master Wild,’ she spoke in her Dutch accent, trying to conceal a candy in her cheek. ‘Please step inside.’
I bowed and entered the sitting room. There was a harpsichord in one corner, the candles clean of wax. Above the fireplace hung a large portrait of King Philip, Count of Flanders, in full lancing gear, visor lifted to his shrewd and bleary eyes.
‘I’ll announce you to Mr Gyssels,’ said she, stepping off and rattling a sideboard of cordial decanters.
While waiting, I inspected a series of handsome ornamental pepperpots on the mantelpiece, each painted elaborately in oriental designs viz. lithe ladies on long swings, rickshaw drivers with extended goatees, droopy branches and many tiered pagodas. As I slipped two into my pocket, Gyssels appeared in his usual red suit.
‘Mr Wild,’ he bowed. ‘I missed your announcement.’
‘I come unannounced.’
‘You must excuse it, my review of the indentures is not quite finalised.’
‘I come not to discuss indentures.’
At this, he came close and sat so our knees were almost a-touching. He was heavily perfumed.
‘How can I be of service to the House of Uxbridge?’ asked Gyssels.
‘Permit me to speak frankly.’
‘Prithee.’
‘And plainly too.’
‘Prithee.’
King Philip’s watery eyes looked upon me, together with Gyssels’s green ones.
‘I have ejected myself from his service. His behaviours were foul and unspeakable.’
Wild Page 14
