The Ladder Dancer

by Roz Southey

  ‘Of course,’ Heron said.

  ‘Such a gentleman,’ Mrs Annabella said, almost swooning. I was unsure whether she was referring to Heron or Nightingale.

  A little later Heron and I stood on Jenison’s doorstep, watching the sun lower over the roofs of the houses on the other side of the street. A breeze lifted a strand of Heron’s pale hair and wafted it across his forehead; like me, he prefers not to wear a wig. A cart struggled up the slope of the road; the carter climbed down to lead the horse. Inside the house, I could hear Mrs Annabella bidding a prolonged and verbose farewell to Ridley.

  ‘This Nightingale must be special to tempt Jenison to invite him to dinner,’ I said.

  Heron’s lips tightened. ‘I have the greatest respect for Jenison’s abilities as a businessman, but I have always found his taste highly suspect.’

  ‘He heard the fellow in London in March. I hope he doesn’t charge London prices.’

  ‘We have had correspondence on the matter,’ Heron said, dryly. He too is one of the Directors of the concerts. ‘I suspect that if he brings his ladder with him, I shall find it remarkably difficult to get to concerts this season.’

  ‘The prospect seems to be encouraging some people to buy tickets,’ I said ruefully, and hesitated, watching the carter. I was reluctant to confide my suspicions to Heron – or to anyone for that matter – since they rested on such flimsy foundations, but he might have information which would help me, either to confirm Ridley was the villain, or to exonerate him. I said casually, ‘I’ve not met Cuthbert Ridley before. He’s been away from town some years, I understand?’

  ‘Damn near ten,’ Heron said, with surprising vehemence. ‘He was sent to an uncle in London, then went on to Oxford from there. The last year or so he has been back in London practising the law with his uncle.’

  ‘He’s very shy.’

  Heron was contemptuous. ‘Affectation.’

  I stared in surprise. ‘He acts the part? But why?’

  ‘I have long since ceased to make the effort to understand.’ The carter had stopped to unload beer barrels two or three houses up the street; the breeze bowled his hat away and he ran after it. ‘If it were possible,’ Heron said, ‘I would wash my hands of him completely. However, my late wife was his mother’s closest friend and so I was appointed his godfather.’

  ‘You’re introducing him into local society?’

  ‘I have promised his mother I will.’ He grimaced. ‘It is not likely to be an easy task. In the absence of his father, I am also supposed to find him a position, but since he clearly does not wish to exert himself in the slightest, that looks to be more difficult still. He seems to make it his business to defy his mother at every turn.’

  ‘He’s young,’ I said. ‘Sowing his wild oats.’

  ‘I shudder to think how wild,’ Heron said dryly. ‘Some of his uncle’s stories are, to say the least, disquieting.’ He gave me a quick glance. ‘I would advise you to stay out of his way.’

  I was startled. ‘You think—’

  ‘I think he’s a malicious fool,’ he said.

  A noise behind us. We both glanced back into the Jenisons’ house. Ridley was saying something to the footman who was presenting him with his hat and cane; the footman looked faintly unsettled. Heron’s hand started tapping a gentle tattoo against his thigh; he said, ‘Do you have time to give me a violin lesson, Patterson? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  It was plainly impossible to talk further now and I wondered if Heron’s request was intended to provide an opportunity to continue our conversation. I was relieved that he at least assumed I’d continue to teach despite my new-found wealth; Heron has a very fine sense of what is appropriate behaviour and what is not.

  We parted; Heron bore Ridley off towards the centre of town, with brisk steps that oozed irritation. I paused to decide which house to visit next, then caught a glimpse of movement. I looked round to see Ridley staring back at me.

  The look stopped me in my tracks. There was a kind of mockery in it. Did I fancy a challenge there?

  But then Ridley turned away and I was left wondering if my imagination had got the better of me.

  Seven

  Every man and woman has a natural place in the world, and it should be the endeavour of every man and woman to be content with their lot, whether it be high or low.

  [A Gentleman’s Companion, June 1733]

  I’d time for one last call on a potential concert subscriber. I turned my footsteps towards Westgate but I was preoccupied with thoughts of Ridley. It was difficult to judge – I’d seen the man on the horse so briefly – but I thought Ridley was roughly the same height. The horseman had seemed more stocky but his thick greatcoat might account for that.

  I came out on to Westgate directly opposite the clockmaker’s which stands almost as high as the West Gate itself. Above the clockmaker lives my friend, the dancing master Hugh Demsey, but he was not in town at present; immediately after our wedding, he set off on one of his regular visits to London to learn the latest dances. He would inevitably return full of amusing anecdotes. Hugh seems to enjoy London; my own single visit there was less than entertaining.

  The sun was just sinking behind the houses on the other side of the street, plunging Westgate into gloom. I paused to let my eyes adjust— and heard a small sound. The scuff of hasty footsteps. I swung round, alarmed.

  An alley. Empty.

  ‘Round the corner,’ an obliging spirit said high above me. It sounded as if it was stifling a bored yawn. ‘Female, stinking clothes. Filthy face. Young, but old enough to know better.’

  It sounded remarkably like the young girl I’d seen in the hovel. ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘Lurking,’ the spirit said with relish.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ask her yourself,’ the spirit said. ‘She’s still there. Round the corner.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘She’ll charge,’ the spirit said, jumping to conclusions. ‘Some of ’em even charge a guinea, sir. And they’re never clean. Leave her be, that’s my advice.’

  ‘I’m a happily married man,’ I said dryly.

  ‘Doesn’t stop them asking, sir.’ And the spirit added, with a touch of gloom, ‘I was happily married once. For a day or two.’

  I walked into the darkening alley, keeping a sharp lookout for danger. A twelve-year-old girl was unlikely to do me much harm, but she might have a weapon. The alley turned a corner and became a dead end, giving access only to a broken-down door into a yard. The girl was leaning against the end wall, one foot kicking back at the bricks.

  I kept my distance. A stray patch of sunshine touched a grimy window high up, glinted brightly.

  ‘You took your time,’ the girl said.

  ‘People who rush into alleys often end up robbed,’ I said. ‘Did you want to talk to me? About the baby?’

  ‘Nah,’ she said scornfully. ‘Good riddance. Ma’s always having kids. Too many. We don’t have nothing to eat. She’s real cut up, mind,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘She loves babies. Goes all soft over them. It’s when we starts talking back she hates us.’

  I thanked God for my own comfortable upbringing, even though my father had been cold and distant, especially after my mother’s death. ‘So why did you want to talk to me?’

  ‘You’re the fiddler, right?’ She was still kicking the wall, rhythmically, regularly, more and more ferociously.

  ‘I’m a musician, yes.’

  ‘So’s I. Here, listen to this.’

  And she took a ridiculously large breath and launched into a popular ballad.

  She was the girl I’d heard singing in the fog the night the child died, carolling bawdy songs far too old for her. Although, with the kind of upbringing she must have had, there were probably few of the more sordid aspects of life she hadn’t seen. But her knowledge of the niceties of singing was annoyingly lacking.

  ‘Don’t breathe so deeply,’ I said irritably, as she sucked in another breath. The glint of suns
hine from the window was shining in my eyes. ‘And don’t bawl. You were singing far better than that on the Key.’

  She scowled at me.

  ‘Start again. Quieter. And don’t breathe in the middle of a line.’

  She stared, then surprised me by grinning. She heaved herself off the wall, stood up straight and began again. The childishly sweet voice was small and thin, and only of average quality, but she used it well, in an untutored kind of way, acting out the song with some relish, particularly the gory parts.

  ‘So,’ I said, when she was finished. ‘What do you want now? A shilling for your trouble?’

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Anyone can give me that. I want to be your apprentice.’

  The audacity of the request took me aback. She was filthy, wore rags, had a raucous speaking voice, and every bone of her was insolent; I tried to imagine her being polite to the ladies and gentlemen, and failed miserably. Besides, if I took on a girl as apprentice, the most unflattering of conclusions would be drawn; it’s well known that female apprentices in the music world are frequently obliged to be ‘friendly’ to their masters.

  And she’d no idea what she was asking from the financial point of view. ‘Apprentices are required to pay their master for taking them on,’ I said. I felt a pang of guilt mentioning this; I could now of course afford to forgo the premium. But it was a convenient excuse to discourage what was obviously a totally impossible suggestion.

  ‘How much?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Ten guineas.’

  ‘You’re making that up!’

  ‘No. And their parents pay the master for their board and lodgings.’

  ‘Don’t want that,’ she said. ‘I’ll live with our ma.’

  ‘Every penny they earn goes to their master.’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ she said indignantly. ‘You’re fibbing.’

  ‘You can check what I say with any apprentice you can find. Besides, I’m a harpsichordist and violinist by trade. I’m not the best person to teach anyone how to sing.’

  ‘I already know how to sing.’

  ‘You do not,’ I said forcibly.

  ‘Anyhow.’ She started kicking the wall again. ‘Don’t want to sing. Want to play the fiddle.’

  Worse and worse. I sighed and squinted against the glint from the window. It was starting to give me a headache. ‘The violin is not a suitable instrument for a young woman.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A young lady should not make energetic movements. It’s not polite.’

  She grinned. ‘I’m not a young lady.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, fervently.

  ‘So I can learn it?’

  ‘No, you can’t!’

  We stared at each other. She said, ‘You won’t take me on, then?’

  ‘It really would be impossible.’

  Her expression changed. The foot kicked back one last vicious time. ‘Then I’ll tell,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell everyone.’

  ‘About what?’ I said, bewildered.

  ‘This!’ And she darted forward and seized my hand.

  The next moment I felt a violent shiver of cold, saw a flicker of darkness. A jolt as if I’d stumbled. Then I was standing under a midnight sky, with the full moon a brilliant shining orb overhead.

  Eight

  Those whom you see to be in danger of committing serious error should be reasoned with, but if they will not yield, it is better to withdraw for fear of being dragged down with them.

  [A Gentleman’s Companion, March 1730]

  There is a secret world that runs alongside our own, next to it, yet separate, like pages in a book. I stumbled upon it a year or so ago, in company with a villain who was making use of it for nefarious purposes, and as far as I know – or as far as I have suspected until now – the only people who are aware of this world are those I have told.

  It frightened me at first. To find myself thrown out of my own world, the real world, the only world, and to be inexplicably precipitated into some other universe, overthrew every idea I had ever taken for granted as true. The only ‘other’ world, we are taught, is that we hear about in church every Sunday; how can another world exist? And so similar to ours too. The streets look much the same, there are people walking and talking. My own counterpart lives there and the counterparts of many of the people I know. There are small differences: houses that have disappeared, people who have died who still live in our own world, events that happen at different times. The only substantial difference is that this secret world has no spirits and does not seem to know their lack. I have never been able to discover what happens here to the dead.

  Over the months, I have stepped through to this world more and more, and have become increasingly at ease. Intrigued, even. At first I could not control what happened, now I can – at least to a certain extent. I never know exactly what to expect when I reach this other world, or quite when I will arrive back in my own world; time does not seem to run at the same rate. If I pass an hour in this world, I can find myself missing a day in my own world.

  But I have never known anyone else who could step through except for the villain who first brought me here and who is now dead. To find the ability in a child . . .

  Around us stretched silent fields, moonlit. Trees in the winter-bare hedges were silvered by the bright light; beyond the hedges stood the obscure hulks of houses. A distant church bell struck once, twice. There a was a chill of frost in the air. There’s rarely any movement from place to place in stepping through. I was almost certainly still on the same spot in Westgate; the town could not be as extensive in this world. I stared around, feeling again the unnerving strangeness of it, the even more unsettling familiarity.

  ‘Don’t know how it happens,’ the girl said. She flung her arms out, swung round and round. ‘Just does. One moment I’m at home, next I’m here.’ She was grinning like a child half her age, a child without a care in the world. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Saw you,’ she said. ‘Couple of months back. In that big square. Just took a step forward and disappeared. And no one noticed!’ She grinned still wider. ‘They never do!’

  That came as a relief. I’d often wondered why no one noticed my disappearances. Perhaps you need to have the ability yourself to see it in others.

  ‘I followed you,’ she said, ‘and you ended up in a big street, talking to a weedy fellow.’

  I didn’t recall the occasion but it could easily have happened. I regarded her thoughtfully. It’s nearly a year now since I discovered my ability and in all that time I’ve carefully kept the secret, knowing the ignorant might fear it. But would this girl be as discreet?

  She was grinning still, standing hands on hips. ‘Nice here, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘Quiet. I can walk and walk and no one ever yells at me.’ She broke into song, her thin voice echoing in the still clear night. A simple love song of the naïve country sort, wistful and longing, seeping into the silence.

  The echoes of the song died away and I heard the faint bleat of a sleepy sheep in the distance.

  ‘I ain’t going to be like ma,’ the girl said passionately. ‘I ain’t going to go with every man as asks. I ain’t going to end up with a dozen babies and nothing to eat. I want out.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You take me on as apprentice and learn me to play the fiddle proper, then when I’ve learnt everything, you set me free and I get to keep all the money I earn. That’s the way it works, ain’t it?’

  ‘Apprenticeships last seven years,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Lord,’ she said. ‘You gets your money’s worth.’

  ‘There’s a lot to learn.’

  She grinned. ‘We’re agreed, then?’

  ‘We are not!’

  She screwed up her face. ‘I’ll tell!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll tell everyone!’

  ‘You’ll tell them there’s another world running alongside our own, a near copy? They’ll lock
you up as a madwoman.’

  ‘No smoke without fire, they’ll say!’

  Would they? I’d always been undecided. Hugh Demsey insisted I’d be had up by the Church as a heretic; Esther thought they’d call me a lunatic. It was undeniable that rumours, once started, take on a life of their own. People like Mrs Annabella, for instance, are quite capable of discarding things they dislike or can’t understand, and substituting something more palatable. Within days, I’d probably be condemned for leading a double life with a wife in every town in the north-east; Sunderland and London are about as much of another world as most people can imagine.

  I stared across the deserted field, feeling the nip of frost.

  ‘Well?’ the girl demanded.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  She recognized this for the sop it was. ‘That ain’t good enough.’

  ‘It will have to do.’

  ‘No,’ she said obstinately.

  I tried to stare her down. Her eyes met mine defiantly; her chin lifted.

  ‘I will not be blackmailed,’ I said. ‘The only way you’ll persuade me to help is by showing yourself amenable.’

  She started to sneer. I said sharply, ‘I don’t mean in that way. If those are the depths to which you’re prepared to sink then you may as well stay where you are. I want information.’

  ‘What about?’ she said sullenly.

  I almost stopped myself. There was an element of callous cynicism in what I was about to do; she’d certainly believe that if she told me what I wanted to know, I’d reconsider taking her on, and that was not possible. But the image of that child’s body, laid out on a table in the Old Man tavern for the inquest jury to gawp at, urged me on.

  ‘Your mother,’ I said. ‘I take it she earns money by selling herself?’

  She shrugged. ‘They ain’t choosy down our way.’

  ‘Has anyone ever threatened her?’

  She cackled with laughter. ‘Never had to! She never said no to no one.’

  ‘I was thinking of respectable gentlemen who might have been with her. She might think to get some extra money out of them by threatening to tell their nearest and dearest. And one of them might decide to try to silence her.’