by Roz Southey
The Side, like all streets, should have lanterns outside every private establishment; but many men are careless of civic duties, others have no money and, here at least, one or two have gone out of business and removed themselves, leaving houses empty. The Side therefore was lit by a single lantern outside a house about halfway up and I trod carefully, conscious of the shadows reaching out to me from alleys and doorways. Only a fool walks about the town on his own after dark (only a fool and a man with a living to earn), and even then he keeps to ways that are well-lit. But to retrace my steps and go by Butcher Bank after all would make me late, so I went on, nerves prickling with apprehension.
I failed to hear them, even then. Something slammed into my back, hurling me forward to crash into a wall. Hearing shouts behind me, I found myself on my knees, my hand slapping into a dog turd. Heart beating fast, breath in a flurry, I scrambled up, ready to defend myself.
But I was an unintended victim. Someone had hurtled out of an alley and knocked me flying as he passed. I could see him stumbling desperately down the Side, panting, only yards in advance of the two men pursuing him.
And even as I saw the cudgels hanging from the beefy hands of the assailants, I recognised their quarry.
Light-Heels Nichols, the dancing master.
7
BATTLE PIECE
Movement II
God help me, I almost turned and ran. Not out of cowardice but from the motive of self-preservation. In affairs like this ribs get cracked and heads get bloodied but, worse, hands get trodden upon and broken – an eventuality no musician can regard with equanimity. But Christian feeling took over and I stepped into the fray, roaring. One of my father’s favourite maxims: “Charles,” he would say, “make as much noise in the world as you can.” No doubt he had not had a brawl in mind.
I grabbed the collar of the nearest villain, lugged him backwards. His hands flew up; I plucked the cudgel out of his grasp, and swung it at his head. He went down with a gasp. I rounded on the other fellow. Nichols was down on the ground, curled up as the remaining villain kicked at his most private possessions. I swung the cudgel. At the last moment, the ruffian realised his danger and ducked. He slipped and I thought I had him, then he lunged away and was off down the street.
Poor Nichols was writhing and groaning on the cobbles. The dark street was still deserted. No one had come out to see what was happening. Wise souls; I have bolted my own door against brawls before now, particularly in London.
“Guggle, guggle,” said Nichols and spewed up his last meal at my feet. I leapt back and avoided the worst of it but the stench almost turned my stomach. He crouched against the wall, clutching his groin and making noises like a man about to expire.
“You are most fortunate, Mr Nichols,” I said, “that I was about when those villains tried to rob you.”
“Rob!” His voice ended on a squeak. “Why should they rob me? What do I have?”
“A watch,” I pointed out. “And a ring upon your finger. Perhaps a guinea or two in your pockets. Ruffians have killed for less.”
“Nonsense!” He straightened. I saw an idea dawn in his face. “I have been set upon deliberately! By that fellow Demsey!”
“Now, sir,” I said soothingly. “You are confused.” Damn him for getting that idea – but I won’t deny it had been the first in my mind.
“And you’re a crony of his!” Nichols drew back in alarm. “You’re in league with him! You knew he’d set those fellows on me and came to watch the fun!”
“If I were in league with Demsey,” I pointed out, “I would not have intervened to save you. But if it will reassure you, I will leave you and let you find your own way home.”
Fear crossed his face. The moon, though still full, was half-hidden by clouds, and the head of the Side, rising above us, was in darkness. I did not much like the look of it myself but I flattered myself I was not a coward, or a dancing master.
“You may take this cudgel, sir, to guard you,” said I. And I held up the stick I had taken from the first ruffian.
My luck was still running foul. As I raised the cudgel, we heard the clatter of hooves. A shadow moved in the darkness at the foot of the Side, then a black horse came up the narrow hill into the light of a torch and out again. Its rider was dressed in black to match; at first he was merely a pale shape of face in the night. Then a voice called out: “Nichols, c’est vous?” and I recognised the abrupt tones of Henri Le Sac.
He reined in the horse beside us so sharply that the animal’s head jerked up. Metal gleamed in a flicker of moonlight. I found myself looking into the muzzle of a pistol.
“Monsieur Patterson,” said Le Sac. “I trust you have good reason to be attacking my friend Nichols.”
“I can probably invent one,” I said in the most affable tone I could contrive. “But you misjudge the situation. I was helping him fight off two ruffians.”
“But how philanthropic!” he said, almost as cordially. “And I suppose these ruffians are now run off?”
“As a matter of fact…” But of course, when I looked round, I saw that the ruffian I had laid flat had taken advantage of our attention being elsewhere to make his escape.
“It’s that fellow Demsey,” Nichols cried. “He set the rogues on me and this one came to watch.”
“Nonsense,” I said briskly – for I fancied I had seen the pistol rise. “I was on my way to a lesson, which I may say I am now missing. I was just setting Mr Nichols back on his feet.”
“He was in league with them!”
But Le Sac was lowering his pistol. The moonlight glinted off his horse’s harness and revealed the dark shapes of a violin case and a bag of clothes slung behind. He must be on his way back from a lesson in the country. “My dear Nichols,” he said with a sigh. “You do not understand people. Monsieur Patterson is not a fool. And,” he added, turning his attention to me, “neither am I, sir. I know it is not poor Nichols who engages your attention.” He leant forward confidentially. “I tell you frankly, Monsieur Patterson, there is not room for both of us in this town!”
And as I stared at him in astonishment, he jerked on the horse’s reins and the animal clattered past me, so close that I felt the warmth of the sweat on its flanks. Nichols stumbled after them.
“A real pair of fancy men,” said a female voice from the wall behind my shoulder. The spirit sniffed, then added coyly, “Give me someone plain and honest any day, I say.”
If the words were meant for me, I did not regard them as a compliment. And an invitation from a spirit is of little use to a man.
“We did try to warn you,” she said, “since the old uncle takes such an interest in you. I could see those rogues were up to no good, hiding in the alley. And knowing you came this way every week…”
She seemed on the verge of coyness again. I said sharply, “Do you know where Hugh Demsey is?”
“The other tip-toeing gent? Now there’s a handsome fellow. Wait on.” Did I hear a murmur of voices? A moment later, she resumed. “Never could get the hang of those fancy dance steps, you know. And gentlemen did like it if you could tread a measure or two. What? Oh, much obliged. He’s in his school room. Down Westgate.”
I was angry as I started off towards Westgate and in a very short time I was cold as well. The clouds began to deposit a chill rain upon me, whitish drops like sleet splattering on my face and darkening my greatcoat. Around St John’s Church I almost lost my way in the darkness and stumbled into a horse trough, splashing myself with water. On, up past the vicarage, past the trees of the vicarage garden and on to the street of tall narrow houses this side of the West Gate itself. This is a part of the town where people of the genteel sort live, so lamps are more conscientiously placed above house doors. Past the impassive face of the Assembly Rooms on the left, where old Mr Thompson was causing such havoc since he died in the middle of a country dance. Past Bedwalters’s writing school on the second floor of a neat but shabby house.
And then the more welcoming fa
cade of the clockmaker’s with the clocks nodding behind the glass window. An archway leads back to the clockmaker’s workshop behind and a side door, usually unlocked, gives access to a narrow flight of stairs to the floors above. On the first floor is Demsey’s school room; on the second lives a widow who supports her children by painting delicate miniatures; and in the attic is Demsey’s own lodging. This was old Harris’s dancing school, bequeathed five years since to his last and favourite apprentice. He had the consideration to die at home so Demsey is spared the trial of his old master muttering instructions and admonitions over his shoulder, as he did in life.
I climbed the stairs. They creaked and gave advertisement of my coming so that when I pushed at the half-open door of the school room, Demsey was already looking towards me. He stood in the middle of the long narrow room, surrounded by brilliant branches of candles. The chairs had been stood in line around the walls and Demsey had evidently been gathering up orange peel abandoned by his scholars. Scuff marks in the polish of the floor gave the room an abandoned forlorn air.
I trod carefully across the polished boards towards him, knowing from experience how easy it was to slip when not wearing dancing slippers. Demsey – silently waiting my approach – was in his formal best, all peacock blue in his coat and a darker turquoise in his knee breeches that fitted as snugly as any mama might fear. He watched me coolly. “Is it raining, Charles?”
Looking down, I saw that my boots were leaving a muddy trail. That and his cool manner, so unlike his normal mien, disconcerted me. “I am missing a lesson because of you,” I snapped. “I can ill afford to lose that money!”
I saw a frown between his brows; I went on without pause. “I have faced down two ruffians with cudgels and I have been threatened with a pistol. I have been accused of complicity in an assault and informed that sooner or later I must leave this town and find another place. And all because of your schemes!”
He tossed the orange peel into a basket laden with such rubbish.
“Did you tangle with my surprise for Nichols, then?” he said with a frankness that took my breath away. “I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced.”
“Inconvenienced!”
“But he cannot think you have any quarrel with him.”
“He knows me to be a friend of yours. That is cause enough.”
“As for the other matter…” He frowned again. “I did not think him man enough to own a weapon.”
“Not him! His crony, Le Sac, came upon us, all eager to defend his bosom friend and to find reason to discredit me and run me out of town. God knows why he dislikes me so!”
“I daresay it is because you have more true musicianship in your little finger than he has in his entire body.”
He spoke in such a casual manner that I hardly took his words in at first. He gave me a sideways glance as he straightened the last of the chairs.
“I do not flatter you, Charles. I save that for my pupils. If I may give you one piece of advice, it is to abandon those abominable compositions and to concentrate upon what you do best – managing people. If Le Sac was not here, the gentlemen would all be running to you to direct the Concerts and to tell them what to do in that charming manner of yours.” I fancied I saw the trace of a smile. “Your greatest asset is tact, Charles. Le Sac is totally devoid of that admirable virtue but he contrives to escape condemnation because he is a Genius.”
Astonished that he should speak to me in such a manner, I flung at him: “I do not need advice from you! And as for my compositions, I have had many compliments paid to them. I am thinking of putting forth proposals for publication.”
“No, no, don’t!” he said with a return of his usual impulsive manner, the first heat of emotion I had seen upon him. “The gentlemen would buy, certainly – they always buy the latest novelties – but they would laugh at you in private. And the writers in London…”
The mention of London stung. I saw he knew it as soon as he uttered the word. Try as I do, I cannot forgive the ignorant lords and ladies who give acclaim to the worst of the musicians there, providing they be foreigners. To their own, they give nothing but indifference.
“I believe I am capable of judging my own work with some discernment,” I said. “You will see the notice in the paper when I do choose to publish. Damn it, Hugh, do you not even consider what this affair tonight will do to my reputation if it gets about?”
“Your reputation?” he repeated.
“If Nichols or Le Sac should spread the tale… No one wants a drunkard and a brawler to teach his children!”
“I see,” he said, then lost his temper and roared at me. “Your reputation, your pupils!” I tried to interrupt; he raised his voice louder. “And you lecture me on selfishness?”
“I won’t lose my livelihood because of your stupid pranks!”
“What about my livelihood?”
“To the devil with your livelihood,” I said recklessly.
“I see,” he said frostily. “In that case, there’s nothing more to be said.”
“No, there is not,” I said and slammed the door behind me.
8
BATTLE PIECE
Movement III
Someone was talking to me from a great distance. I mumbled and turned over, not wanting to wake, or to leave the bed. Oh God, that argument with Demsey, that ridiculous scheme of his! The encounter with Le Sac, Nichols’s accusations – it all returned to me with force.
“Master!”
Groaning, I struggled up. My head ached. How long had it been before I slept, turning over and over and listening to George’s snores? Now George’s poxed face hung over me, bleeding from the middle of his cheek; I must somehow persuade him not to scratch. His breath was sour too; ale, I fancied, and rather stronger than one normally allows youngsters. He was holding out a letter, and I took it without knowing what I did. “What time is it?”
“Nearly nine, master.”
“What!” I struggled from my bedclothes. “Bring me water. Quickly!” I started hunting under the mattress for my clothes. “I’m late.” I had lost a lesson the previous night and now I was late for another. And for Master Thomas Heron too! “Did you take those messages?”
“Yes, master.” He was scratching at his neck now.
“Stop that! And get that water.” At least the fond parents would have received my excuses for not turning up last night and perhaps they would not be too offended. I found myself still holding on to the letter. “Who is this from?”
“Mr Heron’s servant left it, sir.”
George scuttled out of the room as, with foreboding, I broke the letter’s seal. The elegant lines of copperplate were brief and to the point. Mr Heron was always careful to regulate the persons who came into positions of influence with his son and did not choose to allow him to associate with those who had connections with ruffians, &c, &c. I crumpled the note and tossed it down upon the table. Claudius Heron was a fastidious man and where he led, others would no doubt follow. Damn Demsey.
George came back into the room with a ewer of water. I splashed it on to my face and aching eyes, dragged on my clothes. Should I see Le Sac and ask him to correct the impression that had got about? There was no point in seeing Nichols; the man would simply gloat over me.
“Will it do, sir?” George asked anxiously.
I realised that I had been unwittingly staring at the table and a neat pile of manuscript paper. George had evidently been assiduous in his work the previous day; four or five sheets were copied out with painstaking neatness – one of my concerti for violins.
George was nervously shrinking back. I wondered if Le Sac had been generous with blows. “It is very neat,” I said. He still looked uncertain; I tried for a lighter tone – no point in frightening the boy. “And what do you think of the music itself?”
The boy’s eyes flicked to mine, then away again. “It’s very nice, sir.”
Nice. Such a useful word; it may mean anything you choose or nothing at all. I had rather h
e had condemned it outright.
A chill in the air greeted me as I hesitated on the doorstep. Perhaps Heron would be the only one to credit the rumours? I could but hope, and seek ways to repair the damage his dismissal of me would cause to my income. I must begin to make use of George. I turned for the Assembly Rooms in Westgate, low in spirits but determined.
I was lucky enough to find the Steward of the Rooms drinking a morning bowl of coffee and inclined to be talkative. He has a partiality for scientific instruments and a yearning for good listeners, and bore me off to an inner room to show me his latest acquisition – a finely wrought orrery. I did my best to admire its workings, and allowed its owner to explain in detail the movements of the planets before dropping into the conversation the information that I had acquired something new myself – a young but excellent apprentice who might be of use to the dancing assemblies. The Steward’s face brightened.
“Indeed?” he exclaimed. “I can be rid of that drunkard Ross at last! Bring the boy to play to me tomorrow. If he’s fit, I’ll take him on.”
His eagerness for George’s services was the one brightness in the following days. I took George to play for him and the boy was promised a part in the Assembly band. But upon that day and upon the next but one (the intervening day being the Sunday), I had three more letters in imitation of Mr Heron. I slept but little, lying in bed working through in my mind how much money I had lost, brooding over how to recoup the loss and pay the next quarter’s rent. On the Monday, I rode out to Shields for a concert given for the benefit of an actress in the theatre company, and was promised more work by Mr Kerr of the Beehive Inn, who hires his room there for concerts. But I have had past experience of Mr Kerr’s good intentions and knew better than to rely on them.
