The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  I didn't like to contemplate this gloomy prospect, though, for we were very happy at the Aquarium, and I had started to call it my 'place of work'. It was not simply that it was a regular and cosy shop, and that I made enough coin to put a little by. No, it was that I had become as fond of it as any place I had ever known, and also the people in it. Certainly, the Aquarium was one on its own. An eighth wonder of the world. And not a fish to be seen! Everyone remarked upon it, 'from rogues to royalty', according to Mr Abrahams. The building in which the Aquarium was situated was, I understand, a great warehouse in the past. That would account for the four floors, attic and cellar, all connected by staircases (some very grand) and landings decorated with coloured-glass windows (like a church), and statues, fancy ironwork, and so on. On every floor were wide rooms divided up into many smaller ones (though the partitions are only flimsy wood and lath), and those too were sometimes divided again so that, to a stranger, it was a regular labyrinth of cubbyholes and nooks. But not, of course, to those who worked there, and what an odd collection of marvels and misfits (another showman's phrase from Mr Abrahams) we were! Our company changed by the week. One week we had posturers and tumblers, the next wizards and human oddities. There were permanent employees like Conn, who oversaw the menagerie on the top floor, and Pikemartin who sat in his box to issue tickets and did the rounds of dusting off the waxwork figures and opening up and closing the shutters. But they were unusual. Mostly, our company came and went and that was sad, for a friend might be made and lost in a week. I hoped for better things to come, of course - prospects' as Madame Leonie called them - but I was content, for the present, to turn up every morning and do my shows in the second-floor front salon (Mr Abrahams had some odd affectations), and take my chink at the week's end. It was not a hard life - I had known much worse - and it was made pleasurable by the little habits I had invented, which a man is inclined to do when he is left to his own cognizance, and with no wife to order his days.

  Of a morning, I liked to take my breakfast at Garraway's, just around the corner from the great Pavilion Theatre, and a bare ten-minute walk from the Aquarium. It was not a fine eating establishment, nor even a good one, the coffee being liable to grittiness and the bread likewise, but the plates were large and well filled, and if the serving girl was frowsy-headed and the waiter wheezed like an old kettle, well, they were obliging enough. Every morning, at a quarter to nine, you would find me at my table in Garraway's front parlour, the dogs at my feet, enjoying my bread and coffee and, on high days, a chop or a slice of bacon. The fire was warm, the view from the window (of the busy street) distracting, the newspapers plentiful, and it was quiet enough to allow a man to compose himself for the labours of the day. It was there that I first encountered Fortinbras Horatio Trimmer, author of dramatic pieces for the Pavilion Theatre, and tales of a rip- roaring character for Barnard's Cornucopia, a weekly journal of literature, published every Saturday, price 2d. Messrs Picton Barnard of Silver-street were his most demanding employers and when I first set eyes upon Trim (as he allows his friends to call him), he was hard at work for them, frowning and scribbling at a table in the parlour corner, with only a single cup at his elbow, and a slice of bread (no butter), upon a plate before him. It was Brutus, that friendly fellow, who, as they say, broke the ice for, unprompted, he sidled over and laid his golden head upon Trim's knee. It was a touching sight and though I might have summoned him back to my side, I did not, but watched my faithful pal out of the corner of my eye. A hand absently fondling those silky ears was all the encouragement old Brutus needed to shuffle closer and then to lie at Trim's feet, as if they were pals together and had just strolled through the door.

  To be so singled out for affection touches most people, and indeed it would be a granite-hearted man who was not moved by the simple gesture of an innocent creature, so Brutus remained, and Trim returned to his scribbling, accomplished with a very stubby pencil and many sighs. For his part, Brutus was content to snore the hours away, stretched out upon his new friend's feet, and would have remained there all day, had not Nero roused himself, stretched and turned his wise old head to me with what I call his 'enquiring look'. Of course, he was right - we always leave for the Aquarium at half-past nine, and Brutus was ready, though I cannot tell how he knows the time. Trimmer too was roused, and he scratched his head with the end of his pencil and with his other hand rubbed Brutus' head, which was once again resting upon his knee. I summoned the dogs to me, saluted him (he didn't reply, but gazed vaguely in my direction), and we left for our work.

  And that was our first encounter, Trimmer and I, though we regularly shared Garraway's breakfast parlour, and Brutus, needing no introduction now, looked for him every morning. Trimmer was not always there, and I soon realized that his breakfast very much depended upon the condition of his purse. Sometimes I didn't see him for weeks, when I supposed he was on what theatricals call a 'starve'. If he appeared and ordered only a single cup of coffee and a slice of bread, then chink was scarce. But when he breakfasted regally upon coffee and bread and bacon, and invited me and my canine pals to join him, then it was certain that he had sold a story or found a manager interested in his latest dramatic piece.

  'Please, Chapman - Bob - come and join me! Here, you -' to the hovering waiter, 'set another place for my friend.'

  There would appear a snowy white cloth, and Trimmer, beaming and bountiful, made regular belly-cheer of Garraway's humble fare. Neither were Brutus and Nero ignored, for bread and bacon were brought for them, as well as any scraps the cook might have put by for the cats'-meat-man, until I quite feared for their condition. Satiated, we would enjoy a pipe, and it was in these confidential moments that Trim spoke of his work for Barnard's and the business of the dramatic writer, which seemed to necessitate the continuous burning of sixpenny candles until the sun rose. Messrs Barnard were voracious in their appetite for his stories, he said, and would take one a week, if he could only turn them out! But he had his dramatic work as well, and it was a keen balancing act he must perform. There were starves and feasts in the pen-driver's world, just as there was in the exhibition business, and he could not rest from either.

  One morning, we were enjoying a modest repast (the needle was still hovering above wet and windy' for us both), and Trim was musing, as ever, over his prospects. He had just finished another dramatic piece, Elenore the Female Pirate; or the Gold of the Mountain King, for Mr Carrier, the manager of the Pavilion, as well as a story, The Vulture's Bride; or the Adventures of Fanny Campbell, the Terror of the High Seas, for Barnard's Penny Series.

  He smiled. 'I know what you're thinking, Bob. Far too many female pirates! But, you know, they're very much "the thing", and I'm eager to have "the thing" at my pen's end. I don't care much whether it's a thundering melodrama at the Pavilion or a bloody romance in the hands of old man Barnard. I've had some little success in both camps, you know. Gentlemen highwaymen, for example. My pocket novel, The Black Highwayman; or Roderick, the Knight of the Road, has been constantly in print with Messrs Barnard for the last half year. And Lovegrove did sterling work in Jack Blackwood the Gentleman Robber at the Pav.'

  I tried not to smile, for my friend was desperately proud of his success in the penny novel line, and aspired to great things on the stage. It was only a matter of time, he often told me, before Mr Phelps of Drury-lane noticed him, and the great publishing houses of Chapman and Hall or Murray of Albemarle-street were sure to recognize his talent, which he sincerely believed was quite the equal of Messrs Thackeray and Dickens. As for the stories of pirates and the highwaymen, they were simply journeyman tasks, whilst he waited for the jewel of his inspiration and a hearty dose of luck to arrive. Then he produced two packets from his coat and laid them reverently upon the table.

  'Here, Bob, is The Vulture's Bride, a roistering tale of romance on the Spanish Main, which I shall deliver to the copyist before I attend the Pavilion Theatre where, at ten o'clock, we read the new Christmas piece, Elenore the Female Pirate.
En assemble, of course. I think old Carrier will be pleased with it. Pirates and savages are certainly a change from Harlequins and all that old-fashioned baggage!'

  I was not convinced. Call me a sentimental sort, but I like a pantomime at Christmas, no matter how old the jests or tawdry the tinsel. That is the essence of pantomime, in my book. A jolly jaunt with familiar friends, Harlequin and Columbine and Pantaloon. And if poor old Clown has been forced to change his clothes and masquerade as a Policeman, I can bite my tongue and still give him three cheers, as long as he is predictable and merry. But do away with him altogether? Even worse, do away with the Harlequinade and the Transformation Scene, where the skill of the scenic painter is shown in rippling water and toadstools becoming fairies? Never! Do away with this, and there will be more than me offended! Half of London will be on their feet, roaring, and the other half keeping their sixpences in their pockets and staying away from the theatre.

  But Trim will have none of it.

  'Oh, come now, Bob!' he said, seeing my downcast face. 'We must embrace change. Even in the theatre. The Pavilion will survive Christmas without a dusty, old-fashioned pantomime!'

  I was still not convinced. Folks around here are keen on old-fashioned things, dusty or not. But it was a hopeless cause, for Trim was already wiping his mouth and wrapping his muffler three times about his neck to keep out the cold and damp which had descended, like a stage cloth, about the city. And he was as cheerful as a dog with two tails.

  'I have a full day's work ahead of me, Bob,' he cried, 'and at its close, a month's rent and breakfasts. If not more!' and he strode out of Garraway's like a man just knighted! It was a pleasure to see him thus, for my friend Trimmer was given (he won't mind me saying) to periods of gloom and despondency, when the blue devils sit on his shoulder and he is fearsomely dejected. I think it is the artist in him, for I have noted in other men, the great Mr Dickens among them, and Mr Thackeray also, a world-weary disposition when I linger over their photographic portraits, displayed in the shop windows.

  But this morning, Brutus, Nero and I did not stop at the stationers on our way to the Aquarium. And it was not our day to take the quickest route around the back rows, nor a picturesque ramble along thriving streets of shops and new houses with their glimpses of cottage gardens. Today, our morning walk took us to a nearby expanse of wasteland which had been growing for some months and which seemed to change at every visit, for there was much hurry to complete a new railway line, part of which went under the ground in just this region and emerged, like a mole, miles away. Only a week ago, houses stood above the great cavern which had been dug out, and now, like a basher's grin, there was nothing but jagged gaps and piles of smoking rubble. A new vista, like a panorama, had opened up, showing the backs of buildings: dirty windows with missing panes and doors which had not seen a lick of paint, nor the soft end of a duster, in all their lives, displayed now for anyone to gawp at. Beyond them, an entire church spire rose up, where before there was just a weathercock, and everywhere seemed wider and bigger. At my feet, among the clayey puddles and mounds of earth, I had come across coins and pieces of ancient pot lying on the ground for anyone to find, and I had once again taken up my old pastime of antique-hunting, while my canine pals wandered at will with their noses to the ground.

  But this morning was mizzley, and not the weather for digging. A bitter wind laced with rain was at our back, and then flew in our faces like a scold's fury as we rounded the corner of Hob-lane, with the attic roof of the Aquarium just in view, and even Brutus and Nero looked enquiringly at me as we bent into the blast. On the other side of the deep chasm, a line of tidy, old houses, home to families on every floor (and in the cellar and attic too), was leaning further southward, like a deck of cards, and, by evening, might be boarded up or simply have tumbled into a heap of dust. For, in these days of improvement, many buildings simply fell down unaided, slipping into piles of bricks or collapsing into the great holes which suddenly appeared beneath them, their occupants killed, and even innocent passers-by. These houses, however, though their roof tiles had slid away and rags of curtains fluttered in the glassless windows, were at least shored up with timbers which stretched like bones out of joint into the soggy ground.

  On the fencing made from more old timbers (to prevent, I supposed, the houses falling in the other direction, into the diggings) the bill-poster had been active. A pageant of colourful announcements of sales and circuses, balloon ascents, gaff theatres and even the Aquarium, marched in close order in great black, inky letters on yellow, red and blue backgrounds. How strange to see them, fluttering and bright, across the terrible dark gulf carved out of the mire and mud. Before us lay the chasm, very deep, and at its bottom the dismal blackness of the railway cutting and a tunnel being built, one of many burrowing through the city. It was my horror. And my fascination. I was drawn to the very edge of it, to look down into its depths, to smell that stink of old earth and rottenness, and sometimes felt that an unseen force was pulling me towards it and I was powerless to resist, and it was only the hooting of the labourers that brought me to my senses.

  But what labourers they were! For this hard work attracted a species of 'cazzelty' (in the common tongue) like no other, one accustomed to the darkness and toil, and whose natural state was to be covered in dirt and clay. One newspaper writer claimed that these railway workings had produced 'a new species of men', 'troglodytes' he called them, and an artist in Mr Lemon's Punch showed them in a comical picture with shovels and picks for arms. And, in spite of my horror, I was fascinated, and have stood and watched them digging and clawing in the soil, hauling upon ropes and hoists to lower timbers and bricks and drawing up cart-loads of spoil, whilst roaring and cursing like savages. But in these foul places, where the filth and stench of the earth take the place of God's good air, men, I think, become more like beasts, and are reduced to the very baseness of their natures.

  Even in the regions above, there was no escaping them. Those cazzelties who could not afford lodgings simply claimed an empty house or set up make-shift camps, and here and there on the wasteland, thin strings of smoke from fires and from the canvas mushrooms of their rough tents rose into the murk. It seemed to me the most wretched of existences, yet these men brought their families with them, and I have seen grubby, bright-eyed children splashing in the muddy pools whilst their mothers crouched over blackened pots, all of them as filthy as if they had just crept out of the mire below. Of course, tales about them quickly sprang up, though not so pleasant even as your Bluebeards or Spring-heeled Jacks. Stories were rife of thievings and barbarous assaults (the usual crimes done by the poor and ignorant), but also of attacks upon women and child-stealing, which we all know are the crimes favoured by foreigners, and gypsies especially. Not a hundred paces away, a woman and two small children were watching me, so I gave them a wide berth, straying closer to the chasm's edge, close enough indeed to have that stink of wet earth and ancient corruption rise up to greet me from the gloom like an old friend, and to feel myself, as ever, drawn to those fearsome regions.

  Suddenly, there was a rush, a roar and the world turned over, with me in its arms. Someone, no more than a bundle of rags, I at first thought, and in a great hurry, glanced my shoulder, sending me careering to the ground, where I landed heavily in a pool of clayey water. I lay there, momentarily stunned, as cheers and laughter rose up from the cazzelties below, although whether at my dousing or in encouragement or warning to the boy, it was impossible to say. What is certain is that the plunging figure was a boy, and he was running and sliding along the top of the rough embankment as though every devil in hell was at his heels. He was in a desperate, a frantic hurry, perilously close to the rough edge of the chasm, and entirely careless of his own safety. But why he was running, or from who or what, was a mystery. When the cry of 'Who chases?' rose up from the cazzelties, I expected at every moment to see a burly constable or chimney-master in pursuit of him. But there was no one. The sky had grown dark with clouds and
rain, the air thick and murky, almost a fog now, and all I could see were a handful of idlers peering over the fence on the opposite side of the cutting. Not a cry, nor a 'Stop, thief!', just the muffling dankness of the winter morning. And certainly no one in pursuit of the fleeing boy. But pursued he believed he was, for I watched him from my puddle, slipping and sliding and constantly looking over his shoulder, running blind again, teetering upon the brink and almost losing his footing and threatening to descend, head over tip, into that oblivion, only to recover himself at the last moment and press on.

  I did not see it happen, and could only suppose that the boy did stumble and lose his footing and slipped over the edge of the cutting. But if he grasped at the muddy banks, at the loose boulders and soil, even the straggling bushes and grasses, he did so silently, and then plunged out of sight, for he made not a murmur. Of course, I struggled to my knees and crawled through the sticky mire to find him, but when I reached the edge of the chasm, on all fours, with the mud soaking into my clothes, expecting to see him clinging to the bankside, he was nowhere to be seen. And below was that terrible descent of clay and rock and darkness.