I turned, intending to go back to the theatre. And there he was. On the steps of the Pavilion, with its white marble front and fine portico, he was leaning against one of the pillars, like a regular stroller I thought, and looking directly at me.
The grampus.
The fat man.
He was, just as Trim had described him, full faced and with a head as round and bald as a bladder of lard. He looked, for all the world, like a baby, but old in years, if such a thing can be imagined. And this sensation was increased by what might have been an amiable smile, except that it revealed teeth that were much too small for his mouth. A ghostly smudge of white on very pink gums.
He bowed and saluted with his hat.
A fine morning, sir,' said he, gesturing to the sky. Though misty now, I think it will improve.' His voice took me by surprise. It was high, like a little child's. 'But - ah! - days in London, sir! What joy! What sweetness! These young ones' - and he gestured with a flourish to a group of four or five little girls playing on the steps - 'how they thrive, sir! Bloom and ripen! Their rosy lips! Their rosy cheeks! Red as a well-scratched slit!'
From beneath pale lashes, his eyes flickered, but whether he was gauging my reaction to his obscenity, or looking at the children, I could not tell.
'One hopes, of course, that they are well-behaved. That their mothers chastise them often. With a stick, perhaps. Or a strap. To make them good children.'
This was the very man, I thought, described by Trim. There could not be two in all of London. There could not be two coats like his. Tailored to his massive form, allowing him easy movement, and beneath it, a light-coloured waistcoat, pale-yellow satin, I would say, and exquisitely brocaded. An old-fashioned crimson bow dropped beneath his bull chin. Down the steps he came, appearing to tiptoe, elegantly, lightly, for such a giant and, with his tiny eyes upon mine, extended an ungloved hand. Pale, fat fingers, like sausages in tight skins, and on each one were many rings, all smothered by a surfeit of flesh. The hand which grasped mine was warm and moist, and from him came a very pleasant aroma of good soap.
'You are a theatrical man I see, sir?' he said without preamble. 'Ah, what a profession! All the world is surely a stage, sir. And all the men and women merely players, as the great man said.' He was performing, surely. 'But just men and women, sir? What of the children? What of them, sir? With their soft limbs and willing temperaments. Ready to do our bidding, sir, or be whipped into obedience if they don't.' He put a finger to his mouth as if to suppress the giggle which, like a child's, high and uncontrolled, erupted from him. He rolled and guffawed and held his stomach, and produced a huge scarlet handkerchief and wiped his eyes and lips. And then he began again.
Repulsion is a strong word. It rarely springs to my lips, for
I am a man who will generally tolerate the oddities of his fellows. But it defined this man, with his pink and fleshy face, his tight rotundity, his pleasant odour of warm pampering. Only good manners forced me to nod and smile whilst I tried to pull away, though he, still smiling (and how very small his teeth were!), held my fingertips firmly in his.
'My dear sir. I detain you. My chattering. Unforgivable. And your clever friends. Yes.'
Did he reach down and give Brutus's soft ear a tug? I think so, for my boy flinched and turned his brown eyes, questioningly, upon me.
'Do you have the packet about you, sir? I observed that the boy handed it to you before I could claim it. A very naughty boy. Taking things which don't belong to him.'
His face had grown pink now, and his eyes were narrowed into mere slits.
'Stealing's stealing, my little mother used to say, and whipped me soundly until my little cheeks were red and I was sent to bed. A bad boy.' He paused and tugged at Brutus's ear and wiped his face again with the scarlet handkerchief. But instead of replacing it in his pocket, he began knotting it. One, two, three, and so on, evenly along, and with a swiftness that was mesmerizing.
'So, sir, the boy, the packet. Containing the pictures, don't you know. Belonging to - another party - who is impatient for their return. Don't be stubborn, sir. You know, and I know you have it. Isn't that so, Brutus?'
My boy knows his name and looked up at the man with mild and trusting eyes.
'A noble animal, sir, and a noble name,' he said. T have a name, Mr Chapman. They call me the Nasty Man. Ha.
Perhaps it is familiar to you? In my green and tender youth I had a certain - reputation.'
Suddenly, the handkerchief, with its knots, was around Brutus's neck. My boy struggled and I put out my hand to stop the business, but the man caught it and slipped his fingers between mine, crushing them hard against the heavy rings, and drawing me into his breathing space.
'Don't signal to your other hound, or this one is dead. A skill once acquired, sir. One never loses it, does one? Believe me, I will rub out this creature with one hand before you can blink.'
He drew me closer.
'The Nasty Man, Mr Chapman. Definition? The apple- picker, sir. The pipe-player, sir. The g'rotter, sir,' and he gave a tug on the handkerchief, at which Brutus struggled wildly. 'I am more familiar with the human gullet, but I don't draw a line at a buffer's. I want the packet, sir, the one the boy gave you.' He was no longer smiling.
Brutus was choking and writhing and I struggled in the Nasty Man's grasp. At length, pursing his lips, he released us, and I grabbed both dogs and pulled them away. Brutus, panting and wide-eyed, fixed himself to my leg, whilst Nero growled low. I rubbed my throbbing fingers, which were already bruised and beginning to swell.
'Now, you are perfectly sensible as to our arrangements, my dear sir? And the consequences? You would not wish to lose your position, sir. Not given these difficult times and the favour with which you are generally regarded. It would be an evil day, sir, if a wicked tale were put about. One which besmirched your good reputation.'
It was as if he were a different man! His voice, the manner in which he spoke, the words which fell from his mouth in a stream, without pause. Not vile and dirty, but as though they were slicked with butter! He inclined his head, nodded, raised his eyebrows. We might have been a couple of acquaintances, passing the time of day.
He wanted the packet and its contents. He had followed the boy, seen him give it to me. Ergo, I must know him. He tried to snatch the boy, but he got away again. He was tired of the business. He didn't need to repeat himself, did he? There would be undesirable consequences for me if I persisted in my stubbornness. He would find me again. He was sure I understood.
Then, as though we had finished our conversation with pleasantries and he had pleaded an appointment with a clergyman, he smoothed his coat, adjusted his rings, saluted me and said, with a smile that revealed again that smudge of teeth and pink gums, 'Brutus. Nero. Sir. A pleasure. A pleasure indeed.'
He moved slowly along the street with an easy step, as though he owned it. Not simply because he was so large that people had to step aside to let him pass. Nor that he smiled and nodded with beguiling amiability. But it was the authority with which he did everything, from the tipping of his hat, to the flashing of his rings, even to the wearing of his coat, which waved about his ankles but never once drifted into a puddle or glanced a cabbage leaf. With two fingers, he delicately pinched up his skirts so that they were not dirtied, not a thread of them. Any other man might be reckoned a regular Margery and called after in the street. But not this man.
Never this man.
A Morning Walk — Strong's Gardens
I spent a restless night, which is uncommon for me. My boys, too, were unsettled. And I knew why, for the Nasty Man was like a smell which lingers in your nose and will not be got rid of, no matter how much lavender and lime you splash about. Sleep would not come, and worries had begun to take up residence in its place, so we got up with the milkchurn, and set out for Strong's Gardens.
I recognize the onset of melancholy - a condition I have lived with for many years - and I know that if I treat it early, I can put it away. And
as my boys and I stepped it out briskly in the chill air and worked up a glow - for it is easy to walk these early streets, with no crowds and little noise - I began to feel easier with the world. We made good time, and needed to, for this was no leisurely meander. Before we returned to the Aquarium, we must reach a bridge, wide enough for two carts, and with steps at each end for those on foot, where the water is clean and, in the shallows, clear enough to see fish. There are grassy banks on either side on which ducks roost, and there are those trees which dip their leaves and branches into the water. Beyond the bridge, hardly a sparrow's hop, is Strong's Gardens and, as we legged it out,
I pictured it getting closer and closer. I always take heart as the houses become villas and then cottages, and there are fewer warehouses and more blacksmiths, for these are signs that the countryside, with its clean air and green fields, grows ever closer. We quickened our steps when, round the last bend in the road, the bridge came into view. Then Brutus and Nero scurried down the bank and plunged into the river, scattering ducks and sending up waves. They are not great swimmers, for they are not accustomed to water, but they do enjoy, I think, the cold water on their bellies and feet, and in the warmer weather they stand on the sandy bottom drinking in great gulps and watching the ducks float by. For my part, I am happy to wait for my boys to quench their thirst and I take pleasure in their enjoyment, and in the anticipation of our goal.
Today, although the sky was grey and the air chilly, we were still cheered to see the little bridge and the trees and the river, and Brutus and Nero enjoyed the water, though it was cold and they risked only a dip rather than a plunge. I sat on the step by the bridge and paused to watch the carts go past. Mostly, it is the early greens that go rattling over the cobbles, when the dozy carters (some of whom have travelled through the night) begin to rouse themselves and boys' heads appear among the watercress and cabbages. They are so very much of the country, and by no means can they be mistaken for a city carter. It is not simply their manner which is generally slower and gentler, but something more. Sometimes they do bring the country with them into the city streets. In summer, for instance, many carters have a sprig of buttercups behind their ear, or in their hat a rose or a twist of ivy plucked from the hedgerow. In the winter months, I sometimes notice a blade of grass caught in the horse's harness, and then I think of the farm they might have come from and the clean simplicity of that life. Perhaps, turning out of its yard, waiting for his master to close a gate or call to his boy, the patient carthorse tugged at a tuft of grass and enjoyed its freshness, his last taste of the countryside before the city. And, because of his eagerness, a blade or two is caught in his harness and travels with him, through the night, along the lanes, a gentle reminder that there is home and a comfortable stable after his hard day's labour. As a child, I lived for a while among fields and hills, and it was perhaps the happiest time of my life and why I take pleasure now in earth and sky rather than bricks and buildings. The city is all I have known for many years, but I have sweet memories of yellow fields of corn and the smell of the rain upon dry earth, and those remembrances will calm my terror of the shadows and sweeten dark melancholy.
We had our destination in view now, and following the carts over the bridge and along the road a way, we came to a little fence and a sign that said 'Strong's Gardens. Finest Quality Vegetables. Suppliers to Royalty'. I unlatched the gate and we went in. This was the spot, and it gives me such pleasure to come here that, sometimes, I have waited by the bridge just to make the pleasure of arriving last a little longer! Today though, my boys were ahead of me, bounding down the path, on either side of which are fields of cabbages, all as neat and tidy as a widow's pocket. At the end of the path is a small house (once a lodge, I think, for this area belonged to a lord and there was a great house, long since destroyed) and, in the doorway, Mr Titus Strong. He is built like one of his horses - broad-shouldered, a strong head and a clear eye - and, like them, good-natured. The best of men. He is perhaps sixty years of age (it is difficult to be certain for, to me, he has always looked the same), but he it was who gave me friendship and a kindly word when I was in great need, and who I visit whenever I can.
We went into the kitchen and I sat at the scrubbed table and watched him cut bread and bacon and fill a cup with strong tea. He pushed the plate towards me and bade me 'Eat well and God be wi' ye, Bob' (for he is a religious man of the Methodist persuasion and struggles to keep it to himself) whilst he fetched scraps and water for Brutus and Nero. Then he settled himself opposite me and filled his own cup and talked about the Gardens and the crops, what cabbages will fetch and how he had bought strawberry plants 'to try out and see if they will do anything' this year. After I'd supped, he picked up his hat and stick and we went out into the chill air. The gardens were misty and damp, and the cabbages rose like so many heads from the ground. We took this path and that, winding in and out, and my friend pointed to 'that plot, Bob, by the big plum tree, where I shall try artichokes this year and see if they will do anything'. That is his philosophy: to 'see if it will do anything'. Never forcing a crop, but tending the soil and the seeds and making the beds just so with spade and muck, and then simply watching and waiting. For if he has a quality which rises above all others, it is that of patience.
'And now, Bob, you know what I want to hear. Have you seen her, my Lucy?'
Brutus and Nero lingered at either side of him and when he touched their heads, ever so lightly, they wagged their tails in appreciation. He smiled down at them.
'These are your children, Bob. You care for them, keep them safe. You would give your right arm to protect them.'
I thought of the Nasty Man and his wicked handkerchief.
'I hoped you had come with news of my child. But I see you haven't.'
He struggled to control his grief, and coughed loudly, turning away so that I shouldn't see his tears. But his wife, Grace, had, coming through the gate with a basket of eggs. She was tall, very tall, and with features which, though never beautiful, were striking. A man might look twice at her, though if they stared, she was not above giving them a terrific tongue-lashing.
'Her past,' Titus Strong once said to me, 'is still her present. She was a circus child and as wild as a feral cat when I found her and brought her to God. But though He has multiplied her affection and tenderness, He has not yet seen fit to curb her tongue.'
'Bob,' she said to me with a smile, and then took her husband's hand in hers. 'Now then, my dear, what's all this? Lucy again?' She turned to me. 'I tell him: Lucy will be found when she wants to be found, and not before. You must let her be, and not pester Bob to go out looking for her.'
When I first worked in the city, feeling that I should oblige my old friend, I went out and searched for Lucy Strong, who had run away from home to follow an actor. This fellow had, of course, ruined her and deserted her almost immediately, and she was ashamed to return to her parents. That was the tale Strong told himself, and who was I to dispute it? I diligently tracked the streets in search of her. Knowing that her lover was an actor, I visited the back door of every theatre, high and low, and scoured the taverns and publics which actors visited, but it was like seeking a pearl in a hailstorm. Had she changed her name? Or joined the profession? That was possible, but made her no easier to find. Eventually, though it pained me to see her father's desperate conviction that Lucy would be found, I was ever more convinced that she was lost, sunk so low that she felt her shame was intolerable. And I think Mrs Strong was of the same opinion, though she would not break her husband's heart by saying so. But I have seen her shake her head and bite her lip as he spoke of his hope of finding Lucy.
In the chill of that winter morning, in the midst of cabbages and kale, I realized I had much to be grateful for: my good friends, Will and Trim, Mr Abrahams, a kind employer, and Mr Carrier too, perhaps. A clean room in a tidy neighbourhood and a life which, strangely, suited me. Bar the unpleasantness of the past few days, it was mostly peaceful, and if I could keep this cal
m and ordered way of being, it was a life I could be happy with. My needs are few, I live simply enough so I can afford to put a little money by. I save a penny here, sixpence there. Sometimes a shilling. And not for my old age! A year ago, in this very kitchen with his wife frying bacon in a pan on the fire, Titus Strong put a proposition to me.
'Now then, Bob, we know each other pretty well now. How many years is it since you came here, broken-down and weary?'
A long time ago, I thought. Ten years? Who knows? Time flies apace. But once there was a pale young fellow, with no money and no heart. And along came Titus Strong, with an arm swelled up like a balloon (it had turned septic), and a shilling in his pocket for a man to drive a cartful of cabbages to a city market and back. He gave me that shilling and a hearty dinner and, when I returned, a bed for the night in the tool-shed. The following morning, he gave me another sixpence and a slice of bread and bacon, and reminded me that honesty towards my fellow man would bring its own reward. And to be sure and visit him if I ever strayed that way again. Which I did and have done ever since.
'He talked about you all the next day and for weeks after,' said Mrs Strong. 'He said, as soon as he saw you, he knew you wouldn't make off with his cart and horse and a load of cabbages. Mind you, his judgement is not always up to Solomon's,' she continued. 'There have been them who have led him a right dance. What about the lad who robbed you of every spade and shovel, hoe and trowel, you owned?'
Strong laughed. 'Aye, and the wheelbarrow to carry them away with!'
The fire crackled and the bacon spat in the pan. We sat for a long time, until Mrs Strong clicked her tongue impatiently.
'Well, Mr Strong? Are you going to keep Bob waiting here till the final trumpet? What about your proposition?'
Titus Strong frowned.
The Newgate Jig Page 5
