'No more questions!' cried the boy, and he screwed his fists into his eyes and ground his teeth. 'I don't know! I don't know!'
Will put a strong arm around his shoulders and Brutus, of course, pushed his head under Barney's arm. I busied myself with the tea and soon had the pot filled, but then discovered I had no milk. (I am a devotee of tea with milk and cannot now abide it in its raw state.) It was but a step, with my little can, out of the Aquarium to the dairy shop, four doors away.
I went for milk, but did not return so soon.
Rough-making
I am not a violent man and, indeed, hate violence of any kind. I avoid it. Have sometimes been called a coward. But I cannot help my nature. I once contemplated joining the Society of Friends when I learned that they embraced mildness and shun aggression, and I think they would have suited me. Perhaps in such gentle company, I might have put behind me the brutality which marked out my childhood in pain and fear and which, even now, stalks my dreams.
When I am asleep, I see my father. A small man with rough hands and arms covered in scars. His profession was to mind furnaces and kilns. Especially brick-kilns. Any brick-kiln, he was not partial. My mother and I trailed the country with him, living in cheap rooms when he had work, and in sheds and under arches when he was out of a shop. He was a brute, both in word and deed, and my memories of him (for he died when I was six years old) are of his fist, hard and cracked like old wood, the snarling twist of his mouth and his boots.
Yes, when I dream, I see him, and hear the roar of his voice and feel the thud of his fist and boots.
Much as I do now, as four roughs deal with me. They have dragged me into the narrow passageway at the side of Climmber's chandlery and, business-like, have set about me with their stampers and fives. My little milk can, about which I am very anxious, skitters away down the passage, bumping against the sides and performing somersaults. I watch with concern as it comes to rest upside down against an old ship's figurehead, like a begging bowl.
The roughs are thorough in their work and take pains to leave no part of my body unattended to. Indeed, they go over it twice. To be certain. And only when I am curled in a ball and a pool of blood has begun to gather beneath me, do they stop and survey their handiwork. One turns me over, and another inspects the job with a practised eye.
'He's had a fine gruelling,' says the last. 'A neat piece of work. Enough.'
'Indeed,' says another, rubbing his fist, 'and only one blue knuckle to show.'
Finally, the first crouches down and puts his mouth to my ear: he has the foul breath of long-eaten meat and onions.
'Now then, small beer. Unless you want your dogs poisoned and their legs broke as well, you will give up them properties what are not yourn when next applied to.'
He nudges me with his boot and a shaft of pain tears through my chest. Then it goes dark and quiet.
Mr Climmber came out of his shop only once (to fetch a bag of chains or something that rattled). He stepped over me very carefully. I was glad of that for when I didn't move, the pain was not too great, and I could doze and wake, and spend what seemed like hours examining the mossy ranges of the cobbles with one eye, the other having closed up. How long I lay there, I don't know. Hours or days, it was all the same. Sometimes I slipped into childhood again, and dreamed that
I was in my mother's arms. But the smell of the cobbles, as powerful as sal volatile, awoke me to those nights when I hid from my drunken father, when, as my poor mother, rubbing her bruised face, would say, he was 'on a certain rampage'. Then I listened for his heavy step and the tirade of words and fists with which he battered every face and door, and squeezed myself into the smallest crack and held my breath. But, no matter how quiet and careful I was, he always found me. Then came that hard hand to prise me out and those wicked boots kicked at my refuge, and I retreated, like a mouse into a hole, until I was squeezed so tight, my knees pressed hard into my chest, that I couldn't breathe. He waited, I think, until I was overcome with panic. Only then would I allow myself to be dragged out, and his boots were the last things I saw before the rain of blows and the pain.
When I saw boots before me once again, I started, but I knew these were not my father's. They were dusty and shifted this way and that, and they were followed, not by blows and curses, but a murmur and a gentle hand upon my shoulder - I prayed that the hand would not move me so much as a hair's breadth, for moving my shoulder produced a bolt of pain which shot through my neck and coursed around my skull and left me gasping for air. But whoever it was left and I was pleased, for I could sink back into the oozy darkness which had enveloped me. Then came a clatter on the cobbles, like an army marching past my ear, and all light was suddenly blotted out, and I believe I panicked and thrashed about before I heard Will's voice, coming from a long way away.
'By the Lord Harry, Bob old fellow, what have you been up to? Look at you. Dear God, what has the poor devil suffered? Now then, I've told you before to leave those rowdy bob-tails to me, you naughty fellow! See, your two fine friends have come to look you over
And indeed, here were Brutus and Nero, nuzzling my aching hands, and knowing, somehow, to be gentle. But though I was more glad to see them than the sun in the morning, I was also fearful for their safety, given what the roughs had threatened, and as Will raised me carefully to my feet, I made certain that they were at my side. To be sure, they never left me, and Brutus, with a gentleness that was so affecting it brought tears to my eyes, by turn licked my hand and breathed upon it as if to reassure me that he was my protector.
Though Mr Climmber remained within his dark shop, with the door shut, at the passage end a little crowd had assembled, and I was greeted by oohs and aahs and kind words, as well as jests.
Take more water with it, mate!' cried a barrow-man.
'Not Aldgate water!' cried another. 'He'll be dead before morning!' and other less charitable jibes.
Most were sympathetic, though, and bemoaned the violence of the streets and how 'an honest man couldn't fetch a can of milk these days without being robbed'.
Mr Abrahams called a cab to take me to my lodgings and in the same breath summoned constables to look for the bashers who had attacked a valuable employee. Will had to lift me into the cab and insisted on coming along.
It is strange how impressions run in moments of pain and distress. As I clung to the window sash, trying to shut out the agony caused by the cab's shuddering wheels on the cobbles, the scene in the street seemed to play before me at half speed: Mr Abrahams on the kerb, frowning and shaking his head, Pikemartin in the doorway of the Aquarium still and blank as a statue, the boy, Barney, on the steps rubbing his eye. And Mrs Gifford, in widow's black, scurrying around the corner and, seeing my face at the cab window, stopping dead.
My lodgings - I never invite anyone there - are in Portland- road, in a row of quiet houses, all three-storeys with adjoining areas which at one time, perhaps seventy years ago, might have been smart, attracting nice families or a solicitor on his way up. Now they are, as Mrs Twentyfold, the lady of the house, put it, 'not of a piece', by which I think she meant all in different states of repair and use. Certainly, the upper end, nearest a pocket park, was tidier and better kept than the farthest end, where lodgings rubbed shoulders with houses in which every room was let to a copyist or scribe, the cellar to a noisy shoemaker and the attic, of course, to as many tailors and their boys as could be shoe-horned under the skylights. Mrs Twentyfold's establishment was snug between two similar houses, one taken entirely by clerks, and the other by a roaming community of commercial travellers, those cheery men who are as attached to their bag as they are to their regular enquiry of 'What do you travel in?' addressed to anyone carrying a card or a parcel. According to Mrs Twentyfold, I am something of a flamer; that is, I am unusual, but not in a good way. Mrs Twentyfold did not take in 'theatricals' as a rule, neither did her neighbours, but her second-floor back room had stood empty for three weeks and, as she said, pocketing my week-in-advance and
removing the cruet, 'beggars can't be choosers'. Nevertheless, she looked upon me with a steely eye and my two boys also, and
I think was only awaiting a lawyer's clerk in search of chambers, to find an excuse to turn me out. Given her already strong prejudices, she was none too happy at the sight of me in single mourning with a bloody nose and limping, when she opened the door.
'I want no trouble here,' she began in a low voice, which was for my ears only. This is a quiet house and respectable. I already put up with your animals and your unnatural hours. I won't have trouble as well. Think on, Mr Chapman, and mend your ways, or you'll be looking for another room.'
I tried to ignore her and Will nodded and tipped his hat, but it did not silence her, and we were accompanied by a monologue concerning the tribulations of being a landlady as we mounted the stairs to my room. I was not ashamed of it - I keep it neat and clean, and it is my room, my corner of the world which, for the first time in my entire life, is my own. I would rather it remained that way, but at this moment, unless I determined to crawl up, step by step, on hands and knees, I had to lean upon Will and allow him in. My eye was swollen shut and the other throbbed, and there was a swelling upon my cheek and around my jaw which was hard to ignore. I would very much like to have lain down, but that could not be, said Will, until he had attended to me. He unlocked my door, threw up my blind, raked out my fire, laid a new one and put a light to it. He filled my kettle and lit my lamp. Then he sat me on the edge of my bed and took a few steps back to give me a good once-over and, after helping me off with my coat, found a bowl and water and some cloths and set to work. He had gentle hands and talked constantly, to distract me from the pain.
'What did they steal from you, Bob? I've never seen you with a watch and chain and if you're harbouring a bag of treasure, you must have swallowed it!'
He frowned and I winced.
'Did that hurt, old fellow? I'm sorry.'
He worked in silence for a while and then began musing upon Barney and his father's difficulties. 'I wonder who George Kevill had put out,' he said. 'It must have been someone significant, otherwise why would they want to destroy him? You know he was pinched for murdering a ladybird? The boy says that was a put-up business, that witnesses were paid to finger him.' He was silent for a moment. 'It was only a few weeks back that he danced the Newgate jig, as they say. And left the kid to shift for himself.'
Will went to pour the bloody water away in the scullery downstairs and boil some fresh. It was not a pretty tale. Even Trim might think twice about making a story of it. And though perhaps I did recall reading about a hanging, those desperate men who make light of the Newgate jig are common enough. Men like the Nasty Man. Danger made them bold. So that if the Nasty Man believed that Barney had passed to me something he wanted or believed was his that morning outside the Pavilion, if he thought I had some association with the boy or his father, well, I had salt on my tail, like it or not, and that man would pursue me through hell and high water. And, if any were persuasion was needed, well my cuts and bruises were evidence enough.
I jumped when Will opened the door, and again when someone knocked upon it. And I was relieved when he cried, 'Look here, Bob, who is come a-visiting you! Your friend and that famous pen-driver from the Pavilion, and soon-to-be Albemarle-street, Fortinbras Horatio Trimmer!'
Trim smiled faintly, enquired after my injuries, shook his head in sympathy and lapsed into awkward silence, perched on the only chair. Will brought more fresh water and dealt with my swollen knuckles, at the same time recounting the strange events of the day to Trim, who was as mystified as we were. Finally, when he could get a word in between Will's, Trim said, 'You were in the soup for a while, Lovegrove. You didn't say where you'd gone, and when the Gov sent around to the Aquarium to see if you were there, and Mrs - What's-'er-name? - Gifford? said you were in a bad way, Bob - well, everything was sent awry.' He laughed. 'We were forced to have costumes instead of rehearsals, Mr Pirate Hero, and you missed the attentions of Miss Pikemartin.'
Will never raised his eyes, but I thought his cheeks coloured at the mention of her name.
'Bob Chapman has been wretchedly knocked about,' he volunteered, dabbing at my knuckles, 'but he is a stalwart fellow and a true Englishman, and never let a comrade down, or dropped anchor in another man's port. Do you think your excellent landlady might have some witch-hazel in her cupboard? That is a sure way of treating fighting injuries.'
She had - for a penny, of course. And would send out for anything Will required - for a consideration. But the witch-hazel was sufficient.
'I'm afraid you won't do much damage with these fives for a while, Bob,' Will said, shaking his head. He was right. My hands were more badly injured than I had at first realized. The knuckles, where I had tried to fend off the roughs' kicks and blows, were cut and broken, and so swollen that I could not flex my hand at all, and my fingers were red and tight. Besides, every touch and movement pained me now, no matter how careful Will was. And he did seem to know about bruising and swelling and breaks - though he thought I had none of the latter - and I wondered whether this was another of his dark secrets, particularly when he said, with a wry smile, 'I remember the great Tom Spring would swear by witch-hazel. Said there was nothing evil about the way it mended his fists after he had smashed Jack Langan! So I think it'll do for you, Bob, my friend.'
Finally, Will declared me 'well and truly doctored' and announced that now he really must return to the Pavilion. He had a performance of Perilous and Drear that evening and, of course, if Miss Fleete and her assistant were still on hand, he said, he should attend to his costume. Trim smiled faintly, and I followed them downstairs to the door, though they urged me to stay within. But I was eager to breathe the outside air, and with my dogs at my heels, we stood on the top step of the house and watched our friends disappear into the gloom, having agreed that, if I felt more like myself and was desirous of company, I should meet them at the Cheese that evening, though they wouldn't blame me if I didn't.
They are kind friends, I thought, as I slowly climbed the stairs, watched from a crack in the door by Mrs Twentyfold, but I was glad they had gone. I wanted nothing more than to shut the door and light the candles - I prefer candle-light to all others - and with Brutus and Nero taking their ease on their rugs either side the crackling fire where the kettle hisses, to sit, warm and quiet.
I looked around my little room, with its comfortable corners and familiar objects. My little shelf of books, the pictures (cut from the illustrated papers) tacked to the wall, my collection of treasures gathered from the wasteland and displayed for my own pleasure on a table. Candles burned with a pleasant bright light. The fire sputtered, and sparks flew merrily up the chimney. The kettle stood ready. The tea tin, with its pink Japanese flowers, was in its usual place. A cup and saucer. A plate of bread and cheese in the cupboard. My bed was made, my dogs in their places. Everything was in order.
But not quite. For, like a button in the poor box, something had crept in uninvited. And it was not that Will and Trim had been here, had disordered my bed and the little rug before the fire and left their footmarks upon the floor, the impressions of their fingers upon the window pane. They would soon fade and be gone. Nor the ugly slops of bloody water, the bottle of witch-hazel. No, it was as if fear itself had taken shape and walked in with me, and was now, like a shadow, behind and before me. Even the air was fouled by it, and suddenly I felt stifled and, panicking, stumbled to the door and down the stairs, to the street steps where I clung to railings and breathed as deeply as my injured lungs would allow. Which was where I was discovered by Mrs Twentyfold. After some moments' scrutiny, she brought me water in a chipped cup, and then wrestled with the dilemma of whether to offer me consolation or complaint. In the end, she settled for an equal distribution of the two.
'Of course, I shouldn't wonder at you getting knocked about, Mr Chapman,' she began, 'given the company you keep and the visitors you get. Why, I have been to the door a dozen times
this week with people asking for you, and I won't have it. This is a respectable house and your callers were not all respectable people.'
She looked up and down the street and sniffed. 'They leave no card nor message, and that does not signify respectability.
Mind you, neither were they theatricals. My late husband was one of the first Buffaloes - the Buffs they were known as - him being a stage-hand at the Drury-lane Theatre. So there is little you can tell me about theatricals. Now, your Mr Lovegrove - he is a respectable theatrical, and a man my late husband would have opened a door to. And your Mr Trimmer, who I hear is a dramatic author, though not quite of "the calibre", as my late husband would say, but is still a respectable person. Both of them I am willing to allow over my doorstep, though not regular. This is a lodging house, not a cutting-shop.'
Sometimes Mrs Twentyfold's associations were difficult to follow, but her chatter was strangely calming and lapped over me like waves.
'Of course, there are some - in this very street - who are not so particular as I, and who will rent a room to any hawcubite, as my late husband used to say. But not I, Mr Chapman. This is a respectable lodging house. I know I repeat myself, but if it's true, it's worth saying over. It may not be a prince's bedful, nor even a queen's cup of malt, but it is respectable.'
Weary to the bone, I clung to the railing, but she didn't appear to notice.
'I have no objection to the very large gentleman, Mr Chapman,' she continued. 'He claimed to be a friend of yours, though I don't recall his name.' She mused, 'A refined gentleman, I thought, perhaps a Buff, though not a theatrical, that was very clear. As you are aware, I have lived among theatricals all my life, and need no introduction. My father was a stroller in Mr Whiston's company. The King's Lynn Circuit. And my mother, before she married, was Miss Flygrove.'
The Newgate Jig Page 11
