The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  Surely the flue was never this long?

  Suppose I was stuck, and could go forwards or back and could not - ah, the horror of it chokes me even now! - could not turn round.

  A sudden yell - 'You! Donkey's arse!' - hurtled me back to the present. I was pummelled by a man with a handcart. His potatoes and cabbages have been knocked to the ground. It was my fault. Couldn't I see him coming? He wasn't invisible, was he? I picked up the potatoes, the cabbages. I put them on the cart, carefully placing each one as if they might break. Finally, the man lost patience and, with another thump upon my arm, pushed me out of the way, declaring that the city would fill its mouth with empty spoons whilst he waited for me, and threw the remaining vegetables on the cart himself. His parting gesture was to hurl two potatoes at Brutus and Nero, at which they yelped, and one at me, which caught me hard on the side of the head.

  'Donkey's arse!' he cried again. 'Tom o' Bedlam! Yah!'

  I cannot answer him.

  I have never uttered a sound since that day when my father's black and terrible mouth turned silently upon me. It is not that I do not want to talk, but that I cannot. The sounds do not spring to my lips. My throat is barren, though I have words waiting to be tried, many words which sound in my head but never come to my lips.

  Words of love. If I could, I would be bold and declare to Em Pikemartin that I love her above and beyond all women. I would shake Will Lovegrove by the hand and say, 'Will, you are the best of fellows! Come to Garraway's and let us feast!'

  But before any other sound passed my lips, I would say the names of my two boys, my Brutus and Nero, for they have never heard my voice. I would call them to me by name, and tell them they are good dogs, and teach them the words to 'Heel!' and 'Fetch!'

  Only in my dreams do I have a voice, and then, why, I can bawl Will Lovegrove twice off the stage! Often, I wake with my mouth open and have the impression that words will leap to my lips. I wait and listen, but no sound comes. I wonder what my voice would be like now, for I have never heard it, a man's voice, except as an echo in my head. The last words I ever uttered, which no one heard, were to my father, who was already dead.

  'Pa,' I said to him, 'Pa.'

  And that was my childhood, snatched away. I have never sung childish rhymes nor played childish games, nor yelled and hallooed in the streets. Christmas songs I have never sung, nor Easter hymns, nor Harvest Home, yet I know every word and every note. And I have never called for my mother or my father since.

  That ravaged childhood I re-live in dreams and in those dark places inhabited by my blue devils. My little life, when I begged and tramped, when I found kindness and cruelty. Children can make a home anywhere, even the gutter. If they have nowhere to go, they will crouch for hours watching the trickle of water, floating any scrap of dirt in that stream and make a boat of it. They will make the filthy gutter a home, rather than look up. For when the child raises its head, then it must see the world as it is: the boots that kick and the fists that strike and the mouths that roar and spit.

  Who will care for this child? Who will take its part?

  Silence

  There was a real commotion in Portland-road as I turned the corner, and all of it outside number twenty-two.

  But I hardly noticed it, for I was bursting with new resolve. I had walked myself into the shape of a new Bob Chapman, who was a man of action and resolve. From this moment, Bob Chapman will come out of the shadows, and stand in the sun.

  I would seek out Will and Trim. We would go to the magistrate. I would make him understand.

  So I determined.

  And then I turned my attention to Portland-road.

  The front door of number twenty-two was flung open, wide open, in a very uncustomary way. The window of the downstairs front parlour, Mrs Twentyfold's private room, was also flung open and her good lace curtains were flapping about and dragging upon the dirty sill. I was uncertain whether to hurry towards or away from the house, but the decision was quickly made for me when Miss Slyte, one of our neighbours, a vast dumpling of a woman, who trimmed bonnets and kept cats, noticed me on her return from the gin-shop and waddled at me at an alarming speed.

  'Ah! ye gob-shite, ye!' she shrieked, for she is of Irish ancestry and leaned heavily upon that accent. 'Look at the trouble you bring upon this house and this good lady wid yer evil friends and yer evil doings!' and she struck me hard upon the chest, pushing her red face, heavily perfumed with the contents of a gin-bottle, into mine. 'Look at the trouble, here!' she cried and she grabbed my elbow and steered me to the house and up the steps, as though I was the very criminal they had been seeking and she had caught him!

  'Here he is,' she cried triumphantly, 'the sneaking dog-face, with his animals a-slinking behind him like the villains they are,' and we were all, Brutus, Nero and I, thrust into Mrs Twentyfold's parlour, a room which was so very closely guarded that I had never even glimpsed inside it before now. It was small, made even smaller by the quantity of people pressed in there. All sorts of unfamiliar persons were seated, standing, perched upon tables and sills, leaning and squatting against the walls and threatening to upset any number of my landlady's mats and doilies which covered every surface like a snowstorm. The air was full of heat and loud chatter, and in the midst of it all, on a hard chair, was Mrs Twentyfold herself, half a glass of gin in her hand and her cap lurching drunkenly over one eye. She gave me a curious look, which changed by the moment from curiosity to recognition to outrage.

  'You!' she cried. 'This is all your doing, you and your - associates.'

  Someone patted her shoulder, and another refilled her glass.

  'They rushed her and knocked her to the ground in her own kitchen,' murmured a swarthy-chinned man with two fat rabbits slung over his shoulder, drinking gin from one of Mrs Twentyfold's best cups, 'and rampaged through the 'ouse.'

  If he had broadcast it in the street, with a band and cheerful banners, it could not have provoked more attention, for everyone in the room heard him and felt obliged to express their own opinion of me and my character, my friends and my profession loudly and vigorously.

  I gathered - it was not too difficult - that there had been a burglary, outrageous and in full daylight. That the burglars - some agreed two, others three, all powerful and dressed as road-menders - charged through Mrs Twentyfold's area and kitchen, knocked her to the floor and went through the house 'like a hurricanoe'. It was a bold enterprise, and though my good landlady was unhurt - except for the damage to her pride in being tumbled to the flags and banging her elbow upon the fender - it came to something, everyone agreed, when a respectable house could be so entered and taken apart in the middle of a Tuesday morning. The police were summoned and had attended; the sergeant would see Mrs Twentyfold later at the station, but no one expected any great effort from them. My fellow lodgers had been discovered and brought back from their places of work; I had been sent for at the Aquarium and the Pavilion but could not be found.

  'And no wonder, ye Ned Fool,' roared Miss Slyte, 'since ye were slinging about here a-waiting for yer thievin' pals!'

  Did they really believe I had arranged the robbery? Or had anything to do with it? Perhaps my incredulity, writ large upon my face, satisfied some of them, but a rumble of suspicion still drummed about the room. The bag-man and the thin clerk who lodged above me (I never discovered their names) said they had already examined their quarters.

  'Nothing missing from mine,' whispered the bag-man. 'But nothing in there anyway, except a tea-pot which belonged to the previous.'

  'Likewise,' wheezed the clerk, who was anxiously binding himself up in his muffler preparatory to leaving for his desk. 'Turned my mattress for me. Dusted the mantle. Nusquam captus.'

  The rabbit-man was on his second cup. His rabbits, having begged a ride upon his shoulder, were slumped there with an easy grace, glassy eyes winking at me.

  'I've had a sniff round,' he said importantly, but to no one in particular. 'Nothing taken, as far as I can see, though a d
eal of mess.' And then he eyed me. 'Except your room. Second floor? Back?'

  An odd feeling crept into my belly, for an audacious robbery, in the middle of the day, nothing taken and Mrs Twentyfold, who wore a deal of jet and a purse snapped about her waist, only knocked to the ground, was more than out of the commonplace. Pushing through the casually curious who were not admitted to the inner sanctum and had taken up residence on the stairs, I hurried to my room, where the door stood ajar. As the rabbit-man had pronounced, there was a deal of mess. Everything had been turned over - bed, mattress (which was ripped apart and the flock bubbling out of it like porridge), shelves, even my coal bucket and the floorboards. I closed the door to the curiosity of people who would keep wandering in and looking about them and staring at me as though I was suddenly going be alarming. Brutus and Nero made themselves comfortable before the dead fire. The clump of feet and the murmur of voices echoed from below. I perched on the edge of the bed and considered. I must have been spied out on my errands, and the Nasty Man had taken the opportunity to organize a thorough search of my room. Otherwise it was a grand coincidence.

  Perhaps this was the start of his campaign.

  A regular turning-over, the destruction of my few possessions. And then one day me. Or my dogs.

  I would leave for Strong's Gardens today.

  I set to and put my room to rights. I cleared all my belongings, put them all in a pile on the table (it was a very small pile). Mrs Twentyfold could do what she wanted with them. I worked quickly and assembled the half-dozen penny novels, two cracked cups and a frying pan with a loose handle, a knife, fork and spoon, a tea tin painted with pink Japanese flowers.

  It was done. I sat on my bed and contemplated my worldly assets. They were few enough, but nothing I minded leaving behind. The tea tin had but a single spoonful left in it and it was the appeal of a simple cup of tea to cheer me on my way that took me down the stairs to fill my kettle in the scullery and to let Brutus and Nero out into the area. In the hall was evidence of much to-ing and fro-ing, for Mrs Twentyfold's polished banister rail was dull and sticky, and there were drips and spots on the stairs. The painting of a watchful Saviour had been pushed awry and stray cups stood on every surface. From the parlour came the murmur of voices, and a knock upon the door went unanswered.

  There came another knock.

  I had been instructed by my landlady on many occasions not to answer the door upon any account, and I was still eager to please. I ignored it. But when the knock came a third time, and heavily, I wondered if it might be a policeman to see about the robbery, and since no one emerged from the parlour to answer, I opened it myself. Brutus and Nero were at my heels, curious to see the visitor.

  It wasn't that the sun was bright, or that I was distracted by an insult or a blow on the chin, but for a moment I could not make out the two figures standing before me. Neither did I see the covered cart in the road. But suddenly I realized who and what they were, not because I recognized them, but because there was something terrible in their faces. I tried to shut the door. One had his foot already in, and the other shoved me hard to the floor, and by the time I regained my feet, they had grasped Brutus and Nero by their collars - the dogs struggled a little, but made no sound, for that was their training - and dragged them onto the pavement.

  It all happened very quickly.

  Now I know them. They were part of the crew who bashed me, and I think I saw one at the Fish-lane gaff. The thicker, darker, uglier of the two faced me from the pavement. He had Nero on a choke, struggling to get away.

  'You had plenty of warnings, Mr Chapman, so now we're taking these beauties,' he said in a low voice, and then raised it for the benefit of every passer-by. 'For ill-treating these beautiful creatures! For training them up to be wicious curs! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Why, they attacked a man only the other evening!'

  A soberly dressed woman gave me an indignant look. 'Monster!' she cried. 'Shame on you!'

  The dark man nodded his head vigorously, and put on an air of outrage.

  'True to you, madam. Sure, shame upon you, sir!' he cried. 'And thank 'eaven for societies like ours what rescue these poor dawgs and give 'em a good 'ome.'

  The woman agreed, and even gave him a coin from her purse, patted him upon the shoulder and raised her fist at me, which his companion found hysterically funny.

  I lunged at him and tried to grab Nero's collar, but the man had attached - how had he managed it so quickly? - a rigid lead, with a choke upon it, so that my attempt to free him and every movement Nero made was strangling him!

  'Give it up, man,' he cried, 'unless you want to kill the creature dead,' and he bundled Nero into the back of the closed black wagon. Brutus followed, his tail between his legs and, straining against the choke, he turned his head to try and find me. But he was roughly thrust into the cart, the door was slammed shut, the bolt pulled across.

  I rushed into the parlour, knocking over a plant and rattling the china. There was a collection of half a dozen matrons gathered about Mrs Twentyfold's table, and they stared at me in amazement and anger. Miss Slyte, of course, rose to the occasion. 'Out! Out, ye heathen, ye! Don't ye even have the decency in ye to knock upon the wood of the door and wait for a lady to call you in!'

  I tried to appeal to Mrs Twentyfold, but she would not look at me. If only I could persuade her to pull back her lace curtains and look through the open window, she would see what was happening outside. But she turned her head away.

  I opened my mouth, and felt my throat tighten, just as it does in my dreams, and I tried to shout. But there was nothing, not even a breath. I could not make a sound.

  I ran outside again, and looked up and down the street. I was so completely associated with the robbery that our neighbours shunned me, and when I hammered upon the doors, no one came.

  They waited until I was upon them before they drove the cart away and I ran after it for a long time. I think they deliberately drove slowly so that I could keep pace with it, but never quite catch it up. Then, when my strength was almost gone, it picked up speed and I lost it. It turned a corner, and I was stranded in the middle of the busy road, and was nearly knocked over by a cart. The driver leaped down, pushed me out of the way and thrust his ugly face into mine. But I didn't see him, and I think he believed I was mad, because my mouth was still wide open, waiting for the scream that would not come.

  Pikemartin

  My dogs have been taken.

  I have written the words on a card - the first time I have ever done such a thing, for I am ashamed that I never learned to write with a good hand and I hold a pencil awkwardly. When it becomes ragged about the edges (for I carry it around with me and show to everyone I meet) I make another, precisely the same. Most of the population of this great city have seen my card. I make sure everyone who passes me in the street reads it, and I have ventured further in every direction out of my little neighbourhood than I have ever been. I scour every passage and court. I search parks and gardens. I become a familiar figure on my strange errand. People are sympathetic and, every day, ask me if there is any news and promise to let me know if they see or hear of my dogs. Many people recognize me: Chapman, the dog-man, and those clever, handsome dogs, one golden, one black, Brutus and Nero. Of course, they remember them. And pretend to remember me. The questions come thick and fast, though they know I can answer only with a nod or shake of the head.

  'Were they stolen?' Yes.

  'Do you know who took them?' Yes.

  'Do you know where they are?' No.

  'Do you know what's become of them?' No.

  'Do you know why they were taken?' Yes.

  'Do you miss them very much?' Yes.

  I go back to Portland-road - Mrs Twentyfold is persuaded by Will and Trim and another month's rent (courtesy of Mr Abrahams), to let me keep my room. I stare for hours at the rug where Brutus would lie and the corner of the hearth where Nero slept. I fill their bowl with water. I lay out their brushes. I look out of the
window into Mrs Twentyfold's area at the bush where Brutus would always sniff, and the hole in the fence where Nero had once cornered a fox. I think of our happy times, walking to Strong's Gardens and our early morning breakfasts of milk and bread, our plans for a new and better life. I remember our small triumphs at the Aquarium and our hoped-for ones at the Pavilion. 'Clever dogs!' Mr Abrahams had said, beaming through his beard. 'Our new novelties! The best the Pavilion has ever seen!' according to Mr Carrier. Will, Em, Trim, the Princess - everyone loved them, and my boys gave their trust and affection freely and willingly. And no more so than to me, Bob Chapman, their trusted friend, who betrayed them. Because I encouraged them to perform that trick, a novelty on the stage, they were taken.

  In truth, I am but half a man without those creatures who have been my constant companions since we were all young. Easy tears well up when I think of them, and I cannot bear to imagine where they might be or, worst of all that, before they died, they were harmed or cruelly treated and they thought of me and wondered why I had abandoned them. I am plagued by these thoughts worst at night and I have taken to going out walking, walking, until I am so tired that I fall asleep immediately I return. But I always wake up after only a couple of hours' respite, and then the images of their dear faces, their joyful bounding along the streets, their serious concentration as we practise new novelties, their delight in everything we do, all come back to haunt me.

  Soon, no one sees me. The butcher, who would wait upon the doorstep to give Brutus and Nero a bone in return for a friendly paw, stays inside his shop and barely glances at me as I pass. At the dairy, the bowl which sat by the door and was christened 'Chapman's milk pan' because Mrs Harmer filled it with fresh milk for my boys every time we passed and would take nothing for her trouble, was still there, but empty now. A few wisps of straw and a skin of dust clung to it, and Mrs H stayed in her stall.