'Sometimes I saw the gentlemen myself. When Pikemartin or Gifford were busy. They were very kind and attentive. They often gave me a small consideration - for my time, for the audience.'
Black boots turned and walked about the salon. There was dangerous laughter again in his voice.
'You saw the gentlemen? And the pictures? George's artistic work?'
'No. They were in packets, labelled, sealed. You know that George brought them here to save the gentlemen having to go all that distance to the studio to collect them.'
'Of course, of course. You weren't curious? Didn't have a peek?'
'No. Why should I? Cabinet photographs. And some trade.'
'Trade, of course,' Black boots said.
'No matter. I simply want my share of the money now that George has - gone - and the Nasty Man - Gifford says he has gone too. Left. The rest of the coin can go to Barney. He is his father's son, but I am his business partner.'
'Certainly. But I have an interest too.'
'Oh? Well, you can keep the machinery. Or sell it.'
'Gone in the fire, Princess. Hadn't you heard?'
I was crouched upon the floor, with my legs screaming for relief, and unable to move or make a noise. But I had to listen.
'There is no fortune.'
'I think you're wrong. I'm not a fool. George was making a good profit. He told me so.'
'But he didn't tell you that he spent the money as fast as he made it?'
'No. He was saving it.'
'He made a lot of coin, Princess. He was trapping your respectable and wealthy clients, and he was cheeking you. And me.'
'You're wrong.' She whispered so quietly I could hardly hear her.
'We've both been deceived, my dear. You must be terribly shocked.'
'I don't believe you. I think - I think you want it all for yourself.'
'Only what I was due, and that, I'm afraid, took most of the coin we could find. There is no fortune, Princess. Naughty Georgie punted excessively at the races and got skinned at the tables. He enjoyed ratting and dog fights. He lost everything and borrowed more. From me.'
I saw her little pink shoes. The ribbons had come undone.
'Then he tried to skin me.'
'George and I,' she said, and her thin voice wavered,'- we had an agreement. He knew I wanted to see my home again. In Italy.'
'Oh dear!' said Black boots. 'How disappointed you must be.'
'You see, I am dying,' she said, weakly. 'In this cold, in this city. It kills me. I need the sunshine and warmth. George promised me we would have enough money for me to go home. I think you have cheated me!' the Princess cried, suddenly. 'You tell lies!' She stamped her foot. 'You have stolen my money!'
He advanced upon her - he took two strides to put himself in front of her. The tips of his black boots touched her tiny pink shoes. Then he squatted down, and the skirts of his Benjamin spread about him.
'Listen to me and hear the truth. George Kevill was a cheat. He cheated you. He took your money and pretended to keep it. And you pretend, too. Italy is no more your home than you are a princess. You are Aily O'Dwyer. Your father was Tommy O'Dwyer from the Green Isle. Your mother was an ignorant gypsy woman from nowhere.'
'Not true,' breathed the Princess.
'Your father sold you to a showman in Dublin when you were a baby. He wanted rid of you. He might have left you on the steps of the church. Or thrown you into a bog. But he found he could make a few pennies, so he sold you to a showman, and that showman sold you to another when he could get a good price. You were sold again and again. A German showman bought you, and an Italian. You had a good ear, Princess. You acquired snatches of their language.'
'Not true, not true,' said the Princess, faintly. 'My father loved me.'
'You were sold to George Kevill and because he didn't ill- treat you, you had some regard for him. He was kind, for a showman, and brought you to London and found you a shop at the Aquarium. How much did your sainted Abrahams pay for you? Enough to keep Kevill's punting tastes satisfied for a week? But he fell on hard times again and he came to you and you helped him. He told you that a good living could be made out of photographs.'
The Eternal Flame spluttered.
'You're wrong,' she said.
I think she was crying.
'Enough!' said Black boots, standing again. 'Old ground, my dear. Now, if our business is concluded, I have another enterprise in hand.'
'Ha,' said the Princess bitterly, 'more pictures.'
'Not at all. I am contemplating a philanthropic venture to assist young women who are unlucky to find themselves in pup. I have taken a house on Holywell-street for the duration. Your Mrs Gifford has offered her services as a lady's companion. Has even discovered a likely subject for my - charity.'
I shifted so that I could get a better view and glimpsed his face.
I stared as hard as I could, so the image of his face was impressed on my eyes like a photograph.
This was the man I had seen in the pictures, the ones in Pilgrim's bower. Five photographs wrapped up in George Kevill's letter.
Black boots was preparing to leave. I couldn't see, but I think he was pulling on his gloves and picking up his stick. He murmured, 'Princess,' in farewell and walked easily down the salon. He only turned when she cried out, and I stood up, rocking the cabinet of owls, to see her tiny figure, her face crumpled in rage, her teeth bared, and a thin knife in her hand, flying at him like a wild cat. She held the knife above her head and brought it down smartly into his leg, just above the knee. He roared in pain and with one swipe of his hand, knocked her to the ground. He was still clutching his leg and staggering when I sent the cabinet crashing to the floor and leaped upon the table and grabbed the largest sword.
It should have worked. In Trim's dramas, on the Pavilion stage, the dumb man, weak and oppressed, would have righted wrongs in fire and blood. The sword would have flown to my hand and, as if it were my nature, I would know how to use it. But I could not move it, for each sword and dagger was secured by chain and bolt to the table, and my effort succeeded only in stirring the dust underneath them and rattling the Eternal Flame in its iron pot!
When he had recovered from his surprise and, still clutching his leg on which a pool of scarlet blood was spreading, Black boots laughed.
'Who is this, Princess? Dr Dee? Has he been holed up in that dark cupboard for three hundred years?! No wonder he's speechless!'
He struck the back of my legs with his stick and I slipped off the table and landed heavily upon the floor. When I looked up, he was standing over me. I backed away, looking about for something with which to defend myself. Will's hero, Redland Strongarm, would not have backed away. He would have drawn his sword and fought until he ran the villain through! Then he would cry 'Justice!' or 'Victory!' and clasp Susan Goodchild to his breast and the audience would cheer!
But it is a put-together world, as Will said, and not ever what it seems to be. There are no heroes on the stage, only ones made of costume and burnt-cork and fine words. They are what we would like them to be. I was no Redland Strongarm. Black boots was taller and stronger, and I was no match for him. I cast about once again and vainly wrenched at a display of decorative swords. One came loose just as he lunged at me. I staggered out of his reach and he, clumsily, caught with his arm the lamp containing the Eternal Flame. It toppled and fell to the floor with a great crash, spilling oil everywhere. The flame flickered and danced in the draught and then sprang back to life and, as though it suddenly had purpose, spread across the sea of oil in a wave of blue and gold. Black boots retreated, limped to the door and stood on the threshold to watch as the Princess, on her feet and still grasping the knife, stumbled towards him. The hem of her dress trailed though the burning oil and the fine material caught the flames. When she realized, the Princess tried to put it out, shaking it to and fro, but all the time fanning the flames and making them stronger. In moments, not only her dress but her hair was alight and she panicked, running w
ildly about the room and crying out as the wicked yellow flame wrapped about her. Her screams were terrible as she tore at her hair and the flaming dress and when I finally snatched her up and covered her in my coat, hugging her to me to douse the flames, I knew she was beyond my aid.
Black boots raced down the stairs. I heard the groaning steps, the loose step, I even heard him trip upon the nail. I heard his boots clatter upon the marble floor, the bolts being drawn, the door slam. All around me, the oil was burning and so, with the Princess in my arms, I walked through the fire and brought her to the stairs. The flames caught the table and Oriental rug. Before very long, the whole Aquarium would be on fire.
Cradled to my chest, I thought she was dead for it was some minutes before she opened her eyes and many more before she spoke. 'I have a favour to ask of you, Bob Chapman.'
Her skin, dry as parchment, was shrivelled and blistered, her fine hair burned away. She flinched and frowned at the pain.
'Death I don't fear,' she breathed, with difficulty, 'for even now the Holy Mother opens her arms to me and beckons me to her side. But, Bob, when I am gone, please have the priest bury me quickly. And don't tell anyone where I am laid.'
She coughed.
'There are people who will offer you much money for my body. They will say it is for medicine, so that doctors may learn about such as me. They lie. They will boil my body till my flesh falls away. Then put my bones into a box and show me in a barn for a penny!'
Her voice was cracked and dry, her face a terrible mass of burned flesh.
'I will never sleep, never rest. I will be dragged from fair to fair, stared at even when I am dead. Promise me, Bob. I beg you.'
There were tears in her eyes. She was dying, and I knew she was right to be afraid. I have seen the skeletons of giants and dwarfs and fairies at the great fairs and I know that some were got by wrongful means. When Patrick Kelly, the Irish Giant, knew he was dying, he bought promises from everyone that they would see him buried, quietly and with respect, in one piece. But he was sold to a showman before he was cold, and it is said that his flesh was being stripped from his bones before the last breath left his body. So I silently promised the Princess that I would see her gently and carefully buried, and cradled her closer as she sank into sleep.
I sat on the second-floor stairs, watching the pool of flame as it spread around the salon, and it was not a moment too soon that Will arrived, followed by Trim, Pikemartin and Conn, and they, seeing the state of things, asked no questions but rushed to the water buckets - six on each landing, Mr Abrahams insisted - and quickly doused the fire. Herr Swann was called and he, with an expression of such dreadful agony that it broke my heart to see him, took the poor body of the Princess from me, still wrapped in my coat, and held her in his arms until she died.
My hands were burned and blistered. My arms also, and my chest.
But pain was a friend and companion these days and I hardly noticed as Em gently bandaged them, saying, with tears in her eyes, what a brave fellow I was.
The little Princess was buried a week later, early in the morning, in a distant graveyard by a Latin priest. Herr Swann and I were the only mourners. There was no headstone and nothing to show where she lay.
Epilogue
Not an empty seat remains in the Pavilion Theatre for the Boxing Day performance of Elenore the Female Pirate; or the Gold of the Mountain King, A Christmas Extravaganza, and there are disappointed patrons queuing in the snowy street hoping that Mr Carrier's able gallery packers (who can fit twenty people on a row made for ten if they have to!) will work their magic and squeeze them in. Like fleas on a beggar's back, they shove and push in the furnace heat at the top of the theatre to find an inch of board on which to sit, and there are calls of 'Oi! Watch yer elbow!' and 'Mind my trotters!', but all in good humour and causing much excited laughter. Oranges are passed from hand to hand and the compulsory jar of ginger beer, nuts also (cracked with expertise by the boots of lumpers) and sweet biscuits to follow.
When the orchestra assembles, there is a cheer. When Mr Bilker arrives, baton in hand and his hair shining with macassar oil, there is a roar. The overture is attended to and appreciated, and rows of excited girls sway to its popular tunes. All eyes are fixed upon the trembling curtain, and whenever a foot can be seen beneath it or a shape fills out one of the folds, there is a cheer and a cry of, 'Oh lor, who can that be? Is it he or is it she?' and the more it is chorused, the more hilarious it becomes. The children can hardly sit in their seats or on their mother's knee for excitement. What wonders has Mr Carrier in store behind the curtain!
It twitches again and the orchestra plays a final, a very final, chord. Dutiful applause from the crowded house, and everyone, from the gallery to the stalls, leans forward. Mr Bilker's baton is raised, the first act prelude begins, and the curtain swings open to a great and resounding cheer, which is followed immediately by a wholesale intake of breath, as if the entire theatre were breathing as one. Then, as the amber light of a hundred gas-jets reveals the quayside at Portsmouth (rendered to the life by Mr Lombard), a great sigh is heard and some 'Hurrahs' from the naval population in the audience. The Christmas extravaganza - not a pantomime, but as good as - has begun.
There are fairies and pirates in the Pavilion Theatre. They live upon an exotic island, twice as handsome and three times as comfortable as Robinson Crusoe's. The sand is white, the sea as blue as the sky, and the sun has real golden rays. When it rises and sets, the many-coloured flowers on the island open and close and run about. They are little children wearing petals around their heads and on their arms, who wave and bend precisely as Mons. Villechamps has instructed them. In the tall trees, in which Mr Lombard's men have constructed convenient platforms, sit child-birds with long plumes of red and green feathers, and on the many rocks perch brilliantly spotted child-insects which twitch and preen. In the sea, child-fish fly, child-sea horses gallop and mermaids (not at all childlike!) sing, and a ship, all rigged, drifts onto the stage (in act three), as though it were just sailing by. There is wind in its sails and waves lapping around its bows, and pirates to scurry here and there on the deck and up and down the rigging. There are comical pirates who stand upon each other's shoulders and sing a funny song, and a fat and bumbling Admiral who is taken captive by them and is tied to a barrel. Best of all, there is a beautiful female pirate, Elenore, who is not at all afraid to wear tight britches and stand with her legs apart and hands upon her hips. She stalks and parades about the stage, and stamps her feet and tosses her head, and every man in the theatre is very much taken by her and quite a few are in love with her. Miss Jacques is a different creature when she puts on her long boots and straps a sword to her hips and becomes Elenore. She is not at all complaining, and has a string of admirers, including, we are told, the son of a duke. Will Lovegrove is very relieved. Now their embraces last only a minute and Miss Jacques has her eye constantly trained upon the side of the stage looking for her aristocratic admirer. And Will, as Redland Strongarm, the good, handsome pirate, roars and sings and duels with a heroic flourish, and has eyes only for the sweet girl who waits for him and takes his arm when we are done. Em Pikemartin and he were married on Christmas Eve, secretly and quietly, with only her father and Conn as witnesses. After the Princess had died, they saw me comfortable and my burns treated, and on the morrow, fresh from their wedding vows, came for me to enjoy, with them, a wedding breakfast at their lodgings. They say they will take Barney to live with them as their own, and send him to school.
There is nothing left of my heart to break now.
Time passes.
I am employed at both the Aquarium and the Pavilion. I sweep the floors and shift scenery. I have tried to begin Mr
Abraham's inventory with the abacus from Egypt and the phile of aconite found in the dressing case of Lucrezia Borgia, but it is a slow business and my writing is very poor.
When I have finished my work, I continue to walk the streets in search of my dogs.
Titus Strong has sent word to me that I am welcome to go and help in the gardens. He has taken Pilgrim already. Mrs Strong is searching for their daughter Lucy herself, and is often away. I think my old friend is lonely. I will go one day. Perhaps in the spring. But for now I must keep searching. There is nothing more.
Acknowledgements
I am very fortunate to be surrounded by a loving family and patient friends and colleagues, who give their precious time without complaint.
I have a fine editor and friend in Kate Parkin, of John Murray, who has given sound advice and criticism throughout the writing process. And my literary agent Gaia Banks, of Sheil Land Associates, is always patient and supportive and very wise. I have great colleagues in the Drama Department at the University of Manchester - Maggie Gale and Viv Gardner, Vicky Lowe and Hayley Bradley - who have been unstinting in their encouragement and moral support. Helen Mayer has been a treasured friend for many years and undertook to read The Newgate Jig when it was only half made. True friendship indeed! And Felicity, Shaun and Ruby Featherstone have provided much-needed distraction and walks.
My family are the rock who support me when I try to do too much too often. James is a truly fine man, kind and gentle, who I am proud to call my son. My parents are endlessly patient and supportive, especially my dad who has read the many drafts of The Newgate Jig, and could probably recite
large sections of it! But final thanks must go to Holly, the best of friends, the best of dogs. She is all and everything a gentle, sagacious canine should be.
Glossary
Benjamin: a long overcoat. A greatcoat was often called an upper Benjamin
Draw claret: to punch someone (often their nose) and draw blood. A boxing term.
Flip-flap: somersault
Gaff, penny gaff, penny show, penny theatre: one of the lowest kinds of theatrical and exhibition entertainments, generally found in cities. They were sited in abandoned shops, railway arches and cellars. There are instances of the interiors of dwelling houses being ripped out and the buildings turned over to the performance of abbreviated versions of popular plays and variety entertainments. They were very popular with young boys and men. During the 1830s, London in particular saw a rash of these unlicensed theatres and they were regularly raided by police who regarded them as the 'nurseries' of thieves
The Newgate Jig Page 23
