Jack Lark: Rogue

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Edmund glanced keenly at his father. Even through the fog of claret and port he heard a hint of fear in the old man’s voice. It was hard to read the face hidden behind the white mutton-chop whiskers, though, and Edmund did not know his father well enough to understand his emotion.

  They stepped on smartly, Sir Humphrey’s cane pointing the way, but their progress was soon slowed. The streets were busy, and a great crowd of people bustled this way and that, the noise washing over father and son as they attempted to make their way through the river of bodies. Edmund trotted after his father, doing his best not to get left behind. People jostled past, heads down, and he was knocked from side to side by the jarring of an errant elbow or shoulder used to force passage, the collisions so common as to be taken for normality in such a crowded thoroughfare.

  Not everyone was on the move. The streets were where people came to do business, and the sound of fast-moving boots merged with the cries of the mechanics touting their work and the loud voices of the patterers, the aristocrats among the street-sellers, who harangued the passing crowds, their fantastical boasts and wild claims falling on the deaf ears of those who had heard them one time too many. Yet not all the traders were having such poor luck. The watercress sellers were doing a fair business, their penny bundles bought by housewives preparing for their tea; one such seller, a girl of no more than eight, stepped towards Edmund, the tin tray suspended around her neck held out towards him.

  ‘Cress, mister? Penny a bundle?’

  Edmund shook his head and hurried on. He wondered at his father’s sanity in bringing him on such an expedition. Edmund spent little time in the family’s house in Wilton Crescent, yet Sir Humphrey had insisted that he learn something of the great city before he finished his studies, and so he had come to town with his mother and three sisters.

  ‘Catch ’em alive-o!’

  A man wearing a tall top hat pressed close as he worked the crowd. The sight of the hundreds of dead flies trapped on the sticky paper wrapped around the hat was enough to send another bitter surge of bile into Edmund’s throat, and he did his best to step past the fly-paper seller without coming close to his nauseating collection of rotting beasties.

  ‘Come along, Edmund, don’t dawdle.’ Sir Humphrey turned and took his son by the elbow, steering him on his way. He addressed the fly-paper seller, who was dancing a jig in front of the whey-faced boy: ‘My good man, we shall not be buying today.’

  Edmund hurried along. He stepped past an old woman selling violets, her once black dress now faded to a colour that matched the sky, her smile as shadowed and careworn as her clothes. A costermonger, his great barrow decked out with small, brightly coloured flags at each corner, stood grim-faced behind his goods whilst a young boy called to the crowd, his high-pitched, piping voice carrying far as he extolled the virtues of his master’s wares, in this case the last of a stock of small bags of apples.

  ‘Ah! Here we are.’

  Edmund nearly careered into his father’s back as Sir Humphrey stopped suddenly. He tried to see what had halted them, but as he stood on tiptoe to look over his father’s shoulder, a large, heavy-set fellow with a paper cap pulled down low over his eyes barged past, nearly knocking him from his feet.

  ‘Watch yourself, lad.’ The man growled the warning as he bustled on.

  Remembering his father’s warning, Edmund bit back the retort that had leapt to his tongue. He had a notion that this was no place for sharp words unless they happened to be backed up by even sharper steel.

  ‘Come along, my boy.’

  He turned as his father pulled him forward. He was being led towards a fabulous emporium, its great plate-glass window decorated with the image of a giant sun. Edmund had never seen anything like it. The establishment was garish, the facade embellished with a wild display of gilded rosettes and sconces, the half-dozen gas lights burning brightly even though night was still some hours off, the richly decorated gilt burners shining like great beacons to draw in the thirsty passers-by.

  Sir Humphrey pushed hard against the door that boasted access to ‘The Counting House’ on a plate of ground glass. Edmund followed, trying not to gawp. The air inside was thick with pipe smoke, the stench of overripe bodies catching in his throat. He coughed, his hand rising instinctively to cover his face, and bumped hard into his father’s back. The room they had entered was packed, and Sir Humphrey rose up on to his toes, his neck bending this way and that as he tried to find them a space amidst the press.

  Edmund eased even closer to his father as they pushed into the crowd. A well-dressed woman was trying to leave, a pint-sized earthenware bottle clutched to her bosom. As she slipped past, Edmund came face to face with a pair of red-faced washerwomen perched on a bench pushed hard against the wall. Both nursed half-quarts of a clear liquid, their mouths moving too fast to allow for even a casual sip. The pair of gossips stared and pointed at a younger woman leaning against the wall further into the room. As Edmund looked at her, his breath caught in his throat at how pretty she was. Like the girl who had blown him a kiss, the young woman was bare-headed. Her skirts were bright red, and Edmund blushed as he realised what her occupation might be. The young woman caught him looking at her and stared back, her eyes blank. Edmund felt the flush of heat on his cheeks and looked away, his hand rising to lie against his father’s spine.

  ‘Mind your backs!’

  Edmund was eased to one side as a man barged in through the door and walked confidently into the throng, shouting loudly.

  ‘Fish-o! Get your fried fish-o!’

  He lifted his basket high enough for it to be seen above the heads of the people who were waiting to be served. Edmund caught a whiff of the man’s wares and swallowed hard, the vibrant smell making him retch.

  His father found a gap in the press of bodies and Edmund staggered after him. They pushed forward, working the seam, heading towards the monstrous slab of mahogany that extended across the width of the room.

  Edmund had no idea where his father had brought him. He stayed close, trying not to stare at a sad-faced woman half hidden behind the shoulder of a thickset man whom he supposed to be her husband. The woman’s eyes were downcast. One bore the dark-grey smudge of a much-aged black eye, the other decked out with the blues and yellows of one much fresher. Edmund saw her small hand raised to her husband’s arm only for it to be shrugged off, the interference greeted with a snarl and a brandished fist.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ a loud woman’s voice bellowed out from behind the bar. Edmund’s father lifted a hand to acknowledge the greeting, his pace slowing as he did so.

  ‘You might like to take a pew in the saloon. I’ll send my Jack to fetch for you.’ The huge voice paused before returning with even greater volume. ‘Make way for the fine gentlemen, make way. That includes you, Johnnie Taylor, make way there, I say.’

  Edmund felt the press of the crowd ease and suddenly his father was striding forward. He glanced at the bar, his eyes roving over the complex arrangement of spiral brass pipes that led from a series of barrels lining the wall to a line of spirit taps that bore the names of their particular brew. ‘The Out and Out’, ‘The No Mistake’, ‘The Bairn’s Favourite’, ‘The True Spirit’, ‘The Sit-Me-Down’; each name seemed more fanciful that the one before, and Edmund could only wonder at the manner of beverage they alluded to.

  He followed his father into a small side room full of old barrels that had been converted to form rude seats and tables. As he passed close to the bar, he saw the owner of the huge voice. The woman could hardly have been more than five feet tall. Great ginger curls were piled high on her head above a florid, jowly face with lips tinted a bright red. Around her neck was a thick gold necklace, its chunky twists of metal clearly more concerned with displaying the owner’s wealth than any evidence of the maker’s skill.

  ‘Sit here, my boy.’ Edmund’s father tugged at his arm, pulling him down so they could sit at what passed for a table. The saloon, as the bawdy woman had so grandly title
d the fetid side room, was nearly empty, the great press of bodies at the bar clearly not looking to linger. The only other occupant was a stick-thin man of an ancient vintage who nibbled around the edges of a small dark cake, one claw-like hand held underneath his puckered mouth to catch any precious crumbs that should happen to spill from the thin grey lips.

  ‘Where are we, Father?’ Edmund looked around him, trying to hide his nerves. He glanced back into the main room, his eyes widening as he saw a child of no more than five or six standing on tiptoe at the bar, a dirty grey shawl draped around her shoulders and dragging behind her on the floor. He witnessed the swift exchange of a coin for a bottle full of an opaque liquid, then the child scurried away, but not before she had popped the bottle’s cork for a sly sip of its contents.

  ‘This, dear boy, is a gin palace. I am sure you will have heard of them?’

  Edmund shook his head.

  ‘They are a thriving business. You saw the outside? The gas lights and all that plate glass?’

  This time Edmund nodded.

  ‘They draw the people in with such fancy decoration. You saw the condition of the streets; it is no wonder that they call a place such as this a palace.’

  Sir Humphrey’s eyes roved around the room constantly. It made Edmund nervous. At the club, his father was clearly in charge, his manner easy and commanding. Here he fidgeted, his hands clasped tightly together or fiddling with his stock. He was ill at ease and he was failing to hide it from his son.

  ‘I expect you saw all the pipes leading to the bar?’ he asked, his eyes resting on his son for no more than a single heartbeat.

  ‘Yes. What a list of fanciful names.’ Edmund spoke quietly. He was watching his father. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Gin. All of them are gin, and I would wager they are all the same watered-down muck no matter what they happen to be called.’ Phlegm caught in Sir Humphrey’s throat as he said the word ‘muck’, making it sound like an oath.

  Their conversation was curtailed by the appearance of a wiry youth at the table. Edmund judged the boy to be close to his own eighteen years of age and to be of a similar height. He wore a bright green apron, its front surprisingly clean. Edmund glanced at the lad’s face, but the hard grey eyes were already staring at him and he looked away, something in the flat glare off-putting.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ The serving lad spoke fast, the question addressed to Edmund’s father.

  ‘Two half-quarts of your finest, if you please.’

  The boy nodded and was away.

  ‘We shall be charged double, perhaps triple the going rate.’ Sir Humphrey spoke in a confiding whisper to his son. ‘They will likely also supply a biscuit or some cake laced with salt to prolong our thirst, for which we shall also be charged. These fellows know how to pick a pocket as surely as any urchin working the streets.’

  ‘Then why did we come?’ Edmund matched his father’s hoarse whisper.

  ‘So that you can see how these people live.’ His father stopped looking around the room and concentrated his gaze on his son, speaking intensely. ‘You are old enough to begin to learn of the privileged existence that you have been given.’

  He reached forward to take hold of his son’s hands; Edmund started as he felt his father’s cold fingers close around his own. The intimacy of the touch shocked him. He could not recall ever having held his father’s hand before.

  ‘We live a life far removed from the ones endured by the people in this place. I want you to understand that, to see those for whom this is truly a palace. With our position comes responsibility, Edmund. We have the wherewithal to help people such as these. I want you to begin to see that.’

  Edmund did not think he had ever seen his father so passionate.

  The serving boy returned, two glasses full of a clear liquid held in one hand whilst on the other was balanced a china plate containing two small cakes. The boy placed everything on the table with practised ease before the open palm was held out in front of Sir Humphrey’s face.

  ‘Shilling.’

  Edmund saw his father’s wry smile as he handed over the coin. The lad was away instantly, the coin disappearing fast.

  ‘Look around you, my boy. See the manner of the life that is here.’ Sir Humphrey picked up a glass and offered it to his son, who took it warily. ‘Take that boy there, the one who served us. He frightened you, I think.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Edmund gulped at the accusation that was not so far from the truth.

  ‘You saw the bloody scab on his lip and the bruising around the face?’

  Edmund nodded, trying to hide his emotion.

  ‘So the lad was clearly recently in a fight. Life here is hard, my boy, very hard. That poor fellow has no future, at least not one that you or I would consider a future. There is no escape for someone like him. If he is lucky, he will live long enough to whelp a brat on some wisp of a girl who will likely die birthing it. Then what will he do? Drown his misery in gin? Take to crime whilst his offspring either rots in the workhouse or gets sent to some foundling home where the Lord alone knows what fate will have in store for it.’ Sir Humphrey glared at his son over the rim of his glass. ‘I want you to see this. To understand how lucky you are. If you are to become the right sort of man, then you must know the lives that others lead. Only then can you help them. Now drink up. We should be on our way.’

  Edmund took his first sip of gin and grimaced as the liquid burnt the back of his throat. He coughed, the sound of his father’s laughter bringing the flush back to his face, and turned away, hiding his embarrassment. To his surprise, the girl he had seen in the main room had come into the saloon. She had taken a table next to theirs and now sat no more than three feet away from where he was choking on the raw spirit.

  She must have seen him looking at her and she slowly raised her skirt a fraction. His eyes immediately dropped lower and he stared at the shapely ankle and calf being revealed inch by inch. The gin forgotten, he gawped at the girl’s rose-coloured stockings and his imagination started to run faster than the skirt would move.

  ‘Stick your poker into that and it’ll likely fall off.’ Sir Humphrey chortled at his son’s discomfort.

  Edmund blushed. He had never heard his father speak so coarsely. He put it down to the gin. He watched the way his father looked at the girl, a swift, knowing appraisal that finished with a wry smile. Unable to resist, he allowed his own eyes to roam over her body, pausing for a moment on the swell of her chest before he looked up at her face.

  She smiled. ‘You want to buy me a drink, love?’ Her teasing smile revealed the tip of a pink tongue as she licked her lips.

  Edmund could feel his body react. He wanted her. He had heard the other boys at his school talk about taking a woman, about the things they did to them. Now he was starting to understand their obsession.

  ‘It is time to go.’ His father thumped his glass down and rose immediately to his feet. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Come along, my boy, that is enough education for one day.’

  Edmund stood too, leaving his glass half full. He glanced back at the girl, whose smile had vanished the moment she understood that her trade was moving on. He was still staring as his father led him out and back into the press of bodies by the bar. He lost sight of her as they joined the throng, a gasp of regret escaping his mouth. He tried to engrave the image of her in his mind, knowing that he would replay it many times that night when he was alone in his room.

  Chapter 4

  Jack watched the young toff carefully. He had slipped in with the last of the lunchtime crowd, the quality of his clothing marking him out like a monk in a brothel. He bided his time, hiding behind a pair of costermongers who had bumped into each other outside and had stepped in for a quick drain before returning to their long parade around the streets.

  The toff was nervous. Jack could see it in the way his eyes darted around the room. Yet it was clear he was looking for someone or something, his head craning this way and that as he pe
ered through the thin crowd waiting to be served.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ Jack asked the same question that he asked a thousand times a day.

  ‘Pennyworth of the Bairn’s Favourite, Jack my love.’ The old woman making the request offered him a toothless smile. Jack barely noticed. The customers tended to blur together, their faces forgotten the moment the drink was handed over.

  His hands worked quickly, his actions instinctive. The quick flick of the wrist to open the right tap, the snap back to stop the gin the moment it filled the measure.

  ‘Penny.’ His hand reached out for the coin but his eyes remained fixed on the toff, who had made his way up behind the crone.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ he snapped the moment the old woman had turned away, her lips already slurping at the harsh spirit that kept her alive. The toff started, as if unprepared for the inevitable question.

  ‘A half-quart of your finest.’ The answer was given with hesitation.

  Jack’s hand moved with practised ease, the measure poured in less time than it took the boy to have one more glance around.

  ‘Shilling.’ He slapped the bar, his palm held open.

  The toff scowled. ‘That’s not right. That’s too much.’

  Jack feigned indifference. ‘You asked for our finest; that’s it.’

  ‘No it isn’t. I was here the other day. It was a shilling for two half-quarts, and they came with cake.’

  ‘Different barrel.’ Jack shrugged. ‘This is better stuff. More expensive.’