‘Would you give him to me?’
Sid shook his head.
‘Well,’ said Luther. ‘What the hell are we talking about?’
‘It might be possible to loan him to you. I say might, you understand. It could only be for one match, Luther. I’d be taking a big enough risk with that. You know Mr Cameron.’
‘Damn bloody Cameron.’
‘You can damn him all you like but the fact remains I’ve more to lose than you. There’s my job, and Nessie’s, and the roof over our heads.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just I’m so desperate to earn a few shillings. Augusta’s had to sell most of her things. I’ve sold my watch and all my decent clothes. But she nearly goes mad when I try to part with the damn cane her brother gave me. She’s a queer one.’
‘She’s a lady born and bred, and don’t you forget it.’
Luther’s eyes narrowed angrily but he managed in an even voice, ‘What about the dog? Can I get it for tonight?’
The lean leathery jaws drew at the pipe until Luther exploded with irritation.
‘For God’s sake! It’s only a step away. It wouldn’t take me five minutes.’
‘Now, just hang on, you can’t set foot in the Cameron stables.’
‘You then.’
‘You never could content yourself for any length of time.’
‘You’ll go?’
‘I’ve a coach to take to Edinburgh in half an hour.’
‘For old times’ sake, Sid.’
‘How would you get the dog back?’
‘In the middle of the night. No one would see me then. Don’t worry, I’ll get it back.’
For a long time the coachman hesitated before knocking out his pipe and speaking.
‘I’ll be honest with you. I wouldn’t take such a risk for you alone? But,’ he shook his head, ‘I keep thinking of poor Miss Augusta.’
‘All right, all right! For Augusta then.’
After the lanky figure in the long tiered benjamin coat and felt black hat wended his way through the crowded tavern then disappeared, Luther took another mouthful of ale and studied his surroundings.
The place was filthy. Even the tubs where the spirits were kept were dirty and blistered with heat from the gas, their gilt hoops now blackened. The long bar was packed with men of all classes. Gentlemen in top hats and neat-waisted coats rubbed shoulders with coachmen in livery, and tradespeople, and soldiers with their uniforms carelessly unbuttoned.
Everyone was smoking and drinking and talking loudly about dogs. Many had their ‘fancy’ animals with them. Under the arms of some men protruded squashed-looking bulldogs with flat pink noses. Others nursed Skye terriers curled up like balls of hair and sleeping like children. Little brown terriers were wide awake and struggling to get loose. It was as if they smelt the rats upstairs and were impatient to get at them. Breathing heavily on an old chair lay an enormous bulldog with a head far too large for its body, and its forehead overhanging its flat nose. It had a sore look, with its pink-rimmed eyes and nose and tinges of the same colour at all the edges of its body. On the other side of the fireplace sat a disreputable-looking white bull-terrier, with a black patch over one eye and ribs that showed like hoops. It kept watching the movements of the customers and every time the entrance door swung back it gave a warning growl.
By the time Sid came back, the bar was so solidly packed with men and dogs, and more still pouring in, that at the landlord’s request they had to overspill into the parlour. Gaslight revealed dingy wallpaper on which hung clusters of black leather collars adorned with brass rings and clasps.
‘Give your orders, gentlemen,’ the barman kept shouting.
As they settled at one of the tables, Luther admired the dog at Sid’s heels.
‘Christ, he looks a fierce one.’
‘Yes, you’d better be careful with old Drum. That dog would have you by the throat as quick as any rat. No, don’t put a hand near him, Luther. Not yet. Give him a chance to have a sniff. Let him take his own time. I’ll have one more drink with you then I’ll have to go.’
The dogs belonging to the company were now being hitched on to the tables and minutely examined by all who got near them. Limbs were stretched out and fingered, legs squeezed, eyes and mouths scrutinised. Nearly all the animals were scarred from rat bites. One terrier in particular had obviously suffered much about the face and neck. Its owner proudly declared that his ‘Mac’ had once killed two hundred rats in six minutes.
Eventually the barkeeper gave the order. ‘Shut the shutters upstairs, and light the pit.’
Immediately there was a mass exodus of thumping feet towards the wooden stairs.
‘Time I was away,’ said Sid. ‘You keep a tight grip on old Drum, do you hear me, lad? That beast goes mad the first whiff of a rat.’
‘How many do you reckon he’s capable of? How many should I risk?’
Sid chewed the stem of his pipe. ‘Two dozen would be a safe enough figure.’
‘You think they’d bet on that?
Stretching to his feet and tugging his coat around him Sid said, ‘If I were you I wouldn’t dare risk any more. If they find out you’ve no money to cover your losses, my guess is you’ll not get out of here alive. But you always were one to take risks. I’ve given you the dog. That’s the best I can manage. You do what you’ve a mind to.’
‘I might take a chance on more. If I said double that, it would be bound to raise the stakes. And if I got him really mad . . . . He looks as if he could do it, Sid.’
‘Ah, well.’ The coachman made to leave. ‘All I can say is I’ll be glad to be on the road this night. If it comes to the worst I suppose Drum will find his own way back.’
‘At least wish me luck,’ Luther called after him.
At the door the old man raised his pipe in a silent gesture of goodwill.
Luther rose, winding the leather thonging that held the dog tightly round his hand. The animal was beginning to wheeze and scream and pull with such force it sounded as if it were strangling itself. As he fought to control it going up the stairs Luther could hear a bedlam of squalling and barking from what had once been the drawing-room above.
The pit consisted of a small circus about six feet in diameter and fitted with a high wooden rim that reached to elbow height. Over it, branches of a gas lamp were arranged which lit up the white painted floor. At one side of the room a bed-recess afforded grandstand seats for the inn-keeper and a couple of his most valued customers. The rest of the men clambered up on tables and forms and hung over the side of the pit itself.
Dog’s were struggling in their masters’ arms and straining at leashes, and making such an ear-splitting din that the inn-keeper had to bawl: ‘All you that have dogs, you’ll have to make them shut up.’
But when a rusty wire cage filled with a dark moving mass of rats was brought forward, it was as if all hell had been let loose. Luther was jerked about in his fight to control Drum who by this time was in a perfect fit of excitement, foaming at the mouth and stretching his neck forward until it seemed that the collar that held it back was almost cutting its throat in two.
The inn-keeper called for a stop-watch and also elected an umpire, quite a dandy of a man with a fat cigar.
‘To see whether the rats are dead or alive when killed, as Paddy says!’
In the meantime the man who’d brought the cage into the pit was pulling rats out by their tails and jerking them into the arena. While he was doing this some of the rats were scurrying about the painted floor, others were running up the man’s trousers.
‘Get out you varmints!’ he shouted, shaking them off.
Some of the ugly little animals sat up on their hind legs, cleaning their faces with their paws.
After the cage of rats was emptied the first dog was brought forward, stretching itself excitedly in its master’s arms. It had thighs like a grasshopper and a mouth that opened back to its ears. The umpire patted it then looked round the room.
&nb
sp; ‘Well, folks, time to begin the first match. Who’ll bet on this little beauty killing a dozen in five minutes?’
Bets were busily taken and eventually the umpire said, ‘Right, toss him in!’
In a second the rats were flying round the white floor as fast as black balls or trying to hide themselves in openings in the boards round the pit, but Luther could see that the dog was not much use as a killer. Its owner had to keep bullying it on by loudly beating the sides of the pit with his hands and bawling:
‘Get them! Get them, you stupid bastard!’
Some of the rats, as the dog tentatively advanced towards them, sprang up into his face, making him jerk back in astonishment. Those he managed to bite curled round his nose and he was forced to carry them like a cat with a kitten.
Even the dead ones he didn’t know what to do with and the owner had to shout:
‘Drop it! Drop it, you fool.’
The match was lost, the dog only having killed five out of the dozen. Luther could tell by the furious look on the owner’s face as he paid up that the dog was going to be kicked all the way home.
One thing was certain, Luther thought, if Drum lost he couldn’t kick it back to the stables. It would have the leg off him first.
While the money was being squared up and bets taken on the next dog, it was allowed into the pit to amuse itself with the dead bodies. Much laughter was caused by the dog seizing hold of one as big as himself, shaking it furiously and thumping its head on the floor like a drumstick.
While the next few matches went on, Drum writhed about, mad with rage, scratching and struggling to get loose. Eventually Luther decided to move forward with it.
‘Make way for the champion!’ he shouted. ‘Sixty in five minutes. Any takers?’
‘Sixty?’
A ripple of excitement coursed round the room.
‘Sixty, you say?’
‘Sixty.’
Bets came pouring in and Luther, despite his iron calm, could not stop sweat from boiling up and pricking over his face as he held on like grim death to the demented terrier.
The floor was swept and another, larger rat cage brought in. When the animals had been flung into the pit they immediately gathered themselves into a barricade which reached a third up the side. They were all sewer or ditch rats and the smell that rose from them reminded Luther of a hot drain.
While the bets were still being taken, the umpire amused himself by flicking at the mound of rats with his pocket handkerchief and offering them the lighted end of his cigar. They tamely sniffed at it, then drew back as they singed their noses. He also blew on the mound, and the rats, obviously disliking this, fluttered about like feathers in the wind, only to form another wall as hastily as they could.
The moment the wildly barking Drum was let free he became quiet in a most business like manner and rushed at the rats to bury his nose in the mound and bring out one in his mouth. In no time a dozen rats with wetted necks were strewn around, reddening the white paint of the floor.
Luther closed his eyes. The suspense made him feel sick. If the dog lost, and the howling mob of men discovered he’d tricked them, they would batter him to death. He would fight like a madman to get out, but against this crowd he knew he didn’t stand a chance. They were after blood. He prayed it wouldn’t be his.
‘Blow on them! Blow on them!’ the crowd were shouting and when Luther opened his eyes again he saw that the ugly little animals had again formed a barricade and the umpire was puffing away at it as if trying to extinguish a fire and making the rats dart off like so many sparks.
Luther cursed to himself. For Drum to be forced to race about after his prey meant wasting precious seconds. But suddenly the innkeeper bawled:
‘Time!’
Luther leapt into the ring and caught the dog and held it as it panted and stretched its neck out like a serpents to stare intently at the rats which still kept crawling about.
In an agony of suspense Luther waited until the umpire counted the dead animals. Then the shout went up.
‘Sixty-three! A champion indeed!’
He felt relief, yet his sickness remained and he was hardly aware of collecting his winnings.
Another dog was in the ring now and a voice from the crowd was crying out: ‘Any dog could kill quicker than him. I’ll kill against him myself.’
Laughing and jeering and scoffing greeted this offer but the voice insisted: ‘I’ll kill against that dog for a sovereign.’
Eventually the wager was accepted. Then Luther saw a desperate skeleton in tattered clothing clamber into the ring. The man got down on all fours, his mouth twitching and trembling, his eyes enormous.
The appalling sight triggered Luther into pushing his way fiercely towards the stairs, vowing to himself that no matter what happened he would never become as degraded as that.
Chapter Seventeen
Augusta had flinched in distaste when Luther told her how he’d got the money. Her sensitivity angered him so much that he had grabbed her by the shoulders and said,
‘Don’t you look at me like that, you high and mighty little bitch. Just think yourself lucky you’re going to be sure of something to eat for the next few weeks.’
She could see by his staring eyes and white face that he was genuinely distressed, and this revelation of his feelings touched her and made her see him in a new light. It made her experience, too, a stab of resentment against fate that her husband should be reduced to such revolting ways to try to earn some money. He had been such a swell dragsman and everyone had admired his prowess on the box. It wasn’t right that he should suffer such indignities. And he was suffering, she realised that now. She saw how he had lost his jaunty swagger. His ready smile and twinkling eyes had been replaced by dourness and flashes of temper like sporadic eruptions of a volcano.
She longed to help and comfort him, but faced with the violence of his anger she could only retreat into herself in confusion. She believed that by doing chores in the house it would please him and she kept stubbornly trying to learn to make porridge or bannocks or soup or to clean the fire grate or work the water pump. But she was thwarted at every turn by his mother. If in desperation she clutched at the water bucket, for example, and insisted on going for the water to make the tea, Mrs Gunnet would reply, ‘My husband and I have never needed to depend on help from anyone and we’re not starting now. This is my house and I’ll fetch the water for my husband’s tea.’
Once Luther had come in as Augusta was verbally battling to make his mother understand and crying out in frustration: ‘You’re mad! You’re a madwoman!’
Once he had actually caught her physically struggling with Mrs Gunnet.
‘You told me to help your mother,’ she protested as he dragged her roughly into the room, ‘and that’s all I’ve been trying to do.’
‘She certainly needs help.’
‘I know she does.’
‘And yet you abuse her.’
‘I don’t mean to but I just can’t get her to understand. Luther, half the time she’s away in a world of her own. She keeps talking as if your father’s alive. She even sets a place at the table for him. Or she sits and reads that letter to the children and to herself as if she’s just received it. And after all it’s only an ordinary character testimonial. I’ve written one exactly like that when one of Mama’s servants was leaving to be married . . . .’
‘If I ever catch you belittling that letter to her, I’ll kill you.’
The intensity of his bitterness and the way it was twisting his face as well as his nature depressed her. She knew it stemmed from all he was suffering as well as from concern for his mother. She even realised when she thought back to the night of the blizzard that what had happened was as much her own fault as his, if it was anyone’s fault. She could see no point in trying to apportion blame any more. The immediate problem of survival was too all-absorbing.
Every day she seemed to be getting heavier and clumsier. Her clothes no longer fitted her,
they tilted grotesquely with front hem far higher than the back and showing an indecent amount of stocking. Her hair was dirty and tangled. Occasionally she washed it but it had become such a chore to struggle in with extra water and to get down on her knees at the tin bath, she could be bothered less and less as time went on. She had no desire to strip off in the cold and have a bath very often either. It seemed a miracle to her now how anyone living in circumstances like these could keep themselves in any way decent. Yet she knew that there were families living in even smaller, more overcrowded and far more dreadful hovels than this.
Only the other day when she was out at the pump she’d heard a woman in a panic of sobbing. She’d hurried over to enquire what was wrong and before she knew what was happening the woman was pulling her along a filthy passage swarming with vermin and into a room about eight feet square. Vile putrescence oozed through cracks in the boards overhead and ran down the walls. The window was stuffed with rags. Five young children crouched on the damp earthen floor. In the corner lay a lad of about fourteen; his clothes were as thin as paper and his appearance death-like. He was trembling with cold and writhing about in pain with cramp and diarrhoea. The stench and closeness of the room made Augusta cough and retch and grope away back along the corridor. The woman had hastened after her, frantic with grief.
‘Tell us, missus. What’s to be done?’ she kept repeating. ‘My poor laddie. What’s to be done for him?’
Augusta gave her a blanket from her own bed to warm the boy. She had been tempted to try and soothe and comfort the woman by telling lies about believing that the boy was going to be all right, but she knew instinctively that lies were a luxury neither she nor the woman could afford.
‘I’ll give you some gruel,’ she told her instead. ‘It will warm and strengthen your other children. There’s nothing either of us can do for the boy.’
She didn’t tell Luther about the incident. There seemed no point in depressing him more than he already was. Instead she tried to get him to talk about what occurred during his day, but since the rat-killing episode he had stubbornly refused to confide in her. She suspected that occasionally he found a menial task that earned him a shilling or two. At least, sometimes he produced a few shillings.
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 12
