Death and Mr. Pickwick (43 page)

‘Well, there are paintings on the wall. It's actually a sporting club. I would like you to do a picture of it, which I will use in the magazine at some point. The atmosphere there is most convivial, and if we have a drink or two, I'm sure you won't mind.'

*   *   *

A closely cropped temperance campaigner, with a handful of tracts and the drawn, desiccated face and small eyes of one who would read them, stood, finger raised in mid-speech, outside the Castle Tavern in Holborn. He located himself precisely under the tavern's illustrated sign – and the Castle boasted the largest inn sign in all London – flourishing a crucifix in his free hand as his response to the tavern's unashamed iniquity.

‘And let us not forget the deeds of the criminal,' he said, ‘how the fist was thrown, how the knife was thrust, how the gun was fired, how the victim's life was ruined – and all because of
alcohol
! Achievement is the fruit of sobriety. You, sir – do you wish to be happy in your family life, seeing your children grow to adulthood? And you, sir – do you wish to be a prosperous man, a man who sees out his days in robust strength? Such are the rewards of sobriety. But drink brings men to dirt and rags! Drink brings men to the insane asylum!'

‘Excuse me,' said Egan to the campaigner as he and Seymour entered the Castle. He opened an inner door. ‘Welcome,' he said, ‘to the Daffy Club.'

There was an unending din of tankards clanging, and spoons, and laughter, and the smell of shrimp, as an old gentleman with a brown wig and apron passed among the drinkers with a basket, handing out paper cones of seafood. Seymour heard two men say ‘Done!' and shake hands on a bet. He heard another man say, ‘I was concentrating on his upperworks,' as he punched an imaginary chin. ‘He took one-two-three.'

They were in a smoky clubroom, with a long table to one side, and shorter tables beyond. A waiter was then adjusting the gas to a brighter level, in keeping with the mood of the night. Upon the walls were pictures of sporting subjects, glazed and framed, reflecting the chandelier. Seymour saw the bare-knuckle fist of a painted boxer catch a flash of light, as if to suggest the force of his blow.

‘In this club, Mr Seymour,' said Egan, ‘we keep the pugilistic game alive. I am never happier than when I am here – joining in the songs, drinking with my friends. You should come here on a Friday night during the season. I hate being alone, Mr Seymour, and this is the best company I know.'

‘As long as we are not out dead cold!' said a toothless man who slapped Egan on the back.

Egan was saluted by every man he neared, usually with a raising of a glass, and he introduced all to Seymour. A young fellow with a pug nose was identified as White-headed Bob. Then came Frosty-faced Fogo. A man with a debauched and generally lived-in face was one George Head. ‘George is the best muffle-master in town,' said Egan.

‘Muffle-master?' said Seymour.

‘I apologise. Teacher of pugilistic tactics.'

Egan next took Seymour on a tour of the gallery.

‘Now this is Dutch Sam,' he said, indicating a portrait of a whiskery pugilist. ‘He
trained
on gin.' Then came likenesses of several more distinguished fighters: the fat Hudson, Jackson who used to run the Bond Street room, Mendoza and Ward. There were paintings of the turf, the chase and stuffed fowls in glass cases. One painting showed a bull terrier, Trusty, hero of fifty fights in the pit, and an inscription below stated that he belonged to the pugilist Jem Belcher, whose portrait came next, showing off the blue and white spotted neckerchief for which he was known. This was followed by a portrait of his brother and fellow fighter Tom Belcher, and seated in front, the real and older version of that very man. While the portrait showed the muscled fighter stripped to the waist, fists raised, chest shining, the real man was slim and shrunken, in a blue jacket, with a withered hand around a tankard. Tom Belcher acknowledged Egan with a wink and a wheeze. At his elbow was another old boxer. ‘Now this is Jack Scroggins,' said Egan, ‘a terrific fighter in his time, a slaughterer, but Tom Belcher gave it him about right. Best of friends now – brother-pugs. Jack, let our guest here have a bit of your song. The one about you and Tom.'

The old fighter wiped his lips, stood, and sang:

Tommy's yet in prime, and even when half groggy

Did in fairish time, snuff out the lights of Scroggy.

There was applause from the room and Scroggins bowed, then resumed his seat after a pat on the back from Belcher.

‘What's that jacket Tom Belcher was wearing?' asked Seymour. The distinctive shade of blue had initially caught his attention, but its true prominence came from the buttons, upon which the initials ‘PC' were engraved, and which caught the gaslight.

‘A few of the members wear those from time to time. It's the jacket of the old Pugilistic Club. The club's gone now. But some of the older members like to recall its glory days.'

‘We couldn't fund the prizes they put up,' said one blazing-faced member with a huge lower lip, turning towards the pair. ‘They stuffed a winner's purse until the stitches at the seams squealed for mercy.'

‘Too true, my friend, too true. Sit yourself at the ring, Mr Seymour,' said Egan, indicating the long table and signalling to a barmaid. ‘You come here, Mr Seymour, on the night before any grand match, and the club gets so crowded that we spill out into the next parlour, and on to the street. And we argue the merits of one fighter over another in the most scientific way. Often the fighters come in person, and we size them up and bets are placed.'

‘And the drink flows, by the look of things,' said Seymour.

‘We have been known to drink the tavern dry! And I cannot recommend highly enough our sporting dinners. The landlord is a most formidable caterer. You'd enjoy yourself. We do talk about the turf, and the prize ring, and angling, and cocking, and shooting and cricket, and dogs – but that is only part of it. That is not where the real fun lies, Mr Seymour. Often the chair is taken by a first-rate singer, from the theatre. Such are the delights of being a Daffyonian!'

‘Where do you get that name from?' said Seymour.

‘Well, you won't find the word daffy in Dr Johnson! You have to move in certain circles to know it and use it. You've heard of Daffy's Elixir?'

‘The tonic.'

‘The Reverend Thomas Daffy's universal treatment for all illnesses and woes. But ask yourself, Mr Seymour: what is the
real
universal treatment for all illnesses and woes? There is one answer: gin, Mr Seymour, gin! So let's have some, and cure ourselves!'

After the drinks were poured and the glasses chinked, Egan continued: ‘When we launched the club and we wanted a name, we thought: we
can't
call it the Gin Club. It's what we are about, but not everyone would want it known. We might have called it the Flash of Lightning Club; that was very popular. And we considered the Old Tom, and the Stark Naked and the Blue Ruin and the Jacky the Link Boy but those had their drawbacks too. The Punch Club might have done very well for our pugilistic interests, but we only occasionally drink punch. Then we thought: the Daffy Club. And it met with unanimous approval. There are fellows who would avoid a place called the Gin Club, but would be happy to be a member of the Daffy. Hang it, sir – at least in our name we are more honest than most clubs. Whether a club is founded for sport or any other interest, we all know clubs inevitably turn into a society for eating, drinking and having fun. People may be drinking at home more these days, Mr Seymour, but they can still come here and find company. For a Daffyonian to drink alone is a rare thing, a very rare thing.'

Then Egan stood and said: ‘Friends, let's sing a chorus of the club song for our guest!'

And all joined in, with great relish.

Bring the Daffy

Let's be happy

Life you know is but a span

No melancholy

All be jolly

Smoke your pipes and fill the can!

After applause and an all-round swallowing, Egan said, ‘We are always good for a tune, Mr Seymour! But there is another thing we have, which I do not believe any other institution in the land possesses. What we call
accommodation
. The principle is that a man can stand up and recite the most marvellous adventures – adventures to rival Baron Münchausen's – without any fear of contradiction. We will always
accommodate
the speaker. It's best if we give you some examples.'

Egan called over a square-shouldered gentleman whom he introduced to Seymour as Jemmy Soares, PDC.

‘PDC?' said Seymour.

‘President, Daffy Club – the club's chairman,' explained Egan. ‘Jem's a Sheriff's Representative, but a good-hearted fellow, in spite of the men he's sent to the Fleet. When we founded the club we called a chair, and Jem has been president ever since. Jem, do you think we can demonstrate the principle of accommodation for Mr Seymour?'

‘I don't see why not,' said Soares. He banged the nearest table with a hammer and when silence was established, he said: ‘Has anyone been
travelling
recently?'

The pug-nosed man previously identified as White-headed Bob took to his feet.

‘I have just returned from Spain, Mr President.'

‘Oh
have
you,' said Soares.

There were sniggers from around the room. Soares banged the hammer. ‘Gentlemen, you will of course
accommodate
the honourable member when he gives his account.' There were various coughs, as well as the straightening of faces throughout the clubroom. A general seriousness was assumed by the members, and a tugging-down of jackets, and an adjusting of cuffs, as though awaiting a scientific lecture.

‘I went to Spain,' said White-headed Bob, ‘and there I met the most beautiful woman I have seen in my life. Her eyes were like – burning coals. Her hair was like – the night. Her skin was smooth as – a silken pillow. Her name was – now what was her name?'

There was a low chuckle in a corner. Soares pointed in the direction of the chuckle, with a finger which indicated that any member, no matter how distinguished, might be expelled.

‘Oh I remember it now,' said the speaker. ‘It was Maria. Donna Maria. She was the only daughter of a grandee. And seeing the face of a handsome Englishman such as myself—'

There was a snort from another corner.

Soares banged his hammer. ‘Silence over there! Proceed, sir!'

‘Seeing such a face, she could not help herself – in short, she fell in love. She said, gentlemen, that these alabaster locks were the perfect counterpart to her own of ebony. Her love was like a madness that possessed her.
Consumed
her, I might say. And so was my love in return. But – alas! There was her father, the grandee. I will not say his love for his daughter was unnatural, but it was excessive. No mortal man could be good enough for his daughter – unless, perhaps, he possessed the exact face of the father as he was twenty years before. And even then, nothing short of a prince would do, and moreover, a prince who had conquered half the world, and had twice the riches of Croesus. His daughter had a nobler soul, I am glad to say. Had I been the poorest swineherd in existence, she would still have loved me, for I was the man upon whom she had set her heart. Well – her father forbade her to see me. Excuse me one moment.' He dabbed his eye with a handkerchief, of the Belcher style. ‘The result was that Donna Maria procured prussic acid and, one night, in the depth of despair – she drank the whole bottle.'

There were loud, horrified cries of ‘No, no!'

‘It is true, sirs, it is true. And her maid – a pretty girl in her own right, I might add – brought me a letter in which Maria informed me of her grim intentions. Maria confessed her eternal love for me, and said that her earnest wish was that one day we would meet in heaven. And her signature was underlined with eighty-seven kisses, for I counted them, there and then. That signature was appended in the moment before the deadly vessel was raised to her ruby-red lips. But! All was not lost. For I was in Spain on a very particular mission. A friend of mine, an eminent doctor who believes that all diseases are caused by disorders in digestion, had asked me to deliver an item of medical equipment to a Spanish professional associate of his, as such items could not be acquired in that country. Do not ask me why stomach pumps are not available on the Iberian Peninsula – perhaps the Spanish government had reneged on a promise, and the medical-equipment-making industry had collapsed as a result. But – the fact was, I just happened to have a stomach pump on my person. Off I rode into the night, spurring my steed as fast as it could go, to the grandee's residence. Pushing aside the father, I ascended to Donna Maria's room, inserted the tube into her mouth and I pumped away, oh how I pumped! And – merciful God be praised! The lovely Donna Maria was rescued! Well, I can tell you that her father was in ecstasy! His only daughter would live! There, on the spot, he blessed our union. He joined our hands, and said that a wedding ring, in his family for generations, and made from gold acquired by conquistadors, would be ours. Our bliss seemed assured. But!' He applied the handkerchief to his eye again. ‘She died, gentlemen, she died, on the eve of our nuptials. Her constitution was too delicate to withstand the stomach pump, you see – she was such a fragile creature. And as for her father, he was overcome with guilt and despair. The morning after her funeral, he vanished. The whole town was abuzz with rumour. Everyone searched high and low, near and far – nothing. But! There was a public fountain on the village green, which suddenly stopped. It was a most elaborate affair, with fish and dolphins and swans in stone, and the sun usually playing upon the sparkling water. Well, workmen were summoned, and the water was drained – and inside a pipe, there was the grandee, who had drowned himself head first. Inside his boot was a piece of paper, which was virtually a piece of pulp, but when it was pulled apart there were enough legible words to see that he had confessed that life was not worth living without his beloved Donna Maria.' He dabbed the Belcher-style handkerchief on his eyes yet again. Then, in one swift gesture, he wrung the handkerchief, as though sodden, and added with a smile: ‘But on the bright side, the fountain worked better than ever!'