Authors: Ann Featherstone
My lodgings - I
never invite anyone there - are in Portland- road, in a row of quiet houses,
all three-storeys with adjoining areas which at one time, perhaps seventy years
ago, might have been smart, attracting nice families or a solicitor on his way
up. Now they are, as Mrs Twentyfold, the lady of the house, put it, 'not of a
piece', by which I think she meant all in different states of repair and use.
Certainly, the upper end, nearest a pocket park, was tidier and better kept
than the farthest end, where lodgings rubbed shoulders with houses in which
every room was let to a copyist or scribe, the cellar to a noisy shoemaker and
the attic, of course, to as many tailors and their boys as could be shoe-horned
under the skylights. Mrs Twentyfold's establishment was snug between two similar
houses, one taken entirely by clerks, and the other by a roaming community of
commercial travellers, those cheery men who are as attached to their bag as
they are to their regular enquiry of 'What do you travel in?' addressed to
anyone carrying a card or a parcel. According to Mrs Twentyfold, I am something
of a flamer; that is, I am unusual, but not in a good way. Mrs Twentyfold did
not take in 'theatricals' as a rule, neither did her neighbours, but her
second-floor back room had stood empty for three weeks and, as she said,
pocketing my week-in-advance and removing the cruet, 'beggars can't be
choosers'. Nevertheless, she looked upon me with a steely eye and my two boys
also, and
I think was only
awaiting a lawyer's clerk in search of chambers, to find an excuse to turn me
out. Given her already strong prejudices, she was none too happy at the sight
of me in single mourning with a bloody nose and limping, when she opened the
door.
'I want no
trouble here,' she began in a low voice, which was for my ears only. This is a
quiet house and respectable. I already put up with your animals and your
unnatural hours. I won't have trouble as well. Think on, Mr Chapman, and mend
your ways, or you'll be looking for another room.'
I tried to
ignore her and Will nodded and tipped his hat, but it did not silence her, and
we were accompanied by a monologue concerning the tribulations of being a
landlady as we mounted the stairs to my room. I was not ashamed of it - I keep
it neat and clean, and it is
my
room,
my
corner of the
world which, for the first time in my entire life, is my own. I would rather it
remained that way, but at this moment, unless I determined to crawl up, step by
step, on hands and knees, I had to lean upon Will and allow him in. My eye was
swollen shut and the other throbbed, and there was a swelling upon my cheek and
around my jaw which was hard to ignore. I would very much like to have lain
down, but that could not be, said Will, until he had attended to me. He
unlocked my door, threw up my blind, raked out my fire, laid a new one and put
a light to it. He filled my kettle and lit my lamp. Then he sat me on the edge
of my bed and took a few steps back to give me a good once-over and, after
helping me off with my coat, found a bowl and water and some cloths and set to
work. He had gentle hands and talked constantly, to distract me from the pain.
'What
did they steal from you, Bob? I've never seen you with a watch and chain and if
you're harbouring a bag of treasure, you must have swallowed it!'
He
frowned and I winced.
'Did
that hurt, old fellow? I'm sorry.'
He worked in
silence for a while and then began musing upon Barney and his father's
difficulties. 'I wonder who George Kevill had put out,' he said. 'It must have
been someone significant, otherwise why would they want to destroy him? You
know he was pinched for murdering a ladybird? The boy says that was a put-up
business, that witnesses were paid to finger him.' He was silent for a moment.
'It was only a few weeks back that he danced the Newgate jig, as they say. And
left the kid to shift for himself.'
Will went to
pour the bloody water away in the scullery downstairs and boil some fresh. It
was not a pretty tale. Even Trim might think twice about making a story of it.
And though perhaps I did recall reading about a hanging, those desperate men
who make light of the Newgate jig are common enough. Men like the Nasty Man.
Danger made them bold. So that if the Nasty Man believed that Barney had passed
to me something
he
wanted or believed was his that morning outside the Pavilion,
if he thought I had some association with the boy or his father, well, I had
salt on my tail, like it or not, and that man would pursue me through hell and
high water. And, if any were persuasion was needed, well my cuts and bruises
were evidence enough.
I jumped when
Will opened the door, and again when someone knocked upon it. And I was
relieved when he cried, 'Look here, Bob, who is come a-visiting you! Your
friend and that famous pen-driver from the Pavilion, and soon-to-be
Albemarle-street, Fortinbras Horatio Trimmer!'
Trim smiled
faintly, enquired after my injuries, shook his head in sympathy and lapsed into
awkward silence, perched on the only chair. Will brought more fresh water and
dealt with my swollen knuckles, at the same time recounting the strange events
of the day to Trim, who was as mystified as we were. Finally, when he could get
a word in between Will's, Trim said, 'You were in the soup for a while,
Lovegrove. You didn't say where you'd gone, and when the Gov sent around to the
Aquarium to see if you were there, and Mrs - What's-'er-name? - Gifford? said
you were in a bad way, Bob - well, everything was sent awry.' He laughed. 'We
were forced to have costumes instead of rehearsals, Mr Pirate Hero, and you
missed the attentions of Miss Pikemartin.'
Will never
raised his eyes, but I thought his cheeks coloured at the mention of her name.
'Bob Chapman has
been wretchedly knocked about,' he volunteered, dabbing at my knuckles, 'but he
is a stalwart fellow and a true Englishman, and never let a comrade down, or
dropped anchor in another man's port. Do you think your excellent landlady
might have some witch-hazel in her cupboard? That is a sure way of treating
fighting injuries.'
She had - for a
penny, of course. And would send out for anything Will required - for a
consideration. But the witch-hazel was sufficient.
'I'm afraid you won't
do much damage with these fives for a while, Bob,' Will said, shaking his head.
He was right. My hands were more badly injured than I had at first realized.
The knuckles, where I had tried to fend off the roughs' kicks and blows, were
cut and broken, and so swollen that I could not flex my hand at all, and my
fingers were red and tight. Besides, every touch and movement pained me now, no
matter how careful Will was. And he did seem to know about bruising and
swelling and breaks - though he thought I had none of the latter - and I
wondered whether this was another of his dark secrets, particularly when he
said, with a wry smile, 'I remember the great Tom Spring would swear by
witch-hazel. Said there was nothing evil about the way it mended his fists after
he had smashed Jack Langan! So I think it'll do for you, Bob, my friend.'
Finally, Will
declared me 'well and truly doctored' and announced that now he really must
return to the Pavilion. He had a performance of
Perilous and Drear
that evening and, of course, if Miss Fleete and her assistant were still on
hand, he said, he should attend to his costume. Trim smiled faintly, and I
followed them downstairs to the door, though they urged me to stay within. But
I was eager to breathe the outside air, and with my dogs at my heels, we stood
on the top step of the house and watched our friends disappear into the gloom,
having agreed that, if I felt more like myself and was desirous of company, I
should meet them at the Cheese that evening, though they wouldn't blame me if I
didn't.
They are kind
friends, I thought, as I slowly climbed the stairs, watched from a crack in the
door by Mrs Twentyfold, but I was glad they had gone. I wanted nothing more
than to shut the door and light the candles - I prefer candle-light to all
others - and with Brutus and Nero taking their ease on their rugs either side
the crackling fire where the kettle hisses, to sit, warm and quiet.
I looked around
my little room, with its comfortable corners and familiar objects. My little
shelf of books, the pictures (cut from the illustrated papers) tacked to the
wall, my collection of treasures gathered from the wasteland and displayed for
my own pleasure on a table. Candles burned with a pleasant bright light. The
fire sputtered, and sparks flew merrily up the chimney. The kettle stood ready.
The tea tin, with its pink Japanese flowers, was in its usual place. A cup and
saucer. A plate of bread and cheese in the cupboard. My bed was made, my dogs
in their places. Everything was in order.
But not quite.
For, like a button in the poor box, something had crept in uninvited. And it
was not that Will and Trim had been here, had disordered my bed and the little
rug before the fire and left their footmarks upon the floor, the impressions
of their fingers upon the window pane. They would soon fade and be gone. Nor
the ugly slops of bloody water, the bottle of witch-hazel. No, it was as if
fear itself had taken shape and walked in with me, and was now, like a shadow,
behind and before me. Even the air was fouled by it, and suddenly I felt
stifled and, panicking, stumbled to the door and down the stairs, to the street
steps where I clung to railings and breathed as deeply as my injured lungs
would allow. Which was where I was discovered by Mrs Twentyfold. After some
moments' scrutiny, she brought me water in a chipped cup, and then wrestled
with the dilemma of whether to offer me consolation or complaint. In the end,
she settled for an equal distribution of the two.
'Of course, I
shouldn't wonder at you getting knocked about, Mr Chapman,' she began, 'given
the company you keep and the visitors you get. Why, I have been to the door a
dozen times this week with people asking for you, and I won't have it. This is
a respectable house and your callers were
not
all
respectable people.'
She looked up
and down the street and sniffed. 'They leave no card nor message, and that does
not signify respectability.
Mind you,
neither were they theatricals. My late husband was one of the first Buffaloes -
the Buffs they were known as - him being a stage-hand at the Drury-lane
Theatre. So there is little you can tell
me
about
theatricals. Now, your Mr Lovegrove - he
is
a respectable
theatrical, and a man my late husband would have opened a door to. And your Mr
Trimmer, who I hear is a dramatic author, though not quite of
"the
calibre", as my late husband would say, but is
still a respectable person. Both of them I am willing to allow over my
doorstep, though not regular. This is a lodging house, not a cutting-shop.'
Sometimes Mrs
Twentyfold's associations were difficult to follow, but her chatter was
strangely calming and lapped over me like waves.
'Of course,
there are some - in this very street - who are not so particular as I, and who
will rent a room to any hawcubite, as my late husband used to say. But not I,
Mr Chapman. This is a respectable lodging house. I know I repeat myself, but if
it's true, it's worth saying over. It may not be a prince's bedful, nor even a
queen's cup of malt, but it
is
respectable.'
Weary to the bone,
I clung to the railing, but she didn't appear to notice.
'I have no
objection to the very large gentleman, Mr Chapman,' she continued. 'He claimed
to be a friend of yours, though I don't recall his name.' She mused, 'A refined
gentleman, I thought, perhaps a Buff, though not a theatrical, that was very
clear. As you are aware, I have lived among theatricals all my life, and need
no introduction. My father was a stroller in Mr Whiston's company. The King's
Lynn Circuit. And my mother, before she married, was Miss Flygrove.'
But
I didn't hear any more. I was too struck by her revelation that the Nasty Man
had been here. I realized then that he knew where I lived, where I worked, the
names of my dogs, my friends. He could find me at any time, rough me over and
poison my boys. He could be just around the corner, now. Or creeping up the
area steps and waiting for me in the darkness.
I should jump
upon a cart and be far away before the sun rose. I should do it to have an easy
mind.
The air was
dropping colder, and with it the pains in my back and chest increased. I
gasped. Stumbled. Mrs Twentyfold clicked her tongue, and hurried me inside.
Having me collapse upon her front step would do nothing for the respectability
of her establishment.
In my little
room, Brutus and Nero snored, the fire glowed. Somewhere in the street, voices
were raised and doors slammed. The heavy clump of footsteps and the smell of
chops and kippers began to announce the return of my neighbours. In their
lodgings, actors would be rousing themselves, eating their bread and butter and
drinking their sweet tea, conning a few lines at the last minute. At the
Aquarium, Alf Pikemartin would be turning up the lights and giving the entrance
hall a sweep. Conn would be inspecting the menagerie, looking to the poorly
lion cub, tending to the apes. Moses Dann, the Boneless Man, would be getting
up from his mattress in the cellar (where he slept every hour he is able) and
calling for his pot of ale. Every day the same.