Authors: Ann Featherstone
A
roar of applause greeted the sheeney who crept in and took his place at the
piano. When he ran his fingers up and down the keys, you would have thought he
had played a symphony with his feet, and when he struck a chord and from the
side of the stage a dark, lean mummer in high boots and a mouldy velvet cloak swung
out and stood, bandy-legged, with his hand held up for silence, it was as
though Mr Macready himself had appeared, just for a day!
'Gentle
friends,' he cried above the tumult, 'today - some tumblin'-an'-balancin'.'
'Where's
the dog-man?' cried someone.
'Where's
Chapman and his dogs?' cried another.
Yes,
I thought, I'd like to see that man too!
But
the mummer was having none of it.
'Singin'-an'-dancin'
- great drammer of King Richard - what lorst 'is 'orse when most inconwenient
to 'im.'
'Chapman!' went
up the cry. 'Bring him out now!' was followed by a wholesale stamping of feet
and under different circumstances, I might have felt flattered! But the mummer
held up his hand and looked mournful. 'I regret - Chapman and dawgs -
indisposed - on account of bad meat.'
And that was
that. My namesake was dismissed, the mummer disappeared with a flourish and on
shuffled a stout fellow in dirty pink tights, who juggled four ill-matched
balls and quickly wore out the patience of the audience, who were still baying
for Chapman! Finally, the cry of 'Hook it, macaroni!' was joined loudly in
chorus, which immediately unbalanced the juggler, who lost his nerve and the
balls. The ivory-thumper filled the interval and then on scuttled three
white-faced clowns. Tumblers.
Acrobatiques.
It was soon apparent
that they were only boys, but not half bad, and they started off with some
simple balancing and flip-flaps. The smaller lads were unsure of themselves,
and looked to their older friend to take the lead, and he was certainly the
most impressive, quite a pro, though still young. He stood on his head,
balanced on a barrel and turned a somersault with ease. Even the crowd were
half-appreciative and the jibbing was replaced by encouraging cheers and then
by stamping feet in time to the music, which produced not only little flurries
of dust and plaster from up above and a shuddering of the floorboards beneath
our feet, but also the lean mummer, who stopped the show by holding up his
hand.
'Appreciative
of your goodwill,' came the phrase.
More stamping
and shouting. The mummer's hand went up again.
'But deee-sist
from stampin' - will yer!' He drew a great arc with his arm. 'Bring the 'ole
'ouse down! - all perish in consequence—'
Laughter rocked
the audience, and there were more intervals of wild cheering and stamping, and
roars of approval. It was a welcome hiatus for the tumblers: the air was hot
and thick, and they were breathing heavily. Sweat melted the whiting on their
faces, which were soon streaked and dirty, and when the older one screwed his
fist into his eye much of the paint came away. Then I realized I knew him.
It
was the boy. Barney.
I watched him
with renewed interest as he threw himself into the remainder of the act, and
then, standing on his two hands whilst the boys carefully balanced an upturned
champagne bottle on the soles of his feet, he walked from the stage to raucous
applause. It was a clever trick, one he must have learned whilst on the
fairground with his Pa, for it was well- taught and showed a deal of skill.
Indeed, he was a boy the circus-folk might have looked twice upon and taken up,
but now, here he was, in Tipney's Gaff, a shop no professional would choose
unless he was on his uppers. Or unless his Pa had been stretched.
I mused upon this
while the next performer, a little girl in short skirts and wearing a smile
that only her mother could have beaten into her, pranced heavily around the
stage. Small, dark-eyed and dark-haired, decked out in the ribbons and glass
beads that mothers believe enhance their child's beauty, she registered hardly
at all with the audience who wearied of her immediately. And I recognized her
also. She was the little child so cruelly rejected by the dancing master at the
Pavilion and, I suppose, in consequence forced to earn a penny for her family
in this place. Another child put to this hard life of labour for little reward.
I felt sorry for her, but also for Barney Kevill - that was his name! - alone
in the world and playing here in this gaff. The last time I'd seen him, weeks
ago it seemed, was from a cab through a rapidly closing eye as he stood on the
steps of the Aquarium.
Enough.
Strong's Gardens called me.
I pressed
through the crowd and, feeling a blow of cold air, I followed it. But I turned,
not into the street, but the back yard. After the fuggy gloom of the theatre,
it took a little time for my eyes to accustom themselves to the glare of light.
The yard was small and cobbled, with walls on either side and a building at the
back which might once have been a stable. The backs of shops were always a
mess, but the outbuildings, if the owners (or tenants) were cute enough, could
be rented out to make a pile or more. On one side, beyond the wall and through
the gate, were the tumbledown sheds which made up Pilgrim's yard. On the other,
behind a shop selling anything from cabbages to candles, were outhouses in
which a couple of pigs and a family of four shared equal space.
There was no
sign of my namesake, and no evidence of Brutus and Nero's canine impersonators
either, just a gaggle of mummers in their stage clothes, sitting upon the
upturned buckets and barrels, ready to perform
Richard III.
They
paid no heed to me, nor to Barney who, with his shoe bag over his shoulder,
sauntered over, rubbing his eye the while and looking carefully about him.
'Here
you are. Them bashers made a mess of your face.'
He seemed
unsurprised to see me. Indeed, his small, round face was almost blanked of
expression. He nodded at the stable.
'I found it. That's
it. That was my Pa's shop, Kevill's Photographic Studio and Emporium. I got to
thinking when Mr Lovegrove asked me. I asked the Princess if she knew. She said
she thought it was hereabouts. Fancy you coming here. Was it on account of the
dog-bloke taking your name?'
He
didn't wait for an answer.
'I've seen the
Nasty Man too, but he hasn't clocked me yet. I got to be careful. Still, I'm
going to serve him out.'
There was a roar
of laughter from within the gaff, which broke like a gun-shot upon the quiet of
the yard.
'It don't look
much,' he was saying, nodding to the building, 'but my Pa set it up like a
reg'lar shop inside. There are proper winders in the roof, you know, with
shutters over them and a big photographing machine with a cloth. It's still
there.'
It was a
sizeable building and I could see that it had once been smart. A flag fluttered
on the roof, and there were even the remnants of old advertising on the door -
'Quality Pictures' - 'Latest Styles'. But it was run down now, the wooden walls
rotting and full of holes. I was surprised that the photographing machine was
still inside. In this district, it should have been stolen in a blink, and so
in spite of my haste to get out of the city and into Titus Strong's cabbage
fields, I was curious and wanted to see for myself.
But Barney
grasped my arm and held me back, frowning and listening.
'Not
yet.'
And then he
pushed me hard into the shadow of the building.
'It's
him! The Nasty Man! He mustn't see us!'
I
was so surprised that it took me a moment to realize what he had said, and
another to register that the voice, getting louder as it emerged from the gaff,
was indeed the Nasty Man. He was holding a child by the wrist - it was the
little creature I had just seen dancing on the stage - and looking about him.
To make sure no one was here.
'Listen to me,'
he whispered in that familiar, soft voice. 'When you have danced your next
little dance - which you give so beautifully, my dear! - don't run away, but
come to me here and I will take you to see the fine gentleman and he will give
you a present!'
The
child shook her head.
'I
would rather go home, sir.'
'Dear
child, you'll come to me. Here.'
He was bending
down to speak to her, leaning upon a black cane. The child struggled against
his grasp.
'My ma will wait
at our street end for me. I have to go to the theatre tonight. She'll give me a
whipping if I don't go home.'
'And I will give
you a whipping if you do. How would that be? Don't you remember how I punished
you when you disobeyed me last time?'
The
child was silent. And had stopped struggling.
'Don't you
remember how it hurt? And how the nice gentleman comforted you and rubbed your
little red cheeks better?'
She
was perfectly still now.
'Perhaps another
whipping?' said the Nasty Man, straightening up and drawing the cane across
the cobbles of the yard. 'We'll see what the gentleman says, shall we?'
The creature
regarded her, as a cat watches a mouse, and then, as though he was considering
every moment, leaned towards her and whispered in the little one's ear. She
gasped and began to cry, which seemed to be his purpose for he slowly took off
one of his pale gloves and, with great care, pinched the skin of her chubby arm
between the tips of his fingers. She squealed and cried and rubbed her arm.
There! Like a
kitten!' he mocked. 'It shall have a hard lesson if it isn't a good kitten!' He
pinched her again. 'Now it knows what to do. It'll come here, won't it, and be
good!'
He pushed her
ahead of him into the gaff and stood for a moment, pulling on his glove, and
looking about him. If he saw us or heard our hearts slamming in our chests, he
showed no sign of it, but simply rapped the stones with his cane and strode
back into the gaff.
Barney and I
stood in silence. He was breathing hard through clenched teeth.
'Hear that, Mr
Chapman? What was that about then? Something dodgy. Stealing off little kids,
by the sounds of it. I will serve him out, mark me, I will. For my Pa's sake.
And hers.'
What I had
heard, I didn't understand. What I had seen, the Nasty Man's careless cruelty
to a child, I could well believe. But I didn't want to know any more of it, and
neither did I want the Nasty Man to see me again in the company of Barney. Even
more reason, I thought, to collect my dogs and hurry to Strong's Gardens and
safety. I started for the gate, the one that led into Pilgrim's yard, but
Barney clutched my arm urgently.
'Will you help
me serve him out, the Nasty Man? I've got a plan. All it needs is for you to
come back here with your dogs when I send for you, to make sure of it. I mean
to have him - look at this! - I've got a stopper.'
His
eyes were bright as he produced from his shoe-bag a small gun, what the hunting
brigade call a cripple-stopper, used to put wounded birds out of their misery.
What it would do to a man, I had no idea. He shoved it back into the bag.
'It won't be any
trouble to you. Or your dogs. I'll send for you. All right?'
He
didn't wait for an answer, but disappeared into the gaff.
If I had taken
Barney more seriously, if he had told me his plan at that moment, I would have
persuaded him against it and, indeed, would have refused to be part of it. But
I was eager to get out of the gaff and Fish-lane and any chance meeting with
the Nasty Man. I gave not a second thought to Barney's scheme to serve out the
Nasty Man.
My dogs were in
Pilgrim's yard when I opened the gate. I wanted to be on my way quickly and
Brutus, clever dog, seemed to understand and came to stand by my side and leant
gently against my leg, ready to be off. But Nero had gone exploring. He had
discovered the tumbledown shed of rotten wood and sacks and barrels (home to
rats, without a doubt) which lay at the bottom of my friend's yard. This was
once quite a nobby street, popular with tradesmen and, with market gardens at
the back growing vegetables and orchards full of fruit trees, a jolly place to
live. But that must have been a long time ago, I thought, for now it was a
crowded street and not at all nobby, and the backs overlooked not gardens but
high walls and fences. Pilgrim's yard was piled with rotting books, all
stacked and messed together by rain and damp. Great mouldering heaps, about to
fall apart or fall over, making good nests for colonies of rats and mice. It
was little wonder that the Growler from the gaff had not brought in some dogs.
This would be an ideal ratting ken. But what interested Nero seemed to be
beyond the book heaps. He was intent upon squeezing himself behind the paper
mountains and, fearing that he might stray and wanting to be away soon, I went
after him.
It was a foul
place, full of scuttling creatures and quite treacherous. Any slight
disturbance caused the book heaps to sway and slide. Piles of newspapers gave
way underfoot and my boot disappeared more than once into a slimy porridge of
rotten paper and crunched down upon nests of sleeping snails. Of course, the
terrain presented no difficulties for Nero, who was intent upon following the
scent he had picked up. He disappeared for a moment, and although I could hear
him, snuffling and scrabbling, I couldn't see him, so I scaled yet another
mountain range of paper, stumbled and overbalanced and, crashing heavily into
the shaky fence beyond the sheds which immediately gave way, I tumbled forward,
onto my knees, grabbing at the thin air, and almost diving into the railway
cutting below.