The Newgate Jig (8 page)

We went into the
kitchen and I sat at the scrubbed table and watched him cut bread and bacon and
fill a cup with strong tea. He pushed the plate towards me and bade me 'Eat
well and God be wi' ye, Bob' (for he is a religious man of the Methodist
persuasion and struggles to keep it to himself) whilst he fetched scraps and
water for Brutus and Nero. Then he settled himself opposite me and filled his
own cup and talked about the Gardens and the crops, what cabbages will fetch
and how he had bought strawberry plants 'to try out and see if they will do
anything' this year. After I'd supped, he picked up his hat and stick and we
went out into the chill air. The gardens were misty and damp, and the cabbages
rose like so many heads from the ground. We took this path and that, winding in
and out, and my friend pointed to 'that plot, Bob, by the big plum tree, where
I shall try artichokes this year and see if they will do anything'. That is his
philosophy: to 'see if it will do anything'. Never forcing a crop, but tending
the soil and the seeds and making the beds just so with spade and muck, and
then simply watching and waiting. For if he has a quality which rises above all
others, it is that of patience.

'And now, Bob, you know
what I want to hear. Have you seen her, my Lucy?'

Brutus and Nero
lingered at either side of him and when he touched their heads, ever so
lightly, they wagged their tails in appreciation. He smiled down at them.

'These are your
children, Bob. You care for them, keep them safe. You would give your right arm
to protect them.'

I
thought of the Nasty Man and his wicked handkerchief.

'I hoped you had come
with news of
my
child. But I see you haven't.'

He struggled to control
his grief, and coughed loudly, turning away so that I shouldn't see his tears.
But his wife, Grace, had, coming through the gate with a basket of eggs. She
was tall, very tall, and with features which, though never beautiful, were
striking. A man might look twice at her, though if they stared, she was not
above giving them a terrific tongue-lashing.

'Her past,' Titus
Strong once said to me, 'is still her present. She was a circus child and as
wild as a feral cat when I found her and brought her to God. But though He has
multiplied her affection and tenderness, He has not yet seen fit to curb her
tongue.'

'Bob,' she said to me
with a smile, and then took her husband's hand in hers. 'Now then, my dear,
what's all this? Lucy again?' She turned to me. 'I tell him: Lucy will be found
when she wants to be found, and not before. You must let her be, and not pester
Bob to go out looking for her.'

When I first worked in
the city, feeling that I should oblige my old friend, I went out and searched
for Lucy Strong, who had run away from home to follow an actor. This fellow
had, of course, ruined her and deserted her almost immediately, and she was
ashamed to return to her parents. That was the tale Strong told himself, and
who was I to dispute it? I diligently tracked the streets in search of her.
Knowing that her lover was an actor, I visited the back door of every theatre,
high and low, and scoured the taverns and publics which actors visited, but it
was like seeking a pearl in a hailstorm. Had she changed her name? Or joined
the profession? That
was possible, but made her no easier
to find. Eventually, though it pained me to see her father's desperate
conviction that Lucy would be found, I was ever more convinced that she was
lost, sunk so low that she felt her shame was intolerable. And I think Mrs
Strong was of the same opinion, though she would not break her husband's heart
by saying so. But I have seen her shake her head and bite her lip as he spoke
of his hope of finding Lucy.

In
the chill of that winter morning, in the midst of cabbages and kale, I
realized I had much to be grateful for: my good friends, Will and Trim, Mr
Abrahams, a kind employer, and Mr Carrier too, perhaps. A clean room in a tidy
neighbourhood and a life which, strangely, suited me. Bar the unpleasantness
of the past few days, it was mostly peaceful, and if I could keep this calm and
ordered way of being, it was a life I could be happy with. My needs are few, I
live simply enough so I can afford to put a little money by. I save a penny
here, sixpence there. Sometimes a shilling. And not for my old age! A year ago,
in this very kitchen with his wife frying bacon in a pan on the fire, Titus
Strong put a proposition to me.

'Now
then, Bob, we know each other pretty well now. How many years is it since you
came here, broken-down and weary?'

A
long time ago, I thought. Ten years? Who knows? Time flies apace. But once
there was a pale young fellow, with no money and no heart. And along came Titus
Strong, with an arm swelled up like a balloon (it had turned septic), and a
shilling in his pocket for a man to drive a cartful of cabbages to a city
market and back. He gave me that shilling and a hearty dinner and, when I
returned, a bed for the night in the tool-shed. The following morning, he gave
me another sixpence and a slice of bread and bacon, and reminded me that
honesty towards my fellow man would bring its own reward. And to be sure and
visit him if I ever strayed that way again. Which I did and have done ever
since.

'He
talked about you all the next day and for weeks after,' said Mrs Strong. 'He
said, as soon as he saw you, he knew you wouldn't make off with his cart and
horse and a load of cabbages. Mind you, his judgement is not always up to
Solomon's,' she continued. 'There have been them who have led him a right
dance. What about the lad who robbed you of every spade and shovel, hoe and
trowel, you owned?'

Strong
laughed. 'Aye, and the wheelbarrow to carry them away with!'

The
fire crackled and the bacon spat in the pan. We sat for a long time, until Mrs
Strong clicked her tongue impatiently.

'Well,
Mr Strong? Are you going to keep Bob waiting here till the final trumpet? What
about your proposition?'

Titus Strong frowned.

'I
was putting together the right words in my head, Grace, my dear, before my
tongue uttered them.' He paused and stared at me long and hard. 'Well, Bob, we
know each other pretty well. After all these years, I've come to think of you
like a son - and you've always shown an interest in the gardens - and I'm not
as young as I was - and - well, I'd like you to consider - whether it wouldn't
be half a bad idea - if you were to come into the business - in a small way to
start with. Your own cart? And some customers to take care of? Think about it,
eh?'

'Something to consider, for the future, Bob,' put in
Mrs S.

'Indeed,' said Strong. 'No decisions necessary
today, lad.

Give
it a thought, that's all. And I will pray on it to the Lord and listen to Him.
We'll talk about it again.'

That
was a year ago. Now, warm and comfortable back in the kitchen, I noticed Titus
Strong's Bible on a little table by his chair, snug up to the fire, where the
kettle was rumbling away.

'Bob,'
he said, 'you remember that matter I mentioned to you? About you coming into
the business? Well, the Lord has put it in my mind again this week.' He patted
the Bible. 'He tells me it's time we made some plans.'

Mrs Strong smiled. 'To speak plainly, Bob—'

'Nay,
Grace,' said her husband, sharply. 'This is my tale. My moment in the sun.'

'Look
sharp, then,' she retorted, good-humouredly. 'Bob hasn't got all the time in
the world like some market- gardeners!'

'Well
then,' said my friend. 'Bob. We have talked about you coming into the business.
We've agreed that you should start with your own bit of trade. Get yourself
some regular custom in the city, a regular run to the market, and out to his
Lordship in the season.' (This was Lord Bedford, or some such titled gentleman,
whose table Titus Strong supplied.) 'I want to take my ease a little more.'

Mrs
Strong was listening carefully, that elegant face still and serious.

'So
I have decided, Bob, that come the spring, you shall, if you want it, have an
interest in this place. Now, you'll need a horse and cart, and I cannot give
you that. I have only the one and I still need it myself, for I have my
customers and my local trade. But, if you can raise the money and buy a good
cart, not wormy and falling asunder, and a horse that will not need the
services of the knacker-man within six months, then you and I can sit at this
table and, as they say, "agree terms".'

Mrs
S shifted in her seat. 'He has talked about it to me, Bob, and I am in
agreement.'

She
had a beautiful smile, which she turned upon him and, for a moment, I envied my
old friend. Grace Strong was perhaps twenty years younger than her husband.
Even more. And yet there was such love and affection between them, they might
have been a young couple in the honey-days of their marriage. He took her hand
and kissed it.

'Now,
Bob,' he said, 'will you give my proposal your best attention? And give me an
answer the next time you call? And I hope that will be before Christmas?'

I
drank tea and ate a slice of Mrs Strong's plum cake, and warmed my toes on the
fender. Brutus and Nero, with much sighing and snoring, lay at our feet,
stretched out in front of the range, toasting their bellies and only raising
their heads to enjoy a scratch, and I thought, this could be my life, one of
industry and ease, work and comfort. It had much to recommend it, and with
only a little effort on my part, by the new year, it could be within my grasp.

We
set out for the Aquarium with a light step and a warm heart.

Fish-lane
— Pilgrim and the Other —

Tipney's
Gaff

We
made good time - I have worked out a route through the back streets which
avoids the congestion of the main thoroughfares. Besides, I had a lot to
consider. With the extra work at the Pavilion, I could save more, but I would
have to work harder at the Aquarium to make up for the hours lost. Mr Abrahams,
I was sure, would be accommodating, but I could not be all the time away from
my stand, otherwise he would give it to someone else. Or I'd be forced to share
it. All of this was ravelling through my head whilst we walked, but I was glad
to have something heartening to dwell upon.

Our
route took us along Fish-lane, a strange, crowded street of dark, little shops
selling stale cakes and flat ginger beer alongside candles and coal, and a few
establishments which considered themselves a cut above the rest. Freeth's, a
theatrical bonnet-maker's, was the first one we came to. And a little further
along, Hadzinger who dealt in boots. And Miss Bailey, a mantle-maker and
hair-dresser. Then a wine shop and a barber's and a tiny tailor's shop - all
without a name, wanting to keep themselves quiet, as it were. Then Pilgrim's
bookshop, which was thin and tall, with a bulging window. The glass was thick,
like bullseyes, so that trying to see the
books
and engravings behind it was like looking through a bottle bottom, where
everything was out of shape and woolly about the edges. Outside, flapping in
the wind, were art journals and old serials pegged on sticks, and little trays
of books on a table covered with sacking to keep out the damp. Pilgrim was an
old friend (we met long ago in a place we never speak of) and he told me that
he inherited the shop from a distant cousin and, though he was not at all
bookish, resolved to keep the business because of family 'obligations'. It was
wedged between a rusty-looking hardware shop on one side and the blank windows
of a shop which changed owners as often as dogs barked in this neighbourhood.
Long ago, this neighbouring shop had been a dairy, with a single
miserable-looking cow stalled in the rear. Then it became an undertaker's, a
fruiterer's and last, and most recently, a haberdasher's. Even that had failed,
and now it was closed, though never unoccupied, for the yard was always
crowded, and these days it was impossible to leave anything out, for whether it
was the crown jewels or a feather duster, it would be stolen in a blink.
Pilgrim had been concerned about this empty place for some weeks and not just
because of the rats, which had increased fifty-fold. The neighbourhood was
losing its character by the week, he said darkly.