‘They aint been stolen!’ I shouted at him. ‘They belonged to the gentlemen who lodge here sometimes and if you ask me it was you who’s the thief!’ He was in too much of a hurry to say more but over his shoulder he said ‘I’ll be back, young lady,’ as he rushed off again.
After all that palaver I had sat on the front steps of our house in the spring evening, with a shawl still for the weather, waiting for Ma and Billy to come home, peering down Wakefield-street looking for any sign of them. Billy has all different hours at his work but he was home first that day so I took him inside so the nosy neighbours who’d already seen plenty wouldn’t hear anything more and I told him what had happened and then we waited, a bit nervous, to tell Ma.
Ma is a bit deaf and can be sort of hot-tempered very occasionally, so we was glad she was out when the policeman came, we didn’t fancy her and the policeman shouting our business – she’d gone to the market and then she was visiting one of the old lady neighbours she takes soup to – we call them her “soup-ladies”. Maybe Ma would have shouted at Mr Gibbings as well as at the horrible policeman, nah, that’s wrong, Ma doesn’t really shout, not much. She looks. And sometimes she sort of ruffles up and that means she’s angry, so be careful. And just occasionally she bashes bad people and she might nearly have bashed the policeman that day if she’d been here, he was so rude.
Most Sundays Billy keeps his own serious papers till later, and reads to us – not that we cant read ourselves but he reads out loud to us like our Pa used to, out of the
News of the World
or
Reynolds News
, or the
Illustrated Police News
:
all sorts of weird and wonderful stories, and we dont clean the rooms on Sundays, most of the lodgers have vacated by Sundays anyway. Sometimes we’d have competitions to see how different the very same story – a murder, a scandal, a wild attack – can be told in each paper, our favourite papers and Billy’s other papers, we would laugh till we cried almost, at the same story going through different tellings.
‘Let it be a lesson!’ Ma would say. ‘Never believe what you read in the newspapers!’ but the different stories was our entertainment. Or we’d read out some of the Advertisements:
MYRTLE:
contact at once, without fail. I’m warning you.
ITALIAN LESSONS:
in your own home. Signora Spotuni, Lady Professor from Paris.
PODOPHYLLIN:
a certain cure for liver, piles, wind spasms.
Or we’d play cards for farthings. We sit in our little back parlour all cosy, often we light the fire, we did this cool spring day, Ma and me with our feet up and us all having a sip of red port, our favourite, and our Pa’s old strange tropical plant still growing in one corner in a big pot even though Wakefield-street was hardly tropical. We’d had it as a little one when Pa was alive, we’d had it for years and years and it was still growing, we’d heard it was called a Joshua tree, we weren’t sure, but we looked after it most carefully and polished its leaves and thought of our Pa. I usually love Sundays.
But there was no advertisement-reading this Sunday.
Billy read clearly, facing Ma so she could hear easily, and my heart was beating so fast and so loud after I heard the headline that I was thinking Ma might hear that as well even if she is a bit deaf.
APPREHENSION OF ‘GENTLEMEN IN FEMALE ATTIRE’
At Bow-street Police-court on Thursday, Ernest Boulton aged 22 of 48 Shirland-road, Paddington, gentleman (son of Mr Boulton the stockbroker); Frederick William Park aged 23 of Bruton-street, Berkeley Square, law student (son of Mr Park the Master of the Court of Common Pleas, and grandson of the late Judge Park); and Hugh Alexander Mundell aged 23 of 158 Buckingham Palace-road, gentleman, were charged before Mr Flowers with frequenting a public resort, to wit, the Strand Theatre, with intent to commit felony, the first two-named in female attire.
‘Felony?’ said Ma. ‘I thought felony was murder. Those boys aint going to
murder
anybody for God’s sake!’
‘Felony means other very wicked crimes,’ said Billy. ‘In their book. So it means life imprisonment.’
‘
What?
’
‘Hard labour, life imprisonment, ten years’ penal servitude. That’s what felons get.’
‘For wearing women’s clothes?’ said Ma. ‘Well in that case, they may as well lock up the whole of the acting profession!’
‘They used to get hanged,’ said Billy.
I didn’t say anything. I was sure they could hear my heart going bang bang bang. One of the Gentlemen in Female Attire they were writing about was Freddie – Frederick William Park as they called him there – who was the least wicked person I had met in my life, he was the most kind loving generous person that I knew.
On being placed in the dock much amusement was created by their artistic make-up. Boulton was dressed in fashionable crimson silk, trimmed with white lace. He wore a flaxen wig, with plaited chignon. His arms and neck were bare. He had bracelets, and a white lace shawl round his shoulders.
‘That’s Ernest for sure,’ said Ma, nodding and sipping port. ‘I know that crimson dress.’
Park wore a green satin dress, with a pannier, flaxen wig curled, white kid gloves, bracelets and black lace shawl.
‘Ah poor Freddie, never makes quite the picture as Ernest does.’ And Ma sipped and nodded again.
‘You know he makes a handsome woman, Ma,’ I said, indignant, ‘even if he’s not pretty like Ernest.’
Mr James Thomson, superintendent of the E Division, said: ‘At ten o’clock last night I went to the Strand Theatre where I saw the three prisoners in a private box, Boulton and Park being in female attire. I have been watching them for many months, in all sorts of places, especially the Alhambra and Burlington Arcade and balls and other such places and the Boat Race too. They do call themselves ladies’ names, usually Stella and Fanny. I observed them nodding and smiling and winking to gentlemen in the stalls and making sounds. They were removed on leaving the theatre, to Bow-street Station. Mundell said that he was the son of a barrister and that a few evenings previously he had met the two other prisoners in male attire but he believed they were girls, in men’s clothes. He made their acquaintance and agreed to escort them to the theatre last night.’
William Chamberlaine, detective, E Division, said: ‘Last night I saw two persons in female attire come out of a house, 13 Wakefield-street, Regent-Square, with a gentleman.’
‘Oh God Almighty!’ said Ma. ‘They’ve writ our address!’
‘Never mind, Ma, it dont matter,’ said Billy sensibly. ‘They were only exiting from here, after all. It doesn’t give our name.’
‘They each had a satin dress on. They had chignons on (LAUGHTER IN COURT) and their arms naked and their necks bare. The gentleman called a cab and both ladies got into it. They drove to the Strand Theatre. I got into another cab and followed them. They got to the theatre where they met Mundell and another gentleman in the lobby. I still followed them. I saw them take their seats in the box.’
‘But who’s these people laughing in court?’ I asked, puzzled, ‘how did they straightway know about it, before it got in the newspapers even?’
‘Ha! London gossip is faster than the newspapers,’ said Ma in that dry voice she uses sometimes.
‘The “ladies” came out of the box alone and had some refreshment. One of them went into the ladies’ cloakroom and asked to have her dress pinned up. They were shortly afterwards removed to the station.’
‘Was it for going into the ladies’ cloakroom?’ I said to Billy.
‘I bet five shillings we soon see editorials written about that cloakroom: The Women of England In Danger,’ said Billy.
‘From Freddie and Ernest?’ said Ma. ‘Dont be ridiculous.’
Defence (Mr Abrams): ‘On behalf of the prisoners, sir, I contend that the case of felony is not made out. Unless it is shown they were out for unlawful purpose, I submit that no such offence has been committed by them. They are young men, and no doubt did this intending it as a lark.’
‘What?’ said Ma.
‘Lark,’ said Billy.
‘What?’ said Ma again, not understanding, or maybe not hearing, or maybe just still shocked.
‘
Lark!
’ shouted Billy.
‘Course it was,’ said Ma.
Magistrate Mr Flowers (with severity): ‘It is a lark then that they have been carrying on evidently for a very long time. I have, however, a doubt with respect to Mr Hugh Mundell. He may have been deceived by the appearances of the others, and the evidence does not show that he has previously been connected with them. I should have been deceived myself! But that, in my mind, makes the case all the worse for those dressed up.’
Mr Abrams: ‘It was only a stupid act of folly.’
Mr Flowers said he was not sure of that yet.
After some further evidence Mr Flowers remanded the prisoners but allowed Mundell to be liberated on his own recognisances of £100. Mr Flowers refused, however, to accept bail for Boulton and Park.
‘Oh bloody hell!’ said Ma. ‘Ernest and Freddie in prison!’
Mr Abrams later in the day asked Mr Flowers if the prisoners might be allowed to change their dresses before being removed in the van. They had already sent for their attire.
‘So that’s why Mr Gibbings came and smashed the lock,’ I said, ‘to take them their proper clothes.’
‘And maybe take away his own things promptly,’ said Billy, quite quiet.
Mr Flowers said, certainly.
Mr Barnaby (chief clerk), after the lapse of an hour or so, said that the crowd in the street had greatly increased and Mr Superintendent Thomson thought it would be better to remove the prisoners as quickly as possible although the required male clothing had not yet arrived.
‘That’s because of having to smash down the lock that rude policeman had put on the door,’ I said to Billy, angry, thinking of people laughing and ogling and shouting at Ernest, and especially thinking of Freddie. I could imagine Ernest waving back and enjoying the attention and looking from under his eyelashes the way he did, but I thought Freddie would be shamed.
Mr Flowers consented to this, and the filthy fellows were then and there removed in the van to the House of Detention.
There was this sudden appalled silence in our parlour.
‘And that’s the end of
Reynolds News
,’ said Billy, folding it up.
Without a word Ma poured more port into our glasses and shook her head, looking at the red colour in her glass. I suppose she was thinking about agreeing to let them have a room for a few days every now and then to dress for acting parts if they had an engagement – Ma used to be a theatre wardrobe mistress, everybody knew that. She had her glory days when our Pa was alive and they both worked in the theatre, this was before he got sick, and me and Billy were round theatres all the time, we even actually lived for a while in rooms right at the top of the Drury Lane Theatre and dropped plums on people going past way down below. (Billy was eight and I was three and I remember
clearly
that Billy told me that when the plums hit the hats they were going as fast as a train. Billy knew everything, even then.) Those were good days. Then the days weren’t so good, but finally Ma got 13 Wakefield-street from Mr Rowbottom who was sort of like our stepfather when our Pa died. And now we run this lodging-house, mostly salesmen from the North stay here.
‘But what are they actually charged
for
?’ I asked Billy. ‘It cant be just dressing up!’
‘The felonious charge of conspiring to incite others to carry out an abominable offence,’ said Billy, reading it out. He looked at me.
‘All right, I know what that means, William Stacey, so there’s no need staring at me like I was a baby.’
‘Which, as I already said, since the death penalty was removed now carries a charge of ten years penal servitude or life imprisonment with hard labour. Which means the treadmill.’
Ma and I looked at each other, really horrified. Freddie and Ernest on a
treadmill
? Everyone knew what the treadmill was. A great big moving wheel going round and round for no reason and men were strapped to it and had to keep climbing its stairs to turn it and often in the end their backs broke.
‘But Freddie and Ernest couldn’t get
life imprisonment with hard labour
!’
I said. ‘Dont be silly,’ but I heard my voice sounding all peculiar.
‘Oh God above!’ said Ma suddenly. ‘What’s this going to do for business, our address published and poor Mr Flamp paying no rent, this could send us to the workhouse!’
Billy rolled his eyes at me and I rolled mine right back. ‘We’re all right, Ma,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘We’re all right!’ he repeated, firm, raising his voice a bit. ‘We’re nowhere near the blooming workhouse any more, you know that, Ma! Those days are over. We can perfectly well afford to look after Mr Flamp. It’s Ernest and Freddie who’s in trouble, not us.’
For a moment she looked slightly doubtful. She was fond of them because they were – well it was fun when they were in the house, and it was so enjoyable to hear laughter and music floating down the stairs, and they used to sit and talk to Ma of fashion and costumes and quite seriously ask her advice about their gowns.
Now Billy threw
Reynolds News
into a corner. ‘Ernest and Freddie aint done nothing, not really, Ma,’ he said, ‘not as far as we know. It’s not a crime to dress up as a woman that I’ve ever heard of and that’s all we’ve ever known them do, and they’ve stayed in our house for ages, off and on. Not one of the tenants ever complained, they applaud their gowns!’ He looked quite ferocious finally. Billy can be quite ferocious. Clergymen make him ferocious, and liars.