Walking in Pimlico (13 page)

Indeed, I was much inclined to run away, but he caught my dirty hand in his and held me fast.

‘Hello! What do we have here? Aren’t you Banks’s sprat?’ His voice was as richly potent as the aroma of spice and sandalwood that seemed to exude from him.

I told him my name, all the time looking anxiously about me.

‘I think you are spying on us, miss. What did you hear? Perhaps I should call your father.’

I begged him not to do that, knowing that my father would beat me and lock me in the cellar with the rats. I protested that I was not spying, merely – and then I was overcome with embarrassment. He was amused.

‘Ah, then I must have an admirer! How flattering! And one so young!’

He was laughing at me, mocking! But I didn’t care, for as long as he held me, even at arm’s length, I could observe him closely. Could smell that heady odour of quality, of money, of power.

But he was urging me on, shaking me, demanding a reply, and so, because I was too overcome to invent an excuse, it all tumbled out. I confessed that I much admired him, his appearance and, in particular, his – boots. They were such fine, soft leather. They must have cost a deal of money. I had never seen such beautiful boots in all my life. I think he was surprised, was perhaps expecting me to rhapsodize over his handsome face, for he dropped my hand and took a step back, looking hard at me as though I were an imbecile.

‘My boots?’ he exclaimed. ‘Ye gods! Now I’ve heard everything. Banks! Banks! Get yourself out here, you idle dog!’

My father emerged from the parlour like a rat from a trap, followed by a pack of his cronies, though seeing me and Mountgarrett all were comically arrested in their tracks. He looked quizzically at both of us.

‘Banks,’ said the noble Viscount, with only a trace of irony, ‘this child says she admires my boots,’ and, looking down at my bare feet, he shook his head, extracted coins from his pocket and pressed them into my grubby hand. ‘For God’s sake, man, get her some!’

He strode away across the yard, leaving behind him in the night air a trail of sandalwood and benevolence which, sadly, was not sustained by my father who swiftly removed the coins and reminded me of my station by caressing me with his own, much mended boot! But I could not forget Mountgarrett, though not for his generosity since I saw none of it. He remained in my imagination a talisman of elegance and breeding and power. When I thought of him, I saw my father’s face, a picture of anxiety and eagerness to please. A Big Man brought down. I pictured the scenes in our tavern, when Mountgarrett and men like him ruled the company with that easy authority that we instinctively understood. How women fawned when encouraged, but knew to keep out of the way at other times. How men knew their place and kept to it. Only the fighters, the champions, men with flattened noses and bruised faces, might
argue or take a marquis by the elbow. It was, to my young eyes, all in the bearing, for my father ruled by brutishness and a hard fist, yet Mountgarrett, smaller and slighter than he, had only to stroll into a room to command deference as well as obedience.

That unprepossessing sack, then, with its contents spewing out on to the yard, I knew was one of the keys, so I secreted it behind a stall in the stable, and brought out the contents, one by one, to my little eyrie room at the top of the house, where I carefully stowed them beneath the floorboards, wrapped in sacking or newspaper. Early one morning, before anyone in the house was stirring, I took them all out and laid them upon my bed. Breeches, shirt, waistcoat, short coat, boots. They were mightily rough now from being rolled and stowed in that narrow place, and as I unfolded it I noticed for the first time a brown stain upon the back of the shirt and a ragged rent in the fabric. But that was old business and not mine, and I was eager now to try on this finery. For it had been my growing idea, not planned but maturing over the weeks, to see how it felt to wear these clothes, even to walk around in them. I had no mirror, but I needed none. I simply wanted to put them on.

Of course, everything was too big and hung on me ridiculously. The previous owner had been a tall man and broad-shouldered, had worn his sleeves long, his breeches cut close. This was evident as I examined myself in the oversized garments. But though the coat trailed and the boots came over my knee, even to my thigh, I still enjoyed the sensation of linen against my skin and the subtle bouquet of leather. Pulling on the breeches, feeling the material coarse between my legs, produced in me a powerful sensation. In my body, of course, but there was also something else, more potent. And the coat, with its stiff shoulders: I had never worn anything so thick, so bristling with layers and materials. I strode about, struck poses (how ridiculous I must have appeared!) and determined, at that moment, that I would have a suit of my own. Would have boots and breeches, and would take to the
London streets and be generous to young girls and buy them shoes, and be important and respectable and powerful!

It was an immature dream and a long time coming – and, indeed, another story altogether. One that took me from pot-girl to the Fancy, and from penny theatres to prison. But at the end of it I had amassed enough to
buy
my suit. The first time I put on a pair of gentleman’s breeches, ones that fitted me like a skin, I felt naked. But then nothing could have prepared me for wearing my
own
breeches, made for me at my instruction. Before a long glass, I examined myself from every point of view. I felt like an artist, assessing and appraising his work, considering every line and every aspect. Here were my legs, and all that stood between them and the air was a single covering of cloth, and this so close that every contour of thigh and buttock was as defined as if it were deliberately drawn!

The tailor, a Mr Ziter, had done an excellent job. He asked no questions (he was well paid, of course) when we met in my room in a dingy lodging house in Theatre-court, near to Drury-lane, and he solemnly unfolded breeches, coat, shirt, waistcoat from a package of brown paper and then waited outside the door while I put them on. My hair was cropped as short as I dared and it gave me exquisite pleasure to run my fingers through it as I had seen men do, without thinking, time and again. Those many freedoms that men take for granted! At other times, I wore many hairpieces, secured with quantities of pins, and which, at first, took an age to arrange but, as I became more practised, I could apply swiftly and expertly.

I scrutinized myself in the glass. The trousers were dark and fitted me, as I have said, like a second skin. The shirt and waistcoat, white linen and a subdued olive-green satin, felt soft and light. The great-coat with its wide shoulders and nipped waist was the pinnacle of my transformation. Even as I thrust my arms in and pulled the lapels into line, I felt myself transformed. My shoulders rose then settled, my spine straightened. Here I stood, without prompting,
legs apart, my weight slightly on one hip, my hands hanging loosely. I felt as if I had put on someone else!

But though in the mirror I looked well enough, I needed to go out into the street. So I laced up the small brown boots of soft leather with their metal studs on heel and toe and took turn upon turn about the room until they were eased and I felt confident. The landlord rapped on the door and asked me what I thought I was doing. He was driven half mad by my clattering and pacing. If I wanted to walk a mile, he cried, I should wear out the pavement and not his floorboards and the patience of his guests!

I took a last inventory in the glass. My shoulders were square, the breeches hugged my thighs which were slim but defined. I had a waist, but not too much. My chest swelled under the elaborate waistcoat, but it
was
indeed a chest. I gave myself a sidelong glance, and caught sight of the hat sitting jauntily on the back of my head, and the short curls of my dark hair tumbling over my forehead. I found myself smiling, and enjoying that smile. I liked who I saw! He would be a good friend! A sound fellow!

The keeper rattled the door again. Who was in there? If I didn’t show myself, he would go to the police.

I retorted that he could go to the D—! I was paying good money for the use of his miserable quarters, and if he didn’t like it, I would take myself elsewhere!

I talked to the door as though I had swaggered through half the regiments in the land! Here was my voice suddenly become, I thought, deeper, though I wonder now if it wasn’t the effect of the cigarettes I had been smoking. But it gave me confidence and I stamped my foot and kicked the door in my temper.

There was a silence outside. He asked if ‘Miss’ was in there, and hoped she had not come to harm. I retorted that he was blind or mad or both, and that there was not, there never had been any ‘Miss’.

There was an apologetic cough. Begging the gentleman’s pardon, but with his own eyes he had seen the young lady enter the building not two hours previous and—

I stamped my foot again and flung open the door. The keeper was crouched at the keyhole (as I had suspected), and shuffled back on his haunches as I advanced. His amazement was palpable, and he peered past me into the room, evidently seeking out the ‘Miss’ who had entered it. There was nothing to be seen, of course, my female attire having been packed away in the trunk behind the door.

‘I could have sworn . . . ’ said the man, with such pitiful perplexity that I almost felt sorry for him. ‘It was but two hours ago, the missus said, and I saw the lady mount the stairs, though I didn’t take her up myself. She said she could find her own way, but—’

Here he stopped and looked hard at me and then at the open doorway.

‘Did you see the lady?’ he said. ‘Did she pass you, or perhaps she did business with you? I have to say, sir, that I don’t encourage it regular, like, but seeing as it’s you . . . ’

I frowned hard at him. ‘Do I look as though I’m hungry for Cock Alley?’

Clearly I did, for the man was unable to answer, and gaped at me open-mouthed. This took me by surprise, but I rode it out.

‘Your eyes did not deceive you,’ I said, quickly inventing a tale. ‘Yes, there
was
a Miss here, but she’s gone now. You might see her again, however, and if you do you will be kind to her and not treat her like a cheap ladybird. She’s not. She’s a lady of quality and refinement.’

That covered it. I paused dramatically.

‘She merely happens to be a whore!’

He took it all in, nodding his way around the landing, promising to be a good fellow and looking forward to the reward I promised him. I watched him down the stairs, and he watched me.

I closed the door quietly, turned the key in the lock, and then carefully stuffed it with paper. I realized that I had passed the first part of the test, though I was hardly surprised. It seemed to me to be a natural instinct. I felt I had released a creature within me that relished breathing air and freedom, and those brief moments on the landing were proof enough that, should I wish to, I could take him out into the world and he would be perfectly, completely and utterly safe.

And so I did. Day after day, night after night, James Yates (a name I adopted naturally as though it had been given to me at birth), gentleman, late of the Hussars, son of Mrs Yates of Christbridge, a thoroughly decent fellow, explored the great metropolis with an assurance that startled even me. Over two weeks I attended St James’s Hall and relished Mr and Mrs German Reed’s entertainments. I visited the Egyptian Hall and admired Haydon’s massy renditions of natural catastrophe. I doted upon Miss Keller, adored Mademoiselle Roselle, made love to Miss Montague (indeed I did!). I dined well in restaurant and coffee-house, was recommended to three clubs by five fellows who swore I was first-rate, and I drank excessively and expensively everywhere.

When the attractions of the respectable halls of Terpsichore and Choryphee palled, I struck out to East, to the haunts of the Fancy (which I knew well from childhood, of course), and revisited ratting kens and low gaffs, even my dead father’s. There are so many of these foul places, sunk low in cellars and tunnels, and announced by sign and whisper to the fraternity, that with my good looks and easy manner I could choose where I slummed from any number. At first, I arrived alone and drew curious glances from the hardened element of thieves and murderers, but I drank and swore and gambled.

And won.

That was an important introduction, for my luck was another
token of credibility, and it wasn’t long before I was an accredited member of that set of drunken wastrels, comrades who leaned upon my shoulder and laughed at my smooth cheeks and girlish mouth. And among them – I could hardly believe my run of good fortune – was John Shovelton. Tall, elegant, with the same handsome whore permanently attached to his arm, he was that frequenter who absented himself – always on ‘family business’ – but rejoined the fraternity again as though he had never left it.

Yates’s first ‘costume’ had cost me dear, and drained my purse to its very dust and thread, and so of course I took advantage of invitations to country houses and estates, to weekends in town at someone’s expense, to suppers and parties, but I was still living, as they say, up to the door. The money that supported the life of an independent fellow who drank and gambled and generally put himself about, came from my old profession. I was unwilling to attach myself to a ‘house’ and a madam, though, and hand over hard-earned coins for the privilege, so I exploited those resources that had served me well in the past, and in particular that pretence to modesty which men found very appealing in the ambient setting of Walhalla or the Cremorne. It is curious how much gentlemen relish the bonnet and gown and canezou which, in the audience, cover every inch of the female form, while ogling nakedness on display only feet away! But it was all to the good. My skirts might be shabby around the hem, but the gentlemen with whom I was briefly acquainted each afternoon and evening had little regard for frayed satin.

And James Yates was worth every desperate pawing, every shabby union. For with him, though I breathed the familiar old London air, stale and much used, trapped between the streets and the thick fug of autumn days, I strode out. James Yates and I were true companions. We sat inside each other, as if we had always been.