Authors: Ann Featherstone
The Newgate Jig (35 page)
Black boots
raced down the stairs. I heard the groaning steps, the loose step, I even heard
him trip upon the nail. I heard his boots clatter upon the marble floor, the
bolts being drawn, the door slam. All around me, the oil was burning and so,
with the Princess in my arms, I walked through the fire and brought her to the
stairs. The flames caught the table and Oriental rug. Before very long, the
whole Aquarium would be on fire.
Cradled to my
chest, I thought she was dead for it was some minutes before she opened her
eyes and many more before she spoke. 'I have a favour to ask of you, Bob
Chapman.'
Her skin, dry as
parchment, was shrivelled and blistered, her fine hair burned away. She
flinched and frowned at the pain.
'Death I don't
fear,' she breathed, with difficulty, 'for even now the Holy Mother opens her
arms to me and beckons me to her side. But, Bob, when I am gone, please have
the priest bury me quickly. And don't tell anyone where I am laid.'
She
coughed.
'There are
people who will offer you much money for my body. They will say it is for
medicine, so that doctors may learn about such as me. They lie. They will boil
my body till my flesh falls away. Then put my bones into a box and show me in a
barn for a penny!'
Her voice was
cracked and dry, her face a terrible mass of burned flesh.
'I will never
sleep, never rest. I will be dragged from fair to fair, stared at even when I
am dead. Promise me, Bob. I beg you.'
There were tears
in her eyes. She was dying, and I knew she was right to be afraid. I have seen
the skeletons of giants and dwarfs and fairies at the great fairs and I know
that some were got by wrongful means. When Patrick Kelly, the Irish Giant, knew
he was dying, he bought promises from everyone that they would see him buried,
quietly and with respect, in one piece. But he was sold to a showman before he
was cold, and it is said that his flesh was being stripped from his bones
before the last breath left his body. So I silently promised the Princess that
I would see her gently and carefully buried, and cradled her closer as she sank
into sleep.
I sat on the
second-floor stairs, watching the pool of flame as it spread around the salon,
and it was not a moment too soon that Will arrived, followed by Trim,
Pikemartin and Conn, and they, seeing the state of things, asked no questions
but rushed to the water buckets - six on each landing, Mr Abrahams insisted -
and quickly doused the fire. Herr Swann was called and he, with an expression
of such dreadful agony that it broke my heart to see him, took the poor body of
the Princess from me, still wrapped in my coat, and held her in his arms until
she died.
My hands were
burned and blistered. My arms also, and my chest.
But pain was a
friend and companion these days and I hardly noticed as Em gently bandaged
them, saying, with tears in her eyes, what a brave fellow I was.
The
little Princess was buried a week later, early in the morning, in a distant
graveyard by a Latin priest. Herr Swann and I were the only mourners. There was
no headstone and nothing to show where she lay.
Not an empty
seat remains in the Pavilion Theatre for the Boxing Day performance of
Elenore
the Female Pirate; or the Gold of the Mountain King, A Christmas Extravaganza,
and
there are disappointed patrons queuing in the snowy street hoping that Mr
Carrier's able gallery packers (who can fit twenty people on a row made for ten
if they have to!) will work their magic and squeeze them in. Like fleas on a
beggar's back, they shove and push in the furnace heat at the top of the
theatre to find an inch of board on which to sit, and there are calls of 'Oi!
Watch yer elbow!' and 'Mind my trotters!', but all in good humour and causing
much excited laughter. Oranges are passed from hand to hand and the compulsory
jar of ginger beer, nuts also (cracked with expertise by the boots of lumpers)
and sweet biscuits to follow.
When the
orchestra assembles, there is a cheer. When Mr Bilker arrives, baton in hand
and his hair shining with macassar oil, there is a roar. The overture is
attended to and appreciated, and rows of excited girls sway to its popular tunes.
All eyes are fixed upon the trembling curtain, and whenever a foot can be seen
beneath it or a shape fills out one of the folds, there is a cheer and a cry
of, 'Oh lor, who can that be? Is it he or is it she?' and the more it is
chorused, the more hilarious it becomes. The children can hardly sit in their
seats or on their mother's knee for excitement. What wonders has Mr Carrier in
store behind the curtain!
It twitches
again and the orchestra plays a final, a very final, chord. Dutiful applause
from the crowded house, and everyone, from the gallery to the stalls, leans
forward. Mr Bilker's baton is raised, the first act prelude begins, and the
curtain swings open to a great and resounding cheer, which is followed
immediately by a wholesale intake of breath, as if the entire theatre were
breathing as one. Then, as the amber light of a hundred gas-jets reveals the
quayside at Portsmouth (rendered to the life by Mr Lombard), a great sigh is
heard and some 'Hurrahs' from the naval population in the audience. The
Christmas extravaganza - not a pantomime, but as good as - has begun.
There are
fairies and pirates in the Pavilion Theatre. They live upon an exotic island,
twice as handsome and three times as comfortable as Robinson Crusoe's. The sand
is white, the sea as blue as the sky, and the sun has real golden rays. When it
rises and sets, the many-coloured flowers on the island open and close and run
about. They are little children wearing petals around their heads and on their
arms, who wave and bend precisely as Mons. Villechamps has instructed them. In
the tall trees, in which Mr Lombard's men have constructed convenient
platforms, sit child-birds with long plumes of red and green feathers, and on
the many rocks perch brilliantly spotted child-insects which twitch and preen.
In the sea, child-fish fly, child-sea horses gallop and mermaids (not at all
childlike!) sing, and a ship, all rigged, drifts onto the stage (in act three),
as though it were just sailing by. There is wind in its sails and waves lapping
around its bows, and pirates to scurry here and there on the deck and up and
down the rigging. There are comical pirates who stand upon each other's
shoulders and sing a funny song, and a fat and bumbling Admiral who is taken
captive by them and is tied to a barrel. Best of all, there is a beautiful
female pirate, Elenore, who is not at all afraid to wear tight britches and
stand with her legs apart and hands upon her hips. She stalks and parades about
the stage, and stamps her feet and tosses her head, and every man in the
theatre is very much taken by her and quite a few are in love with her. Miss
Jacques is a different creature when she puts on her long boots and straps a
sword to her hips and becomes Elenore. She is not at all complaining, and has a
string of admirers, including, we are told, the son of a duke. Will Lovegrove
is very relieved. Now their embraces last only a minute and Miss Jacques has
her eye constantly trained upon the side of the stage looking for her
aristocratic admirer. And Will, as Redland Strongarm, the good, handsome
pirate, roars and sings and duels with a heroic flourish, and has eyes only for
the sweet girl who waits for him and takes his arm when we are done. Em
Pikemartin and he were married on Christmas Eve, secretly and quietly, with
only her father and Conn as witnesses. After the Princess had died, they saw me
comfortable and my burns treated, and on the morrow, fresh from their wedding
vows, came for me to enjoy, with them, a wedding breakfast at their lodgings.
They say they will take Barney to live with them as their own, and send him to
school.
There
is nothing left of my heart to break now.
Time
passes.
I am employed at
both the Aquarium and the Pavilion. I sweep the floors and shift scenery. I
have tried to begin Mr
Abraham's
inventory with the abacus from Egypt and the phile of aconite found in the
dressing case of Lucrezia Borgia, but it is a slow business and my writing is
very poor.
When
I have finished my work, I continue to walk the streets in search of my dogs.
Titus
Strong has sent word to me that I am welcome to go and help in the gardens. He
has taken Pilgrim already. Mrs Strong is searching for their daughter Lucy
herself, and is often away. I think my old friend is lonely. I will go one day.
Perhaps in the spring. But for now I must keep searching. There is nothing
more.
I am very
fortunate to be surrounded by a loving family and patient friends and
colleagues, who give their precious time without complaint.
I have a fine
editor and friend in Kate Parkin, of John Murray, who has given sound advice
and criticism throughout the writing process. And my literary agent Gaia Banks,
of Sheil Land Associates, is always patient and supportive and very wise. I
have great colleagues in the Drama Department at the University of Manchester -
Maggie Gale and Viv Gardner, Vicky Lowe and Hayley Bradley - who have been
unstinting in their encouragement and moral support. Helen Mayer has been a
treasured friend for many years and undertook to read
The Newgate Jig
when it was only half made. True friendship indeed! And Felicity, Shaun and
Ruby Featherstone have provided much-needed distraction and walks.
My family are
the rock who support me when I try to do too much too often. James is a truly
fine man, kind and gentle, who I am proud to call my son. My parents are
endlessly patient and supportive, especially my dad who has read the many
drafts of
The Newgate Jig,
and could probably recite
large
sections of it! But final thanks must go to Holly, the best of friends, the
best of dogs. She is all and everything a gentle, sagacious canine should be.
Benjamin:
a long overcoat. A greatcoat was often called an upper Benjamin
Draw claret:
to punch someone (often their nose) and draw blood. A boxing term.
Flip-flap:
somersault
Gaff, penny gaff, penny show, penny
theatre:
one of the
lowest kinds of
theatrical and exhibition entertainments, generally found in cities. They were sited
in abandoned shops, railway arches and cellars. There are instances of the
interiors of dwelling houses being ripped out and the buildings turned over to
the performance of abbreviated versions of popular plays and variety
entertainments. They were very popular with young boys and men. During the
1830s, London in particular saw a rash of these unlicensed theatres and they
were regularly raided by police who regarded them as the 'nurseries' of thieves
Highway, the:
Ratcliffe Highway, a mile-long road in the East End of London which, by the
nineteenth century, had become infamous for its resorts of crime, prostitution,
ratting and dog-fighting
Hook it, macaroni!:
Get off (the stage),
leave. Macaroni was a term often applied to Italians, or people who were of a
Mediterranean appearance
Last Confession:
sold by street-vendors at public executions, these purported to be the life
story and crimes told by the guilty offender
Lumper:
a man who loads and unloads ships
Make a fist of Bordeaux!:
see
Draw claret!
Methody:
Methodist, disapproving of the theatre
Newgate jig:
a
hanging
Talking fish:
a sea lion, frequently found in penny
exhibitions
Three-legged mare:
the gallows
Sheeney:
a Jew