The Newgate Jig (7 page)

I turned, intending to
go back to the theatre. And there he was. On the steps of the Pavilion, with
its white marble front and fine portico, he was leaning against one of the
pillars, like a regular stroller I thought, and looking directly at me.

The
grampus.

The
fat man.

He was, just as Trim
had described him, full faced and with a head as round and bald as a bladder of
lard. He looked, for all the world, like a baby, but old in years, if such a
thing can be imagined. And this sensation was increased by what might have been
an amiable smile, except that it revealed teeth that were much too small for
his mouth. A ghostly smudge of white on very pink gums.

He
bowed and saluted with his hat.

A fine morning, sir,'
said he, gesturing to the sky. Though misty now, I think it will improve.' His
voice took me by surprise. It was high, like a little child's. 'But - ah! -
days in London, sir! What joy! What sweetness! These young ones' - and he
gestured with a flourish to a group of four or five little girls playing on the
steps - 'how they thrive, sir! Bloom and ripen! Their rosy lips! Their rosy
cheeks! Red as a well-scratched slit!'

From
beneath pale lashes, his eyes flickered, but whether he was gauging my reaction
to his obscenity, or looking at the children, I could not tell.

'One hopes, of course,
that they are well-behaved. That their mothers chastise them often. With a
stick, perhaps. Or a strap. To make them
good
children.'

This was the very man,
I thought, described by Trim. There could not be two in all of London. There
could not be two coats like his. Tailored to his massive form, allowing him
easy movement, and beneath it, a light-coloured waistcoat, pale-yellow satin, I
would say, and exquisitely brocaded. An old-fashioned crimson bow dropped
beneath his bull chin. Down the steps he came, appearing to tiptoe, elegantly,
lightly, for such a giant and, with his tiny eyes upon mine, extended an
ungloved hand. Pale, fat fingers, like sausages in tight skins, and on each one
were many rings, all smothered by a surfeit of flesh. The hand which grasped
mine was warm and moist, and from him came a very pleasant aroma of good soap.

'You are a theatrical
man I see, sir?' he said without preamble. 'Ah, what a profession! All the
world is surely a stage, sir. And all the men and women merely players, as the
great man said.' He was performing, surely. 'But just men and women, sir? What
of the children? What of them, sir? With their soft limbs and willing
temperaments. Ready to do our bidding, sir, or be whipped into obedience if
they don't.' He put a finger to his mouth as if to suppress the giggle which,
like a child's, high and uncontrolled, erupted from him. He rolled and guffawed
and held his stomach, and produced a huge scarlet handkerchief and wiped his
eyes and lips. And then he began again.

Repulsion
is a strong word. It rarely springs to my lips, for

I am a man who will
generally tolerate the oddities of his fellows. But it defined this man, with his
pink and fleshy face, his tight rotundity, his pleasant odour of warm
pampering. Only good manners forced me to nod and smile whilst I tried to pull
away, though he, still smiling (and how very small his teeth were!), held my
fingertips firmly in his.

'My dear sir. I detain
you. My chattering. Unforgivable. And your clever friends. Yes.'

Did he reach down and
give Brutus's soft ear a tug? I think so, for my boy flinched and turned his
brown eyes, questioningly, upon me.

'Do you have the packet
about you, sir? I observed that the boy handed it to you before I could claim
it. A very naughty boy. Taking things which don't belong to him.'

His face had grown pink
now, and his eyes were narrowed into mere slits.

'Stealing's stealing,
my little mother used to say, and whipped me soundly until my little cheeks
were red and I was sent to bed. A bad boy.' He paused and tugged at Brutus's
ear and wiped his face again with the scarlet handkerchief. But instead of
replacing it in his pocket, he began knotting it. One, two, three, and so on,
evenly along, and with a swiftness that was mesmerizing.

'So, sir, the boy, the
packet. Containing the pictures, don't you know. Belonging to - another party -
who is impatient for their return. Don't be stubborn, sir.
You
know, and
I
know you have it. Isn't that so, Brutus?'

My boy knows his name
and looked up at the man with mild and trusting eyes.

'A noble animal, sir,
and a noble name,' he said.
T
have a name, Mr Chapman. They call
me the Nasty Man. Ha.

Perhaps it is familiar
to you? In my green and tender youth I had a certain - reputation.'

Suddenly, the
handkerchief, with its knots, was around Brutus's neck. My boy struggled and I
put out my hand to stop the business, but the man caught it and slipped his fingers
between mine, crushing them hard against the heavy rings, and drawing me into
his breathing space.

'Don't signal to your
other hound, or this one is dead. A skill once acquired, sir. One never loses
it, does one? Believe me, I will rub out this creature with one hand before you
can blink.'

He
drew me closer.

'The Nasty Man, Mr
Chapman. Definition? The apple- picker, sir. The pipe-player, sir. The
g'rotter, sir,' and he gave a tug on the handkerchief, at which Brutus
struggled wildly. 'I am more familiar with the human gullet, but I don't draw a
line at a buffer's. I want the packet, sir, the one the boy gave you.' He was
no longer smiling.

Brutus was choking and
writhing and I struggled in the Nasty Man's grasp. At length, pursing his lips,
he released us, and I grabbed both dogs and pulled them away. Brutus, panting
and wide-eyed, fixed himself to my leg, whilst Nero growled low. I rubbed my
throbbing fingers, which were already bruised and beginning to swell.

'Now, you are perfectly
sensible as to our arrangements, my dear sir? And the consequences? You would
not wish to lose your position, sir. Not given these difficult times and the
favour with which you are generally regarded. It would be an evil day, sir, if
a wicked tale were put about. One which besmirched your good reputation.'

It
was as if he were a different man! His voice, the manner in which he spoke, the
words which fell from his mouth in a stream, without pause. Not vile and dirty,
but as though they were slicked with butter! He inclined his head, nodded, raised
his eyebrows. We might have been a couple of acquaintances, passing the time of
day.

He wanted the packet
and its contents. He had followed the boy, seen him give it to me.
Ergo,
I must know him. He tried to snatch the boy, but he got away again. He was
tired of the business. He didn't need to repeat himself, did he? There would be
undesirable consequences for me if I persisted in my stubbornness. He would
find me again. He was sure I understood.

Then, as though we had
finished our conversation with pleasantries and he had pleaded an appointment
with a clergyman, he smoothed his coat, adjusted his rings, saluted me and
said, with a smile that revealed again that smudge of teeth and pink gums,
'Brutus. Nero. Sir. A pleasure. A pleasure indeed.'

He moved slowly along
the street with an easy step, as though he owned it. Not simply because he was
so large that people had to step aside to let him pass. Nor that he smiled and
nodded with beguiling amiability. But it was the authority with which he did
everything, from the tipping of his hat, to the flashing of his rings, even to
the wearing of his coat, which waved about his ankles but never once drifted
into a puddle or glanced a cabbage leaf. With two fingers, he delicately
pinched up his skirts so that they were not dirtied, not a thread of them. Any
other man might be reckoned a regular Margery and called after in the street.
But not this man.

Never
this man.

A
Morning Walk — Strong's Garden
s

I spent a restless
night, which is uncommon for me. My boys, too, were unsettled. And I knew why,
for the Nasty Man was like a smell which lingers in your nose and will not be
got rid of, no matter how much lavender and lime you splash about. Sleep would
not come, and worries had begun to take up residence in its place, so we got up
with the milkchurn, and set out for Strong's Gardens.

I recognize the onset
of melancholy - a condition I have lived with for many years - and I know that
if I treat it early, I can put it away. And as my boys and I stepped it out
briskly in the chill air and worked up a glow - for it is easy to walk these
early streets, with no crowds and little noise - I began to feel easier with
the world. We made good time, and needed to, for this was no leisurely meander.
Before we returned to the Aquarium, we must reach a bridge, wide enough for two
carts, and with steps at each end for those on foot, where the water is clean
and, in the shallows, clear enough to see fish. There are grassy banks on
either side on which ducks roost, and there are those trees which dip their
leaves and branches into the water. Beyond the bridge, hardly a sparrow's hop,
is Strong's Gardens and, as we legged it out,

I pictured it getting
closer and closer. I always take heart as the houses become villas and then
cottages, and there are fewer warehouses and more blacksmiths, for these are
signs that the countryside, with its clean air and green fields, grows ever
closer. We quickened our steps when, round the last bend in the road, the
bridge came into view. Then Brutus and Nero scurried down the bank and plunged
into the river, scattering ducks and sending up waves. They are not great swimmers,
for they are not accustomed to water, but they do enjoy, I think, the cold
water on their bellies and feet, and in the warmer weather they stand on the
sandy bottom drinking in great gulps and watching the ducks float by. For my
part, I am happy to wait for my boys to quench their thirst and I take pleasure
in their enjoyment, and in the anticipation of our goal.

Today, although the sky
was grey and the air chilly, we were still cheered to see the little bridge and
the trees and the river, and Brutus and Nero enjoyed the water, though it was
cold and they risked only a dip rather than a plunge. I sat on the step by the
bridge and paused to watch the carts go past. Mostly, it is the early greens
that go rattling over the cobbles, when the dozy carters (some of whom have
travelled through the night) begin to rouse themselves and boys' heads appear
among the watercress and cabbages. They are so very much
of
the country, and by no means can they be mistaken for a city carter. It is not
simply their manner which is generally slower and gentler, but something more.
Sometimes they do bring the country with them into the city streets. In summer,
for instance, many carters have a sprig of buttercups behind their ear, or in
their hat a rose or a twist of ivy plucked from the hedgerow. In the winter
months, I sometimes notice a blade of grass caught in the horse's harness, and
then I think of the farm they might have come from and the clean simplicity of
that life. Perhaps, turning out of its yard, waiting for his master to close a
gate or call to his boy, the patient carthorse tugged at a tuft of grass and
enjoyed its freshness, his last taste of the countryside before the city. And,
because of his eagerness, a blade or two is caught in his harness and travels
with him, through the night, along the lanes, a gentle reminder that there is
home and a comfortable stable after his hard day's labour. As a child, I lived
for a while among fields and hills, and it was perhaps the happiest time of my
life and why I take pleasure now in earth and sky rather than bricks and
buildings. The city is all I have known for many years, but I have sweet
memories of yellow fields of corn and the smell of the rain upon dry earth, and
those remembrances will calm my terror of the shadows and sweeten dark
melancholy.

We had our destination
in view now, and following the carts over the bridge and along the road a way,
we came to a little fence and a sign that said 'Strong's Gardens. Finest
Quality Vegetables. Suppliers to Royalty'. I unlatched the gate and we went in.
This was the spot, and it gives me such pleasure to come here that, sometimes,
I have waited by the bridge just to make the pleasure of arriving last a little
longer! Today though, my boys were ahead of me, bounding down the path, on
either side of which are fields of cabbages, all as neat and tidy as a widow's
pocket. At the end of the path is a small house (once a lodge, I think, for
this area belonged to a lord and there was a great house, long since destroyed)
and, in the doorway, Mr Titus Strong. He is built like one of his horses -
broad-shouldered, a strong head and a clear eye - and, like them, good-natured.
The best of men. He is perhaps sixty years of age (it is difficult to be
certain for, to me, he has always looked the same), but he it was who gave me
friendship and a kindly word when I was in great need, and who I visit
whenever I can.