The Petticoat Men (48 page)

‘Why, gentlemen, I will be bound to say that there are none of us here who have passed through a public school who have not known at least half a dozen boys who have been always called by female names and laughed at and treated as girls, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, as they grow older they object to that kind of familiarity – or to call it by the only name it deserves “chaff” – but as regards this young man the longer it went on the more he became enamoured of these characters and parts which he was constantly playing.’ Ma rolled her eyes.

And then that Mr Serjeant Parry stood up, and the court went really quiet, everyone knowing how clever he is. ‘Gentlemen. You must not judge these young men by your own circle. You must try to understand the Acting Life. They were stage performers and great familiarity is bred on stage – they were performing characters offstage that they had performed on stage.

‘Now, gentlemen, I am told that when those dresses that have been exhibited – I am so short-sighted that without a glass I cannot discern the features of the jury whom I have the honour of addressing – but I am told by those that have a better and sharper sight than I have that a sort of thrill of horror ran through the jury box when all these dresses appeared on the floor of the court. I confess I did not observe it. I do not believe it is true although I was told so by a very respected person. But, gentlemen, these dresses are a
theatrical wardrobe
– neither more nor less – and a witness will be called to say that one was used in the very respectable performance of
Morning Call
in Scarborough – there is paint, there is powder – all this is theatrical. It is
theatrical
and not – I must use the word –
sodomical
– you must excuse me for such a term. There is the powder and there is the paint and they have played the same part in the street as they did on the stage. There is the lace, there is the silk, there are the fans – all theatrical! And now – a year having passed since they were seized by the constabulary – somewhat the worse for wear, as theatrical costumes often are! I confess I cannot understand how my learned friend,’ he bowed to the Attorney-General, ‘seeks to make out that these dresses mean that an unnatural crime was committed.’

(And Ma leaned over to me and whispered: ‘
He’s
the greatest performer of the lot of them!’)

And then came Ernest’s mother. To be examined for the defence very politely by Ernest’s barrister. There was a rustle of real interest as she had not been seen before.

She was pretty, with curls, not beautiful like Billy and me (and Mackie) think Ma is, but she was of course very much more high-class than any other woman who had appeared, all us landladies and maids. She wore a small hat and lady-like gloves and sometimes she dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, she was a life away from that maid who talked of Ernest in a ladies’ negligee and Lord Arthur calling him
darling
.

‘My name is Mary Anne Sarah Boulton. I am the mother of Ernest Boulton. We live in Peckham. I have two sons, my husband is a stockbroker but he is away at present. In fact he is in the Cape of Good Hope.’ She recounted in most respectable tones that Ernest had always delighted in dressing-up and performance from a very young age, they would have performances at home, she and her husband had enjoyed them thoroughly – ‘and my Ernest was always the star, there is no denying it.’

‘Were you acquainted with Lord Arthur Clinton?’

‘Oh,
very
well indeed. We were very pleased to first meet Lord Arthur Clinton’ – and she just slightly emphasised ‘Lord’ just exactly like Ernest used to do – ‘nearly three years ago perhaps at the house of friends. He became a great admirer of my son for they had similar theatrical interests and he would come to our house in Peckham.’

‘Did he enter into these – home theatricals?’

‘Well,’ she said, all coy. ‘Perhaps once. No more than that I am certain.’

‘Did he dress up in dresses?’

‘Oh no,’ she said smiling. ‘Lord Arthur was always the husband, or the father!’

‘Did you ever go to his house?’

‘We visited him at his quarters at Southampton-street and there we took refreshment before we went with Lord Arthur – that is my husband, my son and myself – to the theatre.’

‘When was this?’

‘Ah – I do not have a retentive memory I am afraid. Lord Arthur Clinton was the Member of Parliament for Newark at the time you know.’

‘Your son was living with Lord Arthur Clinton at this time?’

‘No he was not living with Lord Arthur Clinton at this time. He was on a visit to him.’

‘Quite so.’

‘He never went anywhere without my permission. I always knew where he was. He had a position in a bank, you know, but he had to leave that employment, he was not strong enough. We have tuberculosis in the family and you have heard of his fistula operation also which was very painful and exhausting for him.’

‘And you knew Mr Frederick Park.’

‘Very well indeed. Mr Park nursed my son in his illness, for I, you know, am also not very strong. You need to understand my son has poor health – as I say he is possibly consumptive, it runs in my family I am sad to say.’

She said she had always been opposed to his acting but she did not forbid it as he was so keen and he had once laughed and told her of his friends calling him ‘Stella’ and she had laughed too, at their silliness.

The Lord Chief Justice leaned forward. ‘Did you ever hear him called by that name, Mrs Boulton?’

She looked up at the learned Judge, deeply shocked. ‘Never, my lord!’

‘You say Mr Park came to your house,’ continued the kind barrister. ‘Did your son visit Mr Park in his father’s house?’

‘Yes. At Isleworth.’

‘So the friendship was known to both families?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Boulton.’

She smiled sweetly, and made to leave the stand. Ma whispered to me she should have had a notice pinned upon her: ‘Very Respectable Mother’.

But for the cross-examination up stood the Attorney-General who had been sitting quietly, I already said I thought he looked like a guard dog, now we found he was ready for the vicious bite – but very politely of course.

‘Mrs Boulton,’ he said most courteously, ‘I am sorry to have to ask you, but,’ and the teeth went in, ‘I am afraid your husband is not very successful in business is he?’

She looked distinctly put out at once. ‘He has had great reverses, certainly.’ Then she tossed her curls, a little bit like Ernest. ‘But I never allowed any cloud to fall upon my children. I always supplied them with everything they required. Whatever trouble we have had I have always shielded them from everything.’

‘Had your son any settled allowance?’

‘No – he didn’t need one of course. I looked after him.’

‘He had nothing from his father I think.’

‘If he asked his father for anything he always gave it to him.’

‘I must ask you, how long has your husband been away?’

‘Oh – only – perhaps a fortnight this time.’

‘I thought you said he was gone to the Cape.’

‘Oh, oh yes but – but he has only been left
here
about a fortnight. Or – no, I may be mistaken, perhaps a little more.’

‘Quite a lot more I think, Mrs Boulton.’

Out came the lace handkerchief, she looked around for support, surely he was being rude and intrusive? But the Attorney-General went on and the questions seemed to get faster and faster.

‘Your son has no settled allowance you say. Then how did he live?’

‘He lived with me. He always lived with me. Oh – I gave him pocket money – at least a pound per week I should think, my family have always given me a great deal of money and I gave him ten pounds for his birthday when he was in Scotland.’

‘Do you know if your son received money from Lord Arthur Clinton?’

‘I know nothing about that. I kept my son in clothes you know. He did not go short for anything.’

‘Your son generally lived at home?’

‘Yes. Always.’

‘
Always
at home, Mrs Boulton?’

‘Yes, I’ve told you already, he always lived at home, and he never went anywhere without my permission, I always knew where he was.’

Ma and I looked at each other.

‘Were you aware of his living in London, in having lodgings in London?’ The handkerchief was clenched.

‘I was aware he might stay with Mr Park for a short time. I do not think the lodgings were his. I do not think he had anything to do with them. He merely stayed as a guest of Mr Park I think.’

‘Did you know where he was staying?’

‘I cannot remember. I do not have a retentive memory. But he has never been anywhere that I did not know where he was.’

The Lord Chief Justice leaned down again. ‘You knew of Wakefield-street?’

‘No. Oh no, my lord, no! No no no! They never stayed there I believe, never,
never
, they merely dressed there if I recollect rightly, but I do not know anything about that.’

The Attorney-General looked at her. ‘You do not know anything about that,’ he said, saying each word clearly.

She got more and more upset. She looked around for help: where was the polite man? ‘I knew he was with Mr Park but I did not always enquire exactly where they were and I may have forgotten it. I cannot remember everything. I do not have a retentive memory.’ (I wished I’d thought of that expression.)

‘I need scarcely ask you I suppose whether you were aware of his walking about London, night after night, dressed in women’s clothes?’

Mrs Boulton burst into tears, put her lace handkerchief to her face.

‘Indeed I did not!’

The Attorney-General bowed and sat and poor Mrs Boulton turned to leave, her hat had gone all awry and she looked pale but Ernest’s barrister stood again and asked, so very gently: ‘I will ask you just one more question, Mrs Boulton. Has Mr Ernest Boulton proved himself as, and acted towards you and your husband as, a dutiful and affectionate son?’

She looked at him most gratefully and pulled herself up to her respectable mother stance again although the handkerchief was still visible and the hat was at a funny angle. ‘He has been a most dutiful and affectionate son.’ And then she added – perhaps she had even been instructed like me, or perhaps she was tired after such a long time being questioned – ‘and the only fault my son ever had was a love of admiration.’ And she looked at the other defendants. ‘Which has been fed by the gross flattery of some very foolish people!’ and then of her own accord she stepped down and went out of the courtroom. People talked and whispered and Ma said, ‘She
might
have believed everything she was saying, Mattie. In which case she is a
very
stupid woman.’

‘Call Mr Alexander Atherton Park!’

The Court of the Queen’s Bench – nothing like Bow-street, or ragamuffiny people, but barristers in their gowns, and respectable-looking gentlemen mostly, and a few ladies with big hats – went quiet at once but I couldn’t help a tiny sound when I saw Freddie’s father walk very slowly up to the table.

He’d been angry and, when I understood things more clearly, anxious more than angry, when I met him at his office because he must have known that his other son was finally caught also. But now he looked only like a frail, devastated old man. I looked at Freddie, his face was distressed, he half stood to help his father but Mr Serjeant Parry kept him where he was with a little gesture. Of course everybody in the court knew who the old man was: the Lord Chief Justice, all the barristers, some of them looked down at their papers in embarrassment or pity: here was the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas, he was never a person to be in the witness box, and he stood here now, the father of two sodomites.

Mr Serjeant Parry spoke gently.

‘You are the father of this young man, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall but ask you one or two questions. This young man, your son here, was articled, was he not, to a gentleman at Chelmsford? Now during that time that he was so articled, and down I think to the present time, you have made him an allowance. What allowance have you made him?’

‘One hundred and sixty pounds per year.’

‘Altogether?’

‘Yes. That – that was—’ The old man stumbled in his words and then spoke again. ‘That was his nominal allowance but he spent a great deal more. I believe he had – eighty pounds to spend and eighty pounds for his board and lodgings.’

And of course I thought of all Freddie’s board and lodgings: Bruton-street, Wakefield-street, Chelmsford.

‘From what time does this extend – when did he go down to Chelmsford to work?’

‘In – 1866 I think.’

‘From that time down to now altogether what money have you given him from time to time, and at different times?’

‘He has had about two and a half thousand pounds – about five hundred pounds each year. Up to the present time.’

Mr Serjeant Parry shot a triumphant look at the Lord Chief Justice, again about money, his look said,
Freddie and Ernest had plenty of money between them.
The old man held on to the table.