The Street Philosopher (14 page)

The spinners swayed unsteadily, cheering themselves as they did so, delighting in their drunkenness. They had worked fast. The half-holiday granted by their employers was only an hour old, yet already a good number were well on their way to intoxication, quickly drinking away any trace of sickness left over from the night before. They toasted Albert, they toasted the Queen, they toasted the sun, they toasted the policemen who toiled before them to keep the road clear, they toasted anything they could think of. Cheap boots and clogs clacked against the cobbles as they danced dizzy jigs together, and fell laughing into the dirt.

The steam whistles had blown at midday, the mill-gates opening to release a flood of working people that rushed down from Ancoats, Oldham and Hulme, through the maze of streets and alleys towards the Royal route. Its progress was slowed only by visits to gin palaces and beer shops, which found themselves doing a brisk trade indeed for a Tuesday. In an atmosphere of abandoned celebration, the spinners lined the Stretford New Road, popped the stoppers on their bottles and awaited the Prince.

Some, growing restless, found amusement in taunting the lines of policemen who wrestled to keep the vast bodies of people on either side of the road apart. Any good will on the part of these constables was soon used up, and more than a few blows administered with their polished wooden
sticks. The better classes of spectator, who sat on the balconies of houses lining the road, or atop the large wooden platforms that had been erected on the intermittent stretches of open ground, peered down at the drab, swirling mass of the poor and shuddered.

Prince Albert, when he finally appeared, did not disappoint. The Royal procession was composed of a long line of open carriages filled with lords and ladies, clad in all their finery, flanked by a company of golden-helmed dragoons. Albert himself sat in the fourth carriage, in the resplendent uniform of a field marshal. His long, sombre face bore an uncertain smile as he surveyed the vast numbers all around; the countless flags and handkerchiefs frantically waving; the signs and banners that hung from every window; the triumphal arches made from wood, cloth and cardboard that had been erected along the route to the Exhibition, swathed with flowers and bearing declaration after declaration of extravagant, patriotic welcome.

At last, the straight road began to turn and the Art Treasures Palace glided majestically into view. After the modest, scattered dwellings of Old Trafford, the purpose-built edifice seemed truly gigantic, equal almost to the famous Crystal Palace that had housed the Great Exhibition. Part cathedral and part railway terminus, this structure comprised three long iron half-tubes, fringed with decorative castings and set upon a two-storey base of red and yellow brick. As the carriages wheeled up before it, sunlight flashed across the semi-circle of its main façade, catching brilliantly against the many hundreds of glass segments encased within the intricately patterned metalwork. The company of dragoons turned about, formed into tight ranks and fired off a salute to announce the Consort’s arrival; and Prince Albert stepped down on to Mancunian soil.

Beyond the open doors was a wall of silks, crinolines and morning-coats, and thousands of pink faces, all turned expectantly towards the Royal guest. Lord Overstone, a slight man in his early sixties, came down the steps. From inside the hall there came the sound of a vast choir, a hundred voices or more, singing the national anthem. Overstone greeted
Prince Albert with a bow and a few formal words; and then the Prince and his entourage swept into the building.

Up in the balcony, Kitson rose clumsily to his feet and stumbled back through the rows of newspapermen, deaf to their exclamations of annoyance. Thorne, still sitting at the balcony’s edge, looked around for him briefly, but his attention soon returned to the main aisle below, where Prince Albert was commencing his procession to the dais. The voices of the assembled congregation were joining with those of the choir that had appeared before the organ to create a stirring, mighty refrain. Whilst the metal rafters rang to cries of ‘
God save the Queen!
’, Kitson clattered down the balcony staircase, imagining as he went that Cracknell’s black eyes were boring into his back with destructive force. To loud tutting, he shoved his way around the corner of the transept and left by the northern door, heading out into the adjacent botanical gardens.

Panting heavily, he leant against the side of an ivy-clad hothouse, taking off his top hat and running a hand roughly through his hair. His chest began to tighten most painfully, forcing him to snatch shallow, grating coughs between his gasps. He was utterly dumbfounded. How had Cracknell managed to locate him? What could he possibly want, after all that had happened between them? What might he be poised to reveal?

The sun was warm upon his sweating face. He looked over to the pale gothic spires of the Blind Asylum, just visible behind a screen of poplars, and then back to the door of the Exhibition building. No one had followed him outside. This meant that either Cracknell had failed to notice him–or that it had not been his former senior after all. Could he have been mistaken? Was it even possible that the incident with Wray had affected him in some deep and injurious manner–that this apparent sighting of Cracknell was a new variation of delusory attack?

Kitson tried to reason with himself. Cracknell used to make a regular show of his lack of interest in art, and he loathed the northern industrial towns with a passion–a
significant factor in Kitson’s decision to take up residence in one. Why on earth would he attend the opening of the Manchester Art Treasures Exhibition? It started to seem likely that Kitson’s regrettably disruptive exit had been made in error.

But it had looked so much like Cracknell: the bulbous nose, the jutting jaw, the domineering self-assurance. Kitson stood still for some time, recovering his breath and waiting for his coughing fit to subside. More music floated over from inside the Palace as the ceremonials got underway:
The
Heavens are Telling
, then
The Hundredth Psalm
. The street philosopher stared hard at the ground, a hand on his aching side, trying to work out if he was losing his mind.

The orchestra started a waltz, the first few bars looping gently to a short pause. Jemima looked on listlessly from the side of the ballroom as the couples on the floor made their bows and curtseys, changed their partners and resumed the dance. Bill and Alfred Keane were directly behind her. They were discussing Keane’s latest backstreet conquest, a clerk from Watts’ warehouse on Fountain Street, in the most lurid language. Jemima, who was both widely read and well past the blushes of youthful innocence, was not shocked or scandalised by what she overheard; and she had long ago accepted that her brother was a committed denizen of this clandestine world. She did wish, however, that they would pay more consideration to their surroundings. They were in the Polygon, seat of the great Fairbairn family, and the sanctimonius were everywhere.

The wide ballroom was illuminated by a low-hanging formation of ornate gas chandeliers, which cast a soft yet pervasive orange light on to the guests gathered below. Over a hundred had already arrived, and those who were not engaged in the waltz stood talking of the glorious successes of the opening ceremony with grave satisfaction. The oak-panelled walls, usually covered with paintings, were all but bare: Thomas Fairbairn was chairman of the Exhibition, and had led by example when loaning the curators artwork from his collection.

According to the monstrous clock on the mantle, Jemima
had been at the ball for less than an hour, yet it felt strangely as if she had always been there, consigned to a particularly tedious level of Purgatory. A bibbed, heavily oiled waiter floated past, bearing a tray of crystal champagne flutes. She plucked one off and drank deeply. Bill and Keane, seeing her do this, left their less than private conversation to claim drinks of their own.

‘Dearest Jemima,’ drawled Keane as he leant past her to pick up a glass, ‘has anyone ever told you of your quite startling resemblance to Mr Millais’
Mariana
? D’you know it? You have the same straight nose, and her pale auburn hair is yours exactly. Most handsome, I must say.’

Jemima looked into Keane’s smooth, equine face and thanked him with faint sarcasm. One would not think that this effete character was the second son of one of Manchester’s wealthiest cotton magnates. Like her brother, he lived in fear of the family firm and did all he could to forget its inevitable claim on his future.

‘Where’s Father got to, I wonder,’ mused Bill idly, taking a swig of champagne. ‘I don’t see him. Off strengthening his business contacts in the smoking room, I expect.’

Jemima turned away from the dancing. ‘As long as he is not preparing me another suitor from his inexhaustible supply of whey-faced, chinless millionaires, William, I am content.’

Keane snorted with mirth. ‘D’you recall the reception at Waite’s, Bill, last October? That poor dunce from Liverpool? Why, I thought our Mrs J. was going to reduce him to tears before the entire company!’

Their laughter was intended to be collusive, to show Jemima how much they admired her strength of will, but it irritated her nonetheless. They could hardly understand what it was like to be hawked around as if you were an aging brood mare or an unwanted piece of furniture. This was the humiliation of her position–as a penniless widow entirely dependent upon her rich father, she was forced to endure his intermittent efforts to rid himself of her.

Jemima took a sip of her champagne and surveyed the room, which was growing fuller by the minute. For a
Manchester assembly, she had to admit, it was a remarkably eclectic one. Amongst the usual industrialists and their families were churchmen, nobles of all stripes and a smattering of rather more singular figures. Some were plainly literary in background, or gentlemen from the national press; others she recognised as notable personalities from the art world, such as Sir Charles Eastlake and his statuesque wife, and the bespectacled Dr Waagen of the Berlin gallery.

A handful, however, stubbornly defied any attempt at classification. She spied an especially conspicuous example leaning in the tall stone doorway that led through to the smoking room. Heftily built with a large black beard, he had a cigarette stuck in his mouth and his shirt was open at the neck–a dishevelled appearance more suited to the end of a night’s revelry than the beginning. He was watching the ballroom nonchalantly, but there was a wolfish air to him. Jemima felt sure that he was on the lookout for something. Suddenly, calmly, his eyes flickered on to hers, as if he’d been aware of her scrutiny. Smoke trailed out of his nostrils. He gave her a slow wink.

Embarrassed, Jemima turned back quickly to Keane and Bill, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘A–a shame that Prince Albert could not be with us this evening.’

They fell upon this much-discussed topic with enthusiasm, expressing heartfelt sympathy for the recent Royal bereavement. The previous Sunday, the Duchess of Gloucester, last child of mad King George and Victoria’s beloved great-aunt, had died. It was this loss that had kept the Queen from Manchester and prevented Albert from attending the Fairbairns’ ball.

‘You could see the strain in him, I thought,’ opined Bill.

‘He is right to hurry back to his family,’ Keane said sagaciously. ‘They need him. It’s said that the Queen positively
wallows
in grief. Gets quite drunk on it, she does.’

Jemima nodded along, not listening; after a couple of minutes, she glanced back furtively at the doorway. The bearded man had gone.

Bill caught sight of something behind her, and his face lit up. ‘Why, look who’s arrived!’ he cried. ‘Major Wray’s guardian
angel! Come over, sir, join us! We noticed you leave the opening ceremony in the most dramatic manner–I trust nothing was amiss?’

Mr Kitson appeared at Jemima’s side. He looked somewhat abashed at this mention of his departure from the ceremony, and was clearly uncomfortable in the grand surroundings of the Polygon. His evening suit, she saw, had shiny patches on the shoulders, and his features were a little drawn; but his eyes held the same arch intelligence they had done in her father’s office on Mosley Street. Jemima felt her pulse quicken slightly, and a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. She adjusted her shawl and surreptitiously checked the pin that was holding up her hair, no longer so thoroughly bored by the Fairbairns’ ball.

Talking loudly over the orchestra, which had just struck up the robust rhythm of the gallop, he bade them all a good evening, then bowed to her. ‘Nothing of note, thank you, Mr Norton. I only needed some air.’

‘You missed little, sir, in truth,’ proclaimed Keane loftily. ‘The poor Prince’s spirits were so depressed that he spoke in little more than a murmur throughout. And the others–the bishop, the mayor and Mr Fairbairn–all adopted the same tone so as not to seem like they were trying to out-speak him. As a result, almost nothing of the ceremonials could be heard beyond the dais. My feeling was—’

Bill pretended to recognise someone across the room, over the charging heads of the gallopers. He hooked his arm through Keane’s and dragged his garrulous friend away.

Jemima and the
Star’
s street philosopher were alone once more. She suggested they move away from the commotion of the gallop to a quieter corner, over by the ballroom’s long bank of French windows. Since their first meeting on Saturday, Jemima had managed to learn something about the enigmatic Mr Kitson. Finding his work in her back-issues of the
London Courier
had been easy. Although most of that paper’s articles were printed anonymously, enough pieces of art correspondence bore the initials ‘TK’ for her to be able to build up a clear idea of his style. And it was distinctive indeed, deeply knowledgeable yet brimming with savage wit;
he had been unafraid both to champion unknowns, and to go up against the most established and respected figures. His contributions had ceased abruptly, however, in early 1854. If he had not come to Manchester until the winter of 1856, this left nearly two years unaccounted for. Mr Kitson’s story, as she had been told it, lacked a chapter.

She told him that she had not expected to see him there, and asked how he had managed to obtain an invitation. He replied that it had been done through Colonel Bennett, out of gratitude for his having helped Major Wray; but that the Colonel, and indeed everyone else at the ball prior to her brother, now seemed markedly reluctant to have anything whatsoever to do with him.

‘They have discovered your occupation, I’ll wager,’ Jemima said. ‘They took you for a medical man, as I first did, but have since uncovered the truth.’ She shook her head. ‘But it is too late–a street philosopher is present at a society ball, like a serpent that has slithered between the bars of the parrot cage.’

His eyebrow moved by the smallest fraction. ‘I think you exaggerate their fear of the
Manchester Evening Star
, Mrs James. Although I must say that my editor is certainly excited by the benefit he believes this experience will offer to my work.’

‘And you are not, sir?’

‘I did not come here with a complete absence of enthusiasm, I admit.’ He paused. ‘Knowing as I did who else would be in attendance.’

Jemima met his gaze for a second. They both smiled, a little shyly; and a clear, powerful understanding coursed between them. Unnerved by the strength of this silent connection, Jemima looked away suddenly, out through the French windows, across the Polygon’s stone terrace to the moonlit lawns beyond.

‘There–there is much inspiration for your pen here tonight, I would imagine,’ she managed to say, acutely aware of his grey eyes upon her and the beating of her heart beneath her ballgown.

Mr Kitson was quiet for a few seconds longer. ‘Indeed, madam. The cravenness and vanity upon which the street
philosopher thrives are here in abundance. Especially amusing is the spectacle of the nobility being forced to ingratiate itself with the same industrialists it has disdained and denigrated for so many generations.’

Her composure recovered, Jemima turned back towards him. One side of his face was tinted silver by the moonlight, emphasising the line of his cheekbone; just beneath his jaw was a shaving cut, plainly inflicted by an unsteady hand. His lip curled slightly. ‘Over there, for instance, by the fireplace.’

A tall man with a drawn, haughty face was smiling queasily as he listened to the vigorous extrapolations of Mr Gregory Simcock, owner of a successful small-ware mill and an occasional dinner guest of Jemima’s father.

‘The Earl of Beeston,’ Mr Kitson continued dryly, ‘has lent a handful of mouldy Ruiysdaels to the Exhibition, and expects the Committee’s boundless gratitude for his generous contribution. Yet it is common knowledge that the good Earl is quite bankrupt, having thrown away the family fortune on the
rouge-
et-
noirs
of various Metropolitan gaming houses–and that he has only submitted his paintings because he needs to sell them as soon as possible.’

Jemima feigned dismay. ‘Surely not! What of the stated goals of the Exhibition, Mr Kitson–what of the art education of the poor?’

The street philosopher grinned. ‘For the Earl, Mrs James, these are strictly secondary to drumming up a purchaser. And if that wealthy looking fellow he speaks with so superciliously were to offer a half-decent sum, our noble friend would kiss those plebeian chops in sheer relief.’

Jemima’s laugh caught her by surprise, causing her to spill what was left of her champagne on Mr Kitson’s shoes. She apologised profusely, and attempted to sweep away the droplets on the shining black leather with the hem of her skirts. Her naked elbow brushed briefly against the sleeve of his evening jacket; he took a polite step backwards, assuring her of his unconcern.

They talked on for another minute or so, sharing acerbic observations about a number of the Fairbairns’ guests. Mr Kitson’s easy articulacy made Jemima remember the scheme
she had devised during the slower passages of the opening ceremony. She revealed in a confidential tone that her father, in order to demonstrate his dedication to the Art Treasures Exhibition as both a Committee member and an employer of labour, had recently announced that he intended to pay for a grand expedition of the entire Norton Foundry to the building at Old Trafford. Jemima had learned that there were to be no lecturers or guides present in the Exhibition; it had been assumed that the paintings on display would somehow explain themselves to their unschooled viewers without the need for intermediaries. Pondering this obvious oversight in relation to the Foundry visit, it had occurred to Jemima that she was acquainted with an authority on matters of art.

‘The strong belief in the potential of the Exhibition that you expressed when we last spoke surely makes you the ideal person to address my father’s workforce. A short talk in the modern galleries is all that will be required, I should think–merely to cast some basic illumination on their contents.’

Mr Kitson nodded; he had divined her plan. He knew that she was trying to engineer a situation where her father was in his debt, and obliged to overlook his humble, slightly disreputable post at the Star. Some form of courtesy would have to be extended–perhaps even an invitation to dine at Norton Hall–which would open the way for the two of them to commence a proper association.

‘And will you be in attendance, madam, during this visit?’

‘I will,’ Jemima answered, her smile broadening.

‘Then I would consider it an honour.’ He glanced down at her empty glass, and reached forward to take it. ‘Allow me to fetch you another, Mrs James. Will you wait for me here?’

The dancers were embarking on the first movement of a quadrille. Their numbers had swelled significantly, and Kitson had to push himself up against the wall to pass by the whirling mass of coat-tails and flounces. He barely noticed them. All he saw was her face as she laughed; the thick, loose coils of her hair; the soft curve of her neck, exposed to the Polygon’s orange glow.

Kitson had spent the afternoon locked away in his attic.
Pacing across the rug, aiming the occasional kick at his desk or divan, he had forced himself to relive those few seconds on the balcony a hundred times over, striving to recall exactly what he had seen–and to determine whether Cracknell had been real or the product of his diseased imagination. Black doubt crept insidiously into any solid conclusion he reached, though, rotting it away and leaving him floundering once again in miserable confusion. Gripped by a fierce headache, he had lain down upon the floor; and, curled up by the grate, had finally fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, waking only half an hour before the commencement of the ball.