Walking in Pimlico (26 page)

‘What have you been up to then, Corney?’ she says, giving me the eye. ‘She’s a bit above the sawdust, wouldn’t you say?’

But I felt uncommonly protective towards my lady, and didn’t feel inclined for banter, so I passed round the back of the circle, keeping her in my sights all the time, and though the place was filling up nicely, felt comforted that I could see her figure on the end of the row.

People often wonder what a circus is like behind the curtain. Most think it’s an orderly kind of world, with people standing quietly in
lines, and animals behaving themselves, chewing on carrots and straw until they’re needed. But it is not like this at all. By no means. Behind the ring curtains is pretty much like Bedlam. Horses stamping and coughing, and grooms (if they’re sober) hanging on to maybe four bridles at a time, trying to keep ’em still and quiet. Tumblers stretching and pulling their legs up and over till you can’t hardly look at ’em for feeling your own tackle tighten up. And lady riders rigged out in spangles and costumes hardly covering their dignity, and the band getting ready, shining up their brass, and combing their hair, for bandsmen are notoriously vain. (Worst of all is the band leader. We had Mr Peabody, the size of a barrel, always short of breath, and more attached to his moustache – the biggest, by arrangement, in the band – than to his instrument.)

As I passed through to the sheds at the back where I put on my whitening and rescued my costume from the damp, my heart sank to my boots as I heard the familiar sound of Chittick belabouring one of the grooms with his stick. His favourite – and today’s victim – was Joe, the Negro. Joe never made a murmur, for he was mute, his tongue having been taken while he was in slavery, so we were told, though how anyone could know it I never found out since Joe himself couldn’t tell it. I felt sorry for the poor devil, who toiled longer and harder than any of us, and earned nothing but regular thrashings for his efforts, and I let Chittick know it once. It did no good, and I too got the end of his stick for my pains, so I let it be. But the thud of his stick on Joe’s back set us all silent and there were looks and rumblings among us, for circus people stick together and hate injustice.

Chittick’s red face appeared around the doorway, and it was clear as water that he was too drunk to see a hole in a ladder, if you get my drift. His eyes were pink and his face was lit up like an oven. It always being the best policy never to have truck with him when he was in his cups, I took no notice and having whitened up my face and put on my tunic and frills, all I had to do was arrange my hair
into its accustomed peak and collect my oversize wooden spoon, the property with which I had become associated. But he
would
have words with me. You can imagine him speaking, with his tongue too big for his mouth and dry as an old tart. He points the finger at me.

‘You, Duke o’ York’ – it was his name for me since I was such a talker – ‘soldiers in tonight. From the barracks. Give a good night. None of yer fancy double-talking. Plain blue and no sweeteners.’

I saluted him, but he wasn’t in the mood.

‘There’s good custom in the promenade,’ he slurred. ‘Gents from London and all. So none of yer wheezes about gents. Or sojers.’

I bowed, and then saluted again. I had some nice wheezes given me by a clown retiring from the business. Wheezes that were insulting of both gents and military, some of whom would laugh like good ’uns within the building but then wait for me outside, and give me a black eye to go with my white face. But tonight these gents and red herrings were regulars, the sort that treated the company and stabled their horses in the stalls, so Chittick wanted to keep ’em sweet. I had my orders: no insults, no fancy talk, just a bit of blue and watch the Fancy. Pity the ladies then. And I thought with alarm about my lady, on the end of the row, and what she might think of me.

The band had begun the overture, a rousing march, and the bell had rung, signalling the whole company to assemble for the opening parade. Mr Humphrey, our ringmaster, at the head of the line, marched smartly out, followed by some of the ladies on their horses, and Herr Klein with his dog, Hector, a natty little procession around the ring with a good rousing tune and the audience a-clapping in time. Of course the military can be wild, and whistle at the ladies and cat-call as well, and Chittick stood at the curtain watching up to the promenade, for if there’s trouble in a circus you have to be on to it sharpish. As I come out of the ring, breathing hard, I hear a
crack, like a gun going off, which sets some of the ladies screaming, while the military roars with laughter and gives up more calls and more whistles. We carry on into the circle, doing our second circuit, when another crack follows, then a third, and then a cloud of thick smoke starts to drift from upstairs. Then there is a whole bagful of bangs and cracks, like a company of rifles letting off, and the smoke that goes with them covers the balcony and drops down into the crowd below. Someone shouts, ‘Fire! The place is on fire!’ and then it is hell’s delight, for everyone panics.

Now a panic in a theatre or a circus is worse than a battle, for there soldiers look out for their fellows and sacrifice themselves. In a panic, each man thinks only of himself and would trample wife, mother and the Queen to save his own skin. Children are thrown down or abandoned, men elbow their sisters out of the way, and everyone rushes for the doors, climbing over chairs and benches – and bodies, if they are in the way.

Ours was an old circus, a wooden building built twenty years before, when fires, though they happened regular enough, were still not considered important. The doorways were narrow, the passageways even narrower. There were no attendants or constables, and consequently there was nothing but a crush. The parade in the circle stopped, and Mr Humphrey called for order and rang the bell, but he couldn’t be heard above the din. For as people screamed and shouted, and flung themselves towards the doors, the soldiers (who were the cause of the panic) let off more firecrackers (that is indeed what the bangs were) and created more smoke. Those of us in the ring when the cracks began tried to spy out the culprits, but by the time we got up into the balcony the panic was well under way, and no amount of chiding would stop the drunken military for whom it was all a lark. Herr Klein selected a couple of the ring-leaders and cracked their skulls, and Mr Humphrey was up there as well, laying into them with a whip as well as his fists.

But my thought was for my lady, Mrs Marsh. When I looked to where I knew she should be, I could not see her, and I feared greatly that she had been trampled – or worse. I went back through the ring curtains and around the building, where the horses were tethered, and neighing in agitation and fear. Had there been a fire, they would have been rescued first, for circus people value their animals, but now the grooms were calming them and fetching water, and called anxiously after me.

‘Ho, Corney! What’s to do? What’s the show?’

But I was intent on getting outside and seeing what could be done. The yard was full of people, hurrying to be clear of the building, shouting to each other, and then of course standing back to view the calamity – if there was going to be one. The streets around the circus were lined with people, arms folded, watching for the flames and bodies being brung out, burned to a cinder. Crowds again. There is no accounting for them in my book. But my lady was nowhere to be seen and, when I enquired, no one had seen her. And nobody cared neither. I went back round and into the ring again, where people were still pushing to get out, but fewer now and the smoke was clearing.

It was a scene of destruction, Mr Chittick said the following day. I don’t know about that. I saw some seats smashed up, and someone had nibbled the curtains from across the doorways. Also the cushions from the best seats, and Mr Humphrey’s shiny hat which he’d dropped in the ring. I wandered around, expecting to find the poor woman dead on the ground, but there was no one, not even a child. Out in the yard, I wondered what I should do, when I noticed a commotion over by one of the living wagons. A small crowd had gathered and were making up for their evening’s lost entertainment by having a good eyeful of someone else’s misfortune.

It was her of course. My lady. Mrs Marsh. She was on the steps of the wagon and something was going on. I pushed my way through
the crowd, who were tightly packed, I might add, and not inclined to let me pass, lest I spoil their view and enjoyment of the scene. But I elbowed some in the ribs, and trod heavily on some toes, and got to the lady just as she was letting out a groan. She didn’t recognize me at first, for she shrank back as I approached, and then she must have seen past the whitening and the tunic, for she grasped my hand hard. Someone in the crowd shouted words that a lady shouldn’t hear, and it caused a swell of laughter around her that gave her alarm, so I opened the door of the wagon (it was an empty one, having belonged to the clown who had recently done a flit), and assisted her inside. No easy matter, for she was, I realized, about to do the business.

I made her comfortable as I could – there was a cupboard bed and some blankets – and I lit the lamp and drew the curtains, for them outside was climbing over each other to peer in. It was a bare enough place, clean, though not lived in for some weeks. A rug on the floor, and a few pans and dishes on shelves and in cupboards. A man’s wagon. Just enough to keep himself, and no more. It seemed a sorry place to bring a baby into the world. But it could have been worse.

She was quiet now that I had got her into the bed and covered her over. But I had to go and fetch one of the women. Or a doctor. And I told her so.

‘Mrs Chittick’ll know what to do. She’s had six of her own, and all in a wagon.’

She would have none of it, and began to cry.

‘I beg of you, Mr Sage, do not leave me. I am so afraid. I think—’ But she had no chance to tell me, for her face screwed up in pain, and she let out a howl which was terrible to hear. She bent upwards, and laid her two hands on her belly, clutching it and wailing, while big tears rolled down her face. When it was over, she lay back, her shoulders shaking and her face wet with crying. I was distracted
myself, and for all the world might have fled from the wagon had she not grabbed hold of my hand again.

‘Please, miss,’ I said, ‘let me go and find help, for
I
cannot do anything.’

But, no. She would not let go of my hand, even though she closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep. As I moved to go, her grip tightened, and her face once again was twisted in suffering. She groaned and moaned and filled the wagon with her cries until I wanted to stop up my ears.

It sounds poetical, but it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been there for all the world if I could have escaped, and that’s a fact. The lamp flickered and sputtered, and it struck me that darkness might be a blessing, for at least then I wouldn’t have to
see
her misery! Then, as she sank back again into the pillow, the door opened and through the sea of faces, still assembled for the show, came Joe the Negro climbing into the wagon and closing the door quietly behind him. He smelled of horses and smoke, but he took her little hand in his as gentle as gentle. She opened her eyes and shivered, and then seemed to know, for she let go of mine. He laid his other hand upon her belly and she never flinched. And then he turned to me.

‘Mr Corney, sir,’ he said, ‘I will need your help.’

My mouth must have hit my boots in surprise. I couldn’t help but say, ‘Joe? I thought you was dumb? I thought you had your tongue ripped out for answering back on the Plantation or somewheres?’

‘Nope,’ he says, ‘I’m not dumb, just looking out for myself. But right now, Mr Corney, I’m looking out for this lady, whose baby is coming.’

Mrs Chittick and all the other ladies of the circus had disappeared, he said, taken themselves off to their lodgings. There was no one else to help my lady ’cept him and me, so that was what he proposed to do.

‘Mr Corney, I would like for you to fetch some hot water in a can.
And some spirit. But not gin, sir. And maybe some more blankets. It’s chilly in here.’

And this is how it all begins, I thought to myself as I crossed the yard and closed the gates. The crowd had gone home, and so had the company. There was nothing and no one about the place, ’cept Mr Toplady, the keeper, who watched the horses, and kept a light burning in the back. He was in the building, raking the tan and tidying round as best he could, to sweeten the Gov’nor’s temper in the morning. As I opened the door, he looked up concerned, and then surprised.

‘You still here, Corney? What’s what? Fancy a tip?’

His was a lonely life and he was an old man, keeping company with horses and an empty ring full of shadders and spirits. But whereas some other time I would have shared a glass with him, this night I had urgent business, and I made my excuses and hurried into the backs on my errand. There were blankets a-plenty but none for my lady, still less to wrap a baby in. Horse blankets were coarse and filthy, and saddle pads no better. Then I thought of Herr Klein, the strong man, and his bed, a makeshift affair of sacks, but covered with gaily coloured blankets. They were cleanish, and smelled of liniment and oils, but soft, and I folded them quickly under my arm.