Walking in Pimlico (37 page)

Yor frend Corney Sage. Mind your eye, Lucy
The Vine Concert Hall, New Clay

It is my note, my very own, and I see myself writing it, at Mrs Strong’s table with Lucy looking on and nodding. I turn it over and see the unknown lady’s note to me, and back again to see my own note. And back again. I have done this before, sitting with Joe and turning a scrap from the
Era
back and forth and seeing my name and the Sisters Bellwood. What does it all mean? I say to myself and Mrs Gumbs and the world in general. Here I am, comfortable in Mrs Gumbs’s warm parlour with a nobby shop for as long as I want it, and yet I feel the coldness of Mr Figgis’s doorstep and the biting wind, and the nakedness that goes with knowing you are quite alone in the whole world, and not a fellow human being to call you kindly by your name. Mrs Gumbs stops gabbling for she realizes that I am not listening and am much taken with the note which I then pass to her, and since she is a-sitting there, with her rags and her nightgown, and now a big patched-up blanket about her shoulders and the fire poked up into life, I tell her about it, and how I came to be writing that note in the first place. It takes an hour or more, and Mrs Gumbs is obliged to set the kettle upon the fire again and give her tea caddy another excursion. I finish just as she is stirring the tea, which gives her a chance to get a word in.

‘Does Miss Marweather know your friend? Is she an acquaintance perhaps?’

‘I have never heard that name before,’ I reply, and then straight away think that it’s not completely true, because I
have
heard some of it before. Phyllida. Phyll. What bit of my memory has that come from? I reach into my coat pocket for my little screw of bacca to help me think and, like I expect to find it there as it was for so long, I remember Lucy’s packet and the locket and the beautiful lady, and the tiny note which I last read with Mrs Strong and which, she tells me in her letter, is broken to pieces. But the note I do not need to see again, for I know that it is from ‘Phyll’ which is part of the same name on my message. I hear in my head my words to Mrs Strong about how rum it is that all these people are connected up somehow, but I don’t know how – Bessie Spooner, and Helen Shovelton in the picture, her brother John who was thought to have murdered Bessie and was free because Lucy saw another face in the Constellation yard who
was
the murderer, who I had seen too. And now this ‘Phyll’.

Mrs Gumbs is dozing and when her little chiming clock strikes again it is midnight. But I am not ready to climb the wooden hill yet. I tear off a piece of my handbill, and write, in the best hand I can muster with the stubby pencil, that I shall be pleased to attend upon Miss Marweather at the Headless Woman at ten o’clock, and looked forward to it, signing myself ‘C. Sage (Mr), comedian and champ. clog-dancer’. I fold it up, put on my coat and muffler and slip out of the front door.

She is sitting at a table in the concert room, with a china cup and saucer and a plate of thin toast before her, and she smiles at me and beckons me over.

‘Mr Sage, how pleasant it is to see you again! I did wonder if you would come, for as you see I am not Mrs Marsh here in New Clay. You should perhaps be more careful in agreeing to attend upon strange ladies!’

I think she is laughing at me though I can’t be sure, and certain I can’t be sure about anything to do with this lady, for here indeed is Mrs Marsh who is also Miss Marweather. And who knows who else!

‘You are surprised, I should think, to find me here!’ she is saying with a lot of breath and shaking of head. ‘You must think Mrs Marsh is following you!’

I thought many things, and yes, I did think it was a rum thing to have this lady turn up in such a place, but I never had the idea she was following me. Why should she follow me? What am I to her, just an acquaintance? And sure, she should avoid me by rights, since she owes me money! She is talking about the baby and apologizing for doing a flit.

‘It was sickly and weak as you know,’ she goes on, stirring her tea, ‘and someone told me of a Chinese herbalist who could help, and perhaps give it some special medicine. I thought it was the best thing at the time. And that is why I went. Straight away. As soon as I heard about it. But of course it did no good. The child died.’

I say I am sorry that her baby had died and hoped it was peaceful, and she never says anything, but just looks hard at me. For want of something to say, I said I have never heard of a herbalist, Chinee or otherwise, and wonder if it was parsley and thyme they give, being the only herbs I know? And arrowroot? Mrs Figgis swore by arrowroot.

And she laughs, loudly, throwing back her head, in a way that I thought was rum at the time, seeing as how we were talking about her dead baby. But now, of course, I think of it in quite a different way, if indeed I think of it at all. Which I try not to do.

I wonder what she is doing here and what this is all about. She is talking now about Mr Tipper and the Headless Woman Concert Room and did I think it was a refined place. It has a beautiful piano, she is saying, and Mr Tipper is a charming fellow and easy to
impress, but she is not sure whether she wants to remain in New Clay or whether the career of Lady Pianiste in a concert room, however respectable, is to her taste. What do I think? I am more experienced in these matters than she. She would value my opinion.

She is talking fast, like she has too many words in her mouth and they all want to take the air at the same time. I say that the Headless Woman is a good hotel, and Mr Tipper a fair employer, so I have heard. But she is not listening at all, and is off again, talking ninety-nine to the dozen. She is asking me what I have been doing since last she saw me. How nice it is, she says, to meet old friends, and here is the Headless Woman, and what an old-fashioned place it is! But she is curious about me. What adventures have I had since she last saw me in Birmingham? Is Joe still with me? And Chittick? But without waiting for an answer, she is talking again. About the herbalist. Trains. Lodgings. The town and Mr Tipper. Anything and everything, but with her keen eyes upon me.

She talks to me like I am an old friend, as though we have known each other as kids or chewed the fat over a pint of ale, and although I had much sympathy for her and her difficulties, being took so bad, I feel ill at ease, perched on the edge of my chair turning my hat round and round. I am looking at her, but not listening to her. I am noticing the bits of hair on her neck, short and spiky coming through, like it has been cropped by a shickery barber’s boy whose razor hadn’t seen the strop in days. I think, That hair is not all one. Here are pins standing proud. Here are strands of a different colour, and some bits are thick and some thin. There, by her ear and by the other too, is a pad, a shinny, as Lucy used to call it. I’ve seen Lucy pin a pad to her head many times to give out that she had more hair than God gave her. And here is Mrs Marsh with loops and locks that are coarse, like they might have belonged to someone else, all over her head. And all put together in a hurry. I watch her mouth, and listen to her voice, like I would a vocaliste. But there is
something wrong with her music too, though I cannot say what. She is off-key, I believe, singing too high or too low, and certainly something else in a hurry, but why I cannot say.

Then, it comes like a little explosion, taking me unawares so that I jolt like a puppet.

‘Have you seen Lucy, Mr Sage?’ she says, calm as a milk-bowl. ‘Lucy Fitch, of the Sisters Bellwood? How is she? I do hope she is recovered, for you made mention of her sad calamity, and of course I was never able to visit her. And her sister, Kitty? And her mother? What
is
her name?’

‘Mrs Strong,’ I reply, and then the words shoot out before I have time to stop. ‘But haven’t you been to visit them in Duchess-court? Isn’t that where you got my note? How you know I’m here, doing my job? Following my profession.’

Then I know, as if I had known all along.

Helen.

John Shovelton.

Bessie.

Lucy.

Halls, probably.

Corney Sage, certainly. What connects them all like a string of savage’s beads is her, the woman sitting in front of me, drinking tea from a china cup, and eating thin toast. Phyll. Phyllida Marweather. Mrs Marsh.

And another. A young man. Short hair. Smooth skin. Flash. Trying hard.

I make an excuse, and stand up sharpish. The chair falls over, the table is rocked. I hurry to the door, and as I turn and fumble with the handle, she is still looking at me.

‘Mind your eye, Corney,’ she says. And smiles.

Corney Sage – New Clay

I
n the dramas by Mr Trimmer that I like to watch at the Pavilion Theatre, there is always a thrilling end for, come what may, Hector the dog will save his master from dying of cold in a snowstorm, and Nonsuch the native, with a string of lion teeth around his neck, will have a fearsome grapple with a vicious monkey to save Miss Barbara from certain mauling. When Susan or Ruth or Violetta are being drowned or taken advantage of by Mr Heavy-man Villain, an agit. from the orchestra or a jolly romping tune brings on William or Charles and, one-two, one-two-three, one-two with his sword or his fists, and ‘Oh, William, I knew you would come!’, all is well.

Tableau.

Finis.

A fried fish supper and bed.

Yes. A good Pavilion finish-up would do me well now. It is noon and I am sitting in the Golden Bowl, by the window. This is not my usual crib, but I am very bad with the aches and shivers all night, and on my way from Mrs Gumbs’s to the Vine, I come over very shivery-shaky and dip in here to find a quiet corner and ease my bones. All is not right with me, for as soon as I sit, I am away in
slumber-country, and might have nodded for five minutes or five hours, I don’t know, but in cert I am not inclined to shift.

For I am not myself. It is not just that I am tired to death and that even thinking makes my poor head pound. Nor that I am sore in every joint which also wears me to a shadow. No, I am tired of being Corney Sage, comedian, clown, clog-dancer, vocalist, fetcher and taker, runner and carrier, seeker-out and putter-down. I have been moving from town to city, concert hall to circus, street to lodgings without pause to wipe the other eye and, true to you, I have forgotten almost what my body feels like when it does not have to shift. Or when it is not tired from shifting. Why, I am always running, making haste to get to a place, or between shops, or to oblige. Or to get away. I have been running away from the blood and mess of a cold night, and now it has caught up with me and I cannot but think that it will not let me go.

It is very comfortable here in the window, and there is much to see. The Wakes have arrived in New Clay, and everywhere is bustling with newcomers. Under the arches of the Market Hall are the gingerbread sellers, stalls heaped high with spicy cakes, and next to them is Mr Pea-man, with his cry of ‘Peas! Peas! Smoking hot!’ from morn till night as he stirs his pan and ladles it up high for all to see and smell. We have the mummers in the Market Place too, and their outside show is a wonder to behold. There on the platform are Romans in short dresses and maids in velvet gowns, two Negroes chaffing each other and anyone else, and a midget clown running between their legs, all dancing and posing and singing for the delight of the crowd and to entice them in for the paying show, which is always ‘Just about to begin!’. A feast for the eyes are the outside shows, whether it’s the menagerie with its tame fox and crow, or the military tournament, which has soldiers doing their marching and parading. Even the strong man and woman, both alike with black hair and rosy cheeks, step out on to the platform to
the sound of a trumpet, and heave mighty weights and show their girth.

I can see a deal from my corner crib, and as the sun has moved around to warm me, and the fire also is pleasant, I am not inclined to move, but just to sit and watch the comings and goings. I shift a little to ease myself in the chair, and I am overtaken by shivering, though sweating at the same time. This all-overishness has been coming on apace for the last few days, for my head is full of pains, my throat raw and I have been coughing hard. My adopted father, believing that everything was sent by the Almighty for our good, would have said we should not complain but consider all things, even a fever, as reminder that He is always about. It makes me smile to remember Mr Figgis and those gentle days of my childhood, and though I had an unfortunate beginning, my life has not been all bad, and much of that is due to him and his kindness. His Baptist God was everywhere and saw everything, and it has been sometimes a comfort to imagine Him looking into matters, and I wish fervently (and without disrespect) that He might look into my immediate difficulties, and the worries I have about Mrs Marsh. I am sorely tried, I say under my breath, and am inclined to take off and jump upon the next cart or coach away from this place, only I know that it will do no good, for Mrs Marsh or whoever she might be, having now fixed me in her sight, will surely come after me until she finds the opportunity to silence me once and for all. This is how it seems to me, and no matter how much I turn it about, it still comes out the same.