Walking in Pimlico (40 page)

‘Herculine’s astonishin’ strength comes of eatin’ only good red meat!’ (Cheers.) ‘Herculine’s astonishin’ build comes of drinkin’ only good English ale!’ (Louder cheers!) ‘Herculine’s astonishin’ . . . ’

But I cannot hear any more, for the fellows have returned with dumb-bells and bellweights and the crowd around me cheers to see them. I am looking across the square, past Colonel Buxton’s broad shoulders and glistening red neck, and the straining arms of the soldiers carrying on a heavy platform, to the cheering throng, who are hurroo-ing and waving their hats.

For there he is, opposite me, with his pale face and a smile which Mr Doré gave him, after he had done with the angels. The young man meets my eyes, nods, and lifts his hand, a little sign that he has seen me and knows who I am. All is misty around him, but he looks sharp and natty, not a sign that he lives from a trunk, packed up and packed away between towns. Between murders.

Do I run? Do I push my way through this crowd and out into the fair, down the steps, down the avenue, out on to the road that leads to Thendon one way and who-knows-where the other? Do I take off again, looking always over my shoulder, waiting for him and the
blow that I know will come one day? If I am going to reach the door, I must go now, for he has moved, and is edging his way around the square.

I do beg your pardon.

Please excuse me.

May I come through.

I can read his lips from here. Soon he will reach me, and then what? A knife stuck under my ribs, perhaps? Quick and silent in a place as thronged as this, and then away. Who would know him? Or even see him.

I am still and everything around me goes quiet, though I can see Colonel Buxton’s mouth opening and shutting, and faces laughing, and hands clapping. But I am tired to the very bone, and all of those bones feeling like they will not give me the time of day. And as if to confirm it, I sink to my knees and but for the rail and the press of the crowd around me, I would have fallen to the ground, and not cared who saw me, or whether they picked me up, just as long as they left me there to sleep. For the fever is so much upon me now that I am watching what happens in a dream.

A strapping red coat is pushing among the crowds and picking out, by tapping them on the shoulder, this body and that. Boys, mainly, and some smartish young men. I know what the fellow is about, for it is showman practice to line up volunteers in advance, rather than leave it to chance. My young man has disappeared into the crowd, and I crane around to see if he is behind me, but I am blocked on every side by bodies large and small, so if he is there, I cannot see him. He will come upon me like a thief in the night. As Mr Figgis used to say.

In the square, a rattle of drums and two lines of honour guard presenting arms bring on the Mysterious Herculine, and through the curtain at the back strides a tall masked figure, in white leggings, black laced boots, a white tunic with short sleeves and a broad black
belt. A long black cloak lined with red and a close-fitting cap, and this black mask across the eyes complete the get-up. It is an odd costume, and no mistake, like a foreigner or a wizard, though more plain. But it pleases the crowd, which roars and claps and whoops, until my ears pound with the row. As the honour guard marches away, Herculine comes forward and flings off the cloak and strikes a pose, showing two arms not unlike Christmas hams, but broad and muscled nevertheless. A few more poses, then the customary lifting of the weights, and taking them slowly up, over the chest and over the head. A powerful youth, one of those nobbled by the red coat, is called into the square and begged to place a kettlebell in each of Herculine’s hands when, of course, he struggles to lift one with both hands! The crowd roars and cheers and the youth is as red as a blacksmith’s eye with shame.

All the time, the drum clatters and bangs, and Buxton keeps up a rattle about the skill of Herculine! The hours of practice Herculine has been forced to do! The agonies endured by Herculine from over-stretched muscles and limbs! It is a good show, and Herculine makes much of the applause, not being standoffish, but looking keenly around the audience and stepping up to the rail to shake hands and receive slaps upon the back.

Then the much billed one-armed lifting exhibition.

‘Gentlemen! Your attention!’ bawls the Colonel. ‘Herculine will now perform the famous one-armed lift. A grown man lifted aloft with one arm.’

Herculine is preparing on the platform, pacing about and flexing. Then stopping still and staring into the crowd. Two or three times this happens, and when it does Herculine paces over, kicking up the white sand, and, going to the rail, puts a hand on a kid’s head or fellow’s shoulder and looks hard into the distance.

‘Herculine draws strength using a magical method practised by H-eastern monks!’ explains the Colonel. ‘You might feel a little
weak about the head and neck when Herculine has done with you, but it will soon pass! You will soon recover, so don’t come and complain. No money returned!’

Back on the platform, Buxton puts a round red cushion on the flat of Herculine’s hand, ‘for the volunteer to sit on and for his comfort’, there is a rattle on the drum, and a little fellow is pushed into the ring, five or six years old and much inclined to weep. Herculine is not put out. The kid sits on the cushion, and with one easy movement he is hoisted up in the air. But he is not easy, for he begins to wriggle and squirm, and the crowd is just beginning to murmur when, with a swift toss, it is all done, for the child is up in the air and then caught safely, two strong arms cradling him like he was a baby. There is a gasp and a roar, and even I am taken up with the act, though I cannot breathe without coughing and my neighbours have so tumbled my condition that they are very anxious to remove elsewhere. But before they can escape, another boy is thrust into the square, older, longer, and not at all bashful. I glim the red coat press a coin into his hand, to parade and make a show, I expect, and sure enough he prances and preens, and ignores his friends until they pelt him with orange peel and he is obliged to knock one smartly upon the nose. Ever watchful for signs of trouble, the Colonel steps in and, none too gently, invites the lad to step up to the stool. Herculine repeats the show, with as much ease as the little chap before. Though he doesn’t wriggle, this fellow soon loses his bravado, and on the way up to the stars he clings to the cushion, and is not easily persuaded to let go. But Herculine once more tosses the boy up, only to catch him again before his arms and legs start to grab the air, and gives him the baby treatment, which he much despises by the look of his face.

Boys are only boys, though, and I wonder how many more the crowd will wear before they tire of it. On the bills, it is a burly looking fellow who is raised up, shoulder-high, while Herculine is
laughing and drinking from a foaming glass, and that is what they have paid their penny to see. Every showman knows that if they are disappointed, a holiday crowd might turn spiteful, but there is no opportunity for that here. Another rattle of the drum, another announcement by the Colonel – ‘Here is our next brave young volunteer!’ – and out into the square swaggers the young man. That young man. He is a good choice, and if I had been the showman, true to you, I would have chosen him. Small enough not to be too weighty. Handsome enough to bend the crowd’s eye. But flashy and cocky, the sort of fellow that needs to be brought down and laughed at, have the stuffing taken out of him. He cuts a flash around the square, smiling and nodding, and shaking hands with the Colonel, who salutes him also. The crowd cheers, and he enjoys it, strutting like a cock pheasant, winking and chaffing. Then he turns upon his heel, and he strolls towards me across the square, peeling off his gloves. He reaches the rail before I can escape, and hands me the fine gloves.

‘Please look after these for me, Mr Sage. I’ll collect them from you after I’ve finished with this. Perhaps then we can continue our conversation.’

My hands shake, and I am hot and cold, and hot again, all within the time it takes him to hand me his stuff. It
is
him. And it
is
her, and as the fever rises again, I see them both. Both faces. I see how it is managed, and wonder how I could ever have been taken in and cleaned out.

But Herculine is ready. The crowd settles. The young man goes to the little platform. There is a ripple of clapping, and someone hoots, and a chorus of whistles follow. Herculine holds out a hand on which lies the round red cushion, and the young man, with a flourish to the crowd, sits upon it. The arm trembles a bit under the weight, for it must be considerable. Taking the strain, and steadying with the other hand planted just above the knee, there is a moment’s
pause when the masked face is turned out to the audience and then around to the young man. It is an awkward pose and, though I know nothing about it, I think it must hurt the back and neck. The drum rattles as the young man is raised, slowly, higher, higher, Herculine bracing the other arm against the knee, half kneeling, and shuddering with the effort of raising him. The muscles are hard in that arm and stand out in the neck and shoulders, as they strain to push up, for though he is light, he is no very small fry and the weight is all on Herculine’s one hand.

And sure, the young man feels it too, for he is suddenly still and holding on, but when he reaches the shoulder and then above, and the elbow locks, and he can see the top of Herculine’s cap, he holds out both arms, as though he has done something nobby, and the crowd cheers wildly. Indeed, he cuts a silly figure, with his legs dangling and looking around as though he owns the world and all in it. The drum rattles on, the Colonel marches up and down, and it seems the young man is up there for an age, waving and saluting, so that when, suddenly, he falls, there is surprise on his face. One moment he is perched up there, the next he is arms and legs and dropping, and landing awkwardly in Herculine’s arms. I cannot see how he is caught, for Herculine is still half kneeling. But there is something wrong, for the young man has folded awkwardly, and cut not a sprightly flash figure at all, but one which looks for all the world like a doll. And not jumping up to take the crowd and the clapping, but lying, quite still. Herculine has his head upon one knee and the rest of his body drops, like a sack, and the heels of his boots clatter on the wooden platform.

The crowd roars, and then, to a man, falls silent. A crowd always knows when something is wrong, and it generally goes quiet first. It is strange to go from noise to silence in the time it takes to blink, but that is what happens. The silence wraps around the square, and as it does, everything moves as slow as a snail’s gallop. Herculine looks
down at the figure, and then up, and with one movement pulls off mask and cap. There is a sound as though all the air is sucked out, as everyone gasps. Herculine’s hair falls to the shoulder, the cheeks are smooth, the eyes are soft and blue. Herculine looks around the square and searches for me, Corney Sage, and, finding me, smiles. My legs give way, and I end up on the ground, peering through the railing at Herculine, who is still smiling, which smile belongs to Mrs Strong, Lucy’s ma.

Then she looks at the young man. Mrs Marsh. Miss Marweather. Cradled in her arms is the young man who killed her Lucy. And Bessie. And was out for me. But that young man is saying nothing and his head is lying awkwardly upon Mrs Strong’s knee and, when she releases her hold, that head rolls over and the eyes fix dead upon me.

The crowd gasps. Colonel Buxton is stunned, but only for a moment, and then rounds up all his forces to empty the show. All about me are legs and feet, and I am kicked and trodden upon and pressed until I think I shall die. But Mrs Strong is still there, on the platform, cradling the young man who is dead and his neck quite snapped, and I see tears rolling down her cheeks before the darkness washes over me like a warm tide.

Corney Sage – New Clay

I
am taken up by a pair of strong arms, which fold about me and put me in mind of my father, Mr Figgis, when I was just a little fellow. Though a Baptist, and not much given to affection when Mrs Figgis was hovering, when we were alone he would sometimes take me upon his knee, and tell me stories of giants and fairies and wrap me around with his arms if I got frightened, and when I fell and hurt myself, he would pick me up and hold me close to his chest. I remember the rough feel of his everyday coat against my cheek, which smelled of much wear and staleness, and the hairs upon his chin, and the round, pink mole hiding among them, which I longed to touch, but never dared. I am floating in these arms, out into the night, from heat into cold, and think I must be heading up to the stars, for in the black sky they seem very close and bright. If I am dead then it is not too bad, I think, for whoever has come to fetch me is careful with me, and I feel no pain at all, just the easy motion of someone walking in the dark and holding me in their strong arms.

That journey comes back many times, though I do not know who is carrying me and where they have taken me. But the bed is cool and soft, and there is a candle in the corner, and a fire in the grate,
and the light from both dances on the walls in a pleasing way that I like to watch. I know I am very sick, and have been so for some days, and the way in which the fever comes on, like a great army marching up and over my body and twisting my joints like they were tent-ropes, is very terrible. I think the doctor comes, and I say I have nothing to pay him with, but I cannot tell what he says, for though his mouth moves I can hear nothing except the army marching in my ears. He comes and goes a few times I think, but I cannot be sure, for the room is often full of people.