Walking in Pimlico (5 page)

‘I’ve written down what I know, Corney, and it’s for your eyes. No one else’s, until I’m a long way away, where he can’t find me. You can read it now if you want, but let me get away first. And if you do nothing else with it, Corney, just keep it safe.’

For the first time, just about, I was stuck for words. If she’d asked me to wed her, I could not have been more stuck for words, but I nodded, and took the packet and put it in my coat pocket, and that
seemed to pacify her, for she went quiet and sipped her coffee, and then quickly drank it off and, wiping her hand across her mouth, and rearranging her hair, she says, ‘Mind your eye, Corney!’ and she was gone.

It was a long time before I saw her again.

James Yates – the Constellation, Whitechapel

I
arrived at the Constellation in good time, for the concert room was only half full, and I easily found a table towards the front. It was a good table from where I was able to watch the entertainment
and
the room. A waiter approached me, small and dapper, smelling of lime oil and with that tell-tale shine upon his hair.

‘What will you have, sir?’

I ordered brandy, a bottle on the table, and water on the side, and tossed a dollar into the man’s tray. He returned with bottle, jug and tumbler, trailing in his wake a pretty dark-haired girl, who had been watching me from behind the curtains in the corner where, I suppose, the performers were gathered. A gaggle of rosy faces peeked, not at all cautiously, around the shabby cloth. I knew they had been looking at me and, feeling suddenly self-conscious, I anxiously scrutinized my cuffs and my boot-tips the better to hide my blushes! All the same, it was gratifying that they recognized, without any introduction, the quality of which my appearance spoke, and their giggles and chatter were, no doubt, about who I might be, what I was good for, and who was bold enough – but they were working girls and needed little encouragement! – to approach me. The dark-haired girl dropped into a seat beside me and linked
her arm in mine with charming familiarity. I could smell her cheap perfume and the cheaper gin she drank, but her face was pretty, and she was amiable enough.

Her name was Bessie, I learned, and she was going to be a dancer. Her idol was Madame Taglioni, whom she had never seen but her coachman came in now and again. But this was simply prattle, for she was occupied in examining me most minutely. My cheek, my neck, my hair. The very fabric of my coat. She took my hand, ungloved, looked at it, then smiled and showed her teeth, which were shockingly black and brown, and said what fine hands the young gentleman had, such slender fingers. She touched my cheek. And neck. And traced her nail along my waistcoat, discovering the shirt opening which was when I caught her hand and stopped her.

She didn’t protest but simply threw back her head and laughed with that brassy ring (too loud, too harsh, too revealing) I knew so well. I introduced myself, but all the time feeling as though I were playing a part and Bessie, while she was attentive and curious, played her part also, reciting those familiar lines from the whore’s catechism. Charmin’ gent. So ’andsome. Surely too young to be out so late and in such a place as this, and she pressed her hand against my breastpocket and looked at me keenly.

‘You know, cocky,’ she said confidentially, ‘I didn’t believe the other girls when they said, but it just shows ’ow you should listen to your friends, and take notice of them what know better.’

I was nonplussed, but laughed anyway, and she laughed with me.

‘We was wondering when you’d show ’ere, for it’s hot on the old turf for you now, isn’t it? Not worried about knocking up your old pals, are you?’

I hadn’t expected to be challenged so immediately and so directly that it took me by surprise, and I couldn’t think of a clever rejoinder,
but knew that I must quickly silence her, for she was running on and talking loudly about old pals and gaffs. I suggested a drink and reached into my pocket for money, but she quickly jumped up and planted herself in my lap, wrapping her scrawny legs around mine and thrusting her hips towards me. Her arms were around my neck and she pulled my face into her bosom, holding it tight to her damp skin, which smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, and the keen animal residue of many men.

‘Are you old enough to be out on your own, ducky?’ she said loudly, and looked around, but no one was listening. I tried in vain to hush her, but she shrugged off my remonstrations.

‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, Johnny?’ she cried again, louder this time, and there were a few sniggers and nudges.

Then she threw back her head and sang, in a raucous voice of drunken abandon, ‘“Does your mother know you’re out?”’ which reached to the back and front of the room, and elicited a wholesale turning of heads and a roar of laughter and a scattered chorus of, ‘“Oh, oh, Johnny, does she, will she, can she?”’ which she conducted with great relish, bouncing upon my lap and pretending not to see my embarrassment.

I pushed her away with an angry thrust, feeling assaulted by the stink of stale intimacies on her clothing and humiliated by her mockery and the ripples of laughter and comments around me. It was a mistake, I thought, coming here, and I made to leave. Perhaps the look on my face, my preparations to go alarmed her, for she was swiftly back at my side, stroking my cheek in a rough gesture of apology. But I was enormously, cruelly enraged, and this ironic show of affection – I could not believe she meant it – simply provoked me more. I wanted to strike her (and would have done so in a less public place), so affronted was I by her cheap mockery, but instead I turned away and clenched my fists until the pain of the nails digging into the flesh of my palms calmed me.

Bessie had seen it, though. And more. She could not, would not leave me and leaned towards me again, and began to croon:

Oh, Willie, does yer mother know,
Does yer mother know,
Does yer mother know,
Oh, Willie, does yer mother know
You’re out, out, out.

Or some such nonsensical song, which left her laughing uncontrollably, with her dark eyes wide and fixed upon me.

Suddenly (and mercifully), the doors were flung open and a rowdy crowd of young fellows appeared. They were well turned out, noisy, some pale-faced, some red-eyed, but all clearly very drunk, though not yet ready to fight about it. And they were immediately surrounded by a shrieking crowd of young women, who had evidently been waiting for them to arrive.

Heads turned again to look at them, mine included, and Bessie called out, ‘Look out! We’re ’ere! Over ’ere, girls!’

They steered the foot-shy assembly in our direction, tipping over chairs and tables on their way – which brought the landlord out of his hidey-hole behind the bar to keep an eye on proceedings – and deposited them with much noise and clamour. It was then, in that bevy of flushed faces, that I saw John Shovelton. Recognition was immediate, but believing my eyes took longer, and I looked once, twice, before I was convinced that it was he and then was momentarily panicked, and forced to turn my face away so that he should not see me. However, it was impossible to avoid the throng of fellows who were already taking their seats and helping themselves to my bottle of brandy and so I collected myself and smiled amiably and returned their salutes and even nodded to him. Bessie had forgotten me, and now had her arms about a small, fair-skinned, dark-haired young woman, who was wrapped in a gentleman’s
azure-blue cloak, and smiled fetchingly. A beautiful creature, Bessie called her Lucy, and naturally Lucy was the favourite of John Shovelton. When she had steered him towards a seat, he pulled her roughly on to his knee and, as she whispered in his ear, laughed and kissed her full upon her lips. I watched them, until Bessie’s voice brought me up with a start.

‘So, you like watchin’ rather than playin’, do you, ducky? Well, that’s all right by me.’

I flung her an angry look, but she shrugged her shoulders and took a long drink of brandy and water before she cried, ‘’Ere, Lucy, this gentleman ’ere is Mr Yates.
You
remember him, Lucy?’

But Lucy was either asleep or insensible. Her face was buried in Shovelton’s neck, and the azure cloak, which had fallen open as she sat in his lap, revealed her naked arm and thigh, pale creamy ivory against the deep blue. I drank it in, but was a lone connoisseur, for no one else seemed to notice. They were all too busy shouting and jossing, sharing jokes and intimacies, and I realized, to my surprise, that I was one of that company, accepted by them, though I knew none of them.

Except John Shovelton.

I should not have been surprised to see him. It was hardly a coincidence, for the Constellation had the reputation as a popular place for young swells looking for low amusement and cheap women. All the same, though I was trying to appear unconcerned, I was anxious to make myself agreeable, for it was amusing to be one of the company,
his
company.

It wasn’t difficult. The company hailed and hallooed me again and again, and because they were so drunk, they believed that they knew me. Not one of them wanted to admit that I was a stranger to him, and so all were jolly and amiable, and called me a fine fellow and shook my hand! Brandy was ordered, bottles of it, and when it was my turn I shouted for ‘Brandy! The best!’ which caused a great
roar of laughter and I was slapped upon the back as though I had said something very amusing. I was particularly glad when John Shovelton cheered me, and put his arm across my shoulders, declaring that I was a regular good fellow and how fortunate he was to have come to this place to find me here. For a while I was the subject of drunken conversation, as fellows tried to recall how they knew me. From the Guards surely, one cried, or the City certainly, said another, or at Lord H’s ball last season, or the race track or the Fancy. I agreed with everything, denied nothing. I made certain, however, that John Shovelton heard all, and he did appear to be listening intently, and at one point even suggested that he had seen me at Brighton.

‘You have a memorable face,’ he cried. ‘I am sure, I
know
, I have seen you before!’

I demurred. I said that I was much in town and in Brighton and Bath, and any number of places and that, having many friends, went to many ‘dos’ (which made him laugh). The noise about us was intolerable, and it was impossible to hold a conversation, but he slapped my arm and asked if I knew Springwell in Derbyshire. He’d be there pretty soon. He’d enjoy my company for it was a dull place, but his sister was enamoured of it. She was gone from Town now, having extracted from him new gowns and bonnets and all manner of female foolishness, but they would be in Springwell very soon. They stayed at the George. I would be their guest, and relieve the tedium of the place, for it was full of ugly girls, with their mamas in tow, looking for husbands! Then he became animated and talked of a ratting ken in St Giles (which, of course, I already knew), and how he would meet me there and introduce me to some lively fellows.

‘I like you, James,’ he cried, smiling broadly. ‘You have an honest face. Fresh as a . . .’ but he could not find the word, brandy having overcome his tongue.

I could hardly contain my excitement, but tried to be moderate
in my reply. I would cancel a planned visit to the country, although I was certain my hosts would be disappointed, but I should like to visit Springwell very much, and believed the waters there were . . . But he had already forgotten me, and was giving his full attention, once again, to Lucy. No matter, for I hugged myself in a glow of self-satisfaction, and I contemplated my success even as the room became louder and warmer and more crammed with people, all clamouring for seats and drink. Indeed it became so intolerably hot that the side door was opened and a welcome cooling breeze, but laced with the stink of stables and drains, surged in waves across the room.

The little stage was being set for the show. A well-made bench for the Judge, boxes for the witness and plaintiff, all built from wood and nails, rather than the paper and paint that are found in the theatre. There were tables and chairs arranged in front of the Bench, and even pen and paper set there for the clerk. All was supervised by a small fellow with carroty hair and bright eyes, who seemed to be everywhere at once. He pointed the shifters here and there, and made little adjustments himself. It was all very carefully done and I was so thoroughly distracted by the business that I did not notice the women getting up to leave, until Bessie, who had been sitting close, her thigh pressed hard against mine, took my hand and laid it upon her breast.

‘Will you wait for me, cocky?’ she said with mock sincerity, and her eyes were large and bright. ‘I’ve to go and do the Judge-’n’-Jury, but I’ll come back for
you
,’ and she put her lips upon mine, soft and wet and tasting of gin and laudanum, and pushed her hand into my groin. I jumped, but only at the unexpectedness. She smiled and kissed me again.

‘You
have
got lovely skin, cocky. Like a peach,’ and she put her finger in her mouth, licked it and then placed it on my lips. The other women were gathered by the stage and called her raucously over the
tumult. She kissed me again, and glanced provocatively over her shoulder at me as she picked her way through the crowd. A crude thrust of the hips was her parting gesture. It was a vulgar display, and I looked after her feeling amused and not a little excited.