Walking in Pimlico (31 page)

‘So you see, Tilly,’ I was saying, stroking her hand (which was none too soft, and red around the knuckles), ‘I am in ’aste to see my sisters, for I must be back to Africa to make sure the gold is dug out right. I cannot trust these darkies to do the job.’ I give Joe a good hard stare, which he ignored. ‘They would dig out the rock and leave the gold, so stupid are they!’

At this, Joe glanced at me, and I wondered if I had gone too far, but it was too late.

‘H-oh yes,’ gives Tilly, with a giggle and another curl of hair, ‘I have ’eard that darkies have no sense at all, and are so stupid that when they are ’ungry instead of buying a pie or spud off the ’ot potato man, they eat each other!’

I was stuck for what to say, but Joe, tired of insults, looked hard at Tilly and let a great smile creep across his face, showing his white teeth, which he champed, and then smacked his lips together, and licked them round and round, and mumbled some nonsense under his breath, and started to get up. Tilly squeaked and put her hand to her mouth and it was all I could do to stop her fetching the landlord to save her from being eaten. Instead, I put my arms about her and whispered how I would protect her and how Joe was too cowed to defy me. And to bolster this I said some nonsense to Joe which he pretended to hear with alarm. All the while, Tilly’s gratitude was making itself very clear, and she crept alongside me and allowed her hands to explore the insides of my coat.

‘Here,’ I says, trying to make light of it, ‘what are you about?’

‘Why,’ says she, ‘I’m digging for gold.’

I won’t record the rest of our conversation, it being of a low character and me promising all kinds of things (which made her and me blush) if she would tell me about my sisters. Which she did.

‘Oh,’ says she, ‘you mean the Bonnie Sisters Bellwood. Lucy and Kitty.’

And then she frowned.

‘Well, it
must
be a long time since you saw them,’ says she archly. ‘Don’t you know them? Why, they’re over there!’ And she pointed to a snug corner where sat two young and sprightly girls, with a follower each hanging on their shoulders, who were having a rare time of it, laughing a lot and loudly. Fine, rorty girls, as Mr Vance would say, with pink cheeks and full lips, and a deal of bosom uncovered and knowing about it. Those followers (who also knew about it) were nicely hotted up by the girls, and putting their hands in their pockets in a regular way to keep the water of life flowing and everyone amiable. It was stunning to see how clever they performed, for they were girls who could hold any amount of drink whiles men bought them, said men getting drunk as pipers and then later, oh-ho, how their pockets are eased of coin!

And here were more dilemmas, which were mounting up like an honest man’s debts, for coming here to find the Sisters Bellwood I had thought to see my pal Lucy once more. Indeed, the address upon the scrap of paper had led me to believe so and the notice from the
Era
, both the property of Mrs Marsh, she much in need of her old pals. And certain here was Kitty, sleepy and beautiful as ever, but whoever sat alongside her was not Lucy. Not Lucy Fitch. Lucy was dark and this young woman was fair. Lucy’s milky skin and brown eyes, and her front ivories slightly over her bottom lip (which gave much sweetness to her appearance), and her very nature which was childlike and womanly at the very same time – all these
were missing in the thin and shabby girl sitting alongside Kitty, for all she laughed and tossed her head. I had almost made my mind up that here was a mistake or, even simpler, that the Sisters Bellwood had got a new sister and that Lucy was off on her own account when the door of the public opened and in walked Mrs Strong, Lucy’s mother. Now that was a rum thing, for where Lucy was, there in certain within two streets was her mother, who was known to be most careful with her daughter.

So I was struck silent and was pondering this, and wondering how to explain it all to Joe. All of it, for I was thinking I should take him into my confidence, since though he might be short on his pins, his brain-box was a monster and in prime working order.

‘Joe,’ I mused, keeping Mrs Strong’s figure in view and feeling a dryness about my mouth and throat, ‘though it is said that this great world is so full of people that we can’t hardly comprehend it, it can’t be so big. For I have come from one bad shop a long way, so I thought, and it has trailed after and found me. Likewise, I have left faces behind and look, here they are again.’

I am afraid my eloquence was lost on Joe, so I had to spell it out for him.

‘I know these girls, Joe. The Sisters Bellwood. Or I thought I did. They was with me in a previous shop, and a bad shop it was, and all kinds of miseries went with it. So I don’t know how it is that they are here and I am here, and why our Mrs Marsh should know them. Or why one of them is missing, but her ma is here.’

Joe turned his glass round and round, and for once was not inclined to fire questions.

‘Reckon it’s what they call a co-in-cidence, Mr Corney,’ he said, but he didn’t seem too bothered by it.

I was bothered, though, so bothered that I turned upon my heel and found the door and, finding it, made acquaintance with the street, and with the next and the one after it. I had my hands in my
pockets and my head down and if I wasn’t running I was doing a close measure. Joe was in difficulty to keep up with me and I could hear his breath coming on like a steam train behind. After a time I slowed up and he caught my arm and pulled me on to the steps of a chapel where we sat, with him panting from his exertions.

‘Mr Corney,’ says he, between gasps and grunts, ‘if you know these Sisters Bellwood why are you running away from them? And if they are friends of Mrs Marsh, then surely they will want to help her. And her baby.’

True to you, Joe, I thought. All correct and ship-shape. Here was a lady in need, here were people who she said were her friends. But on the other side of the road was a respectable lady, and here were the Sisters Bellwood, and they were chalk and cheese. Besides, one of them was missing, though her name, Lucy, was still alive. And I knew
her
very well. I knew
her
from the Constellation Concert Room, Whitechapel, and I carried a bit of her around with me, still in my pocket. The portrait of the beauty I had seen in Springwell Pavilion, the sister of John Shovelton, the man brought up for the murder of Bessie Spooner.

How was it then that the dog’s bite brought back Lucy and me? Which bit of that paper, the
Era
, the Organ of the Profession, had Mrs Marsh torn out? Was it the Sisters Bellwood?

Or was it me? Mr Corney Sage (Funny Foodle), droll and witty and to be found every night in Chittock’s Mammoth Circus, Birmingham? And how was it that whichever way I turned it around, there was Bessie Spooner and Lucy Fitch and Mrs Marsh?

We sat on the steps for some little while, chewing over the ins and outs of the story, which Joe pinched from me, a bit at a time, like fleas from a dog. And I believe he was much taken with it, for instead of giving me his opinion in an instant, he was quiet and thoughtful, and even gave over rubbing his knees. The steps were
warm, Felkin’s Particular had half done its work, and I put my back against the knotty door and let the sun warm my face. I was so comfortable I could have snoozed and perhaps did so for a moment or two, but the sound of footsteps close by made me open my eyes. Across the street, just passing a stationary horse and cart, was Mrs Strong. She was walking, head down, like she was in a hurry, not stopping to look in the shop windows, nor moving out of the way for oncomers. I nudged Joe, and we crossed over and kept within a few yards of her, for I wanted to see where she would go.

Now then, all this mystery! Like we was two regular ’tecs on the force trailing a desperate shady fellow, rather than a widow-woman with a basket and dirty boots. So we strolled along like we were meant to be there, and followed her down one street and then another, then in at a court, across a yard and a door shut behind her. It was a warm day, and the court was neighbourly. There were women sitting on doorsteps chatting and watching children playing with hoops and kicking a rag, and an old woman dozing on her chair, all in the bright sunshine. We stood at the entrance and looked around the square, and Joe wandered over to the tap and took a drink. It was like the Queen had suddenly stopped off for tea! All eyes were on Joe, and some of the children ran to their mas, much inclined to pipe their eyes. But, when he was inclined to it, Joe could be a regular charmer, and it wasn’t long before those kids who had toddled off in terror were clinging to his knees, or touching his black face and woolly head. And though their mas were wary at first, soon they too wanted to have a closer look at Joe’s dusky skin. It was the right moment, then, to knock upon the door behind which Mrs Strong had disappeared – and for certain that was Joe’s purpose, for he tipped me the eye as the kids fell upon him.

It was a small court of two-storey houses of the poor-but-respectable brigade, and the door I was interested in was no different to any of the others. Outside sat an old woman, an invalid
by the looks of her, wrapped about in shawls and blankets, no matter that the sun was hot and bright. But, ‘the old feel the cold, no sin, skin’s thin’: that’s a rhyme told me by the great Harry Henry, the oldest clog-dancer in all England and a man reputed (by himself, it has to be said) to be ninety-nine years old and who laid much store by mufflers. (And true to you, I have indeed begun to feel the benefit of a blanket about my shoulders, which often pain me, of an evening.) As I tipped my hat to her and made to knock upon the door, at that very moment it opened and Mrs Strong, almost stepping upon my toes, came out, a cup in one hand, a rag in the other. She gave me a moment’s glance, and then bent over the old woman, adjusting the shawl around her head.

‘I wondered if
you
might turn up, when I heard you were with the circus. You’ve taken your time.’

She was a sharp-tongued female always, and her temper had not improved. But caring for elderly relatives, I reflected, was probably not inclined to assist, and if Lucy was carrying on in the military widow line of business, no doubt Mrs Strong was left to shift for herself. I wondered how to bring up the subject of Mrs Marsh and her baby, though that lady’s difficulties now seemed something on a par with Mrs Strong’s. But perhaps Lucy might lend a hand. Or Kitty. So I launched into it, and gave her the full story and some more, for I felt she needed heavy persuading, so hard-set was her face. She let me run on without moving a feature, and indeed she might have been formed of wax or marble, so still was she. Finally, when I had run out of Mrs Marsh’s miseries to share and was about to commence upon my own account, she allowed herself a shake of the head.

‘I’m very sorry to hear of Mrs Marsh’s difficulties,’ she said, ‘I am indeed. And I did say that we – I – would assist if we – I – could. She was a Mrs Collette when we knew her, of course, but a lady and no mistake.’

The old woman shifted in her chair, and a keening sound, halfway between a song and a moan, rose from the blankets. Mrs Strong laid her hand upon the old ’un, in a soothing kind of way.

‘Hush, my dear.’

She looked hard at me.

‘As you can see, Mr Sage, I have other duties now. She takes up a full day – and more, if there was such a thing. For she can do nothing for herself, and we would be in a workhouse or hospital if it wasn’t for Kitty. Now there’s a good girl for you. Never complains, but works most days in the milliner’s and nights at the Turk until she can’t hardly stand. And keeps me and Lucy with never a thought for herself. So I’m sure I would like to help Mrs Marsh – and I know I promised, God will forgive me – but my Lucy occupies me day and night.’

Lucy? Like a comic fool, I looked around for her. Across the court, into the sunlight where Joe was still surrounded by his admirers. And back at Mrs Strong who was wiping her brow and staring across the yard at Joe. But there was no Lucy that I could see. And then, as I glanced down at the old woman’s feet, I saw, poking out from under her drab dress, a dainty pair of pink slippers. And then I took in the hands lying in her lap, which were soft and plump where they should have been scrawny. And the eyes that looked into mine were wide and brown, and with a fringe of dark lashes. Even the hair was dark and thick and curled about her shoulders and face, but that face, though it was the Lucy I knew, was still
not
the Lucy I recognized. For this mouth was half open and these lips were wet and bubbles of slaver were forming which Mrs Strong mopped up with a rag, and then set straight this head, which lolled awkwardly like a rag doll’s.

I was struck dumb. I recall Mr Figgis once telling me about the man, a Bible character, whose tongue cleaved to his mouth, like it was stuck there and set, and could never be freed. And in certain,
that was the state of my mouth when I realized that the woman I thought was an old woman, an invalid, was Lucy Fitch.

Mrs Strong had turned her eyes upon me in between mopping Lucy’s mouth and giving her a drink of water from a cup – no easy business, for she could not drink like you and I, and was moving her mouth about and making mewing noises.

‘Mrs Strong,’ says I, when I had recovered enough to speak, ‘what has happened to her? For mercy’s sake, was it an accident?’

I confess I was much moved, and was fighting hard to keep back my tears. And I do believe Lucy knew this for she mewed pitifully, and her poor hands twitched in her lap. Mrs Strong wiped her mouth gently and I think found the grief difficult herself, for though her lips were drawn in a line as straight as a Methody’s, her voice was all of a tremble.

‘I don’t know, Mr Sage, and that’s a fact, and perhaps it wouldn’t do much good to know. It wouldn’t do
her
any good. When we left our last shop at Burdon Oaks, she was full of life. When we got the temporary diggings at the Turk, she was full of life. That night she complained of a pain in her head and how her arms felt frozen, and she went to bed. It was Kitty who heard her cry in the night, and gave her the medicine. But – I don’t know. It seemed to make her worse, and she started coughing like she couldn’t get her breath. Kitty fetched me and I put some camphor in the fire to air the room and sat with her. But she got worse and in the morning Mr Minton come round and sent for his doctor. She had lost her speech by then. And her legs . . .’