Walking in Pimlico (41 page)

Authors: Ann Featherstone

BOOK: Walking in Pimlico

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Here in this room are gathered people I have not seen for years, and true to you, some of them I know are dead and gone. My old master, Mr Halfpenny, who was swept away by a wave on the Lincolnshire coast thirty years ago, and his horse with him. Little Susie Wickenham, a tot, who died with her baby brother and their ma, all in one room, when a fire swept through a lodging house next door to mine. Old Roman, the hawker, with no roof to his mouth and only one eye, who was set upon by roughs for his savings which were said to be a fortune, but were only three shillings. He died in a ditch, all alone under the sky, lying there for four days before anyone came upon him. Rats, they said, had begun gnawing his fingers. And my father, Mr Figgis, who I have not seen since I left home when fifteen years old. He stands quiet in the corner of the room, and will not come over at first, and I am obliged to call him, when he does, but slowly. He takes my hands in his, and I am a child again, for I see his hands through my child’s eyes, rough and thin, with their veins standing out like rivers on a map. Those hands held mine many a time, and they hold them now.

Finally, when the room is buckling and heaving, and the ceiling is streaming red,
she
comes. I know it is her. I have been calling for her and I know she will come, and I see her for the first time in all my life. She is as pretty as I knew she would be, with red hair like mine, and a smile that is sad and happy. She bends over me and
kisses my cheek, and her hair falls across my face, when I smell lavender and clean linen and the fresh salt air. I think I must begin to cry, for she reaches out and wipes away my tears, and it is the softest touch I have ever felt.

I think my heart will break.

Is there an end to this? Certainly, for I must have one, otherwise my tales in the public will not be worth a clap on the back and a ‘What will you have, Corney Sage?’ I do produce the illustrated newspapers to prove my point, on which my face appears and that of the young man and Mrs Strong. And John Shovelton. He visits me often when I am getting better. Indeed it is he who has paid the doctor’s bills, and sees that I have my old room back in the Old Pitcher at Springwell. It is a great comfort to see those yellow walls again, and to listen to the sound of the river through my window, and know that there is no one coming for me to do me harm. I have taken to visiting Mr Beeton in his box. We are great pals, and take a turn along the river to walk and talk about books that I have never read, but which doesn’t seem to matter.

Yes, I am visited regular by Mr John Shovelton, and of course it was he who was asking for me in Springwell and looking out for me in New Clay, was quizzing Bellmaker of my whereabouts, and who carried me, in his arms, out of the Military Show. He it was who discovered Mrs Marsh’s companion, Mrs Gifford, and a relative, an uncle, who were pleased to share their knowledge (which was very little) for a consideration (which was very great). He had not guessed who the murderer was, but had asked more questions than a lawyer and worked out something we had all missed – that whoever killed Bessie also sent Lucy heavenward. He had sat with Mrs Strong and puzzled out with her that where Corney Sage was, there the murderer would be too. He had not expected Mrs Strong to do
what she did, but she was powerful cut up over Lucy, and he thought that might explain much.

He finds me one day outside the Old Pitcher, with Mr Flynn’s mastiff at my feet and a glass of Bunty’s Best at my elbow. Mrs Flynn has put a shawl about my shoulders and a blanket across my knees, and though I would have generally pished at such softness, these days I am a changed man, and more accepting of kindness and gentle actions. We do not say much about the past, for it is my belief that there are things that need no more saying, and he seems to be of the same opinion. We have already put away the murders done by Mrs Marsh, or that young man who she pretended to be, and John has talked about his sister and whether murder was knocking at
her
door. Did it ever cross your mind, he says, that Mrs Marsh and Phyll Marweather and James Yates were all the same person? Even for a moment? I said no, not until the end, for I was never looking for him. When I saw Mrs Marsh, I saw Mrs Marsh, just as when I saw Herculine that is who I saw and not Mrs Strong. And the same for the young man. Did I ever think, Might this be a lady dressed up? No. Never.

All the same, when he left me, and a cool breeze came off the river and made me shiver, I turned over in my mind the strange adventure that had caught me up in it, like a tiddler in a child’s net, and had trapped me there, unawares, until I was quite lost. And I wondered if I could ever again rub along with my fellows quite as cheerful in the world as I used to, and not be all the time looking over my shoulder and wondering if shadows are truly shadows, or someone walking behind me.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Walking in Pimlico
strode out of my lifelong fascination with the nineteenth century, but its peculiar gait originated in my academic work, and in particular a long research project on nineteenth-century popular entertainment at Royal Holloway, University of London. Two supporters must be acknowledged: the Arts and Humanities Research Council which provided the funding for the project, and Professor Jacky Bratton who guided the research and was Corney Sage’s first admirer. Colleagues and friends in the Drama Department at the University of Manchester have been very generous with their support: Hayley Bradley, Maggie Gale and Viv Gardner. Jan Needle introduced me to Lucy Fawcett at Sheil Land Associates. She gave
Walking in Pimlico
the nod of approval, and for which kindness I shall always be grateful since there I met Gaia Banks, my wise, patient and talented literary agent. Jan has also been on the end of a telephone to boost my ever-failing confidence, as have many other good friends who read the manuscript in its different stages: Gilli Bush-Bailey, Helen Day-Mayer, Michael Eaton, Felicity Featherstone, Angela Read, Claire Richards, John Thesiger and Jane Traies. Amy Myers gave me sound, practical advice and showed me how to unravel the cat’s cradle of a plot in which I became ensnared. Kate Parkin and Victoria Murray-Browne at John Murray made
sound suggestions and positive noises, and guided this strange tale into print.

Finally, my wonderful family (James, mum and dad) have been constantly supportive in so many ways, from proofreading to supplying coffee and hugs – thank you.

GLOSSARY

Extracts from
Murray’s Dictionary of Slang, Cant and Flash Words and Phrases
(1857, 3rd edition)

above the sawdust
: low down, though not at the bottom of, the hierarchy of entertainers

berth
: place, employment

blue boys
: police

bluebottle
: policeman

bull it up, to
: to exaggerate, embellish

chaff, to
: to joke, banter

clogs
: clog-dancing

clucking and nodding
: acting in the correct manner, fitting in

con a wheeze, to
: to learn a joke

cove
: man, chap

cross-hatched
: worried, anxious

dollar
: coin

duds
: clothes

everyday
: daily wear

fagged
: tired out, exhausted

gamp
: umbrella

hay-seed
: person from the countryside

mardy
: grumpy, petulant

more inclined to eel pie than potted shrimps
: cheap, unrefined

nark
: spy, informant

nobbler
: policeman

nobby
: smart, upmarket

peeler
: policeman

physog
: face

plates
: feet

pod, to be in
: pregnant

pump-thunderer
: blusterer

ratting ken
: low dwellings used to host rat-fighting competitions

refuse to go, to
: to go down badly with an audience

rorty
: lively, jolly

sea-William
: landlubber

shickery
: incompetent, shabby

shop
: job, employment

slapping lime-and-litharge on your hairy lip of a Sunday
: the bandsman’s practice of tending to his moustache, on a Sunday, to keep it dark and glossy