The Newgate Jig (2 page)

The scaffold, growing
blacker with the pouring rain, still bears evidence of its unseen guest, for
the chain moves slowly back and forth, shuddering imperceptibly with the weight
of the man suspended just out of sight. There is no activity about the square
now, just a handful of constables still patrolling the perimeter, ensuring that
the incumbent hangs undisturbed for his statutory hour, and keeping an eye upon
the boy whose solitary vigil they have all remarked upon and, being kindly men,
have debated amongst themselves whether to summon Mr Corns from the miserable
recesses of the Homeless Institute and beg him to remove the boy before he
freezes to death.

Moments divide moments.
The boy is as conscious of the space of time between the spits of rain as he is
of eternity, and unconcerned with both. He shifts a foot, slowly and stiffly,
for the first time in an hour and as he moves, so does another, quite the
opposite in size and bearing. From the shelter of a doorway at the other side
of the square emerges a veritable grampus of a man, cheeks as pink as a pair of
pippins, and wearing a smile, despite the bitterness of the wind and rain.
Pulling his long, pale Benjamin about him and turning up its collar, he tacks,
like a boat in a choppy sea, across the cobbles towards the boy, weaving right
and left until, at last, he comes alongside the lad and grasps his shoulder in
a pudgy hand.

Barney turns, looks,
but there is not a flicker of recognition in his face. Conversely, the fat man
is all knowledge, all familiarity.

'So sorry - ah - your
loss.' His voice is surprisingly high, like a child's, and when he smiles, he
reveals teeth which are so small, so insignificant, as to hardly have broken
through the gums. A smear of whiteness only.

It is a surprising
face, but Barney barely registers it. Only when the man, still firmly grasping
his shoulder, puts his mouth to the boy's ear and whispers for some moments
does he respond, and then it is as if he has received an electric shock, for he
jumps out of the man's grip and backs away. Producing a shilling, pinched
between his fat fingers, the grampus advances upon the boy and, in a sudden
lurch, makes to grab his arm. But the boy is quicker, and staggers out of his
reach, putting two yards between himself and the grampus before he stops and
then, with a little cry, turns and runs.

Bob
Chapman and his Sagacious Canines

If
you passed me in the street, I would lay ten to one you wouldn't know me,
though I might have appeared before you hundreds of times. My face would be,
like that of the Queen's footman, one often seen but barely remarked upon. You
might, if you had more leisure to give my features a regular eyeballing, say,
'Hello, here's a face I have seen before!' or There's a fellow I seem to know!'
and never come to a firm conclusion.

But spy me in the very
same street with my two dogs at my heels, and you would sing a different tune.
And with a full chorus. You would certainly recognize us then, and feel
emboldened to greet us with, 'Hello, here are Brutus and Nero, and their man,
Bob Chapman,' and believe yourself to be on terms of such familiarity with my
companions as to scratch them behind the ear and demand they roll on their
backs or oblige you with a paw. You might even notice me and want to shake
my
paw! But if you thought I ever felt put out or resentful of my four-legged
companions when all and sundry stop to greet them and ignore me, you would be
quite on the distaff side, for they are the finest pair of chums a man could
wish for, and if I live to be a hundred, I will never discover their like
again. Of course, they are hard-working fellows and earn their keep thrice over
every week, and they are as dear to me as if they were my own children. Brutus,
you should know, stands as high as my knee, an English Retriever, golden in
colour, with the mildest eyes and the most gentle and amiable disposition. I am
certain he would rather sleep than breathe! But put him to his work, on the
stage or in the circus ring, and he will stay at it until the deserts flood.
His speciality is to pick up an egg in his mouth - it is a trick people like to
see - and place it, without a crack or break, in a basket of others. Kittens
and day-old chicks he carries as if he were their mother, and little children
may ride upon his back.

But Nero now, he is as
black as a Moor's head, a Newfoundland breed (but not pure-bred), and as
valuable for his looks as he is for his tricks. I have been offered fifty
pounds for him more than once, but will I part with him? Not I. And if you have
seen him at his work, opening gate latches and ringing bells and carrying
lanterns onto the stage, you will know why. Not only is he handsome, but clever
also. The quickest dog for learning tricks I have ever known. Give him but a
little encouragement, a morsel of liver no bigger than your thumbnail, and he
will have a new trick in his head inside a week. And so proud is he of his
cleverness, that he will make sure never to forget it! Nero is a good companion
too, steady and sure, and careful of Brutus, who he minds as if he was a
brother.

Yes, I am indeed a
fortunate man to have two such noble and affectionate creatures as my
companions, and I think this every morning as we walk from our lodgings to
Garraway's establishment, where we eat our breakfast. For you should know that
I am not an adventurous man. I like a life that is calm and well ordered.
Excitement is a trouble to me. I do not relish change, and like to see the same
faces about me and walk the same streets and look into the same shop windows
and see the same goods for sale. Some might think me dull, but I have my own
reasons for preferring a simple, regular life and, though I work in the
exhibition business (which might appear to go against this preference, being
all the time before the public), it is still my nature to be quiet and ordered.
Nevertheless, quietness will not put food upon the table. Nor will a wet nose
and shining coat secure a bed, and although we have been together, Brutus, Nero
and I, for these last five years, we have not always been as comfortable as we
are now and have had some troubles which caused me distress. Indeed, even now,
when rent day rounds the corner, I am driven to consult my pocket-book and
savings and do some arithmetic, and make out those sums over and over again.
Only the other day, Mr Abrahams commented upon my studiousness, with a blowing
of his cheeks and a thorough tidying of his nose. I am much obliged to him and
not a little in awe, for he is an astute gentleman and my employer, the owner
of the East London Aquarium and Museum, with many years of exhibiting to his
credit. So when he gave me a second look and said, 'Now then, Bob!' I
immediately felt anxiety rising in my breast.

'I know what you are
about to ask me, as if I could read your mind,' said he. 'And, if I could, I
would give you the answer you want to hear.' Then he shook his head and looked
mournful. 'But you know the exhibition business as I do. Fair weather one week,
foul the next. If the needle points to wet and windy on a Saturday, I can do no
more than let you go, otherwise I would be a fool to myself and unworthy of my
customers' high esteem.'

I am pleased to say
that, up to now, that needle has been steady on 'Fair', but such is the strange
temperament of patrons of the exhibition business, that I can appreciate his caution.
For what will attract and amuse them one week, and have every human being
within ten miles clamouring at the Aquarium door, might the next be sneered at
as a regular non-goer. I have seen it happen countless times. Why, only last
year, Madame Leonie, the lion-faced lady, could do no wrong for six weeks, and
felt confident enough to be looking out for better rooms and hiring a
dressmaker when, one morning, I found her packing up her bags and wiping a tear
from her hairy cheek. Without warning, her show was empty, the public were
suddenly against her, and there was ugly talk abroad of smashing up her stand
and slashing her paintings. I am glad to report that, when last heard of, she
was doing well in a Cardiff waxwork show, but at the time it was upsetting, and
even Mr Abrahams, with all his wisdom, could not explain it. 'Ah, you see,
Bob,' he said, as sad as a mourner, 'how fickle is our business! Here we are,
comfortable one day and the next - pphff!! We are all at the mercy of the
people.'

I didn't like to
contemplate this gloomy prospect, though, for we were very happy at the
Aquarium, and I had started to call it my 'place of work'. It was not simply
that it was a regular and cosy shop, and that I made enough coin to put a
little by. No, it was that I had become as fond of it as any place I had ever
known, and also the people in it. Certainly, the Aquarium was one on its own.
An eighth wonder of the world. And not a fish to be seen! Everyone remarked
upon it, 'from rogues to royalty', according to Mr Abrahams. The building in
which the Aquarium was situated was, I understand, a great warehouse in the
past. That would account for the four floors, attic and cellar, all connected
by staircases (some very grand) and landings decorated with coloured-glass
windows (like a church), and statues, fancy ironwork, and so on. On every floor
were wide rooms divided up into many smaller ones (though the partitions are
only flimsy wood and lath), and those too were sometimes divided again so that,
to a stranger, it was a regular labyrinth of cubbyholes and nooks. But not, of
course, to those who worked there, and what an odd collection of marvels and
misfits (another showman's phrase from Mr Abrahams) we were! Our company
changed by the week. One week we had posturers and tumblers, the next wizards
and human oddities. There were permanent employees like Conn, who oversaw the
menagerie on the top floor, and Pikemartin who sat in his box to issue tickets
and did the rounds of dusting off the waxwork figures and opening up and
closing the shutters. But they were unusual. Mostly, our company came and went
and that was sad, for a friend might be made and lost in a week. I hoped for
better things to come, of course - prospects' as Madame Leonie called them -
but I was content, for the present, to turn up every morning and do my shows in
the second-floor front salon (Mr Abrahams had some odd affectations), and take
my chink at the week's end. It was not a hard life - I had known much worse -
and it was made pleasurable by the little habits I had invented, which a man is
inclined to do when he is left to his own cognizance, and with no wife to order
his days.

Of a morning, I liked
to take my breakfast at Garraway's, just around the corner from the great
Pavilion Theatre, and a bare ten-minute walk from the Aquarium. It was not a
fine eating establishment, nor even a good one, the coffee being liable to
grittiness and the bread likewise, but the plates were large and well filled,
and if the serving girl was frowsy-headed and the waiter wheezed like an old
kettle, well, they were obliging enough. Every morning, at a quarter to nine,
you would find me at my table in Garraway's front parlour, the dogs at my feet,
enjoying my bread and coffee and, on high days, a chop or a slice of bacon. The
fire was warm, the view from the window (of the busy street) distracting, the
newspapers plentiful, and it was quiet enough to allow a man to compose
himself for the labours of the day. It was there that I first encountered
Fortinbras Horatio Trimmer, author of dramatic pieces for the Pavilion Theatre,
and tales of a rip- roaring character for
Barnard's Cornucopia,
a weekly journal of literature, published every Saturday, price 2d. Messrs
Picton Barnard of Silver-street were his most demanding employers and when I
first set eyes upon Trim (as he allows his friends to call him), he was hard at
work for them, frowning and scribbling at a table in the parlour corner, with
only a single cup at his elbow, and a slice of bread (no butter), upon a plate
before him. It was Brutus, that friendly fellow, who, as they say, broke the
ice for, unprompted, he sidled over and laid his golden head upon Trim's knee.
It was a touching sight and though I might have summoned him back to my side, I
did not, but watched my faithful pal out of the corner of my eye. A hand
absently fondling those silky ears was all the encouragement old Brutus needed
to shuffle closer and then to lie at Trim's feet, as if they were pals together
and had just strolled through the door.

To be so singled out
for affection touches most people, and indeed it would be a granite-hearted man
who was not moved by the simple gesture of an innocent creature, so Brutus
remained, and Trim returned to his scribbling, accomplished with a very stubby
pencil and many sighs. For his part, Brutus was content to snore the hours
away, stretched out upon his new friend's feet, and would have remained there
all day, had not Nero roused himself, stretched and turned his wise old head to
me with what I call his 'enquiring look'. Of course, he was right - we always
leave for the Aquarium at half-past nine, and Brutus was ready, though I cannot
tell how he knows the time. Trimmer too was roused, and he scratched his head
with the end of his pencil and with his other hand rubbed Brutus' head, which
was once again resting upon his knee. I summoned the dogs to me, saluted him
(he didn't reply, but gazed vaguely in my direction), and we left for our work.