Walking in Pimlico (16 page)

So there was no tearful parting from Helen. It had been arranged – how skilfully Mrs Shovelton manoeuvred her troops! – that her daughter should visit neighbours and not return until the evening. Even so, I was able to leave her a brief note, excusing my sudden departure, and desiring that she should write to me soon, and often. Her first letter reached London – ‘care of Post Office, Bow’ – before I did, and what a dear letter it was, full of love and regret and how she missed our conversations! Oh, how eagerly I anticipated her letters with their insinuations of tenderness! For no one but we two would guess, so artfully did she write. And so it was through our correspondence that we arranged to be in Springwell together. How she managed the subterfuge under the very nose of her mother I never discovered. But here was Helen at last! Our history,
our love, stood between us, secret yet thriving like a hot-house flower. I knew that she felt it also, for she placed her hand upon my leg and squeezed.

‘Ah, Phyll’ (her affectionate name for me), ‘I have so much to tell you. But we must be entirely alone and secret. No one must overhear.’

She laughed and laughed, her cheeks growing rosy and her sweet breath pouring like perfume upon me. I was about to call her my kitten or some such childish thing (which always made her smile so beautifully and made me feel grand and powerful) when her brother interrupted. Heads turned, girlish laughter rose like a charm of birdsong.

‘Miss Marweather,’ said he with an infectious amiability, ‘Phyllida, how good it is to see you here! And what a happy coincidence! Springwell would not be high on
anyone’s
list of diverting places to visit, and yet here you are!’

Was there sarcasm in this? I am not sure. He smiled into my eyes, took my hand, and kissed it briefly, while Helen jumped up and leaned upon his arm.

‘I was hoping,’ said he, ‘that we might also be joined by a friend. A young man from town.’

Helen wrinkled her adorable nose and tried to be stern. ‘Oh, John, not another of those awful fellows who hang upon you! They might be agreeable company in a concert room or on a racecourse, but anywhere else they are so very uncivilized. All they want to do is strut about and behave very stupidly towards us ladies.’

John took his sister’s hand and looked and spoke earnestly. ‘Dearest sister, I can assure you that Mr Yates is perfectly agreeable. Not in the least stupid, in fact a rather serious fellow. I think you will like him, as will Miss Marweather.’

I was forced to turn away and hide the smile that threatened, while he continued.

‘He is elegant, well-connected, not least in the tailoring department.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ rejoined Helen, who was still, I think, unconvinced. ‘I would not like to keep company with a – a rag-tail.’

It was so unexpected and funny that John and I were reduced to silence before laughter overtook us.

And for her part, Helen was wide-eyed and completely nonplussed, and after several moments looking from one of us to the other, she tossed her head and cried, ‘Is he not the best brother anyone could have?’

He shook his head and laughed.

‘Yes, you are, John, you know you are. I am so fortunate! And look, Phyll, what my silly, doting brother has bought for me,’ and she produced from under her wrap a tiny brown dog.

‘This is Tippy. My little dolly-dog,’ she cried in a voice more suited to a four-year-old than a grown woman, thrusting the creature towards me for closer inspection. Its face was crumpled, as though it had too much skin, and it snorted and snuffled through a tiny flat nose. Its body was surprisingly firm, though, like a tiny barrel, and it struggled in my arms with some energy. Helen giggled and, taking the little dog back, allowed it to take tiny biscuits from between her lips, which it ate with relish.

‘Oh, Tippy-dog, you are so clever!’ she cooed, and kissed it until it snorted for breath.

I was both amused and horrified, but she was completely enamoured of it and would not give it up to the Boots, but insisted on walking with it along the Parade, where the dog tottered at her side like a child’s toy. Its velvet collar and tiny silver leash simply added to the comical effect. We had hardly gone a few yards before she scooped it up again and wrapped it in her shawl, and insisted that ‘Tippy is a tired baby-dog and wants Mama to carry him!’ So we
walked and she divided her chatter between the dog and us, John Shovelton amiably sauntering between us and offering me his arm.

‘John insisted that I had a completely new wardrobe for Springwell. I have gowns and shoes, and the dearest bonnets you could imagine!’

‘Then I will appear very shabby,’ I replied ruefully.

‘No! No!’ cried my girl, looking so winningly and playfully into my eyes that I had to look away. ‘You shall have any of my things, shan’t she, John? Anything at all. For you are my sister, Phyll. And what is mine, is yours.’

And gave Tippy another torrent of kisses.

‘Aren’t I right, John?’ she said.

And John, with a shake of his head and great guffaw of laughter which echoed around the gorge and made everyone look at us, agreed.

‘I know, Phyll,’ she cried, ‘you must come back to the George and look at my new things, and then we shall see what you desire.’

She took my hand in hers and was so bold that I thought she must give us away. But John said nothing, happy (as he said more than once) to parade before the great and good with a fair rose on either arm. It was difficult not to be entranced by this handsome brother and sister, and we made very slow progress as we stopped to receive compliments and attention from the society that lingered by each bench and tree. Miss Shovelton was admired, Mr Shovelton was admired, even Miss Marweather was attended upon and Tippy, of course, was adored by one and all! Helen, the newcomer and a fresh face in Springwell, was surrounded by military and country in all their shapes and hues, scraping the ground with their silly bows and making fools of themselves. John pretended to be only mildly interested, but I think he took great pleasure in Helen’s amiability, and smiled indulgently at every soldierly breast that hove into view.

So it was with some relief that we returned to the George to take
tea and discuss the amusement to be had in Springwell. When he learned of an entertainment at the Pavilion the following evening, John insisted on going there himself and purchasing tickets. This left Helen and me alone for a precious hour, in which we renewed our friendship and I was quite certain that we loved each other as much as ever we did.

Helen was excited less about the entertainment than showing off her London finery in this provincial backwater, and I was amused to see her little exertions, the fussing which attends any girlish excursion. When she finally emerged, dressed and ready to go (I was ready a full hour in advance of her!), I fell in love with her again, so radiant was she! Her eyes shone, her cheeks were flushed, and when John announced that she was the toast of Springwell, that already she had been noticed by Major Tripp and Mr Shepherd, her lip trembled. My pretty Helen! So modest! Even a compliment her could make her weep!

It was advertised as a ‘Grand Fashionable Night’, but in reality was a dull succession of amateur vocalists from the neighbouring town, leavened by a couple of professionals – a mountainous singer of Scottish melodies, Madame Laurie, and a comic who called himself Professor Hugh Moore (it had to be explained to Helen over and over before she finally understood!). The room was at first chilly, the seats hard and twin guardsman giants, each full seven feet tall and as square as two turrets, sat directly in front of us, so that John, sitting behind them and between Helen and me, had but a partial view of the platform, and that achieved only by squirming this way and that. It meant, of course, that Helen and I were not as close as I would have liked, but it was enough for me to know that she was near, to hear her silly laugh and her low whispers to John, and it allowed me the opportunity to look about me and study our fellow sufferers.

Half a company of military men of various hues, officers mostly,
were in attendance, noticeable by the creaking of their boots and the odour of dubbin and lime oil which lingered about them. They were eager for amusement, and determined to find everything in the programme delightful. Madame Laurie, resplendent in plaid and wearing a brooch the size of a dinner plate upon her breast, was the first performer and gave powerful renditions of songs about bonnie braes and ‘Prince Cherly’, and had the rapt audience stamping their feet and clapping their hands with great fervour. The orchestra played selections from Balfe and then a jaunty tune which introduced Professor Hugh Moore, comedian and champion dancer.

Apart from Helen, this little man was the reason I was foxholed in Springwell, for he was, of course, the comedian who was an accidental witness to James Yates’s exploits in Whitechapel. It took very few enquiries in the vicinity of the Constellation on behalf of Yates (who had temporarily gone to ground) to quickly reveal that the comedian and erstwhile Judge of the concert-room entertainment had secured himself an engagement – in Springwell. I felt a compulsion and more than a little curiosity, like a dog returning to its vomit, to track him down. Happy coincidence? Perhaps. But I learned that a veritable procession of middling entertainers, songsters, musicians and balladeers would make their way out of London to watering-holes such as Springwell. And indeed this unprepossessing backwater was a veritable candle-flame to these shabby moths. Of course, had the comedian not selected Springwell, I would have been forced to make a choice but perhaps, given my present preoccupation with Helen Shovelton, there would have been no choice at all!

He was immediately noticeable in the street, for the Professor carried with him his London ways – that darting, suspicious look and busy step. A curious fellow, solitary in his walks along the Parade or sitting outside the Old Pitcher where he lodged, in
the sunshine, with a glass of ale in his hand and the landlord’s mastiff at his feet, it was difficult to reconcile him with the forthright individual who had remonstrated with Yates in the yard of the Constellation. But how much he knew or guessed or even recognized was a different and pressing matter. The solution lay with Yates, and since it was difficult to keep him confined indefinitely, and particularly since I had carefully stowed in my trunk a set of his clothes, he took a night excursion to try the resources of Professor Moore.

Springwell was a sleepy place even in the season. That night the Parade was empty. Only a lone fox scurried across my path as Yates strode the streets, beating double time. The Old Pitcher was in darkness, but I espied my quarry at the window, taking the night air, and made enough noise to draw his attention. Did he recognize Yates? I could not tell and short of breaking into the house and cornering the fellow, there was no opportunity to try him. But I believe I read fear in his face, like a rabbit caught in a trap, and this was enough to persuade me that plans were needed to prevent Professor Moore revealing what he thought he might have seen that night in the Constellation yard.

In the Pavilion, the Professor struggled to amuse at first, and in any other venue would probably have come to grief. He seemed ill at ease, but gradually warmed to the task and sang a few low songs about fleas and bold bandits, just the recipe to amuse a military audience. An unpleasant song about a murderer going to his death created a small stir and, although I perhaps give him credit for more invention than he actually possessed, I do believe he sang it purposely, to throw down the gauntlet, as it were, to Yates, for his eyes roamed anxiously about the audience and seemed to be searching out a face. Confirmation, if any were needed, that he might pose a difficulty.

That audience, however, was ready to ignore his shortcomings
and allow him any liberty, so determined were they to be amused. Even John Shovelton, who was trying in vain to obtain a glimpse of the Professor around the guardsmen ramparts, gave him rapt attention. I, however, was more keenly aware of Helen, and I wondered how she, with her delicate feelings, would contend with the strong subject matter being played before us. She, of course, had covered her face with her handkerchief and, I first thought, was turning away from the unpleasantness, but now, I realized with some alarm, that it was towards her next neighbour, a youngish, darkish man, who, smiling broadly, showed a very full mouth of teeth and an inclination to guffaw. I craned forward, trying to catch Helen’s eye and reassure her, but her shoulders were towards me and all I could see – it was a small enough gesture, but it is burned into my memory – was his hand offering to her – I am not sure, but I think! – I am positive! – it was a bonbon in a tiny box, such as is to be found in trinket shops, and in which the French keep tiny cachous used to sweeten the breath.

These moments ran slowly, as though time itself was stilled in order that I might explore each gesture for its own particular exquisite pain.

In fact all I could see was the open palm of the gentleman’s hand and the tiny, gold box, for it was Helen who leaned forward to obscure my view. Helen, whose shoulders, creamy and smooth, were lit by the flickering lights. Helen, her neck glistening in the heat, and little tendrils of fair hair lying sticky upon her skin. And as I consumed her and excluded all else around me for want of her, she slowly turned around and, seeing that I was watching, turned away, laughing into her neighbour’s face. Then, as if to add insult, the minx looked back at me again and, seeing me still staring, laid a hand upon his arm, which he covered, for a moment, with his own!

On the stage, the comedian was still enthralling the audience with his miserable little song in its minor key, which seemed to last
an eternity. The hall was silent, except for a few gasps of horror from the ladies and harrumphs of disapproval from the gentlemen. But my attention was still drawn to Helen and the flirtation – it was nothing less! – that was taking place under my very nose. One to which she gave, suddenly, it seemed, all her concentration.

No, not all, for she reserved a little, a very little, for me, and that she threw like crumbs to a starving bird. Indeed, she was completely aware of the effect upon me, and made sure that I could see the exchanges between herself and Mr Stranger. Indeed I believe she exaggerated them to cause me even more pain. And between us, completely oblivious to these agonies of love and jealousy, John Shovelton shuffled and shifted in his efforts to descry a mediocre performer, while the sweat from the necks of the two heaving guardsmen in front showered upon us every time they moved.