Walking in Pimlico (23 page)

‘Mrs C,’ she cries. ‘Look what I bought to keep you company instead of me! Another songbird, but prettier!’

In motions slowed down to their moments, she turns, holding the birdcage aloft. I see the tiny creature flutter in a blur of colour. I see Lucy’s face, as she sees me, and then the clothes scattered across the floor. I see her register, by the second, the waistcoat with its heavy embroidery across my knee, the kid leather gloves, the silk handkerchief, the creamy white shirt in folds about my shoulders. I have beside me Yates’s boots which have been wrapped in a cloth since that night at the Constellation, uncleaned, still greasy. She sees them too. She gazes at me again, unwraps me, and I realize that she is looking at my hair.

My hair.

For I have taken off the hairpieces, five or six of them, and they lie in an untidy mess on the bed. I have oiled my cropped hair, slicking it close to my head, teasing out a curl or two across my brow. I have tried to get close to Yates again.

For once, I am struck dumb but know that I must speak. My mouth is stopped up, as they say, and as I look at her, though I struggle, I can think of no excuse except the most banal and transparent lie.

‘My brother’s clothes.’

She is like a statue, transfixed by my face. My hair.

Anyone else, I have thought afterwards, would have said, ‘What are you up to, Mrs C?’ or ‘Those aren’t your clothes, Mrs C. Where did you find them?’ or would have walked over and, out of curiosity, picked up a boot or the shirt and said, lightly, ‘Dressing up, Mrs C?’ But not Lucy Fitch. She has no need to ask questions, understands more and immediately. The moments drag themselves into pools of stillness, as she now shifts her gaze, looking from me to the trunk to the clothes to my face, my hair. Her face is blanked of all emotion, and though I try, I cannot tell what she thinks or what she will do. But I hear in the silence, like a faint echo, a hiss of fear.

Now she stares fixedly, not at me, but at Yates’s clothes, taking them in piece by piece. Her eyes range across them, consuming every thread, every crease and fold, until – and this comes upon me with surprising swiftness – I am restless with indignation and, at the same time, increasingly afraid. My instinct is to thrust her from the room, and I struggle to my feet, clinging to the bed for support. In so doing I drag Yates’s little wooden box containing his rings and other jewellery from the counterpane. It falls to the floor with a clatter, and the rings skitter under the bed and the chest of drawers. Lucy puts down the cage. She bends to pick up the rings and, as she turns, our eyes meet.

‘My brother’s,’ I say again. ‘He died.’

I don’t attempt to elaborate, for in my heart I know it will be inadequate, but I take the rings from her hand and once again feel her eyes upon me in a last, careful scrutiny, for moments later she is gone and I hear her footsteps retreating along the passage.

In a fever of industry, I replace my hairpieces, jabbing the pins into my head and scratching enough to draw blood in my haste. I repack the trunk, carefully and quickly folding and stowing, at the same time enacting in my imagination conversations I will have with Lucy Fitch. And then, weary, I sit by the fire, trying them out, listening, in my fancy, to the direction they take. Lucy is always friendly, pleased to see me, affectionate even and, though I have no desire to possess her, I find her caresses and spontaneous intimacy very appealing when we have sat together on the sofa, and she has laid her drowsy head upon my shoulder, holding my hand in hers. Then would often follow a dreamy hour, whilst her ‘medicine’ does its work and she is inclined to chatter – about men and babies and business. I try to recall the names: Captain Harker, Mr Newman (the self-same), the Lloyds, the Trenshams, the Peabodies. Not a mention of John Shovelton. Or James Yates. Not the Constellation, nor Whitechapel. Nor a murder. Not yet. But it will happen. For here, in this room, with the evidence of his life (and crimes) strewn over bed and floor, James Yates has presented himself to Lucy as certainly as if he had, once again, stood in the yard of the Constellation with Bessie Spooner at his feet.

After this, I know I can only wait for the moment, for I know it will come, when recognition suddenly overcomes reserve, and Lucy will say, in that flat, slow voice, much dulled by ‘medicine’, ‘You know what, Mrs C, I know you, don’t I? You’re the bloke that did for Bessie. Only you’re not a bloke, are you?’ She will laugh, and wipe a hand across her mouth. ‘You’re no more a bloke than a Frenchy, are you? ’Course you’re not.’

And I am perfectly certain now that I must attend to Lucy.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the appearance of Mrs Strong. I wondered if Lucy had revealed anything to her of what she had seen but, if she had, Mrs Strong was staying true to her name. She shut the door very carefully behind
her, but advanced not a dozen paces, and when she spoke it was in her customary measured tones.

‘I won’t linger, or I shall be missed,’ she said. ‘But you should know, miss, that we are leaving for Birmingham. Today. We’ve had – well, Lucy has had – a communication. About a better shop starting next week.’

She shook her head as if she did not believe the suddenness herself. She continued, ‘So I shall be going with them. My sister will find us lodgings, I’m sure. I’m very sorry, miss. We were rubbing along handsomely, and Lucy is terrible fond of you.’

Silence hung heavily while Mrs Strong searched for her words.

‘They are still the Sisters Bellwood, Lucy and Kitty. She believes the name has brought them luck.

‘Mrs Collette, I’m sorry to say goodbye to you so soon,’ she said after another pause in which we both stared at our feet. ‘You’re a young woman all alone, and I dare say you believe you can get along well enough, and perhaps your pretty face will do you a favour. But it is hard to be alone in the world, and easy to trip and fall.’

She was struggling now and, in spite of everything, I felt sorry for her, so I began to say as much, but she stopped me.

‘No, miss, I shall not go on beyond what I should. Except to say, if you and your babby are ever in trouble, then we should count ourselves fortunate to be able to help you.’

She handed me a scrap of paper from her pocket.

‘Our address. You might look for us in the
Era
also. The Sisters Bellwood are often mentioned in the provincial reviews.’

Reaching the door, she dipped into her pocket again, took out some coins and placed them in a little pile upon the table.

‘For Lucy’s medicine. I know you’ve been generous to her and I like to settle our accounts. We owe no one anything then, miss.’

Little more than an hour later, noises downstairs alerted me to the departure of Lucy and her little entourage. She was standing
anxiously upon the pavement, looking up and down the street for the trap that was to take them to Trensham Junction and then on to Birmingham. When she saw me, she struggled to maintain her composure, and Kitty also seemed drawn and pale. Only Mrs Strong, sitting stoically by their baskets, appeared unmoved. We exchanged tense farewells, Lucy tearful and tremulous, but I stood and waved them off, and as the trap turned the corner with a last dark flutter of Lucy’s cloak, I felt relief drop from me.

With their departure, there was no longer any reason for me to delay mine, so I instructed the pot-boy, the prosaically named Prithy Taverner, to bring the trap around, packed my own few belongings, and made ready to return to the cottage.

It was still a fine, clear day, and skylarks sang high above the wide fields. My heart was light, and I was determined to return to the cottage in cheerful spirits, to show Mrs Gifford that my mutiny had brought about good effects. So I instructed Prithy Taverner to drive back the longer route, along the Bliss Valley, and then up and over Bliss Hill, approaching our cottage from above and behind, rather than traversing the length of the village. The journey would take longer but, I argued, I was better able to prepare myself and enjoy the precious solitude (Gifford would now haunt my every move!), for Prithy was a gentle companion, never speaking a word, but constantly solicitous of my comfort.

We had just rounded the hill and I looked with pleasure out over the valley spread like a green patchwork before me, and Jasmine Cottage below, with its smoking chimney and – I clutched Prithy’s arm in horror, hardly believing what I saw. Before the house stood a carriage, black and enclosed, and two people, one a hugely fat man in a pale coat, leaning nonchalantly against the cottage wall and the second a woman dressed in an institutional dark blue dress and white apron (the detail is fixed in my memory), beside him, their backs towards me, looking intently along the village road. The road
I would have taken had I not determined to enjoy this last taste of freedom.

How long we sat before I commanded Prithy to turn the trap very quietly about and return to the Live and Let Live, I cannot tell. Without question and without any spoken commands to the horse, he did so, while I gazed with mounting fearfulness at the little group below, joined now, I saw, by the tall figure of Mrs Gifford. She too was fixed upon the road, but I knew it could only be moments before she turned around to look up the valley and saw the trap – and me. What she was doing, who the other figures were and the purpose of the enclosed carriage, I could only guess, but I feared that Uncle had lost patience and sent for me.

I looked back constantly, at every turn expecting to see the dark carriage and its sinister attendants pursuing me at rapid pace, and my heart thudded in my breast as I fought with the rising terror of what I should do. To run and hide in my present condition was unthinkable and impossible, and yet I could not imagine submitting meekly to Uncle and incarceration. Suddenly the fields and hills upon which I had looked so fondly seemed menacing, and I scoured the little tracks and narrow lanes leading to out-of-the-way farms and shepherds’ huts for the thundering black carriage. But all was as still and quiet as before, and we returned upon the same lonely roads, meeting no one and seeing nothing until we reached the Live and Let Live.

I was not safe, though. My thoughts raced as we approached the hotel, for what protection could it offer me? Could I hide? No. There was nowhere in this tiny place, and I was suddenly filled with despair and terror. Mrs Gifford knew well enough where I was staying. It was only a matter of time before the black carriage and its attendants arrived in Burdon Oaks. Even now, I thought, they are on the road, and within the quarter-hour will be here and I shall be discovered.

Prithy Taverner stood by the trap, my belongings still stowed, my rug at hand. He looked at me curiously.

‘You feeling bad again, miss?’

‘I am,’ I replied wearily. ‘But I must go to the station. I want you to take me to Trensham Junction, Prithy, with all speed.’

I had an address to add to the notice I had recently torn from Lucy’s
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newspaper in my pocket and, by the time he handed me on to the train at Trensham Junction bound for the nearest large town, a hastily scribbled note (addressed ‘care of’ Chittick’s Circus in the city of Birmingham) for my eager pot-boy to take to the Post Office.

Corney Sage – Birmingham

C
ities is rather like women. The more you know about them, the less comfortable you feel.

When you first make the acquaintance of a city or a woman, you’re inclined to be struck by their beauty or their conversation. You feel proud walking down their streets, or having them on your arm. You cast your eyes about at this shop and that carriage, and she looks like she’s just walked out of Mr Robertson’s drawing room. And you think, What a grand chap I am! Living in this place and walking out with this finery. You think you’re heading for Swell-street and no mistake, and you start looking out for yourself. Cleaning your boots and slapping lime-and-litharge on your hairy lip of a Sunday to get it nice and black. You think you might take in a park or an exhibition, or hear this and that great man speak upon a subject about which you know nothing and care even less.

Then, before you know it, everything goes cock-eyed. You are cornered by the landlord, who was at first so obliging. Now he shows you his fist and wants his money up front. And now there are shifty coves at the gate, and more appear on the corner. And the lady is more inclined to eel pie than potted shrimps. You find yourself getting into city ways, and clucking and nodding, too. All as if you’ve
never done anything else. That you’ve been brought up to it. But it’s a bit like wearing a new pair o’ boots what pinch, and remind you of how uncomfortable you are. So you’ve to walk about like you got somewhere to go even though you have blisters like sovereigns. Put your head down and mind your own business. Be one of the mobility, as Lucy used to say, and disappear.

I was doing just that – disappearing – in the crowd outside the station, and waiting for a train, also. (But of that, more anon, as the parson said to the dairymaid.) It was one of my favourite places, for I always liked stations and watching people coming and going. Families going visiting. Theatricals, always good for a laugh with all their airs and graces, but might tip a barney and sing a song or give a few steps if they thought anyone was looking. Wives and husbands saying their tearful farewells. Mothers and sons meeting up after years and years apart. The son all spruced and doing well for himself, with a flower in his buttonhole. And gloves. The train arrives and the mother looking fearful and a bit confused, ’cos she’s well on in years now, having been looking for him since he was just a baby when she give him up. Now she’s seen him and he takes her up in his strong arms and she’s weeping with joy, for she’s found him and can die happy. (This is one of my particular favourites, a story I tell myself made up of sights I’ve seen while hanging about, for I have a notion of how I might one day come upon my own mother and how it will be.)