Sweet Thames Page 4
I unfurled the umbrella. We were by no means the only ones to have come thus prepared, and all across the audience and orchestra umbrellas began springing up like mushrooms; above cellists, drummers and tuba players. A servant of some kind even held one above the head of Monsieur Toulon – working feverishly with his baton – though his pate was already glistening wet.
The dwarves, however, enjoyed no such protection. Indeed, they were struggling badly. The rain seemed to have had a pronounced effect upon the surface of their little stage, causing it to grow slippery, and obliging Pompey’s guards – engaged in a dance of celebration behind the happy couple, and evidently fearful of losing their balance – to adopt a delicate mincing step, most unmilitary in character. Despite these precautions it was not long before one of their number wobbled alarmingly, struggled to keep balance, only to keel clean over upon his back, tiny legs kicking high into the air.
How could one not be affected by such a sight. A wave of laughter spread across the audience – quite a sound it was too, springing from so many thousands of throats – while I myself was quite doubled over in my seat.
‘My goodness,’ I began. ‘I don’t believe…’
That I did not finish was because my attention was again captured by the goings-on upon the stage.
The girl dwarf had refused to be intimidated by the wet, leaping about with vigour as she mimed her past sufferings, and it was hardly surprising that she soon paid the price for such recklessness. Her misfortune was that she slid, of all directions, towards Pompey. Seeking, in her extremity, any object with which she might steady herself, her hands found the great Roman’s head, which she grasped by the ears and nose. Alas her efforts proved of no avail, and in a moment she had toppled over, toga flying, and causing a sound resembling a loud slap. He fell too, entangled in his giant sword, which broke asunder with surprising ease.
The audience roared – I with them – and I am sure it was this reaction that was the spark of the incident that followed. The Pompey dwarf – perhaps influenced by the great character he was representing – evidently felt he had suffered indignities beyond all toleration. Clambering to his feet, he turned to the girl dwarf and, without warning, struck her a nasty blow about the face with his hand, then – pushing her to the ground with a shove – jumped astride her that he might deliver yet further punishment.
The laughter of the watchers quite died away. A strangely shocking sight it was, too; this tiny creature inflicting such cruelty to another even smaller and more defenceless than himself. Still the reaction of my wife took me by surprise.
I suddenly realized she was no longer in her seat beside me, but was standing. Her face was pale, her eyes seemingly oblivious to myself and the others sat watching her. ‘Stop it.’ She uttered the words in a murmur. Then repeated them, shouting out, ‘Stop it.’
I had not before detected in her any tendency towards such rash display in a public place. Indeed, she usually appeared to seek only anonymity in a crowd. ‘Isobella, whatever…’ I began. Before I could finish, however, Pompey had produced his own answer to her call, by striking the girl dwarf for a third time. The effect was immediate. All at once Isobella seemed to bolt, like a scared horse in a confined space, trying to force a passage along the row of seats.
‘Isobella, what are you doing?’ I called out. ‘Come back.’
She seemed not to so much as hear, did not pause, nor even look back. Indeed, she quickened her efforts. Alarmed, I began to follow.
Following, however, proved no easy matter; the gap between the rows of seats was not a great one and I found myself stepping and stumbling upon all manner of umbrellas, legs and feet. The owners, naturally, were far from pleased.
‘What d’you think you’re playing at, you bloody fool?’
‘What’s your hurry? Stolen something?’
The timing of our exit could hardly have been worse. Pompey was swiftly overpowered by his own guards, and Monsieur Toulon – determined to have the incident finished with as promptly as possible – gestured, with angry waves of his baton, for the dwarf troupe to depart. The stage cleared, he turned to the audience and, endeavouring to recover his composure, made his final announcement.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we reach the end of this evening’s entertainment. I would like to proudly present my own arrangement of God Save the Queen.’
The shame of it. Even now the memory is painful. The whole great ocean of audience rose respectfully to its feet, filling the air with the slow rustling of tens of thousands of frock-coats and fine ladies’ dresses. Struggling past the huge family of an angrily moustachioed fellow, I called out to my wife. ‘Isobella, you must stop. We cannot possibly…’
She paid no heed. Stumbling after her, I saw, from the corner of my eye, Monsieur Toulon raise both arms into the air. At once the whole double orchestra, four military bands and twenty Roman trumpets began to play, slowly dignified. The eighteen pounder cannons had been placed on the lawn to either side of the orchestra – long lines of them, pointed, so as not to cause alarm, away from the audience – and were manned by grinning royal artillerymen. The discharges were perfect of time, awesome of majesty, and caused a certain bluntness of hearing, as if one’s ears had been dipped in treacle.
We were treated to the most venomous of glares.
‘Frenchies, are you?’
‘I suppose you take some pleasure in insulting our Queen.’ This last was from an old gentleman with a monocle, who threatened me with his stick. Nor could I have blamed him had he struck.
The cab was not a new member of its class and made its way towards Westminster with fearful judderings and creakings of old woodwork. Outside it was growing dark, streets all but vanished into dusk, until, abruptly, a row of lamps already lit would pass into view, revealing in sharp detail the clothes and expressions of Londoners scampering beneath their glare.
‘I’m sorry.’ Isobella was the first to break the painful silence. ‘I just couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t remain an instant longer. To see him…’ She turned her head away. ‘Do what he did.’
‘But why?’ I was still full with the shame of our flight. ‘One instant you were happy, laughing, and then…’ I regarded her, but she looked away. ‘It was a distressing scene to watch, certainly, but that was no reason to run like that. And at such a moment? Did you not hear me calling you to stop?’
She replied only by quietly crying to herself.
Part of me wanted to preserve my own cold anger – and the rare power it gave – but part was already softening at the sight of her sobbing. ‘I just don’t understand. It’s so unlike you.’
‘It was the noise,’ she murmured, without great conviction. ‘And there was something…’
The cab turned a corner sharply, wheels rattling noisily upon the cobblestones, causing us both to be thrown to one side. I looked her in the eye until she met my glance. ‘Sometimes I feel I hardly know you.’
She looked down.
‘That there is another side to you. Something secret.’
‘Joshua, why do you…’ Before she could finish, however, she interrupted herself with a sneeze, a light sprinkling of the effect landing upon my frock coat. Shaking her head in the manner of one whose misfortune can hardly extend further, she took the handkerchief from my pocket and began to scrub. ‘I’m sorry Joshua. As if I had not already done enough.’ Finished, she replaced my handkerchief in the pocket, her head bowed.
The ludicrousness of the moment robbed it of its drama. ‘Perhaps you’re tired.’ Even as I spoke I was annoyed by the note of concern in my words. Where was the cool distance I had wanted to preserve? Already I had half surrendered to her.
‘I suppose I am.’ She looked up, eyes wider, appealing. ‘After preparing the luncheon party. You must be far more so, working so very hard.’
‘I dare say.’ So tiredness was to be the alibi. Though it was hardly a convincing explanation for the incident, it seemed too late now to try to revert to sternness.
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‘Joshua, can you forgive me?’
I answered her look with a nod, and placed my arm about her shoulders; she seemed comforted. Feeling her faint sobbing reverberating through her slim body, the last of my resentment drained away. ‘You must rest,’ I told her. ‘You’re probably also hungry – it’s late – and should have something to eat when we get home. It will do much to restore your spirits.’
‘I will,’ she agreed, with enthusiasm. ‘And you must eat too.’ I peered through the window at the London darkness beyond. Turning back, I saw she was glancing at me, close, with a look I had not seen for a long time.
‘You’re good to me, Joshua. Really you are.’ She brushed the back of my hand with her fingers, only for an instant. ‘You mustn’t think I don’t realize how good you are. I do.’
I drank in that look. My arm was still about her shoulders, and she rested her head against me.
Perhaps the day might prove to be a kind one after all. Better than kind; a landmark.
By the time we walked into the house, however, the moment was already slipping away.
It began with her frown, as she looked about the hallway. ‘I’m so tired. And Miss Symes has gone to Highbury.’ She sighed. ‘Joshua, I don’t think I’ll have anything to eat after all.’
A mere question of food, but it seemed something much greater was at stake. ‘I’ll find something for you.’
Another frown. ‘I don’t feel hungry.’
‘Just have a little. We can eat together.’
‘No, really, I must go to bed.’ Her voice was changed now; more matter-of-fact in its tone, growing annoyed at my persistence.
After all that had gone before… I could feel anger growing in me. I would not have it end thus. ‘I’ll light your way.’ I took the lamp.
Now the look was back upon her face; tautly silent. ‘There’s no need.’
‘I want to.’ I strode from the room, leaving her no option but to follow or be left in darkness. Up to the bedroom; Isobella, I could hear, just a few steps behind. Stepping inside – into her territory, smelling the smells of her clothes and perfumes – my sense of righteousness flagged slightly. As I hesitated, she slipped neatly past, to station herself by the mantelpiece; an outflanking movement that left me on the door-wards side of her.
‘Thank you for seeing me up.’ While I had grown less certain, she seemed now more sure of herself. ‘You’ll need a candle.’
I placed the lamp on the table behind me, where she could not reach it. ‘Isobella, don’t be like this, please. In the cab, the way you looked at me…’
She seemed not to have heard, but glanced around the room, seeking something. ‘Where did I put those matches?’
I stepped forward and took her hand, causing her to turn, her body stiff now, on her face something like a smile, but wrong. I looked her close in the eyes. ‘Won’t you let me embrace you? Only that. You cannot be so hard.’
‘I need time.’
‘I know, but…’ Her hand in mine was as a kind of bridgehead, and from it I began drawing closer to her. ‘Can’t you try to grow accustomed to these things?’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘You don’t sound sure.’ I progressed again from her hand, hearing her breathing, so quick. ‘I only want you to be happy.’ I gently touched her waist.
She pulled suddenly back, wrenching free the hostage hand. ‘Don’t force me to…’ Her voice was quite altered, containing no nervousness, no apology, only undefined threat. She stared at me, cold now. ‘Just don’t force me to…’
All at once I hated her, for the fear she could conjure up in me, of things that could be lost. ‘Mr and Mrs Jeavons. A fine couple we make.’
‘I just need time.’
‘Will you never stop saying that?’
Her eyes seemed to grow glazed, as if she did not see me.
I wanted to hurt her, cause in her the same suffering I felt myself. Above all to escape the role I had slipped into, of the forever appealing suitor. ‘As if I care. As if it troubles me in the slightest.’ I half turned. ‘I have more important things to think about than you.’
Striding from the room on to the landing, her door swinging shut behind me, I realized my foolishness at having left the light behind me. Unwilling to go back, I fumbled my way forward in the darkness, arms outstretched, in search of my study door.
In the street below carts and omnibuses rattled through the night, and scatterings of drunks sang away the last few hours of their holiday. I lay on the couch, unable to sleep. Already my anger had quite gone.
From her room I could hear her softly crying.
She was so young, after all. Barely nineteen, hardly emerged from childhood. Was it not her innocent dignity that I so admired? How could I have behaved so, clutching at her, no better than some sailor fresh off ship claiming his harlot. Her disposition was not ready for such base urges, just as she herself had said. All that was needed was patience.
Unless…
The thought was too awful to entertain, even for a moment.
Chapter Two
THE CHOLERA NEAR LIVERPOOL
An outbreak of Asiatic Cholera among labourers working on the Runfield railway tunnel near Liverpool has claimed three lives, while fourteen more have lately been taken sick with the malady. One of the dead…
Close by Liverpool. I rested the copy of The Times on the table beside my cup of breakfast tea, stilled for some moments.
There had been such hopes we might be spared. The disease, after its years’ long journeyings, from India across the great land mass of the Russian Empire, to Scandinavia and the German Principalities, had finally reached Britain the previous September, first striking the port of Sunderland. London remained for weeks in a state of fearsome expectation. Only gradually did it become evident the malady was, for the moment at least, confining itself to Scotland. Then, with the arrival of colder weather – Asiatic Cholera being much wedded to the summer months – a great relief spread across the metropolis; a wonderful sense of disaster escaped, and services of thanks-giving were held in several churches.
We were pleased too soon. In January, as if as a warning, a sudden and unseasonal outbreak occurred among the pauper orphans of Tooting – who, to public outcry, were found to have been lodged close to drains in a dreadful state of disrepair, exuding noxious odours – the attack carrying away several hundred of their tiny souls but, to the momentary gratitude of all, spreading no further. Then the epidemic in Scotland, which had appeared all but ended, resumed with ferocity. More lately, beyond the Channel, Paris had been struck. And now the vicinity of Liverpool. Most worrying, however, was the timing of the attack; it was now late April, with the whole summer ahead.
I glanced up through the window. Today at least was cool and rainy. It was hard exactly to discern the miasma against the dark clouds above, but I was sure I glimpsed its brown swirlings. Did it already contain, I wondered, a kernel of Cholera poison, fed from evil neglect below, now spreading, readying itself.
One of the dead, Hugh McAllister, who hailed from Glasgow and was in his fiftieth year, succumbed only six hours after he first grew sick. In the belief that a change of atmosphere may prove vitally invigorating to the spirits, the labourers have now been moved…
Only six hours. It was the speed of the affliction, combined with its deadliness – scarcely half those struck seemed to survive – that made the disease so feared.
I had been a child when London had last been visited by the Cholera, then an evil previously unseen in Europe. In the event my home district of Clerkenwell was little affected, at least directly. Fear of the disease, however, came to call on every dwelling in the neighbourhood; I saw it clear enough on the faces of customers in my father’s shop, heard it in their over-earnest chatter – as if all were combined in some already losing conspiracy, seeking futile reassurance from one another – as they discussed the suddenness of attacks, the bewildering similarity of symptoms to murderous poisoning.
One could only hope that London might somehow be spared. It was not impossible; during the last epidemic the city of Birmingham had remained all but unscathed. Perhaps strong winds would blow the miasma from our midst.
I swallowed the last of my tea with a gulp, then plucked up my hat and coat; potential horror was, after all, no excuse for lateness. Stepping into the hallway I found my way blocked by Isobella, standing in the open front doorway, peering out at the street. She turned without quite glancing me in the face, still awkward after our words of the night before. ‘Little dog’s very excited. He seems to have found something. I’d just let him out for his – you know – and…’
She made room that I might see. There was no mistaking where the vile creature had chosen to dig. It was as if he were acting deliberately. ‘He shouldn’t do such a thing. He’ll bring dirt into the house.’ I gave the creature a firm tap with my boot. There was no stopping him, however; he merely rolled his eyes defiantly and continued his work. In a moment he had plucked the knife from the mud and was holding it proudly in his teeth.
‘My poor letter-opener.’ She took it from him. Some wagon must have over-ridden the thing, as its blade was buckled into a blunted right angle. ‘How could it have got there?’ She lowered herself more to the level of the animal. ‘Peridog, would you do such a thing to your mistress?’