The Newgate Jig (9 page)

He
was peering from his doorway as we hurried down Fish-lane, a curious sight in
his tasselled smoking hat, embroidered with fabulous birds, and a knitted
comforter complementing his fir-green working coat and fingerless gloves. And,
of course, there was no creeping past for, as if he had been expecting us, he
nodded us into the shop, bolted the door and drew the blind.

'Now then, Bob. Nero. Brutus.'

Now
then indeed, I thought, stepping around the piles of books and papers, the
teetering towers of three-deckers and two-parters, and charting a course
through the shop in Pilgrim's wake. He had already disappeared into the gloom,
where the flame of a solitary candle was the only beacon for us lone sailors.
Shelves and stacks lined the walls, tables were buried under volumes which had
not been opened let alone read for many a year, and in the darkest depths of
the shop, a veritable cavern of books which, had they been piled by Sir
Christopher Wren himself and cemented by his own dust and cobwebs, could not
have been better built. Pilgrim's bower was a masterly example of books laid in
good English bond, and it fitted around him like his own skin. He was already
in there pouring tea into two cups (I was glad I couldn't see their condition,
for my friend was a stranger to the scullery) and nodded me to a fifteen-volume
history of the Macedonians (arranged vertically), on which I perched.

Pilgrim's
oddness didn't present itself simply in his curious shop and odd appearance.
The towers of books and mouldering pamphlets, those oddments of velvet and chinoiserie,
the hats, the regal Benjamins and sub-species britches, were only for display.
When he spoke, you would realize that there was more to Pilgrim than just an
eccentric dresser. You would realize that he was, in fact, two men in one body,
and that these two men were sometimes opposites. One mild, the other wild. One
reasonable, the other argumentative. One careful in speech, the other given to
cursing. Today they lived quite amicably together, taking it in turns to speak,
but tomorrow they might erupt and disagree.

'Now
then, Bob,' said gentle Pilgrim, 'here is a thing. Them creatures next door.'

('Ah, they. Who are they?' said wild Pilgrim.)

'Bob Chapman knows them.'

('Does he? How is that?')

'Same
trade. They are Irish, Scotchmen, a Frenchy, a Polick. Men and women. Young
'uns too.'

('How should Bob Chapman know them?')

'Strollers,
you fool. Have you no brain? Mummers. Theatricals. Grubbers.'

('Grubbers?')

'The lowest. Gaff-actors.'

('Ah,
there you have it, Bob Chapman. A nest of gaff-actors and all the
kindling-thieves this side of Newgate pouring in of an evening.')

We
drank our tea in silence, and I wondered what was coming and how I might make
an exit, for I was thinking of the time and being at my place when Pikemartin
opened the Aquarium doors. And, for once, I was not thinking of the Nasty Man
or the boy or any of that business.

The
candle perched on a book in Pilgrim's bower was only a tuppenny one and
threatened all the time to plunge us into darkness or burn through and keel
over, when we would all go up like a fireship, part and parcel. I shifted on
the history of Macedonia and my two boys, squeezed as tight as three shillings
in a Jew's purse underneath a table of stacked music, started to peel
themselves out. Pilgrim cocked an ear.

'Hear that?'

('I do. What of it?')

'Banging day and night. They are setting up.'

('Call in the peelers.')

'Not on your life! What? And have my throat cut in
my bed and all my assets, inherited with obligations, cleared out and sold on a
barrow? What kind of a fool do you take me for?'

('Bob Chapman is silent on the matter.')

I
was brushing the cobwebs from my good trousers and trying not to cause an
avalanche of books. But perhaps I didn't need to be so careful, for the
thunderous activity from the empty shop next door was already creating little
tremors in the mountainous regions of print and paper, and ominous clouds of
dust were gathering in the dark and lofty canopy above.

'Bob
Chapman has his own business to attend to,' Pilgrim replied to himself and
followed us to the door, and then onto the street, where he cast a suspicious
eye at his neighbours.

There
was activity next door, that could not be denied, and a deal of it, though
whether it was demolition or destruction was difficult to say. Half the
boarding of the front windows had been taken down to let in light, and I could
see the black hump of the old shop counter, half-buried under rubble and
timber. One of the toilers, a burly individual with a broken conk and a hostile
disposition, appeared.

'Clear
off!' growled he, and he brandished half a brick and a lump hammer to add
weight to his point. 'Private property. No, 'awkers, beggars or religious!'

'We
are none of those,' piped up Pilgrim, 'but occupy next door.'

('Until we are forced otherwise.')

'Clear
off back there then,' he growled, closing one eye, 'and mind
that
business, not this one.'

'You see the problem, Bob Chapman?'

Well,
I saw boxes and barrels among the bricks and rubble, and a pack of dogs,
muzzled and tied up, with red eyes and scarred noses, and some shifty-looking
coves, trying not to be seen out the back. I saw also that it was time for us
to depart, since the church bell was chiming and, more to the point, the
Growler was still meditating upon whether to clock us with the hammer or the
half brick.

'Come
back and see whether we are still in our skins, Bob Chapman, or if the savages
have turned us into purses!'

('He
will. He is a good friend, is Bob Chapman. And his handsome associates.')

The
Growler looked at me, and then at my boys, and curled a lip to go with the one
eye.

'Yourn? Handsome! Do they scrap?'

We
hurried away with the laughter of the Growler and the assurances of Pilgrim
rattling our ears, and with some relief reached the quiet and stillness of the
Aquarium.

It
was not time yet to fling open its great doors. The hallway was dark; noises
from upstairs signalled that Alf Pikemartin was opening up the shutters in the
salons and sweeping the floors, so we hiked up the grand staircase, past the
execution chamber and the display of hangman Calcraft's rope and bag, and the
Happy Family - cats, mice and birds, all stuffed and nicely mounted in their
box - to the second floor. My canine friends, of course, required no bidding,
and went ahead of me to their work. Each morning we follow the same order,
Brutus and Nero going up to our salon - a name which dignifies what is really a
small space, partitioned off, in a much larger room - where Brutus will open
the large door (one of his tricks) and Nero will lead the way down the central
aisle to our platform, which has been closed off by a screen for the evening
and which I remove to the back wall every morning. We retire behind this screen
between exhibitions and keep our few 'properties' there, and a little stove. In
front of it there is a small platform, approached by four steps, which sets us
up just high enough for the spectators at the back to see our show. It is a
simple affair.

After
our early start and the business with Pilgrim, I was looking forward to
dropping anchor behind the screen and enjoying a hot, sweet brew (in a clean
cup) and perhaps forty winks, but - here was a strange thing - climbing the
last few steps, I found Brutus and Nero not disappeared into our salon, but
waiting on the landing, where the cabinet of waxen eyes was displayed. (Every
morning I wished that Mr Abrahams would put them somewhere else, for it was
unnerving to have them staring out so naturally from that dim corner.) The
door to our salon was open, and Nero was growling his low warning grumble,
while Brutus stood quite still, sniffing the air. It was quiet on the landing,
only a fly buzzed in the dusty window, but it was as clear to me as it was to
my dogs that something was amiss. If it had been dark or getting towards
evening, I would have fetched Pikemartin and together we would have
investigated. (Once before, we were obliged to seek out an intruder, an escaped
convict, who we discovered hiding behind a sarcophagus and who, in his struggle
to retain his liberty, gave Pikemartin a sore head with a blow from an ancient
cooking pot.) But it was scarcely eleven o'clock in the morning, the public
were not admitted, and I could not believe that footpads and desperate
criminals were abroad so early. So I followed Nero into the large room, with
Brutus at my side and an assegai in my hand for protection.

There
was light enough to see the cases of insects, the display of shields and swords
from a Welsh castle, the grand termites' nest and part of the trunk of a giant
tree discovered in the New World and brought back by a relative of Mr Darwin. I
touched Nero's back and he went about his business, and with his nose to the
floor, sniffed and snuffled in every corner and then stopped and looked back at
me with a puzzled expression. It was as if he was saying, 'I don't understand,
Bob. I could have sworn someone was here.'

Certainly
there was no one about, for we peered behind every cabinet and inspected every
jar and pot, and threw open the shutters wide, the better to inspect the darker
corners. But no, there were only spiders and dust and that feeling, hanging in
the air, that someone
had
been there who was not
long gone. If we had straightaway gone out onto the back landing, I think we
might have spied someone on the stairs, and certainly we heard footsteps
upstairs in the menagerie, but there are always strange noises coming from up
there.

I
have my own ways and like everything ship-shape. I like order and to be able to
lay my hands upon something, knowing exactly where it is, so my refuge behind
the screen, though it is small, is also very neat. I have hooks for my coat and
costume; a shelf for my tea box and pot, and for my boys' water dish and their
biscuit-tin; another shelf of books, for I enjoy reading in the brief lulls
between performances; and there are boxes containing properties for our show.
One for balls, one for eggs (property eggs, not real), another for ribbons and
ropes, and one for the letters that Brutus takes out and opens. All carefully
arranged, with their lids tight on. Except that this morning, they weren't, and
I didn't discover it until I was almost ready to begin the first exhibition. I
went to the box which contained the balls and discovered that someone had been
here, had opened the lid and not replaced it properly. The boxes were
disordered also. Those which contained the lantern and the cannon ball were
always at the bottom, but now were on the top. My little tea box had been
emptied and roughly refilled, for there were tea leaves strewn upon the table,
and even the rug on which Brutus and Nero lie had been taken up and shaken
about. Someone had been there and gone quickly through my few belongings,
looking for - well, I could not imagine - and made a hasty attempt to disguise
it. I was more upset than I could explain, and though my few things were easily
restored and there was nothing of any value among them, I felt out of sorts and
hardly inclined to continue.

But a sizeable crowd had assembled, and were even
now gathered around the platform and chattering, as they do, about the
'remarkable dogs' and their cleverness and bravery. So I took off my outdoor
coat and put on my costume and set about my business. My dogs, knowing
their
business, were already in position, wagging their tails to show their keenness,
and so we gave the story of
Mungo Park,
in which Nero assists
in the liberation of the African (myself) by slipping off my chains and his
own, and unbarring a wicket gate (stage scenery, of course, but still accurate
in every respect). Then a comfortable-looking woman on the front row piped up,
'Give us the one about the dog with the poorly foot!' and there were approving
murmurs of' Yes, that's a clever trick!' And then a clerkish gent put his hand
into his pocket crying, 'A shilling for you, Chapman, if your dog howls on cue
and with feeling!' How could I refuse! A shilling towards the cart and horse
and balmy days in Strong's Gardens! So we gave, with all our skill,
The Lion of the Desert,
in which Brutus imitated the story of
Androcles and the lion, and limped as though he had a
thorn in his foot, howled as though it pained him, and then growled when he
first offered it to me to examine. Then he licked my hand in gratitude as I
removed the thorn, which appeared to have been deep in his paw but which was,
in fact, secreted in my hand. Our sponsor was very pleased, and roared, 'Bravo,
Brutus! Bravo, Chapman!' and tossed a shilling into the plate. Finally, we gave
a selection of tricks: Brutus opened a box and removed a letter, carried a
lantern, with a candle in it, and placed it on the ground without tipping it
over or causing the light to go out. Then Nero took an egg out of a pail of
water without breaking it, rang a bell by pulling on a rope, and both dogs
nosed a light cannon ball across the platform and stopped it with their paws.