The Light of London & A Pre-Engaged Long Purse

When the last leaf has fallen from the very last tree, when the very last Nightingale has flown the nest in Grid-Iron Square, when the endless hangings at Newgate prison have been suspended (due to it’s hangman having contracted pneumonia, of the extremely debillitating sort). T’is then that men cease to venture out, choosing instead  to sit close by their loved ones, their faces and hands warmed by a well-lit fire. So Emile Grid-Iron would have believed to be the case, were it not for the abundant and profuse ‘invitations to treat’ he had turned violently away from the doors of the Nunnery, on this, the eve of a brand new year.

“There’s ne’er a thought for hearth nor home in the bosoms of some men” opined Madame Le Breton as she tallied up the takings from the Nag’s Head. Business was down and had been for the last four months, “Avin second thoughts maman?” Madame Le Breton glanced shrewdly at her son’s face, it was smooth and pale as alabaster, like his father’s, with that high forehead denoting either expansive intellect or low cunning (depending on which side of the sheets you came from). His eyes crinkled shut as he puffed hard on his cigar, he was hiding something, something he had yet to share with her.

” Mais oui! But I am a daughter of zee revolution! I will starve before I let zee aristo-crazee ave de las word!” she locked the night’s takings away in the Acme safe, right alongside the copper coloured keys to the Nunnery chastity-belts.

“I’ll be going out shortly” Emile growled, tossing the remains of his cigar into a brass spitoon, “This striking business ‘as cost us dear Ma, but for all that we’ll not starve” he pulled out his fob watch and checked the hour, “In fact, we may finish well ahead a’fore this business is done” Madame Le Breton poured herself a stiff brandy and pulled out her knitting. She thanked her stars daily for the man that her little Emile had become, Madre de Dieu! If he had taken after his father what then?!

“Be careful son” Emile smiled and it was like a ray of sunshine piercing the dark to his maman, “Always am Ma” and with that he was gone. Madame Le Breton uttered a quick rakat before swiftly knocking back her brandy, Francis the Page Boy’s habits could be very catching…

“Free beer and carrots,
Free beer and carrots,
That’s the stuff for your “Derby Kell”,
Makes you fit and keeps you well.
Don’t live like vegetarians
On food they give to parrots,
Blow out your kite, from Morn ’til night,
On free beer and carrots.”

Wendy Woodbine belted out the tune with a relish none would have believed possible had they observed her in harness at the Bryant & May match factory. She tossed her glossy brown curls first one way then the other, twirling her little red umbrella and swishing her crimson and gold coloured skirts in time to the music.

“Without a doubt the gel has a prodigious talent” murmured Arty McGoot as he perused the beaming faces of the audience, “Quite so, how goes it tonight?” asked Madame Guacamoley noting with smug satisfaction the dearth of upperclass faces, and the profusion of working class ones at the bar. “We does a roarin trade ma’am! A roarin trade! Why we does more bizniss nah than a’fore the mill workers’ strike!” Arty’s eyes twinkled with malicious pleasure,”T’is a pity, I did miss the dissipated furniture breaking ways of the upper classes so! T’is rumoured that the eminent politician has taken to ‘is bed?” Madame Guacamoley stifled a smile, “Has he?” it was common knowledge all over St Martins that the man in question had sought ‘shelter’ at Canton Katey’s and come away with more than he’d bargained for; once that scandal broke amongst the upper classes who could say what concessions might be made?

Meanwhile, there were other difficulties that needed solving. Tapping her shoulder briskly and jerking his head backwards Arty McGoot uttered a low whistle,”Oy-Oy!” he murmured, Madame Guacamoley’s gaze followed his own to where three gentlemen and two ladys stood waiting,almost in the shadows,  “Have them sent up to my rooms”

“I opes you knows wot you’re doing my darling?” Arty inquired a little fearfully,Madame Guacamoley laughed, such laughter as tinkled merrily like church bells and could lighten the heaviest heart,”Arty” said she,”I always knows wot’s rite and I always does it. Wot of heart an’ social consciense Arty? For want of a fair wage and a full belly there’s folk ‘as, ‘as been slung in the workhouse, hung, and been transported to Botany Bay and who is to answer for that? An answer me this, ‘ow did a cold blooded Gombeen such as e, a man unelected by those as lights ‘is street lamps, an’ puts food on his plate, get to ‘ave all of this power? We as no choice in this matter Arty my love, none. If e’s found alive in a carpet bag people will hang and if e’s found dead in a carpet bag people will hang” Arty chewed on his cigar,”This Francis, is ‘e to be trusted?” Madame Guacamoley nodded,”He carries a steel calling card my luv” Arty raises an eyebrow at this, a Pinkerton no less! “Does wot you ‘as to my luv! Does wot you ‘as to!” Madame Guacamoley’s large grey eyes brimmed with grateful tears, “Thank you my love” .

Wendy Woodbine’s performance draws to a close and with a swirl of her scarlet tinged petticoats and a flirtacious flash of her azure blue eyes she exits the stage to the roaring applause of the audience. “Look sharp my gel!” exclaims Arty a-twirling his moustachioes “The next act is coming on!” Wendy looks crestfallen at the lack of compliment on her performance but Arty smiles gently at the child, pats her softly on the shoulder and tells her “You sparkled like a dymond! My girl! A weritable dymond! Dommy wud ave bin proud!” at that Wendy Woodbine lights up, skipping off to her next costume change for the finale performance.

Madame Guacamoley’s rooms lie just above the main music hall and it is here, in the parlour, that she welcomes her guests,”Well well!” says she a look of surprised pleasure upon her face,”Well! If it isn’t Maggie Sitwell!, come here my petal! La! How you’ve grown! You are quite the lady now!” blushing with pleasure Maggie steps forward taking the be-ringed fingers of Madame Guacamoley lightly in hers, “T’was ever a pleasure to be taught by you ma’am, t’is a pity you ave given up teaching” Madame Guacamoley patted her small hand, “T’is ever the way child! There’s little room for one’s own inclinations in a revolution!” she turned to Lady Grid-Iron, her eyes glittering,”Kitty Warne! Ever a pleasure ma’am!”

Kitty smiled grimly, “Once you’ve heard our proposition you may think differently, Mr Geraghty?” Madame Guacamoley held up a palm, she shook her head,” There’s no need for you to speak ma’am, we knows, the whole movement knows, the mill workers are up for it, the chimney sweeps will give you all the help you need, as will the East India Company porters. The question is, how best to transport such a load, without falling foul of badgers, bludgers or the police, where’s it bound?” Seamus Geraghty looked troubled,”We’re not sure as yet, the good father is still a-praying on it, he says he’ll have an answer by the morrow” Francis rolled his eyes at this but said nothing “Ah well!To the drawing board ladies and gents!” she gestured to her guests who gathered round the parlour table upon which had been laid a very intricate and precisely crafted map,”T’is as you asked Kitty, drawn up by the hand of Isambard Kingdom Brunel no less! A map of Paddington train station!”

 

On The Irregular Indulgence Of A Natural Impulse

‘It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.’

– Edgar Allan Poe

It is well past midnight when the eminent politician’s Brougham pulls up outside Ah Tack’s Lodging House in Pennyfields. The mood of his driver is baleful for has he not spent the greater part of two hours travelling through every iniquitous den and dive in London, being made to wait in the cold (and the pouring wet), outside many a strike-ridden nunnery? There is hardly a dive in London where his Lordship has not tried to threaten or admonish proprietor after proprietor. And now, here they are at last, forced to canter down into ChinaTown to Ah Tacks, where, much to the suspicion of his Lordship’s driver, the eminent politician is welcomed with open arms by none other than the voluptuous Canton Katey ‘erself. “Oh lor! My Lordship! After all these years! Well I nevah! What brings you ere?! You ave not deigned to sample our wares in some time!” she winks lewdly, chuckles raucously and at last his lordship starts to relax. Sliding a plump arm around his waist she whisks him into the utter darkness of her rookery.

Lit just well enough for its denizens to find their way deeper still into its nooks and crannies but not lit too well. Led by the plump well-rounded hand around his waist, the eminent politician travels deeper still into the lodging house that Canton Katey calls home. It is like fumbling one’s way through a dense London fog, for the air is suffused with the heady aroma of opium, thick and dense and intoxicating. All around him he can hear the pain filled groans and unearthly sighs of men awash on the ethereal shores of opium addiction. The pragmatic, principled side of his nature is horrified. What in God’s name is he doing here? But his fleshly and more carnal impulses prevail, he has no wife, he has no fiancee and there are certain entirely natural impulses which must be sated if he is to remain sane and by God! Sate them he will!

“Off with that hat my Lord! Make yourself comfy! Ah Tak! Attend ‘is Lordship! Ang Sing? where’s Ang Sing? There’s a gent ‘ere needs soothing and no mistake! Fetch Ang Sing!”

Ang Sing, the command is uttered by one mouth, and then another, until the room his ‘lordship’ is in resounds with that name wondrously spoken and until at length, Ang Sing appears. His Lordship is uncloaked, his cravat loosened, he reclines easefully on Canton Katey’s chaise longue and Ang Sing, a prodigious beauty of not inconsiderable girth, materialises and lies beside him. Gone is his irritation at being nay-sayed by a professed leader of the lower classes, one whom he has consigned to Newgate (along with all those intellectually challenged fools who followed his lead). His irritations soothed, his natural impulses sated, he slides into slumber like one drugged.

“Poor Sot! A fine time he’s had of it!”

“Who? Him?” the eminent politician’s driver jerks his thumb towards his Lordship and raises an enquiring eyebrow, Canton Katey displaying genuine affection for  a gent? Well he never! Smirking, Katey shook her head, “The union rep ye dolt! Him as called the mill workers strike! What I should like to know is why ‘im as has the best interests of all at heart should be destined for Botany Bay!” Glaring down at the supine figure of the eminent politician she let rip a mirthless chuckle, “As for him? Such as he should know by now that when we calls a strike we means it!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would!”

“You didn’t!”

“Oh calm down won’t you! It’ll be at least a month before the symptoms show, plenty of time for you to find other employment”

“He’ll do for you!”

Now Katey cocks her head at an angle and stares at him hard and direct, the smoke has cleared, all the dreamers have gone and a cold wind whistles through a broken, rag stuffed window pane. “He’ll do for me will e? What? Like e’s done for the sons and daughters of the ‘fallen women’ he’s so fond of ‘avin? Get im out of ere!”

And so, dear reader, the driver departs with an eminent politician in tow and a dark foreboding in his heart. Driving back through the near empty streets of London in the glistening, glittering dark, hunched low in his seat he reflects grimly on this night’s doings. All unionised girls were clean, it therefore followed that the girl Katey had given to his Lordship wasn’t unionised and therefore hadn’t yet been given a clean bill of health.His Lordship had always been a man of probity where his natural impulses were concerned, he’d always made sure he’d indulged them with the very best. How could he have fallen so low.

“Terrible! Simply terrible!” the driver utters these words aloud and in the same breath curses his luck. Whipping his horses into a dreadful frenzy so that the Brougham quickly gathers pace he departs the hinterlands of ChinaTown and heads back to the plush surroundings of the eminent politician’s residence in Sloane Square.