Anne Kellaway stiffened, then pulled at her daughter’s arm. “Come along, Maisie!”
Maisie shook free and stood still in the middle of the road to join in singing the last verse in a high, clear voice:
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life’s crew together,
The word to pipe all hands:
Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom’s life has doffed,
For though his body’s under hatches,
His soul has gone aloft,
His soul has gone aloft.
She and the pipe player finished together, and there was a small silence. Anne Kellaway stifled a sob. Tommy and Maisie used to sing the song together in beautiful harmony.
“It be all right, Ma,” Maisie said. “We has to sing it still, for we don’t want to forget Tommy, do we?” She bobbed at the man and said, “Thank’ee, sir. Ar’ernoon.”
3
On the approach to the bridge, the road curved briefly away from the river and passed the amphitheatre, with its grand pillared entrance where they had first met Philip Astley, and posters plastered on the wall in front announcing SHOW TONIGHT! It was only early afternoon and yet people were already milling about. Jem felt in his pocket and curled his hand around the tickets Philip Astley had sent them.
Anne Kellaway had a handbill thrust at her by a man running past calling, “Only a shilling and a pence to stand, two shillings tuppence a seat!” She stared at the crumpled paper, unsure what she was meant to do with it. Smoothing it against her skirt, she turned it over and over before at last starting to make out the words. When she recognized “Astley,” she understood what it was and thrust it at her husband. “Oh, take it, take it, I don’t want it!”
Thomas Kellaway fumbled and dropped the paper. It was Maisie who picked it up and brushed the dirt from it, then tucked it into the stays beneath her dress. “The show tonight,” she murmured to Jem.
He shrugged.
“Do you have those tickets on you, Jem?” Anne Kellaway demanded.
Jem jerked his hand from his pocket as if he’d been caught touching himself. “Yes, Ma.”
“I want you to take them to the theatre now and hand them back.”
“Who’s handin’ back tickets?” called a voice behind them. Jem looked around. Maggie Butterfield jumped out from the wall she’d been idling behind. “What kind of tickets? You don’t want to be handin’ back any tickets. If they’re good you can sell ’em for more’n you bought ’em for. Show ’em to me.”
“How long have you been following us?” Jem asked, pleased to see her but wondering too if she had witnessed anything he’d rather she not see.
Maggie grinned and whistled a bit of “Tom Bowling.” “Not half a bad voice you’ve got, Miss Piddle,” she said to Maisie, who smiled and blushed.
“Away you go, girl,” Anne Kellaway ordered. “We don’t want you hanging about.” She glanced around to see if Maggie was on her own. They’d had a visit a few days before from Maggie’s father, trying to sell Thomas Kellaway a load of ebony that he quickly spotted was oak painted black—though he was kind enough to suggest that Dick Butterfield had been hard done by someone else rather than trying to cheat the Kellaways. Anne Kellaway had disliked Dick Butterfield even more than his daughter.
Maggie ignored Jem’s mother. “Have you got tickets for tonight, then?” she asked Jem coolly. “Which kind? Not for the gallery, I shouldn’t think. Can’t see her”—she jerked her head at Anne Kellaway—“standin’ with them rascals. Here, show me.”
Jem wondered himself, and couldn’t resist pulling out the tickets to look. “‘Pit,’” he read, with Maggie peering over his shoulder.
She nodded at Thomas Kellaway. “You must be makin’ lots o’ bum catchers to buy pit seats, and you only a couple o’ weeks in London.” A rare note of admiration crept into her voice.
“Oh, we didn’t buy them,” Maisie said. “Mr. Astley gave ’em to us!”
Maggie stared. “Lord a mercy.”
“We’re not going to see that rubbish,” Anne Kellaway said.
“You can’t give ’em back,” Maggie declared. “Mr. Astley’d be insulted. He might even throw you out of his house.”
Anne Kellaway started; she had clearly not thought of such a consequence from giving back the tickets.
“Course if you really don’t want to go, you could let me go in your place,” Maggie continued.
Anne Kellaway narrowed her eyes, but before she could open her mouth to say that she would never allow such an impudent girl to take her place, a deep drumbeat began to sound from somewhere over the river.
“The parade!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’ll be starting. C’mon!” She began to run, pulling Jem along with her. Maisie followed, and fearful of being left alone, Anne Kellaway took her husband’s arm once more and hurried after them.
Maggie raced past the amphitheatre and on toward Westminster Bridge, which was already crowded with people standing along the edges. They could hear a march being played at the other end, but they couldn’t see anything yet. Maggie led them up the middle of the road and squeezed into a spot a third of the way along. The Kellaways crowded around her, trying to ignore the grumblings of those whose view they were now blocking. There was a fair bit of jostling, but eventually everyone could see, until the next lot of people stood in front of them and the crowd had to rearrange itself.
“What we waiting for?” Jem said to Maggie.
Maggie snorted. “Fancy standing in a crowd not even knowin’ what you’re there for. Dorset boy!”
Jem flushed. “Forget it, then,” he muttered.
“No, tell us,” Maisie insisted. “I want to know.”
“Mr. Astley has a parade on the first day of the season,” Maggie explained, “to give people a taste of the show. Sometimes he has fireworks, even in the daytime—though they’ll be better tonight.”
“You hear that, Ma?” Maisie said. “We can see fireworks tonight!”
“If you go.” Maggie threw Anne Kellaway a look.
“We an’t going tonight, and we an’t staying for the parade now,” Anne Kellaway asserted. “Come, Jem, Maisie, we’re leaving.” She began to push at the people in front of her. Fortunately for Jem and Maisie, no one wanted to move and give up a place, and Anne Kellaway found herself trapped in the dense crowd. She had never had so many people around her before. It was one thing to stand in the window and watch London pass beneath her, safe at her perch. Now she had every sort of person pressing into her—men, women, children, people with smelly clothes, smelly breath, matted hair, harsh voices. A large man next to her was eating a meat pie, and the flakes of pastry were dropping down his front as well as into the hair of the woman standing in front of him. Nei-ther seemed to notice or care as much as Anne Kellaway did. She was tempted to reach over and brush the flakes away.
As the music drew closer, two figures on horseback appeared. The crowd shifted and pushed, and Anne Kellaway felt panic welling up like bile. For a moment she was so desperate to get away that she actually put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of her. He turned briefly and shrugged it off.
Thomas Kellaway took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “There now, Anne, steady, girl,” he said, as if he were talking to one of the horses they’d left behind with Sam in Dorsetshire. She missed their horses. Anne Kellaway closed her eyes, resisting the temptation to pull her hand away from her husband. She took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, the riders had drawn close. The horse nearest them was an old white charger, who walked sedately under its burden. The rider was Philip Astley.
“It’s been a long winter, has it not, my friends?” he shouted. “You’ve had nothing to entertain you all these months since October. Have you been waiting for this day? Well, wait no more—Lent is over, Easter has come, and Astley’s show has begun! Come and see The Siege of Bang
alore, a sketch at once tragical, comical, and oriental! Feast your eyes on the splendid operatic ballet La Fête de l’Amour! Wonder at the talents of the Manage Horse, who can fetch, carry, climb a ladder, and even make a cup of tea!”
As he passed the Kellaways, his eyes fell on Anne Kellaway and he actually stopped in order to raise his hat to her. “Everyone is welcome to Astley’s Royal Saloon and New Amphitheatre—especially you, madam!”
The people around Anne Kellaway turned to stare at her. The man with the pie dropped his mouth open so that she could see the meat and gravy mashed up in there. Sick from this sight and from the attention of so many, especially Philip Astley, she closed her eyes again.
Philip Astley saw her turn pale and shut her eyes. Pulling a flask from his coat, he signaled to one of the circus boys who ran alongside him to take it to her. He could not stop his horse any longer to see if she took a swig of brandy, however—the press of the procession behind pushed him on. He began his patter again: “Come and see the show—new acts of daring and imagination under the management of my son, John Astley, the finest equestrian rider in Europe! At little more than the price of a glass of wine, come for a full evening’s entertainment that you’ll remember for years to come!”
Beside him rode the son he spoke of. John Astley had as commanding a presence as his father, but in a completely different style. If Astley Senior was an oak—large and blunt, with a thick, strong center—Astley Junior was a poplar—tall and slender, with handsome, even features and clear, calculating eyes. He was educated, as his father had not been, and held himself more formally and self-consciously. Philip Astley rode his white charger like the cavalry man he once was and still thought himself to be, using the horse to get where he wanted to go and do what he wanted to do. John Astley rode his slim chestnut mare, with her long legs and nimble hooves, as if he and the horse were permanently attached and always on show. He jogged smoothly over Westminster Bridge, his horse capering sideways and slantways in a series of intricate steps to a minuet, played by musicians on trumpet, French horn, accordion, and drum. Anyone else in his seat would have been jolted over and over and dropped gloves, hat, and whip, but John Astley remained elegant and unruffled.
The crowd gazed at him in silence, admiring his skill rather than loving him as they did his father. All but one: Maisie Kellaway stood with her mouth open, staring up at him. She had never seen such a handsome man and, at fourteen, was ready to take a fancy to one. John Astley did not notice her, of course; he did not seem to see anyone, keeping his eyes fixed on the amphitheatre ahead.
Anne Kellaway had recovered herself without the aid of Philip Astley’s brandy. That she had refused, to the disgust of Maggie, the meat pie man, the woman in front of him with the pastry flakes in her hair, the man whose shoulder she had touched, the boy who delivered the flask—in fact, just about everyone apart from the other Kellaways. Anne Kellaway didn’t notice: Her eyes were fixed fast on the performers in the parade behind John Astley. First came a group of tumblers who walked along normally and then simultaneously fell into a series of forward rolls that turned into cartwheels and backflips. Then came a group of dogs who, at a signal, all got up onto their hind legs and walked that way for a good ten feet, then ran about jumping over one another’s backs in a compli-cated configuration.
Surprising as these acts were, what finally captured Anne Kellaway’s attention was the slack-rope dancing. Two strong men carried poles between which a rope hung, rather like a thick clothesline. Sitting in the middle of the rope was a dark-haired, moon-faced woman wearing a red and white striped satin dress with a tight bodice and a flared skirt. She swung back and forth on the rope as if it were a swing, then wrapped one part of the rope casually around her leg.
Maggie poked Jem and Maisie. “That’s Miss Laura Devine,” she whispered. “She’s from Scotland, and is the finest slack-rope dancer in Europe.”
At a signal, the men stepped away from each other, pulling the rope taut and making Miss Devine turn a graceful somersault, which revealed several layers of red and white petticoats. The crowd roared, and she did it again, twice this time, then three times, and then she turned constant somersaults, twirling round and round the rope so that her petticoats were a flashing blur of red and white.
“That’s called Pig on a Spit,” Maggie announced.
Then the men stepped toward each other, and Miss Devine came out of the last somersault into a long swing up into the sky, smiling as she did.
Anne Kellaway stared at Miss Devine, expecting to see her crash to the ground as her son Tommy had from the pear tree, reaching for that pear that was always—and now always would be—just out of his reach. But Miss Devine did not fall; indeed, she seemed incapable of it. For the first time in the weeks since her son’s death, Anne Kellaway felt the shard of grief lodged in her heart stop biting. She craned her neck to watch her even as Miss Devine moved far down the bridge and could barely be seen, even when there were other spectacles right in front of her—a monkey on a pony, a man riding his horse backward and picking up dropped handkerchiefs without leaving his saddle, a troupe of dancers in oriental costume turning pirouettes.
“Jem, what’ve you done with those tickets?” Anne Kellaway demanded suddenly.
“Here, Ma.” Jem pulled them from his pocket.
“Keep ’em.”
Maisie clapped her hands and jumped up and down.
Maggie hissed, “Put ’em away!” Already those around them had turned to look.
“Them for the pit?” the meat pie man asked, leaning over Anne Kellaway to see.
Jem began to put the tickets back in his pocket.
“Not there!” Maggie cried. “They’ll have ’em off you in a trice if you keep ’em there.”
“Who?”
“Them rascals.” Maggie jerked her head at a pair of young boys who had miraculously squeezed through the crush to appear at his side. “They’re faster’n you, though not faster’n me. See?” She snatched the tickets from Jem, and with a grin began to tuck them down the front of her dress.
“I can keep them,” Maisie suggested. “You haven’t got the stays.”
Maggie stopped smiling.
“I’ll keep them,” Anne Kellaway announced, and held out her hand. Maggie grimaced but handed over the tickets. Anne Kellaway carefully tucked them into her stays, then wrapped her shawl tightly over her bosom. The stern, triumphant look on her face was armor enough to keep away any rogue fingers.
The musicians were passing them now, and behind them three men brought up the rear of the parade waving red, yellow, and white flags that read ASTLEY’S CIRCUS.
“What’ll we do now?” Jem asked when they had passed. “Go on to the Abbey?”
He could have been speaking to a family of mutes, oblivious to the surging crowd around them. Maisie was staring after John Astley, who by now had become just a flash of blue coat over winking horse flanks. Anne Kellaway had her eye on the amphitheatre in the distance, contemplating the unexpected evening ahead. Thomas Kellaway was peering over the bridge’s balustrade at a boat piled high with wood being rowed along the thin line of water toward the bridge.
“C’mon. They’ll follow.” Maggie took Jem’s arm and pulled him toward the apex of the bridge, sidestepping the traffic of carriages and carts that had begun to cross it again, and making their way toward the Abbey.
4
Westminster Abbey was the tallest, grandest building in that part of London. It was the sort of building the Kellaways had expected to see plenty of in the city—substantial, ornate, important. Indeed, they had been disappointed by the shabbiness of Lambeth, even if they had not yet seen the rest of London. The filth, the crowds, the noise, the indifferent, casual, neglected buildings—none of it matched the pictures they’d conjured of London back in Dorsetshire. At least the Abbey, with its pair of impressive square towers, its busy detail of narrow windows, filigreed arches, jutting buttresses, and tiny spires, satisfied their expectations. It was the
second time in the weeks they had been in Lam beth that Anne Kellaway thought, There is a reason for us to be in London—the first time being only half an hour before, when she saw Miss Laura Devine performing the Pig on a Spit.
Just inside the arched entrance between the two towers, the Kellaways stopped, causing those behind them to grumble and push past. Maggie, who had continued on into the abbey, turned around and blew through her lips. “Look at those country fools,” she muttered, as the four Kellaways stood in a row, eyes up, heads tilted at the same angle. She couldn’t blame them, however. Although she had visited the Abbey many times, she too found it an astonishing sight on first entering and, indeed, throughout the building. At every turning, every chapel and tomb contained marble to be admired, carving to be fingered, elegance and opulence to be dazzled by.
For the Kellaways the sheer size was what pulled them up short. None had ever been in a place where the ceiling arched so high over their heads. They could not take their eyes off it.
Finally Maggie lost patience. “There’s more to the Abbey than the ceiling,” she advised Jem. “And there’s better ceilings than this too. Wait till you see the Lady Chapel!”
Feeling responsible for their first proper taste of what London could offer, she led them through archways and in and out of small side chapels, casually throwing out the names of people buried there that she remembered from her father’s guided tour of the place: Lord Hunsdon, the Countess of Sussex, Lord Bourchier, Edward I, Henry III. The string of names meant little to Jem; nor, once he grew accustomed to the size and lavishness of the place, did he really care for all of the stone. He and his father worked in wood, and he found stone cold and unforgiving. Still, he couldn’t help marveling at the elaborate tombs, with the carved effigies in tan and beige marble of their inhabitants lying on top, at the brass reliefs of men on other slabs, at the black-and-white pillars ornamenting the headstones.
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