Pugg's Portmanteau

by DM Bryan

  “I wish you would come with me, Mr. Gotobed. Your company,” she says, speaking boldly, “has been a comfort to me.”

  “I must finish out my journey in the same way it began,” says Mr. Gotobed. “I have not the luxury of distrusting my employer.” And Sarah understands he has found his answer.

  The coachman, who is climbing heavily back up to his seat sees her standing at the window. “You there, missus,” he calls down from on high. “Get back, if you don’t intend to ride with us.”

  “You can be sure I shall speak with Mr. Montagu, your employer,” says Sarah.

  “Get back.”

  She remains where she is. To Mr. Gotobed she says, “I know not how, but be happy—your sweetheart and yourself.”

  Gotobed gives her a twisting smile.

  And now the coachman lifts his reins, and the horses shift in preparation. One expels noisome air from under its tail. “Out of the road,” shouts the coachman, and as Sarah steps back, the coach begins to move, stiffly at first, and then more and more easily. She waves to Mr. Gotobed, but the louvers on that side are caked shut with mud, and, anyway, she hardly knows the man.

  e

  The coaching inn is as the wagon driver described: warm and dry. Sarah has the luxury of a room to herself. She removes her still-damp clothing, her stays, shift, petticoat, and skirts, and sets them all to steam on a line before the fire. She lies down on the bed, beneath a woollen blanket, and studies the shape of her own body. Her feet she pushes from under the tatted fringe, and she spreads her toes. She holds up her hand and tilts it. Her limbs, her appendages have not changed. Her face, when she touches brow and nose, cheekbones and chin, feels the same. But still.

  Her leather portmanteau lies beside her on the bed. Its condition, after the accident, is more disordered than she expected. No, disordered is not the exact word. Some other operation has taken place. The contents of that portmanteau have altered, just as her chest, waist, hips, legs no longer feel entirely her own. Unmoored from Batheaston, from Bath itself, from Barbara, she feels both herself and an entirely different woman. Under the scratchy inn blanket, beneath its brown and hairy surface, she closes her eyes. “A tale then,” she says, beginning to write herself into one more shape.

  Chapter 12

  The Life and Times of Cass Quire, Gentleman.

  Acquaints the reader with Cass Quire, an orphan and sometime printer’s boy, who is also a thief.

  London, 1746.

  A tale? Well then, I confess to taking the print, but in my defense, it was always meant to be mine. Mr. Hogarth drew it and hung it high in the window of Mr. Tho. Bakewell’s shop. I heard its rustling call and recognized the sound. There are many signposts in London, for ale shops and silversmiths and mercers’ stores, but this was a sign for me. I did no more than took what was mine. Nobody else understands that picture like I do, and when the final judgment comes, that will be the one theft that leaves no stain on my soul.

  Upon my entrance to that shop, providence emptied the room of clerks. Usually, Mr. Tho. Bakewell has three men in his employ, bastards in buttons with wigs askew—I know and hate each of them. Let us call them Messieurs Dash, Quibble, and Blotpage, but these are feigned names to protect the innocent and guilty alike. But, instead of these villains, Bakewell’s shop on the day in question held only rows of books and the rolling balls of dust beneath the clerks’ tall desks. In the window hung Mr. Hogarth’s print, twisting slightly in invitation.

  Who am I? My true name is known to nobody. Feigned names I have by ream and bale. I pull them on and off like stockings. I have as many names as I can spit out, and then, while constables bite their pens at the spelling, I twist free. Away I run, down the street and through some door my pursuer never noticed before. There, the constable must stop, rattle the latch, and ask permission to enter. By the time the old body who lives there hears him calling, I am long gone, having fought past her skirts to leap from a window. Mind, I’m not always so lucky. Sometimes the latch is locked, and I must find another door. Sometimes a ratepayer’s hand takes my shoulder, and I must writhe and twist, a scrap in a pan. Once, I was hid in a cupboard until the constable passed, but that was a counterfeit kindness and the worst of all larks.

  But I lose my story. These tales are nothing but graved flourishes to the design of my life, which I would rather give you straight and unembellished.

  My best name I chose myself, and I never heard another like it. I took it from what the French engravers name the papers on the top and bottom of a printer’s ream, the spoilt pages smoothed flat to protect the others. Cass Quire. The printers use those pages for scrap, marking them with notations, little wet squiggles with pens or dry ones with their bent twigs of charcoal. They sometimes write up their bills on them too, which boys like me take to the booksellers. The booksellers, like that Mr. Tho. Bakewell, frown over those scraps of paper. Then they shake their floured curls and send me away with no something for my trouble. No something is a nothing in my book.

  Mr. Tho. Bakewell has given me many a nothing, and his treatment of me certainly eased my conscience, as I entered his shop. Providence, having cleared the room of clerks, now showed me how I could cross the dusty floor and put one foot on the ledge where Mr. Bakewell’s best books lay open to an illustrated page. Easing myself upwards, I found I could climb high enough to take the corner of that print and pull gently until it came unstuck from the glass, where Dash or Quibble or maybe Blotpage had fixed it. And this I did because the paper was already mine—as I think I have said. Then, I walked from Bakewell’s as calmly as one who had regular custom there.

  As soon as I was in the street, I fashioned the paper into something resembling a tube and strode about with the air of one who cares not where he goes. My mind was settled on the morality of my action, but I was a little troubled about what I would say if someone should stop me, for the constables of this world love to question boys like myself. Accordingly, I said to myself that if anyone should ask, I would say I was Sir R—’s boy who was taking home a print my master had purchased and wished delivered poste-haste. Content with this story, I continued walking until I was well away from the bookseller’s shop. Then, I began to look about me for a place where I might go to fully examine what I had in my hand, and which was now beginning to absorb the moisture from my fingers, so tightly did I clutch my prize. It was while I was thus occupied that I heard someone call my name.

  Many know me as Cass Quire, but few are fool enough to use that name in the street where anyone might hear. At first, so incensed was I at this bold behavior, I did not choose to answer but continued walking without altering my pace in the smallest degree. However, after hearing myself repeatedly hailed, I let my feet slow until the person caught up. Then I saw who it was that was calling me.

  I knew the man but slightly, or possibly I should say I hardly knew the boy, although there was hair on his chin and he stood a head taller than I. He matched his stride to mind, nimbly picking his way around the refuse in the street. He gave me the wall, but did not open any business with me, preferring to keep company in silence. For my part, I kept walking as though I had a destination in mind, but I took the precaution of tucking my precious page behind my back, where I hoped it was out of his sight.

  After we had walked for half a block, his silence began to make me itch. Then, I asked where he was walking, thinking to free myself from his company by choosing a different place as my destination. But, the devil said he had no end in mind and was merely taking pleasure in the sights available in fine weather. Alas, I had no answer for this and could take no pleasure in any sight, except for that of my picture, which was a joy his company prevented. Accordingly, I walked a little further with him, and then, choosing some serendipitous street, I told him our ways must part, and I bid him farewell.

  “It is too soon to tell me good day,” said he, “for I also must turn here.”

  I exclaimed
aloud at my good fortune in finding myself able to continue in his company, but inwardly I cursed my luck.

  We walked a little way further before I tried again, choosing another street, darker and danker than the one before. Once again, I took my leave.

  “But hold,” he told me. “We must not part ways yet, for my path also lies down this alley.”

  My new exclamation of surprise did not sound as pleased as I intended it should, but I mastered my displeasure and walked on with him. Our alley widened into a small courtyard, and we passed by an inn in silence. I hoped he might suggest going in, so that I might decline his offer and escape his company, but he walked mildly by the place, hardly sparing it a glance. Not even the painted Miss, who hailed us from the shelter of its doorway, attracted his attention. When the alley narrowed again, I looked crossways at my persistent companion and took his measure more carefully.

  I had already noticed that he was tall, but now I saw that he was also thin. He had a hollowness of cheek that suggested his start in life had been as hungry as my own, but I knew his lot had improved since those lean days. He was now apprentice to a printer and very like to end his indenture before the year was up. It was in the shop where he conned his trade that I first made his acquaintance, for I had sometimes employment there, earning a few honest coins as a pressman’s dog. He knew me only as Cass Quire, but I knew him by his real name—Gotobed. What his Christian name was, only his mother knew. He was that sort of boy.

  The alley narrowed again, a constricted gulp, wet and uncertain in its end. A dim doorway appeared to my left. I stopped before it and tried the latch. To my joy, it lifted and a crack opened around the door. Turning to Mr. Gotobed, I told him I was now at my journey’s end, that I had enjoyed the happy company of his person, but that now I must take my leave. Then I wished him a very good day.

  “Nay,” cried the infernal Gotobed. “You must not bid me take my leave yet, for this door is the very one that I also hoped to find.”

  “That is impossible, Mr. Gotobed,” I said. “You told me you took your leisure and walked according to pleasure.”

  “And yet,” said Gotobed, “this is where pleasure took me.”

  Angry and a little alarmed, I looked about and recognized where I was. We had come as far as Duck Lane, and I could see the great light and dust of Smithfield at the far end. I wanted to sprint away from the infernal Mr. Gotobed, but I was afraid to leg it, for my companion had the well-shaped calves of a fast runner.

  “Alas,” said I, closing the door. “I have mistaken the place.” Never was I more aware of how high-pitched and boyish my voice sounded.

  “It is an easy error to make. One door is so much like another.” And he gave me a satirical smile I did not like.

  I did not know what to say next, but he did. “We will continue in each other’s company,” said he. “Which way will you go, Mr. Quire?

  So it was that Mr. Gotobed and I began to walk again, this time toward Smithfield market. We followed the sour, grassy smell of livestock, and no sooner did we step out of the dimness of the lane than sunlight and the stink of cows assaulted our senses. As one body, we stopped, Mr. Gotobed and I. Dazzled, I shifted my precious paper to one hand to better wipe my face with my sleeve. When I was done, dampness discoloured the cambric.

  Gotobed appeared not to have noticed and stood gazing about him through eyes narrowed to slits. The glinting sunlight showed up the bristles on his upper lip and on the point of his chin. Now, he seemed to me more man than boy, as if he’d grown in the time we walked together. This fresh observation of him, not to mention the many groups of idlers who drifted across the marketing ground, reminded me to hide my purloined print, which I tucked again behind my back. The very paper felt so enticing to my fingers, its surface rough and fibrous—how I longed to examine the page alone.

  “Where to next, Mr. Quire?” said my companion, much to my dissatisfaction.

  I looked up and saw the cupola of St. Paul’s, thinly sketched against the torn edges of the sky. I said a quick prayer. “Mr. Gotobed,” said I, “why are you following me?” His game was now obvious, even to its dupe. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  He nodded—happily, I thought. He had reason to be pleased. He had caught me fairly, but why he wanted me I could not tell. His game was obvious, but his reasons were not.

  Hidden away, I had any number of fine watches that could be Mr. Gotobed’s, should he but say the word. I also had a silver locket, a small collection of gentlemen’s wedding rings, a piece of lace, and two snuffboxes. He need only put out his hand, and any of these treasures might be his—indeed, any of them could be his, for all I knew.

  I said, “I have in my keeping a few odds and ends of value—name your prize, and it shall be yours.”

  Then, Mr. Gotobed nodded and, without the slightest hint of his intention, took the rolled-up paper I held hidden behind my back. I hardly resisted, so shocked was I.

  “No sir,” I said. “Not that. Give it back.” To my horror I was beginning to cry. A tear of rage dripped from my chin, blotting my neck-cloth.

  “There there, Mr. Quire,” said Gotobed, quite gently, holding out his handkerchief.

  I would not take it and again pressed my sleeve into service.

  Gotobed returned his kerchief to a pocket. Then, he unfurled my page and held it up in the light. As I gazed upwards, my eyes scrubbed and burning, I could see the verso of the drawing. Its mottled patches of light and shade concealed a pattern I could remember but not entirely discern.

  “I am interested in this,” said Gotobed. “One of Mr. Hogarth’s I perceive, but not a print I believe I have ever heard advertised. Its subject is obscure to me.”

  Not to me, but I would not give him the satisfaction.

  “Who asked you to steal this?”

  I shook my head, insulted to the very quick. “I am no thief,” I said. I always say this, adding to my sins that of untruthfulness.

  “Come, Mr. Quire,” said Gotobed. “I do not believe you. You are a thief, but what you are not, I think, is a connoisseur of furniture prints. How came you to steal this?”

  I should have held my tongue, but instead I cursed him to the best of my abilities, and my abilities are considerable. When I stopped, I knew I’d earned a cuff to the head. Instead, I received a cold, even smile. How weary I was of this tall boy and his undeserved mastery over me. How angry I was at my size and my tears. I wished to make him as afraid of me as I was of him, and it was at this exact moment that a stratagem presented itself that, if I were careful, could get my print back again.

  I began by pretending to sigh and weep some more, wiping my eyes on my sleeves in a very showy fashion. At last, I said, “Mr. Gotobed, you have the right of it. I did indeed help myself to that print from out of Mr. Tho. Bakewell’s window. I am a thief, and if your desire is to condemn me to eternal damnation, you have enough evidence to take me to Newgate and all the way to the gallows.”

  At this speech, Gotobed looked up from the print, which he examined still, and peered at me with the same interested expression. “I have not the slightest desire,” said he, “to lead any soul to perdition.” Then he furled the print tightly and commenced tapping himself on the thigh with the reformed tube.

  This casual treatment of my page set my teeth on edge, and involuntarily I put out a hand to stop him. “Please, you must not do that, sir.”

  Gotobed stopped and arched an eyebrow.

  I had forgot my stratagem. I returned to my point. “You must not ask again upon whose orders I stole that print,” I said and waited.

  “I had no thought to do so,” said Gotobed. “You’re no peach, Quire—why, any man can see that.”

  I continued to wait.

  Gotobed looked around. Smithfield was both empty and crowded, it not being a market day. Groups of men pooled together and then trickled away, carving a so
litary path through the mud. St. Paul’s dome brightened. The breeze lightly touched my curls.

  “All right, Quire,” he said at last. “Let’s play. Upon whose orders did you steal that print?”

  “He met me in a coffee shop, but he offered me no name. He said it was enough to know that he loved his country.”

  “His country?”

  “Perhaps he said kingdom.”

  Mr. Gotobed’s other eyebrow rose. “Well then,” he said.

  “The price he offered me,” I said lowering my voice even further, “was an awful lot for a simple theft.”

  “Which can only suggest—” said Gotobed, breaking off judiciously.

  I nodded, as if to confirm his suspicion, whatever it might be—some political conspiracy, I hoped. The age was ripe with ’em. “What’s more,” said I, “someone took great care to ensure that Mr. Tho. Bakewell and all his clerks removed themselves from the front of the shop just as I came down the street.”

  “A significant detail,” said Gotobed.

  “Given the arrangements made, sir, I would not like to report the print has fallen into the wrong hands.”

  “My hands, exempli gratia.”

  “Just as you say, sir.”

  Mr. Gotobed appeared to be thinking, which was an action I did not wish him to undertake. “Secrets,” I said, quite in a rush, “fearful secrets embedded into the print. In this manner, I believe, they communicate.”

  “They? But surely you can’t suspect Mr. Hogarth of any wrongdoing?” Mr. Gotobed had seized the tale between his teeth and run on before me, the dog.

  “Oh my, no. Not Mr. Hogarth.”

  “Then who? The printers, perhaps?”

  “The printers in on it?” I warmed to the idea, but as Mr. Gotobed’s face folded into an angular smile, I recalled to mind his trade. “Oh no, an absurd thought, sir. As you well know. The guild—not possible.”