On reaching the city, they went straight to the bishop’s palace, only pausing to stop and wash faces and hands in the river that ran through the water meadows just below it, and to pull grass and seeds from each other’s hair. Their attempts to look respectable were futile. After weeks of rough sleeping they were both dishevelled and filthy, their clothes tattered and torn. Letty remarked sadly, “We look like a pair of vagrants. Are you sure this man will see us?”
Caleb was far from certain, but said, “He is a man of God. And didn’t Jesus choose to live among the poor and lowly?”
“Poor and lowly,” she replied with a smile. “Well, that’s us, right enough.”
They walked to the palace, going to the front of the building rather than the kitchen, where they would more likely be taken for beggars.
The facade was not so opulent as Norton Manor’s, but it was equally intimidating. Red brick. Narrow, leaded windows. A door of oak, dark with age, studded with iron bolts – a great slab of a thing, heavy as a tombstone. There was no knocker, but a rope that led to a bell hanging overhead. Caleb pulled it and a clanging announced their presence. In response there were footsteps on slate, taking an age but coming nearer. And then a great creaking as the door slowly swung open.
Whether the bishop would have seen them or not, they never found out. The door had been opened by a servant clad in a plum-coloured coat. The moment he saw what was standing before him he exclaimed in horror and recoiled, as if their poverty was a disease that he might catch. “Get away! Be off with you!”
“We wish to see the bishop!”
“Dirty black tramp!”
“My father was Joseph Chappell, the showman. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll see me!”
“I’ll set the dogs on you!”
He tried to close the door but Letty stuck her foot in the gap. “It’s important,” she pleaded.
The servant pulled the door wide open and for a moment Caleb thought they would be admitted, that in a few minutes’ time they would find themselves in the bishop’s study, that this whole sad tale could at last be given the right ending. But the man had pulled the door back only to give it more force when he slammed it in their faces. His whole weight was behind that great oaken slab and Caleb, dreading that Letty’s foot would be crushed or her ankle broken, tugged her away.
The door banged, the noise echoing so loudly along the corridor that the whole building seemed to be yelling, “Be off!” along with the servant.
Caleb and Letty stood for a few moments staring at the closed door. They looked at each other.
“That’s that then,” Letty said flatly.
Caleb opened his mouth to speak but then, from the back of the house, there were barks and howls. The servant’s threat to set the dogs on them was not an empty one. Snatching up theatre and puppets, they fled from the palace before they could be torn to pieces.
“What do we do now?” asked Letty.
Caleb was shocked to see her so beaten, so lost. But the city was not Letty’s territory; it was his. He knew the streets, knew the ways of its inhabitants and she did not. He’d relied on her for so much. Now it was his turn: he must make their plans. “We have to see the bishop,” he told her. “He is the only man who can help.”
“But how?”
“If not in his palace, why then, we must try the cathedral.”
And so to the cathedral they went, where they received much the same welcome as before. The minute they stepped inside an elderly curate bustled over in a great show of outrage that such creatures should dare to enter so hallowed a building.
When Caleb stated their business the curate pursed his lips and said sourly that the bishop was not there, that he was away dealing with church business and besides, an eminent man such as he could not be expected to have any dealings with the common folk.
“It is a matter of the utmost urgency,” Caleb persisted. “When will he return to Torcester?”
“I’ll not tell you just so you can go bothering him. Be off with you.”
“He will wish to hear my tale, sir! My father looked upon him as a friend…” Caleb’s voice rose to the rafters like a prayer. Which went unheard.
The curate did not threaten them with dogs but said he could call men to forcibly remove them if they did not leave at once. And so they did, walking aimlessly over the cobbles, across the green and then through the city streets until at last they found themselves sitting on the wall outside the prison.
Letty said nothing the whole time, but Caleb’s mind worked frantically, trying to think of something, some way of getting to the bishop without first having to go through the people who protected him.
It was late in the day. His stomach rumbled noisily. They had not eaten and did not know where they would sleep that night. Justice for Pa, he thought, might have to wait a while.
It was not market day and yet the city was still busy enough to attract a crowd, albeit a small one.
“We need money, Letty. Have you the strength to perform?”
Letty’s eyes – which had been filled with dark despair a moment before – lit up with excitement. “You try stopping me.”
They set up the show not by the cathedral, where they feared the curate might send men to drive them off, but in the small square near Porlock’s Coffee House. The smell of roasting beans and hot chocolate, mutton pies and gravy drifted from the door, making both their bellies grumble.
Caleb introduced the show as he had done at Norton Manor but this time he had no fear before he stepped out. This time he felt he wasn’t donning Pa’s personality like a coat, but wearing his own.
Once he had whipped the small crowd into a state of excited anticipation, Caleb stood by the side of the theatre. Letty began. As the show progressed and the small crowd began to swell, Caleb found himself being directly addressed by Mr Punch or the jester. The banter that began to pass between him and the puppets was as hilarious as it was spontaneous. More people stopped to watch, drawn by the laughter of the audience. Mrs Porlock herself stepped from the coffee shop to see what had attracted so many people. For the first time not only did Caleb feel comfortable in the middle of the city, he thrilled with the challenge of amusing a company of strangers. Yes, he thought, this was something he could grow used to.
Punch was given the baby by his wife. He set it on one corner of the stage and returned to the other, sitting with his legs dangling over the playboard. The baby looked around. And then Letty mimicked the babble of Dorcas. The baby was making the chuckling, gurgling noises of a small child and every parent in the crowd smiled, their hearts melting with affection for the grotesque puppet baby.
And then – oh the miracle of it! – the baby spoke its first words.
“Papa?”
“Aaaah!” Punch – the proud father – was delighted. He stopped ignoring his child, got to his feet and drew nearer to the infant.
“Papa?” The baby’s voice was softer this time.
“What?” Punch drew still nearer to hear it.
“Papa?” Even softer, even sweeter.
“What?” His head was down, ear cocked right by the baby’s mouth.
A pause. And then, “Waaaaaaaah!” The baby bawled into Punch’s ear.
The shock of the sudden noise made the audience jump almost out of their skins and then burst into explosive laughter.
Punch picked up his child and rocked the baby – none too gently – and its cries finally ceased. He set it back in the corner of the stage and retreated as far as he could.
But the baby spoke again with the same meltingly endearing tones. “Papa?”
Letty repeated the trick once, then twice. And then, rocking the baby to silence a fourth time, Punch set the baby down and it emitted a loud fart. Punch’s reaction told the audience that the baby had soiled itself.
Then – to Caleb’s surprise – Punch picked up the baby and threw it straight at him. “You have him,” he screamed.
Caleb caught the infant puppet, sniffe
d it, pulled a face and threw it back. “I don’t want him.”
“Neither do I.” The baby was tossed between them, the crowd shrieking at the outrageousness of playing catch with a baby, until Judy appeared onstage with a large stick, threatening to beat Punch for his wickedness.
Tears were running down Mrs Porlock’s cheeks. Now would be a good time to collect, Caleb thought. Letty had hooked them and moment by moment more people joined the throng, delighted smiles creasing their faces.
The show went on. After Punch had beaten the Devil, Caleb went around once more.
The crowd had numbered barely a quarter of those who would watch Pa’s show on a market day so Caleb might have expected to only collect a quarter of the sum Pa would have made. Yet the bottle felt heavy. And when the crowd at last dispersed and they had time to count the coins, they discovered they had made more money than either would have believed possible in so short a space of time.
“All those months of rowing after ships!” exclaimed Letty. “All those months of washing stinking shirts and you and Anne sewing and patching and us all scrimping and worrying and you and me could have been doing this all along! We are made, Caleb! Lord, I can hardly believe it.”
They were further astonished when – after they had packed down the show – Mrs Porlock came from the coffee house once more and pressed a pie each into their hands. Though Caleb tried to pay, she would take nothing.
“All I ask is that you don’t come back,” she said with a nod and a wink. “You’re too entertaining by half. If people are watching you they’re not eating and drinking in my place.”
And so that night – for the first time in weeks – they were able to sleep under a roof. Not knowing what the future had in store, they dared not spend too freely, taking only the cheapest of lodgings. They found themselves sleeping squeezed together in a bed that they shared with five strangers who grumbled about being in a chamber with a man of Caleb’s complexion until Letty silenced them with a look.
While men snored and women belched either side of them, Caleb and Letty whispered about what they would do the next day. They could perform again, and do more than one show, trying different locations to see which earned them the most. They could, perhaps, even afford to buy new garments so they didn’t look quite so destitute. And then, in three days’ time when it was market day once again, they would set up the theatre by the cathedral and hope not only that the bishop had returned, but that he would come and watch the show.
8.
On market day they set the theatre by the cathedral green in exactly the place where Pa had performed for the last time. Though the curate scowled at them, he did not send them away. They looked more respectable now having bought a dress for Letty – a second- or third-hand garment found in a back-street trader’s that was worn but which fitted her well enough. Caleb had bought britches and a coat, threadbare but clean, from the same seller. The crowds who gathered were large and welcoming. Many remarked that they had missed the show when Pa was gone and were delighted to see Punch back and up to his old tricks.
The pieman was there, and the big-bosomed flower seller, but the bishop did not come. Not for the first nor the second, not for the third nor the fourth show.
Despite this disappointment Letty’s energy and exuberance remained undimmed. Indeed her skill seemed to exceed even Pa’s that day and the crowd’s response drove her to yet greater heights. The people gave generously and the bottle grew heavy with coins.
They came to the fifth and final show of the day and it went as well as the first four had done. Punch killed the ghost and knocked down the magistrate. He hanged Jack Ketch and now the Devil had come looking for the old sinner. Yet there was still no sign of the bishop. Whatever business had taken him away obviously continued to keep him.
No matter, thought Caleb. They had plenty of money now to keep them fed and housed until next market day and beyond. He and Letty were managing much better than he could ever have imagined. He would have been happy for the situation to continue indefinitely if only he wasn’t so worried about Anne. She must know of Edward’s death by now – the poor lady would be running mad with grief. Fear for her and Dorcas was keeping him awake at night.
His mind full of musings, Caleb heard the Devil say, “I am B-B-Beelzebub. I am L-L-Lucifer. I am S-S-S-S-Satan.” Dimly he registered that the puppet had developed a stutter. Had something happened? Was Letty all right? It had been a long day. Oh hell, had she exhausted herself?
He looked at the stage. The puppets looked as lively as ever. Punch was mimicking the Devil, “L-L-Lucifer? S-S-S-Sir Satan? Oooooooh! Sir Satan. My very humble respects.” Punch bowed low, but when the Devil did the same Punch whacked him over the head with his stick. “Take that, Sir bleeding-high-and-mighty Satan!”
Letty’s newly improvised joke made Caleb snort with laughter. He was almost bent double when underneath the crowd’s noise he heard a low, rumbling chuckle – warm and familiar.
Swinging around, he scanned the crowd. And yes – there at last was the bishop! Oh, thank God! But for him, Pa would have hanged. Caleb’s heart went out in gratitude.
The bishop, Caleb knew, did not like to have his entertainment interrupted. The man had only just arrived and yet he could not miss this opportunity. He pushed his way through the throng. “May I speak with you, sir?”
The bishop looked at him. “You are the puppeteer’s lad?”
“I am.”
“By God, you’ve grown! I’m happy to see you, boy. It was a most unfortunate tragedy! He was transported, was he not?”
“He was, sir. I am thankful that you spoke for him.”
The bishop nodded his head in acknowledgement. “Mr Chappell was a good man. Who does the show now?”
“My…” Caleb was stumped for a moment. How was he to describe Letty’s relationship to himself? He could scarcely admit to a churchman that they shared a bed – albeit with five others – and yet were not wed! “My cousin,” he lied.
If the bishop noticed his hesitation he did not remark on it. “He does it well.”
“Ah … sir, my cousin is a woman.”
“Indeed? You surprise me.” The bishop seemed a little perplexed by the notion but he did not intend for it to spoil his enjoyment. He turned back to the show, indicating that the conversation was over.
But Caleb was not ready to be dismissed. “Sir, there is something I want to tell you.”
“Talk away, boy.”
He lowered his voice. “Not here, in the street.”
The bishop’s eyebrows were raised. “A private matter? Very well. Come to the palace.”
“We tried, sir. We were turned away.”
The bishop laughed and the flesh on his belly seemed to roll in waves from chest to groin. “Threatened you with dogs, no doubt? My servants are, alas, inclined to be a little overzealous. I will tell them I’m expecting you. Come in the morning. Eleven o’clock. I will await you then.”
9.
They received a warm welcome at the bishop’s palace the following morning. Caleb felt nothing but gratitude and a strange kind of lightness, for they had left the puppets and the theatre in their lodgings and it was odd to walk without that weight on his shoulder.
The man who opened the door with exaggerated courtesy showed them to a study lined with books. A second servant in the same plum-coloured livery as the first brought a silver platter of victuals. When the bishop arrived he himself poured them tankards of rich mead and pressed fresh-baked cakes into their hands.
Though the bishop urged Letty and Caleb to eat and drink neither did so. Both were desperate to tell him the entire history of what they had discovered.
Caleb began to speak of Pa’s transportation and how he had been delivered not to Maryland, but to a barren island three or four miles off the county’s northern coast. “He was set to work there, he and the other convicts. They were to build a harbour wall – a quayside, if you like – somewhere that ships might tie up to. They we
re enslaved, but my father escaped. You met him, sir – you know he would not have endured such ill-treatment. He made a raft, but it didn’t survive the crossing to land. He drowned. I found him on the beach and knew him by his ring and yet everyone denied that it was him. His finger was hacked off so that he couldn’t be identified.”
Caleb expected a reaction. Consternation. Disbelief. Amazement. Anything would have sufficed. His was a tale that would have gripped any listener, but he was surprised to find himself being interrupted once then twice more by the bishop – not asking for more details or more information, but simply insisting that Caleb should eat and drink what was on offer.
“Come, lad, are you not hungry? Take something, do. It will make the telling of your tale easier.”
It was the bishop’s pressing insistence that began to make Caleb uneasy, for his host ate nothing.
A well-fed man with a belly as round as the Virgin Mary’s on Christmas Eve…? Caleb would have wagered that the bishop was the kind who could not pass a tray of food without consuming every last scrap. And yet not one crumb passed his lips. Why, he might almost think it was contaminated!
Frustrated by the bishop’s interruption, Letty took over the telling of the tale. “They all said he was Thomas Smith, see? That he was a sailor who’d gone in the water up Tawpuddle way. Only I’ve lived in Fishpool my whole life and I know that folk who go in the river off the bridge or the quay wash up on the other side, not there on the beach, so I knew Caleb was telling the truth and they weren’t. But we had ourselves a look at the body, just to make sure.”
Hell and High Water Page 18