by Michael Dean
But all this was merely the backdrop. The Jew, all laced at cuff and ruffed at throat, lavendered and sprayed till he smelled like a pharmacy, immaculate from the tip of his powdered wig to the shiny silk buckles on his shoes, was delicately sipping from the smallest coffee cup I have ever seen. I swear I have encountered bigger thimbles.
Oh, there was so much new experience for me in this one chamber of marvels; I had heard of blackamoors – who hasn’t? But there, in a corner, was an exquisite miniature man, black as ebony and carrying a copper kettle, ready to replenish, as I supposed, his master’s drink. And tied to the table there was a monkey. I wager it was the only monkey in Spitalfields, perhaps in all of London, certainly the only one I had ever seen.
But the most marvellous wonder, for the tabula rasa of a boy that I then was, was sitting across from the Jew, to his right. She had a round sweet face beneath her bonnet, a black patch just right of centre on her forehead, a bow of a mouth, an old gold dress of Spitalfields silk faced with white lace, pretty little red shoes.
But none of that was what stopped my heart; drained my mouth of spit, like I’d just eaten a sour Maidstone apple; widened my eyes to pebbles. The skin of her arms and neck was white but with the depth of cream. As she leaned forwards I saw, for the first time, the most beautiful curves in all nature. Did I see as far as the pink tipped wonder at the centre, on that day? Or did my imagination add it over all the years and the many times I recalled the scene?
While I gawped in helpless thrall, uncomfortably aware of the stiff stirrings in my breeches, my mother was introducing us, then crisply outlining our plight.
‘Are we talking of Richard Hogarth, the Latin scholar?’ said da Costa, when he had attentively heard mother out.
Mother nodded, pleased at hearing father so described, as was I.
‘Madam, your news saddens me greatly. Your husband’s scholarship is in different fields to mine. But scholarship is scholarship, madam. Learning is learning, something always to be respected. And Anthony da Costa respects it.’
‘I thought your first name was Moses,’ I blurted out. ‘That’s what my mother said.’
I flushed scarlet at my importunate words, pulled from my mouth in my derangement at the beauty and her curves. Mother looked first horrified then angry. At home, there would have been a vigorous slap round the face, even now, when I was bigger and she was weak from illness. The beauty, who still had not been introduced, laughed a tinkling, liquid laugh that was another novelty to add to those of this remarkable day.
‘I am known in some quarters as Moses,’ said da Costa, sounding far from pleased, ‘and in others as Anthony.’
‘And in bed as cudgel,’ said the beauty. She looked at mother with mock innocence. ‘A different weapon to a rapier, somewhat harder and rougher and with a round end.’ She laughed a surprisingly deep laugh, staring mother in the eye as, mindful of our errand and our supplicant status, she struggled to control her anger.
Anthony, or Moses, da Costa laughed. As he did so the monkey strained at its leash, tipping the ornate mahogany coffee table over, sending the beauty’s empty coffee cup sliding to the hardwood floor, where it broke. da Costa, discomfited, called for his maid to clear up the mess. The beauty laughed and leaned forwards, showing, I was sure deliberately, a renewed glimpse of the most wondrous loveliness life has to offer.
As the maid went about her work, da Costa spoke brusquely, belying the kindness of his words. ‘Mrs Hogarth, I suggest the following; borrow enough to release your husband from the spunging house and see him within the Rules, immediately. Ask for rooms at Black and White Court, near Ludgate Hill. I will give you enough to bribe Huggins, to ensure you get them.’
‘Thank you, sir …’ My mother’s voice cracked.
‘Oh, no need for thanks. The rooms there are not too bad. Your husband may even venture out from them, though not far.’
‘Thank you, I …’
‘I will lend you ten guineas, as they will demand a caption fee, if they haven’t already …’
‘No.’
‘Don’t give them more than £5 16s 4d. It’s standard.’
Mother nodded.
‘Good. I can do the ten guineas at six per cent. That’s the lowest you’ll find anywhere.’
‘I know it is. Thank you, sir.’
da Costa waved away the thanks in a talced flurry of laced hand. ‘What I can do as well, is extend the repayment period, as far as I dare. I’ll make it over two years, payments monthly.’
‘That’s very generous, sir.’
‘I wouldn’t get too tearful, my duck,’ said the beauty. ‘Anthony’s got over £7,000 in Bank of England stock alone. Haven’t you, Anthony?’
da Costa ignored her. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ he said to mother, ‘and my clerk will have the calculation done for you, so you know exactly how much you have to repay. I’ll give you a month’s grace before the payments start.’
Even I, a half-schooled boy climbing the stairs to the first landing to manhood, could see that these terms were exceptionally generous.
‘You can come back for advice at any time, but I won’t lend you more. It would not be fair to you, as you would never be able to pay it back. You need to find a weekly income. Quickly. Can you work?’
‘Yes, but I have two small daughters to care for.’
‘You may have to give them away, or leave them with relatives for now. Can the boy work?’
I could feel the beauty’s eyes on me, as da Costa named me. I was carmine red again.
‘Yes sir!’ I piped up. ‘I can and will work, to help my father.’
da Costa nodded and smiled.
The beauty laughed. ‘You can come back here when you’ve got some money, young man. What’s your name?’
‘William, madam. William Hogarth.’
‘Well, William Hogarth, I’ll see you again when you’re just a little bit bigger.’ She wiggled her little finger at me. ‘Shall I?’
‘Kate, that’s enough!’ said da Costa, sharply.
The beauty, Kate, ignored him. ‘Would you like to see more of me, little willy? When Willy has grown. Although methinks willy is growing, even as we speak.’
She leaned forwards again, just a fraction. I stepped forwards, openly looking at the wondrous orbs, my entire being consumed with desire. Until my mother grabbed me by the ear.
‘Ouch!’
To howls of laughter from the beauteous Kate, da Costa waved us away.
As we left, a clerk, who must have been listening at the door, presented mother with ten guineas and a paper to sign. Mother glanced at it and laboriously wrote her initials, propping the paper on a side table.
As the clerk was showing us out of the front door, Kate appeared, hurrying down the passageway. She opened a door to an inner room and pulled a young man out by the hand. This buck gave her a kiss on the mouth, fondled her briefly, then ran past the clerk out of the half-open door. Kate brushed her dress down and returned to da Silva, ignoring the clerk and mother and me.
Outside in the street, mother was clutching the purse in which she had put the money. I was looking round, on guard for cut-purses and thieves, although still in torment from my experiences with Kate.
‘We must get back to the prison,’ mother said, absently.
‘Who was that man?’ I asked. ‘The one who kissed Kate.’
‘Your Kate is a bawd,’ mother said, as we hurried out of Great Montagu Court, back to Little Britain. ‘She’s a strumpet, a common whore. And you just made a fool of yourself, staring at her like that.’
I flushed again. ‘I don’t care,’ I said, though I did. ‘Was she … was she cuckolding Mr da Costa with that other fellow?’
Mother was hurrying along the street. ‘Now, what do you think, William, eh? You’re as big a fool as your father.’
Oh no, I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. Oh no, I’m not.
We made our way back to the prison, where John Huggins took our money with due sol
emnity. Father was shivering in his shirt in the spunging house, the other prisoners having already stolen his coat. He was released from his fetters, whereupon we were all conveyed by cart to Black and White Court, guarded by two under-keepers.
The quarters in Black and White Court were in the Old Bailey, next door to the Ship Inn. The rooms were tolerable, boasting a table and chairs, two shelves and a straw mattress on the floor.
Father brightened immediately, much his old self, wanting mother and me to stay while he sent out for food. He was so unnaturally bright, with burning eyes, I feared he would order a quart of Rhenish wine, as he often did when joy came over him.
‘I shall write here,’ he said. ‘My mind will be at peace, you see, free from all the distractions I had before.’
‘Like feeding your family,’ said mother, acidly.
‘I have an idea already, for a play. It came upon me even as I was in chains. This one will make our fortune, you wait and see. One develops a feeling, you know, an instinct for these things.’
‘I am a fool, for I married a fool,’ muttered mother into the air, as she walked out.
I kissed father goodbye then ran after her, fearful, I must admit, of being left behind in such a place.
6
BACK IN our quarters in St John’s Street, we found my sisters running around, the neighbour charged with their care having grown tired of the task. Mary, the elder by two years, had at least made a good fist of looking after little Anne. My mother had an attack of the stomach cramps, followed by vomiting.
‘What are we going to do?’ I said, looking mother in the eye. ‘I can apply to the silk weaver’s in Benjamin Street, or one of the others if you prefer. Let me go now, mother. I shall bring you some money, I promise you.’
‘Sit down, William,’ she said.
I sat, obediently, at the table. My little sisters, sensing the seriousness of the occasion, ceased their screaming for a while.
Mother sighed then began: ‘The girls are too young to go into service. Anyone who took them at that age would want their ruin. And I am too old and sick for work.’
‘Mother …’
‘Hear me out, William.’ She put her rough hand on mine, on the table. ‘You are a good boy, and no mistake. But even the journeymen silk weavers earn only 10s a week, not enough for our needs. And you would have to learn the trade first. So here’s a better idea.’
I nodded. ‘Patent medicines.’
Mother gasped. I was pleased as Punch with myself.
‘You read minds, boy,’ mother said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She left patches of blood on the chairs sometimes. ‘Yes, that was my idea. I can concoct something here. And you have your wits about you. You can go out and sell it.’
I stood and went over to a big sea chest where father kept all his papers. I fished about in the mess, finally producing a yellowing copy of the Post Man. It was a January edition, issued at four o’clock.
I found the advertisement I was looking for and read aloud: ‘Dr James’s Powders for Fevers, the Small Pox, Measles, Pleurisies, Quinsies, Acute Rheumatism …’
‘What about spending your life in a dream?’ said mother. ‘Will it cure that? We’ll get your father some.’
‘…Epidemical Disorders …’ I continued sternly, ‘as well as for those which are called Hypochondriac and Hysteric.’ I put the newspaper down. ‘All we need to know now is what is in this stuff.’
Mother shook her head, mastering herself, returning to her customary sternness. ‘No, I’ve got a better idea. Something easier. We are going to make and sell gripe ointment, for the relief of gripes in babies.’
The idea of peddling some sort of medication, it later transpired, occurred to both mother and me as a result of the day of the storm, when father sent out to Mr Reynolds at the toy emporium for ointment. That very day that was indented in me forever by the groove in my head. And now it was to lead to our salvation.
I was sent to old man Reynolds to enquire if he would let us have some pots on credit. My mission was so successful, I returned clutching as many small earthenware pots as I could carry. My reward was a look of respect from mother, a look I was to earn often in the months to come. Meanwhile, we allotted our roles. Mary declared herself old enough to help mother with the preparation of our nostrum. Little Anne, too, shrieked a readiness to be of use, though she understood little of the matter.
My tasks were to be the gathering of the raw ingredients to prepare the concoction, then the selling of the finished gripe ointment to those who could be persuaded they had a need of it. For the first time, I felt that tingling at the pit of my stomach which heralded the start of a new scheme.
Within the next few days, to save one lot of rent, we left our rooms in St John Street and joined father in his debtor’s prison within the Rules. Huggins had raised the rent for the prison room, together with fees to the chaplain, porter, chamberlain and turnkey, to £3 5s 4d, but we still managed to pay without too badly dipping into our loan from Mr da Costa.
We did not have the means for the 5s 6d day pass for father to go beyond the Rules, so he would have to remain within the immediate area. This did not appear to concern him, impatient as he was to start writing. He had already sent word out to booksellers, who visited in a steady stream to buy his books. He was in high spirits, declaring he had no need of books to write his play, the play which would make our fortune.
I set off for the country, for the first time in my life, to gather herbs for the gripe ointment. Until now, much of my life had been circumscribed within a ring around our first home, running round St Botolph Churchyard, Christ’s Hospital, St Sepulchre’s Church, Smithfield Market, St Bartholomew’s Hospital and back to St Botolph – the whole being less than five miles. I had broken the ring only with father, when we saw people on his business, like when we went to visit Edmund Curll.
Now, with the weight of my family’s survival on my shoulders, I felt I was breaking the eggshell of my childhood world, stepping out as a man onto new ground. Dangerous new ground, in fact, for the country was where the wild men lived, everyone knew that.
I made my way north past Smithfield Bars and Porter’s Block, the sun on my face, warming down through my jerkin. I was carrying an old leather satchel of father’s, stamped in fading lettering with his initials: RWH.
I memorised the faces of people as I passed them by. Also their walks: the Cheapside Swing of those with a bit of money – or the pretension to it – the Ludgate Hobble of the cowherds, the sway of the old navy men.
As St John’s Street gave way to the Islington Road, I saw the first smudges of smoke from the brick kilns making tracery patterns against the pale blue of the sky. The first market gardens appeared in the fields. The crowd of people on the track thinned; more of them were ragged vagabonds. Some glanced at me. It was not worth a blackguard bothering with a boy with a flapping, empty satchel, but even so I learned early to stare every man in the eye, as I do even to this day.
So, this, then, was the country, was it? It was generously larded with cow shit, judging by the smell. Even so, I preferred it to the rank smells of the town and inhaled appreciatively as I saw the first of the dill I was looking for. I went into the fields and plucked it, together with some fennel. Both were plentiful, although I hated bending. Agricultural labour!
Then I had a slice of that luck always associated with the start of ventures. On the lee side of a ramshackle shed, hidden from the path that the thoroughfare had become, there was a wheelbarrow. I tiptoed round the shed, making sure nobody was in it, then I wheeled the wheelbarrow away. I filled it with handfuls of dill and fennel before turning for our new home.
The following day, at our room within the prison Rules, I applied my thoughts to obtaining the gin which was to be the other ingredient of our ointment. Despite my tender years, my dear mother was all for sending me round the stew-pots of St Giles, to one of the myriad gin houses there. Father gave no opinion, being immersed in the writing of hi
s play.
But I remembered our visits to Curll’s premises in Temple Bar. Near there, just off Fleet Street, I had noticed a distillery at Bride Lane: the premises, according to the sign, of one Alexander Nightingale.
But it would be a long walk with an open wheelbarrow full of gin. With all the vagabonds, footpads, cut-purses and ruffians abroad in London, I would be robbed, my cargo drunk, before I had gone twenty yards, no doubt of that. I put the problem to John Dalton, my drawing master, at the next of the free lessons he was kindly continuing to give me.
Dalton considered my predicament, hand on chin, elbow bent out, with his customary seriousness. He had the largest Adam’s apple I have ever seen on a man.
‘Bring the wheelbarrow here,’ he said judiciously, swallowing, so the Adam’s apple leaped up his throat. ‘I will make a cover for it.’
The cover John made was of canvas and wood, cut to fit the wheelbarrow. On it, the artist placed some bricks. ‘A tromped doily in its way,’ he said slowly, in his rich baritone voice. ‘The wheelbarrow, you see, appears to be full of bricks. The eye suggests; the mind completes the picture.’
When I appeared at Alexander Nightingale’s distillery, no demur was made at selling me as much clear gin as would go in the wheelbarrow. I wheeled it slowly and carefully back to our new home, there triumphantly unveiling my purchase to shrieks of appreciation from my sisters. My mother gave her grim smile. Father, with a cloth over his head, merely appealed for quiet so he could go on composing his play, the play which would make our fortune.
One more ingredient was required. This ointment, mother explained to me, was to be applied to the baby’s stomach when the gripes or fits threatened it. We dared not offer a medicine to be ingested, in case we killed babies all over London. A setting agent was therefore needed to turn the liquid of the soon-tobe-flavoured gin into an ointment thick enough to be applied.
‘Beef fat,’ mother said, speaking wearily, as ever.
‘Beef fat. Get your mother some,’ father echoed, as he scratched away at his play. He kept shutting his eyes, the better to shut out the world.