by Robert Lock
“Tired?” he repeated incredulously. “Is that all?”
“Well no, not all. Her fever had worsened somewhat, but the pains in her stomach seemed to be troubling her less since I administered two or three drops of laudanum on a sugar cube.”
George looked up. “Laudanum? You never mentioned giving Victoria laudanum. I never gave you permission to give Victoria laudanum! Why did you not consult me first?”
Emily’s face flushed. She would not hold his gaze. “You were not available to be consulted—”
“Do not… ” George shook his head, outraged by his sister-in-law’s superior tone. “Do not try to blame me for your reprehensible behaviour! I trusted you to care for my daughter. I trusted you!”
Emily flinched at the rawness and volume of those last two words, but the young lady who had idolised her father, who had listened enthralled when he related a particularly combative exchange in court, rose in response to what she regarded as a personal slight to her integrity. “Perhaps,” she replied haughtily, “if you had pursued a career more befitting of a gentleman rather than prancing on stage as a common clown you might still possess both a wife and a daughter.”
“Get out,” George snapped. “Get out of my house.”
“Indeed I shall, and be glad to.” The knuckles on the hand gripping her shawl shone whitely in the dim light. “But know this first, George Parr, for I doubt you will ever have the perspicacity to realise it for yourself. You are a profoundly selfish man, whose vanity has hastened the demise of both my poor sister and now her only child through your…” she closed her eyes to better formulate the perfect phrase, “…pitiful addiction to cheap applause. I only hope it sustains you in the years to come.”
Her damning indictment delivered, Emily turned on her heel and marched back to her bedroom. George stared blankly at the empty doorway. He felt numb, as though his consciousness had been transplanted into a wooden body. Movement, purpose, destiny, all these principles of existence seemed devolved to a higher power, a higher power whose sole objective was to destroy everything that was good in his life. Emily’s verdict, which had obviously been formed for some time but withheld for the sake of Victoria, silenced him for the simple reason that, in his heart of hearts, he knew it to be true.
He was still by Victoria’s bed, a crumpled, diminished figure staring at the wall with an expression of utter incomprehension in his eyes, when Emily reappeared in the doorway fifteen minutes later. She was wearing her hat and coat, and held a large carpet bag in both hands.
“George?”
He turned slowly and looked up at her. “Yes?”
“I’m going to the station now. I shouldn’t have to wait long for the first train. Do you want me to alert the relevant authorities regarding Victoria’s passing?”
“I’m sure you will do whatever you think is right, Emily. You always have.”
“Yes. Very well.” She hesitated, moving forward slightly and then stopping, as though a small fraction of her had wanted to comfort the shattered man before her but was then restrained by a more indifferent greater part. “I shall arrange to have the rest of my effects collected as soon as possible. A telegram should suffice to arrange a mutually agreeable time—”
“Just go, Emily,” George said. “Please just go.”
“I was merely… No, you’re right, now is not the time.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, goodbye, George. And I hope, no matter what animosity there exists between us, that you will accept my deepest sympathies for the loss of your daughter. No man should have to suffer such a double tragedy, but many do and still find the strength to carry on, as I hope you will.”
He snorted contemptuously. “How very typical of you, Emily, to combine condolence with a sermon. If you understood anything at all about loss I might have been willing to listen, but coming from someone incapable of love your words mean nothing.”
Tears glistened in Emily’s eyes, and she shook her head sadly.
“You could not be more wrong, George. You could not be more wrong.”
Without further explanation Emily turned away from her brother-in-law, who appeared to be fading into the gloom of that sad room, with its blue and grey wallpaper of roses climbing trelliswork which formed, in the dim lamplight, a kind of elegiac bower, shielding Victoria’s mortal remains like the impenetrable thickets found so often in the romantic fairytales which Emily adored. From that time on, whenever she saw climbing roses Emily was reminded of her niece, hair shining on the pillow of her deathbed, while her father as good as vanished, erased by regret.
Hannah
“… but there’s a soldier’s drill that we boys know
It’s practiced every night.
Blow out the candle, Mary,
‘Cos I got to get it right.
The corporal and four privates
Are coming to our aid,
To get their marching orders
On a hard and fast parade.
They’ll go… come on, everybody, you know the words!
Up… and down,
And up… and down,
We’ll give ‘em no respite,
Until the fountain’s flowing,
Until the morning light.
So if your missus locks the door
Or says that it’s too late,
Call up the corporal and his boys
You know they’ll put you straight
Just hold on tight and close your eyes
And march them up… and down!”
Georgie Parr opened his arms wide. “All together now! Up… and down! And up… and down! Just march them up and down!”
He took his bow flamboyantly, doffing his tatty top hat and sweeping it in a wide arc before replacing it on his head at a jaunty angle. And while his right hand was busy with his hat, the left subconsciously slipped into his jacket pocket and closed round Victoria’s pebble. How intimately he knew its contours and weight! George was never without the stone — he had even sewn a strengthened lining into every pocket that carried it to ensure its safety — and at night slipped it under his pillow like a lover’s note, secure in the knowledge that at least an echo of his daughter was within reach at all times. On stage George had become dependent on the pebble as a form of psychological crutch; one evening he had changed jackets after spilling powder down his front, and in his rush forgot to transfer the precious pebble. When, shortly into his act, his hand had dipped into the pocket and found it empty, George became so terrified that he had lost his talisman he pretended to become dizzy, made an excuse about having eaten a bad oyster, and rushed back to his dressing room, where he promptly burst into tears upon finding the pebble safely stowed in the stained jacket.
Although almost five years had passed since Victoria’s death, George was still emotionally numb. With his faith in a just universe shattered, and his requirements reduced to cheap lodgings, the gut-rot gin served in The Three Feathers and the applause and laughter of an audience, the music hall entertainer now regarded any time outside the theatre as an opportunity to hone what was already a finely tuned sense of self-pity. Katherine had recognised this trait in his personality but kept it at bay with a combination of encouragement and gently pointing out to him how comfortable they were in comparison with a large part of the population. Victoria’s vivacity had, in its own way, continued this exercise in perspective, but of course without either of these more positive personalities to bolster him George’s retreat into melancholia was inevitable. He maintained a minimum of contact with his small circle of friends, who had tried, and failed, to find a lady companion for him. George, however, was no longer interested in relationships. He was not willing to risk making himself vulnerable again, not when that vulnerability seemed destined always to end in unendurable pain.
One night, after drinking solidly for three hours in the Feathers, George ended up in the flea-ridden bed of a prostitute, who coaxed from him both an ejaculation and a cathartic outpouring of grievances against God, fa
te, disease, and any other malevolent agent he could think of. She sympathised, having lost a younger sister to cholera during the outbreak of 1866, so together they sat at her tiny kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and railing against the world’s manifest unfairness. Since that evening he occasionally called upon the services of one of the resort’s numerous prostitutes, many of whom recognised him and would whisper his catchphrase in his ear whilst putting on their own performance. Whenever George felt the need to visit one of the ‘introduction houses’ he always requested a girl with brown eyes. If none were available he would leave and try another house, because George was really looking for a substitute Zlatka, the contortionist from his landmark performance at Collins’ Music Hall. The day after their confrontation Zlatka went to Sam, demanding a slot following Georgie Parr in order to circumvent his opening lines. Sam Collins, however, was not a man to take orders from his turns. He refused to alter the running order, suggesting as a postscript that if she was looking for respect she should ‘do yer bending with yer quim facing away from the audience’. This was the final straw. Zlatka had left Collins’ Music Hall that same afternoon, leaving Georgie Parr with no choice but to modify his introduction. Following her sudden departure he developed the habit of checking every bill and poster he came across, hunting through the aerialistes, escapologists, trapeze artists and contortionists for that unusual name, as well as enquiring amongst other similar performers as to her whereabouts, but all without success. Zlatka had, to all intents and purposes, vanished. George wondered whether she had returned home, wherever that was, driven into retirement by his salacious remarks. He hoped not. Her talents, excruciating though they were to witness, deserved to be seen, and apart from anything else it also meant their paths might yet cross. If that happened then George was determined to obtain her forgiveness, and hopefully even her affections. Until then he found a degree of consolation with his brown-eyed stand-ins, who he instructed to squeeze his arms as tightly as they could whilst he cried out Zlatka’s name.
While the applause and whistles, and one or two ‘up and downs’, were still loud enough to drown out the sound of the waves beneath the theatre, George turned and trotted off-stage. He had learnt, during his time on the pier, that this audible benchmark was the perfect cue to finish his performance; indeed, the sea’s slopping and rustling against the piles had become synonymous with out-staying one’s welcome, that subtle but significant shift in an audience when, no matter how hard they have applauded, their appreciation of your act is fading, metamorphosing into anticipation of the following performer. Linger too long and you risked irritating the crowd, which would soon make its feelings known with jeers and whistles.
The dressing room was tiny, but at least, as an act at the top of the bill, he did not have to share the space. What George liked best about it, however, was the view from the window. It looked out over the length of the pier, back to the pale gas lamps and shadows of the resort. Even though the pier was only about three hundred yards in length there was a distinct sensation of separation from the town, even from civilisation. The theatre, particularly on nights such as this when fog or heavy rain brought down a further veil, existed on its own terms and laws, an independent state founded on neither land nor sea.
The clock of St Margaret’s Church was fading, absorbed by a thickening mist. Outside his window the filmy air took on a reddish glow from the stained glass dome on the roof above. He could hear the skittering feet and petty squabbles of starlings roosting on the roof.
George uncorked the bottle of gin on his dressing table and poured a generous measure into a glass. He lifted it, and seemed on the point of tipping the entire contents down his throat, but then stopped, hand and glass frozen in mid-air, thumbnail almost touching his lower lip. His focus had been on the slick surface of the gin, but as the glass reached its present position his gaze had shifted, if only for a moment, to his reflection in the mirror. What he saw stayed his hand, for it had seemed like an apparition looking back at him, vacant-eyed, pale, with dark hollows beneath each cheekbone, looming out of the dark like something risen from its grave. He stared at the creature in the mirror, which returned his scrutiny with what looked like dismay in its eyes, as though exposed against its wishes. George turned away, unnerved by the wraith. He drank the gin in one gulp and reached for the bottle.
The sound of a door slamming brought George rudely to his senses. He was slumped across the dressing table, his head resting on the crook of one arm, fingers still curled loosely round the empty glass. He blinked, lifted his head slightly and groaned at the shooting pains that immediately danced across his skull. His mouth felt as though someone had packed it with dust, leaching the last drop of moisture from his lips and tongue, and his chest burned with acid indigestion. Forcing himself into a sitting position, George pressed the fingertips of both hands against his forehead and gently rubbed. The skin slid quite freely against the hard curve of his skull; he wondered if, by increasing the pressure, he might push this mitigating layer right off to expose the truth of bone.
How long had he been asleep? George drew out his fob watch and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning. Tom would soon be locking the theatre, unless the slamming of the door that had woken him had been the stage door keeper leaving for the night. He considered going back to sleep. George had no wish to return to his lodgings, with its threadbare carpets, a bed whose springs shrieked like the dead in torment at the slightest movement and, overlying everything like the cracked varnish of an old painting, a pernicious air of humiliation which reminded him constantly of his reduced circumstances. George stood and walked to the window. The mist had dissipated somewhat, but still clung to the electric light bulbs along the pier, forming a glowing penumbra round each one. The cold night reached in to him through the glass; he could feel its caress on his cheek. The starlings shuffled on the roof of the theatre. It would always offer a resting place for its dearest confidants. Perhaps it was time to go home after all, George concluded.
Tom Drummond was writing something in a large ledger when Georgie Parr emerged from the gloom. “It’s you, Mr Parr!” he exclaimed. “When I ‘eard them footsteps I wondered if you was a ghost.”
“You don’t seem concerned by the prospect of facing someone from the spirit world,” George noted.
“Me? Nah. Compared to some of the acts we’ve ‘ad on ‘ere there ain’t no ghost frightenin’ enough to scare me.”
“I hope I’m not included in that category.”
The stage door keeper laughed briefly. “Don’t you worry about that, Mr Parr. I know some folk think you’re a terrible man ‘cos of what you say on stage, but that ain’t you, now is it? It’s an act, but they’re too damn stupid to see it, if you’ll excuse me for saying.”
“An act,” George confirmed. “Yes, that’s all it is. But then we all put on an act in one way or another, don’t we, Tom?”
“I don’t follow, Mr Parr.”
“I mean, we all play a character, to some extent. Sometimes we don’t even know we’re doing it, but then you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror and… it’s as though you don’t recognise who it is looking back at you. Does that make any sense?” George saw the glazed expression in the stage door keeper’s eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t take any notice of me, I talk a lot of nonsense at this time of night. Shall we walk along the pier together?”
“I’ve still got my records to get finished, but if you want to wait I’ll not be long.”
“It doesn’t matter,” George said. His headache had settled and condensed just behind his right eye, a knot of pain that was making his eye water. “I’ll head on, if that’s alright.”
Tom nodded. “You get off home, Mr Parr. You look tired.”
“I am, Tom. Dog tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“G’night, sir.” George was opening the stage door, felt the cold night air wrap itself around him, when Tom added, “Just me and the ghosts, now, eh Mr Parr?”
George glanced back over his shoulder. “They’re the only ones I really talk to nowadays,” he said, before nodding a final goodnight and closing the door.
A small, elongated pavilion stood on either side of the junction of pier and promenade, one containing an aviary of exotic birds, the other a hall of mirrors and tea room. Between these pavilions were three booths, identical in design to the ones positioned halfway down the pier. The central one was the theatre box office, whilst the other two sold sweets, toffee apples and pies. As George neared the booth on his right he noticed a figure, unmistakably a woman, peering in through one of its windows, who turned at the sound of his shoes on the planking and appeared to hesitate, as though debating whether to run away. George slowed his pace to give a less confrontational aspect to his approach, for he well knew that only one kind of woman was abroad at this time of night, and he did not want to scare her. The sight of himself in the dressing room mirror, the residual effect of the gin, and his remark about playing a character, all these had, on first sight of the prostitute, combined to create a huge desire for escape, an absenting of himself which he knew she could effect.
“Good evening,” he said quietly, coming to a halt at a respectable distance.
She took a step forward. In the mist-diffused light from the pier’s bulbs George suddenly saw how young she was, in all probability not more than fifteen or sixteen, her rounded features still more girl than woman. If Victoria had lived there would have been no great age between her and this street walker, and this realisation truly shocked him. He was not like many of the men who frequented the brothels, forever demanding young and innocent flesh, and prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of deflowering girls who were often drugged and tied to their bed, trussed up in order to allow their first customer unimpeded access.
And then he noticed her brown eyes.
“Sir,” she said.
He took another step forward. “A cold night to be out.”