And then, at last, the hatch shifted a little, and then some more, and Pizzy’s head, illuminated by a candle, emerged into the room.
‘You can come down now,’ he said wearily. His tie and top buttons were undone, and his clothes all creased.
One by one, we stretched our legs, rolled on to our knees, pulled on to something to bring ourselves to standing. Bernie reached her hand out to me; I took it, and she pulled me up.
We went down to the first floor. I could not tell if the room had been ransacked; it looked fairly orderly to me, but the others were wandering around it, opening drawers, assessing the damage.
‘How much was it, Ben?’
‘Four hundred books, nine hundred and fifty prints, and eight hundredweight of unsewn letterpress. All the Gamianis went.’
‘Will they be destroyed?’ one of the printers asked.
‘Oh yes.’ He looked tired; he ran his hands through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. ‘But at least we saved some of it. Thanks to young master Trotter.’ He ruffled Alec’s hair, and the boy ducked out of reach.
‘I really must go, Mr Pizzy,’ I said, like someone who had stayed too long at a christening. ‘It’s been a long day, and I must get back to my daughter.’ Some food and beer was brought out from underneath a table.
‘Nobody leaves,’ Pizzy replied. ‘Not till it’s safe. And certainly not a fine lady like yourself, Mrs Damage.’ He smiled with his mouth closed. ‘You must stay here the night; I will get Bernie to make a bed for you upstairs. You will be quite safe, I assure you. Alec, go down and guard the door.’ He handed me a glass of beer, and I took it, but I could not drink, despite my thirst.
‘So, what ’appened, Pizz?’ said pencil-man.
‘Remember the nob with the black cane who came in last week?’ Pizzy said. Pencil-man nodded. ‘Vice Squad.’
‘So was it the constable today?’
‘Yes. He was a give-away the moment he walked in the door. “Do you ’eppen to ’ev any prints by Ackillees Devereer?”’ Pizzy said, imitating the policeman’s artifically polished accent. Someone laughed. ‘And Charlie played it so straight. “Ackillees Devereer?” he said back to him. “Are you, perchance, referring to the French illustrator, Achilles – Asheel – Deveeria?” And the rozzer said, “Er, why yes, perchance, oi em.” And blimey, his glasses fell off at the sight of them!’
‘Which ones did ’e show ’em?’
‘The lithos.’ I knew them. They were a sequence of lithographs on the history of morals under Louis-Philippe. ‘And when he could finally shut his mouth, he said he was going to seize the prints, and any more like them in the establishment, and take him before the magistrate, under the authority of Lord Campbell’s Act, and then five of ’em came bursting through the door like a rum rush, grasping everything they could get their sordid, hypocritical little hands on, and dragged our Charlie off to Bow Street!’
‘Will he go to prison?’ I asked.
‘If he does, he’ll be out within the week, Mrs Damage,’ Mr Pizzy rejoined.
‘Why so sure?’
He laid a finger on one side of his nose, then said softly, ‘Contacts.’
‘Where?’
Slowly and with satisfaction he said, ‘A Noble Savage. In the Home Office.’
‘Really?’ I raised my eyebrows.
‘Charlie once had a two-year conviction with hard labour, and was out in three weeks with hands soft as butter. Nowadays they don’t even bother to convict him; they just hold him for as long as they dare before getting their fingers rapped. They just do it to get their hands on a bit of filth which they enjoy for a bit then burn it.’ And again, he roared with laughter, until his face fell suddenly, and he said solemnly, ‘We did lose a fair bit of stock and press, though. That’s not so good.’ Then he seized his pipe, threw up the sash-window, and leaned out of it. He unscrewed the burner of the gaslight, and vicious flames flared up from it, nearly scorching the wooden figure of the African, but he nevertheless managed to light his pipe from it. And when he pulled himself back into the room, having singed his whiskers and blackened one side of his pipe, he started what seemed to be a well-aired speech about the burning of books at Ephesus, the fiery purge of Don Quixote’s library, and the flame of freedom that would burn out hypocrisy. ‘Nihil est quod ecclesiae ob inquisitione veri metuatur,’ he told me assuredly. Then he slumped in his chair once more, and sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, before reaching over and clasping one of my hands on my lap. He clearly enjoyed his master’s absence.
‘Dora, Dora. It’s a shame these cases hardly go to trial any more!’
‘Why would you want them to? Would you not get done?’
‘Oh my yes, or no, we wouldn’t. Only the trials are such merry sport! By rule of law, each obscene item has to be categorised and described, and read out as the list of indictments in court. Item one, clay phallus, in the style of Pompeii. Item two, daguerrotype of naked woman in congress with a horse. Item three, print of Hyperion fucking a satyr up the arse. Oh, it cheers the heart of a radical obsceniteur to hear such words spoken in a court of law by an upholder of the law. Is that not the heart of the matter? Have we not won, then?’
‘Won, Mr Pizzy?’
‘Yes, won, Mrs Damage. Please call me Bennett. Do you think we are in this for the money? This is a moral crusade! My father started it all. He was a true radical, part of the Cato Street Conspiracy. Suspected, but never proven. Clever man. He was one of many radical publishers – based, as they all were, in Holywell-street. They were freethinkers. Splendore veritatis gaudet ecclesia! They published tracts on politics, religion and sexuality, and they did this –’ he waved his hand around the room ‘– only to satirise the aristocracy and the Church. And to raise funds for more radical press, of course. Now, take me. Chip off the old block as far as politics are considered, but no bloody hope of a revolution round the corner. My challenge is to Lord Campbell’s vile Act (oh, he who could show you a few vile acts, I’m sure!); the radical cause I champion is the distribution of obscenity to the working classes.’
‘Working classes, Mr Pizzy?’ I retorted. ‘Mr Diprose pays me more per binding than my husband earned in a week! And I assure you, that if the man in the street were to chance upon the princely sum of three guineas, he would not beat a path to your door to spend it.’
‘Unfortunately, Dora, for I prefer to call you Dora, you are indeed correct, but the situation is only temporary, while I earn enough to fund my radical ventures. It is not only a mighty lucrative scene you and I have fallen into, but one that provides me with remarkable fodder for my ambitions. Think of the hypocrisy: these lords take their families to the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens on Saturday by day, their mistresses (or, indeed, rent-boys) on Saturday night, and spend the rest of the week legislating against Cremorne’s vices!’ He pulled a file out from under the floorboards. ‘Look.’ Here he showed me a host of pamphlets and unbound manuscripts, like yellowbacks, but less mustardy and lurid in hue, although not, I was to discover, in content. I cast my eye over the stories.
The old familiar characters were there, differing only in name: the Right Honourable Filthy Lucre, Lord Havalot Fuckalot, Lady Termagent Flaybum, the Earl of Casticunt, the Comtessa de Birchini. I picked up one entitled Reasons Humbly Offer’d for a Law to Enact the Castration of Popish Ecclesiastics, then put it back down again.
‘Is this not the key to the health of the nation? This is where Sir Jocelyn and I find common ground, in the free discussion – and unbridled practice – of sexuality.’
‘But is not Sir Jocelyn from the very class you seek to overthrow?’
‘Indeed, you are right. But he is a rare ’un. The fellow is more a man of the people than he lets on. Don’t you covet his smoking-room?’
‘Mr Pizzy,’ I said, for I wished to ask a question.
‘I love the way you say my name, Dora. Some say, “Pitzy”. How Italian. Others “Pissy”, and well they might. You, you make it rhyme with “dizzy”. As well
you might, given your giddy-making charms. But please call me Bennett.’
‘Mr Pizzy.’
‘Yes, Dora?’
‘Will they really destroy all the stock?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was any of my work in it?’
‘No. I can say that with certainty. Your line of work runs directly between Diprose and the Noble Savages, and is not kept in the shop.’
‘So will I be paid for it?’
‘Of course. The coffers are not connected either.’
‘I have not been paid for a while.’
‘And I shall see it gets attended to. But you should not visit here any more. It is not safe. I, or another of Charles’s men, will deliver and collect from Lambeth. I shall relish the journey. Oh, but Jocelyn was right. He called you a rum doxy. Now I am sure you are of better breeding, but still, a fine-made wench.’
‘Will you excuse me, please, Mr Pizzy.’ I stood up, and whispered to Bernie, ‘I need to relieve myself.’
‘Hallelujah,’ she replied. ‘And we thought you were too pure to piss.’
‘You must not use the privy,’ Mr Pizzy commanded. ‘As I said, nobody leaves.’
‘So where can I go?’
‘There’s a chamber-pot in the ante-room.’ He pointed to a cubby-hole off the top of the staircase.
I stood up, and sidled carefully past Pizzy’s knees. I felt his fingertips brush up my legs, then a thumb curled and pressed itself into the top of my thigh. I brought my boot down on the toes of his left foot and did what damage I could with a worn-out heel. At last, a fine purpose for the heels of those unwearable brown boots; would that I had them on now. I did not look back at his face.
But from the top of the stairs, as I stooped to enter the cubby-hole, I could see that his attention was now occupied with Bernie, and no one else could see me from the printing room. I did not even think, but darted down the stairs into the rear room by the alley. The chair on which I had sat this morning was lying on its side; Diprose’s chair had been used to gain access to a high cupboard; most of the photographs from the catalogue had been removed, but some remained, ground into the floor, disfigured by footprints and muck.
Alec Trotter was asleep across the door into the alley. I pitied the poor boy for the aches he would feel in the morning. I slid into the shop, and tried the door into Holywell-street, but it was locked.
I went back into the rear room, and tried to reach the bolt without standing on any part of Alec’s body, but I could not. And then I noticed that the door was also locked, and the key glinted from the hand on which Alec’s body lay. I could touch it, but I would have to unlace his fingers from around it. And then he woke. He was about to cry out when I seized him and hushed him.
‘Who’s there?’ he said, terrified. ‘We’re armed!’
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Dora Damage.’
‘You can’t go,’ he said. ‘I’m not to let ya.’
‘You must. It’s urgent. I have to leave.’
‘You can’t. You’ll get us all in trouble. Me ma said. I ain’t gonna.’
‘There’s two shillings in it for you. They’ll never know it was you. Look. I’ll break this window, and you can say it was robbers. Or rozzers.’ I flashed the coins at the boy, and he weighed them in his head. Then he looked down at the key in his hand.
‘I can’t do it.’ I placed first one coin, and then the next, in his palm alongside the key, but at that moment we heard the cursings and hushings of perturbed folk from upstairs, followed by the bobbing halos of candles and oil-lamps coming down. I seized the key, and clenched it in my fist.
‘Oi,’ Alec shouted. ‘Give that back!’
Pizzy arrived first. His smile was gone; however he was going to greet me, I knew it would be with anger.
But he redirected it. Before I could receive whatever harsh words were due to me, Alec Trotter was cuffed round the ear, then caught sharply in the eye by Pizzy’s two forefingers.
‘Hey,’ I started to cry out, and I reached towards the lad, only to find another hand come sharply round from below to slap me across the cheek. Stung, I turned to vent my wrath on Mr Pizzy, but then saw Mrs Trotter, red-faced and stalwart, hand poised to deliver another blow.
‘Sit down, Dora, and be quiet,’ Pizzy said, righting the chair that lay on its side. I obeyed, glaring at Mrs Trotter and rubbing my cheek.
‘Here, take this,’ said Bernie with a modicum of tenderness, and handed me a steaming mug of tea. She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, then set the tea-pot on the table. She pulled Diprose’s chair up next to me, and we refilled our cups at intervals, drinking but not talking. I did not want to look around me at anyone. I would not cry.
At length I felt an icy shaft of air, and heard Mr Pizzy, holding the door open into the alley, saying, ‘Go on, Dora. Your carriage awaits.’
‘Be off with you,’ Mrs Trotter said. ‘And good riddance.’ I fell into the alley-way in an effort to draw my shawl closer, and she called after me, ‘And don’t be causing any more trouble to poor lads who can’t help it.’
I was free at last. What a blessing it was to be out of that horrid building. But I soon faced new dangers, as I put my head down and started to navigate the alleys out towards the Strand. I turned one way, and then the other, but the darkness had put up new walls around me, and I quickly lost my bearings. I remembered the ghost of Holywell-street, so I fingered my mother’s hair-bracelet like a talisman, and muttered into myself like a madwoman. Alone except for my imagination, I started to rush and panic. I stumbled over a blanket that heaved with sour breath; a hand thrust forth from it and grabbed my ankle as I hastened past. I tripped, kicked, and pulled my leg out from its bony clutch with the fury of a mother separated from her child, and I ran. Out at last, I fell into the yellow glare of the Strand, and the new fears of the gas-lights as a woman alone in the London streets at night.
Illuminated, I was making a spectacle of myself; in the darkness between the sulphurous pools, I was putting myself at the mercy of unseen terrors. Some sailors stood talking to some men in top-hats, and they looked at me. I knew not where was safest, in the light, or in the shadows.
A solitary cab waited on the road, just at the entrance to the alley-way. It had seen me, for sure, in the lamp-light. I quickened my pace westwards, skirting the pools of gas-lights. But the cab came up beside me, and continued at my own pace, before pulling up ahead of me. The driver hopped down from his perch and landed directly in my path.
When he seized my elbow, I screamed. ‘This way, Mrs Damage,’ he said gruffly. ‘Or didn’t Pizzy tell you?’ I couldn’t snatch my arm away from his strong grip; no one came to my assistance. He shoved me into the back of the cab; I tried to crouch at the door, in order to hurl myself out as soon as I could, but the night did not offer the slow traffic of noon, and the speed to which the driver jimmied his horse threw me back into the seat. I prayed for a sheep to wander into the road from Hyde Park as we raced down Knightsbridge, but the way was clear. And, by the time we turned into Wilton-place and slowed to a halt in Belgrave-square, it was too late.
The driver pulled me down from the carriage, and encircled his rough hand around my waist. I wanted to slap him for his insolence, but the mansion to which he had brought me awed me, and I dared not.
Within, a butler bundled me up an elegant staircase lined with stern portraits, and into a bottle-green office. It was large, but moderately furnished; it did not smell of smoke, or betray the opulence of its owner. It was studious, and reserved; what furniture there was, was orderly and precise, like an officer’s room in the nearby barracks. There was a simple writing-desk on one side, a bookcase with a selection of books, and a brown leather couch beneath the window. The only blots in the room were the ink-stains around the well on the desk, and a half-written paper at an angle to the others. I had no idea what time of night or morning it was.
Then a door opened somewhere in the house, and I heard a low rumbling of male voices, and some
baritone laughter, and then the door to the office opened, and the butler announced, ‘Lord Glidewell’.
Labor Bene – for it was indeed he, Valentine, Lord Glidewell – smiled warmly at me, and clutched my hand by way of welcome. He was a small man, unremarkable in features, wearing a deep-red quilted smoking-jacket, with black braid about his waist, and holding a glass of port.
‘Mrs Damage. Sir Jocelyn will be joining us shortly. We are dining tonight. Tell me, Mrs Damage, do you like birds?’ His affability was unexpected, given the unconventional manner in which he had summoned me. ‘Behind me are some of the finest ornithological volumes you will ever see. I am fascinated too with reptiles and insects; the rarest of the species interest me most. My interests, you will see, are similar to those of Sir Jocelyn’s, but mine is a mere hobby, and its subjects have the great advantage of not being human; and therefore, not being able to answer back.’
I forced a small smile, which I believed was expected of me.
‘Will you sit, while we wait?’
I perched on the edge of the couch, and asked, ‘Lord Glidewell, please tell me why I am here?’
‘Why, my dear lady? We have an account to settle, do we not? I have been sent word of your untoward behaviour this past day on this matter.’ His courtesy and civility were unmatchable, but the very calmness of his displeasure unbound every nerve in my body. ‘To place our entire shared venture in jeopardy with such imprudence only serves to demonstrate to us how remiss we have been in not keeping up our payments to you.’
His voice was so liquid I feared I would slip up on it. I had to be careful what I said.
‘Lord Glidewell. My misgivings were not pecuniary.’
‘They were prurient, then. Madam, we all have the itch. Only some of us know how to scratch it.’
‘No. The prurience is not mine, either. Only that –’ But Lord Glidewell had come to stand directly in front of me, and was knitting his brow, such that I fell silent. He began as if by addressing the shadowy towers of the Knightsbridge Barracks through his window, but his words fell into my ears only.
The Journal of Dora Damage Page 23