The Mighty Slide

by Allan Ahlberg

  And whether or not

  They could stop her spreading.

  Well, they're wondering yet,

  If you care to know,

  For the numbers of Alison

  Continue to grow.

  She's lately reached

  A huge amount,

  Though how many's uncertain;

  They've all lost count.

  Meanwhile, the government is getting worried.

  ‘If she multiplies

  At her present rate,

  We'll be shoved off the Earth

  By 2008!

  Yes, the Universe

  Reduced to rubble,

  Just on account of Alison Hubble.’

  Meanwhile Alison…

  Who has, so to speak,

  Grown out of her tent,

  Is presently living

  In Stoke-on-Trent.

  All of it!

  The History of

  A Pair of Sinners

  * * *

  forgetting not their Ma who was one also

  I. Wherein the Harrises and their Dishonest Trade are Introduced

  In London Town some years ago

  There dwelt a pair of sinners.

  His name was Jack, her name was Belle

  And they was baby-skinners.

  They was brother and sister too

  I should perhaps just add;

  Lived with their Ma above the shop;

  They hadn't got no dad.

  Now baby-skinning, though a crime,

  Weren't quite so bad as you'd suppose.

  A skinner never hurt a child,

  He only skinned him of his clothes.

  Jack and Belle would work like this:

  First, spy a posh new pram,

  Distract the nursemaid from her task,

  Then grab the child and scram.

  Or else they'd lure some toddler

  For him to roam and stray,

  Then do him up inside Jack's coat

  And smuggle him away.

  One time they had a horse and cart

  And, with a criminal lad,

  They pinched a little schoolful;

  The mistress weren't half mad.

  Well, having got a child, y'see,

  They'd skin him swift and neat,

  Then leave him in his cotton drawers

  A-shivering in the street.

  Skinners, according to the police,

  Most thrived when summer was gone.

  The streets was gloomier places then,

  And a child had more clothes on.

  The shop which Mrs Harris kept,

  That was their mother's name,

  Sold baby clothes – I 'spect you guessed.

  She was a crafty dame.

  She washed ‘n’ ironed ‘n’ dyed the things

  All colours under the sun.

  She altered them with ribbons and such,

  My word, she did have fun.

  Then in the window they would go

  Or on a tailor's rack.

  Sometimes the folks they'd pinched things off

  Come in and bought 'em back.

  So, there y'are, that's Jack and Belle

  And their dishonest trade.

  And their dishonest mother too,

  With a fortune being made.

  Still, crime don't hardly ever pay;

  Justice will lie in wait;

  And how the Harrises met their end,

  I'll now to you relate.

  II. Wherein the Particulars of a Bad Business in St James's Park are Given

  The season, it is winter;

  The place, St James's Park;

  The time, a quarter after four,

  Just starting to get dark.

  A nursemaid and her little charge

  Are playing with a sledge.

  They do not spot Jack Harris

  A-crouched behind the hedge.

  Now Belle gets talking to the maid

  And asking her the way;

  And while she points directions out

  Her charge remains at play.

  The child shouts, ‘Whee!’ as down he slides

  Across the gleaming snow.

  Until, that is, Jack grabs him,

  And then he hollers, ‘Oh!’

  When she observes the empty sledge

  And the fleeing figure of Jack,

  The nursemaid says, ‘That's torn it,

  I 'spect I'll get the sack!'

  Then with a start she recollects

  Instructions she has had,

  And takes a whistle from her bag

  And blows the thing like mad.

  Meanwhile, of course, the Harrises,

  Having seen their plan succeed,

  Are scooting off by different routes

  To a place they have agreed.

  Jack, for his part, is puffing hard

  With the load he has to tote.

  It ain't such easy work to run

  With a infant up y'coat.

  Nor it ain't so easy neither

  Knowing best what course to steer

  When the keepers of the park approach

  And the constables appear.

  But the police, at least, is busy

  Taking statements from the maid

  And pondering Jack's footprints

  In the snow where they was laid.

  The rendez-vous is a shrubbery

  Just in St James's Square.

  When Jack arrives, exhausted like,

  He finds Belle waiting there.

  ‘Oh, Jack,’ says Belle, as she regards

  The luckless, pilfered child,

  ‘We've got a little gold-mine here.

  Look how his coat is styled!

  ‘Look at his shirt and his little hat.

  Look at this glove – it's kid!

  And here, these boots – what beauties,

  They must be worth a quid!’

  The child, I'm happy to report,

  Don't seem too much offended,

  But stands a-sucking of his thumb

  And hears hisself commended.

  Jack, though, is worried, that is plain.

  ‘Y'see,’ he says to Belle,

  ‘There is some funny business here;

  I know it – I can tell.

  ‘A whistle, well, that ain't so strange,

  Nor coppers, come to that.

  But when y'gets the Coldstream Guards

  It's time to smell a rat!’

  Jack was right – the guards was out,

  And the Horse Artillery too.

  The streets was teeming full of police,

  It was a real to-do,

  With shouts and lanterns in the square,

  The tumult of trotting hoofs;

  And watchmen searching houses,

  Even climbing on the roofs.

  Yet Belle keeps up her interest

  In the child's sartorial charms,

  Until upon his vest she spies

  A certain coat-of-arms.

  She spies it on his socks likewise.

  Then in a voice of dread,

  She says, ‘Is your name… Bertie?’

  The child, he nods his head.

  ‘God bless my heart,’ says Belle.

  Her rosy cheek it pales.

  ‘I think I know what's happened, Jack.

  We've pinched the Prince of Wales!’

  Which was the truth and did explain

  The mighty hue and cry.

  For there was halberdiers passing now,

  And cannon rolling by.

  ‘Well, knock me down with a feather,’ says Jack.

  ‘What a horrible, rotten trick.

  Who ever would have thought it?

  Here – get his clothes on quick!’

  So Jack and Belle re-dress the Prince

  And give his shoes a shine.

  They're clumsy, as y'might expect:

  Un-dressing's more their line.

  Belle strikes a
match to scrutinize

  The small unflappable lad.

  ‘He's tidier now than he was with his nurse,’

  She says. That can't be bad.’

  ‘What bothers me,’ Jack Harris says,

  ‘Is what to tell our mother.

  I mean, see, skinning's one thing –

  High treason, that's another.’

  ‘Oh, don't say that,’ Belle whispers.

  ‘He'll get the wrong idea.’

  She drops a curtsy to the Prince.

  ‘Can I, er… speak to you, m'dear?

  ‘Look here, y'little majesty,

  This is a false alarm.

  We are your loyalest subjects.

  We never meant no harm.’

  ‘No, just a joke,’ says Jack,

  ‘That's all what was intended.

  You better toddle home now.

  Your ma might be offended.’

  But Belle, from being truly loyal,

  Won't hear of such a thing.

  They cannot very well desert

  The country's future king.

  Besides, the Prince is disinclined

  To leave the shrubbery.

  It makes him think of Robin Hood,

  And, ‘I want to play,’ says he.

  Then for his sword he seizes up

  A hefty piece of wood,

  And waves it vigorously on high

  Just like a outlaw should.

  Thus, for a time, unwillingly,

  The Harrises are stuck

  With Belle in the role of Marian

  And Jack as Friar Tuck.

  While the little Prince in wild delight

  Goes charging here and there,

  A-bossing of his men about

  And saving his lady fair.

  ‘Be careful with y'sword, my liege,’

  Says Belle, provoked to speak.

  ‘You bang my brother's head like that,

  He‘ll be in bed for a week!’

  ‘Not only – aargh! – that,’ shouts Jack,

  As he suffers a clout again.

  ‘Why fight with me at all?

  I'm one of his Merrie – aargh! – Men.’

  Belle says, ‘Hush up there, do;

  You'll give us all away.’

  ‘Hush up y'self,’ Jack mutters.

  ‘It's me he's trying to slay.’

  Presently the Prince gets fagged

  From all the rogues he's smote,

  And says it is his wish to ride

  Inside Jack Harris's coat.

  I expect this was a novel thing

  For so well-raised a lad.

  It's doubtful if he got the chance

  When he was with his dad.

  Though sulking yet from previous hurts

  And mindful of further blows,

  Jack buttons up the royal boy

  Till not a hair of him shows.

  By now, of course, it is quite dark.

  Snow has begun to fall.

  The weary Prince is dozing off.

  Belle covers her head with a shawl.

  ‘Let's risk it and smuggle him back,’ says she.

  ‘Just up to the palace gate.’

  She clutches her shawl. ‘Be a patriot, Jack!

  Come on, it's getting late.’

  Jack weighs this up for a minute.

  He has a look in the square.

  The snow is thick and swirling.

  There hardly seems nobody there.

  ‘Right-o,’ says he. ‘I ever was

  A tender-hearted man.

  He takes Belle's arm; they ventures forth.

  ‘Look nonchalant, if y'can.’

  Out from the square the Harrises trot

  Into a narrow street.

  They hear the cry of a bellman;

  The tramp of muffled feet.

  A coster-lady calls to them

  From the steps of a hotel.

  ‘Bad business this, about the Prince!’

  ‘Oh, terrible,’ says Belle.

  A chimney-sweeper hurries by;

  The snow piled on his hat.

  ‘You've heard the news?’ ‘We have,’ says Jack.

  ‘Who'd do a thing like that?’

  At last they come into the Mall.

  The Prince is still a-snoozing.

  ‘We're winning, Jack,’ his sister says.

  Then, lo and behold, they're losing.

  The snow, it suddenly abates.

  A street lamp lights the scene.

  A chilly fear invests Belle's heart

  Where her warm hopes had been.

  Now up the Mall a carriage drives,

  Its springs and harness jigging.

  Inside, the nursemaid looking peeved;

  The Queen has give her a wigging,

  And sent her off to join the search.

  The maid stares mournfully out;

  Claps eyes on the approaching Jack

  And gives a grateful shout.

  ‘That's him – look, there – and her likewise!’

  The carriage skids to a halt.

  Whistles and bugles rend the air.

  Says Belle, ‘It's all my fault.’

  Meanwhile, the little sleeping Prince,

  Roused by the hullabaloo,

  Protrudes his head out of Jack's coat

  Like the son of a kangaroo.

  ‘Pity we never brought his sword,’

  Says Jack, by way of a quip.

  ‘He could've smacked a few of their heads

  While you and me give ‘em the slip.’

  For Jack well knows the jig is up.

  No man should hope to flee;

  Not when he's getting cornered

  By the Household Cavalry.

  Soon from the park a mighty horde

  Of constables appear,

  And boldly cry, ‘Hallo, hallo,

  Now then, what's going on here?’

  ‘I doubt if you'll believe this, sirs,’

  Says the perspiring Jack;

  ‘But this child was took erroneously.

  We was just bringing him back.’

  ‘A likely tale, my shifty lad,’

  The officers reply.

  ‘You'll tell us next you're Robin Hood.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Jack. ‘Not I.’

  III. Wherein the Scene of this History is Closed

  The trial of all the Harrises

  (Their Ma got nabbed as well)

  Took place at the Old Bailey

  As I shall briefly tell.

  To avoid the charge of treason,

  What they found they had to do

  Was own up to their actual crime

  And more or less prove it too.

  Thus, a crowd of little infants

  Was called and took the oath,

  Swore Jack and Belle had skinned 'em

  And recognized them both.

  The nursemaid gave her evidence,

  And the sledge – Exhibit A –

  Was held aloft in the courtroom

  For the jury to survey.

  The royal Prince did not appear.

  He had been sent to bed

  For applying his father's walking-stick

  To a elderly footman's head.

  ‘But you also claim it was a joke,’

  Said the judge to the accused.

  ‘Well, I'll tell you this for nothing,

  The Queen was not amused.’

  Then he sentenced them to go to jail

  For a couple of years apiece,

  And hoped that when they was let out

  Their criminal ways would cease.

  And cease they did, it can be said,

  For now the Harrises keep

  A pet shop in the Brompton Road:

  BEST DOGS AND BUDGIES – CHEEP!

  Postscript

  Unfortunately, I have just heard,

  While the above was being wrote,

  Jack was seen leaving London Zoo

  With a parro
t up his coat.

  Belle Harris had distracted

  The keeper and his men.

  I fear the pair of 'em has gone back

  To sinning once again.

  Historical Note

  Child Stripping – This is generally done by females, old debauched drunken hags who watch their opportunity to accost children passing in the streets, tidily dressed with good boots and clothes. They entice them away to a low or quiet neighbourhood for the purpose, as they say, of buying them sweets, or with some other pretext. When they get into a convenient place, they give them a halfpenny or some sweets, and take off the articles of dress, and tell them to remain till they return, when they go away with the booty.

  This is done most frequently in mews in the West-end, and at Clerkenwell, Westminster, the Borough, and other similar localities. These heartless debased women sometimes commit these felonies in the disreputable neighbourhoods where they live, but more frequently in distant places, where they are not known and cannot be easily traced. This mode of felony is not so prevalent in the metropolis as formerly. In most cases, it is done at dusk in the winter evenings, from 7 to 10 o'clock.