The Last Pleasure Garden

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Well, we shall look into it, ma’am, I promise you.’

  ‘And what should we do, Sergeant?’ asks Mrs. Featherstone.

  ‘Ah,’ replies Bartleby, considering the question. ‘I should lock all your doors of a night, ma’am. Just in case.’

  Mrs. Featherstone looks back at the sergeant, not at all satisfied with this response. It is a look that leaves him quite certain she would have definitely preferred an inspector, without any shadow of a doubt.

  Sergeant Bartleby quits the Featherstones’ room at a little past ten o’clock and retraces his steps through the college’s corridors, into the central cloister. He walks briskly, the letter safe in his jacket pocket, his mind turning over how to report the matter to Decimus Webb. He is sufficiently distracted that, as he turns a corner into the quadrangle, facing the main entrance, his feet slip on the polished stone, just as a maidservant comes walking briskly in the opposite direction. He narrowly avoids falling into her, bracing himself awkwardly against the wall.

  ‘Beg your pardon,’ says Bartleby.

  ‘No harm done,’ replies the young woman, brusquely.

  ‘No, but all the same,’ replies the sergeant.

  The maid is a ruddy-faced, muscular-looking woman, clad in a white pinafore, about twenty-five years of age. She stares at Bartleby with a certain degree of disdain, saying nothing. Bartleby is about to walk on, when he stops and turns back.

  ‘Here, what’s your name?’

  ‘Jane Budge,’ she replies, a little wary.

  ‘Have you worked here a long time?’ asks the sergeant.

  ‘Five year. What’s that to you?’

  ‘Do you know Reverend Featherstone?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘And do you know of any party that might bear some grudge against him?’

  ‘You a peeler or something? I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘I never said that you had. Do you though – know of anyone?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if there was. His Missus told us I was going to bleeding burn in hell-fire today, just ’cos I ain’t dusted her precious shelves.’

  Bartleby cannot help but smile. With a nod and brief thanks, he bids the maid good night.

  It is too dark for him to notice the nervous expression that passes over Jane Budge’s face as he departs; nor the peculiar haste with which, once he has gone, she walks in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In Edith Grove, Charles Perfitt stands up and lights the fish-tail burners above his drawing-room mantelpiece. The gas splutters to life, as the flames flicker on either side of the tall gilt mirror above the hearth, their light reflected in the glass.

  ‘Shall I do the lamp?’

  Mr. Perfitt nods towards the gasolier that hangs from the ceiling but his wife, seated at the small writing desk against the wall, does not turn her head.

  ‘Or shall I just throw myself on the fire?’

  Mrs. Perfitt looks up. ‘I’m sorry, dear, what did you say?’

  ‘Shall I light the lamp?’

  ‘Yes, dear, you may as well.’

  Mr. Perfitt strikes a match and turns on the gas-tap.

  ‘Is your correspondence particularly enthralling?’ he asks.

  ‘Alice has sent a note. Beatrice is to wear that green surah she wore at Easter, so, thankfully, everything is all right.’

  ‘Is it?’ replies her husband.

  ‘Charles, you don’t see at all. It means Rose can wear the poult de soie that Madame Lannier showed me last week; I knew I was wise to have her put it aside. I am so pleased.’

  ‘Is that so? I swear, I should have never agreed to you attending this wretched ball in the first place. Rose is quite beside herself already. And you are little better.’

  ‘Charles! It is the perfect occasion. Rose may be introduced to – well, Lord knows who!’

  ‘That is precisely my concern,’ says Mr. Perfitt, his expression suddenly more serious.

  Mrs. Perfitt gets up and puts a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. ‘You must let her go into society, Charles. She is eighteen. It is expected. She will have no better chance. Besides, what would you do? Lock her in her room until she is an old maid?’

  Mr. Perfitt shakes his head. ‘I only want her happiness. It is just that I am not sure she is quite level-headed enough to cope with such excitement. I should not like her to fall in with the wrong sort.’

  Mrs. Perfitt removes her hand.

  ‘How could that happen at the Prince’s Ground, of all places? Charles, please. She will never improve if we keep her cooped up like some caged bird.’

  Mr. Perfitt smiles faintly. ‘You may be right.’

  ‘Of course, I am. Now, don’t take on so, please. I must write back to Alice.’

  Mr. Perfitt nods, and returns to his arm-chair, picking up the newspaper he put down earlier. He reads for a minute or two, then looks up at his wife.

  ‘Where is Rose?’

  ‘In her room. I think she was a little tired. We spent such a long time talking about her dress; and she will argue so. I expect she is asleep.’

  Mr. Perfitt looks at his wife, already absorbed again in her correspondence, and shakes his head.

  Rose Perfitt does not sleep. Rather, though the bedroom curtains are all drawn, she is seated at her desk, with all the accoutrements of letter-writing laid out in front of her, and an old brass Argand lamp to provide illumination. She takes up her pen, dipping the metal nib into the inkwell, and puts it to paper, writing in a neat hand:

  My Dear Love,

  Another month has gone by and you have not come. I have waited and waited but you never came. Please come, beloved, and clasp me to your heart. I know you will be true. I have not forgotten you, but I know you shall come.

  A kiss, fond love, a kiss.

  Your own ever dear

  R.

  Rose looks down at the paper, carefully dabs it with a sheet of blotting paper, then folds it and presses it to her lips. She holds it there for a good while, her eyes closed, as if repeating some silent ritual. Then, at last, she returns it to the desk, and slides it into an envelope. She does not, however, pen any address, but merely closes the flap of the envelope and opens a concealed drawer, adding it to a large bundle already there.

  There is a knock at the door. She hastily closes the desk.

  ‘Come in?’

  The Perfitts’ maid-servant enters.

  ‘Would you like any supper, Miss?’

  ‘No, Richards, thank you,’ replies Rose.

  ‘It’s just the Missus said you didn’t eat much at dinner, Miss. I thought I’d ask.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.’

  The girl leaves, closing the bedroom door behind her. Rose Perfitt tidies away her stationery, running her hands over the wood of the desk.

  On a whim, she leans over the surface, laying her head upon her hands, and closes her eyes.

  She is a little girl lost in the maze at Cremorne; the endless green hedges that seem to turn and twist in an infinite puzzle. She is there as it grows dark, the heavens seemingly descending lower and lower, extinguishing the sun.

  She grows tired; she sits upon the path until a boy comes along. He teases her; chaffs her about her frock. She does not like him and runs.

  There, that is when it happens. It is inevitable. The sound of footfalls on the grass, catching up to her.

  That is what makes her heart race.

  Then her mother calls out to her.

  Rose Perfitt wakes up. The lamp still burns beside her, but not as brightly. Her hair has come loose, and her neck is stiff. For a moment, she recalls her dream.

  But only for a moment.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Not a half mile distant from the Perfitts’ home, Mrs. Bertha Featherstone lies in her bed. It is unusual for the bells of St. Mark’s chapel to wake her during the night and the mere fact of being conscious at such an ungodly hour rather disturbs her. She bli
nks, listening to the seemingly endless peals, estimating that it must be midnight.

  Then she hears footsteps outside.

  It is perhaps rather foolhardy of her to put on her dressing-gown, without alerting her husband in the adjoining room. Nonetheless, she does so, and proceeds into the narrow hallway outside her bedroom. In a matter of seconds, she reaches the door that leads into the cloisters and swings it forcefully open.

  ‘Who’s there? Show yourself!’

  She peers round the darkened quadrangle. She can hear the sound of footsteps again, clicking on the stones.

  ‘Don’t skulk in the shadows – I know you are there.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Mrs. Featherstone turns, startled, to face the figure of Jane Budge. The maid-servant is wrapped in a tartan shawl, a crumpled white bonnet upon her head.

  ‘I weren’t skulking anywhere, ma’am,’ says the maid emphatically.

  Mrs. Featherstone looks a little relieved. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’

  ‘Going home, ma’am, as it happens,’ she replies, her voice rather tart. ‘We don’t often see you at this hour.’

  The clergyman’s wife pulls her dressing-gown tightly around her body. ‘No, indeed. I was asleep. I thought I heard something.’

  ‘Likely it was me, then.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, good night. Go carefully.’

  ‘I always do, thank you, ma’am,’ she replies. ‘Good night to you.’

  And, with a glance at Mrs. Featherstone, and a haughty look rather unsuited to her position in life, Jane Budge cuts across the courtyard, out onto the cobbled drive towards the gate-house.

  The gate-keeper himself, whose nights are spent in a small wooden hut by the entrance, is nowhere to be seen. Only the sound of his snoring announces his presence to any would-be intruders. Miss Jane Budge, therefore, does not trouble to wake him, but lets herself out, and walks briskly eastwards along the King’s Road.

  Jane Budge’s walk home takes her past the gates to Cremorne Gardens, as it does every night. She herself has little doubt that the pleasure gardens are not quite so bad as they are painted. True, she notices a couple of hansom and clarence cabs waiting by the gate. And it may be that some of those getting in or out of the vehicles are somewhat the worse for drink – but there is nothing so unusual in that. And if the women whom certain gentlemen have upon their arms are not their wives or daughters – well, who is to know? It does not matter to her, in any case.

  A mile down the road, she comes to the old World’s End inn, then walks down to Lindsey Row, which runs along the river. The end of the row is where the Thames Embankment begins: a grand gas-lit carriageway stretching eastwards, on to Westminster and beyond. But Jane Budge’s journey takes her south – to Battersea Bridge.

  To anyone unfamiliar with the crossing, it might seem a bold move. Built upon rickety-looking wooden pilings, sloping at a steep angle, the bridge gives the impression of an altogether makeshift affair, thrown together in haste. Admittedly, it boasts a quartet of lamps, mounted on the iron railings that run along either side; but it is principally a timber construction; and old timber at that, nailed together in odd proportions and angles, occasionally giving out a mournful groan, complaining in vain at the shifting waters below. Still, it is safe enough; Jane Budge knows the bridge of old. She pays the toll-keeper and crosses the Thames, alone in the moonlight.

  On the Surrey shore, the Battersea Road is devoid of activity. The handful of public houses along its length have, by and large, dispersed their customers into the night, and the labourers and factory workers who inhabit the area are mostly in their beds. Further from the river, it becomes quieter still: the houses diminish in number, and the gas-lights disappear; for Battersea is still a half-finished suburb, a place where clay soil is being churned up to make bricks, and where plots of ground, once fields, are marked up with lengths of rope, in anticipation of putative terraces and villas. It is, moreover, a rather hazardous place in darkness: trenches and pits abound upon either side of the road, and there are odd turnings, barely visible in the nocturnal gloom. But Jane Budge seems perfectly familiar with the Battersea brick fields, only slowing down when she comes to a dirt-path known in the vicinity as Sheepgut Lane, a lonely road in the shadow of the railway lines that crisscross nearby Lavender Hill. She trudges along, passing several old cottages – where there is a not a single light visible – until she comes to a slightly larger building, set back a little from the road. It resembles an old, rather dilapidated farm-house, with a solitary candle that burns in the parlour window. The light faintly illuminates a handwritten sign upon the front door: ‘Budge’s Dairy’. Jane Budge lets herself in.

  ‘That you, Janey?’ says a voice from the candle-lit parlour.

  ‘Who were you expecting, you old whore?’

  There is a laugh from the parlour, as Jane Budge unwraps her shawl. She opens the connecting door and walks in.

  The front parlour of Budge’s Dairy is a low-ceilinged room, thick with smoke, emanating from a small brick-built hearth that gives out more fumes than heat. As for the room’s decoration, there is little to speak of: some plain-looking crockery sits upon an old oak table that has seen better days; a couple of wicker baskets lie heaped up in a corner. There are, however, two persons inside. One is a woman of about sixty years, seated upon a chair by the fire. She is a little plump, with grey hair pulled tightly back from her face, and wears a voluminous russet-coloured dress that balloons out from her legs, entirely concealing their very existence. Almost hidden in her arms is the second inhabitant: a baby of some three months, swaddled in a grey blanket.

  ‘What’s the fire going for?’ asks Jane Budge.

  ‘The little ’un’s got a chest,’ replies Mrs. Budge.

  ‘I ain’t surprised with you smothering him like that.’

  Mrs. Budge tuts. ‘I looked after you, Janey girl, didn’t I? I knows what I’m doing.’

  Jane Budge walks over to the baby and looks at his face, touching his cheek with her finger. ‘It ain’t his chest, Ma. He’s got a fever.’

  ‘That’s his natural complexion. Quite healthy.’

  ‘If you like.’

  Mrs. Budge purses her lips. ‘Well, did you see your father on the road?’

  Jane Budge shakes her head.

  ‘How about Madam? Did she pay her dues today?’

  ‘No, she wrote us a letter, though,’ replies Jane.

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘You won’t like it. She wants to see the boy. Won’t take no for an answer.’

  Mrs. Budge lets out a long breath. ‘Is that what she said? Well, I’ll be blowed. After all this time.’

  As Mrs. Budge speaks, the movement wakes the baby in her arms. The child lets out a pitiful cry, halfway between mewling and choking, its face reddening. Mrs. Budge looks down at the infant, then stands up.

  ‘Bring that light, will you, Janey?’ she says, nodding to the candle. Her daughter obliges.

  ‘That’s enough of you, little ’un,’ she says, walking towards the back of the parlour. With her daughter holding up the candle, she pushes open a low wooden door with her foot. Jane Budge follows idly behind her.

  The second room is a little cold and lacks a single window. Once, it most likely was a store-room of some kind. Mrs. Budge lays the infant down in a simple cot that lies upon the stone-flagged floor.

  ‘She wants to see the child,’ repeats Jane Budge.

  ‘Then she’ll have to see him,’ replies her mother. ‘Seeing is believing, ain’t it? What about Mary Whit’s boy?’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  Mrs. Budge smiles, showing the rather irregular contours of her teeth. ‘I’ll send her a note. Here, come and have a proper sit. I’ve got a drop of something strong that your Pa got hold of.’

  ‘If you like,’ says Jane Budge. As she follows her mother, she raises up the candle, casting its meagre glow on half a dozen similar cots that lie arranged in twin rows upon the flag-st
ones.

  ‘How many today, Ma?’ says Jane Budge, peering at the infant face in each cot.

  ‘Five little angels,’ replies Mrs. Budge. ‘None of ’em a bother. Two is ailing, though. Won’t be long.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Ah, it is, Janey,’ replies Mrs. Budge, complacently. ‘Terrible.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Good morning. Your number?’ asks the warder.

  ‘D4-3-10. Ticket-of-leave,’ replies the young man.

  ‘Sign here or make your mark, 4-3-10,’ says the warder. The young man obliges.

  The warder looks down at his papers. ‘Nelson, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You have your freedom, Nelson. Do not squander it.’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t intend to.’

  ‘Very well,’ continues the warder, handing the young man a small book from a pile of identical volumes upon his desk. ‘The chaplain wishes to give you this, for your moral welfare. You can read, I take it?’

  The young man nods.

  ‘Good,’ continues the warder. ‘I commend it to you. It has the address of the Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Society; you will find them at Charing Cross – make that your destination and you will not go far wrong.’

  The young man casts a cursory glance over the gift.

  ‘Be on your way, then. Next!’

  It is a little past nine o’clock on a Monday morning when George Nelson quits the confines of Pentonville Prison. There is no mass exodus of freed inmates from the gaol. Instead, they trickle through in ones and twos during the morning, at carefully timed intervals, to avoid any possible disturbance. Thus Nelson is quite alone as he passes the Warden’s lodge and walks beneath the rather fanciful portcullis of the prison’s gate-house. In fact, as he goes down the avenue that leads to freedom, beside the yellow brick of the outer wall, his footsteps echo on the stone pavement, a strangely solitary, lonely sound.