The Last Pleasure Garden

by Lee Jackson

  ‘And the cab, Rose?’ replies Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Your Papa is not made of money.’

  ‘Then I shall walk.’

  ‘You shall do no such thing!’ exclaims Mrs. Perfitt. ‘Very well, I suppose you cannot disappoint Beatrice. Have Richards find a cab. And be back by five – or your father will have something to say about it, I am sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama!’ exclaims Rose, running up to kiss her mother. Mrs. Perfitt smiles, but does not let her daughter leave the room without offering some further advice.

  ‘Remember, Rose, we expect certain standards of behaviour now you are a grown woman. If we are to be introduced at the Prince’s on Saturday no-one will care to hear about the ices at Barassa’s. You must put aside these girlish things, dear.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ replies Rose Perfitt dutifully.

  ‘And do take your sun-shade.’

  In a matter of minutes Rose Perfitt is seated in a four-wheeled cab, wearing her best linen day-dress, a maroon check, and carrying her favourite Japanese parasol. With her fare paid in advance, the cab ought to speedily progress eastwards towards Barassa’s Fancy Confectioner’s, a popular resort for young ladies taking tea in the purlieus of Chelsea and Brompton. Instead, contrary to Miss Perfitt’s supposed itinerary, it stops just round the corner from Edith Grove, on the King’s Road.

  It is Rose Perfitt herself who pulls the check-string that calls the driver to a halt. Moreover, she opens the door of the cab, stepping onto the pavement before he can even inquire what is the matter.

  ‘You may go,’ she says. ‘I shall walk from here. It is such a beautiful day, after all. Please, keep the fare.’

  ‘Walk, Miss?’ says the cab-man, utterly perplexed, not having travelled more than four hundred yards.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replies Rose with a distinct nod, as if to signal a polite end to the conversation.

  The cab-man raises his eyebrows – in a manner calculated to suggest he possesses certain doubts as to the mental faculties of his passenger. However, with a fare already in his pocket, he resolves to let the matter rest, and so instructs his horses to ‘walk on’, albeit allowing himself a brief glance over his shoulder. Rose, for her part, waits until the cab is in the far distance, then turns round, walking hastily across to the opposite side of the King’s Road – to the very entrance of Cremorne Gardens.

  ‘On your own, Miss?’ asks the clerk on the gate. ‘One shilling.’

  The clerk’s initial question is not a pointed one. For the daytime reputation of the Gardens is not so bad as the night. Indeed, it is not unknown for nursemaids and governesses, from more liberal households, to bring their infant charges, as a special treat, to listen to the concerts of Cremorne’s own brass band, or to the see the matinée performances of Senor Rosci’s Astounding Dogs and Educated Monkeys in the Theatre Royal. If a certain proportion of Chelsea’s inhabitants consider even these innocuous daytime amusements to be tainted, it is only a small proportion. It is certainly not a consideration in the mind of Rose Perfitt – she eagerly buys her ticket and makes her way through the gates.

  Once inside, Rose walks with confident steps along the Gardens’ central tree-lined avenue. As she walks, however, she constantly scrutinises the horizon for something or someone – although, by her expression, she does not seem to find it. Nonetheless, she carries on: past the American Bowling Saloon and the Hermit’s Cave, until she comes to the Gardens’ famed glass fountain. It displays a kneeling Grecian nymph, upon a crystal dias supported by a trio of long-necked storks, perpetually pouring out an endless stream of water from a bounteous jug. The fountain is in a secluded spot – nestling in a rose garden, beneath the shadow of the twin Moorish towers of the Fireworks Platform. Rose finds herself quite alone.

  Rather than sit down upon one of the nearby benches, she begins to pace around the fountain’s round basin.

  Rose Perfitt re-emerges onto the King’s Road as the church bells of the parish ring five o’clock. Her face is rather gloomy, a hint of tears upon her cheeks, and an air of solemn disappointment about her. She hardly pays attention as she crosses the road, and she is surprised to hear her name called out as she turns onto Edith Grove. She looks round to see the Reverend Augustus Featherstone approaching.

  ‘Miss Perfitt?’

  Rose blushes. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Are you quite all right, Miss Perfitt? Forgive me, you look a little distressed.’

  ‘No,’ protests Rose, forcing a smile, ‘I am fine, I assure you.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I mean, I have just come back from tea with a friend. I asked the cab to drop me just along the way, so I might take some exercise.’

  ‘Is that wise, Miss Perfitt?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Well, the Gardens. You know the sort they attract, my dear girl. I would not wish to hear of a young lady such as yourself subjected to the insults of the idlers who frequent that place.’

  ‘I am sure I have not seen any idlers, sir,’ replies Rose. ‘And if there were, I am sure I should be quite safe in broad daylight.’

  The Reverend shakes his head, as if to admonish Rose for her naivety. ‘Sad to say, Miss Perfitt, there is a class of ill-conditioned blackguards who do not hesitate to presume upon the good nature of innocent creatures such as yourself. Now, shall I accompany you home?’

  ‘There is no need, sir. It is not far now.’

  ‘No? As you wish, my dear,’ says the Reverend Featherstone, his thin aquiline features wrinkled in an expression of deep concern. He reaches out and clasps Rose’s hand in a rather bony grip. ‘Good day, then. But do take care, I beg you.’

  Rose bids him goodbye, and hurries down Edith Grove. The clergyman lingers upon the corner, watching her disappear up the steps to her home.

  He turns his gaze from the Perfitts’ residence to the gates of Cremorne Gardens, and then once more back to Edith Grove, a look of consternation upon his face.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There is a light summer drizzle falling on the muddy ground of Sheepgut Lane, as one Alfred Budge departs for work. He is a short man of fifty years or so, stocky in build, with craggy features and a slouching cloth cap that barely conceals a thick mop of rather dirty-looking brown hair. With his rugged face and fustian coat, he very much resembles the archetype of a London ‘rough’, only differing from that happy ideal in his gait. It is a lame, lop-sided progress, caused by a crushed foot, trapped beneath a beer barrel some years ago, which remains stubbornly twisted at an odd angle to his body.

  His cap does little to protect his head from the rain. In consequence, Mr. Budge mutters sundry curses to himself as he walks, his eyes fixed upon the ground, wary of pot-holes and other obstacles. Presumably, were he to meet one of his neighbours on the way, despite his displeasure at the weather, he would make some desultory nod or greeting. But he is quite alone, for the casual labourers and down-at-heel navvies who inhabit the lane’s tumble-down cottages have long since gone to look for work. Mr. Budge, on the other hand, potman of The Old King’s Head, keeps the civilised time of the victualling trade. In fact, he considers the present hour, at just gone ten o’clock in the morning, ‘a precious early start’.

  But Mr. Budge has little option in the matter. For his departure has been superintended by his wife of some thirty years, who stands indoors at the window of Budge’s Dairy. As is often the case, she has an infant child in her arms. But she holds the baby in a rather disinterested fashion, seemingly oblivious to its cries, and the distinct tearfulness about its eyes, her attention focused on the figure disappearing down the road. Only when she is quite certain that her husband has receded out of sight, does she glance at the child and, even then, it is only to put it down in the cot that sits by the fire-place.

  ‘Hush,’ she says.

  The baby does not oblige her. Mrs. Budge turns to the other individual in the room: a four-year-old boy who sits quietly upon a chair by the hearth. He is dressed in wh
at is considered ‘Sunday best’ in Sheepgut Lane, a little suit of cheap cloth that boasts at least a couple of buttons and a shirt that might loosely be described as white.

  ‘And how are you keeping, Davey?’ she asks the boy.

  The little boy nods in a rather timid way.

  ‘Come now, dear, don’t be shy,’ says Mrs. Budge, coaxingly. ‘Remember what your Ma told you?’

  The little boy nods again.

  ‘Good. Now, let me tell you something. I know a shop, not far from here, Davey, that sells the sweetest hardbake that any little boy is ever likely to taste. But they only sell to them that is good boys. What do you think of that?’

  The mention of the sugared delicacy in question brings a rather more cheerful, expectant expression to the boy’s face. Mrs. Budge smiles.

  ‘That’s it, Davey,’ she continues. ‘You be a good boy, like your Ma told you, and keep thinking on that, and we’ll have a fine old time. Now, we’re going on a little outing.’

  An hour passes and Margaret Budge stands upon the pavement of the approach to Vauxhall Bridge, with an umbrella under one arm, and Davey Whit at her side. She takes the umbrella and points out the spectacle of the Houses of Parliament upon the far shore, and a steamboat heading up river, but the little boy in her charge seems disinterested. He is more struck by the sight of a soot-black pigeon that walks confidently along the gutter, occasionally pecking at the dirt, oblivious to the proximity of passing carriages. It is only when the bird flies away, as a clarence cab draws to a halt along side them, that the little boy looks up.

  In truth, he looks startled. A judicious whisper of the word ‘hardbake’, however, serves to calm his nerves. As for the carriage, it remains motionless, with no sign of movement from within. Mrs. Budge, therefore, walks the boy to the kerb. At last, the window of the clarence is lowered by a black-gloved hand, revealing a female face inside, hidden by a dark veil, of the sort normally reserved for the mourning of close relatives.

  ‘Ma’am,’ says Mrs. Budge, with a rather awkward curtsey, made problematic by the balancing of her umbrella and Davey Whit’s hand tightly clasping her own. ‘I trust you are well, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you. I am well enough. Is this the child?’

  Mrs. Budge places Davey in front of her, one shoulder firmly in her grip, as if fearing he might bolt at any moment.

  ‘This is the boy, ma’am. Answers to Davey – David, ma’am.’

  The woman in the carriage pushes the door ajar. ‘Come here, David.’

  Mrs. Budge ushers Davey forward. As he seems a little reluctant, she does not release her grip on his shoulder until he is on the carriage step.

  ‘Just the boy,’ says the woman inside, rather sternly.

  Mrs. Budge nods and steps back.

  ‘Come, boy, you needn’t be afraid of me,’ says the woman. ‘Step in so I may see you properly.’

  The little boy looks back anxiously at Mrs. Budge, who urges him onward. Once he is inside, his interlocutor says nothing, but merely stares at him.

  ‘He’s a fine lad,’ says Mrs. Budge from the roadside.

  The veiled woman says nothing. At one point, she seems to raise a hand, as if to touch his face, but the boy flinches, and she withdraws it. At length, at what must be an interval of two or three minutes, she bids the boy to step down.

  ‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ asks Mrs. Budge.

  There is a silence from within the cab.

  ‘He has changed a good deal,’ she says at last.

  ‘Oh, they do, ma’am. It’s a year or two since you saw him; he were just a little whelp before.’

  There is no reply.

  ‘Ma’am?’ says Mrs. Budge at last.

  ‘I would have him emigrate,’ says the woman in the cab, bluntly.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Emigrate. That is why I came here. To the colonies. I am sure a good place can be found for him by one of the societies. He has been in your care long enough.’

  ‘We’ve looked after him well, ma’am,’ says Mrs. Budge, shaking her head, and putting a finger to her eyes. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. This is a hard blow.’

  The woman in the carriage turns her head, her eyes hidden behind the black gauze of the veil.

  ‘You will respect my wishes.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. But there is all sorts of difficulties . . . I mean, to separate him from those what have loved and cherished him all these years.’

  ‘I will pay a premium, of course.’

  ‘A premium?’ replies Mrs. Budge, her tone of studied regret somewhat diminished. ‘That puts a different face on it, begging your pardon, ma’am. It would be hard on a body, but, put that way, I can see as how it might be for the best.’

  ‘Twelve sovereigns. By the usual arrangement.’

  ‘And when would that be, ma’am?’ asks Mrs. Budge.

  ‘Tonight. You shall have it tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. That’s a comfort.’

  The woman closes the carriage window and slams the door, without uttering another word. The driver, in turn, makes the gentle tug upon the reins that drives the horses to trot on. As the vehicle departs, Mrs. Budge looks down at her youthful companion, ruffling his hair, much to his obvious discomfort.

  ‘Regular Young Roscius, you are, Davey,’ she says. ‘Your Ma should put you on the stage.’

  ‘I want my hardbake,’ says Davey, quite emphatically.

  True to her word, Mrs. Budge satisfies Davey Whit’s appetite upon their return to Battersea. The little boy, in turn, is then collected from Budge’s Dairy by his mother, who gratefully accepts two shillings for the services of her offspring. Once this transaction is completed, Mrs. Budge bids mother and child goodbye, and watches them depart along Sheepgut Lane. At length, when they have disappeared into the distance, Mrs. Budge turns away from the window, and walks into the back parlour. Her infant charges still lie there, side by side, and she crouches down beside a particular crib. Peeling back the grey linen, she touches the skin of the child, which feels decidedly damp. It cries out, but only a little, as if it cannot quite muster the power to complain any further.

  ‘Not long till the good Lord gathers you up, eh? Most likely it’s for the best, dear.’

  Mrs. Budge smiles sympathetically, gets to her feet and returns to the front parlour. She goes over to the table, where a paper and pen lie ready. She dips the pen in the ink, and composes a brief note for the morning paper, with an ease and fluency bred of long experience.

  NURSE CHILD WANTED, OR TO ADOPT – The Advertiser, a Widow with a little family of her own, and a moderate allowance from her late husband’s friends, would be glad to accept the charge of a young child. Age no object. If sickly would receive a parent’s care. Terms, Fifteen Shillings a month; or would adopt entirely if under two months for the small sum of Twelve pounds.

  Mrs. Budge reads her handiwork with pride, then gets up to search for an envelope.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mr. John Boon waits behind the ticket booth at the gates to Cremorne Gardens. Decimus Webb stands a few yards distant, silently observing the night’s steady stream of revellers tender their shillings and stroll merrily into the Gardens’ landscaped walks. Boon, having finished a conversation with the clerk in the booth, walks back over to the policeman.

  ‘Would you believe it, Inspector? Receipts are up!’ he remarks cheerfully.

  ‘Your notice has done the trick, then, sir.’

  ‘Inspector!’ protests Boon. ‘That was never my intention. I merely wish to see the devil caught, as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ says Webb. ‘And if the public has a natural curiosity to see it happen, then what are we to do about it?’

  ‘Quite,’ says Boon, uncertain whether Webb is mocking him. ‘And you have no news I take it?’

  ‘Three reports this afternoon, sir. All of them seem thoroughly specious. I’ve left Bartleby to make certain of it.’

  ‘I a
m sure we shall catch the man, Inspector. Either that or he will not dare make another attempt, when the whole of Chelsea is looking for him.’

  ‘Well, you will win out in either case, sir.’

  ‘Inspector, I do not think that I care—’

  Boon’s words are cut short as he hears some kind of disturbance on the far side of the gates.

  ‘What the deuce is that?’ he exclaims, pushing his way past the booth, where a group of would-be visitors have halted. The cause is the approach of a large group of black-robed figures along the King’s Road, all of whom are singing at the top of their voices.

  The King of love my shepherd is,

  whose goodness faileth never.

  I nothing lack if I am his,

  and he is mine forever . . .

  Webb steps up beside Boon, as the group draw to a halt by the gates. He recognises the leader as the Reverend Featherstone, and a couple of the younger men, dressed in their cassocks, as the junior masters he saw in the Training College’s schoolroom.

  Perverse and foolish, oft I strayed,

  but yet in love he sought me . . .

  Featherstone does not interrupt the verse, but nods politely to Webb who, despite himself, cannot quite conceal a smile at Mr. Boon’s almost apoplectic rage.

  ‘Inspector!’ exclaims Boon. ‘You must put an end to this . . . this intrusion!’

  ‘What intrusion, sir?’ asks Webb. ‘I believe they are on the public highway.’

  ‘It is persecution, Inspector! Does the Law countenance such behaviour?’

  ‘I’m rather fond of a good tune, myself, sir,’ says Webb.

  ‘Rose?’ says Mrs. Perfitt, opening the bedroom door. ‘My dear, must you keep disappearing to your room?’

  Rose Perfitt turns from her seat by the window. ‘I am sorry, Mama, I just felt a little seedy.’

  ‘You do look tired. Are you coming down with something? Oh, I do hope not – not now. Why, I should think you might be a little more excited.’