The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  But there was no advertisement-reading this Sunday.

  Billy read clearly, facing Ma so she could hear easily, and my heart was beating so fast and so loud after I heard the headline that I was thinking Ma might hear that as well even if she is a bit deaf.

  APPREHENSION OF ‘GENTLEMEN IN FEMALE ATTIRE’

  At Bow-street Police-court on Thursday, Ernest Boulton aged 22 of 48 Shirland-road, Paddington, gentleman (son of Mr Boulton the stockbroker); Frederick William Park aged 23 of Bruton-street, Berkeley Square, law student (son of Mr Park the Master of the Court of Common Pleas, and grandson of the late Judge Park); and Hugh Alexander Mundell aged 23 of 158 Buckingham Palace-road, gentleman, were charged before Mr Flowers with frequenting a public resort, to wit, the Strand Theatre, with intent to commit felony, the first two-named in female attire.

  ‘Felony?’ said Ma. ‘I thought felony was murder. Those boys aint going to murder anybody for God’s sake!’

  ‘Felony means other very wicked crimes,’ said Billy. ‘In their book. So it means life imprisonment.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hard labour, life imprisonment, ten years’ penal servitude. That’s what felons get.’

  ‘For wearing women’s clothes?’ said Ma. ‘Well in that case, they may as well lock up the whole of the acting profession!’

  ‘They used to get hanged,’ said Billy.

  I didn’t say anything. I was sure they could hear my heart going bang bang bang. One of the Gentlemen in Female Attire they were writing about was Freddie – Frederick William Park as they called him there – who was the least wicked person I had met in my life, he was the most kind loving generous person that I knew.

  On being placed in the dock much amusement was created by their artistic make-up. Boulton was dressed in fashionable crimson silk, trimmed with white lace. He wore a flaxen wig, with plaited chignon. His arms and neck were bare. He had bracelets, and a white lace shawl round his shoulders.

  ‘That’s Ernest for sure,’ said Ma, nodding and sipping port. ‘I know that crimson dress.’

  Park wore a green satin dress, with a pannier, flaxen wig curled, white kid gloves, bracelets and black lace shawl.

  ‘Ah poor Freddie, never makes quite the picture as Ernest does.’ And Ma sipped and nodded again.

  ‘You know he makes a handsome woman, Ma,’ I said, indignant, ‘even if he’s not pretty like Ernest.’

  Mr James Thomson, superintendent of the E Division, said: ‘At ten o’clock last night I went to the Strand Theatre where I saw the three prisoners in a private box, Boulton and Park being in female attire. I have been watching them for many months, in all sorts of places, especially the Alhambra and Burlington Arcade and balls and other such places and the Boat Race too. They do call themselves ladies’ names, usually Stella and Fanny. I observed them nodding and smiling and winking to gentlemen in the stalls and making sounds. They were removed on leaving the theatre, to Bow-street Station. Mundell said that he was the son of a barrister and that a few evenings previously he had met the two other prisoners in male attire but he believed they were girls, in men’s clothes. He made their acquaintance and agreed to escort them to the theatre last night.’

  William Chamberlaine, detective, E Division, said: ‘Last night I saw two persons in female attire come out of a house, 13 Wakefield-street, Regent-Square, with a gentleman.’

  ‘Oh God Almighty!’ said Ma. ‘They’ve writ our address!’

  ‘Never mind, Ma, it dont matter,’ said Billy sensibly. ‘They were only exiting from here, after all. It doesn’t give our name.’

  ‘They each had a satin dress on. They had chignons on (LAUGHTER IN COURT) and their arms naked and their necks bare. The gentleman called a cab and both ladies got into it. They drove to the Strand Theatre. I got into another cab and followed them. They got to the theatre where they met Mundell and another gentleman in the lobby. I still followed them. I saw them take their seats in the box.’

  ‘But who’s these people laughing in court?’ I asked, puzzled, ‘how did they straightway know about it, before it got in the newspapers even?’

  ‘Ha! London gossip is faster than the newspapers,’ said Ma in that dry voice she uses sometimes.

  ‘The “ladies” came out of the box alone and had some refreshment. One of them went into the ladies’ cloakroom and asked to have her dress pinned up. They were shortly afterwards removed to the station.’

  ‘Was it for going into the ladies’ cloakroom?’ I said to Billy.

  ‘I bet five shillings we soon see editorials written about that cloakroom: The Women of England In Danger,’ said Billy.

  ‘From Freddie and Ernest?’ said Ma. ‘Dont be ridiculous.’

  Defence (Mr Abrams): ‘On behalf of the prisoners, sir, I contend that the case of felony is not made out. Unless it is shown they were out for unlawful purpose, I submit that no such offence has been committed by them. They are young men, and no doubt did this intending it as a lark.’

  ‘What?’ said Ma.

  ‘Lark,’ said Billy.

  ‘What?’ said Ma again, not understanding, or maybe not hearing, or maybe just still shocked.

  ‘Lark!’ shouted Billy.

  ‘Course it was,’ said Ma.

  Magistrate Mr Flowers (with severity): ‘It is a lark then that they have been carrying on evidently for a very long time. I have, however, a doubt with respect to Mr Hugh Mundell. He may have been deceived by the appearances of the others, and the evidence does not show that he has previously been connected with them. I should have been deceived myself! But that, in my mind, makes the case all the worse for those dressed up.’

  Mr Abrams: ‘It was only a stupid act of folly.’

  Mr Flowers said he was not sure of that yet.

  After some further evidence Mr Flowers remanded the prisoners but allowed Mundell to be liberated on his own recognisances of £100. Mr Flowers refused, however, to accept bail for Boulton and Park.

  ‘Oh bloody hell!’ said Ma. ‘Ernest and Freddie in prison!’

  Mr Abrams later in the day asked Mr Flowers if the prisoners might be allowed to change their dresses before being removed in the van. They had already sent for their attire.

  ‘So that’s why Mr Gibbings came and smashed the lock,’ I said, ‘to take them their proper clothes.’

  ‘And maybe take away his own things promptly,’ said Billy, quite quiet.

  Mr Flowers said, certainly.

  Mr Barnaby (chief clerk), after the lapse of an hour or so, said that the crowd in the street had greatly increased and Mr Superintendent Thomson thought it would be better to remove the prisoners as quickly as possible although the required male clothing had not yet arrived.

  ‘That’s because of having to smash down the lock that rude policeman had put on the door,’ I said to Billy, angry, thinking of people laughing and ogling and shouting at Ernest, and especially thinking of Freddie. I could imagine Ernest waving back and enjoying the attention and looking from under his eyelashes the way he did, but I thought Freddie would be shamed.

  Mr Flowers consented to this, and the filthy fellows were then and there removed in the van to the House of Detention.

  There was this sudden appalled silence in our parlour.

  ‘And that’s the end of Reynolds News,’ said Billy, folding it up.

  Without a word Ma poured more port into our glasses and shook her head, looking at the red colour in her glass. I suppose she was thinking about agreeing to let them have a room for a few days every now and then to dress for acting parts if they had an engagement – Ma used to be a theatre wardrobe mistress, everybody knew that. She had her glory days when our Pa was alive and they both worked in the theatre, this was before he got sick, and me and Billy were round theatres all the time, we even actually lived for a while in rooms right at the top of the Drury Lane Theatre and dropped plums on people going past way down below. (Billy was eight and I was three and I remember clearly that Billy told me that when the plums
hit the hats they were going as fast as a train. Billy knew everything, even then.) Those were good days. Then the days weren’t so good, but finally Ma got 13 Wakefield-street from Mr Rowbottom who was sort of like our stepfather when our Pa died. And now we run this lodging-house, mostly salesmen from the North stay here.

  ‘But what are they actually charged for?’ I asked Billy. ‘It cant be just dressing up!’

  ‘The felonious charge of conspiring to incite others to carry out an abominable offence,’ said Billy, reading it out. He looked at me.

  ‘All right, I know what that means, William Stacey, so there’s no need staring at me like I was a baby.’

  ‘Which, as I already said, since the death penalty was removed now carries a charge of ten years penal servitude or life imprisonment with hard labour. Which means the treadmill.’

  Ma and I looked at each other, really horrified. Freddie and Ernest on a treadmill? Everyone knew what the treadmill was. A great big moving wheel going round and round for no reason and men were strapped to it and had to keep climbing its stairs to turn it and often in the end their backs broke.

  ‘But Freddie and Ernest couldn’t get life imprisonment with hard labour!’ I said. ‘Dont be silly,’ but I heard my voice sounding all peculiar.

  ‘Oh God above!’ said Ma suddenly. ‘What’s this going to do for business, our address published and poor Mr Flamp paying no rent, this could send us to the workhouse!’

  Billy rolled his eyes at me and I rolled mine right back. ‘We’re all right, Ma,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re all right!’ he repeated, firm, raising his voice a bit. ‘We’re nowhere near the blooming workhouse any more, you know that, Ma! Those days are over. We can perfectly well afford to look after Mr Flamp. It’s Ernest and Freddie who’s in trouble, not us.’

  For a moment she looked slightly doubtful. She was fond of them because they were – well it was fun when they were in the house, and it was so enjoyable to hear laughter and music floating down the stairs, and they used to sit and talk to Ma of fashion and costumes and quite seriously ask her advice about their gowns.

  Now Billy threw Reynolds News into a corner. ‘Ernest and Freddie aint done nothing, not really, Ma,’ he said, ‘not as far as we know. It’s not a crime to dress up as a woman that I’ve ever heard of and that’s all we’ve ever known them do, and they’ve stayed in our house for ages, off and on. Not one of the tenants ever complained, they applaud their gowns!’ He looked quite ferocious finally. Billy can be quite ferocious. Clergymen make him ferocious, and liars.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Ma, and she downed the red port. ‘I’m foolish,’ (and I saw she took a little look at me, she might be a bit deaf but she knows everything). ‘I was just upset because of our address writ in the paper, and fancy them calling Freddie and Ernest “filthy fellows” when I never knew such pleasant tenants. Well they’ll probably let them out tomorrow, dont fret, Mattie, have another port.’

  And she held out the bottle to me and still she looked at me kind of old-fashioned, as if I wasn’t a grown woman. I was still thinking, outraged, of Freddie being called a filthy fellow.

  And Billy, thinking to calm us I suppose, went on to read us all the details of a woman who died after swallowing three sovereigns and a half while running round a kitchen table and when she died a doctor opened her up and said he couldn’t find the money, but everyone said the doctor had pocketed it himself. But I was only half listening. And by the way, dont think I dont know what they’re really talking about when they talk about felony and Freddie and Ernest, I’m not a child and I’m not a fool but I – oh – never mind.

  When they first came to us Ernest and Freddie explained carefully to Ma that they already had rooms where they actually lived. They would rent a room sometimes for getting ready for work, they might stay overnight just occasionally. They straightway explained that they played women’s parts, so they would be bringing gowns to our house – there was no hiding what they were doing.

  Ma, liking theatre people, and seeing they were real gentlemen, even if they were only lads Billy’s age, agreed. (They were a bit – sort of unmanly – specially Ernest who was almost pretty, but we were used to people like that, we’d lived in a theatre for years.) They paid a deposit for one week. And next day we was most impressed when we saw them carrying in their costumes from a hansom cab: gowns, satin and silk, bustles and wigs and boots and bracelets and lockets and ribbons and bows and ladies’ hats.

  And they were sort-of actors – we have actually seen them acting, both playing women, as they had told – they asked us one night to a theatre show, me and Ma and Billy, we went all the way in a cab that a friend of theirs paid for who travelled with us, and he smoked about seven cigars and I was sick (I got out and spewed past Waterloo). It was in a little hall off Clapham High Street, not a real theatre, not really, but they played sisters, and Ernest – ‘Stella’ he was called – was the Star.

  He – she – had several songs he used to sing that the audiences called for again and again – he had a sweet voice and it was like a woman’s voice: ‘Fade Away’ was one song, it was sad, ‘and it’s a bit mawkish,’ I said to Ma and she laughed when I came up like that with some new interesting word I’d been reading. But I had a favourite of all Ernest’s songs: that lovely old Irish song, ‘Eileen Aroon’. Ma and me had heard it sometimes, by St Pancras, sad little evening fires with poor Irish beggars around them, thin and starving, gone from their own country, who is the fairest gem? Eileen Aroon, their voices longing and sad, breaking with the words in that way the Irish have with their songs. Ernest sang it just – simple. It was beautiful and I used to listen to that song and think about how it must be, to be the fairest gem, and be always remembered, like Eileen Aroon.

  And Freddie, he was called ‘Fanny’ on stage, and well he did look like a woman too, but sort of not the main one, not with pretty Stella there singing away. Freddie’s face was funny and kind and I often thought he looked like a man or a woman, he just looked like Freddie, whatever he was wearing. They weren’t real actors, like at Drury Lane or the Haymarket, but their gowns swished and shimmered and Ma’s a good judge and she thought they did well and looked lovely, and me and Billy did too, what I mean is we didn’t think there was anything cheap, it was amateur but it wasn’t laughable on the little stage at Clapham, it was better than that.

  And that night at Clapham was the first time we clapped our eyes on a particular man who turned out to be Lord Arthur Clinton. He was there with a very elegant, pretty lady and they clapped and laughed together and they both talked and laughed with Ernest afterwards, and later Ernest told us who the man was.

  ‘Lord Arthur Clinton,’ he had said, ‘and that was his sister with him, Lady Susan – and he introduced me!’ And Ernest looked under his eyelashes in that coy way he had, and smoothed his hair fussily, pleased as anything and sort of quivering with excitement as he leaned towards us confidentially.

  ‘She’s a widow, her husband was insane and now she is a mistress of the Prince of Wales actually.’ Smoothing his hair again and looking at us again from under his eyelashes, so pleased to think of himself as so nearly connected to Royalty.

  But even though we’d seen them sort of on stage we’d always known, like I said, that they weren’t real actors in real theatres like Ma and Pa worked in back in the olden golden days. And yes, we knew that they did parade about a bit sometimes, as women. But I thought it was just for the fun of it and not doing any harm.

  From the very beginning of meeting them you could see: Freddie loved Ernest, really loved him. I dont mean like couples kissing – I mean real loving – they could kiss all day for all I care, but it wasn’t like that. Freddie always – well – well what he did was always look to see that Ernest was all right. Over time we all saw that Ernest – who was the ‘star’ of their act, no doubt about it – was really spoiled. Once, when Ernest was flouncing off down the stairs and sulking and looking from un
der his eyelashes at us and calling up the stairs to Freddie, ‘I need some money NOW!’ and slamming the front door – that was the time Ma said, ‘I’d like to meet that boy’s mother! I warrant she has a lot to answer for, he’s a blooming little minx, Ernest is.’

  But later he came back and we heard them laughing and then his sweet voice drifting down to us:

  Be it ever so humble

  There’s no place like home

  and even Ma could hear it, so clear and sweet it was as it came down the stairs, and she shook her head and smiled.

  I suppose… well what do I suppose? I suppose – that Ernest must have been an exciting person to love: he was the star, he had the beautiful voice, he was – I suppose people would say – ‘enticing’ – you just couldn’t help but see he’s really pretty when he’s all dressed up, no wonder people fell for him. In fact when he was dressed as a man, people often thought he was a woman trying to look like a man! Now there’s a true conundrum! Ernest’s too pretty for a man. When they booked a room he would arrive from the barber and the hairdresser – always very polite – ‘Evening, Mrs Stacey, evening, Mattie, evening, Billy,’ and even occasionally: ‘How are you, Mattie?’ but not very often for Ernest was more interested in how’s himself than how we are! When I think about Ernest he reminds me of – I’m thinking now, trying to get exactly the right description. What I am trying to say is that Ernest is very pretty, but he reminds me sometimes of a beautiful cat, one of those ones stretched out in the sunshine – but it might suddenly scratch your eyes.

  I noticed something about Ernest. He didn’t like to be touched, he always drew away if anybody put an arm on him, or an arm about him, in a friendly way. As if other people were – distasteful. I felt sorry for Freddie because it was often Freddie who put out an arm, and then drew it away again, or had it shrugged off. But I saw Ernest move away quickly from others too, not just Freddie. Ernest liked himself best.