The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  So the day after the medical evidence was published in the Reynolds Newspaper Billy was simply waiting to be called into the Head Clerk’s office.

  In a dark, poky little room Mr John Jenkins sat at his paper-crowded desk. Mr John Jenkins was a self-important man, and very particular. But he was an honest man and he and Billy were used to each other. Mr Jenkins was about twenty years older than Billy and used spiced pomade on his hair. They addressed each other formally: Mr Jenkins. Mr Stacey. There was a very strong smell of spiced pomade in the room now, as if Mr Jenkins had applied some extra portion, to prepare himself for this difficult meeting.

  ‘Well, Mr Stacey.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The Head Clerk cleared his throat, felt for a handkerchief in his jacket. He was deeply embarrassed. ‘I am afraid there has been a complaint about you.’

  ‘And what sort of complaint would that be, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘Oh, not about your work of course, Mr Stacey.’

  ‘I rather thought it would not be about my work.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ He cleared his throat. ‘One of the bishops from the House of Lords has been to see me.’

  Billy rolled his eyes. The Church, sticking its nose in. He remained silent.

  Mr Jenkins said: ‘It has of course been revealed in the newspapers that – erm – the defendants in a certain criminal case had been living at your house.’

  ‘Not living at our house, Mr Jenkins. It has been made quite clear in all the evidence that Mr Boulton and Mr Park rented rooms from us sometimes. To dress for their theatrical engagements.’

  ‘Of course. I noted that distinction. Mr Boulton and Mr Park, yes, yes, that is the names. Your sister, I believe it was, giving actual evidence.’ (Mr Jenkins, like everybody else, poring over the newspaper reports.) ‘I have told him that you are one of my top clerks and that I cannot manage the business required of us without you. The bishop feels that it would be very bad for Parliament if it was revealed that someone involved in – in that rather scandalous case – of course I am not speaking, Mr Stacey, of any personal involvement of your own – worked in any capacity in this ancient and honourable establishment.’

  Billy smiled grimly. Having pondered for some time as to the likelihood of Lord Arthur Clinton bringing the Parliament to its knees, it was rather odd to hear it was now considered that it might, in fact, be himself who would do so.

  ‘And what do you feel, Mr Jenkins?’

  Mr Jenkins cleared his throat again. ‘I think, Mr Stacey, that that bishop, in particular, is a hypocritical person of the highest degree.’

  Billy was so surprised he laughed.

  But Mr Jenkins did not laugh. ‘It is unfortunately no laughing matter. This clerical gentleman says he is the spokesman for the bishops in the House of Lords. He told me that he has already spoken to Mr Gladstone and that your personal involvement in the case is dangerous because the good name of the government needs to be protected.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘From – any connection with this – scandal.’ Mr Jenkins stood. ‘I said I would speak to you myself but I am not sure how long I will be able to – safeguard you, Mr Stacey. I thought you should know.’

  Billy stood also and looked across the table. ‘You’re a good man, Mr Jenkins, when all is said and done, and I thank you for the warning.’

  ‘We will hope that the case will soon be over. To be replaced, I have no doubt, by other scandals.’ Spiced pomade moved towards the door as Mr Jenkins went to open it. ‘I would be very, very sorry to lose you, Mr Stacey. It would not be my choice.’

  Billy put out his hand, and Mr Jenkins took it.

  ‘Thanks, John,’ said Billy.

  That evening straight after work he went to Clerkenwell, to the House of Detention. He said he was the landlord of Boulton and Park, and needed to speak to them about their goods and chattels. He was let in. But a young policeman stood there at their meeting, which Billy hadn’t allowed for.

  Ernest and Freddie were brought in and Billy, who had not been at any of the court hearings, was shocked at their faces, these men his own age. They looked pale and unhealthy and depressed. Freddie had some whiskers, Ernest a very small moustache.

  ‘Hello, Billy,’ they said, very surprised.

  ‘Well,’ said Billy. ‘How are you both?’

  They shrugged.

  A little bit of the old Ernest: ‘It’s not exactly the Prince of Saxe-Coburg Hotel of course. Which we would prefer. Wouldn’t we, dear?’ he said to the young policeman, looking from under his eyelashes in that way he did. The policeman blushed.

  ‘How’s Mattie and your mother?’ said Freddie. ‘We see them there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy.

  ‘Thank them for their support. Mattie was a good witness for us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy.

  Silence.

  ‘Come and sit with us, dear,’ murmured Ernest to the policeman. ‘On your feet all day.’

  The policeman blushed again. ‘I’m going out for a pipe,’ he said. ‘But I can still see you. Five minutes you can have and no trouble,’ and Ernest smiled at him again as he left.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ernest, stop it!’ said Freddie in exasperation.

  ‘Billy won’t be shocked! The police are not immune to my charms – we all know only too well that policemen can be tempted – or indeed tempting!’ Ernest tossed his head sulkily. ‘I’m so bored with having just you to talk to! I can’t stand it, I can’t stand being locked in a pig-pen! I can’t stand anything.’ His voice rose higher. ‘I want a drink, gin or brandy or sherry, anything! I wish I was dead!’

  And although Billy was used to Ernest’s emoting manner wafting down the stairs in Wakefield-street, this was something different. And then, to the consternation of both men, Ernest began to weep.

  ‘What is going to happen to us, Billy?’ he asked pathetically. ‘What is everybody saying out there in the world? What are they saying about me? Even my own mother lies to me – mind you, she has lied to me all my life anyway, and she didn’t bring me any liquid refreshment either.’

  ‘Stop it, Ernest,’ said Freddie, more gently now.

  ‘I think most sensible people feel the police have gone too far,’ said Billy.

  ‘They’d been following us for weeks,’ said Freddie disdainfully.

  Ernest blew his nose daintily. ‘I suppose everyone sees us as – dirty, do they?’

  Billy heard Mr Gladstone’s imperious distaste – this dirty, squalid affair – and felt pity. ‘Hold fast, Ernest,’ he said firmly. ‘Mattie says so many of the people in court are on your side.’

  Ernest brightened slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They are a lovely audience.’ He wiped at the tears. Freddie said nothing and the silence lengthened, Ernest still gulping but mostly recovered.

  ‘Where’s Lord Arthur Clinton?’ said Billy at last. They both looked at him in surprise.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Ernest. ‘Or care much. Why should we? He’s hiding, I suppose, he was always a coward. I threw him over, months and months ago. A bankrupt even if he is a Lord!’ But his face looked strained and white, and it was clear to Billy now that all the performance with the policeman a few minutes earlier had been bravado.

  ‘Why are you asking, Billy?’ said Freddie.

  ‘I’m having trouble keeping my position. At the Parliament. I need to find Lord Arthur Clinton urgently so that I can ask him something.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why would you be fired?’ asked Freddie. ‘Mattie told me you were the best clerk in the whole place.’

  Billy shrugged; they had enough problems. But then Freddie guessed.

  ‘It’s all in the papers, we know. Your name and address as well as ours. My father has been in, white with fury. Sorry, Billy.’

  And Ernest understood also, said it like a little, sad echo: ‘Sorry, Billy.’

  Silence.

  Ernest gave a little sigh. Billy looked at him and thought: It is true. He loo
ks like a pretty young woman, dressed in men’s clothes. In spite of the moustache.

  ‘His sister will know,’ said Ernest casually, looking not at them but at his fingernails. ‘How are we supposed to keep pure in this place? Look at me!’ He held out his hands; they were grubby and the nails were rimmed with dirt.

  ‘His sister?’

  ‘His sister, Lady Susan. She was the only one of his family I ever met, just the one time. He brought her to see us perform, remember, Freddie?’

  ‘But we were there!’ said Billy. ‘At Clapham. We saw her too, with Lord Arthur.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that time. And – you saw, didn’t you – Arthur actually introduced me, think of that! And she was very complimentary to me, actually. Of course he never introduced me to any others of his illustrious family – I don’t believe he even saw most of them. But he would see his sister sometimes. She married a rich man who went mad and threw knives at her and died – or that is Arthur’s story. But how would I know! Still, she was fond of Arthur, she gave him money sometimes, I know she did.’

  And for a moment he was himself again, throwing back his head and then looking at them from under his eyelashes. ‘The money was for me, of course! Oh God, I long for a drink. I shall be ill!’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘No idea.’ And then he suddenly smiled up at them both. ‘But you could go to Marlborough House! Because Arthur once told me she was the mistress of the Prince of Wales! But he was probably boasting to impress me. Though of course, my dears, think of it! That would have made me – well, more or less – sister-in-law to the next King of England, wouldn’t that be marvellous in the present circumstances!’ And he laughed but it was hysterical laughter and his eyes were quite wild. Freddie and Billy looked at each other in alarm. ‘Find his sister Susan!’ Ernest ended, in dramatic tones. To Billy, Ernest seemed to be a little insane.

  ‘Shut up, Ernest,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Thanks, Ernest,’ said Billy politely.

  But he felt his own shoulders fall. He thought it highly unlikely he would gain entrance to Marlborough House.

  ‘And He knows us, doesn’t he, Freddie? Remember that time in the Lyceum – we took a box across from that of the Prince of Wales, and he came in during the performance and he saw us! Remember, Freddie? He picked up opera glasses and stared at us – I gave him a tiny elegant smile and I know he smiled back!’ Ernest fluttered a moment longer, and then was quiet.

  ‘What do you think will happen to us, Billy?’ said Freddie. ‘As Ernest says, you’re out in the real world.’ And Freddie looked about him with enormous distaste: the grim building; the smell of not enough soap, and old onions; the policeman outside the window. Freddie’s face was drawn and drained and his hands seemed to shake, almost as if he was a different person. Billy thought of them both at Wakefield-street: the singing and all the laughter in the house.

  ‘My father says many new lawyers have been’ – Freddie laughed wearily – ‘retained. Well, what use is it to be the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas if you can’t retain lawyers at least!’

  Billy thought of Mr Gladstone’s pale face. He said: ‘I truly think you have enough well-wishers, and – connections – to – protect you.’ He did not say more, stood up. ‘I haven’t – I should’ve thought of it, I’m sorry – I haven’t brought you anything from the outside world. I came straight from the Parliament. Is there something you want? I could come again.’

  ‘Gin,’ said Ernest.

  Billy felt in his pockets. There was a half-sovereign, some shillings and pennies, and half a chocolate bar. He put them all down on a little table, embarrassed but determined.

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’

  And Freddie actually took the bar, broke it, and gave some to Ernest. Ernest looked at the chocolate almost with distaste, and then suddenly ate it all at once.

  ‘We hope we’ll get bail soon.’ Freddie spoke in the same weary tone. And then: ‘Have you seen Amos Gibbings?’

  ‘He hasn’t been near Wakefield-street since he came for your clothes the first day.’

  ‘He can talk about amateur theatricals better than anyone I know. I thought he would be here, to give evidence for us. Gibbings of all people.’ Silence. ‘Why do you think Arthur could help you at the Parliament?’

  Billy shrugged, pulling at his jacket. He hardly knew himself what he’d hoped for. If they could have helped him, and he had found Lord Arthur Clinton, what would he have asked him anyway except: ‘Why does your name make Mr Gladstone go pale?’ All he was certain about was that he had to keep his place at the Parliament.

  ‘Lord Arthur used to be an MP,’ said Billy, shrugging again, and the policeman, who had seen him stand, had come back now, and before the three men had time to say much more Freddie and Ernest were escorted away.

  19

  HEROINES IN NOVELS – people who love someone – dont abandon them because of HORRIBLE AND REVOLTING DISCLOSURES. That wasn’t Freddie’s fault. I decided that people who actually believed that Freddie and Ernest’s private parts should be splashed about for everyone to read of were mad people, in fact I decided that so many of the people we’d seen because of this trial were mad people, like those landladies, either drunk or preening. And others – we saw them. Outside the court we’d see people with placards. One said SODOM AND GOMORRAH and one said ABOMINATION and the men who were carrying them were surely on the same side, but they were drunk and they were hitting each other with their placards and yelling.

  And inside the court we’d see people like the man from the Society for the Suppression of Vice asking Mr Flowers if he could urgently intervene to prohibit the newspapers from publishing dirty details of this dirty case and so Protect Families. And then this man, having made his appeal, squashed in the front row to listen to the rest of it, leaning forward especially at the dirty details. And the manager of the Alhambra in Leicester Square, one of the most notorious places in London, protested that people like Ernest and Freddie gave his notorious establishment a bad name. Ha! as Ma would say.

  Maybe I was mad as well, one of the mad people. I’d been a bit mad to go to the Clerkenwell House of Detention in the middle of the night. The weather was mad certainly, it was so hot now I couldn’t sleep, or maybe it was thinking of Freddie and Ernest and how they had to listen to those – those medical details and Freddie’s kindness to me and his pale face.

  Finally one night I got up and crept into Freddie and Ernest’s broken-locked room with my little lamp. I hadn’t touched it since everything happened, though Ma told me to: ‘We have to be able to rent it out, Mattie,’ but I told myself they’d be back, singing up the stairs and coming down in gowns and perfume. But the room stayed silent. And, really, I knew now they wouldn’t be back and singing.

  When I went in, it was the saddest room you ever saw. I put the lamp on a table and it looked like a room that had belonged to someone who’d died. Things on the floor, spilled powder, hairpins everywhere, and a bottle half full of something called ‘Crème du Peche’, which I opened and breathed in. It smelled a bit peculiar. And a skirt left, and a waistcoat and a half-open portmanteau, some ‘Bloom of Roses’ on the bed, dust everywhere of course. The piano was dusty and silent, I played a few notes very quietly, which is the fairest gem? Eileen Aroon, but the notes sounded lonely. There was a white petticoat, half showing out of the big cupboard, as if there might be somebody there, I stared at it and in the lamplight it didn’t move, just hung there like half a ghost.

  I sat there for a while and thought, cant I do something? What I really needed to do was find where that Lord Arthur Clinton was, who had been so besotted with Ernest – he was the one who could say it wasn’t Freddie, all this trouble, that it was really all about Ernest. But I didn’t have any idea how to find Lord Arthur, maybe he was staying with his noble family and they were hiding him in an attic and taking him soup. So I had to do something else.

  And then, sitting there with their left-over things, I
thought of a Plan. I sat there in the shadowy dusty room working it out, thinking of fantastical falsehoods that I could embroider. Like hats. But in the end I decided to keep to the truth, but to tell it so it sounded different – I think I really must’ve seen myself like one of those heroic heroines in novels, those ones who run like the wind.

  I picked up my lamp, I saw my own shadow move towards the door. But suddenly I turned back quick – did something move?

  I felt my heart beating. At last I moved to the wardrobe and pushed at the petticoat half showing out of the cupboard, hanging like half a person. Just in case.

  Nobody. No ghost flew away. Just a petticoat.

  Then I went back to bed. With my Plan.

  Next morning very, very early I went in again and I cleaned that room from top to bottom, I got really hot in that mad weather, but I didn’t take any notice of being hot just went on cleaning and polishing, polished the poor silent piano, packed what was left of their things into the portmanteau, including the ghostly petticoat and some ‘Bloom of Roses’. Even the hairpins. I just kept one, a darker one, that Freddie would have used, I put it in my own hair. I arranged for a man down the road to fix the door that Mr Gibbings smashed.

  I waited till Ma called out she was going to the market. Billy was long gone but it was still early. I left a note: Gone to see if I can help Freddie, back soon, dont worry.

  I had a wash and dressed in my best gown, and one of my best hats and my Burlington Arcade gloves, oh it was so hot, then I went back to Bow-street, but to the offices round the end of the court.

  I hate it when people look at me limping.

  He stared at me, the policeman at the desk, but I took no notice.

  ‘I wish to speak to the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas. Mr Park.’

  ‘Do you indeed, miss. Well you wont find him here,’ and he directed me about and about to other buildings in other streets and I walked in, bold.

  I said to the man on the desk, ‘I wish to speak to the Senior Master of the Court of Common Pleas. Please. Mr Park.’