by Dray Wray
‘I stood up, shaking, speechless, as Crease entered the room.
‘“Shall we build the fairy house?” he asked.’
Chapter Fifteen
That night after the dinner party I lay meditating on all that I had been told.
My bedchamber was decorated with hand-painted wallpaper and the exotic flowers and twisted vines on a smoky pink background made the room feel lush.
It struck me as strange that Queenie had never once mentioned Pretty Poppet, and I couldn’t but wonder why, for it was clear that the girl was her daughter. Hope’s story, I thought, was the best. I wished that I might have as much good fortune as she, and thinking of all the delights that can be found in the flesh made me long for Mercy to come to me in my four-poster bed. There, together amid the duck-egg-green drapes, we might imagine we were landing on some far distant island. Surrounded by sleep, she would perhaps tell me her untold story.
My stuffed parrot had no option but to be wide awake. It appeared to be watching me. I wanted to ask Mercy why she had given it to me; I wanted more to hear her story, which I was convinced she was saving for me alone. At every creak and squeak I told myself she was just outside and at any second she would open the door and all would be well again. I heard the clock chime midnight and decided that I would go to her. I tiptoed along the hall and thought to enter her room through the antechamber. It never occurred to me that there might be someone else there.
The door to the bedroom being open, I saw the golden moonlight spilling over a naked nymph. Her flaming red river of curls rippled over the pillows and kneeling above her on the four-poster bed wearing only a man’s shirt was Mercy. Protruding from the shirt was the most magnificent piece of machinery, carved like the one on Plate Twelve of the dancing master’s book. I remembered it was called ‘A Virgin’s Delight’. Mercy took off her shirt and I could see that the contraption was tied prettily to her, and the sight of it brought on an ache in me. I should have turned and left, but I was tied to the spot – by curiosity? By jealousy? I know not.
Mercy caught sight of me and, despite my presence, bent over the lovely nymph, kissed her mouth, her neck, her ivory globes, and then parted the nymph’s legs, rubbing the tip of the machine on her Venus garden. When the nymph arched her back, Mercy thrust her pretty machine deep into her. In and out and in and out, and in until the nymph let out such a cry that I knew she had reached that divine moment.
Now was the nymph’s turn. She undid the ribbons, took the contraption off Mercy and, caressing her, rolled her onto her back, parted her legs, then kissed her all the way down to the mark and stayed there. Mercy turned her head from side to side before she too died away in pleasure.
I ran off, heartbroken, and cried myself to sleep.
I woke the next morning determined not to tell a soul what I had seen. I would swallow my hurt. Let my toes turn green and fall off, I wouldn’t say a word.
But the moment Mr Crease looked at me with his painted eyes he said, ‘So it’s finished.’
‘What’s finished?’ I asked.
‘Mercy and you.’
Tears welled up and I told him everything. His face remained hard.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘I will have your undivided attention. Your instruction will start after lunch and I don’t want another tear from you.’
Hope found me near the back staircase, sobbing. She took my hand and led me to her chamber.
‘Ninny-not, what is the matter?’
And although I had made up my mind to tell no one else, for fear of my toes really turning green, I couldn’t help myself.
‘Mercy doesn’t love me any more,’ I blurted.
Hope laughed.
‘There is no humour in it,’ I said.
‘Yes, there is. Tully, you, my sweet virgin, are made to be loved and to be loved by men not women. I know that and, more important, Mercy knows it. It is only you who hasn’t realised it yet.’
‘Who was she – the woman Mercy was with?’ I asked
‘She is called Mofty. Unfortunately for her, she is married to a rake who enjoys pulling the wings off beautiful butterflies.’ Hope took my hands. ‘You have been locked away, my ninny-not, and understand little of the hypocrisy of this world and its masks. Mofty’s husband, Victor Wrattan, is a professional gambler and a notorious libertine who is renowned for beating the spirit out of his women. As handsome as they come on the outside and as black as the devil on the inside. Mofty was married to him at sixteen and has the scars to show it. Her survival is in no small part due to Mercy. But while we were at Milk Street she suffered badly.’
‘Why doesn’t she leave him?’
‘Money, or rather the lack of it. She had a handsome dowry when she married the dashing Mr Wrattan, but, of course, every penny of it went to him and she has been left with nothing but the crumbs from his table.’
‘Then how does she afford Mercy?’
‘She doesn’t, Mercy doesn’t charge her. I believe Mr Wrattan is enjoying himself elsewhere at present.’
‘What happened to Mercy’s other ladies when she was in Milk Street?’
‘They just had to wait. Queenie told everyone she had family business to attend to.’
I sighed. The thought that I had lost Mercy hurt me deeply.
‘Do you miss Mr Sitton?’ I asked.
‘Very much,’ she said.
‘Why did you want to marry him? After all, you have your independence.’
Hope smiled. ‘Tully, how long do you think my face will shine in all its glory for?’
‘For ever,’ I said. ‘Can’t you wait for him to return?’
‘I do not share your optimism. My looks will fade, alas, and with them my charms. Unless I have some security I will have little to live on apart from my reputation and I have seen too many whores end their days in the Fleet having spent a small fortune on fripperies. I don’t wish to be one of them. Come, my love, smile. A broken heart is a whore’s downfall, the ruination of many a good courtesan. I will get over mine just as you will get over yours. My advice, Tully, is in future keep your heart in a cabinet, lock it up and hide the key.’
Chapter Sixteen
To Make an Orange Fool
Take the juice of six oranges and six eggs well beaten, a pint of cream, a quarter of a pound of sugar, a little cinnamon and nutmeg. Mix all together, keep stirring over a slow fire till it is thick then put a little piece of butter and keep stirring till cold, and dish it up.
I have not really done justice to Mr Crease. My drawing of him I feel might be too sketchy. It is important for all that follows that he should be better painted. He was the most contrary of men and his temper more unpredictable than the weather. For all that, his skill as a magician was second to none. Every illusion he performed was done with a grace that his everyday life lacked for he possessed an abrupt manner and said what he thought without the inconvenience of worrying if what he thought might offend. Fools he tolerated moderately well.
That first disastrous rehearsal took place in the long gallery on the third floor, the last of Queenie’s undecorated rooms. Here was a broken mirror, cobwebs, dust and little more except two chairs. Mr Crease started to talk about the show that he was going to perform at the masquerade ball on the opening night of the fairy house.
‘We will start with the setting,’ he said, and he closed his eyes so that only his painted eyes could see.
By degrees the chamber began to change slowly into an elegant garden. The floor became grass and gravel, and in the distance the sunlight sparkled on a fountain. Orange trees grew in huge terracotta pots, the scent blew gently in the breeze.
I clapped my hands in amusement.
‘More, more,’ I said and it all vanished – every blade of grass, the fountain and all the orange trees.
‘Never do that again,’ he said sharply. Then changing his tone, he asked, ‘What was missing from the garden?’
‘Nothing. It was perfect.’
‘There were no people
. That is what I want you to do.’
‘You mean like Pretty Poppet?’
‘No,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Best leave her alone. Try someone else.’
‘Who?’
He didn’t answer.
I was pleased when at least I managed to bring Shadow into the room.
Mr Crease ignored his little dog and said, ‘Ads bleed, is that the limit of your powers? Is that all you can offer me? Is your imagination so stifled by preconceived ideas? Is it solely reliant on rational laws of probability?’
‘I suppose it is,’ I said.
‘What a whimsical, pathetic thing you are,’ said Mr Crease. ‘I am bored with your conventional, feeble mind. It is always elsewhere. So far I have seen nothing that makes me inclined to waste my gifts on you.’ He walked to the door. ‘You have the skill of a clodhopper. A street magician might amuse me better.’
‘You haven’t shown me how to do anything,’ I said. ‘How am I to learn if you don’t show me?’
‘You think there is a recipe for this?’
‘It would help.’
‘If you were a cheap street magician I might show you a few tricks but I would never insult the word by calling it “magic”. Where do your think your power lies?’ I had no answer. He came back to me and put his finger in the middle of my forehead and then on my stomach. ‘It comes from within. You believed in Shadow and the power of that belief pulled his ghost through, made him visible to others. You did the same with Pretty Poppet. My fear, Tully, is that your gift is born out of nothing more than naivety. The minute you said to yourself, “This isn’t possible, this isn’t rational, this defies gravity,” it was no longer possible. Today I believe I am seeing the tail end of a childish gift and if that is the case I dust my hands of you.’
I felt so angry my cheeks went to flame.
‘You mightily misjudge me, sir. And you are no help whatsoever. How should I conjure ghosts out of thin air? Tell me?’
He walked out the door and slammed it behind him.
I remembered the dark days I lived through in Milk Street, for perhaps there is nothing darker than when you have found sunlight only to see the shutters closed and to be imprisoned in the abyss again. Did I have the power? Had I really said to myself it was impossible so many times that it had become impossible?
Again that night I didn’t sleep, but lay awake wondering if Mr Crease could be right. When I was a child I believed everyone could do what I could do. That much is true. I believed it with an unquestioning passion. Perhaps that was what was missing: belief, passion.
After breakfast the next day I left the dining room and reluctantly made my way up to the long gallery, taking with me Mercy’s present for want of company. I started to talk to the stuffed parrot as I waited for Mr Crease.
‘I would much prefer that you were alive. At least then you might bring me some comfort and help, perhaps, in proving my worth to Mr Crease. Did you note, dear, dead parrot, he has a very good set of teeth? “Boozey.” Well Boozey, is that what you were called? Why? “A sailor named me long ago. Wing white in blue sky, my feathers knew the wind and the ways its breath blew.”’
I was so lost in what I took to be a one-sided conversation that I didn’t hear Mr Crease come in.
‘What is the name of your parrot?’ he asked, making me jump. He was standing right behind me.
‘Boozey,’ I said. ‘Though where that came from I haven’t an angel’s feather of an idea.’
‘A good name,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Does the parrot recognise it?’
‘The parrot is dead.’
‘So is Shadow. Who captured the parrot?’
‘A sailor.’ I thought I might as well make use of what had slipped into my mind.
‘Where?’
I shrugged.
‘Parrots come from jungles far away,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Where a lushness of foliage grows.’
As he spoke, foliage grew out of the walls of the long gallery, a tangle of woody vines hung down, leaves sprouted, soft as a baby’s skin, stitching themselves over each other, hungry for the light. Butterflies, paint pots on wings, flew among the branches, as the plaster ceiling disappeared into a blue sky. An opera of birdsong echoed round us. A snake slithered on its belly into the undergrowth. Heat filled my senses and the perfume of exotic flowers was so heady I felt giddy. All this Mr Crease appeared to have at his command.
Forgetting about what was possible or impossible, I called ‘Boozey’, for surely if anyone should relish this landscape it would be my dead parrot. I called again and felt a feathery wind by my ear and saw his white shape fly past.
‘Boozey, where are you my beauty?’
Far off someone else was calling, and before us appeared a thin reed of a man dressed in sailor’s clothes.
He stood in a small clearing, a machete in his hand, his head tilted to the sky, listening to its cry, following the movements of the parrot until it came to rest on his outstretched hand. His face lit up.
‘There you are, my beauty,’ he said. ‘I won’t have you served up for the captain’s dinner. Here, I’ve peeled you an almond.’
And he fed it with unexpected delicacy to the small beak of his great love.
With a click of Mr Crease’s fingers everything disappeared and the parrot was back on his perch, unmoving, lifeless. There was not a sign of what had been before. Convinced I had played no part in the magic that had unfolded before me, I gazed defiantly at Mr Crease.
He stared at me, silently tapping his cane on the floor.
‘You are right,’ I said. ‘My gift belongs to childhood. I couldn’t do anything like that. I wouldn’t know how to go about such imaginings – after all, I have spent my life imprisoned with only fleeting glimpses of the outside world. I have never seen a jungle, never seen a forest, never seen a river. I don’t know what a street magician can or cannot do. I am, as you say, miserable, predictable and mundane. I didn’t ask to be your apprentice and – ’
Mr Crease interrupted me. ‘We are finished,’ he said.
I picked up the cage and went to my chamber with tears in my eyes, convinced that my time at the fairy house was over. I told myself that I didn’t care and packed what little I had. I was itching to see the world. But when I opened the chamber door the maid was standing there.
‘Mr Crease says I am to dress you and he wants you downstairs before the clock strikes the half-hour.’
I looked at the clothes she was holding.
‘Those are a young man’s clothes,’ I said.
The maid wisely kept her peace. Only when I was dressed and a short bob wig and a hat firmly placed on my head did she say, ‘You make a handsome lad.’
The quality of the clothes alone made my heart stop pounding. Surely if Mr Crease was to have me thrown onto the streets he wouldn’t have me dressed in such expensive finery?
I found him by the front door brushing plaster dust off his hat.
Weaving between the ladders I went to him and said, ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I spoke out of turn.’
‘Never apologise to me,’ said Mr Crease. ‘I don’t give a fuck.’
Chapter Seventeen
To be outside the fairy house, to take gulps of air that had not stagnated in closed chambers, felt to me to be freedom enough. I didn’t ask Mr Crease where we were going, just enjoyed feeling my leather shoes upon the ground, my stride free of skirts. The novelty almost made me forget the morning’s disaster. Mr Crease said not a word.
I thought myself a sailor who had after a lifetime at sea been cast up upon a strange shore. So lost was I trying to make sense of this brave new world that I walked on not realising that Mr Crease had stopped.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘What do you think happened in the long gallery?’
I was at sea once more. ‘You created it all,’ I said without confidence, for in most of Mr Crease’s questions there was a catch.
He slapped me across the face and at that moment I hated him wholeheartedly.
‘Do you need to be so cruel? What, sir, is the purpose apart from your own pleasure?’
‘It is you who are being cruel. You are crueller by far to yourself than ever I am to you. Put aside the hatred you feel for me and listen. Listen.’
I held my head up high and bit my lip.
‘When I came to the long gallery this morning I had decided there was no point to the exercise and I had told Queenie as much. You didn’t hear me enter but neither did you look at the cage for if you had you would have seen the parrot come alive. You would have seen it cock its head to one side, you would have heard it tell you its name and who it belonged to. Instead, you were thinking that you had failed, that you hadn’t anything magical to show me. It is your lack of belief in what you do that causes your gift to be erratic.’ I stared down at my shoes. ‘Look at me.’ He jerked up my face to his. ‘You are a natural shaman. If you were a man you would know it and your conceit would be unbearable. Instead I find this gift in an uneducated girl who doesn’t believe in her own talent and who is obsessed with being bedded.’
It was, I thought, most probably the only compliment Mr Crease would ever pay me. In that I was wrong.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘First, we go to Covent Garden and then I want you to see what a street magician does.’
At the piazza he pointed out St Paul’s Church. ‘Here, at the altar of sex, the congregation is praying: will he want me, will he fuck me, will he pay me. Welcome to the arsehole of sin where anything you want can be yours for a purse of gold.’
We walked on under the arcade which afforded some shade to the women there, dressed in their bawdy finery. Already the day was hot. Shop windows flashed past in a daze of glittering, eye-catching baubles. A street musician, leaning against a column, sung a ditty:
‘The king asked the queen
The queen asked the king…’