An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  The queen was hiding in the shadows and I wanted to stop and find out what she had to say on the matter, but Mr Crease was walking with such a purpose that stopping was no part of it and we left the musician behind. A girl approached us, her face so thickly covered in white paint that her age was well hidden. Letting her shawl fall off her shoulders she showed a pair of pert breasts. Mr Crease brushed her aside.

  ‘I’m clean,’ she shouted after us.

  At the end of the colonnade, Mr Crease stopped suddenly. I near tripped over him.

  ‘The musician,’ he said, ‘tell me about him.’

  The musician as far as I could see was counting his takings. I didn’t know what to say. Mr Crease closed his eyes so that the two painted ones stared at me. He pushed his finger into the middle of my forehead.

  ‘Use that eye, that eye alone. Try again. What do you see?’ He tapped his cane on the ground.

  ‘But surely you can see it too,’ I said. ‘As I think can everyone else. It would be impolite to draw attention to the situation.’

  Mr Crease banged his cane on the ground. ‘See what?’

  I sighed. It seemed so silly to have to point it out.

  Taking a breath, I said, ‘His wife is standing in the shadows.’

  ‘And?’ said Mr Crease.

  ‘And she is dead. Full of holes.’

  ‘I would say stab wounds.’

  ‘Yes. You can see her as well as I. It is nothing remarkable.’

  I watched as two ladies passed by the musician who took off his hat and bowed. They too must have seen her for they let out the most terrible screams. The musician, startled, turned round and began to shout.

  ‘Go away, woman! Don’t reproach me – I never killed you. Are you trying to drive me mad? Why do you torment me?’ Then, even louder than before, he began to sing, ‘The king asked the queen, the queen asked the king…’

  By now a crowd had gathered round him. Mr Crease manoeuvred me into the sunlight.

  ‘You see,’ I said, ‘I was right not to point it out.’

  ‘Ads bleed,’ he replied. ‘You are either a simpleton or a genuis. Don’t you understand what you can do? You and I can see the dead woman. No one else can until you make her visible to them. Even I can’t do that.’

  ‘Is everyone blind then?’

  I thought about this revelation as we walked across the square. I had never seen so many people all gathered in one place. Was I really to believe that not one of them could see what I could see?

  ‘It’s not just the dead,’ I said, stopping Mr Crease. ‘I saw a boy called Sam in the grandfather clock at Milk Street and so did Mr Truegood. He told me that was him as a child. What does that mean? And if I can see the dead then tell me, why could I never call my mother back?’

  Mr Crease’s voice was softer. ‘Because her spirit is free.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  A sedan chair was fast making its way towards us through a field of rotting vegetables.

  ‘Later, Tully, we will talk of this. Not now.’ He moved me quickly out of the way and into a coffee house.

  Inside, men of all ranks were sitting at tables and the smoke was so thick that it hung in a grey cloud above their heads. Mr Crease pushed through the crowd of gaudy muckworms, until he found who he was looking for – a robust man, every inch of him made of muscle and spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Mr Bird,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Sit,’ he said to me and I pulled a chair close to the table.

  ‘Three bowls of Politician’s Porridge,’ called Mr Bird to the serving girl, the only other woman there.

  Mr Crease half closed his eyes as he lit his long white pipe.

  ‘Who’s the lad?’ said Mr Bird.

  ‘My apprentice,’ said Mr Crease.

  ‘To be trusted?’

  Mr Crease nodded. ‘Is it true that Bethany has left her keeper?’ he asked as three bowls of coffee arrived.

  ‘True as a Sunday,’ said Mr Bird.

  ‘Found her in bed with his footman?’

  ‘Discovered them in a very interesting position that left little doubt as to the point of the exercise they were performing.’

  ‘Have you anything more for me?’ he asked and put a purse on the table. Mr Bird put his hand out to take it but the purse moved and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t catch it.

  Observing this, the dandy at the table opposite said, ‘That is some trick, sir.’

  He had with him a small box and inside was a canary that seemed to be dead.

  ‘What else have you heard?’ asked Mr Crease, ignoring the comment.

  ‘I heard some news this morning,’ said Mr Bird. ‘Fresh as baked bread it is.’ He did not have an easy way with a story, being given to taking the longest route and disdaining all short cuts. ‘The gentleman you was asking about is as dead as a plump turkey. Murdered, found with his throat slit. Not a pretty picture.’

  ‘I need more than the obvious.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Crease, and I am on my way to finding it out if you would just have the kindness to let go of the purse.’

  I wanted to ask who had been murdered and might well have done so had I not seen you walk into that unmemorable sea of chattering faces and lopsided wigs.

  Wait, wait. I should conjure an orchestra so that it might herald your entrance, the audience standing to give you a round of applause in anticipation of the performance to come. When the rope is round my neck this memory is the one I will hold tight, the moment I saw you. What a striking young gentleman you were: your eyes sky blue, lips generously made for kissing, your nose that of a Roman god. Your enviable hair was your own which was considered most unfashionable yet it suited you handsomely – powdered grey, tied with a black bow, more elegant than the white wool bush that most men had ill fitted upon their heads. Several stared at you for your clothes – a soft, dove-grey jacket and silver waistcoat – were finely cut. It occurred to me that you were used to your entrance causing a stir.

  I felt Crease’s cane on my shin as if he knew what I was thinking. He looked up and seeing who had caught my attention he stood.

  ‘Mr Fitzjohn,’ he called. ‘Mr Avery Fitzjohn, if I am not mistaken.’

  The young gentleman, Avery Fitzjohn, smiled and made his way towards us. I kept my head low for fear that my burning cheeks might give away my indecent thoughts.

  ‘Mr Crease,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you, sir. A long time – and you still recognise me.’

  ‘Join us,’ said Mr Crease. He handed Mr Bird the purse. ‘Ned, find out what you can and meet me at the house.’

  Mr Fitzjohn rested his hat on the table and took Ned’s seat. Mr Crease ordered more coffee.

  Close to, this young man was even more desirable than he was at a distance, his face so well drawn.

  ‘The boy all gone, the man appears,’ said Mr Crease. ‘What brings you back to the metropolis?’

  I had never heard Mr Crease talk in such a civil manner to anyone apart from Queenie.

  ‘My return is due to my uncle being very ill. And I have other business. Tell me, is it true that Queenie is opening a new house?’

  ‘Indeed she is,’ said Mr Crease. ‘The fairy house – a brothel like no other the metropolis has to offer. It will open with a most spectacular masquerade ball.’

  ‘Then I have returned to London at exactly the right time. I always said that the old rogue, my uncle, must be good for something. In that I was right. If it was not for him, I would still be in Paris.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’ asked Mr Crease.

  ‘I’m studying to be a physician. I have to do something with my days other than look decorative. After all, I am not destined to inherit a title or a fortune so I might as well inherit some knowledge.’ Turning his blue eyes on me, he said, ‘What is your name?’

  I didn’t know what to say but Mr Crease said quickly, ‘This is Master Thomas, my apprentice.’

  ‘Well, Master Thomas,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘Do you always
keep sixpence behind your ear?’

  Instinctively, I put my hand to my ear and a sixpence rolled onto the table.

  Mr Crease was amused at my astonishment.

  ‘The only trick you ever taught me, Mr Crease,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, ‘and I have never forgotten it. I use it to intrigue the ladies.’

  ‘Master Thomas,’ said Mr Crease, ‘what trick do you have to show my friend?’

  My heart sank as I dearly wanted to impress Mr Fitzjohn. Then it came to me.

  ‘Sir,’ I said nervously, ‘I think there is a bird under your hat.’

  ‘Under my hat?’ said Mr Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said and looked at Mr Crease, who shrugged.

  Cautiously, Mr Fitzjohn lifted his hat. There stood the canary. It started to tweet.

  The young dandy whose dead canary it was had paid his bill and was making his way out of the coffee house with the box. I knew that the moment he reached the door the spirit of the bird would fly to freedom.

  ‘Touché,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I can see you are a worthy pupil. Alas, I possess no such skill.’

  The bird took flight and he turned and watched as the slash of yellow disappeared into the grey.

  ‘Magicians and physicians have more in common than either would like to acknowledge,’ said Mr Crease.

  ‘Dammit, you are right, sir. We both deal in the impossible: the illusion that death can be bargained with.’

  Through the window I could see the dandy looking into the small box that contained his dead canary. He threw it away in disgust. Mr Crease saw him too.

  Mr Crease stood and bowed to Mr Fitzjohn. ‘I will have an invitation sent to you. Where are you staying?’

  I knew then that if I could choose who I would give my virginity to, I would with all my heart choose you. Hope was right. You made me realise that what I longed for was not a tied-on virgin’s delight but the real thing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sheep’s Tongue in Paper

  Cut braised tongues into two pieces and put round them a forced meat made of fowls’ livers, or any sort of poultry, with the yolks of hard eggs, sweet herbs, a little suet or beef marrow, pepper and salt and a few fine spices. Pound together; roll them up in paper, first rubbed with oil or butter; either broil or bake them slowly, and serve dry or with the sauce.

  To my delight, Avery Fitzjohn walked out of the coffee house with us.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked Mr Crease above the voice of a street-seller calling his wares.

  ‘My name, your name, your father’s name, your mother’s name.’

  ‘Bartholomew Fair,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Come with us.’

  ‘I would dearly like to but I have a lawyer to see, so, sir, I bid you good morning.’

  I turned to watch him go and in doing so bumped into the street-seller. There was a terrible clang as the alphabetical posy he was holding fell to the cobbles. I bent to pick up the marking irons and much to my embarrassment found that Mr Fitzjohn had stopped to help.

  ‘Allow me, Master Thomas,’ he said, smiling.

  When all the letters had been given back to the street-seller, I thanked him and hurried to catch up with Mr Crease. Only when I was sure Mr Fitzjohn was out of sight did I ask Mr Crease who he was.

  ‘A very interesting young man.’

  ‘And…?’

  But Mr Crease had nothing further to add. We walked on and I began to flag. To my relief Mr Crease hailed a hackney carriage.

  I was delighted by the novelty and had just settled myself inside when, looking out through the window’s metal grille, my heart near stopped. A little way off, staring at the hackney carriage, was the gentleman from the blue chamber.

  ‘Mr Crease, there was a gentleman who came to Milk Street the day of Mr Truegood’s wedding to Queenie. He is standing over there.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Mr Crease. But the gentleman in question appeared to have vanished. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said as we bumped along. ‘No. I don’t know.’

  We arrived outside a tavern in the midst of a huge crowd. If chaos wanted to show herself in all her disarray then she could not have chosen a better occasion than Bartholomew Fair. People were packed as tight together as in a barrel of eels. I was almost overcome by the smell of sweat and roasting pig.

  ‘If we become separated,’ said Mr Crease, who I could hardly hear above the squealing of catcalls, the squeaking of penny trumpets and the thunder of kettle drums, ‘this is where we will meet: here at the King’s Head.’

  Inside the tavern it was as busy as outside but slightly cooler for the shade. Mr Crease fought his way through until he found two seats by the window on the second floor. He ordered coloquintida, a small beer, which never having tasted before I thought odd, but not unpleasant. From the window we could just see one of the stages. An actor strutted about in tinsel robes and gilded buckskin. A magician took to the stage and I watched and was disappointed by all I saw him do.

  ‘That,’ said Mr Crease, ‘is a buffoon who thinks he’s a magician conjuring up tricks for other buffoons to watch.’

  I was surprised by the heavy handedness of the magic. Every trick performed could be seen it for what it was: a cheap fraud.

  ‘That isn’t magic,’ said Mr Crease and ordered more beer. ‘It couldn’t even own the word. You asked me a question.’

  I had all but forgotten. The sight of Avery Fitzjohn had put it out of my head.

  ‘I did. I wanted to know how it was I could see the boy in the grandfather clock although Mr Truegood wasn’t dead.’

  Mr Crease closed his eyes so that his painted eyes could see into me.

  ‘It was said by Mr Shakespeare that one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. Mr Truegood’s haunted boyhood was a part he had never been able to let go. It happens often that the living are more haunted by their pasts than they are by the dead who, like your mother, on the whole have somewhere else to go.’ Changing the subject, he asked, ‘Is that gentleman you thought you recognised anywhere about?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Drink up then.’

  Outside, we were caught up in the crowd. We swam rather than walked past booths and theatrical stages, stalls selling hobby horses, singing birds, toy dogs, and all that shimmered and shone. I, no more than a magpie, was unable to take my eyes from the gaudy trappings on sale. I looked round and realised Mr Crease was well ahead of me. I tried to break free of the forceful tide and that was the cause of my misfortune. I lost my wig and my hat and instead of concentrating on the whereabouts of Mr Crease, I tried to retrieve my possessions. It was too late – they were trodden into the mud and shit, as good as lost for ever. Now I could no longer see Mr Crease. He was neither to the front of me nor to the back, and I found I was being jostled into a large booth. I was trying to extricate myself when a candle lit up the stage and a curtain was pulled aside for a harlequin to announce that the play was called The Devil of a Duke. The crowd clapped.

  Intrigued, I stayed to watch. One character acted the drunk and reminded me more than I liked of Mr Truegood. The heat in the tent was too much and I made my way out. There, my eyes accustomed themselves to the bright sunlight but I still couldn’t see Mr Crease. I realised that without my wig and hat my disguise was undone.

  ‘Have you paid?’ said a man who was standing by the opening.

  I hadn’t a penny on me. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t.’

  It was then that I felt a hand holding tight to my arm.

  ‘Oh, Mr Crease,’ I said, turning round. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  And I looked up, not into Mr Crease’s face, but into the eyes of the gentleman from the blue chamber.

  What followed shook me badly and made me wonder about those two rogues, Fate and Destiny, who daily play piquet with our lives without one jot of concern for the consequences. It is terrible to think that all our hopes and dreams are in the hands of t
hese two swindlers. I thought myself to be so insignificant a mortal that they would not tamper with my days in any way; in that I was proved decidedly wrong. There you see, sir, that the shallow shores of my mind have shells on them; whether there be pearls I cannot say. But I dally.

  The gentleman from the blue chamber quickly paid the man.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take this and be done with it.’

  In the sunlight the gentleman was certainly handsome but where Mr Avery Fitzjohn’s face was open I could not say the same for this gentleman. What had I been thinking to cast him in such a romantic light?

  To my surprise he again took hold of my arm and addressed me by my name. ‘Miss Truegood, I insist that I escort you home. My carriage is at your disposal.’

  There seemed something mighty untoward in his design, even to my feeble brain, and instinctively I tried to pull away. It was then that I seemed to wittingly or unwittingly conjure up Pretty Poppet. The gentleman saw her too and wavered. In that instant I broke free and ran, breeches being better suited to running than petticoats. I heard my would-be abductor, not far behind, curse and call my name. Pretty Poppet guided me, weaving in and out of the crowds. She lifted the flap of one of the smaller tents and, terrified of being caught, I ducked inside.

  My heart was pounding so fast that I didn’t concern myself with the interior of the tent or who it might belong to but kept my eyes on the opening. Through it I could see the gentleman searching the booths.

  ‘Come away from there and be seated,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a woman, heavily made-up, sitting at a small dressing table. Her hair was near gone, apart from a wisp, and a wig stood on a stand.

  ‘He will not come in here,’ she said. ‘You are safe with me.’

  I didn’t feel as certain as she did.

  Further in, the tent was full of clothes of the most glittery kind and they smelled of warm wax, paint and sweat.

  ‘Sit down and let me know you.’

  I sat beside the actress and she took hold of my hand and looked at my palm. I felt rather shy and awkward.

  ‘Thank you, madam, for letting me hide here,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, it is most rude of me to have barged in uninvited.’