Pursuit

by Felice Picano

“Please sit, Mister Grimmins,” she said, offering me but not Lobster Tail a seat. It was he whom she addressed, however. “Dear young Mister MacIlhenny, it does my heart much good to see that you have taken my advice into your ordinarily heedless head and have at long last brought to me someone who may do great good for us all, and who may make both my and his own fortune.”

  I thought this a good opening and was about to speak, when she placed a perfumed finger across my lips and continued on to him.

  “We know that your own attributes, Mister MacIlhenny, are, while few in number, centred upon a prodigality of nature!”

  She giggled, and Lobs coloured.

  “But whatever young Mister Grimmins’s own male attributes may be are of far less moment to us, since he is of a personal beauty, of a personal classical beauty that I have not seen in this house since that moment when I myself was fortunate enough to be carried across that threshold. Upon my wedding day, young sirs. By the late Mister Jukes. And shortly thereafter had that portrait taken.”

  She pointed to an upper wall of the hall. There I made out a portrait which might be construed as herself, quite young, half settled upon a settee of pink satin, with at her feet several black pugs in beige paw-shoes.

  “He has come to join us in our quieter dock work,” MacIlhenny now said in a tight voice.

  She flounced up to her feet and, once risen, she proved to be unexpectedly large and most rotund.

  “No. No. NO. NO! You’re quite mistaken, Mister MacIlhenny. Quite! Does one toss a rare Brazilian orchid into the gutters of Rope Lane? Of course not. Mister Grimmins, may I call you Addison? Whatever Mister MacIlhenny so monstrously intended by introducing us, I assure you I have in mind a far greater destiny for you.”

  “Not a house-lad?” Lobster all but strangled out the words.

  “May I remind you,” she said grandly, yet firmly, “that you have been and still are a house-lad, and if I must say so, one of the most popular in the history of this house? Perhaps,” she added darkly, “it is time that you should quit that occupation yourself—to your youngers and betters—and move on to other labours more like quiet dock work.”

  “I meant…” Mac had paled somewhat. “I’d prefer not.”

  “Naturally, you would prefer not,” she said. “And so I supposed. Yet, tell me Mister MacIlhenny, how much were your earnings yester day and night?”

  “Three shillings four pence.”

  He held it out, and she promptly took the coins and dropped them down into her décolletage.

  “And yet, Mister MacIlhenny, I recall a date in the not so recent past when your prodigal gifts were wont to bring in six shillings per day. Regularly.”

  “I had a large meal,” he added somewhat shamefacedly.

  “However, neither I nor this house did share in that meal,” she said, “And so it is immaterial.”

  She waved him off, and he retired to a corner of the large chamber, where I occasionally heard him throwing a knife into an old chest.

  She, meanwhile, spent the next ten minutes doing her best to charm me.

  I would remain in the house, she told me, and never—like my friend—need go out of doors upon “calls.” Naturally enough, I would have all the time in the world to myself when not at the house and much freedom and two, no three full suits of new clothing, all bespoke down to my undergarments. I would dine like the Duke of Bedford and—

  “Doing what ? For what would I be paid, ma’am?”

  “Not very much work at all as far as the actual labour goes,” she said, glibly enough. “And certainly not as much as if you were a quiet dock worker, which can, at times, after all, be extremely hard work, and at other times even perilous work as it is, you understand, a species of pilferage.” She giggled and then darted another question at me: “You possess how many years, young Addison?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Grimmins! Do these glowing orbs seem to you so utterly blind? Again I ask. Or better yet, shall we estimate—fifteen and a half years?”

  I admitted it.

  “Then you shall have seven, perhaps eight excellent earning years. And because of your gift, we shall split your take down the middle.”

  I heard Lobster Tail snort something from within his niche.

  “Since,” she now said loudly, “I shall easily be able to charge double the ordinary fee, given your visage, Addison. It’s evident only the highest born and most well-off shall ever see your face, Addison, or indeed know of your existence in this house. Why, by the termination of seven years, you may have earned hundreds, indeed probably thousands of pounds.”

  It all sounded most promising, but I still didn’t know what I would be doing and asked her once more.

  “Well, it’s rather an indelicate subject for a lady to expatiate upon. But your friend shall do so. You do know, Mister MacIlhenny, don’t you, that Bishop Huddlestone is scheduled to be here in a few minutes. Go to your regular chamber and prepare for him as usual. And while doing so, why not place our young friend in that side closet, the one with the grilled doorway, so he may see exactly how you have yourself fared so very well to date in my employ, and thus how it will be that his own fortune may soon be obtained.”

  “Come closer one brief moment, Addison,” said she, and when I did, she took my hands—commenting “like a gentleman’s”—and touched my cheeks, commenting, “like those of a babe in arms.”

  Lobster Tail took his leave of her, sulky, with a poor grace, shuffling his lanky body upstairs, and looking back to see if I was following.

  “Catch him up, Addison,” Athaliah Jukes advised. So I did, with alacrity. I could hear her counting coin upon the table below us.

  We ascended to street level and then up one more, and only then did I make out how large the house was, especially its many doors to varied chambers on the top two landings. On each, some fellow lurked, and even by daylight, spermaceti oil might be sweetly smelt burning in the various lanterns ensconced upon the hallway walls.

  From its stairways and corridors, the house appeared furnished very handsomely with a surfeit of furniture and furnishings both, whether pictures or marble busts upon plinths, and handsomely patterned papered walls. To tell the truth, I already liked this better than being about the docks in all weather.

  More puzzling, however, than the many and various chambers, was that each such door held at eye level a brass plaque about the width of a man’s hand and within it, in some fanciful design, the cursively detailed name of a single month of the year.

  Lobster Tail entered into the second such—Taurus, April—and I followed.

  Like the hallways, the chamber was well furnished and well warmed by a small fireplace. It contained a quite large bed, canopied over in olden style, with a commode at one end and a backless chair nearby. A window, small and high, provided a glimpse of the still inclement daylight out of doors.

  “What shall you do here?”

  “Receive a visitor,” he said, surly. He then pointed to what appeared to be an adjoining closet, closed off by a wooden work grill. “In there goes yer fer the duration of my visit. Watch carefully and so yer copies whatever yer sees fer yer own edication,” he added, pointing.

  I entered the adjoining cabinet and found a small wooden stool where I myself would sit to witness what I guessed would be some kind of criminal activity, picking pockets, or lambasting, or who knows what? My mind was aflutter with so many exciting possibilities.

  Before closing the fretted gate I asked, “Still, Lobs, you never said. Where is Tiger Jukes?”

  “She is Tiger Jukes,” he replied, looking downward from where we had just come. “The greedy b-tch down the stairs! Or hadn’t yer figured it yet?”

  Imagine then my surprise when Lobster—er, MacIlhenny—removed most of his clothing and lay himself upon his back upon the bedsheets.

  Quickly enough, a timid knock on the door revealed his visitor, who stepped in, looking flushed and yet excited: a man of near sixty years of
age, distinguished and even holy in both his mien and in his garb.

  By this time, Lobster had taken up a small piece of reading matter, a blue-paper-covered book no bigger than his hand, and he was perusing its pages, as though utterly unaware of any thing as common as a visitor.

  And while he may have been unaware, one could not say the same for his member, so exposed within that expanse of reddish brown lawn, which immediately stood itself up taller. I imagined this visitor must be Bishop Huddlestone. He quietly as a mouse removed his coat—a large pale Ulster, against the wet—and he now bent down at one end of the bed as though in prayer. Covering his mouth, he tittered once, and then began to utter words difficult for me to ascertain, but which evidently Lobster Tail’s member was familiar with, as it now erected itself to a great height as though some living object, and at the same time filled itself out sideways, too, flushing red, and all the while Lobster read on, making much of turning a page, and seemed unconscious of it or of his visitor.

  Even from my impaired station, I could make out the Bishop’s fingers reaching forward toward that large, increasingly ruddy object. But instead he satisfied himself with patting the surrounding hair and drawing the lightest of invisible lines upon the adjoining muscles and quite visible blue veins as though mapping out the territory. Quickly enough, the Bishop removed a silken scarf of the most blazing carmine dye from around his neck, and this he carefully arranged around Lobster’s manhood, careful to enclose the paler orange sack. Was that Latin I heard Huddlestone uttering as he crept closer by inches to the desired object? Gingerly, as though expecting at any moment to be pushed away?

  No sooner was the adored thing wrapped about and singled out than it must be oh-so-lightly stroked by quivering Bishopric fingertips until it grew quite red, upon which the still chanting Episcopal bent over and adjoined to those tips the pointed tip of his tongue. There it dandled and darted and made tiny little forays all over the now glistening object, which quite resembled a warrior’s helmet, until it was fully widened and filled out.

  Several minutes more of this finger and tongue play continued, Lobster all the while seemingly unaware and enthralled by his true-murder mystery story, until the Bishop could no longer resist and fell upon it all the way until a portion of it had quite disappeared into the maw of his priestly mouth. There the Bishop worked upon it, using hands, tongue, and mouth, all the time I swear muttering Latin homilies.

  This went on for some time until suddenly, Lobster dropped his little booklet to one side, and using both largish hands, he held that sacred white-haired head until it was utterly still. The throat religious must still have been fully operational despite this ban, however. As I looked on, I noticed Mac’s head suddenly fall backward, eyes up to the ceiling, and at the same time I saw his entire midsection, flat rear end and all, arise at least two inches off the bed sheets.

  When he subsided back to them again a few minutes later, it was with the deepest exhalation, one from the very deepest part of him.

  At this turn of events, the Bishop forbore from his ministrations, backed away slowly, unwrapped the scarf, sniffed it quickly, stuffed it into his waistcoat, then arose to stand, muttering more garbled Latin. Once he’d buttoned his trousers and his waistcoat, he made some kind of hand blessing over Lobster’s supine body. Grasping his Ulster, he turned and rushed out.

  Silence reigned in that chamber for the longest time.

  Suddenly MacIlhenny rose up in bed and looked quickly at his member, which he dabbled at lightly with one finger.

  “And so now, me Scallop-lad, yer have witnessed what ’tis that a house-lad does to earn his living.”

  I slipped out of hiding. “How many times per diem?”

  “How many times per…whut?”

  “Each day?”

  “How many times could yer?”

  “Three. Four. More,” I assured him.

  He looked at me more closely. “I took thee for a country lad in manners.”

  “Hardly so, old Lobs. I’ve been with a travelling theatre troupe. The Invincibles, man and maid, taught me quickly and fully enough how all this does pleasure a fellow within their caravans at nightfall.”

  “To have it done to yer?”

  “Naturally. By maid and man. And also…” I teased.

  “And also to do it yerself?” he then asked in some surprise. “For there, me Scallop Lad, lies the true earnings of this house-lad trade, though yer must never say so to the fat one down the stairs.”

  “Naturally, enough, Lobs, old fellow. To do so oneself is all the art. And in the theatre, one learns to always aim to please through art.”

  He took a while to absorb that information while he got dressed and tied on his shoes.

  “Well, then, Scallop Lad,” he said, arising now and beginning to put on his waistcoat. “I recognize that ’tis time fer me to seek another place. Or p’raps to retire from the field altogether.”

  “But why? Cannot we operate in tandem, or as a team?”

  “Nay, Scallop, lad. With yer looks and yer experience, yer fortune is indeed here, as Tige fore-omened, inside this house. And upon fine, fat sausages and beefsteaks both shall yer dine!” he added. “Whilst I am, as yer’ve seen yerself, naught but a one-trick pony.”

  And though I tried to dissuade him, he would not listen, and in a few days as I settled in, he left our criminal mistress’s employ.

  I asked Jem and the other house guards if they ever saw him about the docks, doing light-fingered work there, but they said no.

  Yet another, a smooth faced scholar who paid well to merely kiss my pink and white bottom while he flogged his member, told me once that he believed my old compatriot had “gone the reformed whore’s way.” He swore that during the baptism of a well-off family where he’d accompanied his aged mother, he’d come upon MacIlhenny’s inimitably lanky form clad in the ebony garb of a church deacon. He was silently presiding alongside higher Episcopals at one of our larger cathedrals. And so, I supposed, my friend had found a way in which to satisfy his and his client-Lord’s inclinations.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  My days at Folly’s Ditch working for Tiger Jukes lasted only seven months—seven memorable months admittedly—during which time Tiger became plumped up almost to bursting with the many cream-filled French desserts she ate. She was now able to keep a foreign pastry cook upon the premises as well as her regular chef, for she had more than a dozen to feed, inclusive of the four henchmen who guarded the house and the lads at all times who worked. During that same period, my own girth didn’t alter an inch, but I certainly became more experienced in the more unusual manners of man—and eventually of woman too.

  Mrs. Jukes had predicted great success for her establishment, and both she and I laboured diligently at ensuring that prediction came true. That first night I was taken to a room en suite on the top floor of the building, well away from the half-windowed, bottom-floor dormitory where McIlhenny and the other house-lads resided and slept whilst not at active duty. They were as regulated as though they were soldiers in training. From their nourishment four times per day, which was strictly regulated by their usual great hunger and inclination to be filled with various joints of meat, eggs, and cheese dishes—to the ten hours that they slept because ten was the minimum Tiger felt needed for “growing lads.” To their “playtime” outside the house and, as a rule, at the open spaces down by the Overy docks themselves, where the boys’ games and hijinks were overseen by two or three of those layabout Bravos that Addison had first encountered when entering the house.

  This latter group of large, often muscular or simply stoutly powerful males had been promoted from their dock work and other less savoury occupations, and Addison was not surprised to discover four of them were related to the mistress. Jem and Calvin were cousins—German—while Gareth and Gwillyum were Welsh-born sons of a cousin of hers that she had ensorcelled into her business. The snub-nosed fellow who’d predicted I would “dine on fine Irish sausage” was named Mich
ael Aloysius, and despite his marriage to the daughter of the “counting man,” Anselm Harte Jukes, younger sibling of the deceased Mr. Jukes, Michael managed to impose his own fine Gaelic member into private chamber number six, my own new domain. Indeed, he did so often enough for the satisfaction of us both.

  Michael A’s. satisfaction because he was naturally hot-blooded, away from home a week at a time, and admittedly “taken some’at” with the newest lad. Or so I heard. This was a first for him, about which he received some good-natured larks from the other Bravos who were known to “dip into the wells of the Ditch” for their pleasure far more regularly than he. And to my satisfaction as well, because after several odd and unsatisfying near-couplings in a day, there were times when I longed for a fellow who knew what he wanted and had no qualms about taking such, even if it meant a bit roughly.

  The other encounters were often of the nature of the religious person with MacIlhenny, which was at least comprehensible. But quickly enough my presence became known in certain circles, and the carriage trade began to appear with some regularity in Rotherhithe Road. As a rule, these new clients’ carriages were discreetly stabled nearby for no extra charge and their driver given an ale and chair upon which to catch up on his slumber while awaiting his master. In addition, individually owned and operated Hansom cabs began plying Rope Lane with greater frequency. Unoccupied, they would glide by at late hours, note a brightly lighted oil lamp signalling outside the double front door, and stop to pick up a fare that might have them traverse all the way to Greenwich or the Mayfair and beyond.

  For that was how greatly the repute of my looks, demeanour, charm, and abilities soon travelled amongst those who would be interested in such. Meantime, I must meet with the other lads to discover what precisely I was expected to actually do, or if not do, then to receive. To my delight, I found the other lads to be pleased by my presence, and quite friendly. “Arter all, lad,” Anthony (number four, Gemini) told me without any rancour at all, “the more fellers that crowd round to get at yer, the better the pickins for us’n, since to me knowledge yer cannot be at three places at one time. Agreed, lads?”