Cremorne Romance

A line of cumbersome men ranged in a queue. Smoke rising from a street cauldron of morning stew. Evil-smelling and nourishing. Each ragged member shuffling forward in his afforded space and taking a wooden bowl of steaming gruel. Some with a grunt. Sometimes a nod. Never a thank you. Never a doffed cap. Maybe a crafty wink. Them and us. You don’t say a thank you, just take what you can get and thank your lucky stars.

Tom is near the end of this inchoate file of rumbling human flesh. Elbowed and jostled. Pushed to the rear. A young pink-cheeked girl in a starched white bonnet fusses with eager youth eyes and helps Tom’s blind fingers seek out the breakfast bowl. Now slowly leading him to a vacant spot by a damp wall and offers to help. Cloying voice of eager kind concern.

‘I’m alright thank you kindly miss. No need to go a-worrying yourself. You carry right along there.’

With that the girl edges away and is immediately replaced by a stringy wet mutt who rubs along Tom’s left leg. Is rewarded for his pains with a short, sharp kick and settles down with a pretend whimper to await a proffered scrap.

Watery sunshine breaking through the shrouded day. The bricks of the city houses glisten with the damp.

Blind Tom slowly starts to wind his way through the narrow, smelly, urban streets of rotting rubbish and permanently overflowing sewage systems. Nelson the mutt faithfully limping along at Blind Tom’s heels. Forever hungry and on the lookout for better times. The bustle, smells and tastes taking Tom towards the centre of this urban sprawl that is the current centre of the universe.

Nelson barking sharply … ‘Sorry Mister I fell right over, didn’t mean to get in your way … ’

In a flash a skinny young shaver of a boy pushes Tom against a lamppost, grabs at his tattered old bag and goes to make off. Before he’s two yards down the street a ferociously barking Nelson has him cowered by the Bricklayer’s Arms Inn. Leaping forward at the boy’s throat, pinning him against the wall of the pub. Each time the boy goes to make a dash for it Nelson has him bang to rights. No escape.

‘Thought you could rob Blind Tom did yer! Easy pickings from a silly, old blind sod like me did yer!’

Tom kicks Nelson out of the way and pins the boy against the pub wall with his large, hairy hand wrapped firmly around the boy’s windpipe. Unseeing bleached eyes thrust down deep at the boy’s nose. Foul breath pawing at this boy’s skin.

‘Thieve from Old Tom would yer!’

‘I didn’t mean it Mister honest I didn’t!’

‘But you did! Now give me that bag!’

Tom lets go and cuffs the boy around the head.

‘What’s your name you thieving little shit?’

‘Jack.’

‘Well it would have to be Jack wouldn’t it! … Thieving Jack more like it!’

With that Tom lurches unsteadily away clutching his tatty possession and starts towards the welcoming door of the Bricklayer’s Arms. Nelson and the thieving boy Jack follow.

‘What you doing boy?’

‘Can’t I come along with you? … I’ve got nothing much else to do see.’

The early morning noise of the Bricklayer’s Arms drinking crowd pauses for a second to allow Blind Tom and his companions passage through the milling throng and up to the wooden bar top.

‘What can I do for you Blind Tom? What be your poison this early morn?’

‘Jed Richards you old lecher! … Bless me! … Gin that’s what I’ll have. A very large schiedam Master Richards and none of your cheap watery stuff you hear!’

‘Anything for the chicken or the mutt?!’

‘Naw, they can fend for themselves … Here’s to you Jed Richards and the old times … You’ve fallen on your feet again like you always do. Lady luck must’ve kissed you sweet when you were a child … That’s better! … Right, now I’ll wet the other blind eye if it’s all the same to you!’

Blind Tom drags himself away from the bar and clutching his glass close shuffles carelessly towards a rickety old table inside of the street door. Incautiously knocking into people, cussing and mumbling and kicking up the inches thick layers of putrid sawdust strewn over the floor.

Nelson squats in the corner by the door and Jack sits on an upturned beer keg. The two of them are eyeing each other up, unsure whether to make friends or just settle on an uneasy acceptance of a truce.

Silence.

‘Where you heading then Tom?’

‘I’ve no fucking idea Jed!’

‘You’re on the road bright and early this morning. You should head out westwards to Cremorne and make yourself some money. You’ll go down a right royal treat a-begging with that scruffy boy and the mutt. The bunch of you should lay your hands on a few shillings today I’ll wager!’

‘Cremorne?’

‘Don’t you know nothing! Just cos you’re blind Tom don’t make you blinking deaf as well does it! Cremorne Leisure Gardens over in Chelsea … You must’ve heard of them!’

‘Tell me more Master Jed and wet my third eye as well while you’re at it!’

Jed reappears carrying another large glass of Schiedam, hands Jack a half-jar of Porter and throws a piece of rotting meat in the direction of Nelson.

‘Now, you all comfortably sat? … Good! Right, now I’m gonna tell you about the greatest place in all the world. A glittering monument to drink, dance, fair women, the good life and the sweet hereafter!’

‘I’ve heard of this Cremorne.’

‘Shut up boy and drink your porter!’

Blind Tom takes another gulp, the boy Jack takes a serious mouthful and grows a white moustache. Nelson gnaws at his bone and cocks an ear.

Jed Richards thunders forth, hands weaving and dancing in the smoke-filled pub air, voice rising higher and higher in wonderment.

‘Now, imagine a truly large beautiful garden my dears, lush green lawns slanting down to our blessed river. Everything you’ve ever wanted or desired is hidden in these gardens. The elixir of existence and heaven on earth my fine band. Glorious stretching fields of pleasure gardens with flowering lawns, marvellous statues, spouting fountains dazzling in the sunshine … You can approach Cremorne from the streets of Chelsea, or arrive by boat on the Thames from the City and land at the river gate. All lit up by the modern wonder of gaslight so as it stays open so late my boys. Promenade walks through the lush, flowering lawns and trees, coloured paintings and statues are suspended on wires in the trees. The leaves on the laden trees are painted silver and gold and sparkle and glimmer in the magical night air as the orchestra plays from the glass, shimmering bandstand. Smartly-attired young toffs are dancing the Cremorne polka. Thrusting at each other on the night air. All the sweating noise and hubbub of it, crowds and tables thrumming in the heaving throng. Don’t you just see it and feel it! The dance platform … Yes, yes, they have even invented their own dance. That’s how clever they are see … All for the admission price of one shilling. You can see the Crystal Grotto, linger by the Marionette Theatre if that strikes your fancy. Steal a visit to the Hermit’s Cave … glorious wonders and excitement from all over the wide world. The dazzling delights and secrets of the Orient. A genuine Chinese Pagoda, yes a real Pagoda all the way from Cathay. All manner of entertaining sideshows and displays. All the way from America they have a Bowling Saloon. And at night above the illuminated gardens you can see a balloon descent twinkling out of the dark, starry night sky over Cremorne … Brightly coloured animals glowing around the balloon and women aeronauts too … Dancing young couples with glazed faces disappearing into the painted trees. Tiers and tiers of supper and pleasure boxes erected all around the bandstand. Costumed waiters and bawdy wenches serving the rich and famous my boys. Champagne and oysters, faggots and porter on frothy demand as the orchestra plays on. Women of the night sidle among the heaving crowds. Wandering harlots to you Blind Tom. All at the tip of a wink and jingle of a coin doncha know … The smartly-attired young couples dance and cavort and all is swell … From the young Prince of Wales, his royal self, to a low, thieving varmint like Jack here, all are heading to Cremorne from midday to dusk. The city families flock there to see all the live shows, the dazzling firework displays from the Firework Temple, buy refreshments and picnic on the flowering lawns, wait for the Balloon Descent just after dark then head homeward carrying their exhausted, sleepy young children with them … At night the Gardens truly come alive when all the families have gone. Magical, breathless, strolling through the endless avenues of illuminated trees … Maybe pay a visit to the Circus, see the dwarfs and acrobats, the dancing bears and the great elephant. All manner of exotic diversions in the pleasure-seekers garden by night. You can spy a pretty face, a well-turned ankle, drink all you desire, smoke opium by the fuming pipe-full. Anything goes at Cremorne. We are all welcome. The world breathes in and we all dance, sing, drink and bathe in the magical light of Cremorne.’ …

The ragged band of three undesirables making their halting way through the streets of the metropolis. Heading away from the financial institutions that lead the world and barely recognise Tom and Jack as a statistic. Heading for the Strand and Holywell Street.

‘’Ere, where you be bleeding leading us Blind Tom? How can you know your way so well? … How come you pulled me back from that cab when it came growling and rearing at us ‘alf a mile back? … Are you really blind? Are you one of His gang? The Street Crippled Mob from the Crimean War then Tom? … You having us on are you … You can’t fool Young Jack!’

‘Would that I could see boy. If I was that clever Jack Lad I wouldn’t be a-walking through the streets of this great stinking city in the heat of midday see boy. I’ll tell you what varmint boy thief of the night. Devil bumping from your mother’s womb poor cow. Witches’ brew child. You are all blind do yer hear! … And you … You’re one of the sharper ones boy, that I can testify to … I could see at your age Jack. The French War took my sight boy. Blasted my eyes with gunpowder and shot.’ …

Old Tom staggers and grabs Jack’s arm hard above the elbow. Leans close to the boy’s face, hisses with his evil-smelling gin-soaked breath. Thrusts his bleached empty eye sockets with half-hooded flaps of protruding, cherry-stained skin, right at the boy’s quivering nose … Jack gasps for fear, tries hard to lever away but he cannot loosen Tom’s iron grip. Nelson is barking, joining in for the fear and excitement of it …

‘See with these empty holes you little shit! See with these useless peepers! Bah! I sacrificed you hear. Sacrificed to defeat Old Bony. We all had to give … But I tell you something thieving boy. Look closely around you and attend. Nearly all you see that are hustling and bustling to and fro on their merry way, they are blind … I can smell. I can greet the stench of Holywell Street and know it is only two more blocks away Boy. I can feel see, feel what is happening. I can touch the night sky with my nose and tongue. My ears are like two darting eyes that relay the pictures of the street to me Boy … We’re right by St Clement Danes Church now. Why are the bells a-chiming Boy? Cos it has just gone mid-day, five past the hour I would guess and two more poor fools have just tied the knot and are standing on the steps of St Clem’s as we pass by … Am I right Boy? Am I right?’

‘That was easy Old Man!’

‘Easy is it! … Well, you are gonna be my fresh eyes and ears Boy. Rabbit sharp you are. But just remember, I can spy your every move … spot your evil little soul Boy. Read your next move before you know it! … Smell that Boy? I’ll tell you the stench of the different smells from the poorer streets. But that smell Boy, that smell … Here mutt!’

Tom aims a swift, sharp kick at Nelson, just misses and nearly thunders over. Grabs at Jack’s arm and totters like a fat giraffe on crazy stilts … ‘That is the sweet stench of Elizabethan England Jack Boy. The last you will ever smell!’

The blind old man, the keen-eyed boy and the wretched mutt make their uneasy way through the raucous mayhem and bustle that is Holywell Street. The orange sellers, the prostitutes, the lost Students. The Law Givers out for a bit of squalor. The prophets and the mockers, the shoppers and the book buyers … Shambling through the narrow labyrinth of tenements crowded up and huddled together to withstand the modern age. Shining out and viewing the street is the man in the moon. More precisely the crescent moon! The famous wooden carving adorning a first floor shop front from before the Great Fire of London. Holywell Street is nothing if not a risqué alley for thieves and charlatans and the most important thoroughfare of the modern metropolis. Prints, song-books, political tracts, and other publications of the most disgusting character are all exposed to public view and sale. Old clothesmen and vendors shouting out their tatty wares, fighting to be heard above the racket of the fruit and vegetable sellers. Sauntering to and fro are finely-dressed toffs and Roués searching for the really dirty prints and smutty books. The tall wooden buildings almost reach across and shake eaves. Stand and watch the procession of life. The hubbub and the din. The dirt. The stuck horse and cart that has no right in such a narrow lane. The street swells and sways before your eyes. Shrinks in Blind Tom’s mind as he greets each devious vendor with a curse and cry of recognition. A fool in an old army red cloak and cardboard sodden clogs tells him a dirty joke close to his ear and Tom guffaws for all the street to hear. Wounds the tainted air with laughter. Roars to the sound of church bells … Heaving Pitchers drawing the unwary with their cries of delight and today’s delayed miracle. Awaiting you and yours … This Holywell Street is a throwback, a final link to the breathing, lingering, germ-filled past of honeyed life and plague-filled terror … …

The tattered Band wind their slow way into the horse-drawn chaos that is the Strand. Leaving behind a timeless zone. In and out the wooden buildings swell and sway. Breathing as a heartbeat. Sensing the pulse and giving direction. Jewish booksellers with mighty beards huddle and discuss, exchange money with passers-by and have the last word … Amen to that.

Whips crack and slash the air with a flick and a roar. Bewildered horses neigh and panic. Snort and rear all trapped in harnesses. Hundreds of Cabriolets duelling with irate Hackney carriages. Smartly painted Landaus, gleaming Victorias, beastly Broughams, elegant Phaetons and upright Berlins are all circling, edging, crossing, veering and fighting to exit the West Strand and gallop on into Trafalgar Square. Push out west and gain entry to Leicester Square, St James’s Park, Whitehall, Pall Mall and St Martins Lane. The rich, well-heeled and expensively attired Metropolis is about and abroad this baking hot mid-day.

‘Bless my soul, Tom … Can yer hear me? … Tom! … It’s right madness here Tom it is! Two cabmen having a right set-to they are. Everything’s in an uproar and stopped. Nothing’s moving except us old man … C’mon … ’

‘Cut left boy, cut left … Villiers Street, Craven Street. Get me out of this confusion. I can’t take this! … Get me away!’

The despairing band exit the pandemonium of Metropolis life and infernal transport congestion and start heading down Villiers Street towards the river, the life-blood of existence.

‘Well bless my sorry soul if it ain’t Blind Tom! How the fuck are you Blind Man? … I ain’t seen you in a while that’s for sure you old bugger!’

A gap-toothed, red-nosed lady of a certain age selling flowers to unsuspecting passers-by, accosts Blind Tom. Before his fumbling, stubby fingers can stop her, she has pinned a bedraggled-looking red tulip onto his grubby grey cloak.

‘Well it’s good to know that your ears haven’t gone the way of your eyes Old Man … Here, follow me Boy.’

Rosie takes Blind Tom by the arm and leads him across the flowing crowd of the street to an upturned wooden crate stuffed half-full with wilting flowers and guarded by a large black dog. The black dog leaps up barking ferociously, nearly breaking the rope that’s tethering him to the railings of a park of green. A couple of flat-capped rowdy men from the backdoor of the Crown and Anchor public house adjoining the gardens, shout obscenities at the barking dog.

‘Shut up Kipper! … Shut it!’

Rosie smartly cuffs black Kipper. He immediately starts whimpering. Sits down slowly with mangy concern. Growls a wolf grim at a scared Nelson and views the interlopers to his patch.

Rosie leans over the large upturned crate of stored flowers. Slides her cut mitten left-hand through the garden railings and raises up a metal crate with triumph. Eases it up over the spiked metal tops. Plonks it down beside the flower crate. Grabs Blind Tom by the arm. Whispers an obscene joke for his ears alone and pushes him down onto the upturned metal crate …

Blind Tom is not sat looking out over Villiers Street sipping gin from a tin mug and smoking a foul-smelling cigarette. Master of all he surveys. Between coughs he is sharing an oath and a joke with Rosie. A man in a checked cloth cap and sporting a large red badge stops by. Says hello to Tom as Rosie passes him something. Probably money.

The street ignores these undesirables but they in turn are the life-blood of this active thoroughfare. Gradually young Jack can pick out the different operators. The nimble slick pickpockets plying their trade. The beggar with no legs and a message. The Blind Man with the tin plate and a lump of rock purporting to be from the Crimea. The muffin sellers. The street Hawkers, the Vendors of the greatly esteemed periodicals ‘Paul Pry’ and ‘The Women of London’; selling each copy for a ha’penny then dodging some large Peeler in his bright blue uniform and hotfooting it to the River’s swelling edge of rubbish … If young Jack did but know it the characters of the day have just sidled, strolled and in some cases tottered their way down Villiers Street. Names to make the Metropolis’ pulse race … Liverpool Harry, Old Jack Davenport, Dave Young, the Spider, Little Bill Blackey, Wilf ‘The Voice’ Martin and Big Fish. They have all passed by in the wink of a Villiers Street eye. The way of the Street as gap-toothed Rosie presses threepence into Jack Lad’s greedy palm and sends him into the Crown and Anchor public house for reinforcements.

The day is awash with the sound of gin-filled stories and dirty laughter. Nelson has found a comfortable spot out of harm’s reach of Kipper’s growling ferocity.

‘What’s the time Rosie gal we’d best be a-heading on … ’

‘Oi, Henry, what’s the fucking time dear? … And you can keep your two bleeding fingers to yourself do yer hear! … Gone two the hour Tom man … Where you and your glorious little army off to today then?’

‘We’re heading for Cremorne. We’d best be going. Want to get there before nightfall … ’

‘Everyone’s heading to bleeding Cremorne down Chelsea way! I’m thinking of working a patch over that way myself. Might just get down there later this week … See how well me and Kipper make out … But you see, we’re known down here. What you know best is home Tom dear … You and your gang should pick up some swell pickings at that Cremorne. Tart the dog up a bit, use the boy Jack, put him up front as the opener. Should go down a real treat. But you had best be off quick if you want to reach Chelsea by nightfall … Now remember, don’t rub it too much it’ll fall off yer hear … Boy, take those bunch of pansies. Look after them. Sprinkle some river water on them before you reach Cremorne. Keep them fresh and sell ‘em to a young lady. Buy Blind Tom a drink and some baccy … Now you look after him you hear, elsewise you’ll have Rosie to answer to! … They all know me down there. Give my best to the Preacher if yer should clap yer blind eyes on him Tom. He’s meant to be working Cremorne these days.’ … …

The morning light casts huge swathes of welcome across beckoning Sloane Square. Already the bustle of daily life has engaged the glittering day. Shop fronts and plate-glass windows reflect the gleaming sunlight. The bewildering noise of human voices dashing about their beehive business. Carriage wheels and horses hooves drum and thud. Omnibuses fresh from the City slowly trying to make their tortuous way around the tree-lined square.

‘You are late Emma Martin … It’s not good enough. I won’t have it … ’

‘It’s only just chimed eight o’clock Mister Purvis. Only just.’

‘Don’t just stand there arguing girl, get inside and get about your work. In case you have forgotten, we are expecting Madame le Fan for a fitting at nine-thirty sharp girl. Hurry along!’

Seventeen-year old, fresh-faced Emma Martin, steels herself against Mister Purvis’s constant tirade. Passes through a side-door of Burgoyne and Sons, refined clothing and hat-makers for the discerning ladies of elegance and haute couture.

‘Where’ve you been? … He’s been a-going on about you somethink awful he has!’

‘Oh let it alone Hettie, don’t you start as well! It’s bad enough as it is. Me mum’s not feeling too well and I had to help out with Katy and Johnny … Anyone would think I’d shot the Queen and stolen the Crown Jewels and so they would!’

‘Sssh … you shouldn’t go saying things like that Em. That’s treas … treas … well, anyway, it’s dangerous. They say that Mister Palmerston has a whole bevy of spies listening out for such talk and the like!’

‘Oh Hettie I do love you … Now pour me a cup of that Rosy Lee you’ve got a-steaming on the hob. Then when I’ve changed you can help me prepare for her Highness Madam Pig Le Fan’s fitting when she graces us with her presence.’

Hettie sniggers awkwardly. Smiles her plump girlish grin and pours Emma a cup of warm tea in a tin mug while she goes and changes. Jim the doorman pops his head in and gives her a wink casting his eyes about looking for Emma.

The shop is gearing itself up for the great arrival. Mister Purvis has instructed the five staff in the art of military precision for fittings. Everyone’s dress is carefully scrutinised. Bonnets are fixed. Wisps of loose hair tucked under or snipped off at Mister Purvis’s command. Jim sweeps the red doormat leading onto Sloane Street for the third time in half an hour.

‘Anyone would think that the Empress of France Eugénie herself was a-coming and so they would!’

‘Sssh … You’ll get us all hung you will!’

Madam le Fan herself sweeps in with a finely-judged heel on thick ankles at a quarter to ten as all ladies do. Her personal attendant waits haltingly by the door while her young lady companion seeks out a safe seat and views the trades-people with suspicion. Mister Purvis duly observes the required obsequious niceties. Beckons Emma forward for the fitting. Supervises himself as Madam is definitely in a hurry. Curses under his breath when Emma carelessly drives a large pin through Madam’s delicately stout arm.

‘Are you insane girl? Are you trying to damage me beyond repair! Where do you find these … these things Mister Purvis? Really!’

Mister Purvis goes redder in the face if that is possible. His waxed moustache is twitching of its own accord. His hands wave in distraction, his eyes glower at Emma. Satisfactory silence of manner placates Madam le Fan, who is now viewing the curvaceous outline of her figure in a new orange dress in the full-length shop mirror. Hettie bears away a redundant footstool and stumbles in the process. Missus Dawson the milliner giggles behind her hands. Mister Purvis looks to the heavens, eyes aghast. Madam le Fan viewing the shop staff with utter astonishment. Now beckoning to Emma for an adjustment to her orange dress. Hats are paraded, shoes are mentioned and a reputable shoemaker across the square is recommended and ignored. Madam le Fan’s estimable companion of choice has the matter well in hand. Different hats are arrayed before our gesticulating lady of high fashion. A new design is proposed, measurements dutifully taken, written down and noted.

Emma and the attending staff stand to attention in army file as recommended by Mister Purvis. He flatters Madam le Fan towards the door. Fauns and thankyous. Fresh appointment written down and carefully confirmed. Money and advance payments delicately not alluded to. Far too gross and vulgar a subject for Madam le Fan herself to deal with.

The whole event has taken over an hour to perform and Mister Purvis has lived his life at least three times over in the making. Exhausted but well nigh satisfied with proceedings.

He abruptly sits down on the suitably dusted seat just recently vacated by the erstwhile lady companion of Madam le Fan. Jim hastily reappears bringing Mister Purvis a steaming hot cup of tea with a nip of brandy in it so as to revive his clothing and style instincts … …

‘God Hettie did you see her face when you fell over with the footstool … Silly of me! … How could you … It was like … I dunno, I don’t have the gift of words, but it was hilarious. Like she’d discovered something really awful in her bed or put something nasty in her mouth she shouldn’t have. Oh it was so funny! You know what Hettie, I wet myself I did. How we didn’t all collapse in hysterics I’ll swear I’ll never know. Poor Mister Purvis, trying so bloody hard poor bugger. He was almost licking the linoleum in front of her fat foot! … Oh Hettie!’

‘Don’t go on so Em. He’ll come in and catch us talking about him. You know he will. He always does!’

‘Oh don’t worry so … listen, before you go a-putting the remains of those kidneys in the pan and fry up a bubble and squeak for luncheon, what are you doing this evening? … Well … ?’

‘What do you mean what am I doing tonight! I’m working like you till eight o’clock like every bloody night six days a week. Then I’m going home. Me Dad will get in late, drunk as a lord as usual, money all spent and start a bloody row. I’ll have to do all the washing and cleaning. We won’t have paid the rent and the landlord is coming around Saturday mid-day. Can I ask Mister Purvis permission for one hour off during my luncheon? No I bloody can’t Mother! … What’s different about tonight? Same as any other bloody night if you ask me Em … Work hard, eat, sleep and pray. Be thankful and mind your Ps and Qs. So bleeding what!’

‘Well, tonight’s going to be your chance to turn into a pumpkin Hettie my love.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘We Hettie dear, are going to ask permission of kind Mister Purvis to let us off two hours early at six o’clock see!’

‘He’ll have a fit he will. He’ll go bright red in the face and yell at you Emma Martin … What’s that Jim been a-putting in your rosy?’

‘Let’s hope it’s a better fit than Madam Pig le Fan Het … Now I’ve got two half crowns, look ‘ere. Two shiny, glinting coins sitting prettily on the open palm of my hand. Do you know what these two pretty coins are saying to us Hettie? … I’ll tell you see … They’re saying that Emma Martin and Hettie Nicholson of the Parish of Chelsea in the Year of our Lord eighteen-sixty-two are going to Cremorne Leisure Gardens this evening. We’ll dress up in all our finery and dance the Cremorne Gallop under the early evening sunshine in Cremorne. Meet two tall, dark, handsome strangers and be swept off our feet. Drink brimful glasses of pink champagne and stroll arm-in-arm through the gaslit groves of Cremorne. Be home before twelve and avoid turning into pumpkins. Meet someone good-looking and rich who’ll get us out and away from this daily drudgery and the glories of Burgoyne and Sons.’ …

‘You are definitely mad Em you know that don’t you! All this fantas … fantas … you know what I mean … Firstly, how’d you come by those two pretty half-crowns I’d like to know? Secondly, Mister Purvis ain’t gonna let us go early. He’ll have a right royal fit when you ask him!’ … .giggle … ‘Fourthly … ’

‘What happened to thirdly then?’

‘Don’t try and confuse me Em, you know what I mean … Fourthly, I’ve got nothing to wear and no money. If I’m not home by nine there’ll be all hell to pay. And besides, I’m not pretty like you. No handsome young man is gonna dance the Cremorne Gallop with me. Stare lovingly into my deep brown eyes by the Chinese Pagoda Bandstand. Promenade me down the gas-lit trees of Cremorne Versailles flirting all the while … You can just see it Em can’t you!’

‘God you spoke well then Hettie. See, you can when you try.’

‘Yer, I can mouth well when I’m being serious. That’s the truth. ‘Cos it ain’t gonna happen to me is it!’

‘Don’t worry I’ve arranged everything. That nice Irish gentleman Burton O’Brien pressed these coins into my hand on Monday when he came in with that lady, Amber Valentine … See, I didn’t steal them or sell my soul to Old Nick for them as you suspected Hettie … Mister Purvis is going to let us off early ‘cos I’m gonna convince him. Don’t ask me how, I just know it. I dreamt about it last night and he will, trust me … Also Hettie, before you shovel that bubble and squeak into your mouth, I’ve found two dresses that haven’t been picked up yet. Don’t look so scared! … Remember that Lady Harriet Cecil? The lady with the turned-up nose. Well, she went away to France didn’t she? Paris I hear tell. The two dresses are still hung up awaiting her Ladyship’s collection. They say she won’t be back for months. Now, one of ‘em fits me perfectly. If you can just cover for me for awhile this afternoon Hettie. When we have our tea we’ll go down to the basement, pretend that we want to use the smoking box by the railings outside the back, something like that. I’ll do the fitting for you, let it out and all and you’ll have her Ladyship’s dress to wear and no-one will know … It doesn’t make us thieves or any less Christian Hettie. We are only borrowing the dresses after all! … We’re gonna have a right royal time you’ll see. The night of our lives … Why not? We deserve it Hettie before we’re old and fat and worn out … Don’t take offence you know what I mean dear. Blink our eyes and before you know it ten screaming kids and a booze-sodden husband. No rent money and another bout of choly sweeping down from the City. That’s what we’ve got to look forward to. Just like our mothers … Let’s have a jolly good time while we still can Hettie … ’

‘I don’t know Em … if Mister Purvis should find out you’ve taken those dresses belonging to Lady Cecil he’ll kill you he will!’

‘Not taken Hettie dear, borrowed. We are just using them for one night dear that’s all. Haven’t you always wanted to see Cremorne by night all lit up and sparkling? Dance in front of the orchestra with all the swells and toffs’ … …

‘Mister Purvis can I … ’

‘Not now Emma. Can’t you see that I’m extremely busy!’

‘It won’t take but a minute of your time Mister Purvis. Honest it won’t!’

‘God you are a demanding girl Emma Martin! Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made me take the Lord’s name in vain again! My wife only commented just last week upon my language. A definite drop in standards. Definite she said. You girls will be the absolute ruin of me. My hairs are turning grey over night. At the sound of a cat I startle!’

‘It still looks jet black to me Mister Purvis.’

His piercing eyes suddenly fail to keep contact and he looks away, embarrassed. Coughs.

‘Mister Purvis … Hettie Nicholson and myself have been invited to Cremorne Leisure Gardens this evening and I’d like to ask permission for us to leave early at six o’clock please.’

‘What!’ Mister Purvis goes very red in the face as if he’s swallowed a fish bone that’s caught in his gullet and is choking him. He’s threatening to explode. He splutters but further words just fail to make sounds out of his agape mouth.

Emma dances majestically into the pregnant pause.

‘We are only poorly paid midinettes after all Mister Purvis. Just this one evening at Cremorne will be good for us. Make us more cheerful in our work. Broaden our minds so to speak Mister Purvis.’

Mister Purvis has recovered a degree of his composure by now. Maybe the supposed fish bone just disintegrated on the spot with the shockwave of this brazen request.

‘Poorly paid and overworked midinettes is it … Midinettes … Fanciful French words seem to be the order of the day around here. Your mind will soften and go permanently weak Emma Martin if you continue to keep devouring those lurid Penny Dreadfuls! Turn a young girl’s fanciful mind in no time. Look where all those fanciful ideas have landed the French Carnival Empire! Bah! More like a circus if you ask me! … I tell you … Midinettes. Young Parisian shop girls who only get an hour off a day for luncheon and that’s it. Not like here is it Emma? I can’t find any of you at any given time can I. You, Hettie, Missus Dawson, Ethel Barnes and that Gladys Jones. All of you, taking it in turns to hide out back in the parlour. Chewing over the world with your silly girlish thoughts and ideas. Just about managing to keep half an indolent eye cocked on the shop floor, just in case. Everything behind time. Ladies of fashion have been discussing Burgoyne and Sons. Tongues are a-wagging. Our high-class clientele have been known to complain … Midinettes indeed! … You don’t know the meaning of the word Emma Martin, you really don’t!’

Emma Martin is undeterred at this latest outburst. She has the measure of her man. Surely she stands her ground and fixes Mister Purvis with her cornflower blue eyes gleaming into his, willing a yes. Secure and sure in her resolve. Determined to succeed.

Mister Purvis has started to fidget uncomfortably with one of his lapels. He is trying hard to look away but his eyes and mind seem to be dissolving into Emma Martin’s gleaming blue orbs. He coughs awkwardly and shifts his feet. Stares back. Tries hard again to shift his gaze and glance down at his mirror-black reflecting toecaps, but time is standing still and he is transfixed in space … From nowhere a strange hesitant voice offers in his throat. A disembodied sound, higher pitched than his normal tone.

‘Well alright if you must … But you keep working till six o’clock sharp, and I don’t want to hear another word about it … You understand?’

‘Perfectly Mister Purvis … Thank you sir.’

Emma moves triumphantly away to resume some alteration work.

Mister Purvis scratches his head. He cannot quite believe what he has just agreed to. Something very strange came over him. He can recall uttering the words but were they really his? … Strange … He turns sharply on his shiny heels and marches across the shop floor of Burgoyne and Sons, muttering to himself … ‘God these girls will all be the very death of me they will!’

‘How did you do it Emma? How’d you get ‘im to agree? … I dunno I’m sure I don’t! You’re some kind of witch and so you are … Don’t laugh I’m serious … You want to be careful you do. Don’t go a-telling no-one yer hear … Me mum will kill me when she finds out … Did he say if he was going to dock our pay? … No … I’m not going to ask him … Did you see the look that Gladys Jones gave us when you told me. Talk about choking on cats fur. Her eyes turned bright green I swear and almost fell out of her head and so they did! Gave me quite a start … I still can’t believe Mister Purvis said yes. You must’ve really enchanted him Emma Martin. Don’t look so smug. We’ll end up paying for this, that’ll ‘appen I’m sure … But I’ve always wanted to go to Cremorne at night. All decked out in a lady’s gown. I’ve heard so much about Cremorne but I’ve only ever been there once with my folks as a kid during the day. They let me pay with my own whole sixpence if I remember rightly. The first time that I ever touched money … It was so exciting and lovely in there. We went first to the Marionette Theatre and then later to the Hermit’s Cave. Then young Toby started playing up like he does. He was only a small baby then and started screaming all over the shop and we had to leave. Shame it was. But that’s the only time I’ve ever been. Truly wonderful it was.’

‘Don’t worry my dear. I’m going to take good care of us. We are going to have the time of our lives just you see if we don’t! … Now remember, during our afternoon tea-break, slip downstairs like I said and I’ll pin out the dress and alter it for you. Won’t take a minute. Oh I’m so excited Hettie dear I can hardly contain myself! I must keep busy. Time seems to go so slowly when you’re waiting for something very special to come along … Do you find that Hettie? … I just know that this evening is going to be the most wonderful time of our lives and that we’ll meet the man of our hopes and dreams … ’

‘I do so hope that you’re right Em. I could well do with it.’

The tidal waters of the languorous river lapping and swishing against the fragments of rock and wedges of silt. All manner of rubbish and debris collected by the great idling River, the lifeblood of the Empire. The sole preserver of life. You can drink from it. Wash in it. Eat from it. Swim in it. Defecate along its shallow shores and travel on it. Measure its course through the flowing lands of time. The wailing time and lost innocence of Beulah … All the tossed in muck and dredged up gunge has flowed downstream. Landed up against the wharves and jetties of Chelsea Harbour. Slapping rows of lapping filth below the narrow streets of three and four storey wooden houses bordering the River’s edge. A confusion of shipyards all laden down with crafts and sails of all shapes and sizes and expectations. The rank rife smell of the River and the sea breezes wafting up all the way from the Kentish coast …

James Campbell muffles his face against the strong summer wind and heads up the narrow, confining streets of a river community. Before he has reached the yawning door of his family house, he’s nodded, waved, greeted, called to, acknowledged and joked with over fifty people. The day is alive with the sound of activity and general hubbub. The constant hammering of nails, planing and sawing of wood, the clip clop of horses hooves on cobblestones, the creaking of carts and the rolling of barrels, the screeching and scampering of gangs of barefoot children playing on and around the Boatyards. The pungent smell of hot tar from upturned boat bottoms. The Chandler and the land-washed Boson exchanging words and repairing to the Eight Bells Tavern to develop their conversation and relive past glories over a jar of frothing porter chased down by a large glass of Schiedam gin.

James Campbell’s young tousled bobbing head turns away from the street and enters the family house front door by the side of the boatyard.

‘Sit ye down James and warm your feet. It’s a cold day for August isn’t it! … We’re expecting your gentleman friend for luncheon shortly. Herbert has gone to collect him. Though I dare say a gentleman like Mister Chandler is more than capable of navigating the streets of Chelsea by himself!’

Missus Campbell fusses around the large wooden kitchen table. Produces a few droopy-looking flowers, chrysanthemums and marigolds wrenched out of the earth from the back garden by Alice Campbell.

Alice with her fine, long, red hair, is hovering now around her mother, anxiously trying to help and pretending very badly that she’s not excited. Expectant. Her mother gently scolds her for leaving the flowers unattended for nearly a whole day … Outside in the doorway Harry Campbell sits and whittles a stick and surveys the lie of the land, puffs hard on his latest pride and joy, a Meerschaum all the way from the Port of Rotterdam … Watery sunlight is attempting to flicker through and embrace the dull day.

As James buries his head in a book of fine prints, the large kitchen table is laden down and overflowing with plates, platters, mugs, glinting cutlery. The succulent smell of the food has bought a collection of cats and dogs to the back door from the boatyards. All bickering forgotten in the quest for victuals …

Suddenly the whole scene is illuminated. This Boatman’s house of work and toil has sprung alive in the day. Strolling in through the doorway, casually pressing a tin of tobacco into Harry Campbell’s stick-held hand. Greeting a smiling Alice with a hug and a swift kiss on the cheek, swinging her round in a circle just to hear her laugh, before clapping a friendly hand on James’s hunched shoulders … Kissing Missus Campbell and placing a sheath of red roses in her workaday hands … Alice snatches them out from her mother’s fingers, tears of the sheath and adds the roses to the sad floral arrangement designed by her earlier in a fit of remorse … Herbert enters the house quietly and sits down contentedly in a dark corner …

The very air in the Campbell’s house has come alive. The lean attractive frame of Leon Chandler is levering back and forth in a wooden chair. The pervading smells of French cigarettes, cooked beef and mutton, carrots, onions and roast potatoes, pipe tobacco, beer, roses, Alice’s perfume and the bubbling plum pudding. The whiff of seaweed catching at the open doorway. The lingering fragrance of gas in the air … The murmur and chatter broken open by the thrust of loud uproarious laughter. The quaffed mugs of beer. That long slow southern drawl. That honeyed voice that can bewitch and enchant, ushering in thoughts of Virginia and Carolina … The Campbells’ kitchen is enthral to him. He passes around his French cigarettes to the boys James and Herbert and regales the company with tales of Paris. That honeyed voice bewitching the whole room entire … He pauses before his attentive audience, passes a forefinger across his moustache, hawk nose and sideburns shadow in the watery sunlight on the far-side kitchen wall. He is totally at home here amid this plain Boatyard family in Chelsea. This American painter of vagabond and destitute disguise has rolled to rest and found a sanctuary. Found a girl so pretty you could not dream her up. Two late-teenage boy companions who double as unpaid servants … Oh the delight in this smoke-filled laughing room. Ears attuned to the gossip and tales of artists. Thoughts of Mister Carlyle and that charlatan painter-poet fellow Rossetti. They almost seem to figure in the very room with them. For Leon Chandler is a wit and a sweet talker. A doer and a painter. A lover of women and life. A close friend of this family and a hirer of boats. A leader of eager young acolytes. A Southern gentlemen Sir! A cruel wit and a sharp tongue. A bon mot a-day to pass away the hour. Stylish and original to a fault. A dandy who will duel and shoot pistols. Raise up and use his fists at the slightest provocation. A great friend and a vile enemy. An artist in the making to his finely chiselled fingertips with the slightest edge of besmirched black paint … …

The late afternoon sunshine ripples across the surface of the idling River. Layers of scum, debris and sewage shifting remorselessly towards the Fulham shore. The Boat is making its way down the centre of the River towards the outlines of Putney. Herbert Campbell diligently pulling on the oars as Leon Chandler lays sprawled out at the back of the Boat. Blowing French smoke-rings with one hand trailing idly in the murky waters. James Campbell is hunched down in the middle of the Boat with a sketchpad and crayons and is desperately trying to portray a picture of the far Fulham shoreline. Measuring the height of the trees with thumbnail and crayon. Drawing and then stopping to the rocking motion of the Boat. Cursing a smudged uneven line, uneasy before the curious gaze of Leon Chandler’s tutorial indifference. Free drawing lessons and an exercise in the art of living, all for the afternoon and evening hire of a boat. A truly small price to pay.

A large grey-speckled seagull dive-bombs the boat and almost takes a startled Herbert’s head off. Other vulturous birds are eyeing the floating trail of orange peel that Leon Chandler is carelessly tossing away in the Boat’s wake.

‘What is the plan for today Leon? … Do we carry on past Putney and make for Barnes like last week?’

‘Plans James ma boy, plans! I’m not the slightest bit interested in PLANS! What occurs in the moment is more important. More inspiring. The shifting of the senses, smells, tastes and sounds all converging. Thrusting into the moment as an animal with nature … We will keep going till I say stop … What I will tell you James is that later, much later, as night descends on this glorious River ma boy, if my present mood holds, we will head for the glorious delights and charms of Cremorne Leisure Gardens. Partake of the dancing, beer, English girls, opium, fireworks and all the fun of the night. You will be my guests of that I insist. Those possibilities I have intentions for. The rest is all haphazard chance. But I wish to keep painting to the magic hour. Here in Europe you have such long drawn out sunsets. The light of the dying day holds true for such a long time. That is the magic hour, inspirational time ma boys, the bewitching hour of twilight time. Where I come from the sun goes down and it is almost immediately dark. No bewitching hour, no long drawn out evenings Boys … Next time we’ll bring a pistol with us and shoot these fucking gulls … Skyrats and scum. Unattractive flying harbingers of garbage and jetsam … Fresh garbage gulls of the Putney shores … Get this picture down quick James, get it down … We shall delight in tonight but for now we bide our time. See off these garbage harbingers of gloom and let the light change … Now stop pretending you are Godalmighty Turner himself James and put that sketchpad down now before you are totally splattered in river water and garbage gull droppings!’ …

James and Herbert combine to pull the Boat ashore just above Putney reach by Barn Elms. South of the river and in the late afternoon shade. The weather has turned out hot and fine after all. Missus Campbell’s hastily-packed leftovers from luncheon are produced from a wicker basket. Stone jars containing beer are handed out. Places carefully arranged around Leon Chandler. One has to be so very careful around him. Anything at any given moment can upset him. The meandering flight of a skipper butterfly may catch his sharp eye and send him off into a long monologue. He may suddenly shiver and request James to wrap his shoulders in the flag of the Stars and Bars. His beer-driven remorse at not fighting for the South. The war is afoot and here he is lazing on a River Boat near a City a million miles removed from the epicentre of the true action. The true focal point of his thoughts and dreams … These idealistic yearnings never seem to last for long. Once he has got past a brief reminisce of his time as a Cadet at a Military Academy in the state of Virginia. Hastily glossing over the reasons for his brisk departure and dismissal. His conveniently arranged voyage bound overnight for Europe … He’s not really interested at all on his fourth jar of beer. The smell of French cigarettes means more than the thought of gunfire and the burning and razing of Towns and Cities … The South will of course be victorious. Robert E Lee will defeat the damn Yankees and Great Britain is thanked kindly for her continuing support. All this fuss and carnage over Black Slaves, cornfields and tobacco plantations. Bloody do-gooding Sons and Daughters of Northern Yankee trash trying to muscle in on the wealth of the South. Get their greedy Yankee hands on the plentiful Lands of the Southern States. They can wish on their goddamn fucking stars … He suddenly wanders off this subject much to the Campbell boys’ relief. For they have little idea of what he is talking about. The affairs of a former foreign colony like America might as well be mooncheese or the waters of Cathay … Anyway, five jars gone and Leon Chandler is onto his favourite subjects. Painting, women, Paris, himself, gossip … Leon Chandler has what he likes best. An attractive, semi-sycophantic audience lingering on his every word. Obliged to participate in and follow a discourse which is completely strange and alien to them. But the words in that slow honeyed Southern drawl excite. The sight of the Stars and Bars flag draping his shoulders lends weight to his lofty pronouncements, pithy sayings, bitchy asides and general sarcasm on life and the Human Race … Six beers can bring on a mouthful of black bile and cussing and cursing until suddenly he stops, lays back and naps the rest of the late afternoon sunshine away in beery languor … Herbert and James smile at one another with sibling conviviality and just sit and watch the flickering flow of the Great River and count their blessings.

The gold-engraved business sign above the main entrance proclaims ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’ … The surrounding streets and alleyways of Victoria stare with awe and wonderment at the significance of this name. The all-powerful, almighty presence of gas.

‘Miss Andrews, has Burton O’Brien turned in yet?’

‘I haven’t seen him I’m sure Mister Hayward. As soon as he arrives I’ll send him straight through Sir.’

A large portly man of a certain late middle-age, stares down with some discomfort and irritation at the pages of the daily Times newspaper spread out across his mahogany desk. A headlined article across the front page proclaiming the disaster of a major gas explosion at the Nine Elms Gasworks. The Times correspondent is appalled and has worked himself up into a fumigating lather. The second leading article down the page reads: THE PRESENT MONOPOLY IS INTOLERABLE. THE PRICE CHARGED FOR GAS IS KNOWN TO BE AT LEAST TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT BEYOND THAT WHICH OUGHT TO YIELD A REASONABLE REMUNERATION. THE GAS ITSELF IS EITHER SO SCANT IN SUPPLY OR SO VILE IN QUALITY THAT ITS ADVANTAGES IN HOUSEHOLDS ARE DAILY, OR RATHER NIGHTLY, BECOMING MORE QUESTIONABLE. WHY DO THIRTEEN PRIVATELY-OWNED GAS COMPANIES HAVE A MONOPOLY AND OPERATE A CARTEL OVER THE CITY WE ASK. WHAT ARE THE RESPONSIBILITIES, LIABILITIES AND MORAL SAFEGUARDS OF THESE INDIVIDUAL COMPANIES SUCH AS ‘THE GREAT METROPOLITAN GAS AND COKE COMPANY’? WHAT ARE THE BENEFITS WE ASK? FROM A SINGLE BURNER, SCARCELY TWO FEET FROM THIS PAPER ON WHICH WE WRITE, WE CAN HARDLY OBTAIN THE NEEDFUL ILLUMINATION, EXCEPT AT SUCH A TIME AS EVERY OTHER JET IN THE HOUSE HAS BEEN EXTINGUISHED AND THE SHOPS IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD HAVE ALL TURNED OFF THEIR LIGHT. AFTER THIS LATEST IN A LONG LINE OF DISASTERS SUCH AS NINE ELMS, WE CALL FOR NEW GOVERNMENT LEGISLATION ON THE MATTER, OR MAYBE A RETURN TO OTHER WAYS. FOR AS WE DRAW ASIDE THE WINDOW-BLIND AND SEE THE STREET LAMPS, THEY ARE SCARCELY, IF AT ALL, BRIGHTER THAN IN THE OLD DAYS OF OIL, MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS AGO.

Alfred Hayward the Managing Director of ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’, shudders with indignation. Swears. Grabs the ‘Penny Illustrated Paper’ from his chair and covers it completely over the thundering ‘Times’ and turns to the leading editorial article:

‘THE EFFECTS OF THE LATEST EXPLOSION AT NINE ELMS GASWORKS … THIS IMMENSE RESERVOIR IS, LIKE MANY OTHER METROPOLITAN GASHOLDERS, IN THE MIDST OF A DENSELY POPULATED NEIGHBOURHOOD. AND IT IS AWFUL TO CONTEMPLATE THE DIRE RESULTS OF AN EXPLOSION, WHICH MAY APPARENTLY BE CAUSED AT ANY MOMENT BY THE CARELESSNESS OR IGNORANCE OF A LABOURER … THESE MONSTER EYESORES OF LONDON SHOULD BE REMOVED TO AS GREAT A DISTANCE FROM CITIES AND TOWNS AS ARE GUNPOWDER MAGAZINES AND MANUFACTORIES … ’

A large booming cough pulls Alfred Hayward’s beetle-browed frown up and away from the rancorous ‘Penny Illustrated’.

‘Good day to buy shares Old Chap.’

‘You must be joking Beezer, good day! What can you mean? This explosion will be the ruin of me! The ruin of us all!’

‘Steady on Old Chap!’

Sam Webb eases himself into a leather armchair across from the mahogany desk. Balances his top hat on his crossed legs, puffs smugly on a very large cigar and smiles slyly.

‘You simply must remain confident Old Chap. Nothing for it. Today is a crisis and shares will plummet hard so they shall. Terrible disaster like that. Nine dead so they say. Over one hundred badly injured. Truly awful. But, and I repeat but, what else is there but gas Old Chap? Gas is the main source of light for the whole city and will remain so. This electricity phenomenon will never catch on. And even let us suppose it does, it certainly won’t be ready to replace Gas for another twenty years or so. You have a monopoly Old Chap. Everybody is terribly upset today of course. Poor working class mites deprived of their bread-winning fathers! Truly awful! … But, you know there will be something else next week. This Times fellow will find something else to thunder on about. They always do. That’s what sells newspapers Old Chap. The market will reconsider. Suddenly stocks will rise sharply again, probably even higher I dare say … I wouldn’t be surprised if the share price didn’t go through the roof by the turn of the year. And we Old Chap will turn a pretty penny. Yes we will. Success breeds success Old Chap … Let’s face it, a few deaths in the cause of advancement is to be lamented but the power of illumination, the positive role of Gas will maintain … Just you see if it doesn’t!’

‘Aah Beezer you are a breath of fresh air you really are Sir!’

Sam Webb smiles his unctuous grin, turns his finely brushed top hat back and forth. Leans back in the leather armchair and blows out cigar smoke.

Alfred Hayward is revived. Powerful and compelling once again in his domain. Thundering out instructions that can be heard down Vauxhall Gardens way … ‘Miss Andrews … Miss Andrews … Two large coffees if you so please and sharpen your pencils in readiness … And send that blasted fellow O’Brien in when he finally arrives.’ … …

Burton O’Brien rushes anxiously along Victoria Street. Disasters of mammoth proportions written in the runes. Suit feels tight and uncomfortable. Shoes pinching. Cut chin showing. Awful bloody hangover pounding in the brain. Waistcoat buttons undone. Handkerchief soiled. Two links on the watch chain broken.

As Burton O’Brien enters the magnificent emporium of The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company, Miss Andrews hazel eyes appear furtively behind the hat of the doorman. She immediately catches Burton’s eyes meaningfully, plants her finger firmly to her lips. Motions with her head for him to move sideways into an antechamber.

The dark-haired good looks and boyish blue eyes of Burton O’Brien smile for the first time today as Miss Andrews straightens his bow-tie. Does up his waistcoat buttons with deft, nimble fingers, straightens him up, brushes him down and duly prepares him for his meeting with ‘The Old Man’ … Forewarned is forearmed indeed when Miss Andrews deft fingers are preparing the way …

‘O’Brien where the hell have you been? … Doncha know we have a crisis on our hands! Emergency no less!’

’Well yes Mister Hayward … ’ Burton’s voice trails away as he sees that the ‘Old Man’ looks quite well and jolly considering, just pretending to be angry, not overly concerned.

‘Enough. Enough excuses! I know your game well Burton O’Brien so I do! … ’

Burton is received with a strange mixture of a twitch and a wink.

‘Now don’t settle down do yer hear! Get a cab straightway over to Nine Elms and make sure we have a representative on the spot do yer hear. Get the details of the insurers from Miss Andrews before you depart. Now don’t interrupt! Make friends with the police when you see fit. Try and get some advance news on their report. Placate everyone. Don’t whatever you do talk to the press. If you must, tell them I will issue an official statement from the steps of these offices at four o’clock sharp this afternoon. Send our condolences to the bereaved families but don’t get involved. Find out the tentative funeral arrangements of all parties and see fit that everyone knows that The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company will foot the bill. Then when you have done that, get a-hold of the Inspector of Works, the manager of the Nine Elms Gasworks Mister Richardson and include the works Foreman as well. Find out how long before we are back in business so to speak. Try and minimise any untold delays. You got that? … Good! … Now look sharp my Boy, I want you back here by four o’clock. We have business to conclude you remember? … Good! … Now off you go and make damn sure everybody is aware of our presence.’ …

Burton O’Brien pays off the mournfully chirpy cabby and stands and surveys the scene of destruction of the Nine Elms gasholders. Quickly, a busy-seeming man in an ill-fitting suit appears. His face is blotched, he has a strawberry birthmark across his right cheek and his drooping moustache seems hesitant above his constantly twitching mouth … Mister Richardson the manager of the Nine Elms Gasworks takes Burton O’Brien by the arm and leads him as they pick their way through the mounds of rubble and exploded debris …

‘Bloody terrible it was Mister O’Brien. Bloody terrible … From what I can ascertain it happened around ten o’clock last night it did. The meterhouse next to the two huge gasometers was blown down. Nine reported dead so far. There may well be others I’m afraid. Totally wrecked the gasworks. Houses for over half a mile away down river had their windows blown out so they say … Doors shaken off their hinges, chimney pots flying everywhere … I think that some poor folks thought that Judgment Day had arrived Mister O’Brien and so they did!’ …

‘Pray continue Mister Richardson.’

‘You are a one Mister O’Brien, you really are … Well, what apparently happened according to the Foreman of Works Bill Latham is that both Gasometers were completely filled with gas when one suddenly exploded filling the air with flames. The second Gasometer quickly caught fire though it didn’t explode.’

Burton O’Brien and eager Mister Richardson are walking through a landscape that could well be the aftermath of shelling in the Crimea. Engineers, rescue volunteers and workmen can be seen picking over the rubble and twisted metal. All that Burton O’Brien can see against the watery sunlight is the distinctive circular frame of a Gasometer, its roof has collapsed at the bottom of the tank and its sides are blown into charred fragments. All across the ground are odd various shapes and scattered remains of metal.

‘I still don’t quite comprehend how the Gasometer exploded Mister Richardson? We’ve never had an accident like this before have we … Why bless my soul this is carnage on a grand scale. Mister Hayward will have a fit so he will!’

‘Well no one’s quite sure for certain Mister O’Brien. Left the experts scratching their heads and so it has. But that Bill Latham, he’s always got a hook on things. His guess is probably as good as any bleeding expert’s. Bill reckons that the first explosion took place in the meterhouse. The power of the explosion must have struck the side of the first Gasometer. Carved right into it Bill reckons. Knocking the top clean off! With that there would have been an immediate rush of gas upwards catching fire. Bang! The rest is dead bodies, what you see around you and whispered fears Mister O’Brien.’

‘Very eloquently put Mister Richardson if I might say so. It still however doesn’t explain how the explosion in the meterhouse came about. But I’m not a technical person Mister Richardson. I’m quite sure the Official Inquiry will provide an adequate explanation to satisfy the Government, the Insurers and the local inhabitants … I must admit Mister Richardson, I didn’t realise the disaster would have such far-reaching effects. This bloody scene must stretch for nearly half a mile down River. We could still be paying off compensation claims long after I’m dead! An act of God maybe? The Insurers would like that!’ … …

‘Well did that or did that not accomplish the deed!’

‘You were superb Mister Hayward. Truly superb … You had them eating out of your hands Sir!’

‘Steady on Burton. Steady on … And from now on enough of this Mister Hayward and Sir malarkey. It’s Alfred to you.’

‘Yes sir … I mean … ’

‘Burton my boy, relax … just relax … I’m not so sure it went as well as you think dear boy. The crowd beyond the office steps got quite animated and started jeering and hurling abuse. But I stuck manfully to the notes that Miss Andrews provided.’ …

‘She is truly a treasure.’

‘Keep it quiet Burton. Keep it quiet … Before you can say jackanapes she’ll be getting ideas above her station. Probably want an increase in her remuneration I wouldn’t wonder!’

‘The staff were very supportive … Alfred … ’

‘That is better my boy … Well I’m not so sure … it may have seemed in bad taste to have all the clerks, secretaries and messengers leaning out of the office windows and cheering. You can’t applaud a disaster you know … All the members of the Fourth Estate were there. They never stopped scribbling. All trying to ask some bloody difficult questions at the same time. Our readership this, our readership that. The people of London must be told … I definitely saw the correspondents for ‘The Telegraph’, that conceited ‘Times’ fellow, the bloody ‘Penny Illustrated’ and the ‘Morning Post’. What worried me most though Burton, was that fellow Marriot from the ‘Journal of Gas Lighting’ … All our rival competitors must be secretly cheering … I must say that Miss Andrews was superb. Her words and my delivery caught the mood perfectly didn’t they?’

‘Most definitely Alfred.’

‘How regardless of public outcry we propose our own inquiry. How we will co-operate fully with the Government committee that is being set up. Our deepest regrets to the bereaved families … Yes, yes … I liked our promise of compensation over and above the recommended tariffs. How we will make good on any shortfall from the Insurance Companies if they should run into financial difficulties … But best of all Burton, our heartfelt pledge and sincere promise that The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company will provide every house within half a mile of the vicinity of Nine Elms with four free gas jet burners per household. Marvellous! … All street gas-lamps damaged in the disaster to be replaced at no additional cost to the community … What was that final part? … Yes … How, even though the terrible disaster at Nine Elms Gasworks was truly appalling … We must never lose sight of the fact that Gas is polyvalent. It signifies Metropolitan improvements … I liked that! Especially the play on our name Burton. She is a clever lady our Miss Andrews … How gas has heightened modern amenities and enhanced Metropolitan culture … Of course that was when all the staff behind me started cheering wildly, whilst all the hacks and crowd ahead of me were just stood there staring in stony silence. Never mind!’ … …

‘You can leave now Miss Andrews … I believe our activity for today is complete. I shall not forget your superb efforts today Miss Andrews. Truly marvellous … Truly marvellous … Now, you had better take your leave and set off home before it gets dark … Once again a heartfelt thank you … ’

Miss Andrews in her prim and proper, ageless style, exits without a flourish or any attempt at demonstrative attention-seeking. Careful to the last not to catch the eye of Burton O’Brien or shut the door too hard.

‘You have certainly got a treasure there and no mistake Old Chap. It is a pity she’s not a bit more … compelling … attractive … ’

‘Pretty!’

‘Pretty will do if you must O’Brien.’

‘One can’t have everything Beezer. An attractive girl can be a major distraction. Miss Andrews is a bit of a gem in a fix. Could probably run the Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company all by herself I shouldn’t dare say … I shall reward her without telling her though. Always the best way. When we relaunch the new rights issue I shall give her a hundred or so shares. Make her feel that she is more than just an employee. That ought to do it! … She need never know the choice was ever hers to make … Now, down to business … whisky and soda as usual for you Beezer? … And the same Burton dear boy?’

Burton O’Brien nods without thinking. It’s easier that way and anyway he simply cannot get the awful images of the explosion at Nine Elms Gasworks free from playing on his mind …

‘Right Burton. Now you’ve had all this time dear boy. What do your family say? … Do we have a deal?’

Burton O’Brien blinks seated beneath the over-bright gas-lit chandeliers. Coughs hard. Commits and downs his large whisky and soda in one long, extended gulp and launches into his future.

‘Well Mister … I mean Alfred … as requested I presented all the reports and detailed documents appertaining to the proposed takeover to my grandfather Fergus O’Mee. I received a letter from my mother only yesterday morning. Reading between the lines, I believe the company will accept if maybe you upped your offer a little … Alfred … That’s better. It takes a while … Difference of positions … Maybe a further ten thousand pounds would do the trick Alfred.’

‘Um … ten thousand you say … now let me be very clear and precise about this … In the event of the completion of the takeover of Casey and O’Mee, we, The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company would secure the sole rights to the street lighting of North Dublin … Right dear boy?’ …

Burton O’Brien’s clear blue eyes nod in agreement as he views his second large whisky and soda.

Alfred Hayward turns his head fully in the swelling balloons of prevailing cigar smoke and signals for a sign to Sam Webb.

‘Well Beezer what say you?’

‘Let us do it old chap. We have had a truly terrible twenty odd hours but that is only a minor setback in the affairs of the Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company. In the grand scheme of things we need to expand to gain fresh impetus. Where better than the fair streets of Dublin say I … Production, expansion, development, that has to be our motto and creed Old Chap. We have to advance ahead of the competition. Gas is the all-powerful force of the Age. Everybody needs it. Everywhere is illuminated by it. We have to be the first on the scene. This will be the making of us commercially. Let us do it without further ado. Instruct the Dublin agents to proceed Old Chap.’

Alfred Hayward moves his head through the glare of the gas-light and the clouds of billowing cigar smoke. His flushed, full face is ablaze with the prospect of yet further success and Gas rights. He claps Sam Webb on the back beaming.

‘Truly wonderful Beezer. Truly wonderful … That is the key Burton dear Boy. Beezer here has the instinct. Like a true thoroughbred he always senses the right moment … You won’t regret this dear Boy … This will be the making of you. When the takeover is complete you will be made a Director of the Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company with the proper adjusted remuneration to match and a five percent stake in the new rights issue of shares … Now stop warming that whisky and soda and get it down you and tell us what you have planned for tonight by way of a celebration?’

Burton O’Brien’s hesitant manner dissolves as he takes the plunge, knocks back his second large whisky and soda and further commits …

‘Well Alfred … Sam … Now that we are soon to be fully-fledged business partners so to speak, I believe we should partake of the delights of Cremorne Leisure Gardens. I have an official invite from the manager Edward Browne. We are to be his special guests in a balcony supper-box overlooking the Dance Platform and right opposite the Orchestra and Pagoda. All entertainment courtesy of the management. We can always stretch our legs and wander if the fancy so takes us, through the gas-lit groves of Cremorne. Replete in the knowledge that all gas is supplied by The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company.’

‘We have a splendid evening in store Beezer. I can feel it in my bones!’ … …

‘How we doing boy? How high is the sun up in the sky?’ …

‘I thought you were clever-like Blind Tom! Your face a ruddy sundial and all! You’d know the time of day by the twitch of your nose, the curl of your ear … Heh, missed! … You ain’t a-swotting drunk flies now old man!’

‘I’ll ‘ave you so I will you thieving little varmint … I may not know the fucking time of day but I can sure as hell smell the river. We must be getting close. Away out from the City … What’s all that noise and commotion about Boy? What they be a-going on about?’

‘It’s only the paper-seller Tom. Loads of people all around him. Something about a gas explosion over Nine Elms way, I dunno … ’

‘What do you mean yer dunno. Why, we should be opposite Nine Elms right about now so we should, but yer know nothing … That’s right you only know how to get your thieving little fingers inside a person’s cloak or filch a purse. Stick with me Boy and I might just save you from the gallows. God the old Biddies at the Hangings would like to see you Boy. Give them a right thrill it would. Pretending to be shocked and laughing all the while. Placing wagers on the length of your baby-sized cock … I got two lovely yellow-boys Ducky says he don’t blubber!’ … Blind Tom chuckles an evil laugh. Senses the boy is uneasy with this and pursues his pleasure with glee …

‘Gas explosion they say … Oh the modern wonders of Gas say I … If we’d had gas-light way back then Old Bony would never ‘ave got so bleeding far. Never would!’

Blind Tom sniffs the air like a hunting dog, clasps his hand on young Jack’s shoulder and aims a swift kick at a whimpering Nelson which misses.

‘Late at night walking through the slimy streets of Whitechapel with a bellyful on. Kicking at the rotting vegetables, the sounds of rats and prostitutes scuttling for the Mile End Road. I hears the Gas as it moves through the streets in pipes and flares in burners. Hears it I does, whispering, puttering, hissing and telling all manner of wicked secrets.’

Young Jack shudders and tries hard to escape Blind Tom’s grasp.

‘Gas ain’t alive Old Man! Gas ain’t a thing. It can’t tell no bleedin’ secrets so it can’t. You trying me on so you are!’

Blind Tom laughs hard and strengthens his grip.

‘Gas is the wonder secret of the modern age Boy. I don’t see by it like everybody else. But I hear it, smell it, sense it, feel its’ presence, its’ fanning heat … It’s not real you say … Not real Boy! … It’s killing people all the time. You just told me so! It has a mind and a life of its’ own. You see if it don’t … Now it don’t make no bleedin’ difference to me ‘cos I can’t see a ruddy thing can I! But it’s making a difference to everyone else in’t it … I mean, you wouldn’t want to be a candle maker right now would you! … Gas not real when you can smell it on the air everywhere. Talked at from dawn to dusk … Wake up Boy! You’re scared stiff and you have every right to be so. Just you stay close with Old Blind Tom and Nelson here and we’ll see you alright so we will … Now we are a-getting close Boy … Not before time … Don’t bother, I can see more with these blind eyes than you can with your bright blinking peepers … Smell it Boy? I know we are by Vauxhall Gardens. Soon be across from the River and Battersea Woods. I can see and smell the money awaiting us at Cremorne. All the fun of the fair Boy. But we’ll be ready for them won’t we just!’ … …

The grey-strewn, matted straw-ends of Sloane Square usher in Blind Tom’s merry band. The steaming smells of the horse dung, rotting straw and raw sewage are almost over-powering. Blind Tom is shuffling across the Square keeping his arm firmly on young Jack. Don’t want to lose him now that they are so close. The ripeness of the Square’s smells contrasts starkly with the palatial surrounds and artificial concerns of Sloane Square’s landed gentry. The rich and the famous are building bigger and better houses. Out away from the suffocating confines and persistent poverty of the City.

‘What’s this road we’re starting on then Boy?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Well ask someone. You’re not stupid! … What is wrong with you now then? … Don’t you start going soft on me when the main chance is in sight. Otherwise on arrival at Cremorne I shall be forced back onto bleedin’ Nelson and his lame dog act … What did that lady say Boy? … Say it again will yer?’ …

‘You going mutt Blind Tom or what … King’s Road get it! King’s Road!’

‘Alright! … Alright! … No need to holla what with me ‘aving the lugholes of a rabbit and all … It’s all this shouting and banging and bleedin’ noise Boy. All these horses and carts, cabs, children, bleedin’ bedlam it is. I can hardly hear myself think for the yelling Paper-Sellers, the bleedin’ Muffin Men, the Rag and Bone men, the bleedin’ Church in all its glory making a right noise an’ all. Bells and horns, yelling and a-screaming … King’s Road you say? Well they should bleedin’ well re-name it in her honour shouldn’t they Boy! … Be upstanding Boy when I mention our Lady! … C’mon. Stretch your legs it’ll soon be evening and we will have missed out Thieving Boy!’ … …

A swirl of noise and hubbub seems to invigorate the very air. A blaze of late afternoon activity, commotion, happening. The sun-filled scene outside the gated-entrance to Cremorne from the King’s Road that greets Blind Tom and his merry Band. Impinges totally on the senses amid the swell of dirt and dust, the braying of a stray donkey and the whinnying of two frightened horses, as a group of swaggering Soldiers loiter, displaying all the glory of their red tunics and military uniforms. The polished brass buttons and buckles of the Soldiers sparkle as dogs are barking, cats are screeching, babies are crying, women are howling. In amongst this mayhem are packs of sauntering Shoppers who have got lost by chance and decided to pay Cremorne a visit just to gawp in bewilderment. A veritable army of Organ-Grinders, cutely-dressed monkeys, blousy flower-girls, itinerant musicians, sweet-voiced singers and off-key chanters, all mill around and demand attention in the packed throng that parades before Cremorne’s gates … A Policeman stands and scrutinises an ice-cream Seller, probably desperate for a cornet in the sweltering heat in his thick blue serge uniform and peaked blue helmet … Unlit street gas-lamps with ornate rose-flowered designs guard as vigilant sentinels the hallowed leisure gates … A dancing Bear on a fraying leather lead has drawn a crowd. The Bear is upright and has a jaunty blue and red striped cap tied between his ears and a glittering row of brightly-coloured beads around his neck. People in the crowd are shouting at the Bear and pulling funny faces, flicking lighted cigarettes and matches at him for fun. A thin bearded man of a weedy appearance is playing an innocent tune on a reedy flute. The Bear is gamely trying to dance and the gathering throng are literally poking fun and laughing at him. Young street-urchin Boys take turns to crouch down and suddenly spring out from between adult legs and make a dash past the performing Bear, throwing and hitting him with small stones. Part of the raucous-edged fun in the crowd is the fraying leather strap which at any moment could snap. The Bear could break loose and act out a sweet revenge on this cruel, noisy, jeering crowd … The pathos of the Bear’s dancing act sets the scene amid the uproarious din. The Policeman has one eye on the eyetie ice-cream Seller and one eye on that dancing black Bear and his plodding routines of padded paw-paw, rum-tum hops … Contortionists, Escape-Artists, Street Dancers, Leafleteers and Match-Sellers all jostle for a patch. The Beggars are everywhere, Beggars with black patches, Beggars with no arms, one arm, no legs, one leg, no arms or legs and boxes of greasy matches. Plaintive calls for assistance and beer and food and money mixing in with the din. Bugles and trumpets sound and flourish. Plump young Women breast-feeding babies beg for bread with dirty hands. Attractive Women in gaudy dresses definitely showing more than a finely turned ankle, offer large jugs of home-made beer for threepence. Jugglers perform, a man on stilts in a white top hat, who gets pushed over by the urchin Boys before the confused Policeman can run to save him. An old lady in a dirty white bonnet and multi-coloured woollen shawl, is offering candy-glazed love hearts for a ha’penny that will cure all your sex problems love … A performing Dog is trying hard to emulate the Bear and keeps falling over. Failing miserably to perfect his dancing act and receiving a short, sharp, well-aimed kick for his pains … The overpowering smells of street-hot food, steaming spiced beer, recent horse dung, the reek of urine, the strong surging smell of the River, the sweat of the Bear and the persistent cheap aroma of hastily splashed-on scent. Through all this milling, swirling chaos and expectation thunders the apocalyptic voice of the full-bearded Preacher. He stands with arms outstretched before the enticing gates of Cremorne and calls on all lapsed Believers to repent. Smiting the fumitory air with one clenched fist and showing the good Book with the other. Mocks the assembled throng with withering voice and burning eyes and sends the entire crowd of Sinners straight to Hell including the Policeman and the black dancing Bear …

All this and much more as a pushed and shoved and jostled and bemused Blind Tom, wide-eyed disbelieving Jack and a nose-thrilled Nelson, elbow their way through the crowded multitude seeking a suitable pitch.

Young Jack edges towards the fuming and hectoring Preacher and plucks at his loose-flapping sleeve at Blind Tom’s instigation. At first the thundering voiced Preacher is too caught up in his fire and brimstone sermonising to notice. He continues to harangue the milling crowd of knaves and gamesters. Young Jack is nothing if not persistent. He tugs and tugs till the Preacher swats him away like a blasphemous fly. The realised impact of the back of hand across a hard bony cheekbone pulls the Preacher up short. His thundering voice abruptly stops as he turns to see who has rudely interrupted God’s work and clutched at his sleeve.

‘Well Boy? … Don’t stammer. You had better have a very good reason for preventing the words of the Lord … Speak up, speak up! Don’t just stand there gawping lad!’

‘Blind Tom sends his best Father.’ The words rush out with breathless haste … The Preacher bends down from a great height and peers intently into young Jack’s face. His large red nose is almost touching Jack’s. Young Jack flinches but stands his ground.

‘Firstly Boy … ’ Growls the Preacher … ‘I am not your Father! That privilege belongs to the Romish Church with all their mumbo jumbo and sacrilegious idolatry. Now if you are really with Blind Tom as you say Boy. Go and get him and lead him over there by that red-striped gaming booth … You see it? … Good … ’

The Preacher’s hot breath floods over young Jack’s face … ‘Now lead Blind Tom over to that booth Boy and wait for me till I’ve finished with this ungodly mob.’

With that the Preacher springs back upright and immediately resumes where he’d left off. Calling on the jeering crowd in thundering voice to repent their heathen ways, ask Him for salvation and forgiveness for their deadly sins, and they might just, if they are lucky, be accepted back into the divine fold as chastised and repentant lambs … Amen to that!

Young Jack slides back through the thronging crowd to where Blind Tom is waiting in a gap between a beer-selling lady and an Organ-Grinder. Someone, probably the gaudily-dressed lady, has given him a glass of spiced beer and the froth is all over his mouth. Nelson, eyes on fire, stands by his side awaiting whatever should come his way. Fascinated but uneasy about the Organ-Grinder’s Monkey but keeping his safe distance.

‘Where’d you get that beer Blind Tom? … I’m thirsty as well. Just being here works up a thirst don’t it! … ’

‘See Boy, I’m known. Everybody knows Old Blind Tom. A lot of these people are my folks see. We’re like family so we are … In the holy words of the Preacher Boy … Ask and it shall be given … Well I asked and look what I got … ’

Tom drains another mouthful of spiced beer and smacks his lips with the back of his hand for good measure.

‘You lucky dog!’

‘So I am Boy, so I am. Let us see how lucky we are today though shall we. Lead me and the mutt through this noisy crowd Boy to where the Preacher wants to meet us … Go on don’t be shy. And I thought you were a sharp one so I did … Now don’t disappoint. If you are really good Boy I’ll get young Vera here to slip you a glass of beer so I will … Give him one Vera … I thought that myself Vera, I know you like them bleedin’ young and all! Later, later … How old are you Boy?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Well what a bleedin’ surprise and no mistake … Give the young varmint a beer girl and maybe he’ll catch on! … Good girl. You’re a real good un like your old Ma so you are … Now say a big thank you to Vera and kiss her beer-drenched feet for luck Boy … Go on do it! We are gonna need all the bleedin’ luck we can get … That’s it … Now keep your bleedin’ hands off him Vera. He ain’t ripe for plucking yet.’ … …

‘You old reprobate how are you?’

The Preacher gently leans forward and runs his hand over Blind Tom’s face in a show of affectionate greeting.

‘Lord bless me Archie it’s been a long time and so it has. I only heard you was back this morning from Rosie over at Charing Cross … Where have you been these past few years? What you been up to then?’

Archie Skinner rubs his face reflectively, loosens his dog collar and leads Blind Tom by the arm to the back of the gaming booth.

‘It’ll keep Blind Tom. It’ll keep. Later maybe if the occasion should arise … Now, I’ve got a little task for you and the Boy. It should enable you to ward-off the immediate curse of your poverty.’

As if by divine magic the Preacher man Archie Skinner raises up his long arm and a young lady in a modest bonnet and a simple dress appears clutching a bundle of loose-leaf papers.

‘Good girl Amelia. Now if you could just wait while I explain the peddle to the Boys here … How rude of me. In all this noise and confusion manners can escape one … Sister Amelia, allow me to introduce Tom … and you are? … Jack? … Young lad Jack … And Nelson … Yes by the Lord we mustn’t forget one of his good creatures Sister Amelia must we! … These kind Gentlemen are part of our Brethren so to speak Sister.’

Archie Skinner looks away for a second from Sister Amelia, catches young Jack’s eye and gives him a huge wink.

‘The good Lord provides as I always say Sister. Today he has delivered us Tom, Jack and Nelson here to further the good work … Now Lad, if you would like to relieve the good Sister here of that heavy-looking bundle of blessed pamphlets then maybe we could get on apiece.’

Sister Amelia blushes shyly. Resists the urge to assail a curtsey for some strange reason. Weighs down the whole body of blessed pamphlets into young Jack’s cradled arms and smiles the smile of the innocent and the good, and returns to her post by the Cremorne main gate.

‘With good folk like young Sister Amelia how can we fail!’

Archie the Preacher glances hastily around him and then produces some cigarettes and matches from beneath the pleated folds of his long robe. Lights up with Tom and Jack and explains the peddle.

‘All you have to do is go slowly through the crowd Lad. Attract people’s attention, put a white collar on Nelson here, the Lord won’t mind, anything to further the Word … A penny each for these blessed pamphlets … Got that? One penny … Now there are exactly two hundred here so be sure to try and not cheat me Lad. Sell as many as you can. Just keep going for an hour or so. Then meet me back here at the Booth … Now here’s the shake Tom. I will arrange for you to get free admission with the Lad and the dog into Cremorne. No shilling entrance fee for you Tom. You’ll get in unbidden and I’ll stand you one shilling for your labours and see to it that Ted Hurley at the Catering Stand by the Stalk Fountain gives you and the Lad here a cup of tea each and a bite to eat … Now no questions. God’s time is precious. Don’t lose those pamphlets they cost enough to have printed. Get moving amongst the crowd and spread God’s word … Don’t be shy, call out and push the pamphlets into people’s hands. You will discover that a lot will be embarrassed enough to present you with a penny so as to get rid of you. Let the aggressive, jeering ones alone. Stay away from the drunken topers. The folks you are after are the ones who aren’t really meant to be here, or are just about to enter the Gardens. They’re the ones we are after Boys. Now get to it and God speed you!’ … …

‘Oh come on Emma stop fiddling with your hair. We’ll never get there if you stand all evening in front of that mirror admiring yourself! … You look lovely so you do … Mirror, mirror on the wall, don’t look back and I won’t bawl … I’m sure all the young Gentlemen at Cremorne won’t be able to take their eyes off you Emma Martin, that is if we ever get to go there!’

‘Hush your bleating so Hettie. I thought I was the one who was excited. You’ve changed your tune. How come?’

‘Did you see young Arthur love? … God. He looked so sweet He did. Like an angel. He popped in for some pins I promised me mum and I was able to give him a message about us going to Cremorne tonight so as she won’t worry. You know how she frets so about everything. She just can’t help herself. Her time of life I suppose. What wiv me Dad an’ all!’

‘Well you look lovely as well my dear and so you do. I’m sure there will be some handsome young Beau at Cremorne just waiting for you! ‘

‘Pinch me I’m dreaming yer bitch!”

Mister Purvis stands by the side-door entrance of Burgoyne and Sons. His waxed moustache shining in the early evening sunlight. Loitering with intent with his pocket-watch of gleaming silver-plate ostentatiously held out in front of him, with the twinkling silver chain fully extended to its limits.

‘Now Girls it is only just six o’clock. I have made a special note of this in the store ledger, and will further inform Mister O’Sullivan the Book-keeper when he arrives tomorrow morning, to deduct you both two hours wages this week. You understand?’

‘Yes Mister Purvis!’. Chorus Emma and Hettie.

‘Now far be it for me to lecture you. But in a way you are both my responsibility you know … ’

‘Can we please leave Mister Purvis?!’. They cry in unison.

‘One moment before you rush-off pell-mell for whatever set of disasters I know not what … You are all dressed up like Ladies … Where did you get those dresses? … Never mind … I caution you both. Our world is not a pretty place at present. Young men of ill-repute, thieves, drunks and murderers they say, frequent Cremorne by night … Oh yes … Don’t look so surprised. Nothing happens here that I don’t know about … I have given my promise to your … ’

‘Please Mister Purvis.’ In beseeched accord.

‘Alright! Alright! … I’ve had my say. Now you won’t make a habit of this I am sure. Go on, go if you must. Once again I caution you to both be on your guard … And no excuses, eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning you hear!’

‘Yes Mister Purvis!’

Outside, Sloane Square is alive with the sounds and pressing throng of crowds all eager about their bustling business. Gas-lamps are already starting to be lit in the early evening sunlight, as groups of elegantly-attired shoppers cluster keenly around the glittering window displays.

‘Gawd I never thought he’d let us go! Talk about a pound of flesh an all! You’d think we … What is it? You look like you’ve jus seen a ghost Em!’

‘That paperboy Hettie. He’s crying out about an explosion at Nine Elms Gasworks last night.’

‘I thought you already knew about that love?’

‘No … Well, it must have slipped my mind in the excitement … Only, well, Uncle Harry has been working on the nightshift at Nine Elms all this week.’ …

‘Look He was probably one of the lucky ones Em. Don’t fret. There’s nothing you can do love. You know what they say … Bad news always travels fast … Let’s just go and enjoy ourselves while we still can love. Your Uncle Harry will be all right of that I’m sure … Otherwise, before you know it they’ll have us tethered up like these horses with the Cabs and Carts here so they will! … Don’t look so worried Em, forget it! … Pick up your dress it’s trailing in all the muck and straw. Don’t mind your ankles. I never had you pegged as a shy one Em. If that’s all you ever have to show you’ll be the lucky one!’

‘You’re right, it’s stupid of me to worry Het … It’s just … Well, the family … Sod it you’re right! … Let’s go and have a good time while we can!’

‘That’s better girl … Hang on … I just want to grab this.’

Hettie stoops down and yanks off a playbill that’s been posted on a water trough.

‘What you got there then?’

‘It’s Cremorne tonight Em.’

‘Tonight? … Go on then don’t keep me in suspense, you’re worse than a Penny Dreadful you are!’

‘Cremorne Gardens on Friday August Twenty … That’s today Em!’

‘Here let me have it!’

‘Leave off will yer … Madame Pont … Pont … Will Des … Des … ’

‘Give it ‘ere for Christsakes! … Madame Pontoise will descend tonight at Cremorne Gardens at ten o’clock as Europa. She will descend as the daredevil Parisian Aeronaut sat astride a real live Bull and be transformed into Europa by Jupiter. See the daring delight tonight in the dark all lit up by the wonders of Gas-light … Oh Hettie it sounds so amazing … Can you believe this!’

‘Looks like it’s going to be our lucky night Em … Now look sharp. If we’re quick we can catch that tram that’s going to go down the King’s Road … .C’mon, lift up your dress and run Em … They’re stopping to water the horses. We should just make it!’ … …

‘Oh Hettie isn’t it just wonderful! … Look at all the activity and everything … The smell of that food is just driving me crazy. We’ve got to get a bite to eat before we go in Hettie … I’m so hungry I could eat a horse so I could!’

‘If you’re really lucky Emma Martin my girl, you’ll soon get to eat a Bear by the looks of it! … Aren’t folks horrid and cruel Em … No, don’t stare so Em we don’t want any of those drunken men looking over in our direction love. Before you know it they’ll be a-slobbering all over us, declaring their undying love, only desperate just to get inside our drawers!’

‘You’ve got a very wicked tongue on you Hettie Nicholson and so you ‘ave!’

‘But it’s so true Em! … You know it is! All this love malarkey and all they really want to do is get their wicked way. God the thought of it makes me want to be sick and so it does … C’mon, don’t stare so at that poor dancing Bear … Heh look Em, look over there, that funny man with the white-painted face, He’s trying to stand upright on those stilts and He keeps falling over … Don‘t laugh so … You’re giving me the right giggles, you are … I’ve got a couple of spare pennies … I tell you what we deserve girl … We deserve a couple of large, piping hot, jam doughnuts each and so we do … Come away stop staring!’

‘Well ladies and a good day to you both indeed.’

‘It ain’t daytime any longer it’s early evening Mister.’ … Giggle … ‘And anyway, who are you? … Sorry I know who you are. I reckon you’re the chocolate soldier I’ve always been a-dreaming about … The one that’s going to melt my heart … Melt my heart!’ …

Hettie is playfully fanning her chest with her palm and starting to corpse with tears of streaming laughter at her own joke … ‘Melt my heart! … Aaargh’

‘Allow me to pay for those cakes if I may ladies.’

‘Doughnuts … doughnuts they are.’

‘I can’t abide these new-fangled Yankee names. They will remain cakes to me my dear.’

‘Well that is very kind of you Officer, but I think we shall … What is it? … Stop pulling at my sleeve you’ll tear it! … Sssh! If we let him pay for us we’ll be obliged to him won’t we!’

‘Ladies, please.’

‘Thank you very much kind Sir I don’t mind if I do!’

The chocolate soldier in the red gleaming uniform of the regiment of The Royal Engineers, bows deeply with a stiff, awkward flourish of the arm.

‘Corporal Bob Bates at you service Ladies.’

‘Why thank you … But I thought the Royal Engineers wore brown uniform?’

‘That is very astute of you. Khaki my dear khaki when in the field. Active duty so to speak … But on Public Parade like today we get to wear our full bright-red regalia so we do.’

‘A chocolate soldier called Bob. Give me a silver shilling and you can just melt my heart Corporal Bob and so you can!’ … Convulsions, a fit of the giggles and half-choking on her jam-wedged doughnut …

‘Stop it Hettie for Christsakes! Sorry Sir … Keep your bad jokes to yourself if you must … It’s not that funny! … If you carry on like this, they’ll come along and shave off all your pretty brown curls, stick a soppy wig on your head, fill you full of mothers ruin and stick you on the boards in a penny gaff! Let’s see how funny you are then!’

‘Now now ladies, please … I’m quite happy to be your Chocolate Soldier for the day if that so pleases you … What I would like to do most my dears if it is not deemed too forward of me … Is to ask you both to accompany me beyond these magnificent Gates and into the Leisure Gardens themselves?’

‘Why that is very charming of you Corporal Bates.’ …

‘Bob please Miss, Bob … ’

‘Well … Bob … I’m pleased to say we have complimentary tickets of our very own.’ …

‘Oh Emma you are so stupid!’

‘Pardon Miss?’

‘I was just saying to my friend Emma ‘ere, that we would be delighted to accompany you Corporal Bob … God! … Sssh! … He’s so old-fashioned Em … Stick with him, it should be a lark!’

‘You’re cruel so you are … Just like those mad, nasty folk tormenting that poor Bear so.’

‘No I’m not and you know it! … He’s just an old soldier!’

‘He’s not that old!’

‘Alright then ‘ave it your way if you must … A used Chocolate Soldier, lonely like, looking for a bit of female company … Why not I say! … He’ll buy us a drink and a bite of something to eat if we’re lucky … Then we can give him the slip in all the crowd … Don’t look so high and mighty Miss Martin! He’ll be right pleased with our company. An hour with us will make his day so it will … Now you stop frowning so and put on your best beautiful smile. Wipe that jam off your face and the sour look. Lick the sugar off your lips and take the Chocolate Soldier by the arm. Remember, we are here for a jolly good time so we are. Don’t let a few misplaced high and mighty prin … prin … princ … You know, ruin our evening Em … Otherwise love, you had better go and join that mad, crazy Preacher over by the main Gate a-yelling at the Crowd … What would you rather ‘ave love … A bit of innocent-like fun, or God’s wrath rammed down your throat and condemned to hellfire just ‘cos you’re a pretty girl!’

The green glittering swards of Blackheath are deserted save for a large brightly coloured touring caravan stationed slap bang on the centre of the Heath. Two untethered horses are grazing carelessly nearby, oblivious to the agitated sounds and noises rocking the sides of the caravan.

‘I won’t do it! … Do you hear! … Are you listening mon chéri? … I won’t do it and that’s an end to it!’

An attractive fair-haired woman of a certain age is standing in her underwear and stockings with her corset half-laced up, her trembling hands akimbo on her ample hips. Snorting with gulps of apprehension and determination.

‘Madame, as your erstwhile Agent and loyal representative, I implore you. I only have your needs and advancement to the fore of my mind … Balloon ascents are not the attraction they once were my dear. Why, even his highness Napoleon and the Empress Eugénie were uncertain whether they wanted us to perform a descent at the young Prince Imperial’s birthday party this year at Saint-Cloud. Remember?’

‘Of course I remember George! But young Louis just adores balloons, I don’t understand chéri.’

‘Fashion Madame, fashion. Balloon descents have been a staple feature of London attractions for decades now. Your ever-entranced audience are sated by your spectacular efforts my dear … Lucy my love, could you stop attending so carefully to Madame and let her concentrate fully, this is extremely important.’

Plump faithful Lucy recoils at the direct attention and mention of her name by George Jarry. Startled to be an included member.

Unabashed, Madame Pontoise strokes Lucy’s retreating plump hand and smiles at her for a show of confidence.

‘I can concentrate fully thank you George with Lucy’s hands on me. It is a daily habit and it doesn’t interfere with my thoughts and ideas … Now stop trying to confuse us … I still won’t do it and that’s final! No matter what clever ruses you have tucked up your sleeves!’

George Jarry extends his cutaway cuffs with mock solemnity to demonstrate that the carefully tailored sleeves of his impressive jacket are devoid of deception.

‘Balloons have got bigger my dear. Your audience craves a more daring spectacle. You have simply over-stimulated their excitement. New forms of aeronautic spectacle are required to maintain the Public’s wonder.’

‘I have said I will not and that is that! … Am I a Parisian clown in the Hippodrome? Am I not famous throughout the Royal Courts of Europe? … I am Madame Pontoise the Parisian Aeronaut. I am not some circus freak show chéri. These are not ancient Roman Games. No Nero and the Imperial Circus! … I have my reputation and Public appearance to maintain George. You are my Agent and Representative in England. It is your duty to look after me is it not chéri?’

‘And that I do gladly Madame, that I do gladly.’

Lucy has become apparently oblivious to the discussion and argument again and has now turned her attention to attempting to repaint Madame’s fingernails. The silver nail varnish is gleaming and Madame’s fingers are now drumming in agitation on the mirrored dressing table.

‘Look Madame, the Manager of Cremorne Edward Browne has already promised us a fee of fifty guineas. We have already been paid a substantial advance. I have employed two fresh young men to support you. A farmer by the name of Mumford is travelling here as we speak. He should arrive in the next half an hour with Samson.’

‘How could you … It is, how you say, so de … demeaning … Yes! That you should wish to place me astride this Samson! Pah! … I won’t! You hear! I won’t!’

In a fit of temperamental pique Madame Pontoise grabs the opened bottle of silver nail varnish from the dressing-table and hurls it at the mirror. Spots of silver can be detected along the splendid curves of Lucy’s shaking arms. A great splodge of silver is slowly sliding in dribbles down the dressing-table mirror.

‘Well my dear it is in your best interests. As far as I know it has never been attempted before at night in London. All the tickets at Cremorne have been sold advertising it this evening. Now, you don’t wish to let your Public down do you? I mean, what will they think of the world famous Parisian Aeronaut if she doesn’t show as promised. The sad tears of the disappointed childrens memories will be on your conscience forever. The disappointed children of Cremorne … We will never get rebooked anywhere in this country if this should happen!’

‘Pah! … Blackmail! … My own Agent is blackmailing me Lucy … For godsake stop dabbing at the silver varnish! Let it drip chérie it suits my mood … So you say I have no choice George … I am to risk life and limb because you have promised … No insurance as usual I suspect … Now I’m not saying that I will do it … For godsake stop fussing Lucy … Go and pour me a drink if you must do something … George.’

‘A whisky and soda will do fine thank you Madame.’

‘Alright chérie alright … I didn’t quite mean that and you damn well know it! Please don’t take unfair advantages of my difficulties with your dreadful language George … Now outline the procedure if you will please George one more time and I will consider.’

‘Thank you Lucy … Well as I said Madame, Farmer Mumford should be here shortly with Samson the Bull … Now as I’ve repeated often, he’s not dangerous and anyway, arrangements have been made to handle him if he should panic or go out of control. Your safety is of paramount importance to me Madame as you well know … Now, we have advertised you on all the playbills as ‘The Divine Europa’ herself, so I have had Europa’s costume especially designed for you. We have a fresh design for the Balloon with images of Zeus, Apollo, Athena and Aphrodite, the Titans, a tiger, a lion and a bull. A combination of the Gods, animals and the stars. You will sit aside Samson securely suspended in a basket from the Balloon. The two young balloonists Billy and Percy will guide you through the night sky from Blackheath to Cremorne. An area has been cleared, checked and clearly lit by the Firework Temple across from the Promenade Versailles. As you appear as Europa astride Samson the Bull in the starry night sky over the River, red flares will light up the night and you will descend in a glorious shower of shooting fireworks and firing rockets. All to a burst of thunderous applause and shudders of joy and excitement from your captive audience. They will be truly amazed!’

‘Were you ever an actor chéri?’

George ignores this barbed comment and gulps down his whisky and soda.

‘This spectacular daredevil event has never been accomplished before. You will be the first Madame. Safety is of course my chief concern. You and Samson will land on a thick carpet of compressed straw … At all times your attendant young Pilots Billy and Percy will be looking after you. Guiding you and guarding your welfare. This spectacle will be the talk of London. You Madame in the mythological guise of Europa will become the name on everyone’s lips!’ … …

The sun is sinking in the Western sky reflecting a huge daub of fading crimson-pink light over the stationery farm wagon. Two young men in tight-fitting trousers and sporting carefully trimmed dark moustaches, are attempting to help Farmer Mumford and his assistant Walter. Bellowing and snorting can be heard reverberating across the open expanse that is Blackheath … Samson the Bull is becoming frantic. The long journey has upset him. Life is devoid of his creature comforts. The familiar field. The reassuring sights of the Devonian coast. The exciting sounds of the mooing herd. The familiar barking of the farm dogs, whinnying of horses, screeching of them cats! All is confusion and Samson is not happy and He is going to let everybody know it … Throwing his considerable bulk against the slatted insides of the farm wagon. Scaring the shire horses senseless … Days spent in this grating, bumping wagon for what? This miserable cow feed and the odd shot of rum. Well they can think again. Snort. Puff … The angry Bull’s bellowing has frightened the blackbirds, sparrows and thrushes away from their nesting trees.

Taking his life in his hands, Walter slides silently along the inside walls of the wagon. Inching along from a stamping, ferocious Samson. Walter’s efforts made bolder by the large shot of Jamaica rum warming his veins and the two gold sovereigns clinking softly in his farm labourer’s back pocket. In Walter’s hands is a large syringe with a rubber ball on the end … Praying to the heavens and Fortuna for luck and deliverance … Walter pads across the wagon and plunges the mighty syringe into bellowing Samson’s ample arse. The sheer ferocity of heaving weight and power throwing Walter and the retreating syringe across the wagon. Smack against the slatted sides as an intoxicated leaf carelessly tossed on the wind … Crash … Stamp … Snort … Farmer Mumford and the boys Billy and Percy somehow contrive to drag an unconscious Walter away from the stamping, pounding feet of savage Samson.

Poor Walter’s limp skeleton is laid on the grass as a rag doll. Blood oozing profusely from his badly gashed head … Farmer Mumford removes the two gold sovereigns from Walter’s back pocket without so much as a blush. Poor Percy has stumbled away and is vomiting in the long grass. Billy quick as a flash in case Madame should appear at all the noise and commotion, has laid a mud-stained tarpaulin over the lifeless figure of poor Walter. Samson has ceased roaring and bellowing. His eyes are still red-wild but his body has become docile and still.

The common green at Blackheath has become a hive of activity and excitement. Local villagers with their giggling children interspersing with giddying shrieks are clustering around the edged grass verges of the common way. A huge open-ended, garish truck can be seen proclaiming ‘Drury Lane Balloonists’ in red fluorescent figures writ large in the fading light. People seem to dot the common everywhere. A giant sparkling Balloon is hovering in the early evening night sky. Illuminated outlines of a lion, a crab, the Gemini twins and the other nine signs of the Zodiac, circle banded in a blaze of colour around the centre of this monstrous Balloon. Carnival-dressed shapes are stationed about the common, at least twelve figures and more, are spread-eagled to all four corners hanging on grimly to tautly suspended guy ropes leading from the Balloon. The hovering Balloon has enough clearance below it to allow a green wicker basket to be attached. A divinely-dressed Madame Pontoise is helped into the green basket to applause. The world-famous Parisian Aeronaut takes her rightful place, dressed as Europa the Phoenician Princess beloved of Zeus and the mythical mother of Rhadamanthys, Minos and Sarpedon …

Garbled instructions are yelled and delivered in the fast fading light. Eight large flares have been lit and the scene has taken on the hue of a red masque Ball. The twelve plus helpers have slackened off the guys slightly to allow Europa and the green basket to rise six or so feet into the air … A noise and commotion bumps the air as a garlanded and subdued Samson is led out from the farm wagon and stood beneath the suspended basket. Eager hands move quickly to position, place and strap a huge harness around Samson who is suspended from the basket … Voices everywhere in the now night sky cry. The clustering villagers are yelling and screaming encouragement. Madame’s two able young Helpers have taken their places above her, either side on top of the basket, and are each holding a rope to the Balloon.

A signal goes up from the Manager of the ‘Drury Lane Balloonists’, and the twelve plus helpers suddenly let go of the guy ropes with a flourish. The sight of the Balloon rising majestically in the night sky, Europa dazzling above the Common sat astride a Bull. Clips on the ropes are magically released and the ropes are sent flying to the ground catching unwary onlookers in the face with a dangerous flick and lash.

Farmer Mumford scratches his head and sighs and jingles two gold sovereigns in his trouser pocket. Lucy claps her plump hands together with glee. Then stops herself short in fear for her fast-disappearing mistress. George Jarry puffs contentedly on a large cigar with a concentrated twinkle in his big brown eyes. The gathering crowd of boisterous villagers clap their hands with glee staring skyward. Some throw their hats into the night air in excitement.

The blaze of colour, noise and merriment of Blackheath Common is overshadowed by the beauty, rhyme and grace of Europa sat astride Samson the Bull sailing away into the starry night sky. Gliding away heading for the lights of London and Cremorne. Her two dashingly handsome assistants are suspended arms akimbo above her in protective order. Billy with a dazzling smile on his face. A blanched and pinched-face Percy gamely holding together.

The gusting wind picks up and the dazzling, magnificent sight, whisks away as a schooner sailing into the sparkling, star-spangled sky.

The last vestiges of daylight can be just gleaned on the lapping waters of the River. Leon Chandler is hunched over a large sketch pad drawing frantically. Scattering his crayons in anguish and calling for the light to hold just a second longer, just a vital minute more.

Herbert Campbell is doing his best to keep the boat from capsizing due to Leon Chandler’s manic exertions. His eyes trained attentively in the fast-fading light to his master-friend’s every movement and action. As if by breathing in his very air and presence it will somehow release an artist in himself.

James Campbell is looking the other way. The delights of Cremorne Leisure Gardens are lighting up the night sky over Chelsea. The Campbells’ Boat is rocking gently towards the Battersea shore, keeping out of the way of the perpetually heavy traffic of boats and water taxis making their way to and landing at the Cremorne River esplanade. A veritable flotilla of constant movement. As if the whole of London this balmy August night has decided to descend on Cremorne once and for all. To participate in and partake of all the sensual delights on display.

The gaslights gleaming in the Cremorne trees overhanging the Esplanade are causing Leon Chandler to cuss and to curse. Genteel southern oaths sounding along the River. Though in truth these curses can scarcely be heard for all of this noise and hubbub and seemingly riotous excitement. The dazzling silken dresses and gowns of the ladies delicately stepping ashore … James making out the constant hue of orange. Tonight’s colour is burnt orange. He doesn’t dare mention this to Leon Chandler for fear of being hurled head first into the River of swiftly flowing debris and swishing foam waves.

‘This is the moment ma boys. The crepuscular hour. The time caught between the worlds. When day and night collide. When Osiris cedes his time to Isis. The moment for magic to be let loose and unveiled. Revel with the splendid beauty and dazzle the likes of mankind beyond the grave into a perpetual frenzy … Oh that bloody gaslight and the noise … Let them wait. Let them bloody well wait. We will be with them later when the hour demands it! … Just let me get this down. Capture this moment that yields her magic. Bewitched and entranced … Shit it’s gone! … That’s it! The lights from bloody Cremorne have ruined it. Total waste of time. Waste of materials. Better off drinking and fornicating than working. My talents are wasted here. Nothing works. Nothing! Damn Cremorne! Damn all these dandified folk in their expensive finery yielding up their pampered and bejewelled hetaeras to this ungodly night! Damn them!’

Herbert moves carefully along the Boat. Skilled from birth in the way of movements afloat. Reaches Leon Chandler in the bow. Angles his head back and across Leon Chandler’s left shoulder and peers in the descending gloom at the sketch pad. Lets out a slow piercing whistle of approval.

‘What do I know Leon but this is brilliant. The way you’ve captured that moment, the light. The boat landing with that woman in her flowing dress of vivid burnt orange. Truly superb! Your clever use of the flickering effect of orange dotted across the heaving Esplanade. Truly, truly brilliant! You are the master and that is for certain.’

Silence … A long moment of silence that seems to take forever and eternity. Then a thick cough. A clearing of the throat. That honeyed Southern drawl licks into action. Penetrating to the hidden haunts of this worldly River.

For once the mask slips a fraction. ‘You want to know something my Boys?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘My own mother back home could give your Chelsea gossips a run for their money, and no mistake.’ Just as quickly as it appeared, the crack is smoothed back over.

‘You really think so ma Boy? … Maybe … Yes, yes, well put. I have caught the orange glints rather well haven’t I … Remember what I said about high quality crayons ma Boy … Immm … And that strange-angled reflection in the River is unusual isn’t it … Yes, masterly! … You are developing a fine judgment Herbert ma Boy, a fine appreciation of genius at work!’ …

With that Leon Chandler claps Herbert Campbell savagely on the back and almost tumbles them both into the night currents of the running River. Only saved by the quick acrobatic balancing of James. Another natural waterboy by instinct and birth … …

The rowing Boat bobs ashore and lands alongside the Cremorne Esplanade. The shore Landing is so congested by water traffic that you have to wait your turn for an approach channel to disembark or tie up.

James Campbell leaps energetically ashore and is instantly greeted by Alf, who is employed to oversee the moorings on behalf of Cremorne. A few of the Chelsea Harbour Boys earning a well-needed crust and delighting in the task … Alf allows the Campbell Brothers to haul their boat ashore and leave it secured under a canvas awning. Most of the Water Traffic is not allowed to land officially and only ties up to offload the latest grouping of Cremorne Socialites.

The massive Elders, Oaks and Elms overhanging the Esplanade are all in vigorous full leaf. Each tree is lit up by half a dozen gas-lamps strategically positioned in the branches. Different shades of coloured glass have been used to good effect. Deep reds and purples and lemon yellows drench the Esplanade in rays of exotic lighting. To add to this effect, many of the leaves on the tress have been painted silver and gold and some parts of the tree trunks have been splashed with a vivid crimson wash.

As the Campbell boys, James and Herbert accompanied of course by the rakish figure of Leon Chandler, venture up the Esplanade, the strains of the latest popular polka play across the waterfront as performed by the Chinese Orchestra. All the Cremorne Boatmen like Alf are decked out in a smart navy blue outfit set off with red-piping on the shoulders, cuffs and trouser bottoms … The noise and gaiety of the newly arrived, lavishly dressed crowds, the splashing of the water, the stringed sounds of the Chinese Orchestra, the full moon shining up above. The glowing Gas-lamps in the painted trees. They all converge and intertwine in a heavy, intoxicating mixture of fantasy and excitement.

James and Herbert are both quite giddy and unnerved just by being there. Nothing phases Leon Chandler. He carelessly leaves his bound and tied artist’s folder in the bottom of the Boat, the leather binding cradling his Peruvian tin of crayons. You never know, he may crayon a beautiful young girl by invitation at dawn … Carelessly strewn equipment, the toss of an expensively attired arm, the flick-back of long strands of black hair. Items can all be so easily replaced. As with the stylish French overcoat left languishing amid the scummy bilge of the boat bottom. Why worry? Everything can be instantly replaced. The instantaneous satisfaction in the demand … The delights of Cremorne. The exotically attired Ladies of the night. Being there.

Leon Chandler leads his acolyte attendants on from the Esplanade across the carefully manicured paths of grass, leading to the Dance Platform and the smoothly-toned sounds of the Chinese Orchestra. Along the jostling, busy pathways at vantage points are booths selling liquid refreshments. Jars of porter lined up along small wooden bar tops. Bottles of gin stand ready for the command. This particular Booth Owner is known to Leon Chandler and the Campbell boys. Joe Hurley a local resident and thieving rascal of the Cremorne night. A large green parrot perches atop his Booth held to the earth by a silver-chain linking back inside the Booth and attached to a metal bracket around a keg of beer. In the large gas-lit elm tree behind Joe Hurley’s Booth, is a silver-painted mannikin laid about ten foot up in the branches and looking in desperate need of a shot of Schiedam gin … Surreal is probably too tame a word to describe the scene and affect … Joe Hurley doubles up by selling dirty pictures by day and drink by night … A wink and a nod from Leon Chandler and the group move behind Joe Hurley’s Booth and squat down by a pushcart, leaving Joe’s plumply attractive mistress and assistant Lily, to carry on serving the thirsty gathering crowd. After an exchange of money, Joe Hurley produces a couple of long-stemmed pipes filled with opium.

Under the apprehensive gaze of the silver-suspended mannikin laid out among the gold-painted leaves of the Elm tree, they share around the pipes of opium with smiles and grimaces. Long held breaths and sweet-smelling smoke. The night is truly alive and all is vividly well. The curse of poverty is thrown off for a few short hours. The sweetly-tuned night air opens up the time for a hotchpotch collection of Knaves and Gamesters to appear. For a few phantasmagoric hours Cremorne Leisure Gardens in all its surreal aspects takes on the mantle of the City of Golgotha.

‘Yer got any yellow-boys for a poor needy widow like me ‘ave yer?’

‘Leave me alone madam … Thank you kindly and scram … Cut my stick … How do they let the likes of her in I’d like to know! Somebody somewhere must have paid a shilling for her … These Gardens definitely need to be better policed at night. All the scum of your Empire gathered here to fleece and con the unwary.’ …

‘Just a poor widow down on her luck Leon. Just such a shame she’s in such a plight. Giving her some tin wouldn’t be such a bad thing now would it?’

‘Herbert ma Boy. Herbert … Charity begins at home so your elders teach. You young English Boys have to learn … There’s them that do and them that don’t. Them that produce and scrounging scum like her that won’t … Harden up. The World is an ugly place ma Boys if you succumb to all its weaselling weaknesses. Sure, delight in its pleasurable vices awhile, but don’t let us be stupid. Learn a valuable lesson from the Master while you can and wise up!’

A violinist dressed in a ragged, tatty-coat of many colours is scraping away on his poor excuse for a violin. Two strings short poor fellow, more of a fiddle really and bearing little relation to the city of Cremona …

‘Mine ears have heard the guiding light and it is dark ma Boys. Very dark.’

Much giggling and snorting.

‘Off key and definitely a few chords short of a full shilling!’

With that Leon Chandler carelessly tosses a sixpence in to the violinist’s begging hat. Insouciance and total disregard highlight this spontaneous gesture … The motley-coloured violinist scrapes on showing a gap-toothed smile to his immediate Benefactor.

‘See here, a poor gunsel stained by the times. The richest Empire on God’s sweet earth and poverty bows and scrapes at you in your own backyard!’

‘But you said to hard … ’

‘The creative process ma Boy, the creative process. The birds in the purple-splashed trees may be scared witless and unable to blot out the sound. But it is an effort of sorts. He is communicating in his poor gunsel way and is a part of this creative mix. The ebb and flow of the night life … Don’t do as I say … Do what is right for you ma Boy … Do as you feel. That is the way to develop. That is advancement … Now come on with you! All the pretty fillies at the Dance Platform will be taken, and there won’t be a spare fille do joie left for me!’

The night is alive and bubbling to the background strains of the Chinese Orchestra. Noisy and boisterous groups have invaded the sanctity of the Leisure Gardens. The more inebriated and louche are parading about and are behaving as scavenging pack animals. Emotions are running high under the gleaming full moon. Shimmering discontent lurks a mere bump and jostle beneath the sensitive surface.

‘Excuse me sir!’

‘’Ere watch where you’re fucking going mate!’

‘Pardon my Good Fellow!’

‘I’m not your Good Fellow and I never will be see! Now move your damn fucking Yankee arse outta my road before I teach you a lesson you’ll not forget!’

‘Like that is it! Bedlamites on the loose in Cremorne! … Try this for size!’ … Whack … Smack … Crack … Leon Chandler, aggressive and bristling, hits the Leader of this Cockney pack with a sharp left jab. Smacks him immediately with a stinging right cross from his adopted pugilistic pose. The superior height, reach and skill of our insulted Southern Gentleman, wins the day instantly with a powerful left uppercut to the chin that knocks the Cockney protagonist backwards. He falls down on the hard-earthed ground with a resounding crack to the back of his head …

The music rises as the circling Gang of night revellers gather. Out on the prowl looking for a scene, some heated excitement to blather into their jars of steaming purl later … Gathering now around their fallen Leader to confront and attack this phoney American Gentleman … The Campbell Boys leap in. Grab and wrestle a shouting and increasingly vitriolic Leon Chandler out and away from this cursing and advancing Gang before more damage can be inflicted …

‘C’mon! Quick! Skedaddle! Be off before the Peelers cotton on and get to us! ‘ … Amid protestations, much waving of arms and many oaths, Leon Chandler is dragged clear away from the menacing, ragamuffin band circling their dazed and fallen Leader and threatening swift retribution … The Cremorne-wise Campbell Boys hustle Leon Chandler clear towards the euphoniousness sounds of the Chinese Orchestra.

The black-painted Berlin with the gold-leafed doors, careers left into the King’s Road nearly killing two Muffin Men and sending them crashing into the muddied gutter with their freshly-prepared wares. The two tautly-pinched nags drawing this splendid Berlin carriage are charging as if they are the very steeds from out of Hell.

Raucous sounds of laughter reverberates around the two-seated comfort and splendour of the interior … Alfred Hayward’s plump face is shaking with mirth as he clutches on for jolting dear life. Tears rolling down his face. Trying hard to exclaim a comment and half-choking on the cigar smoke that is engulfing the Berliner … Sam Webb heartily slaps his thigh, whoops with delight, turns around and thumps hard on the cushioned panel behind him to make the Cab Driver lash harder … Oh the fun of it all … Burton O’Brien laughing too with his new found Business Partners. Turning his head sharply to look out of the Cab window at the disappearing sight of the poor, hapless Muffin Men sprawled in the gutter in abject confusion. He smiles grimly to himself and manages to take a quick nip out of a bottle of whisky from a secret coat side pocket without the others seeming to notice.

‘I say Beezer … ’ yells a swelling Alfred Hayward …

‘Didn’t this road use to be a private affair? I don’t seem to remember any street sellers, organ grinders or flower girls proliferating this thoroughfare?’

‘You are too blinkered Alfred. Too disingenuous and sparing with your memory.’

‘What me Beezer! … Me?!’ …

‘The substantial success of the Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company has led to untold expansion. In this regard you are well out of touch old chap. The King’s Road has been a general thoroughfare and open to all clamjamphrie of differing persuasions these thirty years past. Can’t stop the varmints creeping in. It is the appealing flare of the street Gas-lamps old chap. Opening everything up. Making everything visible. Even the Aristo Toffs and the nouveau moneyed-classes desire the interplay old chap. Damned mystery if you ask me! I would have kept it private and doubled the armed force to keep it that way! … But better not to question the blue-bloods heh … If that is what they want old chap let them have it say I! … That’s the trouble with this laissez-faire attitude doncha know, it seeps into everything in the end. Good for business but bad for everyday living if you ask me. Why, we will end up with scrounging and bleeding lallygaggers on every street corner at this rate! Right under the showering glare of your beautifully designed Gas-lamps old chap!’

‘So you are saying it’s all my fault that the poor, lamentable, hoi polloi, are succoured and encouraged into everything. I like the working folk Beezer but they definitely need to be restrained. Before you can blink an eye they will all be given the vote. Then we’ll all be in trouble won’t we Beezer! … What say you Burton? … You’re keeping very quiet dear boy!’ …

The Berlin carriage thunders to a shuddering halt across the way from the main entrance to Cremorne Leisure Gardens. The two snorting steeds are glistening with sweat under the beaming full moon. Puffballs of steam are rising from their harnessed backs.

An overweight and ponderous Alfred Hayward manages to extricate himself from the luxury of the Berliner. Stepping awkwardly onto the five rungs of mini stairway that has sprung out from the Berlin. His companions Sam Webb and Burton O’Brien step lightly down and join him in all the gaiety, mayhem, noise, madness and hilarity that is the scene outside Cremorne. A veritable human zoo of swaggering soldiers and sauntering shoppers, an array of Organ Grinders, flower girls, musicians, singers, ice-cream vendors, dancing Bears, contortionists, escape artists,

Jugglers, con men and one man Bands … All the fun of the fair is displayed and on show for the wealthy and the rich to participate and purchase. If the noise doesn’t bowl you over then the sheer power of the smells of horse dung and straw decorating the entrance to Cremorne, almost knocks Alfred Hayward sideways. He is trembling inside with excitement, fear, longing—a longing that for one unguarded second wants to own rather than simply witness—revulsion and superiority all at once … It seems the journey of a lifetime for them to just navigate this heaving, multi-coloured, raucous, teeming multitude and make it to the gates to present their complimentary tickets.

Burton O’Brien has taken charge and has taken a slightly unsteady Alfred Hayward by the elbow and is leading him through this spiteful, gesturing throng. Ignoring the acidic comments, blanking the hollow-eyed tarts jockeying in front of them for attention. The three-legged dogs howling for a supper. The scavenging mites pinching at the elbow. ’Heh Mister … Mister … Please Mister … ’ The cruelty and poverty on show here is enough to make you weep and take your head off. If you dared show any emotion or sign of weakness, this motley crowd performing a nightly ritual beneath the gas flares of the moonlit sooty skies, would bleed you dry, peck out your eyes for fun and good measure and leave you helpless before the lapping tides of the great City River … They push and fight through this crowd of picaresque mischief and pleading ragamuffins. Drinking off-duty Postmen, still resplendent in their brilliant red coats and gold and blue piping Postman’s uniform … Amid all the clamour and the squalor the properly tailored clothes and the beautifully made hats. The elegant social elite of the governing hierarchy of the day slumming for fun …

‘And where might you be going you ungodly man!’

Alfred Hayward is pulled up short before the thundering voice and outstretched arms of a Preacher. The gates to pleasure within Cremorne Leisure Gardens are blocked by this bearded Preacher with the flowing robes. He is working the cackling crowd having damned them all to hell many times under the wicked gaze of this full moon. For a moment all the eyes of this cavernous, beholdent crowd are turned on a hesitant Alfred Hayward. His face has turned a bright red under the illuminating Gas-flares and He is starting to sweat profusely … Sam Webb taking the initiative goes to thrust Alfred Hayward onward. ’Quick old chap. Move!’

‘Stop there I say!’ Thunders the Preacher.

‘In the first year of Belshazzar King of Babylon Daniel had a dream and visions of his head upon his bed. Then He wrote the dream and told the sum of the matters … Wait on I say! The smirk and greed of Mammon is upon your very face. Your guilt and avariciousness are betrayed by your every step! Your frightfully hesitant breath … ’

‘Let us through!’ Yells an indignant Sam Webb.

The watching crowd are starting to mutter darkly, they are definitely for the Preacher. A Policeman eyeing casually over by the Cremorne Gates is starting to take an interest.

‘Hold fire sirs! … Daniel spake and said, I saw in my vision by night, and behold, the four winds of the heaven strove up on the great sea … ’

The excited, intoxicated Crowd are starting to press in and jostle the three Business Companions …

‘And four great beasts came up from the sea, diverse one from another … ’

The Crowd’s attention is diverted for a moment as a dancing Black Bear lets out a death defying growl, shakes and rattles his chain in fury and temper. His black fur has caught fire. Roars of laughter sting the night air as an old Lady with a great sense of occasion and fun, throws a whole bucketful of beer over the smoking Bear. The fire is out. The Bear licks his wounds and the Crowd turns back sharply before Alfred Hayward and his Companions can break free. They too have been trapped and captivated by the antics of the Black Bear and the beer-selling old Lady …

‘The first was like a lion … ’ Thunders the unmoved Preacher. He has the moment. He know it, lives for it, and will use it to its utmost …

‘And had eagle’s wings. I behold till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man’s heart was given to it … ’

Laughter sweeps through and convulses the humour of this drink-induced throng, as a man on stilts in a white top hat crashes to the earth to the cries and jeers of a gang of small boys who are legging it, with the prized top hat clamped in one of their numbers grimy mitt …

Alfred Hayward is trapped like a lamb to the slaughter before the fire and brimstone sermon of this Preacher with the bushy beard and flowing sleeves.

‘And lo behold another beast, a second like to a bear, but not dancing do you hear!’ … And it raised up itself on one side, and it had three ribs in the mouth of it between the teeth. And they said thus unto it, ‘Arise, devour much flesh’ …

‘For god’s sake Burton old Man, get us out of here will you!’

‘An unfortunate choice of words Sam.’ Breathes Burton O’Brien into his ear. ’But I will do my level best.’

‘Listen and repent Young Man. Put all your evil deeds behind you!’ Bellows the Preacher. Eyes staring. Come into this hour. His pointing, accusing arm is aimed straight at Burton O’Brien. Fingers extended. Sleeve billowing …

‘After this I beheld, and lo another, like a leopard, which had upon the back of it four wings of a fowl. The beast had also four heads and dominion was given to it.’

Alfred Hayward is squirming before the eyes of Cremorne and the Preacher knows it. He leans down, glaring straight into Alfred Hayward’s stricken face and proclaims, ‘Every tongue shall confess to God!’

Pulling himself upright with a satisfied glint in his eye and launching afresh without barely taking a breath.

‘After this I saw in the night visions. And behold a fourth beast dreadful terrible, and strong exceedingly. And it had great iron teeth. It devoured and brake in pieces, and stamped the residue with the feet of it! And it was diverse from all the beasts that were before it, and it had ten horns … ’

Burton O’Brien attempts to break through the milling crowd and lead Alfred Hayward to the Gates. He smiles winningly at one of the Preacher’s young female helpers and folds two white five pound notes into the beckoning collection box in the siren-faced girls’ hand …

‘Not so fast Young Man. The Good Lord has not finished with you yet!’

Burton O’Brien prods and pushes at Alfred Hayward but it is no good. He is transfixed. Caught in some moment of guilt and blind remorse before this hectoring Moses beneath the Gates of Cremorne.

The Preacher thunders on afresh. Eyes gleaming in God’s work.

‘I considered the horns, and behold, there come up among them another little horn, before whom there were three of the first horns plucked up by the roots … ’

‘Let us through my good man … Let us through I say!’ … Sam Webb and Burton O’Brien grab Alfred Hayward by each arm and are shoving against the hostile crowd.

‘Hold there I say.’ Screams the Preacher.. ‘And behold, in this horn were eyes like the eyes of Man and a mouth speaking great things!’ …

Burton O’Brien holds his arm up high before the wrath and countenance of this fearsome Preacher. Takes advantage of a moments pause for breath and utters clearly in his mellifluous Dublin brogue.

‘I beheld till the thrones were cast down and the Ancient of days did sit, whose garment was white as snow, and the hair of his head like the pure wool. His throne was like the fiery flame, and His wheels as burning fire’ …

The Preacher’s flow is halted. The spell of this moment is broken. The circling crowd part as the Red Sea. Alfred Hayward is pushed onward towards the welcoming Gates by his Companions. The Preacher is left casting around for fresh inspiration.

A breathless Alfred Hayward is brought back to his senses. Amid gasps he splutters … ‘Well done Burton, well done dear Boy … Phew! … I thought He would never let go of us … No end to your talents dear Boy … no end … How did you do it dear Boy?’

‘Daniel Chapter Seven, Verse Nine. Works every time!’ … …

‘At last we have made it Old Chap. At last! … Those scenes and that rowdy Crowd outside the Gates made Dickens’s seem positively luxurious Beezer! Positively luxurious.’

‘Where to now Old Chap?’

‘Burton dear Boy. Burton to the rescue everytime. It is a very good job we have you with us looking out for our welfare. We would be in a right pickle without you, wouldn’t we Beezer!’

Alfred Hayward is re-energized and confident, back in command of his own destiny after the strange and unseemly affair with that mad, demonic Preacher … now giving Sam Webb a huge knowing wink.

’We need to head north by north-east and enter the Promenade Versailles I believe.’

‘You have been here many times before Burton dear Boy. I noticed all the Staff at the Gates seemed to know you. Don’t look so abashed dear Boy. Every young man of substance and future promise needs to sow some wild oats once in a while. Get sort of, well, shall we say, better acquainted with other parts of the world. The dregs and vices of human nature can reveal a lot dear Boy. Very helpful in business. Improves ones vital judgments and salient acquisitions no end.’

The three erstwhile Business Companions turn into the Promenade Versailles, a living, breathing Cremorne replica of the original Parisian counterpart … Maybe the fashions are not quite so lavish. Maybe the chatter is less well refined. Maybe the sights and smells are not so intoxicating. But if you should half-close your eyes for a moment you could almost believe … …

Alfred Hayward is beaming with confidence now. Hands casually placed in pockets and strolling under the Gas-lamp, illuminated trees, the full moon just hanging in the gas-lit sky up above.

‘Later Beezer old man, we will head to Edward Browne’s secret hideaway office. But do you know what I heard?’

Blank exchanged glances as they doff their top hats to a bevy of smiling young Ladies passing by them. Grins accompany the smatter of giggles from behind their retreating backs …

‘Well I heard say that on the last official visit, you know, the one where Her Majesty took them all over to Osborne House on the Isle of Wight. Well, I heard say, hush-hush dontcha know, that clever fellow Edward Browne tried to engineer an official visit from the Emperor himself. Yes! The Emperor with the Empress Eugénie and the young Prince Imperial Louis. They even had that minister fellow … What’s his name? You know the chap I mean. Day something … Day … ’

‘Morny Old Chap.’

‘That is the one Sam. Morny. Very powerful fellow … Well, I heard tell that Edward Browne sent an emissary to Miss Howard in France … .herself! Silly notion if you ask me. She’s been long out of favour since the Empress Eugénie arrived on the scene … Don’t look so bemused Burton dear Boy, it pays to keep up with the Royal gossip. Brokers of power dontcha know … Well, when that plan failed miserably … They tell me that Harriet Howard is dying Beezer old Chap. Not long for this world. Great shame! A real great shame! A very wondrous Beauty in her day Burton dear Boy. A truly sparkling Beauty … where was I? … ’

‘Edward Browne’s proposed second attempt?’

‘Thank you Beezer. Ever helpful … Good evening Ladies … yes, yes, a very nice night for it if I might say so … And to you dear Ladies and to you … Yes, Mister Browne. Why, He even had the goddamn temerity to contact the young Prince himself so he did! Lawks He’s a bold one … Turning a bit chilly dontcha thinks Boys. Should have brought my cape … Well, apparently the good Lady herself does not know about the Prince being a regular habitué of Cremorne. I mean, she would not approve anyway, but since the untimely death of his dear father, bless him, last year, Her Majesty would not countenance any such frivolity and excess no matter how innocent. And between ourselves my Boys, hushed tones you understand, apparently not that very innocent at all! In fact quite the reverse so I hear tell … Anyway, it was a complete failure. Edward Browne got mildly rebuked for his troubles … You can just imagine the scene can’t you. Cremorne closed off to the General Public for a whole day as the great Queen herself, escorted by young Bertie stood with the Grand Emperor Napoleon, Empress Eugénie, and the young Prince Imperial. Having them joined by Lord Palmerston and that Day … .Morny fellow as well. Edward Browne pays to have that photographic fellow, what’s his name Beezer? Sounds like Disraeli god help us so it does!’

‘Disderi I believe you mean!’

‘That’s the one Beezer. That’s the man … You are a mine of information Beezer and so you are. That is what makes you so invaluable Beezer … Well, you can just picture it can’t you. Her Majesty and the Royal Family with the Emperor and the Empress watched over by the ministers, all photographed by this French Disraeli fellow … And just as they are waiting the interminable five minutes holding the pose … some smirking strumpet from behind a painted tree giggles and calls out Bertie’s name and all hell breaks loose right in front of the Grand Emperor himself! … Quite enough to get Edward Browne hanged if you ask me. Or at the very least shipped off to goddamn Australia after a leniency plea from young Bertie … Stop laughing Boys it would not be that funny. Her Majesty would have Cremorne closed down at the very least, and we would lose the highly lucrative contract for all the Gas. Disastrous!’ … …

‘Well ladies does it take your fancy?’

‘My it is so very grand. Can we walk down the Promenade Versailles Corporal Bob? … I do so want to!’

‘Stroll my dear. Stroll. Of course! … Every head of every self-respecting Gentleman with an ounce of red-blood in him will be turned in your direction. Their heads will spin in wonderment. Stare with sheer amazement at your god-given poise and beauty if you will pardon the expression my dears.’

Hettie Nicholson does not need any second invitation. With a knowing wink and a sharp nod in Emma’s direction, she takes Corporal Bates by the left arm and motions for Emma to do the same with his scarlet-braided right arm … They set off in casual splendour before the twinkling coloured gas-lamps lighting the Promenade trees. The girls can hardly contain their ecstasy and delight, and are foxing their way along the Promenade Versailles much to Corporal Bob Bates’ genial amusement.

‘Oh I do so want to see the Theatre and the Stalk Fountain and the Crystal Grotto … The crowds! … You can hardly move can you … Just you wait till we tell them about this back at Burgoyne and Sons tomorrow. All the girls will be as envious as hell!’

‘I bet Mister Purvis won’t approve though!’

‘Sssh Hettie! Don’t spoil the moment! We can deal with him in the morning. Let’s just enjoy this time tonight while we can. It makes all the week’s work worthwhile doesn’t it? … I mean, just to breathe in this air makes you giddy doesn’t it! All the Ladies in their wondrous dresses … My it puts us to shame at Burgoynes so it does … Don’t you look so superior and uppity Hettie Nicholson! I don’t care what these people think of me. I am so happy right now that it’s all worth it. We don’t have to put on false airs and graces. It’s just good to be who we are … Isn’t that right Corporal Bob?’ …

‘Of course my dear. Of course. You are absolutely right. No Lady here this minute strolling through these gas-lit trees, among this thronging crowd in the heart of civilisation, is more captivating or eye-catching than you my dears!’

‘You swallowed some eastern type of Blarney Stone out in India Corporal Bob! Your words could turn a young girl’s head. Melt a girl’s heart and charm the bleedin' birds right out them trees so they could!’

‘You certainly have an individual way with words my dear.’

‘Hettie shut it! Don’t spoil it! Especially not as Corporal Bob has been kind enough … ’

‘Good evening Ladies … Sir.’ With a flourish, a dark haired young man with a pencil-thin moustache, halts their progress along the Promenade Versailles. Takes off his black top hat and bows very deeply before the young Ladies and the slightly ill at ease Corporal.

‘And you are Sir?’

‘Why … ’ The young man glances keenly at the soldier’s uniform … ‘I am the Right Honorable Guy Cunningham-Greville at your service ladies … Corporal.’ …

Emma is blushing beetroot red under the gleaming gas-lamps. Hettie is giggling in a provocative way almost as if to pounce on this suave young dandy.

‘Will you let us pass Sir!’

‘Of course Corporal. Of course. But I say, you must be my guests I insist. You are heading for the Dancing Platform I presume?’

‘Eventually!’ Booms Corporal Bates.

The girls are loosening their grip on his arms. The soldiers of Fortune and Chance are bearing down on him. He is uncomfortable in this moment.

‘Well I really do insist … ’ Charms the dashing young Guy Cunningham-Greville … ‘I already have a table reserved in a Supper-Box by the Pagoda Platform. And I demand that you be my very special guests this evening. Everything catered for you understand. Champagne and oysters by the bucket load and no expense spared … What say you?’

‘We accept.’ Snaps Hettie immediately before Corporal Bob can even get his mouth open. He is trapped now like some scarlet-braided goldfish gawping for air under the effervescent sizzle of coloured gas-light. Caught amid a throng of Toffs and Gentryfolk, and can only acquiesce as the Girls are already in thrall to the charms and honeyed words of handsome young Guy.

The Right Honorable Guy Cunningham-Greville leads the way with a dash. Cutting a swathe through the motley, thronging crowd gadding along the Promenade Versailles. A flushed and excited Emma and Hettie tucked in close attendance behind, with a reluctant Corporal Bob bringing up the rear … In no time under the beaming rays of this full August moon, they have reached the end of this gloriously tree-lined Promenade and can see the spectacular outline of the Chinese Pagoda Bandstand beckoning. Unable to contain herself Hettie lets out a whoop of delight and the fitful group hasten rapidly from the silver tree-lined surrounds and skirt across the back edge of the Dance Platform.

The Dance Platform is wondrous to behold and draws gasps of surprise out of Emma and Hettie. The Pagoda shimmers as a central ornament in a fairy wonderland. The gleaming Pagoda is three-tiered and devilishly fretted. A marvellous design with upturned eaves and bracketed balconies all painted white. It portrays the thrill of the Orient right here, now, at the heart of the Empire. Everywhere hang globular ground-glass gas-lamps. Shining out from the Pagoda, dazzling in the silver-coated leafed trees and gleaming from the surrounding Supper-Boxes. Beautifully dressed and coiffured Ladies and Gentlemen dance gaily around the platform under the glowing gas-lamps. Right at the centre is the Pagoda with the Chinese Orchestra playing from the second tier. The Conductor, complete with silver baton, is beavering away in full evening dress and the polka-inspired music is reverberating across the silver-hued trees.

The Dance Platform itself is enclosed by elaborate wrought-iron railings and festooned candelabra around the perimeter of the dancing area.

The Chinese Orchestra plays its inspired melodies in this fairy grotto wonderland. Transposed from the East to the delight of these City dwelling inhabitants. At the base of the Pagoda are the insider audience lounging at the bar quaffing wine, spirits and beer from inside the Pagoda, and watching the couples dance. These finely-tailored men of Cremorne. This group of Metropolitan swells and loafers who have come to symbolise the manners and morals of night-time Cremorne. They casually lounge across the Chinese columns, idly chatting and smoking and watching the changing forms and attractions of the revolving Dancers.

The noise and laughter from the crowded tables, the adoring onlookers milling around the edges, the painted supper-boxes overseeing the whole event. Everything is sparkling in the broken-rayed reflections from the richly cut ground-glass drops. Transforming the whole dance area, Boxes, tables and orchestra into a magical crystal platform.

This is the sight that greets Emma. No wonder she is starstruck. She heard tell stories and friends had tried to paint these pictures with words but nothing had quite prepared her for these breathtaking, beautiful sights. Another place, truly another land. She has to keep pinching herself that this is real but she has no time to ponder. Young Guy has taken her hand, Hettie is pushing her forward. Corporal Bob is lost from mind and they are being led around the wrought-iron perimeter of the Dance Platform, and up some rickety wooden stairs to find themselves standing in a supper-box overlooking the whole scene with the best view in the Gardens … Surely nothing can better this! The night is alive with magic. The moon is plying a sweet face and the Orchestra is bewitching. Everybody looks and seems so attractive, handsome and beautiful. The might of the world have gathered here this night and wondrous things are going to occur … …

‘Sit down my dears. Take a pew and admire the view … Look out Corporal Bob!’ … Too late. Poor Bob Bates has walked straight into a hanging glass gas-lamp and bruised his forehead. A sign of the times, these young, attractive Girls barely show any concern so taken are they with the glorious panoramic view of nightlife spread out before them.

Guy tinkles a little grey bell and a waiter appears at once complete with tray containing champagne bottles and glasses. At his elbow is a girl in a blue bonnet with wisps of blonde hair straggling over her eyes. She is no older than Emma or Hettie and is carrying a large plate of succulently presented oysters. Without further ado and at the urgent bidding of a rakish Guy, the Girls tuck in with squeals of delight. Their time has come and they are certainly going to enjoy it come what may.

More bottles of champagne have arrived and a fresh plate of oysters. The crystal glint of the Chinese Pagoda has definitely taken on a hazy, shimmering effect after four glasses of ridiculously expensive champagne.

‘The bubbles keep getting up my nose … do you fancy a dance?’

‘What wiv me!’

‘Why not. You can dance can’t you!’

‘But we are both girls.’ …

‘So you’ve noticed then’ … giggles … .

‘We could move that spare table out of the way … Why is it laid out like that Guy? … You expecting more company Guy love? … ’

Before He can answer Emma Martin rams her nose and lips tight up against Hettie's left ear.

‘Now listen good Hettie Nicholson. Don’t you go and spoil it just ‘cos you’ve had a glass or four of bubbly. You can’t go calling Guy love I won’t ‘ave it!’

Hettie’s face gleams with mischief.

‘Quite the little madam aren’t we … ’

‘Now now Ladies please … This spare table is reserved for some Gentlemen who will be joining us shortly.’

‘Like you love are they?’

Emma kicks Hettie sharply but she just ignores it.

‘No not really. One is a friend and business acquaintance of mine and the other two are business colleagues of his. They should be here at any moment.’

Guy sits down next to Emma.

‘Where’s Corporal Bob our Chocolate Soldier then?’

‘I don’t rightly know Emma. I think he’s had enough of us and joined the raucous company in the box next door.’

Guy starts to finger Emma’s exposed wrist.

‘I love it that your arms are so glabrous.’

‘Pardon?’ … Emma suddenly looks worried …

‘What is glabrous when it’s at home then Guy love?’

‘Lovely white skin without the hint of thick hairs.’

‘What you thinking of then … .burp … Them bearded ladies at the Fair … burp … .You think we’re like them ‘cos we’re working girls!’

‘No, no, no. I was just admiring Emma’s silken-like arms … glabrescent, glabrescent. A Gentleman can look and express admiration can’t he!’

‘As long as that is all you want to express Guy love!’ laughs Hettie …

‘My arms are hairy which leaves me glabbed out I guess … Still you never know Guy love. Our Emma’s a clever little bitch. Why, I bet she probably shaved her wrists and arms with her father’s cutthroat razor before she ever got to the shop this morning!’

‘Shut it will you! … I said not to spoil it didn’t I! As if I’d shave my wrists and arms you stupid cow!’

‘Now now Ladies please. Not on my account … more champagne?’

A smiling, winsome Guy Cunningham-Greville tinkles the little grey bell for more immediate service … …

‘What’s going on? … What’s going on!’

Hettie rises up unsteadily from her chair and goes and leans over the balcony edge of the supper-box. She’s stretching her head out as far as she can. Emma agitated and getting upset is calling out to her from behind. Guy Cunningham-Greville is nowhere to be seen.

Aaargh … shrieks … thump … screams and yells and a commotion sounding from the supper-box on the left.

A white-faced and visibly shaken Hettie turns around and looks coolly at Emma.

‘Well that has truly gone and put the tin lid on it and no mistake!’

‘What! What Het?’ … Tell me please!’

‘The figure that I just saw falling to earth was our Corporal Bob Bates!’

Emma Martin jumps up and rushes over to the edge of the Supper-Box and leans over as far as she can without toppling out herself.

A crowd has quickly gathered. Some Dancers have stopped and have made their way over to the perimeter of the Dance Platform to see what all the fuss is about. A Policeman’s whistle pierces the night air and competes with the melodic strains of the orchestra. Tables and chairs have been hastily pushed back. An invisible hand indicates to the orchestra to keep playing. Backs turn around on the Chinese Pagoda Bandstand and return to the charms and attractions on display this atmospheric evening.

Corporal Bob Bates, late of Her Majesties’ Royal Engineers, has barely caused a stir. An unlucky black cat. The heads of bobbing voyeurs can be seen shaking in utter disbelief and quickly enjoining gilded observations in charming conversations. Life is cheap. Even in the heart of the Empire. One must make the most of every given social opportunity.

‘Oh Corporal Bob!’ …

A tear-stained Emma Martin is dabbling at her red eyes with a large white-lace handkerchief.

‘Oh Chocolate Bob … We’ve gone and lost our Chocolate Soldier and it was our fault Hettie Nicholson! … Oh Chocolate Bob!’

‘Don’t be so bloody daft! How are we to blame? We didn’t ask him to chat us up did we? He offered to escort us inside these Gardens didn’t he! We are not guilty. We didn’t ask him to go next door into that other Box and cause a row did we?’

‘Oh Chocolate Bob … We deserted him Hettie!’

‘That’s your problem Emma Martin, you are always looking to shoulder the blame. You are too soft if you ask me … We are only young girls, we can’t be expected to look after an old grizzled soldier like Corporal Bob. I mean, Christ Emma, he was old enough to have been your father and some. Excuse my french, but Christ, he was nearly old enough to have been my bloody Grandad … Jesus!’

‘You don’t have to go a-blaspheming to make your point.’ …

Emma has pulled herself up straight and is regaining a little of her early evening poise.

‘We have lost our lovely Chocolate Soldier and it has ruined our evening, ruined the year. I want to go home right now.’

‘Go home … Who is going home?’

Guy stands shyly smiling in the curtained awning of the Supper-Box entrance.

‘Ladies, ladies, I’m sorry about this awful disturbance. Truly terrible.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not of this world any more I’m afraid Emma my dear, passed away to a better place. Sit you down I will order you both a large cup of strong coffee.’

Guy Cunningham-Greville shakes the little grey bell forcibly and awaits service …

‘Do you know what happened Guy love?’

‘Well from what I can ascertain, He must have drifted away from us and attached himself to the noisy group in the supper-box next door. They say he started drinking heavily and became rather the worse for wear I’m afraid. He became quite belligerent when He was asked to leave and grabbed at one of the women … Well a scuffle broke out, all hell let loose if you ask me, all shouting and screaming remember. Our poor Corporal friend took a hard punch, put his arm out across the balcony of the supper-box to support himself. Tumbled over the edge and I’m afraid to say broke his neck. The only good thing about it from his point of view poor chap was that death must have been instantaneous.’

‘Oh Chocolate Bob!’

‘And do the Peelers believe that right good concoction Guy love?’

‘Well … Yes … very influential people dontcha know … Anyway, you must admit that the Corporal had turned quite strange. I mean, He was starting to really put them away when He was with us. Eyeing every Lady in sight.’ …

‘Oh Chocolate Bob. What have we done!’

‘There, there,’ … Hettie goes to comfort her friend Emma who is obviously still distressed, while Guy orders coffee from the blue-bonneted girl with the blonde wisps of straggly hair.

Suddenly the milling crowd around Corporal Bob’s body below has thinned out. Two poorly dressed men under the watchful gaze of an attending Police Sergeant are carrying away the corpse of Corporal Bob.

The Dancers on the Pagoda Platform are performing a quadrille.

A stamping and a shuffling of feet. Coughs, excuse me’s and movements on the rickety wooden stairs of the Supper-Box.

Three suited, bewhiskered and top-hatted Gentlemen appear in the Box with much effort and bumping of shoulders and stamping of feet. Greetings are exchanged.

Guy Cunningham-Greville vigorously shakes the little grey bell and spins on his heels around to the front of the Box.

‘Ladies … Please allow me to introduce to you three very fine, upstanding Gentlemen. Alfred Hayward, Sam Webb and Burton O’ Brien himself.’

‘Oh Chocolate Bob.’ … …

The milling crowds of Cremorne are used to and expectant of any sight and never stare unduly. If Alexander the Great himself were to appear careering along the Promenade Versailles in a golden chariot drawn by four white horses with the Prime Minister Henry Palmerston stood beside him, they would wave and cheer and then carry on their merry way … Therefore, a blind old man accompanied by a poorly-clad lad with a large ill-fed black dog sporting a white dog-collar of the clergy, draws barely a glance. If they do happen to stare, then the chirpy whippersnapper of a young lad thrusts a pamphlet of a religious persuasion into their ungrateful hands, and they are unceremoniously relieved of a penny before they can move on their way. If resistance should settle on the air, then the ill-fed dog instantly barks and a whiff of religious remorse and a conjured threat of menace enter the proceedings.

One such unfortunate strolling gentleman in a large silk top-hat protests too much and is shouted at by the old blind man …

‘You refuse a bleedin’ penny for God’s work and spend your bleedin’ ill-gotten gains on harlots and opium!’ A full red-flushed face mirrors the abashed gentleman’s black silken topper. A hastily produced penny is only received with a grunt and a curse and another proffered mitt. The bloody dog-collared mutt is barking ferociously. Heads are turning. People are beginning to stare at the disturbance. A sixpence is feverishly parted with and the embarrassed silk-hatted Gentleman hastens on his way before the accusing eyes of a glancing crowd.

Blind Tom, young Jack and a snarling Nelson, make their way down the Promenade Versailles gathering pennies as they go. Heading past the Theatre entrance and making their way towards the Stalk Fountain.

‘Whatcha think lad? … Can you smell and feel these rich and prosperous folk … Can’t you see the yellow-boys just a-jangling in their well tailored pockets … What’s a penny to them Jack lad. Just a simple bleedin’ penny to stave off their guilty conscience. Learn a lesson Lad, not that you seem to need any advice on the ways of the world from me. Front them up and most of them will squirm like Jack Rabbits! Ha … That’s you Boy … Jack Rabbit, Jack Rabbit!’ …

‘Shut it old man you’re a pain the arse. Remember Old Man you ain’t funny. I’m your eyes and ears in this crowd so you had better look lively and stick by me if you don’t want to get lost … I know I know you’ve got the blessed nose, ears and tongue of four good pairs of eyes, but I know Old Man see, all these people, the noise, that right good music and all these smells. They confuse you! Too much for an old sensitive soul like you Blind Tom.’ … Young Jack is careful to keep his distance from Tom’s gnarled hands …

‘Now come on Old Man you can say all you like about these rich folk weighed down with yellow-boys, but I like all these pennies we be a-collecting … God’s work, God’s work … Take a penny pamphlet lady, read the words of the Lord and repent before the Almighty!’ …

Nelson has caught on to the tone of the turned trick. Scents the bogus scam and is playing his part. As the group shuffle along, his white dog-collar and the bleached out red eye sockets of the blind Old Man add an effective touch … …

Turning left off the Promenade Versailles and heading across the lush, cultivated grass that is Cremorne towards the welcoming Stalk Fountain.

The full moon is hanging in the sky as if suspended on invisible strings. This moon is so large and full and luscious, you could almost reach out and touch it. The Gas-lights raging in the painted trees only serve to increase its luminosity.

‘My, my, what a sight for sore eyes and no mistake … Whatch you be upto then Blind Tom? Fresh helpers I see, and a right sorry crew and all they look! … What’s your name, lad?’ …

‘Jack Mister and I ain’t sorry see!’

‘Sparky with it. Good. Old Tom here needs all the sparks he can get! … Move aside will you. Let the old blind Man and his crew through … That’s good people. You will all be served soon I promise. Now just be patient and wait your turn. This ain’t no feeding frenzy. We’re not feeding the survivors from the Black Hole of Calcutta here Lady! … That’s it … Now sit yer down Blind Tom and tell me what’s what.’ …

‘The Preacher sent us Ted lad … We be on a mission see with these pamphlets. Spreading the good word for the Preacher and Sister Amelia. He said you was to feed and water us … I could kill a jar Ted lad … By the way, Rosie sends her regards.’ …

‘Here yer go then. Get that down yer and wet yer whistle.’ … Ted Hurley leans his large beefy arms across the counter of the stall and magically produces two jars of freshly poured porter. His mischievous eyes are a-glint reflecting in the glow of the gas-lamps. His muttonchop side-burns add a slightly threatening air to his appearance. A mumbling thirsty and hungry crowd are hovering around the stall waiting to be served. Pushing and shoving and starting to argue. A plump young girl in a low-cut orange cotton blouse displaying the fruits of the earth and all god intended her for, is doing her best to service this impatient cluster … Ted Hurley hands over another two jars of porter to Blind Tom and Jack. Whispers in Blind Tom’s ear and they start to make their way towards the rear of the stall to a small tent. Ted Hurley seems oblivious to the spill of hungry, thrusting people. Just pleased to be free of the pushing and shoving, the dropped pennies, spilt beer and numerous repeated questions … Nelson is having a field day under the gas-lit trees, feeding on all the littered scraps of meat and bread.

‘Now I suppose I’ve got to feed the two of you as well. I trust the Preacher is gonna cough up for this. A good man the Preacher, bless ‘im … ’

Ted spits out of the tent narrowly missing two wooden kegs of beer …

‘Don’t always see the colour of his money though … Now, the old lady’s been a-slaving over a hot stove all day. You’ve both got a choice me lads. Now, you can have mutton with boiled cabbage, carrots and spuds or you can have steaming hot mutton with cabbage, boiled carrots and potatoes. While you are making up your mind Blind Tom, I will go and get you another jar of porter. You drank those last two like a pilgrim who had been in the desert for forty days and forty nights! Help yourself to some baccy if you want some Jack lad. Don’t be shy! We don’t hold with no smoking boxes ‘round here see! … When I return I want all your news Blind Tom. Every last morsel. You never know in this game when hearsay and gossip will come in handy!’ … …

Blind Tom’s nose quivers over the smell of a plate of food perched on an empty upturned keg of beer placed between his knees. Young Jack doesn’t need no second invitation and is already tucking into his plate of food with his bare hands. Blowing hard on his fingers from the burn inflicted by the hot potato and gulping down another mouthful of porter.

‘What is that Girl of yours called Ted lad? I like the smell and feel of her.’

‘You keep your lecherous blind eyes off her Old Man! … Honey that be her name. Sweet by nature and sweet to look at.’

‘Honey!’ … Hoists in Jack spitting out a mouthful of hot mutton.

‘I ain’t never heard of no girl called Honey before.’

‘The old lady grew as big as one of them there balloons when she was carrying her. All the time she was on at me to get her more honey and molasses. Couldn’t leave the stuff alone. I just couldn’t get enough of them for her. Well, when the Baby was born we just had to call her Honey. Seemed right see.’

‘Jed Richards is now the landlord of the Bricklayers Arms.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know Old Man.’

‘The Spider, Wilf the Voice Martin and Big Fish are working a con here tonight.’

‘Now that’s more like it Blind Tom … I caught a glimpse of Dave Young earlier in the day. He looked shifty like and barely said hello, so I kind of guessed that some of the lads were coming over. Keeping their heads down till the night-time creeps on … Has Charring Cross Rosie still got that thieving bloody dog … whatshisname?’

‘Kipper.’

‘That’s the mutt. Smells like one too … God he must have been with her these ten years past.’

‘Did yer hear tell about the gas explosion over at Nine Elms then?’

‘Hear tell Tom! Hear tell! It nearly ripped the roof right off the house and so it did! Me exhausted and all. The old lady only needs a few gins inside her these days and she’s at me all night long. All fingers and farts. I’d just nodded off, don’t rightly know what the time was but late. When Bang! An explosion like a thunderclap rent the room and we thought the Almighty had declared Judgment Day on our wicked and sinful ways! The walls shook and the old lady flopped out of bed onto the floor like a whale beaching up on Chelsea Reach. Boy did she get a surprise!’

‘You don’t seem like no religious man to me!’ Spits out Jack between mouthfuls …

‘What’s it to you Boy. Remember, as you go through life some and learn the con. Cover all the angles. Who knows who is right or wrong. We can only guess Lad. You’ve got to be smart … Now finish your grub up. I’ve got to get back and help Honey before them folks knock over the bleedin’ stall. They’re our regular folk. Not many Toffs or Swells make it to my stall. Just a few of them on the look out for a Chinese dragon who’ve been given the word. Don’t look so surprised Lad. Got to make a living … But the regular folk, well, I dunno, something strange, something weird in the air tonight. It’s a bit like animals in herds when they are excited and jittery all at once. Just a-waiting for it to happen. Still that’s it heh Blind Tom! All the fun of Cremorne. Where would we be without it! … This be your first time here right lads. Well get prepared, beware, this night is still very young and many strange things can happen yet before the coming of the Dawn.’ … …

‘What’s all that noise about Lad? Sounds like the battle of Waterloo is starting all over again … Tell me Lad. Tell me! Don’t leave me here in the dark Jack Lad … What’s going on! … Tell me damn you!’

‘Keep yer shirt on Tom. All hell is breaking loose. A band of men are attacking the stall. Pushing at it. It’s rocking. It’s nearly toppling over.’

‘Go on … go on.’

‘Can you hear that? The old lady, Ted’s missus, is going mad. Really getting struck in to them. She’s hitting one of the men over the head with a ladle or something … A big crowd has gathered around. They’re screaming out loud. Can you hear it? Gee … The front of the stall has collapsed. Ted Hurley is wielding a sword. It’s one of them pirate like blades whatdoyer call them?’

‘Cutlass lad. Cutlass. Go on, go on.’

‘Blimey … I think Ted’s gone and cut one of the men’s hands off! They’re going crazy. Shit! One of the men has got a hold of Honey and is ripping her orange blouse. They’ve popped out Tom! … Gee!’

‘Concentrate Jack Lad … Concentrate … What is that strange sound close to hand?’

‘That’s Nelson Tom. He’s hiding behind one of the kegs of beer just outside the tent … Two young Gentlemen are coming to Honey’s rescue. Ted and the old lady, sorry I mean his wife, have really got their hands full. Three men in caps, one with a thick ginger beard, are really laying in to the two young Gents. They seem unsteady on their feet Tom … They don’t stand a chance … One of them started brandishing a pistol and the fellow with the ginger beard just knocked it straight out of his hand … They’re both down. Honey’s belting one of the men good and proper. As she’s hitting him they’re wobbling up and down like the tides heaving in and out. It’s a sight for sore eyes Tom I can tell you! The crowd are enjoying it. They’re pressing closer. The front of the stall has totally collapsed and the old Lady, Ted’s missus, is chasing two of them off with what looks like a rolling pin job … The two Gents are both down and out and really taking a good kicking Tom. The fellow with the ginger beard is really giving it some. Funny Tom.’ …

‘What lad, what? Don’t stop!’

‘Honey is trying to beat them off … and yes … she’s succeeding! She’s struck one in the eye and he’s retreating. Ted’s sword is flashing in the light of the moon Tom. He’s slashed one of the Bands faces right good and proper. Blood spurting everywhere. Can you hear the crowd cheering Tom?’

‘Yes Lad. Yes. What’s that barking Lad? Whose dog’s that?’

‘You won’t believe this Old Man. Nelson has charged in and is gamely trying to defend Honey, but she don’t need no help. She can really fight like her ma. She must have fed Nelson I’ll wager … ’

‘Good Lad. Good! I didn’t think Nelson would pass up the chance of a good fight! Go on Lad. Go on. Don’t stop!’

‘It’s nearly all over now Tom. The stall has collapsed. Like it has dropped onto its knees as if it were a man and all if you get my drift. The first Band of men have been seen off but are now in another fight with a second gang. They’re battling it out in the water around the Stalk Fountain … Can you hear the police whistles Tom?’

‘Do yer think ‘cos I’m blind that I’m bleedin’ deaf as well! Go on lad! Go … ’

‘Well, some Peelers have appeared. Too late as usual. Where’s a Peeler when you want one!’

‘Stop being a sharp-arse Lad! Paint the bleedin’ picture!’

‘The bloke with the ginger beard has stolen something from out of one of the Gents’ pockets as He’s laid out on the ground. He’s scarpering now with Honey yelling after him. They’re still flopping about Tom, the yelling and cheering crowd can’t get enough of it! Ted’s just carved someone else’s face and they’re running off screaming. Can you hear that bloodcurdling scream Tom … Sorry, I forgot you ain’t mutton. I know, I know … One Peeler has grabbed Ted Hurley’s arm and is forcing him to put the cutlass down … Good! The old Lady is giving it what for. The young Peeler looks dead scared of her … It’s all over now Tom. The old Lady, Missus Ted, is putting a shawl around Honey’s shoulders and covering them up. Can you hear the crowd booing Old Man? Nelson is rubbing at Honey’s legs lucky blighter. Ted has calmed down and is talking to a couple of young Peelers and examining the wreckage of his stall. A few blokes left from the two Gangs are still fighting in the waters of the Stalk Fountain. The rest have been chased off by the other peelers.’ … …

‘Well Lads did yer catch any of that! … Sorry Tom I should ‘ave said the Lad … Have another jar of porter Tom and be of good cheer. I think we could all do with one after that! What say you lad?’

‘I thought the Old Lady, sorry your missus, and Honey were a bit special.’

‘Them Peelers gonna arrest you and take you down Bow Street then Ted lad! … What did they say?’

‘They didn’t rightly say nothing. What could they ‘ave got me on? All they have is a bleedin’ hairy hand. Nobody will speak out against me. They all be regulars like I said. Anyway Tom, cheers … It is an Englishman’s right to defend his Family and possessions ain’t it!’

‘Why the attack Ted Lad? … Do you much damage? … Cost you a lot? … What yer do now then?’ …

‘Hold hard Blind Tom! You be a-rattling questions at me like I be a Russian spy … I’ll take the last first if I may … Help yourself to some baccy Lad you seem to like the stuff … We wasn’t going to stay open much past nine o’clock anyhow. Now we make the real money Lads. That Paris Aeronaut Lady is due in so they tell me at ten o’clock tonight. Though I don’t suppose it’s that easy to regulate one of them there balloons and the flying Bull she’s a-coming … ’

‘A flying Bull!’

‘That’s what I heard tell Jack Lad. All the way from the Orient. Many magical animals there so I hear tell. Anyway, she’s due to land between the Firework Temple and the American Bowling Saloon. Me and the old Lady will pitch the tent around the edge of the lawn and set up.’

‘Set up what Ted Lad?’

‘I thought you knew Blind Tom. The Old Lady does the cards. She reads the gypsy pack. Madame Isis in a black shawl and wig at sixpence a throw.’

‘Madame Isis!’

‘Is there some sort of echoing voice in this tent? You a fugitive from the Penny Gaffs or what Lad! … The Old Lady has been Madame Isis for years. She’s got the gift you see. Blessed with the curse of seeing the future. Sixpence a reading. She takes more in an hour than the stall takes in a night. We just keep the stall going as a front for the regulars. Useful hands for other business see … We’ve been attacked before. It last happened a few months back. A band of drunken ruffians charged the stall. That’s why I keep Captain Morgan handy just in case … ’

‘Captain Morgan?’

‘There goes that bleedin’ echo again … It’s all good for business. Folk talk about something like that for weeks. The Old Lady and Honey can handle themselves and anyway, it was all just a ruse to rob the two Gents … Did the Lad tell you that Tom?’

‘He tried. He tried.’

‘Well, I’m glad someone did! Yer see, it’s econopics Blind Tom. Econopics. A farthing a profit on a plate of mutton, boiled cabbage, carrots and spuds. The same again on a jar of porter. Sixpence for having your fortune read in the cards by Madame Isis. Them two right Gents spent two whole guineas wid me of which nearly half was a profit … Econopics see. Econopics … ’

‘But you can’t get no guineas anymore.’

‘Figure of speech Blind Tom. Figure of speech. Two Gents see. Guineas.’

‘But why?’

‘Well the echoes gone but the questions get stupider. And I thought you had a sharp shaver here Blind Tom! … Smoke Lad, smoke. Chinese Dragons see. They were a-carrying. The frontal attack on the stall was just a feint to get to the two Gents and relieve them of their newly purchased pleasure … The ground has eyes, tents have ears, Cremorne is full of gangs hiding out in the trees. Just a-waiting for the whispered word see … God those two Gents are a sorry mess. It would stretch the Good Lady Florence and all her resources to clean them up. They won’t be attending any fancy parties in the near future.’

‘And Honey?’

‘Soon to be Lady Fortunata the great Spanish palmist herself … ’

‘Lady Fortunata?’

‘Why bless my soul there goes that bleedin’ echo again. I could make a merry penny out of it if I could bottle it … Echo in a bottle! Get your original repeat right here! … Honey is learning to read palms Jack Lad. Yer see, I ain’t one meself, but the womenfolk in the family, well, they have the gift see. Honey’s got it all right. She just has to practice that’s all.’

‘Well we had better be off then Ted Lad. I promised the Preacher that we would meet him by the large Lawns. He said to make sure and be there in plenty of time before the balloonist woman arrives. That Madame Europe lady!’ …

‘Europa Blind Tom. Europa … Before yer go wet yer whistle one more time Tom. Gotta keep the enemy at bay that’s what I say … and you Lad?’

Jack vaguely nods assent but his mind is elsewhere. Still working overtime on the thought of Honey as Lady Fortunata.

‘How exactly does the Old Lady, sorry your missus, do the readings then Ted?’

‘I can see we’ve really caught a-hold of your imagination with this one Jack Lad … Drink up we’d best be about our business … Cheers lads, here’s to yer and the Good Lady Herself I say … Well Jack Lad. It’s all a bit of magic see. Coloured gas-lamps, red usually, placed in hidden corners. Some smoke in the air. A tiny whiff of Chinese Dragon to make them a little giddy. The Old Lady reckons it relaxes their senses. All about sensibility see. She talks to them. Lays out the spread of them gyppo cards and then, if the moment is right, if the moon is full like tonight, well … She lets her Visitor through see. A Spaniard she tells me. All I rightly know is that I shouldn’t be a-telling you this Lad. But … oh what the heck … A stranded Spanish sailor shipwrecked off our coast during the Spanish Armada. He comes regular like and does the business for the missus. She’s open see to the wraiths and spirits of which she calls the Netherworld … Don’t look so scared Jack Lad. Me, I call it the Fairyland. The Old Lady and Honey have the gift of second sight see. Strange spirits from the Fairyland can visit and see the future. Tell a Gentleman his prospects and fortune … As for you Jack … Now if you’re a good Lad tonight and look sharp about you. Later, mind I don’t promise nothing Lad, you can’t go a-guaranteeing such things, but I’ll have a word and see if Lady Fortunata will read your palm and predict your future … It is no good you a-muttering Tom. Your future’s already told. It’s writ large on your face in the present Old Man. You saw your future at Waterloo. You know the score. Whereas Jack Lad here, He don’t know. Good practice for Honey. Will young Jack meet Lady Fortunata? You never can tell. Strange things a-foot. Now I’d better be gone. We’ve got a few hands, as you can hear, who are a-helping to dismantle what is left of the stall. The Old Lady’s got her relatives everywhere. Open any door and one of her kith and kin will walk right in. Keep us ever poor they will. Always on the bleedin’ scrounge. Now don’t you go a-repeating any of this within earshot of the Old Lady or she’ll have my guts for garters and so she will! … Now remember, be sure and look us up in Madame Isis’ tent when that Europa Lady and the Flying Bull have been and gone. Wait till it has all calmed down a bit. Don’t look so worried Jack Lad. Remember, it is all smoke and mirrors. It may be the Netherworld or Fairyland but it’s all smoke and mirrors to me Lad at sixpence a throw. So on you go and look out for Blind Tom Lad, he seems a little unsteady on his pins after that last jar of porter.’ … …

Blind Tom and Young Jack slowly start making their way from the Stalk Fountain towards the large lawns situated between the American Bowling Saloon and the Firework Temple. The night is now fully alive with noise and activity. The tree-lined green avenues and corridors of Cremorne are full to bursting with people. It is as if London has half-emptied tonight and turned up at Cremorne. The full moon is Queen of the Night, overhanging the whole scene like some gigantic sacred symbol of the times … Blind Tom has his gnarled hand resting on young Jack’s left shoulder, Nelson is trotting in and out of their legs and irritating an irascible Tom. He’s twice dropped the bundle of pamphlets and is cursing and mouthing at Nelson. He swings his left leg wildly at the dog, misses and falls down on his bum. Jack leans over him trying to help him stand upright. Nelson stands guard with a snarl. Canine revenge on the old beloved Blind Master. Kick me and I’ll trip you up … A band of girls passing close by, laugh and sneer and make ribald comments at Blind Tom’s expense.

‘Do you hear that Jack Lad! … Cough-cough … Do you know what that is heh? … Cough-cough … cheap sodden whores Lad, cheap whores … Cough-cough … I will tell you what that is Jack Lad. That is a ginny laugh. Yes a ginny laugh … Cough-cough … Remember it and beware Lad when you hear it down Charing Cross way or Piccadilly Circus in the future. In some fleapit Penny Gaff … Cough-cough … Remember old Blind Tom Lad. A ginny laugh is a cheap whore on the make. Looking to relieve you of your hard gotten yellow-boys. Steer clear Lad if you know what’s good for you. Only end in tears and they will set you up for a-robbing more than likely … Cough-cough … Always a pimp hiding somewhere in a darkened corner Lad. See I may be blind but I know these things … Now that’s better! Got me walking legs back I have … Lead on Lad. Across the Promenade Versailles, then cut across the avenue of trees by the Firework Temple.’ …

‘How come you know which way to go? You said this be your first time. You’d never set foot here before. You’re lying Tom you crafty old Bleeder! … And anyway, I’ve heard a ginny laugh before. Heard it since I was born. I grew up surrounded by ginny laughs … Come on Tom, lean on me. We’d better make steps Old Man.’

Young Jack is learning fast. He aims a sharp kick at Nelson who cleverly avoids the menacing toe and manages to rub against young Jack’s leg in acknowledgement of friendship.

The blind Old Man, the quick witted Lad and the scruffy mutt make a strange crew under the gas-lamps flickering in the trees like so many corpse candles. The heaving crowd of Gentlefolk, Bands of men, lost families quickly trying to leave and get home, groups of flirting and giggling women, stilt walkers, stray barking dogs; side vendors offering toasted chestnuts, ice-creams, sweets, beer, cigarettes, gin; three card tricksters chasing the Lady, dancing Bears and fighting cats, a braying donkey in a blue-ribboned bonnet, young Dandies on the prowl, a monkey on a leash, a crew of tumbling Dwarfs making strange faces at the passers-by, Peelers and Cremorne Stewards caught up in the fun and action of the night. All the flowing, colourful World wanders by and manages to avoid making eye contact with our motley little Band as they head unsteadily towards the Firework Temple.

The long lean strides of a rakishly attired Leon Chandler seem to eat up the manicured grass of the Promenade Versailles. The Campbell Boys, Herbert and James, are struggling to keep pace with him. The Promenade’s dazzlingly packed crowd part as the Red Sea to let this man of substance and vigour through. An air of attractive aggression radiates from him in the glow of the coloured gas-lamps illuminating the tree-gifted corridors of this wondrous night.

Before long they have energetically completed the length of the Promenade Versailles and have veered off right towards the Firework Temple and the large, spacious lawns above it by the American Bowling Saloon.

As they approach the lawns, clustered tents and sideshows dot the way. Leon Chandler unexpectedly stops dead still in front of a red and white striped tent. A plaque nailed to the masthead of the wooden tent pole proclaims ‘MADAME ISIS FORTUNE TELLER. WORLD FAMOUS CLARVOYENT’.

Leon Chandler wrinkles his nose at the tent’s clashing stripes. ‘Now that, ma boys, is a crime against taste. Whoever built this had clearly never set foot near a Haussmann boulevard … the French would shoot a man for less.’ He is off now, sneering happily through Gothic spires and Baroque follies and nouveau-riche melanges, this whole indiscriminate carnival of styles thrown up without a single care for the eye.

‘Are you thinking of having your fortune told then Leon?’, ventures Herbert Campbell.

That honeyed southern drawl takes on a waspish tone.

‘Have my future proclaimed by one Madame Isis when they cannot even get the spelling of Clairvoyant correct! If they cannot select the right letters and spell in the present, what chance do I have of them predicting accurately into the future! Limited by nature and limited by intelligence.’

Herbert is not to be so easily put off. Acolytes have to be brave and questioning.

‘Just because they misspell doesn’t mean she ain’t no good. I don’t think education and teaching has got anything to do with natural magic and the like.’

‘You may well be right in this instance Herbert ma Boy. Though I doubt it. Various types of magic are dependant upon knowledge and the study of Ancient Lore. Still, we could debate this for hours. The night is moving on a-pace. That Parisian Aeronaut Woman will soon be with us disguised as Europa. I want to see that for sure. As you seem insistent that I should furnish these good folk with my custom Herbert. Then I shall proceed.’

As they go to enter through the flap of the red-and-white striped tent, a burly man appears sporting large muttonchop side-burns, and plants himself squarely in their pathway.

‘Sixpence each if you so please Sirs.’

‘Don’t I know you?’

‘I don’t rightly reckon so Sir. Though I must confess I have seen yer about sketching and all along the riverside. But we’ve never been introduced Sir.’

‘Joe Hurley. You sound just like Joe Hurley!’

‘Well, people do say that Sir. Truth is He’s my cousin. But you’re not the first to remark upon the resemblance Sir.’

‘God man!’ Exclaims that honeyed southern drawl. ‘You Hurleys are everywhere!’

‘Well we rightly be a large Chelsea family Sir. Five generations and all so they tell me. A bit like the Campbell Boys here Sir.’

Leon Chandler hands over his sixpence in a nonchalant fashion.

‘And the boys Sir?’

‘The boys? … Oh you mean these two lumps. Nah. I don’t believe they need their fortunes told yet!’

At that moment a beautiful young woman in a low-cut lemon blouse, loose red skirt of cotton with a burnt-orange sash gathered around her waist, enters through the flap of the tent. Leon Chandler stands transfixed at this ripe, plump, overflowing vision of loveliness. In a daze He reaches into his well-cut black trouser pocket and produces two more shiny silver sixpences for Ted Hurley without a word. Entranced with memories of Southern Belles of his Childhood and youth in Virginia flooding his being. Long finely-honed fingers flick back the dark wavy strands of hair flopping into his eyes, as He beholds a smiling Honey with a wolfish grin.

The inside of the tent is dimly lit by gas-lamps flecked with red and green coloured glass. Mirrors strategically positioned in opposite corners of the tent help reflect the strange otherworld atmosphere. The air is quite thick with smoke. Clouds of burning incense rising from a thurible. The smell of the smoke-filled air is dusted by the bittersweet aroma of opium.

Madame Isis sits before a large tea chest covered by a tasselled purple cloth. She has on a black wig and a black shawl curls around her ample shoulders. Her face is masked in make-up.

Leon Chandler sits upon an upturned beer keg. Outside of an ‘Hello’ barely a word passes between them.

Ted Hurley stands guard by the entrance flap to the Tent. Herbert and James are over in one of the corners. Honey has disappeared out the back.

Madame Isis slowly shuffles her pack of Egyptian cards. The slight strains of a mumbled incantation accompanies the flick, flick, flick. With one glance at a calm, arms folded across his chest Leon Chandler, she starts to lay out the cards. When the spread is complete she waits awhile fingering some unseen object hidden in the tucks of her shawl. At last the reading begins and a deep husky voice with Spanish overtones takes over the proceedings.

‘At the heart of the matter Senor is the Fool. Stepping out on his journey in life. Unafraid, prepared to leap from rock to rock without a care. Heedless of danger. Behind him is a long hazardous journey across great water. This journey has been undertaken with much pain and strife, how you say, viciousness. Nastiness. What has gone into the journey of the Fool is the mighty power of the Sun. Blessed strength and cosmic significance Senor. The power was always with you though you immerge from mental strife, cruelty and much hardship. What lies ahead of you is the Magus. The power and control of Magic and knowledge of the spheres within other worlds. This will manifest, is manifesting itself, through the craftsmanship of Art. The Eight of Pentacles portraying the world. That cosmic force and artistic gifts come form an inner strength and vision. Deep within, the Sacred Lantern of the Hermit is guiding you on your pathway though life Senor. But you do not let others see him. Part of the result is constant strife. How you say, fighting, aggression. You are as the English say, a wicked quipster. You have a nasty tongue which will turn many people against you in your success. Women will desert you because of the cruelty of it. The final outcome Senor is of great worldly success through Art. The World bears the spinning Wheel of Judgment proclaiming your success and flaming posterity through the many proceeding generations Senor. You are truly blessed with fame and success Senor but your own nature, from your journey cast out of bitterness … how you say Senor … A bitter pill to swallow.’ …

With those last words Madame Isis starts to shake uncontrollably. Leon Chandler sits ashen-faced in the smoke-filled tent of reflecting mirrors.

Honey quickly reappears showing huge concern and has put her arm around a stricken Madame Isis and is trying to get her to drink from a cup of water.

Ted Hurley is ushering away new clients. He goes to return two of the silver sixpences to a silent Leon Chandler. Instantly Chandler dismisses him with a curt wave of the hand, and with barely a nod in the direction of the Campbell Boys they depart without a word being audibly exchanged … …

The sheer noise, exuberance and laughter ringing in the evening air of Cremorne is infectious. If ever there was an evening to be truly alive in then this is it … The grim face of Leon Chandler does not reflect the gaiety of the night. His lips are pursed and pensive, withdrawn in contemplation of news he did not wish to receive. The fashionably-attired Campbell Boys Herbert and James, walk respectfully along with him. A pace short of his manful stride, restrained yet barely able to contain their excitement in the feel of this night. Songs and spluttering revelry are beginning to be heard drawing the night on … Rather than wait amid the gathering crowd of jubilant conversations and excited mutterings around the large expanse of lawns, Leon Chandler heads them off for the entrance to the American Bowling Saloon. Suddenly two young girls seem to spring out from nowhere, leaving a bush of lavender shuddering behind them.

‘Good God ma Girl what are you doing here?’

The downcast face of Leon Chandler has undergone a sudden transformation. A beaming, leering smile is given full rein. He is smirking.

‘You should not be out! Who gave you permission to come here? How did you get in? You know you are not supposed to … ’

‘Now, now, Herbert, don’t be so harsh on the pretty girl. She has a right to enjoy this divine night as well … And a pretty picture she looks and all I might say … May I be introduced to your friend Alice? I don’t believe we have been properly acquainted.’

A shy, close to giggling Alice Campbell lets go of her reserve, gaining confidence from some hidden power coursing through her veins.

‘Leon Chandler, may I present to you my very best friend in all the world … Mary Hayes.’

With a dignified flourish and an exaggerated style, Leon Chandler removes his top hat and bows low to the grass with a graceful sweep and arching movement. Herbert and James just stare, their precious evening is being intruded upon. Little Sister is stepping on their toes, and her long shiny red hair is gleaming under the glow of the red and green reflecting gas-lamps in the trees. She has on a long cornflower blue cotton dress, black classic heeled shoes and is holding a black leather handbag. Traces of make-up have added to her blooming lustre, red rouge has brushed against her lips and is matching with the red rose neatly pinned within her gloriously flowing red hair. Mary Hayes’ dark young thatched features and plain looks and dress seem a million miles removed. One is a young girl, the other a blossoming young woman. Leon Chandler is not slow to notice this transformation.

‘Until now ma dear this evening had taken on an uncomfortable air for me. But now it has truly come alive. Whatever befalls me this night, I shall always remember it as the evening I saw the golden vision of Queen Guinevere herself. The very image of a shining English rose if ever I saw one. Casting all the trees, flowers, shrubs and lawns into instant obscurity. The night pales into insignificance beside you ma dear. Allow me to play Lancelot a while if I may.’

With that Leon Chandler commandeers the scene, takes a strangely muted Alice Campbell by the arm and leads her onward towards the entrance to the American Bowling Saloon. Herbert, James and a girlish Mary Hayes are left to trail in their wake …

As the group draw towards the entrance to the American Bowling Saloon, a late evening swarm of dragonflies rush before them glittering all the colours of the rainbow in the reflected gas-lights. Drawn up from their berth among the reeds along by Chelsea beach. Fitfully delaying then swaying as one off into the night sky as if in response to a sudden hidden command or insistent will. Lunar-driven dragon flies swarming across the Cremorne night sky.

The American Bowling Saloon is a long, long hall, a high ornate roof with a central section of three bowling alleys. Tables and chairs are positioned at the front of the saloon. A refreshment Bar and waiters hover in readiness. Casual observers in top hats and frock coats may linger or stroll down either side of the saloon. Maybe to view the participants or study the décor of oil paintings and prints displayed on the walls. Hanging glass chandeliers radiate from above. Streams of moonlight are reflected in the glass backdrop supporting the end of the Bowling Saloon. A couple of Players are dressed in white trousers with matching jumpers and cream shoes. The constant thwack of the bowls against the wooden pins, the barrelling sound of rumbling rolled bowls. Thud, thud … The new craze sweeping Cremorne. Fanciful experts and Players of the game look on and discuss.

Leon Chandler leads his young group to a table by the front of the Bowling Saloon. Instantly demands extra chairs to be provided and with a snap of his long bony fingers orders champagne and French crépes. Seats Alice Campbell down, lights his French cigarette and admires her before the crowd of mostly bewhiskered Gentlemen.

‘I say Sir, do you have to smoke in here? Dontcha know it is a disgusting, filthy habit man! Go outside if you must make fire and take that little girl with you!’

‘What did you say!’ …

‘I said … ’

‘I heard you all right!’

‘Damn Yankee are you! I might have guessed. First this Bowling Saloon, then the damn War and now you as well!’

‘That is enough Sir! I have the honour of being a Southern Gentleman from Virginia Sir which is more than can be said of you Sir! Stars and bars Sir! I will not have you insult the good name of this young lady like that. It’s an effrontery and rude. I challenge you to a duel Sir! You choose the weapons.’

‘Duel man! Duel! You are living in the dark ages man … So you are one of Robert E. Lee’s men are you … Well, I did not wish to importune the very young lady but I shall stick to my guns regarding that confounded French cigarette. We have had more than enough of the French lately Sir if you don’t mind! What with the Emperor Napoleon and that Empress Eugénie visiting and all … If you really wish to challenge me to a duel Sir we can contend at one of your so called pastimes.’

The moustached, middle-aged Gentleman with the bushy eyebrows, flicks his fingers towards the direction of the three lanes of Bowling alleys.

‘The best to a set of three Sir. Ten guineas to the winner. And when I succeed you can pay up and take your young band and those revolting French cigarettes outside this saloon Sir!’

‘You’re on.’ Growls a bristling Leon Chandler. The Campbell Boys have remained standing and are on guard. Casual observers’ conversations have subsided as the fractious confrontation starts to assume centre stage.

Both the combatants remove their frock coats and hand them to their respective seconds. In Leon Chandler’s case his designated second is Herbert Campbell.

An interested, murmuring crowd has gathered. All thoughts of the impending descent of the famous Parisian Aeronaut personifying Europa are momentarily forgotten. A large, fleshy Gentleman dressed in a lemon-tinged waistcoat with gleaming brass buttons and sporting a green and white chequered hat above his large bulbous red nose, is offering odds on the outcome of the bowling duel. Abruptly it has become Great Britain versus America all over again. For the Boston Tea Party and Paul Revere and the Raiders read Cremorne Leisure Gardens and Seamus Kelly who is busy making a book on the spot and is offering two-to-one against the southern confederate Gentleman. Money is a flutter and notes are being loosed, people are gathering as the protagonists prepare to duel.

A gold sovereign is tossed and Leon Chandler has called tails correctly. He indicates off-handedly that the middle-aged Gentleman with the bushy eyebrows who goes by the name of Myles Lyttelton, should go first.

The two Bowlers in the white outfits have stopped and one of them has been coerced as an impartial observer. Told to go and stand at the far end by the backdrop of streaming moonlight reflecting through glass. To signal the exact number of hits of each Bowler.

Weapons have been drawn and the combatants commence … Myles Lyttelton adopts a classic bowling green approach with the nonchalant air of a Drake himself completing a set before sailing forth to challenge and repel the Spanish Armada … His first two bowls thud along the barrelled wooden stripped lanes and thwack into the wooden pale-brown pins. One pin is left standing under the glare of the chandeliers. The clustered group of mainly men, clap with polite approval. Secretly relieved. The majority of bets placed with Seamus Kelly have been for Lyttelton … Much to the disgust of the peering onlookers, Leon Chandler receives a kiss from a delightful Alice Campbell … Unseemly behaviour Sir! Maybe the Yankees will crush the Confederate, Slave-owning South and true order will be restored … Leon Chandler makes a show of exercising the fingers of his right hand. Rejects three offered bowls before he is completely satisfied with the quality. Then proceeds with a fast paced run up and whirling action to rocket his bowl down the barrelling lane … The first misses altogether and bounces off into an adjoining alley accompanied by much guffawing, sniggers and a few late hastily wagered bets with Mister Seamus Kelly and his green and white chequered hat , which is holding all the money … The Campbell Boys tug at their cutaway cuffs and stamp their feet to relieve the tension. Leon Chandler hurtles in with that self same whirling action and rockets the bowl down the alley at ferocious speed. Crash! All eyes strain, all necks crane under the illuminating glaze from the glass chandeliers. The impartial observer in the whites is indicating a clean hit. In one majestic bowl Leon Chandler has completed a strike and knocked down all ten. Alice Campbell and Mary Hayes shriek with unconfined joy. The Campbell Boys show their arms in a martial posture as Centurion guards scenting victory. The rest of the hastily convened American Bowling Saloon audience is hushed. Only Seamus Kelly’s face is showing a big grin under his green and white chequered hat. His bulbous nose seems to have gone redder at the thought of winning money. The instantly laid plans of the Odds-Maker look like being rewarded.

‘You may have the better of me for the moment Sir but we still have a long way to go. Be prepared for a battle Sir and put that confounded French fire stick aside will you!’

Myles Lyttelton is becoming hot under his starched collar. His supporters are egging him on. No one is saying anything about Seamus Kelly and his large Cuban cigar puffing away in clouds of billowing smoke. Better not. He might abscond with all the money.

The bushy eyebrowed combatant re-adopts his classic British bowling stance and prepares to do battle again. It is as if the very fate of the American Civil War and the success of General Ulysses Grant rests upon his gravely held shoulders. He is cursing and blustering inwardly with the urgent need to graunch this southern confederate upstart once and for all.

His first bowl is delivered with aplomb and takes out all but two of the pins. The white attired impartial observer is starting to relay strange signals from the back end. Moonbeams can be seen playing over his brown, sharply-combed hair. Members of the gaily-dressed crowd murmur as to whether he has had a gamble or one too many early evening drinks … Alice Campbell is biting her rouge brushed lips and picking at her finger skin with distraction. Her worst held fears are being rendered true as a huge cheer goes up from the assembled throng. Myles Lyttelton in classic manner has removed the two remaining wooden pins with a delivery that would have done Francis Drake proud.

All eyes are now trained on Leon Chandler. The only sound that can be heard is that of Mary Hayes clapping her hands out of tune with the tense situation. A glare from her best friend in all the world silences her.

Leon Chandler takes his time, carelessly absorbing all the eyes trained on him. He steps forward in a whirling motion. A French cigarette clasped between his lips puffing away, and hurls another southern thunderbolt along the barrelled boards. The bowl bounces once and thuds into the adjoining alley alongside. The impartial observer in the whites is making strange hand signals by the moon-streamed backdrop and Seamus Kelly is being bombarded with shoals of gold, silver and five pound notes being flooded in his direction. The only doubt in question seems to be whether he can keep it all under his green and white chequered top hat. Myles Lyttelton is coughing in an affected manner. Secure within his circle of cronies … Leon Chandler bounds forward again as Alice Campbell clasps her hands in anguish. Another southern rocket is launched off as a cannon firing on the blue bellies and crash! Gasps of shock and surprise followed by raucous cheers as the bowl plummets off course, bouncing out of the Bowling Alley and crashes into an unsuspecting spectator, who is now hopping about in pain much to everybody’s general amusement.

Leon Chandler is nonchalant in adversity. Elicits another Alice Campbell kiss before open comments of hostile disapproval. Demands another glass of champagne in that honeyed southern drawl, lights up yet another long French cigarette with an exaggerated flourish and puffs and nods with confidence in the downcast direction of the Campbell Boys.

‘I trust you have your ten guineas at the ready Sir!’ … Titters from the appreciative audience already fingering their winnings. Seamus Kelly has been carefully hemmed in and wedged about by the expectant Gamblers and can only puff nervously on his Cuban cigar.

Myles Lyttelton angles his run up a little. Playing to the gallery before the gleaming chandeliers. The energy of this night is with him. He cannot fail. The war is almost over and the price of cotton and tobacco will never be the same. Shame! … The first careering bowl only catches the end of a pin and knocks a couple out leaving eight still standing. One bushy eyebrow is raised inquisitively for a few female onlookers. Cynosure for admiring eyes … The second carefully delivered bowl in classic manner removes seven pins with a generous clatter. The last remaining pin wobbles and lurches before the hesitant gaze of the impartial Observer in the whites. Hushed tones greet the quickly relayed news that one is still left standing … Herbert Campbell cannot now uncross his fingers or move his position for fear of bad luck.

With a gesture that is tantamount to open warfare, Leon Chandler takes Alice Campbell’s hand and caresses it with his smoke-kissed lips. Then spins on his heels before the ravenous crowd, showing off his slim angular southern Gentleman’s figure. With a whirl and a dash He charges in and sends a rocket of a bowl crashing down. Straight past the waiting pins and catching the white clothed impartial Observer on the shins who lets out a howl before the streaming beams of full moonlight. Hands clap. Seamus Kelly sweats. The Campbell Boys seem resigned. Alice Campbell cannot watch. Winnings are already being counted and spent in glorious expectation.

One more time Leon Chandler adopts that crazy rushing action. Cigarette clenched defiantly between his lips. The moment seems highlighted and elongated as his final rocket of a bowl hammers down the barrelled light-brown alley. Crashes with a ferocious clatter. The bowl explodes into the pins. When the smoke has cleared not one pin is left standing. For a moment the silence is deafening. Followed shortly by whoops of joy from the Campbell Boys. Alice Campbell has thrown herself body and soul into Leon Chandler’s waiting arms. Seamus Kelly is dancing a jig of delight before the threatening crowd and edging towards the Campbell Boys for protection. Mary Hayes’ face is a picture of a happy smile … The complete opposite of a thunderous looking Myles Lyttleton. Without much good grace He throws ten guineas in gold, silver and note at the feet of Leon Chandler. Mouths disgustedly … ‘The victory is yours Sir.’ … And storms out of the American Bowling Saloon red-faced and cursing.

Leon Chandler orders champagne all round and suddenly finds He has acquired many new friends. Alice Campbell looking like a beautiful angel, sits on his lap drinking champagne and smoking a cigarette for the first time in her life, and nothing could be more normal … The war is over. The duel is won.

The cool, soft night air is rushing against Madame Pontoise’s face. Resolutely she signals her position and tries to enjoy the experience. Accepting that this heightened sensation may well be her last. The huge bovine weight harnessed underneath her green basket seems lifeless enough, but she is acutely aware of the odd sound rumbling out of Samson … Her two dashing young balloon Pilots smile down from above her. Billy to her right, so young, daring and athletic. Percy on her left, slightly more fey and restrained, more feminine in his looks and thereby more desirable. He nearly slipped and lost his footing only a moment ago. Madame Pontoise the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut pretended she did not notice. No sense in causing undue alarm. Europa must seem impervious to the desires and weaknesses of men … The mighty, translucent power of this full moon gleaming bright in front of her seems to be sucking the Balloon towards it. Pulling it on … Madame Pontoise peers down below, straining hard to see through her constantly watering eyes … Yes, yes, she can just catch a glimpse of the shiny black-topped phaeton flying along. The tiny dotted figures of George Jarry and Lucy are waving at her furiously. She cannot hear their cries of encouragement lost in the night sky … George Jarry has paid a specialist cab driver, famed throughout London and named Henry, five pounds. Five whole pounds, chérie! Four special horses and a cab to try and keep up and chase the flight of the Balloon from Blackheath to Greenwich. There George has a small craft standing by, motorised of course, plain English expression. These damned infernal steam engine contraptions! All to chase along the River, and all charged no doubt to the expense account of the Drury lane Balloonists …

The magic of the night sky and the shimmering stars unfold before her as the Balloon sails along. Young Pilots Billy and Percy are trying to steer a course following the flow of the Great River.

The wonder and sensations of the experience are overtaking the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut … Smoke can be seen curling up from the outlines of this great stinking wen of a City … Why smoke on such a warm August night? Can almost feel the stench and cruelty as the East End of the city is approached. Why, with this the most powerful City in all the world, is it so steeped in poverty and sordid squalor?

‘Oh the joys and delights of Paris chérie. London is so grey and drab by comparison. I can feel it right now, here in this green osier basket sailing through the night sky. Not the excitement and activity of the Second Empire. The British are too cautious and mean to employ a great designer, architect and Town Planner like Georges-Eugéne Haussmann … ’

‘Was that Samson coughing? Do bulls cough?’ …

‘Calm yourself chérie, calm yourself. He is only harmless as George said. Needless fear already pulling my thoughts far field. I cannot see the racing phaeton and the four galloping horses amid the continuous glow of the street-filled gas-lamps … Oh Paris truly is a beautiful, fairy-like City by comparison. Awe-inspiring wealth and grandeur … Why are we not now following the course and outline of the Great River? What is going on! … Oh never mind chérie. Europa can handle anything. The two Pilots Billy and Percy with their wind-lashed moustaches have the journey under control … Moustaches rub horribly when you kiss … Baron Haussmann to give him his proper title after our great wonderful Emperor Napoleon elevated him for his special services to the Empire … The Baron has rid Paris of the lingering sick, the crippled, the unemployed, of the child prostitutes, beggars, rag pickers, and cutthroats, all haunting the centre of the fair City. Some are even incautious enough to wander into the Grand Boulevards … Not like the slow, dense pace of the British. The sheer speed of change … Ah at last there is the River again and I think I can even make out the shape of the phaeton with George and Lucy hurtling along. The fire-breathing horses from Hades being whipped along by Henry. How ridiculous to pay a cabman five pounds. A cab driver for godsake! Just because George said that Henry is the best! … Enough! Quite depressing. I am just becoming a middle-aged, golden french laying goose egg to him! Nothing more. He does not realise what I am going through. How could he! The artistic intensity involved in portraying the guise and role of Europa herself … The wormy-packed warrens of rat-infested, shit-filled streets of the East End of London are glowing far below the dangling hooves of Samson … How the great Emperor himself ordered the immediate destruction of the ancient medieval slums as He had promised at his initial election. All that sea of squalor so similar to what is below right now, the foaming cholera-riddled districts of Ile de la Cité, Montmartre, the Rue Saint-Denis, and even lapping to the doors of the Louvre, the Tuileries and Notre-Dame. All has been beautifully rebuilt and constructed with astonishing speed and efficiency under His majestic direction. And they call us the Carnival Empire! Pah! Here is the misery and sorrow down below. But maybe chérie, just maybe, the night-crowd who have made it out of the City and headed to Cremorne will receive some lasting pleasure in my flight and descent. The image and myth of Europa infecting and reaching a core aspect of their lives from out of the moon-entranced skies … That is what George Jarry said and he should know. He has his, how you say, hand on the live pulse of this great whopping wen of a city. The hideous sights of this deathly-world night may be relieved for a moment by the precious image of Europa … Ah chérie! Another success beckons … Another sweet success and this damned corset is killing me! If only I was still slim and aged thirty like before. The beautiful blonde Parisian Aeronaut dazzling the gathered entourage at Saint-Cloud and turning every male head with a jerk of the neck. Oh confess it all! Be of good cheer chérie, you shall succeed!’ …

Suddenly the course of the Balloon’s path changes and the glowing lights of the West End of the City are coming into view. The wind is getting up and the Balloon receives a huge jolt. Whoosh! An invisible gust of air has caught hold of it for a second and almost knocked Europa sideways off her pedestal. Fresh currents of wind like freak waves are the bane of an active Balloonist’s life. Even one as experienced and resourceful as Madam Pontoise the great Parisian Aeronaut herself … The two young moustached Pilots Billy and Percy are fighting very hard to steady the airship. They seem caught up and entangled in the many ropes and guys leading form the green osier basket to the Balloon. Billy has taken charge and is yelling instructions across to Percy who seems hesitant and unsure as to what to do. Trying hard not to worry Madame unduly. Her safety and the success of this mission are paramount. Mister Jarry has offered a big bonus to the two young balloonist Pilots plus the promise of exciting and adventurous paid trips across Europe in the future if this night is deemed a success …

Madam Pontoise has regained her balloonist legs and her poise. She is back in her rightful position and signals that all is well …

‘Pah! A little gust of wind and they panic. Just young boys really. Not like Jerome and Denise from the old days … Where does George Jarry find all these young folk? Are they recommended or does he just find them idly laying around on the ground! Sacré bleu! Jerome and Denise, seems like only yesterday yet now it is a long time ago, almost ten years! … Oh how I miss that special care and attention. The grand occasions at Saint-Cloud, my bon-amie. So special. Now look at me chérie! … The gleaming gas-lamps of the West End of London are all ablaze. The nightlife is in full swing with future demi-mondes burrowing underground. Tunnelling for acceptance and success. They dig and cajole for nuggets of attention while I fly in the sky, sail through the night air as Europa personifying the Gods and the Stars … We are now flying low by the River. All my expensive make-up has been stripped clean from my face … I must apply some fresh face powder before I land … The Great River is ablaze with lights and noise. I can hear it from right up here. All the Ferries along the River, all those Thames Steamers from the City leading to the pier at Cremorne. They say over ten thousand people will be present to see me. Ten thousand George said at one shilling a time, this could be the launch of the second phase of my career … A flare, a green flare has just shot up from the River. That is the signal from George and Lucy that they are aboard their new craft and racing me along this Great River. How will they fare amid all this River traffic? The best way to travel is by balloon. We are all on our own up here. Not surrounded and jostled by all those City young Bucks and Swells heading to Cremorne for a good time … Going to places to be socially seen. Ah Saint-Cloud and the Empress. Oh the glory of the invitation. The special magnificent landing with the Emperor, Empress and the whole Court waiting on the torch-lit lawns of Saint-Cloud. Then the glorious introductions. Being feted and courted as Madame Paris. The beauty, style and sheer delight of everything. Then all of the men and some of the Courtesans entering the huge games rooms to play billiards and cards and drink before the late evening banquet and then the masked

Ball. Ah chérie the sheer joy of the occasion! But best of all. The sweetest event possible. Being taken up by the Empress Eugénie herself. Sometimes spending a whole evening with her. Glowing in the treasure of her confidences. She is so beautiful. With her lovely flowing fine blonde hair. She is so innovative and so original and clever. Empress Eugénie was the first to popularize the crinoline skirt and Lyon silk. So brave! It was the Empress who introduced and championed the plunging neckline. All the sniggers in the Courts and the conceits behind the backs of hands about fashions reaching new lows during her reign … Snigger, laugh, stare, applaud … Now I have to expose my breasts for all to see in the descent this evening! I tell George they are now fat and sagging, but no he insists. I show him and he pats my breasts like he’s patting the head of a dog. Pah! Europa must be seen with her breasts bared to the world. Mother Nature in all her glory suckling the folk of Cremorne. And I must be exposed fully to the elements. The Empress Eugénie will cry when she hears. She will disown me! I have not seen her these three years past … The glimmering lights of the West End are wonderful. The man-made gas-lamps glowing in the dark and this full moon overseeing all and illuminating this night in a strange and wondrous fashion … All the horns and hooters from the Ships and Boats travelling along the River are sounding to elevate my triumphant descent. Oh George Jarry I forgive you everything for this. Truly you are a clever and resourceful Agent … The whole great snaking black River is ablaze with colour and horns to the gliding descent of Madame Pontoise the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut . Europa has come into her own. They are all racing through the water to see me. George and Lucy are heading the River race, urging them all on. I cannot now see or hear George and Lucy, but I know they are out there. I can feel their every wondrous, urgent, upward gaze and signal of intent … Pah! I am so easily pleased! All the world will soon see that I am just now a fat, middle-aged blonde cow milking my time! … But once, when I was young and refined and the favourite of the Empress. Yes, she leads so wonderfully! She has set all the World’s fashions. I used to have my hair blonded just like hers, coiffeured a l’impératrice. I made my eyes up like hers, Spanish style. The brows pencilled black, the eyes shadowed with blue, and the irises bathed in belladonna to make them sparkle. I was, not so long ago, one of the leaders of the haute monde of Paris. And my great shopping expeditions! Oh how I adored going to Au Bon Marché, La Samaritaine and Le Printemps. Oh how the store managers made such a special effort to seduce me because they knew I was a favourite of the Empress. How everything seemed to be coloured Crimean green or Sebastopol blue. And the boots with the huge heels. All elevating the demure stature of women thanks to Her. Oh how I just adored it all. And the Empress is really so clever as well. How it was she who persuaded me to invest and buy shares in Crédit Mobilier. She knew before they were even issued and their share value doubled and tripled within days … Now all gone. Frittered away in an endless haze of disaster and joyless days and nights. Empty young men, one affair after another; men who pay you compliments, court you, desire you, then spend all your money. Leave you flat and unloved for the next fashion of the hour. Life has been so cruel chérie … so cruel … ’

‘The River is flooded with noise and light. We are away out from the City now and heading for Cremorne … Ooh! What! … Samson is bellowing and roaring. George said he was so harmless … He is kicking his hooves. He is wild … Do bulls have hooves chérie? … The lights and noises must have awoken him from his slumbers. He is rocking, how you say, the boat! … I make an English joke … The basket is flailing from side to side. Samson will kill us all. You fool George Jarry! You no good Agent! … Billy and Percy must take control and fling some weighted ballast from out of the basket. I must signal … Ah good! Billy is so clever. He knows. At least George Jarry got that one right … We are now too low, we are sailing far too low! This full moon is almost in the basket with me … We can see the lights of Cremorne. They are firing off red and silver-tailed rockets from the Firework Temple for you chérie … Oh we are so low. Samson is going crazy again. Mad, bad bull! He will pull us all down with his panic … I must stay calm and serene. Put on the fresh face powder and bare my breasts and be prepared to greet my audience no matter what happens.’ … …

Hylda Farley moves with a controlled swaying sensuality through the thronging masses encircling the Chinese Dance platform at Cremorne. At the sign of a wink and a nod from a guarding attendant, she slowly picks her way up the rickety wooden steps to the Supper-Box. Careful to see that her dangerously-heeled shoes don’t catch and stick in the yawning gaps between the planks of wood. A girl has to look out for almost everything in this life. If you don’t love, it has a habit of smacking you over the head and all about you collapses. At least this is Hylda Farley’s view of the world. Make it last while you can. Make the most of it and grasp at it all everyday … Suddenly she is being ushered in to the brightly-lit Supper-Box. The strong smell of gas from the gaily coloured lamps is clinging on the early night air …

At once a young, attractive, debonair Gentleman springs to her side and draws her towards the centre of the Supper-Box. Raising his voice to gain everybody’s attention. Eventually the chattering voices peter out.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen … Please allow me to introduce to you our Hostess for the evening. One of Cremorne’s most famous and renowned I might add!’

The right honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville takes Hylda Farley by the extended hand. Kisses it briefly with mock sensuality then introduces her one by one to the occupants of the Supper-Box.

‘For your very special entertainment and pleasure Hylda we are privileged to have with us this fine evening … At ‘em … Two young ladies of this local Parish Emma … Martin … Is that right? … Yes, Emma Martin and Hettie … Nicholson? … Good! Thank you kindly Hettie. And as to the Gentlemen present. Well allow me to introduce Alfred Hayward … Hylda … Sam Webb … Good. And the young man of the moment himself … Burton O’Brien! … ’

With that Guy Cunningham-Greville claps his hands in expectation, shows Hylda Farley to a padded seat overlooking the Chinese Pagoda Bandstand, and sandwiches her in between a delighted Alfred Hayward and a mischievous Sam Webb. Without further ado Guy grasps at a little grey bell and shakes it furiously for Supper-Box service. Right on cue a waiter and the girl in the blue bonnet with the straggly strands of blonde hair still flicking around in front of her eyes, appear. Both are carrying silver trays replete with bottles of expensive champagne, long-stemmed glasses twinkling in the glow of gas and moonlight, and china plates piled high with oysters. Wedges of cut lemon decorate the oyster covered plates and draw the juices in the mouth.

Emma and Hettie drink and giggle. Cry with laughter and flirt outrageously with Guy. Drop oyster shells and lemon wedges all over the Supper-Box floor. A glass gets broken and nobody notices. The music of the orchestra seems to be ringing out louder and louder. The crowd thronging the dance area below, encircling the Chinese Bandstand some twenty deep in places, are becoming more and more raucous and boisterous as the evening dances on and the intake of alcohol and enjoyment heightens. For a moment the blaring sounds of hooters and horns play upon the Cremorne night air and catch a minute’s pause between the orchestra’s melodies. The strident notes of honking steamer ferries arising up from the Great River. All is truly alive and bubbling.

Hylda Farley sits with her legs crossed, one shoulder bared and both white ankles exposed to the night air. She smiles her painted enigmatic smile and makes meaningful small talk with Alfred Hayward as Sam Webb slowly starts to grope and feel her. Alfred Hayward watches without comment, entirely unbothered, as though the girl were simply part of the furnishings of the box.

‘They tell me you are becoming a famous artist’s model my dear. The new Jane Morris of Cremorne no less.’

‘You mean Dan and his studio of nude nymphs Alfred … I show a bare leg Alfred and for a fat fee love, a lot else if I must. Pays the rent on me house love. All a bit of fun.’

‘Dan? … Arrh you mean that Dante Rossetti fellow! … Are you one of the pre-Raphaelite movement then Hylda?’

‘Can’t rightly say Alfred love. It’s all French to me. But that Dan, he’s always stopping painting and rearranging how you look. You know, the natural pose an’ all … God I could tell you stories make your hair curl Alfred … Well what’s left of it … Orgers love. Right old proper orgers an’ all.’

‘Arrh … You mean orgies Hylda. I didn’t quite fathom your pronunciation my dear. Did you Beezer old chap?’ …

‘Ah I see that pronunciation and words are not something on your mind Beezer right at this moment. You have other fish to feel … arrh … Other fish to feel, see! … No matter, my mirth almost getting the better of me … You must tell me more my dear. The life and times of a famous artist is always something of great interest to me. You are so lucky to be involved with someone of such talent and renown.’

‘You could put it like that Alfred love … Here watch where you’re putting your hands Master Sam. If you want some slap and tickle you’ll have to pay up and wait till later. Now behave yourself you naughty Boy. Let me alone awhile and I’ll look after you later love!’ …

Sam Webb is momentarily repulsed from his pawing and groping, but not for long. The siren form and shape of the finer exposed parts of Hylda Farley, if not the sounds she makes, are leading him on. Making him hot under his starched white collar. He has removed his top hat but still his head is throbbing. Glass after glass of quaffed champagne cannot relieve the dryness catching at his throat … She has kicked him twice. Playfully. Squeezed his hand savagely. Removed one of her shoes and is quite blatantly rubbing his calf with her pink-painted large toe. Everyone can see in Sam Webb’s eyes and nobody seems to care less. The world is a carefree carousel of earthy delights tonight. Beneath this radiant full moon beaming down, frolicsome folk are shredding their fears and inhibitions for a short, brief while.

Suddenly pandemonium breaks out in the Supper-Box. A new arrival has grabbed everybody’s attention. Guy Cunningham-Greville, Hylda Farley and Burton O’Brien all stand up and head straight towards the newcomer. Showing the brisk poise and grace of a natural athlete, Burton O’Brien wins.

‘What a welcome surprise Edward. We thought you would be far too busy this starry night to come and see us. Must once again thank you for the complimentary tickets. Most welcome. Most welcome.’

‘I’m just pleased to be of assistance Burton old man … If all the gas-lamps blow up later on, I can at the very least blame my main supplier the Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company … Ha-ha … I say I am sorry! I completely forgot! I do apologise. An unseemly howler of an attempted joke given the circumstances and that truly horrible explosion over at Nine Elms last night! I am sorry old man.’

‘We are still your only supplier I trust?’ … Alfred Hayward’s voice cuts across the thick night air of the Supper-Box from his seat at the front of the balcony. Now that business has resumed centre stage his voice has definitely taken on a hard, sclerotic edge to it. He is back in his element and the orchestra can play all night.

Without further ado the girl in the blue bonnet with the blonde wisps of straggly hair interfering with her vision, produces a further chair for Edward Browne the erstwhile leaseholder and manager of Cremorne. His presence is rewarded instantly with a glass of champagne, and a waiter presents a fresh bottle on a silver tray to the Supper-Box.

‘With the compliments of the Cremorne management Ladies and Gentlemen. I trust you will all be our valued guests on many future occasions like tonight.’

Emma Martin and Hettie Nicholson return to their seats at the balconies edge overlooking the Chinese Bandstand. Glazed eyes watching the swarming, dancing masses. Lost in a revelry of girlish giggles, shy flirtatious glances; occupying one of the best views of Cremorne this wondrous night. All thoughts of Corporal Bob their Chocolate Soldier lost in the laughing, chattering, pointing, giggling, gossiping, waving at absolute strangers, that is taking place in their oyster-shell strewn, champagne enhanced mini-world.

Hylda Farley has rearranged herself and managed to drape her voluptuous shape into a reclining chair right next to Edward Browne. The rest of the Supper-Box are giving him their undivided attention. When the expected gap of silence appears and only the dashing strains of the Chinese orchestra, constant giggling and the expectant hum of the crushing crowd down below can be heard, Sam Webb fills the void. Freed from his groping intent and concentrating on the matter at hand.

‘I say old man, what a show! But I must just ask you Edward, purely in business terms you understand. What sort of staff considerations and what about preparations for an evening like this?’

‘Well not every evening has this kind of attention Sam. Obviously the added attraction of Madame Pontoise the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut, due shortly I shouldn’t much wonder … ’ Edward Browne glances in the reflecting gas-light at his silver-encased fob watch dangling on a gold chain and gleaming for a second in the glow of fireworks shooting upward in the night sky from the Firework Temple.

‘Any minute now I shouldn’t wonder … Still, you can’t put a time on Europa can you! … Ha-ha … Quickly to answer your question Sam Webb. We have to maintain Cremorne all the year round as you can no doubt imagine. Particularly the Gardens. The reason these lawns and trees look so magnificent on this splendiferous August night, are because we employ fifteen Gardeners full time all the year long. They are mainly employed to maintain the lawns and flower-beds, and they are just a small proportion of the huge labour force that maintains the site during the season. There are twenty Carpenters, six Scene-painters and five house-painters amongst those attending to the fabric of the buildings, and twelve gasmen, whose sole concern is the maintenance of Cremorne as a nightly gas-lit fairyland … ’

Edward Browne coughs. Drains a freshly provided glass of champagne and continues … ‘On top of all that Sam, we have to employ eight bill-posters to publicise the programme on the streets of London. Then, as you can well imagine being a successful business man yourself, there are Variety Performers, firework manufacturers and highly expensive Security guards. Nothing comes cheap and all contribute to the huge weekly cost of wages. Cremorne if you like Gentlemen, is a city in itself. A pleasure Garden more akin to a mini-metropolis. Just imagine for a moment if you will the overall daily consumption of food … Sorry I’m going on apiece. Must be very boring … ’

‘No please go on. Very interesting indeed.’, recites Sam Webb.

Edward Browne is reassured and Hylda Farley carnally lends her arm to his shoulder for comfort and support.

‘Well the labour force, the capital investment, still … ’ Edward Browne throws his arms wide to encompass the world of Cremorne outside the Supper-Box …

‘A major night like this makes it all seem worthwhile!’

‘And keeps the coffers well-oiled I daresay!’

‘That too Sam Webb, that too … Damn … What with me going on I almost completely forgot the most important piece of news of all! Urgent I might even say! Hylda, His Royal Highness the Prince requests your immediate presence in His Supper-Box. Right this minute! Freshen up there’s a good girl and get right over there. You know he cannot abide to be kept waiting!’

‘The Prince, Bertie himself no less!’ Explodes Alfred Hayward in utter disbelief and amazement.

Hylda Farley stands upright in her dangerously-heeled shoes. Runs her hands down the sides of her curvaceous body to straighten out the invisible seams of her dress. Gives Alfred Hayward a pitiful look of condescension. Gulps down a glass of champagne, burps with the rush of bubbles, signals her intention by touching Edward Browne on the left shoulder. Regards Sam Webb coolly. Announces, ‘My Prince is awaiting.’ … And without further ado wobbles off unsteadily out from the Supper-Box.

‘His Highness himself! I just cannot believe it!’

Edward Browne smiles with the look of a man who has witnessed most things that this world of Cremorne has to offer.

‘Incorrigible Alfred. Hopelessly incorrigible I’m afraid. The rougher the better. At this moment, for the hour I should say, it is Hylda Farley. Next week it could be anyone. Could even be one of them if the fancy should so take him!’

Edward Browne has airily waved his hand in the direction of Emma and Hettie. But they don’t even notice or hear, so caught up are they in their own little world of Cremorne night delights … …

‘Well Beezer Old Boy, when do we make the play? Now seems as good as time as any to me.’

‘Caution … ’ Whispers Sam Webb. ‘The key word is caution. If we should make an approach which is considered too unseemly or aggressive, then we will jeopardise the whole concerted enterprise! … ’ Sam Webb sneezes involuntarily on the summer night air. He can still see fireworks thundering out across the Cremorne night sky. Blazing out a trail towards the glittering stars, aiming for Altair then disappearing instantly with a fast fading shimmer, then a glimmer into nothingness.

Sam Webb stretches across to the small table positioned strategically by the balcony seat and partakes of yet another glass of champagne. He smiles with the confident air and disregard of distracted Colonial power and carelessly pats the retreating bottom of the girl in the blue bonnet with the wisps of straggly blonde hair dangling before her eyes. She squeals and drops the tray stacked high with empty glasses and plates all over the Supper-Box floor.

‘Beezer! Behave yourself Old Man. Look you’ve frightened the poor sorry wench half to death. Almost goosed her into another life.’

The blue bonneted girl scuttles away for a dustpan and brush to repair the situation. Far from receiving sympathy, she is being greeted with lecherous winks and misplaced innuendos from all sides mixing in with the music of the Chinese orchestra.

The evening is advancing on and the champagne juices are flowing.

‘It was only a harmless pat on the bottom. Still, enough of that. What exactly is the state of play Alfred old chap? Fill in the missing pieces quickly while we still have this time!’

‘Well, you know rightly who his Grandfather is. Lord … ’

‘Yes, yes. I already know that Old Chap.’

‘Well, suffice to say he will be twenty-one very shortly. Key of the door stuff and all such nonsense. More importantly though with regards to us, he comes into his inheritance. No change of his title I don’t rightly think. He still remains an Honourable. But Beezer, that young man over yonder displaying his wares before those two giggling shop girls, is about to become one of the richest young men in all England dontcha know! … Now obviously Beezer, he is advised and given professional counsel. Here though, we have gained, how do you say, a head start. His legal and business team is headed up by one Frederick Mollett of Mollett, Smith and Lawder. Offices near Chancery Lane, not far from that wretched Holywell Street! Now … ’ Alfred Hayward leans closer to Sam Webb till he is almost whispering into his ear … ‘Frederick Mollett is very, very keen to be of some prime assistance to us in this matter. He can well see the opportunities and benefits to his client as well as the possibilities for Mollett, Smith and Lawder. In short, the word is still gas Beezer. Gas hangs heavy on the air in every conversation. Just look at the share rise today on the market, even after the overnight disaster at Nine Elms. We cannot fail Beezer. But an added investment, say, to the tune of one hundred thousand pounds, would greatly help ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’. Will aid and assist our new venture in Dublin Old Man. Will greatly improve our prospects Beezer, stretch our potential, and that is the main thing old man. We have to remain a major player at all costs and we need this additional investment to develop and strengthen … What you say?’

‘I am totally with you on this Old Chap. Now would seem the ideal time before all hell breaks loose with the imminent arrival of that confounded Parisian Aeronaut woman and her balloonship whatever! Start now. Manoeuvre Burton over towards those two shop girls. Ask him to I don’tknowwhat. Dance! Yes dance by gad! Get him to split them up and dance with the pretty filly. Then we can move in on the Right Honourable young Gentleman and propose our case!’ … …

The lights of Cremorne are swirling around and around and Emma Martin is feeling quite dizzy. What with the charm and close proximity of Burton O’Brien with his hands clasping hers and on her slender waist. Light-headed from all the glasses of champagne. The occasion of the Cremorne Bandstand and Dance Platform is so exhilarating and exciting. Some of the thronging crowd have moved away to position and prepare themselves for the descent of Europa astride a bull. That would be thrilling enough in itself. But here in the middle of this crystal platform. The ornate, glowing forms of the cut-glass enclosing the Dancers in a perimeter of luxury and beauty. Just to cross the sparkling threshold lead by this handsome young Dubliner Burton O’Brien, was to enter a utopia of the senses for Emma. The sheen of cosmopolitan sophistication rubbing off onto her movements and demeanour. Encircled by gas-lit elm trees, this crystal platform under the full moon light has become a fairyland. A magic dancing circle, flickering in the lights of a thousand gas-jets.

The orchestra strike up an old-fashioned waltz and the glamorously dressed couples take to the floor. The familiar form of the illuminated orchestra Conductor stands out below the full moon; all completing the swirling scene of movement and romance. Emma is enraptured and giddy with excitement. Trying very hard not to display her feverishness before Burton. He remains serenely calm and pleasurable to touch as they glide around the Pagoda Bandstand. The Dance Platform is a glittering sea of black top hats, cultivated moustaches, flowing capes mainly coloured midnight blue or burnt orange. Pointed shoes with daringly high heels. Occasional flashes of bare ankle embolden and bedazzle the eye. Around and around they twirl. Never has dancing felt so graceful and so right. So perfect on a night like this … Emma is now breathless with delight. Embraced by the champagne and these movements. Their dance steps seem to intertwine forever … The music has suddenly changed time completely. They are laughing uproariously and charging across the Bandstand floor with hand and arm clasped together as they perform the favourite of the moment the Cremorne polka. They all simply charge across the dance floor to shrieks and howls of delight from everyone … Everything is forgotten in this exquisite moment for Emma. Hettie has disappeared from view and the Chocolate Soldier is no more. All thoughts of family, friends, Mister Purvis and Burgoyne and Sons have vanished under the full moon dusting this night of Cremorne. Laughing crazily and exhilarated beyond belief. Prancing across the crystal Dance Platform of Cremorne with handsome young Burton O’Brien … …

‘Do you mind awfully if we squeeze in along this seat Miss? … Miss? … ’

‘Nicholson. But you can call me Hettie.’

‘Well that is right good of you Miss Nicholson. Now, if we could just capture young Guy heres attention for five precious minutes, then we will be forever in your debt.’

Hettie Nicholson pulls a face and rolls her eyes skywards in the direction of the right honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville. Without waiting for any sort of response, she turns around and leans on the balcony’s edge overlooking the Chinese Pagoda Bandstand. Resting her chin on her folded arms and trying hard through all the reflected gas-light, dazzling crystal cut-glass and beaming shafts of moonlight, to pick out the dancing figures of Emma and that handsome Burton O’Brien.

Guy Cunningham-Greville fixes Sam Webb and the corpulent, fidgeting figure of Alfred Hayward, with a resigned look. He has half-suspected all evening that this approach will be made, but has tried hard to ignore the idea. Quite frankly the thought of business and commercial concerns bores him rigid. Something quite vulgar and common in the habitual pursuit of wealth. The acquisition of profit through business and work. Yet you cannot ignore it in this great flourishing age. The entrepreneurial businessman made good is the talk of the hour. Peerages being bestowed all over the place by that blessed Palmerston fellow. The nouveau riche are alive and about and are the central hub of this New Industrial Age, sweeping the known world. The might of the Empire is driven by their verve and business perspicacity. No doubt the coffers of the whig and Tory Parties benefit greatly. Heaven help us with all these blessed common folk suddenly becoming the Duke of this and the Lord of that. But that does not mean that we have to approve of it, participate, take part and invest in the prosperous present and the burgeoning future. Still … Maybe just five minutes then the glory and excitement of this night can continue.

‘Now Guy dear boy, we realise that this is not the most prepossessing of moments this blossoming night and all … ’ Sam Webb extends his left arm wide to encompass the whole vista of scintillating Cremorne in his stretch. Alfred Hayward is lighting up and puffing monstrously on one of his Cuban cigars. That damned shop girl, Hettie whatshername … Nicholson, is starting to whistle annoyingly, but still, press onward and make the most of this moment.

‘Let me tell you about the true value of Gas Guy dear boy. Here at Cremorne is the best example of all. That splendid Dance Platform displaying before our very eyes, the wonders of gas-lighting making it all come true, turning this world into a night-time fairyland. A sensory cornucopia of Cremorne; music, dancing, food, wine and the lights. Enchantment Guy dear boy, enchantment like this, all made possible by the wonder of GAS! … ’

Sam Webb breaks off abruptly and glances across the balcony seats at Hettie Nicholson who has stood up and is waving her arms and yelling wildly, and repeatedly calling out the name ‘Elsie, Elsie, Elsie’ …

‘For god’s sake girl pipe down!’, exhorts Sam Webb.

Nothing. No reaction from Hettie Nicholson. She does not care. She is saying hello to a friend. Probably just another member of the common herd, the hoi polloi. Guy Cunningham-Greville is laughing at the unintentional interruption. The pure naturalness of Hettie Nicholson is her most attractive quality. As Sam Webb fixes him once again with those perturbing, persuasive, brown business-fired eyes. Guy is biting into and puckering the inside of the cheeks of his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud, and going and standing with a yelling and a-screaming Hettie.

‘Where was I? … No matter. Let us cut to the chase dear boy … To many the muted, golden glow of gas-light seems dull and dirty. Quite a few Business folk are keen to promote the future values of limelight and those new-fangled incandescent electric lamps. But Guy dear boy, we just know that they will not happen. Gas is with us to stay. The vital, productive future is assured with Gas. The beauty of Gas just takes my breath right away. So beautiful when you consider how it creates patches of light interspersed with pools of darkness. Gas seems to me to have the power equally to create illumination and to cast shadow. In artistic terms Guy dear boy, the chiaroscuro of gas-light, its transitional passages from light to dark. The poetics of Gas. Ah! Gas does not destroy the night Guy dear boy, it illuminates it. Its unsteady flame flares then wanes, giving objects and places an aura of perceptibility dear boy … ’

Alfred Hayward is producing a furious thick cloud of dense cigar smoke and is mumbling over and over again to himself between urgent puffs.

‘Wonderful. Wonderful. Truly wonderful, Beezer.’

As a surprisingly interested Guy Cunningham-Greville leans forward to ask some casually inquisitive questions of Sam Webb, the figure and personage of Edward Browne appears and seats himself down with them. The moment is broken, the spell is dispersed and the subject of Gas will have to wait on the back burner for a while.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, this evening is truly swimming along. Swimming along. Any minute now my spies tell me that Madame Pontoise disguised as Europa astride her bull should appear in the night sky over Vauxhall. This box should be a very good vantage point to witness the miraculous descent. It should be a truly exhilarating and sublime experience.’

These comments are greeted with nods and voiced assents. Sam Webb is trying hard to be as civil as the moment will take him. Alfred Hayward seems to be smiling from within his fug of cigar smoke. Guy smiles distractedly, he is far more interested in the Dancers swirling around and around the Chinese Dance Platform. But has to conform to his elders for sake of appearances. The restrictions of his privileged position in life dictate it. Ah well, wild sensuous oats await on the night air, but for now …

Edward Browne claps his hands and a waiter instantly appears as if materialising from within a Genie’s lamp. Fresh bottles of expensive champagne adorning a silver tray are placed on a table by the balcony box. As fresh drinks are poured the girl in the blue bonnet with the straggly strands of blonde hair flicking before her overworked eyes, appears bearing a tray of deliciously assorted sweetmeats. Thump! Crash! Squeal! She slips over on the still wet floor and goes flying on the strewn remains of grey-pink oyster shells. The tray flies across the Supper-Box crashing into a gas-lamp and all the sweetmeats are flung into the air to land higgledy-piggledy across the Supper-Box floor. A couple hit Hettie Nicholson on the back of the head and shoulder. Without turning around or pausing to draw breath in her constant stream of yelled conversation with her friends down below, she grabs at a couple of sweetmeats and throws them out from the balcony Supper-Box.

‘’Ere Elsie love. For you. Catch!’

Edward Browne’s face has taken on a brief thunderous look. Sam Webb is wondering what else can occur to break up his business approach. By the time all this mess is sorted out that confounded Parisian Aeronaut woman and her blasted air balloon whatever will be arriving and all will be lost.

The waiter and another waitress have approached and are picking up and comforting the distraught girl in the blue bonnet. Her dress is all soggy and torn. Her manner is one of sheer fright before the overlord and master of Cremorne Edward Browne. The other waitress gently brushes the straggly strands of blonde hair from out of the startled and nervous eyes of the girl in the blue bonnet.

Edward Browne changes the topic and overlays the tray accident instantly. Waves the staff away with a dismissive flick of his hand.

‘Have you seen what Hylda Farley is up to Gentlemen?’ … Blank stares.

‘That supper-box over there to the left of the Bandstand. The one designed with the silver and gold motifs. That is His box!’

‘You mean his Royal Highness the Prince?’

‘Yes man, yes … She, Hylda Farley no less, is attempting to recreate the Dance of the Seven Veils. Only she’s drunk and too ungainly I’m afraid. His Royal Highness and his entourage are in total hysterics. A jolly good wheeze what! … She is virtually naked before them. Swaying on a drinks table and showing her large, shall we say, well-endowed bottom to the entire disbelieving world … Scandalous Gentlemen! Scandalous!’

Alfred Hayward chortles in a fog of cigar smoke.

‘Yes, it may be funny to you Sir … But it is scandalous all the same!’

Edward Browne has produced a small pair of opera glasses from out of the bulging pocket-folds of his black frock coat, and is staring intently across at the Prince’s Supper-Box … Sam Webb’s patience is stretched almost to breaking point. He can plainly see that the right honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville has his thoughts and feelings once more concentrated on the gaily attired dancers swirling around before him on the Chinese Bandstand. The moment is lost and Sam Webb feels helpless, the business Fates are conspiring against him … Edward Browne is snorting and a cluck, cluck, clucking … ‘Absolutely disgusting! Scandalous behaviour! … If it was anyone else but the good Prince Bertie himself, I would have him and his extended party firmly escorted out, removed completely away from Cremorne Leisure Gardens altogether!’

‘But it is the Prince!’ Interjects an exasperated Sam Webb.

‘Do you know what Sir … ’ Bristles Edward Browne. He is exploding, all composure blown as if borne on an etesian wind. He seems to be stabbing at the very night air with his opera glasses. Jabbing repeatedly at the unseemly behaviour. Now reaching hastily for another glass of champagne to ease the uncomfortable tension. His relaxed, jolly air of managerial bonhomie and good humoured behaviour has completely evaporated … cluck, cluck, clucking. ‘You know what Gentlemen … That Hylda Farley woman has repeatedly fallen off the drinks table. Each time mirth-shaking hands grasp her naked limbs and propel her back up onto the table-top. They have their own musical accompaniment with them, as if our world famous Chinese orchestra is not good enough for his Royal Highness. It looks like a violinist, a flute player and some sort of drum instrument. The whole entourage are rhythmically clapping their hands and goading her on. She is now as naked as the day she was born. Totally besotted in the royal moment. A gift to the Gods of obscenity Sirs! Filthy and obscene Gentlemen! Scandalous behaviour! Quite scandalous Sirs! She is cavorting and gyrating naked before His Royal Highness like a belly dancer in some Turkish harem. They are disgustingly behaved. Acting no better than the beasts in the fields! … What are you doing here Bobby Sullivan? Should you not be at the office?’

Sam Webb’s face is a picture study of exasperation as he views yet another unscripted and not sort after intrusion.

‘I just had to come along to see you Mister Browne. There has been a terrible disturbance in the Theatre! Some of the audience became abusive and rowdy during the second scene of ‘School for Scandal’. A couple of rough swells leapt up onto the stage so they tell me and accosted Constance Varney. All hell has broken loose Sir! Fistfights, seats being thrown, a real skirmish. The Theatre troupe refuse to carry on. They say Constance Varney is cancelling her engagement. You had better come quick Mister Browne!’ …

‘Thank you Bobby. We shall see about Miss Constance High-and-Mighty Varney! … Must away I’m afraid Gentlemen. Must away. I trust you locked and bolted the office door at the top of the Theatre Bobby Sullivan? What with all the days takings and everything!’

‘I did Sir, I did. I even locked Missus Parker and Juliet in the office and I got that security attendant fellow Jeb Harris to stand guard … ’

‘Good man Bobby, good man! Right, let us go and see if we cannot retrieve this situation. Quickly now, I don’t want to miss the appearance of Madame Pontoise the Parisian Aeronaut if I can so help it.’ … …

‘Ah at last Guy dear boy we have a spare moment to ourselves. I will be as brief as I can. Don’t want to unduly spoil the evening’s entertainment dont’cha know.’

The Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville swivels his head around and his eyes are immediately magnetised to those of Sam Webb’s … Alfred Hayward seems to be perpetually drawing on a cigar, lost in a cloud of sweet smelling smoke … Hettie Nicholson is so animated she almost seems to be about to throw herself off the balcony box. A crowd of her eager friends have gathered below and are constantly shouting up at her …

‘Simply put Guy dear boy, where are we? A few brief miles away from the greatest metropolis in all the known world. Even on a full moon night like this, the streets of the city are filled with shopping folk flooding the paved walks. And all because of Gas. These Citizens of the World, whose delight it is to wander about the streets of the crowded city at nightfall and gaze upon the rich contents of gas-lit shop windows. Be jostled and harangued by a motley crowd of vendors and purchasers under street gas-lights. A gas-lit world of late night seductive linen drapers Guy dear boy. Haberdashers, milliners, perfumery, glove and fancy stationery and point-lace, and bronze kid boots, and mantle, and Talma, and parasol, and feather-fan shops open to eleven o’clock at night in elegant Regent Street. All turning a huge profit because of the advent and affect of gas dear boy … ’

Guy Cunningham-Greville seems mesmerised by the words of Sam Webb … . Alfred Hayward is purring and whispering words of encouragement to Beezer under his smoke-stained breath … though there is that same hard edge beneath the purr, the sound of a man counting what is owed to him … Even a wild and capricious Hettie Nicholson has ceased her stream of shouted exclamations to her gathering audience down below, and turned an ear to the proselytising words of Sam Webb.

‘What we now inhabit Guy dear boy, is a gas-filled world of strolling, looking and contemplating. A world of commodities and primarily of women’s luxury goods. The nightlife of London has been transformed into a dazzling, seductive spectacle. Gas-lit shop windows now supplement the Public lighting in the streets dear boy. They offer a superabundance of illumination. But you see, the true wonder of it all is dear boy, these shop fronts with their gas-lighting are more than just functional. They are truly magical and have transformed the whole experience of night-time city space into a fantastic mode of visual desire … And we Guy dear boy. ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’, are right at the forefront of it all. For example, we have the sole rights to the entire lighting and all the displays here at Cremorne. At present we are one of the major sixteen or so Gas Companies inhabiting the great City. We are in the throes of expansion. Dublin is next and then there are plans for Edinburgh … ’

Right at that moment a thirsting Burton O’Brien and a flushed and exhilarated Emma Martin walk straight into the balcony Supper-Box. Stroll right across Sam Webb’s closing finale for valuable share investment and the precious acquisition of capital. They each reach for a glass of champagne and sit down either side of the Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville. The spell is immediately broken. His interest is lost. He only has eyes and ears for a positively radiant Emma Martin … …

You can almost touch the excitement and anticipation hanging on the air as Blind Tom, Young Jack and a smell-intoxicated Nelson reach the location of the Firework Temple. The night-time crowd have gathered in force and most are looking skyward to see what aerial activities they can spy. Masses of exploding fireworks are lighting up the night sky. A vivid display entitled Vesuvius is showering forth with breath-catching, thunderous claps. The moon endowed sky is suddenly transformed into a volcanic eruption of dazzling fireworks and glittering streams of flashing sky lava.

‘Tell me everything you can see lad. My senses don’t rightly operate so well in such a thick crowd as this … Have we reached the site of the Firework Temple yet? … Describe to me what you can see Jack lad. Don’t keep me in the dark here!’

‘It’s amazing old man. I can just make out the Firework Temple if I stand on tiptoe and jump up. I dunno what any Temple looks like Blind Tom. All I know is, it sort of resembles an Army Barracks I saw once or I fancy some great mansion building. But this sight is wonderful. The whole sky is filled with blooming fireworks. Greens and reds and blues. Gold flashes and silver spangled stars. They seem to be heading towards the very stars themselves. And there are figures and shapes in the fireworks. I can see a witch on a broomstick and I can see a starfish shining out.’

‘Tell me more lad! Tell me more! … Who is in this pressing crowd? Who is doing what? Anyone we know of? … ’

‘Well I don’t rightly know that many people Tom. I thought a while ago I saw that Preacher fella Archie and I think Sister Amelia was with him. I dumped all the rest of them pamphlets Blind Tom. I didn’t think anyone would question or notice. What do yer think?’

‘Don’t you go a-worrying yourself about that lad … Carry on will yer.’

‘Well just about everybody is here. I can see stilt-walkers in white top hats and painted faces, folk selling beer and hot pies from stalls. Old ladies selling fruit from out of baskets, sweets from a tray ‘round a woman’s neck. Everyone seems gathered about. You can hear for yourself Tom. Children running wild all over the place laughing and a-screaming. All the dogs, cats, horses and monkeys are scared witless by the noise of the fireworks … whoosh! There goes a whole flock of fireworks rocketing off at once from the Temple rooftop … Nelson won’t leave off a-rubbing against my leg … A pickpocket’s just robbed some old tart and she’s screaming blue murder as he’s run off … Still, you can hear all that old man you ain’t deaf as well! … Most of the crowd are holding jars of beer and glasses of wine I guess. Most folk have had a few Tom. Bit like you old man! … ’

Blind Tom goes to strike out at Young Jack but thinks better of it. He’s more reliant now in this late evening crush. Large crowds heighten his sense of vulnerability …

‘Go on lad don’t stop!’

‘Well tell me what it is you want to see then?’

‘Well … Are there lawns in front of the Firework Temple? Can we get through and reach the crowd awaiting this Europa woman astride her Bull, and see where she is meant to land? … Are many people working the crowd besides that pickpocket? … Who is working the booths? Any Brethren about? Any Peelers about? Any likely-looking tarts? … No, don’t you go a-answering that last one. You’re still too young for any of that malarkey Jack lad!’

‘Hold on Old Man. I’ve only got two bleedin’ eyes you know. What you think I am bleedin’ Charlie Dickens himself writing up the crowd!’

‘Can you read and write Lad?’

‘What’s it to you Old Man! … I don’t need no reading or no writing to paint you a picture now do I … I’ve had enough of this, let’s move on and get a better spot Blind Tom!’ … …

Young Jack takes Blind Tom firmly by the arm. Nelson the mutt seems attached to his right leg by an invisible, umbilical cord. Without further ado Young Jack launches them onward through the heaving, jostling crowd.

‘Make way there! Make way! Blind Man coming through look out! Look out! … Make way there Blind Man on the loose!’

The slow progress of this motley band is accompanied by a chorus of curses, mutterings, sly jeers, comments flung about both left and right. The milling crowd don’t readily wish to let them through. Eventually they shuffle half-heartedly aside, part with ill-mannered grace and spit and chew and let them through … Those bleached dead eyes reflected in the firework-kissed lit night-sky, are unnerving and best passed onward. Take a quick swig and look away. Tomorrow is still a long way off and may never come. Bleached bones gather us all in everyone. Death knell eyes marching on by … …

‘What are we a-stopping for lad? Why the delay?’ …

‘The crowd is really full Blind Tom.’

‘I think this is going to be the best we can do. Even Nelson won’t budge another inch and that’s good enough for me Old Man!’

‘Where are we then? What is happening? Tell me lad. Tell me!’

‘Keep yer hair on Blind Tom. Look on the bright side, you may be blind but for an old man you’ve a lot of hair … This is the place where the Europa woman is meant to come down. There are thousands of folk Blind Tom. Thousands and thousands. There’s a building way up ahead which is all lit up and shining. Glowing like some ship stuffed full of lit candles … I dunno what it is!’

‘That be the American Bowling Saloon Jack Lad.’

‘For a fella who’s never been here before you sure know your way around Blind Tom. You got candlelit maps a-shining inside that head of yours or what? Navigating us around the sights and entertaining delights of Cremorne … ’

‘Shut up with your palaver. Tell me what you can see will you! It ain’t much fun being blind you know Jack Lad. Let us hope you never have to find out in life yourself … Now go on will yer!’

‘Cor, you don’t let it alone do yer … Well, everyone is staring skyward awaiting. You can hear all the excited chatter. You won’t need me to tell you the sounds of music, men and women, children, animals … Alright, alright! Leave off a-gripping my arm like that will yer, or I won’t paint no pictures see … All the gas-lamps are brightly lit. It looks like each of the corners of the lawn have got some sort of brazier with a wild red flame shooting up … Let go of my arm so I can jump up and make out more will yer. I’m as ‘bout as much in the dark here as you!’

‘Paint better pictures then will yer.’

‘That’s not fair old man and you know it! … I’m only a boy not some fancy artist or what. Give me a chance will yer. I haven’t walked all this way today to be saddled with some old blind mumbling man giving me grief, ‘cos I ain’t clever with words an’ all. You’ll just have to take what I give you and be pleased at that!’

‘Sorry Jack Lad. Go on.’

‘Lord bless us he said sorry! I’d better rub my eyes ‘cos I must be a-dreaming … If I … keep jumping up … I can see a group … of fancy folk … on the lawns … Phew! … Can’t jump no more. There’s a sort of committee welcoming party awaiting Europa! … ’

Suddenly a cry goes up in the moon-drenched sky. Sightings can be seen. A gigantic Balloon has come into full view. The expectant crowd are already dazzled and they have not even seen anything yet. Murmurs of approval, animated chattering, giggling and laughter rebound back and forth through the excited crowd. People push and shove for better positions. Arguments break out. A fight starts, punches are traded. A police whistle, now another blow. The strains of the Chinese Orchestra have become louder and louder. They seem to be intent on waltzing the Parisian Aeronaut Lady … Gasps as she fully comes into view. Cremorne is a blaze of light. The beguiling full moon seems at its most radiant and brightest all evening. It is so very bright it’s as if Madame Pontoise is descending in full daylight. Large sections of the crowd are cheering. Mad drunk men are throwing their hats in the air. All the other activities of Cremorne have ceased for this special moment. All eyes are trained on that magical Balloon hovering into view over the Great River. The waltz time strains of the Chinese orchestra are mixing with the cheering, jubilant crowd. Honking sirens and clanging bells are sounding off all along the Great River. Fireworks explode and a gunshot seems to be heard, but it is very difficult to distinguish the exact difference. All mayhem erupts among the expectant masses welcoming the great heroine Madame Pontoise the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut to earth.

‘Oh it is so marvellous Blind Tom. So bleedin’ marvellous! Almost takes my breath right away and so it does … There’s this great big Balloon all lit up Tom. There are blue and red gas-jets glowing from either side as it sails on the night sky. It almost seems suspended from the very moon itself. It’s so blooming exciting Tom! … There are two men dressed in fancy tight trousers, they are hanging suspended from either side of the Balloon. They each have one arm stretched out as if signalling the glorious entry of the Airship … ‘Cor Tom I don’t bleedin’ believe it!’

‘Go on Lad go on. Please don’t stop now!’

‘Well, I can see there’s this green shiny basket which is strapped on top of a great big brown Bull. The Bull’s legs are dancing madly, and he’s shaking his head wildly. You can plainly see he’s upset and roaring but his bellowing is lost amid all the noise, music and the rest … Europa herself is standing on top of the Bull in her green shiny basket. They are getting closer and closer Tom. Can you hear all the cheering and shouting old man?’

‘I ain’t bleedin’ deaf Lad! Go on!’

‘She’s got on what looks like a long blonde wig with a green band around her head. A laurel … bleedin’ hell Tom. She’s showing her big breasts naked for all the world to see! She’s got this purple cloak wrapped around her but it’s only covering over her shoulders and her big floppy breasts are bouncing and sliding all around. She’s holding something magical in her right hand and waving it to the crowd … I dunno what Old Man … what you call it. A scro … scrow … ’

‘A scrowl Jack Lad.’

‘Right … There’s this great big golden band around the middle of the Balloon. It’s got glowing figures on it. I can see a lion roaring, a crab, two naked boys holding hands, all done in different colours Tom and shimmering … Oh it’s so wonderful. Every bit as good as they said it would be … ’

‘She’s coming closer and closer. That Bull, you can see it clearly now. It’s right wild. I wouldn’t like to get to close to him. Still, I suppose the power and skill of Europa can handle anything … The two fancy dressed men in tights are letting down what looks like parcels on pieces of string … ’

‘Ballast Jack Lad. Weighted ballast to anchor them to the earth.’

‘They are so close now I could almost reach up and touch them. A great fountain of fireworks have gone up from the Firework Temple, hear that Tom! … Europa descending, she truly looks like a Goddess an’ all. The two dandified gents are stretching out. They each have an arm and a leg outstretched and are saluting the cheering crowd on entry … Oh it’s so wonderful! Can you hear? Folk are beside themselves with glee. This is wonderful … Here she comes in all her glory … Ah!’ …

A collective cry goes up from the exultant crowd. The Balloon descent has suddenly speeded up dramatically. The big brown Bull has crashed to earth with a huge snort then a loud roaring bellow then silence. Madame Pontoise is catapulted forth, shot right out from her green shiny basket and is lying prone, face down across the lawn. The massive Balloon has separated from the green shiny basket, the two men Billy and Percy have dived to earth. Flames of gas are flaring from the fleeing Balloon. The Balloon is on fire. BANG! A terrible explosion before you can cover your ears. Most of the crowd cover their faces in fear. BANG! An explosion loud enough to rend the Firework Temple asunder. Threaten the very night-life of all Cremorne. Totally obliterating all other sounds … All that can be seen now of the fabulous Balloon are tatty strips of flailing material on the smoke-trailed moon. One line of ballast can be seen attached to the ground. The rest have exploded away into the night air across the Great River and way beyond … …

‘What the hell happened Jack Lad? I was almost blown right off my feet … Tell me Lad. Tell me! … ’

‘Hold on to your braces Blind Tom. Bless me but the bleedin’ Balloon blew up Old Man. That thrashing wild Bull seemed to drag Europa and the

Balloon down with it! It ain’t moved since Blind Tom. I can see clearly now. Most of the crowd have scattered and drifted away. People arguing all over the bleedin’ shop. A lot of them want their money back Blind Tom. Feel like they’ve been cheated or something. How can that be? I mean, what more do they rightly expect Old Man! … It was all so wonderful then Bang! I can still see that wild, crazy brown Bull and he ain’t moved a muscle or nothing. Can a bull just crash to earth and die like that Old Man?’

‘Could happen to us all Jack Lad. All creatures are highly susceptible, us included. You can just fall over and break your neck and die in an instant. Life is a very flimsy thing Jack Lad. Don’t take much to die I can tell you. I saw some sights on the battlefield at Waterloo and so I did. All before the mighty … when your times up Jack lad and it is your turn to go, that’s it. Dead. Straight away and no two ways about it … Whatever happened to that Europa Lady then? How is she faring? … ’

‘Some of those toffs from that welcoming Committee I told you about have gone and picked her up. She is now with those two fancy dressed men in tights and some fella with what looks like a black bag. Might be a Doctor. I dunno … Everythings stopped still for a second. The Firework Temple is dead quiet. I cannot hear no noise from the Ships and Ferries along the River. The crowd has run away in disappointment Old Man. All that is left is the dead carcass of a Bull and strips of balloon hanging from the branches of the trees. They look really strange in the gas-light. Like some strange fruit plastered all over the red and green coloured branches. All that is left is the sound of the Chinese orchestra playing on! … ’

‘That heathen pack of scoundrels got their comeuppance right enough didn’t they Blind Tom!’

The booming voice of Archie Skinner the Preacher knifes through the night air still tainted by the smell of exploded gas.

‘Bit of a shock Preacher. What do you think? The Lad here has been painting me pictures, but I got the gist see. Could ‘ave had us all killed!’

‘So it could Blind Tom. So it very well could. And we would have all deserved it make no mistake. All that is save the good Sister Amelia here. But He, our salvation and master, has other tasks for us to perform. He is not ready to receive the Enlightened Ones of us yet. The rest are all damned to hell and eternal purgatory for their wicked and profane ways. Still, we must not dwell on the future inhabitants of Satan’s Palace must we! We will leave that pleasure to the Romish church with all their mumbo jumbo and sacrilegious idolatry … Still, there is humour in everything lads. Two of the stilt-walkers fell flat on their faces, and an inquisitive Monkey got too close to that Europa woman and was blasted up a tree. At least fifty people thinking that the World was coming to an end, got down on their knees and started to pray to God for mercy and salvation. I’ve already received more converts this saintly night than I usually get in a month of Sundays. Sister Amelia is administering to the new, greatly enriched souls … Closer to home Blind Tom they say that the Spider and Dave Young both got caught in the act turning over some frightened young Ladies, and have been arrested by the Peelers … The Lad Jack here seems unmoved, but I can’t rightly say the same for your mangy mutt Nelson Blind Tom. He has piddled great pools all over the ground and looks like he has just had an encounter with the fiendish hound from Hades himself … Still, what a mess! They say that Parisian Aeronaut Lady Madame Pontoise is all shaken up. Poor thing!’

A small crowd of passers-by have gathered, attracted by the Preacher’s booming, sententious voice, and his gleaming white dog collar which seems to be glowing in the night-light. Aware of his circling audience, the Preacher spreads his arms heavenward and booms out in that fulminating voice … ‘The Lord rewarded me according to my righteousness; according to the cleanness of my hands hath he recompensed me. For I have kept the ways of the Lord, and have not wickedly departed from my GOD!’ …

‘Where you at to now then Preacher? … Is your job done for the night?’

‘Job Blind Tom! Job!’ Explodes the Preacher.

‘You should know better than to say that Blind Man … Belief and the works of the Lord are not simply a job. No … Not even a pastime or given vocation. A true calling more likely. An expression of His thoughts and deeds on this sacred earth. A calling to inspire and assist the wicked, dissolute, and the needy … Job you say! … Nay Tom Lad. True faith is the response to something which is calling us from the timeless part of our reality. You may think and believe that this is Cremorne Leisure Gardens, but really it is the City of Golgotha. Now Blind Tom you old cantankerous reprobate, if this young Lad here will be of some assistance to you; then you can follow the good Sister Amelia here and our newly discovered flock, as we head for a sacred little spot right by the Theatre … No need for you to mumble and curse under your breath Blind Tom. All will be provided for. Even you with your wild ways! Drinks and smokes shall be a-forthcoming and we might, just might, be blessed with the delectable company of Wilf ‘The Voice’ Martin and Big Fish. Both are said to be roundabout this starry night … Now, let us not hesitate on the path to Salvation, much has yet to be accomplished this pagan-driven night of casting moonbeams and wicked debauchery … Why, I might even wet my own whistle with you Blind Tom. Now come on, let us get a move on. The Lord’s precious time marches on. The satanic Angels of depravity are abroad this night and thriving on the innocence of weak and helpless souls!’ …

With that the Preacher Archie Skinner, with the demonic flowing beard and white dog collar gleaming bright in the reflecting gas-light, strides forth into the Cremorne night. Heading for the Theatre by way of crossing over the Promenade Versailles. Sister Amelia looking fresh and clean-natured in her modest bonnet this gas-lit frayed night, follows closely on the giant striding heels of the Preacher. Behind her fifty or so meekly weighted folk troupe along with hope and expectation. Bringing up the rear are Blind Tom tottering unsteadily along with an impatiently-guiding Young Jack and a discountenanced and muted Nelson …

This peculiar grouping make their way through the raging laughter, smirking quips, fractious arguments, ginny sniggers and madcap insanity. The thronging crowds have spilled over from the thousands gathered to witness the balloon descent of Europa astride her bull, and are hugging all the tree-lined avenues of Cremorne. Quickly the adroit stalls and booths have repositioned themselves afresh. All the side-shows are back in full swing. The Organ Grinder and his smirking monkey compete with the surging strains of the Chinese Orchestra. A failed Trapeze Artist hangs upside down from an oak tree illuminated by a purplish gas-light, and begs sustenance for one more chance to perform. Many painted Ladies of the night have mysteriously appeared and are accosting the jovial clusters of swaggering young Swells. Plying them with snatches of flighty banter and the offer of fleshy kinds of sustenance … Amid all the chaotic mayhem and the many jars of steaming purl beer being drunk, and the constant smell and whiff of hot food hanging on the night-time air, aromas that make you savagely hungry just to breathe in the seductive odours … Amid this sheer lust for life and vibrant activity a group of pinch-faced women in plain bonnets with sneers of contempt written across their pursed lips, are handing out pamphlets to the shameless and ill-begotten ones. The ‘Society for the Suppression of Vice’ is working this thunder-lit, moon-shafted night. Such is the endeavour of these god-straining, starch-laced ladies, that they can only just manage a nod in the general direction of the Preacher himself. As if the mere sight of this man of the cloth amid such heathen unconstraints is an effrontery to their very ideals and austere natures …

The starch-laced Society Ladies hurry on by as a drunken group of lecherous labourers threaten to debauch them as they hasten away, threaten to rekindle what lies dormant between their Society-laden starched thighs … All the voices, music; chatter, arguments; barking, yelling; laughter, sensual innuendo; coughing, slurping; burping, farting; dancing, cavorting; strolling, touching; appealing, nodding; thieving, reacquainting; chewing, sneering; munching, spilling; spitting, smiling. All the fun of Cremorne is on display this moon-dressed, succulent night. All thoughts of constraint and tomorrow are tossed aside and are cast-off till the next dawning of the sun … …

‘Was not that one huge disaster and disappointment! … All these good folk have travelled all this way just to see the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut and that goes and happens! … An absolute disaster! … ’

‘Poppycock and balderdash James as you English would say … What do you mean a disaster … Rubbish!’

That honeyed voice of Leon Chandler slips into intensive mode … ‘What do people crave for? Don’t answer boys and girls … Happenings, occasions, events, danger … Why have these two young Ladies of exquisite charm, ventured forth on such a moon-caressed night as this? Why? Excitement! Anticipation!’ …

‘What Ladies? I don’t … ’

‘Don’t be a bigger fool than you already seem, dressed to kill in the Cremorne dandy mode of the hour … Why these two young Ladies as you well know! Just because you have two such stunningly beautiful Belles living right under your very nose and that one of them just happens to be your little Sister, don’t pray exclude me the pleasure of anticipating their future glamorous glory on the field and emotions of men-folk … Now where was I?’

‘Venturing forth. Entertainment.’, pipes up Herbert.

‘Thank ye kindly Herbert … What did we witness? … Why Spectacle in the grand manner. Sure it wasn’t the Coliseum at night under the gaze of a despotic, all powerful Caesar. Blood and death truly in the grand manner. Exotica to pleasure the sated palate … But will Alice and Mary ever forget tonight … A wondrous lit balloon sailing out from a moon-laden, firework drenched sky. A packed heaving crowd a-yelling and a-cheering. The sight of Europa astride a live kicking Bull escorted by two young Airship Dandies pulling all the strings. What a magical sight, one to never forget. The glowing coloured lights and the representation and personification of the Phoenician Princess possessed by Zeus. Then wham! Slam! Real drama unfolds that you will never, ever forget! Bread and Circuses dear boys, Bread and Circuses. That is what we all really came for. Not a glowing night of well-lit graceful intentions. But real drama to stir the very soul … The Bull goes wild, the dandified Balloon Boys panic. Europa is unseated and plunged from her basket. Tipped out unceremoniously from her green safe sanctuary onto the World and the hard brown earth. Suddenly bereft of the guardianship of her Lord and Protector, the mighty Zeus … The bellowing Bull heaving with life depicts the instant fragility of us all and breaks his neck upon impact with the ground. Before you can say Robert. E. Lee, the glorious Airship explodes. The Balloon fires a warning shot across our bows and the heaving crowd stare with wonderment as the night comes truly alive … No-one is killed. No-one is unduly hurt. Save the pride of an over-fed Europa. Showing fat and sagging at the nipples … you smile nonchalantly Alice, be careful, it will come to us all, you as well! … What we had was the ritual sacrifice of a Bull so that we might all enjoy ourselves to the full and go on living this exultant night … Drama and entertainment of the first order … An absolute disaster? … I think not James.’

‘Well put like that I would have to agree.’ Slowly reveals a chastened James. His hot breath of animated conviction has given way to the realisation of the true nature of entertainment. He cannot argue. All discussion with the Lord and Master Leon Chandler is futile. He is always right. It is extremely annoying, irksome, infuriating, but true all the same.

The stylish young party have ceased walking and are gathered around their leader awaiting further instruction.

‘As beautiful as you look, and as alarmingly as my heart beats at the mere glimpse of you Alice ma dear … I believe the time is now right for you and your best friend young Mary here, to head homeward.’

‘Oh no! Do we really have to go!’

‘Ah Alice, the youthful thrust of discovery … I sense this night has many sharp turns left in it yet. Can you, of all people present, not feel the outlandishness just simmering on the night breeze, the flowing scents and blossoms of the unimaginable. The stray portents of the indescribable leading possibly to the bizarre and to the grotesque. We are all seekers this balmy night of the curious and the monstrous … .But you two dear girls, as lovely as you are Alice, have to be protected until you have come into your own … So I insist that James here shall escort you both home.’

‘But Leon!’ Exclaims James.

‘Protestation shall not avail you of any excuse. You are being charged with this most beautiful of tasks. You may secretly desire one of these painted trollops that we see all around us. Sauntering by and displaying all the comely virtues of the flesh, and holding up a parasol under this full drawing-moon, betraying the most obvious of signals to all the World … Come, the Coliseum crowd bayed for blood and sacrifice … But you are the chosen one James. I should treat it as a great pleasure. I would happily go in your place, but I would not be able to trust myself completely in the presence of such a beauty as Alice, so therefore I do you the honour instead … Just think of yourself as Orestes dear Boy. But don’t you dare listen to Electra’s chosen words of malice and spite and go kill a parent or two upon your return … ’

With that Leon Chandler collapses into fits of laughter … The other four young members of his impressionable party look at him with perplexed and bewildered expressions on their gas-lit faces … …

‘The cruel joke I am afraid dear Company of a half-hearted and addled classical education. It may avail me of the odd pleasurable laugh or two but it is of no real matter in the long term ma dears … Don’t look so puzzled, you have missed absolutely nothing I can assure you! … ’

With that Leon Chandler takes Alice Campbell by the hand. With a wide sweeping arc of his left outstretched arm, he bends down low with a stylish gesture and flourish. Alice Campbell’s beautiful arm descends with him as he smothers the back of her extended hand with ardent kisses. A passionate love-trail of amorous kisses that reach up nearly to her elbow …

The moment is over almost before it began. Alice Campbell is frozen to the spot. Awkward and uncomfortable yet strangely excited and elated all the same … The spell is broken. With the lordly words of Leon Chandler ringing in her blood-rushing ears, she heads off out of Cremorne accompanied by her best friend Mary Hayes and escorted by her brother James who is distinctly miffed at being handed this irksome task on such a night as this … …

Leon Chandler and Herbert Campbell sift their way through the thronging crowds clustering the tree-lined avenues. Laughter hangs on the night air. All manner of activities and interactions puncture the florid sounds of this wondrous night. The Chinese Orchestra never seems to take a rest and the lilting music continues to come wafting through the gas-lit trees.

Leon Chandler and Herbert Campbell have passed on by the Firework Temple and are heading in the general direction of the Dance platform, when a large yellow and red striped tent hoves into view. A gaming tent no less. Leon Chandler simply cannot resist. One of the many addictions and pastimes that eat at his very soul.

‘C’mon Herbert ma Boy, let us frequent this den of vice and iniquity and fleece the scoundrels for every last penny they possess!’

‘But what about James? You said to meet by the Dance Platform to him. By the crystal-showered dance stand … He will never find us again!’

‘He is a grown man now. He’s not a complete fool ma Boy. You Campbell men seem to have instant homing pigeons fluttering around inside your heads. It must be growing up along the River, playing around in boats before you had even started to walk properly. Must have developed some kinda sixth sense, a directional impulse, I have noticed that before, you have got it as well Herbert ma Boy … Let me give you a valuable tip. You are a worrier by nature ma Boy. Relax, watch and listen. You will discover that it will all happen to you just the same whatever you do. The fates will have their way, it is already pre-ordained and all the worrying in the whole wide world ain’t gonna change a thing … Now remember, whatever I do in here Herbert ma Boy, just stay right calm and support me up to the hilt. Think of it as us being two Southern Confederate Spies reconnoitrering a war area. This is a gaming battle almost ma Boy. Only a game they say! Sure ma Boy! Remember, all games are war! The great Masters of Cathay understood that while we Saxon folks were still swilling with the pigs. Lining our cave walls with the trophied heads of our enemies. Hunters as follow before the dawn … Now come on. Let us improve our financial situation in life ma Boy. Let us chance our arm.’

The smoke-laden noise and activity that greets the two new arrivals almost knocks the very breath right out of their bodies … The inside of the Gaming tent has been lavishly decorated in a cheap, gaudy, imitated style. Wooden struts and brackets affixed to different parts of the tent frame, support glittering gas-lamps reflecting through different hued glass of red, blue and yellow. Naked cherubs all seeming to resemble Eros are hanging from dangling wooden perches all around the inside of the tent … A long wooden table fronting as a counter-bar is up in the far corner where all the food and drinks are served from. A cheap rush matting reeking of beer and littered with the debris of the day, covers the floor area. About twelve small circular tables dot the floor space. Groups of inebriated men in top hats, bewhiskered and high-collared, sit mostly around expensive bottles of champagne celebrating their days winnings from Epson; or drowning their sorrows and facing imminent bankruptcy and the hospitality of a debtors prison … Peering through the cigar, cigarette and pipe smoky-haze, many seductively attired women can be seen. Low-cut dresses, daintily perched hats, shiny earrings, fox furs and brooches, the colours of cerulean blue and burnt orange proliferate. Flashes of bare white ankle captivate the eye. High-heeled black shoes are crossed and uncrossed at the turn of a head, the caress of a hand. An endless quaff of another glass of champagne. The women are reclining in and around the men, encouraging, promising much. A few of the Swells who have not been able to keep up are literally under the table. A few are still drinking, well at least holding glasses in their unsteady hands, with their heads resting on the pleated, crinoline skirt knee of some luscious young lady of the Cremorne night. The gaming tables are set up to one side away from the Siren hostesses encouraging this drinking trade. Card games and the rattle of bones of dice and the shouts and exclamations of winners and losers can be heard. But only just, as an accompaniment. For across to the far left side of the Gaming tent of Leon Chandler’s vision is a musical entertainment. The strains of the Chinese Orchestra have been superseded inside this gaming tent. A dinner-jacketed Singer is belting out the latest Cremorne ditty accompanied by an accordionist and a one-eyed man with a black patch over his eye strumming a mandolin.

The night-time heat of Cremorne is in full swing inside this Gaming tent and the newly-received entrants Leon Chandler and Herbert Campbell are greeted by the words and music of … ‘So mind all fast young gentleman, who journey to Cremorne, or any other gardens, or where crinoline is worn. Do not propose to wed strange girls, however well they dress, or else like me you perhaps may get in such a mess. Be sure you know her station well, before you say you’ll wed her, a little care is just as good, as good and a great deal better!’

Enthusiastic clapping and shouting and choruses of encouragement greet the end of this song, as the dinner-jacketed, sweltering singer, and the musicians take a break for yet more eagerly anticipated liquid refreshments …

A gaudily-dressed, perfume-drenched Hostess approaches Leon Chandler.

‘What be your pleasure Gentleman? A drink, some food, a pretty Lady or a small pipe perhaps?’

‘Madam, I have reason to suppose that this is a gaming establishment of sorts. Gaming is my desire Madam. Gaming and a whisky and soda for us both if you so please!’

The gaudy Hostess blinks a wink from beneath the mask of her dark mascara that is threatening to run in the heat and smoke of this gaming tent. She points towards one of the two gambling tables and languidly curves herself away to furnish the two drinks … …

A sullen-looking man perpetually trying to smile, with a vivid red nose and a brown derby hat pushed back on his head of curly brown hair, has looked up from the milling, fleeced throng.

‘And what can I do a Gentleman like you for Sir? What be your game this wicked night? Chase the Lady, roll them bones, turn of a card, vingt-et-un or spin of a coin? It’s all the same to me Gents. You lays yer money down and yer takes yer chances see, like all these good Gentlemen here. Now maybe you can bust and flush old Charlie Mayfair and make it your special night. Mayfair by name and Mayfair by nature Gents. These here Gentlemen took their chances and came up short see, bad luck! The good Lady Fortune looks after her own. But maybe, juss maybe, you be one of her breed Sir! By the cut of your swagger and jib Sir I see you be a gaming man. A devotee of Lady Luck that devious mistress Sir. What be your pleasure Sir? Tell old Charlie Mayfair and I’ll deliver my very best Sir. The clink of the coins and the flick of the cards is always Charlie Mayfair’s lot Sir. Win or lose. It is always the same … Well Sir?’

The red-glazed gas-lights flicker over the gaming table of Charlie Mayfair. His cocksure attitude and attractive patter lead all the punters and speculators to him. A scored and cigar-ash strewn green baize greets the glittering eyes of Leon Chandler. The force is upon him and he will not be able to resist. Herbert Campbell is looking on with nervous apprehension.

‘Lady Luck you say Charlie ma boy. Well let us chase one see where it leads.’

That honeyed southern drawl has turned heads in the direction of the gaming table. Sullen red eyes and pert red lips are surveying the Gentleman with the rakish demeanour and the penetrating blue eyes … The strains of the Chinese Orchestra can be heard again … All other activities have ceased and all attention is trained on the gaming table of Charlie Mayfair. He very carefully and ostentatiously produces the three cards and holds them up for the whole smoke-pierced tent to see.

‘The ace of hearts, the king of clubs and the queen of spades. The good Lady herself in all her glory.’ …

With a blur of slick dexterity Charlie Mayfair shuffles the three cards furiously in his hands. They flick so fast the eyes become crossed just trying to keep up. All three cards are now laid to rest face down on the tawdry green baize cloth. All is silence, save for a snigger, an ill-considered burp, the slap of a hand on an ill-conceived grope.

‘Place your bet Mister American Gentleman … Place your wager if you please … What can we see? Did she take to the west and stay at home? Maybe journeyed to the east to discover new ways? Or maybe, juss maybe, might be Mister Gent, she’s sat right in the middle awaiting your very touch. The feel of your fingers, the clink of your coins. The Lady don’t hold for no special favours see. She goes with the winner, the Chosen one. The lucky Princeling. Well Sir are you ready to play?’

Leon Chandler is totally drawn in, captivated, entranced, eyes drawn like magnets to the three cards shining reverse side up on the tawdry, coin-indented cloth … Quickly his agitated fingers fish in his waistcoat pocket for his purse. Without hesitating he produces five gold sovereigns. All heads in the tent incline an inch closer towards the gaming table at the sight of money. Charlie Mayfair’s eyes are glittering yellow in the reflected gas-light. The gaudily-dressed Hostess sways across the tent space area carrying a small tray containing the two glasses of whisky and soda and hands them to Herbert Campbell. She has seen it all before many times. Her attitude is casual before the game of Chance, she couldn’t care less …

Leon Chandler agonises for a full minute. His left hand holding the five gold sovereigns seems to describe ancient riddled signs in the very air above the table. Then with a loud extended exclamation of ‘Yes Sir!’. He places them by the card to the left of the three as he looks at it. Silence … Charlie Mayfair briefly touches the rim of this derby hat, wipes the back of his left hand across his lips. Playing to the watchful audience with exaggerated delay. Suddenly his fingers strike like a cobra at the card with the five gold sovereigns stacked in front of it. The card is turned over to reveal the ace of hearts. The coins are swept up in an invisible motion. The three cards have left the flea-bitten green cloth and are back in Charlie Mayfair’s hands … A laugh and a long whistle. All heads turn away, the moment is lost. Attention goes elsewhere as the one-eyed mandolin player with the black patch, strums a tune … A helpless loser lost in his cups, crashes spark out on the matted floor of the tent at the high-heeled foot of a Cremorne hostess. Nobody takes any notice, nobody blinks an eye. All glasses are re-charged and a slight whiff of opium permeates the smoggy air of the gaming tent.

Leon Chandler already has his black leather purse out again. His raised hand silences Herbert Campbell before he can utter anything. Charlie Mayfair is shuffling the cards and looking away distractedly. Half-humming to the crooked notes of the one-eyed mandolin player. Seemingly only half paying attention.

‘Again please Sir!’ Echoes the icy calm voice of Leon Chandler. All is under control. Charlie Mayfair comes back to the moment as if reappearing inside his own skin and shows interest again. This time only a few of the nightly denizens of this Gaming tent take an interest in the proceedings playing forth.

‘Is it Chase the Lady you wish to go with again Sir?’

‘Yes man! Yes!’

‘Charlie’s juss asking Sir … Charlie needs to know … Then Chase the Magic Lady of the night it is Sir … Here we go then. Hang on to your hats back there and watch the pretty Lady fly!’ … With that the blurringly nimble fingers of Charlie Mayfair have flown into action. The three cards seem connected by strands of light as they flick and flash in the secure hands of Charlie Mayfair. Blink fast and you will see the three cards laid face down again … Voices are chattering, the mandolin is playing, glasses chink, a dog barks outside the tent in the moonlight. The human cavalcade of coughs, splutters and sneezes. The gulp of Herbert Campbell finishing his whisky and soda.

‘Which way will she fly? In the twinkle of an eye. Did she fly down the centre and spy a safe lie? Did she move to the East to dance with the beast? Or skirt to the west ‘cos lady knows best? … What will it be Sir? You lays yer money down and you takes yer pleasure Sir … What will it be?’

Leon Chandler has produced five more gold sovereigns from his black leather purse. His long arching, artistic fingers are suspended in mid air as if awaiting a secret message. Calling on some long ago latent life-force to intervene and predict the correct card. The arched hand descends in a thrice and the five gold sovereigns are placed before the centre card. The delay seems forever … The anticipation is in the wait and all part of Charlie Mayfair’s gaming charm …

‘Go on man, go on! Why the delay? Produce the divine Lady will you and let’s be having my winnings. Ten gold sovereigns I do believe!’

Charlie Mayfair smiles the conceit of all gambling wisdom. Cocks the action of his body in preparation …

‘Now maybe she is and then maybe she ain’t. Do the fickle Fates look kindly on you Sir? You being an American Gentleman and all. Has the luck of the old colonial states sailed with you across the great wide sea?’

With that Charlie Mayfair flicks over the centre card to reveal the lugubrious king of clubs to a hush. In a flash the three cards and the five gold sovereigns are scooped up before Leon Chandler even has time to react. Herbert Campbell sighs audibly as the few attentive onlookers turn aside with jocular titters and chuckles. The dinner-jacketed singer is clearing his throat and the accordionist is preparing for action.

‘And again!’ Yells Leon Chandler. Charlie Mayfair blinks hard in the gas reflecting lights. Motions casually for Leon Chandler to repeat himself. ‘Again man! Again!’ Booms Leon Chandler. He is having to yell to be heard above the singing of the dinner-jacketed vocalist, who is taunting his smoke-filled, champagne-laden audience, with messages of forlorn love. The accordionist and the one-eyed mandolin player seem to be attempting to outdo one another and push the angst-ridden ditty along at a faster tempo. The conversation in the Gaming tent has risen a couple of notches. Some fresh energy has been released amid the pervasive, insidious, smell of the gas, cigarette and cigar smoke and the splurge of cheap perfume. No one is paying any mind to Leon Chandler now, excepting a card shuffling Charlie Mayfair and an anxious looking Herbert Campbell …

Charlie Mayfair knows well enough. He has seen this feverish gambling look in operation many times not to recognise it when it appears. Without any further delay or unnatural surprises he motions to Leon Chandler who responds by producing five more clanking gold sovereigns from that black leather purse. The Well must be running dry … Charlie Mayfair smiles like all good gaming tricksters, yet again those nimble, deft fingers spark into action. The cards are a mesmerising blur. Shuffled and conceived to the low-toned humming of Charlie Mayfair’s gravely voice, as he vaguely attempts to emulate the dinner-jacketed Singer belting out another number for his supper.

Charlie Mayfair is definitely out of tune but the cards don’t pay him any mind. Leon Chandler is highly vexed by this humming noise and is muttering and cursing … Then the spread. Leon Chandler does not even ponder to think. All thoughts of magic systems, memories from the long ago intuitive past, all inspired leaps of coincidence and chance are lost. He very deliberately puts his five gold sovereigns down by the card to the right of the three as he looks at it … Charlie Mayfair leans closer across the gaming table to make himself heard amid the uproariously vigorous music and the swirling smoke. Nobody else is paying them any mind excepting a pinch-faced Herbert Campbell.

‘Yer lays yer money down and yer takes yer chances. Has that deceitful Lady turned up trumps for you Sir? She has her wicked ways they say Sir but she’s fond of a Gent or two I dare say. This might juss be your lucky time Sir. Let us see!’ …

Charlie Mayfair flicks over the card and reveals the gleaming ace of hearts again … ‘Why, bless my soul she’s being mean to you tonight Sir!’

In a magical flash Charlie Mayfair has the three cards and the five gold sovereigns in his possession.

‘Not so fast Sir!’

Leon Chandler’s long jacketed arm has reached out across the gaming table and has Charlie Mayfair’s right arm trapped in a vice like grip. The three cards and the five sovereigns drop onto the frayed green baize gaming table. As Charlie Mayfair splutters and protests, Leon Chandler reaches right across the gaming table with his angular figure and pulls back Charlie Mayfair’s left sleeve right up to the elbow. A playing card has been dislodged and has fallen face down onto the moth-eaten green cloth. With a look containing both malice and glee, Leon Chandler flips the card over to reveal the missing Queen of Spades. Picks her up and throws her in Charlie Mayfair’s eyes.

‘You are a cheat and a liar Sir and I demand satisfaction!’ Roars Leon Chandler amid the din and cacophony of the Gaming tent. ‘Right now!’

‘Louie!’ Screams Charlie Mayfair. ‘Louie come quick!’

The dinner-jacketed singer has stopped. The accordionist is taking a breather, only the one-eyed mandolin player with the black patch plunks on in solo style. Most heavy-lidded and exhausted Gentlemen have turned to regard the action occurring at the gaming table. Leon Chandler now has Charlie Mayfair by the throat with his left hand and has motioned to Herbert Campbell to collect up the gold sovereigns laid scattered across the green gaming table. Reluctantly, without giving anyone any eye contact he complies. Guilty by association. As if a thief had just arrived by night. Caught in the steal but fulfilling the promise of his unlawful trade all the same.

Everything has now stopped save the lapping in the gas reflected light of the furious smoke catching at the throat. Watering the eyes. All glasses have been put down as the entire Gaming tent appraises the specimen that is Louie. A huge, shaven-headed man, six foot three and some, and bulging with weight and muscle. Muttonchop side-burns menace his face, and he has some sort of butchers apron tied around his middle. As if just called out in the act of chopping up live meat.

‘Leave the Guv alone and pick on me mister! … See ‘ere … ’

The monstrous looking Louie barges his way around the gaming table and faces Leon Chandler, who has quickly let go of Charlie Mayfair and turned around to confront his aggressor. Anyone too close in the Gaming tent has quickly taken a backward step. The hostesses have stopped serving champagne the moment fresh entertainment is at hand to stimulate the jaded palates.

Huge Louie lurches forward with clenched-hammer fists and swings with a round arm action at Leon Chandler. The American Gentleman goes up onto his tiptoes and adopts a defensive, on guard posture, with his fists raised. Nimbly stepping aside from massive Louie’s onward thrust. He catches him with a sharp left jab and moves adroitly to his left so that lumbering Louie has to turn like a slow curving steamship to face him. Before he has even fronted-up, Leon Chandler has smacked him twice more with two crisp left jabs and has danced back out of range as Louie lurches forward … More tables and chairs are rapidly moved and rearranged.

‘Stand still you bugger … Fight like a man!’ Storms a heavily breathing Louie.

‘Come on my man and show me!’ Glints the southern drooling voice. Louie charges forward again and throws himself headlong to take Leon Chandler around the waist. Side-stepping neatly with the poise and grace of a ballet dancer, Leon Chandler cuffs him on his way as he goes flying into a group of clustered tables and chairs. Many inebriated customers thrown into a state of confusion. The indignant voices of some Cremorne sirens of the night sing forth.

‘‘Ere leave-off will yer!’

One more time a bruised and by now bleeding Louie totters upright and turns to face his slippery tormentor. He is breathing too hard now in panting gasps to make any more taunting remarks. He grabs at a chair and hurls it. Leon Chandler sways his head and the chair crashes by the flea-bitten gaming table just missing Charlie Mayfair’s head … The last charge of the furious, hurt bull. Exposed and pawing the air for breath but trying to mouth obscenities all the same. Leon Chandler is smiling with a cruel smirk licking at his lips. He is enjoying himself at last. With due Virginian grace and aplomb, he delivers the ultimate coup de grâce … As massive Louie rumbles forward swinging wildly, Leon Chandler quickly hits him with a left jab and moves. Brings his right arm through with a short, sharp right cross and sends hapless Louie crashing into and through the moth-eaten gaming table and splintering it into many pieces in the process. Bulging Louie is spark out. Laid prostrate across the collapsed ruins of the gaming table. The Guv Charlie Mayfair has leapt backward at the moment of collision and lost his brown derby hat in the process …

Total silence greets the American Gentleman’s victory. Even the one-eyed mandolin player with the black patch has ceased strumming.

Leon Chandler is returned to the centre of attention. He rubs his hands together nonchalantly and looks around the gas-lit, smoke-filled, Gaming tent, taking in every upturned face where possible.

‘Ladies, Gentleman and Charlatans … I would like to extend this opportunity to thank you for this evening’s entertainment. Most obliged … If anyone should feel that they have a disagreement with me, please step forward now and make himself known … Otherwise, ma self and young Herbert here will take our leave now with what money we have collected … I wish you all goodnight.’

Total silence save for the muffled strains of the Chinese Orchestra … With that Leon Chandler turns smartly on his heels, motions to Herbert and they leave the Gaming tent. Waiting for them by the flap of the canvas exit is a smiling James Campbell.

‘For god’s sakes man move her carefully! Who knows what damage she may have sustained! … These crowds are infuriating … Make way! … Make way there! Injured person coming through … God just look at them all! What do they want? … Nearly eleven o’clock at night and it is as if the very sun is shining forth from every tree. Gold, silver, orange, purple and green all mingled up together in the reflections, and making us all seem like animated baboons!”

George Jarry is supervising the hastily consigned, red-striped canvas stretcher, which is bearing a prostrate and indisposed Madame Pontoise, in the general direction of the Theatre. The endless droves of crowds and boisterous gangs are hovering around. Pushing and shoving forward at different intervals. All they seem to want is a sight of Madame Pontoise the world-famous Parisian Aeronaut. A quick word maybe though she seems unconscious. Grabbing with dirty, grubby, hands desirous of bits of her torn costume. Seeking mementoes. Nothing is sacred. All is profane. The thrusting crowd are oblivious to shame. They cannot be controlled. There are just not enough Peelers to go around. Already their resources are stretched to breaking point. Thieving and robbing all about. Fights breaking out without a moment’s hesitation. Gangs of armed Robbers hiding in the leafy corridors among the less well-illuminated groves. Balancing in the large oak trees waiting to pounce on some less well-prepared, carefree Cremorne visitors this lustrous fair night … The moon is radiant, acting as if a candlelit torch guiding Madame Pontoise to the Theatre … Billy and Percy, both still in costume, are acting as stretcher bearers along with two additional helpers from the Cremorne ground staff. George Jarry has taken command of proceedings and little Lucy is scuttling along behind him. She is constantly dabbing at her eyes with a white lace handkerchief and repeating over and over again in a distraught fashion … ‘Oh Madame … Oh Madame … ’ The sight of the torn and dishevelled costume of Europa has unsettled her. She seems to be fearing for her very life and the pressing crowds are extremely oppressive to her … ‘Why can’t they just leave us be and let us take Madame to some safe sanctuary where we can look after her properly? … Away from all these peering, prying eyes … Drunken obscenities hanging on the very air. Truly disgusting! Any minute a riot could break out and we could all be swept away in the stampede. Crunched underfoot like so many useless black bugs before this surging mob of mindless animals!’ …

The stretchering entourage of Madame Pontoise has somehow managed to get across the Promenade Versailles and can just see the glorious welcoming lights of the Theatre in view. A gracious group of Gentlemen have formed a human corridor of protection against the swelling, catcalling and jeering crowd and escorted them across the Promenade against the flowing human tide. At least some semblance of humanity and kind charity amid this sea of confusion. There is a malcontent grimalkin abroad this very night and George Jarry can feel it scratching at his bones …

At last the wonderful Theatre in all its Cremorne splendour … A concerned and distracted Edward Browne is standing out front the main entrance to greet them. He is surrounded by a band of Cremorne Gardeners who are ready to act as guards and protect the stricken form of Madame Pontoise.

‘This way George … Careful now … Mind those steps … Bring her in slow … Nice and gentle does it. Although it is a narrow passage and flight, I suggest we carry her up the stairs round the rear of the Theatre. I have given over my office to be used as a makeshift hospital room … Quick George, let us get her away out from these madcap, crazy crowds … It may well jar her awfully taking her up the narrow stairs but there is nothing else for it!’ …

At the urging of a concerned and committed Edward Browne, the stretcher bearing party led by George Jarry, make their escorted way along to a barely-lit side entrance of the Theatre. There they start to somehow ease Madame Pontoise around the narrow, spiralling wooden staircase that leads to Edward Browne’s office concealed at the top of the Theatre building … Someone has had the good sense to tie a rope around Madame Pontoise’s body and the stretcher. About halfway up the narrow flight, Percy slips awkwardly, dropping his corner of the stretcher and Madame Pontoise nearly completes her second major fall of the evening … Lucy shrieks from down below which quite unnerves young Percy. Her hysterical cries keep ringing in his ears as he struggles to retain his footing on the tight wooden stairs … ‘Oh Madame … Oh Madame … ’

Somehow with a succession of grunts and urges, some cussing and whispered cajoling, an insistent George Jarry and a perturbed Edward Browne point the way … The four stretcher-bearing men somehow manage to transport Madame Pontoise up the ten narrow flights of stairs without any further mishaps.

At last the sanctuary of Edward Browne’s hastily rearranged office. A long olive-green upholstered chaise longue has been positioned in the centre of the office. An emergency bed from the Theatre props department. A woman in a prim and proper brown dress with white buttons, is standing to one side of the chaise longue holding a small pitcher of water in one hand and a white towel in the other … After much fussing and reconstruction of movements and manners, the limp but still breathing figure of Madame Pontoise is lovingly laid out on the Olive-green chaise longue.

‘This is very good of you Missus Parker to wait on in attendance for us. I am sure Madame will be most appreciative when she is fully recovered and more herself … Now George, Gentlemen … Ladies … I am very much afraid I shall have to leave you for the present. I have a crisis on my hands downstairs with the Theatre troupe. They flatly refuse to carry on performing our production of “School for Scandal”; and that great modern tragedienne Constance Varney is refusing to perform at all! The audience are close to a full-scale revolt and I have to somehow manage them and calm the situation before they riot completely and burn the Theatre down!’

‘Oh my God! We must move Madame then … Oh Madame … ’ Edward Browne smiles grimly … ‘Lucy isn’t it? … Only a turn of phrase Lucy. Only a turn of phrase my dear. I am sure it will not come to that. At present I believe we have a clown and some stilt walkers entertaining the audience … Now, I must be gone and appraise events … God save us all from the mighty imperialism of Great Actresses and their thespian entourages! Give me ballooning Aeronauts every time! … Ah! At last you have arrived Horace. Very good. Timely as always! George Jarry, Ladies, Gentlemen … Allow me to introduce the very good Doctor Horace Welby. One of our leading local physicians and, I might add, a valuable shareholder in Cremorne to boot … So he has a vested interest you might say in the outcome and well-being of our good lady Madame Pontoise … Now I must urgently take my leave of you … Any pressing problems, qualms or queries, please relay them through the redoubtable Missus Parker … She is a veritable treasure, a veritable bloody treasure I might add, and will be only too happy to convey your wishes to me in some way … Now I must away as I say. Haste is of prime importance before all hell breaks loose and this glorious night turns out to be an unmitigated disaster!’ …

Doctor Horace Welby soon organises the makeshift hospital that is Edward Browne’s office. The two ground staff stretcher-bearers are thanked and immediately dismissed for their heroic efforts. Billy and Percy are sent forth to find blankets and discover some fresh towels if they can. The room is gradually clearing and the Doctor’s patient is coming slowly into full view. Two gas-lamps fizz quietly in this room, leaving strange gaps of pools of inky darkness in between their reflected light. The redoubtable Missus Parker has seated herself by the door, no doubt in readiness to repel all-comers. Lucy has taken a chair and seated herself near to her beloved Mistress. The distraught lines on her face are starting to fade now that a Doctor has appeared and all will be well. She is slowly returning to her plump, faithful self. George Jarry is pacing up and down over by the small window looking out across the tree-lit avenues towards the King’s Road entrance.

‘I say sir, do you mind obliging me and putting that cigar out.’

‘I don’t think so Doctor! Is it really likely to harm the patient in her current condition … And anyway, Madame Pontoise just adores the smell of my dutch cigars. She has even been known to be partial to the odd puff herself Doctor. So I would think not! Good for her I would say, may well revive her … ’

George Jarry continues pacing up and down continuously before the small window. Beetle-browed and puffing even harder on his big, fat, dutch cigar. His shape and outline evolving in a bubble of swirling smoke, is caricatured in shifting forms across the dusty ceiling.

Doctor Horace Welby pulls up a chair close to the olive-green chaise longue. Lucy looks on anxiously. The Doctor unclasps his black bag and produces what looks like a small cork-stoppered phial. Removing the stopper with the slight sound of a pop, he leans carefully over and waves the open-topped phial under the nose of the prostrate Madame Pontoise. A pungent aroma bites into the night air and relieves the smell of the all-pervasive cigar smoke for an instant … Madame Pontoise moans, opens her eyes with a startled expression, moans again and gasps as Lucy’s plump arms are already reaching out to console her.

‘Ah chérie I am alive and not in heaven … Ah! … And you are chérie?’

‘Doctor Horace Welby at your service Madame.’

‘What is this you wave under my nose? It is very strong no!’

‘Smelling salts Madame. Plain old-fashioned smelling salts. Always does the trick I find. No, no Madame! You need to rest. You must not get up just yet. At least not until I have had a proper chance to examine you. There, lean back, that is better. Lucy, if you could give Madame a sip of that water I would be most obliged. I think also it would be good idea to cover her up properly. A slight chill in the air even on such a balmy summer’s night as this. After all, we cannot have Madame lying around half-naked in her torn Europa costume. What would her enthusiastic devotees think of us! … Not much I suspect.’ …

George Jarry has not ceased his pacing to and fro for one moment. His only acknowledgment of the revival of Madame has been one casual glance in her general direction and a harder puff on his newly-flourishing cigar … Faithful Lucy has carefully taken her own linen jacket off and laid it across the front of her beloved Madame, to cover up the unseemly bulging parts of a half-naked Europa …

‘Now Madame if you will allow me. You must continue to be a good patient for a few more minutes if you so please. Then you can rest here awhile. I just need you to exercise your fingers and your toes for me to ascertain that nothing is broken … Good! … That is very good! … No lasting damage to report … I must say Madame you are the very first patient I have ever attended to who has had silver-painted toe nails. Most interesting … All part of being a world famous Balloonist I suspect.’ …

‘Chérie.’

‘Quiet now … If you would kindly allow me … Good, good, breathing sound … I think you are a very fortunate Lady Madame. A miracle no less that no permanent damage appears to have been inflicted … Right then, this is what I propose Madame Pontoise … I am firstly going to give you a little drop of brandy from my medicinal flask. Strictly for medical purposes you understand. It should take care of any residue shock, but I guess a world famous Aeronaut like yourself Madame is well capable of handling the natural hazards of your occupation … Secondly, I have a tincture of laudanum which I am going to administer orally. This may well make you drowsy for a while Madame, but it should act as a mild sedative. Laudanum as you probably well know Madame, is a marvellous cure-all panacea. A true gift from the Healing Gods! … Thirdly, I would also advise you when you are better able, maybe young Lucy here can be of some assistance, to use this arnica I am about to give you. Rub it repeatedly over your body for a few days till it is all used up. It will aid the healing process of your bruises and contusions … Remarkable I must say, truly remarkable that no real damage seems to have been sustained aside from a few cuts and bruises. You are a very lucky Lady Madame … Still, I suppose your training as a World Famous Aeronaut helped save you at the vital moment.’ …

Madame Pontoise lays back on the olive-green chaise longue as the calming influence of the laudanum takes affect. Lucy has tenderly wiped Madame’s face with a damp cloth, and is now dabbing some sweet-smelling rose water onto her relaxing brow with the aid of her white lace handkerchief … All has become quiet and peaceful for the moment. Missus Parker remains passively on guard by the door …

‘How much do we owe you Doctor? I suppose you are highly expensive if you are one of Chelsea’s chief practitioners and physicians! … Paid in guineas I guess, I would expect no less … Name your price.’ Booms George Jarry from a ball of rising grey smoke.

‘My dear Mister Jarry that is not necessary. This is strictly a private examination. One of friendly, personal concern I might so add. You see, I have not said this, but I am a great personal fan of Madame Pontoise myself. One of her most admiring devotees you might even say. This consultation is purely personal. No fees required thank you kindly. Just a pleasure to have been of some service. Consider it an act of support on behalf of Edward Browne, myself, the share-holders of Cremorne and the essential spirit of the Leisure Gardens themselves. A thank you. If that is all I must be making my way homeward. It is getting very late, and even though my dear wife should be well versed in our unusual timings by now, what with my being a practitioner and all, she will still be fretting about me. A born worrier I am very much afraid … Now Lucy my dear, remember what I said about administering that arnica. Truly magic ointment. It will rapidly aid Madame’s speedy recovery. You must help her. Before you know it she will be sailing across the City skies of London again in a Balloon!’

‘Arrgh!’ Rasps an unconvinced George Jarry between hectic puffs. He is not convinced. His Star turn is fading, aging fast … Lucy pretends not to notice and fusses unnecessarily with the different exposed parts of Madame’s body. The great Parisian Aeronaut has blissfully slipped into a restful sleep … The Doctor leaves without another word. Nods politely to an expressionless Missus Parker guarding the door and makes his departure.

George Jarry stops pacing to and fro and comes to the centre of the room.

‘That will be all thank you kindly Missus Parker.’

‘Mister Browne said I was to stay here, watch the doorway and take any important messages!’

‘Very good Madam … Well, you can take him an important message right now. You can tell him that Madame Pontoise is fit and well and on her way to a full recovery … And while you are about it, maybe you could enquire as to the whereabouts of our two young Aeronauts Billy and Percy. They were dispatched for blankets and fresh towels over twenty minutes ago and have not been seen since! … Now if you will be so good as to fulfill these pressing duties I will be most obliged.’

Missus Parker tut tuts. Looks across at little Lucy but she is looking the other way. Goes to say something but thinks better of it. Grimly stands up from her sentinel position. Rubs the backs of her calves to increase the blood circulation. Gathers her few personal belongings together. Just about manages to nod with compliance in George Jarry’s direction and sets off huffily in her redoubtable fashion.

‘At last we have some privacy. Thank God we have got rid of that dragon!’

‘Careful Mister Jarry, she may well be listening outside the door.’

‘Your trouble is Lucy you worry too much. I hope she is listening at the keyhole. Teach her a lesson. Tell her plainly what folks really think of her. Might go some way to improving her disposition … If you keep on fretting girl you will end up like that Doctor Horace’s wife. Life will just become one gigantic big fear and you do not want that now do you!’

‘How do you know for certain that the good Doctor was telling the truth about his wife Mister Jarry? He may well have been making it all up.’

‘Whatsoever are you suggesting Lucy? I am surprised at you. That the good Doctor, Horace Welby of this estimable parish should be a blatant, compulsive liar with regard to matters concerning his wife! Where do you get these impure thoughts from Lucy my Girl? … One minute you are fretting about all manner of things! The next you are declaiming the world to be full of grandiose liars!’

‘Oh Mister Jarry! It is not like that and you know it. I learn most from Madame. She has told me many times that nearly all people lie. That the Empress Eugénie for example is so kind she lies to save other peoples feelings.’

‘A lie is a lie Lucy my girl and well you remember it! As my Grandfather the Parson used to say, tell the truth and shame the devil! Make that your motto in life and you will not go far wrong … Now … No don’t answer just listen. We have to awaken Madame from her fitful slumber.’ …

‘But Mister Jarry!’

‘Don’t argue Lucy. You must be the one to awaken her. She is most comfortable with you Lucy, you won’t frighten her … Go on do not hesitate girl, this is what we pay you for is it not! … Remember, this is for Madame’s own good. She cannot just lay asleep on this couch all night.’ …

‘It’s a chaise longue Mister Jarry.’

‘Don’t quibble Lucy. A couch is a couch whatsoever you call it in fancy French terms … Now, shake her … Go on … No, no, no, really shake her!’

‘But she’s not stirring, I shouldn’t, it is not fair!’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid girl! … I tell you what. Try another tact. Lean over and whisper in her ear.’

‘But what shall I say?’

‘Whisper the words Saint-Cloud, Saint-Cloud. That ought to do the trick … Go on girl try it! … You are not trying hard enough. Give her a kiss … No, no, no, not on the cheek girl. Kiss her hard on the lips that should do the trick right enough … Don’t be shy girl, think of it as work. Do it! … Ah you see. Worked a treat. Always does.’

‘Where am I chérie? … I was dreaming a beautiful dream. I was in Saint-Cloud. The Empress Eugénie was calling me back. My former position had been reclaimed. She was so pleased and relieved to see me, that she ran straight up to me, embraced me, and started kissing me all over. It was all so wonderful! I felt truly alive and myself again. Now I wake up and find myself back here chéries … So disappointing.’

‘Well I am afraid it was only little Lucy kissing you my dear. We just could not let you sleep too long. We have to move ourselves quickly and get you back to your lodgings. We cannot stay here … Now Lucy, give Madame a sip of water … That is better … Now Madame, while you compose yourself in readiness to leave. Please if you can, in your own time, tell us what happened. What occurred out there? I have to know. All future bookings may be jeopardised irretrievably!’

Madame Pontoise the great Parisian Aeronaut props herself up on one elbow. The shadows in the gas-lit room seem to lend poignant depth to the moment. The slight sound of the hissing of the gas. The Chinese Orchestra seem to be working up a full head of steam and the strains of a popular polka can be heard. Troubling noises from the Theatre. Yelling and shouting from down below … Madame Pontoise sighs with a world-weary plaintiveness.

‘Oh George, Lucy, it is how you say, all a désastre. A désastre … I feel so ashamed.’

She sips some more water from a cup proffered by Lucy’s plump hands. She no longer resembles the commonly held image of Europa. Her blonde wig has been taken off, and her close-cropped brown urchin cut changes the shape of her face altogether. All her make-up and illuminous egg-shell fard have been wiped away by a caring Lucy. A linen jacket of a greyish hue is covering the upper part of her body and a yellow-and-white patterned blanket is draped over her lower half. All that remains of Europa are the black-thronged ties and red tassels decorating her swollen feet of painted silver toenails …

‘The moon was so bright. La Lune shining in all her glory. The great River below me was ablaze with ships and the sounds of sirens. I just knew George, that you and Lucy were organising it all and following me along by boat … I think all the fireworks thundering off and dazzling the very stars petrified Samson. He was getting wilder and wilder. Oh désastre chérie! It was all my fault!’

‘No!’ Cries Lucy. ‘Never!’ …

‘But yes, you see … I was not concentrating. I was not really there … Suddenly I was thinking of the Great Empress Eugénie. That wonderful world. How if only she could see me now restored to all my former glory. The colourful majesty of Cremorne … I forgot how young and inexperienced Billy and Percy were. I forgot that they were not Jerome and Denise. I forgot sacré bleu! You see it was my fault!’ … …

Madame Pontoise takes another sip of water and changes elbows reorganising her position. A gleaming sulphur match lights a George Jarry Cigar in the makeshift hospital sanctuary, revealing the anguish etched into Lucy’s concerned face. She is living every recounted word …

‘I think it was the sight of all those people. The noise and the colours and the many exploding fireworks, just drove that wild, crazy Bull clean out of his mind chérie. Billy and Percy let us come in too low. Our approach was maybe thirty feet lower than it should have been … But why? … You see I was caught up in the sounds of the mellifluous music. I was not quite there. The sounds were so sweet. I was not aware that Cremorne was not the special grounds of Saint-Cloud. But all the same I was distracted. I felt separated from my other self, my dream of Europa did not last long I can tell you … That mad, mad Bull, he roared and kicked and bellowed. That Samson he brought us crashing down. Billy and Percy were too late with the other ballast. My fault, I am the experienced one. I am the Great Parisian Aeronaut and I failed to see. Oh désastre, that this should happen now when we were so close to a new triumph. This was to be our moment was it not George … I do so hate you George. But tonight you were a very good Agent. You arranged everything perfectly and I failed you. When the Empress finds out she will never speak to me again … You have a saying no … she will wash her fingers of me.’ …

‘Hands Madame, hands.’

‘No matter. It is of no importance. A trifle, a petite bauble in the grand scheme of life … Suddenly I was pitched straight out from my revelry. I tried to shout to those two young Boys but they could not hear me. That Bull, he was determined to kill us all. He was roaring and bellowing at the cheering crowd. He was wanting to kill them … Yes, wanting to … That Samson, he was a bad, bad Bull. I may sound cruel chérie but he deserved to die. You said he was harmless chérie, but you were very, very wrong George, he was a killer! … For the rest … The brilliant lights, the dazzling fireworks, the glowing moon, the colourful cheering crowd. I could see the red-flared torches laid out waiting to greet us, the landing stage you might say. I could hear this wondrous music playing inside my head. I felt strong and very proud of my body. I felt like a beautiful young woman again. And these French crowds, my people, had travelled out late at night to acclaim me. I had rediscovered my origins … Then I remembered where I was … But it was too late … Then I was flying, truly flying. The earth came up to greet me and all the lights went out … My last thought before I passed out was that I was no longer a young, beautiful woman and these yelling and screaming folk were not my chosen people.’ … …

‘Oh Hettie I found that all so sad … Folks don’t seem to care at all … They all just stood there and stared, and then after the explosion and the balloon blew up, they just all scattered to find something fresh to eat and drink.’

A dismayed Emma Martin is crying gently. Champagne-induced tears trickling down her pretty, flushing cheeks and spotting onto her dress.

‘Ah don’t you go being so soft Emma Martin. Look on the bright side. The crowd could ‘ave all surged forward and cut great chunks out of that Bull and half-eaten him before his heart had even stopped beating … I just loved it! That Balloon sailing in and the tiny dotted figure of Europa astride that Bull, with all them fireworks going off … I was dazzled I was. Then that Bull crashing to earth like that. Really exciting if you ask me! So it was an accident. So what! Worse things happen at sea Emma Martin, pull yourself together. That Right Honourable Guy whatshisname Greville can’t take his bleedin’ eyes off yer! He’s talking away to those stuffy Gentlemen Alfred and Sam or having to listen to them more likely. Have you noticed how every few minutes he casts a sly look in your direction. Listen, go and powder your nose and wipe those tears away from your eyes. Pull yourself together Emma, this could be your chance of a better life … Go on girl!” …

Emma dabs her eyes and, for a moment, is almost amused at herself—she has schemed her way into rooms far less grand than this one with far less to work with than a wet handkerchief and a fine pair of eyes. If Guy Cunningham-Greville wants to look, she thinks, let him look; she has always known how to be looked at on her own terms, not his.

Before Emma Martin can make her way out of the Supper-Box, an imperiously appearing Lady in a wide-brimmed hat banded with imitation fruit arrives, and all the occupants of the Supper-Box suddenly stop talking and turn to look at her. She has made a significant entrance and seems intent on making the most of it before the evening tide sweeps her by …

The Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville stands up straight and moves to the centre of the supper-box to greet his new guest. The manner of his movement suggests the regard with which he respects this newcomer.

‘Farideh, at last. I had almost given up on you. What kept you so long? Please do not answer that just yet. Let me fully introduce you around.’ …

Guy immediately clicks his fingers in the direction of the girl in the blue bonnet, with the straggly strands of blonde hair curling before her eyes. More bottles of champagne and fresh supplies of sweetmeats are indicated … ‘Dear guests may I take this momentous opportunity to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine, Farideh Pelham.” … Alfred Hayward, Sam Webb and Burton O’Brian all stand stiffly to attention and incline their heads in acknowledgment of the new, attractive presence. Emma Martin attempts a small curtsy and feels one of her seams splitting. She hides her embarrassment with a shrill laugh and carries on her unsteady way towards the toilet. Hettie Nicholson turns around from reappraising the boisterous crowd below the balcony box edge, and casually waves in the direction of the newcomer.

‘I say.’ Reveals the glamorously attired Farideh Pelham. ‘Aren’t you the girls from ‘Burgoyne and Sons’ in Sloane Square?’ …

Hettie Nichoisan stiffens at this untimely reminder of her daily work place. Mister Purvis and all the pins, cottons, needles, stitches, seams, linings, feathers, fabrics, sewing, tucks and fittings. All the daily measure and effort to produce something so wonderfully turned out and as eye-catching as the gloriously attractive Farideh Pelham … The confidence of the casual wave has been flattened, rightful positions and the power of proper breeding have reasserted themselves. Adopting her daily demeanour Hattie sighs, ‘Yes miss.’ Turns her head away and contemplates the gaiety and hubbub of the crowd down below. The music of the Chinese Orchestra rings in her ears. She feels excluded from the rest of the Supper-Box now. No better than the girl in the blue bonnet with the wisps of straggly blonde hair fluttering before her work-driven eyes. Some are just born to serve no matter how hard they strive … Farideh Pelham exudes a gracious air of charming power coupled with finesse. Masters of the Colonial World are clambering over themselves to be of special service to her. A true young Lady of refinement whose every whim will always be attended to. Whose beauty will be magnified and displayed to the full in all its subtle glory …

Farideh Pelham is now seated with Guy Cunningham-Greville and his new found friends. She has placed a green clutch-bag onto the champagne- flowing table and is scandalising Alfred Hayward by smoking one of his Cuban cigars. The green clutch-bag is unwittingly knocked over by a retrieving waiter. The gold shiny clasp unlocks and a book slips out onto the champagne-slippery table of sticky delights. Farideh Pelham makes no attempt to replace the leather-bound book and Sam Webb alights upon it as a way of developing conversation.

‘Good God Madam! This is that scandalous novel by that Henry Wood woman!’

Farideh sips her Champagne, puffs easily on her Cuban cigar and eyes Sam Webb quite coolly.

‘I find it an absolutely enchanting book I must say … Mister Webb is it? … Yes … Quite took my breath clear away when I first read it and heard it read out loud. We were travelling up the Danube Guy my dear. Taking it in turns to recite a passage each. Wonderful time. Truly wonderful!’ …

Sam Webb has the leather-bound book of ‘East Lynne’ by Missus Henry Wood. Without asking permission and quite careless of any formalities, Sam Webb opens the leather-bound edition and reads a personal inscription on the inside front cover …

‘Good God Madam! A gift from the Prince Bertie no less don’tcha know! … I cannot quite believe that our future King and Royal Sovereign would be reading such cheap, maudlin trash as this … Quite unbelievable!’ …

‘Have you read it?’ Unveils Farideh with a puff.

‘I most certainly have not! Whatsoever next! … Too many precious things to do Madam don’tcha know.’

Alfred Hayward is getting extremely nervous and is trying desperately to attract Beezer’s eye. But it is no good. His mind has latched on to the supposed superficiality of ‘East Lynne’, and like a determined terrier with a bone he will not let go.

‘If you must know … Mister Webb is it not? … Good … Well, if you really must know Mister Webb … ’ Puff-puff. A smoke signal bearing an iron-gloved chastisement … ‘It was the magnificent Bertie who first introduced me to it. As I was recounting earlier Guy darling, we were all travelling on a wonderful ship up the truly wonderful Danube. Really super I must say. And it was the Royal Prince, Bertie, who proceeded to produce this book ‘East Lynne’ and proposed that we all sat on deck and took it in turns to read a passage out load each, till it was finished. A few of the older courtiers turned their stuffy noses up darling, like they always do. Rather like this good Mister Webb here. But Bertie is definitely not a stuffed shirt I am pleased to say. Truly wonderful! We all simply adored it so much that when we had finished it we went straight back to the beginning and started it all over again. It all seemed just so right to be travelling though that part of Europe and reading ‘East Lynne’ out loud. As if we were imparting a portion of ourselves on to the passing countryside and the rushing river. Bertie just adored it. Thinks it is wonderful. One day, He took one of the many numerous leather-bound editions He had been gifted, inscribed it and gave it to me as a special present. A keepsake of our journey. I shall keep it with me always no matter what befalls me darling … For you see Mister Webb … The great thing about out lovely Prince, for all his harmless peccadilloes, is that He possesses great perspicacity and taste … Charming taste darling. Something you just simply cannot buy. That quality is inherent. An instinct for just knowing when something is special. I believe the Prince has inherited that special gift from his late, dear, devoted Father. That is why we were voyaging through that part of Europe darling. The Prince was reacquainting himself with that part of his ancestry.’

Sam Webb has carefully replaced the precious, leather-bound edition of ‘East Lynne’ back onto the slightly sticky surface of the Supper-Box table. He does not reply. He knows better than to cross swords with the elegant, beautiful, cigar brandishing Farideh Pelham. He settles back into his seat. Takes another mouthful of the copious supply of champagne and keeps his own counsel … Blurted moments of indiscretion and uncontrolled opinions carelessly displayed before the ears of society, are how lucrative contracts and valuable investments are lost and Sam Webb knows it. Even now, after sailing blindly into the dangerous waters of ‘East Lynne’ and Missus Henry Wood … …

‘Well darlings the night is moving on wonderfully. I believe it is time you all accompanied me to my place … Even you Mister Webb with your old-fashioned ways.’

‘Your place Farideh?’

‘Is there a confused echo in this Supper-Box darling? … Why of course my place Guy dear. I find the tunes of this Chinese Orchestra highly irksome and tediously irritating. I have commissioned a small size Marquee down by the Crystal Grotto. All your ravenous needs will be catered to. We have our own musical accompaniment to drown out these damnable common waltzes and polkas stifling the life right out of the very air. Full refreshments, tumblers, acrobats, fire-eaters, dancing girls. In fact all the fun of Cremorne on display darling. All we are missing is your delicious company.’

‘But I thought that you were with the Prince’s crowd in his special box. I could have sworn I saw you over there earlier when that Hylda Farley woman … ’

‘What a scream heh darling. No, the good Prince is in the active process of leaving. Another pressing engagement I’m afraid. The night is after all still young. Not yet the bewitching hour. Most of the Prince’s crowd will be joining us in the Marquee at the Crystal Grotto. Even that Hylda Farley, if she can still stand upright and put some clothes on to cover herself up darling … I say, did you all see what the Prince did with those oysters! … ’

‘Quite revolting and disgusting behaviour!’ Snorts Alfred Hayward. His hand has closed into a fist around his own knee, and it takes him a visible moment to unclench it.

‘Oh really Alfred. Not you as well! I thought the whole oyster thing an hilarious scream … And that Hylda Farley woman did not seem to mind at all. I must say she seems game for anything where the good Prince is concerned. And I do mean anything darling!’

‘Well I must say that the good Prince seems like a fellow who really knows how to enjoy a good time … Yes, I believe it is about time we left this Supper-Box. We have used up our stay here and this seems the opportune moment to remove on to fresh pastures of pleasure … Alfred? Sam? Burton? … We had better get the girls ready.’ …

Burton O’Brien springs into life from his passive state. His dark good looks and loquacious manner are suddenly revealed to Farideh Pelham. Before Guy can continue she interjects ‘Oh you must come too Mister O’Brien, I insist. The awaiting entertainments in the Marquee are made for someone like you.’

‘Well that is extremely kind of you to be sure Miss Pelham.’ …

‘Farideh please! … I insist!’

‘Well Miss … Farideh … I think if you really do not mind, I shall linger on awhile. I really like dancing you see. And even though I fully comprehend that you find this Chinese Orchestra quite tasteless Farideh. I fully intend to take this opportunity to ask that girl Hettie over there to have a dance with me. Maybe we could join you all later perhaps?’

‘If you must Mister O’Brien … If you must! … ’ Farideh Pelham turns coolly away from appraising Burton O’Brien. He is immediately confined to the ranks of the also-rans. With an imperious style she turns, motions to Guy Cunningham-Greville, Alfred Hayward and a suitably chastised Sam Webb, to follow her lead. At that very moment Emma Martin arrives rather unsteadily back in the Supper-Box. Guy immediately springs across to the balcony seat at the edge of the box. Gathers up Emma’s possessions. Says something in passing to Hettie Nicholson, who seems more intent on exchanging communications with a riotous group shouting up at her from the tables below … Guy takes a compliant Emma by the arm and with Alfred Hayward and a meekly submissive Sam Webb they follow on behind Farideh Pelham, who is sweeping majestically out of the Supper-Box with her newly discovered retinue trailing in her stylish wake … …

Burton O’Brien gathers his long, expensive jacket up around him and sits down alongside a startled Hettie Nicholson. She immediately feels the new presence. Stops talking, turns and seems stupefied that he should have chosen to sit next to her.

‘Will you kindly do me the gracious honour of dancing with me Hettie Nicholson?’

Hettie looks around behind her as if a twin sister with the same name should be sitting alongside in the Supper-Box …

‘Me? You want to dance with me Mister O’Brien!’

‘It is Burton. Remember, Burton. And yes I most certainly do. Come on. Leave your coat and bag behind they will be quite safe, we will collect them later. I do believe that Guy has hired this Supper-Box till dawn. So it remains at our disposal … Come on with you, we can still find a place to ourselves on the Dance Platform.’

The cut-glass lights of the Chinese Pagoda and the Dance Platform are dazzling. The Chinese Orchestra continues to play on with a hybrid mixture of waltzes and polkas. The flourish and style of dress of the dancing crowd seems the ultimate height of fashion. The most elegant folk on God’s sweet earth enjoying themselves at this wonderful moment in time. A truly intoxicating blend and mix of swirling clad shapes; dresses whirling in blues, greens, purples, pinks and burnt orange, flashing by in the gas-lamp lighting. Dancing shades of sequins, jewels, earrings, brooches, pendants, spangles and diamante glitter before the unbelieving eyes of Hettie Nicholson.

The night seems just at its most majestic. That moon is hanging so full and beckoning in the starry night sky. The music is playing so sweetly on the softening night air. Scattered all around the packed Dance Platform area are the many moustaches and top hats of Swells and Roués a-lounging. Smoking and drinking and observing all the action with a practised, jaundiced eye of appraisal. As if considering the fluctuating fortunes of a parade ring …

‘I cannot truly understand or believe that I am really dancing with you Burton O’Brien! … Why me? … You could have your pick of nearly all the pretty women of this Cremorne night. Why? … ’

As the Chinese Orchestra waltzes on, Burton O’Brien glides them to the centre of the moonstruck Dance Platform and they revolve around and around; intoxicated by the glimpses, the music, the perfume-drenched smells, the light touch of magic hands and arms, the taste of Cremorne lingering on the tongue.

‘You are the Girl I have been most admiring all evening Hettie Nicholson if you really must know.’ …

She laughs nervously as they twirl around again amid the many spinning couples …

‘You are joking Burton O’Brien. I have a face like a pudding, I’m overweight, I am a working girl from a poor family, you could have your pick. I’m suspicious. Have you taken some kind of wager? … Perhaps you think I am of easy virtue and you can have your wicked way without any resistance, because a plain girl like me would just be so grateful with a wink from your long dark eyelashes.’ …

Hettie reddens at her own forthright attitude and stiffens in readiness for some scathing dismissal of her … To her surprise and gradual, dawning delight, the suspected hurt does not materialise …

‘I confess to you that there are prettier girls on show tonight. But I only have eyes for you. Why? You remind me of my big, older sister at home in Dublin. Please don’t speak just listen … I have to tell you this. To be sure I could maybe have my pick as you put it. Though I doubt it. All the Ladies like Farideh Pelham are well out of my reach Hettie dear. I am no longer as young as I seem. I shall be thirty-four on birthday next and it is right time I settled down. I like your manner. You make me laugh. I find you attractive. I like big ladies it runs in my Family. Please, I said listen. This is difficult for me but I have to blurt it out to you before you dance away from me … Do I wish to spend the rest of my life with a woman who is constantly going to criticize me everyday because I drink and smoke too much? I think not … Do I wish to spend the rest of my life with a supposedly pretty wife who every time we enter a room I am unsure if she is going to make doe-eyes and flirt with some fancy Rogue or Swell … Never be able to relax fully you see. I need someone strong beside me who is just happy to be with me. Who has no great expectations beyond the day … You see already I smoke too much, I get out of breath so easily … I need someone who will support me when the sale of my mess of porridge birthright in Dublin all goes awry with the ‘Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’ … Sssh … Please let me go on Hettie … Thank you kindly my dear … Someone who is resilient in an hour of need and who does not crumble, become friable like your friend Emma might. Pretty face, nice girl, but not a strong personality … ’

Hettie cannot contain herself any longer. She is beside herself with joy and just has to interrupt. It is part of her impulsive personality. Her hands tighten against Burton O’Brien’s, and she pushes her heavy body closer to him …

‘Are you making some type of roundabout proposal to me Burton O’Brian? I am so happy I cannot really believe all this. You realise no doubt that I am from a huge, poor, illiterate family. I have no prospects … Tonight is like that song ‘As Good and a Great Deal Better’ by that Harry Wall. I am a plain shop girl Burton O’Brien. I ain’t no heiress in waiting like that bitch Farideh Pelham. I’m serving-class and proud of it and don’t you forget it! … ’

‘Exactly my point Hettie dear. You know who you are. How many of these so-called pretty Socialites fanning themselves and gliding through this Cremorne night right now, will ever be able to sew or stitch properly. Mend and repair whatever when necessary. Shop and cook like a Parisian housewife. Have children and raise a family in a clean, friendly, moral manner. How many of these would work to survive? Can you just imagine some of these fine young Ladies going off to Dublin and opening a dressmaking shop. Could they withstand all the back-biting, bitching, ill-wishing, nasty actions and blatant malice from the local inhabitants … I truly think not. But you could. You can do all of that and more I know. I shall be comfortable with you. Refined young Ladies of a certain social standing do not always make for good lovers in a marriage. That is for sure … As I say, I am getting old, and you are a young woman of twenty or so. You will be a rare catch for me Hettie that I can say.’ …

‘Do I look older then?’

Hettie is suddenly dancing with confidence. Her back has straightened and she is allowing herself to enjoy the tingling sensation reverberating throughout her body. She is enjoying being flushed and excited.

‘I am seventeen if you must know Burton O’Brien. I am just two weeks older than Emma Martin. We both celebrated our birthdays this April past.’

‘Can you help me move around Jack Lad? The bleedin’ smoke from this fire keeps getting in my eyes.’ …

‘That shouldn’t bother you then Blind Tom … Sorry Tom I didn’t mean to … Heh leave off will yer! Keep yer bleedin’ hands to yourself Old Man, otherwise I’ll tell the Preacher and the good Sister Amelia, see!’

‘I never had you marked down as a telltale tit Jack Lad … Now help me move will yer. I be a-smarting right proper sat here!’

‘Have you noticed Old Man that each time we shift, this bloomin’ smoke follows us. Like it’s watching us and won’t let go. Some folks say that spirits live in the flames of fires, that they can control the Fates and such like.’

‘You’re gullible you are Lad … It all seems so magical don’t it … That’s better. Thank ye kindly Lad. At last a bit of relief … As I was a-saying, it all seems magical. This great roaring fire. I wager you can see colourful sparks shooting-off all over the goddamn place. If you sup another jar of porter you will soon see faces and shapes dancing in the flames. Before the coming of the dawn the great fire will have spoken to you and you will be made to feel very special. Fire-magic Lad. Fire-magic. One of the old-time heathen religions. But yers keep yer voice down low, we don’t want to go upsetting the Preacher now do we Lad! … Why such a bleedin’ roaring fire on such a hot summer’s night as this I really don’t know Lad … Sad bloody music if you ask me … Tell ‘im to cheer up will ye.’ …

‘The good Sister Amelia says it’s a gentleman by the name of Gypsy Dave. They say he’s a famous musician Blind Tom. Travels all over.’

‘Famous in his own bleedin’ head more likely … I’ve heard him afore. All these sad gypsy laments. Hard done by music if you ask me. Give me a good rousing march any day Lad. Something to stir the juices, settle the phlegm … Who’s that Lad? … Who’s that be a-calling mine name? … Don’t keep me forever in the dark you little shit tell me!’ …

‘Hold fast Blind Tom … You supping that porter too much you are … If yers call me dirty names I won’t help you at all see … There’s two blokes here who are asking after you. They say the one with the low-pitched whisper is Wilf ‘The Voice’ Martin, and the other fella with the funny ears is called Big Fish. They’ve been asking for you Old Man. Seems like yer still got some friends left after all.’ …

‘Ah Tom that’s where you’ve been hiding is it!’ The booming voice of the Preacher powers across the swarming blue smoke of the fire. The Preacher has just left his new found flock of Converts in the capable hands of Sister Amelia, who is in the process of serving them all a late night glass of lemonade in readiness for a Bible reading. Saul on the road to Damascus, reputedly the oldest living City in the world. But then maybe the Damascenes have not had to cope with exploding hot air balloons lately.

‘I believe I owe you two lads some money do I not … Shall we say two shillings and sixpence each … No need for explanations. Leave that to your mangy mutt Nelson licking bones by the fireside edge … Nobody ever delivers all the pamphlets into Unbelievers hands. Excepting that is the good Sister Amelia. A saintly Lady and make no mistake … Now there you go and don’t you go a-spending it all at once!’

‘Cor we’re rich Blind Tom!’

‘You’ve got an awful lot to learn about the ways of the world Jack Lad … Go fetch me another jar of porter Lad and get me some more Baccy will yer.’

‘Wilf the Voice and Big Fish here have been a-telling me about all the trials and tribulations of our missing friends Spider and Dave Young. It has not been a good night for everyone. Maybe a few soulful hymns would be more in the offing than these Gypsy Dave mournful laments catching at our emotional entrails … For now I’ll leave you fellows alone, you must have a lot of catching up to do. I know that Big Fish here wants to ask after Charing Cross Rosie, so I’ll leave you to it and tend to my new flock.’ … …

‘Ah I’m so sorry to intrude unannounced Madame, but I thought you might be in need of some spiritual guidance, even at this late hour … No pun intended Madame, they just have a habit of slipping out … Ha-ha.’

Madame Pontoise props her bleary-eyed self up on one elbow and surveys the large smiling face of the Preacher which is supported by a very white dog collar.

‘This is very kind of you Father. I must have, how you say, dropped off for a while. You see, my Agent George Jarry, he is making arrangements down in the Theatre. We just, I mean myself and Lucy Father, well, we just thought we would stay awhile.’

‘Madame Pontoise, I am so pleased to see that no permanent damage seems to have befallen you. Terrible accident. Tragic events. But the Lord as they say, moves in mysterious ways. All part of His grander plan no doubt Madame … I have two things to request of you Madame … One, I am not your Father. That title belongs to the Romanish Church with all their idolatry and mumbo jumbo … Secondly dear Lady, if you could perhaps ask your young servant girl here if we could be left alone for a while, say five minutes. Maybe she could make herself useful helping with your removal arrangements or procure you some refreshments. I would be only too glad to provide some coinage for such a purpose … ’

‘Well what exactly do I call you then chérie?’

‘They call me the Preacher Madame, that is my sobriquet.’

‘Well Preacher … ’ Madame Pontoise struggles hard to sit upright and the Preacher moves closer to help her …

‘Lucy is really my apprentice Preacher. But you are right in many ways, she is also my assistant and companion. She is many things chérie, are you not. Now be a good soeur and do as the Preacher suggests … Go find George chérie and see what is making for this delay. I am very tired and will find it almost impossible to be moved now!’

Little Lucy leaves off staring into space vacuously out of the window and comes back to life. She pulls a face in the shadowy half-light and starts arising from her bedside chair alongside the olive-green chaise longue, adjusts Madame Pontoise’s blanket covering her legs for the umpteenth time with her plump hands; fusses unnecessarily with some imaginary fly and sets off leaden-footed to discover the whereabouts of the missing George Jarry …

‘At last I have you all to myself Madame.’

Even in her laudanum induced state and in spite of her hurting bones, Madame Pontoise manages to arch one of her eyebrows at the booming voiced Preacher … He sits himself down in little Lucy’s chair and stretches out his long legs, clasping his hands together as if some ancient repose of a long forgotten contrition has captured him spellbound. He leans forward hands clasped in prayer attitude towards Madame Pontoise and announces …

‘We have certainly met before Madame.’

Struggling to raise the energy, but respectful of the significance of the cloth and worthy of the attempt even at this late, bewitching hour. Madame Pontoise responds …

‘I have met many persons in my time as the World-Famous Parisian Aeronaut you understand chérie … Preacher … It is a part of who I am but I cannot remember everyone.’ … Fighting hard to make the effort she continues … ‘If I could remember everyone then I would declare myself the World Famous Parisian Memory Lady and sit astride a Bull as Mnemosyne no!’

‘I see you have not lost your sense of humour with that terrible tragedy of an accident Madame … Now, we have met … Many, many years ago if I recall rightly. I was of course very different then and you were, if my memory does not play tricks in this shadowy half-light, plain Jane Smith from Aston … The blank regard in your face does you credit Madame. But if we are talking of memories then I have one that would put an elephant to shame … You see, I remember as a young man this well-known troupe of Travellers who performed around the Aston area and travelled all the local Fayres roundabout during the summer. The ‘Liberty Players’ was their name and one of the main Families were The Smiths. And you are Jane Smith no less as God shall be my judge and witness so help me!’

‘Sssh chérie, not so loud!’ …

‘Still Chérie is it Jane. Habits so ingrained that they can not be shifted that easily … It is all right my dear your secret is quite safe with me. I shall not tell on you. No unmasking shall take place from this quarter I can tell you … But you admit it. You are Jane Smith are you not! … I thought I recognised you when I saw your face on the playbill. You may be fatter my dear but you still look the same Jane. Even disguised as Europa!’

‘What do you want Preacher? … Money? … A generous contribution to your religious fund no doubt!’

‘Nothing as venal as that Jane … I am so sorry, Madame Pontoise … We will keep it that way for appearances sake shall we … No, I have great plans for us Jane … Sorry, Madame Pontoise, there I go again. Your Agent fellow George Jarry has already lost interest in you my dear. He is currently attempting to recruit new clientele in the middle of a thespian dispute downstairs as we speak. Much to the annoyance I might say of Edward Browne, who has a thespian rebellion on his hands. You are no longer a major draw my dear. The world and his wife have seen many Balloonists in their time. All old hat now. After such a tragic, truly terrible accident like tonight, you will find it very hard to attract a major backer. Everyone will talk about you for a while. But no one will book you Jane … Sorry Madame Pontoise … No, what I propose, a devilish plan in fact. God’s work Madame, God’s work. We can travel the length and breadth of this great Country spreading his word. Selling the good Lord’s message by way of balloon … Think about it before you wrinkle your pretty little nose like that in the night-time air Jane … I mean of course Madame, how silly of me again … Pamphlets, thousands and thousands of picture pamphlets declaring the ‘Balloonist Preacher and his saintly helper the good Sister Amelia! … Delivered to you courtesy of the World-Famous Parisian Aeronaut Madame Pontoise. We shall be flying by your village next week … Oh the sheer delight of such an enterprise!’ …

The Preacher claps his hands with unconstrained glee … Madame Pontoise releases her numbed elbow and lays back down fully on the olive-green chaise longue … It has really not been her day chérie. Not been her week in fact. Her year if you must know … And the idea of sailing across the green meadowed skies of England distributing picture pamphlets declaring that God has come to save you for the benefit of this conniving Preacher with the glistening white dog collar, leaves her exceedingly cold, fatigué and close to a faint.

At the very last call Leon Chandler, Herbert Campbell and Brother James have finally reached the Chinese Orchestra and the Dancing Platform. The throbbing height of this glorious summer night has attained its zenith. Midnight has been reached. The Devil’s dancing hour. The Chinese Orchestra keeps replaying the Cremorne Galop. It remains the popular tune of choice of the moment. Moonlight is coruscating along the tree-lined corridors and avenues of the approach. Many flags and different coloured bunting have been hung from the painted trees. Some draped in the shapes of Chinese Dragons.

‘Well ma river-bred Boys, here we are! Just look at yonder sight. All the beautiful woman and pretty young girls just a-waiting for us to be improprietous, introduce ourselves and dance with them. For a brief instant offer them more than their fantastic hopes and dreams, all too soon to be dashed. Ground down in the British system and extension of colonial suppression.’

‘What did you say sir! … I cannot hear you above the sounds of this confounded orchestra!’

‘I was bemoaning British colonial suppression!’, roars Lean Chandler. That honeyed voice with the catching southern drawl has gained a sharp edge to it … Startled bystanders, lounging swells, moonstruck preening roués and a bewhiskered Colonel down on his luck, stare hard across at this new upstart and his two young confederates. Their initial look managed to incorporate an air of distain. Now they glare. They cannot be quite sure in all this noise what they heard. But whatsoever it was it sounded unseemly, reeking of sedition by gad, sir …

Leon Chandler enjoys this social assault. Bristles with the antagonism and the differing shades of hostility launched in his direction. Mocks with bitter irony. He trades as an inspirational artist, amorous seducer and a bitingly, sarcastic renegade exposing his fellow beings with well-directed barbs.

The Dance Platform is packed to overflowing with swirling, gliding couples casting seductive glances over their partners’ shoulders at other partners who are looking the other way, relaying their own attractive gazes before the circling groups of loafing, spying onlookers. All the flashing ardour at the sight of glamorous ankles. The demure, moon-filled looks. The constant rustle and twitch of the whirling petticoats. The black and gold striped skirts and dresses. All the dapper checked trousers. Flowing navy blue capes, the eye-catching greens and the glint of dazzling burnt-orange. All the ruffs and pleats and cuffs and tiny perched bonnets of white. Buttoned waistcoats and waxed moustaches and the alfresco gallops parading beneath the exultant conductor of the Chinese Orchestra. All laid before him, the complete intermingling of this absorbing nights’ crowd. Around and around they cavort, spinning faster and closer with shrieks and howls of delight and pleasure …

The smells of this night mingle and explode onto the senses in a jumble of wafted sensations. Foods and perfumes, alcohol and opiates, gas and flowers, pomade and tobacco, leather and dung, perspiration and the rank rotting smells from the great flowing river. The noises, smells, tastes and flashing glimpses are informative. A heady, giddy mixture that has enraptured James Campbell … Before the avenging trio have even reached the base of the pagoda, Leon Chandler has had several short, sharp exchanges with unsavoury dancers; man-handled an innocent dwarf, bounced across several dancing couples and incurred the wrath of many a dancing beau … Who is this damned scoundrel? Some colonial upstart! … Damned former colonial upstart no less! …

It is the image of the social uncertainties and the possibilities that entertain Leon Chandler so. The metropolitan swells and loafers who are leaning against the Chinese columns idly chatting or watching the attractive dancers spin around and around, are less of a threat. The loungers who have come to symbolise the manners and morals of night-time Cremorne, offer no visible resistance to a challenging Leon Chandler. One of the great innovations of modern life for him is being able to confront and attack within an accepted form of leisure and genteel surroundings. A distinctly contemporary approach arising off the coat-tails of the new generation and all made possible by the wonders of gas … The rakish artist with the sharply-honed tongue and his two eager, young, aspiring acolytes, ease with a drink by the base of the pagoda. Sample the delights of the night … Any family members, stray passing interlopers, the clamouring hordes gathered to see the balloon descent of Madame Pontoise, have long left. All the casual habitués and the middle class visitors have beat a retreat. Leon Chandler and the Campbell Boys are surrounded by swells. Before their attentive eyes are displayed all the gorgeous array of evening dresses, many covered by large, loosely-fastened capes, all the gathered aristocracy of the hour in night-time Cremorne. A human flood of moustaches, beards and wing-whiskers. All the casual manner, all the easy elegance of toothpick chewing, cigar puffing, hands in pocket a-lounging. The semi-intelligible drawling sprawled with speech bubbles that are instantly pricked by the musical gallop of the mighty Chinese Orchestra. Groups of splendid roués wending their sauntering way around the densely assembled Dance Platform … The artistic, jaundiced eye of Leon Chandler appraises all. Sifts the very molecules of the sweet night air for sustenance and inspiration. Takes a different stance to the rest. Taps his black leather shoes to a different rhythm. Witheringly affixes his adjacent neighbour and demands as to whether the Great Moloch is at present entering his sacred home and devouring his sacrificial children … Incredulous stares. Not really comprehending what is being said … By gad Sir my hearing must be amiss! … James Campbell has incredulous stares. He has spotted the divine shape and apparition of Honey Hurley standing over, in succulent form, on the boundary edge of the dancing throng. Her extraordinary shape is somehow squeezed seductively into her fashionable burnt-orange dress. James does not wait. He walks swiftly across the perimeter of the Dance Platform. Apologises as he goes for the many brushes, elbows, touches, nudges, halting stops and inconvenient side-steps. Nothing will daunt or deter him. He has made up his mind to reach Honey right now, before all these lolling swells suddenly realise what is smouldering untouched within their grasp …

James Campbell cannot believe his good fortune. He has reached Honey Hurley before anyone else has asked her to dance. Bestirring herself she grins at him. Immediately takes his proffered hand as if awaiting his invitation. Suddenly their bodies are moving in and out of one another. Circling and swaying for the sheer delight of it. They are intermingling as their families have done before in the Chelsea past. It seems written in the stars. Honey only has eyes for him and it is wonderful.

Jeb Harris the security attendant looks up in the shadow-strewn gas-light from studying his finger nails for the umpteenth time this evening. His ears have cocked and his body has stiffened to attention at the sound of flap, flop, flip coming from the staircase. A dull thudding noise accompanied by a funny sung song. Jeb just knows this tune but cannot for the life of him think of the title. He sits and waits apprehensively outside the accounts office at the top of the Theatre stairs … The padding, flopping noise of the foot treads stop. Halting as if catching breath before rounding the final turn at the top of the steep stairs … Jeb Harris leans forward in the shadowy half-light, and stares hard to try and make out what is approaching … His straining ears can just decipher a ho-hum and then a resumption of these padding flap, flop, flips, the low, funny sung tune just barely above a whisper. This catchy little refrain is playing around and around inside Jeb Harris’s brain. Search as he might he just cannot remember the name. It is so annoying … Suddenly Jeb Harris’s straining eyes are accosted by the astonishing presence of a very tall clown. Jeb Harris sits bolt upright in his chair at the wondrous sight of a bedazzling Harlequin shimmering in the eerily shadowed gas-light before him. The Harlequin is parading in a tight-fitting, spangled costume. His face is painted egg-white and masked as a Scaramouche, containing huge black eyes streaked with barbed wire lashes. Outrageously-arched eyebrows, big thick red lips. The Harlequin is wearing immaculately clean white gloves and has on a huge pair of floppy looking clown shoes in bright kingfisher-blue.

The Harlequin stops outside the first door of the office of Edward Browne the Cremorne Leisure Gardens manager. His white-gloved hand mines a movement of turning the handle of the makeshift hospital sanctuary caring for the distressed Madame Pontoise. As if thinking better of it, the Harlequin turns fully towards Jeb Harris and puts a white-gloved forefinger to his red lips in an attitude of a mocking whisper … Jeb Harris smiles at the clownish intent. He can now make out sparkling glitter around the painted striped eyes. He smiles. He has always laughed at clowns since he was a small boy in Deptford. This funny fellow is obviously lost. Taken a wrong turning downstairs in the Theatre and has obviously chosen to explore with clownish intent … The Harlequin magically produces a red cloth bag from out of thin air and starts padding towards Jeb Harris, flap, flop, flip … From within the red cloth bag he produces what looks like a bright red wand …

‘Can I help you Mister Clown sir? … I am very much afraid you must be lost sir … This is as far as the staircase goes. You have reached the end of the road Mister Clown sir. This is as far as the Theatre extends.’ … Jeb Harris cannot help but grin and catches himself half-laughing out loud. Clowns have always had this affect on him since he was a very small boy at the summer fayres … The Harlequin pads right up to a smiling Jeb Harris. His red cloth bag is now slung over his padded shoulder. He raises his left hand, white-gloved fore-finger pressed to his red lips. A mocking gesture of reproval. In his right hand is the glistening magic red wand … The Harlequin bends down from his lofty great height and peers hard, right into a grinning Jeb Harris’s face. With a smooth circular motion the Harlequin brings the red wand around rapidly and coshes Jeb Harris smack over the head. A startled Jeb Harris goes to put his hands up to defend his face but it is too late. Twice more the Harlequin coshes him and leaves him slumped bleeding on his chair … The Harlequin sidles over to the Accounts office door, pushes his masked Scaramouche face up against a slight crack and whispers in Jeb Harris’s voice … ‘Open the door we have a problem.’ … Nothing. Silence in the hallway. All the sounds of Cremorne and the Chinese Orchestra bubbling away outside.

‘Open the door it’s urgent!’ whispers the husky-voiced Clown in imitation of Jeb Harris’s dockyard working voice … A cough followed by a hesitating rustle. A woman’s voice enters on the night air in the hallway at the top of the stairs.

‘Are you really sure Jeb? … Mister Browne said to keep this door locked and bolted till he came back. Not to answer to anyone!’

‘Hurry up it’s urgent!’ Ventures the Harlequin in a quick impassioned gasp.

‘Alright, alright, keep your hair on Jeb Harris. I will open up if I must. Be it on your own head though!’ … At that a key rattles and clicks in the lock. She carries on … ‘Mister Browne will hear of this. He will not like it. He will want an explanation. I am not saying anything. You will have to explain this to him’ …

The sliding sound of a bolt drawing back. The door is being inched open very slightly. The redoubtable pinched face of Missus Parker can be glimpsed peering into the shadowy half-light of the gas-lit hallway. She cannot make out anyone. Jeb Harris is slumped unconscious on his chair on one side of the doorway and the Harlequin is hiding on the other … As Missus Parker widens the crack a little to fully open the door and peer without, the clownish-spangled arm of the Harlequin reaches across and grabs her by the shocked throat. He immediately pushed her redoubtable, choking frame back into the Accounts office, remembering to duck his large, Scaramouche-masked head under the door frame as he goes. Holding a frightened Missus Parker in his vice-like, white-gloved, clown grip, he kicks out a spangled leg shutting the door with a bang with his floppy, kingfisher-blue clown boots. Now padding forward into the dingy accounts office room, half-choking a retreating Missus Parker as he goes … The Harlequin stops short and pushes Missus Parker down into an available office chair. Immediately his Scaramouche head swivels as a screech of surprise echoes across the dingy room. A young woman is sat huddled over in the far corner of the office. Half-hidden behind a mound of paper files, she is starting to shake with fright …

‘If you leave Miss Juliet alone I will do what you want.’

‘How very generous of you English Lady’. Mocks the Harlequin in a fake Italian accent.

‘What exactly is it you want Clown? … Stop shaking Juliet my dear, it is all alright … May I go to her?’

‘Shut up the both of you!’ Shouts the unfriendly Harlequin. ‘You there, be quiet or you’ll getta some of this!’ The fake Italian friendliness of the voice contrasts sharply with the violence of the punch that knocks the redoubtable Missus Parker back in her chair … The young woman Juliet has put one of her knuckles to her mouth and is starting to whimper. Missus Parker pulls herself upright. Blinks in the dim gas-light. Straightens her shoulders in readiness to receive whatever may befall her and truly shows her redoubtable qualities.

‘The safe English Lady? Where you put the safe then?’

‘Ah, it just had to be that didn’t it! A thieving clown no less. The curse of greed. If it is money you want you will receive no help from us Clown!’

The Harlequin motions with his white-gloved, right hand, which is now portraying stains of flecked blood, and smacks Missus Parker hard across the lips. She flinches and her head takes a shudder but she refuses to be cowed, she will not bow down to this cruel clown.

‘You wanna some more? … I coulda start on the crying girl if you lika.’

Missus Parker is left with no choice. Miss Juliet is starting to shake uncontrollably with fear. A wet patch is starting to appear on her dress in the shadowy half-light of the reflecting gas-lamps … With an audible sigh of surrender engendered by an utter helplessness, Missus Parker composes herself before the muffled strains of the distant Chinese Orchestra. She moves in her redoubtable, mannered way before the impatient gestures of the Harlequin … Over in the far corner of this dingy accounts office are to be found two wooden filing cabinets, one of which contains a very large black metal box. Missus Parker fishes around inside one of the drawers of her desk, searching for the available key. The lofty Harlequin is growing frustrated. Cursing and threatening Missus Parker with his long spangly arm, his white-gloved right hand flicking furiously in the gas-light … Missus Parker finds the suitable key and unlocks the large, black, metal box … Miss Juliet has slowly slid down onto the floor in the far corner. Seemingly wedded to the spot and mumbling incoherently to herself through a compulsive cascade of salty tears … The large, dazzling Harlequin pushes Missus Parker back down into a chair. Instantly produces endless yards of brightly coloured yellow tape from inside his red cloth bag. He then proceeds to tie Missus Parker’s hands and legs to the chair. Bites thorough the tape with his big red lips and stuffs more yellow tape into her protesting mouth. Winds more and more around her jaw till she is almost suffocating with a mouth full of calico tape …

The Harlequin parades as the clown with no heart. Flaps over to the far corner and cuffs a trembling Miss Juliet around the head for good measure. Seeing that any resistance from her is absurd he quickly pads back to the black metal box … Five heavy leather bags each containing one hundred gold sovereigns are loaded into his red cloth bag. A long, slow whistle from the red-lipped Harlequin reveals he has found a bundle of notes tied up with string to the value of two hundred pounds. Leaving all the other bags stuffed full of small coinage of the realm as too cumbersome to manage. He quickly loads up, and with a satisfied grunt slings the weighty red cloth bag over his padded shoulder. Without so much as a backward glance at the shaking Miss Juliet or the struggling Missus Parker, the Harlequin flap, flop, flips his way to the accounts office door, ducks his head and opens it with a sly, cunning Ho-Hum. Turns in the hallway and sees that Jeb Harris the security attendant is starting to come around. He immediately drops his red cloth bag to he floor and seizes his red cosh from out the weighty bag; and for the sheer pleasure and fun of it, savagely beats Jeb Harris about the head till he collapses off his rickety wooden chair and is left laying in pools of seeping blood … Flap, flop, flip go the kingfisher-blue clown boots. The shimmering Harlequin with the weighty red bag draped over his left shoulder, pads his way towards the Theatre staircase … Starts his descent without ever a backward glance and begins to sing a funny little tune to the accompaniment of a paddling flap, flop, flip … …

‘’Ere wake up Blind Tom you be a-nodding off! … Run right out of steam then old man ‘ave we! All them sweet jars of porter caught up with you ‘ave they!’

‘Leave off Jack lad! Can’t a fellow have a doze in peace for a little while?’

Blind Tom gathers himself erect and fiddles about with his gnarled fingers for his baccy and the necessary accoutrements. The fire is not blazing quite so fiercely now though the smoke is still streaming out, stinging at everybody’s eyes. The crowd of gathered itinerants, freshly conceived Converts to the Preacher’s flock and the odd stray wastrel, has thinned out. Wilf ‘The Voice’ Martin with his low whispered surprises and Big Fish of the funny ears, have left and are about their nefarious night’s work. Let us just pray that they don’t end up in clink with their good friends Spider and Dave Young. Gypsy Dave has wandered off with his violin and the feel and lament of this night has gone with him. Lovelorn souls can rest easy now and sleep fresh dreams of magic encounters. All that remains on the musical front are a few newly converted Believers who are sat tamely on the grass in front of the good Sister Amelia. They have adopted an attitude of contrition mixed with new-found joy hovering in the night air above their well-rounded heads. Sister Amelia with her slightly high-pitched, off-key voice, is leading them in a rendition of ‘Praise Be To The Lord’. This earnestly-sung hymn of disparate voices is pitched sharply on the warm night air. Something is missing. Not just the gypsy violin. Shouts, clapping and yells accompany the night-long pockets of entertainment. Different clusters of heaving jollity have brought their own musical accompaniment and the sweet summer night is filled with the excitement and delight of impromptu musical gatherings. But what is missing is the underpinning, dashing sounds of the surging, swelling, Chinese Orchestra. As if one o’clock in the morning represents the bewitching hour for them and they are now packing up and preparing to make their way over home. The gaps of silence without them, between the outposts of the Cremorne conflux of musical gathering, is deafening.

‘What now Old Man? What we be upto next then?’

‘Arrgh, the clear-sighted energy of youth Jack Lad You have surely been a-drinking at the well of all vigour … Right, let us be on our way then … Have you seen the Preacher Lad? We must pay him our respects and set up future work. I promised Charing Cross Rosie only yesterday morning, god it seems like two lifetimes ago Jack Lad. But promise her I did. Said I would arrange for her to meet with the Preacher this coming Saturday … Well Lad, what news? … What can you see Boy? You said you’d be my eyes and ears, and where’s that good-for-nothing mongrel Nelson I would like to know! Humping sheep I be bound. No good lecher hound, always chasing the ewes that one. Don’t be surprised if you see a lamb one fine day Jack lad sporting the head of a young Nelson … Sorry Lad. Maybe you should not be a party to those sorts of open thoughts. But still, if you be my eyes and ears then you have to see everything.’

‘Why I have to be your bleedin’ ears as well Old Man I dunno. Yesterday at the Bricklayers Arms I signed on to be your eyes. Now I’m saddled with hearing for you as well. Do twelve jars of porter ruin your hearing Old Man! You deaf now as well to the ways of the world?’

‘You are a cheeky bastard and so you are! Real little shit when you want to be aren’t you Jack lad! No, I can bleedin’ well hear right enough thank you Lad … Now go over to that good Sister Amelia, listen Lad, be clever see. Wait till they finish a-singing that rotten hymn then tug at her sleeve see. Put on your best rosy-cheeked smile Lad. Put yourself in a good light under a gas-lamp. Let that moon shine on your boyish face Lad. I can’t see the good Lady but I’ve felt her presence all night in everything that has taken place. Now go and present yourself. She should take sweet pity on you. Give you a shilling for your trouble. Well brought up Lady like that don’t know no different see. But earn it like. Give my best respects. Leave a message for Archie Skinner. Tell her the Preacher should go see Charing Cross Rosie Saturday next. Then she will cross your palm with the good Lord’s silver and all our ventures today, nay tonight Lad, will have been worthwhile. Now get to it! And while you’re about it get that mangy mutt, give him a kick from me to remind him who he is, right lad!’

Blind Tom is standing waiting with a simpering Nelson rubbing against his sturdy left leg as if it is a tree. Young Jack comes skipping along on the scented night air. It is all fresh and a vividly exciting experience for him. Nelson barks quietly and instantly switches allegiance. Such is the fickle nature of animals and their survival instincts.

‘You were right Blind Tom.’

‘Not so loud Lad. Always remember that voices travel further at night. The moon’s ears are larger and set traps for unwary folk. And we ain’t that Jack Lad are we!’

Young Jack tugs at Blind Tom’s right arm, leans close to his ear in the gas-fizzing light and whispers … ‘You were right Old Man. She slipped me a silver shilling as good as gold. She said she would give the message to the Preacher like you requested Old Man. Patted me on the head like I was some kinda heavenly Angel or something, and blessed me in the name of all that is most holy. She’s a right good ‘un is our Sister Amelia … She smells nice Blind Tom. Like well-scrubbed peaches and honey.’

Blind Tom shuffles his feet in readiness for the long march ahead. Rejuvenating the blood circulation against the numbness from his previous position.

‘Right Lad we had best be off then … See, told you so didn’t I.’

Off the unlikely band traipse. Away from the flicking flames of the fire shooting up into the watching elm and oak trees. Playing on the night air. Intersecting with the shafts of moonlight and glowing in the reflection of the gas-lamps. The trees look purple and pink and the inky black sky behind the dangling moon is awash with gleaming stars signposting the pathways to the Heavens.

‘Hold fast Lad! None of your shooting off like a lamplighter and leaving me behind. And while you’re about it, you did not give me that silver shilling did yer! … Share and share alike we said.’

‘All right Old Man! Cor you don’t bleedin' well let it be for a moment do yer! … ’Ere … ’ Jack presses the silver shilling into Blind Tom’s grimy, outstretched mitt.

‘That is better Lad … Now that good Sister Amelia, let that be a lesson to yer.’ …

‘What?’

‘Well Lad … You said she smelt like peaches and honey … You know why?’ …

‘I can guess but you’re gonna tell me all the same Blind Man aren’t you!’

‘Shut it and listen you cheeky little shit! … Simple Lad. She washes. Why, I reckon she even washes twice a day. Remember that, and the next chance you get Lad, think of the good Sister Amelia and have a wash … What was that?’

‘I think it’s a rabbit.’

‘Stop fast lad will yer. It is unlucky for a hare to cross our path. Wait on!’

‘But it’s a rabbit.’

‘No matter. Wait on!’

‘You are a one Old Man and no mistake. At this rate we will never get to the King’s Road gates before sun up. What next? The hoot of an owl? The bleedin’ flight of a moth? Luck can leave you stuck on the same spot a long time Old Man. Unable to move in case you upset all those old-time Gods we was a-talking about earlier. I noticed you quickly stopped when the Preacher appeared. Still, we been earning ours money on the good Lord’s mission tonight Old Man. Maybe he will keep all the ill-omens and unlucky signs at bay.’

‘Aye Lad, the good Lord provideth tonight but tomorrow may be a different matter see!’

‘What you mean then Old Man?’’

‘Well Lad, there’s an old saying that the Devil dances in an empty pocket see … Well, I find that one day in life you can be a-working for the good Lord and the next you may well be in the pay of the Devil. The old red-faced horny one himself. It is all the same to us Jack Lad. Just think of us as folk for hire. Brethren on the lookout for a good crust. Some days it’s one Master, then another day … Put it this way Lad. I’s don’t take sides, whosoever coughs up gets my regard see. Beggars can’t be choosers Lad. You have to ride with the tide no matter who’s paying. Nobody cares a bleedin’ toss about us Lad. We are just cannon fodder in the great scheme of things. Remember that!’

Blind Tom, Young Jack and a dawdling Nelson, make their way along a tree-lined corridor of Cremorne, running parallel alongside the Promenade Versailles. Heading for the King’s Road exit and their way back to the City.

‘What do you call this! … I sent a runner for the Police over fifteen minutes ago and only now do you deign to turn up. What do you think I pay my taxes for! Why do I contribute so generously every year to the ever-expanding Police collection? … I must be mad if this is all the consideration and respect we get!’

‘And you are sir? … ’

‘Edward Browne man. Manager of Cremorne Leisure Gardens on this luckless night Detective. This was going to be our greatest night of the year. Just one calamitous disaster on top of another. You will be informing me next that the Theatre downstairs is on fire!’

‘It is Sergeant sir.’

‘What man?’

‘Sergeant Harry Grimes at your service Sir … And as far as I know Sir I have had no reports of any fire in the Theatre. Though I did smell a strong trace of smoke on my way up these steep stairs Sir … Still, I suppose it is a right old smoky night Sir!’

‘Good grief man. Don’t start this proselytising on about the smells of the night! Look about you. What do you see?’

‘Well I have to ascertain exactly what has happened Sir before I can commence with any investigation.’

‘Why have I only been supplied with a Sergeant? Why? … Do I not deserve the full respect of Her Majesty’s most highly-regarded Constabulary, and what was your name again Sergeant? I’m afraid that in all this bloody mess and commotion it has already slipped my mind.’

‘That is all right Sir. You must be under a lot of pressure. Sergeant Harry Grimes as I find Sir. Now, if you could proceed with an outline of events as you rightly know of them Sir, I would greatly appreciate it. The night is moving on apace and events seem to be overtaking us from most unlikely quarters Sir.’

‘A robbery and an attempt at murder Sergeant. Just look at this large pool of blood in the hallway right in front of your size twelve boots Sergeant Grimes. A clown Sir. Yes a clown by gad Sir has joked his way in here and robbed us of our record takings. Coshed my valued Security Attendant Jeb Harris to within an inch of his very life. Frightened my office girl Juliet half to death, and threatened and manhandled my redoubtable secretary Missus Parker in a truly beastly fashion … Sheer calamity man. Sheer calamity! As you stand ruminating in this gas-light Sergeant Grimes, I should think this thieving clown is halfway to St Paul’s by now … Action man! Action! Needs to be followed up immediately!’

‘Well I can quite understand your reaction Mister Browne, but we have to ascertain the full facts first before we can proceed properly. There is a due process that has to be followed Sir, otherwise we would end up in total chaos with only half-hinted at clues in my experience Sir.’ …

‘What has happened chérie? Why all this noise and ferment? … Are we being attacked? Have the Russians marched on London chérie? … Oh what is going on Mister Browne I must know. It is all so strange is it not nez pas?’

‘Madame Pontoise, I had no idea that you were still here. Please forgive me. I am afraid to say I had completely forgotten about your presence Madame.’

‘That may well be my future chérie after tonight.’ …

‘Are you not Madame Pontoise the World-Famous Parisian Aeronaut Madame?’

‘Good God Grimes! Get on with it man! Don’t just stand there like a dumbstruck devotee. What do you want? A sacred possession or something! Please attend to this matter directly Grimes. Time would seem to be of the essence!’

A somewhat crumpled and dishevelled Madame Pontoise stands uneasily in the doorway of Edward Browne’s office and surveys the now seeming tranquillity of the hallway passage at the top of the Theatre stairs. She has fitfully slept through the carnage that has just taken place. A purple and mauve robe is gathered about her shoulders, her jarred and jounced bones are aching but a smile has erupted all over her face at the inferred compliments and respect shown before Sergeant Grimes’ grinning mien. The only good thing that seems to have happened to her this awful night.

‘I must ask you Madame Pontoise if you would be so kind. Did you hear anything? Did you see anything?’

‘Good God Sergeant! We have two traumatised witnesses sat waiting in the accounts office to speak to you, and you question Madame Pontoise who quite plainly doesn’t know a thing!’

‘I will be the judge of that if you don’t mind Sir. I am in charge of this investigation and will proceed in the manner and at the speed I see fit Sir. My reputation is one of success Sir. You may not have heard of me Sir, but I am known as Harry Grimes the Arch-Solver of Crimes … Now Madame Pontoise if you please … But before you start Madame, allow me to get you a chair … Also, please do not think me too forward Madame, but if you have a little something, say a handkerchief with your initials on them. I will be forever grateful. My wife will think the world of it. Treasure it she will. She’s like that you see.’ …

‘This is utterly hopeless … We would have more success with a Bow Street Runner!’

‘I will deal with that remark in a moment if I may Mister Browne … Now Madame Pontoise, when you are ready.’

Madame Pontoise the World-Famous Parisian Aeronaut seats herself on the proffered wooden chair. She lets the purple and mauve robe slide slightly off her left shoulder at Sergeant Grimes appreciation of her, and produces a tear-stained, red, white and blue striped handkerchief with ‘Madame Pontoise’ embroidered in gold lettering along by the hem. One of little Lucy’s labours of love. She proffers the moist keepsake to Sergeant Grimes, who immediately squirrels it away into one of his brass-buttoned uniform pockets with undisguised pleasure.

‘As Mister Browne so correctly said just now sergeant. I heard and saw nothing. In fact I do not even know exactly what has happened chérie … sergeant. All that I can remember is this kindly Preacher who came and saw me. Lucy left to try and discover the whereabouts of young Billy and Percy. The kindly Preacher stoked my hand and gave me a drop of brandy for medicinal purposes you understand chérie … sergeant. The very next thing I remember is waking up to the sound of Mister Browne’s voice and hearing some talk of a robbery … That is all I know.’

‘Well Madame Pontoise I fully understand. By the way, thank you. My dear wife will not believe it when I give her your handkerchief … One final thing Madame Pontoise. What time was it do you think when you fell asleep?’

‘Time Sergeant, time! Do any of us rightly know the goddamn correct time! Most of the folks at Cremorne do not even own a watch Sergeant. And those that do most likely forget to wind them up when they arose yesterday morning! You expect us all to remember the time! We will never catch this Clown and recover the money at this rate!’

‘Please Mister Browne. I rightly understand your agitation Sir. But all things in good time … Now Madame Pontoise if you could think back. Anything that might have impressed itself on you the last moment before your fell asleep?’ …

‘Well I was still in a state of shock Sergeant. What with the explosion, the terrible death of Samson! My disappointed audience all clamouring to see me then rushing away in fear at the horror … But come to think of it I do remember that I could still hear that Orchestra playing and I cannot hear it now cherie … Sergeant.’

‘Very good Madame. Very good. You see Mister Browne, we have now ascertained that the Orchestra was still playing when Madame Pontoise fell asleep.’

‘And what bloody good is that knowledge to us man! How is that going to enlighten us? Are we to suspect the members of the Chinese Orchestra as dressing up as Clowns and conducting a robbery! And before you enquire Sergeant they were contracted to perform to one o’clock. Exactly the same as the Theatre Company who have reneged on their contract … Still, another matter. Yet another night-time disaster. This evening will age me ten years. And before you ask again Madame, no. I do not believe the Russians are sailing up the Thames as we speak, ready to overthrow Her Majesty’s Government. I do not believe Alexander the Tsar has the necessary resources at his disposal to overcome the might of the British Empire and conquer Great Britain. In fact, I believe it to be highly unlikely that he could even get his Navy to set sail from St Petersburg on such a mission just at the minute.’

‘Why exactly are we talking about a Russian invasion of England Mister Browne? … Is such an attack imminent? We have received no such reports of an attack at the station … Nothing of the kind has crossed my desk!’ …

‘Good God Man what are we talking about! Time is rushing by us. My life and the very existence of these wonderful Leisure Gardens of Cremorne are severely threatened as I stand here on this staircase before You, a mere jumped up Sergeant, when I desperately need the services of the Commissioner of Police. And you witter on about knowing the time, even though we know that most folk either don’t possess a watch or clock or even if they did could not tell the time … I stand here with this shining pearl of a full moon glowing in through these grimy windows with an inane Police Sergeant called Grimes! … I am being hounded and oppressed by The Society for the Suppression of Vice! The Magistrates at the Middlesex Sessions are being put under increasing pressure by members of the Chelsea Vestry not to renew our licence. We are under constant attack from the Principal of St Marks’ Training College who sees himself as the Lord most high and mighty Protector, and would like to see our application refused, and I have to stand here and participate in this gibberish! Dash it, we have had our daily takings stolen and I am having to talk about the bloody Tsar! What next! ‘

‘Now, now, Sir. Keep your voice down if you please Sir. We don’t want to go upsetting the Ladies … We may have some good news on the way Sir. I can rightly hear the constant tread of a policeman’s goodly boots Sir, and I would know the sound of that tread anywhere Sir. That thump-thump belongs to the good Constable Giles Saunders if I am not mistaken!’

‘Evening Sergeant. At last! Those stairs were a-killing me and so they were!’

A breathless and red-faced, slightly podgy Constable Saunders stands dripping with sweat in the hissing gas-light at the top of the Theatre stairs.

‘Well Giles any good news to report?’’

Constable Saunders attempts to recompose himself, abstractedly attempts to straighten his crumpled uniform and get his breathing back under control.

‘Great news Sarge … I’m the bearer of good tidings … Ha-ha … We have arrested two Clowns and at present they are handcuffed and bound and are awaiting your presence for further questioning Sarge!’ …

‘Good man Giles! Good man! … You see Mister Browne. We may appear slow and a little set in our peculiar ways out here in the wilds of Chelsea, but we get there in the end. I have no doubt that under some severely sharp questioning these thieving Clowns will confess all, and in no time we will have recovered your money Sir … You see, all is not as bad as you think. It could turn out to be your lucky night after all Sir!’

‘Well I suppose it really could Sergeant Grimes. I suppose it really could.’

Edward Browne the harassed Manager of Cremorne has lit up one of his special Dutch cigars and is belching out great waves of smoke which are causing Madame Pontoise to shield her eyes, noise and mouth. Mister Browne has adopted a nonchalant air as if resigned to his fate on the outside, and considering the option of suicide and immediate release on the inside …

‘A question of your constable if I may Sergeant?’

‘If it is quick Sir. We shall have to go and question these thieving culprits. The other witness statements from your staff will have to wait.’

‘Well all right … Constable Giles Saunders is it? … Am I right? … Good! … Simple question to you Constable. How tall are you?’

‘Pardon sir?’

‘Good God man do they specialise in recruiting deaf fools into our Majesty’s police force! … How tall are you man? Your height sir? Your height!’

‘Well Sir … ’ Constable Giles Saunders scratches the side of his face for a moment. Goes to remove his police helmet then thinks better of it … Suddenly a spark lights up in his eyes and he responds in kind …

‘Five feet seven inches tall Sir. I was five foot seven at last measurement Sir.’

‘Thank you Constable … We got there in the end!’

‘I do not quite understand the reason for your question Mister Browne?’

‘Quite simple really Grimes.’ Puffs on an exasperated and now devilish-looking Edward Browne … ‘Your quick-on-the-uptake Constable Saunders here is five foot seven … How tall are these two Clowns you have just arrested Constable? … Let me guess … No wait on … I wager that one is about your height with extended boots on and the other is considerably smaller … Am I right? … Well man?’

‘Well … Yes Sir … ’ Responds a surprised and becoming bewildered Constable Saunders.

‘Exactly! … Well for your information Gentlemen. Our thieving Clown, and there was only one, had to lower his head to pass through the Accounts Office door. The door is six foot in height, which would make our thieving Clown somewhere in the region of six foot two inches tall I should guess. Now unless these two, poor, helpless mirth makers you have handcuffed and bound downstairs were performing as a double-act in a super large clown suit. I suspect, and it is only an educated guess Gentlemen, that these poor fellows are not, I repeat not, our bloody man and that this thieving merry Andrew who has frightened young Juliet half to death, nearly clubbed the very life out of Jeb Harris and is threatening the very existence of my beloved Cremorne, is halfway to Dover by now!’

‘Well I cannot rightly argue with your reasoning Mister Browne. We shall simply have to start afresh that is all … Saunders … Make your way downstairs and release those two Clowns … Better still Constable, you question them. Don’t release them for a bit. Remember, just because they haven’t committed this crime doesn’t mean they are innocent and haven’t broken the Law in other ways. You said they were acting very suspiciously Constable. Well, accuse them of stealing and cheating and see how they react. Always remember Saunders, everybody is guilty. No matter who they be, they will have committed some grave misdemeanour or have been caught out in some minor indiscretion in their lives for which they will feel guilt. Remember that and you will not go far wrong Saunders … Not get to it. The night is moving on apace … Before you say anything Sir, I would like to say that I take serious exception to that earlier remark regarding the Bow Street Runners. My father bless ‘im, was a very successful Bow Street Runner in his day, but as I am sure you are well aware Mister Browne, they only had instruction from the Bow Street Magistrates Court, and that jurisdiction was exceedingly limited Sir.’ …

‘Why, I certainly did not mean to importune you and your Men Sergeant. It was a remark conceived in haste if I may say.’ …

‘But you did Sir I am afraid. We are still a very young Police Force charged with the responsibility of safeguarding and protecting the citizens of this great Country.’ …

‘Poppycock and balderdash Man! Why, Peel set up the Force ages ago.’ …

‘We are only in our thirty-third year, which in policing terms Sir is still very young. We are still in the process of learning from our mistakes and we are only just beginning I can assure you Sir.’ …

‘What on earth is going on here? Have you apprehended anyone Officer?’

‘Oh George I am so pleased to see you chérie … Lucy!’

‘And you are Sir?’

‘George Jarry, Madame Pontoise’s representative on earth and in the sky … Edward, I have to ask. We are still owed the princely sum of forty guineas from tonight’s show. Do you have the wherewithal to pay us? Desperately need the confounded stuff … ’

‘Well I am afraid most of the takings have been stolen Jarry. We have two hundred odd pounds left in small coinage when it is counted, but that is hardly enough to keep us going through the month. I have all the Artists and staff to pay. I am going to have to refund the entire Theatre audience of tonight. Total disappointment. I appreciate the difficulties involved and apologise unreservedly to Madame Pontoise. As soon as the money, if ever, is fully recovered you will be paid … I hereby now declare publicly, that whosoever shall apprehend this devilish Clown or can furnish us with information leading to his capture, will receive a reward of ten gold sovereigns personally paid by me. I trust you will release this information to the newspapers when you get the opportunity Sergeant … I must say that I am extremely disappointed in you Jarry. I have noticed that in the space of a few hours you have contrived to ingratiate yourself with almost the entire Theatrical Troupe. You have become Constance Varney’s new Personal Manager and she has fired that poor, unfortunate Joe Greenwood. You have engaged those two charming young Balloonists Billy and Percy as her personal preening assistants sat either side of her, viewing her in the mirror-picture and providing the most outlandish compliments. You have signed up nearly all of the Troupe and intend to represent them as a Theatrical Agent and take them away into the West End Playhouses of London. I am not best pleased. We are facing complete ruin and you act like a viper in our bosom. You have quite clearly switched horses and are about to relegate Madame Pontoise here to the position of a minor client. I apologise Madame but I think you should be informed as quickly as possible. Mister Jarry is a true snake in the grass and the star thespian, the nation’s favourite tragedienne, has fallen magically under his spell. Oh the mean, honeyed words of Impresarios and Agents. A new production of Helen of Troy to be staged in London I hear tell. They say there is no fool like an old fool. If that Constance Varney thinks she can still get away with playing Helen of Troy, then the Tsar’s ships will definitely never leave St Petersburg because they will all have sunk Sir!’

‘What are you blabbering on about man! This robbery has turned your mind and so it has … Unless we receive full payment within one week we will see you in court … My professional relationship with Madame Pontoise the World-Famous Parisian Aeronaut is none of your goddamn business Sir! … It would help matters if we were paid. You should look to your security arrangements Sir! Robbed by a Clown I hear tell. If that be the case then you could well become the laughing stock of all the City when the word gets about. Poor you! … Miss Constance Varney and her dramatic Troupe of Strolling Players are all owed one week’s wages Sir, and if you cannot see your way to paying them as of now, under your terms of agreement with the Great Actress, all contracts are null and void … Can you Sir? … I thought not! … Well that is the end of the matter Sir. I will see you in Court no doubt Mister Browne. Prepare your legal team well Sir. You will need them by the time I am finished with you … Good night Sir! … And good night to you all!’ …

George Jarry complete with bristling moustache and thrusting cigar, spins on his heels in the gas-reflecting light of the hallway and storms off down the stairs … Total stunned silence greets his departure. Everyone is so embarrassed for Madame Pontoise. Lucy has gone bright red in the face as if she has just swallowed a contaminated orange. The valiant Sergeant Grimes is pretending to study some hastily scratched notes on a dog-eared piece of paper. Edward Browne is lighting up yet another special Dutch cigar for want of something to do …

The moment is broken by the fresh arrival of Doctor Horace Welby, without a tie and obviously dressed in haste, who is shown into the Accounts Office to attend to the moaning and groaning bloodied-form of Jeb Harris. The good Doctor’s passage has done nothing to ease the tension.

‘It is all right really chéries … It is of no consequence. You must not be too unhappy for me. I have always known that George Jarry is not a Gentleman. He has never had my true interests at heart and has found fit to use me while a little bit of, how you say, stardust has clung to my name. Bah! It is of no importance, I can take that. It is nothing. It is but a trifle. What really hurts is being ignored and rejected by the beautiful Empress Eugénie. That I will never overcome or forget. After that nothing hurts. This is to be expected, it is the way of the world chéries. Suddenly, hey presto, young Billy and Percy are not to blame for our low level descent, Samson’s terrible death and the truly awful explosion. It was my fault. I am too old, too fat, too silly to succeed any more, and tonight my Public turned away from me with a mixture of laughter and scorn written on their lips, as I lay face down wanting to die. I could clearly see all their jeering faces in my mind’s eye you understand. It is as nothing. It happens to all of us eventually. You are a shooting star, a gloriously successful Spectacle and everybody wants something of you. Then you are nothing but dust and no-one even bothers to ask you your name. Such is the fate of fame chéries. This is what I have learnt gliding through the night skies … Now if you will please excuse me … And if you do not mind I shall continue to commandeer your office Mister Browne. I think I shall go and lie down, I feel very tired.’

With that Madame Pontoise gathers her purple and mauve robe about her in a dignified manner. She is suddenly quite cold. She retreats into the makeshift hospital sanctuary that is Edward Browne’s office, and is dutifully followed by little Lucy who is crying and wringing her hands in a mixture of temper and remorse at the treatment of her beloved Mistress. Admirers may desert Madame Pontoise but plump little Lucy will stay faithful and loyal right to the end.

Sergeant Harry Grimes clears the air by way of a cough.

‘Well don’t just stand there man! You had best be on your way and catch this Grimaldi fellow before whatever chance has slipped right by us. The prospects are receding every second you stand there contemplating the scene Sergeant!’

‘I hardly think that to be a fair comment Sir … If that great Clown Grimaldi had committed this crime, then it truly would have been miraculous, as he has been dead these twenty years past and more. I do not think the good folk of Clerkenwell will take kindly to any suggestion that he was a murderous thief Sir. I think we had better keep that between ourselves Sir. I saw the Great Grimaldi once as a little boy. A pantomime it was. I laughed till I wet myself I did!’

‘Good God man do I have to suffer your sordid little life story as well! What are you going to do? What is your plan of campaign Sergeant?’

‘Well if our conversation is anything to go by Mister Browne, you must be a very popular man with your staff Sir! … Now Sir, I have attended the scene of the crime. I shall develop enquiries further from the Office by the front desk in the Theatre, and I dutifully request the services of your assistant Bobby Sullivan if I may Sir. Our force is very stretched Sir.’

‘If you must Sergeant.’

‘We only have sixty men to police the entirety of Cremorne and the surrounding area. Can you imagine the number of offences. Robberies, pickpockets, tricksters, fights, disturbances, assaults, goings-on, deaths … Why we even have a suspected murder Sir. Only a few short hours ago a member of one of Her Majesty’s Regiments, a Corporal he was, fell out of one of them Supper-Boxes and broke his neck he did. Highly suspicious if you ask me.’

‘Stop pontificating man … I suppose you are implying that we should police Cremorne ourselves or pay you a special fee for your hesitant services … Well I refuse. I should remind you Sergeant that we have a very famous Royal visitor who regularly frequents our wonderful Leisure Gardens and participates wholly in all our activities at least three times a week. He will no doubt be acquainted of what has happened. Obviously discretion is a byword where He is concerned but you catch my drift Sergeant.’

‘Right Sir. Good Sir. I have been warned thank you Sir … I shall send Constable Saunders back up to take brief witness statements from your staff Mister Browne. No problem there I trust … Good Sir. I shall now inform all of my men, as quickly as I may, then we will carry out a complete search of the grounds of Cremorne as far as we can. I shall post men to guard the King’s Road exit and the River Esplanade Sir. I shall put out a full description of our suspect.’

‘Very good Sergeant Grimes. A full description you say … What do we look for exactly? Why, we are looking for a goddamn Clown. Should not be too hard to find now should it Sergeant! Not like searching for a stilt-walker in a haystack is it!’

‘Well if that be all Sir, I shall be about my business and track down this evil clown Mister Browne.’

Blind Tom and Young Jack are making their way out from Cremorne towards the King’s Road exit. The full moon is momentarily shielded from view by the height and foliage of the overhanging elm and oak trees. The coloured gas-lamps are flickering and a cool westerly breeze has arrived on the late night air … Blind Tom’s stomping progress is very slow. The bow to his walking gait seems to be getting ever wider and wider. He is grumpily cursing Nelson, who keeps rubbing up against him for affection and is only receiving incomprehensible grunts and cussed mutterings by way of a reply …

The shrill blast of a Policeman’s whistle knifes through the shafting shadows of the Corridors of Cremorne. Again and again the repeated blasts of the resounding whistle. Now another whistle is joining in …

Blind Tom has stopped his walking and Young Jack has swung back around to witness the sight of a huge white-faced Clown with bright red lips, lumbering towards them along the tree-lined corridor. Flap-flop-flip go his clown-clad feet as he struggles arduously with a large bulkish bag slung over his left shoulder, which seems to be weighing him down and delaying his progress … Flap-flop-flip accompanied by huge panting gasps of intaken breaths of air in the flickering hiss of the orange and green flaring gas-lights … Flap-flop-flip … The whistle-blowing Police have chased down another avenue. The loping Clown is too out of breath to say anything as he draws abreast of Blind Tom and Young Jack. Cries of ‘Stop the Clown’ can be heard reverberating through the painted trees. That full dangly moon has suddenly speared into view …

‘I’ll be a-having yer!’ Roars an animated Blind Tom. He unhesitatingly launches himself to his left at the Clown and tackles him about the knees sending them both crashing to the ground.

‘Gotcha!’ Roars an exultant Tom. His large, gnarled right hand has shot up the Clown’s body and has him pinned by the throat … A lot of barking and yelling is taking place. Nelson has joined in. Blind Tom releases his gnarled hand from the choking throat of the badly-shaken Clown. Nelson is stood over the Clown now and has his bared teeth at the Clown’s throat … Young Jack yelling in triumph has gone to pick up the heavy-looking bag which has landed a few feet away … Blind Tom is sat up rubbing his sore head under the gaze of the full moon … Such is the scene which greets the two Policemen who are running now along this shaded corridor. Excited by the chase and laughing out loud at the picture which is presenting itself …

‘It’s the bleedin’ Peelers Blind Tom! We’d better be scarce!’

‘Stay back Jack Lad. Don’t you go a-worrying yourself. We be on the side of the law for once … ’

‘Right Mister, you had better call your dog off at once. We will take over now!’

‘Not so fast. Nelson ‘ere like the greasy innards of a human throat he does. Quite partial to it he is, gives him a right tickle!’

‘I said call him off Old Man! … We’ve got the Clown now thank you!’

Young Jack eventually manages to drag a very reluctant and snarling Nelson away. The two Police Constables immediately pin down the gasping Clown and handcuff his white-gloved hands behind his back. The Clown has said nothing. The second Constable is now taking possession of the said heavy bag that has hampered the Clown’s progress so … A long slow whistle from between the second Constable’s lips reveals to all and sundry that the missing Theatre money including all the gold sovereigns has been recovered.

‘And you are Old Man?’

‘Blind Tom Officer … And this ‘ere be my companion Young Jack and you be already acquainted with Nelson Officer.’

‘Well, I am Constable Giles Saunders Blind Tom, and on behalf of Cremorne we had a-best be thanking you and particularly the boy Jack here, for being so brave and sharp to help apprehend this villainous Clown.’

‘Think nothing of it Constable Giles … We was a-just doing our duty so we was … Good lad Young Jack. Sharp as a glinting razor he is.’

‘Right then, let us see who is hiding behind this Clown’s face shall we Lads. Hold his head up under the gas-light Constable Jones … That’s it!’

Constable Giles Saunders takes a white cloth out from one of his uniformed pockets and goes to wipe the Clown’s face. When the Clown protests he threatens him with the presence of a snarling Nelson. At that the Clown goes mute and keeps perfectly still as Giles Saunders attempts to wipe away some of the egg-white make-up, painted black barbed-wire lines marking his eyes and the full lush-red lips. Spitting manfully into his grease-paint smeared cloth, the Constable rubs and rubs. The Clown protests at Giles Saunders’ strenuous exertions to rub away his face and Young Jack lets out a shriek of surprise.

‘It’s the bleedin’ Preacher Blind Tom! It’s the Preacher!’

Blind Tom laughs hard fit to a cackle.

‘Archie Skinner up to his old tricks again. You’re caught good and proper this time Archie and that is for sure! No more fancy teas and lettuce and tomato sandwiches around the grand piano with the good Sister Amelia. No more entertaining the good folk and saving lost souls. You’ve gone and bleedin’ done it this time Preacher and that is for certain!’ …

‘I take it you know this fellow Lads … A Preacher you say. A right villain this one and no mistake. Well, we will handle him now thank you Lads … What have you got to say for yourself Preacher? Or is it Clown? Or is it Archie Skinner Sir? What do you prefer?’

The power and energy return to the Preacher’s make-up smeared face just for a moment. He looks truly grotesque with all the white, black and red streaked into a hideous blotch in this orange glow of a gas-lamp.

‘I’ll see you in Hell Blind Tom!’ He screams. ‘You’ll pay for this and so you will you Old Blind Bastard! Just you wait!’

‘Bit of a change Preacher.’ Growls Blind Tom. Slightly unnerved but not put off … ‘Why, only a few hours ago you was a-saving lost souls and converting black sheep. Offering eternal salvation and damning the Devil to purgatory. Now you are promising to restore my sight in Hell. Well you and Satan can rest easy Preacher ‘cos I ain’t coming see. I’m heading somewhere’s else where you can’t get at me with your thieving, cheating ways … ’

‘Alright now, alright Blind Tom. That’s enough! We’d best be on our way with this clowning Preacher here. Get him along to the Theatre office. Sergeant Grimes is going to be right well pleased. You lads follow us on. I’ve got some very good news for you boys. You don’t rightly know it, but you are in line for a reward from the manager Edward Browne his very self. A whole ten gold sovereigns Lads! … Now you follow us on like I said, I’m quite sure that Mister Browne will want to thank you in person. Probably feed and water you and get you set up for a newspaper article I have no doubt.’ …

With that Constable Giles Saunders and his colleague Constable Jones stand the now passive form of the Preacher upright. All resistance and energy has drained out from him. Constable Jones leads the impassive, handcuffed Preacher away down the tree-lined corridor, heading towards the Theatre. Giles Saunders walks jauntily beside them lugging the heavy bag of stolen booty and playing with the Clown’s red cosh in one hand, and whistling an indescribable ditty all the while … Flap-flop-flip has given way to pat-pat-pat. The might and energy has even drained away from the lanky Clown’s feet.

‘’Cor Tom who would ‘ave believed it?” … Your old friend the Preacher turning out to be a Robber disguised as a clown!’

‘What’s that teach you Jack Lad?’

‘That you can’t trust nothing Old Man! Nothing is what it seems!’

‘Quite right too Lad!’

Blind Tom and Young Jack slowly start to wind their way back along the gas-lit Corridor. The glow of the full moon is just starting to fade and a rejuvenated Nelson is chasing a red squirrel up a tree and barking with delight.

‘But a Preacher Blind Tom … It just don’t seem right.’

‘He was defrocked years ago Lad. Some scandal in a parish nearby Birmingham. He was a bad debtor in London later Lad. Served time in the Old Marshalsea and so he did. Long time ago though Lad. But it was after that when he hooked-up with Charing Cross Rosie, Wilf ‘The Voice’ Martin, Big Fish, Dave Young and the like. He became a part of the

Brethren Lad. Always handy to have a Preacher ready in times of need. The Lord’s word and might descended on him so he said. Started doing his fire and brimstone sermons all about London so he did. Always a trick on the side though Lad. Always on the lookout for a conning chance. Got a way with him has our Archie Skinner. There’ve been plenty of young, fresh-scrubbed, pink-cheeked, rose-smelling Ladies like the good Sister Amelia. She is way down the queue. After a while they find him out, and then he moves on to the next benefactress and do-gooder on behalf of the Lord.’

‘But if you knew all that why didn’t you tell me Old Man?’

‘Do I have to tell you everything! … That way you wouldn’t learn anything see, would all be too easy. You’ve got eyes and ears. You’ve got instincts, use them. Don’t you go a-relying on anybody else but yourself Lad. It’s all up to you!’ …

Blind Tom and Young Jack traipse on down the gas-lit corridor. Nelson weaving in and out along the pathway.

‘And another thing Old Man … ’

‘What now?’ …

‘You ain’t blind are you … ’

Silence.

‘If you was blind how come you saw in the half-light to dive and capture that Preacher Clown? Only someone who could see could do a thing like that. Them Peelers thought it was me and Nelson what nabbed him. And you did nothing to change their minds did you! … You’re an old fraud you are! … All the bleedin’ day and night I’ve been a-looking after you. Telling you what, leading you there and all the time you’ve been acting blind! … What you got to say for yourself then Blind Tom? … You all on the con are you? … The Preacher ain’t no Preacher. Blind men ain’t blind. Next thing you be a-telling me that the good Sister Amelia is really a man or Nelson here is really a blind cat in disguise! … Now get out of that Old Man! Go on! … I dare you!’

‘Well it took you long enough Lad … See … ’ Tom sighs at the well-worn particulars of an old story long laden … ‘I wasn’t much older than you are now Jack Lad … Well maybe a few years or so. The Great Battle of Waterloo it was. Me a keen ‘un all eager and fit for it. All ready to strike a deadly blow against Bony and the French foe. A big explosion it was. Powder magazine. I was assigned to gunnery you see. Took all my sight in one eye Lad. Now if that had been all I would have made the best of it and so I would as God is my witness. But at best I’ve got a third vision in the other eye Lad. What was I gonna do? I could just see a bit on a good day out of one eye. No bloody use to man or beast. How was I going to earn a crust? Who was going to employ a young shaver like me, I could hardly see. But blind Lad, I could survive … I didn’t have to try hard, it didn’t take much to be blind. A little bit of white powder rubbed on the other eye every morning to give it the same look. ’Cos Lad I can only just see shadows right. I only just saw that Clown, the Preacher, just a blur really and I flew at him … Did you notice in Holywell Street yesterday Lad, down Charing Cross way? All those legless bleedin’ beggars pleading their cause. Fresh veterans from the Crimean War Lad. I wager a lot of them probably only lost half a leg. Maybe cut off below the knee. Say it quick it don’t sound much does it Jack Lad. What is a one-legged Crimean War veteran in his twenties gonna do to turn a crust Lad? No fucking good! So what they do, they tie up their other leg behind them. Make damn sure the dashing folk can see at leash one exposed stump as they beg a living Lad. Dropping pennies in the tin cup for the luckless, legless War Veteran. A victory in the Lands of the Russoes. A poor survivor from the War with the great Russian Bear. And the pennies keep dropping in pity as the folk rush on by looking the other way about their grand lives … Poor man lost his legs fighting for me and so he did. Drop him a penny and be on your way … ’

‘So you really can’t see nothing at all Blind Tom? Just lolloping Clowns carrying bagfuls of money! … We’re gonna be rich now ain’t we Old Man. Our ship has berthed and we are gonna be fine. What we gonna do then with all these gold sovereigns Blind Tom? … Well?’

‘Why Jack Lad, we head back to the City right enough when it gets light. Charing Cross most likely. Get a good feed first. A few jars to wet the thirst. Some smokes. Then we find a good, safe, comfortable billet. Go meet Rosie and live the good life for a while. Rest up for a bit Jack Lad and make the most of it!’ … …

‘Emma Martin has lost sight of Hettie somewhere in the press around the Crystal Grotto, and for the first time all evening feels the cold thread of being quite alone amongst so many strangers … You look quite upset and disturbed Miss Martin if I may say so. Is everything all right?’

‘Why I am fine thank you kindly Mister Hayward … No … I’m not! Everything seems so false and flat … Please call me Emma. Miss Martin sounds like someone else’s name to me.’

‘Then you must call me Alfred. Here, let me get you a fresh glass of champagne my dear. What you need is a good pick-me-up … ’

The blue and white striped Marquee by the Crystal Grotto is a madcap, hectic flush of whirling faces and late night frenzied energy. Emma Martin is standing by a canvas picture of the Great River which is tied on to one of the supporting Marquee poles. The noise of the hired musicians is quite deafening. Before her the dancing throng are spinning faster and faster. Drinks are being spilled. Tasty nibbles and sweetmeats decorate the matted ground. No-one notices, they are all having such a riotous time. Farideh Pelham and the Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville are at the centre of this madcap, dizzying throng. This admired, glittering couple portraying the style and vogue of this Cremorne summer night. All the other swirling couples dance in and out around them, imitating their fashionable mode and hopeful that some of their glittering stardust will fleck off onto them.

Hettie Nicholson and Burton O’Brien seem oblivious to everything. They are dancing slowly, around and around ever tighter in their own little world. Caught in the eternal dance of rapture and spinning in front of the playing ensemble of Musicians thrilling this moon-entranced night. The music seems to lift up through the cupola-shaped roof of the Marquee and dance down through to the wondrous Crystal Grotto …

Emma Martin is feeling deflated and glum because she just cannot believe that handsome Burton O’Brien could possibly prefer Hettie Nicholson to her. Hettie Nicholson who is plain-looking and overweight. Hettie Nicholson who can barely read and write. Hettie her best friend who is coarse and vulgar. It just cannot be. Burton O’Brien who is so darkly handsome, a dashing young Dubliner who could have his pick of the pretty young Ladies of Cremorne, and he is besotted with Hettie Nicholson! It just cannot be. It is just not fair. It is all a bad dream …

‘There you are my dear. That should reinvigorate you! … ’ A sweaty, red-faced Alfred Hayward is speaking only a foot or two away from Emma Martin’s face but she cannot hear what he is saying. She roughly knows what he means and can see his lips moving but the sounds of his words are lost. Abandoned in the ringing crescendo of music, the babble of shrieks, the half-contained howls of frenzy and surprise. The night inside this Marquee is growing wilder and wilder by the minute. A drunken and semi-stupefied Hylda Farley is attempting to re-enact her Dance of the Seven Veils … Emma Martin attempts to cheer up and swallows a generous mouthful from the large, tulip-shaped glass full of expensive champagne, which has been guided into her hands by a courteous Alfred Hayward …

A hot Alfred Hayward quickly casts his roving eye over this riotous whirling action of the Marquee. He can spy Sam Webb locked in conversation with Frederick Mollett of Mollett, Smith and Lawder. His arm draped around Mollett’s shoulders. His lips virtually touching the attentive ear. Guy Cunningham-Greville half-agreed cautiously to invest in ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’ when his inheritance comes through. Before he could reveal more he was swept up and away by a dazzling Farideh Pelham. Still he did say … ‘Good old Beezer’ …

‘Shall we go outside Emma?!’

A blank stare greets this proposal. Alfred Hayward indicates towards the folded-up flap of the Marquee. Emma nods her assent between large mouthfuls of quaffed champagne and they immediately exit the Marquee, thrusting through the mad, demonically dancing crowd …

Alfred Hayward takes Emma Martin by the arm and leads her gently away from the raucous sounds of the Marquee tent … Now walking her along by the Crystal Grotto and extolling its virtues, its splendiferous architecture and its glorious fountains … Changing the conversation to how drab and confining it must be working forever-and-a-day at ‘Burgoyne and Sons’. Positively Elizabethan … Now walking away out past the Crystal Grotto and the parading couples under the crystal-illuminated, glass droplets glittering in the night … Strolling slowly along as Emma rather unsteadily imbibes another copious mouthful of champagne and receives an offer to work as an assistant to Alfred Hayward’s irreproachable secretary Miss Andrews at ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’. Such are the opportunities delivered late at night at Supper-parties, social events and late night Soirees … Is it real? Can this balding, sweaty old businessman be seriously offering Emma a job? …

‘I have to sit down. I feel very queasy. I am going to be … ’ With that Emma Martin lurches forward dropping onto her knees and vomits into the long grass. All of the night’s unhappiness and frustration is reaching up inside of her and depositing its puking self in pools of sick on the gas-lit grass of Cremorne … They are now in a narrow avenue some way off from the Crystal Grotto and quite on their own. The hanging full moon seems to have retreated in the night sky and has faded just a little.

Emma Martin is sat on the grass now in a pool of vomit. Life is oh so unfair and she had such great hopes and dreams for this evening. That Burton O’Brien is so handsome. The Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville seemed so nice, attentive and interested and now he only has eyes for that Farideh Pelham. What chance have I got nestles itself in Emma Martin’s brain … A great, big, huge tear drops down her cheek for Corporal Bob her Chocolate Soldier.

‘Oh it is all so awful Alfred!’

‘There, there, my dear. Here, use my handkerchief. Dry your eyes there’s a good girl … Here, move away from your little mishap and come and sit here.’

Emma Martin obeys. She feels tired, distraught and drained and doesn’t really know where she is.

Alfred Hayward puts his arm around to comfort her.

‘Just a little kiss my dear to make an old man happy.’

‘Just one peck if you really must Alfred.’

Alfred Hayward goes to plant a kiss on Emma’s pale cheek. Her face looks slightly blue in the reflection from the purple gas-lamp … Suddenly his powerful urges overcome him and he grabs at Emma and starts to kiss, paw and maul her … She pulls away quickly and screams. ‘Leave me alone! … I don’t want you! You’re nothing but a silly, balding old man and I don’t want your stinking job neither!’

‘You little bitch! You sound just like my bloody wife and so you do. Always telling me what for. Always rejecting my advances! Refusing my generous affection!’

‘Well I don’t blame her!’ Laughs Emma Martin right in his face … ‘I would be very surprised if women have ever taken you seriously! Look at you!’ Sneers Emma Martin. ‘You’re nothing but a big, fat, silly old man with some money and a misplaced sense of your own importance. You’re not a man. You’re nothing but a fat old mouse!’

A blind, drunken rage takes hold of him now … wife and shopgirl blurring into one hated face in the purple gas-light. With that Alfred Hayward grasps a smirking Emma Martin around the throat. Both hands pressed tight around her windpipe. He shouts ‘ You little cow, you stupid little cow I wish I’d never married you!’ … Emma is too drunk to struggle. Her face has suddenly turned dark mauve. All life suddenly drops out of her body. Alfred Hayward carries on throttling her and shouting for another thirty seconds before he abruptly stops short and let’s go. His face is convulsed, his temple is throbbing. Emma Martin’s lifeless form flops onto the grass floor of Cremorne like a limp rag doll.

‘Oh my God what have I done!’ Bemoans Alfred Hayward. He shakes and shakes the lifeless form but it won’t come alive. It won’t spring to attention. A stillness.

‘Oh God have mercy on me! What have I done!’

Alfred Hayward, horrified, ashamed and confused, rediscovers his survival instinct. Hastily looking about him to see if anyone is there. The first relief. Not spotted or seen. Now starting to drag the dead body of Emma Martin behind a sculpted bush. He goes back to recover her shoes which have slipped off and stands on her tulip-shaped glass and crushes it underfoot. The noise of breaking glass sounds like a clap of thunder to his ears. The whole of Cremorne must have heard it. He is expecting this very instant to be accosted by inebriated revellers demanding to know what has taken place …

‘Walk up this way now … Regain control of yourself. That is better. Show some poise … What to do? Oh I did not mean to kill her! How could that have happened?! She was so fragile. It was her fault. She looked so robust and healthy. If only she hadn’t laughed at me. If only she hadn’t laughed at me. If only she hadn’t suddenly appeared like Dorcas my wife … What to do? … Pull yourself together Old Man. You were not seen. It was just some horrible accident … The silly little bitch just asked for it! … Work with Miss Andrews! Why, she was not even capable enough to sharpen Miss Andrews’ pencils! … Beezer. Good old Sam Webb. He will know what to do. If ever there was a man to rely on it is Beezer. A man just made to deal with a crisis like this! Go seek out Beezer. He will help. He will sort it all out. Make everything right again. Like it was before … Silly little cow! She should not have laughed at me like that!’

A red-faced and blowing hard Alfred Hayward manages to elbow and navigate his way back into the boisterous late night revelry of the Marquee. Desperately searching for Sam Webb and attempting to remain calm and inconspicuous at the same time … Sam Webb has not moved from the self-same spot these forty-five minutes past. Still talking hard into the attentive ear of Frederick Mollett, as all about them dance and cavort, giggle and laugh, parade in the louche behaviour of a demimonde coterie … Alfred Hayward is frantically tugging at Sam Webb’s sleeve. Urgently indicating towards the folded-up flap of the Marquee … Sam Webb seals his conversation with Frederick Mollett of Mollett, Smith and Lawder, in a felicitous manner, and follows a lurching Alfred Hayward through the raucous spectacle taking place inside the Marquee. An almost-naked Hylda Farley has spun herself off her feet and collapsed in a drunken heap, accompanied by much ribald laughter and obscene observations levelled onto the drunken night air.

‘Good God Old Man you do pick your moments! … I had him bang to rights and so I did! One hundred thousand pounds of capital investment. One hundred thousand! If Frederick Mollett recommends it then the young Right Honourable will do it! … Then you have to come along and interrupt us like that! … Well it had better be good Old Man!’ …

Alfred Hayward motions Sam Webb away from the chattering crowd lounging around the Marquee entrance. Away to a quiet place under the gaze of the Crystal Grotto. Taking a deep breath he launches forth with the words spluttering out. Words that seem somehow foreign to his ears. Someone else’s disembodied voice proclaiming nervously …

‘A truly terrible thing has occurred Beezer Old Man! I quite unaccountably have killed that shop girl Emma Martin. Pure accident you understand. Just got too amorous I guess and my passion ran away with me!’ …

Sam Webb just stares hard, as if his brain is having trouble in deciphering the words. At last a dawning of comprehension floods across his stunned face … Wasting no time, he takes a mortified-looking Alfred Hayward by the arm … ‘Lead me to her immediately. Now! No time to lose Old Man!’ …

Alfred Hayward stumbles forth followed closely by a furtive Sam Webb peering hard into the depths of the Crystal Grotto to spy any onlookers … Alfred Hayward just cannot remember exactly. All these gas-lit groves and corridors look so similar. Painted trees and lush-pink rhododendron bushes proliferate. The full moon is not so bright. Could it be this avenued corridor? … Sam Webb is totally exasperated. Fidgeting desperately with his well-manicured fingers and cursing under his breath … Precious time is sliding by and Alfred Hayward, desperate and unsure, is starting to almost imagine that it was all some kind of dream … The reality of this devilish nightmare springs into life when a sweaty, red-faced, panting Alfred Hayward sights the broken shards of a champagne glass glinting in the rays of a purple and orange gas-light … So it was real … Any hoped for fantasy is soon shattered as Alfred Hayward locates the bushy spot where lies the dead body of Emma Martin … Sam Webb surveys the scene for a moment. Does nothing. You can almost see his thought processes working overtime across his bulging forehead. He pulls Alfred Hayward back onto the main pathway of the corridor. Checks quickly up and down to make sure they are alone. Then proceeds to light a cigar and puff vigorous balls of curling smoke onto the night-time air.

All words have now failed Alfred Hayward having freshly glimpsed the dead body of young Emma Martin and the realization, no matter how accidental, that he has committed an act of murder.

‘Right Old Man. No time to lose. We take the body of young Miss Martin and head for the River Esplanade exit … We walk along with her, support her body as if she is alive and a little drunk and we are escorting her homeward. We each carry one of her shoes so that it will look like she is half-walking as her feet graze and bump against the earth.’ Sam Webb pauses to draw heavily on his cigar …

‘Go on Beezer, go on!’ Urges Alfred Hayward who can now see some element of salvation dawning …

‘Well, we head out from Cremorne and walk her along the Esplanade. Find a quiet, shady spot between some banked small boats and leave her body there … Then … And this is the key to it Old Man … We head back as quick as we can to the Marquee. Find that hostess woman Hylda Farley, make sure everyone sees us, and offer her a large sum of money to gain her full complicity. We leave with her, let the world see us, let them laugh at us and draw their own conclusions. The more attention the better … ’

‘But what will everyone think of me going off with a trollop like that!’

‘Listen hard Old Man, time is of the essence. Would you rather be thought of as a game old Cove with disreputable tendencies and garner a bad reputation or be hung by the neck one cold morning before the laughing, jeering crowd placing wagers on your final utterances! Make up your mind quickly Old Man! We have no time to lose!’

‘But what if we are seen Beezer? What if someone approaches us?’

Sam Webb sighs with wounded impatience as if having to explain for the umpteenth time to a backward child.

‘Everyone is drunk Old Man. Haven’t you noticed? Everyone is hard-pressed at the end of the night. Most of the folk here do not possess or carry a watch of any kind. Of those that do, half most likely either cannot tell the time, are too drunk to see the watch face or are otherwise engaged. We will be seen with the lifeless body of Emma Martin but we will make it appear as if she is still alive. Talk with her. Move her as if she is an attractive woman we are both about to have our wicked way with … We will then be seen to set off with that Hylda Farley. We will make damn sure that everyone in the Marquee sees us leave. We want them to mock us, make fun of us, be amused at our choice of drunken debauchery. After all Old Man, she has royal connections don’t forget. Who knows which part of her anatomy has been granted royal approval? We support her in exactly the same way as the body of Emma Martin. Carry her shoes in exactly the same manner. Only this time we make as much noise as possible. Get Hylda Farley to shout and cackle. Make a fuss, create a stir so that everyone and his dog will remember seeing us … Now if we are lucky and move fast Old Man we can catch the three o’clock Ferry leaving from the River Esplanade for the City … ’

‘What then Beezer?’

‘Why Old Man … ’ Sighs an exasperated, puffing Sam Webb … ‘We dock in the City, take a Berlin to Dirty Dick’s in Bishopgate. Hire a room above the Tavern for what is left of this night and make damn sure we both get our wicked way with that large strumpet Hylda Farley. And … That the dear and beloved night-time denizens of Bishopsgate all hear us, complain about us, threaten us with the Police even! … Drink and eat and have our wicked way … Then Old Man we have the perfect alibi. Everyone will remember us with Hylda Farley. When questioned, the odd, hesitant witness will puzzle, scratch his head and be persuaded by some earnest Police Constable tomorrow or the next day, that they were mistaken. We were with that Farley woman. You only ever left the Marquee for a moment to take a breath of fresh air. The last contact you can recall was saying goodnight to a slightly drunk and distraught Emma Martin, who was greatly upset over her best friend sloping off with young Burton O’Brien our partner. Obviously when she finally left the protective enclave of Cremorne, she was set upon and attacked by some savage rogue. He forced his wicked way upon her, killed her and left her poor body among the small boats laid up on the Chelsea shore by the River Esplanade. You Old Man will be totally in the clear. We will make a killing with the Right Honourable Guy Cunningham-Greville and all this will seem like some bad dream in a few weeks time. Just remember who helped you in your hour of need Old Man!’

‘I shall be for ever in your debt Beezer Old Man!’

‘Good!’

Sam Webb and Alfred Hayward go and raise up the lifeless body of young Emma Martin. They each drape one of her arms around their shoulders. Sam Webb is supporting her waist. Alfred Hayward her neck. Each of them is carrying one of her black heeled shoes dangling in their hands … They move quite serenely down along the gas-lit corridor and head for the River Esplanade exit. Sam Webb is telling a funny story and Alfred Hayward keeps nervously saying yes and no and laughing in all the wrong places … Gangs of people can be seen, couples laid gyrating in the long grass. The full moon seems to have recaptured its early evening strength for a moment and gleams on their progress … But no-one approaches them, attempts to engage them in conversation. Knocks into them, tries to rob them or inveigle a way into their presence … A Gateman is looking the other way when they bump-walk a dangling Emma Martin through the River Esplanade Gates … Clusters of laughing folk are clambering into small boats and watercraft that are threatening to capsize with the weight. Others stand around awaiting the arrival of the returning City Ferry …

Sam Webb, Alfred Hayward and the attractive corpse of Emma Martin slip quietly off to the left of the Landing Jetty and make their way along the small pebbles and churning sludge of Chelsea Beach. They cautiously look about them, then carefully lay her dead body down between two small upturned boats dragged up on the shore. They quickly move away and slide back into Cremorne unnoticed.

Hylda Farley is laid out, seemingly unconscious, under a wooden trestle table supporting bottles of champagne and a few remaining edibles … Sam Webb beavers through the dancing, heaving throng. Motions an hello to a swirling Guy Cunningham-Greville and Farideh Pelham. Crouches down and bends over the semi-naked form of a voluptuous Hylda Farley. He whispers something in her apparently comatosed ear and jangles a handful of gold sovereigns under her snorting nose … Her head suddenly jerks awake. She goes to sit up and bangs her head against the underside of the trestle table. Some bottles of champagne fall off and a couple smash. Folks are starting to look …

‘Give me a hand with this heavenly angel Old Man!’ Shouts Sam Webb …

Together the pair of them support Hylda Farley onto her naked feet. A hum of obscene laughter ripples through the dancing crush … This pair of respectable Businessmen, the erstwhile Directors of ‘The Great Metropolitan Gas and Coke Company’, are last seen heading out under the folded-up flap of this music heaving, riotous Marquee, with an arm each curled around the half-naked figure of a staggering Hylda Farley. Each of these very respectable Gentlemen is carrying one of her black heeled shoes. One has an arm draped around her ample waist. The other an arm around her neck. They are all laughing and joking fit to bust doncha know …

‘What does Pretty Polly say then my dear? … Pretty Polly wants … ’

‘Pretty Polly says … ’ Splutters a reinvigorated Hylda Farley … ‘Pretty Polly says you Gentlemen be a-wanting an orger and it will cost yer!’

‘Twenty gold sovereigns be enough for you Hylda my heavenly angel?’

‘For twenty gold good ‘uns Gentlemen, you can both have me at once and as many times as you are so desirous love!’ … With that the eye-catching, colourful trio finally exit the Marquee tent and head on past the Crystal Grotto towards the River Esplanade. Hylda Farley’s champagne-splashed feet are a-bumping and a-trailing along the ground and Dirty Dick’s awaits … …

‘Some little way off, Hettie Nicholson is still laughing on Burton O’Brien’s arm, quite drunk on champagne and the promise of being called a rare catch, and has not yet thought once to wonder where Emma has got to … Good night Sirs!’ Signals the Gateman as Leon Chandler and Herbert Campbell slowly leave Cremorne by the River Esplanade exit … They meander along the Esplanade front kicking at stones and bits of refuse as the noise of laughter rings in their ears. Their eyes keep avoiding looking at the kissing and touching couples sprawled across the Esplanade frontage. Frolicking into the cold River’s edge and splashing water at one another and challenging some outrageous dare …

The drunken shape of a stranded stilt-walker can just be seen propped up against a stone wall. A little red monkey is dancing along the water’s edge. A lurid green bonnet is tied around its head and a splashing group tease this monkey while awaiting the City Ferry. They are trying to entice the little red monkey into the water, but danger lurks and the monkey is having none of it. Dancing right up to the River’s edge then darting away again as the imploring shrieks of encouragement try to draw the red monkey on.

Leon Chandler is riding the crest of his own wave. With hands deep in pockets he nonchalantly walks along the Esplanade towards Chelsea Beach. His jaundiced, artistic eye is observing this night-time parade of human enjoyment, and his pithy commentary keeps drawing a succession of smiles and nods from a respectful Herbert Campbell who is walking at least two paces behind him … They pick their way amid the stones and skirt the large pools of sludge and slime washing up on the shoreline. Leon Chandler goes to sit on the end of an upturned boat and prepares to light a cigarette, when his eyes spy a body laid between two small boats. Quite calmly and without the benefit of any gas-light, he beckons to Herbert Campbell who is still drawn to watching the playful shenanigans of the folk on the Esplanade frontage … They both go forward and lean right over to see who it is. Leon Chandler squats right down and carefully turns the body over.

‘Oh no it’s Emma Martin!’

‘You know this girl ma Boy?’

‘They are a Chelsea family. Yes I do. She works at Sloane Square, ‘Burgoyne and Sons’ I do believe. I know her mother.’

‘Then it is truly a sad day!’ Leon Chandler bends his ear to Emma Martin’s dead heart to hear if any life stirs. He lifts his head up with a lamentable sigh and takes her limp wrist in his hand to check for any sign of a pulse. Just in case. Just on the wildest of chances and transformational act one gets to hope and savour some glint of innate justice that this lovely young girl is not dead. That all the whisky and beer and cigarettes and opium have not blurred an obvious judgment. That Emma Martin will suddenly sit up and rub her eyes with surprise. That the first face she will see will be that of Herbert Campbell. That their smiling eyes will interlock. Their fortunes become as one from that moment on and that between the quarrels they will live happily ever after.

A cold breeze wafts up from the Great River and catches at Leon Chandler’s throat and ruffles Herbert Campbell’s cut-away sleeves for a moment. A chill has descended upon them and the frivolity of the splashing gangs of couples and the little red monkey wary at the River water’s edge, seem a million miles removed now.

‘We must go and inform the Police right away. I will go over to the Cremorne Gateman and ask for his help. We had better be quiet about it I suppose. Don’t want to frighten those folk over on the Esplanade.’

‘Very commendable of you Herbert ma Boy. You would be quite right in fulfilling your citizen’s duty in normal circumstances. But you see Herbert, death by murder is not a normal occurrence and even I can see by the shadow of the moon, that she has been choked to death. Just look at those marks on her neck. Some vicious animal has choked the very sweet life out of her Herbert ma Boy. But I say we hold fast. You see, this is a vital moment and I am not normal Herbert … This is what I want to happen. I am going to walk up the beach to our little moored boat and fetch my sketch pad and crayons. You dear Boy are going to say nothing for a while. You are going to make your way homeward nursing your conscience along with you. All I ask is for two hours ma Boy. The dawn will soon be starting to show itself. What is sun up? … Six-fifteen or so. Just two precious hours Herbert. Then you can make your way to the Police and report her dead body.’

‘But that is cruel’ Blurts out Herbert Campbell … ‘We cannot do that! We cannot just leave her here like that! … How would you feel if it was you Leon?’

‘Your naïve fisherboy's heart springs to the fore. All artistic pretence is shot. You revert to type in a crisis ma Boy … Personally I could not care less because I would be stone dead just like young Emma here and the greedy sharks could well have me for their breakfast. Excepting I do not believe that sharks swim up this great River of yours … Wait here. Think on. Do nothing like I say. Just obey me in this matter.’

Herbert Campbell is at a loss and helpless. Caught on the hopeless divide between admiration bordering upon hero-worship and a sense of duty dictated by a family time and place.

An animated Leon Chandler reappears stalking out of the gloom. His eyes are starting to blaze very large. He is becoming extremely excited. The hoot-hoot-hoot of the City Ferry whistle steaming away down river pleases him no end. The Esplanade is virtually deserted now.

‘Right ma Boy. Steel yourself hard. Be prepared for a gruesome deed … I want you to help me strip off these dead girl’s clothes … ’

‘I will not! It would be right criminal! … Disrespectful to the dead.’

‘Has anything I’ve been saying to you this past year penetrated that hard English skull of yours! … Forget your background, who you are, the confines of conventionality. The might of your delusional Great Empire. Believe in the power of Art and you will succeed … Now, I will make it easy for you Herbert. You just remove her black heeled shoes and collect her items of clothing as I hand them to you … All right!’ …

Herbert Campbell nods slowly. He is still trapped on that great divide. He simply cannot refuse this great honey-voiced Master but his whole being is telling him that this is wrong. If they are discovered no-one will believe them. They will be instantly turned upon. They would stand less chance than that playful little red monkey. Fear is raging at his nostrils … But he does as he is told. He cannot watch. He removes the black heeled shoes with a grimace. Turns his head away, leaves his hands outstretched to collect her clothes and hold them and watches the murky course of the Great River, the tide must soon be going out.

Leon Chandler mechanically strips Emma Martin’s dead body of all her clothes. Much in the way that a nurse might do so in a battlefield hospital of damaged hopes and bodies. Surgical in action, careful not to snap a finger off by mistake or cause unnecessary contusions in a state of eager hustle …

Leon Chandler stands stock still and evaluates the earthly elements. The slight breeze, the gas-lit cast shadows from the River Esplanade, the fading brightness of the full moon. Then, much to Herbert Campbell’s horror, he half drags, half carries the now-naked corpse of Emma Martin and lays it on its side close to the River’s edge. Crawling down over the inanimate form and practising moving the head to different calculated angles. Totally oblivious to the retching and vomiting of young Herbert Campbell a few yards along on the shoreline.

‘Right ma Boy you can go now. Remember what I said. Two hours, that is all I crave. If you hold our relationship dear you will acquiesce to my will … Before you depart, let me once again enlighten your education ma Boy … This poor young girl, Emma Martin you say she is called … Is dead. Very dead. Strangulated by the looks of it. Now you may well believe in the immortality of Souls. I don’t know. But I do believe in the power and purpose of Art. Fulfillment in the moment of creation. I am going to draw this young dead girl. I am going to breathe Art and Life into her dead cadaver. I am going to immortalise her before the coming Dawn … You may well be shocked by my unseemly behaviour. I can see that you are. No grand English Gentleman would behave in this way. Well I am above such conventionalities. I may well be a Southern Gentleman, but I am an Artist first and foremost, and if I should succeed aways and the Divine Muse can move and direct my practised hand then this pretty young Girl will live forever when I paint her. Because what you do not fully comprehend ma Boy before all the English niceties, is that I am going to immortalise her for ever. Breathe life into her very body across space and time. She has not died in vain Herbert ma Boy. She will live for ever! This is her time!’

Herbert Campbell stands and stares hard on the beach. Nods gamely with a show of appreciation then turns and walks sharply away up the beach. His pace quickens as he goes up to Chelsea Reach.

Leon Chandler sinks to his knees on the beach careless to the cutting pain of the pebbles. Total concentration absorbing him as he starts to feverishly sketch, crayon and thumb the glorious naked form of Emma Martin in the morning half-light. Dawn is still some way off, but an uttered prayer to Matúta the Great Goddess of the Dawn herself may just shed an added glimmer as Leon Chandler strains with all his power and passion to capture Emma, breathe life and soul into her young white body.

Leon Chandler shivers with exultant joy, pulls the flag of the Stars and Bars close around his shoulders, looks across at the fizzing, coloured gas-light of Cremorne and draws and draws Emma Martin into life and beyond.

250