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‘Three, then? Or a round half crown?’ Hilditch shakes his head and Saggers frowns. ‘I knows my dogs, I tell you. And if we don’t win I don’t take my consideration. How much fairer can a man be? Give me a shilling and I’ll lay it down.’
‘No, I really think not,’ Hilditch says and turns away. He affects to observe the spectators about the pit, who have resumed their drinking and chatter and are, Hilditch thinks, at least as interesting as the spectacle in the pit. Now that the arena is being cleared once more of dead rats, those gathered about it are talking loudly. Nattily dressed salesmen puff cigars at the side of costermongers who pull on yellow-stemmed pipes and expectorate into the pit. Other fanciers point at dogs in the glass cases, shaking their heads with the gravitas of Oxford dons. One or two nearby have been paying heed to the exchange between the stranger and Saggers, whose brow now furrows as his head inclines quizzically.
‘Am I mistaken?’ he says, loudly enough for all about to hear should they so wish. Saggers addresses himself to the ceiling. ‘Am I under a mishapprehension?’ He peers directly into the dark glass of Hilditch’s spectacles. ‘You is here to enjoy our ’umble entertainment, isn’t you?’
Saggers snatches at Daniel who has remained at his side and pulls him closer. ‘Dan’l! The gent is here to bet, ain’t he?’
Daniel looks about himself, to the door, but interested crowds have stopped up the way of escape. ‘No, he an’t here to bet.’
‘Not here to bet?’ announces Saggers, astounded. And then claps his hand to his forehead. ‘Hang me for a fool! O’course, that’s it, he’s here to buy, then!’
‘No, he don’t want a dog neither.’
‘What, then, Dan’l?’ says Saggers.
‘He said he just wanted to watch.’
Saggers makes his eyes bulge in mock-astonishment but real annoyance prevents further mummery and he booms out, ‘To hob-serve? What’s the good of that? Who is he, Dan’l? Is he a spy, a Customs sneak maybe?’
Eyes swivel to Hilditch like so many great guns. ‘We don’t turn away strangers here, sir,’ Saggers says. ‘We welcomes ’em, takes ’em into our fold. We treats a stranger like our own, so long as they loves the entertainment we provides. And you don’t give the appearance of doing that, sir! P’raps you’ll explain yourself?’
To those across the pit the stranger appears composed but some who stand closer may observe the sheen upon his lip.
‘I’m not a sporting man. I only want to see what goes on here.’
Saggers pauses, weighs up the answer like an Assize judge after a heavy lunch.
‘What kind of cove are you, sir? What doesn’t get involved?’
‘I only want to be a spectator,’ says Hilditch. ‘I get no pleasure from gambling. I wish only to stand here quietly and watch. But, if that is not permissible, then I will go.’
‘No, no, you interest me, sir, and you shall stay,’ Saggers says. ‘I would like to know what kind of a man is it that can keep isself separate from all others though he stands beside ’em and accepts their ’ospitality.’
‘I have no wish to insult you,’ says Hilditch. ‘You will forgive me if I seem impolite.’
‘You’re like the missionaries and the meddlers that come about us, all wanting something for nothing.’ He shakes his head as he scrutinises the novelty before him. ‘What a pale and lifeless thing you are! Do you have no blood in you? Can’t you afford no meat? I can hear you’ve an education. A man can go far with one o’ them, they say. But it seems he can’t get fat!’
William Saggers slaps his own ample haunches, and looks about for the endorsement of the crowd.
‘If you will excuse me, now,’ Hilditch begins, but Saggers holds him back.
‘I think you care for nothing, sir. I think you are a cold creetur that can worm its way in anywhere, observe and go away again.’ He turns again to the silent crowd and receives nods and murmurs of assent before he starts to address Hilditch again. ‘Maybe I’ve seen you at a hanging? We’ve all observed at hangings, ain’t we, mates? But we ain’t like fish watching wi’out blinking as some cove dies. We cheers if he’s a bad ’un or we cries if he’s a pal. But we gets involved, that’s for sartain.’
Hilditch, pale as candlewax, fights to keep control of his trembling voice. ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I can loan you a shilling, to make your bet,’ he says. ‘If you will only allow me to watch without further molestation.’
‘I shouldn’t like to involve you when you didn’t want to be involved,’ says Saggers, ‘when arter all you had only come here to observe.’
Saggers pushes Daniel before Hilditch, blocking his path. ‘You know my boy Dan’l?’
Hilditch meets the wide eyes of the child and nods. Saggers holds the boy’s arm with one hand and with his other hand he strokes his face.
‘He’s a good boy, ain’t he?’
‘That depends on the purpose for which he guided me here. But I’m persuaded he is.’
‘You got here safe, didn’t you?’
Saggers speaks loudly, so his voice can be heard above the preparations for the next match. Rats scratch against the boards by which Hilditch stands, confronted by Saggers, while in the periphery of his vision they run pell mell about the pit. A small, sharp-eared terrier yaps excitedly in its owner’s arms.
‘Drop the little feller in,’ somebody calls. ‘He looks ready for ’en!’
‘Wait!’ The voice of William Saggers is loud enough to brook further chatter. ‘Hold your dog, Isaac. He can have his turn after the diversion.’
News of this diversion daisy-chains about the pit and Hilditch has every man’s attention as he turns Daniel about and, with a dog’s rope, pinions his arms behind his back. ‘Jes’ so you isn’t tempted to cheat,’ he says.
The boy, with a face that is a mixing of shock and rage, protests loudly. ‘You promised I shouldn’t do this again!’
‘And you promised to bring home your money,’ his father replies, as he helps the boy up upon a pit-side table. ‘Now go on, give the gentlemen their entertainment and there might be something in it for you.’
Daniel stands above the crowd. At first Hilditch thinks the boy’s trembling is caused by his precarious perch – the table rocks upon a shortened leg – but then he sees the dark streak upon the boy’s trousers and the new puddling upon the tabletop. The boy whimpers softly.
‘No good looking at that particular jintleman,’ Saggers says. ‘He’s only a observer! Now, into the pit, Dan’l, or it’ll go the worse for you.’
The boy hesitates. He looks again at Hilditch, as if he might penetrate the opaqueness of his disguise. Saggers moves towards him and raises his stick. ‘’E jest needs a little poke,’ he tells the crowd, but before Saggers can follow through, the boy jumps to the floor of the pit. He lands hard upon the boards but loses his balance and crashes to the floor. His tied hands are trapped beneath him and for some moments he is unable to rise or to prevent the rats swarming over his legs and chest. Daniel struggles but is at last upon his feet, crying petulantly, ‘I ain’t doing this again!’
‘A half dozen rats in five minutes, Daniel – that ain’t asking much, I think, of a dutiful son.’
‘I only done two last time,’ the boy complains.
Saggers’ stick prods the boy towards the largest piling of rats. ‘Every one on ’em, Dan’l, or you’ll bed in the gutter tonight. I’ve had my fill of you.’
Tears of anger and frustration flash in the boy’s eyes as he crosses the pit and swings a ferocious kick at the writhing mound. As the rats disperse, he stamps hard and crushes the head of one and immediately receives a crack across his own skull from his father’s stick. ‘None of that, none of that! You bite ’em, same as the dogs!’
Around the ring, bets are being made by the sanguinary men who cheer noisily as the stick flails and Daniel ducks to avoid another knock on the head. The boy resigns himself to his circumstances and falls to his knees before the rats. Screwing tight his eyes, he darts his head among them in the manner of the dogs before him. The topmost creatures escape his incursion by scrabbling over the boy’s head, matting his hair and scratching his scalp before they run off down his back. Others dart out from between his legs and around his sides. The boy shuffles about, his head bobs up and down and then he straightens his back and turns about. Blood streams from lacerations to his cheeks, nose and forehead. He has a rat between his teeth, which he quickly traps against the wall while he bites its neck. The rat scratches, fights and squeals as the boy traps it against the wood while he finds a place to make a fatal nip.
‘That’s the style, boy, that’s the style!’ Saggers calls.
The boy drops the rat and spits out a piece of its fur. ‘Let me go, I’ll get you money if you’ll let me go,’ he implores, but Saggers will hear none of this and shouts, ‘Another varmint, lad, go to it!’
Reluctantly, the boy again addresses the quivering rats. This time his small mouth can find no purchase and each time he delves among the animals he receives additional wounding. Not all who cheered before are cheering now. A pop-eyed, florid-faced man urges on the sobbing boy, waving his stick and shouting, ‘Kill ’en, Dan’l! Kill ’en, boy!’ but Daniel withdraws himself from his quarry and sits back upon his heels with glazed countenance.
Saggers, for all that he seems intent upon the boy, has Hilditch in his gaze. His thin smile is enquiring. ‘How do you like our sport now, sir?’
Blood wells in the boy’s eyes, drops heavily from a split lip and dapples his shirt front. Wherever bare skin shows, it is crazed with the scratches of sharp claws.
‘This is the most damnable thing I ever saw,’ Hilditch says.
Saggers prods the boy with his stick. ‘Don’t stop now! Another rat, damn you!’ He begins to push Daniel towards the seething, blood-speckled heap of animation.
Hilditch, who is so close to Saggers that he seems complicit in his every action, clears his throat.
‘What’s that?’ Saggers says.
‘That’s enough!’ says Hilditch.
Saggers affects surprise and cups his ear as he speaks to the assembly at large. ‘You ain’t about to interfere? Ho, no, I couldn’t have heard that!’ He leans forward and pokes his stick in the back of the boy’s neck. ‘Get along, boy, you ain’t finished yet!’
Hilditch lays his hand upon the arm that is raising the stick. ‘You must stop this. You must have his wounds seen to now!’
‘Must I, indeed? This is your opinion?’
‘It’s the opinion of anyone with an ounce of sanity,’ says Hilditch.
‘You keep out of this. Can’t you do like you said? He’ll be taken care of, jest as soon as he’s finished.’
‘He’s finished now, man. Look at him!’
Saggers spits at Hilditch, ‘If he leaves that pit now, he leaves this house for ever and ever, Amen. A boy what can’t make money is no good to me. Well? Will he leave with you, sir? Will you take him?’
Hilditch hesitates. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘I thought as much,’ he says, and turns away. ‘Finish them rats, Dan’l. It’s like you said. The gent’s only here to watch.’
Daniel shuffles towards the rats once more. Saggers throws a halfpenny into the pit and someone else throws a second. Daniel is encouraged by the men about the pit, whose calls are now sympathetic, some even kindly. ‘Go on, son,’ someone says. ‘You’re doing stunning.’ Over his shoulder, Saggers says, ‘You’ll recall the way out, sir.’
The crowd makes way before him, and before he knows it, Henry Hilditch is once more outside in the cool night air of the London streets.
3 ‘Sixpunny Portraits’ (#ulink_e7f81d7f-d0aa-580c-b3ec-e0304658f4c9)
At the wrong end of a small tributary off Oxford Street, in an area where strugglers of some ambition might claim a West End address, but others might feel keenly their proximity to the rookeries of St Giles; where spider and web fought dustpan and brush, and the occasional tottering pile of crumbling masonry and broken windows was like an ebony piano key on an otherwise ivory board; and where the owners of flower boxes and neat little shops hoped to raise their neighbours by example alone, a smart black equipage was pulled by four beautifully turned-out horses the full length of the street before it was brought to a halt outside a place of business situated on a corner.
The upper two storeys of this house were much like its neighbours – soot-stained bricks punctured by a double row of three sash windows, all nearly opaque with grime. Below these upper windows appeared the still-white lettering, Touchfarthing. Photographer. The ground-floor sashes had been removed and replaced with a large plate-glass window, behind which were displayed line upon line of assorted photographs framed in tin and silver and representing generations of people of all stations, although those of more obvious standing were allowed their right of precedence and stood to the front of the window, while anonymous fishwives and porters, costermongers and men with dogs lurked in obscurity at the rear.
Dwarfing these were larger portraits framed in wood and gilt depicting whiskery men of business in shiny hats; young, newly-commissioned officers; robust matrons restraining fidgeting infants and there were also the records of young ladies and gentlemen at various stages of their development. Two removable glazed panels of sample pictures and frames stood propped in opposite corners. Beneath the window, for anyone sufficiently interested to stoop, was the information:
Cornelius Touchfarthing, Photographer. Exact Likenesses taken for as little as 6d, frame included. Miniature and Large sized Photographs taken at Three-quarters or Full length. Reduced Prices for Whole Families and Groups. Personal Visits undertaken to the Homes of Ladies and Gentlemen. Enquire within about our Morocco cases, brooches and lockets.
The window display was rarely without its cluster of admirers and was treated by much pavement traffic as a free gallery and by the proprietor with mixed feelings. If one half of those who gathered about his window would enter the shop and have their likenesses taken he might be well-pleased, and he was buoyed only by the hope that some who peered into his window told others and these might some day be his customers. In the meantime, he admitted with some reluctance, he would have to resort to more go-ahead methods if he were to keep his head above water.
On this morning a smartly-dressed family stood before his window admiring another family, whose perfect likeness made the attractive centre-piece of the window display. A great gilt frame, such as might have been employed almost without shame at the Royal Academy, encompassed a scene of domestic perfection. The tall, mustachioed patriarch of the group stood sternly to one side with a hand resting heavily on the shoulder of his seated wife, a model of simple chastity. Sitting on a chaise-longue beside her were three children, groomed, scrubbed and stiffly resplendent in their Sunday best. The bases of posing stands, showing between the polished shoes of the boy and the laced-up boots of the elder girl, suggested that this perfect poise had not been achieved without a little ingenuity.
The admirers of this picture turned as one when the sounds of hooves and harnesses alerted them to the arrival of horses and carriage. The conveyance was not a grand affair, but smart and compact and in the best order. Soon the bright crest upon the door was holding the interest of the window-gazers and was very quickly attracting the attention of more pavement traffic, a handful of shopkeepers and one or two street sellers. They gathered about to decipher the emblem and the motto below, waiting for a glimpse of the august occupant, whose identity was protected by a lowered blind. The driver, the collar of his great-coat raised, the brim of his hat pulled low so that he was altogether muffled too well against the clement weather, took all the time in the world descending from his perch and in giving the reins to a crossing sweeper. ‘His lordship will not detain you long,’ he said loudly, and gave the boy a shiny sixpence. Anticipation rippled through the crowd as the driver tapped upon the carriage door. The blind was let up and from within sounded a stentorian voice. ‘We’re arrived are we?’
The crowd clustered about the vehicle as the driver opened the door and let down the steps. ‘This is the establishment as was recommended, sir,’ he said.
‘This person is good, is he?’ demanded the resounding voice.
‘The very best in London, I’m assured,’ said the driver.
‘And you are certain that he is properly patronised?’
‘I’m told the Duke himself calls for Mr Touchfarthing.’
‘Well, I hope he’s quick. I’m a busy man.’
‘I understand told that the whole process is accomplished in five minutes,’ said the driver. ‘He’s also uncommonly cheap.’
‘Pshaw!’ said the voice within. ‘If it’s quality I want, I think I can pay for it! Help me out!’
The crowd gathered close about the carriage as the driver extricated from the small cabin a large man in beautiful yet curiously ill-fitting garments. One or two of the shopkeepers touched their forelocks as the driver, crying out ‘Make way for his lordship, there!’, hurriedly assisted his passenger across the pavement and into the shop doorway. The door opened and closed and its bolt was shot. The crowd pressed against the window, where, above the brass rail of a half-curtain, the party just entered might be seen making its way to the rear of the premises.
‘Gorn to have ’is photograph made!’ hissed a bent and toothless cress-seller. The two young crossing sweepers who had wormed their way to the front of the crowd now extricated themselves with the same ease. ‘You’n see’t all at the back!’ said one and those with sufficient curiosity shuffled after the sweepers, who had scampered around the corner where a rickety fence enclosed an unusual addition to the photographer’s premises. This great glasshouse, the oasis of some forgotten city horticulturist, was now in poor repair, the branches of an apple tree having broken through one corner, and with many of the panes now whitewashed or stuffed with waxed paper and cloth, the annexe was a poor adjunct to the property for anyone but a photographer of limited means, for whom its abundance of northern light made it a perfectly serviceable and capacious studio. Through knots and gaps in the surrounding fence, the boys were commenting on the proceedings within.
‘’Is lordship’s stood agin a great pile of books an’ a bit of a pillar, it looks like. There’s a door behind ’im and trees and the sea.’
‘Sea? In the middle o’ London? Shift over an’ let me look!’
‘It’s a pitcher, I mean – what looks like the sea.’
‘And don’ ’e look savage?’ The boy rapped on the glass. ‘Like a reg’lar statchoo, aintcha, old feller?’ He knocked again and contorted his features so that his eyes bulged and his nose was flattened against the glass. The sitter, sensible of his audience, struggled to maintain his composure. He adjusted his pose, lifting his chin and stroking his luxuriant moustache before fixing his gaze in the far distance.
Shortly afterwards, the muffled driver opened the door of the shop and escorted the noble personage back into his carriage. As soon as the door was closed, he mounted his seat and flicked his whip. The carriage drew away. It turned a corner and then another and then it stopped. The door opened and its passenger alighted and hurried into a tradesmen’s entrance behind the glasshouse. The carriage itself turned into the yards of a livery stable where the driver jumped down.
After the great stable doors had been opened and the coach had been wheeled inside and the doors once more closed and locked, a sum of money passed from the hands of the driver into those of a cheerful man in a checked waistcoat and top boots.
The passenger meanwhile had hurried across a yard, through the glasshouse and into the kitchen door of the photographer’s premises. Throwing off his jacket in the partitioned kitchen that served also as dark-room, he prised off his shoes and pulled on his familiar stained jacket and trousers. Once reattired and having paused just long enough to catch his breath, he strode over to the front door. Here he stopped suddenly as if struck by an idea. Carefully, he stripped the moustache from under his nose and slipped it into a pocket of his trousers before opening wide the street door.
‘A good afternoon to you,’ he said to the still curious and bemused throng without. ‘I hope I haven’t kept anyone waiting. I was obliged to prepare a photograph for a most important client. But I am free now – I can see the first sitter in just a moment. Photographs can be made by my assistant Mr Rankin for sixpence or for only twopence more you can elect to be photographed by myself in person. Now, who will be first today? This little fellow’ – he addressed a woman with a baby wrapped in her shawl – ‘will make a charming picture. If his fortunate mother would like to take him through to the studio at the rear?’
II
Cornelius Touchfarthing, recumbent in the chair that had been warmed by a succession of sitters that afternoon, accepted the cup of tea that had been placed in his hand by John Rankin, without any sign of acknowledgement. ‘What a shabby business, John,’ he sighed. ‘I am defiled.’
Rankin drew up a stool and placed a plate of buttered toast on the box of chemicals that was between them. ‘Well, it ain’t as straight as I could want but it’s taken care of the rent.’
‘But the indignity of it all, John. I felt like a player in a pantomime.’
‘There ain’t no reason we have to do it regular. It won’t work for us if we do. But something like that will get us known. It’s you what said we needed the patronage of the nobs.’
‘Upon my word, we do, John.’
When the cups had been emptied, Rankin refilled them, fussing about a little spilt milk upon the tray and pouring the tea from the leaky pot with all the daintiness of a lady’s maid. ‘That’s all well and good if we gets enough of ’em to make a go of it. But as it is we’ve got a roaring trade in sixpunny portraits. We might get set up in that line alone.’
‘But do you look at our subjects, John. Shopkeepers. School-teachers. A chimney sweep and his family, for goodness’ sake! If we keep on in this way we’ll drive off the better customers. There will be no more well-to-do families, army officers and distinguished businessmen then.’
‘There ain’t any now. Or ’ave you forgot how you bought them pictures in the window?’
‘Only to encourage respectable business of our own, John. I didn’t set up here to produce penny keepsakes. We must establish ourselves in the right circles as quickly as we can. There are not more than a dozen commercial photographers in London today but in only a few months it will all have changed, mark my words. I can see them coming now, swarms of little men with their cheap cameras and poor pictures. And by the time they are here we must be the concern that society connects with the art of photography.’
