Sheep’s Tongue in Paper
Cut braised tongues into two pieces and put round them a forced meat made of fowls’ livers, or any sort of poultry, with the yolks of hard eggs, sweet herbs, a little suet or beef marrow, pepper and salt and a few fine spices. Pound together; roll them up in paper, first rubbed with oil or butter; either broil or bake them slowly, and serve dry or with the sauce.
To my delight, Avery Fitzjohn walked out of the coffee house with us.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked Mr Crease above the voice of a street-seller calling his wares.
‘My name, your name, your father’s name, your mother’s name.’
‘Bartholomew Fair,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Come with us.’
‘I would dearly like to but I have a lawyer to see, so, sir, I bid you good morning.’
I turned to watch him go and in doing so bumped into the street-seller. There was a terrible clang as the alphabetical posy he was holding fell to the cobbles. I bent to pick up the marking irons and much to my embarrassment found that Mr Fitzjohn had stopped to help.
‘Allow me, Master Thomas,’ he said, smiling.
When all the letters had been given back to the street-seller, I thanked him and hurried to catch up with Mr Crease. Only when I was sure Mr Fitzjohn was out of sight did I ask Mr Crease who he was.
‘A very interesting young man.’
‘And…?’
But Mr Crease had nothing further to add. We walked on and I began to flag. To my relief Mr Crease hailed a hackney carriage.
I was delighted by the novelty and had just settled myself inside when, looking out through the window’s metal grille, my heart near stopped. A little way off, staring at the hackney carriage, was the gentleman from the blue chamber.
‘Mr Crease, there was a gentleman who came to Milk Street the day of Mr Truegood’s wedding to Queenie. He is standing over there.’
‘Where?’ asked Mr Crease. But the gentleman in question appeared to have vanished. ‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘Yes,’ I said as we bumped along. ‘No. I don’t know.’
We arrived outside a tavern in the midst of a huge crowd. If chaos wanted to show herself in all her disarray then she could not have chosen a better occasion than Bartholomew Fair. People were packed as tight together as in a barrel of eels. I was almost overcome by the smell of sweat and roasting pig.
‘If we become separated,’ said Mr Crease, who I could hardly hear above the squealing of catcalls, the squeaking of penny trumpets and the thunder of kettle drums, ‘this is where we will meet: here at the King’s Head.’
Inside the tavern it was as busy as outside but slightly cooler for the shade. Mr Crease fought his way through until he found two seats by the window on the second floor. He ordered coloquintida, a small beer, which never having tasted before I thought odd, but not unpleasant. From the window we could just see one of the stages. An actor strutted about in tinsel robes and gilded buckskin. A magician took to the stage and I watched and was disappointed by all I saw him do.
‘That,’ said Mr Crease, ‘is a buffoon who thinks he’s a magician conjuring up tricks for other buffoons to watch.’
I was surprised by the heavy handedness of the magic. Every trick performed could be seen it for what it was: a cheap fraud.
‘That isn’t magic,’ said Mr Crease and ordered more beer. ‘It couldn’t even own the word. You asked me a question.’
I had all but forgotten. The sight of Avery Fitzjohn had put it out of my head.
‘I did. I wanted to know how it was I could see the boy in the grandfather clock although Mr Truegood wasn’t dead.’
Mr Crease closed his eyes so that his painted eyes could see into me.
‘It was said by Mr Shakespeare that one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. Mr Truegood’s haunted boyhood was a part he had never been able to let go. It happens often that the living are more haunted by their pasts than they are by the dead who, like your mother, on the whole have somewhere else to go.’ Changing the subject, he asked, ‘Is that gentleman you thought you recognised anywhere about?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Drink up then.’
Outside, we were caught up in the crowd. We swam rather than walked past booths and theatrical stages, stalls selling hobby horses, singing birds, toy dogs, and all that shimmered and shone. I, no more than a magpie, was unable to take my eyes from the gaudy trappings on sale. I looked round and realised Mr Crease was well ahead of me. I tried to break free of the forceful tide and that was the cause of my misfortune. I lost my wig and my hat and instead of concentrating on the whereabouts of Mr Crease, I tried to retrieve my possessions. It was too late – they were trodden into the mud and shit, as good as lost for ever. Now I could no longer see Mr Crease. He was neither to the front of me nor to the back, and I found I was being jostled into a large booth. I was trying to extricate myself when a candle lit up the stage and a curtain was pulled aside for a harlequin to announce that the play was called The Devil of a Duke. The crowd clapped.
Intrigued, I stayed to watch. One character acted the drunk and reminded me more than I liked of Mr Truegood. The heat in the tent was too much and I made my way out. There, my eyes accustomed themselves to the bright sunlight but I still couldn’t see Mr Crease. I realised that without my wig and hat my disguise was undone.
‘Have you paid?’ said a man who was standing by the opening.
I hadn’t a penny on me. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t.’
It was then that I felt a hand holding tight to my arm.
‘Oh, Mr Crease,’ I said, turning round. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
And I looked up, not into Mr Crease’s face, but into the eyes of the gentleman from the blue chamber.
What followed shook me badly and made me wonder about those two rogues, Fate and Destiny, who daily play piquet with our lives without one jot of concern for the consequences. It is terrible to think that all our hopes and dreams are in the hands of these two swindlers. I thought myself to be so insignificant a mortal that they would not tamper with my days in any way; in that I was proved decidedly wrong. There you see, sir, that the shallow shores of my mind have shells on them; whether there be pearls I cannot say. But I dally.
The gentleman from the blue chamber quickly paid the man.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘take this and be done with it.’
In the sunlight the gentleman was certainly handsome but where Mr Avery Fitzjohn’s face was open I could not say the same for this gentleman. What had I been thinking to cast him in such a romantic light?
To my surprise he again took hold of my arm and addressed me by my name. ‘Miss Truegood, I insist that I escort you home. My carriage is at your disposal.’
There seemed something mighty untoward in his design, even to my feeble brain, and instinctively I tried to pull away. It was then that I seemed to wittingly or unwittingly conjure up Pretty Poppet. The gentleman saw her too and wavered. In that instant I broke free and ran, breeches being better suited to running than petticoats. I heard my would-be abductor, not far behind, curse and call my name. Pretty Poppet guided me, weaving in and out of the crowds. She lifted the flap of one of the smaller tents and, terrified of being caught, I ducked inside.
My heart was pounding so fast that I didn’t concern myself with the interior of the tent or who it might belong to but kept my eyes on the opening. Through it I could see the gentleman searching the booths.
‘Come away from there and be seated,’ said a voice behind me.
I turned to see a woman, heavily made-up, sitting at a small dressing table. Her hair was near gone, apart from a wisp, and a wig stood on a stand.
‘He will not come in here,’ she said. ‘You are safe with me.’
I didn’t feel as certain as she did.
Further in, the tent was full of clothes of the most glittery kind and they smelled of warm wax, paint and sweat.
‘Sit down and let me know you.’
I sat beside the actress and she took hold of my hand and looked at my palm. I felt rather shy and awkward.
‘Thank you, madam, for letting me hide here,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, it is most rude of me to have barged in uninvited.’
She waved my apology aside. ‘What do you wish for?’ she asked.
It was such a surprising question that I didn’t have an answer ready. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Do not waste a wish on nothing,’ she said as I looked at the entrance of the tent again. ‘What do you wish for?’
I wasn’t in the mood for games. ‘Are you sure he won’t find me here?’ I asked.
‘Quite sure. Now tell me. I am curious to know: what does a young girl dressed as a boy wish for?’
To stop her asking any more questions I said, ‘I wish to be my own mistress. But really, I cannot concentrate on this – I think I am in danger.’
She looked at my palm again. ‘You are Mr Crease’s apprentice,’ she said.
That took my breath away. ‘How do you know?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘Do you not recognise me, young lady?’ She placed the wig on her head.
‘Mrs Coker!’ I said, amazed. ‘I never supposed my elocution teacher to be an actress.’
‘And I never supposed I’d see my pupil dressed as a boy. We have managed to surprise one another. Come now, play the game. I will grant you your wish. It will help you make your fortune.’
‘But I haven’t wished for anything.’
‘You have been wishing since the day you were born. A pearl hand is what I will give you.’
‘What’s a pearl hand?’ I asked, my eyes still on the tent flap.
‘If you do not find out for yourself, come and see me again,’ she said, ‘and I will tell you.’ With that she turned her attention to the mirror and powdered her nose. ‘Beware of Captain Spiggot, for he is no friend of yours.’
‘I don’t know any such captain,’ I said.
‘You will do,’ she said.
A dwarf wearing a jester’s cap entered the tent.
Mrs Coker stood up as tall as I remembered her. Somewhere outside a band began to play. The dwarf preceded her through a flap at the far end of the tent and up steps that led to a stage.
Mrs Coker whispered, ‘Now, go home as quickly as you can.’