Ernest obeyed Gabriel’s suggestion, and kept away from him.
This also meant keeping away from Effie, since she had been drawn more and more
into Gabriel’s orbit, and went almost everywhere with him. Still, she wrote
romantic letters to Ernest, and he responded with elaborate bunches of flowers
and delicate little brooches. Adherence to these rituals of courtly love
allowed Ernest to regain his sense of Effie as an unearthly, pure being. There
was the love he felt for Effie, a right and honourable feeling, and there were
the sensations he experienced in the arms of a working girl, now and then. The
two were very different states of being – like night and day, but still parts
of the same whole, mused Ernest. And, like night and day, the two sensations
co-existed, but did not mingle.
Ernest, therefore, kept himself busy at work in the intricacies of book binding. He spent patient, silent days in the back room of the shop, working alongside Mr Letts, breathing in the calm of leather, gold leaf and various glues. Twice a week he attended Quaker meetings, where he found that he was not filled with the desire to get up and share anything of what God meant to him. But neither was he filled with the desire to confess that he had shot and killed two men, one of them unarmed and both of them defenceless. The deaths had caused a sensation in the newspapers, being reported as ‘the last duel in England’, but it had soon been replaced with other scandals. The Police had shown no interest in Ernest, or Gabriel, despite a fair amount of gossip twittering through the fashionable salons.
In the summer Effie wrote a letter to Ernest saying that she and Honoria were going to spend some months in the Alps. Honoria was betrothed to an Austrian Count, and Effie was going to accompany her while she spent time with her fiancĂ© and planned her Austrian wedding. Effie would then act as bridesmaid, before returning home. Ernest hoped that Honoria had played some part in choosing her husband, whom, Effie also confided, was fifteen years her senior. Meanwhile Gabriel was still running around London like a spoiled child, showing no signs of following his Father into the Serives or of seeking any other occupation. That winter Gabriel had a volume of poetry privately printed. He sent two copies to Ernest, one as a present for his friend, and one to get expensively, elaborately bound – and sent on to Effie. Ernest obliged, including a note from himself in with the parcel. He glanced through the poems, and found them shallow and over elaborate. Ernest had been secretly reading the works of modernist poets, particularly admiring the crueller images of Pound, Yeats and even James Joyce. Gabriel’s verses seemed too mannered and Victorian, their self-indulgence setting Ernest’s teeth on edge.
Ernest had no desire to celebrate his twenty-first birthday with anything more than a quite supper and a chocolate cake made by Mrs Letts. So on the evening of his birthday, having consumed his third slice of cake, he was preparing for bed, thinking to spend an hour or so reading before he went to sleep. But then something fell against his window, tapping as it landed. He pushed the curtain aside far enough to look out, and saw Gabriel standing on the pavement, casting about for more gravel to throw at the window pane. Ernest hesitated, but Gabriel had seen the chink of light, and beckoned to him, grinning.
Ernest dressed and tiptoed down stairs, sneaking out of the back door and round the side of the house. Only when they were round the corner and out of earshot did Gabriel speak, having first embraced him warmly.
‘The Cabinet of Talents is back in town. They’ve re-formed. For us, for our Birthday. For one night only. How could I refuse? How could we refuse? Come on – we’ll take a cab.’
Ernest, therefore, kept himself busy at work in the intricacies of book binding. He spent patient, silent days in the back room of the shop, working alongside Mr Letts, breathing in the calm of leather, gold leaf and various glues. Twice a week he attended Quaker meetings, where he found that he was not filled with the desire to get up and share anything of what God meant to him. But neither was he filled with the desire to confess that he had shot and killed two men, one of them unarmed and both of them defenceless. The deaths had caused a sensation in the newspapers, being reported as ‘the last duel in England’, but it had soon been replaced with other scandals. The Police had shown no interest in Ernest, or Gabriel, despite a fair amount of gossip twittering through the fashionable salons.
In the summer Effie wrote a letter to Ernest saying that she and Honoria were going to spend some months in the Alps. Honoria was betrothed to an Austrian Count, and Effie was going to accompany her while she spent time with her fiancĂ© and planned her Austrian wedding. Effie would then act as bridesmaid, before returning home. Ernest hoped that Honoria had played some part in choosing her husband, whom, Effie also confided, was fifteen years her senior. Meanwhile Gabriel was still running around London like a spoiled child, showing no signs of following his Father into the Serives or of seeking any other occupation. That winter Gabriel had a volume of poetry privately printed. He sent two copies to Ernest, one as a present for his friend, and one to get expensively, elaborately bound – and sent on to Effie. Ernest obliged, including a note from himself in with the parcel. He glanced through the poems, and found them shallow and over elaborate. Ernest had been secretly reading the works of modernist poets, particularly admiring the crueller images of Pound, Yeats and even James Joyce. Gabriel’s verses seemed too mannered and Victorian, their self-indulgence setting Ernest’s teeth on edge.
Ernest had no desire to celebrate his twenty-first birthday with anything more than a quite supper and a chocolate cake made by Mrs Letts. So on the evening of his birthday, having consumed his third slice of cake, he was preparing for bed, thinking to spend an hour or so reading before he went to sleep. But then something fell against his window, tapping as it landed. He pushed the curtain aside far enough to look out, and saw Gabriel standing on the pavement, casting about for more gravel to throw at the window pane. Ernest hesitated, but Gabriel had seen the chink of light, and beckoned to him, grinning.
Ernest dressed and tiptoed down stairs, sneaking out of the back door and round the side of the house. Only when they were round the corner and out of earshot did Gabriel speak, having first embraced him warmly.
‘The Cabinet of Talents is back in town. They’ve re-formed. For us, for our Birthday. For one night only. How could I refuse? How could we refuse? Come on – we’ll take a cab.’
The cab took them across the city and south of the river.
The driver, seeing the good wide streets give way to neglected, twisting alleys
stopped and refused to go any further. As they started to walk, Gabriel led the
way without any hesitation.
‘Shakespeare’s theatres stood just around here. The Globe, The Rose. What better place for our friends to show their finest theatrical skills?’
But the venue was a half derelict old music hall, not Shakespeare’s noble wooden O. The show had already started, and Ernest could hear the music of a piano and an old accordion, wheezing out some sort of tune for Petunia and her latest blooms as they hoofed it across the sloping stage. Ernest stood at the back of the stalls, now accepted among the men. He folded his arms and tried not to think about how old Petunia must now be. She was skinny enough, but wiry and stringy looking. There was not a curve on her, and the bodice that ten years ago had only just kept her decent now hung off her, the wired top edge digging in under her arms as she twirled. Her junior dancers, the petals, were an assorted lot of girls aged from about fifteen upwards, some plump, some thin, but all of them, thought Ernest, awkward, graceless and unpolished on the stage. They did not seem to be enjoying it as the original troupe had done. They seemed to think that it was slightly beneath their dignity to be there at all.
‘They ain’t born to it like they used to be.’ Came a comment from somewhere close to Ernest.
‘They all want to be in the motion pictures. They think they’ll be famous that way.’ Replied another
‘That’s just a fashion – won’t last. It won’t catch on. It’s never as good as watching a girl in front of your own eyes – even these daft cows.’
Ernest began to wish he had not agreed to this. Each act seemed more tawdry than the last. Lorenzo the Human Serpent could hardly touch his own toes any more, and Captain Moretti ‘s hands shook violently when he held anything other than the pistol. This did make the act more dramatic, but also somewhat pathetic. There were cries from the back of ‘get the old gent a chair’ and ‘take more water with it, mate.’
Ernest eased his way through the crowd and made for the exit. He walked round the back of the building and saw a woman hunched up in an old great coat, trying to light a cigarette. He offered her a light.
‘Nice manners. That must be Ernest.’
‘Hello, Maggie. How are you?’
‘Older. Old. Unloved, alone. How about you?’
‘Alone, I think. But you can’t be unloved. You’ve got the company, still. You’ve got Sals.’
‘Oh. Her.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes, she is. That’s why you came out. Cos you didn’t want to see her, changed.’
Ernest winced at this insight. He had been afraid to see an older Sals, with non of her familiar spark, parading on stage in some tired and outdated routine.
‘Well you was half right. She’s changed. But she don’t do the patriotic stuff no more. She sings all sad songs. All the old favourites like ‘Linden Lee’ and ‘The Ash Grove’ but I dunno – it seems all put up to me. All airy fairy. They’re lovely songs and her voice could make a pig cry, but she never has no fun with it like she used to. And I thought we was all about fun, weren’t we cock?’
‘Yes’ said Ernest. ‘Everything was about fun.’
‘Oh blimey say it like you mean it deary.’ Said Maggie, but she did not sound as if she believed it herself.
‘Mama died.’ Said Ernest.
‘Yes. I thought she might. From what you said she never seemed like she was going to stay long in this world.’
‘I nearly ran away to find you. But they wouldn’t let me. And then you were all gone.’ Said Ernest, sounding very much like a small boy again.
‘Oh sweetie. Bless your heart. It all works out for the best. Sals ran away, for a bit. She met this man – a vicar. A proper one. Said he’d make her respectable. Nice gaff, country parsonage, tea on the lawn, the works. Turned out to be the other way round – she could have what she wanted, if he could have what he wanted. Which turned out to be the boy who polished the brasses in church.’
‘Ah.’ Said Ernest.
‘Well, quite. Not what Sals had in mind. She wanted the real thing – roses round the door, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘So she came back. Brought the poor boy with her an all. That caused a ruckus, but what else could she do?’
‘Seems a perfectly reasonable course of action, if his parents could not rescue him.’
‘Nah. They had nine more at home.’
‘So now they sings duets – he’s a lovely treble, still - and sometimes the vicar turns up in the audience and stands right underneath them and just cries. Never says a word.’
‘Goodness.’
Maggie smiled at him. ‘Am I shocking you again, my little lad.’
‘No, Maggie. Not any more. I’m all grown up.’
Maggie took hold of Ernest by his arms and moved him into the full light of the door. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ She said softly, after looking at him for a long pause. ‘You’ve seen a bit of life. A bit of death, as well I reckon.’
Ernest hung his head. Maggie patted him on the shoulder. ‘There there. I was only meaning your Ma. That’s enough for anyone, but most of us has to do it.’
‘Gabriel’s here’ said Ernest. ‘He’s still inside, I think.’
‘No, he’s not.’ Said Gabriel, walking towards them. ‘He’s here with a thirst for champagne and – song, and everything that goes with it. Why are you stood by the dustbins looking glum?’
‘We’re just catching up’ said Ernest. ‘What happened to Julian and…and’
‘Sandy’ said Maggie. ‘They left the trade, moved to Brighton. Opened a shop selling souvenirs and naughty postcards. They’ve done ever so well. And if anyone asks, they always say they’re brothers.’ She giggled at the thought.
‘I don’t think anyone cares, in Brighton’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ve had some wild times there myself.’
‘Oh they ain’t wild sweetie, not any more. They’re all slippers and cocoa.’ Maggie looked at Gabriel, then at Ernest. ‘Sad, ain’t it. There’s only me and the Captain, really. And poor old Lorenzo but he can only do one show in three cos of the rheumatics.’
‘Oh Maggie, Maggie, stop, please’ begged Gabriel. ‘You said you’d re-formed for us, for one night only. We came out to enjoy ourselves. Ernest and I are of age, this very night. We can do anything.’
‘Yes, you can. And there’s the tragedy of it.’ Said Maggie. ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’ She smiled at them, then pinched Gabriel on the cheek. ‘Come on then, let’s see if the dancing girls will let you sit on their knee now you’re a big boy.’
‘Shakespeare’s theatres stood just around here. The Globe, The Rose. What better place for our friends to show their finest theatrical skills?’
But the venue was a half derelict old music hall, not Shakespeare’s noble wooden O. The show had already started, and Ernest could hear the music of a piano and an old accordion, wheezing out some sort of tune for Petunia and her latest blooms as they hoofed it across the sloping stage. Ernest stood at the back of the stalls, now accepted among the men. He folded his arms and tried not to think about how old Petunia must now be. She was skinny enough, but wiry and stringy looking. There was not a curve on her, and the bodice that ten years ago had only just kept her decent now hung off her, the wired top edge digging in under her arms as she twirled. Her junior dancers, the petals, were an assorted lot of girls aged from about fifteen upwards, some plump, some thin, but all of them, thought Ernest, awkward, graceless and unpolished on the stage. They did not seem to be enjoying it as the original troupe had done. They seemed to think that it was slightly beneath their dignity to be there at all.
‘They ain’t born to it like they used to be.’ Came a comment from somewhere close to Ernest.
‘They all want to be in the motion pictures. They think they’ll be famous that way.’ Replied another
‘That’s just a fashion – won’t last. It won’t catch on. It’s never as good as watching a girl in front of your own eyes – even these daft cows.’
Ernest began to wish he had not agreed to this. Each act seemed more tawdry than the last. Lorenzo the Human Serpent could hardly touch his own toes any more, and Captain Moretti ‘s hands shook violently when he held anything other than the pistol. This did make the act more dramatic, but also somewhat pathetic. There were cries from the back of ‘get the old gent a chair’ and ‘take more water with it, mate.’
Ernest eased his way through the crowd and made for the exit. He walked round the back of the building and saw a woman hunched up in an old great coat, trying to light a cigarette. He offered her a light.
‘Nice manners. That must be Ernest.’
‘Hello, Maggie. How are you?’
‘Older. Old. Unloved, alone. How about you?’
‘Alone, I think. But you can’t be unloved. You’ve got the company, still. You’ve got Sals.’
‘Oh. Her.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Yes, she is. That’s why you came out. Cos you didn’t want to see her, changed.’
Ernest winced at this insight. He had been afraid to see an older Sals, with non of her familiar spark, parading on stage in some tired and outdated routine.
‘Well you was half right. She’s changed. But she don’t do the patriotic stuff no more. She sings all sad songs. All the old favourites like ‘Linden Lee’ and ‘The Ash Grove’ but I dunno – it seems all put up to me. All airy fairy. They’re lovely songs and her voice could make a pig cry, but she never has no fun with it like she used to. And I thought we was all about fun, weren’t we cock?’
‘Yes’ said Ernest. ‘Everything was about fun.’
‘Oh blimey say it like you mean it deary.’ Said Maggie, but she did not sound as if she believed it herself.
‘Mama died.’ Said Ernest.
‘Yes. I thought she might. From what you said she never seemed like she was going to stay long in this world.’
‘I nearly ran away to find you. But they wouldn’t let me. And then you were all gone.’ Said Ernest, sounding very much like a small boy again.
‘Oh sweetie. Bless your heart. It all works out for the best. Sals ran away, for a bit. She met this man – a vicar. A proper one. Said he’d make her respectable. Nice gaff, country parsonage, tea on the lawn, the works. Turned out to be the other way round – she could have what she wanted, if he could have what he wanted. Which turned out to be the boy who polished the brasses in church.’
‘Ah.’ Said Ernest.
‘Well, quite. Not what Sals had in mind. She wanted the real thing – roses round the door, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘So she came back. Brought the poor boy with her an all. That caused a ruckus, but what else could she do?’
‘Seems a perfectly reasonable course of action, if his parents could not rescue him.’
‘Nah. They had nine more at home.’
‘So now they sings duets – he’s a lovely treble, still - and sometimes the vicar turns up in the audience and stands right underneath them and just cries. Never says a word.’
‘Goodness.’
Maggie smiled at him. ‘Am I shocking you again, my little lad.’
‘No, Maggie. Not any more. I’m all grown up.’
Maggie took hold of Ernest by his arms and moved him into the full light of the door. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ She said softly, after looking at him for a long pause. ‘You’ve seen a bit of life. A bit of death, as well I reckon.’
Ernest hung his head. Maggie patted him on the shoulder. ‘There there. I was only meaning your Ma. That’s enough for anyone, but most of us has to do it.’
‘Gabriel’s here’ said Ernest. ‘He’s still inside, I think.’
‘No, he’s not.’ Said Gabriel, walking towards them. ‘He’s here with a thirst for champagne and – song, and everything that goes with it. Why are you stood by the dustbins looking glum?’
‘We’re just catching up’ said Ernest. ‘What happened to Julian and…and’
‘Sandy’ said Maggie. ‘They left the trade, moved to Brighton. Opened a shop selling souvenirs and naughty postcards. They’ve done ever so well. And if anyone asks, they always say they’re brothers.’ She giggled at the thought.
‘I don’t think anyone cares, in Brighton’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ve had some wild times there myself.’
‘Oh they ain’t wild sweetie, not any more. They’re all slippers and cocoa.’ Maggie looked at Gabriel, then at Ernest. ‘Sad, ain’t it. There’s only me and the Captain, really. And poor old Lorenzo but he can only do one show in three cos of the rheumatics.’
‘Oh Maggie, Maggie, stop, please’ begged Gabriel. ‘You said you’d re-formed for us, for one night only. We came out to enjoy ourselves. Ernest and I are of age, this very night. We can do anything.’
‘Yes, you can. And there’s the tragedy of it.’ Said Maggie. ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’ She smiled at them, then pinched Gabriel on the cheek. ‘Come on then, let’s see if the dancing girls will let you sit on their knee now you’re a big boy.’
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