Pastworld Page 2

  I am a deep secret.

  I am a hidden person.

  I am to be kept safe for ever. I was a fairy-tale princess, like Rapunzel, locked away from the world in her high tower.

  Except of course that when I caught a glimpse of myself in the overmantel glass, I saw that I am not a fairy-tale princess at all. I have no cascades of golden hair to spill out of our window all the way down into the cold street below. No, I am just myself. It was just me I saw looking back. Me, all drab in my plain cinnamon-coloured day dress, standing in our shabby attic rooms, with poor half-blind Jack to protect me.

  ‘Why,’ I said, ‘would anybody even know about me, let alone wish me any harm?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘There are some things you are not ready to know yet.’

  .

  A few days have passed and the mysterious friend of Jack’s, the smart visitor, has been to see Jack once again. This time they sat together talking urgently while I stayed very quiet and made, at his request, a nice pot of Assam tea. I watched them but I said nothing. They spoke in careful, low voices, and the smart visitor was clearly as agitated as Jack. It was then that I found out something strange and new about myself. If I watched their mouths very closely as they spoke, I could read their lips. I could make out and read the words as if they were unrolling inside my own head on a printed page.

  JACK: ‘I’m that attached now, I couldn’t do it, and I can’t go back, surely you can understand? You’ve got a child yourself.’

  THE SMART VISITOR: ‘I do understand, of course I do, but you can’t compare the two. It’s either that or one day he’ll come for her and you will be in the way, and that will be the end of you.’

  After an awkward taking of tea during which our visitor simply stared at me and shook his head, he finally made to leave. He shrugged himself into his overcoat and they spoke again hurriedly in the little vestibule that led to the staircase but now their backs were turned and I could make out nothing more of what they said.

  I said nothing to Jack about my sudden ability to read lips.

  When the visitor had gone and Jack turned his face back to me he looked collapsed, vanquished, twisted in grief at whatever the smart visitor’s news had been.

  I went to the window and looked down on the busy street below. I watched all the bustling people going to and fro. When I finally turned away from the window and looked at Jack, he was sitting with his back to me, slumped and cowed in our dingy room. Jack turned awkwardly in his chair, squinting at me against the bright light from the window.

  ‘Sorry, Eve,’ he said.

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’ I replied.

  ‘Can’t explain,’ he said quietly.

  In the evening we had a cold supper of sliced mutton, pickles and bread. We ate in silence. Our cutlery clattered on the plates. Jack breathed heavily not looking at me.

  Since that day Jack has remained in a watchful and preoccupied state.

  .

  ‘He’ll come for her,’ the smart visitor said, ‘and you will be in the way.’ Who is going to come for me? I wish it could be my rescuer. At last my own gallant knight on a white charger will come. But it seems more likely from the fear on Jack’s face that he will be our nemesis. An evil enchanter, another kind of pale rider altogether, who will destroy poor Jack and take me away with him. These thoughts leave me both excited and fearful. They have also concentrated my mind and I now know just what I must to do. I have to save myself and poor Jack from such a fate at all costs.

  Jack spends his days now poring over the daily newspaper and the weekly magazines. He holds his reading glass in his trembling hand over the pages, as close to the light as he can get, very obviously looking for something. He won’t explain to me what or why. He mutters as he reads, ‘Phantom, all over the phantom,’ and ‘Damn my failing eyes.’

  I am resolved. Tomorrow I will simply go. I will vanish, run away and take my chances. I will at least spare Jack the fear, the danger of discovery and destruction. I will rescue myself from my high tower and spare Jack any more responsibility.

  It is something I have never ever done before; I will go out and away, alone.

  .

  I have achieved it, so much has happened. I must write it all down very carefully.

  The very next morning after I determined to run away, I looked out across the rooftops and I saw that snow had fallen in the night. It was soft and thick and spread evenly like a dimpled sheet across the roof tiles. I opened the attic window a little and breathed in the frosted air, and I looked forward in excitement to running away, out into that bright white morning.

  I had planned carefully what to take. I would need to wrap up warmly, so I took my winter coat from its wooden hanger and untied the camphor bag that protectedit from moths. I packed a small leather bag with a change of clothes and all of my own money from the savings jar.Then I left the coat and bag tucked behind a chair in the parlour.

  Jack went out early to the nearby grocer’s shop, and he was soon back with a packet of tea and a few rashers of bacon. As he patted the snow from his coat, he said, ‘My, it’s brisk out today, Eve,’ and then he unfurled his morning paper as usual and studied it near the even white light from the window.

  I made a pot of strong tea, and some toast, and griddled the bacon for our breakfast.

  I said, ‘Shall I read to you some more this morning?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely, but no more of Mr Sherlock Holmes, he’s a bit too close to the bone. Mr Dickens, I think.’ Eventually after breakfast he settled himself in his high-backed chair, and put his feet up on a cushion. He crossed his arms over his rounded tummy and nodded for me to begin.

  ‘Great Expectations. Chapter 1.

  ‘My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip . . .’

  As I read on through the hour I saw Jack’s eyelids begin to droop and flutter. Then the familiar little parps and snorts of his snoring began and in a few pages more Jack was fast asleep. I kept on reading aloud while I pulled from out of my bodice the note I had already written. I propped it up against the now cold brown teapot.

  .

  Dear Jack,

  .

  I am going away.

  Don’t worry about me.

  Don’t look for me.

  Protect yourself.

  .

  Your loving Eve

  .

  Then still reading aloud I struggled my way one-handed into my warm coat and picked up the bag. Then I stopped reading, lay the book down and let myself out of the door very quietly, shutting it with just the slightest click. I was sure that no one from the downstairs lodgings or the shop below saw me leave as I slipped . . .

  . . . out into the street.

  I had resolved to run away to the circus. I had no plan in my head at all except to find a circus. I would vanish into the big city somewhere. I would work and travel around from place to place.

  It was quite a shock to step out finally into a busy street alone and in broad daylight. It was so rushed and hectic. Ragged urchin boys sped past me on the slippery snow-covered pavement, laughing and pushing one another. Street singers were gathered in a cluster singing loudly. Hawkers were selling things: safety matches, and bootlaces, and hot chestnuts. The snow blew around in sharp little flurries and swirls. My face tingled and I felt suddenly a great rushing sensation, as if I were properly alive for the first time. My senses quivered; the cold air felt like a tonic. I found that I was very fast on my feet without Jack to hold me back. I ran, I skipped and jumped over the snow.

  A man in the street was selling mince pies, they were lined up neat and warm and inviting, all steaming on a tray which hung from a strap around his neck.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘A penny, miss,’ he said smiling back at me.

  I handed him one of the bright pennies I
had taken from the jar and I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of Jack sleeping unaware in the parlour. I looked into all the shop windows while I feasted on my hot mince pie. A ragged man sat on the pavement propped up by the red posting box. He looked up at me as I passed with a sad expression on his face. I stopped then, only too aware of the warmth in my own hand from the little pie and the frosted look of his blue-white skinny fingers. I walked back a pace and handed him another coin, this time a whole silver sixpenny piece. I touched his hand and felt the sudden chill, his fingers were as cold as the icicles on our guttering. At first he smiled and nodded gratefully, and then a sudden change came over his face. A change that suggested he had recognised me, although as far as I knew we had never seen each other before.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said his eyes wide. ‘You’re the one,’ and he nodded.

  ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ I said smiling back at him and hurried off.

  ‘Come back,’ he called out, but I kept walking.

  Some minutes later I saw that the cold beggar had managed to follow me. He was looking in the window of a baker’s shop. He could get a half loaf and a lardy cake at least with my sixpence, and even a bag of broken biscuits too. He turned and our eyes met. I looked away, a little disturbed by the way he stared at me, like a hungry wolf in a fairy tale. I set off down the street again, hurrying away from him between all the bustling shoppers.

  I arrived at the market place. This is where I knew the circus would be. There were rows of big shops behind the busy crowds. A muffin man with a tray balanced on his head pushed and dodged his way through. A man in a long overcoat kept pace with me for a moment. His waist was wound about with sacking and across his shoulders he carried a pole strung with a row of dead rabbits all tied by their little hind feet. I turned away from those sad little dead creatures only to find myself face to face with with a pink pig’s head hanging on a hook along with a row of others in the window of a pork butcher’s. I could clearly see their pale eyelashes. A long row of pig carcasses hung from a rail below. A large crusted raised pork pie sat on a china platter below them. I hurried further into the crowd, away from the smell of blood and sawdust. In among the market stalls was the winter fair with street entertainers and a little circus of sorts.

  Near to me there was the first of a group of brightly painted wagons with canvas covers. A tumbler in a bright harlequin costume stood in front of the nearest wagon, while another played a battered cornet. There was a banner stretched above them, with the words JAGO’S ACCLAIMED PANDEMONIUM SHOW lettered across it.

  The performers had attracted quite a crowd of Gawkers who were watching them all in a jovial crush. Aware of the possibility that the beggar might still be following me, I went in deep among them.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I am so sorry, excuse me, please,’ and I pushed my way forward as far away from blood and pig carcasses and ragged men as I could get. Most of the people I jostled and bumped past seemed jolly enough, all out to enjoy themselves on a bright, crisp morning, but there were some other, rougher-looking folk among them. Men and women with deeply hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks. They were starved-looking people with thin wrists and knobbly bones that seemed almost to poke out of their filthy clothes.

  A covered wagon was stationed at each end of a small stage and a high tightrope was strung above the stage supported by two striped poles. A harlequin on the stage played a loud roll on a snare drum, and another stood holding on to one of the support ropes, shouting in a raucous voice, his face vivid white with make-up, his thin mouth painted a cheerful bright red.

  ‘Roll up, roll up,’ he cried. ‘See Jago walk the rope. All the way from the far Indies, to be here with us today in cold old London town, all that way, from the heat and dust of that far country, just to walk a high rope for you, fifteen feet in the air, and no safety net, roll up now, come on, roll up.’

  The canvas opened at the back of one of the wagons and another harlequin stepped out on to the little stage to applause. He had a dark face in stark contrast to the other white-faced harlequins. As he stood balanced on the lower part of the rope. I noticed his soft shoes and the way he curled his toes around the rope. I supposed it was to grip. The Indian harlequin carried a parasol, covered in bright diamond patches of coloured cloth. He waved the parasol about as a counterbalance as he inched comically up the rope towards the top of the support pole. I pushed forward further, squeezing my way nearer to the front to get a better view. The drummer kept the snapping drum roll going all the while.

  The Harlequin made to walk right across the rope but he seemed to lose his balance, he fell forwards almost tipping himself off over the crowd. First he leaned one way, and then the other, flailing his arms, with a frightened expression on his face. A silence fell over the section of the crowd near the stage. I gasped, along with several others. Then someone laughed and we all realised it was a trick. He was only pretending to fall. The crowd loved this and laughter rang out. There were oohs and aahs, and more nervous laughter. I had never seen anything so frightening or exciting in all of my poor, dull, closed-off life.

  One of the harlequins came among us with a collecting box. I put in some coins from my coat pocket, without looking, not quite knowing exactly how generous I was really being. The harlequin smiled as I dropped them into the box, he had a kindly face under the stark white make-up, a friendly face.

  The rope walker finished his act above the heads of the crowd. I couldn’t see how he did it, but by some clever trick the Indian harlequin seemed to fall to the stage in a kind of slowed-down motion. I joined in the wild applause; I felt safe, suddenly warm and happy, huddled close in the crowd watching these colourful entertainers.

  The drummer put aside his drum, and pulled a small table to the front of the makeshift stage. The table was laid with a large fine cloth; the cloth was blue, the blue of the sky, the blue of infinity, the blue of serenity, and it was covered over in tiny silver stars. The Indian harlequin, the one I imagined was perhaps Jago himself, raised his hand, his long bony finger pointed upwards, to concentrate his audience’s attention, and he hissed ‘Sshh.’

  The crowd quietened down, the cornet player switched to a violin, and started to play a sad little waltz tune. The harlequin Jago reached under the blue cloth, and then pulled out . . . nothing. He held his hands out to the audience, and showed them front and back – nothing. He pulled his ragged sleeves up a little to show that they also concealed nothing. He bent forward to the crowd and to me in particular. He put his hand behind my ear. I felt his fingers brush past me with a tickling sensation on my skin and he pulled as if from nowhere a single white egg. He held it up and showed it round, first to me and then to the audience. The egg shone out clear white against his skin.

  There was scattered laughter and applause. ‘Just an egg, you will allow,’ he said. ‘An egg and nothing but an egg?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said eager to join in.

  He raised his hand high above his head, and slowly brought it down, he tapped the egg lightly on the edge of the table, cupped his hands, and in an instant . . . a white dove emerged.

  He released the dove, and it flew up and round in the cold air and finally settled on the top of one of the striped support poles. We all applauded wildly; I had never seen anything so amazing. The other harlequin continued to shake his collecting box. Another was starting to pack away their bright equipment into the wagons; it seemed that they were getting ready to leave. I felt a surge of disappointment. Soon they would all be gone. I determined that I must be part of them. I would follow them and I would watch them again and join in again, make myself useful, make myself indispensable.

  Then I caught sight of something which alarmed me. It was the ragged man again, the one I had given sixpence to. He was staring at me and at the same time moving steadily in my direction through the crowd. I was gripped by fear. It was as if something were suddenly released inside me, as if an alarm had finally gone off. This feeling energised me further, heighte
ned my reaction to everything. I just knew that the ragged man meant me great harm. It is typical somehow of my particular turn of mind that I could watch the harlequins preparing to leave with sweet regret, while at the same time closely watching someone that I somehow knew instinctively to be murderous, bearing down on me, with such strange and cruel intent on his face, but that is what it’s like to be seventeen and suddenly awakened and in love with life.

  Jago pulled the blue cloth from the table; it unfurled like a flag. Meanwhile the table itself was hurled into the back of the wagon. It seemed that there would be one last trick. Jago shook the cloth out to its full size until it was a big square banner. He turned the cloth round front to back – nothing. The audience waited. In fear, I turned again and scanned the crowd. All the faces were looking, mesmerised, at the performer above them on the stage; all except one. It was the ragged man. He was looking directly at me as he pushed himself forward through the last few people in the crowd who separated us. I turned back to the platform. I looked up at the harlequin. He seemed to single me out with his dark eyes. It was then that I felt a strong bony hand grip my shoulder. I turned and looked into the dirt-streaked face of the ragged man. Close to, it was a frightening face. The beggar opened his mouth and showed his yellowed and crooked teeth.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ he said. ‘I’ve found you, I know it, the pretty blue-eyed girl herself.’

  The harlequin looked down at me from the top edge of the stage, and he raised one eyebrow like a question mark. I felt the hand of the beggar tighten further on my shoulder, and I looked up at the harlequin and I quietly said the words ‘Help me’.

  With a sudden movement the Harlequin threw the blue cloth, and it fell over me like a waterfall. As I was enveloped by the cloth I felt a strong counter-grip on my waist. My shoulder was pulled from the beggar’s hand, and my feet lifted off the ground. I heard the ragged man give a surprised yell of ‘Oi’. His hands tried to grab at me wildly under the folds of the cloth, but I felt a rush of strength and movement, and the world suddenly turned upside down. There was a flash of the bright cold blue sky and then there was darkness, a rush, and a sudden soft landing. I found I was lying on a pile of dusty velvet behind the tailboard of the circus wagon. My eye was close to a peep hole. I was able to see everything from my sudden new position as the cloth fluttered and tangled up around the beggar, and then fell to the ground.