TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE LII

S T A V E

LII

“It burns.” Violation. Obedience on her back dulled from laudanum, knees astride her ears and her naked hips hiked on pillows.

Binah penetrated her – a greased copper funnel. “Hold still,” she said, motherly and poured the Concoction.  

“It burns,” she said again. Violation to make Life. Violation to kill It. She swigged from a black bottle, watching the candle flames dance and the tallow drip over tin sconces.  On the ceiling, the raw planks had darkened. Her mind wandered: the Four Farthings on the corner of Duck Lane and Great Peter – a noisy room with long tables. In the corner at a High Round sat Elliot, Billy and her –

“Why’d you change your mind?” she slurred as Binah placed basin between Obedience’s legs. Rapists and Executioners.

“Maybe ‘cause you’re a creature in pain – I can’t abide that. They’re enough folks in this world that suck on pain – good folks gone crazy and some just pure bad. You know what I’m saying?” 

“Yes –” a drunken animation. Such Stewards. Staring at the candles again – The Four Farthings –  

She chatted up Elliot with her hand on Billy’s arm, rubbing it – Billy Gill’s birthday, turned thirty-three, and a proper grenadier in the Coldstream Guards and newly wed these four weeks. The Three-of-Them made a day of it: a tour of Bedlam and the Zoo. Obedience thought the tiger magnificent, pacing its cage, out of its element and half mad. Like Elliot, she said, Beautiful and Savage, and vowed to find him a Companion if only for the day. Elliot, Billy’s squad mate and friend, must not be Single. For in the creases of his Reputation, she found in him . . . a charm. Yes, his face cruel, but cast by Unfortunate Circumstances as the World was in want to do. ‘Twas Beaten into him. ‘Beaten’ – the word. She need not be told to see it . . . And his face not so cruel when looking at her. A caged heart she saw at once. They were similar creatures . . . Not that she was cruel. Whatever her failings, she was never cruel, but like him, beyond common. Creatures of Fire. Saw it with a single look. He saw it too. And were fast friends in a moment. Billy had no clue.

The long room crashed with talk, laughter mostly; you had to shout to be heard. Obedience nursed a hot wine as she was going to sing, while Gill got tight on brown ale. Elliot, a flagon too, but also his senses. Obedience, after scanning the room, said to Billy, “Which of these wenches is for Tommy?”

Gill pulled away; she’s forever clinging. “Is there one without an eye? May be he’ll look better through one drunk eye than two.”

She rapped Billy’s arm. “You sound like the Wives. What do those harridans know?” she said, then knocked Elliot’s shoulder playfully with her head.

“More than you, my dear,” Billy said and quaffed his beer. “Elliot is everything they say. Ain’t you Tommy?”

“I’m a cruel thing,” Elliot replied in that high voice of his.

From a long table, a First Guards private, upon raising his tankard, stopped in mid-drink, seeing Obedience. His eyes widened. Billy quick to notice. Obedience noticed too.

“God, there’s another one,” Billy said.

“Another what?” Elliot asked.

“I’ve not done a thing,” Obedience said.

“That one –” Billy nodded at the long table. “Look’n at her.”

She cradled her cheek on his arm. “But I’m with you.”

Billy tipped his mug to the private and with his finger motioned – turn around. The First Guardsman smiled a toothy grin. Gill smiled too and said with a bare movement of his lips, “You’ll smile with every tooth knocked out. Tommy, see that one there? Go cut his prick off.”

“Stop it,” Obedience said.

“You stop,” Billy said.

“I did nothing.”

“You do it all the time. Always in heat.”

“That’s not true. And not fair.”

“She’s your good wife,” Elliot said.

“Lucky me.” Gill finished his tankard.

The public house owner, Mr. Fenninger, a gentleman of fifty, in a once fine horsehair wig, banged the floor with a parochial staff. “Hear now! Hear now! The Entertainment! The newlywed Mrs. Gill, our own Obedience Millet, a voice of an angel, will occupy the Room. She is a fair and Gentlewoman. If any should become undignified, her husband, yond, will be most gracious to swinde you off, him and his Friend, the renowned Thomas Elliot of the Coldstream Guards.”

Obedience stood, owning the room. She mounted it. Her voice and looks can do. Did she know? Obtuse . . . So they think. And still – she poses the songs for Billy – lucky man, him. Yet as her eyes flit, they ease on Elliot. What might Father say in this instance? Invoke the Holy Ghost. The ready Stop for tingling . . . You wicked, Wicked Girl –

Five songs and applause. She beams at Billy, who waves her on. The Cash.

Elliot watched unconvinced; she wants Billy’s love though doesn’t love him, not as she pretends. But she’s afire, same as him. Both know it. And the more she sings, Billy less assenting until he leaves. Elliot on his heels.

She finished and the First Guards private stood in applause. She nods and smiles on her way out, but he blocked her.

“They’ve gone,” he said triumphant.

“Lucky for you,” she said. A rakish fellow, not unpleasing. Her type.

“Sit,” he said, “and have some Old Tom.”

She gibed. “There are laws against that, private. You should know from when we last met.”

“Last met? . . . When have we met?”

“Many times; you had different names then.” 

She walked out. The Good Wife. Billy should be proud. He’ll never know. Like God – do He credit all the times we say No? All the soldiers she could have – that’s power. What young Innocent don’t soon learn men want to bed her? And she wants to bed them. It permits through youth till she sags and grows coarse, and the cruelty – she still wants it . . . And yet some grow Handsomer. Such a quality lies not in the skin and cannot be rendered with paint on canvas. Her voice. Her laugh. That turn of the head. One might think her plain without them. Beauty in Seduction and the power of the Bed. Is she never more beautiful when in the throes of Passion? When is a woman not more beautiful? She’ll go to their flat on Old Pye where Billy must be waiting and be Beautiful for him.

“Where you been?” Billy spat as she came in to the parlour; he and Elliot drinking.

“I came straightaway,” irritated he should ask.

“Did you now?”

“I did. Ask Mr. Fenninger. He seen the whole thing.” She held out her hand – a Bulls Eye, and dropped the coin on the knotty old table.

Elliot sat knocked back, a clay pipe between his fingers. “Let her be, Bill. We’ve not been long ourselves.”

“Taking her side?” Gill snapped at him as only Elliot would allow him to do.

“Ain’t no sides. Lucky man who has a wife gives him money.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? Get out, ye stinking beast,” he said drunk.

Elliot brushed bits of pipe ash from his lap.

“Get out,” Billy said again and his voice trailed off. “It’s me birthday.” 

Elliot lumbered to the door, only to look to Obedience.

“Please go,” she said.

Alone, Obedience and Billy, she knew not to speak. She could have a laugh though – tonight she’d been loyal. She’d always been loyal. Didn’t he know that? Because a girl out of wedlock’s been at liberty, don’t mean she’d do so in marriage. And how she made herself love him. Love him she did – in his fine coat of the Coldstream Guards, in his swagger, in his part-time trade and come-up in the world. They had two rooms away from the barracks. A girl could do worse. And isn’t that all she ever wanted – a nice piece of the world – a place and husband she could manage? But Billy made it hard, harder than it should be, harder than it needed to be.

He had a gem and didn’t know it. No – he knows it too well . . .  

She took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s your birthday.” 

On the bed in the dark, windowless room, she undressed him.

“Put on a light.”  

She lit two candles. “There,” she said and kissed his cheek. He kissed her back without a smile and she too undressed.

“Who was that soldier?” he asked as she took hold his prick.

“What soldier?”

“That Coalheaver.”

“The room was full of soldiers,” she said.

“The one that looked at you.”

“Not to upset you, love, but they all looked at me.” She blew in his ear.

He flicked her away.

“Don’t be like that,” she cooed.

He sneered, his prick still flaccid. “Ah, well – good thing you’re pretty.”  

She slapped him. He smirked. Slapped him harder. He blocked her with his arms. She punched him, which hurt her hand as much as him. “Bastard.”

He cracked her with an open hand, her cheek a flush of finger marks.

Grabbing her clothes, she bolted out the flat, slamming the door.

Out in the corridor, she drew her bodice tight, but then turned ‘round and burst back in and there he was on the bed waiting.

“I came for this.” She scooped the coin off the table.   

On Old Pye, the sewer steamed down the center hollow, the pavers slick from a mist. Drunken figures leaned against the street lamps casting them in gothic light and shadow while flouncy street walkers patrolled the curbs. Beneath the windows of certain buildings were pointed piles of trash: vegetable refuse, oyster shells and dried bones with desiccated meat. No doubt an Irish lodging, with their influx the neighbourhood spiralled down. Not that Old Pye was ever a street of class, but in their two little rooms, it was just she and Billy. The Irish come in off the ships like rats and not much cleaner, filling up the place – four families in the same flat. And with them came the priests and the hole-in-the-wall chapels.  

She put her hand on the knife in her belt, not that she’d need to use it; the neighbourhood knew her and left her to herself. She would not be surprised to hear from a window, “Evening Mrs. Gill. Out on your own? Where’s your fine husband?”   

Turning down Duck Lane, Four Farthings was on the corner of Great Peter. As she passed by an alley, she thought she heard a woman’s muted voice, the way it might sound muffled against a lover’s neck or covered by a piece of cloth. A moan. Was it from pain or pleasure?  

She looked down the passageway, though something warned she oughtn’t. In the shadow, two figures against the brick wall, the larger in a scarlet regimental pressing a hand over the face of the other. Obedience hurried on, her leather heels clinking on the stone walk.

A block from the public house, she heard footsteps following. Walking past a streetlamp she looked around. Billy? No, his pride would not allow. He’d stay on that bed, waiting for her. And then what a row. No – he’d punish her in silence. That’d be like him. He’d only hit her once. Maybe another if she provoked him.

The public house was only yards away and for good caution, she took to her heels.

“Mrs. Gill,” called Mr. Fenninger seeing her at the entrance, which called the attention of the entire room. The First Guards private was still there. “You’ve returned to sing?” he asked. “Mr. Gill to follow?” She did not answer. “Are you unescorted my dear?” The First Guards private motioned her to come over.

It was then Elliot came through the door. The First Guardsman faltered.

“Tommy,” Obedience said, addressing him like a long lost friend.

“Mrs. G.,” he said as if he’d been looking for her. “I’ve come to save you,” and took her to the same corner round. “Did he put you out?”

“He did not.”

Elliot noticed her cheek purpling and taking her chin, tilted it to the light. “He did this?”

She nodded. “Only because I hit him first.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

“You will not!”  

“But he hurt you,” he said plaintive and looked around the room. “They all hurt you.” He motioned the barmaid. “Hot wine – here.”

She cocked her head. “They hurt you too, I think.”

He looked at her so strange.

The barmaid brought them a duo of steaming beakers.   

“Aren’t we a pair,” she said.

Elliot raised his cup to her. “Indeed – misfits. To your hurt.”

“To your hurt.”

They toasted.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Fenninger came over, his wig atilt. “Sing for us, Mrs. G. I beg you. The room expects it.”

“You’ve had me for the night. I’m looking for Mr. Gill, but am afraid he’s not coming,” she said out of pretence.

“Have you any pork pie?” Elliot asked with his great paw wrapped around the beaker.

“No more food tonight,” Fenninger said. “But if you can persuade Mrs. G, I’ll find one.”

Obedience reached into her pocket for the crown. “Not even for one of these?”

Elliot retrieved the Bulls Eyes from Fenninger’s palm. “It ain’t worth it.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, craving the attention. “Give him his pie – a whole one.”

She took the front, the light of the fireplace framing a halo behind her and sang of love:  

                                    I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

                                    I wished I had my heart again,

                                    And vainly think I’d not complain . . .

When she returned to the table, Elliot had his pork pie, greedily licking his fingers.

“You like that,” she said.

“Very much so.”

“I meant the song,” she said.

“I know.”

“Wished Billy thought the same. He dislikes my voice. Oh, he admits I can sing . . .”

“He don’t dislike your voice,” Elliot said. “Just what’s in it.”

“And what’s in it?” she asked.

“Everything and nothing. It’s a liar and so convincing ‘cause in the moment you mean it. You might as well stand up there stripped naked. But you ain’t. And that’s the trick. You ain’t.”

“The real trick, is to trick yourself,” she said. “You do the same, Mr. Elliot. You do it so you can get what you want. What do you want, Mr. Elliot?”

He gobbled the pie, grease glistening ‘round his mouth.

“You like that too,” she said.

“I do.”

“I bought it for you.”

“You did, that’s true. Thank you.”

“May I have some?”

A plop of crust and meat was on his fingers which he thrust into her mouth. “You’re welcome,” he said before she could speak and he laughed.

She chewed, tasting the onion and sage, and the grime of his finger. “Not one of them dare do that,” she said referring to all the men present.

“Because they’ve been taken in.”

“But not you.”

“Not me.”

“And thank you for it.” She raised her cup. “To not being taken in.”

“To not being taken in.”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

She took the cup halfway down, her cheeks rosy in the candlelight. The bruise was swelling to different shades of plum. “You said you would protect me. Whenever I’ve been drunk, something bad happens.”

“I said I’m here to save you.”

“From what?”

“Me.”

“‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes’.” And with a sigh, she propped her chin on her fist. “Too late,” she said, the wine accumulated. “Intoxication.

What sin shall follow?”

“My sins occur when I’m sober,” he said.

“Then we’re safe.” The barmaid brought two more cups. Obedience sipped off the top.

“‘Round about the cauldron go; in the poison’d entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone days and nights has thirty-one, swelter’d venom sleeping got, boil thou first I’ charmed the pot.’”

“Where did you learn that?”

“I’m an actress as well . . . To our sins when we’re sober,” she toasted him again.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“Can they be sins without our full volition?” she asked. “Here’s to the benefits of inebriation.” She put down the cup. “Tommy,” she said as if he was the sweet young boy he must have been long ago, so very long ago, if he ever was. “You’re more than the fellow they say you are. I was going to say: ‘not the fellow they say you are’ – that is most likely true . . . but more than the fellow. Let me look at that face.” And touched his cheek. “A magnificent face, like the mask of Death.” She was very drunk now. “You’re the Devil and the Devil is most beautiful. Has anyone ever said you’re beautiful, Tommy? What’d you look like before falling from grace? An archangel with great eagle wings.”

“Are you singing?” Elliot asked, his cheeks flushing.

“Are you taken in?”

“I cannot help it.”

She patted the top of his hand. “Not to worry. I’m glad.” And traced her fingertips over the sharp bones of his cheek. “Do you love me, Tommy?” His eyes teared and she took his hand. “Where can we go?”