The Palace of Curiosities

THE PALACE OF CURIOSITIES

ROSIE GARLAND

For everyone who believed

I would get here,

even when I didn’t

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

EVE: London, November 1831

ABEL: London, October 1854

EVE: London, November 1845

ABEL: London, January 1857

EVE: London, March–April 1857

ABEL: London, May–August 1857

EVE: London, May–July 1857

ABEL: London, August 1857

EVE: London, October 1857

ABEL: London, February–March 1858

EVE: London, June 1858

ABEL: London, September 1858

EVE: London, November 1858

ABEL: London, November 1858

EVE: London, November 1858 and onwards

ABEL

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

EVE

London, November 1831

Before I am born, my mother goes to the circus.

She has smelled sweat before: she knows the stink of mouldy cloth, meat left too long, the mess kicked into drains. But tonight, the world is perfumed with fairy tales. She gulps down its promise and a rope tightens across her stomach, causing her to stumble against Bert.

He doesn’t notice. He pulls her up the theatre steps, head turned away, hair sleek black ink. She feels like a princess, even if she is being dragged headlong to the ball. She’s no idiot: she won’t let go of this charming prince come midnight.

Bert pays for them both as if sixpences are a trifle, and bustles her through the crowded foyer so fast the gilded plaster and frosted glass are a blur. She grips his arm above the elbow and he doesn’t push her off. He is a good one: a stopper, a stayer-in. How he will love her! He flings his arm round her shoulders and squeezes her into his buttoned-up jacket.

‘Now, girl,’ he rumbles. ‘Mind how you go.’

He will ask her that very night, she knows: will ask the question she’s been working up to for three months now. She is seized with such a fierce certainty that it makes her dizzy. She does not realise it, but this commotion bubbling through her veins is all in preparation for me. The velvet drumbeat of her heart and the fanfare of her gasps are heralding my arrival. I have never kept an audience waiting.

Bert pushes them to the front row of benches. They are full, so he flaps his hand and the people already seated there shuffle up a little, but not enough. He curls his hand into a fist: they shrink away, and he and Mama sit down.

‘This is the best place,’ he says loudly, although no-one seems about to disagree. ‘I would not sit in the galleries. No, I would not.’

He pauses and stares at my mother.

‘You are right, Bert,’ she says, for an answer is needed.

She gazes up at the tiers of seats climbing the walls towards a roof she can barely pick out in the darkness.

‘Batty’s Amphitheatre is far grander,’ he continues. ‘There is a chandelier with a thousand crystals.’

He is so close she can feel the feather of his breath stir the down on her cheek.

‘Oh?’ she whispers, and it takes a moment for her to realise he is still waiting for a response – a good one. ‘This is marvellous, Bert. All I could want.’

The sun comes out in his face when he smiles. He is as tall as a statue in a park, and certainly as good-looking. But there is no more time to adore her new idol, for a gentleman appears in the circle before them, eyes ringed with black, lips and cheeks rouged.

‘Gentleman!’ he cries. ‘And ladies!’

This creates a swell of merriment, and Mama thinks it best to smile also.

‘Tonight we have mirth!’

A cheer bursts out.

‘Wit!’

Another whoop.

‘And jollity!’

Mama joins in the cheering, and for once no-one tells her to be quiet. The Master of Ceremonies strides about the arena, brandishing his hands.

‘You have come on a very special evening!’ He grins, eyes gleaming. ‘How happy I am to welcome you to this Palace of Delights on such an auspicious occasion! What Luck! What Serendipity! What Felicitous Providence!’

There is a hum of appreciation. Mama wonders why he is stretching his words out so, pulling at them so hard they are in danger of breaking.

‘We humbly offer, for your discernment, Wonders Unparalleled! Incredible Feats of Daring! Please welcome the Italian Fairy, lately arrived from Milan, the Empress of the Air! Signorina Chiarini!’

A storm of clapping breaks over their heads. From the muddy dark of the carved ceiling a rope uncoils, lowering a hoop studded with rubies and emeralds more precious than those kept in the Tower. Balanced there is a magical creature who sparkles even more brightly, thighs bulging with diamond garters, beautiful as a fairy. She waves at my mother, winking at how clever she is to have such a handsome young man on her arm. Mama leans into Bert’s shoulder. My hero, she thinks.

The lady does a swift pirouette, somersaults on to her hands, kicks up her heels and swings backwards and forwards on the golden ring. She strikes pose after impossible pose, accompanied by the gasps and moans of the crowd, for she plays so close to the brink of letting go. The whole time her grin is as broad as the street outside. My mother bites her lip: She smiled at me.

Then the acrobat climbs the rope, hand over glittering hand, wrapping it around her leg and dangling upside down, spinning like a whipped top. She spreads her arms; she falls. Mama is deafened by shrieks of dismay, only to hear them transformed into cheers of astonishment as one ankle is caught in the cord, cleverly twisted. The signorina swings, a gemstone on the end of a chain.

In the intermission, Bert buys her a penny twist of coloured sugar; she licks a finger and sticks it into the sweetness. She remembers she must not appear selfish, and offers him the paper cone, waiting for him to push his finger into the dint she has made. Instead, he grabs her hand, presses his lips around her fingertip and sucks.

‘You’re sweet enough for me,’ he says.

She feels herself colour up like rhubarb and wishes she could be one of those nicely brought-up girls who blush delicately. As she turns to hide her embarrassment, a new lady steps into the light, wearing a tight dress that shows off most of her titties. She sings a song about her sailor boy, and it is a good song, and many voices accompany her during the chorus.

As she trills up and down the scales, a number of low stools are carried out and placed in a circle around her. The painted gentleman appears from the side and bows her off, to whistles and shouts.

‘Ah yes! The Fair Clara!’ he simpers. ‘The Most Dainty of Girls, lately from her Mother!’

The crowd roar once more.

‘Be assured she will return. But now, it is time for stronger meat. Ladies and gentlemen! I require of you to engage your sternest courage! I ask you boldly: are you prepared to be petrified?’

‘Yes,’ they cry.

‘Are there any amongst you of fragile disposition?’

‘No,’ they declare.

‘No cowards?’

‘No!’

‘Brave men and true?’

‘Yes!’

‘Are you stout enough to come to the aid of any delicate creature who may faint and fall gasping into your lap?’

At this, there is howl of laughter Mama does not quite understand.

‘Yes, indeed!’

‘Can you view the most monstrous potentate of the animal kingdom without fear?’

‘Yes, oh yes!’

‘I present to you, brought in at great expense from the Savage Heart of Africa! A Monster Forged in the Heat of a Merciless Sun! Gentlemen! I call upon you now to protect your lady companions!’

‘Hurrah!’

‘Behold then, the Fearsome King of the Beasts, the Ethiopian Sovereign, Djambo! And his Master, that most courageous of men, Mr Edwin Phillips!’

As the crowd applauds, a lion is hauled out on a chain and padlocked to one of the stools. It has been beaten bald as an old carpet. Its face is swiped with ancient scratches and one flank sports a hand’s-breadth of dull pink skin. Mr Phillips cracks the long tail of his whip and Djambo staggers on to the seat. He slashes again, adding a fresh welt to the tip of the great cat’s nose.

‘Ho!’ shouts Mr Phillips.

Djambo yawns. Mama is close enough to hear the lion-tamer hissing, ‘Move, you scabby bastard, or I’ll make a rug out of you.’

Djambo opens his eyes and looks directly at my mother. She feels like a package of pork, wrapped in brown paper. Mr Phillips is sweating. A moustache of dirt creeps across his top lip.

‘Ho, Djambo!’ he cries, bringing down the lash.

Very slowly, the lion moves his gaze from my mother to Mr Phillips.

‘Now! I command you! Jump!’

‘Yeah! Jump, why don’t you!’ bawls someone at the back.

‘Hey, Puss! Didn’t get your saucer of milk this morning?’ chirps another wag, to great amusement.

‘Boo!’ says Bert, and a few pick it up.

The lion ignores them all and opens his mouth wide, gusting Mama with a reeking gale of dead breath. She claps her hand over her nose, but it is too late. Deep in her belly, the clot of blood that will be me in under an hour has smelled it, too. Mr Phillips whispers, ‘Move, for Christ’s sake, or I’m finished,’ and they’re the last words she does hear him say. He lifts his arm, flogging the beast again and again with the leather strap. The straggle of catcalls gains strength.

Mama is sure she hears Djambo sigh, just before he leaps. The chain rattles, tightens, but stretches far enough. The lion peers into the eyes of its torturer, and grins. For a moment the candles around the circle burn as bright as the hot bronze of an African sky; the baying of the audience is translated into the filthy laughter of hyenas. Then Djambo opens his jaws and closes them tight. The hyenas start to scream like women, and the sky flickers back into black.

The lion shakes his head from side to side, and Mr Phillips swings also. Three men with clubs race into the circle and wallop the beast until he lets go of the dying man, who slumps to the floor, a cat-o’-nine-tails of blood spurting from his neck and lashing the air. Djambo turns up his muzzle to catch the crimson rain beating down and lets loose a roar. Mama feels her face speckled with a spray as fine as drizzle. The lion’s cry thunders down her throat; a raging tide of blood carries its essence into her womb and I stir.

She sits quiet, still. She has never felt so calm. But around her, the world is going mad. The mob is on its feet, and everyone’s feet are in the way of everyone else’s; the air is raw with screaming at the sight of a man’s head bitten off. Bert is gone from her side. Mama stands, spies him a way in front of her and panics into movement, afraid of losing him, tonight of all nights. She races after his shining head, bright as a billiard ball on the tide of terrified bodies.

The wave spills her on to the street. She doubles over at the sudden stitch in her stomach as I dig in my claws and take root. She falls on to all fours, fingers squeezing the safety of the gutter muck. Dirt, she knows. Dirt, she understands. But just now she needs something more than dirt, something to swill away this new pain I am causing her. She crawls into a side-alley and hugs the wall, panting.

Bert appears, towering above her. She looks up, wondering how he found her, for it seems a very long time since she saw him last. There is such an uproar at the bottom of her belly, such a storm. He pats her on the back, very gently.

‘Here, girl, here,’ he says. ‘You all right?’

She lurches to her feet, grabs his wrist, pulls him towards her. Now she understands why he is there: she needs him to flush me out.

‘Bert,’ she says. ‘Now, Bert. Do me now.’

He makes a show of pulling away, but his heart quivers. He flicks his eyes left, right, but the alley is empty enough for no-one to take notice.

‘Oh Bert. Help me, Bert.’

She drags his hand up her skirt, points the way up the road he didn’t think to find so easy; she pulls at his buttons and he’s hard already, for doesn’t he know women change their minds in a second? He pokes between her legs and finds the soft ready core of her. They rock me in the cradle of their rutting.

Not that I need the swim of his seed: I am already made. I am nothing to do with him and everything to do with snips and snails and lion’s tails. I hunker down for my nine-month wait. He’s done quickly; looks to see if he read this right but she’s smiling, wider than she’s ever smiled.

‘Oh Bert,’ she says, and will not let go of his hand. Her eyes are inky with pleasure.

‘You all right, Maggie love?’ he says.

‘It was wonderful,’ she sighs, unsure if she means what he has just done to her, or the lion.

ABEL

London, October 1854

Eyes closed. Waking. Hands upon me. Voices swarming into my ears. They start with my pockets, ferreting their fingers deeper and deeper into the ruins of my clothing.

‘Not much here,’ whines the voice of a boy. ‘Not so much as a bloody wipe.’

‘Nothing.’ This sounds like a woman.

‘No use.’ And this, a girl.

‘It was nice, his jacket, but it’s finished.’

‘Waste of bloody time.’ This, another child.

‘Now that’s where you’re wrong,’ says a deeper voice, a man. ‘There’s a good doctor at the hospital as will give a few shillings.’

It seems there is a crowd gathered. I can hear the gentle prowl of the river draining towards the sea. Fingers lift my wrist, let it fall.

‘Doctor? Too late for quacks. He’s stone cold.’

‘He’s not breathing.’

‘He’s a dead one.’

I wonder if I am the dead man they are talking of so freely. My eyes are sticky with some insistent glue, my mouth also. Neither will open.

‘The doctor I know will take a gentleman in any condition, if you get my meaning.’

‘Ooh, that’s not right, George. Not decent.’

‘What’s he to you, all of a sudden?’

At that moment my body chooses to unseal itself: eyes crack open, mouth gapes and I cough black water. They spring away: the corpse they thought I was is suddenly too lively for comfort.

‘He’s alive!’

I vomit again, to prove the truth of it. My vision is unsteady. I am surrounded by vole-faced creatures with yellow teeth, breath hanging before them, the bones of their faces harsh. They are the colour of the mud in which they stand.

‘Not a chance.’

‘Got half the river in him, George.’

‘Enough to fill the Fleet ditch.’

‘He’ll be a stiff soon enough if he’s swallowed any of that.’

‘He’s coming round.’

The man they call George detaches himself from the pack; lowers himself to my side.

‘Give this man his boots back,’ he says.

‘They’re mine,’ whines a skinny boy.

‘Give him his trousers, at least. Can’t have him walking around with his crown jewels up for grabs.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘And your sister.’

Small hands lift me out of the peaceful cushion of slime. I retch with the movement.

‘He stinks.’

‘So do you.’

‘What’s your name, man?’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Pissed, were you?’

My head swims with the need for words, for a mouth to form them, lungs to squeeze air, a tongue to shape the sound. There are so many tasks to perform and it is too much for me. I try a word, drawn up from deep inside the well: it meant a greeting when I used it before. They look from one to the other, raising bony shoulders.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Don’t ask me. Some wop nonsense,’ says George.

‘What are you trying to say? Say it again.’

I choose a different word. Their eyes remain blank.

‘Still a load of codswallop.’

‘Here. He’s that Italian fellow. That nob as went missing.’

‘Yeah. Look at his eyes.’

‘Jumped off Blackfriars Bridge.’

‘They said he was shouting, raving. Ladies were screaming.’

‘Sank like a stone.’

‘But it was a week ago. A week, in that shit? Can’t be him. Can it?’

‘Rich bloke, I heard. A real swell.’

‘I told you his jacket was nice.’

‘Rich? Ooh. They’ll want him back, then.’

‘They’ll be grateful, like.’

The ring of eyes glitter diamonds. One small creature – male or female, it is hard to say for its hair is a felted mat obscuring the face – raises its paw to touch my face, only to be clouted away. It whimpers, but almost instantly reaches out again, to be smacked off as fiercely.

‘Grateful to them as found him.’

‘Them as saved him,’ corrects George.

I want them to go away and leave me here. I want to worm myself back into the mud and pull its blanket up over my chin. I am filled with the feeling that I have not been dead long enough. I do not know why, but I want to be dead a good while longer.

‘Come on, sir. Say something else.’

I search for sounds to please them. ‘I am drowned,’ I say.

‘What’s he on about?’

‘He says he’s drowned.’

‘That’s English. Doesn’t sound wop to me,’ says George.

‘Well, he looks Italian.’

‘Maybe that’s just dirt.’

‘He’s got to be that rich dago. There’s no money in it if he’s just some English bastard.’

‘Can’t we just say he’s that Italian, George?’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’ The man puts his face close to mine. ‘Who are you, then? Eh?’

‘I don’t know,’ I reply.

‘What’s your name?’

I scrabble for the answer, paddling in the gutter of my mind, turning up nothing. I try harder. It is not a blank wall I come up against: there is no wall, no structure of any kind. I am void, featureless as the thick stew of human waste in which I am lying. They look at each other across my body.

‘He ought to be a goner.’

George snorts, placing his hand upon me. I see a bird made of blue ink flap its wings in the space between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Bird,’ I whisper.

‘He’s a nutter,’ someone laughs.

‘He’s not right,’ is the opinion of another.

‘No one could last a minute in that, let alone a day.’

‘He looks like he’s coming out of the mud.’

‘Like he was buried in it.’

‘He ought to be dead. Why ain’t he?’

‘Something’s not right.’

They begin to shrink back, all but the tattooed man, who regards me with thoughtfulness rather than fear.

‘Come on, George. Leave the likes of him be.’

One of the women throws my trousers back at me; spits.

‘I don’t want nothing of him. Ooh,’ she whinnies. ‘I touched him.’

She wipes a hand on her greasy skirt. The boy holding my boots shifts from sticky foot to sticky foot.

‘I’m keeping these,’ he mutters defiantly.

George grins. ‘Up to you, mate, but I’d not walk one inch in this man’s shoes. He’s not got the decency to die when he should.’

The lad chews the inside of his mouth awhile, and then hurls my boots into the muck.

‘Fuck you, George.’

‘And your sister. Your mother and all. And when I did, they didn’t charge me, neither. Which is not like them in the least.’

George places his mouth close to my ear.

‘Now. You tell George here your little secret. I can spot a queer one when I see it. How come you’re not dead?’

‘I do not know.’

Again, it is the truth. I cough up another mouthful of the river and it dribbles down my chin.

‘Could be worth your while. And mine.’ His eyes gleam like sovereigns. ‘I think you’ll be coming with me, Lazarus.’

He grasps my hand, winches me into a sitting position. I heave, spill more oily slops down my chest. It seems I cannot stop leaking.

‘Ooh,’ squeals a girl from her safe distance. ‘George is touching him.’

The words do not make George let go. I look at the way his fingers clasp mine, the ruddy glow of them against the bleached grey of my sodden flesh.

‘I should be dead,’ I whisper. ‘Why am I not so?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out, Mr Lazarus,’ says George, showing me two rows of even teeth.

‘What’s he saying?’ calls out one of the mudlarks.

‘Nothing you lot need to know. This is man’s business.’

‘Talking up horrors, that’s what they’re doing,’ wails a female voice.

The clacking of a rattle winds its way into the space between my ears.

‘Fuck me, it’s the Peelers.’

‘Stay where you are,’ yells George. ‘We’re breaking no bloody laws.’

‘When did they ever care about the law?’

‘Stay if you want. I’m legging it,’ says the boy who gave up my boots.

I hear the suck and slather of mud as they hurry off. George looks from me to their retreating backs to me again. The rattling grows louder. He chews his lips.

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck the Queen and her fucking consort too.’

He lets go of my hand and I fall back. I stare at the sky. My thumbs dig into the soft quilt of the filthy ooze, and I let myself slide into the comfort of its tight wet mouth. I am lullabied into a drowse by the slurp of their footsteps retreating, the moist tread of other men approaching.

EVE

London, November 1845

They say when I was born I didn’t cry; I meowed and licked my paws. They say that the midwife dropped dead of fright. They told a lot of tall stories but none of them were as tall as the ones I told myself when I looked in the mirror. Mama said I shouldn’t look in mirrors: it would upset me. What she meant was, it upset her.

Other girls look in the mirror and see the fairest of them all. I saw a friend. Her name was Donkey-Skin. I can’t remember when she came to me, only that she was always there. My only companion, born of imagination and loneliness, which is a hectic brew for a child. What did it signify if no one else could see her? I liked it so. She was mine and mine alone.

I did not want to share her with another soul, so I kept our conversations whispered, our games quiet. When Mama asked me whom I was talking to, I said, ‘No one!’ in my most innocent voice. She took it for another sign of my strangeness and it was not long before she ignored my chattering. Donkey-Skin wove herself from all the things I hid from my mother, knitting herself from the truths Mama would not tell me but I found out anyway.

Donkey-Skin was ugly: even uglier than me, which was quite something. If I was hairy, then she was as furry as a cave full of bears. If I was a freak, she was a cursed abomination in the sight of God. If I was lonely, she was abandoned on a hillside for wolves to devour. She was different because she did not care. Her life’s work was to teach me not to care either.

When we were alone she murmured, Kitten, kitten, my very own pet. Her lullabies rang over the terrifying stretches of the night as I rested my cheek on her breast, safe under the press of her arm. She loved me because of my thick pelt of fur rather than despite it. Only she could sort my tangles. I purred beneath her gentle comb as she groomed my baby hair.