Burning Bright

‘The parade!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘It’ll be starting. C’mon!’ She began to run, pulling Jem along with her. Maisie followed, and, fearful of being left alone, Anne Kellaway took her husband’s arm once more and hurried after them.

Maggie raced past the amphitheatre and on towards Westminster Bridge, which was already crowded with people standing along the edges. They could hear a march being played at the other end but they couldn’t see anything yet. Maggie led them up the middle of the road and squeezed into a spot a third of the way along. The Kellaways crowded around her, trying to ignore the grumblings of those whose view they were now blocking. There was a fair bit of jostling, but eventually everyone could see, until the next lot of people stood in front of them, and the crowd had to rearrange itself.

‘What we waiting for?’ Jem said to Maggie.

Maggie snorted. ‘Fancy standing in a crowd not even knowin’ what you’re there for. Dorset boy!’

Jem flushed. ‘Forget it, then,’ he muttered.

‘No, tell us,’ Maisie insisted. ‘I want to know.’

‘Mr Astley has a parade on the first day of the season,’ Maggie explained, ‘to give people a taste of the show. Sometimes he has fireworks, even in the daytime – though they’ll be better tonight.’

‘You hear that, Ma?’ Maisie said. ‘We can see fireworks tonight!’

‘If you go.’ Maggie threw Anne Kellaway a look.

‘We an’t going tonight, and we an’t staying for the parade now,’ Anne Kellaway asserted. ‘Come, Jem, Maisie, we’re leaving.’ She began to push at the people in front of her. Fortunately for Jem and Maisie, no one wanted to move and give up a place, and Anne Kellaway found herself trapped in the dense crowd. She had never had so many people around her before. It was one thing to stand in the window and watch London pass beneath her, safe at her perch. Now she had every sort of person pressing into her – men, women, children, people with smelly clothes, smelly breath, matted hair, harsh voices. A large man next to her was eating a meat pie, and the flakes of pastry were dropping down his front as well as into the hair of the woman standing in front of him. Neither seemed to notice or care as much as Anne Kellaway did. She was tempted to reach over and brush the flakes away.

As the music drew closer, two figures on horseback appeared. The crowd shifted and pushed, and Anne Kellaway felt panic welling up like bile. For a moment she was so desperate to get away that she actually put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of her. He turned briefly and shrugged it off.

Thomas Kellaway took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘There now, Anne, steady, girl,’ he said, as if he were talking to one of the horses they’d left behind with Sam in Dorsetshire. She missed their horses. Anne Kellaway closed her eyes, resisting the temptation to pull her hand away from her husband. She took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, the riders had drawn close. The horse nearest them was an old white charger, who walked sedately under its burden. The rider was Philip Astley.

‘It’s been a long winter, has it not, my friends?’ he shouted. ‘You’ve had nothing to entertain you all these months since October. Have you been waiting for this day? Well, wait no more – Lent is over, Easter has come, and Astley’s show has begun! Come and see The Siege of Bangalore, a sketch at once tragical, comical and oriental! Feast your eyes on the splendid operatic ballet La Fête de l’Amour! Wonder at the talents of the Manage Horse, who can fetch, carry, climb a ladder and even make a cup of tea!’

As he passed the Kellaways, his eyes fell on Anne Kellaway and he actually stopped in order to raise his hat to her. ‘Everyone is welcome to Astley’s Royal Saloon and New Amphitheatre – especially you, madam!’

The people around Anne Kellaway turned to stare at her. The man with the pie dropped his mouth open so that she could see the meat and gravy mashed up in there. Sick from this sight and from the attention of so many especially from Philip Astley, she closed her eyes again.

Philip Astley saw her turn pale and shut her eyes. Pulling a flask from his coat, he signalled to one of the circus boys who ran alongside him to take it to her. He could not stop his horse any longer to see if she took a swig of brandy, however – the press of the procession behind him pushed him on. He began his patter again: ‘Come and see the show – new acts of daring and imagination under the management of my son, John Astley, the finest equestrian rider in Europe! At little more than the price of a glass of wine, come for a full evening’s entertainment that you’ll remember for years to come!’

Beside him rode the son he spoke of. John Astley had as commanding a presence as his father, but in a completely different style. If Astley Senior was an oak – large and blunt, with a thick, strong centre – Astley Junior was a poplar – tall and slender and trimmed, with handsome, even features and clear, calculating eyes. He was educated, as his father had not been, and held himself more formally and self-consciously. Philip Astley rode his white charger like the cavalry man he once was and still thought himself to be, using the horse to get where he wanted to go and do what he wanted to do. John Astley rode his slim chestnut mare, with her long legs and nimble hooves, as if he and the horse were permanently attached and always on show. He jogged smoothly over Westminster Bridge, his horse capering sideways and slantways in a series of intricate steps to a minuet, played by musicians on trumpet, French horn, accordion and drum. Anyone else in his seat would have been jolted over and over and dropped gloves, hat and whip, but John Astley remained elegant and unruffled.

The crowd gazed at him in silence, admiring his skill rather than loving him as they did his father. All but one: Maisie Kellaway stood with her mouth open, staring up at him. She had never seen such a handsome man and, at fourteen, was ready to take a fancy to one. John Astley did not notice her, of course; he did not seem to see anyone, keeping his eyes fixed on the amphitheatre ahead.

Anne Kellaway had recovered herself without the aid of Philip Astley’s brandy. That she had refused, to the disgust of Maggie, the meat pie man, the woman in front of him with the pastry flakes in her hair, the man whose shoulder she had touched, the boy who delivered the flask – in fact, just about everyone apart from the other Kellaways. Anne Kellaway didn’t notice: her eyes were fixed fast on the performers in the parade behind John Astley. First came a group of tumblers who walked along normally and then simultaneously fell into a series of forward rolls that turned into cartwheels and backflips. Then came a group of dogs who, at a signal, all got up onto their hind legs and walked that way for a good ten feet, then ran about jumping over one another’s back in a complicated configuration.

Surprising as these acts were, what finally captured Anne Kellaway’s attention was the slack-rope dancing. Two strong men carried poles between which a rope hung, rather like a thick clothesline. Sitting in the middle of the rope was a dark-haired, moon-faced woman wearing a red and white striped satin dress with a tight bodice and a flared skirt. She swung back and forth on the rope as if it were a swing, then wrapped one part of the rope casually around her leg.

Maggie poked Jem and Maisie. ‘That’s Miss Laura Devine,’ she whispered. ‘She’s from Scotland, and is the finest slack-rope dancer in Europe.’

At a signal, the men stepped away from each other, pulling the rope taut and making Miss Devine turn a graceful somersault, which revealed several layers of red and white petticoats. The crowd roared, and she did it again, twice this time, then three times, and then she turned constant somersaults, twirling round and round the rope so that her petticoats were a flashing blur of red and white.

‘That’s called Pig on a Spit,’ Maggie announced.

Then the men stepped towards each other, and Miss Devine came out of the last somersault into a long swing up into the sky, smiling as she did.

Anne Kellaway stared at Miss Devine, expecting to see her crash to the ground as her son Tommy had from the pear tree, reaching for that pear that was always – and now always would be – just out of his reach. But Miss Devine did not fall; indeed, she seemed incapable of it. For the first time in the weeks since her son’s death, Anne Kellaway felt the shard of grief lodged in her heart stop biting. She craned her neck to watch her even as Miss Devine moved far down the bridge and could barely be seen, even when there were other spectacles right in front of her – a monkey on a pony, a man riding his horse backwards and picking up dropped handkerchiefs without leaving his saddle, a troupe of dancers in oriental costume turning pirouettes.

‘Jem, what’ve you done with those tickets?’ Anne Kellaway demanded suddenly.

‘Here, Ma.’ Jem pulled them from his pocket.

‘Keep ’em.’

Maisie clapped her hands and jumped up and down.

Maggie hissed, ‘Put ’em away!’ Already those around them had turned to look.

‘Them for the pit?’ the meat pie man asked, leaning over Anne Kellaway to see.

Jem began to put the tickets back in his pocket.

‘Not there!’ Maggie cried. ‘They’ll have ’em off you in a trice if you keep ’em there.’

‘Who?’

‘Them rascals.’ Maggie jerked her head at a pair of young boys who had miraculously squeezed through the crush to appear at his side. ‘They’re faster’n you, though not faster’n me. See?’ She snatched the tickets from Jem, and with a grin began to tuck them down the front of her dress.

‘I can keep them,’ Maisie suggested. ‘You haven’t got the stays.’

Maggie stopped smiling.

‘I’ll keep them,’ Anne Kellaway announced, and held out her hand. Maggie grimaced but handed over the tickets. Anne Kellaway carefully tucked them into her stays, then wrapped her shawl tightly over her bosom. The stern, triumphant look on her face was armour enough to keep away any rogue fingers.

The musicians were passing them now, and behind them three men brought up the rear of the parade waving red, yellow and white flags that read ASTLEY’S CIRCUS.

‘What’ll we do now?’ Jem asked when they had passed. ‘Go on to the Abbey?’

He could have been speaking to a family of mutes, oblivious to the surging crowd around them. Maisie was staring after John Astley, who by now had become just a flash of blue coat over winking horse flanks. Anne Kellaway had her eye on the amphitheatre in the distance, contemplating the unexpected evening ahead. Thomas Kellaway was peering over the bridge’s balustrade at a boat piled high with wood being rowed along the thin line of water towards the bridge.

‘C’mon. They’ll follow.’ Maggie took Jem’s arm and pulled him towards the apex of the bridge, sidestepping the traffic of carriages and carts that had begun to cross it again, and making their way towards the Abbey.

FOUR

Westminster Abbey was the tallest, grandest building in that part of London. It was the sort of building the Kellaways had expected to see plenty of in the city – substantial, ornate, important. Indeed, they had been disappointed by the shabbiness of Lambeth, even if they had not yet seen the rest of London. The filth, the crowds, the noise, the indifferent, casual, neglected buildings – none of it matched the pictures they’d conjured of London back in Dorsetshire. At least the Abbey, with its pair of impressive square towers, its busy detail of narrow windows, filigreed arches, jutting buttresses and tiny spires, satisfied their expectations. It was the second time in the weeks they had been in Lambeth that Anne Kellaway thought, ‘There is a reason for us to be in London’ – the first time being only half an hour before, when she saw Miss Laura Devine performing the Pig on a Spit.

Just inside the arched entrance between the two towers, the Kellaways stopped, causing those behind them to grumble and push past. Maggie, who had continued on into the Abbey, turned around and blew through her lips. ‘Look at those country fools,’ she muttered, as the four Kellaways stood in a row, eyes up, heads tilted at the same angle. She couldn’t blame them, however. Although she had visited the Abbey many times, she too found it an astonishing sight on first entering and, indeed, throughout the building. At every turning, every chapel and tomb contained marble to be admired, carving to be fingered, elegance and opulence to be dazzled by.

For the Kellaways the sheer size was what pulled them up short. None had ever been in a place where the ceiling arched so high over their heads. They could not take their eyes off it.

Finally Maggie lost patience. ‘There’s more to the Abbey than the ceiling,’ she advised Jem. ‘And there’s better ceilings than this too. Wait till you see the Lady Chapel!’

Feeling responsible for their first proper taste of what London could offer, she led them through archways and in and out of small side chapels, casually throwing out the names of people buried there that she remembered from her father’s guided tour of the place: Lord Hunsdon, the Countess of Sussex, Lord Bourchier, Edward I, Henry III. The string of names meant little to Jem; nor, once he grew accustomed to the size and lavishness of the place, did he really care for all of the stone. He and his father worked in wood, and he found stone cold and unforgiving. Still, he couldn’t help marvelling at the elaborate tombs, with the carved effigies in tan and beige marble of their inhabitants lying on top, at the brass reliefs of men on other slabs, at the black-and-white pillars ornamenting the headstones.

By the time they reached Henry VII’s Lady Chapel at the other end of the Abbey, and Maggie triumphantly announced, ‘Queen Elizabeth,’ Jem had stopped listening to her altogether and openly gaped. He had never imagined a place could be so ornate.

‘Oh, Jem, look at that ceiling,’ Maisie breathed, gazing up at the fan vaulting, carved of stone so delicate it looked like lace spun by spiders, touched in several places with gold leaf.

Jem was not studying the ceiling, however, but the rows of carved seats for members of the royal court along both sides of the chapel. Over each seat was an eight-foot-high ornamental tower of patinated oak filigree. The towers were of such a complicated interlocking pattern that it would not have been a surprise to hear carvers had gone mad working on them. Here at last was wood worked in a way the Kellaways would never see the likes of in Dorsetshire, or Wiltshire, or Hampshire, or anywhere in England other than in Westminster Abbey. Jem and Thomas Kellaway gazed in awe at the carving, like men who make sundials seeing a mechanical clock for the first time.

Jem lost track of Maggie until she rushed up to him. ‘Come here!’ she hissed, and dragged him away from the Lady Chapel to the centre of the Abbey and the Chapel of Edward the Confessor. ‘Look!’ she whispered, nodding in the direction of one of the tombs surrounding Edward’s massive shrine.

Mr Blake was standing alongside it, staring at the bronze effigy of a woman that lay along the top of it. He was sketching in a small sand-coloured notebook, never looking down at the paper and pencil, but keeping his eyes fastened on the statue’s impassive face.

Maggie put a finger to her lips, then took a quiet step towards Mr Blake, Jem following reluctantly. Slowly and steadily they rounded on him from behind. He was so concentrated on drawing that he noticed nothing. As the children got closer, they discovered that he was singing under his breath, very soft and high, more like the whining of a mosquito than of a man. Now and then his lips moved to form a word but it was hard to catch what he might be saying.

Maggie giggled. Jem shook his head at her. They were close enough now that they were able to peek around Mr Blake at his sketch. When they saw what he was drawing, Jem flinched, and Maggie openly gasped. Though the statue on the tomb was dressed in ceremonial robes, Mr Blake had drawn her naked.

He did not turn around, but continued to draw and to sing, though he must have known now that they were just behind him.

Jem grabbed Maggie’s elbow and pulled her away. When they had left the chapel and were out of earshot, Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Fancy undressing a statue!’

Jem’s irritation outweighed his impulse to laugh too. He was suddenly weary of Maggie – of her harsh, barking laughter, her sharp comments, her studied worldliness. He longed for someone quiet and simple, who wouldn’t pass judgement on him and on Mr Blake.

‘Shouldn’t you be with your family?’ he said abruptly.

Maggie shrugged. ‘They’ll just be at the pub. I can find ’em later.’

‘I’m going back to mine.’ Immediately he regretted his tone, as he saw hurt flash through her eyes before she hid it with hard indifference.

‘Suit yourself.’ She shrugged and turned away.

‘Wait, Maggie,’ Jem called as she slipped out of a side entrance he had not noticed before. As when he first met her, the moment she was gone, he wished she was back again. He felt eyes on him then, and looked across the aisle and through the door to Edward’s Chapel. Mr Blake was gazing at him, pen poised above his notebook.

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