Walking in Pimlico by Ann Featherstone Read Free Book Online

guffaw filled the room.
    ‘Didn’t you know? Our Bessie’s cock-smitten,’ slurred the leering fellow into my face. ‘She can’t get enough of mine!’
    ‘Or anyone’s!’ yelled another voice from the back.
    There was more raucous laughter and a call for him to ‘Sit down and hold your tongue!’ but he continued in the same vein, and described in a loud voice and lurid terms what Bessie would do for a sixpence or a shilling, finally pushing his finger into my chest to punctuate his words.
    ‘She’s a filthy whore. The filthiest in all London. Have you asked her how many she’s had today?’ He shook his head in exaggerated seriousness. ‘She can’t count. Too many.’
    I nodded and shook my head, by turn, hoping that agreement would pacify him. But he was slowly reaching the crisis of his rage.
    ‘So she’s saving the last job of the day for
me
. Not you.’ He prodded his finger into my chest again, and from between clenched teeth, spat out, ‘Not you. Not you.’
    I was by now trembling at the prospect of the violence which I anticipated at every moment. A fist in my face, or a bottle at the very least. But drunk as the assembled crowd might be, they were not yet ready for a demonstration of fisticuffs, and there were cries of ‘Leave him alone, Charlie!’ and even ‘Shame!’ He was nevertheless determined to vent his drunken anger and made a stumbling lurch towards me, which was, thankfully, interrupted by a chord from the orchestra (a piano and violin) heralding the commencement of the entertainment and eager hands pulled him back to his seat, where he sat glowering at me over his glass.
    I was very relieved when the show began, though I soon realized that it was little more than a crude, a very crude, burlesque on certain legal topics recently reported in the newspapers. The part of the Judge was taken by the carroty-haired man, in Judge’s red robes and a large wig. He was witty and sharp, and kept the piece moving along with his own quips when the exchanges between the women began to flag, for it was quickly evident that the performers were young women selected more for their beauty than their histrionic talent, and accounted for why they struck a suggestive pose and stood perfectly motionless for some moments before continuing, the better to display their physical attributes. Some half of them were in male dress, tight breeches and open shirts, though they made no effort to conceal their true sex. All were much powdered and rouged, and some were clenching a cigarette between their teeth or sporting a large and flashy ring, the better to mock the class they were striving to represent.
    My compatriots enjoyed it enormously, were inordinately amused, but the greatest roars of appreciation by far were for those Sapphic episodes (of which there were no small number), and the caresses exchanged by Lady C and Countess D were accompanied by constant calls of encouragement and offers of vulgar assistance, which the ladies acknowledged with many smiles and winks. Ofcourse I watched Bessie with particular interest. She played the part of the Clerk and was required to trip back and forth across the stage, giving her ample opportunity to pause and strike, albeit briefly, a number of fetching poses to draw attention to her legs, bosom, arms and so on, which were revealed to within inches of decency. I was much taken by this and roared my approval. Like my comrades, I enjoyed it all thoroughly, the rawness of the parody, and the sensation of being, unequivocally if ironically, its object. I felt I was one of them.
    The drink – I had a great quantity – filled me suddenly with rowdy confidence, and I looked around, feeling a surge of camaraderie and friendship with these fellows. Drink had taken hold of them as well. I noticed empty chairs, where a couple were forced to rush to the side door and relieve themselves in the rear yard. One was slumped across the table, another unconscious in his seat. Others