all manner of objects from around the world.” The inaugural exhibition, just two weeks away, is to be souvenirs from Captain Cook’s voyages, every sort of natural curiosity and artifact of native manufacturing. Spices, shrunken heads, feather cloaks, masks, rattles, helmets, spears, shells – this spiel is word for word from the posters pasted to the hoarding in front of them. “Taking the lad to see the Hottentot, eh?” Bullock asks when he’s come to the end of it. “Go ahead, spend your brass at Schmitt’s. I’ll get it out of you another day.”
“Hottentot?” says Clement. “Schmitt?”
“Up at 225. Had a chance to bring her in myself.” He’s shouting over the din, the story coming rapid-fire from the puckered pouch of his mouth. “I was dealing with Dunlop on a came lopard skin and he offered her to me for thirty pound. The Hottentot Venus, he’s calling her. From Cape Town. Says she’s a corkingexample of the type. Grab a chance to lift her loincloth and you’ll see the whole business. I was keen. I could have shown her at Bartholomew Fair. But by the time I counter-offered, that dirty Schmitt was in. Oh, well, he can take the fall. The Attorney General’s got his nose in, he’s taking it to the Chancery. He’ll shut it down. You’d best go today.”
“He
bought
this woman?” says Henry, trying to understand. “From South Africa? He will be charged under the Wilberforce Bill!”
“Oh, he’s the one for niceness,” cries Clement, making a little hop. “Allow me to present my nephew, young Henry De la Beche. Officer cadet at Great Marlow. Son of Halse Hall plantation, Clarendon, Jamaica. Commission to be paid in bananas and cotton.”
“Cane sugar, actually,” Henry says. Clement looks at him sharply. Perhaps only now is he registering Henry’s diminished uniform, the crossed white sash from his tunic missing and the plume from his shako gone. His hose filthy, perforated by sharp branches along the towpath, his shoes muddy.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says Bullock. “But that’s just the thing. Apparently she wasn’t bought. She’s a full partner. She’s on shares of the gate. There’s moaning about it all down the street. But think about it. She’s got as much right to display herself as your common dwarf, don’t she, eh?” He brings his wrinkled lips down to Henry’s ear. “But what part is she displaying? That’s the question, eh. It’ll be a public decency charge they get them on.”
The exhibition hall of Mr. Bullock’s rival is close to Piccadilly Circus. Henry thought he understood Mr. Bullock’s meaning, but still they go. Maybe he got it wrong – there is Clement, strolling blithely along. “I’m not going in,” he says, and he sees Clement’s eyes light up: here’s a story he can trot out for theamusement of his friends. The crowd thickens. They’re beset by vendors hawking matches, eels, rat poison, eggs, wooden dolls. Henry tries to put his mind to a pretext for borrowing a couple of quid so he can leave. Clusters of girls in striped gingham stroll the pavement. Clement has clamped an arm around Henry’s shoulder. He digs his fingers in as a confiding signal each time they pass a comely one. And then they’re at 225 Piccadilly and there’s the sign tacked by the door:
Outlandish Beast in a Raree Show
. A permanent all-purpose sign, judging by its patina of grime and tobacco spit. Clement’s arm is still around his shoulders, he tries to wheel Henry towards the entrance. Henry stiffens his legs, resisting, and an old affection rises, a habit of play that makes him lean suddenly into the turn. He’s as tall as Clement now, he’s heavier, and his reversal almost topples them. Then they’re at the wicket after all, where Clement parts with four shillings, squeezing them one by one out of the purse at his waist. They’re directed to wait in the crowd of chattering sightseers on the stairs. Spectators exiting the exhibition hall
“Hottentot?” says Clement. “Schmitt?”
“Up at 225. Had a chance to bring her in myself.” He’s shouting over the din, the story coming rapid-fire from the puckered pouch of his mouth. “I was dealing with Dunlop on a came lopard skin and he offered her to me for thirty pound. The Hottentot Venus, he’s calling her. From Cape Town. Says she’s a corkingexample of the type. Grab a chance to lift her loincloth and you’ll see the whole business. I was keen. I could have shown her at Bartholomew Fair. But by the time I counter-offered, that dirty Schmitt was in. Oh, well, he can take the fall. The Attorney General’s got his nose in, he’s taking it to the Chancery. He’ll shut it down. You’d best go today.”
“He
bought
this woman?” says Henry, trying to understand. “From South Africa? He will be charged under the Wilberforce Bill!”
“Oh, he’s the one for niceness,” cries Clement, making a little hop. “Allow me to present my nephew, young Henry De la Beche. Officer cadet at Great Marlow. Son of Halse Hall plantation, Clarendon, Jamaica. Commission to be paid in bananas and cotton.”
“Cane sugar, actually,” Henry says. Clement looks at him sharply. Perhaps only now is he registering Henry’s diminished uniform, the crossed white sash from his tunic missing and the plume from his shako gone. His hose filthy, perforated by sharp branches along the towpath, his shoes muddy.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says Bullock. “But that’s just the thing. Apparently she wasn’t bought. She’s a full partner. She’s on shares of the gate. There’s moaning about it all down the street. But think about it. She’s got as much right to display herself as your common dwarf, don’t she, eh?” He brings his wrinkled lips down to Henry’s ear. “But what part is she displaying? That’s the question, eh. It’ll be a public decency charge they get them on.”
The exhibition hall of Mr. Bullock’s rival is close to Piccadilly Circus. Henry thought he understood Mr. Bullock’s meaning, but still they go. Maybe he got it wrong – there is Clement, strolling blithely along. “I’m not going in,” he says, and he sees Clement’s eyes light up: here’s a story he can trot out for theamusement of his friends. The crowd thickens. They’re beset by vendors hawking matches, eels, rat poison, eggs, wooden dolls. Henry tries to put his mind to a pretext for borrowing a couple of quid so he can leave. Clusters of girls in striped gingham stroll the pavement. Clement has clamped an arm around Henry’s shoulder. He digs his fingers in as a confiding signal each time they pass a comely one. And then they’re at 225 Piccadilly and there’s the sign tacked by the door:
Outlandish Beast in a Raree Show
. A permanent all-purpose sign, judging by its patina of grime and tobacco spit. Clement’s arm is still around his shoulders, he tries to wheel Henry towards the entrance. Henry stiffens his legs, resisting, and an old affection rises, a habit of play that makes him lean suddenly into the turn. He’s as tall as Clement now, he’s heavier, and his reversal almost topples them. Then they’re at the wicket after all, where Clement parts with four shillings, squeezing them one by one out of the purse at his waist. They’re directed to wait in the crowd of chattering sightseers on the stairs. Spectators exiting the exhibition hall
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