Lady Lightfingers Read Online Free PDF Page B

brushed across it by a wind that hadn’t yet found its way down to ground level. Dark hair tumbled down her back. Her eyes were wide, her expression absorbed. She had a wall at her back and her occasional glances kept her aware of what was going on around her.
    She must have sensed his interest for she gazed more carefully at the crowd. Her glance wandered past him and then came back. She didn’t avoid his eyes, but cocked her head to one side and offered him a faint, but altogether mischievous smile.
    He beckoned.
    She shook her head and pointed to a notice on the side of a cart before pointing to herself. Prize of five shillings for the best amateur acts, voted on by audience acclaim. Thruppence to register your act. Spectator entry fee, sixpence.
    Thomas paid his sixpence and joined the rest of the people crushed shoulder-to-shoulder into a small tent. The smell of humanity was ripe, but after a while Thomas got used to it. At thruppence for registration and sixpence each from the audience, this little travelling entertainment venture could prove to be quite lucrative. And it all packed away into a gypsy caravan pulled by a sturdy carthorse.
    A stout lady singer faced the audience first, and was pelted with cabbage stumps. Number two on the bill was a man with one leg who played a tune on a wheezing hurdy-gurdy while his dog danced on its hind legs. Another man whistled a tune, one that was drowned out by a chorus of louder whistles and boos. A soldier marched up and down, clicked his heels, saluted the audience and cried out, ‘God save the Queen.’
    â€˜Save her from what?’ someone shouted. ‘Piss orf, will yer! Go and march upp’n down outside the palace with the ’orses.’
    Behind the tent the carthorse whinnied loudly, as if it were laughing.
    It was then the girl’s turn.
    â€˜For our final act, Miss Celia Jane Laws will recite a poem of her own composition called, Only a poor London girl.’ He helped her up on a box for all to see.
    Celia Jane! The name gave Thomas quite a shock, and a painful feeling of grief for his deceased daughter attacked him. He suffered a moment of resentment that this beggar shared his dead daughter’s name. No wonder the girl’s conscience had pricked her. Celia Laws had discarded her cape, but her blue dress was just as patched and ragged, the hem stained with mud.
    There was dignity in the way she stood still, her head bowed until the audience became quiet. From behind the curtain came a few plaintive notes played on a violin. Only when it stopped did she lift her head to look up at the expectant crowd. Her face was tragic, her eyes filled with tears.
    â€˜What am I? Only a poor London girl brought down by poverty, begging for a penny piece, trying to stay honest in the company of many a thief.’
    Thomas winced, but the audience didn’t seem to notice anything amiss with the rhyme. She fell to her knees, put her hands together in prayer and gazed up to heaven.
    â€˜ Lord, help my mama to recover from her malady. Save her from the appetites of men and the sweet, long sleep of the dreadful opium den. ’
    Startled, Thomas’ eyes flew open and he whispered, ‘Good grief!’
    Somebody from the back yelled, ‘Where does your ma live, sweetheart?’
    She stood and glared at the speaker, then picked up a cabbage stump and hurled it at him. Everyone clapped and laughed until she assumed a dramatic stance once more, her hands against her chest. Thomas wanted to laugh then. He was certainly getting his sixpence worth.
    â€˜ I’m just a poor girl on the dusty streets. I’m waiting for papa to return from war and to gather us in his arms when he marches through the door.’
    Several women in the crowd had begun to sob.
    â€™I’m just a beggar girl filled with London pride, doing my best to stay alive in the cruel, cold city. I’m as gentle as a dove, so on poor me, please take pity .’