"MUSEUM PIECE"

“I’m going to tell you something that only my family know. As a painter you must have a keen eye. You probably already recognise that I bear a striking resemblance to the famous writer and polemicist, George Bernard Shaw. A few years ago I acted as his double at several grand events he did not wish to attend. He regarded it as a delicious joke that people at these gatherings would fawn over the great GBS, not realising they were being duped. 

We were members of the same London Club and had become firm friends. One evening something happened which caused us to hatch the plan for me to impersonate him. One of the members approached me with a face like thunder. Towering over me as I was savouring my post-prandial brandy and cigar he fulminated in a stentorian voice about the unpatriotic nature of my support for Hitler and Mussolini. I did not disabuse him of the idea that he was addressing not the controversial GBS but a self-effacing retired Permanent Secretary at the Department of Ag and Fish. Hidden behind his newspaper across the room GBS had been observing this tirade with great delight.

After my assailant had stormed out without giving me the opportunity to correct this case of mistaken identity, GBS joined me. He quoted himself, which he often did and dismissively referred to the fellow who had accosted me, who happened to be an MP. ‘He knows nothing and thinks he knows everything. That points clearly to a political career.’ We laughed heartily at this bizarre episode but then came up with the plan to replicate the charade at certain events of our choosing.

I am not a vain man but my double first at Oxford did equip me to hold my own in intellectual debate and mimic GBS’s often eccentric stance on issues. None of the distinguished people I hoodwinked suspected a thing. It was a delightful and uniquely uncharacteristic departure for me. To quote my doppelganger GBS, ‘We don’t stop playing games because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.’”

This is an authentic eighteenth century conversation using words and phrases which have fallen out of use. You may need to consult the glossary at the end to interpret the italicised text.

Jake   “You know what ‘appened to me today lads?”

Jem   “Did you have a spot of canoodlin’ in the House of Venus again? You’re a bugger for the apple-dumpling shop Jake.”

Jake   “Thou’s a lewd bugger Jem. It’s thee not me that’s a lecher and got thyself frenchified by that laced mutton in Bristol.”

George  “Aye, Jake’s right…Bring your arse to an anchor Jem and let’s hear Jake’s tale.” 

Jem   “Hang an arse...I know Jake’s a bagpipe so I think I’d better pump ship afore he starts.”

George   “I wager he’s gone to flay the fox as he’s full as a goat.”

Jem   “I’m back…I know I sometimes piss more than I drink but neither of you is my whither-go-yeso leave me be.”

George  “Tha does talk like an apothecary Jem but we are all friends here so flash the gentleman and let Jake speak.”

Jake  “This afternoon I went into St Mary’s to hide as I saw that big paddy-whack I owes money too fast approaching. I crouched down in the last pew just as that old crow of a parson climbed up to the cackle tub to practice his sermon. He looked like he was going up a ladder to bed and I had to lie low as he ranted and raved for a full hour about his depraved and ungodly flock. As he came to his mighty fire and brimstone ending I saw him milk the pigeon and invoke God almighty to strike down any of his parishioners who had transgressed. Do you know what then transpired?

George No, what happened Jake?

Jake  “There was a loud clap of thunder and the black cattle fell down the steps of the cackle tub and cracked his pate on the stone flags below. I knew as soon as look at him that he’d hopped the twig so I left the gospel shop and went straight to the constable to report what I’d seen ….that the paddy-whack had killed the parson. So Fergus McKinley is now safely in irons and I can buy you two another mug of ale!

Glossary 

House of Venus – a brothel

Apple-dumpling shop – a woman’s bosom

Frenchified – infected with the pox

Laced mutton – a whore

Bring your arse to an anchor – sit down

Hang an arse – hold back

Bagpipe – long-winded

Pump ship – urinate

Flay the fox – vomit

Full as a goat – very drunk

Piss more than I drink – brag

Whither-go-ye – wife

Talk like an apothecary- talk nonsense

Flash the gentleman – pretend to be a gentleman

Paddy-whack – Irishman

Cackle tub – pulpit

Going up a ladder to bed - being hanged

Black cattle - parson

Milk the pigeon – attempt the impossible

Hopped the twig – died 

Gospel shop - church  

A Gentleman of Class – that’s me. Moustache trimmed, eyebrows raised, just in the correct position to demonstrate my class. 

So, you can imagine my upset when I was told to appear for the ‘sitting’ wearing protective clothing due to the current situation. 

I was not happy. 

But I did not want to miss the opportunity, so I went along, complete with a white protective collar, which almost strangled me, I can tell you. 

I took out one of the ‘compulsory protective garments’ and held it in front of me by way of a protest, in a slightly effete manner, I have to admit, as if to say, ‘You have your rules, but I have my dignity.’ 

Then he had the cheek to comment, ‘You look as though you’ve got a bit of a sulk on.’ 

‘Sulk on’, me? I was so angry I wanted to slap him, but then I realised that it would be breaking his ridiculous distancing rules. 

So I told him what I thought of him. Unfortunately, that made him so angry that he threw one of his paintbrushes at me, so hard that it stuck in the wall above my head. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that it looks as though I am being hanged by an invisible rope, causing my eyebrows to stand on end. 

But he refused to take the offending brush out of the picture, saying that it symbolised his superiority. 

So I asked him, ‘Why me?’ 

‘Because’ he replied in that officious tone of his, ‘It’s lockdown and we all have to take precautions, even privileged people like you.’ 

When it was all over, I was expecting, of course, to be situated next to other pictures which would provide a contrast to my glorious self. I wondered if I would be beside Dead Game or, better still, Kippers on a Newspaper. But who does he put me next to? A painting of the glorious Cassiobury House and two pictures of the beautiful Lady Jane Hyde! 

So I stand here, poor little put-upon me. 

A gentleman with a glove.  

What a wonderful evening it had been. 

I could still smell her perfume. If I slowly ran my tongue over my lips, I could still taste her. Deep red is my favourite colour, she didn’t disappoint. Leaning back in the upholstered armchair, I let out a sigh, perfection. Carefully taking the tobacco from the tin, I laid it into the bulb of my pipe, like a thrush lining its nest. 

The match struck against the box and the flame burst into life, I gently drew on the pipe, pouring myself a brandy. With the fire crackling in the hearth and the green drapes drawn tightly against the hard January frost, I waited for the tobacco and alcohol hit. The heat of the brandy caught the back of my throat and I coughed. This was no Courvoisier, disappointing, it needed an accompaniment, a strong expresso maybe? In the cold kitchen, I stroked the delicate china cup, as smooth as skin, bought as one of a pair in an antique shop, the perfect size for a few mouthfuls of the syrupy hot liquid. I brewed the coffee, trying to ignore the mess after the leisurely meal. I would clear up in the morning. 

Returning to the warmth of the lounge, I poured another brandy, and settled back into the armchair. As I inhaled the Golden Harvest tobacco, the smoke clouds rose up to the ceiling and a rolling grey mist collected in the corners of the room. I must have fallen asleep.

I awoke to the shrill ring of the telephone, I shuddered at the sight of the dead fire, grey and cold, like the winter morning creeping through the curtains, the empty Chianti and brandy bottles staring accusingly at me.

As I walked past the kitchen door I caught sight of Sally’s copper hair, lying in a puddle on the kitchen floor. Deep red is my favourite colour.

Lifting the receiver, I cleared my throat, “Hello.”

“Hello, Dr Lecter, it’s Joe from the police department, we have another missing person, Ms Sally Moncrieff, a red head again.”

I nodded. 

The waiting was the problem, for the telephone to ring

She promised not to rock the boat, she promised not to cling

He told her she was different, she was funny she was kind

He loved her willing body, he loved her lively mind

He told her he was married, but said he’d tell his wife

And then they’d be together and start a brand new life

But days and weeks and months went by, he said he had to choose

The perfect day, the perfect time to break this special news

He took her out to dinner when his work brought him to town

He sometimes had to cancel, he sometimes let her down

She tried hard not to mind too much although it grieved her heart

For the time they spent together was worth the time apart

He sometimes sent her huge bouquets then he’d be round that night

Full of smiles and promises that filled her with delight

This was the way things had to be until he could be free

She knew and understood this and waited patiently

Then one day at breakfast time, she started to feel sick

She chose to think of something else, that usually did the trick

But when she went and did the test and saw the thin blue line

She knew that he’d be overjoyed, she knew that it was fine

He hardly touched the meal she’d cooked, he said “This can’t be true.

Whatever made you think that I would have a child with you?”

The blood within her veins turned cold, he left her there and then

She knew that she would never see or hear from him again

She made a call and packed a bag, arrangements put in place

She did her best with make-up to hide her tear-stained face

The waiting’s nearly over now, the taxi’s on its way

To take her to the clinic and end her dream today 

“Please…”

“Darling; I’m sorry.”

“Mum, New York is a world away.”

Doretha put her hands into her apron pockets. Her face contorted by her tongue pushing out her cheek.

“Come on Ellie, grab your coat.” 

Doretha dragged her youngest daughter down through Rotherhithe to the public pier by the Mayflower Pub. 

She accosted the boy in the hut.

“The Gravesend ferry?”

“Lucky you, it’s running against the tide, a half-hour late.”

Doretha rummaged in her purse and payed the fare in tarnished coppers. She looked over to the punters drinking in the pub and winced. “There goes this week’s housekeeping.”

The ferry arrived and they wobbled across the gangplank and found a couple of spare seats. At the stern, a wedding breakfast of delinquent EastEnders were demolishing a case of Young’s beer and bottles of London Gin; knocking the bones out of their drab dockland’s lives.

They sailed past Silvertown where the guano streaked South-American traders and banana boats were moored. 

“Can’t we go quicker?” Ellie quietly whispered into her Mum’s ear. Her shallow breaths chasing the salt air on the incoming tide. Her lungs matching the steamers fight for every inch of headway.

Eventually Tilbury arrived; all the ocean liners queued up awaiting their passengers and their Royal Mail.

“Mum, which one?”

Doretha’s search was blurred by the forest of funnels.

The ferry span in mid-stream, its counterturning screws churned up a maelstrom. 

“Gravesend stage. End of the line.” Cried a boatman.

Doretha and Ellie stayed glued to the rail.

“Not alighting?” asked the boatman.

“No thanks, we’re looking for a ship.”

“Which one?”

“The Anchises.”

“Ah, single blue funnel.”

As the ferry tooted and left the Gravesend stage hugging the Kent station, the clouds closed in. Weather turning with the tide. Her toot was answered by a deeper hoot from a departing liner, cutting through the mocha water.

“Mum, a single blue funnel.”

They checked every porthole of the Anchises as the boats passed in the narrows.

“There, the red coat at the stern. Maisy!” 

Ellie waved madly, until her weary arms fell like an anchor. 

“Godspeed sister, Godspeed.”

We crept stealthily away from behind the marketplace’s waste container., my Mother proudly clutching her ‘prize’ wrapped in newspaper.

"Lay the table Lucy"

I dragged the wooden packing crate from its home under the kitchen window and set it in its daily resting place in the middle of the floor.

My three-year-old hands struggled to open the stiff wooden drawer, but finally I managed to yank it open to begin the search for the bone handled knives and forks.

"What's for tea Mother?" It was a freezing cold, dark winter's night, and we hadn't eaten the day before, so I was particularly looking forward to having a hot meal inside my rumbling belly.

"We have a real feast today, the very best salmon from the fresh fish stall."

My mouth was watering in anticipation. I tried desperately to watch how my mother was preparing our evening meal, but as usual she pushed me away snapping, "Get out from under my feet."

I carefully placed the cutlery into position, making sure that it was straight in line with the edge of the table, and that both sets were directly opposite each other. I scuttled into the living room for the dining chairs which resided in their normal home, beside the huge shiny brown radiogram. I struggled to drag them through to the kitchen each evening, but it was a challenge I cherished. Moving chairs was something I could normally manage without being scolded for being clumsy.

"Right, wash your hands, I'm dishing up."

I couldn't use the kitchen sink, I would have been reprimanded for being in my mother’s way, so I fearfully ventured out to the back yard, to face the place I hated; the dark, damp, spider infested toilet.

I sat down in anticipation as my mother ceremoniously placed the 'salmon' meal onto the table.

A slice of bread and a strange, smelly flat piece of fish.

I took my first mouthful and coughed as I felt something scratching the back of my throat. "Stop making such a fuss, they are only bones."

I don’t remember my Nan’s tinned salmon sandwiches ever tasting like that!

Bill: “Ay, up, lads, you been in here long?”

Sam: “No, Bill. Just a few minutes. We woz waitin’ for you, wasn’t we, Jim?”

Jim: “That’s right. Waitin’ for you, Bill.”

Bill: “Don’t give me that. You’ve already got a half empty jug, Jim.”

Sam: “That’s your problem, Bill. Your jugs are always half empty, never half full. That’s negative thinkin’, Bill. You need to think positive, like.”

Bill: “I’ll think more positive when one of yous gets off your backside and gets me an ale in.”

Jim: “Alright, What you ‘aving then?”

Bill: “You mean they’ve got a choice in for us. That’d be a change.”

Sam: “No, don’t be daft. Only the same old gut rot they always serve. Oh, Betsy did say they’ve got a cider in. She said it’s good. Put a sheep’s leg in the cask and it’ll strip it to the bone in two days.”

Jim: “You must be joking. If you get that Betsy into your bed, you’ll be stripped to the bone in less time than that.”

Sam: “Betsy! Two more Jugs of gut rot over here please.”

Bill: “Did you hear what that posh bloke in the saloon bar was sayin’?”

Sam: “I never listen to posh blokes, they talk a load of old tosh.”

Bill: “It may be tosh but it was worryin’.”

Sam: “What could possibly worry you? When you’ve had five pints your only worry is if you’re goin’ to stand up ever again.”

Jim: “What was he sayin’ then, Bill?”

Bill: “He was tellin’ anyone who would listen that there is some sort of plague going to get us all.”

Sam: “A plague? They only have those in the Bible. Was he carrying one of those boards saying; ‘THE END IS NIGH’”

Bill: “No, he was serious. Said we’d all be told to stay in our rooms for six months.”

Jim: “Did this toff say who he was?”

Bill: “No, but someone called him Boris.”

Jim: “He’ll be lucky to live through the night talking like that in here.”

I held my jug in my hand as I waited for Mr Bumpy to finish his tale. 

Mr Bumpy was regaling me with his trip to town today and his encounter with a fiery young woman selling smoking pipes. “I tell ya, she was shouting something and she was spinning around.“

Mr Bumpy continued his tale and it transpired that this young woman had a voice like a fog horn and an attitude to match. He watched the young boyos try their luck and they got a slap for their efforts.

“Mr Smith, I tell ya, sure ya can’t blame them young uns for trying! With a gob like that and the spinning and moving like a mad woman; sure, we could see her petticoats!”

“So, what was she shouting?”

“I never got to hear as she ran into me, mumbled something and ran off, as did the young boyos.”

“Erm, so how do you know she is unruly?”

“Well, what well-bred woman shouts and moves like that in the market place. I didn’t stay long, but there was some laughter in the crowd and sure I know young John who ran after her; he is the doctor’s son and a fine young man!”

Mr Smells had appeared behind me “I wonder Mr Smith, could it be that this young woman was being insulted and she was trying to defend herself? Maybe, just maybe she was shouting for help? Since she was distressed, seeing her petticoats was possible by the level of distress she was suffering. Maybe she was spinning around searching for a sympathetic stranger to come to her aid!” 

“You weren’t there Sir” shouted Mr Bumpy.

“Oh, but I was, Sir! 

“The doctors lad was the worst of them. He’s nothing but a spoilt, lecherous, bad mouthed little bully! The young lady escaped into my shop.”

Mr Smells leaned in beside me and asked me how I was enjoying my new pipe. I introduced Mr Bumpy to Mr Smells, explaining that Mr Smells makes the best pipes this side of Wolverhampton at Smells and daughter.

“Cheers Mr Smells!”

1810 – Bristol: Within a small, smoke filled tavern near the harbour wall, I was seated at a meagre and heavily scraped wooden table. I was weighing up the three men in front of me, whilst doing so I was also happily enjoying a surprisingly good ale. 

The slim-built man seated at my table was called Clem. He had a natty hat set at a jaunty angle and had tried very badly to mimic a dandy cravat but with his confident air he was managing to pull-off the affect somewhat. His fellow seated companion was a more robust and angular featured man called Jed who was displaying a languid demeanour and sporting a large hat and prominent nose to match. Their third companion, who Clem was taking great joy in the fact that there were no more chairs left for the fellow to sit on, shrugged, gave me a stare with a sly grin and started to methodically refill his common clay pipe, the same of which Jed also had and who started speaking to me first in a low deep voice.  

“Well let’s get down to business then squire. Tom here said you were a posh cove looking for some kegs. How many?” Jed had nodded over his shoulder to the standing companion to acknowledge Tom. I leaned in nearer and confidently replied. “I want half your stock, but I want to try the nectar first.” He gave me a steady stare, but it was Clem who got up and then whispered in Tom’s ear. 

Tom scurried off to the door at the side of the tavern and quickly returned with a small metal cup and passed it eagerly to me. The French brandy ‘nectar’ warmed the inside of my chest like a mother’s hug. They saw my enjoyment and stood up. 

We all shook hands and as we were walking to the side door. I knew I would never taste that nectar again and suddenly felt an urge to tell them of the 20 custom and excise officers currently surrounding the tavern.  .