THREE
And so it came about that I went next day to Shepherd’s Bush in the company of Mr. Baker-or have I said that quite right? No, the way of it was that Mr. Baker-night jailer, armorer, and general keeper of quarters for the Bow Street Runners-told me the way there, even drew a rough map for me, and agreed to meet me there in midafternoon. Thus might he have the opportunity to take a few hours sleep before the first heat of the first race. He told me he had often done it so, for as I learned, he was quite passionately devoted to what was even then called by some “the sport of kings.” In all truth, I know not how George III, nor the late Louis of France, felt about the racing of horses round a specified course. I do know, however, that any man who gave to it the dedication and enthusiasm that Mr. Baker offered would surely have felt in his heart that he was king, if only for a day. Which day? Why, racing day, of course.
Because it was Easter, I felt obliged to renew my acquaintance with the faith in which I had been baptized. That done-the Easter anthems heard and the cries of “He is risen!” raised on high-I set forth on the long journey from Bow Street to Uxbridge Road, Shepherd’s Bush, with naught to sustain me but two of Molly’s hot cross buns.
When first I broached the matter of the race meet to our Mr. Baker, he was curious as to why I, having shown no previous interest in the sport, should of a sudden wish to give it my full interest. But then, I told him of Mr. Plummer and his relation to the mother of the girl who had been pulled from the Thames the day before.
“So Deuteronomy Plummer is her brother,” said he. “Is that the way it is?”
“That’s indeed the way it is. Will he be racing at any of the courses Sunday?”
“At Shepherd’s Bush Common, as I’ve heard. I was intending to go myself. I’d invited Mr. Patley to accompany me.”
“Could I come along?” I asked.
And that, reader, is when we worked it out so that I might meet him there. When we had done, I put another question to him.
“Do such race meets always start so late of a Sunday?”
“Naw,” said he, “it’s ’cause it’s Easter. I believe Shepherd’s Bush is the only one going, and that’s ’cause it’s pretty far outside London.”
“How far?”
“Well, you’ll be afoot, so it’s going to take you the better part of the morning to get there, probably.”
And it did. In general, taking Mr. Baker’s advice, I followed the river. Though, in its way westward, it took bends and twists, it was nevertheless the safest route. To go off roaming through Tothill Fields might save some time if the right way were known, yet if you were as ignorant of this piece of territory as I certainly was, you would no doubt become hopelessly lost. And so I went my way, curious at the volume and nature of the river traffic, and seeing that most of it was vegetables for Covent Garden and pleasure boats for those rich enough to have them. ’Twas not till I approached near to Hammersmith that, following Mr. Baker’s directions, I turned north for Shepherd’s Bush. From that point on, it was naught but a matter of holding to the map he had sketched for me.
The town of Shepherd’s Bush was a bit disappointing. What there was of it was stretched out along Uxbridge Road. Why had such a place been chosen for race meets? Ah, but then, as I advanced a bit, I spied a bit more of the town far over on the other side of what I had taken to be green fields. Yet I saw the gathering crowd at the most distant part of the field and noted horses that had been unloaded from specially built carts of a kind seldom seen in London. Having seen thus much, I realized that this large open field was nothing more or less than Shepherd’s Bush Common: I had come to my destination.
From mixing with the men and the few women who had thus far arrived, I soon came to the conclusion that their number did not include either Mr. Baker or Deuteronomy Plummer. I cannot say that I was surprised by this. Though I knew not the exact time, I had the feeling that it was still quite early. Looking round, I noticed a man who, like me, was simply standing about, observing the work of the rest. He also appeared prosperous enough to be the possessor of a timepiece. I approached him diffidently and made to him a polite inquiry.
“I wonder, sir,” said I. “Have you the correct time?”
“I do,” said he. “I most certainly do.”
Yet he made no move to produce the timepiece, neither did he inform me of the hour and minute. He simply turned away from me and stared off rather pointedly in another direction. Had he misunderstood me? Was this his notion of a joke?
Still most politely I put the question to him in a manner which could not be misunderstood.
“Would you tell me the time, sir, if you please?”
He continued to look away as he said, “No, boy, I do not please, and I shall not tell you the time.” Then did he add: “Go away.”
I looked upon that face of his-arrogant, fat, cold, and utterly unsympathetic-and willed myself ever to remember it. And, indeed, I did remember it always. It became for me the face of all that I knew to be wrong with England.
Then, my face quite burning with embarrassment and unexpressed anger, I turned away from him. I left them all to their preparations for the race meet and walked cross Uxbridge Road to an inn, the Elephant and Castle. They, I was sure, would have a clock ticking away upon the wall; and there I might quench the thirst that had come upon me in the course of my long walk.
True enough, they had both. I took a place at the long bar where most had gathered, ordered a tankard of bitter, and found a clock just above me that told me that there was just over an hour to the start of the first heat of the first race. It should not be long, I assured myself, till Mr. Baker arrived.
Thus it was that I sat sipping my ale, listening to the talk swirl round me. And all the talk was of horses and jockeys, of which might last through all four heats to the final race, and who might then be in the saddle. Numbers were quoted back and forth. At first, I was near certain that these would be the numbers worn by the horses, and then I thought that perhaps those would be the jockeys’ numbers. Then I understood at last that these were odds that they were reciting. Who were these men at the bar? The odds-makers? the touts? I’d no idea, really.
One of them looked familiar to me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? It was recently, and of that I was sure. I remembered that round face, smiling. The curious thing was that he seemed to know me, too. That more or less confirmed that we had met recently, did it not? He seemed even more certain of it than I, for as I kept an eye upon him-not staring, you understand-he separated himself from the group at the end of the bar and came straight over to me.
“Beg pardon, young sir,” said he, “but though we an’t personal acquaint, I reco’nized you right off.”
“Then you have the advantage on me, sir,” said I, “for though you appeared most familiar to me, I have not, for the life of me, been able to settle upon the specific occasion of our meeting.”
“’Twas but yesterday. I was in Covent Garden on a matter of little importance, and here you come, arm-in-arm, so to speak, with Mr. Deuteronomy. That’s what they call him, you know.”
“Of course,” said I. “I remember very well now. You removed your hat to him, did you not?”
“I did and will again when the opportunity arises. Have you seen him ride?”
“I must confess that I-”
“That’s as I s’posed,” said he, interrupting, “for I an’t seen you at none of his other races.”
Speaking thus, he altered his manner ever so slightly, allowing it to become a bit heavier. There was perhaps an element of accusation in his observation of my absence at Deuteronomy Plummer’s earlier meets. I attempted, perhaps a little too hard, to justify myself to this stranger.