The Misadventures of Margaret Finch, page 13
According to the article, he is replacing a young woman who fainted in front of the crowds and has been taken away for medical treatment. The bulletin boards chalked up outside her sideshow each day chronicled a staccato excitement on her physical state, expressing concern that visitors who did not pay to see her that day may be too late the day after. And they were right.
Perhaps if Margaret talks to Davidson, offers to help him with his appeal, he might reconsider; perhaps, if he knows he has a friend, another person of principle, he will stop putting himself in such humiliating situations. He doesn’t need to risk his health, his life, or his dignity for her to believe him. The fact he is willing to do so is evidence enough. And if that means she has to clear up the misunderstanding between them, then she must.
Readying herself for their meeting, she has bought herself another bottle of kaolin and morphine and has taken several sips to calm her stomach and her nerves. She does not go to the front entrance where the public will soon begin to queue, but instead finds the side door via a gated alleyway beside it. She rings the bell, having to press it three additional times before she hears the bolts being pulled back on the other side.
‘Sorry – I was feeding this lot,’ says a middle-aged man with thinning hair greased back from his temples. She wonders which lot he is referring to; perhaps he is in charge of providing breakfast for the sideshow acts, though the striped cravat he wears seems a little exuberant for such a role.
‘Good morning. I’m looking for Mr Davidson,’ she says, but he is no longer looking at her. He is studying his own arm, his shirt sleeve rolled up to expose the thick hair growing on it.
‘Harold. The rector …’
‘I know who he is.’ He gives a start and curses. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ She tries not to stare as he scratches at a patch of pale flesh halfway along his arm, dotted with red spots as if it has just been shaved. ‘No table manners!’
She is beginning to doubt this man’s sanity and, though curious to know what is causing his agitation, she deems it sensible to get past him as quickly as possible.
‘So, can I see him?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The rector …’
‘He’s not receiving visitors at the moment,’ he says, closing the door on her.
‘Uncle Harold,’ she calls before it slams shut, remembering the instructions Davidson had given her when they met for tea. ‘I’m here to see Uncle Harold.’
‘Oh, in that case.’ He steps to one side, eyes still focused on his arm, and invites her to come in.
By now she has come to the conclusion that this man is quite mad, calculating that he may well lock the door behind her, leaving no route for escape. ‘Are you all right?’ she says, nodding at the patch on his arm, which is evidently still causing him irritation.
‘Oh, don’t mind them,’ he says, stroking his arm more tenderly with a forefinger. ‘They’re playing up this morning. Worse than toddlers they are. And I’ve got hundreds to see to. They’ll be easier to manage after breakfast. I’ll introduce you?’ He thrusts his arm towards her and, after the initial shock of such a sudden movement, her eyes adjust and, poking out from his rolled-up shirt sleeve, she can see four or five slivers of fine wire. ‘Professor Fricke,’ he says, tapping his chest with his other hand then sweeping it in the air above his exposed arm. ‘And these are my stars!’
Margaret sees one of the wires twitch, and jumps back herself, repulsed. ‘Fleas!’
‘The very finest. Genuine European human fleas.’
‘But they are …’ He really is mad. He is standing there letting parasites suck the blood out of him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘As I always tell my audience – I live off them and they live off me! It’s worked well for us for nigh on thirty years. Do you want a hold of one?’ he points to two dark spots towards his elbow. ‘That’s Horatio and Samson. Both good boys but they do tend to get into scraps!’
‘No thank you.’
‘Probably right. Best not to disturb them while they are eating. Are you coming in or not? I’ve got to get on I’m afraid. Another ninety-five to feed before curtain up!’ He steps further inside the door. ‘It’s all right. They won’t hurt you. Can’t go anywhere when they are tethered. Wire collars; I put them on myself. Anyway – they know what’s good for them!’ Margaret takes a deep breath and dashes past him as quickly as possible, not entirely convinced that Horatio or Samson may not be tempted to seek some variety in their diet. ‘Through there,’ he says. ‘First room on the right at the top of the stairs – that’s where he’s setting up.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Say bye, gents!’ He agitates the hairs on his arms to make the wires jump again. Margaret moves quickly into the darkness of the next room, resisting the overwhelming urge to scratch until she is out of sight of him, then telling herself she has no need to be worried about offending a man feeding fleas from his own flesh. What a story she could tell James about all this! But she has still not plucked up the courage to face him again.
There’s very little light by which to follow the directions the man gave her. The windows have been covered, the room partitioned with temporary walls to create corridors and corners. In the first section, bulbs illuminate photographs hung on the wall: grotesque images from the Grand Guignol theatre in Paris. A man’s eyes being gouged; a face being melted with acid; a tortured soul having its skin peeled off. She knows they are only actors with rubber masks and painted glass eyes, skin no more than sticking plaster painted red on its underside so it can be peeled off in strips. What disturbs her about the pictures is not the violence, but people’s appetite to see it. She has learnt enough about history to know that people enjoy the spectacle of other people’s pain: public hangings, stonings, the heads of traitors on spikes. The draw is the same in every case: that it is happening to someone else.
She has never been squeamish about the sight of blood herself. She remembers with fondness how, before she died, her mother would dress her grazed knees or clean the cuts on her arms. It wasn’t that she’d hurt herself deliberately but there was a thrill in running too fast or jumping too far, just knowing that she might trip or fall and have to be patched up again. The memory causes her stomach to spasm; she takes the bottle of medicine from her bag, unscrews the lid and takes a large swig, then another, and turns the first bend into the exhibition.
Beneath a single bulb stands a creature on a plinth. Margaret steps back and almost knocks over the temporary wall behind her, reaching back with her hands to try to find the way she came. It is one of a line of figures standing perfectly still in their own pools of dim light.
Waxworks. Nothing more. She chides herself for being so gullible and pauses a moment to slow her pounding heart, taking another mouthful of medicine. She puts the cap back on the bottle then changes her mind, unscrewing it and drinking until she can feel it reach her veins; a sensation of calm laps the soles of her feet, rising to her chest and cresting into a wave when it reaches her head.
Everything has been staged to create a sense of drama and fear, arranged in curtained alcoves, each with its own plaque to name it: Yanika, The Bird-Faced Man; Susi, The Girl With The Elephant Skin; Mermaidia, who is half fish and half woman. She despises the freak shows above all the horrors Blackpool has to offer. She has long supported the campaigns to shut them down and free the specimens they exploit. But now she wonders where all the real people, displayed for so many years as curiosities, have gone. How do they make a living now that they have been replaced by models in a gallery? It’s a question she has never thought to ask before.
Alone with the waxworks, she takes the opportunity to study them as though in a laboratory. She brings her face a mere inch from The Dog-boy and stares into his glass eyes, stops to appreciate the craftsmanship that has gone into threading the thousands of hairs into the wax flesh. She strokes his fur. ‘Good boy,’ she whispers. She is giddy. She knows it. Euphoric at the sensation of being separated from her thoughts, as if her feelings are floating at a distance, balloons tethered by a fine thread, the disapproving voice of Other Margaret carried to her only faintly as though through water. She walks on.
19
She pauses on a narrow staircase whose walls are encrusted with geodes, glass gems and fool’s gold. The effect is garish but, through swimming eyes, rather beautiful: the glow from the bulbs strung overhead makes the light dance. She sits on a step halfway up, running her fingers along the surfaces, finding the coil of an ammonite hiding between two flowering clusters of crystal. She takes out the small compact mirror she bought after her outing with James, intending to take no more than a cursory glance, but she lingers on her reflection, tilting the glass to make the colours from the walls touch her face. And something like wonder lands briefly in her chest.
Peeping around the door, she finds Davidson standing with his back to her, in a room much smaller than the exhibition space below. It is empty apart from a large glass case and two wooden chairs, cordoned off with a rope, much like you’d see in an art gallery or museum. She watches him take a puff of his cigar, the other hand on his hip as he studies the tank, which contains around a dozen bottles of what she assumes to be water, and several cartons of cigars. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you.’
He turns and it takes him a moment to recognise her. ‘I should have thought my note made my feelings very clear.’
‘It did. But I came to explain.’
‘Please don’t waste my time or—’
‘In the pub, that first night, you saw me making notes but they were not about you.’
‘As I said, I am not a fool.’
‘It’s a misunderstanding.’
He shakes his head. ‘Have you or have you not been following me?’
‘No. Not exactly. A few times I … I was just … I was curious.’
‘You and every person in Blackpool! You can join the queue. Pay your fee, like everybody else. Instead of all this pretending—’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You had neither the intention nor the opportunity to publish an article about me.’
‘I did not say I was a reporter.’
‘But you let me believe it all the same. I thought you could help me.’
‘Perhaps I can …’
He turns back to the tank.
‘As I told you before, I’m a researcher,’ she says. ‘I’m writing a report about the sideshows and I was interested to find out what the crowds made of you. You are all anyone is talking about.’
‘That much is true.’ She hears the hint of a smile in his words. ‘And …?’
‘That’s it. That’s why I was—’
‘What do they make of me?’
‘You’re an angel or a devil as far as they are concerned.’
‘But the vast majority think I’m the former – you saw them in the pub.’
‘People do not always say what they really think, Mr Davidson. Frequently they say just the opposite.’
‘Also true. And call me Harold.’ He sits down on one of the wooden chairs and invites her to do the same. Finishing his cigar, he immediately begins to light another. ‘So, you say you’re writing about the sideshows? Miss— may I call you by your—’
‘Margaret. Yes, it will be a significant piece of work when it’s all put together.’
‘And you’re going to write one of your reports about me?’
She should tell him that she won’t be, that James has said he is outside her remit, but Harold is grinning at her now, swinging his legs back and forth under his chair. ‘Makes sense,’ he says. ‘There can be few persons in this country today who have so captured the attention of the Great British Public. Many thousands of strangers have objected to my mistreatment. Whether they think me guilty or not, they feel I have not had a square deal.’
‘Perhaps that’s it.’
‘And that is why you hope to record their interest in my case? I am determined to be of assistance if I may. What sort of information do you gather?’
‘The numbers of visitors who come, what their reactions are.’
‘To what end? To whom do you report?’
‘To a number of politically minded individuals … men with influence.’ She is unsure how much she should say but has come this far. ‘It’s a scientific endeavour. The study of people.’
‘And I’d be one of them? I’d be studied? My case looked into.’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘Then you shall have a front row seat!’
‘There’s no need, I—’
‘Right here, beside the case. That way you will see the faces of everyone as they file past.’
‘But—’
He raises his hands to stop her. ‘You don’t have to thank me. Anything that helps a noble cause, I never could say no. Should have learnt my lesson by now, but I can’t change my character! I’ll make sure you get what you need, I promise you that. This new act will bring the crowds back.’
‘But starving yourself. It’s so … I don’t understand why you’d—’
‘I can’t let people forget me. I need to keep my story in the papers. Keep the pressure on the Bishop. And I’ve got my rations,’ he says, pointing at the water and boxes of cigars. ‘Should be everything I need. Though I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get inside.’ He is already standing and climbing onto his chair. ‘No door, you see,’ he says, tapping the glass then lifting a corner of the top of the case, which is made of wood and appears to have air holes cut into it. ‘Only a lid. I suppose I’m going to have to climb into the top.’
‘But is there no one to help? To instruct you? Mr Gannon runs all the sideshows, doesn’t he?’
‘Mr Gannon?’ The laugh escapes through closed lips, and a small puff of cigar smoke flares out of his nostrils. ‘Do you know, the first day I came to Blackpool, I came to meet him. He stepped out of his big car and a tramp staggered towards him – a sorry sight; the sole was hanging off his shoe and he tripped and fell at Gannon’s feet.’ Margaret has to concentrate on not letting her face betray her feelings at the thought of a man like that approaching her. ‘When he got up again, he looked Gan-non straight in the eye and said he’d known him as a boy and understood him to be a very generous man. Would he consider giving him a little money to buy himself a new pair of shoes, for old times’ sake? Gannon took a huge roll of banknotes from his pocket and said he could do better than that. And do you know what he gave him? The elastic band that was wrapped around his money. Nothing more. To hold the sole on his shoe.’
‘But surely in your case … You’re the star.’
‘I have barely seen the man since I signed a contract with him. I receive messages when he needs to communicate. The last simply said my act was moving here and that I would be fasting.’
‘And you get no say in the matter?’
‘What can I do? I need to raise two thousand pounds for my appeal. Besides, I’ve signed my body over to him now – not my soul, thank goodness; that still belongs to God!’
He climbs back down and sits on the chair, consulting his watch before producing a bar of chocolate from his jacket pocket. ‘Would you care for some?’
‘No, thank you.’
He breaks off a piece and puts it into his mouth. ‘Now, don’t look at me like that. I don’t start for another half an hour. Think of this as the Last Supper. Well, breakfast!’ When she doesn’t laugh as he expects her to, he goes on. ‘I’ll be all right. Gannon is working on some new ideas. Bigger ideas. Well,’ he lowers his voice, ‘if you can keep a secret, Margaret – enormous. He is planning to cast me as Jonah next.’
‘Jonah?’
‘Yes. He’s got grand plans of getting hold of a whale. Stuffed of course. Goodness knows how one goes about a task that size, but God helps us find a way. And he mentioned something about roasting me on a spit. Devils poking me with forks. That will get them queuing up.’
‘But I’ve seen the crowds. Surely with so many tickets sold you could afford to stop all this—’ Nonsense. She wants to say nonsense.
He laughs again. ‘Oh, Margaret! I only see a fraction. And the little I do earn is spent before I’ve even earned it.’ His expression is suddenly serious. ‘If I see someone in need I can’t turn away.’ He breaks off another piece of chocolate. ‘As you know yourself.’
‘Is that what happened with that girl … with Barbara?’ She notices him wince at mention of the woman who accused him. ‘She was very young when you …’
‘Sixteen. Though she was already, one might say, a woman of the world.’ He inspects the glass case again. ‘Are you quite comfortable on that chair? You must tell me if not.’
‘She was a …’ she imagines Barbara with the body of the Headless Girl, ‘… prostitute.’
‘She had no parents. No job. No prospects. I came across her one day.’ His eyes shine. ‘Near Marble Arch. She looked like a film star. I told her as much – so young and full of hope. Despite what she must have been suffering in her life, she saw me and she started smiling! So much life and vitality. But I could see she needed help.’
Margaret dares not speak in case she interrupts the memory.
‘I’ve learnt to spot it over the years. Her shoes were scuffed, her hem was hanging down. The signs were there for anyone who chose to take the time to look. Not just to look but to see, really see, and decide to do something about it. I invited her out for tea that day,’ he says, rather bashfully. ‘We had a wonderful time. I enjoyed her company. A young woman of many remarkable qualities and we shared a love of acting. She wanted to be on the stage herself, and I really thought she had what it took to make it. She needed to be set free. And if not me then who?’ In his memory it is a romance, in which he has cast himself as the leading man. ‘You should have seen her in court,’ he says, shaking his head and closing his eyes for a moment. ‘She looked wonderful – posing for the cameras outside. So poised and confident. She changed her outfit halfway through the first day of evidence, so the papers would use her photograph twice. During the trial she became everything I’d always known she could be. She was a star. And part of me couldn’t help feeling proud – because I’d been very fond of her you know.’
