Tracy Chevalier - Burning Bright

Maggie grinned and whistled a bit of Tom Bowling . ‘Not half a bad voice you’ve got, Miss Piddle,’ she said to Maisie, who smiled and blushed.

‘Away you go, girl,’ Anne Kellaway ordered. ‘We don’t want you hanging about.’ She glanced around to see if Maggie was on her own. They’d had a visit a few days before from Maggie’s father, trying to sell Thomas Kellaway a load of ebony that he quickly spotted was oak painted black – though he was kind enough to suggest that Dick Butterfield had been hard done by someone else rather than trying to cheat the Kellaways. Anne Kellaway had disliked Dick Butterfield even more than his daughter.

Maggie ignored Jem’s mother. ‘Have you got tickets for tonight, then?’ she asked Jem coolly. ‘Which kind? Not for the gallery, I shouldn’t think. Can’t see her—’ she jerked her head at Anne Kellaway ‘—standin’ with them rascals. Here, show me.’

Jem wondered himself, and couldn’t resist pulling out the tickets to look. ‘“Pit,”’ he read, with Maggie peering over his shoulder.

She nodded at Thomas Kellaway. ‘You must be makin’ lots o’ bum catchers to buy pit seats, and you only a couple o’ weeks in London.’ A rare note of admiration crept into her voice.

‘Oh, we didn’t buy them,’ Maisie said. ‘Mr Astley gave ’em to us!’

Maggie stared. ‘Lord a mercy.’

‘We’re not going to see that rubbish,’ Anne Kellaway said.

‘You can’t give ’em back,’ Maggie declared. ‘Mr Astley’d be insulted. He might even throw you out of his house.’

Anne Kellaway stared; she had clearly not thought of such a consequence from giving back the tickets.

‘Course if you really don’t want to go, you could let me go in your place,’ Maggie continued.

Anne Kellaway narrowed her eyes, but before she could open her mouth to say that she would never allow such an impudent girl to take her place, a deep drumbeat began to sound from somewhere over the river.

‘The parade!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘It’ll be starting. C’mon!’ She began to run, pulling Jem along with her. Maisie followed, and, fearful of being left alone, Anne Kellaway took her husband’s arm once more and hurried after them.

Maggie raced past the amphitheatre and on towards Westminster Bridge, which was already crowded with people standing along the edges. They could hear a march being played at the other end but they couldn’t see anything yet. Maggie led them up the middle of the road and squeezed into a spot a third of the way along. The Kellaways crowded around her, trying to ignore the grumblings of those whose view they were now blocking. There was a fair bit of jostling, but eventually everyone could see, until the next lot of people stood in front of them, and the crowd had to rearrange itself.

‘What we waiting for?’ Jem said to Maggie.

Maggie snorted. ‘Fancy standing in a crowd not even knowin’ what you’re there for. Dorset boy!’

Jem flushed. ‘Forget it, then,’ he muttered.

‘No, tell us,’ Maisie insisted. ‘ I want to know.’

‘Mr Astley has a parade on the first day of the season,’ Maggie explained, ‘to give people a taste of the show. Sometimes he has fireworks, even in the daytime – though they’ll be better tonight.’

‘You hear that, Ma?’ Maisie said. ‘We can see fireworks tonight!’

‘ If you go.’ Maggie threw Anne Kellaway a look.

‘We an’t going tonight, and we an’t staying for the parade now,’ Anne Kellaway asserted. ‘Come, Jem, Maisie, we’re leaving.’ She began to push at the people in front of her. Fortunately for Jem and Maisie, no one wanted to move and give up a place, and Anne Kellaway found herself trapped in the dense crowd. She had never had so many people around her before. It was one thing to stand in the window and watch London pass beneath her, safe at her perch. Now she had every sort of person pressing into her – men, women, children, people with smelly clothes, smelly breath, matted hair, harsh voices. A large man next to her was eating a meat pie, and the flakes of pastry were dropping down his front as well as into the hair of the woman standing in front of him. Neither seemed to notice or care as much as Anne Kellaway did. She was tempted to reach over and brush the flakes away.

As the music drew closer, two figures on horseback appeared. The crowd shifted and pushed, and Anne Kellaway felt panic welling up like bile. For a moment she was so desperate to get away that she actually put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of her. He turned briefly and shrugged it off.

Thomas Kellaway took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘There now, Anne, steady, girl,’ he said, as if he were talking to one of the horses they’d left behind with Sam in Dorsetshire. She missed their horses. Anne Kellaway closed her eyes, resisting the temptation to pull her hand away from her husband. She took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, the riders had drawn close. The horse nearest them was an old white charger, who walked sedately under its burden. The rider was Philip Astley.

‘It’s been a long winter, has it not, my friends?’ he shouted. ‘You’ve had nothing to entertain you all these months since October. Have you been waiting for this day? Well, wait no more – Lent is over, Easter has come, and Astley’s show has begun! Come and see The Siege of Bangalore , a sketch at once tragical, comical and oriental! Feast your eyes on the splendid operatic ballet La Fête de l’Amour ! Wonder at the talents of the Manage Horse, who can fetch, carry, climb a ladder and even make a cup of tea!’

As he passed the Kellaways, his eyes fell on Anne Kellaway and he actually stopped in order to raise his hat to her. ‘Everyone is welcome to Astley’s Royal Saloon and New Amphitheatre – especially you, madam!’

The people around Anne Kellaway turned to stare at her. The man with the pie dropped his mouth open so that she could see the meat and gravy mashed up in there. Sick from this sight and from the attention of so many especially from Philip Astley, she closed her eyes again.

Philip Astley saw her turn pale and shut her eyes. Pulling a flask from his coat, he signalled to one of the circus boys who ran alongside him to take it to her. He could not stop his horse any longer to see if she took a swig of brandy, however – the press of the procession behind him pushed him on. He began his patter again: ‘Come and see the show – new acts of daring and imagination under the management of my son, John Astley, the finest equestrian rider in Europe! At little more than the price of a glass of wine, come for a full evening’s entertainment that you’ll remember for years to come!’

Beside him rode the son he spoke of. John Astley had as commanding a presence as his father, but in a completely different style. If Astley Senior was an oak – large and blunt, with a thick, strong centre – Astley Junior was a poplar – tall and slender and trimmed, with handsome, even features and clear, calculating eyes. He was educated, as his father had not been, and held himself more formally and self-consciously. Philip Astley rode his white charger like the cavalry man he once was and still thought himself to be, using the horse to get where he wanted to go and do what he wanted to do. John Astley rode his slim chestnut mare, with her long legs and nimble hooves, as if he and the horse were permanently attached and always on show. He jogged smoothly over Westminster Bridge, his horse capering sideways and slantways in a series of intricate steps to a minuet, played by musicians on trumpet, French horn, accordion and drum. Anyone else in his seat would have been jolted over and over and dropped gloves, hat and whip, but John Astley remained elegant and unruffled.