Excerpt: A Debt To Pay

George had been expecting it to happen. In fact he had spent the last several years expecting it to happen, and now it had. To one end of “Clean Street”, deep within the laundry district was the clatter and racket of a fast advancing fuss which fore-warned of nothing good. To the other end of “Clean Street” the signs were subtler but easy for a hunted man to read. The hushed conversation and hurrying steps told him that coming from that end of the street was a more insidious threat.

After he had become embroiled in his troubles, George had taken himself far away from the life he’d known and made a new life for himself on the periphery of the laundry district, carving and selling stump paddles. Never raising his profile above the mundane he made a poor living but raised no questions and invited no gossip. But now the noose was closing and it was time to put his escape plan into operation.

Casually he moveed to the back of his shack and kicked out a panel from the rear wall. Slipping through he tumbled down packed trash and soil into the warren of alleyways behind the buildings that lined “Clean Street”, where the coarser working of the laundry trade were hidden from view. He could navigate these dingy walkways with his eyes fast shut but as he hopped a wall he had not allowed for a recent innovation.

The owner of the yard that George stumbled into had just recently rented it to a urine magnate. Urine had many uses in the laundry industry, for the bleaching of clothes and also for the treatment of raw wool. So it was into a massive vat of pee that George tumbled himself and with rising alarm he set about drowning.

Blinded by the eye-watering filthy reeking fluid, George stumbled and splashed until by sheer luck he managed to hook his hand on the lip of the vat and with enormous effort succeeded in hauling himself back onto firm ground in the half-covered yard, which was now closed off with a newly fitted heavy door and shiny padlock. With no choice but to deviate from his carefully constructed escape plan, the rapidly recovered George nimbly vaulted over the only available wall into the back yard of a barracks for young single women who worked in one of the larger washing rooms in the district.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, George tore off his sodden clothes and pulled on the garments he found hanging on a clothesline strung across the yard. The bonnet which he pulled as far as possible over his face only did half a job of distracting from his, admittedly well trimmed, beard, but set off perfectly the dowdy work dress which he now wore.

Leaving the yard by an open gate he hastened along a side street which branched off from “Clean Street” but still far too close to his pursuers for George’s liking. He would have to travel the length of the street until it ran parallel to the canal, then drop down to the horse path and make his way to the swing bridge and hope he would not be held up too badly before crossing into the canton of Haven, or Havenot as it was known. Havenot was administered by Charles Groot and his bullies ran it with little interference from the guards. So long as dues were paid upstream no-one cared too much what law kept order.

So it was an unfortunate coincidence that George should run into two of these self same bullies almost as soon as he had exited the yard. The bigger of the two, who had in his shovel like fist a bunch of marigolds, called out “Maisie?” and snatched at his arm as he half ran past. The sudden deceleration threw the bonnet forward clean off George’s head and with horror-filled eyes he met the gaze of the burly mountain of a man that had him gripped fast.

“Why’s he wearing a dress?” asked the smaller bully, who still managed to make George look like a child.

“More to the point,” said the first worthy, “why’s he wearing my Maisie’s Sunday bonnet?”

“Why’re you wearing a dress then,” insisted the second, nodding sharply at George so he would be sure to know he was the one being addressed.

The first bully easily pulled George closer so his feet were just barely touching the ground. He himself leaned in closer to George’s face. “What have you done to my Maisie?”

George frantically shook his head.

“Is it an act? Like the music hall. Is he music hall, Michael?” The second bully’s brow was furrowed from confusion.

“Don’t use my real name, you idiot!” The first bully rounded on the second, sending George flying in a tight arc as he moved. “If you’re going to call me anything call me a made up name. You’ll be Tom and I’ll be George.”

“I’m George,” said George.

“You don’t get a vote, cockle. You’ll be whoever I say you are, understand?”

George nodded meekly.

“Is Frankie-”

“Tom.”

“Is... TOM, right then? Are you music hall? You’re an act, is it?” asked the first bully.

George said nothing, as he struggled for the right answer that would get him free and away from here.

“Hard man, eh? Not gonna talk are we?” The first bully grinned evilly at the second. “What do we think about tough guys, George?”

“I’m Tom, you’re George. And we don’t like ’em.” The second bully nodded emphatically.

“I tell you what, tough guy. You prove to me that you’re proper music hall like you’re claiming and we’ll let you go about your business and say no more about it. I’ll be wanting that bonnet back, mind! Now, give us a song.”

“I-” stammered George.

“GIVE US A SONG. Or else.”

So George sang. He sang a song he’d sung at his mother’s side when he was a little boy. A song he barely remembered the words of and which he hadn’t sung for thirty years, and something extraordinary happened. When he finished a crowd had gathered.

“You trying to make a fool out of us?” asked the first bully, glaring at George. “And what’s wrong with you?” he snarled at the second bully.

“It’s dust in me eyes, that’s all.” said the second, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Right, you’re coming with us to see Mr Groot. I’ve a feeling he’s going to be ever so taken with you, laddy. What’s your name anyway?”

“George..” said George.

“Oh, it’s no good asking him for help, he does what I tell him. Don’t ya, ‘George’?”

“I certainly do. And I’m Tom, you’re George.” said Frankie, the second bully.

“Right, we need to be getting out of here.” said Michael, the first bully, “If we get caught here the guards’ll not let Big Charley hear the end of it, and worse than that he’ll have us skinned and rolled in glass. Well head to the end of the street and drop down to the horse path by the canal. We should be able to make it across the swing bridge without too much fuss.”

“Oh!” exclaimed George, “that’s exactly what I wanted to do.”

“Don’t be trying none of your reverse psychology on me, mister. I’m wise to your tricks. We’re not ignorant thugs”

“Though we are thugs,” chipped in Frankie.

“We are that and don’t you forget it neither!”

George was not going to forget it.

---

Over at Charles Groot’s ramshackle mansion in Havenot,George was ‘coaxed’ once more into performing his song and when he finished Groot walked to him and threw his arms around in an emormous hug.

“What’s your name, son?” asked Charles.

“George,” said George.

“Don’t you be starting with Mr Groot,” snarled Michael, advancing menacingly towards George, but Groot waved him back.

“George? That’s your name?”

“Yes... sir.” said George.

Still with his arm about George’s shoulder, Groot led him to an elegant, though faded, side cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy. “Michael? Francis?” He waved the decanter at his two henchmen.

“No thank you, Mr Groot. Clean and sober, sir.” said Michael.

“Well, I might just-” began Frankie but Michael jabbed him in the side with his elbow.

“Clean AND sober.” said Michael emphatically.

“Can I ask you a question... sir?” said George, his voice weak.

“Certainly, George, ask me anything.” said Groot.

“What’s to be done with me, sir?”

“Why, George, my boy, I’m going to make you a star. You have a rare talent and I’m going to make sure everybody knows your name.”

“I’d rather not.” said George.

“Don’t be shy, lad. You have a duty to share your gift. And if, along the way, we both make a few pounds then what’s the harm?” Groot smiled benevolently at George but when he saw the worried look on the younger man’s face, his smile was gone. “Oh, I fancy someone doesn’t wish to be noticed, am I right?”

George nodded, “I...”

“We don’t need to know. Least said and so forth. Well, we can colour your hair and let that beard of your’s grow out. I expect we’ll need to be getting you some new clothes as well, eh?” Groot laughed and shot a smirk at his henchmen that had them chorus his laughter.

George gave a half-hearted laugh and fanned out the dress he was wearing. “Can’t very well become a star looking like this, can I?”

“Of course not. We’ll have the finest dresses made for you and no mistake. I’ve a girl on staff at the Gilded Elephant that’s going to love you. She enjoys a challenge.”

“Well,” said George, “I was thinking I might wear a suit...”

“Nonsense, it’s your gimmick. It’s what people have come to expect.”

“But-” George tried to say.

“Trust me, boy, when someone comes to see ‘Madame George’ they don’t just want the voice, they want the full spectacle. In short, they want to be entertained.”

“Mister Groot,” interjected Michael. “Might I make a suggestion?”

Groot signalled his permission with a nod of his head.

“’Mistress George’.” said Michael.

Groot mulled the suggestion over, mentally rolling the words around in his head. He slapped the cabinet, making George jump. “I like it. What do you think, ‘Mistress George’?”

“I’m not sure-”

“That’s what you’ve got me for, lad. I can take away all these uncertainties from you. All you have to worry about is that beautiful voice of your’s and leave the rest to me.”

And so, two months later, ‘Mistress George’ debuted at the Gilded Elephant. Unreconisable as the humble stump paddle peddler of old, dazzling in his evening dress, rehearsed to perfection and singing a selection of songs that played to every emotion his audience could experience. They would leave the music hall feeling better about themselves than they had felt for years.

And George too felt better about himself than he had felt for years. Over the weeks and months and years the fear left him and he was able to make right the mistakes he had made as a youth. Through agents of his employer he was able to repay several times over certain stolen monies which had for so long weighed on his conscience.

With fame came attention of another kind and George, who let it be known at every seemly opportunity that just because he wore dresses it didn’t mean he was anything but a red-blooded male, became a hot property off stage as well as on. So it was curious that he should eventually give his heart over to a plain young woman named Sally who worked backstage at the Elephant, handling the stock and loading the cigarette and snack trays for the intermission girls. She, in turn, was delighted with George who was thoughtful and kind, true-hearted and considerate and whose association, as they were of a similar size, immediately improved her wardrobe.

In time they married and at the wedding party ‘Mistress George’ made another marvelous discovery when he and his new bride dueted on a lurid wedding song for the amusement of his many guests. His wife, who like George had never sung a song since childhood, had an exquisite voice, so it was natural that they would form a double act. For a while his wife dressed as a man during their performances but George was never fully at ease with this so eventually they both appeared on stage dressed as women, though only one of them bearded.

When George read their reviews and saw that the critics hailed his wife as the more extraordinarily gifted of the pair he would throw his fists in the air and storm up and down the stairs of his fine home. From sheer joy. He would hug her and kiss her and tell her she was his everything. After too short a time his Sally wasted away to nothing from the River Sickness and as she died, the larger part of George died too.

He took the fortune he had made and with the smaller part of it bought himself a modest pension. The rest he gave away to various charities. He also gave away his work clothes, except for one of the finer dresses which had been his wife’s favourite, which he gave to the Gilded Elephant for their display case. And that was that. There was to be no more ‘Mistress George’. He removed himself from society and was hardly seen again.

Many years passed and there was a knock at his door. It was Michael, the very bully who had first spotted his talent, and who at one time had grown to be a good and true close friend to the singer, once they had sized each other up and knocked a little of the rough edges off their acquaintance.

Charles Groot was dead, after an extraordinarily long life for the ruler of a boisterous canton and for now Michael was the de facto leader of Haven, though this would not be confirmed for several more years, after much water had flowed under the bridge and not a few bodies with it.

“Groot’s dead, Georgie,” said Michael. “He was a great man and good to you.”

George could not deny it.

“I’m organizing a send off for him at the Elephant. A spectacle, like he would have wanted. Grisom and Daley will be performing, Large Marge, the Killbies and Fantastical Paul as well. They’ll all be there. A lot of them are coming out of retirement for this. It’s one night only...”

George almost closed the door in his face but he thought about how much he owed to Charles Groot. Charles Groot, who was a merciless thug, but only when he had to be and who had been the epitome of kindness to both George and his wife. “I’ll do it,” he said. “But no dresses.”

Michael hesitated, wondering whether he could push the point but thought better of it, clasped George’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’ll send a coach for you Saturday, George. I know that wherever he is big Charley is going to be very proud to see you back.”

“I’m sure he will be Michael,” said George, “but I think we both know where Charles is.”

The night passed off fantastically well and when it came George’s turn to take the stage as the closing act there was barely a murmur when ‘Mistress George’ appeared in an elegant, under-stated suit, instead of the glittery evening wear that had been his trade mark. Even if it was a little disappointing, it was just that, a little and certainly not enough to spoil the night. With age and lack of practise George’s voice was neither as strong or as good as it had been in his younger days but it was still nothing short of magnificent and the applause was deafening when he finally left the stage.

The music hall manager clapped his back enthusiastically. “Bravo, sir! That was your finest performance.”

George smiled at him. “No it wasn’t but thank you for lying to me. I... I don’t think I’ll be making a curtain call. They’ll be expecting it but I’m thoroughly spent. Be a good fellow and make my excuses for me.”

The manager went pale. “But you simply have to, sir. They’ll hang me from the rafters if I go out and tell them that.”

“There’s a song you haven’t sung yet, Georgie.” It was Michael who had just appeared back stage. “Remember the one you sang for us the day we first met. That was Charley’s favourite.”

George said nothing for a long moment. “I suppose...”

Michael held up the dress he had taken from the display cabinet. “And this was her favourite.”

So ‘Mistress George’ returned to the stage in full effect and the old theatre almost crumbled under the roar of the crowd. When they finally settled and George began to sing the song his mother had taught him all those years ago a hush fell and magic happened and when he finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

A week later when Michael returned to see if he could persuade his friend to come back to the music hall on a regular basis there was no answer at the door and, after eventually forcing his way in, he found George dead in his bed, a smile on his face and the miniature portrait of his wife clutched in his hand.

Of course, none of this matters.