I had booked our rooms at the Royal Albion because my aunt wished to be near the Palace Pier and the Old Steine. She told me, incorrectly I think, that this was named after the wicked marquess of Vanity Fair[43]. “I like to be at the centre of all the devilry”, she said, “with the buses going off to all those places.” She spoke as though their destinations were Sodom and Gomorrah rather than Lewes and Pathcam and Littlehampton and Shoreham. Apparently she had come first to Brighton when she was quite a young woman, full of expectations which I am afraid were partly fulfilled.
I thought I would have a bath and a glass of sherry, a quiet dinner in the grill, and an early bedtime, so that we would both be rested for a strenuous morning on the front and in the Lanes, but my aunt disagreed. “We don’t want dinner for another two hours,” she said, “and first I want you to meet Hatty if Hatty’s still alive.”
“Who is Hatty?”
“We worked together once with a gentleman called Mr. Curran.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Forty years or more.”
“Then it seems unlikely…”
“I am here,” Aunt Augusta said firmly, “and I got a card from her the Christmas before last.”
It was a grey leaden evening with an east wind blowing on our backs from Kemp Town. The sea was rising and the pebbles turned and ground under the receding waves. Ex-President Nkrumah looked out at us from the window of the waxworks, wearing a grey suit with a Chinese collar. My aunt paused and regarded him, I thought a little sadly. “I wonder where Wordsworth is now,” she said.
“I expect you’ll hear from him soon[44].”
“I very much doubt it,” she said. “My dear Henry,” she added, “at my age one has ceased to expect a relationship to last. Think how complicated life would be if I had kept in touch with all the men I have known intimately. Some died, some I left, a few have left me. If they were all with me now we would have to take over a whole wing of the Royal Albion. I was very fond of Wordsworth while he lasted, but my emotions are not as strong as they once were. I can support his absence, though I may regret him for a while tonight. His knackers were superb.” The wind took my hat and tossed it against a lamp-post. I was too surprised by her vulgarity to catch it, and my aunt laughed like a young woman. I returned, brushing it down, but Aunt Augusta still lingered at the waxworks.
“It’s a kind of immortality,” she said.
“What is?”
“I don’t mean the waxworks here in Brighton, they are rather a job lot, but in Madame Tussaud’s[45]. With Crippen[46] and the Queen”.
“I’d rather have my portrait painted.”
“But you can’t see all round a portrait, and at Tussaud’s they take some of your own clothes to dress you in, or so I’ve read. There’s a blue dress of mine I could easily spare. …Oh well,” she said with a sigh, “it’s unlikely I’ll ever be famous like that. Idle dreams…” She walked on, I thought a little cast down. “Criminals,” she said, “and queens and politicians. Love is not highly regarded, except for Nell Gwynn[47] and the Brides in the Bath”.
We came to the saloon doors of the Star and Garter and my aunt suggested that we take a drink. The walls were covered with inscriptions of a philosophic character: Life is a one-way street and there’s no coming back; Marriage is a great Institution for those who like Institutions; You will never persuade a mouse that a black cat is lucky. There were old programmes too and photographs. I ordered a sherry and my aunt said she would like a port and brandy. When I turned round from the bar I saw her examining a yellowed photograph. There was an elephant and two performing dogs drawn up in front of the Palace Pier behind a stout man in a tail-coat wearing a top hat and a watch chain, and a shapely young woman in tights stood beside him carrying a carriage whip. “There’s Curran,” my aunt said. “That’s how it all began.” She pointed at the young woman. “And there’s Hatty. Those were the days.[48]”
“Surely you never worked in a circus, Aunt Augusta?”
“Oh no, but I happened to be there when the elephant trod on Curran’s toe, and we became very close friends. Poor man, he had to go to hospital, and when he came out, the circus had gone on without him to Weymouth. Hatty too, though she came back later when we were established.”
“Established at what?”
“I’ll tell you one day, but now we have to find Hatty.” She drained her port and brandy, and out we went into the cold blow of the wind. Just opposite was a stationer’s which sold comic postcards and she stopped there to inquire: the metal stands for the cards rattled and strained and turned like a windmill. I noticed a card with a bottle of Guinness on it, and a fat woman in a snorkel floating face down. The legend read Bottoms Up![49] I was looking at another of a man in hospital saying to a surgeon, “But I said circumcision, doctor,” when my aunt came out. “It’s just here,” she said. “I knew I wasn’t far wrong,” and in the window of the very next house a card in front of some net curtains read HATTY’s TEAPOT. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. There were photographs by the door of Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra and the Duke of Edinburgh which seemed to have been signed by their subjects, although it seemed unlikely in the case of the Duke.
We rang the bell and an old lady answered it. She was wearing a black evening dress and a lot of jet objects jangled when she moved. “You’re too late,” she said sharply.
“Hatty,” said my aunt.
“I close at six-thirty sharp except by special appointment.”
“Hatty, it’s Augusta.”
“Augusta!”
“Hatty! You haven’t changed a bit.”
But remembering the young girl in tights carrying the whip and looking sideways at Curran, I thought there had been greater changes than my aunt made out.
“This is my nephew Henry, Hatty. You remember about him.” They exchanged a look which I found disturbing. Why should I have been discussed all those years ago? Had she let Hatty into the secret of my birth?
“Come on in, the two of you. I was just going to have a cup of tea – an unprofessional cup of tea,” Hatty added and giggled.
“In here?” my aunt asked, opening a door.
“No dear, that’s the waiting-room.” I just had time to see an engraving by Sir Alma-Tadema of a lot of tall naked ladies in a Roman bathhouse.
“Here’s my den, dear,” Hatty said, opening another door. It was a small overcrowded room, and everything seemed to be covered with fringed mauve shawls, the table, the backs of chairs, the mantel – there was even a shawl dangling from a studio portrait of a stout man whom I recognized as Mr. Curran.
“The Revered,” Aunt Augusta said, looking at it.
“The Revered,” Hatty repeated, and then they both laughed at some secret joke of their own.
“The Rev. for short,” Aunt Augusta said, “but that, of course, was only a coincidence. You remember how we explained it to the police. They’ve still got a photo of him, Hatty, stuck up in the Star and Garter.”
“I haven’t been there for years,” Hatty said. “I’m off the hard liquor.”
“You are there and the elephant too,” Aunt Augusta said. “Can you remember the elephant’s name?”
Hatty