New year, new module and this term we are doing historical fiction, centered specifically around Captain Scott's ill-fated journey to the South Pole. We are focusing on Edgar Evans (Taff), who was born in Rhosilli and was a member of the crew. He is on the right:
This is a fictionalised account of Evans walking down St Mary Street in 1910.
Off the train, across the street and there it is. The castle. I can see it down the end of the road, and I know that if I went to the corner I could see the clock tower, and the flags. And those animals with the glass eyes that make it look like they’re staring at you. They look like I could poke them out with a stick. I like the seal one the best, reminds me of my last trip down South, with the Captain.
If you stand still too long people walk right into you. Not like at home. When it’s really busy, I press myself into a doorway out of the way of the men and women and carriages and children, and just watch. The people don’t seem to notice me at all, they’re all selling and buying, and hustling and bustling. It’s hot today, even though the ladies try to make out they don’t feel it, with their umbrellas and fans. I can feel it though, I lift up my hat and wipe the sweat off with a hankie.
There’s horses, loads of them, clattering up and down, carrying people and goods. They don’t half stink. This summer afternoon doesn’t help, makes the smell ten times worse. Someone wants to get into the door behind me so I have to move, I wander further down the road over the uneven cobbles. There’s a newsboy on the corner, selling newspapers, he’s shouting, “Read about it here ! Scott voyages from Cardiff to the Antarctic”. Seeing it written like that makes me nervous, I keep my head down and just keep walking.
I can see a few pubs, up and down the street and down alleyways. I jingle the change in my pocket. A man could get lost in a crowd like this. A sudden smell of hops makes up my mind for me. I flip a coin to a beggar on my way through the stained glass doors, and take a seat at the bar.
D'Arcs Waxworks
So, it turns out that on St Mary Street there used to be a waxworks, which opened in April 1884 and was known as “Mons. D’Arc’s Grand Waxwork Exhibition, Cosmoramic Views and Waxen Marionettes”. Here is the 1911 census slip for the address:
As you can (kind of) see, the widow D'Arc lived there with her married male servant, but his wife is not at the same address. Also listed are the amount of children she had, three of which died, and their places of birth. In the interests of historical fiction we were asked to write a creative piece which expands on their relationship and, and this is mine. It is again written from the point of view of Edgar Evans.
Wax on.
“This way, Mr Evans,” he said as he led me through to the back, “I can’t believe it’s really you, our first real celebrity. I’ll show you our special collection, yes I will. You can see with your own eyes.”
I followed him through the penny slot arcade. Past the sleeping sailor with his painted grin, ready to bounce into life, and the lines of ladies waiting to dance behind the glass. They looked like broken dolls. The lamplight bounced off the organ grinder’s monkey’s bead eyes as we passed. It made it look like he was watching us.
“Mr Evans. I can’t believe it, our very own explorer. Wait till I tell the Lady about this! She’s not here now, she’s out on...business. She’ll be back soon though, yes she will.”
I asked him where we were going, the passage was so dark and cramped. I couldn’t even stand up straight.
“Just a little bit further, Mr Evans. It’s worth the wait, it really is.”
He stopped in front of a wooden door and fumbled through a ring of keys. There were three locks.
“You have to be very quiet in here, Mr Evans. They’re sleeping,” he whispered, “the Lady says that no one is allowed in here, but I’ll show you. Just you though. It’s my best work. It can be our secret.”
He opened the door.
Inside, sat round the table were four figures; a man in his Sunday best who looked to be about 60, and three young children. The table was laid for supper, and there was a bowl of fresh fruit and a gas lamp on the table.
“Ain’t they beautiful?” he hissed.
They really were well made, they almost looked alive.
I said that they were lovely, but I didn’t recognise them. I thought they were supposed to be famous.
“No, no, no,” he said, “These ain’t famous. These are hers. I made them myself.”
I said he did a good job.
“You want to know the secret? How I made them look so good?” He smiled, “well, you see the teeth, those are their teeth. And you see their hair, well that’s their hair. And the fingernails? Those are theirs too. It took me a while to find a way to do the eyes, but I did. And don’t they look grand. Look almost as good as they did when they was alive.”
I started to back towards the door.
“No wait!” he gasped, “you’ll miss the best bit.” He then took a penny from the tray and put in into a slot on the table. He stood back, triumphantly.
I heard cogs clicking and whirring, and the sound of metal on metal. Then some music started playing, something that little’uns would listen to. It seemed to come from everywhere. The lamp on the table began to turn, throwing shapes onto the wall and across the figures. And then with a clank, they too began to move, lifting up their cups and nodding their heads like they were talking.
“Ain’t they magnificent,” he breathed.
I felt the door behind me, backed through it, thanked him, and then turned and ran.
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