“You could indeed exhibit anything in those days. Yes anything from a needle to an anchor, a flea to an elephant, a bloater you could exhibit as a whale. It was not the show; it was the tale that you told" - The Penny Showman: Memoirs of Tom Norman "Silver King" (Published 1985)

The two young orphan foxes pressed their noses against the glass in anticipation. They had heard so much about this travelling show that there was no way that the routine of the workhouse was ever going to shackle them.

They knew they would be in trouble if they got caught but as they awaited the birth of the beast, they knew that nothing would have gotten in the way of them seeing this spectacle. Not even the wrath of their 'father', the workhouse Master.

The audience waited with bated breath as the ringmaster danced paradoxes through the minds of the marveled. As he extolled the virtues of this scientific age, the grizzled wolf quoted passages from the entrepreneurs of the day, captivating the crowd by permeating a sense of patriotism never before seen under the Union Flag.

Behind the orator the caged animal sat, alone amongst the crowd, belying its potential in its dormant state. It was like the ghost of the age it was about to slay through the hidden power and craft that will herald a golden one.

The ringmaster deftly held a cane in his paw and was soon gliding around the creature like a bear around honey, threatening to dip it in to reach the sweet nectar. He looked up to the heavens and then across at his creation, the seven deadly sins infecting his senses, making him believe that through this machine, he had somehow touched God.

He looked into the throng then into the eyes of the beast, each movement calculated, each word choreographed. Words of temperance, of piety, of Methodist virtue, were spoken with the same fervour that had made this nation great and as the visitors sat listening to the show, they knew that never before had one country achieved so much.

Then suddenly his booming voice became an almost inaudible whisper. The air lay thick with wonder as the paupers held tense, relishing the finale. The orator jumped forth, then back once again, his stick getting closer and closer to aggravating the beast.

And as the crowd took in the show, the smog took to their fur, the coal fires also matting the pelts of the young foxes and bringing life to their pallor. 

It was all fake animation, a mere facade, a lifeblood borne from the phlebotomy of money. For this may have been poverty in every sense of the word but there are riches to be made out of the poorest of souls, particularly when you tell them what they want to be told. 

And for a shilling a time for this sordid charade, with a top hat on his head and a dapper demeanour, a life lesson was being learned by all those who could read because it's easy for a conman to present himself as the most puritan of souls.

Once all the shillings had been collected, the beast was awoken…

***

“The care and training of children are matters which should receive the anxious attention of Guardians. Pauperism is in the blood, and there is no more effectual means of checking its hereditary nature than by doing all in our power to bring up our pauper children in such a manner as to make them God-fearing, useful and healthy members of society." - Poor Law Handbook of the Poor Law Officers' Journal (1901)

Like angry dragons towering over God's green creation, the factories belched the acrid smoke of progression. The thick, heavy air constricted the lungs like it strangled the Sun, turning day into night and transforming light into dark. After 1,850 years of Christian endeavour, the Creator was finally being outdone by the created.

Beneath the blackness of a warm summer's day, the machines scurried to toll for the bells of their Masters. Lunchtime was over and the smell of money was in the air, infecting all those who came into contact with it.

In the office above the main workroom, the Master and Matron surveyed their empire. Fifty-three paupers of varying ills had just spent the last hour huddled over meals of Hasty-Pudding and Table-Beer. The bell had just rung, signaling work had to resume, and that there was another six hours until the end of the day.

The Master looked down at the benches where the ants had just sat, furrowing his brow. This wasn't the first time that the two foxes had played truant and they were testing his patience with their continual games.

Young fox discipline was becoming a problem but the routine of floggings and incarceration didn't seem to be working. And the law was starting to ban other techniques after some high profile cases had gone through the courts. Stories of ducking, of violence and of suspending miscreants in bags tied to the rafters were making the headlines and the Master didn't want to be on the wrong side of a newspaper witch hunt.

So he would have to find another way of guaranteeing their subservience but the matter at hand was tracking them down. And he knew of a certain fair just down the road where he was sure they'd be hiding…

***

“The children of the poor, almost as soon as they can walk or talk, are sent to the workhouse. For girls, these are the primary schools for prostitution..."

“[Upon leaving the workhouse] On the countenance of these girls, nothing but joy and animation can be seen, while the very vulture of misery is gnawing - hour after hour - day after day - at their hearts. Originally seduced from a state of innocence, and then abandoned by every one who held them in any degree of estimation, they are left upon the world, and have no alternative but to go on in the way they have commenced." - Ins and Outs of London, W. O'Daniel (1859)

The lonely figure loitering by the lamppost knew these streets well. She had spent every day of the last year hanging here.

“Fallen Vixens" were easy to come by and many paid for their services. “The Great Social Evil" was thriving in Manchester, as where there's money, there's sex, and business was booming.

She looked around the corner, checking for the constabulary. She knew she was taking a risk by being out on a lunchtime but the fair was providing a significant distraction and the number of clients had dropped since it had arrived. This had forced her to come out in the middle of the day, risking censure and the intimate checks that the police were authorised to carry out on vixens of her type for venereal disease.

Still, she wouldn't have it any other way. Why would she? She would never prostitute herself to a servant's life, following the commands of a magnate with more money than morals. Curse the Magdalene Asylums and their misguided piety - they were merely afraid of a vixen being in control.

And from where she was standing, with fishnet tights pulled over her lithe supple legs and her erect tail poking provocatively from underneath her small skirt, she knew that she was the one who was calling the shots.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the Master of the Workhouse and she puckered her lips in faint presentation. She recognised him from the ten years she had spent under his care and she knew that he would remember her too. He had been a cruel Master and she had been punished severely for her trespasses - her lack of piety and grace was always getting her into trouble. But now the boot was on the other foot and she was the one who would be empowered.

As he ran up towards her, she swished her tail in his direction, floofing it up for maximum effect. Meanwhile, she fluttered her eyelashes in provocative intent, lolling her tongue at the prospect of fun. She was desperate for business. This desperate.

The Master stopped suddenly, doing a double take before shaking his head and disappearing into the throngs of the fair. 

“Doesn't anyone understand discipline any more?" he muttered to himself as he focused on finding the fiendish young cubs.

***

“It is neat in all its Habits, fond of Ornament, and its Exhibition cannot offend the most delicate taste" - A poster advertising 'What Is It?' - An act shown at The Royal Surrey Zoological Gardens, circa 1846

The signs were so tempting, almost intrusive, particularly to two young foxes who were overwhelmed with wonder. The aura and magic of the exhibition hall was infectious as the friends surveyed the floor to see where to go next.

On the periphery of their vision they spied a huge billboard with the phrase “What Is It?" written in big letters on it. Getting closer, they were promised “You Won't Believe Your Eyes!" before “Is It A Fox? Is It A Bear? Or Is It An Extraordinary FREAK of NATURE?" sealed the deal.

Piqued with interest, the foxes boldly ventured towards the stall. As they got nearer, they could see a large metal cage to the right, shrouded in a red velvet curtain with gold trim. To the left, there stood a smart looking wolf, with a monocle in one eye and a top hat perched drunkenly on his head.

The two foxes snuck past the kiosk and sat amongst the small smattering who had dared to have their rationality compromised in this age of rationality.

“Foxes and gentlewolves," the showman began. “What is a freak? Is it an abomination of nature? Is it a creature so hideous that it should be hidden away from view lest it offends our Christian sensibilities? Is it an animal that is so distasteful that no-one should dare look upon it lest they question the very nature of God? I say nay!!"

The showman's voice grew louder as the sound of intrigued chatter spread amongst the crowd.

“Foxes and gentlewolves, I will give you the answer. A freak is a part of nature that is not a part of nature. It is a paradox, an enigma, a combination of the rational and the irrational, and a mix of the beautiful and the ugly rolled into one. For you see, a freak is the world with no make-up on, as vulnerable as a newborn but as grizzled as the dying, and as close to reality as you'll get without knowing God.

“For when you stare deeply into the eyes of a freak - lonely, frightened and ashamed of its own sorry state - you will realise that through the subversion of all that you thought you held dear, we are all still connected in God's unique creation.

“So foxes and gentlewolves, I give you your freak!!"

The crowd gasped as the curtain was removed to reveal a human form, shivering in the corner of the cage. A pair of fox ears sat on top of his head while attached to the base of his back there was an orange bushy tail. He was supping an alcoholic drink, as if to pacify him somehow, as if it was the elixir of life that would make him accepted.

He looked up at the shocked crowd and whimpered pathetically. The foxes stared back, tears of empathy welling in their eyes as they also knew how it felt to be alone, shunned by society and ridiculed just for being who you are. 

After all, a 'freak' is merely a matter of opinion, a deviation from an artificially accepted norm.

Amidst their distraction, the duo suddenly felt a sharp tug on their collars. They turned around to be confronted with their Master and when the foxes looked into his unforgiving eyes, they gulped in terror as those feelings of loneliness were suddenly magnified.

They knew they were in trouble and that their paws would hurt in the morning…