“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…