The Crimson Petal and the White

by Michel Faber

  And that child? Who is that child, standing in front of her whey-faced scarecrow of a governess? Sophie Rackham, is it? Some of the ladies gathered here today were aware that Mrs Rackham had a daughter, others not. They stare at the little girl inquisitively, noting the similarity to the father’s bone structure, though she has her mother’s eyes.

  What a curious funeral this is! So many women, and hardly any men! Did Mrs Rackham have no male relations? No brothers, cousins, nephews? Apparently not. There are rumoured to be several living uncles, but they’re … well, they’re Catholics, and not of the decently discreet sort, but firebrands and crackpots.

  What about Doctor Curlew, Mrs Rackham’s physician? Mightn’t one expect him to be here? Ah, but he’s in Antwerp, adding his views to a symposium on myxcedema. That’s his daughter, Mrs Emmeline Fox, standing inconspicuously at the back of the crowd. Another widow! My goodness, have you ever been to a funeral before that had so many widows and widowers in attendance! Even Lady Unwin isn’t the original Lady Unwin, you know — no, even Agnes Rackham’s mother wasn’t that — there was another, a third, that is to say a first, Lady Unwin, who died almost the instant she was married, and then, within a matter of weeks, Lord Unwin met Violet Pigott, you know, who was herself a widow — are you keeping up? Really, it was all rather a scandal, best left forgotten in the mists of history, especially on a solemn occasion such as the one for which we’re gathered here today, at which gossip is unseemly, and besides, Violet Pigott was twirling her parasol at Lord Unwin when his poor wife’s body was barely cold, and who knows what errors of judgement a newly widowed man may make in the madness of his grief?

  Anyway, all that’s in the past, and we won’t speak of it any more, especially as none of us is acquainted with the full facts, not even Mrs Fitzhugh, whose older sister knew the first Lady Unwin intimately. She’s the one wearing the black feather boa, and will certainly be attending Mrs Barr’s party tomorrow afternoon, an informal affair for ladies only.

  But where were we? Ah yes, Mrs Fox. She’s looking well, isn’t she? Half a year ago, there was every expectation that she should attend no more funerals except her own; and here she is, proving you never can tell. Were she and Mrs Rackham particularly well acquainted, though? The two of them never appeared in public together, as far as anyone can recall. Perhaps she’s here as a representative of her father? She looks regretful, but — dare one say it? — ever-so-slightly disapproving. She’s a staunch advocate of cremation, did you know? Doctor Crane can’t abide her; she stood up during one of his sermons once and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but that isn’t true!’ Can you imagine that? I wish I had been there …

  Anyway, here she is, keeping her counsel while Doctor Crane speaks. She’s dry-eyed and dignified — indeed, all the ladies are dry-eyed and dignified, a credit to the occasion. Mrs Gooch ventures a snivel at one point, but perceives herself to be alone in it, and instantly desists.

  And the men? How are they bearing up? William Rackham’s expression is one of pained bewilderment; no doubt his wife’s death is a wound whose true severity has yet to register upon him. Lord Unwin’s grief is so well controlled that it almost resembles boredom. Henry Calder Rackham stands still and melancholy, his attention never wavering from the rector, his chest expanding with a deep, silent sigh each time a pause in the oration is broken by a fresh salvo.

  Doctor Crane’s monologue appears to be reaching its climax: he’s just made a tantalising reference to ‘ashes and dust’, which must surely mean the coffin will very soon be lowered into the hole. Ashes and dust, he reminds his congregation, are our only material remains, but compared to our spiritual remains they mean nothing. In the harsh glare of physical death, our soul stands revealed as the original essence from which a small, almost insignificant particle — the body — has been shed. Mrs Rackham’s corporeal form is no loss to her, for she lives on, not only in the memory of her character and deeds, to which all those gathered here can no doubt attest, but, more importantly, in the bosom of her heavenly Father.

  Remembered with fondness by all who were blessed to know her — the world’s loss was Heaven’s gain, reads the inscription on the tombstone, almost identical to the one on Henry’s stone nearby, for how can a man in the throes of bereavement compose clever new words? Did they expect a metaphysical poem from him, in the style of Herbert? Is there anyone here who could have done better, in his shoes? Death is too obscene for pretty verses.

  William stares at the coffin as the undertaker’s assistants lift it onto the ropes. His jaw is rigid as he resists the temptation to dab the sweat on his brow, for fear that the patina of Rackham’s Foundation Cream and Rackham’s Peach Blush will come off on his handkerchief, unveiling the scabs and bruises. The time has come: the slender, lustrously varnished box is finally lowered into the grave, and Doctor Crane intones his age-old incantation to help it on its way. William is not comforted; ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ is all very fine as graveside oratory, but from a brutally scientific point of view, ash is the stuff of cremation, not burial. The corpse inside this casket is already well advanced in its metamorphosis, as William knows from having seen it on the mortuary slab, but its end product will not be ash; it will be a liquid, or at most an unguent.

  Indeed, in William’s mind, the corpse has already deteriorated from what he saw last week and, as the coffin descends smoothly into the pit, he pictures the lacerated and putrid flesh wobbling like jelly within. He swallows hard, to suppress a groan of horror. How strange, the way he can’t believe that anything solid of Agnes remains, whereas his brother Henry — who has lain in the ground for months and must therefore, logically, be in a far worse state — he pictures mummified, firm as a log. Even in the grave, his brother puts up a wooden resistance to corruption, a stiff integrity, whereas (in William’s imaginings) Agnes’s volatility, her typically female instability, condemns her to alchemical dissolution.

  He looks away; he can’t bear it. Tears sting his eyes; is there anyone here today who doesn’t secretly believe he drove his wife to suicide? They despise him, all these women, all these gossipy ‘intimates’; in their hearts, they blame him; who can he turn to? He cannot look to Sugar, for she stands with Sophie, and he can’t face the thought of what’s to be done with Agnes’s child now that all hope of her having a mother is gone. Instead, in desperation, he looks to Lady Bridgelow, and is amazed — and deeply moved — to see that her eyes, too, are shining. You brave, brave man, she is saying. Not aloud, of course, but in every other way possible. He shuts his eyes tight, and sways on his feet, and listens to the sound of soil falling on soil.

  Eventually there’s a gentle tug on his arm. He opens his eyes, half-expecting to see a female face, but it’s one of the officiaries. ‘This way, if you please, sir.’ William gapes, uncomprehending.

  The officiary points to the world beyond the churchyard with a black-gloved hand. ‘The carriages are waiting for you, sir.’

  ‘Yes …I …ah …’ he stammers, then claps shut his mouth. All day, he has dreaded having to speak, to account for himself and stutter out the reasons why Agnes is not alive and well. Suddenly he appreciates he’s not required to say anything. He is excused. There are no questions. It’s time to go home. Next day, Clara Tillotson is dismissed. Or, to put it more diplomatically, she is sent on her way with Rackham’s blessing, to find employment in a household whose master is not a widower.

  ‘In the changed circumstances’: that’s the phrase William used, when breaking the news to her. Of course, it was hardly news, and she knew very well what was coming, so why couldn’t she have spared him the nuisance and simply disappeared overnight, taking her wasp waist and her sharp little snout with her? Ah yes: because she needed a letter of recommendation. Couldn’t he have left one out in the hall for her, dangling by a ribbon from the hat-stand? No, of course he couldn’t. Much as he despises the girl, he was obliged to endure one more encounter with her.

  Mind you, on her final day of employment
in the Rackham house, Clara’s demeanour undergoes a remarkable transformation; she’s as sweet as a flower-seller and as servile as a shoeblack. Why, she almost smiled! Early in the morning, she has exercised that skill so highly valued in a lady’s-maid: packing clothes and other belongings into a suitcase so that they’ll emerge at their destination uncreased and undamaged. The sum total of her possessions fills fewer cases than Agnes took to Folkestone Sands; to be precise, one trunk, one small tartan suitcase, and a hat-box.

  Rackham doesn’t see her off; in fact, when the cab arrives to fetch her, not one member of the household can spare a minute to come and wave her goodbye. Only Cheesman is on hand, helpful and cheerful, lifting her cases for her, loudly assuring her that today is the first day of a new life, laying his sinewy paw against the small of her back as she steps into the coach. Caught between conflicting desires to weep against his chest and spit in his face, Clara does nothing, allows him to flick the hem of her skirt out ofharm’s way as he shuts the cabin door, and sits stony-faced as the vehicle jerks into motion.

  In her reticule, in her lap, nestles William Rackham’s letter of recommendation, which she hasn’t yet read. The etiquette of applications for employment is such that there’s a subtle but distinct advantage in handing over a sealed, virgin envelope, thus suggesting one’s supreme confidence that it can contain nothing less than the highest praise. Once Clara is settled at her sister’s place, she’ll have plenty of leisure to steam the envelope open — at which time she’ll discover that Rackham describes her as being of average intelligence, admirably loyal to her mistress if less than ideally so to her master, a canny and competent lady’s-maid whose lack of a sweet temperament need not be an obstacle to loyal service to a compatible employer. Then Clara will blaze with fury, and lament her lost chance to tell that pompous, vulgar bully Rackham precisely what she thinks of him, and her sister will tactfully agree, knowing in her heart that Clara wouldn’t have dared utter a peep, in case Rackham snatched the letter back again and tore her future to pieces on the doorstep.

  ‘A pox on that house!’ Clara will cry. ‘I hope everyone in it dies and rots in Hell!’

  Yes, that’s what she’ll say later. But for now, she bites her lower lip, counts the trees as her cab trundles past Kensington Gardens, and wonders if the ghost of Mrs Rackham will haunt her for stealing a few small items of jewellery. What would a ghost care about a few bracelets and earrings, especially ones she scarcely ever wore and which she probably wouldn’t even have missed while she was alive? If there’s any justice in the world, nothing will come of this theft, except a little much-needed money. Ah, but the dead are rumoured to be vengeful … Clara hopes that Mrs Rackham, wherever she may be, remembers the long years during which her lady’s-maid was her only ally against her detestable husband, and that she can find it in her ethereal heart to say, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’

  It’s unseasonably mild weather, and the sun shines as brightly as anyone could want, the day that Sugar turns twenty.

  Despite the fact that January 19 th is by rights the heart of Winter, the last vestiges of slush have been swept off the streets, birds sing in the trees, and high above Sugar’s head the sky is lavender-blue and the clouds eggshell-white, like a colour plate in a children’s story-book. Beneath her feet the grass of the public garden is wet, but not with snow or rain, only melted frost, scarcely enough to dampen her boots. The only firm evidence of the season is the long tongue of opaque ice that hangs from the mouth of a stone dragon perched on the rim of the garden’s empty fountain, but even this icicle glimmers and perspires, slowly yielding to a great thaw. On a day just like this, thinks Sugar, I was born.

  Sophie looks up at the stone dragon, then up at her governess, wordlessly requesting permission to examine the monster closer. Sugar nods assent and, with some difficulty (for her mourning-clothes are extremely tight and stiff) Sophie clambers up onto the fountain’s edge, steadied by her governess’s hands. The child finds her balance, one mittened hand pressed to the dragon’s bone-grey flank. Not very elegant, these old woolly mittens of hers, but the tiny pigskin gloves her father gave her at Christmas never did fit, and when Miss Sugar tried to put them on a glove-stretcher for grownups, one of them burst.

  Sophie leans her face right under the dragon’s stone jaws, and shyly extends her pink tongue towards the glistening spike of ice.

  ‘Don’t do that, Sophie! It’s dirty.’

  The child pulls back as sharply as if she’s been smacked.

  ‘I’ll tell you what to do instead: why not break it off?’ Dismayed by how easy it is to frighten a child, Sugar is keen to restore Sophie’s cheerful spirits. ‘Go on: give it a whack!’

  Hesitantly Sophie extends her mitt and pats the great gob of ice, to no effect. Then, after more encouragement from her governess, she fetches it a biff, and it snaps off. A feeble trickle of ochre-stained water gurgles out of the exposed iron spout.

  ‘There you are, Sophie!’ says Sugar. ‘You’ve got it started.’

  Under the watchful eye of her governess, Sophie walks the imaginary tightrope of the fountain’s rim. The full skirts of her mourning-dress make it hard for her to see her own feet, but she advances slowly and solemnly, her arms extended, wing-like, for balance.

  Is it permissible, according to the rules of mourning, for a bereaved daughter to be taken out in public mere days after the funeral? Sugar hasn’t the faintest idea, but who’s to reprimand her if it isn’t? The Rackham servants don’t say boo to a goose, and William has secluded himself so absolutely in his study — a grief-stricken widower for all the world to see, or rather not see — that he’s hardly in a position to know what she gets up to when she’s not with him.

  And if he should discover the truth, what of it? Must she and Sophie skulk in a darkened house, stifling in an atmosphere where laughter is forbidden and black the order of the day from breakfast to bedtime? No! She refuses to creep around under a pall! Sophie’s lessons will be conducted out of doors as often as possible, in the public parks and gardens of Notting Hill. The poor child has spent quite enough of her life hidden away like a squalid secret.

  ‘Time for your History rhymes, little one,’ Sugar announces, and Sophie’s face lights up. If there’s one thing she likes better than play, it’s work. She looks down at the ground, preparing to leap off the fountain-edge; it’s just a few inches farther than she can easily manage in her stiff clothes. What to do?

  All of a sudden, Sugar rushes forward, scoops the child into her arms and swings her to the ground in one dizzying, playful swoop. It’s over in a couple of seconds at most, the space of a single breath, but in that long moment Sugar feels more physical joy than she’s felt in a lifetime of embraces. The soles of Sophie’s dangling feet brush the wet grass, and she lands; Sugar releases her, gasping. Thank God, thank God, the child looks tickled pink: clearly this act has her blessing to happen again sometime.

  Lately, Sugar has been confounded, even disturbed, by how intensely physical her feelings for Sophie have become. What began, on her arrival in the Rackham house, as a determination to do her hapless pupil no harm, has seeped from her head into her bloodstream and now pumps around her body, transmuted into a different impulse entirely: the desire to infuse Sophie with happiness.

  On this nineteenth day of January, standing in a public park on the morning of her twentieth birthday, her whole body still tingling from Sophie’s embrace, Sugar imagines the two of them in bed together wearing identical white night-gowns, Sophie fast asleep, her cheek nestled in the hollow between Sugar’s breasts — a vision that would have been ridiculous a year ago, not least because she had so little bosom to speak of. But her bosom feels bigger nowadays, as though an over-long adolescence has finally ended, and she’s now a woman.

  Sophie begins to tramp slowly round the fountain, in a heavy-footed, ceremonial rhythm, and recites her rhymes:

  ‘William the First made the Domesday Book,

  William Rufus was
shot by a brook,

  Henry the First rendered Aesop’s fables,

  But to crown his daughter he was unable.’

  ‘Very good, Sophie,’ says Sugar, stepping back. ‘Practise by yourself, and come to me if you get stuck.’

  Sophie continues to march and chant, adding her own instinctive melody to the words, so that the poem becomes a song. Her arms, stiff with crape, beat time against her sides.

  ‘Stephen and Maude waged civil war,

  Until the end of 1154.

  Henry, called Plantagenet,

  Had troubles with children and Thomas B’cket.’

  Sugar walks away from the fountain and takes a seat on a cast-iron bench about twenty feet farther on. The sound of the chant fills her with pride, for these rhymes are Sugar’s own invention; she devised them as a mnemonic for Sophie, who in her History lessons was finding it difficult to tell one scheming, bloodthirsty king of England apart from another, especially since so many of them are called William and Henry. These little verses, paltry though they are, represent Sugar’s first literary scribbles since she pronounced her novel dead. Ach, yes, she knows it’s pitiable, but they’ve ignited in her a candle-flame of hope that she may yet be a writer. And why not write for children? Catch them young, and you shape their souls …Did she ever seriously believe that any grown-up person would read her novel, throw off the chains of prejudice, and share her righteous anger? Anger against what, anyway? She can barely recall …

  ‘Coeur de Lion was abroad all the time,

  Died of an arrow in 1199.

  John was qua’lsome, murd’rous and mean, But the Charter was signed in 1216.’

  Sugar leans back on her seat, stretching out her legs and wriggling the toes inside her boots to discourage them from freezing; all the rest of her is warm. She lets the focus of her eyes grow hazy, so that Sophie tramps past as a black blur every time she rounds the fountain.