DEAN: You’ve pissed her off good and proper.
CAPSTICK: What, not see her? Who we going to mediumize, then?
BOB FOX: Morris? Morris, speak up. It’s you in charge of this fiasco.
MORRIS: You can’t get decent vinegar, neither. You go in for vinegar, there’s bloody shelves and shelves of the stuff. There’s only one sort of proper vinegar, and that’s brown.
CAPSTICK: Morris? We’re talking to you.
AITKENSIDE: It was you, Warren, according to my ledger, what requested to have that crustie hanged, that lived in her shed.
MORRIS: He was on my manor! Only just got a proper outbuilding, where I can put me feet up evenings, and some geezer with an ’at moves in.
AITKENSIDE: But what did you fail to see, my son? You failed to see he was her good deed.
WAGSTAFFE: A good deed in a naughty world.
AITKENSIDE: That you, Wagstaffe? Bugger off, we’re talking.
MORRIS: Besides, you was all agreeable. Oooh, Morris, you said, let’s have an ’anging, haven’t had a good ’anging in years, it’ll be a right laugh when the little bugger kicks his feet!
AITKENSIDE: You failed to see that little bugger was her good deed. And what’s the result? She’s looking to commit a few others. They get the habit … see? They get the habit. It’s sad. But they get the taste for it.
MORRIS: So she don’t want to know us no more?
AITKENSIDE: I very much doubt it, old son.
MORRIS: But we go back, me and the missus. (pause) I’ll miss her. Be on my own. Won’t be the same.
CAPSTICK: Oh, leave off, do! Bring on the bloody violins! You wouldn’t think so well of her if she’d had away your balls.
MACARTHUR: You wouldn’t think so well of her if you’d seen your eye on her spoon.
DEAN: You can get another place, Uncle Morris.
MORRIS: (sniffs) Won’t be the same, Dean lad.
AITKENSIDE: Not the bloody waterworks! Pull yourself together, Warren, or I’ll demote you. (Morris sobs.) Look … Morris, old son, don’t take on. Oh, blast it, ain’t nobody round here got a bleeding hankerchief?
WAGSTAFFE: Any handkerchief in particular?
AITKENSIDE: Wagstaffe? Put a sock in it. Listen, lads, I’ve an idea. Maybe she’ll come back if her dad asks for her.
(pause)
MACARTHUR: Who is her dad, then?
CAPSTICK: I always thought it was you, MacArthur. I thought that’s why she took your eye out.
MACARTHUR: I thought it were you, Keef. I thought that’s why she took your bollocks off.
AITKENSIDE: Don’t look at me! She’s not my daughter, I was in the forces.
MORRIS: She can’t be mine because I was still in the circus.
PIKEY PETE: She can’t be mine—
MORRIS: Oh, there you are, Pete! We thought you’d scarpered. Give a dog a bad name and hang him! We thought you had made off with the emoluments.
PIKEY PETE: I say, she can’t be mine, because I was in jail for painting horses.
CAPSTICK: Painting horses?
PIKEY PETE: You paint one racehorse to look like another, innit?
MORRIS: Don’t the paint run off, Pikey, when there’s a downpour?
PIKEY PETE: It’s an old Romany skill. Anyway, she ain’t mine.
CAPSTICK: She ain’t mine, because I was in the nick too.
MACARTHUR: And me. Serving five.
AITKENSIDE: So who’s left? Bob Fox?
BOB FOX: I never did nothing but tap on the window.
(pause)
MACARTHUR: Got to be that Derek bloke. Innit.
AITKENSIDE: Couldn’t have been. Bloody errand boy? He never had no money. Emmeline Cheetham, she didn’t do it for free.
MACARTHUR: True. You made sure of that.
CAPSTICK: Not like these girls you get these days, eh Dean?
MORRIS: So who’s left?
(pause)
MACARTHUR: Oh, blimey.
MORRIS: Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Only the great man himself!
CAPSTICK: Well, knock me down with a feather.
MORRIS: I never had such a thunderclap.
PIKEY PETE: You don’t want to mess with the fambly of Nick. Because Nick he is a fambly man.
(pause)
CAPSTICK: What would he do?
AITKENSIDE: Dear oh dear.
MORRIS: The worst thing that can befall a spirit is to be eaten by old Nick. You can be eaten and digested by him and then you’ve had your chips.
BOB FOX: You can’t get chips like you used to. Not fried in proper lard.
AITKENSIDE: Shut it, Bob, there’s a good lad.
CAPSTICK: What, you get et? You get et by Nick? And you don’t get another go round?
MORRIS: If he pukes you up you can reform and have another go, but otherwise you’re et and that’s all.
MACARTHUR: And that’s all?
MORRIS: El finito, Benito.
PIKEY PETE: Here, shall we do the share-out of these notes? It’s the proceeds from Etchells’s furniture. Lads? Where you going? Lads? Wait for me … .
October: Al is travelling, in the autumn’s first foul weather. There are mud slips and landslides, there are storm drains burst, a glugging and gurgling in sumps, conduits, and wells. There are fissures in the riverbeds, there are marshes, swamps, and bogs, there are cracked pipes and breached seawalls, and outswells of gas on the bubbling floodplain. There is coastal erosion, crumbling defences, spillage and seepages; where the saline and swift-rushing tide meets the viscid slime of swollen sewers, there the oceans are rising, half a metre, half a metre, half a metre onwards. On the orbital road the hazard lights of collided cars flash from the hard shoulder. Cameras flash on the bridges, there is the swish of the wipers against drenching rain, the mad blinking eyes of the breakdown trucks. “On we go!” Alison calls. “Sevenoaks, here we come.”
They are singing, Alison and the two little women: a few music hall favorites, but hymns, mostly, for it’s what the little women like. She didn’t know any of the words, but they have taught her.
Show pity, Lord! For we are frail and faint:
We fade away, O list to our complaint.
We fade away, like flowers in the sun;
We just begin, and then our work is done.
Maureen Harrison says, “Have we been to Sevenoaks?” and Alison says, “Not with me, you haven’t.”
Maureen says, anxious, “Will we get our tea there?” Alison says, “Oh yes, I hear in Sevenoaks you get a very good tea.”
“Just as well,” says Maureen’s friend from the back, “because I could have brought my own Eccles cakes.”
“Cakes,” says Maureen, “we’ve had some lovely cakes. Do you remember that one you bought me once, with a walnut on top? You can’t get cakes like that these days. Here, lovie, I’ll make you one. On your birthday. I always made you a cake on your birthday.”
“That would be nice,” says Maureen’s friend. “And she can have some too.”
“Oh, yes, we’ll give her some. She’s a lovely girl.”
Alison sighs. She likes to be appreciated; and before these last weeks, she never felt she was. They can’t do enough for her, the two old ladies, so happy they are to be together again, and when they are talking in the evening, from under a rug and behind the sofa they praise her, saying that they never had a daughter, but if they had, they would have wanted a bonny big girl just like Al. Whenever they set off in the car, they are so excited she has to make them wear incontinence pads. She cries, “Are your seat belts fastened, girls? Are your buttons all sewn on tight?” And they shout, “Yes, miss!” They say, “Look at us, riding in a motor vehicle, a private car!” They will never get tired of the orbital road, no matter how many times they go around it. Even if some image from her former life washes up—the fiends escaping Admiral Drive, vestigial heads trapped under the fences, multiple limbs thrashing, feet entangled in their tongues—even if some moment of dismay fades her smile, chills her, tightens h
er grip on the wheel or brings a shiny tear to her eye—even if she misses a junction, and has to cross the carriageway—the little women never complain.
They say, “Look at her hair, and look at her lovely rings, look at her frock and look at how she pedals the car—you’d think it would tire her out, but you can’t tire her out. Oh, I tell you, Maureen Harrison, we’ve landed on our feet here.” And Maureen adds, “Where our feet would be.”
Her cell phone rings. It’s Gemma. “How’s tricks? … Staines on the twenty-seventh? I doubt it, but I’ll check my diary when we pull in … . We? Did I say we? … No, not Colette. God forbid. I meant me and my new guides. Colette’s gone back to her husband. Near Twickenham. He used to be a, you know, what do they call it, one of those men who sets traps. Sort of gamekeeper.”
“Near Twickenham?” Gemma says, surprised, and Al says, “No, in a former life.” He was a man, she thought, who kept dogs, but not for pets. A terrier man. Digs out the earths, lays down poisons for hapless small creatures trying to earn a living. “I didn’t care for him,” she says, “when I ran into him in Farnham.” You shouldn’t leave bait about for it attracts entities, the slow grub and creep of legless things, feral crawlers looking for wounds to suck or open minds to creep inside. You shouldn’t leave traps, for you don’t know what will spring them: severed legs, unclaimed and nameless feet, ghouls and spectres looking to stitch themselves together, haunting the roads looking for a hand, an ear, for severed fingers and dislocated thumbs.
She has been, herself, of course, a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. She doesn’t remember, really, if she saw MacArthur’s eye in a dish, though she’s been trying to remember, just to keep the record straight. It might not have been in a dish; it might have been on a plate, a saucer, a dog bowl. She remembers she had her spoon in her hand, her fork. “Business?” she says. “Business is booming, thanks for asking, Gemma. Give or take the odd quiet midweek, I’m booked out till next Feb.”
There are terrorists in the ditches, knives clenched between their teeth. There are fundis hoarding fertilizer, there are fanatics brewing bombs on brown-field sites, and holy martyrs digging storage pits where fiends have melted into the soil. There are citadels underground, there are potholes and sunken shafts; there are secret chambers in the hearts of men, sometimes of women too. There are unlicensed workings and laboratories underground, mutants breeding in the tunnels; there are cannibal moo-cows and toxic bunnikins, and behind the drawn curtains of hospital wards there are bugs that eat the flesh.
But today we are going to Sevenoaks, by way of Junction 5: to see whom fortune favours today. Will it be the brave, or is it the turn of the bloody? Will they be queuing to have their palm prints taken, the legion of the unbowed? Softly the cards are shuffled, whispering to the crimson cloth. A knight in armour is galloping from the battle—or to it. A dog climbs the wheel of fortune, while a monkey descends. A naked girl pours water into a pool, and seven stars shine in the evening sky.
“When is it teatime, miss?” the little woman enquires; and then, “Pedal faster, miss, see if you can beat that one!”
Alison checks her rearview mirror. She pulls out to overtake a truck; she puts her foot down. She moves into the fast lane, half hidden by the spray. Unmolested, unobserved, they flee before the storm. If the universe is a great mind, it may sometimes have its absences. Maureen Harrison pipes up from the back: “This cake we’re having: could we have it iced?”
ALSO BY HILARY MANTEL
Every Day Is Mother’s Day
Vacant Possession
A Place of Greater Safety
Eight Months on Ghazzah Street
A Change of Climate
An Experiment in Love
The Giant O’Brien
Fludd
Giving Up the Ghost
About the Author
Among HILARY MANTEL’s novels are A Change of Climate, A Place of Greater Safety, and Eight Months on Ghazzah Street. She has also written a memoir, Giving Up the Ghost. A winner of the Hawthornden Prize, she reviews for The New York Times and The New York Review of Books and lives in England.
Copyright © 2005 by Hilary Mantel
All rights reserved.
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eISBN 9781429900638
First eBook Edition : July 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mantel, Hilary, [date]
Beyond black : a novel / Hilary Mantel.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A John Macrae book.”
1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Divorced women—Fiction. 3. Women mediums—Fiction. 4. Spritualists—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction. I. Title. PR6063.A438B49 2005 823’.914—dc22
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Also by
Hilary Mantel
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Wolf Hall
www.picadorusa.com/wolfhall
In the ruthless arena of King Henry VIII’s court, only one man dares to gamble his life to win the king’s favor and ascend to the heights of political power.
England in the 1520s is a heartbeat from disaster. If the king dies without a male heir, the country could be destroyed by civil war. Henry VIII wants to annul his marriage of twenty years, and marry Anne Boleyn. The pope and most of Europe opposes him. The quest for the king’s freedom destroys his adviser, the brilliant Cardinal Wolsey, and leaves a power vacuum.
Into this impasse steps Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell is a wholly original man, a charmer and a bully, both idealist and opportunist, astute in reading people and a demon of energy: he is also a consummate politician, hardened by his personal losses, implacable in his ambition. But Henry is volatile: one day tender, one day murderous. Cromwell helps him break the opposition, but what will be the price of his triumph?
In inimitable style, Hilary Mantel presents a picture of a half-made society on the cusp of change, where individuals fight or embrace their fate with passion and courage. With a vast array of characters, overflowing with incident, the novel re-creates an era when the personal and political are separated by a hairbreadth, where success brings unlimited power but a single failure means death.
Bring Up the Bodies
www.henryholt.com/bringupthebodies
The sequel to Hilary Mantel’s 2009 Man Booker Prize winner and New York Times bestseller Wolf Hall delves into the heart of Tudor history with the downfall of Anne Boleyn.
Though he battled for seven years to marry her, Henry is disenchanted with Anne Boleyn. She has failed to give him a son and her sharp intelligence and audacious will alienate his old friends and the noble families of England. When the discarded Katherine dies in exile from the court, Anne stands starkly exposed, the focus of gossip and malice.
At a word from Henry, Thomas Cromwell is ready to bring her down. Over three terrifying weeks, Anne is ensnared in a web of conspiracy, while the demure Jane Seymour stands waiting her turn for the poisoned wedding ring. But Anne and her powerful family will not yield without a ferocious struggle. Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies follows the dramatic trial of the queen and her suitors for adultery and treason. To defeat the Boleyns, Cromwell must ally with his natural enemies, the papist aristocracy. What price will he pay for Anne's head?
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Beyond Black Page 43
