‘Dear Virgin, my thoughts are forever preoccupied with returning home …’
Soon enough I was engaged as doorman under the stewardship of Master of the House Samuel Samways, a young and handsome man whose jaw appeared to never require shaving. As derived from my title I was required to open and close doors, and one might think this is a simple enough task, but I assure you the choreography required was balletic viz. the low bow of my head, the step forward this way and backward dance that way, the pull of the handle at not too great a velocity, &c.
The other tasks to which I was obligated were very odd indeed; My Lord Uxbridge had a penchant for amateur theatrics. The first time I was to prevail in such a performance was following a late game of cards. I had bowed and closed the drawing room door to the final guest, when My Lord slapped the card table and announced that we were to make ourselves some theatre! Samways and the two present underbutlers stood in line by the wall, knowing something that I did not.
‘Come on, Wild,’ he called to me, waving his arm like he was fanning a fart. ‘Over here.’
‘My Lord.’
Lord Uxbridge, it may be known to you now, had made his fortune from diversified enterprises, chiefly brewing, milling and importing. It was said that his first business deal he conducted at the age of eleven, importing ice and sardines from Sweden before the heatwave of 1673. He owned warehouses in Dover, London, Leicester and Liverpool that stored innumerable products that he sold throughout the Kingdom. There were whisperings that he was the richest man in Britain – certainly you’d believe it, gawping at his estate – with many great lords coming for loans that he was always willing to bestow, provided he had a stake in the upside, plus interest at fifteen per cent. At thirty-four he was Lorded by the King and granted the Middlesex estate, upon which he made some of the improvements I have hitherto imparted.
He wore a very long wig that made him appear even shorter than he already was, and only ever wore two colours – billiard green and crimson red – usually in robes of velvet or silk, that flurried behind him like an entourage. His eyes were small sharp things that incised advantage from whoever was before him. On the said evening, as we lined ourselves against the flocked wallpaper, My Lord leaned back in his chair, surveying us and nibbling at one of his nails.
‘When Odysseus meets the lotus eaters,’ spoke My Lord. ‘Let us depict the moment!’
‘Of course, My Lord,’ replied Samways, clearly not unaccustomed to such a thing. ‘Which of us will be Odysseus?’
‘Wild seems a born pioneer,’ replied My Lord, turning to me. ‘Aren’t you, Wild?’
‘My Lord.’
‘Have you read Homer’s work?’
‘No, sir, but I’m familiar with the story.’
‘Good enough. Stumble upon these men in their drugged stupor and … try and drag one of them … make it Samways. Samways will be your countryman. You must lure him away. But Samways is opiated from the lotus. He will tempt you with it, won’t you, Samways? You’ll try and bring Wild into your orgy, but Wild is a soldier, a man of will. He will garner you by force. Does everyone understand?’
The three others nodded and made for the ballroom.
‘Will you be able to resist the lotus, Wild?’ asked Uxbridge, with eager intrigue.
‘I believe so, My Lord,’ answered I. ‘If it is my part.’
We assembled in the ballroom and set to lighting the candelabra, the sizzle of each wick echoing like a conflagration in the great empty room. Lord Uxbridge, in his armchair, sipped pinkish wine from a small crystal flute.
‘Gobbert,’ said My Lord, pointing at one of the underbutlers. ‘You will make a good woman. Here, take my wig. Samways, cream for the lotus fruit, dollops of cream!’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ responded Samways, striding to the buttery.
‘Here,’ said My Lord, handing me his cane. ‘This can be your sword.’
The ballroom had space enough for a hundred couples to quadrille without collision, and here we were, but four actors and one audience member.
‘Wild, you begin offstage,’ spoke My Lord. His bellowing voice reverberated in the enormous room. ‘Stand in the anteroom. When I clap thrice, enter to save your fellow soldier!’
‘Aye, My Lord.’
‘Now, boys,’ spoke he again, addressing the others. ‘Go easy on young Wild, this is his first performance.’
They nodded obligingly.
‘Out you go, Wild. Don’t forget your weapon.’
I stood in the antechamber, marvelling at the cane of Lord Uxbridge; silver-tipped with a polished globe of emerald at its handle. Five minutes, ten minutes, then twenty minutes passed, or so it seemed. I waited, listening to echoes of Uxbridge’s direction, watching bulbous stalactites accumulate from the candelabra.
I was awoken from a brief slumber by the claps of My Lord. I mustered my cane-sword and staggered through the door.
Gobbert was entirely denuded save My Lord’s wig, and the other butler and Samways flecked with cream.
‘Save him!’ yelled My Lord, who was very red-faced. His eyes bulged like the seeds in halved avocados. ‘Are you not Odysseus?’
I was quite still, holding the cane.
‘Tempt him, Samways!’
Samways’s shirt was open and his breeches loose. With a dollop of cream at its tip, he stretched his forefinger towards me.
‘Try the lotus, young Wild.’
‘Odysseus,’ said I, correcting him.
‘I mean Odysseus,’ said he. ‘Try the lotus. Brave Odysseus.’
‘Ithaca calls,’ commanded I. ‘My dear wife and son await!’
‘Very convincing,’ muttered Uxbridge.
‘Just try the one lotus,’ he said, a little bored.
I approached the heap of men. I tried pulling Samways up, but he was much too heavy.
‘Will you try the lotus?’ asked Uxbridge.
Samways, looking at me intently, nodded. ‘Relent to temptation.’
‘Stand to attention, soldier,’ said I, puffing my chest.
‘He has promised you his trust,’ spoke Uxbridge. ‘He only wants you to try the lotus.’
Samways dipped a second finger in the bowl of cream and waved it at me. Lord Uxbridge leaned forward.
‘Do it,’ whispered Samways.
‘Will he taste it?’ cackled Uxbridge. ‘Will he?’
I bent down and enclosed my lips around the cream, my tongue briefly touching the acrid pad of his forefinger. I was then pulled down by the other three.
‘Hahaha,’ shouted Uxbridge. ‘He relented. Poor Odysseus! Hahaha.’
I wrestled away from the men and ran to the window.
‘What on God’s earth!’ shouted I.
‘True theatre! True theatre!’ replied Uxbridge, rising to his feet and clapping manically.
From his purse he took a handful of gold pieces and flicked them at us, each coin rolling in a different direction. My Lord then adjusted his breeches and tramped off without a word.
WILD
I climb the rungs of my own ladder; all roads lead to Rome(ville)
1703
Three years thus passed, gripping the brassed handles of Lord Uxbridge’s doors, my head bowed to the most powerful identities in the Kingdom spare the King himself (though often enough his Exchequer) and twice a year the Medicis, who came to invest in winnable wars; My Lord’s high-pitched acidic voice answering each visitor with unwavering zeal, even on matters of which he would have no conceivable knowledge or involvement.
The relationship he shared with Lady Uxbridge – a profitable marriage if ever there was (she was the only child of Lord Windshuttle, who had a purported income of twenty thousand per year) – was violently polite, if you’ll permit me the oxymoron, with her withering away by the day, as though his civility whittled her like a blade on a stick. Her body was a marionette; a bundle of bones held together by wire, controlled by a jerky puppeteer. Doctors were regularly in attendance, as much for her vapours as her rickets,
often prescribing long visits to the salt baths in Sicily, leaving My Lord free to engage in his theatrics, which were predictably themed around the unsuccessful resistance of temptation.
One morning, during one of Lady Uxbridge’s extended absences, while My Lord spooned flesh from a bright pomelo in the breakfasting room, I determined it long enough since I had behaved in accordance with my creed. Uxbridge was an early riser, so the saying goes, and the sun had only just broken the horizon.
‘A fine morning,’ said I from my place at the doors. ‘A fine morning.’
Samways was presently serving cooked bread, a favourite of My Lord’s, covered with a type of preserve.
‘Did someone just say something?’ intoned My Lord. ‘I could have sworn someone just spoke.’
‘It was I.’
Samways glared at me.
‘What did you say?’ squawked My Lord, not turning around. ‘Repeat it.’
‘It’s a fine morning,’ repeated I, my heart in my throat.
‘Isaac Newton over here,’ Uxbridge remarked to himself.
‘My Lord.’
Now he turned, his eyes circular with rage. He held a piece of cooked bread between two fingers and a knife in the other.
‘Wild, isn’t it? Speak then, if you believe what you say warrants my interruption?’
‘Not if I am to be mocked,’ said I, inflating my chest.
Samways’s jaw dropped, along with a fellow doorman’s.
Uxbridge ignored the comment, and resumed the halving of his bread. ‘You fear mockery, do you, Wild?’
‘I do not fear it, I detest it.’
He chewed loudly, looking out to his grounds. ‘Do you detest being thrown to the streets? Without a penny.’
‘It has happened before.’
‘Not in London it hasn’t.’
‘True.’
He threw down the knife. ‘I don’t need your affirmations!’
Samways, who was sweeping crumbs from the table onto a silver platter, stood upright. ‘Mr Wild, you will cease this insolence!’
‘Shut up, Samways,’ snapped Uxbridge. ‘I can discipline my own footman!’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
I had not anticipated the opportunity, but it dawned upon me as one.
‘I should be disciplined,’ said I, letting one lid close briefly while eyeing My Lord. ‘I understand if My Lord wishes to put me in my place.’
Uxbridge coughed. ‘Caned,’ replied he, holding my eyes. ‘Or whipped?’
I didn’t respond, but held his gaze. The crumbs tumbled off Samways’s platter, falling to the marble without a sound.
Inside Lord Uxbridge’s office there were two tall windows behind his desk, and from the early position of the sun, a warm molten light folded through the panes, illuminating the secret dance of dust that can only be seen at such a time of day; these rays of light finishing as distinct polygons on the opposite wall, and the colour reminiscent of the liquefied brass that I cooled with bellows at Master Dampier’s hearth, many years before.
In the corner of the room there was a large porcelain sphere encased in a metal frame. Above the fireplace hung a gigantic tapestry, depicting the nude, muscular battle of David and Goliath. I wandered over to the sphere and was about to touch it when I heard the rattle of the door.
He strode in apace, his garments fluttering behind him and Samways following after. I stood straight, my hands clasped behind my back. Uxbridge picked up one of his papers and was soon lost in thought while I avoided the envious glare of Samways.
At the clearing of my throat, My Lord peered over the paper.
‘So, Wild, what’s it to be, the whip or the cane?’
‘I beg of your mercy, sire.’
‘The cane it is. Mr Samways.’
Samways brought out a thin piece of cane, lowering his head as he handed it to My Lord, who waved it through the air. The dust particles spun into a vortex.
‘You will speak only when spoken to,’ Uxbridge said dreamily. He ran his fingers along the length of it. ‘I do not need your interruptions when taking of my breakfast.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ responded I. ‘May I ask of one further mercy?’
‘You can ask.’
‘That this disciplining be performed in private. I do not wish shame be added to my wounds.’
‘Very well. Mr Samways, you may leave us.’
Samways reluctantly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork as he bowed and closed the door. I removed my jacket, hanging it over the upholstered chair opposite My Lord’s desk.
As you’ll know of me by now, resolution is not something I lack – a well of it very large and deep-set in me – and I drew on this well presently, reminding myself that if pain would serve my purpose it was worth great measures of it; for what battle was won without collateral damage, what great man of history achieved success without sacrifice?
So I clenched my eyes and used as much spirit as I could muster to conjure something that I had never experienced but deeply desired, being a mighty lewd combination of several young women at the one time, their bodies intertwined in such a fashion that there was a variety of orifices to choose from, much like the multiple holes of a fingerflute. Being still a young man, with an imagination vivid indeed, this image served the purpose for which I sought it; as soon as my organ was sufficiently engorged, I pulled down my breeches and stockings in one, looking out the window and placing both my hands on My Lord’s desk, so my buttocks were ready for the caning.
There was a silence around me, a silence that I have only known in courtrooms awaiting verdict. I kept my eyes forward. My Lord had not moved from his place. I presumed him to be warring enemies of his own.
You will know now why the skin on my buttocks has the appearance of a ladder with a surplus of rungs; a ladder, as it turned out, that was much more valuable than one that can turn a corner.
A driving rain is quite a pleasure when seconded in a glass-windowed coach. Aye, what a deep whimsy I fell into, sitting aside the richest man in the world, watching the countryside recede as we approached the greatest metropolis known to mankind; the water moving diagonally across the glass (not a drop of it entering the vehicle, completely waterproof!); briskly pulled by four peat-black stallions; the interior stitched in various fine-smelling hides and the seats somehow mechanically inoculated to the many corrugations of the road.
The transition between country and conurbation became evident as the houses grew smaller and closer until soon all the dwellings were abutting one another, just a series of doors and windows and chimneys and roofs.
‘Quite a sight, young Wild,’ spoke My Lord, seeing my amazement. ‘The sprawl of London.’
‘It is even more vast than I had imagined.’
‘Limitless trade,’ said Uxbridge, tapping my knee. ‘That is how you must perceive it. All these people – they need wax for their evenings. Linen for their shirts. Coal for their stoves.’
‘Is it true, My Lord? Over six hundred thousand souls?’
‘They’re hardly souls. And closer to a million, actually.’
The clouds were clustered thick and black, one atop the other like the segments of a brain, hyphenations of rain across the sky; then, as we approached Islington, with a single tentacle of lightning the whole body of the sky was illuminated.
The streets thickened. There was a gathering crescendo of noise, each individual sound – wonky wheels, a braying donkey, a singing amputee, coughing dogs, hammered anvils – all joining together like the ravels of a rope, forming one almighty string of noise.
‘Sugar, Wild,’ spoke My Lord.
‘Pardon, My Lord?’
‘I have a saying, Wild: balls in your brains. Understand me, testicles in your brains.’
‘Aye.’
‘Sugar.’
‘Sugar,’ repeated I.
‘Traders are sticking to woolcloth and lacecloth. They can’t see past it, for everyone needs to be clothed. But sugar is our future. The pl
antations carry no labour cost, thanks to the genius of slavery. Barbarous as it is.’
‘Ingenious, My Lord.’
‘Balls in your brains.’
I ruminated on this philosophy as the carriage bounced and swayed along the road and My Lord tended to the papers in his lap. Either the streets were narrowing or the number of people increasing, for our carriage could now barely move through the throng. My Lord, seeing my eyes glued to the window, turned to me.
‘Do you hear it?’
‘Hear what, sire?’
‘Smell it?’
‘Do you mean the sugar?’
‘Saltwell!’ My Lord shouted. ‘Hold a moment.’
We stopped at a busy intersection. I watched a woman pour something liquefied out a second-floor window. Two spotted dogs with their snouts down accelerated.
My Lord opened the coach door and then I experienced it for the first time, that which can’t be overpowered: the smell of London. Until you’ve experienced it, you can’t know its strength, its candour, its detail of burnt hair, shit, beer, sweat, stewed mutton, stomach acid and toenail grime.
Two horizontal rows of faces gathered to gawk at us. My Lord, undeterred by the audience, stepped down to the muddy street, resting both hands atop his emerald-headed cane. Hands reached out from the spectators, seemingly dismembered from their persons.
‘Wild?’
‘Yes, sire?’
‘Step out here.’
I took a place next to him, surveying the street, above which rows of chimneys emitted their morning smoke. Black twists levitated into the rain, like many candles recently extinguished.
‘Now do you smell it, Wild?’
I wondered if he was referring to the faeces that seemed to be vaporised all around me. ‘Aye, I think so.’
My Lord’s eyes were exceeding alive, the orbs swivelling about their sockets and a grin on his thin lips.
‘Wild, I have told you one great secret today. The secret of sugar. And I shall tell you one more. Here. Let me demonstrate …’
He took a bunch of shillings from his pocket and threw them, glittering, into the wet air. The commotion was great. Bodies swarmed, thrusted, clawed, slithered, fought. Uxbridge regarded them as one; the poor deserved no individuality.
Wild Page 9
