My humiliation was becoming more regular than I preferred. Almost every day it arrived, sooner or later, like an unwanted cousin. But on this particular evening – perhaps that old intractable Philosophy of mine was rising up – I’d had enough.
‘My Lord,’ said I. ‘My Lord.’
‘These indentures will need to be legally assessed. Gyssels will charge a pretty penny –’
‘My Lord!’ This time shouting.
‘What is it now, Wild?’
‘Aren’t you conscious of my state? Look at me!’
With my head upside down it was difficult to decipher his response. The term-sheet left his hand, descending back and forth like a leaf. Silence. I readied myself for more. Would it be plonker or poker to invade? My Lord kept the nails of his right hand longer than the left, I’m not sure why, maybe to mark time on his desk as he sometimes did, but now I felt their smooth sharpness against my skin, running first down my back and then continuing to the division of my two halves, dwelling briefly at the entry then continuing underneath to cup my knackers. After a terrifying pause, the bolt was unlatched. It was the most gentle he’d ever been.
As I began my dressing, gathering up the clothes that were heaped in their colours beside me, Uxbridge pulled me onto his lap like I was a baby about to nurse. Though I’m a small man indeed, Lord Uxbridge wasn’t so large himself, and the embrace was an awkward one. Still, he persisted, for he wasn’t a man to change course once he’d begun something, no matter how trifling the matter.
There was a look in Lord Uxbridge’s eyes, something I’d never seen; the word that presents to mind is disintegration, for the softening lines in his face and the crumpling epicanthi as he held me in his little arms. Did he love me? When he condescended to touching me, it was with terrible instrument or his engorged plonker, rarely with fingers, and certainly not with lips, and now what was he doing but touching me tenderly, kissing my neck and looking me over like I was a holy sacrifice to an unworthy God?
‘Young Jonathan,’ said he, running a fingernail along my jaw and up to my lip. He was without wig and powder, looking very much of the gender endowed to him. There were two blotches of red in his cheeks that branched out threadlike as though drawn by needlepoint.
‘Aye, My Lord,’ replied I.
The tip of his nose was still wet.
‘I will give you everything that is mine, little chick.’
I’d never loved a man, but upon those words I was immediately determined to love this very one.
DEFOE
Conveyed by reminiscence; Mr James Foe
May 1724
The weather has turned; flecks of rain cut into Defoe’s cheek. Lord Robert Harley, Earl Mortimer, First Earl of Oxford, fat and entitled and forever pregnant with rhyming faeces, fresh and steamy. And instead of asking for so much money, why hadn’t he asked for the measly five guineas that Harley actually owes him? Why didn’t he go in asking for a reasonable sum, twenty or thirty, why mention the absurd number of two hundred? There is still hope, Defoe tells himself. There is still his father. He reckons it will be five, maybe eight days until Godbehere comes for him. Let me rot in prison, Defoe thinks. At least there will be none of this incessant juggling – wife and her Shepley, Harley and his poetry, Godbehere and his pirates. Enough!
His pace is fast and brow furrowed as he hopscotches over horseshit. His father will surely unclench his tight fist for his eldest son, a son who only borrowed money from him once before. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make reasonable efforts to repay it. The old curmudgeon, despite the many thousands he’s amassed from his tallow and meat empire, will probably not budge an inch. He knows how his bloody father will justify it, with some or other ‘principle’. His whole childhood was spent listening to misapplied aphorisms, most of the time a variation of, ‘Give me a lever long enough and I’ll lift the world.’ It was probably this knack for catch-cries that contributed to his success. After all the Foe Fire was like any other tallow candle, it was just the advertising that was different. ‘Twice the Duration’ was written on every box.
Charing Cross Road is rammed with a line of coaches at a standstill, the frustrated drivers hooting insults and the horses stamping. Don’t dwell on his shortcomings, Defoe tells himself, if you’ve any hope. He weaves into Bedfordbury and collides with a codmonger, a shoulder-stick hanging with the dried reeking bodies of many gutted fish, their eyes black and stomachs red gaping pockets.
‘Watch it,’ Defoe belches at the man.
‘Go fuck your own bacon-face, richdick,’ the bearded codmonger growls over his shoulder, moving forward, shouting, ‘Twopenny cod in the Cross, right ’ere!’ up into the wet grey sky.
On the corner of New Street he sees a fiddler, an elderly man so bent by his hunch that the scroll of the instrument nudges the earth. Only one string remains. His fingers are crooked and barely able to press the fingerboard. The melody is a barely audible squeak. Soon me, Defoe thinks, weighing the three coins while his hand is still inside his pocket. He pulls out a shilling by mistake. At the sound of it hitting the empty wooden box, Defoe is swarmed by beggars and urchins, but he grips his cane tight and presses on, shaking his head as he goes.
‘Peez sir, but a ha’penny for me sick mudda.’
‘No, no,’ Defoe says as he walks. ‘No no no no no.’
At the corner of Shelton, Defoe pauses, frowning. The gabled roofs not quite centred, walls stained from overturned bedpots, doorways on a lean. From a glassless window, a woman rests her elbows, goggling the street, hoping to witness a fight or a fuck or another misfortune not her own. Defoe looks up at the house, the brick decayed and sooty, the bedsheets hanging in the rain. His confusion is at once dissolved. He has conveyed himself to his childhood home. His father now lives in luxury on Bury Street. And now he must negotiate his way back, through the mud that has already splattered his pantaloons and will soon drench the other boot.
Defoe sees once again how each and every finish has been finely wrought, the many panes of glass polished twice daily, the lamplights readied with full candles, the milky veins of the granite flagstone burnished and magnified through the raindrops. The bronze doorknocker must be one of Arnott’s, a small cherub with pouted lips and a cool circular ring that Defoe takes in his hand.
Yet another sign of his father’s efficacy: the door is opened less than twenty seconds after Defoe’s staccato triple-knock. He is ushered in by a male doorman, then addressed by his father’s butler, the tall Italian man with slicked-back hair and a pudgy nose. For a tenth of the price, his father could have women in his employ, but no, only the finest for Mr James Foe.
‘Is my father in?’ Defoe asks.
‘I will confirm his availability,’ replies the man, bowing.
‘I’m awful sorry,’ Defoe replies. ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Donizetti, sire,’ he says, pronouncing his name like it’s an obscure breed of horse.
‘Donizetti. Of course, yes.’
Donizetti walks with quick effective steps down the hall, his frame mirrored on either side by many glass cabinets of ornamental geese. The remaining doorman takes Defoe’s coat and reaches for his cane, but Defoe shakes his head.
‘I’ll hang on to this,’ he says. The doorman steps back against the wall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes directly ahead. Drops of water from Defoe’s wig fall to the floor and the doorman’s irritated eyes watch the accumulating puddle. He exhales loudly and forces his eyes to the wall ahead.
Donizetti reappears, again walking in truncated steps like he is being rhythmically prodded.
‘Master Foe will see you now,’ he says, hand on heart. ‘In the reading room.’
‘My thanks.’
As the butler opens the substantial door, the hinges moving without the faintest squeak, Defoe is hit with the heavy heat of two blazing fireplaces. The windows are steamed over, here and there lined with the clarity of a single trail. His father is without wig and sits behind his desk in on
ly a shirt. He is holding a newspaper, shaking his head and grumbling like a suspicious dog. He smacks the paper with the back of his hand.
‘These corrupters,’ his father says. He wags the stub of his severed forefinger (a poorly aimed cleaver during his apprentice days in Smithfield). ‘They’ll never give up, will they?’
‘It is the nature of a state-run religion,’ Defoe offers.
‘Donny,’ his father directs to the butler, holding up the pamphlet. ‘Are people this crazy in Italy?’
With fingers on his heart, Donizetti replies, bowing. ‘More, Master Foe. More crazy.’
‘Fuck,’ his father answers.
Donizetti pulls the door closed and his father returns his eyes to the paper. Defoe lets the tip of his cane hit the floor. It resonates splendidly, Defoe thinks, silver against marble, the meeting of two fine substances.
‘Daniel,’ his father says.
‘Father.’
‘Why on earth are you holding that ridiculous cane. Donny!’
The door opens.
‘Take my son’s cane.’
With one hand behind his back, Donizetti twists the left lever of his moustache, then extends his open palm like a reproving teacher.
Defoe hands over the cane.
‘First your name. Then the country house you can’t afford. Now the cane. What next? Will you wear a sword?’
Defoe says nothing, waits.
His father rolls his eyes. ‘In the name of Christ. Sit!’
Defoe nods. ‘Thank you, Father.’
Heat spews from the fireplaces. There is steam coming from his wig. His father picks up a second paper, eyes sidling row by row.
‘And now they’re claiming that if you drown a Negro he’ll become white-skinned. Do you think it’s true?’
‘I don’t read the Spectator, Father.’
‘Too common for the likes of you, I expect?’
‘No, of course not,’ Defoe lies. ‘It’s only my time, is rather … limited.’
‘Busy with your scribblings?’
‘Well, actually, as a matter of fact, yes. I’ve only just come from Lord Robert Harley’s –’
‘The Earl Mortimer?’ his father asks, now piqued. ‘What’s his interest in you?’
‘It is a matter most confidential.’
His father nods in approval. ‘You have my word.’
‘He is engaging me to write pseudonymously. To further his support base in Scotland.’
‘Politics is a dirty business.’
His father takes up a pipe and steps to the fire for a match. He turns one of the logs.
‘He has the ear of Bolingbroke,’ says Defoe. ‘But needs a murmur from the masses.’
‘And you’re to sponsor such a murmur?’
‘You’re the only soul that’s heard of it, Father.’
The fire fizzles and pops as his father pokes it. ‘I’m not a man of entitlement,’ he says gruffly, leaving a trail of pipe smoke as he returns to the desk. ‘I do not understand these favours and dealings. I am a man of commerce. Something is worth what someone will pay, no matter what story accompanies it.’
Defoe is pleased with the progress. ‘Once again, Father, you speak the truth. It is sadly these “stories” that decide our fate.’
His father grumbles, clears his throat, then grumbles again.
‘How is the family?’ he asks, picking up another of the week’s pamphlets. ‘Your childr– what a cunt is this mayor!’
‘We had a sixth. A boy.’
‘They’ll only be happy when every shilling lines the mayor’s pockets. Tell me, Daniel, how are we meant to dress our meat without inflating it? Is it such a crime, to blow up the flesh for sale? Is it?’
Defoe waits for the tirade to ease, which it does in a climax of scrunched paper that is thrown to the fire.
‘What did you say? Another child?’
‘Yes, a boy. We named him James, after you.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘But I’ve seen you since, haven’t I?’
‘I didn’t think to mention it.’
‘Is he lame, then?’
‘No, no, a spirited young child. He has a set of lungs you could hear from Southwark. I fancy him obstinate as his grandfather.’
His father likes the comment. ‘I’d like to meet the boy. Once Elizabeth is returned.’
‘She is travelling once again?’ Defoe asks of his father’s third wife.
‘Gone to France, then overland to Italy. Won’t be back for two or three months, I expect.’
Defoe thinks of her voluminous black hair, the youthful green eyes. She is ten years younger than Mary.
‘Is she still wasting your money on those ridiculous geese?’
‘Do not mock her.’
‘But surely, Father, you can’t justify her spending hundreds of your fortune on porcelain gimcracks?’
‘You’re only concerned for your inheritance,’ his father gripes. ‘And I’ll have you know that her collection is increasing in value.’
‘But you don’t factor the cost of the associated travel, and the cabinets to store them in and –’
‘Enough! Is that why you’re here, to instruct me on how to spend my money?’
Defoe raises his hands. ‘My apologies, Father. I was only concerned for your –’
‘Sure, sure. “Concerned”.’
His father picks up another pamphlet, immediately throws it at the fire. It falls short and smoulders at the hearth.
‘It’s been done for decades,’ says his father, returning to his fixation. ‘A butcher will enlarge the flesh with bellows. Adds to the flavour too.’
‘The last I heard, the mayor had only plans –’
‘From Lord’s Day onwards the practice is officially outlawed. Any butcher caught blowing up his meat will be pilloried. God be blessed my income is now entirely from the suet.’
‘How goes business?’
His father ignores the question. The room is silent, heavy with smoke.
‘I walked to Shelton Street by mistake,’ Defoe offers. His father continues to ignore him.
‘Father?’
He looks up, almost surprised to see his son still there. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come to ask something of you.’
‘Here we go.’
‘I beg you, but listen.’
His father straightens in his chair, interlocks his fingers on the table and peers at his son. The room is unbearably hot.
‘Not long ago I learned of a locust plague in Brazil, our principal grower of tobacco. With much of the year’s crop damaged, prices were set to treble. I purchased on consignment a shipment of seventy rolls, that I planned to keep in hold until the price was right to offload.’
His father begins very slowly shaking his head.
‘Permit me, Father. The man to whom I consigned the tobacco, Captain Godbehere. I thought him a shrewd and loyal partner in my business, but he has proved anything but. He is a thug and a brute, and –’
‘How much does seventy rolls of tobacco cost?’ asks his father, sighing.
‘The retail value is –’
‘Bugger retail value. How much did you spend?’
‘It was on consignment –’
‘Fuck, son! Answer my question.’
‘It is sixty-one guineas, with interest,’ Defoe says slowly, his eyes not willing to meet his father’s.
There is silence around him. The pamphlet on the hearth finally catches.
‘Son. Last time it was civet cats for perfume, now tobacco. What have I told you about this trading? You may as well dice on the corner. That was always your problem, even as a child, expecting profit without applying the necessary effort. Always distracting yourself with some or other scheme. Never one task, always five.’
His father’s tone is solemn.
‘I think the lesson’s finally been learned,’ Defoe says, still looking down. ‘I am sleepless with worry, Fathe
r. Captain Godbehere will send me to the roundhouse if I don’t repay within the week.’
‘He wants the entire amount?’ his father asks.
‘He does,’ Defoe assents. ‘There is value in the tobacco still. I believe it’s worth at least thirty guineas.’
His father picks up a quill, scratches something on a paper.
‘And your other debts?’ he asks.
This is going extraordinarily well, Defoe thinks, watching his father write out what he presumes to be a banknote.
‘I have a few. Smaller ones. Another fifty guineas should be sufficient.’
‘Fifty, you say?’ speaks his father, writing. ‘Comprising what exactly? Be specific.’
Defoe lists out all the debts he can recall: second stairway, portraits, lace, travel, usurer. His father writes, intermittently pausing to dip his quill in the inkpot.
‘What you’ve just described adds a further nineteen guineas, bringing the total to 130 guineas. There is also what’s owed from our previous loan. Just a moment.’ His father opens a bottom drawer, his breath thickening from the effort of bending. ‘Here we have it. Twenty-five guineas from three years ago. With a modest interest rate, let’s call it thirty. The total being … 160 guineas. One hundred and sixty. That’s the number. So actually, the sixty-one you mentioned earlier, it’s but a temporary solution to a much larger problem. Wouldn’t you agree?’ His father’s tone has changed from concern to diversion, as though he is puzzled over a game of patience.
‘I have income, Father. Harley owes me, and I have a work in progress. A miraculous story. Applebee will surely advance me handsomely. A mistress to the King who –’
‘And what about trading, have you something in the offing?’
Defoe doesn’t take the bait. ‘Certainly not. I’ve learned my lesson there. Never pay for anything but a sure asset.’
His father nods, then asks, ‘Nothing then, to bring in a more regular income?’
Defoe hesitates, measuring his words. ‘There is an opportunity that I see. A growing one, aye. Yet to be properly advantaged.’
‘Tell me of it.’
Defoe leans forward. ‘There are a growing number of merchants, rich men that can afford the premium of hiring a private boat. Upon the Thames, and elsewhere, too.’
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