by Xan Brooks
He says, “Dear Lucy. The Devil rides out in search of pastimes that amuse him. With all the amusements that take place in this cottage, did you honestly believe you would escape my attention for long?”
Under the blanket her legs have gone cold. She tells herself she is safe and that she has the protection of Grantwood and its handsome young master. She tells herself that the funny men and Winifred sleep peacefully in the other rooms. But she worries the hunched black figure might have called on them first and come for her last of all.
“You’re not the Devil. He doesn’t exist.”
“Who am I then? If I’m not the Devil.”
Lucy says, “I don’t know. Some horrid little man.”
The figure bends and appears to smother a giggle with his hand. He says, “Do try to enjoy yourself in this shabby little cottage with the monsters all around. I’m sure it’s an education for you. I’m sure you are making big pots of money. But never forget what happens to bad girls in the end. The Devil rides out to claim them and then he carries them to Hell.”
“Get out,” says Lucy, her voice lifting.
“Then it’s into the furnace. Then it’s into the flames.” And at this very second a corona of blue flames erupts in the black air before the girl’s upturned face. Through its liquid licks and curls she has the fleeting impression of fat, piggy features and moist raisin eyes. Her terror is such that she can feel her heart lurch.
He says, “Now do you believe that I am what I say?”
“Yes, I do,” she says in one exhaled breath. “You’re the Devil, you’re the Devil, if you want, you’re the Devil.”
23
Arthur Elms is not the Devil, although it pleases him that others might choose to see him this way. In recent months he has established himself as a spiritualist and a performing magician. He has played tatty town halls and private homes and boarded at well-appointed hotels where he flicked his fingers in the grate to set his evening fire alight. But the constant travelling has come to weary him and the nightly shows are a chore, so he is more than happy to take up a position as one of Fortnum-Hyde’s entertainers inside Grantwood House. All the same, it gives Lucy a start to see him mingling so freely with the ladies and gentlemen inside the Regency Room.
He grasps her hand and gives her a wink. “I’m the Devil,” he says and laughs.
The avant-garde painter has departed for an exhibition in Hove, and the anarchist poet has mysteriously quarrelled with one of Fortnum-Hyde’s friends. But Grantwood operates a revolving door policy, which ensures that departures go unnoticed and the numbers stay largely steady. It is the last party of the summer, or the first of the autumn; the end of the revels or the start of fresh ones. More than fifty guests have driven up from the city or leapfrogged across from neighbouring estates. These include the film actress Chrissie White and the government minister Sir Horace Hughes-Robert, whose hard-line social policies are energetically decried by his left-leaning wife, who writes a weekly political column for the Times. Patrick Foster is a respected wit and intellectual, best known for a scandalous novel entitled Nervous Rex, while that uproarious drunk in the throng is the Earl of Huntingdon, an old friend of Lord Hertford and a reliable jester at every social occasion. Departing for home the next morning, the Earl of Huntingdon will spin his car off the road and shatter his pelvis – an injury from which he will never fully recover.
Still stubbornly sober, York Conway orders that his glass be refilled before his night turns to ash. Parked at his side, Truman Truman-Jones explains that he is boarding at Grantwood House for a week before he heads overseas to take up the governorship of Bombay. Confidentially he adds that he rather fears he should be in situ already. He has received several intemperate letters.
“Oh,” says Lucy. “Fancy that.” She is convinced she has never met so daunting a figure as Truman Truman-Jones, who looms well over six foot and is so deep-chested and wide that he blots the light in a doorway. From a distance, he could pass for a storybook giant or troll. But the closer one draws, the less forbidding he becomes. Truman-Jones’s face is as simple and sunny as that of a good-natured child. She cannot imagine how he will fare as the governor of Bombay.
Fortnum-Hyde extends one long arm. “We are joined this evening by the lovely Miss Winifred and the equally lovely Miss Lulu, our little friends from the cottages. And behind them, it’s true – your eyes are not playing tricks – is the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and legless Toto makes three. It is our heroic ex-soldiers. It’s the glorious undead.”
“Bless my soul,” exclaims Samuel “Sweetpea” Long. “Would you take a look at this curious sight?”
With a shyness that strikes Lucy as uncharacteristic, the funny men draw out of the shadow and into the chamber. The Scarecrow pushes Toto aboard his wheeled wicker chair. The Tin Man appears to be intent on concealing his hooks at his back. But their wariness is unfounded. The funny men are welcome; everybody is delighted they’ve come. Truman Truman-Jones is bellowing “Splendid! Splendid!” while Patrick Foster declares that these new arrivals put the rest of them to shame. He says that he for one is proud to stand among men who have made the ultimate sacrifice for king and for country.
“Penultimate sacrifice,” the Scarecrow points out, which prompts Foster to chortle and say, “Indeed yes, quite correct, and thank goodness for that.”
In time she will become aware of Grantwood’s other occupants. There is the sonorous butler, Raine, and the under-butler, Colvin. The Earl and his son each possess a valet, and ranked below these are any number of footmen, cooks and maids, one of whom she recognises as frog-eyed Mrs Coach. All, it seems, are under the command of Mrs Cleaver, the sour, heavy-browed housekeeper who has reportedly been at Grantwood since Lord Hertford was a boy and has managed each sway of fashion with the same cold-eyed efficiency. The Tower has its ravens; Grantwood House has Mrs Cleaver.
“What a place,” says Winifred. “It’s not the Ring-o-Bells, I’ll give it that.”
York Conway stoops to explain in hushed tones that Grantwood is not so much a place as a state of mind. Or better yet, he adds, it is a champion of modernity. He explains that his great friend, Fortnum-Hyde, has ambitious plans for the house. Grantwood has a long and noble history as an agent of social change, but it is now preparing to take that extra step. It is ideally placed to sound a bugle-call to the nation – to show how it can better itself and to lead by example. He says that ten years from now, historians will write about Grantwood and conclude that this was the wellspring and that the future fountained from here.
“Oh my,” mutters Fred. She checks over one shoulder to assure herself that yes, this lordly young gentleman is really talking to her. For perhaps the first time in her life, she is quite lost for words.
At the back of the room the musicians tune their instruments. Fortnum-Hyde declares that he is overjoyed to have hired the Long Boys as Grantwood’s official house band. He first encountered the Boys during a memorable show at the Alcazar ballroom – what a frantic night that was – after which he was impelled to engage his own lawyers to ensure all the charges were dropped. At present, then, he regrets that England is too stuffy, too shackled to the past, to properly respond to the Long Boys’ wild style. But he insists that one day it will be and that he has made this his mission. In fact, Grantwood is currently arranging to fund and promote a national tour. He plans to establish a musical publishing house too. Raising an elegant hand to quiet the musicians, he explains that the Long Boys are the leading, most radical purveyors of an exciting negro sound that is still finding its range. He says some refer to this as jazz while others call it pep but that these are mere quibbles; the details and the name can be ironed out in due course.
“I’ve heard them,” Winifred says, on safer ground now. “Cover your ears. I’ve heard them already.”
Fortnum-Hyde says, “So yes, the Long Boys. The Long Boys are the thing.”
&n
bsp; In response to a nod from his master, Raine brings his white gloves together. He announces, “Grantwood House is a place for marvels and magic and for radical prose. But tonight, first and foremost, it is a source of new music. Ladies and gentlemen, we present for your entertainment, the Long Boys from the American state of Tennessee.”
And now, inside the faded splendour of the Regency Room, the band launches into a self-penned composition entitled ‘Come Back Up to Bring it Down’ – a surging rip tide of a song, heavily reliant on George Washington’s trombone. Stone-faced footmen circle the guests like dancers, carrying bright silver platters. Some of these platters are arranged with champagne flutes. Others contain rails of the astonishing white powder.
The music is electric, ecstatic; it will not be denied. “Oh,” exclaims Lucy. “I’ve never heard anything like it.” It must be amazing, she thinks, to be able to conjure such songs from thin air. The musicians that can must truly count themselves blessed.
She abandons the funny men and spins for a spell amid the servants and guests. On the way she pauses to help herself to a dose of the powder, sniffing it gingerly and feeling it fizz in her nostrils. The band runs through four songs and then breaks for a drink. During the intermission Fortnum-Hyde calls for Arthur Elms to amuse the guests by flicking flames from his hands and then – after Elms, for reasons perhaps known only to himself, finds himself unable to oblige – he has Patrick Foster read aloud from a copy of Nervous Rex. So far as Lucy can judge, Nervous Rex is a tale of ruination and thunder; a mountain castle toppling upon unwashed villagers in the valley below. It is a novel of long words and breathless sentences. She wonders whether she ought to add it to her list of books she must read.
The girl circles back towards the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. Both are standing apart from the crowd, paying close attention.
“That castle’s going to fall into the valley again,” the Tin Man remarks softly.
“You could be right,” the Scarecrow replies. “But what about the honest villagers who live down yonder?”
“All fucked,” says Tinny. “Even the ones that are wearing hard hats.”
On and on the reading goes. The castle goes down; the village is buried. Yet when Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde makes her entrance, the effect is so galvanic even Nervous Rex can’t compete. Lord Hertford’s daughter arrives on the arm of Julius Boswell, a rising playwright and stage actor who specialises in polemical dramas about modern working conditions, usually at north-country mills or corroded coke towns. Boswell has a reputation for being strident and combative. Yet tonight he too is content to play a more diffident role.
All heads turn towards Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde, a vivid young woman in her thirtieth year. Her honeyed hair bounces with each manly stride. Her flesh-coloured nylons are deliciously suggestive of nudity. The electric lights play against the sequins on her dress, so that when she turns to survey the room, they send flights of Tinkerbells across the ceiling and walls.
“Wotcha fellas,” cries Clarissa in the gap between passages when Patrick Foster comes up for breath, throws a despairing glance at the room and prepares to take another dive. The young woman is fully aware of the effect that she has, to the point where she no longer pays it any mind. Her charisma has become as natural to her as brushing her teeth in the glass.
Caught gawping, Lucy hurriedly stares down at the flagstones. Then she takes herself off for another lap of the Regency Room while the recital of Nervous Rex gallops on without pause. But either her orientation is wonky or the guests conspire against her, because she has not walked ten paces before she runs into the woman again.
“Hallo,” Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde says. “You’re one of the girls from the cottage.”
“I didn’t mean to be staring,” she apologises. “All of this is very new to me.”
“I fear it might be new to all of us. The music, the readings. My dear brother can be positively crackers at times.”
“I mean all of it. The lovely house and grounds. All of these important people. It makes me feel foolish.”
“You’re no more foolish than the rest of us. I mean, have you met Truman-Jones?” At this Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde lets fly with a deep-throated laugh. She adds, “People are people. That’s the incontrovertible truth.”
“Yes. Thank you. I know that, of course.”
They draw nearer the door so that their conference will not further disturb Patrick Foster’s reading.
“Actually, come to think of it, that’s not entirely true. There are right people and wrong people, regardless of money or class or outmoded rubbish like that. If you’re the wrong sort of person we’ll soon weed you out.”
“Of course. I know. I hope you won’t.”
The woman leans in to lightly punch Lucy’s arm. “Don’t worry, alright? I have a strong sense already that you are the right sort of person.”
Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde was once engaged to be married to dapper, dashing York Conway. She is currently engaged to be married to Julius Boswell. But she somewhat fancies that this match will not take either, and that this time next year she will in all likelihood be engaged to someone else. In the meantime, she says, she comes and goes as she pleases; she keeps a flat in Kensington, and suggests that Lucy should feel she can come and go too. Lucy excitedly admits that she knows what she means. She used to live with her parents and then with her grandparents and now she supposes she lives in the service cottages with the funny men from the war. But who can predict where she will be dwelling by Christmas? Nobody knows, that’s the beauty of it. Everyone is embarked on their own adventure.
“Arthur Elms would claim that he knows more than most. You might ask him nicely where you will be by Christmas.”
“Excuse me, ma’am. Who is Arthur Elms?”
“The spiritualist fellow. The discount Aleister Crowley. The chap who was trying and failing to get his fingers to spark.”
“Excuse me for saying, but I don’t like him much. He broke into the cottage and scared me half to death.”
Clarissa frowns. “That is not good behaviour. We shall have words, he and I.”
“No wait, please don’t. He didn’t cause any harm.”
How long has she been conversing with this extraordinary woman? It might be five minutes; it might be five hours. Her sense of time has become unmoored.
“I am going to look after you, Lucy. You will be quite safe with us.”
“Oh yes, thank you. I know I will. And I am very happy.” Spotting a silver platter at her side, she dips her head to sniff another rail of the powder.
“And it was you who named the funny men. Tinny and Scarecrow and Toto the dog. I do think that’s lovely.”
“Go easy with that stuff,” Clarissa tells her kindly. “It plays mean tricks on the brain.”
Patrick Foster says, “And even those who chased death did find it fleeing from them as a timorous cat evades the attentions of the curious child, all the while leading him further from the path until he is lost and the cat turns to face him and he notes through stupefied eyes that it is no longer a cat.”
York Conway and Truman Truman-Jones break into applause. The other guests replace their champagne flutes and obediently follow suit.
“Rub-a-dub-dub,” remarks Rupert Fortnum-Hyde.
“It certainly does sound like an excellent book,” Lucy says but when she turns to her right she notes that Clarissa Fortnum-Hyde has vanished and that Winifred has replaced her.
The girl says, “You’ll never guess the name of the man who painted that picture over there.”
“Fred, how should I know? It’s as much as I can do to remember my own.”
All the same, she turns to study the framed portrait. It depicts a grotesque-looking figure in an aquamarine dress. What appears to be a lute perches where the figure’s head ought to be and discarded newspaper sits on the floor at its feet. A picture (a picture
within a picture) sits on the wall at its back. Lucy stares at it with mounting alarm. Is the painting a riddle? If so, she can’t solve it.
“Pick-Arsehole,” says Fred. “I’m not even joking. Pick-Arsehole.”
It is high time for the Long Boys to resume their set. York Conway tells the guests that if they peer very closely they will spot a cameo appearance from someone they might recognise. This, it transpires, is Rollin’ Colin George’s cue to cede his drum-kit to Rupert Fortnum-Hyde. The young master’s appearance generates a fresh storm of applause together with a few good-natured catcalls, all of which he acknowledges with his combined grin and scowl. The band play Honeysuckle Rose and Darktown Strutters’ Ball and the accelerating, locomotive lift of Heebie Jeebies. Rupert Fortnum-Hyde leathers the drums with a furious concentration.
Lucy lets her gaze follow Rollin’ Colin George as he sniffs from one platter and collects a glass from another. Presently his wanderings bring him past the framed poster promoting New Productions of Lesser-Known Operas and across to the Scarecrow and Tin Man.
He tips his glass in casual greeting. “Man,” he remarks, “you people are something.”
The Scarecrow smiles. “We’re certainly something. We’re still trying to work out precisely what.”
“Hurt in the war, huh? That’s rough.”
The Scarecrow is holding his cigarette up for the Tin Man to smoke. He says, “This must be unusual for you. Having to sit out the set while his Lordship bangs drums.”
“Don’t bother me any. So long as I’m fed, watered and paid, the man can do as he please.”
The Tin Man says, “Is it just me or is our friend Rupert a little bit off the beat?”
Rollin’ Colin shoots him a wry, appraising glance. “No, sir, not at all. Mr Woody’s doing fine. That man has got skills.”
