by Doug MacLeod
‘Is he famous?’
‘He is, I’m afraid.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You probably won’t have heard of him. He writes fiction of a ridiculous but popular nature. His name is Aubrey Wilks.’
Charlie stops in his tracks.
‘The one and only Aubrey Wilks?’ he gasps.
I stop too. ‘I hope so. God forbid there should be more than one who writes such tosh.’
‘But I think his work is rather good.’
‘Oh Charlie, do you really?’
‘My only complaint would be that he is repeating himself. A lot of his plots are quite similar.’
‘And that would be your only complaint?’
‘In his last three novels, the climax takes place in a bone-boiling works. Mr Wilks seems positively obsessed with glue factories. And while they do lend a certain dramatic atmosphere, it is easy to grow tired of them.’
‘You will find his next novel true to form. There is glue.’
‘You went to the reading?’
‘I did, in order to please my mother.’
‘I desperately wanted to go, but Father didn’t allow it.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘He didn’t want me thought a nancy-boy.’
‘Reading Mr Wilks doesn’t mean you’re a nancy-boy. It means you are a poor judge of literature, which is a genuine affliction. You should try Jane Austen if you want to read good literature about ladies.’
‘I’ve read all six Jane Austen novels.’
‘And you still prefer Wilks?’
‘He’s more … lively. Jane Austen takes up a whole page to let us know what a character is thinking.’
‘Aubrey Wilks takes a whole page to describe a blouse.’
‘I like the parts about the blouses.’
‘As for his punctuation, a small duck would do better.’
‘I’m sorry that your love has made you so unhappy.’
‘Shall we keep walking?’
We are quiet, as there is no point in attempting any literary discussion, and I am stupidly mooning over Victoria.
There are no people about, only cats. One large tabby hisses at me and yet again I’m puzzled by the feline hatred I invoke. There is a gust of icy wind and all cats flee into the shadows.
‘What happened?’ Charlie asks.
I see but can scarcely believe. It is not I who has driven the cats away. We have a visitor. She advances slowly, the hem of her long cape brushing the cobbles.
‘Madam,’ I say, ‘in the name of all things holy, will you please not open your cape.’
The devil woman smiles. She grips her bag as if it’s rare treasure. Plenitude relieved her of her meat cleaver in Piper’s Heath. I wonder if she has found a replacement.
‘Madam, what is it you want from us?’ says Charlie.
‘Sprig of heather, sir? It will bring you luck. You look like you could use some luck.’
She is repeating the lines she spoke when I met her on Piper’s Heath.
‘Tell your fortune, sir? I have made many predictions in my time and all have proved to be true.’
‘We have had a long night,’ I say. ‘Please tell me no dross about the devil consuming me. Say your piece then let us pass.’
The woman gives a harsh, dry laugh. She takes a step closer so that she now stands barely two feet in front of me.
‘I know what you will become,’ she says. ‘And what you were. Let me show you.’
These last words are new and spoken with great clarity. It is as if she has gone to effort to learn them. ‘Let me show you what you were.’
I step back.
The woman reaches into her bag.
CHAPTER 18
A loud whistling sound intrudes upon the macabre scene. Before she can make her revelation, the gypsy flees into the night, her cape flapping in the wind. I turn to see an overweight lawman approach, a look of satisfaction on his face, the silver whistle still in his hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say, though I am disappointed not to have heard the gypsy speak her secret. ‘We are most grateful for your intervention.’
The sheriff’s lawman regards us with a doubting eye. Charlie and I must look a sight. Pieces of unidentifiable refuse still adorn our clothes. We are damp. And in his hair Charlie has a small bone that is probably human.
‘Wouldn’t you say it’s a bit late?’ the lawman says.
‘I don’t know the time,’ I say. ‘My watch was buried. I mean, stolen.’
‘It was the commotion that woke us up,’ Charlie
volunteers. ‘The fire down at the river. We went to have a look. And now we are returning home.’
I can see that the bone in Charlie’s hair is bothering the lawman.
‘Who was that woman to whom you were speaking?’
‘I barely know her,’ I reply.
‘I noticed her run when I blew my whistle. Her cape blew up. She appeared to be nude.’
‘She was wearing pants,’ I reply, ‘though it’s true that they were particularly small pants.’
‘Had a good look, did you?’
‘The pants of a gypsy do not interest us,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t say she was a gypsy. What was she doing out at this time of night? Telling your fortune?’
‘Firstly, I don’t know what the time is –’
‘Half past four,’ offers the lawman.
‘Secondly, yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, she was about to tell my fortune. Or my past. It was something like that. Do you recall exactly, Charlie?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Take that blooming bone out of your hair,’ the lawman growls at Charlie.
Charlie feels his hair. He takes the bone out and examines it with distaste.
‘You might have told me, Thomas,’ he says.
‘I honestly didn’t notice till a moment ago.’
‘I’ll tell you what I noticed,’ says the lawman. ‘Two shady figures were having a business transaction with a woman of low morals.’
‘You’re quite wrong,’ says Charlie.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Callow. Charles Callow.’
The lawman takes out his notebook and writes out Charlie’s name. He turns to me. ‘And what are you called?’
‘Sir, before I answer, could you tell me if you honestly believe that my friend and I were soliciting the services of a prostitute?’
‘It looked that way to me, sir.’
‘Did it really?’
‘To an experienced employee of the sheriff it most certainly did.’
‘And you had a clear view of the lady?’
‘I saw more of her than I would have liked.’
‘Did you glimpse her face, by any chance?’ I ask. ‘For a moment.’
‘Would you say that she was a woman of repellent aspect?’
‘The woman, in my view, was not blessed with beauty.’
‘Would you agree that my friend and I are reasonably attractive young men?’
‘It’s unlike me to comment on the handsomeness or otherwise of young men but I would say it is the case.’
‘Why would two young men like us pay to have relations with a woman who would scare away crows?’
The lawman does not look bested. Rather, he looks smug. ‘People have all sorts of tastes,’ he says.
‘In that case, I ask you another question. If my friend and I were seeking the services of a lady of the night, do you think it’s likely that we would go to the trouble of covering ourselves in filth beforehand? Wouldn’t this, perhaps, cause the lady of the night to turn away our custom?’
‘Once again, people have all sorts of tastes.’
‘Sir,’ I almost shout, ‘we were not soliciting, the woman is not a prostitute and your suggestion is frankly ludicrous.’
‘Not in my view. May I have your name, please?’ ‘Certainly. I am the late lady Nell Gwynne, the mistress of King Charles
II. And if you were a decent lawman, you’d be assisting at the fire site, not concocting outlandish charges.’
‘Indeed, Lady Nell, and thank you for your cooperation.’
Charlie and I spend the rest of the night in the sheriff’s watchhouse. We are released in the morning when Charlie’s father provides a bond. Mr Callow gives Charlie a disgusted look. It’s probably just as well the bone isn’t still in his hair.
‘What is the charge?’ Mr Callow asks at the desk.
‘I’m afraid,’ says the sheriff, ‘that in the early hours of the morning your son was caught soliciting the services of a lady of the night.’
‘Really?’ says Mr Callow, surprised.
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Callow nods earnestly. ‘Thank you, sheriff. That’s quite a weight off my mind.’
I sit in the bath and scrub myself until I am thoroughly disinfected. I drop in lavender oil and take particular care to run several pints of warm water through my hair. My clothes from the previous night are beyond salvation and must be burned. Pomaded and powdered, I put on a robe and go to my bedroom to don suitable clothes for the day. As I am dressing, I see on the bed an envelope bearing my brother John’s wax seal. I open the envelope to find another letter on gilt-edged notepaper: From the pen of John Firbank Timewell Esquire (soon to be fifteen) Bradford Manor, Naildown Close, Wishall.
Dear Thomas,
I am displeased to learn from Mellors that two thousand copies of the scandalous book by Mr Atkins are currently being bound in Margate and will soon be delivered to the publishing house of Mr Rupert Higgins in Camden Town. Please understand that I am in the middle of complex trade negotiations with Arabia. I simply cannot risk a scandal in our family at this delicate stage. If it is broadcast that my own brother is a nancy-boy, it reflects badly on me, and my Arabian trading partners may withdraw in horror. I am reliably informed that there are no nancy-boys in Arabia. Should an Arabian child exhibit signs it is immediately rolled up in a carpet and exported. Since the libel is against you, I maintain that destroying the book is your responsibility. Do it soon.
Yours sincerely,
John Firbank Timewell Esquire (your brother)
The letter folded and in my pocket, I go about the business of finding something for breakfast.
‘Did you read the letter from John?’ Mother asks, seated in her usual place in the parlour.
‘I did.’
‘Mellors delivered it last night. He said it was a matter of utmost importance.’
‘I will act on it as soon as I can. But until I have breakfast I am of no use to man or beast.’
‘Ask Mrs Dunwoody to fix you something.’
‘It’s really no trouble,’ I reply. ‘I’ll just make some toast and marmalade. And a pot of tea.’
‘You can have some of my special tea if you like.’
‘I prefer not to imbibe narcotics for my morning meal. Normal tea will be fine.’
‘Don’t lift a finger. I’ll get Mrs Dunwoody.’ Mother yells for her drudge.
‘Mother, why so loud?’
‘Mrs Dunwoody is on the roof attending to some thistles that have unaccountably grown there.’ Mother yells again. ‘Mrs Dunwoody, you are required!’
My heart goes out to our beleaguered servant. I stride into the yard, where I see the ladder propped again the spouting. While I don’t have a full view of Mrs Dunwoody, I see her frail left leg trying to find the top rung of the ladder.
‘Mrs Dunwoody, my mother expects you to come down to make me breakfast. I would prefer you didn’t. How are the thistles?’
‘Oachh dubh bahhn crrrreee,’ she replies.
I smile at Mrs Dunwoody’s endearing attempt to speak The King’s English.
‘Would you like me to help you with them?’ I ask.
At this point Mother runs into the yard and I am taken aback. I have never seen my mother move so quickly, especially after a cup of laudanum.
‘Thomas, please do not make such indecent overtures to Mrs Dunwoody.’
‘I merely offered to assist.’
‘She would not like it. The delicate balance of her world would be upset. And kindly do not countermand my orders to the staff.’
‘You treat her as though she is barely human.’
‘Must I remind you that she’s Scottish?’
After reprimanding me, Mother traipses back into the house. I look up to see a second foot struggling to gain purchase on the ladder.
‘Braww rrrrrit wi ye,’ I hear Mrs Dunwoody utter.
Mother’s voice wafts from within the house. ‘And don’t you dare hold the ladder for her.’
Mrs Dunwoody has incinerated the bread and smothered it in something that is not marmalade but seems more like a type of ointment. She has also put sago rather than tea leaves in the teapot. I’m not sure if this is a deliberate act of sabotage or if Mrs Dunwoody is exhausted to insanity by my mother’s constant demands. Nevertheless, I make a show of enjoying the nourishment she has provided, and take little pretend sips from my cup, like a girl having a dollies’ tea party.
‘You were out last night,’ Mother says.
‘I’m afraid I had to go to London again. It’s most dreadful about the fire.’
‘There’s been another fire in London?’
‘No, here. In Wishall. There was a fire last night.’
‘I’ve heard nothing about it so it can’t be very large.’
‘It’s still blazing, Mother, and has wiped out nearly a quarter of the town.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘I thought you’d know.’
‘Your father would have told me. Sitting over muffins and jam he would have told me in lurid detail about the destroyed buildings and loss of life.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s actually died.’
Mother looks disappointed.
‘But we cannot be sure,’ I add.
Mother cheers up immensely. ‘I do miss those conversations with your father.’
‘Is there nothing else you miss about him?’
‘Yes. There is nothing else.’
‘I am sorry it wasn’t a happy marriage.’
‘It was moderately happy for a year. Then it turned very bad indeed.’
‘When I was born.’
‘Yes, but please don’t blame yourself.’
‘Did father not like me?’
‘I thought at first that he did. He would bounce you on his knee and tell you sonnets from Shakespeare. Actually, I was rather angry about the sonnets. I don’t think you should read love poems to a baby. You might give it ideas. And a lecherous baby is most undesirable.’
‘I don’t remember the sonnets.’
‘Oh, and I recall something else. He made you fly.’
‘How on earth did he do that?’
‘Well, it wasn’t actual levitation. Your father would hold you high over his head and run with you through the house. You loved it. But your father stopped doing it when you were sick on his head.’
‘Then father did like me?’
‘He didn’t enjoy being vomited on, but yes, he was quite well disposed towards you.’
‘What happened to turn the marriage bad?’
‘Haven’t we had this conversation before?’
‘Bits of it. You always change the subject.’
‘Mrs Greenough informed me that they have found a feral child in Germany. It raised itself in a forest, apparently. It is quite wild and completely lacking social skills. I’m frankly amazed that the Germans could tell the difference.’
‘You are doing it now. Please don’t alter the subject. What turned the marriage bad?’
‘I was wrong about your father. I discovered that he did not like children at all. Then he was trampled to death by that rabid horse. Such a tragedy. They had to shoot the animal.’
‘You say horrible things about Father. I’m sorry now that I pursed the conversation.’
‘Do not judge me, Thoma
s. You didn’t know him as I did. When you look at me like that, I am reminded of him, and I don’t like it.’
‘Do I resemble him?’
‘You are like him in three respects. You are handsome, quarrelsome and Mrs Tilley chases after you.’
‘I wish I could remember him better.’
‘Be glad you don’t.’
Mother is eager to change the topic, as am I.
‘I suppose you visited your Maltese friends again,’ she says, ‘when you went to London.’
‘I did, Mother.’
‘Tell me how it went.’
‘Happily. But would you permit me to look at what you have written in your journal before I tell you?’
Mother picks up volume twenty-seven and hugs it tightly to her bosom. ‘None shall read my journal.’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’
‘How is your friend?’
‘Which one?’
‘You tell me, Thomas.’
‘Well, the older one has improved.’
‘Oh, that is wonderful news.’
‘Yes, dear old Burton is a picture of health.’
Mother opens her journal to the appropriate page. ‘Now, isn’t that curious? I have written Bunton and not Burton.’
I fluster. ‘Ah well, it’s an easy mistake to make.’
Mother consults other pages. ‘But I have written it as Bunton several times. I would be unlikely to make the same mistake over and over.’
‘Actually, I sometimes call him Bunton even though his name is Burton. The names are quite similar, after all.’
‘Does he appreciate that?’
‘He doesn’t mind. You know what the Maltese are like.’
‘I’m pleased to say I do not.’
Mother regards me with clouded eyes as I drink cups of pretend tea.
‘Thomas, you would tell me if there were odd things going on in your life, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘Mrs Callow visited while you were at your toilet and told me that you and Charlie were arrested for soliciting a prostitute.’
I spit invisible tea all about the room.
‘Is that the truth, Thomas?’
‘It is, Mother, but I scarcely thought it worth mentioning.’
‘I think it’s rather more interesting than your Maltese invalids. I’m most disappointed, and I suspect that Mrs Tilley will be even more disappointed when I tell her.’
