In full fury Ethna marches back to the bridge. The sun is about to rise. No way, she thinks. She will not be thwarted. She stuffs her hands in her pockets, mobile phone in the right one – and a set of keys in the other. She takes them out and examines the strange dirty silver bunch hanging from an antiquated chain. ‘Stupid old man had his fun and then buggered off,’ she mutters. And then she sees the N43 is in front of her, the lights still blinking. Sadness descends, replacing anger.
Cold hands on colder metal – looking down into the murky water. She remembers it’s the undercurrents that will kill her. And then, just as she is about to jump, she looks over at St Paul’s. Ethna cannot believe her eyes: there are two gold pineapples on top of the smaller domes of the west wing. Pineapples. Dick must have known she would see them. She cannot take her eyes off the gilded fruit.
Fifteen minutes later Ethna is back in the driving seat. She honks her horn loudly as she passes the Monument on her right and hopes that Charles can hear her. As she crosses Threadneedle Street she remembers Dick Whittington’s words:
‘You are part of the tapestry, Ethna.’
She puts her foot down and resolves to pull on the thread a bit tighter. Perhaps later today she will buy a cake to share with her co-workers – to celebrate her 50th birthday.
SOUTHWARK
Parting Gift
Charlotte Judet
High in a plane tree a London pigeon balances precariously on its one good foot. Silently it expels a ball of excrement and flies off. Southwark Cathedral and the steely winter sky lend the scene a moment of grace; then the pigeon lands in the gutter and takes its fill from last night’s abandoned kebab.
Blinking as she moves from the daylight into the covered Borough Market, the tall Swede is oblivious to the bird dropping drying to a crust on her hat. Lucky for some. Intent on buying something, anything, she barges her way between the tourists, students and zealous anti-supermarket shoppers, around whom mothers slalom buggies and wish that they’d left before it got so busy. Her new boyfriend, a pack horse for souvenirs from Tate Modern, the Clink Museum and the Globe, follows a few steps behind.
The visitors from Scandinavia pick their way around fallen falafels, organic ketchup and well-chewed gum. They tread on 150-year-old cobbles, beneath which lie layers of earth and traces of Roman remains; soil and clay that has not been disturbed for centuries. This cool, dense mass surrounds the network of pipes placed there courtesy of Bazalgette’s endeavour and the sweat of Irish navvies. The London sewers: one of the seven wonders of the industrial world. And as they emerge from the Market, blinking once again, within the dark of one of these dank and putrid pipes the eighty-first millionth rat in Britain is born, squirming, blind and fondant pink.
Ratus norvegicus. The Norway rat, brown rat, common rat, sewer rat, Hanover rat. Although nothing to do with Norway as it happens. Or Hanover. The Brits were having a spat with the Germans in the 18th century, which is the story behind that one; nobody’s quite sure why the Norwegians have the dubious pleasure of official recognition in the nomenclature. Brown, common and sewer though – say no more.
>><<
You’re never further than eight metres from a rat in London, so people say. This is unlikely to apply if you are on the 14th floor of a tower block though (even when it is the Elephant and Castle), which is where Selwyn Mathers is being given some bad news by Ron Hammond, Head of Environmental Services, Southwark Division.
‘I’m sorry, Selwyn. I really am. I know you don’t want to retire yet but the situation at the moment means, well, costs just have to be cut… It’s come from the very top I’m afraid.’
Ron knits his fingers together, then separates them, folds his arms and digs his nails into his palms. He looks pleadingly at Selwyn who sits passively in his chair, his slim, white hands resting on his thighs. He can tell that Selwyn isn’t going to make this easy for him.
‘Would you like me to explain the redundancy package now, or would you rather read this first and come back to me with questions? You only need to work next week out then you’re free to enjoy yourself and you never need to see another rat again!’
Selwyn’s eyes narrow at his boss’s nervous laughter. Ron waves the envelope containing the letter signed by none other than the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs in Selwyn’s direction, hoping to distract Selwyn from his face, which he can feel has turned a revealing shade of scarlet.
‘39 per cent,’ states Selwyn.
‘Sorry? What was that? 39 per cent…?’ Ron’s eyebrows are raised but his spirits are anything but.
‘That’s the increase in rats in the last five years. Those that count these sort of things say there are probably 15 million in London alone. I reckon there’s more. A lot more.’
This is the most Ron has ever heard Selwyn say. He has a sneaking suspicion that it might also be the most Selwyn has heard himself say for some time too, as the rat catcher looks as surprised by his outburst as Ron is. Ron seizes the opportunity and speaks in his most authoritative manner while a miasma of bewilderment still hangs over Selwyn.
‘Once again, I am deeply sorry, Selwyn, I really am. It’s been a pleasure working with you.’
Ron walks to the door, opens it, and thrusts the redundancy envelope towards Selwyn, who takes it without saying a word.
>><<
There is an unseasonable warmth to the day and the sunlight illuminates the discrepancy between the developers’ hoardings, which show pictures of the regeneration project – all pavement cafés and street art, cyclists and user-friendly architecture – and the cracked concrete that is endemic to the area. Stepping deftly between a broken bottle and a pile of dog shit, Selwyn walks purposefully, hands deep in his pockets, head down. The Piccadilly of south London. That’s what the Elephant and Castle used to be known as, before the German bombers did their worst and the council finished the job off with their slab-block estates and electricity substation. The shopping centre, built in the early 60s, was the first of its kind in Europe. Now its red elephant stands forlornly at the entrance to the building that is regularly voted the ugliest in the country, while on the street weary immigrants buy bruised fruit from a stall as bendy buses disgorge the students and the old onto the litter-strewn pavements.
The bell attached to the post office door rings with a cheerfulness that belies the crumbling interior and the notice that heralds its demise. Selwyn supposes it won’t make any difference to him that this post office is closing down; he won’t be passing this way after next week anyway. He buys one 56 pence stamp and an airmail sticker for a postcard to his daughter, Alice. That he has a daughter at all is still a source of wonder to him. His liaison with her mother had been, like all of his relationships, brief, and it was a shock to both of them to find that such a fleeting few weeks of something that neither of them would have described as passion had resulted in the creation of another being. Although he had enjoyed being around Alice, Selwyn was no good at the hands-on stuff. He tried to abandon himself wholly to the likes of horsey-horsey but Alice’s squeals of delight alarmed rather than delighted him, and he felt awkward bathing and changing the squirming child. When Alice’s mother told him that she and the one-year-old Alice were going to emigrate to Australia he was in part relieved. Years later, as he watched a documentary about an autistic man’s difficulty in raising his child, hot, fat tears ran down his cheeks and he sobbed like a baby.
Unsurprisingly father and daughter have never been close – 10 thousand miles has seen to that – but they have built their own peculiar relationship based on postcards sent religiously on the third Friday of each month. For a time Alice suggested that Selwyn move to Australia. In her postcards she had painted a picture of a country filled to bursting with pests of all shapes and sizes, just waiting for Selwyn’s many and various extermination methods. In return Selwyn pointed out the dangers of Australian pests (100 types of venomous snake for example). He was going to stick with the brown rat, thanks all
the same.
Not that rats aren’t dangerous. Hantavirus pulmonary syndrome, rat bite fever, Weil’s disease and viral hemorrhagic fever are just some of the exotic-sounding diseases that can occur following a close encounter with a rat. Selwyn knows them all, in detail. And of course there’s the rat’s most notorious claim to fame – the Black Death. Strictly speaking the black rat was more to blame for that medieval show-stopper, but the fleas that caught a ride on the rats’ backs weren’t choosy. Black or brown made no difference to them.
>><<
Selwyn walks the mile or so to the river via the back streets. He finds an empty bench with a view of Tower Bridge and scans the footpath for police before removing an apple and a knife from his coat pocket. He’s been carrying the knife with him since he was 10 years old. It is the last gift his father gave him. He’s never had any trouble from it but he knows that these days he has to be on his guard from young coppers itching to give out a caution. He peels the apple skin in a perfect spiral, then cuts the apple into segments and swiftly cores them, despite the bluntness of his blade. The apple skin falls to the floor and immediately a mangy pigeon limps over and pecks at it, hopefully. Selwyn leans back and eats the apple, following it with one finger of a Kit Kat. Closing his eyes, he lets the last of the sun’s rays warm his eyelids. Rats are on his mind. He can almost hear them in the interlinking tunnels that he knows are a few feet below him; a motorway for rats that links the river to the executive homes, the parks to the council flats, the museums to the million pound houses. Rich or poor, rats don’t care. Scuttling rats, their claws a blur, rubbing their oily fur against the brickwork, leaving a scented map to guide them home. Baby rats, suckling on their mothers for few weeks; a month or so later and they are ready to breed themselves. Old rats, wise to the ways of the rat-catcher, fighting for the right to mate – a screeching ball of fur and tail…
‘Excuse me?’ Selwyn opens one eye, then another, his reverie broken. A young, blonde couple stand before him. ‘Please could you take a picture with us and the bridge in it?’
Selwyn nods. The couple stand shoulder to shoulder and the girl takes her hat off and fluffs up her hair. She nudges the boy with her elbow and he obligingly puts an arm around her. Selwyn raises the camera and moves it until they are framed between the two towers. He presses the button, not once but twice, then hands the camera back.
The couple walk off, the boy a few paces behind, laden with bags, and Selwyn too leaves the river for the roads. The evening air is chilly and he buttons his coat to the neck and quickens his pace, keeping an eye out for the 185 bus that will take him home to Camberwell, home to his tea and his nature documentaries, where he’ll swap boots for slippers, sharpen his knife and make himself something tasty to eat.
>><<
The pigeon turns its head to watch as Selwyn fades into the gloaming, then gives up on the apple peel and hops onto the river wall where it appears to contemplate a short, sharp exit from its miserable existence with the help of the swirling eddies and the rising waters. Having had a change of heart, or so it seems, it takes off again, wings clapping, and ascends over City Hall then heads south. Somewhere in its DNA are the residues of racing pigeon, and it flies on as the light fades, following the Old Kent Road then turning west, with Peckham beneath it. The scent of fried onions and burgers rises into the air but the pigeon does not stop. Over the tower blocks and the traffic-choked streets it goes, oblivious to the changes in scenery below, for already it has left gritty London behind and is passing over East Dulwich, heading for the leafy and salubrious Dulwich Village, with its boutique shops and picket fences, heritage signposts and mothers who lunch. Finally, its one good foot outstretched, it comes to a stuttering halt on the roof of the new loft extension of what one of the area’s many estate agents would describe as ‘a stunning and substantial detached property,’ within which tempers are fraying.
‘For Christ’s sake Donald, just choose one. I’m not asking you to multitask but it would be helpful if you could do just one thing at a time.’
Donald plucks a tablecloth from the 19th century chest and spreads it on the table before glaring at his wife and slamming the door as he leaves the room.
Caroline stirs the casserole with a vengeance. She’d sent Rosa to the butcher’s for one kilo of venison but the stupid cow had, for some inexplicable reason – considering she was born and bred metric – returned with one pound of the stuff so Caroline was having to make up the difference with all the mushrooms that the corner shop could provide. She sprinkles another tablespoon of flour over the sorry mixture, hoping to thicken it up and hide the paltry ingredients, before swearing in the direction of the kitchen clock and running upstairs to get changed.
‘Darling, help me with this zip would you? Are you sulking? Oh please don’t, you know how stressed I’ve been at work. I’m sorry, I really am. After tonight, if it all goes well, we can plan a holiday, a bit of winter sun. I’ve got that Green Earth conference in Madagascar in February – I’m sure I can blag you a seat on the flight. And after the reshuffle… honestly, darling, I really, really do think that Gerald has me in mind for Foreign Secretary! I can sniff it, god, it’s so fucking close, I know it. And did I tell you, they’re going to let the next FS use Chevening after all! There’s some plan to make it look less like a grace-and-favour pad and more like a hotel so that the baying masses don’t go all moat and duck house on us, but to all intents and purposes we’ll have a 115-room mansion in Kent to party in at the weekends – imagine! Let’s just make sure we butter the Clarksons up tonight. Jonathan’s word is worth its weight with Gerald. I’ll be flirting outrageously with him so feel free to do the same with that ghastly wife of his.’
This cheery invitation is spoken as Caroline pulls on her Louboutins with one hand and applies lipstick with the other. Seconds later she is already downstairs, an apron protecting her low-cut dress, a wooden spoon in her hand. A 21st century knight preparing for a dinner-party battle. Donald lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. He has half a minute of blissful silence before Caroline’s screams leave his daydream in tatters.
‘Oh my god! Donald! DONALD! There’s a rat, a bloody rat in the kitchen!
Donald mutters ‘what am I going to do?’ in a bad West Indian accent and puts his head under the pillow. By the time he makes it downstairs Caroline is standing on a chair shouting into the phone.
‘I know what bloody day it is and what bloody time it is but I need someone to come out now, this minute. Not tomorrow, not next bloody week. Come on Ron, after all the tight spots I’ve got you out of this is the least you can do in return. Pay them triple for all I care, just sort something out right now.’
‘What on earth is the point of being in charge of these people if you can’t pull a favour once in while,’ spits Catherine as she hands the phone to Donald. ‘Now help me down from here. These shoes aren’t designed for heights.’
>><<
Selwyn stares at the ringing phone for a while. His old-fashioned Bakelite telephone’s fresh-from-the-box shine is through lack of use rather than regular cleaning. He mutes David Attenborough’s excited whisper then picks up the receiver and listens as Ron makes him an offer he can’t refuse. Then he switches off the TV and gets his coat.
‘About time,’ says Caroline, as she goes to open the door. ‘Right. The rat was last seen over there.’ She jabs her finger in the direction of an antique Welsh dresser that dominates the far end the kitchen. You need to catch it, put down poison or traps or whatever, clear up and get out in half an hour as I’ve got some very important guests coming and I cannot have… oh god, this is so vile.’ Caroline goes to put her hand on Selwyn’s back to propel him into the room but then thinks better of it and instead ushers him in with a flap of her hand. ‘We’ll be in the drawing room. Just let yourself out when you’ve finished.’
Selwyn takes a long breath in through his nose. He holds his hands out in front of him, gently patting the air as if it was a solid mass. Wi
th eyes closed he stands absolutely still then, imperceptibly at first, rocks back and forth, faster and faster, like a worshiper at the Wailing Wall. Exhaling sharply he opens his eyes, flexes his fingers, and walks slowly towards the dresser.
It is a female rat, about eighteen months old. No teats are visible on her belly, suggesting that her latest brood are now capable of fending for themselves. Selwyn pictures them below the floorboards, heads cocked, hearing the final squeal of their mother. He holds her aloft by her pink, sparsely haired tail and considers her glossy coat, off-white teeth and bulbous eyes, which now stare vacantly at the floor. He can’t help but admire the creature. Teeth that can gnaw through concrete; whiskers so sensitive that they can detect the slightest change in direction of the finest breeze; an incredibly acute sense of smell; the ability to dig, jump and swim, even underwater; a gut that is as happy processing cardboard as chocolate – their favourite food – and intelligent to boot. Shame they have to be killed really. Should be killed, at any rate.
Behind the dresser is a hole between the skirting board and the polished oak floorboards. It is just big enough for a rat, albeit a small one, to squeeze through. Selwyn reaches for his coat and takes out the remaining finger of the Kit Kat and his newly sharpened knife. It doesn’t take long to make the hole a bit bigger. He puts the Kit Kat next to the hole. Then, placing his hand flat on the rat’s limp back, he begins to cut.
33 East Page 13
