Unseemly Science

by Rod Duncan

  “Sit,” he said, indicating a three-legged stool and an armchair with horsehair poking through cracks.

  We both remained standing.

  “Suit yourselves.”

  “You haven’t learned to blend in,” I said.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s the rudeness,” I said. “How long is it since you left the Kingdom?”

  The belligerence written on his face turned to surprise and then to uncertainty. He paced to the window and looked out as if checking the lane, though I could see he was just buying time to think. I braced myself. If he lunged towards us I could grab the stool and fling it at him.

  “I’m from the Kingdom too,” I said. “I’ve been here five years.”

  “How did you know?” he asked, still looking out of the small window. “Was it really my manner?”

  “Not just that,” I said. “Yellow sheets as well. No Republican would use them.”

  He swore under his breath but his shoulders had dropped. The fight had gone out of him. He stepped wearily to the fireplace and propped the poker in the hearth. When he turned to look at us, I noticed the shadows under his eyes. I wasn’t the only one who had difficulty sleeping.

  “They’re French,” he said. “The sheets, I mean. Should’ve dumped them before I crossed.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Julia.

  “Here, it’s white sheets for the living and black for the dead. But in the Kingdom…”

  He dropped himself into the chair. “It’s like sleeping in sunshine. Didn’t want to let them go.”

  “I would have found you anyway,” I said. “I followed the lawyer. He led me here.”

  “Do you want money too?”

  “I want information.”

  “You’re not on an errand from the bailiff?”

  “Women here don’t do such work,” I said.

  It seemed we had both fled the Kingdom to get away from debts. But where I had run from the threat of indentured servitude, I guessed he had run with the funds of a failing business. Or, more likely, the savings of gullible investors. I wondered what kind of man would choose to live in poverty to hide a hoard of gold.

  “Did you pay the lawyer?” I asked. “Ten guineas for two months of his precious time?”

  “I beat him down to five,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You want to know what he told me? It’ll cost you.”

  Royalists do not blush when they display their avarice. But even hearing it made Julia put a hand in front of her mouth. I did a quick calculation. I could afford to go halves on five guineas. But if I let him beat me once, I had a feeling he would try again and again. Exile had left him little power, but he’d cling to it all the more for that.

  “I don’t pay for information,” I said, holding his gaze, waiting for him to blink. When he did, I added: “If you tell me what you know, I’ll consider it a kindness. And naturally, when I find out more, I’ll tell you in return.”

  He stared into space for a moment, running the tip of his tongue over his lip. Then he nodded. “There’s to be a treaty. That’s what Romero told me. Or, there might be a treaty. It’s not set in stone. But if it happens, it’ll not be safe for the likes of me and you. That’s what he said. Unless we pay him to help us. But he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

  “What kind of treaty?”

  He gave me a look. “An extradition treaty, stupid. When it’s signed, they’ll get us all. Drag us home in chains.”

  Chapter 4

  No action shall be aimless. Each gesture and movement must have its motive. And each motive must be hidden.

  The Bullet Catcher’s Handbook

  The first I saw of the rally was an airship descending at a steep angle behind the trees of Abbey Park. Landing would not usually have been allowed within the city, even though the weather was calm. But since the event was expected to gather an audience from far afield, bringing prestige to North Leicester, certain bylaws had been suspended.

  “Slow down,” I said to Julia, who was edging ahead once more.

  “We don’t want to be at the back,” she said.

  “Someone must be.”

  My mood had been troubled since Syston, my outlook more cynical than usual. I did admire Julia’s ideals, but had less faith in this particular enthusiasm. Having borrowed a pile of old newspapers from Mrs Simmonds, the wharf keeper’s wife, I had spent the last evening reading reports of Mrs Raike. She organised soup kitchens, Sunday schools and other works of benefit to the poor and needy. Her volunteers cared for piteous creatures living in the gutters of the city, men and women so deranged they could not dress themselves, let alone find work. I could not fault her virtue in anything I read. Yet I found myself suspicious of the publicity. Did goodness need to be spelled out in newsprint?

  I threw in an extra step and drew level. “It’s too hot to be hurrying so.”

  “You don’t understand how lucky we are,” she said. “Mrs Raike rarely speaks in public these days.”

  “I’d been hoping to spend the holiday in comfort.”

  There was no point in arguing. Perhaps it was a cultural thing. In the Kingdom, people boasted of wealth rather than good deeds. And since women were permitted to run businesses and attend universities, they had less need to pour their energies into voluntary works.

  We hurried through the ironwork gates and into the park, joining a stream of others, mostly women. Charcoal grey and ivory appeared to be the colours of those enthused by volunteering. My burgundy twill seemed extravagant by comparison. To judge by the size and crispness of the hats on display, the city’s milliners had been working overtime.

  The thrumming of an engine and propeller overhead grew suddenly loud and a shadow passed over us. I looked up and saw another small airship, its carriage just clearing the top of a pine tree. We hurried around the curve of the path to see it descend into a wide grassy space next to four craft that had already been tethered.

  The bandstand lay ahead – an elevated platform with a pointed roof in the Chinese style. Blue and white bunting had been strung between its pillars. Hundreds of people mingled on the grass. Julia took my hand and led me through until we were standing at the very front. I could hear the chink of glassware over the murmur of voices. Standing on tiptoe, I caught sight of trestle tables laid with white cloths and jugs of lemonade.

  The crowd was growing by the minute and as it did, I found myself pressed up closer to those around me. I tried to relax my shoulders. My heart had begun to beat faster. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to identify the source of my sudden tension.

  Then a thrill of excitement shifted through the crowd. A tall woman standing next to me whispered: “She’s here!”

  The murmur of conversations dropped to nothing. I could hear carriage wheels approaching. Then the Mayor of North Leicester was climbing onto the bandstand from steps at the back, his chain of office catching the afternoon sunshine. Two young women climbed up after him, dressed identically with pale green sashes slung from shoulder to hip. And finally Mrs Raike herself.

  Wearing a black straw hat, black jacket and black skirt, she had outdone even the most austere of her congregation. A black veil covered half her face. The only colour in the outfit was a pale green ribbon pinned to her lapel. She had been wearing the same outfit, so far as I could tell, in every newspaper illustration.

  The Lord Mayor had started addressing the crowd already, though I doubted many were listening. He was saying something about the people who had helped to bring the event about and how it would enhance the city’s already shining reputation. But my gaze, like those around me, was on the woman we had come to see and her two sash-wearing attendants, arranged centre stage in symmetrical formation. It was with some relief that I heard the mayor say: “Without further ado...” Then he was stepping back to a smattering of applause.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs Raike began, in a voice surprisingly loud, “I am deeply moved that so many of the fine people of Nort
h Leicester have gathered here on this festival day. When I started my mission, we used to meet in the front room of a modest house. We were a handful of well-meaning ladies. Determination was our only resource. At first we collected funds for charitable causes. But for every ten pounds we raised, inefficiency would devour six. Therefore we decided to risk disapproval and do the work ourselves. With only our household staff to help, we purchased soup bones, vegetables and kettles of the kind used in regimental cooking.

  “As women, we know the running of a household. Whereas men…” She paused and cast a smile around the crowd, which must by now have numbered a thousand, “… men are more suited to the commercial world. When we funded kitchens run by others, thirty pence was needed to feed a family. But through our endeavours, we found thirty pence sufficient to feed ten.

  “We could not have guessed how the fame of our endeavours would spread. I could never have imagined standing in North Leicester on Ned Ludd Day addressing a gathering such as this.”

  At this, the crowd burst into applause. As our speaker waited for quiet, I glanced across and saw Julia clapping with gusto. But all I could feel was irritation. The uncomfortable heat, the pressure of the crowd and anxiety about my future had combined. How was it, I wondered, that a nation so averse to speaking about money could be barefaced in the display of its charity?

  The Lord Mayor was standing towards the back of the stage, fanning himself with the programme. The two young women in sashes were obliged to remain still and were glowing with perspiration. Mrs Raike raised a hand and the last whispering of the crowd dropped away to silence.

  “What would I have felt had I known our efforts would yield this wondrous fruit? I would have been overjoyed. I would have worked still harder. And if we have achieved so much in the last twelve years, what will the next twelve bring? Consider this – could you be part of our great movement? Will you be able to look back in amazement on great works that your own hands have wrought?

  “A few of you may have the skills to help us. Most will find other ways to give. And in return, you will receive the satisfaction of knowing that you are transforming our great nation.”

  The crush had increased as she spoke. From my position at the front, I could not now see how far back the crowd went. All eyes were fixed on her. Except mine. A photographer had set up his camera on the bandstand platform and was inserting a glass plate. I noticed reporters there also, scribbling down her words.

  The Lord Mayor stepped forwards. “Mrs Raike will now take questions.”

  I could not see how many people raised their hands. The Mayor pointed and from somewhere close behind me, I heard a woman’s voice.

  “Why do you organise from Derby?”

  The Mayor nodded then repeated the question, loud enough for all to hear, adding: “If you would consider moving to North Leicester, we would welcome you with open arms.”

  “Early in our mission,” she said, “we received a generous donation of property. A disused warehouse in Derby which we adapted to our needs – offices, dormitories, kitchens and a yard for our wagons. Perhaps in time, someone will donate a property in North Leicester also.”

  The Mayor was pointing to another part of the crowd. The next question was too distant for me to hear. The Mayor cupped a hand around his ear, nodding as he listened.

  I brought my eyes back to Mrs Raike. There was something about her that seemed unreal to me. Her clothing was too heavy for the weather and the arrangement of young women to either side unnecessarily theatrical. It is hard for the daughter of a conjurer to take any performance at face value. And I will never trust a veil.

  I had missed the Mayor relaying the last question, but now Mrs Raike was speaking again. “Men can help,” she said. “But their role is in the workplace. They are the providers. They are naturally competitive. We are homemakers. Our inclination is to nurture and protect. The work of charity suits our gentleness.”

  I turned to Julia, expecting annoyance at this characterisation. But she remained under Mrs Raike’s spell.

  I should not have raised my hand. Indeed I hardly knew I had done so. But the Mayor was pointing in my direction and I found myself speaking: “I hear it said that in the Kingdom women run businesses. They study in university. Shouldn’t we aspire to the same freedoms?”

  Mrs Raike stared at me. For a moment the Mayor seemed about to relay my words to the crowd but then he was pointing to another questioner.

  Afterwards, the photographer stepped in and tried to position the dignitaries. But Mrs Raike would have none of it and organiszed the group into a formal line with the camera far back on the edge of the stage. It was the same arrangement I had seen in every picture of her – the star of the show a small figure in the middle, dwarfed by her surroundings.

  An accordionist clambered up onto the bandstand and played the opening bars of the national anthem, whereon everyone joined together in chorus as more young women in green sashes descended with collection plates.

  Oh pristine skies and cities of good industry

  Protect us now from all those dark machines

  We will with upright conduct strive for liberty

  And set perfection over dreams

  I mouthed the words. Julia did not seem to be singing either. Knowing she would be cross with me after my question, I dared not meet her eye.

  Instead, I focussed on Mrs Raike, trying to see the face under the veil. I had imagined her to be perhaps fifty years old. But much of that impression came from the way she moved. From this angle, looking up, I was closer than the camera. To guess her age more accurately, I should have liked to see the skin of her neck, but that was covered by a high collar. Conveniently covered, I thought. The dark mole on her right cheek drew the eye. It was a skin blemish exaggerated in the cartoons I had seen of her. Her skin seemed strangely dry.

  A loud clinking of coins alerted me to a collection plate being juggled in front of me. The woman proffering it smiled encouragement. Her brow glistened in the heat. The image so struck me that for a moment I couldn’t move. Again, she shook the plate.

  Julia glared at me and pulled some more coins from her purse. “This is for my friend,” she said. “Forgive her. She’s overcome by the occasion.”

  The volunteer moved on.

  “You’re doing this on purpose!” Julia hissed.

  “I… I wasn’t.”

  “You don’t approve of Mrs Raike, and you’re displaying your ill feeling like a child!”

  The Mayor had begun speaking again, gushing a great list of thanks. Mrs Raike and her entourage climbed down from the back of the bandstand. Presently an engine chugged into life and her small airship rose into the sky, lifted, it seemed, by the applause of the multitude below.

  We walked away through the thinning crowd, still not speaking to each other. A bizarre suspicion was incubating in my mind. It was something that Julia would not want to hear. And I would certainly have kept it to myself, but she had once made me promise openness. Therefore, having put some distance between ourselves and listening ears, I cleared my throat and spoke.

  “I have something to say concerning Mrs Raike.”

  Julia turned on me with such a look as might have shrivelled a field of thistles. “Then I hope it’s an apology!”

  “For what?”

  “Isn’t it enough that the newspapers turn everything she does into a joke? If a childless man does charity, they don’t say it’s because he’s barren and unfulfilled! I had good news to share and you’ve spoiled it.”

  “News?”

  “I don’t want to say it now!”

  “Please. I’m sorry. I want to know.”

  I could see the conflict written in her face. Though she wanted to stay angry, bitterness was not in her nature. After a moment the frown softened.

  “Very well,” she said, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. “When I applied to be a volunteer, they asked me of my experience. When I told them of my lessons, they wanted to know about
you – my teacher. I was discreet, don’t worry. I simply mentioned your brother and his work. Then, this morning, a message came from Mrs Raike herself, asking if you and he – the siblings Barnabus – would help also.”

  “Pro-bono publico?” I asked.

  She blushed. “Must you talk of money? It’s the case of the Derbyshire ice farmers that I mentioned to you before. They’re badly served by the law.”

  “If I had money, I wouldn’t need to talk about it.”

  “But don’t you see – it’s perfect. The extradition treaty that’s so alarmed you – if it does come to pass, then you too might be helped by Mrs Raike and her lawyer friends. This is your chance to do good for her.”

  “You wish me to be the deserving poor?”

  “Please don’t twist my words.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, not wanting to refuse without the appearance of consideration.

  She beamed. “I knew you’d see sense. Now – you had something to say?”

  “Oh,” I said. “It’s nothing.” For it didn’t seem the right moment to reveal my suspicion to Julia – that her hero might not be a woman at all.

  Chapter 5

  Nothing soothes the troubled brow of a patriot quite asso readily as a colourful uniform and a prominent flag.

  From Revolution

  The morning after Julia departed for Derby, two constables arrived on the wharf. The younger one was a spindly lad with a shaving rash. The older one carried a clip board. Both wore custodian helmets and jackets of midnight blue.

  “You live on this boat?” the older one asked.

  “It’s my brother you’ll want to speak to,” I said.

  “And he is?”

  “Away on business.”

  “What’s his name then, this brother?” His set smile did not match the sharpness of his voice.