Bellman

by Diane Setterfield

  What a day that would be! Bellman looked forward to it with intense longing. There would be a knock at the door, Verney saying, “Someone to see you, sir,” and then in would come Black, large as life.

  Like long-lost friends they would embrace, Black’s arms would envelop him, he would feel his hands slap his back, and they would be instantly at ease—like brothers! He would put his work aside, no matter how important, and say to Verney—he could picture his astonishment!—“No interruptions! Not even for Critchlow himself!” Then the pair of them would sit, on each side of the fire, a glass of the best brandy in their hands, and Black would talk about all manner of things. What he had been doing, where he had been. A great number of things that had mystified Bellman would become clear. “I expect you’ve been wondering about all this!” Black would say, and lighting a cigar, Bellman would tell him, “I knew you would turn up sooner or later, old fellow. I never doubted it!”

  Bellman would tell his friend all about the business, everything he had done on his side to make it the success it was today, and Black would approve it all. “I could tell you were the one, Bellman, my friend.” Yes. He would point to the graph, turn through the pages of the ledger, show him the statements for the bank account he had opened for him. Then what satisfaction there would be.

  Two men, their fortunes made, talking business by the fire until—yes, this is how it would be!—their talk would drift away from commerce, rise above it, and they would speak of loftier matters, philosophical questions and universal issues . . . There were aspects of life that Bellman had no names for, they were off the edges of the pages of the dictionary, but Black was bound to know a great deal about them. He was clearly a man of unusual influence. Working alongside him had already conferred protection of a kind that went well beyond the financial, on Bellman and his daughter. He had a hundred questions he would like to ask, and Black would answer patiently, in simple words—words that would say a good deal—and Bellman, listening, would learn marvelous and miraculous things, things undreamt of, things of the gravest importance.

  What a conversation! By the time they came to the end of it the moon would be high in the sky and the stars would be out. All London would be asleep while the two great men of commerce sat here in this office and fathomed the mysteries of the world . . . Camaraderie. Understanding. Companionship to cherish. How he was looking forward to meeting Black again.

  The day would come. It was all in Black’s hands; there was nothing he, Bellman, could do about it, no matter how heartfelt his longing.

  In the meantime, there was Bellman & Black. Work to be done. Sentimentality wouldn’t put money in the bank.

  Bellman turned his thoughts from his fantasy and back to his calculations. While he occupied his conscious thoughts with meticulous adding, subtracting and multiplying, he was heartened at the knowledge that there was a good deal to be said for having a fellow like Black on your side.

  &

  The rook has few predators. He is too large, too strong, too well organized and above all too clever to be more than a rare supper for owls and eagles. Humans are occasionally a threat though—and not only boys with catapults.

  There is an old ditty that English mothers sing to the babies they bounce on their knees. It goes like this:

  Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye,

  Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie,

  When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,

  Now wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before a king?

  The black birds in question are rooks, and you may well be thinking that a pie containing two dozen rooks would be a very large pie indeed, but that is far from the truth. The meat of an adult rook is bitter. You would not like it. The only palatable rook (if you’re not too fussy) is a branchling. These are the young birds that cannot yet fly but spend their days on branches outside the nest, watching the world that is to be theirs. These flightless birds of June are the only ones worth eating, and each one has only two slivers of meat—a morsel on each breast the size of the pad of your fingertip—to recompense the effort of hunting and plucking and preparing. Hence the king in the rhyme, for whom the novelty pie might just be worth it, since he has a retinue of gamekeepers with guns, and white-aproned cooks to provide it for him.

  Still, hunger is a great motivator, and your ancestors had to eat. It stands to reason that in times of hardship there will have been some patient enough to aim a bow and arrow into an oak and bring down a branchling.

  You might well turn up your nose at the prospect of eating rook pie. But the rook would not turn up his nose at the prospect of eating you. If the chance came his way—at the roadside or on the battlefield or where the tide pulls back—he would happily redden his beak in your flesh. Go back before churches and crosses and coffins and it was ritual practice to lay out the dead on a stone platform for the bones to be picked clean in this manner.

  What I am getting at is this: some time ago, a rook ate the flesh of your ancestor, and some time ago your ancestor ate rook pie. Man eats rook; rook eats man. Bodies mingle. Thanks to this mutual ingestion, protein from human flesh becomes blue-black feather and protein from rook flesh becomes human skin.

  There is a cousinly intimacy between rooks and men. Humans, with their unmatched ability for forgetting, are surprised at learning the closeness between the species. The rook, with his better memory, knows full well that he is your flighted, feathered kin.

  ***

  There are numerous collective nouns for rooks. In some parts people say a building of rooks.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bellman & Black was the main but not the only part of Bellman’s business empire. For a start, he still owned Bellman’s Mill. Every week he received Ned’s report from Whittingford and wrote a letter in return—some twelve or fifteen pages—instructing, advising, querying. There was a second mill too: half a year ago he had bought it at a very good price after the original owner came a cropper. The owner had made the mistake of coming to rely overmuch on a single large customer; that customer then defaulted on a payment. It was a rudimentary error, and Bellman—who had had the foresight many years earlier to offer the miller a long-term loan on good terms, and thus was first to know of his financial predicament—took advantage. He moved Ned’s right-hand man in to align the mill with the practices at Bellman’s, and after an initial period of turbulence—no one likes change—things had settled down and the mill was already starting to be profitable.

  Bellman also owned a dozen London houses in the very best areas: they made a good return for him in rents as well as holding their value. They didn’t run themselves though. There were tenants to find, rents to collect, roofs to mend . . . He had people in place to act for him, but still, being Bellman, he liked to know just what was being done on his behalf.

  Furthermore Bellman kept a very close eye on his investments. Many a young entrepreneur had sought and been given capital by Bellman for some innovation in the area of mourning goods production. With capital came scrutiny. If there was a flaw in the business thinking, Bellman would find it. He familiarized himself with areas of business far removed from his own, saw the fundamental, universal factors that influenced success and failure, evaluated the specifics of each venture, and never invested capital without the understanding that his money came with the expectation of a hand in the guidance of the business as well. He had a light touch, yet it was the touch that made all the difference. At the Westminster & City, Anson came to see him as a kind of bellwether. If Bellman invested, you could be sure the endeavor was a sound one, and where Bellman’s money was, so was Bellman’s acumen and overseeing eye. Where he could, the banker shifted his own capital, nested it in alongside Bellman’s, and benefitted from the gains.

  ***

  One evening at Russells, Bellman met with his banker and his haberdashers to discuss an ambition that was close to his heart.
It had been planned for some time to extend Bellman & Black by opening new shops in Bath, York, and Manchester: sites for these shops had been found, and between the haberdashers and the bank, funds had been found to purchase land and engage architects. Anxious to press on with the program of national expansion, Bellman had hit upon the idea of—this was how it appeared to the other four—hiring out the name Bellman & Black to independent retailers in the mourning goods trade, and supplying them from Bellman & Black’s established supply chain, in return for creaming off a percentage of their profit. It was an idea that struck all of them as bizarre.

  “But why should a retailer who has always been his own man wish to do such a thing?” one of the haberdashers asked, perplexed.

  “How can we know when a shop in Manchester is running low on size six Italian leather gloves?” another objected.

  Bellman had answers for everything. For every obstacle, he had a solution. For every doubt, he supplied certainty. He plugged gaps in their knowledge with firm facts and figures. He had looked into every aspect so thoroughly and he explained it with such clarity of vision that the strange idea came, little by little, to seem so obviously sensible that they all found themselves wondering why no one had ever thought of it before.

  “Where on earth do you find the time for all this?” Anson asked him in a gap in the proceedings as a waiter was delivering new drinks to their table. “What is your secret?”

  Bellman shrugged. “Time passes more quickly for the man who lies abed than for the busy man. The more I have to do, the more time I have to do it. I discovered that a long time ago.”

  They sipped from their brandy glasses and went on with their talk. The consensus was turning toward yes. Anson would not have a say in the decision—he was only the banker—but his views were nonetheless listened to and considered with respect. “What are we to make of Thompson and his crematorium campaign?” he asked. “He is right about the graveyards. They are unhygienic and something will have to be done. With change in the air, is it the moment to be expanding so radically?”

  There was a quick outburst of feeling within the group.

  “It is ungodly!”

  “Quite so. The English will never stand for it!”

  “It is only because he is the queen’s physician that people give him the time of day. The idea is nonsensical.”

  Bellman was the only one to relate the issue to the business. “In my view a funeral is a funeral whatever the method. The desire for ritual will never change. A coffin is a large piece, but most often made of wood, which is relatively inexpensive; moreover, being destined to be buried in the ground, there is a natural limit on what people are prepared to pay for it. A casket destined to contain ashes and which people may desire to keep in their home may be made of all kinds of expensive stuff, even silver and gold, and permits of a great many decorative finishes and artistic additions. Were Thompson to be successful, I see no reason to fear for the health of the business. I myself would be inclined to see it as an opportunity rather than as something to be feared.”

  “You would press ahead immediately with the expansion plans rather than wait for the outcome of this case in Wales?”

  “The druid doctor, burning his child’s corpse on a hillside!’ Heads were shaken and lips curled disparagingly around the table.

  “It is a wicked thing. The man is a heathen.”

  “He is making trouble for himself more than for anyone else. He is to be pitied, surely.”

  “You think he is mad?”

  And the haberdashers fell into debate about the case, which was so exercising public opinion.

  “There may be one good thing to come out of it,” Critchlow suggested. “Placing the matter before a Christian judge will clarify the law once and for all, and thus put an end to Thompson’s Society.”

  The others nodded their heads sagely.

  “I hope you are right,” said Anson.

  “So we press ahead?” Bellman put the question to them, though the way he said it was more like a statement.

  The haberdashers nodded. Agreement reached, Bellman rose and a moment later was gone.

  “He’s gone back to work,” one of the haberdashers told Anson. “Devoted to it. Got to admire the man.”

  Walking home later that evening, Anson thought back over the conversation. Got to admire the man? Yes and no. He had the utmost respect for Bellman’s commercial instincts and his financial acumen, but his admiration left room to wonder whether his single-mindedness was an entirely good thing.

  Anson considered himself hardworking. Ten till four, Monday to Friday at the bank; evenings entertaining clients and doing more business at his club; paperwork on weekends when he had to. But most days, for a few hours, he was free to live his life.

  Anson was enormously fond of the company of his children, both the grown ones from his first marriage, and the little ones from his second. His Saturday morning walk around the garden was something to which he attached importance. What is more, on those days when he could not spend half an hour in the company of a good book he felt deprived. And then there were women. His wife, of course, whom he loved dearly and treated with great tolerance and kindness, and also one or two others: cheerful souls, discreet and affectionate. Yes, he had always liked women. All this, he considered, was the stuff life was made of. It was what he worked for. When he spent his earnings—on hydrangeas, a piano for his daughters or adornments for one pretty woman or another—it seemed the justification for his time at the bank, the natural end of a cycle that began with his labor. He could not for the life of him see what it was that held a parallel position in Bellman’s life.

  There was a daughter, or so they said, but he didn’t seem to spend much time with her. She didn’t live in London, and Bellman was never away from the shop for more than twenty-four hours. There were not known to be any women. The top floor of the shop housed a harem of seamstresses adequate in number to satisfy any number of sultans, yet an instinct—more insightful than Mrs. Critchlow’s feminine one—told Anson that Bellman left them unmolested. Nor were his appetites gastronomic or alcoholic. The bottles he kept in his office were only opened for business acquaintances, so far as he could see. If Bellman ever came to him at home, as he had once or twice when a matter was urgent, he accepted a cup of tea or a glass of brandy indifferently and left it unfinished as often as not. He had no hobbies. He hadn’t even a home that merited the name. The man simply worked, seemingly without fatigue and never needing the respite, the restoration of repose, of comfort, of company. It was impressive. But was it natural?

  We are not made of the same material as him, Anson thought. And yet he is human. How long can a man go on in such a fashion?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bellman’s waistcoat pocket had developed a hole where his watch weighed it down, and the fabric had bagged. “You had better send a girl down to measure me up for a new one,” he told Miss Chalcraft, and she sent Lizzie.

  He took off his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair.

  “It is made of English merino, I think?” Lizzie asked. “It is soft to wear but less resistant than the Spanish.”

  “Yet it is the same yarn. It is only the weaving that is done in the one place or the other.”

  He stood in his shirtsleeves to be measured. She took her tape measure from the pocket attached to her belt, and he felt the lightness of her touch, nape to waist, collarbone to shoulder, chest dimension, waist. In between each measurement she distanced herself to write it down. She went away and came close, once, twice, thrice . . . She did not look at him all the while, not his face, and he did not look at her, except out of the corner of his eyes.

  He found that he was not singing, nor even quite humming, but merely breathing a tune. His rib cage must have jerked to do it, for he felt her fingers on his shoulders to still him, and then he heard her voice.


  “They are saying, upstairs, that Mr. Black haunts the shop.”

  He tried to distinguish her breath in the air at the back of his neck, but could not.

  “What makes them say that?”

  “They hear him singing.”

  “Ah.”

  “Apparently he does not know all the words to the song.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Are your arms aching? No? Then I will just fit this calico to you. It is the one we used last time, and your measurements have not changed.”

  She deftly pinned a few pieces of calico together on the desk, then came behind him again and pressed them flat against his back. Her light voice drifted in his ear then, in a just audible whisper.

  “Still the angel stars are shining,

  Still the rippling waters flow,

  But the angel-voice is silent

  That I heard so long ago.

  Hark! the echoes murmur low,

  Long ago!”

  What a sad song! Bellman thought. He hadn’t realized it was sad. Had he remembered he would not have sung it—yet in Lizzie’s soft voice the sadness was enticing. He was glad when she continued.

  “Still the wood is dim and lonely,

  Still the plashing fountains play,

  But the past and all its beauty

  Whither has it fled away?

  Hark! the mournful echoes say

  Fled away!”

  Listening, he felt a sensation in his chest. The readiness to release something held taut for too long, the welcome letting go of a burden too tightly clutched . . . What was happening to him?