‘Yes, they sends out the pow-leece, with women and children here, and the pow-leece gets nasty, and tells them all to bugger off home.’ The woman was jogging the ugly pram now as if she wanted the child to cry out. ‘Terrible,’ she muttered.
Saskia nodded.
‘And he come yesterday, the hangman. My sister said she seen him. We all know him here. Albert…’ the woman crossed herself.
‘Oh.’ Saskia felt cold. The people around her were suddenly quiet, most of them staring down at their watches. Then the mumbling came, turning to a slow chant. They were counting: ‘Twenty, nineteen, eighteen.’ Saskia looked down at her own wristwatch, a tiny little gold thing that Peter had bought her. He had laced it around her wrist. It was tight now; she should drop it off at the menders for a bigger strap.
‘Seventeen, sixteen,’ the girl in front of her said.
Saskia was sure it didn’t work like that. They couldn’t hang someone to time. What if something went wrong? What if Ruth took longer lacing her shoes? Having her breakfast?
Saskia jogged from foot to foot as the sun caught the crowd.
She would write to Ma and Dieter tonight, she would tell them she was coming home. She wasn’t enjoying staying with Flinty as much as she had hoped. Flinty wasn’t a bad girl, but she wasn’t a good girl either. Flinty had her day job, and then she had another as a cigarette girl at the Palais on Friday and Saturday nights. She had told them she was eighteen.
The crowd, mostly women and children, were chanting the numbers loudly now. Saskia stepped off the curb and she turned and she pushed through them, away from the prison doors.
‘Watch it, love…’
‘Hey look where you’re going…’
‘Steady!’
‘Eight-seven-six…’
When she could, when she was free of the push of summer coats, crying women and mewling children, Saskia began to run. She ran all the way down the Holloway Road; she ran beyond her bus stop, beyond the tube station. Saskia ran until her blouse was wet with sweat and the sick feeling that tickled her skin was almost gone.
Up, Up, in Our Air Balloon!
32
Dieter felt terribly odd when at last he opened his eyes. He found himself sitting in a corner of the big wicker basket, and it smelled of the sea. Above him was the big balloon and it was filled with air.
He remembered the river, but he didn’t remember the balloon. He remembered the boy pulling him across the flat fields in the dark; he remembered the sting of thistles on his ankles and the milky light of the moon. He remembered the high-pitched trills of those long-beaked birds once he reached the mud of the shore, and he remembered the roar of the tidal river, though it was far away. He remembered the boy dragging him into the mud and then dragging him further, but there had been no water, only the slick suck of that mud. Dieter remembered the suck of it at his feet, at his ankles. He remembered losing his slippers and then losing his feet altogether because suddenly he couldn’t lift or feel them anymore and he fell backwards with a splat! and lost the boy’s hand. He’d stared up at the stars. All that time, the boy hadn’t sunk at all: he hadn’t even left footprints. As Dieter lay there in the oily mud he thought of John Phelps’ story of the ponies struggling and sinking here each summer, and Dieter remembered how he’d asked John why the ponies were foolish enough to do this every summer, and of course John had replied that they weren’t the same ponies at all because sinking in the mud of the Severn wasn’t something a horse could be saved from, ropes and chains or what.
Dieter had struggled and sunk a little more then. He had been very cold and very wet and he remembered the taste of mud in his mouth and the sting of it in his eyes and the sound of it pushing into his ears; and he remembered crying as the sky disappeared, and then he remembered sleeping, and it was such a relief.
Yes, Dieter remembered all this but he didn’t remember climbing into this wicker basket and firing up the balloon.
It was daylight and he was shocked to see that he was clean; there was no mud stuck to his pyjamas, though here was blood; just a few drops on his lapels. He spat on his fingers because he wanted to rub the stains away but there was blood in his spit, too. Dieter felt his mouth; it was sticky.
He felt a jolt as the basket shook.
‘Is this fun?’ the boy asked because he was standing right there in his bright blue uniform, in his clean white tights, almost a grown boy again, and he was looking out beyond the lip of the basket. Dieter heard a great pouring rush like a waterfall or that crashing noise you hear just before you faint.
He tried to stand up, but it was so difficult, it felt like someone was pressing on his shoulders and pulling him down by the ankles. He reached up to grip one of the balloon’s ropes and his stomach lurched as the whooshing sound grew louder and the rattan rubbed against his legs. Then Dieter heard a voice he recognised. ‘Here! Over here!’ it said.
He knew that voice was Tommy Perrot. But what was Tommy doing here?
If only he could stand up and look.
That was when Dieter heard the Wee-Hoo Gang. Different voices yelled his name and they made a sound like Indian Braves. ‘Wooo-woooo-wooo-woo!’
He fought against the push on his shoulders and he stood and peered into the mist, crunching his eyes up, until finally he swore he could see them. They were running on the hard flat ground of the Wasteland and the balloon was so low it was almost in reach.
‘Where have you bin? You’ve bin gone ages, son,’ Tommy said and he was walking towards him through the mist, a rolled cigarette behind his ear. Tommy was a grown up. He had shiny grease in his hair and it was piled up, sculpted.
‘I’ve come back,’ Dieter said.
‘Yeah, we can see that, moron. You ain’t changed, not a bit.’
‘Oh.’
Dieter could see other figures now, like they were coming out of thick London smog. He searched and searched for her, but he couldn’t see Cynthia. He called her name but she didn’t come running in her pa’s cardigan, crying, ‘Dee, Dee!’
There was Jim, though. Jim Foley who had died in the big smog three years ago. Jim threw something at him. ‘Come on, son, catch!’
It was a hard ball and it hit his arm, he saw Jim had a big brown leather glove like some alien hand. Jim ran backwards, the glove raised above his head. ‘Come on, chuck it!’
Dieter picked up the hard white ball and he wished Jim would stop running backwards; he grimaced, leant back and threw it. It was a good throw and he watched the ball arc; he listened to the skylarks, to the grumble of London beyond, and then, suddenly, he felt another jolt. Something slammed into his chest and he felt a terrible, almighty tug.
‘Jim! Tommy!’ Dieter cried.
The tug kept up, it was as if he was leaving his stomach on the floor; his legs were more jelly-ish than the jelly in Ma’s pudding bowls. The feeling kept on, it wouldn’t stop, because the balloon’s basket was swaying and rocking and rising so quickly. Dieter knew he couldn’t stand up much longer, he knew the force of that something he should have learned about in school would pull him down again, crush him onto the floor like an angry headmaster. He looked above him: he could just make out the tangle of ropes. Dieter wondered if he could climb up them, if he could use them to escape. Then there was a roar and a hiss so loud he thought of giant snakes. His throat tightened and he began to cry.
He felt a hand. It slipped over his.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ the boy said, ‘it’s an adventure.’
When the whole of the sun twitched above the lie of the land Dieter’s jelly-legs were solid once more. In fact he was standing next to the boy, gripping the edge of the balloon’s basket, and staring out at the brightening view. It wasn’t London, it wasn’t the Wasteland anymore; Dieter pointed at a river, at cows, at a horse gone mad at the sight of a hot-air balloon. The horse kicked and the boy laughed and shouted, ‘boo!’
Dieter looked up at the balloon’s inflated skin. He did wonder how the boy had made the anci
ent thing fly, but he didn’t want to ask, he suspected the spell would be broken if he did and they’d come crashing down to the earth. Dieter tried to enjoy the view because that was what you were meant to do in air balloons. As the sun brightened everything, he was glad to be having an adventure; he was glad to be with his friend up here at the top of the world. He suddenly ran, though it was just four steps, to the opposite side of the basket. He held onto the rope. The sun was behind him now and it gradually lit the way like a stage light. It touched the tops of the fir trees, and then it made the fluttering leaves of the oak and beech woods sparkle. The light reached beyond a town and a train station – Dieter could just see the black lines of tracks.
‘London is the place for me,’ he murmured, ‘London, this lovely city.’
They rose higher, until all Dieter could see were squares of land, squares in different shades and colours. They rose higher, higher and there were lakes and mountains, and Dieter felt terribly cold. His knees softened and his lungs sighed. His hand slipped down the rough rope and he slumped in a corner, back against the creaking wicker, humming Cynthia’s song.
‘London, hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.’
Dieter wondered if he was dying. ‘I want to go back,’ he murmured.
The boy sat next to him. He took off his blue jacket and draped it across Dieter’s shoulders. Dieter’s lips were as blue as the coat and so the boy kissed them, gently. When Dieter’s head fell onto the boy’s lap, the boy decided to let him snuggle down and he smoothed his bright blond hair. The boy didn’t mind at all when Dieter curled up, tight. In fact his other hand touched Dieter’s shoulder and rubbed it with a flat palm to ease his shivering.
The boy closed his eyes. He breathed in breath he didn’t need, and he saw the darkness come as the balloon rose and he smelled the sea and he listened to the creaking ropes above them. He hugged his friend close.
He was no longer the child who was born in the red gardens of Sugar Hall. He was no longer the toubab’s, the slave in the blue velvet uniform watching his mother scream her knife-scream and knowing that she would kill or be killed. He was no longer the Slave Boy, Demerara, born to the Sugars, who stood in the corner of that first master’s nursery in a silver collar. He was no longer the slave with the horse’s bridle in his hands, the slave with the cockatiel, the spaniel, the salver of fruit. He was no longer the boy who was hanged by his father, his master, in the woods. He was no longer the ghost of Sugar Hall, the duppy: the succubus.
He had sucked up his past and the pasts of those around him and he felt his edges fizz and spark with them and he wondered if the sparks were golden or bright green, like a firework: like a bright fire lantern in the night. The boy began to sing, and he sang Dieter’s song. ‘London is the place for me,’ he trilled, ‘London, this lovely city…’
The boy stared ahead of him and sparked, his head unsteady on his shoulders, as his friend Dieter Sugar trembled in his lap.
A Late Autumn Auction
33
Once the solicitors agreed to the sale it had been organised quickly, and it was Juniper who had done most; down to labels so fiddly her fingers could hardly manage. Every object needed to be labelled and entered into the inventory. The solicitors had sent help and the auctioneers were at the Hall to fulfill their duty, but still Juniper knew that if you wanted a job doing well invariably you had to do it yourself.
She was sitting in the Queen Anne chair by the large windows in the red library, enjoying the last of the day’s sun. She listened to the flurry of activity coming from the main hall. It was so strange to hear the clatter of many footfalls, the clanging of objects being moved. The auctioneers were an army of red ants; they had poured over the Hall and stripped it. They had had a viewing today. It had been quite ghastly, strangers and nosy acquaintances poking about in boxes, tables, drawers, in chests and cases, billing and cooing. The auction was tomorrow, and the space out in the hall was so expansive they had decided proceedings would take place out there: the auctioneer was to sit on a platform attached to the staircase while his helpers (including herself) carried labelled objects from each room in strict order. Juniper supposed the crowds would spill out of the front doors: people eager for a knick-knack, a souvenir of Sugar Hall before they closed it up for good.
‘Stay, Bonzo,’ she muttered. She could feel the spaniel twitch at the noises in the passageway. ‘Good boy.’
Juniper had received letters: many from the daughter, Saskia, and one from Lilia. Mother and daughter were in separate cities now, and it seemed rather sad, though a little sadness among tragedy was, Juniper knew, laughable. Saskia had remained in London, and her last letter had said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Bledsoe, for your kindness. I am sharing a flat in Pimlico with three other girls which suits me quite well, and your kindness with the fees for my secretarial school helps no end. Of course it is difficult to be on my own so suddenly.’ Juniper knew the girl was asking for more money and somehow, she didn’t mind one bit. In fact Juniper rather admired her gumption and she had sent two five-pound notes. Lilia had practically abandoned her daughter and Juniper felt Saskia was right to grasp at any help she was offered, Lord knows there was little else for her.
Juniper crossed her ankles. Bonzo sighed.
Lilia hadn’t gone to America with that man, Alex, as they all expected: Lilia wasn’t an American housewife with a neat pinny and a Frigidaire.
No, Lilia had gone back to Germany. She was in a place called Schlasgsdof now; it was a mouthful and Juniper had to look it up on the map. It seemed to be on the border between the new East and the West.
‘I am existing,’ Lilia wrote, ‘I am working and I like the work. Simple work, I do not think about it. It is strange to be here, but at the same moment it is not.’
She was punishing herself, of course. Juniper had yet to reply. It was difficult to know what to say, and she knew her words had to be right; Lilia was worth that. Juniper’s chilblains pained at the thought of lovely Lilia and what fun they had had; she slipped off her shoe and rubbed her calf.
The last time Juniper saw her friend was the night they viewed the body at that ghastly hospital mortuary in Gloucester. The child had been dragged from the mud just hours before, they hadn’t cleaned him off, and that had made Juniper so angry. It had been chance that had found him before the tide came in: chance and a man with a dog.
Thank heavens Alex was there that night; they’d had to sedate Lilia, Alex had come back to Sugar Hall to pack her things and by the following day they had left for London. The child had been buried but it had been done so quickly that Juniper hadn’t had the chance to attend.
It was a dreadful accident: somehow the boy had wandered down to the River Severn, he had been sleepwalking, or … Juniper had turned it round and around in her mind because why would he walk more than a mile to play in mud? He hadn’t drowned, because the tide never reached him, the poor child had simply died of cold and exhaustion. Hypothermia. Death by Misadventure, the hospital doctor declared. There would be no inquest.
Lilia left and it was over: until Juniper received that letter late in September.
‘We buried him, Alex and I, next to his father,’ she wrote. ‘I have not seen Alex since.’
Juniper fidgeted in the Queen Anne chair.
She did miss Lilia so. Lovely Lilia. She would reply to her letter: she would brave it tonight at home.
There was someone else Juniper truly regretted: John Phelps.
He was still suffering.
Only last week she had been down in the kitchen sorting through what could be given away and what the solicitors termed ‘valuable’ (she doubted the white bowls and the butter churner could be that, still it was her duty to write the inventory).
John had given her such a fright when he charged down those outside steps and stormed in. ‘Sorting through her possessions are you, Mrs Bledsoe?’ he’d said and his voice was clogged.
She wanted to say, ‘How are you, John? I haven’t seen you in so l
ong!’ but his ridiculous raven had hopped onto the long kitchen table and she’d almost dropped a bowl. ‘John! For God sakes, get that damned bird out!’
‘Why are you going through her things?’ he’d half-yelled back.
She had been quite surprised by his tone. ‘It’s something I have to do. Solicitors orders. Everything to be sold. Death duties, John.’
‘Why are you doing it?’
‘Because I was her friend.’
He started to cry then, and Juniper had to bundle him into a chair next to the range. She stroked and patted his back.
‘It’s a dreadful thing, John, dreadful, but we must be strong.’
‘She’ll not come back.’
She drew a chair next to him and sat. ‘No, she won’t.’ Juniper sighed. ‘Would you?’
He looked at her, his bright blue eyes blurred.
‘You were close to the boy, weren’t you, John?’
‘He was a good lad.’
‘It is such a terrible thing.’
‘We didn’t find him, why didn’t we find him?’
‘Sh…’
‘I never took him down to that river. I wouldn’t do that, so why would he go all that way on his own? How did he get down there? Who took him…?’
‘Sh…’
‘It’s my fault, I know it is!’
‘John, don’t talk nonsense. It was a terrible accident.’
John sobbed, louder, and Juniper didn’t know where to look.
‘She was too good for me,’ he said at last, ‘she was…’ but he couldn’t speak any more and all Juniper could do was stand and place the black kettle on the hob.
‘That’s enough now, John,’ she told him.
Now, as she settled deeper into the Queen Anne chair and began thinking of a well-earned snooze, Juniper was glad it would soon be done with. Sugar Hall and all its contents would go under the hammer and that would be that. It was true that Lilia was the one to pity in all this, but still Juniper couldn’t help thinking Lilia had left them all, and in her leaving irreparable ruptures had been made. It was a ridiculous, selfish thought: but there it was. The sooner this place was closed up, the sooner it was razed to the ground or sold on, the better. Let the Sugar curse or the plain bad luck this family had be razed with it.
Sugar Hall Page 19
