The Custodian of Marvels

by Rod Duncan

  The border came in sight – a high brick wall across the canal. I pulled the lever, disengaging the engine from the paddle wheels and let the Harry drift to a stop behind two other boats that were waiting their turn to cross. I could see the customs officers in their blue uniforms and flat caps talking to the captain of the foremost boat. He held a clipboard on which he wrote from time to time. Then I saw him shake the captain’s hand and hop off onto the quayside. Two workmen in grey overalls then set to with boathooks until the vessel was in position. A steam whistle hooted. The crane swung around and, with a rattle of chain spooling over a drum, two giant mechanical grabbers descended, closing around the boat.

  I had watched this process before and been amazed. But today I was merely impatient. In the background the rhythm of the steam engine changed. The chains went taut. The boat began to lift. Then the entire hull was visible and water was running from it, splashing down into the canal. It was like watching an airship rising from the ground. Though I could see the chains and understand the method, it seemed impossible – as if nature’s laws were being contravened. The crane shifted and the boat floated forwards, smoke still issuing from its funnel, to descend beyond my view on the far side of the border wall.

  While this had been happening, the customs officials had been inspecting the next boat in line. I watched the handshake, the positioning of the boat, the grabbers descending again.

  “Good morning, missus,” said the customs man. “Can I speak to your husband please?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s not here.”

  “Going by another route, is he?”

  “Maybe.”

  While we were speaking, another man in uniform had unlaced the tarpaulin and peered into the hold. “She’s empty,” he called.

  I handed over identification papers for myself, Tinker and the Harry. They were good forgeries and I had no worries that he would doubt them. He noted down details on his clipboard before returning them to me. Instead of shaking my hand he raised his hat. Then he stepped back to the quayside and the Harry was being positioned beneath the grabbers.

  Tinker had not asked where we were going, even when he saw the border in front of us. It was only as we lifted from the water and I heard the hull creaking under the strain that I thought about the boy. Water splashed below us. The other boats seemed to have risen smoothly, but I could feel us swaying from front to back as we started to move forwards.

  As the border wall passed below us, Tinker grabbed my hand. “We’re up in the clouds,” he said. “We’re flying!”

  CHAPTER 9

  September 25th

  To perform the impossible is elementary. It requires only that everything you are and everything you have learned be brought to focus in one moment, and at a place where no one else is looking.

  The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook

  At night and from a distance, the seat of the Duke of Northampton seemed less like a home, more a small town. From my hiding place, I could see over the perimeter wall, allowing me an unobstructed view of the front and one side of the buildings.

  The main massing of stonework towered above a sprawl of outbuildings, workers’ accommodation and the garrison that was home to his private army. The roofs were a chaos of pitched slate, skylights, balustrades and tall brick chimneys, each surmounted by a cluster of spiralled pots.

  The only uncluttered aspect was the front, which was arranged symmetrically around a central portico. All was silver under the moonlight. A long drive bisected tiered gardens, descending terrace by terrace towards a gatehouse in the far distance.

  As I watched, I found myself shivering. Caution had made our journey long. Sleeping in the boat we’d been warm enough. But my coat was now sodden from nights of stumbling through fields on a slow approach, and days of hiding, not daring to light a fire.

  Tinker, however, seemed capable of sleeping anywhere. Within minutes of us bedding down he’d been away, his breath slow and even. The sleep of the innocent. I must myself have slept eventually, because at some time in the night I became aware that he had gone.

  The first movement around the grand house and its outbuildings came before dawn. The moon had been obscured by cloud so there was no longer light enough to see, but I could hear the rattle of iron wheel rims on cobblestones – hand barrows, I assumed, since there was no sound of horses. Servants would be hauling food or coal from the storerooms, ready for the day ahead.

  As the sky began to pale I counted six columns of smoke rising from among the forest of chimneypots. Farmers were already at work in the surrounding fields – all of which would be the property of the duke. I wondered how much of the Kingdom was run directly by the aristocrats. Every family for miles around would be in the service of the same man. It was less a household, more a seat of government.

  At eight o’clock, with the sun already over the horizon, lighting the Cotswold stone of the buildings so that they glowed honey brown, a detachment of soldiers emerged from the barracks. Their red coats marked them out even at such distance. A small column of men marched with muskets shouldered, while two officers on horseback rode at the front. Out they went along the great drive. I tracked their progress until, two thirds of the way to the gatehouse, trees obscured the view.

  But some minutes later, a column of men came marching back. They lacked the crisp energy of the first group. I wondered whether they were required to spend the night standing out in the cold or if there was a guardhouse where they could warm themselves from time to time.

  One thing was certain: there were not enough of them to patrol the perimeter of that vast property. But why should they? There was no power to threaten the duke. Unless it be another duke. And for one aristocrat to make war against another would be unthinkable. Their families were tied together by countless marriages of allegiance.

  At a quarter past ten in the morning, a white coach rolled up the drive, pulled by four white horses. From the head of each animal a plume of white ostrich feathers sprouted. The scene was dazzling in the morning sun. Footmen hurried to open the doors, whereupon two women emerged, dressed in outfits of yellow and green. It was a wonder that such a volume of skirts could have fit within the carriage. The women seemed young to be carrying such a weight of clothing.

  They put their heads close together as if whispering, the rims of their hats brushing each other. The footmen followed them into the house, though at a discreet distance.

  They were not long inside before a second coach arrived, this one black. Though it was smaller than the first, it was pulled by six horses. A mark of status, I thought, rather than the weight of the passenger. Each horse had been groomed to a shine almost as brilliant as the carriage itself.

  Servants issued from the front of the mansion and lined up on either side of the door. Last out was an officer of the men-at-arms. It was he who opened the carriage door and offered his hand to the occupant.

  The man who stepped out was almost as tall as the officer. I should have liked him to be corpulent or crooked. I wanted to see some outer sign of the corruption within. But his only physical defect was the slight hesitancy of movement that comes with age. Given that he had seen seventy years, he was wearing well.

  He stepped down to the immaculate gravel and all the servants abased themselves, bowing from the hip or curtsying deep. There could be no doubt on whom I looked. It was the ruin of my family and others. It was the Duke of Northampton.

  He turned his back on the bowing servants and stepped to the edge of the terrace, seeming to survey the garden. He straightened the hat on his head, took a few steps to the left, then a few to the right as if idling in thought. Then, on a moment, he wheeled and marched between the rows of servants, who still held themselves low. After he disappeared there was a second of stillness. Then, at some signal I did not catch, all were straightening themselves and hurrying away. They did not return via the front entrance as they had left. Instead they made their way around the building to a small doorway on the side
.

  I had seen the duke two times before, but never clearly.

  On the first occasion I was standing on the stage of our travelling show, my family around me. My father had just completed his grand illusion. When you are focused on a trick, all the world fades. There is only yourself and the intricacy of learned movements. There is no fear that you will make a mistake because you have practised it a thousand times. It is a dance that carries you beyond thought.

  In brief, the trick was this – my brother would be seen to enter a cabinet to the left side of the stage. The audience would be called up to inspect. They would circle it. They would knock on its walls. They would get down on hands and knees to reach between its short legs and feel the sturdy wood of its base. The doors of the cabinet would be closed. And in those moments, the audience might catch a glimpse of me for the first time, mixing with the confusion of people on the stage, encouraging them to knock on wood panels, proving to them that there were no hidden doors.

  Some volunteers were left to guard it. Others followed me across the stage to a second cabinet, open and empty. They examined it as thoroughly as they had examined the first. They circled around it until they pronounced themselves satisfied.

  Then, centre stage, my father would be seen to summon the hidden powers of the universe. He would hold his hands out on either side of his body and they would burst into flame. The torches that lit the stage would change colour from yellow to ghostly blue. He would slap his hands together. In that instant, the flames would die and both cabinets would burst open. My brother would be seen to have been transported across from one to the other.

  It was the finale of the show. No trick could follow without it being an anticlimax. The audience stood to applaud. They stamped their feet. My father would stand between the cabinets. For a moment they would see my brother standing with him, then the curtains would drop.

  It was in those seconds, when the applause was at its loudest, that I would perform the most skilful part of the trick, changing back once more from boy to girl so when the curtain rose a few seconds later, I could step forwards and stand in line as the other facet of myself once more.

  It must have been then that the duke fastened his eyes on me. I was not a great beauty. I still presented the innocence of childhood. I have the indistinct memory of seeing him, the one member of the audience still seated. I couldn’t make out much against the lights, but I had the impression of the bright colours of his clothing.

  The second time I saw him was a few days later. We had struck the tent, loaded the wagons and were already on the move when a black coach flanked by outriders came up behind, driving at speed.

  I couldn’t say how it came to be, but later that day the entire troupe was told to stand in line. Then each of us in turn was called to stand next to the black carriage until instructed to move on.

  When it came to my turn, I stood on tiptoes, trying to see who might be observing from within. I caught sight of the sleeve and cuff of a dark jacket and behind that the suggestion of a face. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud and the glass became a mirror of the trees and sky. I waited to be waved on, but time seemed to slow. I found myself blushing in that way children do when they know they are observed. I glanced back to the line, but no one would meet my eyes. When at last the signal came, I ran, crying for a reason I couldn’t explain.

  I do not remember it in this ordered way. I had to piece the narrative together from scattered childhood memories. My father’s tension. The debt collectors that seemed to follow us in the months after. Travelling to London for court cases. Then our flight, avoiding the main roads, often doubling back, making our way under cover of darkness.

  We passed through Buckinghamshire into Oxfordshire and then struck north. I think my father intended to cross the border and make a new life in the Republic. But a travelling show is too big to hide.

  The day that is clearest in my memory is the one where my father told me to grab my things and run. The duke’s men-at-arms had found us and were on their way. It was the last day I saw him.

  So deeply immersed was I in this memory that I didn’t notice Tinker returning. He held a hunk of bread under my nose, making me startle. When at first I didn’t take it, he moved it closer to my mouth, as if about to feed me.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “Eat.”

  “And I’m not a child!”

  The words came out sharper than I intended. He flinched. All at once I became aware of the responsibilities that I’d been carrying. They felt like a weight pressing down on my head. For everyone, I had to be a different person. A dutiful sister, a resourceful intelligence gatherer, a cheerful friend, a man, a woman. And now, unwontedly, a mother.

  “Where did you get the bread? Did you steal it?”

  “Didn’t steal it!”

  “Then where did you get the money to buy it?”

  “Someone give it me.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head, mouth clamped closed. I realised that I was crying. I turned my face away from him whilst I wiped my cheeks.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Are you ill?”

  It was the second time he had asked me that question. I managed to put on a smile before turning to look at him again.

  I took the bread. “Thank you.”

  It was a piece torn from a flat loaf. I could taste wood smoke in it. Wherever the boy had been, it had been cooked on a pan over an open fire. That made sense. There might be a camp of gypsies nearby. He would have been drawn to them. They would have reminded him of life in the travelling show.

  “Tinker – there’s something I need you to do.”

  On hearing these words, the anxious expression lifted from his face. He wriggled closer along the ground. I could smell the smoke of a campfire on his clothes.

  “I want you to travel north. To the border. Head across to North Leicester. I want you to go back to the wharf. Speak to Mr Swain. I’ll write a message for you to give him.”

  Tinker frowned in confusion as I rummaged in my haversack for paper and pencil. I didn’t bother to hide the writing from him, since he’d never been taught to read.

  My dear Mr Swain,

  You have always been kind to me. And I have leaned on that kindness too often without giving back. So I do not ask this of you lightly, but am left with no other choice. I need someone to give food and shelter to this boy, whose name is Tinker. He will not need much looking after. Perhaps if you made up a bed for him in the workshop it would do. Mrs Swain will not want to let him into the house without a bath and a change of clothes – and these I fear would require all your powers of persuasion. He is bright, after his own fashion. And he is loyal to a degree you will seldom find. Indeed, I believe he is the most loyal person I have ever met. I am sorry to place this burden on you. But it will be the last time. This I promise. Please pass all my love to Julia.

  I did not sign it. My name could only bring suffering. I folded the sheet of paper and placed it in Tinker’s hand. He cocked his head, an expression of puzzlement on his face.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Now.”

  He made to go, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him to me. He suffered the embrace in silence. Finally, I kissed the top of his head and pushed him away, turning so that he would not see that I was crying once more.

  CHAPTER 10

  September 25th

  Worse than no plan is a plan half formed.

  The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook

  A strange kind of numbness worked its way into me as I kept watch on the seat of the Duke of Northampton. It had started as a physical sensation in my fingers and toes, a response to the cold, I thought. But after Tinker had gone it became something deeper, eating its way into the very core of me.

  The duke emerged twice more before sunset. The first time was in the early afternoon. A servant followed behind him carrying a gun box
. A second man scurried across to the low wall by the edge of the upper terrace. On this he placed a line of wine bottles. Then he ran to the side, as if the devil were after him. He was barely clear before the duke raised the first pistol, taking aim. There was a puff of smoke and I saw his hand recoil. A moment later I heard the boom of the gun. None of the bottles had been harmed.

  The duke held the gun out to the side without looking. The first servant took it and placed a new pistol in his hand. The duke took aim again. A second puff of smoke. One of the bottles exploded. I had thought them to be empty, but liquid burst from it, soaking the stones on which it had been standing.

  After three hits and as many misses, the duke wheeled and marched back to the mansion. I watched the servants work for a long time afterwards, picking up fragments of glass and scrubbing down the stones with bucket after bucket of water.

  His second excursion came with the sun low in the sky. Four mounted men-at-arms had ridden in at a canter. There was a flurry of activity – servants running to hold the reins of the steaming horses, orders barked. The duke emerged at a brisk march. From his body language I would have said he was awaiting news of some importance. But whatever they told him, he was unpleased by it.

  One by one, lamps were lit at the front of the house, though the servants’ windows remained dark. In the twilight I could just make out workers trudging towards their homes across the fields. As night took hold, a bank of cloud began rolling in from the west, blotting out the stars and then the moon. Nature was conspiring to help me in my endeavour, as if it wanted me to succeed.

  It came to me that the numbness I had been feeling was a kind of peace. It had begun as a lack of physical sensation, but had grown into an unaccustomed stillness of thought.