The Butcher's Hook

by Janet Ellis

  ‘This is excellent!’ Onions attempts to join in with good humour, but he cuts the pear into small portions in a way that suggests he might like to slice at something that would feel pain.

  I am delighted by all of this. With every simper and flounce, every utterance and recitation, Onions must surely be putting himself further from the role of suitor. The idea of him courting me is risible and ridiculous. I am convinced that his performance tonight must have sounded a loud death knell to any such suggestion.

  Conversation fades. Onions scissors pieces of bread with sharp front teeth, then brushes his dry fingers together to remove invisible crumbs. He chews each mouthful at the very front of his mouth so there are only tiny movements in his cheeks. My father bends lower and lower over his plate, as if it were a trough. It is like dining with two low species of animal: Onions is the little rat beside my father’s ox.

  I go carefully at my portion; it is a precious offering, having most probably been touched by Fub’s hands. Only my mother does not eat. Her head is inclined forward over her untouched food. The candlelight throws our shadows against the wall. You cannot tell from my soft dark shape how my black mind plots and plans.

  Jane brings a platter of stewed fruit. It is a mush the colour of mulberries, but no single fruit is visible. No one takes a portion. Onions cranes his head to look behind her – I suspect he thinks there is a chance he might see a sudden surprising army of staff bearing more plates. We have long since abandoned any sort of feasting.

  ‘Now, Miss Jaccob.’ Hearing him speak is like stepping barefoot on a slug. Onions touches his napkin delicately at the corners of his mouth, then folds it into a neat square.

  ‘Anne,’ my father corrects him, grinning.

  ‘Anne.’ He looks at me for a full minute as though he’s been instructed to convey adoring admiration. At any rate, it is an uncomfortably long time and I stare back. It is as if we play that childish game of refusing to blink or look away. I will be the winner. He will be afraid of my cold eyes before too long.

  Sure enough, Onions’ eyes eventually slide sideways.

  ‘Such beauty,’ he mutters.

  This nonsense again! I glance at my father. Perhaps now he will tire of this posturing and say something, even defend me against it.

  ‘What do you reply, Anne?’ he says instead. ‘Surely you have some polite answer to such praise?’

  I look to my mother, trying to plead wordlessly with her to intervene. Her eyes are cloudy now, and she looks away and down – anywhere but at me. Her little awakening, the way she questioned Onions and did not engage with him, is over.

  ‘Anne?’ My father’s tone is cold, peppered with annoyance. There may be three other people in the room, save Onions, but I feel entirely alone. Perhaps I should spring up, grab Jane’s hands and demand she shelter me? What would I say? ‘I am in love, Jane! Let me tell you about him! Talk to me of—’ Here I falter. I don’t know her dead husband’s name and my imagination baulks at saying Mr Bradshaw. I could not speak to her like that anyway, it would only frighten her.

  ‘Mr Onions,’ I say aloud, instead. ‘Your words are very kind.’

  ‘Kind? I am not meaning to be kind, Anne.’ He is rebuking me. He looks to my father for confirmation of my improper conduct.

  ‘I regret I have not instructed her to take praise. Forgive me, Simeon.’ My father puts his hands together as if in prayer, and pretends to offer himself up in supplication.

  ‘She will have to learn, there will surely be so much of it to come, with all her attributes.’ Onions does not look at me. ‘Oh!’ He looks to my mother as she rises then leans forward on the table to support herself. The act has made her dizzy.

  ‘Please, stay seated,’ she says, catching Onions in the act of getting up so that he remains comically halfway between sitting and standing.

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ My father, finally exasperated, pulls at his arm to lower him down.

  Ruffled, Onions adjusts his jacket and brushes at the sleeves. ‘Your kind hospitality is overwhelming,’ he says.

  My mother fixes him with a look. ‘Mr Onions, we did not provide you with a proper meal and I’m sorry. If you dine here again, I shall make sure there is something heartier on your plate. Do you prefer—?’

  ‘When you dine again,’ my father interrupts her and his meaning is clear: I am in charge of who is and who is not invited. ‘I’ll put a strong fish down, not a poncey pear.’

  ‘Too kind,’ Onions is muttering again. He steeples his fingertips together, and I notice that the nails on both forefingers are longer than the rest and curled like claws. ‘I enjoy fish of the water. I can even tolerate a little fowl of the air. It is just, alas, alas, the beast of the field that disagrees with me.’

  I am reminded of the great corpses hung in Levener’s

  shop: decapitated, sinewy and skinned. I imagine them bearing down on Onions, roaring a terrible roar while he shrieks that they might disagree with his dainty digestion and tries to run away. They’d trample him without even noticing him underfoot.

  ‘You smile, Anne, and what light shines.’ Onions pours more oily words from his mouth.

  My father slips in them. ‘Do you have a plan, Simeon?’ He raises his eyebrows enquiringly, prompting him. He wants Onions to say something they rehearsed. ‘Might you have a plan?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He nods to my departing mother. ‘Madam.’ She doesn’t look back. ‘I wish to invite you to accompany me to a small exhibition, Anne. I have it on good authority that

  it is most enjoyable.’ His conspiratorial tone implies that he has heard this from the tongues of kings or the lips of nobility.

  What can I do? My father answers for me. ‘Fortunate girl, of course you’ll go.’ He stands up, stretching his arms above his head. ‘Gah!’ he shouts. I know that he is bored with sitting so long at the table. ‘I have a little fortified wine in my study, Simeon. I want your opinion of it.’

  ‘Just a thimbleful, dear man. I begin to tire. Not of your company, Anne,’ he says hastily, and looks sideways at my father to see if he has caused offence. But my father is already thinking of sweet wine in a warm room and isn’t listening to Onions. ‘I travelled from deepest Derbyshire this week and I fear the jolting of the coach has quite displaced me.’

  Behind him, the little blade of the knife he cut his fruit with twinkles in the candlelight. It is a short distance from the table to my hand, and only a little way from my hand to his heart. One movement would do it – there! Even if it didn’t kill him, it would stop all his blathering. The two of them are standing still, waiting for me to leave.

  ‘Mr Onions, I bid you good night. Father.’ I go to leave, but my father catches my arm.

  ‘Say thank you for your kind invitation,’ he hisses in to my ear and turns me to face Onions. I repeat the words, just as he said them, trying to sound light and unafraid.

  ‘And “I look forward to our outing”,’ my father hisses again. He waits for me to repeat this, then pushes me away. ‘I apologise again for her rudeness. I suspect she is a little unpractised, that is all. You can teach her!’

  Onions laughs with my father but he is obedient, not amused. He is almost plump with glee at this possibility. It must be a great effort for him not to rub his hands together.

  It is a wonder I can put one foot in front of the other, I am so heavy. Behind me, I leave two unloving men who together will design the most unhappy of futures for me. My breathing is laboured; climbing the stairs is like scaling cliffs. I am not safe here. The very banister feels colder than usual, the familiar paintings reproachful.

  I am almost at my door when my mother steps from the shadows.

  ‘Anne.’ She lays one hand on my arm. It is a timid gesture but I am grateful for it. ‘Your father has your best interests at heart.’

  This is so trite and so untrue I feel a surge of anger. I hav
e to hold my arms tightly by my sides to stop me from seizing her by the shoulders. If she seeks to console me, there are better ways to do it. She could say: ‘We are both in thrall to your father, you and I; my daughter, I cannot help you, except to confess that I do not love him any more and you must not expect love from your chosen husband either. It is not our due.’

  Or: ‘Run, while you can. Let me hide you while you leave the house. Follow your heart’s desire. Don’t look back.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ is all I can manage, and I sound childish and petulant.

  ‘Annie,’ she squeezes my arm. ‘You know you must make a good marriage, and it is about time.’

  ‘But with him?’ I am too loud; she shushes me.

  ‘He may not have made the best impression, but I expect he was nervous. He has been a bachelor for many years. He may have a good heart . . .’

  Nervous! That’s not the word for that snivelling, snide fop. And his heart is a long way from good, with all those expressions of distaste when he thought no one could see. The only way I can think of his heart without crying aloud is to imagine it impaled on a fruit knife and that lace shirt of his getting redder by the minute.

  ‘I wish you safe,’ she continues. ‘Happiness can come later.’

  ‘Is that how it was for you?’ I cannot imagine my mother as a young girl, tripping over her feet in her hurry to be beside my father. The darkness around us lets me speak. If I could see her eyes, I would not be able to question her.

  ‘With me, it was the other way about. Oh, we were happy once, Annie. We each thought the other held our happiness tight. When we let go it fell and shattered.’ Her voice sinks to a whisper. ‘But I am safe now.’

  The baby wails nearby, and my mother is lost to me at once. The cry is a blanket thrown over her head, smothering her and obliterating everything else. Absently, her hands go to her tender breasts. The nurse appears on the landing, the child bundled up in her arms.

  ‘Mistress, she is hungry. Do you come?’ I see my mother torn between her two daughters for an instant, but that child’s tugging cry snares her and she cannot resist it. Shall I wail, too? If I started, I might not stop. With a hurried, ‘We will speak again soon, good night,’ she is gone.

  When I reach my room, I throw myself on the bed and bury my face in the cover. I want to scream, but I must not make a sound. I may not cry out, or fight, or protect myself. I hold my bolster tight and, when it is warm with my embracing it, I can imagine it is Fub, close to me. Close enough to kiss. I put my lips to its calico cover and whisper, ‘Oh my dearest, my darling.’ And the Fub-pillow answers, Shh, I am here. My own right hand stands for him, embracing me, stroking my shoulder, my hip, my breast. I wipe away my tears as he would and I promise myself that in time, soon, it will be his true hand caressing me and his real voice in my ear.

  There is little comfort in this, but I am a prisoner now in this cold house and must find warmth where I can.

  Chapter 9

  I dreamt that I was happy. On waking, though, I cannot remember why and when I try to retrieve the dream, it slips away as water leaks through your fingers, however tightly you hold them together. And just as quickly as those pleasant feelings fade, so the memories of last night’s events crowd in to my head. It is like watching a tragic play unfold and I do not like my part.

  As I dress, the little slip of paper for the priest falls to the floor. All that snaring of Onions so that he might pay court to me had put that errand from my father’s thoughts. I snatch it up. I have another reason to pass Levener’s door! And as I’m now sure of the route, I’ll not need an old soldier as my guide. I recall with a pang his look of sadness at Levener’s teasing and how he slunk away into the gloom when Fub and I stood together. There was kindness in his actions, he sought no recompense. If I lived in a different household I might tell my father of our adventures, then beg him to find my helpmeet and give him a reward. But if this was a different household, I would not be going as carefully as I am down the creaking staircase, anxious not to be discovered.

  As I get to the safe stone floor, I realise that each step of my exaggerated journey has been observed. Grace, the little nurse, is not confined to my mother’s room at my sister’s cot as she should be, but she stands in the hall, waiting for me. I am flustered, but turn, with as much purpose as I can muster, to the hooks by the door to fetch my bonnet. With my back to her, I take a deep breath so that I can turn back to face her with a calm demeanour. She in turn looks at me with some defiance. If we were playing cards, she would think she held the winning hand.

  ‘It is early, Mistress,’ she says, stepping forward. ‘Shall I fetch some bread for you?’

  She is a pretty girl. Without her usual preoccupying bundle I see her clearly. Under her little cap, her hair is gold and shining – some of it curls round her face – and her eyes are very blue. Her neat lips are pushed forward, as if they are about to speak or to kiss. There must be a queue of suitors waiting to take her from here and get her with her own child.

  ‘I am going to St Peter’s.’ I need not tell her more. In whom would she confide, anyway? Jane is too many years her senior and the servants in the next house come and go too much to gossip. Fub would pass the time with her, though. She is just the sort of girl to sit beside him for an evening, then kiss him too easily and for a little too long on the way home. His fingers could thread themselves in that shining hair, while her small hands stroked his dark head. I wish I could tell her to stay upstairs, or banish her altogether. When I am mistress of my house, I shall employ the ugliest servants I can find.

  ‘Ah, yes, the christening!’ Someone speaks to her and tells her what is happening in the household, then. Her life is not all handing over a baby to be fed, then mopping and wiping it after. I suppose during the long hours when the child sleeps, this girl must listen to my mother. ‘Yes, Grace,’ my mother would say, ‘Mr Onions is a possible suitor for Anne. In fact, he is the only suitor!’ They would laugh at this. ‘She is a difficult girl, isn’t she? Too cunning for her own good. Too unsettled. Having to manage a household in remote Derbyshire should quieten her, don’t you think? But now, let’s attend to little Evelyn, her sweet nature is already obvious. Look how she begins to smile!’

  I go to the door. It is still bolted and I fumble at the locks and keys. On her tiptoes, Grace unlocks the highest bolt, which sends her off balance and she falls against me. I can smell the starch of her petticoat and a tiny sourness from her pits. I stand stiffly while she recovers. She laughs nervously, then, seeing that I do not respond, she becomes serious.

  ‘Shall I say when you’ll return, if they ask?’

  It would only be my father asking, and I curse myself for not being kinder and softer to her just now. I don’t want my father wondering how I spent the long hours yesterday and why I was too tired to change my costume before dinner.

  ‘No need. I would rather you didn’t say you had seen me leave.’ A tiny raise of her yellow eyebrows. ‘I had intended to go to the priest yesterday, but I became very lost. Foolishly lost!’ I laugh at this, but it is too late for her to join in; she doesn’t trust me.

  ‘Do you know the way now?’ Her tone is a little arch. She must realise that the church is not far – she might even attend herself. She could be on her knees there thrice weekly for all I know.

  ‘I discovered the way when it was almost dark, so I thought I should return today. In daylight.’ This is enough explanation – if I carry on, I might reveal more than I mean to do. For a moment, I long to tell her everything. This is why girls go to their friends, I suppose, because it is hard to keep all this excitement to oneself. Oh, Grace, I went to Fub! He held my hand and gave me a flower! He danced a knife between my fingers with speed and skill, then cut me – here is the scar – to test my courage. Do you love a boy, Grace? Do your very organs contract at the thought of him? Will you walk over broken glass or crawl through
fire to reach him? But her little face is sly; she is as wily as I am. We would not play like kittens together but square up like vixens, and our screams would alarm the neighbours. I shall not let her have anything of me that she cannot see.

  ‘It is light enough now.’ I swing the door wide. ‘There is no need to speak of this. My father would be vexed at my stupidity.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ She doesn’t believe me, I can tell. She has seen my father scowl at me and preach his worst and I did not cower, so she knows that I am not afraid of him. There must be some other reason why I want to leave unseen. She is still curious and unsatisfied; she’d like to pick more at this sore.

  ‘You may close the door behind me.’ My instruction is cold. She gives a tiny shake of her head then curtsies. But she keeps her eyes on my face as I leave, hoping I give myself away. The hem of her dress is wet, she must have been out already in the early dew. She’ll not see much daylight again today.

  The route to the church is a straight enough one, and I remember it, although I had gone there only reluctantly before. On my last visit, I was mired in such grief for my brother that my eyes were almost closed with crying. I can see the road clearly now.

  Despite this breakfast hour, there are plenty of folk about, crowding round the coffee shops and chattering at the stalls. Their numbers thin as I approach the church, and by the time I tread the path to the door, I am alone. The huge heavy door is only slightly ajar, and it’s quite a struggle to push it further. A smell of wax, incense, dust and something floral is so thick in the air it’s almost visible. Not so any other person, for my footsteps sound loudly on the floor and even my skirt’s swish is distinctly audible. There are no candles lit, doubtless to save money, for, even though it is morning and daylight outside, within is fusty darkness and shadows. When one of these shadows becomes solid and speaks, I jump with alarm.

  ‘Ah, I startled you, I am sorry.’ The man in front of me is tall, dressed all in brown but with a priest’s white collar at his neck. I do not recognise him: in the time since that last most miserable attendance, my brother’s funeral, the keeper of the parish must have changed. He has been sitting on a nearby pew, but he was not praying there – unless it was to say grace. He has a large slice of cake in his hands. It is hard to manage and he cannot keep it in one piece; it splits softly in two. Cupping one hand beneath the other, he attempts to catch the crumbs, but the thing disintegrates with great speed, with most of it failing to reach his open mouth despite him lifting his hands up to get it there.