Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  “Thank you, Kornukope! What a surprise.”

  She seemed in a better mood today. They ate, drank their tea, and then Kornukope cleared away the bowls and trays. “I do not intend going so far as to wash up however,” he joked.

  “What exactly is this wager you joined last night?”

  “I remember Pantomile’s very words,” he replied. “If, one season from today, one of us returns to the Suicide Club with an explanation of human love that mankind – from East to West – can accept, they will take the pot. That is what he said.”

  “And you said to me, this is a test of our marriage that we can’t ignore.”

  “Yes… yes, I did,” he admitted.

  “And your meaning?”

  “Dearest one, we both agree that our marriage has become a trifle stale. It was an unpleasant realisation and a difficult one to admit to, and since then I have been wracking my brains to think of some method, some venture that would allow us to rekindle the spark we felt twenty years ago.”

  “I see.” She said it in the way that meant she did not approve.

  “I admit, I did it on the spur of the moment,” he said, “but as a member of the Suicide Club I cannot now revoke my word.” He leaned close and took her hand. “You mean much to me, Eastachia, but I do not seem to be able to explain why. Perhaps this is why our marriage has faded. Do not rebuke me. I am a philosopher by trade and by inclination. With you at my side to provide vital feminine insight, I will win this wager.”

  She smiled, and at last it seemed genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. You are a fool sometimes, Kornukope. How you got into philosophy I don’t know. But anyway, it seems I have no choice but to follow your lead.”

  “Suppose it rekindled our marriage. Would you not be truly glad?”

  She hesitated, then replied, “I suppose I would.”

  “Then we will take our season, and we will answer Pantomile’s challenge. We will discover what love is and broadcast our wisdom to the world. And that will make it a better place.” He laughed. “You know, I have always wanted to be a philanthropist.”

  “Will we use our house as our base?”

  He looked at her. “You mean, will we travel?”

  She nodded.

  “I really do not know. It is an open ended wager. Perhaps we will explore uncharted regions of human psyche, as they say Mr Freud does, and yet never leave these four walls. Or perhaps we shall travel to the southern tip of Indoo. What matters is that you are at my side, and I am at yours. I took on this wager as one half of a couple. I believe only a couple can discover what love is, and that is why I called you over to Bedwards House.”

  She sighed. “Indeed you did, and very late in the evening. I must say, that thin waif Juinefere Bedwards needs to know what love is.”

  “Do not drag her into this. She is a luckless specimen. Our season must be our season. We shall see what fate brings us.”

  “Kornukope! How many times have you told me you don’t believe in fate?”

  “Yes, yes… it was a figure of speech, no more.”

  She shook her head, and they both laughed. Kornukope rose to pick up the breakfast trays, but as he did his gaze flickered across the sash window that looked out over Hampstead Heath.

  “Great Oates!” he cried.

  “What is it?”

  He ran to the window and stared out. East Heath Road, the hedge behind it, and the entirety of the heath behind that were covered in hair, a thick cap of blonde hair that shimmered and waved like July wheat in the sun.

  He turned to her and said, “Everything is hairy!”

  At once he ran down the stairs and headed for his study, where lay one of the new-fangled telegraphical Psittacidae that Grubiander Tune had brought back from Jazziristan. He raised the device to his mouth, placing one of its tail feathers in his ear. “Get me Bedwards House,” he told the operator.

  The device parroted his words. Then he heard a tinny voice: “Connecting you to Bedwards House.” There was a click, a buzz, then a scratching sound. “Hello?”

  He cleared his throat. “Is that Gentleman Smyth?”

  “It is indeed, sir. Is that Mister Wetherbee?”

  “What the devil’s going on, Smyth? The whole place is covered in hair.”

  “Haven’t you seen the morning papers, sir? All of London is covered. The government are warning people to stay indoors.”

  Kornukope stood up straight. “I am a member of the Suicide Club. Nobody tells me to stay indoors.”

  “I was just repeating what the government said, sir.”

  “Yes, yes… quite. Listen, Smyth, how many of us chaps have made it to Bedwards House?”

  “None, sir. It is just me and Lady Bedwards.”

  Kornukope gasped. “Then, nobody can travel?”

  “It would seem not, sir.”

  “Sit tight, Smyth. There will be somebody along soon enough. Until then, do not do anything rash. If you feel a panic coming on, there is a secret whisky tot in the back of the three-eyed idol of Catmandoo. You know the one I mean?”

  “I do sir.”

  “You have my permission to swig from it. Until later, Smyth.”

  “Take good care, sir.”

  The connection closed with a click. Kornukope put the Psittacidae back into its cage, then walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Eastachia? London is hairy! We must go out to investigate. Wear something stout.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sheremy stared at the woman’s visage. She stared back at him.

  “Great heavens,” he said, “who the devil are you?”

  “I, sir, am Valantina Moondusst, and I would ask you not to speak to me in that tone of voice.”

  Sheremy’s mouth remained open. The woman was pretty, damned pretty, with big dark eyes and black hair down to her shoulders; if rather too forward for his liking. He took a deep breath and said, “You’ve taken a risk coming out into the street without a chaperone. This place is deadly, ma’am.”

  “A chaperone?” Valantina replied. She sounded almost scornful. “Times are changing. Some women have their own minds, you know. Their own ways.”

  “Yes, quite,” Sheremy said, not a little embarrassed. The woman must be some sort of Suffering activist. Inconvenient…

  “Though I do thank you for rescuing me,” Valantina continued. “I lost my footing, and, as you may know, once you are beneath the hair it is difficult to resurface.”

  “That fate has yet to befall me. But I’m glad to make your acquaintance – I’m Sheremy Pantomile, independently wealthy of Gough Square. I’m heading to Fleet Street to locate aerial transport, and I’d be happy to deliver you to your home.”

  “Where do you intend going?” she asked.

  “To the Royal Institute.”

  “That is where I am going. We should fly together.”

  Sheremy chuckled. “Your husband would object, I’m quite certain–”

  “I am unmarried, sir. Had you not noticed?”

  Sheremy glanced away, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. After a moment’s pause he said, “Let’s head for Fleet Street then. I’m sure I’d be glad to accompany you to the Institute.”

  She smiled at him, as if disbelieving his assertion. Sheremy shook his head. Dash it, so difficult to lie to a woman…

  “I will walk in your wake,” she said. “Lead on, Sheremy.”

  He ignored the familiar use of his forename, took a deep breath and began walking. “I find this rhythmical method works well,” he explained. “It tires the leg muscles, but not so much they’re left flabby and inutile.”

  “I will follow suit. Yes, it is not so difficult.”

  In Fleet Street they saw no aerial vehicles, but soon Sheremy heard a hissing that spoke of one of the old steam engines beloved of the Bismarckian potentates; and before he knew it a Teutonic legerdemain hoved into view, piloted by a crusty old whammer with a union jack sticking out of his helmet.

  “One of ours,” Sher
emy said. “Sir!” he called, waving at the old codger. “Sir, we need a ride to the Royal Institute. I have monies!”

  The legerdemain hung in the air, enshrouded by clouds of steam. Through the hissing, clanking din the old man called down, “I’m headed in that direction. Allow me to let down a rope ladder. But wait, is that a lady?”

  “I can climb a rope ladder,” Valantina said.

  “This lady is the adventuresome type,” Sheremy explained. “Be of good will and allow her egress, dear fellow.”

  “Oh… very well. Climb aboard.”

  Once aboard, Sheremy looked around. The vehicular spoon in which they stood was spacious, with brass pistons pumping at the railings and a central jardinière in which the fuel grew. The old man – Kurv Anekdoat by name, though terse by inclination – refused to allow Valantina to make payment, insisting that such an act would be dishonourable. Valantina withdrew, annoyed.

  Sheremy looked out across the city as Kurv piloted the legerdemain. Though he could make out certain landmarks, they were muted, fuzzy, as if the hairy plague covered all; shiny and well groomed in places, elsewhere greasy, like the mangy coat of an old Dachshund. He drew Valantina to his side and said, “See over there, where the river bank should be brown and muddy.”

  “All I can see is hair drifting like kelp,” Valantina replied. “Oh, whatever will become of the metropolis?”

  “Don’t worry,” Sheremy said. “Those chaps at the Institute will tell us the whys and wherefores.”

  “And if they do not?”

  “I’ll damn well discover them myself!”

  Valantina smiled, and Sheremy realised she admired his spontaneous enthusiasm. He smiled back. Damn, she was pretty. Headstrong no doubt, but quite the charmer, and curvaceous as a cello in her trousers and lace-trimmed combination.

  “I believe this fresh air is doing you some good,” he said, “if the rosiness of your cheeks is anything to go by.”

  She smiled again. “Your moustache has piston grease on it.”

  Sheremy wiped his upper lip, shrugged, then decided he could not be bothered to care about so trifling an embarrassment. “All part of the floating life,” he joked.

  Kurv let them off at the Institute, landing them on the upper steps, which retained only a thin fuzz, like the almost-beard of a youth. A top-hatted gopher carrying a magnetic speak-o-mat led them to the front door. “Are you here to visit anyone in particular, sir?”

  “Not really,” Sheremy replied.

  The gopher looked surprised, but let them pass anyway, whispering like a spy into his magnetic blarer.

  “Telling the profs inside we’re here and not to be trusted, no doubt,” Sheremy told Valantina. He felt annoyed. He was a Pantomile, after all.

  Inside the building a tall, dark man approached, his black frock coat and supercilious expression telling Sheremy that here was a man to frustrate their plans, if not crush them.

  “Good morning,” Sheremy said, clicking his heels and bowing to the man. “I’m Sheremy Pantomile, and this is my travelling companion Valantina Moondusst.”

  “How may I assist you?” the man asked.

  “Dear fellow, the hairy plague of course. Is it dangerous?”

  “We really aren’t giving out that kind of information to the public.”

  Sheremy sighed. So irritating. He shrugged, then said, “Very well. My friends at the Suicide Club won’t–”

  “The Suicide Club? You dine at Bedwards House?”

  Sheremy nodded.

  “Then I must apologise. I didn’t realise. My half brother is Franclin Spar-Turney. You’ll know him, of course.”

  “Yes, dear Franclin! Why I saw him only last week. Then…?”

  The man took him by the elbow and guided him into a lantern-lit corridor. “Yes, yes, come along, both of you. I’m Thitherto Frenulum, Assistant Chief Zoologist. But I believe I know you now. Aren’t you the man who retrieved the Rajah’s selenograph from the Temple of Azure Lick?”

  “I say,” Sheremy mumbled, affecting a modest stance, “I suppose I did rather retrieve that one, yes.”

  “And is it true about the return of Pharad–”

  “I don’t know. He keeps his own counsel.”

  Thitherto looked embarrassed. “Quite, quite…”

  Valantina cleared her throat and said, “Is London to be drowned in hair, Mr Frenulum?”

  “We don’t know. Our scientists are baffled. It seems too fantastic to have a basis in science, but what else are we to use in our investigations? Spiritualism? I think not!”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “As we speak my research zoologists are taking specimens of the hair, that we might analyse them with our microbooms. The nature of these specimens will determine the course of our work. But I must warn you. London is in great peril. After a few days there will be shortages. Some of us fear a Cockneigh uprising.”

  “Yes, they do get hungry,” Sheremy observed. “But that eventuality is some time off, or I’m no explorer. Tell me, d’you need assistance here?”

  “Men of the Suicide Club are always welcome!”

  “Excellent. Then, dear fellow, the good lady Moondusst and myself are at your disposal.”

  Thitherto looked both pleased and perplexed. After a moment’s thought he said, “It is yet early. I’m not sure what I could offer you. But do stay and take tea in the canteen with us.” He glanced at an aquaboon. “It’s almost eleven.”

  The canteen was a circular chamber decorated with jasper fortitude and set with wooden tables in the Turkish mode. On these tables silver salvers salivated tea, which was collected, rather slowly, in porcelain divots; and from these divots they sipped, while goon-coated serving girls brought and proffered cherry scones. Sheremy noted how every girl wore the white hat of the caked.

  “Decent spot of tea,” he said.

  Thitherto nodded. “From Darn Jeeling in Indoo,” he explained. “We own millions of slaves there.”

  “Remarkable!”

  A short woman approached, then sat next to Thitherto. “This is Oxphordia Drome,” he explained, “our most experienced anatomist.”

  Pushing her hands through her salt-and-pepper hair, Oxphordia said, “I studied comparative anatomy at Cambridge.”

  Sheremy raised his eyebrows. He had no idea women were allowed to study science. Just the arts, surely? “Remarkable,” he murmured.

  “Oxphordia is on the hairy team alongside me and some others,” Thitherto explained.

  “I hope to discover the rooting mechanism of the hair,” Oxphordia explained. “Once these samples come back… if I can just find a few hairs with their roots still on, well, my job will be so much easier.”

  “Might we assist you?” Sheremy asked.

  “I’m sure there is something you could be doing, yes.”

  But before Sheremy could reply there came a thumping on the canteen door, the sound of raised voices, and then a strangled shriek. They all jumped to their feet. Sheremy turned to see a fat, round-faced man enter the canteen, dressed in the silver buttoned dark-coat of a police officer. He wore a curtailed bobbycap, massive boots and had a number of pairs of handcuffs dangling from his belt, jangling below his paunch like so many metal rabbits.

  The officer approached Sheremy. “Mr Pantomile is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr Sheremy Pantomile of Gough–”

  “Yes, yes, officer, what is it? Did my man McTevish send you?”

  “Ooh, I don’t know, who am I to say?”

  Sheremy glanced in perplexed silence at Valantina, then gave a small shrug. “What d’you want with me?”

  The officer took a notebook from his pocket. “I’m Murchison Volume of the Yard. I’m arresting you–”

  “Arresting me? What for?”

  “On suspicion of dealing in drugs.”

  “Drugs? What drugs?”

  “Opium of course. Now, if you don’t struggle, these handcuffs won’t hurt. If you do, they will. It’s yo
ur choice Mr Pantomile.”

  ~

  Velvene, a member of the Suicide Club since its inception, knew how to pilot a bovine Archimedean floating system. The morning winds were strong and from the south west, meaning that his hope of passing, even landing on, Bedwards House was reasonable. What amazed him though was the state of London below. The streets were choked with hair, the buildings covered with hair, even the gardens and parks were hirsute. He stared, unable to believe his eyes.

  But too soon he approached the Strand, and too soon he passed over Kingsway. The winds veered to the south and strengthened, and he dared not descend for fear of crashing into a building; already he floated over Holborn.

  “Damn it!” he shouted as he over-burned the heatorix to gain altitude.

  Over St Pancras he floated, until the winds eased and he was able to descend, but soon he saw Camden Town to his left and Kentish Town ahead. Too many buildings, too much danger. The machinora lowed as its stays creaked and the wicker capacity below it swung in the wind, but then he saw Highgate Cemetery, wreathed in morning mist. He could land there at low risk to himself.

  Operating the udder jets he forced the machinora to descend, until mist shrouded him, the temperature dropped and visibility was reduced to twenty yards. Then ten yards. With a jolt the machinora hit the ground, the wicker capacity dragging into the earth, leaving plough marks like brown cuts in the green. Then smash. Straight into a mausoleum. Velvene jumped out, frightened that the heatorix would blow up. He hauled out the clay figure then grabbed his belongings and threw them on the ground, leaping out of the capacity just as fire enveloped the heatorix. He could do no more. Ablaze, the machinora went up with a final, despairing low and a delicious smell of roast beef.

  Velvene collapsed to the ground, weeping as the cumulative effect of his mother’s declaration and his escape took hold; and now a brush with death and the loss of his precious machinora. It was too much for a gentleman to take.

  At length he stood up, putting his small belongings into his pockets and settling his rucksack more comfortably on his back. But although morning progressed, the mists of Highgate Cemetery did not lift, and he began to worry, knowing the reputation of the place. Not even the locals dared enter it after sundown.