“But the thing is,” he continued, “I thought I might love her. It made me ponder such matters… after all, I am on Pantomile’s wretched wager, discovering the nature of love. If that babushka witch can fool me, why not anybody else?”
“You mean, me?”
Kornukope nodded. “I suspect that I love you,” he replied, “and I am certain I did when we were married, but how do I know?”
“Kornukope, we’ve been married for–”
“Yes, yes! Dearest one, do not fob me off. The whole idea of this cursed jaunt was for us to reinvigorate our marriage, even our lives, was it not? Such has been done, in the vilest, most perilous manner. I need to understand this before the season is out. If Zarina can fool me, why not any woman? What words can I place before Sir Hoseley Fain and Lord Blackanore to convince them that I have penetrated the secret of true love?”
Eastachia, despite her shock, grasped the sincerity of Kornukope’s words. He was a philosopher, after all. In a calm voice she replied, “You’ll find the words. If Zarina has taught you anything, it must be that love can’t be faked. In the end, Kornukope, she would have buckled under the weight of her act.”
He looked at her, and nodded. “Yes, yes, you are right. But such an open-ended statement will not pass muster. It is not proof.”
“Perhaps the problem is insoluble.”
“Then we are doomed.”
“As long as we’re happy.”
Kornukupe nodded.
There was a click, then a door appeared in one of the white walls. In walked a man with the front half of a fish for a head.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sheremy saw that it was indeed the dreaded Cockneigh Uprising in all its awful majesty. The explosion had been created from mashed potatoes, while the joannas were transported on steam-driven eelograms. Hundreds of Cockneighs swarmed across the hair of Whitechapel High Street, so many in fact that the hair was plastered down by mud and moisture, becoming little more obstacle than a Spitalfields Zephyr.
“Trapped,” Sheremy wailed. “Trapped, and so close to home.”
By now the outliers of the uprising were near, and two fat women dressed in nightshirts and carrying flaming torches approached them.
“’Oo are yer?” one asked.
“Speak to them, speak to them,” Sheremy whispered, nudging Missus forward.
“Don’t you go mistakin’ me for one o’ them,” Missus said, annoyed. “I’m the daughter of a princess, remember?”
“But they’re your… type.”
An expression of anger passed into Missus’ face, but before she could reply the fat woman said, “Well I recognise your type, mister. You’re a nob, even if yer lady ain’t. I’m gonna march yer both to the Pearly King and Queen.”
“No,” Sheremy said, “we’re innocent bystanders.”
Serjeant Cough had risen to his feet. He said, “They are innocent.”
But the fat woman used handcuffs to shackle Sheremy to her side, while Missus was treated similarly by the other. “Well, they’re ours now,” the fat woman informed Serjeant Cough.
They were marched back into Old Castle Street, through the thousands of Cockneighs swarming south: flaming torches, shouting, looting. The din deafened them. So many people had passed along the street that its hair was little more than a soaking mat of bedraggled pelt, in terrible condition and in need of a wash.
Before long they found themselves in Houndsditch, where Sheremy saw an encampment guarded by growling dogs. At the edge of the street they paused while one of the fat women walked forward; respectfully, Sheremy noticed. A marquee stood in the centre of the street, made of canvas covered with hundreds of thousands of sequins, that shone in flambeau light, making the fabric look like burnished copper. Despite himself, Sheremy was impressed. Scared, too.
The fat woman returned. “All right, froons,” she said, “follow me, tight loike. And no funnies. Else it’s poker time.”
“I understand,” Sheremy said, not understanding a word, though he guessed the woman’s meaning from her tone of voice.
They were led inside the marquee, where Sheremy saw people dressed in leather jackettes and curtles, drinking mugs of foaming brew. Dischordant joanna music plinky-plonked from some distant instrument. Then the people parted and Sheremy saw two pearl-garbed figures seated on low thrones smeared with jelly.
He gasped. They were darkies.
“Hot damn!”
The darkie man stood up, brushing dust off his costume. “No damnin’,” he replied. “Me Babylon Ting-Willum, Pearly King an’ leader of de Cockneigh Uprisin’. Skilled in philosophy, singin’ an’ politickin’. An’ you be?”
Sheremy did not know what to say. All the experience he had of Missus, all the mistakes he had made with her, all the stupid things he had said about her mixed parentage, her class, her inability to write… he saw them now as pure foolery. He bent low on one knee and replied, “Sir, there is a canker at the heart of this city. I’m not talking about the hairy plague, I’m talking about the stranglehold rich people, landed gentry and other toffs have on power. I’m only a small fry noble – lesser gentry if you like – but I’ve learned a lot about the real state of London. And, your majesty, I don’t like what I see.”
“What you sayin’?”
Sheremy stood up and took Missus’ hand in his, pulling her towards him. “Is your uprising aimed at Whitehall, sir? Because if it is, I’m on your side.”
“What your name?”
“Sheremy Pantomile, of the Suicide Club, and other, less famous organisations.”
The Pearly King was impressed by this. “Our uprisin’ aimed at food store mostly,” he said, “but, yeah, when de people fed… we march on de Government.”
Sheremy gazed at the Pearly King. “We should speak in private, sir.”
The Pearly King nodded then clicked his fingers. A minute later only Sheremy, Missus and the Pearlies stood inside the marquee.
“Sir,” Sheremy continued, “I’ve escaped Bedlam, pushed through all manner of hair, struggled with the fogs and games of Old Father Thames, faced war in Limehouse and tangled with Jacques the Raper. I’ve seen a few things. And this woman at my side is my intended – yes, though she’s half Indoo. You see, I’ve realised that it’s not important, how you look. What matters is what you do.”
“Dem fine words,” said the Pearly King. “I likin’ it. So, what can you do to help de uprisin’?”
“I have the ears of many of the rich and powerful in London. I’m a member of the Suicide Club, which is located in the residence of Lady Juinefere Bedwards–”
“Dat lady!” the Pearly King said. “Dis good. She got many friend in Downin’ Street.”
“Exactly,” said Sheremy.
“You’s never told me any of this,” Missus complained.
“My dear, when could I possibly have told you?”
She shrugged, then smiled. “True,” she admitted. She squeezed his hand.
“I seein’ good love ’tween you two,” the Pearly King said. “Dis bode well. We intend goin’ west into da city, find good food. Den eat it.”
Sheremy nodded. “And when the poor and starving people have been satiated,” he said, “we’ll talk politics. And your majesty, I shall be your messenger.” He paused for thought. “It won’t be easy however. The upper reaches of London society are so hidebound you could build a small town on them. But we’ll succeed. We’ll succeed because we’ve got right on our side.”
“Oh Sheremy,” Missus said, fanning her flushed face with one hand, “I do believes I’m fallin’ in love with you!”
He turned to face her. “And me you,” he said. “And not because I have a wager to win.”
“A wager?”
“The small matter of ninety nine percent of my fortune. But fear not my dear, with you at my side I can’t fail.”
~
Velvene trudged along the narrow lane that led to Orchardtide Manor, the great country estate of the Orchardtides
at Tring. Ahead of him walked a woman that he thought he recognised, Lily-Bette Spoonworthy, but it could not be her; she was long gone from his life.
Dandelion seeds blew in the breeze. He let his hand brush the honeysuckle growing around saplings in the road verge, the sun warm on his face, his body at rest, his mind wandering he knew not where; nor did he care, for he was far away from the noise and the chaos, with not a worry in the world.
The wrought iron gate of the manor appeared as he rounded a corner. A few yards ahead, Lily-Bette’s dark blue dress shimmered, birds singing above and around her as she walked. Her honey-blonde hair seemed to glow in the sunlight. It was, he thought, one of her most attractive features.
Lily-Bette opened the gate so that he could walk through. The brass plate to the side of it read: Orchardtide Manor Sanatorium For The Mentally Affected. He was not sure what that meant, so he ignored it.
They walked side by side down the road leading to the manor. It took some time, passing copses and herds of deer as they progressed, but after a while he saw the house ahead, and he smiled. They spoke not a word to one another, Velvene too occupied by the sensation of tranquillity to disturb the peace. At the front of the house he saw a number of horseless carriages, and then, on the steps, a tall, thin man of middle age wearing a frock coat and brown loafers.
“Welcome to Orchardtide Manor,” the man said. “I’m Dr Hogbristle.”
Velvene grinned. “I wanted to come home,” he said.
Dr Hogbristle nodded. “Of course you did. You were a private, I take it?”
“A private? Oh, you mean in the army. Yes. Velvene Orchardtide, 394-55.”
Dr Hogbristle put a hand on Velvene’s shoulder to guide him into the building. “And your real name?”
“Well, my real name is Velvene Orchardtide. I grew up here.”
“Of course you did. As it happens Mr… er, Orchardtide, you’ll find a lot of men convinced they grew up round here. The important thing is to rest and recover your composure. I’ll see you later and explain a few things.”
Velvene glanced around the hall. “Where is Lily-Bette?”
“Who?”
“Lily-Bette, who flew me here and walked me down the front road.”
In a low voice Dr Hogbristle said, “You arrived alone, Mr Orchardtide.”
“But she flew me here in the chameleon machinora.”
“Yes, we have a lot of men convinced they flew here.”
Velvene, now rather concerned, looked up and down the entrance hall, noticing that all the paintings had gone. “Where are all the pictures, eh?”
“This house was requisitioned some time ago by the government,” Dr Hogbristle explained. “I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll defeat old Kaiser Bill.”
Velvene made no reply. He was starting to worry; and deep down inside there was a feeling – a familiar feeling – threatening to rise up and explode out of him. He thought he heard rifle fire. At the further end of the corridor he saw men walking, all of them with white bandages around their heads, many of them walking with the aid of sticks.
“I want some tea,” he said.
The next thing he knew he was sitting in a chair in a private room, which he recognised as the music room. But now there were no harpsichords, no lutes, no collection of original Böhm flutes.
“Where am I, eh?” he said.
A woman entered the room, dressed in white gown, with a white cap on her head. “I’m Nurse Spoonworthy,” she said.
“Lily-Bette!”
“Oh, Velvene, I’ve been so terribly worried about you.”
“Lily-Bette, what are you doing here?”
She replied, “I volunteered to be a nurse, helping injured soldiers. You only just survived, Velvene. I’ve been half mad through worry.”
“But why, eh?”
“I thought you might die, and I shouldn’t want that.”
Velvene frowned. This could not be Lily-Bette, could it? Their friendship had ended a few years ago, when he joined the Suicide Club and she got engaged to Barrington Great-Spottle. It simply could not be her.
He said, “Did you fly me here in the machinora?”
Lily-Bette handed him a silver tray on which lay a glass of water and two white tablets. “Take these, Velvene dear,” she said. “I’ve got other patients to see, but I’ll come back. I’ll be keeping a special eye on you.”
“Thank you,“ Velvene said as he swallowed the tablets and drank the water.
Lily-Bette left, and a few moments later Dr Hogbristle walked in. He sat on a chair next to Velvene and said, “Now then, how are we feeling? All a bit confusing is it?”
“Where did you put the harpsichords, eh?”
“You’ve got a bad dose of shell shock I’m afraid. Gets a lot of soldiers, you know. The important thing is to keep taking the tablets. I’m hoping you’ll remember who you are, where you live, that kind of thing, but I’m afraid some soldiers never come round. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news old chap, but it could happen to you. Still, there’s always hope, isn’t there? It’s not like you’ve lost your legs or anything. Reports coming in of gigantic Huns spraying poison gas on our lads, and that’s not sportsmanlike. Could be you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“Lucky,” Velvene repeated. “What happened to old Chock? He loved his country, you know. Did he pull through?”
“Oh, I expect so. Look, I must dash, so see you later!”
“Wait, wait! Do you have a nurse called Miss Spoonworthy?”
Dr Hogbristle paused for thought, then said, “Could be. Doesn’t ring a bell just at the moment though. Ta ta!”
Velvene sat in silence. For a while he tried to imagine the sound of music, as once had echoed around this very room, but he found the effort too much. It was more relaxing just to sit in the chair and do nothing.
After a while he became bored, so he walked out of the room and into the corridor, which lay empty from end to end. The reverberated voices of nurses and weeping soldiers echoed without cease. He walked to the nearest door and stepped outside. This was the rose garden. Just along the way lay the walled garden. The sun was warm, shining in a cloudless blue sky, so he decided to go for a stroll.
Then, glancing into a pond, he saw his reflection. He fell to his knees, staring at the apparition.
“Oh, dear God! I have not shaved for days!”
He staggered to his feet and ran back into the house, clattering up the stairs to the nearest bathroom, ignoring the shouts of bandaged soldiers and women in white coats. In the bathroom he searched with shaking hands for a brush, shaving foam and a razor. He found a small leather bag: shaving brush, razor! There was a sliver of soap on the sink. That would have to do.
But his hands would not stop shaking. Leaning over the sink, he forced himself to calm. “Steady, Velvene. It is only a touch of the shakes. Probably one too many Bordeaux spritzers last night, eh?”
He soaped his stubble and shaved. Not too bad, only one cut. He sighed: relaxed. He washed his face and walked downstairs, returning to the rose garden.
The sun shone. He felt better. But he noticed there was a hint of a beard on the steps behind him, that had not been there before.
In the walled garden he found Lily-Bette sitting alone on a seat, so he strode up to her and said, “All by yourself? We must not have that.”
“Velvene dear,” she replied, “how are you coping?”
“Well enough now that I have had a shave. I looked like a monster! Goodness only knows what I might have done if that had been allowed to stay.”
She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re always so well groomed, Velvene dear. I do declare you must spend an hour in the bathroom every morning. But you’ve cut yourself, are you hurt?”
“Just a slight nick, nothing to worry about. Shall we walk on, eh?”
Arm in arm they perambulated around the walled garden, before Velvene decided a stroll in the pear garden might be pleasant. It lay empty and silent before him,
the trees loaded with fruit.
“I used to play shove-badminton here,” he said.
He shuddered. Something horrible writhed in the depths of his mind.
“Still, that is enough about… that,” he muttered.
“Why Velvene dear, whatever is the matter?”
Velvene felt pain throb along his temples. He stopped, leaned over, and the pain departed. “I think it is just a lack of food,” he said.
“Shall we return? There are bloaters and tomato castles left over from lunch.”
The pain returned. “Oh, goodness Lily-Bette, I do not feel at all well.”
“What is the matter? Tell me! You can trust me, Velvene dear, I’m your Lily-Bette.”
Velvene leaned over again, his hands on his knees. A dark shadow was gathering in the back of the pear garden, something he could see from the corner of his eye, but which refused to remain still, solid… and now he felt sick.
He said, “Perhaps not the bloaters just now.”
He looked down at the grass. Hair was growing, entwining with the weeds, covering the lawn, springing up everywhere.
“I feel dizzy. I want to lie down.”
“I shall lead you back to the house,” Lily-Bette replied. “You can lie in your bed and sleep for a while. We’ve got laudanum, you know.”
Velvene fell over. “Dr Hogbristle will fill me up with laudanum and I will become half-dead,” he groaned. “I just need to get away from here.”
“Dr Hogbristle is not the director of this place,” Lily-Bette replied in a firm voice. “You can always appeal to his superior.”
“Who is his superior, eh?”
“Why, the dragon of the top floor. Didn’t you know?”
~
The man with the fish for a head said, “I am to take you to Pysgod.”
“Who are you?” Eastachia replied.
The man turned without answering, so they followed him through a maze of corridors to a small room painted blue. The man opened a door in this room and gestured them through. They walked into a submarine wonderland.
The chamber was glass-topped and seemed to be quite near the surface of the lake, if the dim, oscillating sunbeams were anything to go by. Fish swam everywhere in the water outside. Inside the chamber there were blue couches, blue chairs, blue tables and blue desks, while the lighting was provided by azure lanthorns. But much else filled the place, and it was the ephemera of the outside world: implements, stuffed animals, crockery, bricks and stone, even scientific instruments. In the middle of this chaos sat a small, pale, bald man in what appeared to be an indigo horseless carriage.
Hairy London Page 20
