‘She had such extraordinary style that she could stand up against all the demons she raised in confirmation of her own strength. The crisis, of course, came in a battle-to-the-death with that monumental slug, Aleister Crowley, the most authentic of fakes – and in the battle’s more deadly analogue, her addiction. She saw – and this was unbelievable to me – in her prophetic sufferings, the visionary nature of this swampland hill, this bone-mound. She saw it as it ought to be: an unviolated site, temenos, ring of trees; antler-crowned about a river of trout and darting sunlight.’
The Voice was fulfilled. It yielded. In the artificially charged silence that followed, the seat across from me began to bleach and fade. Colour was sucked from the cloth: it crackled like water-resistant skin. It was brilliant and white; taking the form of a mourning cloth, or cloak. It was a coat, inhabited, shaped, lifting with the warmth of a human presence – but empty, self-supporting.
Earth ran on to the floor of the carriage, like a shower of sand. I saw the outline of a girl emerging from a fault in the upholstery. Head hung down, her long red hair covered her face. Her dancer’s legs stretched out along the seat. She was startlingly pale, powdered in arsenic, white lead. Her lips were blue. Her skin had dried, and cracked like paint. Another Antigone, this girl had been buried alive: to honour her brother’s death, and her father’s crime. Therefore, she lived; trapped in the memory of life. Unlike David Rodinsky, who – building his own grave – walked free. Alive, he had been a dead man: clay in his mouth, ‘hesitant in conversation’. Now the room absorbed his pain.
I knew that I was looking at Edith Cadiz, the invented (and self-inventing) victim. I had no idea how to release her, or how to procure my own escape.
‘Corpse-maggot! Suckler of Semites!’ A distant male growl – gravel and lethargy – forced the succubus to shift and falter, to adopt a more martial form. Under these accusations, Edith Cadiz became Mary Butts. ‘Soror Rhodon: the faithless, red-haired grub who rejected my cakes of light.’ Aleister Crowley had been summoned, to complete a forgotten quarrel. There could be no advance without the intervention of this contrary.
Too ripe: the ribs of the carriage collapse. The succubus is provoked to reveal her other face. Melting wax flesh. Scarlet cap of hair. A viscid, pus-queen slithering, yellow, from the wounded steel. Breath of decay. A grey, mutton-ooze sweating from her hands. The compartment darkens and shrinks. Light is repulsed. The seats swell, crushing us together. I taste the mud and the poisoned spines. Her sharpened nails are dragging across the conjunctival membrane of my eye. I no longer have place in this, even as an unreliable witness. I do not possess the technical language to justify the completion of my account.
Now the male thing rolls and lisps; stuttering its obscenities over the insect-ka of the woman. It probes, blind, for a thoracic duct from which to drink. We are enclosed in a ‘formless horror’; lost to the world. The window panels smoke to slate. The whole box is no bigger than a fist: or a camera with a capped lens. We stick to the coated film, like flies. Butts invokes her master, the Assyrian bull-demon.
The train shudders in fever, its woodwork creaking and splintering. The roof tears away like skin on a custard. The night rushes through us. The wheels glow to scarlet over the melting track. Uprooted trees hurtle against the side of the carriage. It cannot be sustained. The wind drops and, in the stillness and the painful silence, the landscape gets away. Buildings are sand-slides, scrub-woods replace them, flake and peel, are themselves replaced by fires, snowstorms, bears, wolves, shapeless predators.
Our eyes are covered by the leaking terracotta of our hands. Night and day are a single moment. Our throats obediently anticipate future terrors. The train is a projectile fired through damage and hurt. The unrecovered desolation of Stratford. The fire raids. Phantom bombers dropping below cloud cover to follow the quisling ribbon of mercury that is the Thames: to target destruction on the wharfs and refineries of Silvertown and Custom House. Gaunt churches stand in fields of ruin. The dead chatter like starlings in the flight path of rockets. The purgatory of George Gissing smoulders around us: ‘pest-stricken regions of East London, sweltering in sunshine which served only to reveal the intimacies of abomination; across miles of a city of the damned… stopping at stations which it crushes the heart to think should be the destination of any mortal; the train made its way at length beyond the outmost limits of dread…’
And if there is a destination, beyond the nightmare, it is North Woolwich; graveyard of engines. I step out, tentatively, on to the morning platform. The fresh chill of the river greets me. Cold, clear sunlight outlining a reassuring solidity of objects: benches, barriers, bricks in the wall. The Telecom ‘saucers’ lift like promiscuous mushrooms; rat-bitten on the stalk. Everything has been swept, scrubbed, polished; made safe. The station is now a Museum of Steam, a tamed mirror-version that would deny its own madness. We are soothed; we enter a past that is narcotic, careful to avoid any engagement with present furies. It removes itself, with condescension, from the debate of opposites; remaining an attractive fossil. North Woolwich is nowhere, sleep’s terminal: I welcome it.
V
Too weak to resist, I made my way towards the Old Station Museum; an obtusely grand sibling of Greenwich, boasting its nautical connections, eager to service the fashionable crowds destined for dances and assignations in the Royal Victoria Gardens. The style is ‘Italianate’, ennobled in its senility, because it has survived, because it can be favourably compared with more utilitarian sheds and shelters. We are invited to admire the four Doric pilasters, the acanthus-decorated brackets, and the rusticated quoins – while dodging juggernauts and burger vans as they hot-pedal to make the ferry.
The welcome inside the Museum is unnerving, quite unlike the assault course on offer in any functioning station. There are no mere travellers to clog up the works, irritatingly wanting to go somewhere: the immaculately presented staff can give their undivided attention to the ‘day-release’ nondescripts who wander in to escape the weather. I keep my head down, avoiding interrogation; passing, with significant pauses, among the cases of old tickets, scale models, shovels, buckets, overnight bedpans, heavyweight soup plates (porcelain disci) from the days when soup was still on the menu. I veer gratefully into the unattended Ladies’ Waiting Room, where a section has been set aside to celebrate ‘Notable Marine Disasters’.
And it was immediately borne in on me – by the chief exhibit – that I had grievously misdirected my original version of the tragedy of the Princess Alice: Gravesend Reach was Innocent, OK? I needed to relocate upsteam, call for a Second Unit, overtime; push against the tide from Northfleet Hope, Greenhithe, Erith Rands, Frog Island, through Barking Reach to Tripcock Ness, a mile below Woolwich.
The Alice left Sheerness at 7.40 P.M., put in at Gravesend without incident, passed the Powder Magazine and the Beckton Gas Works, holding to mid-stream; the sun ahead of her, leading her, dropping – like a fireball – on the city, breaking the stones into living clusters of light. To starboard: the jaunty boasts of a military march reverberate across the flinching water from the pleasure gardens; strolling couples linger by the river wall. A woman notices a three-masted collier, discharging black smoke, cutting inevitably towards the Alice, as she positions herself to come alongside the pier. Her gentleman friend, indulgent, squeezes her bare shoulder, explains the technicalities of the well-rehearsed manoeuvre that makes any collision impossible. The rules of the river.
‘It was like a spasm, a whirpool.’ The head of the ship lifted out of the water like the jaws of a great shark, passengers slid helplessly down the black shaft: the Thames was ‘like a sarcophagus’. A strong ebb tide ran some of the bodies back down to Rainham and the Ferry Boat Inn. The limbs of the dead ones moving in the wash of the sinking vessel. ‘They appeared to be swimming.’ Halfway Reach; they gave up the ghost to Dagenham and Hornchurch Marshes; were laid out on the tables of the pub: an indigestible feast.
I fled: escaping from the accumulated evide
nce to the scene of the crime. Away from the station, out along the riverside, towards Gallions Reach and the guilty Thames: an exquisite, still morning, sunlight disguising the squalor, varnishing the slogans on concrete, the upside-down motors sinking in mud, the corrugated fences, blinded buildings, drills and excavators. On the south shore the born-again hills shone with promises, releasing the names of power from grim chains of circumstance, Lesnes Abbey Woods, Belvedere, Temple. It was beyond me; I was drained of energy. I turned back.
In one of the cases in the Old Station Museum they keep the artefacts recovered from the river, small traces of the human snatched back from the swoops of fate. There is, for example, the corroded outline of a key, salvaged from the wreck of an East Indiaman, the Albion, put out from Gravesend, 16 January 1765, ran aground, gulled into following the Horsedon, standing fast with ‘no signal of distress’; waiting for the tide to carry her off the sandbanks. We don’t have the key itself, only the chemical reaction that it caused. The ruin that surrounds it. The shape of its absence. The chest, to which it grants access, remains buried in the silt of the seafloor.
I did not yet feel ready to face the journey up the line to Hackney; I cheated by directing myself through the door that led to the fake station. The clerk in the ticket office was decently subservient: he was sculpted from wax – brushed, laundered, trimmed, his hair sleeked with axle grease. He was so obliging that our transaction did not require the usual lengthy consultation of the Book of Changes, or the ritual snarl of insults. Let us hope these men become part of the standard fixtures and fittings on the New Railways. Cancellations can be left on a prerecorded loop.
I sauntered, unchallenged, on to the platform of this unreal terminus; denied myself the bench labelled ‘Angel Road’ (I leave Hypothania, the domain of angels, to Joblard), and sat instead in a restored Victorian carriage, to wait for a steam engine that would never arrive. I whiled away the time by studying the postcard I had purchased, Tenniel’s prophetic illustration, ‘Alice in the Train’. There was enough material here to last me a decade.
The details by which Tenniel’s ‘box set’ diverge from Lewis Carroll’s studiously surreal text indicate minor but significant shifts in interpretation. It is easy to believe that Tenniel’s image preceded the author’s account of it. The artist crops the compartment to eliminate the inessential players; he tightens the drama, sponsoring an almost lurid element of suspense. The Beetle, seated beyond the Goat, is replaced by the artist’s monogram (a dead Beatle?). The Horse (hoarse), whose voice is a disturbing (if familiar) pun, is also dispensed with – but we can only enter the scene from his point of view. He is the unremarked double of the Guard who leans in at the window. Carroll lets it be known that the Horse is male. Of course.
The two travellers in whom Tenniel does feign an interest are ‘the gentleman opposite’ and the Goat. The gentleman (described in the text as being ‘dressed in white paper’) is depicted in a perfectly proper white suit, a Suez Canal speculator. He ghosts the popular Punch-icon of Disraeli; civilized, worldly, Semitic, with a wisp of beard – kissing cousin to the Goat. His hat is a folded triangle of paper; a pyramid, a toy imperial yacht. The words ‘white paper’ perhaps gave Tenniel the executive hint he elevated into a full-blown caricature. His oily nabob leers disagreeably over the top of his journal, which is innocent of print – an obvious voyeur’s trick, these folded blank sheets disguise something peculiar and repellent, artichoke-leaved, that is emerging from the Gentleman’s waistcoat pocket. His unequivocal designs on Alice will supply the missing headlines for the scandal sheet: in this case, certainly, no news is good news.
The Goat bides his time, masking his folklore attributes in a show of sleep. These dreams are better left unvisited. But the position of the Gentleman’s crossed leg, with bulky folds of material at the knee, supplies the Goat with a mythically engorged member. He has been anthropomorphized in all surface details, but remains handless: a sinister deficiency, summoning intimations of future slaughter.
With the advent of the Guard at the window – asserting his status, inside and outside at the same time – the illustration lays claim to a moral complexity that is the cartoon surrogate for ‘Las Meninas’. His dark figure is backlit, aping the pose of the courtier on the stairs. The panels of the train windows are echoed in the mirror and the portraits within Velázquez’s studio. The focal point of both compositions is a long-haired unsmiling girl, attended by two acolytes – with the presence of an ambiguous witness to block our only means of escape, and to lead us back into the heat of the composition. The girls are sullenly incubating the poltergeists of puberty: curdled infantas, lethal as landmines.
Tenniel has proposed a toy theatre, in which his ‘types’ wait for the invention of cinema. Velázquez, the king’s apostentador, is trapped – by his genius – at the easel: it is his shadow, the queen’s apostentador, who pauses at the door. Tenniel too stands outside, beyond the compartment’s absent wall. At his signal, the static train will be rocked on its cradle – and the journey will begin.
It’s not hard to dislike the uniformed Guard, with his diamond-shaped belt buckle, his face hidden in his hands: a face which is suspiciously hirsute, and – not to put too fine a point on it – furry as a bear or lion. Neither am I comfortable with that leather tongue of a window strap that dangles so flaccidly in front of this man, ready to insinuate itself, as soon as the train jerks forward, in Alice’s lap. The binoculars with which the Guard moons at his flaxen-haired temptress are an invention of the artist’s. Carroll is quite specific concerning the categories of implement employed in the operation: ‘first through a telescope, then a microscope, and then through an opera glass’. But Tenniel is not satisfied with those puny dimensions. He gifts his forked creature with a pair of vast, adjustable lager cans. The Guard is much too busy to speak, but we quake before the thunder of his voice. ‘You’re travelling the wrong way.’
An area of furious cross-hatching spreads like a stain from the knees of the Gentleman in White to Alice’s hooped stockings, tracing the undisguised coastline of Africa. The Guard, in his salvationist’s peaked cap, is travestied as ‘Dr Livingstone’. He sweeps the hot plains with his binoculars, eager to be confirmed in his latest identity by a wave from Henry Stanley. His concentration falters and the sharp lines begin to swim. The pale windows re-form as a lantern-skull, above the pithecanthropic jaw of Africa. It is the voodoo idol from King Kong: the binoculars are the eyes that pin Alice to her seat, where she calmly awaits her poisoned kiss of fate. In the tight square of sky behind the Guard, a black gull drifts, a swerving V, hinting that the river is close at hand, accomplice to the whole affair. Tenniel’s carriage is located: I am sitting in it, holding it down. The moment of risk is eternally imminent.
But all of us, puppets and audience, are dominated – transfixed – by the mongoose-will of the blonde girl. Self-contained, she sits as if she were attending a lecture, with slides, on Faraday’s electro-magnetic current, or the Discovery of the Source of the Nile. She has sunk into a cataleptic trance: the other figures are flattened projections, beings lifted from a magic lantern account of the ‘news’. They are icons from an historico-mythical matrix: Disraeli, Livingstone – and the High Church Goat, an Oxford man, about to embark on some Anglo-Catholic schism. Alice can cancel them all, reassert the sanctity of the carriage, travel alone. They are shadows. She indulges their whim of travelling incognito, outside their public personae; swimming in the flow of time; gathering strength in some primitive, but decently padded, orgone accumulator.
Only the anima of this girl can lift the train from its rails. It is like the will of my daughter, of all daughters: mothers of daughters. The ghost-conductor inspects Alice three times: through the telescope of lust, the microscope of investigation, the opera glass of envy. She allies herself with the order of birds; a feather grows from her severe black torque. She is handless, like the Goat, hiding within a live muff, a hideous dog-thing. A handbag, that classic fetish, rests
beside her. It is independent, surgically detached; no relation to Wilde’s capacious theatrical prop. The effect is elegantly pornographic: furs, purses, unbound hair.
Carroll closes his account (which should be published in the Notable British Trials series) with a revealing fugue. Dr Freud revolves his cigar. ‘In another moment she felt the carriage rise straight up into the air, and in her fright she caught at the thing nearest to her hand, which happened to be the Goat’s beard.’ After this the exhausted author expires in a milky spurt of typographic stars. Fourteen of them, arranged in groups of five, Aleister Crowley’s ‘averse pentagram’: numbered, perhaps, to indicate the desired age of the heroine. And, as with Hitchcock, only blondes need apply.
Beyond the author’s phallocentric seizure is another interesting question: why does Tenniel make it perfectly clear in his version that the Goat’s beard is far from ‘the thing nearest to her hand’? Carroll’s leap at priapic occultism is not tolerated by the illustrator – who is playing an entirely different game. He is playing detective. I believe that he codes his etching with the solution to the railway murders that had not, as yet, been committed; but which we can now unravel on his behalf.
The first suspect is traditionally the man in uniform, the Guard; a faceless voyeur, a wolf in wolf’s clothing. He watches everything, has access everywhere; can pick his victims from deserted platforms, or use his pass key to enter locked compartments. But the evidence against him is all circumstantial. The stern V of his elbow signifies kinship with the flight of gulls: but that was another country and another crime. The four birds are implicated, but not in this affair. Tenniel keeps his establishment hitman (another Netley) outside the carriage; links him to the river.
Downriver Page 23
