by Edward Carey
I could not make her out. There were so many sheets and blankets piled up and crinkled here and there, many pillows too but I could not discover Rosamud in all that. I could not see Aunt Rosamud. I could just about picture her in my head, as I remembered her, angry and wielding her door handle, and as I began to remember her so I began to make sense of the mound on the bed. I could tell a sheet from a pillow case, a blanket from a quilt, then out of that mound very slowly I began to comprehend a figure. There at last was Aunt Rosamud, she had been lying upon the bed all along but her body, it seemed to me, it seemed without question, was made from sheets and quilts and pillows. She was made of the stuff from a bed, stuff which had been haphazardly arranged, thrown rather upon the bed, in the rough shape of poor Rosamud, but looking now I felt quite certain very like Rosamud, that poor Rosamud herself had become a mound of material.
‘Aunt Rosamud!’ I called. ‘Aunt Rosamud, you’re nothing but bedding!’
I think I may have begun calling out then, I think I must, because it seemed to me that it was certain the bedding was Rosamud and that the bedding had indeed just moved of its own volition and a single unhappy duck feather had been briefly launched by the moment. My Aunt Eiderdown, my Aunt Comforter, dear Aunt Pillowcase, poor dear Aunt Blanket, oh help, oh help.
I pulled at all the bedding trying to find my aunt within, I scrambled through it, getting myself caught and knotted in it, but at last I had it all pulled from the bed and there was no aunt there at all, not a single aunt. She must be away, I thought, she must have gone away; the only thing that was in the bed was a metal bucket, a cold bucket, like the buckets used to keep ice chippings in, with a lid – a sad-looking bucket that had something so familiar about it. As if I had seen the bucket before, as if I knew the bucket very well and was a little frightened of it. Then it seemed to me I heard a noise, a small noise, but gaining in confidence, the noise was, ‘Rosamud Iremonger.’
‘Aunt,’ I called, ‘Aunt! Where are you? I hear you well enough. Aunt! Aunt!’
‘Rosamud Iremonger.’
‘I hear you but I do not see you. Where are you hiding yourself? Come out. It’s me – it’s Clod. Oh, where are you, Aunt?’
‘Rosamud Iremonger,’ came the sad voice again.
And then there was no hiding it any more. The voice came from the bucket in the bed. It was the bucket that was talking. My Aunt Rosamud was a bucket. And then came another voice.
‘Hello.’
It was not the bucket speaking, this new voice came from somewhere else, from the stool, there was someone sitting on my aunt’s stool, a small very dirty girl in a threadbare dress, very thin and pale, great smudges beneath her eyes, some poor starveling, some mudlark heaved from the heaps. I had never seen this urchin before and yet there was something, like the bucket, that seemed so familiar to me. The dishevelled girl had a large head and a thin body, like an afterthought, trailing from it. But the head was very solid and prominent, a round head, quite shiny, were she an object, something like a . . . and then she said it, she said her name, ‘Alice Higgs.’
And then I fainted away.
15
A Corset and a Ship’s Lantern
Lucy Pennant’s narrative continued
‘Good morning, Mrs Piggott,’ I said to the figure sitting on the chair beside my bed.
‘Is that what you call it, Iremonger?’ replied the housekeeper as she approached. ‘I should call it rather a very bad morning, for you. I should call it the worst of mornings, for you. Where have you been?’
‘Upstairs,’ I said, ‘cleaning the firegra—’
Before I could finish my sentence the white bony hand of Mrs Piggott struck me hard across the face.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t have that. That won’t do at all. Where have you been?’
‘Upstairs, Mrs Piggott.’
‘That much is certain. Where upstairs?’
‘Please, miss, doing the firegra—’
Again the hand struck.
‘I’ll ask one more time, and take very good care with your answer. I am a loving person, I am warm and lively, I thrill with emotion, and that emotion can be over-stoked, and I can become very hot, I can bubble over, you should not want that, should you, my dear?’
‘No, Mrs Piggott, I shouldn’t.’
‘And so, Iremonger – I shall not call you Firegrates now, not since your firegrates have been inspected and found wanting, some have not even been touched, but a moment yet before we consider that – where, pray tell me, and what? Out with it!’
All the other Iremongers in the dormitory were awake now, and all sitting up, watching, taking it in, smelling some blood.
‘Mrs Piggott . . .’ I said.
‘Go on.’
‘The truth is . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I got lost.’
‘You’ve never been lost before, why were you lost this time?’
‘There was a noise, a terrible noise, a clanking, a hissing, a great clattering, and I ran from it.’
‘That’s a Gathering!’ she cried. ‘You’ve seen a Gathering! They’ve been looking everywhere for a Gathering, they knew there was one, they need to stop it before it gets too big.’
‘A Gathering, Mrs Piggott?’ I asked.
‘A great collection of pipes and whistles, of brass tubes, handles and bolts, all sorts, piecemeal, made of a thousand bits, this and that all over it, pilfered, got together, ganging up, getting bigger. There’s one been reported, seen somewhere about the house and then lost again, it’s in hiding. Where did you see it, my child?’
‘Outside the Clip Room, on the third floor.’
‘Outside the Clip Room? Whatever were you doing there? You’re not supposed to be there. There’s something very foul going on, something deceitful and nasty, something treasonous or my name’s not Claar Piggott. I don’t think I like you, Iremonger, I’m just coming round to disliking you this minute, I’m nearly there, a few seconds longer and I shall probably really despise you. Come,’ she said, pinching the back of my neck and pulling me onwards, ‘if you’ve seen a Gathering there are others that shall need know of it. You’re coming with me.’ She pinched me hard.
‘My neck!’ I cried. ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘I mean to do it, lovey, that’s exactly my intention.’
She dragged me along to Sturridge’s parlour. I was in a panic, trying to fight her off. But I needn’t have struggled so much, that blind man was not there. Grim-faced city Iremongers were keeping the butler company, some wearing shining brass firemen’s helmets.
‘She’s seen a Gathering!’ Mrs Piggott announced as we entered.
‘Where? When?’ the men called, getting all worked up.
‘On the third floor,’ said Mrs Piggott. ‘Clip Room.’
‘How long ago was that, Iremonger, be quick and tell us, how long since?’
‘Two hours ago it was, I think,’ I said.
‘Two hours!’ a man cried. ‘It’ll have moved on for certain.’
‘But we must look all the same. See what’s missing. Get an idea of its size.’
‘Perhaps it’s heading upwards.’
‘It may still be there. There is a chance.’
‘Grab the hammers, take the crowbars, the weights, gunpowder. Be sure to have the fuses. The magnets too! Up we go!’
The men took all manner of heavy instruments and rushed from the room and I was left alone in the company of Mrs Piggott and Mr Sturridge.
‘This house is falling to bits, Olbert,’ she said to the butler, ‘how could a Gathering have been allowed to happen? What damage shall it do?’
‘It may do a great deal, and they might too with all their weaponry. They have no understanding of this house, no love for it at all.’
‘And then there’s this Iremonger for you, Olbert, she has been wandering around the uphouse, her firegrates have not been done.’
‘That’s fresh villainy,’ came the butler’s deep reply. ‘Thes
e are uncertain days and nights, oh wandering Iremonger, and in them what are you doing walking boulevards that are not yours to walk. What do you mean by it, to tread about so? Well now, my pedestrian, where did you go exploring? Did you see anything new, anything magnificent? It is magnificent, this Iremonger Park. What did you find to excite you, what made you gasp and wonder? Please, do tell, I should so like to hear it, I cannot gather enough good opinion of this mighty mansion.’
His words, though so deep they felt chiselled upon stone, were so much gentler than the housekeeper’s scratching noise, and he looked at me with what I thought was kindness. He so loved the place, I wanted to tell him something good of it, I wanted to make him happy. I wanted his favour against hers.
‘I saw, Mr Sturridge, sir, the Clip Room with all its scissors hanging up, hundreds of them there must be.’
‘Yes, oh yes, it is such a sharp place. Some of the nails of the older Iremongers do grow a little tough and some are let advance to great twisting lengths, some are sharpened as keen as any knife, but in the Clip Room there are jaws to trim ’em, to bring them to order. Very good, what else did you see?’
‘The smoking chamber with all its leather seating.’
‘You’ve been in the Smoggery?’
‘It smells of places far away.’
‘Indeed it does, it does. Of Turkey, of Afrique, perfumes of Arabie. Quite right. And what else did you see?’
‘I saw, most of all, a huge place with marble flooring and a great chest filled with the most beautiful treasures.’ But this last admission was not well taken.
‘She’s been in Marble Hall! A firegrate in Marble Hall!’ the butler thundered.
‘I told you I didn’t like her,’ said Piggott, ‘what trespass!’
‘There’s never been a common firegrate in Marble Hall, it’s Briggs himself that does those fireplaces. Never allowed. Not permitted. Out of bounds!’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Sturridge, Mrs Piggott, I didn’t mean –’
‘Ingrate, firegrate, dirty, thieving little vermin!’ shrieked Piggott.
‘Never before! Oh, never before!’ yelled the butler, sweat upon his great forehead. ‘You do not belong there, you, you, in such a place, the very idea makes me crumble like an ancient ruin, you’ve stained the marble! Oh, oh, my foundations are rocked, my buttresses bent, there’s no true plumb line any more. All fall down!’
‘Steady yourself, Olbert, don’t you collapse now, where’s your medicine?’
‘Third floor,’ he gasped, ‘second chamber.’
Rather than rushing out of the room, the housekeeper sought the address upon the person of the butler, and went straight for the second pocket of his waistcoat, she took out what appeared to me a small nail, though it may have been a little liquorice, which she deposited in the big man’s gullet and he sucked upon it and seemed better by and by. She fetched his lantern out from a cupboard too and gave it him, and he held onto it as if for dear life, his birth object. But as he sucked and as he clung on there in the quieting room, the housekeeper turned back to me.
‘Look what you have done, thief in the night, to the poor butler, look how you’ve upset him.’
‘She is a death watch beetle,’ he mumbled, ‘she gnaws at my timbers!’
‘We took you in, we gave you a home, this family loved you and cared for you, made much of you. You had a bed and you had warmth and duty and position, much affection was spent upon you. And what did you, in return, what did you do? You spat on our love, you cursed our kindness, you stamped upon it until it was broken. We are sullied by your presence, made ill by it.’
‘This house, this whole house,’ added the butler, ‘every floor, every room, every cupboard, hates you. Every door hates you, every floorboard, every window hates, hates you!’
‘You are a blood stain on linen, no scrubbing shall get you out!’
‘That’s enough right now!’ I cried, they’d gone on and I couldn’t stand it any more. I was trembling, shaking with fear but also with fury of my own, and I would not let them continue a moment longer. ‘You’ve had your turn and now you’re all spent. It’s my go now. I’m sorry I saw your precious marble place, I am sorry, I suppose, but there’s nothing I can do about that now, is there, it can’t be undone. So, there it is, I don’t need to listen to any more from you, I’ve had just about enough of it to tell you the truth, so send me back to Filching, do it, do it now, do it this very morning, I don’t care, I’d rather it in fact. I quit this place, I’m done with it! I’m sorry I ever came!’
‘She quits!’ yelled Piggott.
‘Sorry she ever came!’ rumbled Sturridge.
‘Yes I am, if you want to know. Now I’ll have my things back and you can put me on the train and that will be the end of it. But before I go, there’s something I need.’
‘She has terms!’ said the housekeeper, her voice very high.
‘I want the Iremonger that got lost, the one from my dormitory, she can come with me. Yes, I’ll have her with me, thank you very much.’
Piggott’s hot face grinned, revealing her worn teeth. ‘Which Iremonger do you mean? Who is it you speak of?’
‘You know well enough, the one whose bed has been taken out, whose sheets and things have been burnt.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know who you mean, my dear. What evidence is there of this person you talk of, what proof?’
‘She sat beside me at meal times, she was my friend.’
‘Proof. Hard fact. Evidence.’
‘She had a name.’
‘Oh! She had a name did she? Was it, by any chance, could it perhaps have been –’ she said all this in a sickly sweet voice, but grated out the last word – ‘Iremonger?’
‘No, no, that wasn’t it,’ I said, ‘her name was Florence Balcombe!’
That did it. That did it all right. That took the wind out of her. She stood still, like a dummy, her jaw open, her eyes big and ugly, and she swayed a bit but was otherwise pretty much stopped. I wondered if she was broken like my parents. It was the butler’s time to help now, he came to the rescue of the housekeeper. She had a pouch-purse hanging from her belt, Mr Sturridge hurriedly opened it, and he pulled out a metal bottle – it had BRASS POLISH written upon its side – and he pulled out the stopper and waved it under the woman’s snout and she came to. Then the butler went behind her back, he untied something there, I thought he was undressing her, loosening her a bit so she could breathe, but what he was actually doing was unfastening a corset she had strapped to her back, beneath her apron, her own birth object, he gave it her and she breathed long and hard and she was back then, her head snapped forward, her face poisonous.
‘I throw you out,’ said the housekeeper, ‘you are so much rubbish to me now.’
‘Yes, Claar,’ said the butler, ‘that’s quite right, dump her.’
‘Oh yes, all right!’ I said. ‘Throw me out, shove me on the train, but I shan’t go without Florence.’
‘Florence? There is no Florence, I tell you!’
‘We don’t know of such a one.’
‘What have you done with Florence? She’ll come with me on the train. She will, you know.’
‘The train? Take the train?’ said Piggott. ‘There’s no leaving here. There’s no going away. This is not a place that people can come and go from as they please. This is no public house, run for your convenience.’
‘There is no leaving,’ said the butler. A statement, a fact.
‘No serving Iremonger quits this place,’ said Piggott. ‘Once here, here you stay, there are only different stations, different positions, going downwards. There are dark places in Heap House, dark and deep. There are gloomy chambers down below where people can be quite lost and forgotten.’
‘There are certain places in this mansion that only the butler knows,’ said the butler. ‘Certain deeps, where only I wander. I go to see how the house is far underground, it used to be deeper, but it was flooded. The heaps do bleed in upon us. This great house is v
ery vulnerable, there are cracks, cracks everywhere, I know them all like old friends, and take sharp note of their progress. A person could fall through those cracks, Iremonger. Have a care.’
‘There’s another name for Heap House, you might call it “The End”. That’s where you are and that’s where you’ll stay. At the very pitch black bottom of The End.’
‘You can’t keep me here!’ I screamed.
‘We can keep you here.’
‘We shall keep you here.’
‘I want to go. I demand to be let go!’
‘Then let her go, Claar. Let her sink.’
‘Yes, Olbert, I’ll let her go, tumbling, falling, thrown all the way to the bottom.’
‘Exactly right, Claar, as I said, dump her.’
‘Iremonger,’ she said, looking hard at me, ‘consider yourself dumped.’
‘What does that even mean, what are you talking about?’
‘Dumped!’
‘Dumped!’
‘Dumped!’
‘Dumped!’
‘What are you saying? Speak English!’
‘You’re going out in the heaps, you’re not to work in the house any more,’ said Claar primly.
‘I’m going home,’ I said.
‘If by home you mean the heaps, then yes indeed, you’re going there, it’s all you’re good for.’
‘You can’t make me,’ I said.
‘Wrong!’ grinned the butler. ‘Can! Do! Will!’
‘I’ll tell. I’ll tell them above. I know some of them above, what do you say to that? They’ll help me. They won’t stand for it. I demand to see him, yes, that’s it, take me to him now, he’ll explain, he won’t let it happen. He’ll have me put on the train.’
‘Who,’ said the Butler, trembling now, ‘who he?’
‘An Upiremonger!’ I cried.
‘You talked to an Upiremonger?’
‘Many times, every night! We even held hands. We even kissed, Mrs Piggott!’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Piggott.
