by Carol Hedges
****
Meanwhile, over in the Chelsea house, Aunt Euphemia Harbinger has discovered that the small grey parrot, whose presence was initially viewed with suspicion, is actually proving to be highly entertaining. The bird is an excellent mimic. On its first day of occupation, it managed to terrify the maid by telling her to ‘dust behind the sofa, lazy slut!’ in the exact intonation of her nephew Sherborne.
Bribed with sunflower seeds, the bird has provided her with a rich and enlightening window into the home life of Sherborne Harbinger, his wife and three children. The parrot has no social filter whatsoever: matrimonial altercations, juvenile squabbles and the comments of the Harbinger servants are all relayed in an endlessly fascinating and indiscreet stream of consciousness, punctuated by whistling and clicking its beak. One phrase, however, has been uttered more than any other, and so, the next time Sherborne and Hanover arrive, bearing flowers and obsequiousness, she asks, “Who is Harriet? The bird keeps asking for her.”
“She is Hanover’s sister; they are twins,” Sherborne Harbinger says, reluctantly.
“I see. And why has she not been introduced to me?”
“I did not think she would be of any interest, dear aunt. She is of a rather wayward disposition, I am afraid, unlike Hanover, who is so devoted to you already. I decided an encounter with Harriet might be too much for you in your delicate state of health,” he says, smoothly.
The old woman shoots him a sharp look. His dismissive comments are very much in line with what the parrot has already disclosed. “Isn’t that for me to decide?” she says tartly. “Let her be brought to the house. The bird clearly misses her, and I should like to make her acquaintance.”
Sherborne tries not to show his displeasure at the suggestion. But he has to acquiesce to the eccentric old woman’s demands. There is too much inheritance riding on it. Thus, later that afternoon, arrayed in a frock that is slightly too tight under the arms, Harriet is shoved into the sitting room and introduced by her reluctant father. The parrot greets her arrival with wild enthusiasm. Aunt Euphemia, with interest.
“You may leave us now,” she says, waving Harbinger away briskly. “Come back in an hour.”
As soon as her nephew has gone, the old woman rings for refreshments, while Harriet and the parrot re-acquaint themselves with each other. Then, after Harriet has been furnished with a plate of biscuits and a glass of lemonade, she beckons her over to the sofa.
“Sit here, child. And tell me all about yourself,” she says.
Obediently, Harriet places herself at the other end of the sofa. The two eye each other curiously. “So, Harriet, what would you like to be when you grow up?” the old woman asks.
“I think I should like to be a pirate chief,” Harriet says. “Me and Polly would sail the Spanish Main, attacking Spanish galleons and stealing their treasure. I am writing a story all about pirates in my notebook.”
The old woman is amused. “Oho! Is that so? I have never heard of a female pirate!”
Harriet leans in. “Have you not? Why, there was Madam Ching ~ she was a famous pirate chief who ruled the South China Seas. She had over a thousand ships under her command. Blackbeard only had four. I read all about her in a book.”
“Indeed? And where would you live, pirate chief?”
“I’d have a beautiful house on a tropical island,” Harriet tells her. “I’d have lots of dogs, and a pony. And I wouldn’t get married, ever.”
Aunt Euphemia eyes her thoughtfully. “I see. Well, you certainly know your own mind. But what’s wrong with getting married?”
There is a pause. Harriet looks away, her face darkening. “Marriage means not being allowed to go anywhere alone. And getting shouted at when you say the wrong thing, so you run upstairs and cry in your bedroom when you think nobody hears you, but they do. They do hear.”
The parrot bobs and ducks on its perch. Harriet bites her lip, takes a biscuit, breaks it into pieces, and starts feeding it to the bird. The old woman watches closely, her face a study.
Harriet continues. “If I couldn’t be a pirate, then I should like to go to school. A proper school. I have read that there are proper schools, where girls can go and be educated, but I cannot go to one, father says, because Hanover and Timothy’s education comes first, and education doesn’t come cheap, so I must have a governess and learn sewing and globes, and how to order a dinner for when I get married.”
Euphemia Harbinger feels a sudden surge of affection for the child ~ an emotion she has not experienced for many years. This young girl, with her hopes and dreams, her frank, fearless gaze, reminds her of somebody she had all but forgotten, for she, too, was once expected to be neither seen nor heard. Born in the middle of the French Revolution, when the whole of Europe was in turmoil, the youngest girl in a family that only cared about boys, she’d had to fight hard to obtain her liberty and fraternity ~ though she never achieved much equality.
Little is known of how Euphemia Harbinger acquired her jewels and money. Time and the disinclination of now defunct male Harbingers to talk about the family female ‘black sheep’ has obliterated the story of the beautiful young woman who, at sixteen, ran away from a stifling and oppressive home, who was fêted and loved by poets (Byron was one of her devotees), modelled for William Etty, and who spent a rackety and joyous life on the continent and in Brighton.
‘Miss Phemy’, as she was affectionately known to her inner circle, hosted a salon where writers, musicians and artists came to debate and perform. She was a successful gambler and was showered with expensive gifts by her many admirers. Given the choice, she would have happily remained below the family radar for the rest of her life but was eventually called back to London upon the death of her oldest brother, who left her the family home in his Will, having fallen out with all his own children.
From that day onwards, Euphemia Harbinger, unmarried, untethered from convention, has lived alone in the Chelsea house, watching as all the gay friends of her youth passed away, one by one. Now she is on the cusp of joining them. But there is time, she reminds herself every morning, when her eyes open upon a new day. The last thread has not been snipped. The vultures may be gathering, but the body still breathes.
The hour speeds by. Once the ice has been broken, the two find much to talk about. The old woman plies the girl with questions, which Harriet, unused to being listened to, delights in answering, her innocent comments confirming much that the old woman has suspected. All too soon however, Sherborne Harbinger appears in the doorway and indicates to Harriet that it is time to depart, as it is quite clear that she has tired her great aunt with her childish prattling.
Polite but warm farewells are said. The old woman indicates that another visit would be most welcome. Harriet agrees. Sherborne Harbingers smiles thinly and says that he is sure it could be arranged. The two adults know he is lying. Once father and daughter have quitted the Chelsea house to return to their hotel, the old lady rings the bell to summon her housekeeper.
“Bring me pen and paper, Rose,” she commands, “I have important letters to write; there are matters I must look into. The child has piqued my interest. I want to find out about the state of girls’ education and schooling in this country. I shall begin by writing to my Member of Parliament.”
****
In a city of nearly three million inhabitants, you’d think the chances of casually running into somebody you know would be statistically remote. You’d be surprised how often it actually happens, though. For instance, here is Sherborne Harbinger, hurrying his daughter along the pavement, pushing his way through street vendors selling flowers, fruit, and themselves. And there, on the other side of the street, approaching in the opposite direction, is the music hall artist Micky Mokey, on his way back from a rehearsal.
Harbinger clutches his daughter’s reluctant hand. Micky Mokey clutches the sheet music of a new song. He is humming the tune under his breath as he attempts to learn the words (‘Oh Liza-Lou, I do love you, please love me true, be
mine, all mine, dear Liza-Lou, please do’). The song has been composed by the assistant stage-manager of the music hall, who wants it to be performed later tonight as a gift to his latest lady friend. She will be pointed out to Micky Mokey prior to his act, and he has been asked to get down on one knee at the end of the song and present her with a red rose.
The assistant stage-manager is confident that after this killing public gesture, she will succumb to his charms. Micky Mokey has no opinion one way or the other. So long as he gets paid. The rent is due and Little Azella’s share is already in the pewter tankard on the mantelpiece. Micky Mokey has just reached verse 2 (same as verse 1 but with extra twiddly bits), when he hears a commotion from the opposite side of the street. Next minute, there is a screech of carriage wheels, the clatter of hooves, cursing, a loud neigh, and he looks round to spy a young girl standing in the middle of the road, screaming.
Without even thinking of the possible consequences of his actions, Micky Mokey leaps into the road, dodges round the traffic, scoops up the girl and carries her to his side of the pavement, where he sets her down. The girl immediately stretches her full length on the ground and starts drumming her heels. A crowd gathers. Micky Mokey is puzzled. The girl does not appear to have any superficial injuries. But something is clearly not right with her.
A second later, a smartly dressed, top-hatted man strides across the road, waving back the traffic with an imperious black gloved hand. He seizes the girl roughly by one arm and hauls her to her feet.
“For goodness’ sake Harriet, you stupid, stupid child! What on earth were you thinking?” he exclaims. “You could have been killed!”
The crowd murmurs its agreement, then launches into its own tales of road accidents it has witnessed, fortuitous and fatal. The girl stares up at the man with an expression of deep loathing on her pale pointy face. Tears pour down her cheeks. Meanwhile Micky Mokey, having recognised the man instantly as the one he spotted in the music hall audience, attempts to filter his way to the outskirts of the crowd. No such luck.
“’Ere, gov’nor,” a burly cloth-capped man says, taking the hapless music hall artist by the elbow and ordering the crowd to ‘stand by and let us froo’. “Vis is ve man you should be thanking. Bloomin’ hero, he is. Leaped out into ve road wiv not a thort for ’is own safety.”
To loud applause (because who does not love a real hero?), Micky Mokey is propelled to the front of the crowd and deposited in front of Sherborne Harbinger (for it is he). The young man dips his hat over his eyes and stares down at his feet. But he need not have worried. When he eventually raises his head, there is not a flicker of recognition in Harbinger’s face. Instead, he grasps Micky Mokey’s hand, shakes it, and expresses his heartfelt gratitude.
Micky Mokey shrugs. The girl, who is now at the sniff-and-eye-wiping stage, regards him sullenly. Micky Mokey has the distinct feeling that she would have been quite happy to perish under the wheels of some passing cart. Harbinger reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Let me reward you, young man,” he says.
Mickey Mokey shakes his head, but Harbinger will have none of it. Encouraged by the crowd, he hands some coins to the hero, who stuffs them reluctantly into his pocket. Harbinger continues. “Here is my card, young man. Please take it. I am currently staying with my family at the Excelsior Hotel. If you are ever passing, please give your name to the porter. My wife, I am sure, would like to thank you in person for rescuing our disobedient daughter.” (He gives Harriet a violent shake.)
Mickey Mokey mumbles something vague and deprecating. Then he picks up his sheet music, now much trampled and dusty, and makes his way towards his lodgings. The crowd sees him off with another round of cheers and applause.
He didn’t recognise me at all, he thinks amazedly. I was a complete stranger to him. As soon as he is clear of the scene, he digs into his pocket and retrieves the reward money he has been given. Lucky. Enough for a couple of weeks’ rent and a few fish suppers on top. And no more than he deserves, he decides. Given the circumstances. All of the circumstances.
Less luckily, Harriet is frogmarched back to the hotel, where she is incarcerated in her room, with the instruction that she is to receive no supper. A family conference is then held in her parents’ sitting room. It is attended by Hanover and the baby (who plays no part in the proceedings).
“She tried to run away,” Sherborne tells his wife. “Would you believe it? I told you before we set out that we should have left her at home with the servants. She is nothing but a trial and a nuisance.”
“But dear …” his bosom companion begins.
“Had it not been for the quick actions of a passer-by,” Harbinger continues, ignoring her interruption, “we might be paying out for a funeral. Wicked child! She has a perfectly nice home, she is fed and clothed, and STILL she isn’t content with her lot. What more does she want?”
Hanover smirks. “She wants to be a pirate, Papa. She has told me often enough.”
Sherborne rolls his eyes to the smoke-blackened ceiling. “Mad. Quite mad.” He glares at his wife, who is sitting meekly in an armchair, her lace-mittened hands folded in her lap. “Does lunacy run in your side of the family, Charlotte? Because I can think of no other reason why Harriet has turned out the way she has. Two perfectly normal children, and this … this chimera.”
A chimera. Hanover mentally files the word away to use in a future argument with his sister. He doesn’t know what it means, but it is clearly insulting. Hanover has a long list of such words. He likes to trot them out whenever (which is often) he and Harriet get into a scrap over something.
“Did she say why she wanted to run away, my dear?” Mrs Harbinger asks cautiously.
Her beloved snorts. “She said she desired to live on her own in future, like Great Aunt Euphemia ~ and there you have it.” Sherborne starts pacing the room like a caged tiger. “This is why I didn’t want to introduce her to the senile old fool. I knew, I just knew she’d pour some of her crazy ideas into Harriet’s mind. Well, she won’t be going back there again, and so I have told her. We can only hope aunt dies soon. It can’t be much longer, surely. Her colour was very bad today.”
“You don’t think she told Harriet about …”
Harbinger puts a warning finger to his lips. “Ahem. Pas devant les infants,” he says in an execrable English accent.
Hanover pricks up his ears. This phrase always means something naughty is going to be talked about. Sherborne notices his son’s sudden focused attention. “Go to your room Hanover, and dress for dinner,” he orders. “The gong will be sounded in ten minutes.”
Hanover drags slowly out of his parents’ room. Passing his sister’s door, he pauses, hearing muffled sobbing from within. He knocks loudly. “Pa says you ain’t to have any dinner,” he shouts through the keyhole.
“Don’t want any.”
“And he says you’re a camera. So there!”
On the other side of the door, Harriet raises her head from the sieve of her cupped hands and frowns. What on earth? She sighs. Then, hearing her brother’s footsteps retreating along the corridor, and his own door slamming shut, she goes to her bed and lifts the corner of the mattress. She takes out a brown-covered notebook, which she opens. The first page is entitled: ‘The Adventures of a Pirate Queen’.
“Here you are, great aunt,” she says, holding up the book to show to an invisible companion. “I’ve written the first big sea-battle. Would you like to hear it?” Harriet waits for a couple of seconds. Then she begins to read out loud to the empty room.
****
A few hours earlier, before these dramatic events take place, Miss Lucy Landseer, wearing her ‘investigating bonnet’ of yellow straw with green ribbons and carrying her work satchel, alights from an omnibus and walks the short distance to a pleasant, square, white-washed villa, where she is shown into a comfortable drawing room by a neat parlour maid.
Her client, Miss Rosalind Whitely is seated on a chintz sofa waiting for her to arr
ive. Tea is laid on a small rosewood table. She rises and greets her guest, thanking her for her attendance. Lucy settles herself in an armchair and glances covertly round the room, seeing if she can pick up any clues, while Rosalind Whitely pours tea into porcelain cups. Lucy adds two lumps of sugar to hers.
“Have you lived here long, Miss Whitely?” she asks politely, stirring the pale liquid vigorously.
“All my life, Miss Landseer. I was born here. I grew up here. This has always been my childhood home and I have never wanted to leave it.”
“But you have never considered following a profession?” Lucy regards her thoughtfully.
“I did think some time ago about whether to train as a nurse. But then my father died, and Mama become so unwell that I abandoned any thoughts of it.” Rosalind Whitely bites her lower lip.
Lucy gestures towards the mantelpiece. “That photograph is of your mother?”
“Indeed, Miss Landseer. I have a copy of it by my bed also. It was taken before she was stricken with her final illness.”
Lucy rises and studies the picture. A sweet suffering face, the liniments of which can clearly be traced in the daughter.
“You say she died while you were away from the house. But presumably the servants were present. Have you spoken with them?”
“I have. The cook says she brought up Mama’s supper as usual, but she was told to take it away as she had no appetite. My stepfather, Mr Brooke, was downstairs. He often works in his study until late. The housemaid says she came up to look in upon Mama before retiring herself, but was met on the landing by my stepfather, who told her Mama was sleeping peacefully and should not be disturbed. In the morning, the maid went to wake her, as usual, but …” her voice trails away.
“I understand. So, the last person to see your mother alive was Mr Brooke.”
“Yes. That is correct, Miss Landseer. A doctor was summoned at once and made an examination. It was his opinion that Mama had died peacefully in her sleep. Her heart had failed. She always suffered with a weak heart. He signed the death certificate on that basis.”
