Beneath the bridge, the footpath was deserted. It smelt of urine and garbage and rats, and Mayhew’s nose wrinkled as he undressed. He piled his clothes up neatly, casting quick glances to the left and the right to ensure he was still alone. He placed his watch, his pen and the photo of Amy-Joanne on the heap and, last of all, his carefully handwritten note which he weighted down with a stone. The murky river water sloshed incoherently against the banks and he thought, briefly, of his sister’s drowned husband. It was a shame Anselmo had had his life taken from him so early, and it would be a similar shame when Mayhew himself was gone.
But Amy-Joanne would get over it, just as Katharine had. As would Kitty.
Thanking his lucky stars that he was still undisturbed, Mayhew hurriedly dressed in the workman’s clothes he’d purchased a few weeks previously. Blue denim dungarees, a loose jacket and a cap. He had a false beard for now, which he could ditch as soon as he’d grown his own; even he could see that it wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. But it had been enough to get him the fake passport and he was sure it would be enough to get him on the boat.
Mayhew shivered as he pulled the jacket around him and shoved Kitty’s as yet unopened letter into the pocket. Turning on his heel, he left his few worldly possessions sitting forlornly by the water’s edge, and scarpered.
The forces of law and order were closing in on him. Those police officers at his workplace had been after one thing, Mayhew was absolutely certain. That one thing was him. Investors wanted their money out but there was no money. It hadn’t been invested in stocks and shares that would generate capital growth and interest, as promised. It had been spent, or ferreted away in secret accounts. The dividends he had paid out had come from the money invested by new clients, but over the last few months there had been more requests for withdrawals than deposits. So it would be only a matter of time before the whole façade collapsed like a house of cards. The demolition had begun, and the wrecking ball was a big one.
It was time for Mayhew to get out.
Boarding the boat at the harbour, doing his best to lose himself amidst the crowds, he felt a brief pang of regret. For the most part, he’d enjoyed his time in New York. He watched as the city’s familiar skyline faded into the distance, and only when he could no longer see the tallest buildings silhouetted against the night sky did he turn to face the direction of travel. The boat was headed for the Caribbean; he’d get there, wait a while for the hullabaloo of his demise to die down and then move on to Brazil, pay his little sister a visit. The Amazon was the perfect place to hide out: miles from anywhere, virtually lawless and outside American jurisdiction. He reached into his pocket, extracted his office key, the last remaining remnant of his old life, and flung it into the sea.
And then, almost against his will, his hand went to the pocket again and pulled out Kitty’s letter. Mayhew stared down at it, tempted to jettison it without reading it. Everything to do with Kitty was yesterday’s news already. There could be nothing in it to concern or interest him.
But curiousity got the better of him. As the boat rocked on the open sea, he tore the letter open, his eyes scanning rapidly over the words. He read to the end and then slowly and carefully folded the paper into a tiny square which he encased within his curled fist, its corners and edges hard against his palm. He could sense that the colour had drained from his cheeks, feel his irregular heart beat.
It couldn’t be true. And yet he knew that it was.
Kitty was pregnant. She was expecting a child and it was definitely his. She wanted money for maintenance but more than that, she wanted him. He should leave Amy-Joanne and set up home with her.
For a brief, fleeting moment, on the swaying deck of a boat bound for the southern hemisphere, Mayhew imagined it. He pictured himself and Kitty walking along the waterfront in Greenwich Village, taking in the exotic smells and sights of men from foreign climes, swinging a giggling little tousle-haired boy between them. He had never thought he wanted children, but for those few short seconds, he felt the joy in it.
And then he immediately dismissed such useless and unwanted emotions. It was a shame Kitty had left it until the last minute to tell him (although, to be fair to her, it was only he himself who had known that that visit was the last one). But nothing could be done to change things now. He had no doubt that Kitty would cope; she was a survivor. She’d bring the child up perfectly well by herself. He had other plans.
Dropping the tiny pink square into the water, he set his gaze to the ocean and the future.
A new life beckoned. A new beginning. Mayhew Bird would rise, phoenix-like from the ashes of his old life, and remodel himself anew.
Chapter Twenty-One
Norwood, 1900
Silently, Katharine surveyed bolachas of rubber worth thousands of pounds and allowed herself to feel a scintilla of pride in what she and her team had achieved. At precisely the right time, every estrada was in full production; the price had tripled over the past year. Jonathan and Santiago were about to set off downriver to sell it all, and would undertake all the negotiations themselves as Katharine had long since disposed of the services of the aviador Anselmo had contracted to; he had cheated and underpaid from the word go and she’d got rid of him the moment the agreement had expired. There were still extortionate taxes to pay, of course, plus Mac’s fee for crossing the isthmus but nevertheless, her profit would be considerable.
To add to such positive thoughts, it was a beautiful day, the sun lancing through a thin layer of cumulus clouds, the tiniest hint of a cooling breeze blowing down the river.
It was a day when it felt good to be alive.
Katharine walked down to the water, where the cargo canoes would be pulling in over the next few days. At the moment, there was no one on the shore but Antonio, idly throwing stones into the shallows.
‘Antonio,’ she called, annoyed, her relaxed mood disappearing, ‘you’re supposed to be doing the maths problems I set you. What are you doing here?’
Antonio shrugged, a response that infuriated Katharine and he knew it. He had become ever more reluctant to engage in his school work and these days was often openly defiant when it came to instructions to study.
‘What does that mean?’ demanded Katharine, coldly. She found it hard, when he was sullen and obstinate. Was it her fault? Had she been too indulgent with his upbringing? Left him too much to run wild and not overseen his manners, not disciplined him sufficiently?
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ Antonio’s reply was sulky and surly.
‘Well it should,’ she snapped. ‘Go back to the school room and do your work! Do you think that you’ll get anywhere in life without putting in the hard graft?’
Antonio lingered, digging at the sand with his bare foot.
I better check for chigger mites, Katharine thought distractedly. And then – ‘NOW!’ in her strongest voice as Antonio showed no signs of obeying.
Abruptly, the boy turned on his heels and walked back up the beach towards the compound.
Katharine sighed. At ten years old, her son was strong and fearless, but too apt to be resentful and wilful. It was an everyday, ongoing battle to get him to do any school work at all. She ordered books which sat on shelves and curled in the damp, nibbled by insects and soon growing a fine layer of hairy fungus, and the time she put aside each day to tutor him was frequently cut short by arguments and temper tantrums. Maths, her own favourite subject, was his most hated one, and history, geography and science fared little better. Katharine had started worrying about his education when he was only three and was still doing so all these years later. She despaired of getting him to pay attention and put pen to paper.
She shook her head as she followed him over the sand. Something must be done, but what? She could hire a tutor, send to England or France for a suitable young man to come and teach him. But who would want to bury themselves so deep in the jungle, far from any kind of social life, from friends and family, in a place that often felt like the end of t
he world? That to all intents and purposes was the end of the world. She thought more and more of moving to Manaus and enrolling him in one of the many new schools there. But she hadn’t liked the city when she’d stayed there a decade ago and was sure it could only have got worse, and in any case Norwood wasn’t on a firm enough footing yet for her to be an absentee boss.
At the brow of the hill above the beach, she took a moment to survey the river, the wide bend that opened up and quickly narrowed again so that it was fast flowing past the house. Floating islands of aquatic grasses bowled downriver and, to the west, a bird flew low, searching for fish. For all Antonio’s lack of book learning, he was an expert scholar in the ways of the jungle. Which was more important? Katharine was torn; to know the forest was a special art, something the Indians had in their blood but that Europeans gained by special invitation only. But society did not value such knowledge. This society that she so wanted Antonio to be able to participate in required Greek and Latin, maths and science.
She looked back in the other direction, towards Manaus and Pará and the Atlantic, as if the answer to her dilemma lay there, in the vastness of this land, in the miles and miles of jungle that separated her from the country of her birth.
As she gazed, a canoe slowly hove into view, the oarsman working hard against the current. The mail boat!
No matter how long she lived here, the shudder of elation, the thrill of anticipation, on catching sight of the post never diminished. She could go without news from home for months at a time so whenever the boat did arrive, all she could think about was how many letters she’d get, how long she could spin out reading each one, teasing every ounce of love and meaning and companionship from each word.
Eagerly, she ran back down to the water’s edge and stood, fidgeting on tiptoes, almost jumping with excitement. She was longing for news from everyone – most of all, Mabel. She had sat school exams and hoped for good results that would enable her to stay on, improve her French and, in due course, become a teacher.
The canoeist handed over the budget, the leather purse used to safely store mail on its journey up and down river. Eagerly, Katharine pulled it open and delved inside. But it contained just one letter and Katharine felt a frisson of disappointment on recognising the handwriting.
Mayhew’s.
Katharine had always made sure to write to him every few months but his replies were rare as hen’s teeth. When they did come, they were generally short and boastful; a new property bought with his wife’s money, a new carriage purchased to show off around town in. He’d always been embarrassed by the humbleness of their childhood home, the many children, their tired and overworked mother and father. The last thing Katharine remembered him telling her was that he was going to get rich and become a gentleman, like Pip in Great Expectations. And look how that story had ended, she thought ironically.
Going into her office to read what he had to say today, she picked up her paper knife and slit the letter open. At each word, her heart sank further and further into the soles of her feet. Mayhew was coming to the Amazon. He wanted to visit her, to stay with her and assist her in making the most of her ‘embryonic business’. He felt sure he had skills that she lacked and that he could ensure that she profited from the rubber price which, he helpfully informed her, had risen exponentially and looked set to continue in the same way far into the future. He worried that she would be too ‘soft’ and her femininity would preclude the making of sound business decisions.
Katharine flung the letter down onto the table in frustration. How she detested Mayhew’s patronising attitude towards her. It had always been like this. He was the eldest, and a boy, and he’d always taken both as imbuing him with a natural and inviolable superiority. He was the one who had to have the first bath, to get the best piece of pork crackling, to be the first to walk on newly fallen snow, making her follow in his footprints so as to avoid messing up the pristine surface. It had driven her mad then and it drove her mad now. There was no doubt that when he wanted to, he could put on winning ways. Their mother Mary had always said that he could charm the birds out of the trees. But he was also devious and bullying, always out for the main chance, and not above lying and deceiving if it suited his purposes.
Katharine groaned out loud to herself at the prospect of Mayhew’s arrival. She’d thought travelling thousands of miles up the Amazon was far enough to get away from her brother. But obviously not.
With a heartfelt sigh, she picked up the letter, noticing as she did so a postscript on the back. It would be helpful, the note said, if she didn’t tell anyone else that he was coming, or of his presence once arrived.
Katharine’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. Why the big secret? She had no idea. But, given he’d made no mention of bringing a wife with him, perhaps he was getting divorced and didn’t want the shame to follow him. That was all she could think. She looked outside to the forest, where scarlet, green and black tanager birds fluttered amongst the vegetation and brightly coloured butterflies flitted between the searing red of passion flowers. There was no one here who could care less about her brother’s marital situation and she herself most certainly didn’t want to get involved. Mayhew was a law unto himself and always would be and Katharine was not going to interfere.
Tucking the letter back into its envelope, she comforted herself with the fact that he wouldn’t be here for ages yet – if he made it at all. A slow, wry smile played on her lips as she contemplated Mayhew’s love of indulgence, his craving for action and an audience. With a bit of luck, he’d get distracted by the bright lights of Manaus and never make it as far as Norwood; most people had no idea of the rigours of the journey, how long it took, how isolated they were. She hoped that would happen, anyway. But if it didn’t – well, Mayhew was family – and, as their parents Mary and Bill had always insisted upon their brood, blood was thicker than water. And by and large, Katharine agreed.
Even if they did drive you mad.
Jonathan called her with an issue that needed resolving urgently and, gratefully, Katharine diverted her attention away from her brother and onto her business. When Mayhew’s impending visit crept into her consciousness every now and again, she tried to look on the positive side. One benefit might be, it dawned on her gradually, the possibility that he would build a good relationship with Antonio, and might be able to help her modulate his moods and mediate in their constant arguments about how much school work he should be doing. Such thoughts helped mitigate her concerns about Mayhew’s arrival.
Later, preparing the budget to send back downriver, she noticed that she’d missed something earlier. Tucked at the bottom was another letter, squashed and crumpled. Taking it out and smoothing it down, she saw instantly that it was from Mac. A sudden sense of foreboding gripped her. Why was he writing to her? The arrangements for the imminent rubber shipment had been finalised some time ago. Picking up the missive, she dispensed with the paper knife and tore it open with shaking hands.
Dear Mrs Ferrandis, the letter began.
It is with regret that I must inform you of a change in the terms and conditions accorded to the passage of goods over the isthmus. Our previous ten-year agreement of 1890 has now expired and, on the orders of the government, I enclose here a new contract for you to sign. Please note an increase in charges to take account of the additional traffic on the river, the commission I am entitled to claim and associated costs, plus inflation.
The price quoted was four times what Katharine had been paying for the last decade. It seemed grotesque, unfair to the highest degree. But then again, inflation in the Amazon was running out of control, prices of ordinary consumer goods doubling overnight, and Katharine knew that all the national and local governments were trying to make as much money as they could from taxes and fines and levies. If Mac was being pressurised to increase the revenue that passage over the isthmus gleaned for the powers that be, he would have little option but to obey.
It was called the rubber business, not rubber fri
ends. She would just have to pay up and work even harder.
Chapter Twenty-Two
London, 1900
Mabel Bird chewed nervously at the inside of her lip. She had done it so often there was now a lump there that her tongue constantly sought out when her teeth weren’t making it worse. Her stomach fizzed and churned as she waited for her mother to get ready. She hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast; she knew that it would have come straight back up again even if she had managed to swallow it down. She buttoned her coat tightly around her, not just because of the cold but as a kind of armour against the harsh world that she must go out and face.
If only Katharine were there, she would know what to say to make Mabel feel better, to shore up her confidence. But Katharine, thousands of miles away, did not even know that Mabel had had to leave school to go out to work. She had no idea about the terrible accident their father had had, falling from a scaffold on the docks, leaving him unable to work any more. Mabel’s mother Mary had insisted that Katharine not be told, reasoning that her eldest daughter had her work cut out for her as a widow bringing up a child alone and at the same time running a business single-handedly.
Mabel was not convinced, feeling sure that Katharine would want to know and to send money, if she had any to spare, but Mary was adamant. And in any case, whether Katharine knew or not, Mabel could not possibly continue with her education. There was no option but for her to take a job so that she could not only pay her own way but also contribute to the family economy.
Though she had had a couple of weeks to get used to the idea while she had been job hunting, Mabel felt entirely unprepared. Today was her first day of employment as a housemaid, a maid-of-all-work to be precise, and she was terrified.
‘Ready?’ Mary was suddenly beside her, grey hair neatly pinned, hat and gloves donned.
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