by Michel Faber
Holding her like this, her wrists still trapped in his hands, he becomes aware of a strange and delicate balance, an equilibrium of will and sinew and desire: his arms are the stronger, and he can bend her however he wishes; he can fold her shut, covering her breasts with her own elbows, or he can spread her arms wide; yet, in the end, the way they move is hers to decide, and the power is hers to wield. He lets her go, and they embrace; for all that he isn’t worthy, he lays claim to her as if he is, as if sin has yet to be invented, and they are two animals on the sixth day of Creation.
‘They’re all jackals, Henry,’ she whispers, ‘and you are a lion.’
‘Mrs Fox …’ he gasps, suddenly stifling in his night-shirt. The fire in his hearth has made the room so hot there’s no need for clothing, and he allows Mrs Fox to make him as naked as herself.
‘You know, Henry, it’s high time you called me Emmeline,’ she murmurs in his ear, as with one sure hand she finds his manhood and guides it into the welcoming place that God has made, it seems, for no other purpose than to receive him. Once joined, they are in perfect agreement how to proceed together; he moving deep inside her, she clinging tighter and tighter, her cheek pressed hard against his, her tongue, cat-like, licking his jaw. ‘My love, ye-e-es,’ she croons, covering his ears with her hands in case the distant, nagging clang of a fire-engine bell should distract him from the call to rapture. ‘Come into me.’
TWENTY-ONE
In a few ticks of the clock, it will be September 29th, in the year of Our Lord 1875. Trapped with no hope of escape in the House of Evil, a fortnight after the twin calamities of Henry Rackham’s death and the unspeakable misfortune that befell her own person under the same malignant moon, Agnes sits up in bed and pulls the bell-cord. More blood has flowed: Clara must come at once, to wash her and change the bandages.
The servant responds promptly, and knows what she’s wanted for; she carries a metal bowl of steaming water. In it, soap and sponge float like dead sea creatures removed from their natural element.
‘There’s more coming,’ whispers Agnes anxiously, but Clara is already pulling back the bedclothes to expose her mistress’s swaddled nappy. Hers is not to question why Mrs Rackham behaves as though the common female curse requires the sort of attention one might give to a mortal wound; hers is but to serve.
‘This is the sixth day, ma’am,’ she says, rolling the blood-stained cloth into a wad. ‘It will surely be over tomorrow.’
Agnes sees no justification for such optimism, not with the fabric of the universe torn asunder.
‘God willing,’ she says, looking away from her stigma in disgust. How sure she’d been that she was cured of this affliction, imagining it to have been a disease of girlhood that passes when one becomes mature: how much joy it must be giving the Devil, to disillusion her!
Agnes looks away while the only part of her body that she has never examined in a mirror is washed and dried. She, who is intimately acquainted with each and every hair in her eyebrows, who keeps every incipient facial freckle under daily surveillance, who could, if required, draw accurate sketches of her chin from a number of angles, has only the vaguest notion of what she calls her ‘nethers’. All she knows is that this part of her is, by a deplorable fault of design, not properly closed, and therefore vulnerable to the forces and influences of Evil.
Doctor Curlew is undoubtedly in league with these forces, and can barely conceal his delight at her fall: and just when William had begun to take a dislike to him, too! All through the Season, the doctor’s visits were mercifully restricted, but yesterday, William allowed him to stay a full hour, and the two men even retired to the smoking-room and spoke at length – about what? In nightmares, Agnes pictures herself fettered in the courtyard of a mad-house, molested by ugly crones and grunting idiots, while Doctor Curlew and William walk slowly out of the gates. She also dreams of bathing in a tub filled with warm, pure water, and falling asleep, and waking to find that she’s up to her neck in cold blood, thick and sticky as aspic.
Exhausted, she falls back against her pillow. Clara has gone and she’s clean and snug inside the bedclothes. If only sleep would carry her to the Convent of Health! Why has her Holy Sister forsaken her? Not a glimpse, not a fingerprint …At Henry’s funeral, Agnes looked and looked for her guardian angel to appear, even distantly in the trees beyond the graveyard. But nothing. And, at nights, even when the dream starts promisingly, she never gets farther than the railway station; instead, she waits anxiously inside a train that vibrates ominously but never moves, patrolled by porters who never speak, until it becomes horrifyingly clear that the train is not intended as a vehicle at all, but as a prison.
‘Sister, where are you?’ cries Agnes in the dark.
‘Right nearby, ma’am,’ responds Clara through a crack in the bedroom door a few moments later — rather bad-temperedly, if her ears do not deceive her.
* * *
‘The mail, Mr Rackham, if you please,’ says Letty next morning, hesitating to enter the master’s study. She holds a silver tray piled high with letters and condolence cards.
‘Only the white letters, thank you, Letty,’ says William, not rising from his seat behind the desk, and beckoning the servant inside with a single flick of his fingers. ‘Take the cards to Mrs Rackham.’
‘Yes, Mr Rackham.’ Letty separates the business correspondence — the ‘wheat’, so to speak — from the black-bordered chaff, deposits the harvest on a small clear area of the master’s cluttered desk, and leaves the room.
William rubs his face wearily before he tackles what the day has brought; he’s red-eyed with lack of sleep, the grief of losing his brother, the sorrow of wounding his wife, and … well … the ordeal of inconvenience. Nothing, he finds, causes more inconvenience than a death, unless it be a marriage.
Granted, Black Peter Robinson provisioned the household in double-quick time. Barely twenty-four hours after the order was put in, the boxes of crape dresses, mourning bonnets, jackets, shawls et cetera, were delivered, sped through the post by those magic words ‘immediately for funeral’. But that was the beginning, not the end, of the brouhaha. No sooner were the servants shrouded in black, than they were rushing about shrouding furniture and fixtures, hanging up black curtains, tying black ribbons to bell-pulls and God knows what else. Then the absurdity of choosing a coffin … It’s one thing to have had fifty kinds of coat-stand to choose from when furnishing Sugar’s rooms, but what manner of man would have the appetite, upon the death of his own brother, to peruse five hundred designs of coffin? ‘A gentleman with your own high standards, sir, such as we can see from the quality of Rackham’s own manufacture, will see the difference immediately, between the Obbligato Oak and the Ex Voto Elm …’ Vultures! And why must William be the one responsible for this orgy of otiose expenditure? Why couldn’t Henry Calder Rackham have organised it? The old man has little enough to do nowadays. But: ‘People will be looking to you, William. I’ve been put out to pasture; in the world’s eyes, you’re “Rackham” now.’ Wily old blackguard! First tyranny and bullying, now flattery! To what end? — that William Rackham should be the poor devil who must plough through reams of paperwork detailing coffins and coffin mattresses and wreaths and hatbands and God knows how many hundred things else, to be arranged on top of all his other tasks, and in the grip of brotherly grief.
As for the funeral itself …! If there’s one thing he would gladly have paid an outrageous sum for, that thing would be a miraculous drug to erase the whole lamentable ceremony from his mind. It was a lugubrious sideshow, an empty ritual to no one’s benefit, presided over by the insufferable Doctor Crane in the driving rain. What a shuffling herd of sanctimonious hypocrites attended, with MacLeish — a man Henry couldn’t stand while he was alive — foremost among them! Honestly, the only person outside the family who had any bona fide claim to be there was Mrs Fox, and she was in hospital at the time. Yet there were two dozen mourners at the graveside. Two dozen surplus dullards and pompous make-weights! The w
hole performance, what with all the coaches-and-fours, pages, feather-men, et cetera, will have cost William, when all the accounts are settled, no less than £100. And for what?
Not that he begrudges his brother the money; he would gladly have given Henry three times that sum, to buy a decent house, instead of the shabby fire-trap in which he perished. It’s just that… God damn it, what good does it do Henry, to be mourned with so much bother? This mania to bedeck every person and every object in black: what’s the point of it? The Rackham house is now as gloomy as a church — gloomier! Servants creep about like sacristans … the bell is muffled, so he can’t even hear the damned thing half the time … the whole ritual has a Papist flavour. Really, this kind of doleful charade ought to be left to the Romish Church: just the sort of foolishness they’d imagine might bring a man back from the dead!
Remembered with fondness by all who were blessed to know him — the world’s loss was Heaven’s gain — that’s what William composed for Henry’s tombstone, with a little help from the stone-mason. The mourners craned their heads to read it — were they thinking brother could have done better credit to brother? Sentiments look different when they’re in cold hard print — the coldest, hardest print imaginable.
William gathers the morning’s letters into his hands and shuffles the envelopes, noting the names of the senders: Clyburn Glassmakers; R.T. Arburrick, Manuf. of Boxes, Crates &c; Greenham & Bott, Solicitors; Greenham & Bott, Solicitors; Henry Rackham (Snr); The Society for the Advancement of Universal Enlightenment; G. Pankey, Esq.; Tuttle & Son, Professional Salvagers.
This last one William slits open first, and extracts eight folded pages each bearing the letterhead TUTTLE & SON, PROFESSIONAL SALVAGERS. The covering note says:
Esteemed Mr Rackham,
Herewith a list of the items salvaged from 11 Gorham Place, Notting Hill, on September 21,1875, following the partial incineration of those premises. All items not included in this list may be presumed destroyed or else stolen by unscrupulous persons arriving at the site before Tuttle & Son.
CATEGORY 1: WHOLLY OR SUBSTANTIALLY UNDAMAGED
1 Cat (currently held in custody by our selves, please advise)
1 Stove
1 Kitchen cabinet with 4 drawers
Divers kitchen implements, pots, pans &c
Divers kitchen goods, condiments, spices &c …
William flicks through the pages, noting odd items here and there:
Divers framed prints, namely,
‘A Summer’s Day’ by Edmund Cole
‘The Pious Ragamuffin’ by Alfred Wynne Forbes
‘No Apparent Title’ by Mrs F. Clyde
‘The Wise and Foolish Virgins’ by John Bramlett, R.A ….
Books, 371 in number, mostly on Religious subjects (Full list supplied on request)
World globe, mounted on brass stand (slightly singed) …
At the sight of this, William utters a helpless snort of pity and exasperation. A singed world globe! What is he, or anyone else for that matter, to do with a singed world globe? In the turmoil that followed the news of Henry’s death, he thought he was showing good sense in calling the salvagers in, to prevent Henry’s house being looted by the undeserving poor, but, having averted that disgrace, what now? Where is he to put Henry’s worldly goods? If he can’t have his flesh-and-blood brother alive, what use is it to possess his stove or his wash-basin?
William tosses the list onto his desk, and rises from his chair to stand at the study window. He peers across the grounds of his property, to the street beyond, where Agnes claims she sees angels walk. Only drab pedestrians walk there now, all of them shorter and less upright than Henry. Ah, the tall and upright Henry! William wonders if he’s a hypocrite to be grieving, when his brother annoyed him insufferably while alive? Maybe so, but blood is blood.
They were children together — weren’t they? He makes an effort to retrieve memories from their shared childhood, when Henry was too young yet to erect a barrier of piety between them. Very little comes. Vague pictures, like botched photographs, of two boys playing games in plots of pasture that have long ago been transformed into streets, all evidence buried in the foundations.
Of Henry in later years, the memories are not fond. William recalls his brother at university, walking purposefully across the sunlit lawn towards the library, half a dozen books pressed to his breast, affecting not to hear the jovial shouts of William, Bodley and Ashwell as they sprawled picnicking. Then, jumping ahead, he recalls Henry’s poky little house, packed to the rafters with the paraphernalia of religion, devoid of cigars, cushions, strong drinks, or anything else that might encourage visitors. He recalls Henry stopping by the Rackham house almost every Sunday, to pass on all the fine and thought-provoking things his brother had missed.
With effort, William travels farther back in time, and sees before him the twelve-year-old Henry reciting, after family prayers, a discourse of his own composition, on the correlation between temporal and spiritual labour. How the servants fidgeted in their hierarchy of seats, not knowing whether (when it was over) they should applaud or keep a respectful silence!
‘Very good, very good,’ pronounced Henry Rackham Senior. ‘What a clever boy I’ve got, eh?’
William becomes conscious of a pain in his right hand, looks down, and finds he is pressing his fist against the window-ledge, bruising the skin against the wood. In his eyes, tears of childish jealousy. Echoing in his ears, the words of the firemen who assured him that Henry was undone by smoke long before he was taken by the flames.
Wiping his face on his sleeve, he feels a convulsive tickle in his upper chest which threatens to develop into a fit of sobbing, when he’s interrupted by another knock at his door.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ he calls hoarsely.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ replies Letty, opening the door a slit. ‘Lady Bridgelow is here. Is you or Mrs Rackham at home?’
William yanks his watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time of day, for he’s never known Lady Bridgelow to visit outside the hours appointed by convention. Indeed she hasn’t: rather, it’s his own internal sense of time that’s awry. Lord, he has lost hours in daydreaming and melancholy reminiscence! He’d thought he was indulging himself for a few minutes only, but he’s been doing it all morning, and here he stands, his eyes wet with tears of jealousy for an act of fatherly favouritism eighteen years past! Is this how madmen and hypochondriacs occupy themselves during the long hours of an idle day? Lord Almighty! Sadness has its place, but ultimately someone needs to grasp the nettle of responsibility; someone needs to keep the wheels of life turning.
‘Yes, Letty,’ he says, after clearing his throat. ‘Tell Lady Bridgelow I am at home.’
The following week, Agnes Rackham writes:
Dear Mrs Fox,
Thank you for your letter, to which William has asked me to reply.
I am so glad that you have decided to take possession of Henry’s effects, as I am sure they should have been sold off in a most shabby fashion otherwise. I have elected to care for Henry’s puss until you come out of Hospital. William says that the other things have already been conveyed to your house, and put where ever a space could be found. William says it is rather a small house, and that the men complained of how difficult their task was, but I urge you not to take the complaints of ill-bred workmen to heart.
Is it very unpleasant in the Hospital? I was struck down myself with an awful Affliction last week, but it has passed.
I am relieved to read that you deplore the fuss of Mourning as much as I do. Isn’t it tiresome? I am to be in crape for three months, in black for two, and then in half mourning for another month after that. What about you? I confess I am not sure what rules apply to your case.
Do not mistake me, dear Mrs Fox; I had a love for Henry that I had for no other man, and even now I shed tears for him each day, but how I suffer in Mourning! I cannot ring for a simple thing to be done, like the opening of a window or the placing o
f another log on the fire, without receiving a dismal aparition in black. When I go out in Public, I must appear as an inky creature, and although the Peter Robinson’s brochure tries to make the best of things by stating that Spanish lace is very stylish and that black gloves make one’s hands look wonderfully small, I remain uncomforted. I am blessed with small hands anyway!
Black, Black, all is Black. Every letter must be written on this horrid black-bordered Mourning paper. I seem to be writing on it constantly, for we are getting an endless flow of cartes pour condoler, and William would have me reply to them all on his behalf, saying that I must understand he is in no state to do it. However, I am not sure that I do understand: perhaps he merely means that he is too busy. Certainly Henry’s cruel fate does not haunt him as it haunts me. I shudder and sometimes let out a cry when ever I think of it. Such a terrible end …To fall asleep in front of afire and be consumed by it. Often enough I have fallen asleep with afire still burning, but I always had Clara to put it out for me. Perhaps I ought to have given Henry a little servant as a present. But how could I have known?
Black, all is Black, and I am lonely as the day is long. Is it a sin to crave company and distraction at such a sad time? If no one may visit us but kin and close personal friends, what comfort does that offer to such as I, who have hardly any of either? The delightful Acquaintances I have made in this past Season cannot visit me, and I cannot call on them. They will surely forget me now that I am shrouded in Darkness. It’s all right for William – his three weeks of mourning are already over, and he can do any thing he pleases, but how am I to endure the months ahead?
Cordially,
Agnes Rackham.
PS: Henry’s puss is perfectly contented, and much enamoured of cream, quite as if she never had it until now.
Church Lane, St Giles, not a long journey eastwards as the crow flies. Grateful to be given something warm, Sugar curls her hands around the steaming beaker of cocoa, smiling awkwardly at her host. All around the pale glow of her flaxen-yellow dress, the unlit room is drab and dirty grey, and Caroline, returning to her seat on the bed, almost vanishes into the murk. By contrast, given pride of place in the room’s only chair, Sugar pictures herself luridly bright, an exotic bird flaunting its finery at the expense of a common butchery-fowl. How she regrets wearing this dress, which looked so modest in her own rooms!