by Alix Nathan
‘John? Mr Warlow?’ Doesn’t recognise the voice. Dreamin. Not dreamin. It’s comin closer, comin to get him. Comin. The devil comes in the shape of a woman. He knows this.
‘You can come out now,’ it says. It is a trap. Mustn’t reply. Not speak. He hears it scuff about the room. Hears it move away to where the bathtub is, the grating.
Hide! He’ll hide before it comes into this room. Hauls himself, prickling with sweat, off the bed, down onto his knees. Bed is high off the ground, there’s room for him. Bends, but he’s stiff. So many pains. His head hits the sharp edge of the bed frame. He ducks in. Twists. His limbs like great roots bursting out of a bank of earth.
He’s scared off the rats under the bed. Wants to laugh. Devil won’t see him here. Can’t. Can’t take him away. With its devil claws. Tail! Tail like an eel, great eel whippin. Whippin him down to hell.
‘Where are you, John?’ A trap. A trap! A blanket hangs off the bed. He pulls it down further to conceal himself completely. Just in time. Steps are coming closer. He presses up against the wall, holds his breath.
‘Are you in bed?’ It’s lookin round the door, not come in yet. Quiet. It’s lookin, is it? Lookin. Seein nothin. He takes tiny sips of breath.
‘John?’ it whispers.
His leg’s stuck. He moves it and cramp shoots up the calf. He kicks out his foot, can’t stop himself.
There’s a shriek and it rushes out. Out and away. He kicks again to break the pain and hits his shoulder. He hears the steps, the scuffing, crunching, smaller shrieks. Gone.
But has it gone? Wait, wait. Don’t come out now. It’ll pounce.
Cold under the bed. He grabs at the blanket which falls. Pulls it in but there’s no room for him and it. His ankle throbs, wedged beneath him. He rubs at the cramp. Cold seeps into his thigh and hip, yet it’s stifling. Can hardly breathe. He sneezes.
More noises, far off, distant voices. Them’ll try again, sure to. Come and get him. Drag him. He hears his father’s voice, worse even than the knobbed stick: devils’ll drag you to the bottomless pit.
* * *
—
JENKINS SHOWED FOX into the upstairs sitting room. Puffed, for he was somewhat overweight, he was unsettled by the butler’s apparent grumpiness, wondered if this was the ‘mild grumbling’ about which Powyss had written.
Powyss locked the bedroom door behind him.
‘Fox!’
‘Powyss!’ They shook hands. ‘I must apologise profusely for this descent upon you. Unforewarned! Unasked for! And at such a time of night! I have had untold trouble with travelling, I can barely begin to tell you. But the reason, the reason for my appearance, you see…’
He broke off, suddenly aware that despite his surely unexpected arrival and the news he was about to break to Powyss, the man was only half attending. He was listening to something else, perhaps in the room he’d just left or downstairs. There were indeed voices beneath, but that was the ill-mannered butler, Fox conjectured, giving orders for his room, for some refreshment, which, after the awful journey, he was ready to eat immediately.
‘I’m sorry to hear…’ Powyss began.
‘It has become too hot for me in London. I am fleeing to you in your fastness, Powyss. Please take me in! Mr Clarke is out of prison as I told you. He is frail, for which I pity him. But he has rich friends. And they…in short, Powyss, they have urged him to bring a charge against me. A charge of criminal conversation with Mrs Clarke. They would try me.’
‘Ah. Fox, I must leave you for a while. Please make yourself comfortable. I shall send up Samuel to light the Argand lamp and bring you some cold repast. Forgive the poverty of my welcome, Fox. It shall be explained. Oh. And you shall tell me your story.’ And he rushed out.
Fox was amazed. ‘Your story!’ Did Powyss imagine it was a tale of once upon a time? But he’d always been odd. At school he was uncommunicative, solitary. Conned his lessons obediently, wandered off whenever he could. The restrained growth of their epistolary friendship had been unexpected, quite remarkable. And here now the man seemed barely able to speak, was distracted, utterly thrown by Fox’s surprise arrival.
A footman came to light the lamp, which cast its shadows on the pale green walls. One of these newfangled things, but elegant.
‘Mr Powyss says to tell you a room is being warmed, sir.’ Fox noted some Cockney tones. The man put down a tray of food.
‘What is your name?’
‘Samuel, sir.’
‘Is something happening that draws Mr Powyss away, Samuel?’
‘Sir?’
‘Hardly have I arrived and Mr Powyss has rushed off. Why is that?’
‘I can’t say, sir.’
A loyal footman – or a well-paid one, thought Fox.
‘I will take you to your room after you have eaten, sir.’
Fox was extremely hungry. Although cold, the food was delicious – evidently there’s a good cook here at least, he thought. There was a bottle of port, claret being impossible because of war with France.
Fox had known he’d never persuade Fanny Clarke away from her husband. He’d certainly never wished to offend Henry Clarke, who, after all, had been his friend. Nor, of course, had he sought out scandal. Once he’d admitted to himself the attraction he felt, and as his ties to Unitarianism became threadbare, he thought merely to enjoy himself for as long as he could. And to cheer dear Fanny in her straitened condition. Fox smiled. Poor woman! Her life had become dreary, wretched, with her husband in prison.
It was not she who gave away the game. Fox considered just how erratic friendship could be. A friend, mutual to both him and Henry Clarke, one Beeston Neave, whose opinions in all other respects were admirable, had not only distressed poor Clarke, newly released from Newgate, with his tale, no doubt luridly told, but encouraged him to punish Fox through the court and provided him with the means with which to do it. For certainly Clarke had no money, having lost it all through imprisonment. Neave’s motives were obscure, unless he had designs on Fanny himself. If, finally, a summons were taken out, Fox would have to return to face trial.
Oh, he thought, who is there to trust, if one cannot trust one’s friends? Blushed when he realised Clarke would surely say the same of him. Well, anyway, he’d decided to trust Powyss. For the moment he would live here, at Moreham, pleasingly far from London. If necessary he would pay Powyss for board and lodging, though he didn’t imagine Powyss would require it. His stay would undoubtedly put their friendship to the test. But perhaps he could help him with whatever was happening, Fox thought, though he found it hard to imagine what difficulties a rich, atheistic bachelor who preferred plants to people could possibly have.
* * *
—
WHEN POWYSS ARRIVED in the kitchen Jenkins was standing over Cook, who was assembling a tray of food for Fox, while Samuel waited impassively at the door. Annie had been sent to prepare a room for Fox, and Samuel was to help her shortly. The sound of hysterical sobbing gradually died away somewhere in the back kitchen where Catherine had been confined.
‘Jenkins?’
‘Catherine has been frighted, sir.’
‘Has Warlow got out or not?’
‘Catherine has not said.’
‘Oh?’
‘She will not speak of what she saw.’
‘Before I go to speak to Warlow – which would signify the absolute end of my experiment – I want to know if he’s still in the apartments or not. Someone must look.’
Jenkins was not happy. He’d certainly not demean himself. ‘Samuel?’ He turned to the footman, half ordering, half questioning, hoping he’d refuse and there’d be no one to go but Powyss.
‘I must take these victuals and help Annie,’ said Samuel, torn between loyalty and fear.
Powyss was becoming impatient. ‘Jenkins, you will please to go down now.’
‘I must supervise the others, sir. It is not a task for me.’
Cook, a shawl wrapped over her plentiful nightwear, burst out in a fury: ‘Such feebleness! A body would think Warlow’s a monster. The girl had a silly fit – she cannot stand a bit of dark. I shall myself go and look. And speak my mind to him, too. Living in idleness and luxury! Taking money for nothing!’
‘I’d prefer you not to speak to him, Mrs Rentfree. There is a small chance the experiment might still continue.’
‘Sir! The girl Catherine have already spoke to him. Wait, Samuel! Here’s a cantle of fruit pie for the visitor.’ She surveyed the tray. ‘That should be sufficient unless he be a greedy man. Now take it!’
She wiped her hands on her apron, tucked another shawl about herself, then her cloak on top of it all and without embarrassment took a considerable draught from a bottle, which she replaced in the pocket of her skirts. She carried a lamp with her and set off, while Jenkins and Powyss stood looking away from each other, lily-livered conspirators. Powyss fingered the phial in his pocket.
All was quiet as Cook descended. After a while they heard her loudly call ‘Mr Warlow!’ Silence. Her voice became a muffled booming as she made her way further into the apartment, presumably still calling his name. More silence.
Powyss wasn’t sure what he wanted her to find. It was most probable that the man had escaped soon after the servant Catherine had opened his door but while her back was turned, and that she had imagined she saw him. Once more he thought how dangerous Warlow might become once he heard about Hannah. How could he keep Hannah and the children safe from their violent husband and father? He could hardly have the man locked up. And now there was Fox! Why was he here? He had barely heard Fox’s explanation. Yet the man had seemed to fill the room just as he’d done that one time in the house in Hampstead. He loomed.
How he longed to run from it all. Longed for the soothing warmth of the glasshouses, the feel of rough stalks and leaves, of cutting cleanly into a stem with his clasp knife. He turned away from Jenkins, uncorked a mouthful.
Suddenly there was a new sound, a smothered, distant shrieking like a pig being killed across the valley. Powyss and Jenkins ran down the stairs to the apartment door expecting horror.
Cook came out with her lamp, hugging her cloak about her.
‘He be in there. A disgusting sight it is,’ she said and walked away from them up the stairs.
‘Jenkins, lock the door. He must stay till morning when I decide what to do.’
Back in the kitchen he asked Cook what she’d seen.
‘He were hiding beneath the bed. Screamed at me that I were the devil and he could see my cloven hoofs. Hideous noise he did make. Like an animal. Not human it were, Mr Powyss. Said I had come to take him down to hell! But, sir, it is like hell down there already, all broken and…’
‘Don’t tell me, Mrs Rentfree. I am grateful to you indeed for going. Now please return to bed. Jenkins, ensure Mr Fox’s bedroom has been properly prepared. What do you intend to do with the other maid?’
‘I have locked Catherine in the dairy,’ Cook interrupted. ‘Let her stay till she come to her senses. If she choose to eat butter she’ll feel much worse.’
‘Will you please cook for three from tomorrow,’ said Powyss, ‘for the duration of Mr Fox’s stay. However long that is. Now we should all go back to bed.’
* * *
—
SHE SAYS TO HERSELF: he did take me home for it were very late. In his garden were Abraham Price. He did run from there when he did see us. The same as before I am sure of it. An evil man.
The children were asleep. Margaret be a good mother in my place. Most times the boys do what she say. Polly give me a kiss when I get into bed. She is a sweet-natured child. Except Jack, the children be consolation to me.
Herbert told me John have not got out still. But I must not go to the house until he send a message. He said he shall always think of me. Even though he pay harlots he think only of me.
But John will come back and then it is the end.
* * *
—
POWYSS DIDN’T GO TO BED at all that night. After he’d taken Hannah to within fifty yards of her patched cottage, its roof sprouting tussocks of grass, and watched until she’d gone inside, he returned, poured himself a glass of brandy, then several more. Emptied the phial in his pocket without numbering the drops, and unlocked a particular drawer for another.
He should have released Warlow after his rampage. But no, the man was in a dangerous mood then. And he’d not have had these last weeks with Hannah. He’d abandoned the previous pattern of her visits once a week, in fact he’d abandoned all form, insisting she come to the house each night. He existed in a stupor during the day, his mind in dissolution, lived from dark till dawn febrile with lust and rage, the only certainty.
Fox would tell him he should never have set up the experiment in the first place. Should have been content with his bland life, the highest points of which were the successful germination of rare seed, the production of perfect fruit, the planting of exotic trees. True, he had been free to read or not, to buy new plants or not, to look through his microscope, admire his vases, his globes, search for shooting stars, think of no one else. Uncrazed.
All his adult life he’d been free to choose, restricted only by the demands of the seasons. As a boy his life was ordered by his father of course; his mother compelled him more subtly. There’d been school. But always he’d found places to run to, to breathe in, be soothed by.
Now, now, and his eyes swam with self-pity, his familiar places of refuge were useless and each decision he made, each action he took bore vile consequences. He was obliged to consider the lives of others: Warlow, Hannah, even the servants, who’d revealed aspects of themselves he’d never cared to notice.
Warlow’s children. He’d encountered the child Polly in her dress too big for her. Alone in the garden, she’d been brushing the scented peas to release their sweet smell.
He’d asked about her sister and brothers.
‘Jack do go to meetins.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Jack says damn to the king.’
‘How old is Jack?’
‘Sixteen year. He says Father did say it and he be right. But he is dead I think.’
‘Ah. Now Jack will get into trouble if he says such things about the king. Don’t tell anyone else, Polly. It does no harm to tell me.’
‘Mother says you be a good man. Jack says damn to Mr Powyss, too.’
‘Who is right, do you think?’
‘Mother of course! Jack is bad. He do hit me.’
‘Enough now. On your way.’
Another source of trouble: Jack Warlow.
Sitting at the desk, Powyss lay his head on his arms. Figures crowded into his imagination, clamouring for attention: wasps, hornets they were, which, once he placed them under the microscope, became individual, each with its oddities: its missing leg, crooked antenna, bigger-than-usual abdomen. They were not all the same. Observation, unsought before, revealed existences he could no longer deny, existences which affected him even without his wishing it. They buzzed, whined, crawled through his hair, up his sleeve, stung.
He was overwhelmed with tiredness but could not sleep; emptied the bottle of brandy, opened another, smiled at the liquid’s scorching warmth, wept as it wore away.
He began to feel sick. Fox would expect an explanation tomorrow. He must find a solution to it all before they met up again. He dreaded the man’s booming voice, his wit, his spurious authority. The very size of him was exhausting. He must get rid of him! Perhaps he could delay dealing with Warlow until he’d gone back to London. Surely he’d go in a day or two? That was it! Leave Warlow for the time being. Show Fox his improvements to the house, walk him round the gardens, woods, glasshouses, then see him off.
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His thoughts reeled round to Hannah, now asleep in a mean bed in her broken-down dwelling. The hovel wasn’t his to mend, belonged to Kempton. He had never been inside, preferring to think as little as possible about that part of her life; it was enough to provide money for food and shoes. Hannah. The serenity of her features and manner, illuminated by pleasure. She’d not been dazzled by his wealth, his knowledge, his priceless collection, and he always held back from trying to impress her in the face of her clarity of mind, her intuitive simplicity. It wasn’t that she lacked words. Had she been educated she’d never have been prolix. And the lines of life on her face and body. The smile that lit his desire for her. Oh, he was beleaguered!
A wild scheme entered his mind. He would leave Moreham and take her with him. They could travel abroad, to Italy, say. He would buy her clothes and they would live as man and wife. No one need know her origins. Warlow could be released after they’d gone and he’d leave money with Jenkins to dole out to him at suitable intervals. Ah, that was what he must do! He was certain she’d want it. The plan sounded within him its great opening chords. Sunlit scenes from his youthful travel ran before his eyes, the accompanying loneliness and humiliations of those times forgotten.
And even as hopelessness rose in his throat, for Hannah would never leave her children, Jenkins would fail to control Warlow, the servants driven by Price would riot, his gardens turn to wilderness, he took out his pen to sketch a route, rose to fetch maps and collapsed on the floor.
* * *
—
FOX AWOKE when the maid came to light the fire. Short of sleep after the interminable travelling, he was anxious to confirm arrangements with Powyss. And curious, too, to discover whether there was something afoot or whether, as he suspected, Powyss, in his social iciness, found Fox’s actual presence less welcome than his epistolary one. He was ready for a tour of the house and estate of which, over the years of their correspondence, he’d heard so much and which he’d envisaged so often. It would be amusing to test the degree of precision his imagination had employed.