Foulsham

by Edward Carey

  ‘Me,’ she said, ‘me, me! I come!’

  In my dream I tried to run from her, but suddenly there was smoke rising all about and I was choking and there were flames. I dreamt round and round, and felt myself spinning and clattering, growing so small again, and that face, the face of the other woman, long and thin and crying out for her life, trying to take mine from me, to scrabble back. But then suddenly pushing her away was Clod, Clod in a room, in a dark grey room, and the matchwoman was very frightened of him and then she was gone again, the flame was out, the smoke disappeared.

  I opened my eyes.

  I was still there, locked up in the old woman’s cooking stove, still doubled up in the dark, Mrs Whiting was shuffling nearby.

  ‘You’re done, I reckon,’ she said, ‘poor dear. I heard the turning, the fuss, the swift movement, you cannot stop it. I knew you were mine from the moment I saw you at the door. I knew I’d collect you. But you’ll be hot yet, I’ll leave you to cool a moment. I’m glad it’s over; I never like the wait. My poor heart.’

  She had a pair of fire tongs with her, she leant them against the cooker.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’m busy,’ she said, then she whispered to me, ‘This is our moment, isn’t it, no one else’s?’

  She lifted the latch but did not open it.

  ‘Let it cool, best to let it cool.’

  I readied myself, put my feet to the door meaning to slam it hard and knock the old bat over.

  But instead the door to her apartment was opened.

  Hold on, Lucy, not yet, not yet.

  ‘I said I was busy,’ said the widow.

  There were official Iremonger men walking into the room.

  ‘Good evening, masters,’ she said. ‘I did not know it was you, I’m very glad to receive you. May I help you, poor old thing that I am, in any way?’

  ‘Your house is in front of ours.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that has always been true.’

  ‘It is directly in front of Bayleaf House, the nearest habitation.’

  ‘I have ever been grateful for the view.’

  ‘The heaps are shifting, they are brewing bad.’

  ‘They will get agitated, but if you have put the It back, and I’m sure you have, such capability – muscles! – then it shall calm soon enough. (I know nothing about it, you understand, nothing to do with me.) For myself, I’m an old woman only, thrice widowed with all her small property about her. Little keepsakes, mementoes, of no monetary value, but valued highly, on an emotional plane.’

  ‘Never seen the heaps so upset. And your home so close to ours.’

  ‘We shall, we residents here,’ she said, ‘under my guidance, keep ourselves most quiet and discreet, a nice house on a nice street.’

  ‘No’

  ‘No?’

  ‘This house is too close by half.’

  ‘It has ever been here, masters, why does it offend you now?’

  ‘There are other movements, movements of people not houses, there are changes coming, great and fearful changes, changes in which small people, little people, minor creatures, such as yourself … ’

  ‘Father was tall, I remember.’

  ‘Will likely be brushed aside, trodden on, it cannot be helped. It is the nature of the times. The Heap Wall is buckling.’

  ‘Buckling?’

  ‘It may break.’

  ‘Oh my weak heart.’

  ‘Here we are on high ground, on the highest ground of Foulsham.’

  ‘Are we? Are we? Yes, I suppose we are.’

  ‘The great house, Heap House, is uncertain in this weather, and it has been made necessary for some of its residents to be repatriated.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘To be in a safer place, you understand.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘They have been moved.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘The family shall stay in Bayleaf House.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘And the servants.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They are here.’

  ‘Here in Foulsham?’

  ‘Here in this boarding house.’

  ‘But there are no rooms.’

  ‘There are many rooms.’

  ‘But the paying guests?’

  ‘Are requested to find alternative accommodations.’

  ‘Oh. Oh?’

  ‘You have a question?’

  ‘And I myself?’

  ‘Are to leave.’

  ‘To leave!’

  What a scream followed, a scream of a terrible hurt beast, a soul’s scream.

  ‘Leave, I cannot leave! Cruel!’ she cried. ‘This is my home! These are my things! How can I leave them? No, no, it’s unthinkable!’

  ‘It was your home, and now it is requisitioned. Take what you can manage and be a history.’

  ‘No! No!’ she shrieked. ‘I cannot! My home! My things! They are mine!’

  The widow ran around in a panic until she was picked up and carried out, how she cried, the poor old thing, how she scratched at the strong arms taking her away. ‘Muscles!’ It was enough to make you pity her. I should even perhaps have thought of helping her, only then the new resident of that busy room marched in and I felt all my hope fading away. For I knew her, oh I knew her all right, her in her corset, her with her sharp looks. When she smiled the teeth were quite worn away, I knew that, I remembered that.

  Mrs Piggott, housekeeper.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘this is my parlour?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Piggott, until the House has been declared safe.’

  ‘I shall have these ugly things removed, thrown from the windows, that shall be the quickest way. Let us make short work of it. Iremongers!’ she called. Various serving girls ran forward. I knew their uniform, didn’t I. Hadn’t I worn it myself? ‘I’ll have a bed set up here, and I want all of this rubbish, every last bit, removed. Do it, please, we’ll have this temporary house in order!’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Piggott,’ they chorused, they tugged down the windows and let the Foulsham smog in, very thick it was, I could hear the Heaps bubbling and cracking in the background. The servants started throwing out all the precious belongings of Mrs Whiting, they hurled them out into the street below, I could hear them shattering, and along with them, a part of that rash removal, was a soup pot and a pair of candle scissors, my own dear mother and father, and I could not cry out to stop them. And then I saw the faces of those serving girls, many of them I could remember so clearly. I had slept in the same dormitory as them, told them my story, and all of them, to my head were only ever called Iremonger.

  But, hang on a moment, that wasn’t exactly true either, was it? Not all of them, I knew a name of one of them. Wasn’t likely to forget that. There she was, the auburn creature, Mary Staggs herself. I could of spat. How I should like to toss her from a high window. With what diligence did she throw the stuff from the old woman’s home.

  ‘Wait!’ Piggott called. ‘Leave that.’ She was pointing at Mr Whiting. ‘That shall have a use.’

  And she put old Mr Whiting to immediate use, her bony wrist flapped back and forth and set the maids all over the house come running to her.

  ‘Listen now, listen good, my dear ones! My Lady Ommaball Oliff is this moment on the train heading towards Bayleaf House, her marble mantelpiece, at great labour, has been uprooted and is in the car beside her. She is apt to be very put out and disturbed. She has never yet spent a day outside of Heap House, nor even out of her own fine apartment. She may be a little short of temper, and we must calm her and be a cushion for her pain, we must provide her with every comfort. There shall be plenty of time to get our quarters ready, right now it is my lady who we must attend to. I want every one of you to be immaculate and lined up upon the station platform ready to receive her. Do you hear me, Iremongers?’

  And the resulting resounding, ‘Yes, Mrs Piggot!’ might have swung chandeliers, had the boarding house any such t
hing.

  Then the serving girls were busy about their business. I saw the unfortunate spectacle of Piggott regarding herself in a small looking glass and picking at her stubby teeth, before at last she smoothed down the corset over her dress and marched out, closing the door behind her.

  This was my chance, maybe there shouldn’t be another. I’d get out of this house and fast as I could before those Iremongers found me. This house was indeed a deathtrap now.

  I pushed open the cooker, it creaked somewhat but no one came. I moved over to the door and looked through the keyhole, no one there, noise down below, no doubt the serving maids were rushing across the way to old Bayleaf House. I’d been in there once myself, before the whole terror began. Well then, give them a moment, clattering on the stairs. No doubt all Sturridge’s men were there as well. Wait, wait, don’t mess it up, take your time. Listen out. Nothing there? Nothing, all gone out.

  So I opened the door slowly, slowly. Come on, Lucy Pennant, out you go, back out, steady, steady.

  I was on the landing, no one there at first, not a person, but then suddenly at the bottom, there was Rawling the porter and before him came the heavy thudding of Mr Sturridge and many men in leathers too, their faces quite concealed, all hurrying up, coming my way.

  There was nowhere to go, couldn’t go back, must go up, up higher, up to the top if needs be, to the very attic. I went up a flight, terrified to see someone on my way, no one yet, a door opened and there was Mr Briggs, the shining underbutler, his door wide open, carefully positioning what looked like a load of pin cushions.

  ‘Briggs! Briggs, man!’ called Sturridge.

  Briggs dropped a pin cushion in surprise and the moment he bent down to pick it up I rushed past his door and went further upwards, more noise more people in this house, how ever many were there now, up and up, round the corner.

  Here, where the carpet was a different colour, grey because of all the dust and dirt, all the cobwebs and dead things, further up, further up, the stairs creaking, shouldn’t go up there, wrong to do, my mother said I never should, but I did then, I must, was at the top even, very dark, more noises below, there was a door before me, there was a door handle, I turned it. It wasn’t locked, I opened the door, hard to open, pushed hard against, I heard a ripping, a tumbling of stuff, but it gave way at last and I stepped in. Shoved the door closed behind me.

  Couldn’t see anything, nothing at all, dark, dark.

  There’s no one here at all, never has been.

  But wait.

  I felt a coldness against my face.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I asked.

  No answer.

  Nothing, no one, spooking myself. That’s all.

  Was I?

  Hang on, hang on just a minute. Go, Lucy, get out, get out of there fast, go down the stairs, run screaming down the stairs, better be out of there, better be anywhere than here, I’ve been frightened of this place all my life. It’s horrid, horrible, something foul’s in here, something very nasty.

  What was that? Something moved.

  I heard it then, I definitely did, something breathing, something in the corner there, something creeping something ghastly. What ever is this foul thing? Whatever it is, it’s done bad things. It’s all bad, black dripping bad, surely even Piggott had some kindness in her, some little, little good somewhere about? Something breathing there, oh God.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I whispered.

  I heard the breathing more clearly, someone breathing. Someone shifting, in the darkness, coming closer.

  ‘I’m not frightened, come close and I’ll give you such a wallop.’

  But it came on and it kept on coming.

  I wasn’t going to let it just chew me up. I wasn’t going to walk down its mouth. No, I was going to smack it hard just as it was going to eat me up. I was going to hurt it back, hurt it for all it was worth. I’m Lucy Bloody Pennant I am and I’m that done with hiding.

  I let out a gasp and rushed at the thing. I swung a hard thump at its head, what a wallop, and the thing fell to the ground. I’d smacked it good and proper. Hah! What a one you are, Lucy! I’d pulverise the very devil. Come on again, you thing of dark. I’ll have at you again. Come closer, I order you, come on up, come another. I’m ready. But the thing, that thing in the corner, it gives out a groan. Kick it, Lucy, kick it, kick it, kick it until it stops, but then it groaned,

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘Lucy!’

  Clod bloody Clod bloody Clod bloody Clod!

  19

  OH MY RED

  Clod Iremonger’s narrative continued

  Oh my Red

  She hit me. She hit me so hard across the face that truly I thought I might crack like an egg. She hit me, of course she did. How should I know it was her if she hadn’t hit me? What a hurt she was, Lucy Pennant, the very best hurt that ever there was.

  ‘Clod? Bloody Clod?’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Clod, Clod, say something. Say something this instant.’

  ‘That hurt!’

  ‘Oh Clod, I done it again, ain’t I?’

  And she was laughing and crying all at once. Lucy was, Lucy again, could she be, could it, how to believe such a thing. Lucy. Lucy. She was kissing me then all over my face, even where it hurt so, kissing and kissing. Her lips found mine. My heavens. Salty. The warmth of her and the taste of her, there it was again, I’d never forget that. The gladness of it, the giddiness, the joy. Such joy. That feeling in me, building.

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yes it bloody is.’

  ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘And there’s faith for you, right there.’

  ‘And Lucy you’re not a button.’

  ‘Can a button do this?’ she said, kissing me. ‘And this?’

  ‘I do not believe so. Perhaps you may try again?’

  ‘I’ve been a button,’ she said. ‘I was nearly a button not long ago, and she means me to be a button again. Ada Cruickshanks does.’

  ‘And I’ve been thinged, Lucy. I’ve been a golden half sovereign in my time since last I saw you,’ I said.

  ‘Have you?’ she laughed. ‘Isn’t that just like you. I have to be a clay button and you get to be a sov. Where’s your plug then?’

  ‘I’ve lost him. And your matches are still with them?’

  ‘They’re somewhere close by, that’s for certain, I can feel her, very near she is. Looking for me, you might say. Sniffing for me.’

  ‘Then we’re both likely to be very ill, I think.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be a button again. I shan’t let her. I’ll get her goat.’

  ‘Lucy, Lucy Pennant, it’s you and your considerable red hair and all your freckles.’

  ‘Every one of them!’

  ‘I am right glad.’

  ‘‘Right glad’ are you? I’d forgotten how posh you are.’

  ‘Oh Lucy, there’s much to do, and terrible business it is.’

  ‘Know where we are, Clod? This minute?’

  ‘Foulsham … and out of the window, I saw just through the curtains, is Bayleaf House.’

  ‘And what are we in? Name on this particular location?’

  ‘I do not know it, a poor place of some sort.’

  ‘Careful now, I’ll knock the other side of you. It’s my home, isn’t it, where I grew up.’

  ‘Is it? How strange. I should like to see it, could you show me?’

  ‘Not just yet, there’s people below with dreadful bad manners. They’d like to have us, no doubt, be most grateful to know that we’re up here all along.’

  I told her of my run through Foulsham and of the Tailor. But most of all of the business of Bayleaf House, of the breathing in of childhoods.

  ‘’Tis monstrous. I’ll kill them Iremongers! ’Tisn’t right! To do that!’

  ‘I’m an Iremonger
, I’ll always be an Iremonger.’

  ‘And I’m a Pennant, last there is. Can’t help your family, they say, can chose your friends. You, you’re my friend, I chose you. There, live with it! I’ve been searching for you, I made a promise, you’re stuck with me, Clod Iremonger, I’m your thing. Like it, lump it, don’t make much difference, you’re in my heart and there’s an end on it.’

  ‘Lucy, I must stop all this.’

  ‘Not without me. I won’t let you.’

  ‘This is all Iremonger doing.’

  ‘I’ll give you such a knock.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy, I am so happy to see you, at least there’s you for all the pain. When did you come to yourself again, however did you manage it?’

  And she told me all that had happened until the moment she opened the attic door and found me with a thump. And there was something terrible in that story, something to break my heart and stop anything from coming right ever again.

  ‘You kissed him?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, he was the one that done it really,’ she said. ‘I was just there.’

  ‘But you didn’t push him away.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘no.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Come on, Clod, don’t go quiet on me. You’re the talker you are, you never stop talking.’

  But I did not feel like talking then. I felt my Iremonger heart shrivelling up, growing smaller and harder.

  ‘Come, Clod, it didn’t mean anything.’

  Smaller, smaller.

  ‘Clod, talk to me.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Oh, Clod!’

  ‘If you love him,’ I said, ‘I shan’t stand in your way.’

  ‘What a child you are!’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Clod, dear Clod. I shouldn’t have told you. I just wanted to tell you everything … Clod, Clod!’

  ‘I’m going now,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ve business to attend to.’

  ‘Clod!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  We both were suddenly very quiet then, we both had heard it. There was someone on the stairs.

  What are Little Men Made of ?

  Whoever it was was coming slowly up the attic stairs, whoever it was didn’t stop but came on. We both kept very still. A scratching voice quietly sung out,