Whatareyoucomingas? The whispers, the gleeful surprises, fluttered amongst the hedges. But I knew now what I was—it was as clear as the threads of music which twined around the ballerinas as they arabesqued and pirouetted between feverishly scented avenues of roses. I was the incarnation of everything these people feared and tried to ignore in the hope that it would go away. I was the spectre of the New Age.
‘That’s perfect! You do really look threatening, like a real revolutionary. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’ Sadie came flouncing out of the twilight in a dress of cobweb greys. ‘Well …’ I caught her scent as she stood close to me. ‘Do you like me?’
I touched her arm. I could feel the fine dusting of down. ‘What are you?’
She gave a semi-mocking curtsey. ‘You’ll have to guess .. Her hair, bunched in luminous folds and tresses by the same tiny red bows which held her dress, seemed almost blond tonight. Her flesh was paler, too. ‘… still no idea?’ It was plain as Sadie rose and her eyes blazed that she, too, had drunk a wishfish. ‘Well. Maybe it’ll come to you.’
We headed with the other guests towards the ballroom and the sound of music. The wishfish, Sadie explained, lasted only a few hours. But the stories she could tell! Hence those ballerinas, and—see—the little bald grey man over there who’s snatched a fiddle from the orchestra and is cavorting around with it. Dear Greatmaster Porrett does love his stupid tunes. Can’t hold a note normally, but whenever there’s masquerade, old Porrett spends the whole night scampering with a wishfish inside him, bow-legged, elbows sawing, as the music pours out In the candlelit haze of the chandeliers, the ballroom was like some great ocean. Breezes stirred, there were bright islands, dark swirls, twinkling lights.
‘It’s now that I wonder if this is ever worth it,’ murmured the shepherd who came to stand beside us.
‘Oh, don’t say that, Daddy!’ Sadie gave him a playful push. ‘Do you know Master Robert Borrows, by the way?’
The greatgrandmaster smiled at me slowly. He waved his crook. ‘I think we met yesterday in the corridors. I hope you enjoy tonight. I can’t promise, by the way, that there’ll be many other occasions on this scale. It would be far better if we were to simply advance the cost of all this straight to the charities. I’m sure you’ve heard how difficult things are becoming. And yet here we are, fiddling and dancing …’
‘You really are such a pessimist, Daddy!’
I noticed as Sadie and her father talked that all of the people around us were also listening. It was an impressive performance—and the greatgrandmaster truly was a handsome man, who could dress up in a brown smock and banter with his daughter about the state of the realm without seeming ridiculous. But after a while, their chatter became repetitive and I left them to it, wondering as I wandered off and everyone else gathered closer to them just how I would remember this shiftend—as the dream it now seemed, or as a real part of my life—and then deciding that I could at least afford to drink a little wine. The wishfish had finally banished my headache. And here was Highermaster George dressed in nothing but an expensive suit, and seemingly as himself.
‘I hope,’ I said, ‘that you don’t expect me to guess what you are…
He jumped at the sound of my voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Robert.’ His eyes seemed odd, unfocused. ‘Well, you certainly look the part and no mistake.’
‘Do I?’
He gave a dissatisfied shrug. ‘Not that I’ve come as anything.’
‘You haven’t tried the wishfish?’
His eyes trailed away through the dancers. ‘I’d have to be as stupid as the rest of them, to believe in such fripperies.’
But there was something about his eyes, his mouth, the sheen of sweat.
‘Tell me, Robert …’ He licked his lips. ‘Last night, when I helped you find your room—what you said about Anna.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Oh—just the way you laughed at the thought of her being Anna Winters, as if that was all some fine joke which only you and she shared. You must have laughed a great deal with her. You know …’ His voice trailed off. ‘When you were both young.’
‘It wasn’t exactly—’
‘And she is such fun to be around,’ he continued. ‘She’s quick and charming and all the things I wish I was. Yet she never quite seems to laugh in an ordinary way.’ His brow furrowed. A trickle of sweat wavered across his cheek. ‘And I was wondering if, knowing Anna as you did or do, you might know the sort of thing that, well … Tickled her.’
I stared at him.
‘Not physically, I mean. Although you may have done that as well.’ His expression grew more pained. ‘I’m really just asking you, Robert, what you think might make Anna laugh.’
I stared back at George, remembering the glide of his hand across her back on the beach that morning. And now he was expecting me to help him. But what would make Anna laugh—break that strange and lovely composure? I could picture her now, leaning against me as we shared that all-too-human gift. The brush of her face. The scent of her hair.
‘There you are Anna! You were just talking about you.’
‘And what were you saying? Nothing but good, I hope?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything bad about you, is there?’
The edges of her mouth twitched at this silly compliment. She knew what we had been saying; of course she knew. A threaded silver bangle weighed her bare left arm. Her dress was silvery too, bustled and flared, extravagant by the standards of anything I’d seen her wearing since that Midsummer night on the pier. It caught the light and blended with her hair. Anna Winters had come simply as herself again tonight. She needed no wishfish.
‘Perhaps, if you’ll excuse us …’ George offered me an apologetic glance and Anna the crook of his arm. ‘You might care to dance?’
Anna nodded. Her green eyes glittered. She made a perfect gesture to brush back the fall of her hair, and I watched as the music drew her and George away. All around me now, the dancers swirled. The floor of the ballroom was sprung; even walking, the rhythm of the music tried to carry my steps, but it was no use my dancing tonight. I was a socialist, a revolutionary—the very opposite of everything that these people stood for. Drinking a wishfish might grant me many things, but the ability to move my feet in accordance to these changing, tricky beats … That was not to be expected.
The dancers turned. Sadie and her father were putting on a good show, their faces set and grinning. The greatgrandmaster’s gaze, both bland and intense, swept the room beyond his daughter’s shoulder. It scarcely registered me, but then it settled on Grand-master Bowdly-Smart who was standing not far away, and some other expression, something I couldn’t quite gauge, some dark pang of worry, seemed to writhe up towards the surface in the moment before it vanished, and the music moved on, taking him and Sadie with it. Outside, beyond the great doors, there were more dancers out in the starlight, although I’d lost track by now of Highermaster George and Anna Winters. And the mirrors here caught the stars, as did the stilled waters of the fountains. Slowly, the music changed. Soft palls of smoke and powder seeped out from the ballroom. The ivy which covered a nearby wall was fruiting, and the fruits glowed pale white; moonivy, like so many frail paper lanterns, and the trees which hung their branches beyond had a misty aethereal glow. It would never really be dark here. It could never become night.
Where a long terrace projected above the path along which I was walking, a couple were entwined and leaning across the balustrade. The woman’s hair and dress were grey now, and the darker tones of the man’s suit paled and merged. They didn’t move as they pressed their faces together and Highermaster George’s hand cradled Anna’s back. In fact, they were so still as I gazed up at them from the shadows that they could have been statues. My heart seemed to be made of stone, too. Feeling absolutely nothing, I walked on through the preternatural night, and re-entered Walcote House through a small doorway. It was quiet here, far from the thrum of the distant ballroom. Occasionally, t
here were servants. I stopped one and announced that my name was Bowdly-Smart, and that I’d lost my room.
By now, I had some rudimentary grasp of the house’s layout, or at least of some of the floors of its east wing. The Bowdly-Smarts were staying on the level below me, around a further couple of turns. The corridors here, I couldn’t help noticing, were higher and wider than my own. The carpets were patterned with leaves and flowers, the archways were carved in the form of trees which sprouted in goldleaf across the ceilings. I found the Bowdly-Smarts’ doorway, but the handle held uselessly in its sleeve. For lack of any better idea, I attempted to murmur the phrase Sadie had used to open my own door. I didn’t hold out any serious hopes, but tonight the wishfish was in me. There was a beat of silence, then I felt, heard, something within the lock engage. The door swung open.
The Bowdly-Smarts’ suite—I still couldn’t really think of them as the Stropcocks—was much larger and more impressive than my own. They had a private balcony giving a view of the sea, twin four-poster double beds—and their bathroom made mine look like a closet. I turned up a gaslamp. Everything was floral, coloured in vividly unnatural lime greens, strawberry reds, lemon yellows. I was more attuned to the ways of Walcote House now and I wondered if this gaudy over-statement was intended as a subtle dig. The air smelled faintly sour, and there were signs of recent occupancy. One of the bed covers was rucked, with scraps of wimple and broken bits of tiara scattered across it. I was touching the fallen jewels when I heard a splash in the bathroom. I froze—for I’d already checked that I was alone …
I pushed back the door. Empty convolutions of tile and porcelain. Yet the muffled splashing continued. And the sour smell was stronger in here, too. It came, I decided, from beneath the seat of the one of the two toilets. Slowly, I raised it. A wishfish was flapping in the bowl as it died amid flecks of vomit. Clearly, it had rebelled against the near-impossible labour of making Grandmistress Bowdly-Smart seem queenly. My own gorge started to rise in sympathy. I swallowed hard and flushed. Back in the bedroom, though, there was still much to admire about the Bowdly-Smarts’ trunks and cases. How long were they staying here? Shirts, slips and dresses sluiced through my fingers. From Bracebridge—to this. On top of the bureau, beside the sand and ink, Mistress Bowdly-Smart was in the throes of writing a letter. It was filled with empty exclamations.
I slid open the empty drawers of the bureau. These pieces of carpentry were intricately worked, and many had catches which would cause a hidden drawer to spring open. I felt around underneath. There. On oiled runners, a shallow drawer slid out. Rolling around inside it were what I took at first to be boiled sweets. But they were too large, and the one I lifted felt too heavy. I unravelled its screw of paper and spilled it cautiously into an ashtray. A softly glittering stone, holed like a necklace bead in the middle, and marked with a glowing hieroglyph. I’d seen smaller versions of such things strung in abacus lines in the offices of cashiers and storekeepers. I had an idea that they were called numberbeads, and were used in the storage of records and accounts. But I’d never touched one before, and had little idea what to expect. A dim, half-made landscape of figures came and retreated before my eyes; a numinous sea of budgets and balances, manifests and invoices. I unwrapped another of the numberbeads, and felt the names of ships—Saucy Lass, Dawn Maid, Blessed Damozel. I was blown on the ghost breezes of bills of lading and import duty. What guild exactly did Bowdly-Smart belong to? It plainly had something to do with trade. Another numberbead, and I saw the laddering timetables of goods trains, arrivals at Stepney Sidings, the capacities of Tidesmeet’s quays and warehouses. The information was dizzying, hard to retain. Another numberbead detailed goods, and distant ports of departure, Africa and Thule. I caught the scents of raw cotton, dried fruits, salt meats, skins and teas.
Carefully re-wrapping the numberbeads, I placed them back in their hidden drawer, then extracted a sheet of paper from the scented pad on which Grandmistress Bowdly-Smart had been writing and tried to note down what I could remember. Already, the figures were receding like memories in a dream. But the name of a ship, the Blessed Damozel, that at least was something. Balling the paper in my pocket, I left the Bowdly-Smarts’ suite. Everything was quiet in this part of Walcote House. A clock chimed midnight, but that was far too early for any glass-slippered princesses to rush home. Back in the ballroom the scenes had grown more boisterous. Flocks of young men and women were wheeling and shrieking in their stupid costumes. The wishfish ballerinas looked like pink rag dolls now, oozing stuffing as they lounged and smoked in a corner. The pirates had turned into tramps. I glanced at an arrangement of flowers. Huge dark velvet petals were dancing to and fro, and I saw that their crystal bowl was filled with a sour froth of undigested bits of food within which, tugging at the stalks, several wishfish were slowly expiring. Needing fresh air, I went outside.
The stars were still blissfully bright, casting their feathery shadows, black on grey on grey. Greatmaster Porrett staggered past, his borrowed violin still cradled in his arms. As he brushed its strings with his bow, it gave an agonised shriek. The upper terrace where Anna and George had stood was now empty. I touched the cold stone where she had leaned. The perilinden trees shifted faintly, their leaves tinkling in the breeze like silver change.
Away from the smell of vomit and the dying wishfish, the dark-bright gardens expanded. Looking back, Walcote House was hazy, scarcely there. I let the paths lead me. The way Sadie spoke, you could carry on forever through these grounds, perhaps reach London without seeing a single object which wasn’t expensive and beautiful and of no practical use. This realm of the rich truly was another England, threaded deep within our own, yet totally invisible until you stepped through the right door, found the right key, the right spell, the right bank account. The tall white trees parted. Another house lay ahead. My heart paused. Just how far had I come? It was a greyly beautiful structure, propped on the spreading arms of a pale sea-froth of rococo masonry, smaller than Walcote House, but still huge. Slowly, I passed into the vast shadow of its door. Starlight fell from barred windows on heaps of gold; fresh straw, and the air had a pungent, cleanly sweet smell. As my eyes grew accustomed to the shadowswept darkness, I made out the flanks of great beasts. One snorted, its hooves thundering the walls of a stall. Another thrust its head out and down towards me, snorting a warm gale. I reached to stroke its muzzle. Even in this light, the creature was totally white. It was like the horses which had pulled Sadie’s carriage, but much bigger and even more beautiful, and from the centre of its forehead, far too high for me to reach and spiralling like a glistening candystick, projected a tapering horn. The unicorn sighed and nudged me.
Most of the great animals were sleeping. Some were grey—or jet black. Some, I could have sworn, had wings, and golden hooves, and eyes like blazing lanterns. In my dreams, and perhaps in their own, I was clinging to their manes as landscapes fled far beneath me. I wandered on through the barred light, and saw, in the far end of one of the long stable avenues, a place where brighter flecks of starlight had fallen. It had a redder glint, which grew and faded until I caught the unmistakable scent of Sadie’s cigarettes, the rustle of silk and muslin.
‘There you are. Somehow I thought you’d find me.’ Her voice was slurred. She offered me a cigarette from her case. ‘So.’ Her lighter flared. ‘How’s it going back at the house?’
I took a drag. ‘I’m not really the person to ask. You know what they call me back there-OneofSadiesdiscoveries …’
‘One of … ?’ But for once, I’d done a good impression of the way these people spoke. She could hardly pretend not to understand me. ‘That old joke. Here’s a tip, Master Robert. You should never believe the things that people say out of the corners of their mouths.’
‘I’m not exactly the first, though, am I?’ My gesture made a comet of my cigarette. ‘You’ve dragged other people here to Walcote House. People like me.’
I felt the pressure of her hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s no on
e like you, Robert. Look at yourself—how could there be? Oh no no no.’ She fell back against the stall. ‘I know you think I’m being glib. But I’m not being glib at all. You are different. And I don’t say that to everyone … Well, I do, actually. But what I mean is that this time I really mean it.’ She stifled a burp. ‘And here’s another tip. You should believe people far more when they make a mess of what they’re trying to say. Just like I did then.’
‘I still don’t understand why you brought me here.’
‘Haven’t you enjoyed yourself?’
‘It’s been … interesting.’
She gave a soft chuckle, and drew on her cigarette. ‘You’d do it all differently, wouldn’t you, if you were me?’
‘Of course I would.’
‘And so would I. If I had the chance—d’you know what I’m going to say next?’
‘That it’s not easy being rich.’
‘Bang on the money! But we both know life’s not simple or easy, don’t we? We wouldn’t be standing here talking in the dark like idiots if it was. We’re young enough still, both of us—we should be dancing and getting fiddled while we can.’
She lit a fresh cigarette from the one she’d been smoking. Sparks sprayed as she squashed out the stub. ‘This has always been my hidey-hole. No one can smell my little vice this far away from the house. Not even Daddy.’
‘You’re afraid of him?’
‘Aren’t you?’
The Light Ages Page 27