“Error in what, Mademoiselle?”
“Error in all I have to say dear Henry. Error perhaps in what I have previously said. For example, in the statement regarding your duties at home. And the manner in which you were accustomed to living before you came to this swine heap.”
“No, Mademoiselle. Not in error I mean. I mean, I have had to learn a lot of things here at the Chapel, things I could not have imagined before my arrival.”
“A lot of things, Henry, such as?”
“Taking care of many different things.”
“You mean the corpses, outside, in the courtyard, do you not?” She stopped folding the gown and held it close to her chest. “I am fairly sure, even more so than in my previous statement, that you never had to do anything quite like that before, is that right? How did it make you feel? You took care of the body of Monsieur Pauvre? Did you know he was innocent? Set up by the Captain because he had slipped one-too-many times into my bed? Once was tolerable, but it had been going on for months. Espionage! Ha! A message concealed in the foot of a falcon! Rubbish. Lies. But did you have any idea that such things could happen? Here in the Chapel, I mean? Such deceit? You must have, I am sure, or rather, I’m not so sure, now that I think about it. Meaning, now that I see this damn expression on your face.”
“I do not quite understand, Mademoiselle,” Henry said, distractedly, due to seeing William coming up behind them. Evelyn went quiet. William handed Henry another three gowns to put away. That was how news of the affair between Henry and Evelyn spread before it even began.
MEREDITH GOT MUCH MORE from her mother than a list. She got a shirt. A white shirt. A white shirt she wore only when her mother’s birthday came around, which was April 6. And then she only wore it at home and then only for a few minutes; but she wore it. She wore it alone and unmarried and waiting in good humor. Her father had been dead for over four years. On this April 6 Meredith had a sore throat since she liked to keep the windows open for the cool air while she slept. So she had extra hot tea for breakfast.
This was in an apartment in Southwark. After her father’s death she sold the house and bought something smaller, something in which she could live without much fuss. Meredith did like fuss, but not too much. She liked to clean but only occasionally. She liked to pack but only sparingly, for short trips with small, easy-to-carry luggage.
Meredith had to wear her mother’s shirt for shorter than usual because she was going on holiday. When she unpacked her suitcase at her destination not an item was wrinkled, not a corner undone, even taking in consideration all of the heaving to the tops of luggage racks and mistreatment in the hands of well-meaning bellboys. The linen survived, Meredith thought, meaning it remained crisp. Meredith liked to pride herself on her cleanliness, although she did not spend much time on it. She was merely efficient. She did a good job at anything she started, and she did things in small batches, rather than saving them up for weeks, so that she actually felt pleasure in devoting so much energy to each and every crease in a shirt.
Meredith was feeling clean and well-rested on the beach at St Marcouf, on the coast of France, where a number of the English had gathered to ride out the summer in relative comfort. She reached into her wicker bag, next to her lounge-chair, and, without looking, fingered the list of her Mother’s mistakes.
But she was not really thinking about her mother. She had been looking down at a certain spot on the sand without realizing it: a hermit crab between homes.
THE SECOND TIME EVELYN and Henry slept together Evelyn stroked Henry’s forehead, cupped his balls, parted his hair, tickled his ribs, filled his pipe, pushed him off her, licked his ear and parted his toes with hers. In reply, Henry circled her nipples, ate some cheese, peeled an apple, played with himself, rolled over on his side, pulled up the covers, and all at once came up with the first three bars of his very first composition, Sweet Tyranness, I Now Resign.
ALMOST AS SOON AS the affair began it was interrupted. Captain Cooke burst into the choirboys’ bedchamber to talk to Henry. Henry was sitting on his bed, talking to Martino.
“Martino,” said Captain Cooke, “leave.”
Martino left. Henry stood up.
“Sit down Henry.” Henry did. “And I will sit down right here next to you.” And Captain Cooke did, stretching out his clasped hands at the same time. He first crossed and then uncrossed his legs before pumping his arms back and forth twice and then standing back up. “I don’t want to have to say this to you, Henry. You know now I respect your family, musicians all, and I have come to respect you, despite our previous differences.”
“I understand, Captain.”
“You learned about what you call our ‘services,’ and I dare say I have never yet had a repeat offender. At least not until now, not until you.”
Henry stood up in a hurry and declared, “I won’t lie to you, I’ll admit it all if you want me to. Let’s just get it done with, please.”
“What do you mean, get it done with? You think this is something that will be over, ever? That this is something for which you can be punished and which we can then nicely forget? You think that there is some kind of light at the end of your tunnel? Well there’s not!” the Captain yelled as he started to violently rummage through the things Henry stored under his bed in a box soiled by the dust and dirt which fell from the bottom of the mattress. The Captain sneezed. “My God, boy,” he said, as he pulled some cloth out of the box. A swatch of the bastard scarlet Henry wore for his first performance at the Chapel. There were also three pairs of shoes, two of which Henry had never worn in front of the other choirboys less fortunate, which meant that he had never worn them at all at the Chapel, for almost all the choirboys were less well-off than he. The box also included three pairs of thigh stockings, two gray and one black, one banded hat, two extra bands, and one pair of cuffs. In addition there was a piece of ribbon for tidying up garters and shoestrings, a present from Evelyn upon one of his evening’s departures. “Quite a collection you have here Henry. The son of a real gentleman, I see. Prim to the tip of your nose, I might say. And what purpose do these fineries serve your fellows? Where is your feeling for other men? Do you have no sense of charity, Henry? That is what I am asking you. Where is your sense of charity?”
Henry looked down at the floor, unsure of what was going on. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Perfect Henry, perfect. You horde and you hide but it will get you nowhere. I have heard reports of this box, and now I see for myself the kind of boy you are. Do you know where this will send you? Back to services. Right back. A boy like you holding out on us. It’s disgusting. It’s really beneath you, Henry. And you shall get no light duty this time, no one-off and then back up to the warm Chapel with the rest of them.” The Captain took a breath and looked around the empty boys’ room, gathering strength. “This time it’s going to be too much for you Henry, too much. I can feel it. A delicate boy like you, so in touch with his spirit. Little Henry with the balls to start composing his own music while the rest are at cards and worse. Henry blue balls thinking he can best the rest of us here in Chapel! You think we haven’t noticed? Well we have, Henry. I have. I have noticed quite a bit, and I think it is time for you to take notice as well. Hoarding finery, composing music without permission. Lord knows what else. Back downstairs with you, green door or blue, it matters not. Now! Get out of my sight!” Just as Henry began to wonder if the Captain was really that blind, or was just making up an excuse to punish him like he had with Pauvre, someone else came up behind him, knocked him out, and dragged him out of the room.
MARTINO SNEAKED AND BRIBED his way downstairs to see Henry. It was a month and a half after the beginning of his second incarceration. It was the green room again. Henry had noticed that much while being led collar-first by the Captain’s new right-hand man, Albanus. Henry had a dim memory of hanging from a clenched fist while Albanus fished around for his keys to the room. The search for the keys was not a quick one, for Albanus was a Swede: he sea
rched all the pockets, flaps and pouches he had on him without gain. He had almost given up before he struck upon the idea to hop up and down, lightly at first, and then with more vigour, without letting go of Henry. This hopping produced the desired jingle, which ended up coming from his vest pocket, upper-right-hand side. Once the key was located Henry also found himself coming into direct contact with the door, for Albanus, not known for his light touch, did not fail to strike Henry’s head against the open door while dragging him into the cell in which he was to become, once again, prisoner.
“How is she?” Henry asked, feeling Martino’s presence as much as hearing the door open and close, a sound he could hardly recognize since he had not heard it for so long. “How is she?” he asked again quickly.
“How is who?” Martino asked.
“Evelyn, Mademoiselle Cooke, how is she holding on? What has he done to her, the bastard! Tell me, friend, if that is what you still are. What has become of my sweet Evelyn?”
“Sorry Henry, but I have no idea how she is. She spends almost no time at all in Chapel, and when she does, she is rather busy with just about everyone else but us choirboys. Although to hear some of the stories Wood and Hartz have told, she is no real stranger to the choir room either. Although what can you really believe, boys being boys and all that?”
“So she is alive. But of course she is, because I am. We have escaped punishment. Or the real punishment. Our punishment. I have imagined so much but never that she was simply alright. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to think.”
“Then let me help you. Here are some grapes, if you want them. Already peeled. They are supposed to be easier on the stomach, peeled.”
Ignoring the work Martino did on the fruit, Henry said, “So Evelyn is alright. Then why am I here, Martino, can you tell me that? It cannot be the clothes. Or just them. I mean, is that really all there is?”
“Yes,” said Martino, “you are here because of your wardrobe. The Captain is terribly jealous. Oh, and the cornets. The Captain keeps saying you’ve stolen all the cornets.”
Henry sat on the floor of his cell. Cornets? Just because they had been brought to court as a filler in the treble range, since falsetto choirboys had been scarce, the cornets had got a bad reputation, being connected with the scarcity of good singers rather than as magnificent instruments in their own right, able to hold their own next to any trumpet or other brass instrument. But steal them? Henry could never. So this was a false punishment. But at the same time, hopefully, it was the real one. Although Pauvre had been framed for treason, maybe Henry was believed really to be a thief.
But his personal fate was not the real question for Henry. His foremost concern was what was going on with Evelyn and Wood. Or with Hartz for that matter. And who had stolen the cornets anyway? Unless they were one and the same person, Evelyn’s new flame and the cause of Henry’s current state of respite mixed with despair. Henry could not stand it, and now even this all-too-short visit from Martino, a visit still in progress, was suspect. Why had Martino told him about the cornets? Was the remark innocent or sly? Maybe Martino’s visit was a set-up, a trap, a staged act, a play that was being written by the Captain. But maybe Evelyn was in on it too. Pauvre had been a “skilled” lover, she had said. But maybe she had just been looking for an easy way out of a tiresome liaison, inventing the rumour of treason herself?
Henry tried to continue speaking with Martino but he could not. He knew when he started speaking that his voice would betray his suspicion. He knew what he was going to say but he did not know how his words would betray him. He was going to say, “Martino, thank you for coming. You are a good friend.” He had it planned already. But he was just too tired to get the words out.
What made it easier was that they were in the dark. Maybe Henry would die before he could say anything. Maybe he would expire right here on the floor of the cell, from hunger, stomach ulcer, dysentery, TB, love sickness, or melancholy. Could he die? It seemed like an easy question outside of the cell, but here, inside, it was not so simple. Henry was no longer even sure it was possible. He tried to see some light in the darkness of the cell, any kind of light, maybe something he had missed before, but he could see nothing. Then Henry looked even deeper into the centre of the cell. He felt his stomach drop when he saw, reflecting light coming from a place unknown, a glimmer on one of Martino’s front teeth, for he had just opened his mouth to speak.
“WHEN SCHUBERT WAS DYING, he asked to be read The Last of the Mohicans, which he was, dutifully over the last five nights of his life, read by his wife. In my idle moments I hope they never reached the point where Le Renard Subtil falls at the hands of Hawkeye, which would perhaps not be the most uplifting thing to hear at the of your life, don’t you think?” a man asked, taking Cooper’s book in hand. The shelves at the St. Marcouf library were tightly packed and thinly spaced, so Meredith, who was looking at the selection of American history, was forced to brush against the stranger’s shoulder as she turned, bringing her ear around in his direction.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“Nothing, excuse me Ma’am. It’s just, this book, The Last of the Mohicans, have you read it?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t know so much about literature.”
“No harm done.” The man picked out two editions of the book from the section on literature in a foreign language. He browsed them both, holding one under his right arm while he inspected the other. Choosing one, he put the other back on the shelf in the wrong location.
The man looked up and saw Meredith watching him make the choice between books, “It is not for me, but rather for a woman I met recently at hospital. Nothing serious. For me. I mean. Just a routine look about. But this woman I met, Mrs Purcell, is dying. Although I can see not much more wrong with her than a bleak view on life, which can be a hindrance but rarely, at least in my experience, an actual cause of death. A couple of days ago I mentioned the Schubert story to her, hoping to put her in a more realistic frame of mind by naming the spirit she felt was haunting her. You know, death. But she just simply asked me to procure the book for her. I’ve been to this little lending library before, for research, and so here I am again.”
“The Schubert story. Is that what you were mentioning to me?”
The man nodded. “I read the novel only last year myself, while doing some research.”
“So you are a professor.”
“Biographer.”
“Well, this woman sounds like quite a handful. I wish you the best of luck.”
Meredith left the stranger with his book and made her way to the exit of the lending library. She passed three circular tables with stiff-backed chairs, three to a table. She put her book down on the check-out counter. The librarian turned the book over so she could see the title, looking at Meredith all the while as if to say that an upside-down book was only the beginning. The librarian opened it up to take out the check-out card. It was then that Meredith first realized what she had done. While talking to the man she had absentmindedly taken a book from the shelves, and now here she was at the counter. It was Hansler’s A Brief Outline of the History of the American Locomotive. Meredith could do little more at this point but admit that she did not speak French and that she did not own a library card.
“Would you like one then?” asked the librarian in English as correct and stiff as the chairs.
“I don’t know what is involved in the process.”
“A simple proof of residency.”
“But I am staying at the Veloped Hotel.”
“Does Mrs Pixous know you are trying to take out a book under her name?”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“I’m not sure she would see things in such a light.”
“Wait,” said the man Meredith had met in the stacks, now standing behind her in line. He was the only other patron in the library at the time. The man was holding his book right-side-up with his library card trapped under a thick yellow thu
mb. “I think I can help,” he said.
HENRY’S SECOND INCARCERATION was interrupted by a hanging. It was not his own. He showed up early, as he was told to do. He did not want to do anything untoward to draw any more attention to himself. The woman being hanged had not yet made her appearance, but Henry was able to gather some information from the crowd from which he was standing slightly apart. Her name was Juliana Connolly. She had been put to death, ostensibly, Henry now thought to himself, for repeated thievery and cavorting. However, and this seemed to be the common opinion of a number of gossips in his immediate area, she was actually being punished for another reason. Not that it was for having an affair with Charles II at his country home in the south, nor for bearing him a child, nor for giving the child the King’s name. Instead it was thought that Juliana was being hanged for an unreasonable demand: she asked for the child to be clothed in the livery of the court. She could not bear to see her little Charles, aged three, going about like an urchin. It happened that on points of dress Charles II was rather sore at the moment, and not only because of the repeated requests of the Chapel. Demands were coming in from all fronts: new hats for the cooks, aprons for the housemaids, cuffs for the footmen. So in response to Juliana’s request to clothe the boy, the King, out of a rage his position did not allow him to regret, sent her to her death as a thief and cavort. Juliana was sentenced to hang until dead. It gave Henry a break from his cell.
He was to clean up after the hanging: to gather the head and haul the body, to wipe the blood and pick the blade clean. There was a loose head after a hanging because after being hanged the head was severed from its neck, just to ensure death. This extra precaution existed because of two cases of hanging survivors in recent memory where, after twenty-four hours of suspension, the sentenced did not die. Upon examination by the court alchemist the two criminals had been released out of fear of divine retribution, since they had somehow survived the rope. All this did was to make Charles II instigate a six-hour hanging and then the hatchet rule, both to forestall any ideas of divine interference and to make sure that the punished were exactly that.
Henry, Henry Page 2