“Yes, Mr Austen.”
“And when I brought her the book, after a couple of days of ‘scrounging,’ well, you should have seen her eyes light up! You think she would have gotten so excited if I had just brought the book straight away? No how! Now she thinks the world of me. And then this Meredith saw the whole business too. She was there at the library and then saw me give it to your mother. And now Meredith has fallen for me too. I’m sure of it. She’s fallen for me hard, little man, hard!”
ON A PICNIC two weeks after they met at the local lending library Meredith and Mr Austen lay nearly side-by-side on a yellow and green plaid-print cotton blanket on Callie beach. They were not quite side-by-side because the sleeping body of Henry lay between them, curled up against Meredith’s left shoulder. Meredith had her arm around Henry, slowly stroking his cheek, and occasionally brushed up against Mr Austen’s hairy arm, exposed by a rolled-up sleeve. It was June 5, 1951. Meredith had packed a large lunch consisting of potato salad with peas, cold pork sandwiches and two bottles of Wuse. Mr Austen had just complimented Meredith on her excellent packing skills, for Meredith kept pulling out item after item which caused Mr Austen, quite out of character, or rather, more in character than Meredith had yet been exposed to, to say, “Holy Shit!” to which Meredith, despite herself and again, perhaps more in character than she had been all summer, laughed. But this was before Henry had woken up, meaning, before the accident.
The accident might never have happened if Henry had worn the bathing outfit he had wanted to, and not the one that was picked out by his mother. Henry had wanted to wear a pair of green army pants that he had cut just above the knee, so that the two big safari pockets could be filled with stones or coal or magazines or, once, pre-war-era pornography he had found further down the beach, way past Mr Setter’s fish-cleaning benches. Henry had wanted to wear these pants with what Martino meanly called his “pirate gear,” a blue and white sleeveless shirt and a purple scarf, usually tucked into his back pocket when he left home, but somehow finding its way around his neck by the time he reached the beach. But he was only able to wear this ensemble on the mornings he was lucky enough to leave home relatively unmolested by his mother. On mornings like this one, mornings full of plans and picnic baskets, Mrs Purcell was on the lookout, knowing that Henry would probably go in for some new extravagance, such as tussled hair, an untucked shirt, or a bracelet made of dried seaweed. She would usually find him in the bathroom, looking into a mirror seemingly framed by a large, flattened, bridal-like bouquet of artificial lilac and daisy. What Mrs Purcell made Henry wear instead were his white shorts, usually riding high above the waist, and a white-collared shirt tucked in with a blue belt, which matched his blue shoes, shoes he only wore under the most extreme pressure, a pressure Mrs Purcell felt it was her duty to apply this sunny June day. It was these white shorts that put Henry’s life in danger.
During the picnic, Mr Austen leaned slowly across Henry’s head to whisper something into Meredith’s ear. Meredith, perhaps still somewhat afraid of his new-found coarseness, saw Mr Austen’s freshly-shaven jowls rapidly moving in her direction and pursed her lips together in a silent shush, directing Mr Austen’s gaze to the sleeping Henry by moving her eyes up and down between Mr Austen and Henry’s seemingly inert body. Mr Austen halted his advance and, absorbing the new rules of communication laid out, used his eyes to indicate something down beyond Henry’s head. Meredith, just beginning to regret the distance at which she was keeping Mr Austen, followed his gaze and saw Henry’s shorts sticking up as if with a little tent-pole. In her confusion she didn’t know whether to giggle, cry or scream. It was at this moment that a dark wet stain spread from the top of the pole, more heavily in the direction of Henry’s stomach, and a salty taste came into the air. Henry’s entire body twitched once and he opened his eyes. Meredith gulped and removed her arm from under Henry’s head. Mr Austen, not being fully able to process the fact that their silent communication game was over, was wagging his finger and mouthed “no no no.” Meredith stood up, shook Henry, and ordered him to go swim in the sea. Henry, groggy and lacking complete control over his motor skills, obeyed as fast as he could, not wanting to realize what had happened. He took a small rowboat out a few yards, which is what they did to swim, to get away from the weeds and things on the shore.
HENRY’S BOAT FLIPPED OVER and was now a wood vault over his bumped head; he banged the sides of the boat as hard as he could with both fists, which was not very hard, for Henry had no purchase to use in order to get a footing for his punches. Once his arm stopped moving, the natural buoyancy of his body restored him to his natural wading level, which, if he kept calm, which he did do now that his fit was over, was at just about chin-level.
Mr Austen looked at Meredith. Henry’s banging had subsided on the lake. “Should we go out and get him?” he asked.
“He should be able to work his way out of there himself, don’t you think?” Meredith said, surprising herself. She leaned back on her elbows on the plaid-print blanket. Mr Austen, who was also leaning back, had to look through the space between her legs to see the rowboat. Meredith was wearing a thick purple skirt and a white blouse, tucked in, and a matching purple jacket. She had taken off her shoes as soon as they sat down and was wearing cream stockings. Mr Austen was able to see through her legs because the skirt, being heavy and ample, sagged between her knees. It was through this sag that he was able to see the boat under which Henry sulked.
“Do you think he is a good swimmer?” asked Mr Austen.
“A natural average one, I’d guess.”
“Oh, really? Why do you say that?”
Meredith sat up. “I would just imagine that would be what Mrs Purcell would say. According to her he’s a natural at everything, and I think she did mention swimming among the everythings, although I am not so sure now.”
“So we just have to take her word for it then?”
“I did say average. For, you can see for yourself that he is no Frank Wykoff. And plus, I don’t see why not trust his mother? Are you always so mistrustful yourself, Mr Austen?”
“Not always, not always. But it is the job of a scholar to find weakness in one’s arguments, including those of one’s intimates.”
“Yes, I see. Is that why you are so…”
“You can say it. Please.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Please do, I beg you. My curiosity is peaked.”
“Aloof?” Mr Austen laughed. “That’s not the right word for it then,” Meredith said, smiling downward into her breasts. “Then, alone?”
Mr Austen frowned and leaned back on his shoulders. “Je sais bien, mais quand même,” he whispered. Henry’s boat was motionless. “Well,” Meredith quickly got up and walked down to the shore. She cupped her lace-trimmed hands to her mouth and shouted out to Henry. Henry swam under the boat, abandoning it as he made his way to the shore. Mr Austen joined Meredith.
“Do I need to whisper?” he whispered.
“Why on Earth?” Meredith whispered back.
“Because of your admirer.”
“Oh, please. You think Henry is jealous? It’s just because of his, because he is a maturing boy and there are far too few people his age around here. It would have been much better for Mrs Purcell to have taken him to the Pacinel beaches in Vida. It’s simply overflowing with young bodies. Escaping reality in the surf.”
“But then he would have never met you. And perhaps neither would have I,” Mr Austen said, poking Meredith lightly in the ribs.
“Stop it. I’m going to get the poor boy a towel,” she said, starting up back to the hotel, yet turning around and blowing Mr Austen a quick kiss. Mr Austen blew one back, then turned around and rolled his eyes. He felt like beating the living shit out of Henry when he got back on shore. But the feeling passed.
HENRY’S WORK SOON CONSUMED any time he had for jealousy. His tasks were far more perilous than Captain Cooke had initially indicated in his letter. The town wa
s under quarantine because of a suspected resurfacing of the black plague, which, because of expanded transportation routes through and around the county of Devonshire, could, like any contagious disease, easily spread throughout the county and perhaps even to others. The outbreak was first feared because of the death of Farmer Peterson out near St. David’s church. Despite a century of technical advancement, Peterson had done nothing to improve the Peterson sanitation. He was thought to have been infected by a particularly fierce clump of disease stemming from a stymied pool exacerbated by a fiercely humid June. Between that time and Henry’s arrival three other deaths in the town, all downstream from the Peterson farm (now burned), brought down a county-wide quarantine.
The quarantine procedures that were developed during the last bout of plague had nearly been forgotten. But not quite. At least not by the officials. The families of the town were kept to their homes for a period of 21 days, 7 days longer than the known gestation period of the disease. If there was a death in a household at any time during that period a candle was to be held to a window while the syndic made his morning rounds. The body was to be preserved in the household until evening by the use of salts and garlic.
After a death (and many were to follow the original four bodies), the time of quarantine was reset for the household. During this period food was to be passed through a specially constructed “cat door.” The door was a small hinged panel at the bottom of the entryway. It was around this cat door that Henry’s duties revolved. Captain Cooke’s instructions indicated that Henry was to be put to use by Syndic Pinker as registrar of food and drink, which involved the assembly and recording of food pallets at the cook’s station, mornings and evenings. What came as a surprise to Henry was that Syndic Pinker altered Cooke’s original orders. Pinker was to retain all record-keeping rights and Henry was merely to deliver pallets door-to-door, but only to those houses which had not equipped themselves with the cat door. Pinker retained the privilege of serving cat-door-blessed houses because, having been made familiar with the many ways of earning one’s way from a young age (his father, as soon as the quarantine was over, was to be reinstated in the city gaol on debt charges), he found in his newly promoted duty as Syndic the opportunity not only to visit all rank and file of quivering town folk in their households, but, as he controlled the inflow of food and drink from a safe distance, the opportunity to extract any number of post-quarantine favours and promises (provided he survived, which he did). Therefore Henry was given the duty of calling on the cat-doorless houses. This meant the houses of those unable to hire anyone to construct the device. These people were obviously of less interest to Pinker, and, because of the need to fully open the front door of their homes, they were also seen as a greater health risk. Therefore these became the doors on which Henry was to call, and which were to open on an opportunity for Henry to forget all about Evelyn, at least for the time being.
UPON KNOCKING at the last house on Waterbery Street, Henry found a young, seemingly healthy woman behind the door. He gestured toward his self-drawn cart he had set down to rest. “Good day, Mademoiselle. Food and such. Could you let me know how many portions? I mean, how many of you there are?”
“Well, one thing I can tell you for sure is that there are not enough of us. Not enough occupants. Not enough portions needed. But before you pour out your well-meant but idiotic sympathy, what has happened to Syndic Pinker? No harm, I can only imagine.”
“No, no harm, no harm. Just a bit of a shake-up. I’m new. And I’m sorry. But I am glad there are still people left to serve in your household, for my knocking at many of your neighbours’ doors has gone unanswered, if I may be so bold.”
“You may,” she said, “but just be aware, there’s nothing for your kindness here.”
“I do not expect anything, Mademoiselle. Just how many, if you may?”
“Left you with us poor scum, has he? Opening our doors onto the foul stench of death? You can come by again tonight. We’ve lost Uncle Toby, I might as well tell you, although I fear it’s down to starvation more than anything else. So now there are three. Three portions. No more.”
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle.”
“What a bastard. I mean, not you. Sorry. Him. Pinker. I mean, thank you. I guess.”
“It’s alright. So, tonight, then,” Henry said, picking up the reins of his cart and making his way down the rest of the street of cat-doorless doors.
MRS PURCELL SETTLED BACK in her bed, curtains drawn. Mr Austen was reading to her. They had finished, along with Meredith’s help, The Last of the Mohicans and were now on Heart of Darkness, at Mrs Purcell’s request. She had heard that it had been the last book Virginia Woolf had reread before taking her own life.
“Now this is strange,” said Mr Austen, creasing a page flat with his plump yellow finger.
“Not again, Mr Austen. Please.”
“But the Swede, the Swede. I have come across some interesting notions of a Swede in my research on Purcell the composer. And now, here, in this paragraph, I am just about to read to you, I mean this paragraph here, there’s another Swede.”
“Yes, well, that’s nice. Two Swedes. I think there are many more of them, actually. But please continue reading. It’s getting late.”
“Yes, but this Swede in the book, and the Swede of my research. Both on the same day. I can’t imagine that’s too common, now is it?”
“The Swedes have been around for ages, Mr Austen. Surely your research has taught you that much.”
“Just one moment, please.”
Mrs Purcell pulled up the blankets on her bed a bit closer to her chin while Mr Austen quickly skimmed ahead. The light from the reading lamp on her nightstand was enough to bring the book on Mr Austen’s lap out of the shadow, for he held it quite far away from himself due to his far-sightedness, caused as he said from a voracious program of reading he had undertaken in his college days, doing Greats. Mrs Purcell was left in the dark, although in the dim haze of the outer reaches of the lamp one could make out her black curly hair pulled back over her skull by a hairpin, and the neck of her green nightgown pulled up tightly around her chin.
“Ah, yes. Listen to this. I excerpt. Oh, Marlow is speaking, as you know. So, here it is: ‘I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede…’ And there’s more. Because this Swede mentions another Swede he met there in Africa. Can you imagine that? Three Swedes, one in my research, and here, two in Conrad’s book: too amazing to be a coincidence. This deserves a paper! There are so many connections to draw, and who else is there to draw them if not me? So listen, the Swede the first Swede mentions here in the book, he hung himself! He couldn’t take it in the jungle. This first Swede says, answering Marlow’s question of why he hung himself, he says, wait a second, here it is, ‘Who knows? The sun is too much for him, or the country perhaps.’ Amazing. And even more, this Swede in my research, he was a viola player, also out of his ‘natural’ element. Because he was a Swede who moved to England and, after failing at becoming a famous viola player, was sort of drafted into minding a prison. And now in Conrad this first Swede, I mean the one in Heart of Darkness, are you following me?, was also out of his element, because he was telling his story sitting on a ship on the Thames at the edge of London, where, you will remember, since it was only a few pages ago, Marlow began his journey. And this 17th-century Swede of my research eventually hung himself too, right after the plague kind of died out. He was in London. They were having all of these concerts and things for the King, because it was the end of the plague. But the Swede took his life there. In a newly built orchestra pit, really the first of its kind. No one has ever really figured out why though. Why he hung himself, for he left no note and, because not only of the scandal of suicide, but also because of the location of the deed, it was hushed up, I believe. In fact there is only a passing reference to the event in the book considered one of the main sources of information for that period I am talking about, this book called the King’s Musick, w
here it says something like, and I can’t quote this for you verbatim or anything, but it is something like ‘where the prison guard known only as the Swede was found naught but with an apple in hand and a flush of crimson shame at not fulfilling his musical potential.’ An apple! Crimson joy! Potential! Conrad! Oh, there is so much there. What a paper! And to think, no one has come across this before!”
“And then what?” asked Mrs Purcell.
“What do you mean, ‘and then what?’ I have to flush out the connections, read, investigate, interpret.”
“No, that second Swede hangs himself, and then what? In Conrad’s story, Mr Austen. That you’re here to read, if you please.”
“Oh, yes. Well I suppose we should go on then, Mrs Purcell,” said Mr Austen, while preparing the book with a bit of a flourish. “Where were we then?”
“AND THEN YOU HAVE A LINE like that. You could base a whole novel on a line like that. A detective novel. You have all the clues right there, or, maybe not all the clues but the solution. That could be the last sentence of a detective novel, all the answers right there.”
“Where?” asked Mrs Purcell.
“Around that boy’s neck.”
“Sorry, I guess I wasn’t really listening. I mean, this novel has a lot of description in it, don’t you think. I mean, what boy? I thought you were talking about Marlow. Is he a boy? Isn’t that kind of young to be captain of a ship or whatever?”
“Not Marlow. The boy. Ok, I’ll back up a bit. I guess it’s more than one sentence, a couple. But you know what I mean. It’s an episode, a detail. Passim.“
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