Mr. Timothy

by Louis Bayard

  —You know, I’ve never met your Mrs. Sharpe, I’m sorry to say. I am told she is something of a legend in the halls of Scotland Yard. Held in rather high esteem for her business acumen. Which makes it rather hard to fathom.

  —What?

  —Why such a…such a deuced intelligent woman would, without knowing…well, it’s such a queer sort of business for that kind of woman to get dragged into. Innocently, I mean. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cratchit?

  —Ah, well, there it is. Women, Inspector.

  Even staring into the fire, I can feel his gaze upon me. It imparts a heat of his own.

  —Yes, Mr. Cratchit. Women.

  And herewith the final discharging of my debt to Mrs. Sharpe. The sin of omission. And if it be sin, well, then, add it to my account.

  In the end, of course, there is only so much I can omit. The police have already been to Mrs. Sharpe’s. They have confiscated the books, requisitioned the coffins. They have disposed of George’s body and questioned Iris and Mary Catherine and let all the other girls go. Only Mrs. Sharpe has eluded their inquiries. The police were told in no uncertain terms that she was not “to home.”

  Whether this was in fact the case or whether the police, disgruntled at having to work on Christmas, refrained from pursuing the matter further, I cannot say. What I can say, with a fair degree of certainty, is that Mrs. Sharpe will not be to home for many, many evenings to come. Where she will go, how she will get by…those are matters for some future narrative…but if her story plays out as I would fain believe, she and I will cross paths again someday, and beyond any doubt, our first topic of conversation will be the fate of Robinson Crusoe.

  In the meantime, Inspector Surtees is pulling the bag of licorice from his desk drawer, and it is as though he were proffering it for the first time. Everything has begun again.

  —Well, Mr. Cratchit, my men stand at your disposal. Is there any service you require?

  —As a matter of fact, there is. I have two letters I need dispatched at once. Under normal circumstances, I would ask Colin, but—

  —I quite understand. Shall I send for a messenger?

  —Please.

  —Consider it done. And now, I believe, there are two young people waiting outside to see you. May I show them in?

  The messenger boy is not so sharp or speedy as Colin, but he is a good deal more civil, and he returns with answers to both letters shortly after two in the afternoon.

  An hour later, I am passing with Colin down that well-known street, which, like every other street in London, has been transformed by the ablution of snow. Dollops of gingerbread icing hang lightly from the tree branches; white-whiskered stoles stretch across the awnings and cornices and lintels. Our boots crunch softly against the walk, and our breath turns instantly to steam and wraps us round, as if every pore in our bodies was exhaling at the same time.

  —Bit gloomy, ain’t it?

  Colin is right, of course. It is a grim, sunless block in all weathers. A second generation of buildings has been built atop the first, and any infusion of light now arrives purely by accident. The pavements are empty, the trees gnarled and stunted, and I would wager that the now-obviated sundial in that tiny bricked-in corner will carry its fringe of snow straight through to April.

  And yet I so long ago absorbed all this intelligence that to hear the place called gloomy is a kind of personal affront. I cast my eyes about, seeking some recess of beauty to which I can call Colin’s attention, but after much searching, the only thing I can point to is Uncle N’s knocker, which, under the influence of snow and holly, has cast aside its usual gargoyle role in favour of St. Nicholas.

  Or so it seems to me. Something of its original character must still come through, however, for Colin scowls and backs away a step.

  —Holy Christ! Looks like he’s a-goin’ to eat us.

  —Well, yes. He takes getting used to.

  Mrs. Pridgeon has been given the week off, and so it is Uncle N himself who answers the door. The season has had its usual beneficent effect on his appearance. His spine has straightened, his eye gleams with snow-light, and the bluish tint of his skin has been chapped into ruddiness. He swings the door open as far as it will go and sets his feet a yard apart and stands fully revealed, a garland of tiny silver bells still tinkling from the belfry of his lapel.

  —Tim.

  The touch of his hand renders me mute suddenly, and so I turn to Colin in the hope of making introductions. But the boy, in a rare fit of reticence, has stationed himself directly behind my back, and so Uncle N carries on as though I were alone.

  —Disappointing news, I’m afraid. Peter and Annie have just sent word they can’t join us. We shall…we shall just have to pin them down another time, perhaps. And in the meantime, this is—ha!—ample recompense.

  —Merry Christmas, Uncle.

  Over his shoulder, I can make out a latticework of laurel leaves and, facing the doorway, a “Happy Christmas” motto on a wooden frame covered with red calico. Mistletoe hanging from the chandelier and garlands of ivy, rosemary, box and yew snaking up the staircase.

  And more: the sounds of revelry. Clinking glasses and the accidental plunk of a piano key and a woman’s chiming voice:

  —Don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us who it is!

  Uncle calls out:

  —Wait just a moment and you’ll see!

  And then, inclining his head towards mine, he murmurs:

  —You mentioned…in your letter…a sum of money.

  —Not for me, Uncle. For a cabdriver named Adolphus. I’m afraid we inadvertently caused him to lose his cab and horse the other night. I was hoping, with your help, to replace them.

  Eager to make a clean breast of it, I add:

  —He’s not likely to thank you for it. He’s not a thanking sort of man.

  —Well, if you…if you think it would…

  —It’s the last thing I will ask of you, Uncle. No, pardon. The next-to-last thing.

  And with that, I reach behind me and grab Colin by the sleeve of his knickerbocker suit and drag him, wriggling and writhing, into the naked light of the old man’s gaze.

  —As promised, Uncle. Your new boarder.

  A second or two of gentle shock, that is all, and then Uncle is beaming from every corner and bending halfway down and a quarter of the way round and wringing the boy’s hand as vigorously as he might a water pump.

  —Oh, good day! Good day to you, young man!

  —If you say so.

  —I think I must have failed to make your acquaintance last night.

  —Well.

  —So nice to have you with us.

  —Thanks, I’m sure.

  —Now, I hear tell you are quite the musician. This is most fortuitous because, you see, my little party here has punch and eggnog aplenty, but we are parched for song. Do you think you might do us the favour of performing a selection or two?

  Colin draws his hand away, smothers it beneath his arm.

  —I gets half my fee up front.

  —Oh, a wise little man of business, it is. Very well, then. Shake hands, and there’s two pounds on it. The rest on satisfactory completion.

  To see Colin’s eyes widen in that extreme fashion is to journey straight back to our initial encounter by the Hungerford Stairs. Back to that first meeting of gold and palm, transfusing him through, alchemising his future….

  I whisper to him now:

  —There’s more where that came from.

  He gives this all due consideration. Then he whispers back:

  —What about Filly?

  —She’ll be well taken care of, I promise. And very close by.

  He gives Uncle N one last round of scrutiny, then says:

  —I s’pose, you know, as a bit of favour to you, Mr. Timothy, I could give it a couple nights. Or a week, like. But keep in mind now, Colin the Melodious is an artiste, and he ain’t the sort to settle down, you know that. Saps the creative muscle, don’t it?

  —You
know, Colin, I just caught sight of a pretty lady in the hallway. I’m fairly certain she was winking your way.

  —Don’t be daft.

  And still he arches his head over my shoulder to get a glimpse. And still he believes.

  It is this belief—the unresisting faith in his own future—that draws him, finally, into the safe harbour of Uncle N’s home. And as the door closes after him, I can just make out the barely suppressed excitement in Uncle’s voice as he asks Colin:

  —You wouldn’t have a passing interest in fungi, would you?

  And now the door is shut. Nothing left to do but tip my hat to the gargoyle St. Nick. Who nods right back.

  It is getting on five o’clock when Philomela and I turn in to Oxford Street. A day’s worth of vehicular traffic has left the streets black and swilly and nearly impassable, but the snow still clings to the gaslights and frames the plate-glass storefronts and props up the old beggar, dozing on the corner with a sign that reads: I AM JESUS’ SECOND COUSIN, ONCE REMOVED.

  We walk in peaceable silence. Philomela has, like me, availed herself of the largesse of the stationmaster’s wife. In her bonnet and dress, she looks more presentable than she’s done in some time, like someone out for a country stroll with no particular destination in mind, and there is indeed a part of me that wishes we had no endpoint. But then Philomela goes and finds one of her own. Clutching my arm, she draws me to a halt in the middle of the pavement. Her hand drops away, and I disappear from her consciousness, as she stands wrapped in amazement.

  —What is it, Philomela?

  I follow the line of her stare…across the street…to a pair of men with fingerless gloves, sitting on either side of an inverted water pail and playing a round of backgammon.

  Neither of them is known to me. Drop them into any street in London, and I’d pass right by without a second thought. The only thing I honestly recognise is the look on Philomela’s face. I recognise that at once.

  —You see him, don’t you, Philomela? Serafino.

  At a loss for any other response, she simply nods. Nods and keeps on staring, as if daring the vision to pass.

  I kneel down until my head is level with hers.

  —Well, funny as it may sound, I’ve some experience in this area. Dead fathers, I mean.

  Her eyes flick towards me, flick away again.

  —Now, I don’t believe you can actually speak to them or touch them. But if you can…if you can convey to them that you’re happy and everything’s fine…well, then, they needn’t worry about you, and they can…they can rest, can’t they? Finish their journey.

  Whether she marks me, I cannot say. Certainly, she is no more willing to relinquish her post now than before. If anything, she holds to it with greater fervour as the minutes pass. And so, as gently as I can, I stoop down once more and murmur in her ear:

  —Serafino must have his rest, Philomela.

  It is, I think, the strongest appeal one could make to a survivor. For do we not require rest as well?

  And so Philomela, drawing up every last particle of resolve, drags a smile across her face. And then—in a gesture of bashful intimacy, a gesture that hints at vanished domestic covenants—she taps her nose three times in succession.

  And turns at last to me. And says:

  —Ready.

  Cratchit’s Salon Photographique is closed for the day, but the shop is still ablaze with light, and the framed luminaries still hover in the galaxy of the front window. The season has exacted only small tributes: a sprinkling of holly berries, nearly invisible among the velvet tiers, and a rosette of leaves and holly on the door, intermixed with white grasses and Cape flowers and sprinkled with flour to make it look even more snow-laden than it already is.

  The rosette has the additional effect of rendering the knocker unusable, and so I find myself (once again) pounding on the door, with a greater urgency than I truly feel. Oh, but there is urgency on the other side—enough for all of us. See how quickly the door opens. The way Peter and Annie scramble into view, adjusting each other’s fringes, pinning back errant locks of hair, composing and recomposing their faces. Something of great moment is in the making.

  And it all begins with my saying:

  —This is the gift I wrote you about.

  I fully expected to find Peter stymied by the occasion. The surprise is to see Annie, for the first time in my memory, struggling to find her way. All the words she must have prepared, all the accompanying gestures—they have slipped out of her grasp and left behind only a pair of converging brows and a pair of slack lips.

  Philomela herself is no more inclined than they to break the impasse. She hangs by my leg like a girl of three, refusing to meet anyone’s eye, declining any show of intention. The sight of her flushes me with embarrassment.

  —I don’t know whether I mentioned…she’s still learning the language, but she…I’ve found she understands almost anything one puts to her.

  Enough time has passed now for Annie to mount a show of normality. She totters forwards and extends a welcoming hand.

  —How lovely to meet you, dear. You must be perfectly famished. I’ve made some Yorkshire pudding special, and there’s a…well, a bit of a present under the tree, you might—

  Her face folds over on itself, and she turns away. It falls to Peter to fill the silence with a rush of disclaimers.

  —Oh, it’s nothing special, of course, is it, Annie? But just for starters, eh? And perhaps we can…sometime…clothes, you know, that kind of thing. Can’t have her running about with no clothes, can we, Annie?

  His wife’s voice comes back in a much smaller form.

  —I should say not.

  Taking Philomela by the hand now, I lead her over the threshold and halfway into the vestibule. Annie and Peter fall back and, out of some unspoken tact, draw away altogether, leaving Philomela and me to loll by the door.

  Pulling clear of my leg now and turning all the way round, the girl makes as if to leave and then, stopping herself suddenly, emits the most furious of whispers.

  —Why here?

  —Where better, Philomela?

  Her hands twitch in the air. A spasm of irritation rolls across her face.

  —With…with you.

  It is as if she were listening to herself for the first time, for she says it again, in a quiet, bemused tone:

  —With you.

  —Well, that would be lovely, Philomela, but I’m afraid it’s not possible. I told you, I’m going on a trip. A long trip.

  Her mouth turns down at the corners. Her eyes flash with scorn.

  —Oh, long trip.

  —Yes.

  —Some place. No place.

  —Well, I don’t yet know, you see. But wherever it is, I’ll write you often, you can be sure of that. And when I come back, you can show me how much you’ve grown and, oh, all the things you’ve learnt and all the boys who’ve gone mad for you….

  She rolls her eyes at that, but I press on.

  —Why, you’ll have changed so much, I shan’t even know you.

  —I know you.

  She says this very gravely.

  —Well, yes, Philomela. I’m rather counting on that.

  Over her shoulder, she takes a furtive measure of Annie and Peter, leaning tensely against the studio door. She turns slowly back to me.

  —They are good?

  —The kindest people in the world, I promise. Although rather stricter than me about bedtimes.

  She casts her eyes downwards.

  —When are you go?

  —Not for several weeks, likely. So until then, I’ll look in on you every day, would you like that? And Colin, too, if that’s agreeable.

  —That is agreeable.

  She nods, once, quite solemnly. And then she binds her arms round her chest—binds them tight, in a protective vise—too late to avert that first wracking sob. The second follows in short order, shaking her from head to waist.

  —Oh, dear. Oh, no. What’s wrong?

>   It’s disconcerting, I confess, to see her cry for the first time. And a great pleasure, too. For tears are the finishing touch on the canvas of her face. All the hard, proud angles of her features soften and harmonise; every line of rancour and resistance is purged clean. She bows her head, and a ball of air jolts her chest, and the words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them.

  —I want to go home.

  Oh, she speaks English quite well enough, thank you.

  I draw my face closer to hers. I chuck my finger under her chin.

  —You are home. I promise.

  And still the sobs keep coming. Every compounded sorrow of the last six months surges out, hot and fast and pure.

  —And someday, Philomela, when you’re ready, we’ll all go back to Calabria together, wouldn’t that be fine? Oh, I can just see you, you know. Dragging us through the streets and pointing out the sights, and all the old neighbours will come running, and won’t they just—why, they’ll fall back in admiration. “Can that be her? Serafino Rotunno’s daughter, grown so beautiful? Oh, no it can’t be!”

  She smears a hand across her eyes, gives her head an angry shake.

  —They no no.

  —Sorry?

  —No know. No know me.

  —Don’t be silly, of course they’ll know you. To see you once is to know you. Believe you me.

  And gradually the finitude of her tears is reached. One last seismic tremor squeezes through her ribs, and then her arms fall gently to her sides.

  I place my hand on the back of her head.

  —Shall we try again?

  And this time, it is she who takes the first step, without any further prompting from me. Nor does she have to venture very far, for Annie has now recovered her faculties and is coming towards us with that ravishing directness of hers, her eyes smiling right into us.

  —Philomela, would you care to have your portrait taken?

  The girl thinks it over. And then silently consents.

  —Splendid. Now I happen to know before I get a portrait taken, I like to sneak a quick peek at myself in the glass. We can’t have any hairs out of place, can we? Would you like that?

  Another nod, this one more decisive. Annie takes the girl by the hand and leads her over to the mirror on the wall and rests a hand on her shoulder…while Peter stands off to the side, still at a loss, but finding his way, too, and listening gratefully to his wife’s prattle.