Did Mr F really know what he was doing, do you think, dragging out the business of choosing the skins like this? I’m sure he’d never read or even heard of the names Penelope or Sheherezade, but it was certainly their old trick that he was up to. Somewhere in the back of his mind he must have realised that once those seventeen fox skins were all present and correct, the day when he would have nothing left to teach Beauty would be irreversibly inked into the calendar, and that when that day came — well, I suppose that if Mr F had tried to imagine for a moment what a day without Beauty would have felt like, his mind would have refused. It would have been like looking up and seeing all that dazzling, dancing water blotted out by an in-rolling wall of fog; like stepping out onto London Bridge and being suddenly enveloped in a chilly, endless and featureless world of no return.
Sometimes, of course, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if there had been somebody else there down by the river that afternoon: I mean if there had been somebody there to see him stamp out his cigarette like that, and be moved, noticing the obvious vehemence of the gesture, to ask him what he was thinking of as he stared out over the water like that (to ask him, perhaps, Are you alright, Mr F?). Do you think that then he might have been able to put his fears into words? After all, that’s what it takes, sometimes, isn’t it; a conversation with a stranger. Personally, judging by the set expression on his face, the way he is screwing up his eyes against the light from the river, I think not. I think he would simply have replied — after, perhaps, just a moment’s hesitation — that all he was thinking about was work, and how he really should be getting back to it now. At most, he might have said something predictable about the heat. If the stranger had persisted — or if for some reason Mr F had decided to talk, had felt, suddenly, like unburdening himself a little — then… well, then, I don’t think Mr F would have talked about himself and his problems at all. I think he would have talked about the boy. Keeping his voice quiet, and low (staring out across the river, and lighting another cigarette), he would have starting talking about how well they worked together, all things considered, and of how he thought the boy really was coming on by leaps and bounds. He would have talked at length about his diligence, his aptitude, his potential, and his charm. He would have commended his style of dress, and even his hair; would have portrayed him, that is, as a perfectly suitable choice.
He might even have said you know, I think it would be nice if he got together with one of the girls from work — he is that age, after all. He’d treat a girl well, I’m sure. Not like they usually get treated by their young men. Take her out somewhere nice. Wherever it is these young people go.
And I think he would have meant every word.
But there was no stranger, that afternoon. As he turned his back on the river, and decided it really was time he got back, Mr F suddenly felt sure that that was what he was so sick of: the sound of his own voice. He was sick of the sound of it forever bouncing off the walls of his kitchen or living-room; sick of hearing it run round and round the inside of his skull. And he was sick of this weather, too — sick of the sunlight, and sick of this everlasting heat; sick of the dazzle, and the sweat, and the laughter leaking up from the basement. As he trudged back up towards Skin Lane, he realised how much he was missing his dream. He missed the cool of his bathroom, the calming pallor of the gloss paint and the tiles and the mirror and the cold white enamel; missed the way the boy always looked so peaceful and quiet, lying there asleep with his eyes closed tight. Pausing in the shadow of a warehouse (no one was going to notice if he was five minutes late, not in this weather) he leant against its brick wall for a moment and took out his tobacco and papers again and started to roll one last cigarette. He remembered the good old days, when he could at least look forward to being alone with Beauty in the cool of the night. When he could stare and stare and stare his fill. He remembered that daydream about lowering him slowly down, laying him gently down in the bathtub and then kneeling by his side and brushing that stray lock of dark hair away from his face so he could sleep properly. He remembered how cool the touch of his forehead had been. How white his skin was. How sweet the weight of him, in his arms.
He remembered everything.
There. That’s better
Mr F opened his eyes. He did feel better, but he thought it might be a good idea to stay just a few more minutes leaning against this conveniently shady wall — calm down a bit before he went back to the Lane. Smoke his fag in peace. He didn’t want to spoil anything when he got back. Slip up over anything.
If only he had known, that particular July afternoon, as it happened, was a historic one. Just a mile upriver, while our Mr F was leaning against his baking warehouse wall with his eyes screwed shut and imagining in vivid detail what it would be like to hold a naked young man in his arms, the House of Commons was beginning a debate on just that very subject. The Strangers’ Gallery, that particular afternoon, was unusually crowded; the journalists, as they reached for their pencils and began to scribble, found themselves having to struggle for elbow-room — and if only Mr F had been paying as much attention as some other people evidently were, that’s my point. If only, for instance, he had read his Evening Standard with a little more care the next day (read the lead article on page twelve, for instance) then it might have given him something else to listen to besides the sound of his own voice. If nothing else, surely realising that he ought to have been using the word we instead of always just that same cross, worn-out I in his angry mutterings would have helped; realising, that is, that he couldn’t have been the only man on the five forty-nine train home from London Bridge that night who instinctively checked to see if any of his fellow passengers had noticed the slight change in his face when his evening paper fell open at that particular page. I’m not saying that he would (or should) have started looking round the carriage to see if he could spot any fellow sufferers, eager to start up a supportive conversation, or anything like that — but surely it would have helped him to know that he wasn’t alone.
To know that he wasn’t just imagining all this.
As it was, Mr F took one look at the headline and decided that the article couldn’t possibly be about him. After he’d spent barely a minute scanning it, he turned sedately (no one was watching him; he’d checked) back to page four, which was where they always told you what was going to be on the radio that evening. The only thing that had really caught his eye in the article was a small detail in the last paragraph. For some reason, the young journalist who had written it had seen fit to mention the fact that the House hadn’t risen from its debate until nearly half past six in the morning — until 6.21 a.m., in fact. What a relief it must have been for them all, Mr F thought, to step out into the fresh morning air after having had to talk about all of that nonsense all night long. He always loved the sensation of stepping out onto an empty pavement first thing on a summer morning, before it got too hot. Before London got really going, and the streets were still cool and quiet. Before all the voices started. Before you realised that nothing was ever going to change.
seven
You wouldn’t have thought it could have got any hotter — but it did. Later that week, the front page of the Standard announced (alongside short paragraphs announcing Abortion debated and then, later, Abortion to be legalised) that the temperature in the City had twice reached eighty-one degrees. Every afternoon, clouds towered up over St Paul’s, threatening thunder, and down in the basement of Number Four, Mrs Kesselman was obliged to let her girls lapse into all sorts of undress; come five-thirty, the cherubs carved over the windows of St Michael Paternoster rolled their eyes in fat-lipped disapproval as they clattered home tired and sweaty over the cobbles. Even up on London Bridge, the air was as warm as blood. The stone pavements, punished by the baking sun all day, gave back their heat, tormenting the homeward-bound crowds.
However, that was the very week — a week when no one in London could either remember or imagine being cold enough to want to put on
a coat — when one of Mr Scheiner’s contacts finally came up trumps with a supply of red foxes. The skins were dazzling; luxurious, heavy and fiery. Even Mr F could find no fault with what he was being offered.
It was time for the cutting to begin.
Any potential customer or colleague being shown round the premises that week, and seeing Mr F and his junior hard at
work on Maureen’s coat, might well have been moved to comment to Mr Scheiner on what a good team they made. That nephew of yours, you’ve certainly got him up to speed, would probably have been the phrase. And it was true; now that Beauty knew that there was light at the end of this particular tunnel, he was a model of diligence. He did exactly as he was told, passing the blade or cane or bat or nail exactly as and when required, and in dutiful silence. Mr F, on his part, sliced and stretched and pinned as if it was February, not July; having finally found seventeen skins which met his demanding standards, it seemed as if he couldn’t wait to get the coat made. Never, it seemed to his colleagues, had his knife moved with more determined skill — and everyone in the workroom could see that, just as Mr F had promised, this coat was indeed going to be perfect. The pelts themselves were spectacular, and their beauty was to be allowed to conceal no botch or compromise; despite the heat (despite the sweat that sometimes slicked his hands) the blades and nails that opened and punctured them were never once seen to stray or slip.
By the end of the second week of July, all seventeen of the skins were already cut and on the boards. Beauty was given the job of damping them down, checking when they were dry enough for lifting, and passing them over to Mrs Kesselman for seaming; Mr F, meanwhile, was glad to tell his boss that the assembled coat should be on the stand in just three or four days. Mr Scheiner (Oy! At last! he muttered, the moment Mr F closed the office door behind him) straightaway lifted the receiver and called his cousin to arrange the young lady’s final fitting. When he heard the coat was nearly ready, the cousin wanted to discuss the price again, of course — but Mr Scheiner was having none of that. He always enjoyed giving as good as he got from the customer, family or no.
“And how is business by you that suddenly you go tight on me, eh?” he shouted at his cousin down the phone. “No, listen… it’s a great pleasure knowing you too.”
He knew the game; they both did. The offended tone was as cheerfully insincere as it was dramatic.
“Well a price is a price, my friend — even for family.”
When they’d both stopped laughing, he brought the phone closer to his mouth, and lowered his voice as if there was someone else in the room.
“No but listen to me, my friend — this coat, the girl is going to love it.”
The customer was unconvinced.
“No really.”
At that price, the customer said, he should fucking well hope so.
“Worth every penny. Trust me.”
On the other end of the phone, Mr Scheiner’s cousin told him exactly what return he was expecting to get on his investment.
“Hey,” said Mr Scheiner. “Nice life!”
His cousin promised he’d give his girl a call and arrange to come by the Lane just as soon as was convenient — she was usually pretty free. There was more than just money in the chuckle Mr Scheiner gave as the heavy black receiver of the office phone clicked back into its cradle. Nice life indeed.
Upstairs in the workroom, Beauty was squeezing out a filthy-smelling sponge into a bucket of water. Although he had never said anything, the one part of the job he’d always really hated was this damping-down the work on the nailing-boards. It was something about the way the dead skins began to smell alive again once they were wet, he thought. And especially in this heat.
eight
The date for the final fitting of the coat was not agreed without some negotiation; Maureen’s diary (and indeed Maureen) turned out to be not quite so entirely at his beck and call as Mr Scheiner’s cousin had anticipated. Eventually the last Friday of the month was agreed upon, and Mr F told would he please have the coat ready on the stand by that lunchtime.
The day before that, the Thursday, was probably the hottest day of the entire summer. The City baked, and burnt, and, unable to face the crush of London Bridge that evening, Mr F stayed late in the workroom — up there by the open windows, there was at least the possibility of getting some air. There was no real need for him still to be there at seven o’clock, fussing with the coat on its stand, but I imagine that besides the air he simply wanted to have a chance to take one last quiet, private look at this coat of his before it was taken out of his hands. The customer might never know with what care, and cares, it had been created — but he certainly did.
He had carefully draped it on a stand in the middle of the workroom — not the usual canvas tailor’s dummy, but a headless wooden shop-window figure kept especially for displaying garments to customers. He settled the coat across its shoulders with a quick shake. It had already been given its first comb-out; all that was needed now was the one last formal fitting before the customer chose the silk for her lining and the fur was passed over to Mrs Kesselman for lining, finishing, packaging and dispatch.
He stood back, and looked at it. It was, though he said so himself, quite a piece of work.
By seven o’clock on a July evening, the top-floor workroom at Number Four was no longer tortured by the direct glare of the sun; at that hour, the only light that reached the room was that reflected off the worn white stones of St James’s tower and steeple, still baking on the south side of the Lane. It seeped in through the long window over the cutting benches like a rich gold stain, or dye, and in this strange, heavy light, as the shadows in the corners of the room began to gather, the colours of the coat seemed to deepen, and grow richer; to smoulder, and blaze. For the last time, Mr F let his wandering fingers find each of them in turn; the brick-dust red of the under-fur; chestnut spiked with black towards the spine; the cochineal-tipped-with-jet of the glittering guard-hairs; the hidden flashes of soft white belly. Because the coat was still unlined, it couldn’t help but seem animal; there was something about the helpless sight of all that bare, seamed skin resting directly on the senseless dummy that made it look as if the coat was eager for a wearer made of flesh and blood again. For something that would let it move. As if he was answering this need — placating it, almost — Mr F fetched a steel comb and cane from his bench and began his final preparations. Methodically beating up the guard-hairs on each of the skins in turn, then combing them out, he worked across the shoulders of the coat, then down each of the sleeves in turn, and then, slowly, down the softly flaring back. As always, he moved his powerful hands with both decision and care, bringing the fur alive with every long, sweeping stroke.
His face was calm as he did this; his mind, quiet. I don’t know if it was Beauty he was thinking of as he worked like this — of all the times their hands had accidentally touched, perhaps; of all the long hours of co-operation and frustration — but I do know that no lady at her glass ever combed out her shining hair at the end of the day with strokes as firm, as steady and as gentle as those Mr F used on that coat. Even though he had no dressing-table mirror in which to contemplate himself while he did it, he did look as though, finally, his thoughts were settling themselves into some sort of order; as if, briefly, he was at peace.
As if he felt… as if he felt himself.
It was probably a full three or four minutes before he realised that there was someone else there with him in that upstairs room, watching him.
“That’s looking lovely, Mr F,” said Beauty, quietly. “Reckon she’ll like it?”
Mr F had no idea how long the boy had been standing there. He didn’t turn round; there was a brief pause, and then the steel comb, which had hesitated in mid-stroke, completed its movement. Each stroke was long, and full; down; down; down, the comb went. Still he didn’t look round — Mr F was always one for concentrating on the job in hand. His eyes stayed on the gleaming fur. If he was startled his voice d
idn’t betray the fact. If anything, it sounded deliberately calm.
“I should think so.”
The hand kept moving. The eyes stayed on their task.
“And what brings you back here at this time in the evening then — you should be home by now, shouldn’t you?”
“I was just meeting my friend up at Aldgate again, but he had to go home, and it’s too bloody warm for the tube tonight… so I thought I’d walk back this way a bit first.” Flicking his eyes to the workroom mirror, Mr F could see the boy as just a dark, elegant silhouette, framed in the workroom doorway.
“I’m surprised the front door was still open.”
“Mrs Kesselman was just locking up. She said you were up here.”
“Like you say, it’s too hot for a train.”
I suppose it was the warmth of the evening, or maybe the light, or perhaps just because it was gone seven and the building was so quiet, but they were both talking softly now, as if there was something in the room that shouldn’t be disturbed. There was another pause, and then the boy left his place in the doorway, and came closer, to watch the work. Still, Mr F never once took his eyes off the fur. With that look of concentration on his face, and in his white coat, he really did look like a doctor.
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