Essex Poison

by Ian Sansom

  ‘Come on, leave him,’ he told them. ‘He only asked for a smoke.’ This gallant fellow then shook a cigarette from its packet, offered it to me, and lit a match for me to light it. In the tiny flare of the match, and in the light cast from the open kitchen door, it struck me that the man bore a passing resemblance to a young Cary Grant, if Cary Grant had been a lightweight boxer, who had also trained as a priest: he had movie-star-cum-mauler-cum-monastic features, debonair yet also rough and incorruptible, hair perfectly parted, a confident chin, a truly good-looking young fellow, though perhaps with something lacking about him, something contrite and sorrowful.

  ‘I fight anyone who’s not from round here,’ insisted the other man. ‘He’s not from here, I’m going to fight him.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said my Cary Grant lookalike.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ said the other man.

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ I said.

  ‘I’m one of the Cowley Brothers,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said.

  ‘I said leave it, Joe,’ repeated the Cary Grant lookalike. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘You better watch who you’re calling stupid!’ said the man who was one of the Cowley Brothers, and who was clearly keen to take on anyone who wasn’t from here.

  ‘Come on,’ said my new friend, ignoring the Cowley brother, as if he were less than an irritant. ‘Come inside.’ And so I followed him into the Town Hall kitchens.

  Safely inside the kitchens, which were a proverbial hive of feast-related activity, my saviour introduced himself as Billy Ball. ‘Everyone calls me Bouncing,’ he said. ‘For obvious reasons.’ He was indeed an energetic sort of fellow. ‘Don’t take any notice of Joe. The Cowleys are all crazy. They’d fight their own shadow.’

  He explained that he was one of the senior waiting staff at the Oyster Feast. ‘And what are you doing here?’ he asked, not in a challenging way but in an entirely friendly fashion.

  I said I was a journalist, which wasn’t actually true, but which was the pretext on which I had gained entry to the Town Hall and which therefore seemed like a prudent answer. I also said that I was writing a book about Essex, which had the more obvious merit of being true, and in the grand scheme of things I thought that the small lie and the bigger truth probably balanced each other out. Billy Ball not only took my explanation at face value, he was impressed – which of course made me feel rather embarrassed at my rather tricky moral equivalencing.

  ‘I’ve never met a journalist before,’ he said. He wasn’t meeting one now, but I thought it better for him to persist in this misapprehension rather than my having to go back outside and explain myself to the Cowley brother. I suggested that I was intending to write something about behind the scenes at the Oyster Feast. He was delighted.

  ‘Here, I’ll show you how the lads prepare the oysters,’ he said.

  ‘No need,’ I said.

  ‘No no,’ said Billy. ‘Come on.’

  There were three men working away at a long table in the middle of the kitchen, furiously shucking and laying oysters onto silver platters. Crates and baskets of fresh oysters were arriving at an alarming pace.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Be our guest,’ said one of the men, without looking up.

  ‘Many hands,’ said another.

  ‘Make light work,’ said the third.

  ‘He’s a journalist,’ said Billy, nodding towards me.

  ‘Is he?’ said the third man.

  ‘Writing about the Oyster Feast,’ said Billy proudly.

  ‘Tell your readers it’s a waste of money,’ said the first man.

  ‘Shush,’ said Billy. ‘Take no notice of him.’ He grabbed an oyster from a basket set in the middle of the table. ‘Here we are then,’ he said. ‘We give them a quick scrub, just for appearance sake.’ Scrub he duly did. ‘And then we take one of these.’ He picked up from the table a vicious-looking short pointed knife.

  ‘Not a butter knife, mind,’ said one of the men at the table.

  ‘Or a screwdriver,’ said another.

  ‘Definitely not a screwdriver,’ said the third man.

  ‘A proper Essex oyster knife,’ said the first man.

  ‘And then we do this,’ said Billy.

  ‘Careful, Billy,’ said the first man.

  ‘I’m being careful,’ said Billy. Holding the oyster shell firmly in one hand, he inserted the knife at the hinge point between the upper and lower shells of the oyster, then began rotating it slightly, first one way then the other.

  ‘You’ve got to be careful,’ said the first man.

  ‘Or you’ll have your ruddy fingers off,’ said the other.

  ‘As Charlie here can show you!’ said the first man.

  The third man standing at the table held up his left hand, grinning, displaying just three and a half fingers.

  ‘The knives are sharp,’ said the first man.

  ‘And strong,’ said the second.

  ‘You could gut a man,’ said the third, ‘with an oyster knife.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Billy, ‘once you’re in, you move the knife across here – as close as possible to the upper shell so you that you sever the muscle that holds them together, without scrambling the meat.’

  ‘You don’t want to scramble the meat,’ said the first man.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed the second man.

  ‘Never,’ agreed the third.

  ‘There we are!’ announced Billy – and with that the two parts of the oyster shell came apart and there was the oyster, creamy white, the colour of bacon fat, glistening on the lower shell. ‘Look at that. Beautiful. Nice and firm, isn’t she?’

  ‘Just as nature intended,’ said the first man.

  ‘Not bad for an amateur,’ said the second man.

  ‘Takes a few goes,’ said the third man.

  ‘But you soon learn how,’ said the first.

  ‘Like undoing a brassiere,’ said the second.

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ said Billy, ‘that little muscle there, that’s what keeps it shut.’

  I studied the tiny white oyster muscle as Billy carefully transferred the oyster to a tray of ice, to join another half-dozen or so.

  ‘Oysters should always be served on the round,’ explained Billy. ‘The lower shell. Never on the flat, the upper shell.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘You want to keep as much liquor as possible, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s all about the liquor,’ said the first man.

  ‘Is it?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what makes ’em special,’ said the second man.

  ‘Essex oysters,’ the three men said together. ‘Essex water.’

  ‘Right,’ I agreed.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Billy.

  ‘Go on what?’ I said.

  ‘Have a go.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Go on,’ repeated Billy. ‘Be good for your article, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I should really be getting back to the feast.’

  ‘Only take a minute now,’ said Billy, and thrust the knife into my hand. ‘Quick, now. The lads need a dozen per platter.’

  The three shuckers paused in their work and stood watching me, oyster knives in hand. I had no choice.

  I took an oyster from the basket, scrubbed it, took it firmly in my right hand and then attempted to dig into it with the oyster knife in my left.

  ‘Leftie, are you?’ said the first man.

  ‘Don’t want any lefties round here,’ said the second.

  ‘Be careful!’ said the third. ‘Injury to one is an injury to all!’

  I had a few more tentative digs. It was more difficult than it looked. I nearly stabbed my palm in the process several times.

  ‘Careful!’ said the first man.

  ‘Careful!’ said the second.

  ‘Careful!’ said the thir
d.

  ‘Would he be better holding it on the table?’ said Billy.

  ‘He would,’ said the first man.

  ‘He might,’ said the second.

  ‘He could,’ said the third.

  So I held the oyster tight to the table while I used the knife to slide between the upper and lower shells, eventually managing to crack it open, severing the muscle, the oyster, and indeed my hand in the process. The end result was not a pretty sight.

  ‘Not bad,’ said the first man.

  ‘For a first attempt,’ said the second.

  ‘Bloody mess,’ said the third.

  ‘Only a nick,’ said Billy, examining my hand. ‘Here, come and rinse it under the tap.’

  Alas, it was more than a nick.

  ‘That might need dressing,’ said Billy. ‘I’ll go and fetch the first-aid kit.’

  While Billy went for the first-aid kit I sat and watched and bled as the oyster shuckers returned to their task and waiters and waitresses arrived with empty platters, and then left again with full ones. The feast was in full swing. When Billy eventually returned he quickly dressed my hand with a bandage and took a platter himself.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you back up.’

  On the way up to the Moot Hall – up worn stone stairs – Billy told me all about his life and times.

  ‘I’m an honest hard-working man,’ he insisted. I didn’t think for a moment he wasn’t. On the contrary. As well as working in the evenings as a waiter at various functions in the Town Hall he also worked for a local jeweller’s, Hopwood, Son & Payne, ‘47 High Street. Watch and Clock Makers, Goldsmiths, Silversmiths, Jewellers, Opticians, Souvenirs & Pawnbrokers,’ explained Billy. He was at pains to point out that he wasn’t just a shop boy. He was a bona fide watch and clock repairer – ‘Bona fide self-taught,’ as he put it – and was the shop’s roving repair man, heading out around the highways and byways of Essex on his Triumph, collecting, delivering and occasionally even fixing watches and clocks as he went. And he’d just picked up a new job as a rider on Sunday nights on the Wall of Death at Southend’s Kursaal amusement park.

  ‘You’re a very busy man,’ I said.

  ‘I like to keep myself busy,’ he replied. ‘It’s not good to have time on your hands, is it?’

  ‘That’s good coming from a watch and clock repairer,’ I said.

  Billy laughed. I liked him. He had a genuine sweet nature about him; keen to help and eager to please.

  As we made our way up the final few steps towards the Moot Hall we were greeted by a scene of chaos. Guests were rushing from the Oyster Feast, waiters and waitresses standing staring in amazement.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Billy asked one of the waiters. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s the mayor,’ the waiter said.

  ‘Mr Marden?’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Not really,’ said the waiter. ‘He’s dead!’

  CHAPTER 10

  THE OYSTER’S LONELY SUBTERRAQUEOUS SIGH

  CONFUSION REIGNED. Making my way down the steps towards the entrance of the Town Hall, I caught up with Miriam and Morley.

  ‘It’s ghastly!’ said Miriam. It most certainly was.

  We were beset by the sight and sound and smell of what Morley would normally have called ‘the inevitable consequences of excessive indulgence’. (The inevitable consequences of my own excessive indulgence being something that he was often known to comment upon.) On this occasion, however, he had diagnosed the problem as something entirely other than it appeared.

  ‘Crowd hysteria,’ he announced, vigorously twitching his moustache. ‘Or, rather, mania, hysteria deriving from the Greek husteria, of course, meaning – Miriam?’

  ‘Womb, Father,’ said Miriam, with some distaste.

  ‘Precisely. Thank you. And since we have both men and women here mania seems more appropriate, does it not? Mania deriving from – Sefton?’

  ‘The Latin?’

  ‘Of course. Meaning?’

  ‘Madness?’

  ‘Yes. Insanity, frenzy. Crowd hysteria: crowd mania. Nothing more, nothing less. Not uncommon, but terribly dangerous. One person goes, and then the next, and then the next, and so on and so forth and before you know it – boom.’

  ‘Boom?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, boom – you’ve got an epidemic on your hands. Or a riot. Revolution. Disaster. Whatever. Did you ever meet Charles Fort, Sefton?’

  I had never met Charles Fort. Indeed I had no idea who Charles Fort was or under what circumstances I might possibly have met him. (The number of Charleses and Charlies that Morley at one time or another asked me if I knew and that I had certainly never met probably ran into the many hundreds, including Mr Chaplin, Mr Lindbergh, Mr Laughton, Mr Atlas, Mr Ives and Charles I of Austria. The mysterious Charles Fort was therefore just one among many.)

  ‘Lived in London for a while,’ continued Morley. ‘Remarkable fellow. Excellent sense of humour. Collected curious phenomena. Very interested in crowd hysteria. All to do with thresholds of belief, Sefton. Once you get one person to believe something – voom!’

  ‘Voom?’

  ‘Voom, yes. It’s an ignition point, d’you see?’

  ‘I see,’ I said, which I didn’t. What I could actually see were men and women in evening dress variously tottering, staggering, fainting and indeed, alas, violently throwing up in the street. If this was merely the power of suggestion then it was a pretty powerful suggestion. The poor, wretched vomiting souls were being kindly tended to by the Town Hall beadles, police officers, soldiers and by the Dagenham Girl Pipers, resplendent in their tartan. Shadowed by the stately Town Hall it was like a scene from the last days of the Roman Empire, shot on location on Flodden Field. ‘What on earth happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Voom!’ exclaimed Morley. ‘Voom!’

  ‘The mayor excused himself from the feast,’ said Miriam, rather more helpfully, lighting a cigarette and busily wafting the smoke around, in an attempt to dispel the miasma. ‘He left the Hall, and then the next thing we knew people were saying that he’d died and that the oysters had killed him and then—’

  ‘Crowd hysteria took effect,’ said Morley. ‘As I say, voom!’

  ‘Voom, or boom?’ I asked.

  ‘Voom and then boom, Sefton! Ignition point, explosion. As you can see.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘“O oysters come and walk with us, the Walrus did beseech,”’ said Morley, with some logic that was apparent only to him. ‘Miriam?’

  ‘Lewis Carroll, Father.’

  ‘Correct!’ said Morley.

  ‘What’s happened to your hand?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Not been fighting again, I hope,’ said Morley. ‘I have warned you, Sefton.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I just caught it on something.’ I didn’t mention that the something was the wrong end of an oyster knife.

  ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I feel absolutely fine,’ announced a rather elegant, bold-featured woman who emerged through the crowd to stand beside us. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. She looked like she might be a friend of Miriam’s – perhaps a few years older. Immaculately dressed, made-up, hair elaborately waved, etcetera. Handsome, bordering on the beautiful. One of Miriam’s London set? ‘And you two look fine.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the oysters.’

  ‘Then how did the mayor die?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Morley, ‘but I know for sure it wasn’t the oysters.’

  ‘But how do you know, Father?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘Last major outbreak of poisoning from oysters at a banquet like this was back in 1902, I think I’m right in saying, when the Dean of Westminster – Winchester? – one of them – and a number of others got sick from a batch of contaminated oysters.’

  ‘Were they all right?’ asked Miriam. ‘Did they recover?’

  ‘Oh no,’
said Morley. ‘They all died.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘But all Essex oysters have been specially purified ever since. I’m surprised everybody doesn’t know.’

  ‘Of course they don’t know, Father.’

  ‘Well, they should. Because it means there’s absolutely no chance of the mayor having being poisoned by oysters. No chance whatsoever. None.’

  At which precise moment a distinctly pea-greenish-looking middle-aged male dignitary in full evening dress not a few feet away from us spectacularly vomited into the gutter, with the most extraordinary spongy croaking sound, like a giant frog having carefully ransacked the entire contents of its stomach and laid it all out for public examination. The malignant smells were beginning rather to take hold. The croaking sounds were growing all around us.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Morley. ‘“The oyster’s lonely subterraqueous sigh.” Miriam?’

  ‘No idea, Father.’

  ‘Byron, I think, Don Juan?’

  ‘Oh, I love Don Juan. My dear, would you mind if I stole a cigarette?’ asked the woman who had joined us, having produced a silver cigarette case from her handbag and found it empty.

  ‘Of course,’ said Miriam, delighted to find another dedicated female smoker. ‘It is getting a bit … whiffy, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s just a shame, isn’t it,’ said Morley, utterly unperturbed by what was going on all around us, ‘that it’s not possible to install some kind of window into a man’s stomach, to be able to study the movement of the gastric juices.’

  ‘Father!’ said Miriam. ‘That’s appalling.’

  ‘Practical though,’ said the woman, having lit her cigarette. ‘Very practical, in fairness. It would be an excellent engineering solution to a human problem – if it were possible.’