by Lisa Hannett
* * *
Nettie got Mother’s looks. Plump in kissable places, lean everywhere else. Right iris the colour of sunshine, the left one dark as Jim Gallant’s homebrew--and one pupil horizontal, like a goat’s. My sister had no trouble with her sideways-slit eye, but Mother’s wept constantly. At dawn each May Day, we’d find a basket of hankies on the stoop, stitched with roosters, rings, nosegays; finery that would spend the next year getting scrunched into the Chanticleer’s canthus one after another. In her final hours, steady streams had trickled down both of Claude’s cheeks, but even through the blur, Mother still saw more than anyone.
On the first of three funeral days, people remembered this all-seeing orb, hidden now beneath blue-tinged lids. They dissected Claude in tributes, raised gourds of Gallant’s best, and tied giblet garlands around her wrists and ankles. Remember how tight she was in that swimsuit, way back when? Small but curvy--fitter than other ring-girls. And the length of those legs! The span of those far-reaching arms ... Mother basked in the compliments silently, death locking away her voice but not her get-up-and-go. You’re full of it, the lot of you, she seemed to say with a girlish flick of her hand. Then she’d grin and pinch cheeks and bottoms, her brittle fingers rasping on denim. Even lying on a cold hard bier, Claude knew how to rub warmth into rough-bearded fellows.
And who’s next? someone asked. Crass and disrespectful, given the context. Nettie or Regina?
My sister painted herself bashful by blushing, but I could see her eyeing the gents, currying favour the way Mother taught. Swishing her skirt absentmindedly. Perking her cute arse. Frumpy in coveralls, I put on my best tones and simply said, “Me.”
Soon enough, mournful talk and flirty gave way to touching eulogies--touching and fondling and prodding. Mother’s scalp was smooth as custard, her skull so compact it could fit inside a gutted half-cantaloupe. Powdered with chalk and cinnamon, it practically begged to be stroked; so I stood back and let them. Many had waited so long to cup that bareness in their palms, to feel its naked power. No harm in giving them a grope, I thought, letting them paw for luck.
Nan’s white crown, a faded full moon, rested on the slab near Mother’s blue-brown shoulder. It used to fit perfectly, snug as gloves. But in the past couple of months, it had started to loosen. Beneath its rim, shadows had yawned at Claude’s temples while she chewed. When she laughed, it’d slid up her forehead. Sometimes, as she leaned forward in her rocker to peer across the boxing green, it clunked against her binoculars. Mother thought doctors were quacks; flat-out refused to see them, even though her bones were contracting. Her skin obviously sagging. Her flawless half-melon withering bit by bit.
Judging by the recent trills in Nettie’s singing, she’d noticed it too. Mother’s lessening. No other reason my mouse of a twin would pipe up so conspicuously, so regularly. Asking Jet the blacksmith and the boys if she might front their band, inviting them over to practise one evening--then suggesting extra lessons alone with the blacksmith. Just like that, Jet was coming round our cabin more than the milkman, armed with a tuning fork he’d forged himself. Nope, no doubt about it: Nettie was gearing up to succeed Mother. And with her scrawny figure, she’d be stiff competition. I mean, Claude could wizen to a cornhusk and still be bigger than Nettie. Lovely, tiny Nettie.
It was a real worry, this diminishment. This dwindling. Soon, I’d thought, Mother’ll be wearing a walnut shell instead of Nan’s crown. A fine enough legacy for my twig of a sister, but for a lumbering oak like me? No way. No how.
I needed every inch I could get.
* * *
I did what I could to stall the shrinking. Plied Mother with tisanes steeped overnight, new-and-improved elixirs and cordials. Brewed teas by the bucket-load, herbals plucked from Claude’s own plot, guaranteed to stop her from wasting. Toward the end, I kept her so hydrated it’s a wonder she didn’t float.
Don’t go overboard with the sugar, she’d instruct, sicker and sicker by the day. You make it so I can’t taste anything but sweet. Give me something tart. A bit of lemon, a bit of juniper.
Handing her a steaming cup, I’d told her to hush. To watch she didn’t burn herself. To sit up and avoid spilling. To trust, for once, that I knew what I was doing.
Before the bloat stole it, her voice had been hollow; vowels blown through a reed-flute. I heard echoes of Nan whenever Mother spoke.
Blunt that tongue of yours, my hen, the two said. Like as not, you’ll cut yourself on it.
I’d pressed the cup to her lips, tilted.
While she drank, I clenched my jaw and did my best impression of Nettie. Gentle smile, gentle tune to lull the woman to sleep. Music and charm always were my sister’s forte; mine were bargaining, tactics. By fourteen, I’d negotiated trades with the Taskers upriver: six Jersey calves per season for as many bouts with our bantamweights; a brace of our foxes for every barrel of their trout; a cartload of bones for six months’ worth of darning needles. Important deals, the lot of them. The promise of continued prosperity, clinched with a Chanticleer’s cunning. That’s what a town needed in its leader. The willingness, the ability to inspire change. A firm hand when stability was needed.
Nettie, however, only offered distraction from the day-to-day. She didn’t improve our lot in life; she entertained. Saccharine plays, sonnets, sestinas, Sunday carolling--our Nettie was a regular nightingale, and just as useless. What good were songs when the dark season came? Show me a poem that could stave off starvation. By nineteen, parleys had won me three boxers, including Thom, the butcher’s son--southpaw, welterweight, ugliest harelip you ever saw--who I’d picked for champion on account of his know-how, his scars. Nettie’s talents had earned her nothing but fans.
Words are the Chanticleer’s greatest power, Mother always said, so much like Nan, if I closed my eyes I couldn’t tell them apart. Words spoken, I’m sure she meant, not warbled. Unlike Nettie, I’d paid attention when our dams shared their wisdom. I’d worked hard. I’d listened. I’d learned.
But as Mother slurped down my tonics, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. My crown will never fit you, Regina, she’d said, as if reading my thoughts. From birth, my head had been shaven, like hers, and bound in strips of silk--Mother’s fondest caress was a razor blade rasping my stubble. I had her wits and, yes, her sharp tongue. But mine was a brawler’s build, stocky as the bull that killed Argent last spring. Firstborn I may have been, older than Nettie by a full hour, but I was ungainly for a Chanticleer.
And I couldn’t negotiate myself smaller.
* * *
For three days and two nights Mother’s body stayed in the smokehouse.
The roof was sound, slatted with a single vent, and the door had a sturdy lock. Every family in town had a key, of course, but they respected our privacy, entering only when we gave the say-so. Small and dry, the space was infused with scents of peat and salt, cod and winter herring. Whenever I could, I’d pop in to remind Mother she wasn’t alone.
She wore the cotton nightie I’d scrubbed for the occasion. Tansy dust still stained the ruffles, though I’d bleached the fabric as best I could. In our house the fatal herb’s leaves and petals were everywhere. It kept pests at bay, Mother had said, clustering the weeds to hang from the rafters. As they dried, seeds rained from the bunches and she’d sweep them up for replanting; wild thatches now grew all over town, easy to find even after the snows. On my way across the boxing green, I’d plucked several of their snap-frozen stalks. Fingers clumsy with cold, I’d plaited them into a circlet to slip over Mother’s head, an offering and a reminder. But when I ducked inside, she was so tranquil, so composed, I changed my mind. No point in riling her yet.
Palms yellow, I trudged down the lane to the fox pens. Wire mesh enclosed an area five times the length of a horse trailer; nowhere near big enough for the number of skulks Old One-Shot had crammed into cardboard dens. The vixens sniffed me coming a ways off. Nose-first, they hurdled the reynards, brush-tails flailing. Red fur flew as they snapped and snarled.
I picked up a pail of feed, scattered a handful of the rancid meat through the fence, saw the gobbets devoured in an instant. Another few chunks through the gaps and the bucket was empty.
“That’s it,” I said. “Greedy guts.”
The foxes licked their chops. Kits yipped, appetites scythe-sharp. Scrubbing my hands in the snow, I kept an eye on them through the links. They could smell the blood on my fingers and wanted a second helping.
“Too slow,” I said to the pups. “Got to be faster off the mark, else you’ll be left wanting.”
They barked as I scoured my flesh deep pink, unable to get the stink out.
* * *
Twilight at the smokehouse, the third of our vigil. Once more the room was packed, but tonight there were no gourds filled, no canons sung, no tears shed. Avarice made everyone serious as they filed past the bier, saying final farewells, grabbing mementos of the Chanticleer. The young and ambitious had lined up from midday, hoping a wasted afternoon would nab them the most potent keepsakes. At sundown, Nettie and I’d gone to make sure Mother was ready. Once we got the nod, we let the rest of the town in with their scissors and knives.
No one dared touch Nan’s crown; it belonged to Mother, and would be cremated with her remains. Next, the Chanticleer’s tongue was most prized--but my sister got there first, greedy as a fox, and pried it out with the blacksmith’s tongs. After that, any detachables were fair game. Teeth, ears, nipples, fingers, toes. One by one, they were snipped and snapped and stuffed into reliquaries, tucked inside censers and jewel-boxes and lockets. Latecomers settled for leftover moles, birthmarks, a sizeable wart on the back of Claude’s neck. Curls were yanked from nostrils, underarms, cleft. Tradition kept the mismatched eyes in their sockets, but brows and lashes were plucked bare. Finally, Jade Pilvery took pinking shears to the nightgown we’d peeled off earlier, clipping it into postage-stamp squares for children too short to reach something better.
Mother didn’t resent these pilferings.
“It’s a real honour, hens. A real gift,” she’d said, when we’d gone to Nan’s picking-over. “You should be so lucky.”
Now, skin greyed and slack as lard, body stripped thin, Claude waited patiently for the scavenging to cease. She’d never looked more regal.
“Go on, Net,” I said to my sister, after the vultures had gone. “I’ll meet you down at the Bingo.”
For a moment, she feigned deafness. Stringing Mother’s tongue on a cord, she averted her eyes and tied it round her neck. Runes appeared and disappeared in the tastebud florets; Nettie froze, reading Claude’s last words.
“Regina,” she breathed at me, startled-deer. “What--”
“Go on,” I repeated. “Get the banquet rolling.”
Hell, Nettie was a good actress. Clutching the talisman, she sniffled and pecked Mother once on each cheek. Shaking like a tambourine, her sorrow almost believable.
“You think I can eat? Now?”
“Have a cup of tea then,” I said, talking over Nettie’s yelp. “It’s the least you can do.”
“You’re a real piece of work,” she mumbled, and I laughed to take the edge off her jealousy. My sister could fight me for the crown all she wanted, but she’d have no part in this. As eldest, it was my duty--mine alone--to escort the Chanticleer to her unravelling.
Without a second glance, Nettie lifted her grey hood and hightailed it out of there, boots squeaking across fresh-fallen snow.
“Watch your step,” I called, repeating the warning as I eased Mother off the table. Elbows linked, we shared the burden of balance while crossing the icy threshold. I guided her along the dark lane outside, a slow careful shuffle. In no time I was huffing and Claude was purpling to black, her corpse growing heavier by the foot.
“Nearly there,” I panted. “Don’t give up on me now.”
I blinked fat flakes from my lashes and peered at Mother sidelong. Wan moonlight strobed through flurries, glinting off the powder on her skinny shoulders. Oh, what a sight. Gouges and gashes rimed with frozen lace, she hobbled like a troll. A rising snow-cap made her seem taller and taller.
Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there ...
I didn’t realise I was smiling until Mother started to chuckle.
“I’ve earned this,” I said, face falling. “You of all people should know that.”
She patted my arm, condescending even without fingers. Save yourself the headaches, her touch said. Give Nettie the crown.
“And what would you have done,” I snapped, “if Nan’d said the same to you?”
Mother raised her chin, defiant. A true Chanticleer.
I snorted. “Exactly.”
She smirked, but held me tighter.
As we approached the pens I signalled for One-Shot, who’d long ago hot-footed out of the ring and into the gamekeeper’s racket. Orange flared at waist height on the yard’s far side, guttering until he put flame to wick. The lantern bobbed towards us. Iron jangled on his leather belt.
“Evening, Claude,” One-Shot said, rattling a cough, singling out the rustiest key. “Reg.”
Mother mimed an uppercut, gently clocking him on the jaw. Then she palmed his jowl, punch turned pat. Gave him a look that said, Guard up.
We opened and closed the gate in one swift movement so the foxes couldn’t skip out with Mother’s entrance. Undaunted by their excited, ethereal barking, she turned and faced me through the fence.
Arms crooked in position, she smiled. Guard up.
* * *
“Nettie stopped in on her way past.”
Lamp held near his chest, One-Shot’s face was lit ghoulish. His cauliflower ears and truffle nose cast weird shadows, obscuring his expression.
“Is that so,” I said. My thick legs kept pace with his nimble ones as we traipsed down the road to the Bingo. The double-peaked hall was decked out in streamers and paper lanterns; golden light spilled into the parking lot, turning slush to lemonade. Later on, Jet and the boys would sing Mother’s soul to the hereafter, but for now, cutlery clinking against crocks was music enough. It seemed One-Shot agreed; his belly growled louder than mine.
“She had some thoughts on the Chant’s sudden passing,” he continued. “And on the outcome of tomorrow’s bout.” He picked at his teeth with a sprig of rosemary then chomped the needles. His breath was no less rank for it.
“Nettie’s a singer,” I said. “She makes all kinds of empty noise, just to keep her vocal chords limber.”
One-Shot shrugged, never one to engage in a fight he wasn’t sure to win. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
“Guess so.”
Behind us, the foxes’ howling reached a crescendo. Wincing, I hunched into my coat and kicked my boots against the Bingo’s scuffed steps. Before climbing up, I stomped and thudded until every skerrick of snow was knocked loose. It did little to muffle the caterwauling.
“They’ll make quick work of it, Reg,” the gamekeeper said. He snuffed the lamp and hooked it on the railing beside the others. “Vicious fuckers. Winter brings out the worst in them.”
At the door, I waited. Warm scents and sour wafted from within. Spit-roasted lamb, onions, yams. Gallant’s ale, unwashed bodies, lavender perfume. Smoke from a hundred Zig-Zags.
“They’re just famished,” I said, peals of laughter inside blending with feral yowls. “They’ve been waiting on this feast a long time.”
* * *
At cock’s crow, Nan’s cauldron was simmering on the hearth. I skimmed dross from the surface--old shreds of bryony, tansy, belladonna--and tapped it onto the grate. When the water was boiling pure, I replaced the lid and went outside to fetch pail and barrow.
Wheeling deep ruts across the boxing green, I dodged corner-posts that wanted padding and ropes that needed slinging before this evening’s event. Yesterday’s clouds had fallen overnight; I trod on their fluffy corpses, the pale sky so barren I knew we were in for a cold one.
By now, I thought, repressing a whistle as I approached the pens, the st
arvelings will have gnawed her to sinew and bone. A couple hours in Nan’s kettle and she’ll be rendered clean for chopping and burning. Plenty of time for the square-circle to be cleared, stools for the cutmen to be found, the announcer’s table to be set up proper. Plenty of time to tighten my skin with witch hazel and cucumber. Plenty of time to practise my lines.
Everyone still talked about Mother’s coronation speech. How clever it was. How innovative. Instead of boring the town with platitudes, she’d dolled-up in hot bathers, scribbled her ideas on placards, and paraded them round the ring between bells. With Nan’s crown and Argent’s swagger, Claude was pure class. A real hard act to follow.
For weeks, I’d planned my own debut. I didn’t have the strut for Mother’s brand of show-ponying, but my voice ... Well, she’d said it was honest. Reassuring. Trustworthy. A voice to smooth all manner of ills.
But also unyielding, I remembered, clanking to a halt outside the gate. And nowhere near as sweet as Nettie’s.
The foxes were sedate, dark copper patches curled around the carcass. Gluttons. Must’ve gorged themselves into a coma. To be safe, I slopped some meat from the bucket, made kissing noises to get the beasts’ attention. Fat and full, they didn’t move a muscle.
The body, however, sat up.