The windows in this vast space are without order and sit nonsensically high near the ceiling. Only a few beacons of light shoot down into the room, inhibited by towers of furniture that look like great, tall monsters rapidly gaining strength in the darkening December afternoon. Clovis flips the switch, casting shadowy light from a carnival of lamps, chandeliers, lanterns and shades onto a sea of furniture mania.
At first glance the warehouse-sized room seems to be a wonderland of junk – a madman’s stash, from decades of collecting. An educated and experienced eye would declare no such thing. Treasures. Haphazard in their presentation, but nonetheless treasures of beauty, rare and priceless, occupy this corner of Bermondsey.
Clovis keeps a mental inventory of each and every item: where they are placed, when they arrived, and what they are worth. She locks the door and heads directly to the middle of the room where a grouping of seventeenth-century wardrobes dwarf the delicate Victorian birdcages piled on tables beside them. Hidden behind a six-legged Portuguese wardrobe, a smaller oak tack cupboard seems unimportant in the company of more ornate pieces. But a certain precocious young prince had carved his name inside it and therefore rendered it practically impossible to price. Clovis gives it a light pat. One day Finn will sell it for an enormous sum.
The cupboard doors open with a faint creak. Kneeling down, she removes a thin plank that covers a false bottom and carefully retrieves a wooden box. Clovis places the box on a nearby table and opens the lock with another of her five keys. Her eyes greedily fixate on three rows of phials, neatly nestled and protected in their felt-lined home. Intricate leather fastenings hold the glass vessels in place. She counts – not because she doesn’t already know the number – but because now the number is more important than it ever has been.
She moves amongst the jumble of furniture – a marble dining table here, a few gramophone cabinets there – considering in which of her several hiding places she’ll place the box this time. Not satisfied, she makes an abrupt turn and leaves the vast space in darkness once again.
A low, moaning wind is whipping up, foretelling a cold night. As she passes the kitchen table she grabs the letter and then takes the box upstairs to her office. Just as she sets it down on her desk, she hears the harsh melody of keys at the front door. Quickly now she retrieves a screwdriver from her desk drawer and kneels down to an unused electrical socket, which she unscrews. The phials are gleaming more brilliantly with light than before: the liquid appears alive, as if it’s moving up and down in the glass. Clovis breathes more deeply as she places each phial into the specially padded space in the wall behind the socket. She keeps a cautious eye on the door while her fingers probe. Her lips part as she reaches deep into the recess of the wall until all twenty-one phials are secure. After she replaces the fixture, the empty box is stored in a small Burmese chest beneath her desk. There’s a knock at her office door.
‘I’m home,’ Willa announces through the door.
‘Good. Light a fire downstairs.’
‘Yes. I will as soon as I …’
‘Now.’
Behind the door, the girl closes her eyes for a moment before she speaks again.
‘All right.’
Clovis sends two texts, each with the same message:
Come home. Urgent.
CHAPTER THREE
A gormless drunk sleeps it off in St Martin’s Gardens, oblivious to how many bones he lounges upon. His head rests against one of the tree-eating gravestones that cluster around the north wall in the green space that was once Camden Town’s cemetery.
The sun that never appeared is setting now somewhere behind a wall of cloud. It was either going to be the sisters’ brightest day of the year, or the darkest. Constance blows into her hands and stamps her feet in a futile effort to create warmth. Verity stands frozen. Hidden behind her dark glasses, her eyes are further deadened by the realization that another year’s mountain of hope has evaporated, just like that.
It takes exactly four minutes to walk the paved path that marks the perimeter of the gardens. Sometimes they walk it together, but more often Verity begins at the Camden Street gate and Constance at the Pratt Street entrance where the black iron fencing encloses a few graves. Chest tombs covered in moss rise above the ground and stand surrounded by long grass and overgrowth.
Constance strolls past the almshouses that once offered shelter to forty-two poor women of the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields. Verity walks in the opposite direction of her sister by the north wall. She is familiar with each gravestone, many so worn and old that the inscriptions have faded completely away, as if erased by a severe hand.
The sisters wait. For an hour they pace, they sit on the edge of the bench and feel their hearts in their throats whenever anyone enters the gardens. They perch, ready to fly to him. They search the faces each time in such earnest, and each time they are deflated when in return they are dismissed and ignored.
Another half hour passes. With moist eyes and handkerchiefs, veils of dull undisguised grief cover their faces and accompany their slow steps back to the gates. They had entered them so hopefully, but now they lumber.
Their heads remain lowered until they reach the edge of the gardens where the gravestones look as if they recede into the brick wall. Constance removes a bundle from her bag. She places a small bunch of wild Scottish December heather, tied together with a black tartan bow, at the base of the stone that reads: In Loving Memory of Beatrice ‘Bertie’ MacFarlane. Died 1844. The wild heather’s purple blush against the pale, grey stone brings warmth to the lonely corner.
‘Dear Bertie,’ Constance says.
Verity crosses herself.
Dusk is finished; it is fully dark. Verity pulls her sister away, towards the gates, but Constance looks back once more. She notices a movement in the dark, a man, and for an instant her breath quickens and she reaches for Verity. But no, it is only the awakened drunk who comes towards them, looking stunned that he’s still alive.
In Camden Town’s evening rush hour, the snaking cars bounce light on the eclectic mix of architecture. Drivers poke their heads out of their windows with impatience, buses groan with the weight of their passengers. The sisters bend to the mighty power of London’s workforce in a silent daze, each inhabiting their disappointment and the knowledge that they will fret through the coming year.
A bitter wind carries the scent of a cocktail of restaurant foods. The music of a violin rises above the traffic. The sisters reach the corner, where at Camden Town Station, the DJ with the disconcerting plastic grandpa mask has been replaced by a group of professional carollers. The haunting words and melody of ‘Coventry Carol’ and the dark voice of the violin cuts through the sisters today like no other.
Constance feels Verity begin to crumble beside her. She clasps her arm firmly and pulls her up.
‘Hold up, sister, hold up. We’re almost home.’
Verity regains her balance and steps quickly away from the music; she can bear no more.
Their blue and lavender capes sweep around the corner, leaving the road that curves towards the Regent’s Park and its beautiful landscape, which tonight seems miles away instead of a few metres. They pass the pub and the former coach house, then survey the street that Lawless House occupies, once again wary of being seen together. The middle of the crescent fans out, which affords them an ounce of privacy.
Verity taps in the passcode beside the black gate and they slip in and wait to hear the click that secures them. Constance is particular about her keys and the one she needs now is already in her hand. Shaking with exhaustion, she heaves a great sigh of relief when the door swings open and they are safely inside.
The strong scent of their earlier fire has lingered, and greets them now as they unwrap their scarves and throw their capes on the hooks in the entry hall. They have no need or desire to speak. Weighted as they are by their disappointment, they trudge up the stairs. Three flights they climb, winding up the anomaly that is a tower – such was
the folly of its architect. On the top floor they enter the room that is completely round and that was christened the Tower Room on the first day they moved in.
The night jumps out at the sisters from the windows. The clouds have lifted to reveal a view of the brick railway bridge, sparkling clearly against the naked trees and the light from a sliver of moon.
Verity sits on the edge of the bed from where their boy once dreamed. She pats the duvet, then strokes it, then pats it again with nervous fingers.
‘Will you stop that!’ Constance stands at the window with her arms crossed.
Shocked at the impatience in her sister’s voice, Verity jumps and clasps her hands in her lap like a scolded child.
‘I’m sorry.’ Constance goes to her at once and sits beside her.
There’s not enough space in the Tower Room for the grief. For most of the year they keep it at bay, but rather than observe the day he was taken from them as a memorial or anniversary, it is this day of the year, this date on the calendar, the hope of an anticipated reunion, that is the hardest. It begins full of hope and ends with the trembling shadows of the sisters against the pale, grey wall of the turret.
The metallic sound of the letterbox attached to their front gate shatters their mourning. It’s too late for the post. Verity darts to the window just as a man in a black hat rushes away.
‘It’s him. There must be a message, or another delivery.’ She hastens down the stairs with Constance close behind her. The sisters look right and left as they make an effort to catch a glimpse of their messenger. He is called Benedikt and that is all they know of him.
Verity retrieves the post from the letterbox with a shaky countenance and a glance at Constance, whose form is outlined in a dark night sky.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘You open it.’
Since the boy’s absence, along with a package they receive once a year, the man in the black hat sometimes delivers parchment-coloured envelopes. These are little crumbs of hope in letter form. The sisters are keen that the letters may contain an inkling of information about their boy, and surely, they surmise, the messenger must know something of value to them. Yet no such information had been forthcoming.
‘Come, Constance. Let’s go back inside and read it by the fire.’
They shiver as the wind scatters winter’s remaining leaves around their feet and they close their door to the thick sound of a quiet December night. The temperature has dropped. Constance is glad to engage her mind and body to the task of starting another fire. Verity watches her, knowing that it isn’t just that the temperature has dipped, but because tonight, sleep seems far away, and the fire’s light offers comfort and protection from the hours before sunrise when their thoughts turn darkest.
The black-inked handwriting stares out at them from the page. The words this time are different from any other message from their unknown benefactor. Constance always considered these missives as a surrender of logic, but tonight’s message has the potential to change everything. She reads aloud to Verity:
Greetings,
Please read this only as a word of caution and not as a cause for panic.
‘Well that’s a fine way to begin,’ Verity interrupts.
Very soon you will receive your regular supply of phials. I must make you aware that the source of the contents of the phials shows signs of decreasing its output. We have never encountered this previously and are not sure if, or when, it will revert to its former production level. You are in no immediate danger; however, we are not completely without a heightened sense of awareness of the situation and …
CHAPTER FOUR
… therefore, I urge you to take great care handling and administering the liquid. To spill even a drop would be wasteful, not to say dangerous. Be assured we are constantly monitoring the situation. You will be informed of any and all new developments regarding this issue.
A reminder that to hinder, delay or subvert Benedikt – in any way – is not permissible. Any such behaviour will instigate a review of your circumstances. This again is for your safety as well as necessary for Benedikt to perform his tasks to the best of his ability.
‘And then the usual reminder to keep the letterbox empty so that there’s no problem receiving the next delivery.’ Clovis Fowler carefully folds the letter, holding her small audience rapt.
The three people seated around her fall into their own private musings. Booming silence thickens the room. A wave of fear passes over Willa’s face and tears well up, despite her efforts to control them. The young man sitting opposite her, his leg draped over one of the cushioned arms of his chair, instinctively moves to comfort Willa, but Clovis, who leans against the mantelpiece, adjusts her position slightly, implying her disapproval. He settles back in the chair and turns away from Clovis.
‘Rafe,’ Clovis says to the young man. ‘Everything your father and I do is for your safety. I don’t perceive or accept any real danger in this message. So there’s no need to worry.’
Finn Fowler stands by an arched window with his arms folded. It’s barely noticeable that his jaw tightens while his face remains passive. His wife’s chatelaine mocks him, and the keys hanging from its chains sing a terrible chorus whenever she moves.
‘But that’s not true, is it Clovis?’ Rafe picks at a thread in the leather cushion.
‘It is true.’
He stands and faces her. They have the same auburn hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips, but all similarities end there. Rafe’s glare pierces the reproachful, examining regard of the woman he refuses to call ‘Mother’.
‘It’s a caution to be more careful. Nothing more,’ Clovis says.
‘And what if it’s not?’ A hint of panic cracks Rafe’s voice.
‘Are we going to die?’ Willa asks.
‘No one’s going to die.’ Clovis remains steady.
Rafe observes how small and delicate Willa looks. He notices she seeks solace from the white jade token that she fingers in her pocket and he winces at the memory.
‘How many phials do we have left?’ Finn finds his voice.
Clovis considers her response; normally she wouldn’t bother to answer him, but she needs to quash the rising panic that threatens to fill the room.
‘We have enough for now. And there’s Mockett to consider. Perhaps now you’ll be more appreciative of the efforts I’ve insisted he makes on our behalf.’ The hint of an accent floats softly through her speech, her voice remains steady.
How remarkable it is that Clovis appears unmoved. Her earlier private annoyance with the letter has evaporated. No – what Clovis feels is quite the opposite of fear. A satisfaction flows through her like the warmed whisky and honey her husband once prepared for her when she first arrived in this country, its burning sensation, trickling down her throat in sweet heat. Tonight she smells their fear and senses their unease. They each revealed their hand this evening. How badly they want to live! After all their bravado, all their efforts to convince her otherwise, they still crave life.
Remarkably, the Fowler household seems a typical one, and, in a way, they have fashioned their own quotidian lives. The house, though not a grand property, affords privacy and even a small measure of clout.
The street itself is quite dull considering its central London location. Magdalen Street supports no businesses, no convenience stores, not even a cafe or pub. As a key holder street, the people who walk its pavement do so only if they live in it. Each morning the residents disperse into the neighbouring streets anonymously, rushing to purchase their coffee on busier thoroughfares. Pasty-faced bankers and young, trendy professionals, a scattering of the semiretired who live out their last few years in east London before they retire to Kent – all these share the buildings of Magdalen.
It was an accident of fate that the Fowlers discovered this property, one that affords them a semblance of seclusion. When they first arrived in Bermondsey it was a god forsaken place, but Magdalen is a safe street now – as safe as any can be. Its transient
nature is a boon to them, but that too was down to luck and not careful planning. No one asks questions of a familial nature in this corner of Bermondsey. No one asks questions at all, unless they’re lost tourists searching for what remains of the antique market.
This evening, behind the doors of Number 9 Magdalen Street, they speak aloud of phials and death. Each of them wants nothing more than to disperse, to retreat to their own private space, where they can discard their masks and allow this latest news to sink in properly.
They wait until Clovis leaves the room before they stir, then they watch her climb the stairs and hear her steps clipping down the hall to her office. Finn motions to Rafe and Willa to remain quiet, pointing upstairs, until he hears her office door close.
Clovis locks the door then pauses a moment with her back against its wide wooden frame. No, this can’t wait until tomorrow, she thinks. She removes the chatelaine and returns it to the safe. Standing at the window that offers a view of the back of the property, where the rooftop of Finn’s workroom hides beneath the snarled empty limbs of a tree, she searches on her phone for a name in her speeddial listing.
‘Hello, Clovis.’ Owen Mockett makes an effort to disguise his irritation.
‘I’m coming by.’
‘Now?’
‘It’s urgent.’
Mockett closes his eyes, summoning patience.
‘Of course. The letter. I’ll see you shortly.’
Downstairs, before she leaves, Clovis turns to the three people whose lives are entwined with hers, who, when they look at her, cannot conceal their impatience for her to go. The way the blood rushes to Finn’s face when he spots the car keys in her hand seals the coldness she feels.
The Parentations Page 2