Her twelve-year-old daughter adjusts the frames of forged iron that sit awkwardly at her temples and Averil bends down and holds the girl’s face in her hands. Two oval, glass lenses the colour of a dark, blue sea meet her gaze. Averil silently curses the condition that has plagued her daughter’s eyes since birth. Her youngest has suffered cold-water baths, fever therapy, herb-filled gauzes boiled in milk, and tinctures of belladonna drops, but the inflammation disease is stubbornly recurrent, leaving Verity’s sight weakened and sensitive to light.
‘The air is full of dirt today. You must protect your eyes,’ Averil says more gently.
As they wait at the Duke Shore Stairs to board the next wherry that will carry them upriver, the water rushes up almost to their shoes. The girls clasp hands, excited at the prospects of the day. The breadth and expanse of the Thames lifts their hearts. The busy port, the scores of moored barges and the glorious ship masts that pass in an endless queue stir the dreams of man, woman and child, and reminds all who lay eyes on this sight that London is the port of the world. The girls realize, because they have been told time and again how fortunate they are to be allowed these special excursions and patiently, but breathlessly, await their turn to board.
The clang of hammers hitting iron, the plonk of heavy-footed men carrying wooden planks, the foreign tongues, and cries of hawkers forge a mariner’s opera, and underneath it all is the incessant ticking of the clocks, the timekeepers of the seafarers.
There is, however, something queer in the air today.
The motley passengers are uncommonly subdued when greeted by the abnormal fog. This is not the damp, cool, slushy fog to which they are accustomed, but a dry one that sits heavily with blasting heat and leaves the cobblestones greasy.
Averil and her daughters congregate with others who stand waiting by the lapping water of the Thames to hear their destinations shouted, ‘This way for London Bridge!’ ‘Anyone for Westminster?’ But the ships’ bells and horns, and the cries of the watermen are heard in a muffled monotone, playing second fiddle to the overbearing heat and increasing darkness. The river is empty of waterfowl.
Quiet comments gurgle and skip across the landing.
‘There has never been a hotter, more stifling June.’
‘There have never been as many wasps as there are this summer.’
Averil Lawless despises both heat and wasps. In fact, it is so desperately quiet, even for this noisy river-hugging community, that she thinks perhaps she should listen to the nagging voice entreating her to take her daughters home, to carry out her appointment another day.
The pointed bow of a bright red wherry appears in the uncommon gloom. Then another. And another. So fierce is the competition that the watermen are yelping at each other to make way. A ship’s horn sounds out and a small boat’s bell clangs. As if the river’s life sings her to her senses, Averil glances at her eager daughters and calculates. ‘No, we will attend. The fog will lift and my mind will be at ease once this day is over.’
Constance and Verity Lawless remain quiet and still, leaving the fidgeting to the children and impatient adults who race past them on faster boats with sails. Their father helped them to understand that it is not how fast one travels, but how well. The wherry is clean and the seats are cushioned in leather. They understand too that the trading empire of the Thames affords them privileges, if not their very existence. Francis and Averil Lawless have impressed upon their daughters the concept of the consequences of a single moment, and there is no better teacher than the river’s majesty and its demand for respect for its waters, which can easily bring violence and ruin as well as wealth and peace. Today, the watermen expertly steer and manoeuvre through the traffic in the yellow fog. The air grows ever warmer.
When the wherry reaches the stairs at Temple wharf, Constance and Verity are pink-cheeked and damp with heat. Averil holds her daughters’ warm palms as they make their way up the stairs. Covered in a fine dust, they have never felt so parched. The midday sun hides above the dry fog that now hovers depressingly ever closer to the ground.
The unusual absence of the breeze from the riverbank sends a shiver up Averil’s spine, which feels wrong in the heat. Never has there been such placidity in these gardens. It seems that no one strolls along the gravel pathways until, suddenly, out of the haze, men robed in black silk appear, floating past, like deflated, grim angels without gusts to enhance their flight. The view of the river appears and disappears with slices of brown vapour that stream by. An unwanted guest imprisons the Thames.
Like a great swan with her cygnets, Averil leads the girls to the appointed meeting place by the black mulberry tree. The stone bench is empty today and the girls seize it and collapse on its rough seat.
Mr George Fitzgerald arrives with a young man who appears to be a complete model of him, a younger, trim and meticulously groomed version. But what is this? Behind the mirror image of the second Mr Fitzgerald is a third version, noticeably similar, and noticeably different.
Constance and Verity rise to their feet in the company of what appears to be an overwhelming quantity of Fitzgeraldness. Striking forms with straight backs and rising chests are presented in a physically perfect descending order: Mr George Fitzgerald, forty years of age, a long-standing family friend with whom they are of course already acquainted, William Fitzgerald, son of George, aged sixteen, and his brother Sterling Fitzgerald, fourteen; all of whom are most devotedly at their service.
Mrs Lawless and the young ladies are informed that there are more, indeed several more male Fitzgeralds from whence they came, and all with an enthusiastic regard for the law. Each Fitzgerald is taking private tuition, for in all truth, not much instruction in the area of the law is on offer to young men of the Inns of Court, most of whom are called to the Bar by way of their charm and privilege.
Constance and Verity find it difficult to be at ease in their presence, as if a military stance might be required of them as well. They look to their mother for a clue to this gathering, but Averil makes no effort to enlighten them and stands perfectly at ease, waiting – only her eyes betray her, they dance from one Fitzgerald to another, yet always return to the sheaf of papers George Fitzgerald carries under his arms in addition to a small leather box. Then the toe of her shoe begins an almost unperceivable tap, tap, tap.
Gently, Fitzgerald the elder speaks. ‘It is dastardly warm out today and you must be eager to conclude our business.’
‘Well, yes, George, exactly that,’ she says.
‘Perhaps the young gentlemen might entertain your daughters for a moment. There’s a fascinating rookery just down the path, well within our sight, even in this ghastly fog.’
Sterling Fitzgerald has taken it upon himself to become somewhat of an expert on the rook and its behaviour. With his arms folded in an instructional stance, he leads the way.
‘The Temple Gardens rookery is quiet today, but their cawing can be deafening. There must be at least thirty nests in this tree.’
‘I am not sure that the young ladies are interested …’ William is apologetic, particularly to Constance, who smiles queerly.
‘Oh, but we are, aren’t we Constance? I am interested in all sorts of birds.’ Verity encourages Sterling Fitzgerald, whose forelock falls forward at the attention of such a fascinating person, a female, no less, who has him thinking that blue-shaded spectacles must be the most interesting outlook from which to view the world.
Constance glances back at their mother just as George Fitzgerald produces a quill from his compact writing nécessaire. Her mother looks terribly intense as she holds sheets of paper close to her face, and for this, too, the fog can be blamed. The attorney seems to have created a makeshift office in which their mother now positions the quill and writes upon the sheets of paper, the feather crossing the page like a slender young ghost.
William Fitzgerald notices that Constance’s attention has swayed from the business of rooks to the business of her mother’s mysterious legal matters.
‘A poet once stated …’ William clears his throat. ‘“It is apt that the rook should be associated with the law courts, it being a grave, legal bird, both in its coats and habits. They are renowned for their intelligence and cunning.”’
When Constance turns back to William and smiles at his attempt to entertain her, he feels a foreign, but not unpleasant sensation, something new that demands to be fed again.
The girls observe Averil as she makes her way towards them. For a moment they gaze upon her not as their mother, but as a woman of the world. Her whole being emits a brighter mood after her meeting with George Fitzgerald. Constance takes in a sharp breath at how regal she looks, her red, silk taffeta gown shimmers in the dull light. Her hair survived the brutality of the wigs she once wore and is still as black as jet and piled high in the latest fashion, her elegant hat sits at exactly the right angle. The shadow of tension present on her face this morning is erased. Her face seems somehow wider, her eyes more relaxed, and a contentment that she cannot contain brings a sparkle to her laughter. Constance has spent hours studying her mother’s face – she notices every nuance.
Verity hopes that one day she will resemble her mother. They share the same blue eyes and aquiline nose, but Verity doubts her own carriage will be as elegant, or her stride as confident, as the woman gliding towards her now. She doubts, too, whether she will ever be as clever as her mother, because even their father drones on about ‘their mammy’s infinite wisdom’ and she has never before heard any man speak so highly of a female.
It is the sisters’ last image of Averil Lawless before the rooks fly.
Torches are lit in the Gardens as if it were two o’clock on a January afternoon and not four o’clock in high summer. Verity can see but a few feet in front of her. The trio of Fitzgeralds escorts them towards the river stairs.
When they stroll past the sycamore, the rooks that have silently nested all afternoon now stir from within the recesses of the branches, and the tree comes alive with their calls. Their cawing begins in single cries as if they speak to one another with urgent messages. They grow noisier, and as the party passes close by, the rookery screeches in a wild chorus accented by a high-pitched falsetto call. A swift flourish of flapping wings sounds like thunder when they take to the sky. All lift their heads as a sheet of black rises above them. Exclamations percolate through the Gardens when the parliament of rooks wing in unison towards the river, cutting through the haze with its dipping flight. The black-robed men of law congregate on the grounds to stare in amazement as their avian mirror images move skyward. Visitors to the Temple Gardens point upwards, bumping into each other as they follow the frenetic wingbeats of the colony.
Averil holds on to her hat, for what reason she does not know, perhaps in fear of a rook swooping down on her head. William and Sterling look quizzically at each other, their jaws dropping until their mouths gape.
‘What about that then, Sterling? There is no known record of this rookery behaving in this fashion!’ William whispers.
‘“No, none at all.’ Sterling quotes: ‘“They do not desert their nests in this way unless …”’ He falters and looks at his brother alarmed.
‘“Unless the abandonment is a prelude to battering one of their own to death, or …”’ William pauses. ‘“They are known to depart en masse preceding a human death.”’
‘Come now, girls. Quickly, please.’ Averil orders.
‘Mammy, I cannot see. Please go slower.’ Verity pleads.
Truth be known, Averil is completely perplexed that the day progresses and still, this blasted strange haze burdens them.
‘I cannot see either, Mammy. It will be worse for Verity.’ Constance says.
George Fitzgerald looks out over the Thames to another distraction – hundreds of lanterns and torches light the Thames. There is a ripple of confusion flowing through the gathering crowd at Temple stairs. Men shout at the watermen to stop for them, only to be met with foul and loudmouthed banter in return.
Hopeful passengers crowd the steps in a tangle, volleying insults at each other, while confused passengers alight from the boats trying to press pass the growing numbers who wish to embark. Order has been lost to the June darkness. Feet fight for limited space on the seven or eight stairs that lead down to the river and it is difficult to determine how many steps already lie beneath the rising tide.
Perhaps it is the heat, or they are nest drifting; whatever the reason, the wasps are in some strange flight behaviour and their nuisance contributes another edge to the growing danger. Hands that clasped other hands now release to swat the pests. Among these irritable and frightened people, Verity feels a panic so great that it threatens to clench her lungs and never let go. She has lost her mother’s hand and cannot find it again. She fails to think that she could simply remove her spectacles to see more clearly, but instead blindly reaches for her mother’s hand, her arm, anything. Constance is near but cannot reach her mother or sister. Finally, with her arm stretched out across a barrister’s chest, Constance holds fast to Verity’s shoulder. The sisters work their way over to their mother whose hat they can just make out at the edge of the stairs.
Averil recognizes the tops of her daughters’ heads inching towards her. ‘Be careful, girls!’ she calls out to them. ‘Stay together!’
A wasp flies across Averil’s face, then two, and now a swarm of wasps circle her head. She swats at them. Averil feels her foot on the edge of the step and in trying to find a secure place she loses her balance. Bile rises up to her throat – the taste of fear shoots through her watering glands. She pivots and falls backwards into the water, arms outstretched, her eyes bulging with terror. Her hat flies off before her frame hits the indecently black Thames. Hairpins shoot out from her head like thin spears. Hanks of hair unravel. Faecal matter hits her face.
‘Mammy! Mammy!’ Constance’s young arms reach out, her fingers splayed. ‘Here, Mammy, here!’
Averil’s view of her daughter’s desperate flailing arms, aching to pull her out, fades as she chokes. Sharp pains pierce her lungs. Her limbs are so quickly paralyzed by the shock of the cold water that she cannot sustain herself. Her exquisite red, silk dress swells up like a flame in the cruel water that robs her of her dignity, her modesty.
The sisters watch helplessly as their mother’s body sinks into the hungry river. Averil spins in a treacherous journey beneath the surface of the water. Sucked down by dangerous currents and hidden tides, Constance and Verity gasp at how quickly their mother has gone under. The river grants them one gift – when she sinks deeper, the girls cannot see the sharp-boned carcasses that shred their mother’s skin, or her distorted limbs slapped by splintered planks of a mangled sloop.
There is no further attempt to rescue her, no one willing to jump into the awful water. Offering an oar is a blind, thankless effort. There is a shortage on bravery. Though it might have been any one of them, the river has left its dark, blood-red stain upon Averil Lawless.
The girls are bonded to the river stairs like statues. Dangerously close to the edge, they stare down, unbelieving, into their mother’s destiny. Then a flicker of a movement when Verity’s fingers stretch to meet Constance’s hand.
They cannot find their voices. Someone is speaking to them, muffled sounds erupt from a large animated woman, a stranger, whose mouth moves quickly, froth settling around her lips. The sisters look away from her and turn back to the river, searching, fully expecting their mother to rise, drenched, but alive.
‘Miss Lawless.’ George Fitzgerald, shaken though he is, parts the sea of people on the stairs to reach Constane and Verity, with a force unexpected from so slight a man.
‘Miss Lawless,’ he calls again to Constance.
The sisters turn to him in unison, but their stare is blank.
‘Make way. Make way,’ William calls out.
Sterling is close behind his brother. The three Fitzgeralds form a protective cluster around the girls.
Verity, without any ad
herence to the danger of it, falls to her knees right where she stands on the stone step. She crosses herself, looks through her lenses to the wild, restless clouds that she cannot see and folds her hands in prayer.
‘I pray to St Adjutor. Take your place in a boat and row to this spot. Say prayers here and sprinkle holy water. Grant Mammy the serenity to swim and help her to rise from the river Thames. I pray you perform this miracle as you have done before.’
Constance grasps her sister’s hands and lifts her up.
The expressions on the faces that surround them, which had only moments ago been struck with horror and pity, now frown on them. The first murmurings are faint, whispers of ‘papists’. And then louder, ‘They are Catholics.’ Verity trembles, and Constance notices herself quiver, too, and cannot stop it. She recognizes the Fitzgerald boy and his brother, and there, too is the older Fitzgerald. Strangely, Constance cannot remember their names. She feels surrounded by their wool, and their clothing feels hot; she is hot. The woollen clothes try to take her away. But she will not go, instead she turns stubbornly back to the river and peers as deeply into it as is possible, and now she lets loose a wail from the very bottom of her being. All who gather at the river stairs and even the Fitzgeralds step back; only Verity stays beside her, holding her hand.
Averil Lawless may sink to the bottom of the Thames where her body will join the graveyard made of the thick, ancient mud. She may be delivered to shore by a swift current, or she may be buffeted by boats, or further assaulted by seagulls. Averil may take the curve of the U-bend and appear with a host of other victims at Dead Man’s Stairs in Wapping where the tide tends to deliver the recently drowned. Or, one day soon, she may be found floating near her own home in the dusky waters at Limehouse. The currents of the Thames are ruled by something powerful; they may take her out to sea where she will ride beneath the ships that sail off to new and old worlds. It is impossible to know her course.
The news of the drowning travels swiftly. It ripples up Temple stairs, through the Inner Courts, and in its tragedy, spills out of Temple into Fleet Street.
The Parentations Page 6