Behind Constance, the light of Verity’s candelabrum clashes with her gold damask banyan. Clovis gazes at the line of her robe, trailing down to Verity’s matching slippers, which make her appear as if she is walking on golden light. The two long plaits that hang down her back are the colour of the silvered prickets she clasps with her ink-stained fingers. Verity’s pink-rimmed eyes rest on the baby.
Clovis Fowler has never before felt so dull, her beauty eclipsed by women who must be three times her age.
Constance glances past Clovis to the squirming child, whose tiny hands grasp the edges of a crocheted blanket. She places her candelabrum on the table by the window and indicates that Clovis should sit on the settee.
‘It is late to be calling so unexpectedly. Yet, here you are.’ Constance is short on decorum this evening.
‘My great apologies to you both.’ Clovis bows her head for a moment. ‘I have come this way on an urgent business matter at another address near this street concerning and requiring all in my household.’ A lie told efficiently. ‘I have had a pressing question to ask you for some time and could not pass on this opportunity while I was so near. I am, again, sorry for the inconvenience.’
Verity slowly slippers her way behind the settee, while Constance stands in front, sandwiching Clovis between them. The sisters are perfectly silent. The hour is too late for polite conversation, and Constance notes that Clovis does not seem at all nervous or awkward with the absence of chatter, as most would. The red-haired woman has a bold and powerful eye that remains steady. The baby sleeps with a laboured breath.
‘Please come to it, then.’ Verity breaks the silence.
‘I have here a son!’
The sisters glance at each other.
‘Well, yes,’ Constance says. ‘Congratulations to you.’
‘He is the reason I have intruded. Mr Fowler and I would, humbly, ask that you, Mrs Fitzgerald, and you, Mrs Fitzgerald, would do us, and our child, the honour of becoming his godparents.’
A mirror stretches over the mantelpiece across the room. From where she sits Clovis witnesses the reflection of Verity Fitzgerald stiffen like a plank.
Constance folds her arms as if to contain a web of complex feelings before they expand and overtake her, one of which is distrust. She puts her fist to her lips and clears her throat before she responds.
‘Why?’
‘We have no family here, Mrs Fitzgerald. You are known for your good deeds, and you have experienced loss, which transforms a person, does it not … to the sort of person who cherishes life.’
‘Be very careful, Mrs Fowler,’ Constance warns.
Verity catches Constance’s eye and then lifts her chin slightly to indicate, let me handle this.
‘Mrs Fowler.’ Verity slowly makes her way around the sofa to stand before the woman who seems to have an unending supply of gall.
‘What do you consider to be the role of the godparent?’
‘After their participation in the baptism, to be present and active in the matters of the well-being of the child.’ Clovis has rehearsed.
‘Because …’ Verity interjects before Clovis can continue. ‘My sister and I, well, we are Catholic. We have been Catholic all our lives. Catholic when it was dangerous and illegal, and Catholic when it was thought vile to be so, and Catholic still, in the face of prejudice. In that light, we would consider such a relationship with your son to be a spiritual kinship.’
‘Yes …’
‘And,’ Verity quickly continues. ‘My sister and I, we are not your friends, we are hardly acquaintances. So, Mrs Fowler, that could only mean that we are the richest women you do not know, whom you would like to know. And you would use your son to make it so. Would that not be uncomfortable for you?’
Cloves raises her eyebrows and shakes her head no.
An oval-backed armchair sits forlornly in the corner by the shelving. Constance drags it close to the settee in front of Clovis. Still the woman does not blink! Constance sits with her back shooting straight up like a proud tree and speaks so softly that Clovis must lean forward.
‘Do not think us foolish, Mrs Fowler. Do not think you know our sorrow. Do not think you can play upon it.’
Clovis does not flinch. Then there is a change. A tear forms and drops. Her face transforms with embarrassment. A vulnerable smile in way of an apology is offered. Then she folds the blanket back until the baby’s soft tufts of ginger hair appear. She keeps her gaze on the child as she speaks.
‘I do not think that at all, Mrs Fitzgerald. I assure you. I am sorry if I have given you that impression. It is only the child I think of. Mr Fowler and I know of none better than yourselves. I lost my mother when I was very young and know what it is to need the guidance and comfort of a female. I would wish for my son to have such influence …’ She raises her head. ‘Your influence, should anything terrible befall me. This world is so unpredictable and … well, there is no one else.’ Clovis believes this. For if there were danger enough in the air, the kind for which Elísabet would give up her son, then Clovis is truly alone.
The sisters, despite the tinge of threat in their manner, are thawing. They detect a genuine note in the woman’s plea and exchange a glance when they hear it. Neither have dared study the boy. They cannot allow themselves to look too closely.
‘What about the Mocketts?’ Verity asks. ‘They are younger, more suited.’
‘And they have always wished for a child,’ Constance adds.
‘Have they? I did not know.’ Clovis lies effortlessly and offers no more conversation on that topic as she now turns the baby to face Constance and Verity, positioning him on her lap.
Tiny patches of eyebrows furrow as he stares first at Constance and then turns his focus to Verity. Something not unlike a smile forms on his face, and a noise that the sisters will later swear was a giggle erupts, along with a feisty punch into the air.
Clovis summons a demure flutter of her eyes to both sisters. Inside, she is reeling with joy. How well the boy has performed, and so innocently, completely unaware of the enchantment he casts. These two old women are besotted. The answer is not yet secure, but she is certain they are seduced.
‘I have overstayed my welcome. I will take no more of your time. Mr Fowler and I can only hope that you will consider our invitation. I thank you for your attention and your hospitality at my interruption.’
Clovis then makes a show of overcoming the dilemma of rising from the sofa with the baby in her hands. Constance reaches out for him. It is a natural reflex and Verity’s hands open too, welcoming the child like a treasure, a delicate golden treasure.
‘Oh thank you. If you don’t mind holding him for a moment while I …’
‘What do you call him?’ Constance asks.
‘Rafe.’
‘Rafe,’ Constance and Verity repeat together.
They are falling … falling … falling …
‘You will have our decision in a few days, Mrs Fowler.’
After Clovis departs, the sisters return to their private parlour.
‘I think there is nothing more comforting than a good fire. Do you agree, sister?’ Verity asks.
‘Hmm, yes.’
‘We’re going to do it aren’t we?’
‘Yes. Yes, we are, sister.’
They sit quietly for some time, each with the single thought of this extraordinary invitation and all that it implies, turning it over and over, examining it for its consequences. For an hour or more they lose track of time and every now and then glance at each other with an intimacy that requires no words. They share the same thoughts, the thoughts of a child in their lives again after a long emptiness.
The stubborn wind does not find its calm and creates a song, a swirling melody. Bertie comes bursting through the parlour door, her face the hue of a bright plum from her beer and she shakes her head in wonderment.
‘Blessed Mother of Christ. What is this night like then?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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nbsp; Her small stomach swelling by the minute with buns and marmalade, Willa stumbles over the question of Jonesy’s absence from the Fitzgerald kitchen. After they depart Fore Street, Clovis and Willa locate Jonesy on the bank of the river.
‘What is that boy doing?’ Clovis asks.
‘He said he needed the air, mistress.’
‘The air – by the river? Idiot.’
Clovis is in a particularly amiable mood, otherwise Willa would not like to think of what her mistress might do to Jonesy.
He does not see them at first, and is therefore unaware that he is being observed in this particular way, out of his element. He stands amongst the flotsam and jetsam that the tide has washed up. The wind and the currents have delivered dead dogs, bits of coal, bottles and human bones. A battered boat is beached and another is raised on logs for repair. Beside Jonesy, a flaxen-haired sailor stands so closely that a sheet of paper would struggle to fit between them. Jonesy shyly raises his eyes to the young man’s face.
Willa thinks Jonesy looks somehow more present and attentive than usual. He is ugly, she has always thought so, but here in the light of a waning day, beside the sailor who seems to be torn from a piece of the sun, he looks hideous. With his golden hair and skin, the sailor is an image of everything bright; piercing, shiny eyes and teeth so white that when he smiles at Jonesy she can see them sparkling from where she stands. Now she is caught up in the design of the sailor’s uniform not having noticed it on the streets before now. Not in this way. It is a new cut. How revealing it is. The sailor seems entirely comfortable, if not quite the cockerel in his short jacket. The shape of his buttocks is defined, the muscles perfectly formed as he stands in the dusk. All these wondrous aspects are usually hidden from view under a man’s long coat. The sailor turns now. The flap of his horizontal crotch is tightly buttoned against him, exposing a distinct bulge. A blush rises to Willa’s face and something in her stirs.
Jonesy notices Willa now, and Mistress, too. His expression changes. Willa expects a friendly wave, but he wears that ill look again. He turns away and says something to the sailor, who laughs, but Jonesy does not. He quickly runs towards his mistress, his long, layered tunics billowing, his sandals flapping against the uneven shore. The sailor laughs again. Jonesy must have said something amusing, which is not like him at all, or perhaps the sailor is laughing at Jonesy’s bad English? she thinks.
This is not at all what Clovis mulls over. She nurtures her own thoughts and they are quite different. Well, this evening has taken a turn. Her head tilts slightly as Jonesy runs even faster towards them. He has not far to run, but he breathes heavily and bows low and asks for forgiveness for not remaining in the Fitzgerald’s kitchen with Willa.
‘Look at me,’ Clovis commands.
When he rises from his deep bow, his head remains lowered.
‘I will not tell you again.’
He raises his head and looks into her scrutinizing eyes.
What he beholds is so subtle, but so powerful that he feels his thudding pulse and blood coursing through him. He cannot control the lantern rattling in his hand. Clovis has a dangerous look about her that conveys to him what she has deduced. Her lips form the slightest of knowing smiles.
Her gaze remains locked on Jonesy as she says to Willa, ‘Here, take it. It smells.’ She hands over the baby as if it is diseased. ‘Home now,’ she orders. ‘The wind becomes angry.’
In their short walk back to Three Colt Street the changeover from day industry to evening is everywhere apparent. Here on the fringe of the city they pass the ropery where much of the work is done outdoors. During the day the scene is rich with hearty men hand-dressing and spinning, twisting and walking backwards and forwards over the ground until they cover miles in the same stretch of land – their ropewalk. Wrapped around the men’s waists like skirts, the fibre bundles are pulled and drawn around a twisting wheel. Tonight the rope-makers scurry against the force of the thrashing wind to secure the long strands of yarn into the sheds. The sharp stink of tar carries into the streets. Willa covers the baby’s face as they hurry past.
A black-clothed, slender figure of a man skirts the edges of the ropewalk. A beaver low topper, also black, protects his head and he tilts its worn rim forward keeping his eyes trained on the three who round the corner to Three Colt Street. Every detail of his grooming suggests his place in society. His suit of clothing is worn but not yet shiny or frayed. A clean shirt sits stiffly under his waistcoat. His moustache is neat and tidy. He has achieved his wish to appear as ‘any man’, and therefore has the ability to fade from view in the crowded streets and dark alleys of Sailortown. He follows Clovis and her wards, barely a shadow behind them. When the fog thickens and almost extinguishes the light of the man’s lantern, the baby’s cries guide him. The shadow man, Benedikt, picks up his pace. The cries are louder and hint at distress. He edges too close, for the young man with the long plait stops, turns and raises the lantern higher, seeking to discover who follows. The man falls back and flattens his body against the brick wall of a jutting house. When they reach their doorstep, Benedikt strides past them, taking the curve of the street and disappears from view.
The baby has not stopped crying since they left the Fitzgeralds. He still cries when they open the door on Three Colt Street. Clovis speaks above the racket.
‘See to him right away, Willa. And Jonesy, bring up hot water, I … Why are you sitting there like that?’ she says to her husband.
‘Why have you been gone so long?’ Finn sits on the step at the bottom of the staircase.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she says crossly to her servants, and waits until they are out of earshot.
‘I told you. I called on the sisters Fitzgerald this evening … to ask them to be the boy’s godparents. What is it? What is wrong?’
Finn sits too still. Always a fidgety sort of man there is something strange about his restraint.
‘Mockett has closed his tunnel to us.’
‘What?’
‘He says it is too dangerous. There are rumours. The river police say they are coming for the water rats who rob and steal from the shipping on the river, and they will have us one day for dinner.’
‘Does Mockett mean to forfeit his handsome income then?’
‘He does indeed.’
‘Damn him. But, it is timely, Finn.’
‘See to that baby,’ he says. ‘I do not want to fucking hear that all night.’
‘I am seeing to it.’
‘There is something else. Did you mention this Fitzgerald godparent malarkey to Mockett’s wife?’
Clovis considers her answer.
‘I might have. In passing. What has it to do with anything?’
He does not raise his voice. He shows no sign of agitation. He responds in a tone of cold disregard.
‘Nora Mockett has her husband’s ear. I am certain she persuaded him to act sooner on closing off the tunnel. He gives us no time to set up elsewhere. We are out on our arses. Your wish to hurt her has hurt us all. It was not necessary. You are fucking insatiable – that’s what you are.’
The baby strains its lungs now, aggravating the couple at the foot of the stairs. Willa appears, rocking him gently, with fear firmly settled on her face.
‘Mistress, I changed him, and I tried to feed him, but he won’t take it. Something is wrong. His head is mighty warm.’
‘Think on your feet, damn you! Put a cool cloth on his forehead and take that blanket off him.’
‘But I’m not sure …’
‘Just do it. Can you not see I am occupied?’ she shouts over the wailing child.
‘Yes, mistress.’ Willa hurries away.
Clovis turns again to Finn, ‘So, I am to blame for the tunnel closing because Nora Mockett cannot bear a child? I am to blame because I did not choose them to be godparents? You are foolish. There would have been another reason, another excuse. We cannot break our agreement with Iceland. If we are caught it will ruin everything.’
Now it is Jonesy who interrupts, also bearing a look of alarm.
‘Baby not well. Very hot. Umm, waterings, pers, persp, perspires.’
Clovis turns on him, fuming. Jonesy’s tunic is damp against his chest where he has been holding the baby.
‘For Christ’s sake! Bring him to me.’
Jonesy returns with Willa who is drenched as well. She holds the baby out to Clovis. Rafe drips to form a pool of moisture on the floor. He sweats from every pore and his face is now as red as his hair. He looks around wildly, not knowing from what he suffers, only that he does. His tiny stomach and ribs heave up and down as he tries to catch air through the sobs.
Clovis takes him from Willa.
‘Hush. Hush. What is it, you little worry …’ Hardly affectionate, but she shows the first signs of concern.
His hair sticks to his head in small, damp clumps. He soaks Clovis in a fast fury.
‘We must go to Mockett,’ Clovis says.
‘It’s after ten. He’s shut,’ Finn reminds her.
‘What do I care of that? We are going. Here, take him while I make ready.’ She hands the baby over to Finn.
‘Willa, I need a fresh blanket. Jonesy, a lantern. Now!’ she orders.
‘Bloody hell! He’s like a water pump. My shirt is sopping already. Good Christ! Hurry, Clovis.’
Nora and Owen Mockett separate their sweaty bodies at the sound of ceaseless pounding on the door downstairs. He pulls on his britches, thoroughly annoyed at the interruption of a streak of good sex his wife has so willingly and hungrily bestowed. He has no clue if Nora’s sudden voraciousness has anything to do with the closure of the tunnel, and he does not care two coins. She is completely naked, too. None of this lifting of the gown, either. Damnation! Who disturbs them? He opens the shutter a slice and silently spews further curses.
The Parentations Page 16