The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  ‘Who is it, love?’ says Nora.

  ‘The Fowlers, the both of them. I must go down.’ He does not tell her the baby is in Mrs Fowler’s arms, though she will know soon enough.

  Not wishing to spoil the mood of their bed, Nora remains silent. She turns on her side and watches him pull on his shirt, but when he leaves their bedroom, her jaw tightens and she lies back waiting to learn why that venomous woman would keep her husband from their bed at such an hour.

  Nora learns instantly when the door rattles open that it is the baby who needs attention. She will not go down. No. She will not. No matter what. Why should she help? But the child, he is innocent. Oh bother! She sighs. She grabs her wrapping gown that drapes the chair and opens the door a crack to better hear the news.

  ‘He has a fever.’ Mockett takes the baby from Mrs Fowler.

  ‘I know that!’ Clovis snaps. ‘What is to be done about it?’

  The short walk to the Commercial Road had given Clovis time enough to clear her head. She must keep this baby alive, especially now that the tunnel is closed to them. Finn will need time to reorganize. Iceland must continue to pay. Thoughts of lost income race through her head. She imagines the coins falling away from her.

  ‘I have never witnessed such profuse perspiring. It cannot be tooth fever … the heat is too severe. When did it begin?’ Soaked through with the baby’s sweat, Mockett rolls up his sleeves and gently places him on the countertop.

  ‘When?’ Clovis demands from Jonesy.

  Uncomfortably the centre of attention, Jonesy cannot think straight.

  ‘After we leave the, sorry no name … the Mrs Sisters … when walking home.’

  ‘So, it came on suddenly then, is that right?’ Mockett asks.

  ‘Yes.’ Jonesy bows.

  ‘What time of day was that?’

  ‘Well over two hours ago,’ Clovis says.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ asks Finn, genuinely worried for the boy and not the coin.

  ‘Too soon to tell you more.’ Mockett pours liquid into a one-ounce bottle.

  ‘Could it be deadly?’ Clovis asks.

  ‘Honestly, yes. But you mustn’t worry yet. This is a fever tincture.’ He holds an amber-coloured bottle to the candlelight. ‘I need to dilute it quite a bit for the child.’

  Clovis refrains from ordering him to be quick about it.

  Upstairs it is Nora who notices first. She has been struggling; one foot in her shoe, one foot out. Her heart is with the baby, though her mind is sore with hurt and anger. She has been foolish and knows it. Why she ever thought the Fowler woman would select them to be godparents … Why she ever let herself imagine that there still might be a child in her life, though not her own … Foolish, foolish. Owen has forgotten the compresses of willow tree bark and meadow-sweet that are complementary to the tincture. She should be preparing them now, slender strips of cloth for the baby’s forehead. She is wistful.

  If the hand of fate could be seen as a living thing in this moment, its grasp is so firm it would choke Nora Mockett. It is now when her pride wrestles her like a demon – it is in this very second that she decides to offer her help – and in the next second that follows when she changes her mind, that her future is determined. Suddenly the house is absent of the cries of the baby’s misery.

  Downstairs they had become immune to the screams and accustomed to speaking over it, and it is some minutes before they fall quiet and notice the child sleeps.

  The silence is then pierced by Mockett’s voice.

  ‘Good God, man!’ He tugs at Finn’s sleeve.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Finn asks.

  ‘No, he lives. And he lives without the fever. Look, his face is a good colour. Feel his forehead and arms … they are cool. He is dry as the desert sand. What ailed him has completely disappeared.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. What did you do?’ Finn is visibly relieved and grateful.

  ‘He has done nothing,’ Clovis scoffs. ‘The boy is simply no longer ill.’

  ‘Enough. You forget yourself, woman.’ Finn cuts her with a sharp warning.

  She has broken their agreement. She is forbidden to cross him in public.

  ‘Take this tincture with you should it come again in the night. Watch him closely tonight at regular intervals. Hopefully, this is the end of it.’

  Finn takes the bottle as Clovis makes no move towards it.

  ‘Thank you. I am sorry we have disturbed you.’ Clovis makes a small effort.

  ‘And Mrs Mockett. Apologies to her,’ says Finn.

  ‘Quite all right, and my apologies that this tunnel business has come about so quickly. Be careful, there are rumours flying. They seek to hold someone up to the public, tar them, all of it. It will be bad.’

  ‘Warning received with thanks. I’ll have the readies for you tomorrow for your trouble.’

  ‘No, not at all. Consider it an act of friendship.’

  ‘No.’ Clovis says sharply. Then more kindly, ‘No, thank you. We will see to the account. I insist.’

  It is midnight when the Fowlers and Jonesy step out into the street. It is the hour when the nightmen begin their work. They do not come to the cesspools frequently enough in this area. The shit is heavy and malodorous. The Fowlers cover their faces, damning their timing.

  Doors of the infamous houses remain open. Publicans line their pockets. Rum blokes stagger. It is raining gin. The violin of the mariner’s night still plays at this hour, serenading the sailors whose opium lozenges have overtaken them and dumped them at their wit’s edge.

  The Fowlers turn off the Commercial Road to a more docile scene. Benedikt breezes quickly past them. They do not notice.

  ‘Why do you insist that we settle with Mockett?’ Finn asks.

  God, I am weary of this. Weary of explaining my actions, my thoughts, my decisions, thinks Clovis, her patience spent.

  ‘I do not wish to be in Mockett’s debt. And certainly not his wife’s.’

  ‘If it had been mine, I would have closed the tunnel, too. It’s time to find a new route.’

  ‘How kind of you. When did you become so forgiving?’

  ‘When did you turn so fucking hard?’ he puts to her.

  ‘Turn? I have never turned.’

  When they are home Jonesy stands in the doorway as the man in the black suit and beaver topper crosses over to the other side of the street. His thoughts rest with something other than Benedikt, who now moves on into the night. He loosens his plait and frees his long, silky hair, but it does not help, it does not keep the knot in his stomach from twisting, rousting up a truth. He is recovered from months of blindness and it brings a feeling of the deepest dread. His beautiful mistress … he was wrong about her.

  Finally, the Fowler home rests. Clovis and Finn dream of filling their coffers with Icelandic money. Willa sleeps soundly with her whole being weary from this frightful night, and Jonesy entertains dreams of the sailor while the cloud of his mistress’s spite hovers over him. Owen Mockett sleeps in a splendid stupor, drunken by more of his wife’s juices.

  The baby Rafe sleeps innocently, unaware of the remarkable transformation his dripping sweat has wrought on those who held him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Christ! There is enough to do without this annoyance.’ Clovis tosses the letter on the table.

  Clovis Fowler,

  We are disappointed that there has been no return message from you. We were clear in our previous letter that a report is required regarding the health of your son. Every detail is expected. We know of his fever; now you must inform us of exactly the circumstances before, during, and after his recovery.

  Any information we ask of you is vital to your safety as well as his.

  You have no doubt noticed that your monthly allowance has not yet been arranged. Leave your correspondence at the new location in three days’ time or you will not receive this month’s instalment.

  The new collection place – she cannot think where the new collection p
lace is because it is so often changed. All the day’s demands and still more to do. Composing a tedious – and irrelevant – letter about a baby’s feverous sweat is a ridiculous distraction.

  The priest is visiting today. Excruciating. When he is gone she must perfect the christening luncheon plans. The sisters Fitzgerald have agreed to attend as the honoured godparents and Clovis means to win them over entirely.

  Then there is the long evening ahead. Finn and Jonesy are underfoot, clearing more space in the cellar for receiving the riches of another night’s haul. Curse the Mocketts. Simmering in her thoughts in particular is Nora Mockett, who of late takes up too much of her time, who must one day pay for the trouble she has caused. The thought that she will find a way to bring about the woman’s reckoning quickens her blood.

  Clovis sniffs and turns around the room.

  ‘Damnation! What is that horrible odour?’ she screams, her patience at an end. ‘Willa!’

  ‘Mistress?’ Willa runs in from the kitchen.

  ‘It smells like the water of Iceland in here.’

  ‘That would be my Lucifers.’

  ‘Your WHAT?’

  Willa proudly presents the sulphur friction matches.

  ‘Much quicker than the flint and the tinderbox, mistress.’

  ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘But mistress, they are free, a gift from Mrs Mockett.’

  ‘Mrs Mockett! Throw them away.’

  Willa pauses, worries her fingers and then bravely adds, ‘They give me time to do more work, mistress.’

  Clovis casts her a sideways glance.

  ‘Then do something about that smell. Now out of my sight.’

  Later, after food and drink have been taken, the house falls silent with sleep. The baby complies this evening and does not stir for hours. Finn’s private knocker-upper taps on their bedroom window at midnight. He has his orders – not until the street is empty does he raise his pole to tap the lightest, quickest taps.

  The boards creak as Willa’s feet swing from the bed and touch the floor. She is the first downstairs to boil water, followed by Jonesy who replenishes the fires. Both go about their preparations for the work that will keep the roof over their heads, the food at table, and such luxuries as lie scattered about.

  When Finn and Jonesy leave through the rear door of the house to rendezvous with the other men, Clovis sits by the parlour window surrounded by a stack of journals and manuals. While her husband goes about plundering tangible goods, she turns to perfecting the art and science of mental theft. Tonight she chooses from a selection of mesmeric manuals, one of which devotes a great deal of focus on the process of ‘demesmerizing’. She mimics reverse hand passes, mirroring the drawings in the journal. Practising with her handkerchief, she waves it slowly in front of an imaginary subject and then quickens her movements to short, staccato passes. She is pleased with her accuracy in this display of manipulation and force.

  On these nights when Willa awaits the safe return of Master and Jonesy, she tackles her sewing basket. When the mending is light she does crewelwork on cushions for Mistress’s bed. It is her favourite thing to do. Her hands are so engaged that her fingers have no need for stones or shells. The design itself is her charm, the wool her token.

  She has changed her opinion about Jonesy. He surprised her with a rabbit’s foot. Its soothing soft fur delighted her. His attention brought a surprising blush to her cheeks. She had taken down the heavy curtain in their room to add to the laundry, and replaced it temporarily with a thin piece of muslin. That night, when he came upstairs to bed, she secretly stole glances at him.

  He is thin, but with her needlewoman’s eye she determines that he is well formed. His skin is smooth and his long hair shines against the candlelight. She has misjudged his face. He closes his eyes while he re-plaits his hair; she notes his thick, lustrous lashes. The sharp angles of his face are so unlike the swollen Limehouse faces, the sailors whose eyes are puffed with drink, and whose noses are jagged and broken.

  She wonders at the stirring she felt at the sight of the flaxen-haired sailor and how it seems to have transferred. For she feels it now, between her legs, and it is moistening her quim. She wants to touch herself while her gaze is fixed on him, but she dares not. He is so close that she can see his ribs rise with each breath and she matches it with hers. He looks up at her. She is caught! He smiles. Burning with embarrassment she turns over on her side, her back to him.

  Now, as the hour reaches long past midnight she contemplates that night, a thought the size of her needle’s point stabs her. When he smiled at her, his demeanour seemed to be missing a component that she did not even know she desired. He was being polite. That is all.

  There is a rattle of the rear door and the grunting voices of the men of the house. A shock of damp air whistles into the kitchen fire.

  ‘We’ve lost two men tonight, lay your work down and help us.’

  Master is in a foul mood.

  Still Willa sits.

  ‘Move it!’

  ‘But sir, I am not to touch the goods. I mean to say, I am not involved …’

  ‘Not involved?’ Clovis stands at the kitchen door. ‘You little hypocrite. You are involved with your food, are you not? You are involved with a warm fire, and just last month you were involved with a new pair of boots, if I recall. Get right off your high horse. Get to work.’

  An assembly line is formed. Hands and backs move goods from the rear of the house to the cellar. With more force than necessary, Clovis shoves the sacks at Willa, when a loud knock and then a great banging assaults the front door. The four are frozen with goods in hand.

  ‘Fuck,’ Finn says under his breath. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  They had been working so intently that not one of them was aware of the light of the lanterns gathering in the street. Finn raises his hand signalling them to be still, to wait. He tidies his shirt and waistcoat, wipes his hands on his britches, and smooths his hair. There could be a neighbour in distress at their door, or a warning of fire.

  Finn steps carefully towards the parlour window and narrows his eye to look through the shutter’s crack. The men are in private clothes. He cannot tell how many there are. One continually pounds with a flat hand upon his door. It’s obvious they have come for him.

  The night watch should have warned him, but tonight the decrepit old man who is easily bribed has accepted a second compensation, and now keeps happily drunk and warm as he sits with the publican on the bend of Three Colt Street.

  The pounding stops, the men outside are suddenly still. They have seen the shadow of movement by the shutter; though slight, it is enough. The men wait for the phantom to make his move.

  With one foot slowly creeping in front of the other Finn steps on the weakest floor plank, which sends out a reverberating groan. He will never know if the Thames police did actually hear his misstep from the doorway, but they most definitely hear him try to recover when he knocks up against the blasted armonica in the dark. With one concerted effort the constables push through the door like a tempest felling a ship.

  ‘Peelers!’ Finn shouts out.

  The warning call is too late. Willa and Jonesy are trapped in the cellar surrounded by the piles of goods that tower to the ceiling. They make a futile attempt to squeeze in behind a wooden cask. The constables know exactly where the door to the cellar is located, and in all the chaos and the shouting this strikes Finn as both odd and important.

  ‘You, sir, have fallen foul of the law for the last time. And you take down all these here with you who have been on the game.’ This from the burly man in charge.

  Jonesy and Willa are discovered and dragged out of the cellar. It is at this moment that they and Finn first become aware of the fact that Clovis Fowler is nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Clovis flees to Fore Street in a night that has turned damp and threatening. In a gust of wind the baby’s white blanket leaves a tail that skims along behind her. She p
auses for a brief moment when she hears footfall on the slick pavement. From the corner of her eye she recognizes the figure that follows her every step these days. Unlike her, he does not breath heavily. Well, follow me if you wish, even if it may be to hell, she thinks, and fleetingly wonders at Benedikt’s commitment.

  She is on the move again. Though it appears that she speaks to the fog in front of her, her words are meant for the man at her heels.

  ‘I go to the sisters Fitzgerald.’

  No response.

  ‘I must tell them about you. It will be unavoidable if you want to be informed of the boy’s progress.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘We will need a great deal of money or else we will hang. Tell Iceland I will not be deported. I will take my own life first.’

  Clovis picks up her pace again, as does Benedikt.

  When she reaches Fore Street she pauses once more.

  ‘He will be safe here.’

  She then turns to face him but he has already melded into the indefatigable fog.

  It is three o’clock in the morning, a sombre hour to be alone on any London street. Clovis has no torch or protection now that Bendikt has disappeared again. She expects to wake the entire street when she beats on the Fitzgerald sisters’ door but is taken aback when it opens immediately.

  In spite of Clovis’s mission, her astonishment tumbles out. ‘I find you awake?’

  The house is alive with brilliant light suffusing the hallway, where both sisters stand bathed in a pale, yellow glow. They are all sleeves, large gigot sleeves of matching black gowns with broad, white collars. Clovis wonders if a ritual is performed in this house tonight. A violin’s melancholic tune continues, despite her interruption. The sisters’ faces are warm from cognac, their breathing heavy from dancing to the violin’s song.

  ‘We do not follow rules of day and night. And you?’ Constance asks.

  Clovis summons her nerve, a different sort than she has relied upon in the past. For a woman about to be charged, she displays a remarkable presence of mind.