The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  Priss’s pretty smile transforms to a sneering, grotesque mask.

  ‘I shall have my money, boy. You came up of your own free will. You are not so stupid to think I wanted your company, or you were to have mine for no coin! Mine is a night-time economy and I will have my due.’

  Just then a buxom woman with high, white hair bursts through the door. Mrs Dripper, proprietress of the house of accommodation, is in a frenzy of anger.

  ‘I have a hansom driver at the door insisting that the boy come down this instant. He is to take the cab home. What were you thinking, Priss? I shall raise your rate if you continue this bawdy nonsense.’

  A man stands near the hansom. Rafe cannot see his face, but is sure he has seen him before. In the upset and confusion of the moment, and the dogged insistence of the driver to hurry Rafe into the cab, he takes no more notice of Benedikt. Even when the driver explains that he has his orders to deliver Rafe safely home, the boy does not seem to care to know the details.

  The house on Bermondsey Street is brightly lit upon his return. His mother is engaged in a fuming disregard for his father who speaks to her in a low, reasonable voice. Rafe hears Finn defending Rafe’s right to ‘more freedom, and a life outside these walls’.

  Clovis is so angry that when Rafe walks by her he thinks she may strike him.

  ‘Do not touch me,’ he warns, in a voice that contradicts his years.

  In his room, he picks up a brush that lies in a row of drying brushes. He strokes his palm with it before dipping the tip in red. The canvas is primed and once more he conjures the sisters Fitzgerald into his room.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Bandyleg Walk is dangerously situated amongst the never-ending narrow courts and winding streets of The Mint. Dilapidated houses, a few without roofs, are havens to fugitives from the law, debtors, and those who are driven from the slums by the men who build roads and railways. Henrietta from the penitentiary is found in The Mint off Borough High Street where she has embraced an opportunity to stitch together a life far from the alleys and corners of Mayfair.

  The kitchen work to which Henrietta was assigned while in the tench, just as that frightening Fowler had promised, proved to be a boon. For she discovered that she was capable of rolling a crust and turned a fine hand to it. So pleased was Matron, that Henrietta was promoted to assistant cook for the Millbank staff and held the coveted position until she received her ticket-of-leave.

  Here in Bandyleg Walk, on the ground floor of three crumbling storeys, a lodging house has prime place on the dingy corner where all the buildings are blackened from smoke. Henrietta made wise and frugal use of the purse of coins Clovis Fowler had tossed at her. She has set up and operates a soup-house. And by God, she cooked an outrageous amount of soup in the tench.

  Steam rises in a smelly mist on the windows where basins and ladles are in full display for those who cannot read a bill of fare. For tuppence, a punter enjoys a prime basin of soup and a slice of bread. Add another penny and Henrietta throws in a potato. She is tough but fair; there are no handouts. She is known to employ two staff, always convicts returned to the world, but suffers no thieves or cheats on her staff. A burly lodger upstairs is her booter-outer. A sharp knife hides always within her reach.

  Busy all day and half the night, the quantities she sells are large enough to afford a dream of a new venture. One day soon, away from this slum, she will have dining rooms. She is good at chops.

  The supper rush is over and so efficiently run that Henrietta’s frock is still fresh and unstained. She cannot say that she pines for her silk dresses and feathered and ribboned hats. Her plain, green wool suffices; though she could not resist sewing a neat row of small black velvet bows down the bodice.

  Henrietta’s back is to the door when it opens and the night air enters whilst the odour of twelve hours of simmering soup escapes.

  ‘No more soup.’ She does not bother to turn to her guest and continues scrubbing a rickety table.

  ‘I am not here for soup.’

  Henrietta pauses, and then wrings her rag. She scrubs again.

  ‘What can I do for you, Clovis Fowler?

  Even people who are captains of their own ships form habits. Those who have the freedom to come and go as they please, rely on some ritual to mark their day. It is Nora Mockett’s ritual to cross the Commercial Road when there is a lull in the traffic, well after the two-thirty bell tolls. Three weeks after her visit to Bermondsey Street she wraps a package for Mr Wright, the cabinetmaker across the road. He is a good customer, a loyal one who is in constant need of syrups, tonics and lozenges for his large family.

  These last three weeks Nora has had to work a little harder to muster the smile she normally brings to his workshop. Lately she grows impatient with his neighbourhood gossip and is eager to return to her own place of business. Each day she awaits news from Bermondsey and would not like to miss a message.

  When she has collected the payment and indulged Mr Wright for a short but polite time, the road is already moving again at a quick pace. Nora stands on the kerb waiting for the traffic to subside, with a chopped view of the Mockett shopfront. It really does outshine any others on the Commercial Road she thinks, and then turns her head to seek an empty slot so that she might make a dash. Suddenly she catches the odour of something like weak stew, with a prevailing scent of onion. She is hatless, and without her shawl, neither needed for her daily ritual, and so feels a warm breath on her neck.

  Nora is on the verge of turning her head to see who crowds so close to her, when a firm hand is pressed onto her back. One shove and she goes down.

  Nora hears a distinct crack near her temple. How cold the pavement feels against her cheek, she thinks. It is her last thought before a coach-and-four trample her. She lies dead, her eyes open, her neck broken, her body crushed.

  A woman walks calmly away from the shambolic scene, pulling her cloak tightly around her green dress adorned with black velvet bows.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  1852

  Mockett feels he will lose his dinner when Clovis enters his shop. It seems the tip of a hot, searing blade slices at his innards. He has closed early, and now that she has arrived he hastily pulls down the canvas blinds with lightning jerks.

  ‘Owen, you have lost your colour. Why do you secrete us here like this?’

  Owen silently rages. I could choke her over and over again. Though she cannot die, I would make her wish she could.

  He slams his fist on the counter.

  ‘Do not speak!’ he shouts at her.

  Overwhelmed with a desire to grab her by her thick mane, hold her back and slit her throat, he forces his hand into his jacket pocket from where he produces a letter.

  ‘Read it.’ He thrusts it at her.

  Clovis first takes a glance at the signature and then looks carefully at Owen.

  ‘Read it,’ he repeats.

  Her face remains placid at first but as she reads on her expression changes to one of pity.

  ‘I would laugh outright at these writings of a murderous woman if it did not soil the memory of the late Mrs Mockett. No, Nora and I were not the closest of friends, but my God, Owen. How could you think me capable of this?’

  ‘I think you capable of anything,’ he says, coldly.

  ‘Henrietta Martin was guilty of infanticide. And she let another hang for the murder of her baby. She is the woman who killed your Nora. I tried to help her at Millbank because she wove a pitiful story of regret. Ask anyone and they will tell you it is true. But when she did not change her ways, and took advantage of my good will, I stopped wasting time on her and she turned on me. I will tell you this Owen, she is evil at her core. When I refused to help her again she threatened to one day ruin me, hence this, her false confession.’

  Owen snatches the letter from her. Unshrinking, she approaches him gently.

  ‘Owen, did Nora tell you that she came to visit us in Bermondsey? Did she tell you I promised that if Rafe ever came do
wn with another fever that I would call for her immediately?’

  ‘No. She never said.’ Owen is uncertain of the truth of it.

  ‘Do ask my entire household. They were all present, Owen, all witnesses to my promise to your wife. Ask any one of them.’

  ‘Why didn’t Nora tell me this herself?’

  ‘Well …’ Clovis looks away demurely.

  ‘Well, what?’ he snaps.

  ‘She attacked Rafe.’ Clovis appears to struggle. ‘She demanded that he produce his fever, as if he could just turn it off and on. Again, ask Finn if you wish, he will not deny it. We wanted to spare your feelings and not cause trouble between you and your wife … knowing how difficult it must have been for her.’

  All the fight drains from him. He can believe this to be true.

  Clovis sees she has won and dares to touch his shoulder.

  ‘It is time for you to do what you dearly love, Owen.’

  His upper lip perspires with her so near him. He cannot help it.

  ‘You cannot go on much longer here without raising questions.’

  Damn her, she is right. As the years ticked over, his customers who once relied on him for relief of minor ailments began to seek a cure for deafness, gouty pains and other ailments of ageing. The comment, ‘How well you look, Mr Mockett.’ grows in number, and the women especially look at him askance while perusing his skinenhancing formulas.

  ‘We must go underground,’ Clovis continues. ‘That is our plight and one of the sacrifices we make. But you are the luckiest of us all. You can continue your studies in the sciences without the pressure of being in the shop each day. And once we set up your businesses anonymously, as we discussed, we’ll secure finances for the coming years. I am at your disposal, Owen. I would never do anything to hinder our relationship.’

  ‘Well, you can see how convincing the letter is. I could not fathom why she might make such a confession if it were not true. I wonder how she made the connection between Nora and you?’

  ‘Oh, she was a cunning one. Always full of schemes. Your wife was well known. Nora was a respected member of this neighbourhood, and simple to locate. It would have been easy for her to make the connections. You visited us many times at Millbank and tongues wag and tales spin quickly. And Henrietta had nothing but time to think up her hateful deeds.’

  ‘Then I suppose I owe you an apology.’

  ‘No. Let us never speak of it again. Let us move forward as friends and partners.’

  The day that Owen Mockett kills his name he stands alone in his shop on the Commercial Road surrounded by shelves and jars, filled with nothing but the scent of their former contents. The echoes of the neighbourhood footfall, the cries of sick babies and the jumble of voices that over the years filled this space, seep into his memory.

  There will be no more Mockett pills, wafers, ointments, or anything bearing the Mockett name.

  ‘Rest in peace, Mockett’s Apothecary.’ His voice echoes as he prepares to leave this life and form another.

  I’ll chain thee in the north for thy neglect,

  Within the burning bowels of Mount Hecla;

  I’ll singe thy airy wings with sulphurous flames,

  And choke thy tender nostrils with blue smoke;

  At every hiccup of the belching mountain,

  Thou shalt be lifted up to taste fresh air,

  And then fall down again –

  Prospero to Ariel, The Tempest

  During Hekla’s twelfth-century eruption people proclaimed the birds they watched fly into the mountain’s fire were hovering souls. Until the nineteenth century, the belief that Hekla was the entrance to hell was firmly held. The legend persists that on Easter, witches gather to meet the devil on Hekla.

  In 1913, having remained quiet for thirty-five years, Hekla’s explosive eruptions spewed an average amount of lava, creating two large fissures.

  The hidden pool’s water rose brighter, and shimmered as green as polished malachite.

  LONDON

  1914

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It happens so suddenly. Overnight London inhales, and when it exhales, its air hovers, thick with anticipation. Soldiers appear everywhere canvassing the streets in khaki. Thousands of Londoners who are strewn across the country and abroad to celebrate the August Bank Holiday weekend are pouring back into town. The atmosphere pulses with excitement and the sense that London life is on the precipice of changing forever.

  When war is declared on the Tuesday there is fear of a rush to withdraw funds. The holiday is extended so that the banks may remain closed. But it is not money that is sought in Bermondsey. On Wednesday, Clovis Fowler stands at the counter in a Bermondsey grocer’s shop with women who are throwing food. They swipe it off the shelves onto the floor and hurl it at the windows. The grocer has hiked the prices overnight and they are having none of it. Clovis throws her groceries down too, but not out of any protest. She would not even be here if she hadn’t sent Willa and Jonesy to purchase buckets and sand. Her nerves are frayed and for once in her interminably long life she feels vulnerable. She elbows her way out and is safely away from the shop just as the police arrive. Down the street she marches in tempo with the monologue running in her head that refuses to quieten:

  And just where are Finn and Rafe when Britain declares war on Germany? According to Finn’s itinerary, in holy fucking godforsaken Berlin, that’s where. The people in Iceland are furious with me. How was I to know that Rafe would sneak off? It is the first time. He’s a grown man for God’s sake. I cannot keep him tethered.

  When she received Finn’s telegram explaining Rafe had secretly booked passage, she first went limp with relief and then she snapped. She was so enraged that she shook Jonesy until his brains rattled; he swore he was unaware of the plan. Willa’s eyes bulged with innocence.

  Clovis is so engrossed in these thoughts that she forgets to avoid the recruiting office on Jamaica Road, where the queue of men runs down the long stretch and curls around the corner. She ignores the men whose eyes follow her proud figure as she crosses to the other side. Normally she relishes a man’s raised eyebrow, but now their lust grows stale on her, like a dead mould. In the months that Rafe and Finn have been away she admits, if only to herself, that she misses them. And now with a war on there are so many concerns, so many possibilities that did not exist before. Mainly, what is to become of her men?

  The owner of the photographic studio on Jamaica Road pulls the shade down just as Clovis arrives, but he beckons her to enter, eager for his payment. It was a whim, a moment of unabashed sentimentality when she defied Iceland’s rule that forbids a visual record and insisted on a family photograph.

  ‘Madam.’ He twists his moustache and presents her with the photo.

  Clovis stifles a gasp. Here they are, together, in the palm of her hand. How completely modern they look. She stands in the centre between Rafe and Finn, her narrow skirt of charmeuse satin falls just above her buckled pumps. Willa sits in a stiff pose, as straight-backed as the chair. How young she looks, still budding. And Jonesy, the exotic touch, perches on a low, tapestry footstool. Behind them, a muted pastoral scene. From this thick photographic card, Rafe’s reserved gaze endures the scrutiny of the camera and Clovis is struck by his breathtaking resemblance to Elísabet.

  * * *

  The trade refers to him as the ‘mysterious emperor of ancient things’. They are ignorant of his origins and the way in which he developed his eclectic taste, formed as it was in the sewers and tunnels under London. In the world of auction lots and bric-a-brac the only man who has knowledge of Finn’s identity is not a man at all, but a female cross-dresser who knows how to keep a secret. Finn must trust someone, and she, Pauline, asks no questions.

  Finn continued his apprenticeship, as he calls it, in a lowly manner. He attended scenes of misery; homes where people were cowed by their desperation for money, and where he then bundled their incongruous items to resell for a profit. Although there is no better plea
sure than to buy cheap and sell dear, he could sustain no appetite for their misfortune.

  For two decades he travelled to Britain’s ports of entry at Hull and Yarmouth, where a healthy and seemingly endless bounty of imported furniture was his for the sniffing. When he began making a decent living, temptation straddled him like a hungry whore. The fakes and forgeries flowing in London’s Wardour Street presented him with an opportunity to make a larger profit. Greed soared up in him and so clawed at his nerves that he gave a few spurious items to Jonesy and instructed him to mend and carve them into passable pieces of ancient furniture. How easy it was for Finn to proclaim his redemption while passing the hours in Millbank all those years ago. Now that temptation was before him, he almost fell flat on his face, for he ached for that shortcut to profit.

  It was the lesbian Pauline who put him straight again before he tipped properly over the edge. The heft of her person and her extensive experience made her formidable on Wardour Street, where she sold Finn’s merchandise. When he first met Pauline she was already too old to continue her buying journeys, and eventually when she was assured he possessed ‘the eye’ she anointed Finn with her knowledge of the golden route across the Continent, and more importantly, her contacts. She refused to sell his pieces of trumpery, though she praised Jonesy’s fine and detailed work, and insisted that Finn take an oath to forswear thievery in all its forms, forever. He did so honestly, with an inner smirk at the word ‘forever’ and its particular meaning to him. Fifty years have seen the burial of Pauline and her brogues, and now a Mr Tiller fills new shoes.