The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  ‘Every other table is full of junk, Willa. They’re selling rags compared to your collection,’ Finn told her. ‘Trust me on this.’

  Finn was right. Willa had begun by selecting a box full of decades-old clothing. She had then rummaged around until she found the frock she wanted to sell more than any other, Clovis’s white, satin dress with the pretty black doves, the same one that had lit up the dreary orphaned girls’ asylum on that fateful day. Still pristine, the costumiers for film and television who scour the market fought over that dress. Two hundred pounds it brought – an outrageous amount. Willa perked up.

  Scattered amongst the originals, Willa includes her one-offs. A Georgian petticoat, to which she added patches of Victorian lace, a bustier made of denim and old silk trimmed with buttons made of carved bone. Odd combinations, wholly unique and hand-sewn in the hours when she cannot sleep. Everyone wants to know the face behind these creations.

  That she receives no recognition, no acclaim, no acknowledgement of her talent worried Finn. So he gave her the same ‘anonymous lecture’ he gave Rafe when his current tutor itched to publicly thrust Rafe into the art scene. But Willa put him at ease right away. ‘Finn,’ she said, ‘I’ve been anonymous since 1832. I’m not likely to catch the fame bug now.’

  When the market opens, people queue to view her stall. By noon, the goats are roasting, and a steady flow of cash changes hands at Willa’s stall. Everyone is in a jolly mood today, except Willa, who is concerned with other matters. Something she overheard on the bus yesterday; two words that won’t leave her. Stockholm Syndrome. A woman in the seat in front of her said to her friend, ‘It’s a psychological phenomenon.’ The woman went on about ‘captives’ and ‘captors’, about how the captive sometimes has positive feelings towards their captor. A famous American heiress was mentioned.

  When Willa feels particularly low, words become confusing and she shuts herself in her room and reads A Dictionary of the English Language by Samuel Johnson, which oddly pacifies her. But last night she didn’t find the disturbing words she’d heard in the old dictionary, so today she slips away from the market to the high street towards Mornington Crescent and the library.

  Willa settles into a chair with her lap full of psychology books. The case histories she reads make her light-headed when she recognizes herself in them. She feels so nauseous that for a moment she fears she may be getting the long sleep, though it is not her time. A realization sends her staggering to the lavatory where she throws up her anxieties. She splashes cold water on her face, then wipes her mouth and drinks from the tap with her head in the sink.

  Clarity comes. She knew. Clovis knew that I was particularly susceptible. And I let her take me. She plucked me from that place like a ripe piece of fruit. I willingly became her captive. I am like one of Jonesy’s puppets.

  The revelation that long ago she had been targeted for her weaknesses fills her throat until she fears another bilious attack. In the cracked sliver of a mirror above the sink she forces a glimpse.

  ‘How stupid, how weak you’ve been, Willa Robinson. You’ve allowed her to rape your mind over and over again.’

  Time, something about time makes her body want to rock. Time has passed so swiftly, decades gone in a blink. She’s wasted so much of it already, she’ll never get it back, and there is not enough time, never enough. Even though … there is.

  She suddenly remembers the market, and groans. She must get back.

  The five-minute walk seems like fifteen. A film star strolls through the crowd unrecognized, in large sunglasses and a floppy hat. Hundreds descend on the club Dingwalls, for jazz at lunchtime. The market is relaxed and friendly at peak trading time and the only real worries are theft and rats. A large black one runs by Rafe’s feet now, as he stands near her stall, anxiously looking for her.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I bought you a sandwich.’

  ‘We never talk about our freedom any more,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we talk about it?’

  Rafe frowns, glancing down at the sandwich in his hand and then back up at her. ‘You want to talk about this now?’

  ‘Yes. Right now.’

  ‘Complacency? Shamefully. Because sometimes the act of getting on is all we can do. What’s up with you?’

  ‘I can’t believe Jonesy’s been dead for twenty-four years.’

  ‘Willa. Hey. What’s wrong?’

  She is too humiliated to tell him the truth. Too ashamed to tell him, as they stand amongst hundreds of people, that she isn’t strong enough to refuse the haunting notes Clovis plays to lure her. Too embarrassed to admit that she is addicted to the deep, calm place she inhabits when she gives over to the hypnotism. No matter how desperately alone she feels, or how much she would like to change, she cannot.

  ‘Just missing Jonesy,’ she says.

  ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. Your stall’s raking it in today. They want what you’ve got.’

  Pink and chartreuse light from the budding trees wavers in the gloaming of the spring evening. Rafe leads the way to the dead canal spur. They stop across the street from Lawless House. The corner pub and the zoo invade their memories. Willa looks at the new gate of Lawless House, from where Clovis had dragged the nine-year-old to the carriage. Rafe recalls that if not for Willa’s kind face that day, and her attempts to soothe his distress, he might have run away into the Limehouse night.

  ‘Do you know who lives there now?’ she asks.

  ‘No. I don’t come often. The shutters are always closed. The street is fiercely private. I came by one night hoping the lights would be on and the windows bare, but … I should stop coming here. I wish I knew where they’re buried.’

  ‘Are you still painting them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Don’t you ever want to paint anything else?’

  ‘No. My new tutor … he’s a portrait artist and he’s been painting the same people for years.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything was wrong with it.’

  ‘I know.’

  The parrots, screeching from inside the zoo, fill the silence between them.

  ‘I have something I want to tell you, Willa. You seem so down, and I think it may help. But you can’t let it slip. Clovis can’t know.’

  ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t tell me. I try not to tell her anything … She gets stronger you know. She studies all the time. She’s reading psychology now. And she practises some kind of hypnotherapy. None of it ever worked on you or Finn – it makes me feel stupid.’

  ‘You’re not stupid. You should study, too. Learn how to beat her.’

  ‘It would take years to catch up with her.’

  ‘We have years.’

  A small bit of laughter finds its way out of her.

  ‘Are you still … seeing people?’ he asks.

  ‘Do you mean, am I still having one-night stands with men I don’t know?’

  ‘Well, yes, if you put it that way. Are you being careful?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Seriously, Willa. You forget that you still look seventeen …’

  ‘I’m careful.’

  ‘Listen. If you ever meet someone, someone that you, well, like a partner – I can help.’

  ‘Right. I’m really not in the mood.’

  ‘I’m serious. I still get fevers.’

  Willa searches his face. He is serious.

  ‘I’ve been collecting my sweat.’

  ‘You what? Collecting it? What do you do with it?’

  ‘I collect it in sample jars. Mockett’s tricks. I store it. Room temperature, refrigerated and frozen.’

  ‘Oh my God. Does anyone else know?’

  ‘No, of course not. Ironically, Clovis gave me the idea. She told me that all the testing and experiments to replicate my sweat are for my benefit – so that I can have a partner. She’s insane. I can’t believe she’s my mother.’

  She’s not. If he’s ever allowed to know the truth, Willa hopes he’ll forgive her for not telling him. She’s b
ursting to explain how Clovis threatened her, and how heavy this burden has been. She lets out a long sigh.

  ‘I thought it might cheer you up, not make you sad,’ he says.

  ‘I’m thinking about Jonesy. And how the law has finally changed, and now, with your help, he could have had a partner. That’s all he ever really wanted. But what about you?’

  ‘Well, since you refused me I haven’t been tempted.’

  ‘Don’t do that. I was your nanny for Christ’s sake. Let’s get back. The parrots are driving me mad.’

  They walk to the corner and circumvent the growing crowd outside the pub.

  ‘What if I were to choose the wrong man?’ she asks. ‘What if after a decade, or five, he turns nasty or can’t handle the condition. Then what would I do?’

  They look at each other.

  ‘Overdose,’ they say together.

  ‘Just joking.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  They turn the corner onto Park Street and then cross the street. They speak of the fireworks that will light up the market tonight, and the dragon attached to a canal boat that spits out fire and illuminates the canal’s dark water. How Jonesy would have loved it.

  On the other side of Park Street, the sisters Fitzgerald alight from a taxi, a few steps from the Indian restaurant, where they stop for a takeaway. An afternoon searching the galleries for Rafe’s paintings has left them famished. They are busy paying the driver when the coat-tails of their lost boy whip around the corner.

  ICELAND

  1978

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Soon the whales will swim into the harbour. People plan picnics and children anticipate playing in the streets until midnight. The late spring brings tourists to a hoary, thawing Reykjavík, who use the slow-paced capital town as a stopover point to reach the real gem – the landscape.

  Elísabet stretches awake and reaches for Stefán but finds only creases in the sheets. A rich, coffee aroma rises from Margrét’s ground-floor apartment in the house. Elísabet takes two drops from her phial, grateful that the long sleep descends on her as predictably as the seasons; a gracious boon that makes her complicated life easier. But where is her partner?

  Esja, the cold bulk of a mountain, stares at her from the kitchen window. There’s a note from Stefán, which she reads while heating up the porridge he left for her. Her mind is crowded already with what she must do before she leaves today. Her body aches for a long jog. Taking her coffee into the bedroom she sets to packing her suitcase. Stefán’s bag is ready, but he drives north today to view a farm for sale, and she flies south.

  Elísabet picks up the photos Stefán left on the desk of four more Falk cousins. She memorizes their faces and feels herself tensing, winding up again, knowing these men have been identified as their enemies. She and Stefán still have the farm on the south-east coast near the pool, and this house in Reykjavík. To better boost security, their group have made homes in almost every area of the country now.

  There’s still time for a run. She chooses the big, circular route around the older part of town that connects two seaside paths. It feels incredible to be moving again in the sparkling air. Her wool cap is almost too warm. A half mile into her jog, she decides to turn off the main path to the Fossvogskirkjugarður Cemetery. Running through the wild, less cultivated graveyard is like being in a wood – where trees and untamed plants shoot up between the graves. She jogs on the various paths at a slower pace, but fast enough to keep the oxygen rushing to her muscles.

  The cemetery is practically deserted, so she is alerted when the plod of another jogger begins to gain on her. He passes and nods, then reverses and runs backward, trying to get a look at her face. And she, his. She can’t be certain that it isn’t familiar. He slows up and looks back at her again. She loosens her long scarf; it will serve as a weapon if necessary. Then he comes towards her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, with a wide grin.

  Elísabet breezes past him.

  ‘Wait!’ he calls out, running after her.

  She’s certain she can outrun him, but she’s going in the wrong direction and she needs to turn back. She can’t miss her flight.

  As she runs she flips through her mental files. Is he connected to the Falks? Is he one of the four in the photos? This is her main concern. Or is he another kind of criminal …

  She suddenly swerves and turns back, running wide of him.

  ‘I just want to ask you a question,’ he calls after her.

  She sprints out of the cemetery.

  By the time she arrives home, she’s missed Stefán. She regrets her timing; it will be a long time before they meet again. After a shower and more food, Margrét knocks.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, but there may be trouble.’

  On the way to the airport Elísabet describes the man in the cemetery but Margrét hasn’t noticed anyone suspicious near their house.

  ‘It may be a coincidence.’

  ‘Perhaps. I think you should tell Stefán though, and tell him I’ll phone him soon.’

  Margrét nods as she slows and stops.

  ‘I will. Take great care of yourself.’ Margrét squeezes Elísabet’s hand.

  ‘And you. Don’t worry about me, Margrét.’

  Just as Elísabet nears the military checkpoint inside the airport, she spots the jogger from the cemetery. Toting a briefcase and a small canvas bag, he surveys the busy departure lounge. She slowly turns her back to him and eases up on her approach to the checkpoint, avoiding detection.

  As she suspected, he’s boarding her flight. Elísabet considers changing her plans, but swings her way back to the check-in desk and upgrades to first class.

  She lingers until the final call then places her woollen cap on, pulls it low and begins boarding. First class is almost empty and the seat adjacent to hers remains unoccupied. Her gamble is successful – he’s in standard class.

  She takes a sleeping mask out of her bag and asks the flight attendant not to waken her. After she’s rearranged her cap and mask, her face is almost invisible. The long flight gives her time to plan her arrival. He’s not the first to follow her.

  LONDON

  1997

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  On the evening of the autumn equinox Owen Mockett faces a despicable task. When Rafe and Finn arrive, he leads them directly through the lab and into his flat.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take samples?’ Rafe asks him.

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Christ, Owen. You look nervous. What is it?’ Finn asks.

  ‘You’d better sit down.’

  Two sleek, leather sofas face each other in Owen’s living room. Chrome curves and quiet taupe tones soften and relax the room, but for one, flaming burst of red. Rafe’s painting, a gift to Owen, dominates the wall behind the sofa. Pin spotlights illuminate Rafe’s interpretation of his own blood samples, and how his blood appears under the power of Owen’s microscope. Rafe laboured for years painting over it, layering it, at times scraping it with his fingernails. Sometimes he applied paint using an eyedropper, drop by drop, the way his blood filled the sample phials. Anger and passion explode from the canvas.

  ‘You know how much I hate taking your samples, Rafe …’ Owen begins.

  ‘I know, but we’ve all agreed to pacify her,’ he says.

  ‘Okay, well …’ Owen looks warily at Finn.

  ‘Spill it,’ Finn says.

  ‘I’ve been working with a sequencing facility on Rafe’s DNA. I was hoping to make a big show of my commitment to this damnable magic formula that Clovis relentlessly pursues. The whole process is completely anonymous. I’ve used the facility several times to test their integrity and I trust them.

  ‘And?’ Finn tries not to display his alarm.

  ‘I tested yours as well, Finn.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I was trying to prove something, something unrelated to the … My intentions were completely innocent. I wanted to prov
e to Clovis that there is no science that explains Rafe’s condition … our condition. I thought if I could show DNA results … Anyway … oh, God.’ He sighs.

  ‘You should have asked our permission.’ Finn is pacing now, wondering how to salvage this mess.

  ‘Owen, you’re making me uncomfortable,’ Rafe says.

  ‘All right.’ Owen pauses. ‘Finn, the results prove that you’re not Rafe’s biological father.’

  ‘What? What did you just say? Are you sure?’ Rafe asks.

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Finn?’ Rafe waits for an explanation.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ What else can he say. Of course he’s not Rafe’s father!

  ‘Then who is my father?’

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ Finn admits a half-truth. He doesn’t even know the man’s name.

  ‘Did they give you a report, or a statement, or what, Owen?’ Rafe asks.

  ‘I downloaded it onto this laptop that I use for storing sensitive data. I’ll print a copy for you and then delete it. It’s secure,’ Owen assures him as he opens it, finds the file, and hands the laptop to Finn.

  ‘Scroll down to the bottom, past the number charts.’

  ‘There. There it is.’ Rafe reads aloud. ‘The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child. Finn?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Owen says.

  From his desk drawer he produces an aged piece of paper, a prepaid penny-letter sheet.

  ‘Read it. Both of you, read it,’ Owen growls, like something wounded.

  It’s addressed to Mr O. Mockett, Mockett Chemists, Commercial Road, Limehouse. The year is stamped 1852; the month has faded completely. The hand is legible, but the creases make for slower reading.

  ‘Owen, what is this?’ Finn asks.

  ‘Please, just read it.’

  Dear Sir,

  Regarding your late wife. I am in possession of the enclosed headline clipped from the Illustrated London News.