Avon Street

by Paul Emanuelli

  ‘I can see you are troubled,’ James said. ‘Can I help in any way?’

  Richard sat back a little further in the chair, propping his cane at its side. James watched him, waiting for him to answer and saying nothing. When he eventually spoke again his words were slow and deliberate. ‘I have to rid my mind, somehow of these feelings. I could not return home, not with this melancholy.’

  ‘You can talk for as long as you need,’ James said. ‘I would hate Charlotte or Charity to see you like this. Was it the accident you told me of, to that man and his daughter?’

  ‘It was no accident,’ Richard said. ‘Thomas Hunt killed himself and murdered his daughter.’

  ‘But why?’ James asked.

  ‘The police said he had been drinking all evening and returned home with a jug of beer. His family had a room in some filthy lodging house off Avon Street.’ Richard’s speech was growing faster, harsh and less controlled, and James remained silent when he paused. ‘When he got home, he found his wife of twenty years had been arrested for shoplifting. The others in the house – God knows how many there were, living there…they told the police that he flew into a terrible rage and sent his four older children to bed. His neighbours said he grew calmer then, for a while, and sat in the kitchen singing quietly, with his three-year-old daughter upon his knee.’

  Richard paused again, as though the scene he was describing was somehow drawing him in. His voice became softer, slower, more questioning. ‘She was his favourite, they said. The neighbours left him then, thinking him more settled, but when they went to their beds, he must have walked down to the quay with his little girl and straight into the river.’

  James waited for a moment in the silence, before replying. ‘It is tragic, Richard,’ he said, ‘but such things happen, particularly in the Avon Street shambles. You need to put it out of your mind. There is nothing you can do to change what has happened.’

  ‘Yet I feel I need to understand,’ Richard said, his voice softer still. ‘If you had seen the little girl’s face; it still haunts me. I try to forget, but I cannot dismiss the memory of her face from my mind. How could he have killed his own daughter?’

  ‘It is beyond understanding,’ James said. ‘Perhaps it was madness, or the drink. Something must have pushed him to do what he did.’

  ‘But they are not reasons,’ Richard said. ‘Surely a man does not suddenly go mad, without cause. How could he have done it? If it was the drink, then the thought was there to start with.’

  ‘Since we do not know what drove him to it, perhaps it would be better to err towards pity,’ James said. ‘I have an old friend who might know something about the deaths. I can try to find out more.’ He could see Richard was absorbed again in his own thoughts and doubted he had even heard what he had said. ‘But you cannot undo what is already done, and I do understand your feelings, believe me.’ He hesitated, waiting for a reaction, but Richard said nothing. The silence seemed endless and needed breaking. ‘Perhaps though there is something that I can do,’ James said. ‘I will go to the police and put myself forward to represent the mother in the Magistrate’s Court. At least we can try to re-unite the surviving children.’

  ‘I would be pleased if you could do that,’ Richard said, smiling for the first time.

  ‘In a more just world your work in Avon Street would enhance your reputation,’ James said. ‘Yet I fear you should take care that it does not become too widely known. Your more lucrative clients do not expect to see their physician working with the poor.’

  ‘Someone has to do something. A quarter of the city lives in squalor and disease in Avon Street and the other three quarters pretend they do not exist.’ Richard paused. ‘At the same time I cannot neglect my living. I need to progress and to do that my name must be known.’

  ‘You have a kind heart, but you take the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ James replied. ‘This melancholy must in part be due to overwork. I’ve told you so, many times. You have your practice, your work in the Mineral Hospital and then you take on more in Avon Street. It is too much, I have warned you.’

  ‘There are too many doctors in Bath and too few paying patients. I have been here seven years and I seem still to be struggling for business.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself,’ James said. ‘Your skills are highly thought of in the city and to be frank, you never seem that short of patients or money. I wonder at times whether it is you who wish to progress further, or Charlotte who wishes it so. She has, perhaps, too much of a liking for fine things.’ When he turned back to his companion, he saw the reaction on his face and regretted his words.

  He remembered when the two of them had first met Charlotte, almost five years ago. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He had wanted her for himself, but from the start Charlotte seemed to have calculated which of them represented the better prospect as a husband and provider; or perhaps it was simply whom she could better control. Richard had courted and married her within a year.

  ‘That’s unfair James.’ The rebuke in his friend’s voice was clear. ‘You cannot know how happy Charlotte has made me.’

  ‘I beg pardon,’ James said. ‘I have no right to make such remarks. I know how much you love her.’ He looked up. Richard was staring at him now as though looking for some deeper meaning in his words.

  ‘You have changed, James,’ he said, ‘ever since you took up with Frank Harcourt and his cronies. You rarely come to dinner. You ignore your work. You gamble heavily, drink to excess and indulge in God knows what else.’

  ‘Don’t hold back in your criticism.’ James tried to laugh, but only managed a thin smile. ‘At least Frank knows how to enjoy himself and find some excitement and pleasure in this monotonous city. You may not have noticed, but I have grown ever so slightly tired of Bath, with its constant tedious dinner parties, and concerts, and recitals, and the unending polite conversation, and obsession with conventions and manners. I have spent so much of my life trying to live up to the expectations of others. Can I not now be free, to live life as I want?’

  ‘So you find our dinner parties tedious?’ Richard asked.

  James had no problem in laughing this time. ‘I meant no insult to you Richard, or to Charlotte. You are wonderful hosts, but I have a life outside your dining room. Besides, you are very much alone in your opinion of Frank. He has been a loyal friend to me, and is almost universally admired, and welcomed, in the highest levels of Bath society. He has introduced me to important people and they have welcomed me into their circle.’

  Richard smiled and rose from his chair. ‘I do not expect you to be any less loyal to Harcourt than you have been to me. I know he is popular and well received, yet there is something in his manner that I do not trust.’ He paused. ‘You should be aware, James, that I have heard talk lately, regarding your debts. There are rumours that you are rapidly approaching insolvency. It worries me.’

  ‘I suppose I would be the last to hear such things,’ James said, trying to look unconcerned. He wondered just how far the word had spread and found himself calculating what he owed and to whom; eighty pounds due to be paid shortly on the lease of the house; his debts to Frank had now reached at least sixty pounds and he owed fifty to Richard, with more again owing to tradesmen and merchants. He tried to put it behind him, preferring to remember the two hundred pounds he had safely hidden in the house. Provided all of his debts were not called in at once, he should have enough stake money for the card game and still be able to satisfy some of his creditors.

  ‘You know that if the rumours grow stronger you will be finished in society and in your profession,’ Richard said. ‘Where will you borrow then? The banks will not lend to you and there is a limit to how much I can help.’

  ‘I hope that it will never come to that,’ James replied, ‘though it is true that I have some temporary difficulties. My brother’s estate in Ireland has been hard hit for some time, and as a consequence he has delayed sending my annuity this year.’
James stood, wanting now to put the conversation behind him. He took the tin whistle from the writing desk and handed it to Richard. ‘Will you give this to Charity from her Uncle James,’ he said.

  Richard took it with a smile. ‘She will love it, and will probably send her mother mad, with the playing of it.’

  James returned the smile. ‘I know you mean only good by what you say and I take it so. Let us both have some tea.’ He pulled on the long knotted silk cord by the drawing room door, before walking over to the window. Moving aside the slightly grubby lace curtain, his knees resting on the ottoman, he looked out over South Parade. The winter sun looked tired as it broke through the clouds, sending intermittent shafts of white light onto the hills, like transparent pillars, holding up the grey sky above the city. A slight scattering of snow from an earlier shower had left the street and wide pavement outside the house white, broken only by a few footprints here and there.

  James watched the hansom cab come to a halt outside Richard’s house and the coachman jump down and assist two young women to disembark. The ladies were giggling nervously and making a great show of the inconvenience of the cold and wind. A sudden gust lifted the bottoms of their long coats and sent flurries of snow, blown from the rooftops, flying down the street. A nut seller stood on the corner of the street, under the bare-bone branches of an elm tree, his tray as full as it had been when he had first stood there some hours ago, his breath steaming small clouds of exhausted air into the bitter cold. ‘There are two young ladies visiting your house,’ James said.

  ‘Perhaps it is as well then that I am staying a little longer,’ Richard replied. ‘If Charlotte is entertaining her friends I should not disrupt the gathering. Charlotte’s friends do not find me sufficiently entertaining and make little secret of the fact. I am apparently too serious in my demeanour.’

  James laughed and was about to reply when there was a loud knock on the drawing room door. The sound preceded only by the briefest of moments the door being flung open. James smiled as Mrs Hawker bustled in with a tray. ‘I’ve brought you some tea and Oliver biscuits,’ she said. ‘Sure, I knew you wanted something and I wasn’t about to climb two mountainous sets of stairs, just to go down them again to fetch something up.’ He noticed she was out of breath and the crockery rattled as she placed the tray down on the occasional table.

  Reluctantly James recognised, not for the first time, that Mrs Hawker was growing frailer with age; she must be almost sixty now. She still kept her hair long, but always tied up in a bun, out of sight at the back of her head. It was as white as snow. He wanted to sit her down and tell her to rest, but he knew she would have dismissed his concern in the same way as she tried to dismiss her age. ‘You’ve read our minds as usual, Mrs Hawker,’ he said.

  ‘It wouldn’t do you no harm to tend to this fire I made you either, Master James,’ she said, vigorously poking the embers and sending a golden eruption of sparks up the soot-blackened chimney and not a few onto the hearthrug. ‘You could do with some good exercise. Why not go out for a brisk walk?’

  He took some logs from the basket and piled them on the fire. Their bark was still damp and smelt of wet leaves and dark forests, reminding him of the peat fires at home. He watched as the flames licked the air and the dampness of the wood spat its defiance at the flames. Mrs Hawker returned his smile and nodded to Richard. ‘It’s always a pleasure to provide for Master Richard,’ she said. ‘I only wish as how I could say the same for all Master James’ friends. There’s one or two who wouldn’t get offered an Oliver biscuit in this house, but might get something else with their tea, if I was to have my way.’

  ‘Go and rest, Mrs Hawker,’ James said, smiling. ‘I’m sure you poured yourself a cup of tea before you brought the pot to us. It will be getting cold.’ She seemed oblivious to his comment, but he noticed her smile as she left.

  ‘I hope you will pardon me for pointing it out,’ Richard said, grinning, when Mrs Hawker had shut the door behind her, ‘but your relationship with Mrs Hawker is hardly that of master and servant. Surely at her age she finds it difficult to cope with running the house. What has become of the maid who used to attend you?’

  ‘The cook left, and then the maid, for no apparent reason,’ James said. ‘But I do little entertaining and the house suits me as it is. Besides, as you well know, I do not think of Mrs Hawker as a servant,’ he said.

  ‘My sincere apologies,’ Richard said, ‘I know she means a great deal to you. Once again I have delivered a sermon rather than showing the understanding that should be expected from a friend.’

  ‘You have no need to apologise,’ James said. ‘You have always been a true friend and I take no offence from what you say. Now Mrs Hawker has no staff to order around, she has turned her wrath on me, but it is from love. She means more to me than any living soul, and I would never see her hurt. If I could persuade her that she should not act as a servant then I would do so, but she is a formidable lady and knows her mind too well.’

  Richard took the walking cane that had been propped at the side of his chair and holding it at its base passed it handle first towards James. ‘I would like you to accept this,’ he said. ‘You must live your life as you wish, but Thomas Hunt’s death has made me more aware of the desperation in Avon Street, if I needed any reminding. I know you go there with Harcourt and the others and I urge you to carry this when you do so.’

  James smiled as he took the stick by its handle. ‘It is very fine, but I cannot accept. I rarely carry a cane and I know you are particularly fond of this one.’

  ‘You must accept it,’ Richard said. ‘It was of reassurance to me when I began visiting Avon Street, particularly at night.’ He pointed to the handle of the cane. ‘Feel for the row of pearl buttons at the base of the grip.’

  James stood and gripping the cane, felt for the buttons with the thumb of his right hand. One of them, he could sense, was raised slightly higher than its companions and he pressed it, almost automatically. The hilt of the stick slid effortlessly to the ground, revealing the first few inches of gleaming silver blade that it had housed, before the tip of the cane came to a halt on the burgundy carpet. ‘You spend more time in Avon Street than I ever do. Surely you have greater need of a sword-stick?’

  ‘Not any longer,’ Richard replied. ‘I am well acquainted with the parts that are safe and those that are not. Besides the people know me now; they would not harm me.’

  Discarding the scabbard, James instinctively adopted a fencing pose, cutting the air with thrusts and parries and slicing swipes. For a moment he was a boy again; remembering his father’s fencing lessons; sparring with his elder brother, Michael, who seemed always to let him win, despite the fact that he was by far the better swordsman.

  ‘Do not be misled by the thinness of the blade,’ Richard said. ‘It is Spanish craftsmanship at its finest. It was my father’s gift to me and now it is my gift to you.’

  ‘I truly cannot accept it,’ James said, ‘it must mean a great deal to you.’

  ‘It means more to me to know that you carry it with you. I kept it by me when I needed it, but it is you who may have a real need for its company now.’

  Chapter 8

  James was dressing when he heard the distant knock on the front door below. He had gone to bed early, as he had resolved, slept well, and woken reasonably refreshed, and with a new-found optimism. Pulling the curtains slightly apart, he felt their momentary resistance where a pool of water had frozen, holding the bottom of the fabric to the windowsill. Small silver slivers of ice fell to the ground and shattered noiselessly.

  He looked out at the misty morning and shivered, before moving to the wash-stand and pouring water from the jug into the bowl. After splashing icy handfuls onto his face, he rubbed the back of his neck with numbed fingers. The chilled water drove the last of the sleep from his mind. He was buttoning the collar of his shirt when he heard the knock on the bedroom door. ‘What is it, Mrs Hawker?’

  ‘Father Brennan’s h
ere to see you.’ The concern in her voice was clear. ‘He’s in a terrible state, and he has news from your brother Michael in Ireland. There’s something wrong. You must come down, now.’

  James felt apprehensive; his stomach knotted. ‘Tell Sean I will be down directly.’

  ‘I’ve put him in the study,’ Mrs Hawker replied, ‘and given him some tea. I’m sorry, but I’ve not yet set the fire in the drawing room.’

  James sat on the bed to put on his shoes. ‘Don’t fuss so, Mrs Hawker,’ he said. The study will be fine, and I’m sure Sean will not care.’ He realised now, all too well, how much he had been dreading the visit. The letter from his brother had been explicit; ‘Do not reply until you have spoken to Sean’. Now he was here and James was in no hurry to begin their conversation, though he already knew in his heart the direction it would take. He took his neatly folded jacket from the linen press and walked downstairs.

  James was taken aback at the feeling of apprehension that struck him as he reached for the doorknob of the study and not only because of the matters they were about to discuss. He had allowed his friendship with Sean to fade, yet they had been so close, as boys. He had even moved to Bath in part because it was now Sean’s home, yet he had seen him less and less as time had gone on. James tried to calculate how long it was since they had last met and decided it must be at least a year. It seemed almost as though he were about to meet a stranger.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  James threw open the study door. ‘How are you, you mad Oirishman?’ he said, and then froze as he took in the appearance of the priest. His freckled face was cut and grazed, one eye blacked and swollen, his red hair pulled forward in an attempt to conceal the bruising on his forehead. It was some moments before James regained his composure. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘It’s fine it is to see you too, James,’ Sean answered, shaking his hand.