December [1865]
Our first Christmas dinner with Frank at Abercromby-sq. (for eight years) did not pass off without alarm. I had not seen Frank for some weeks, & knowing him to be less than dependable I purposely called at Mount-st. three days before; there a man, who turned out to be a letting agent, admitted me. He said that the rooms were empty, & the tenant gone, which my own investigation quickly confirmed to be the case. The tenant had four weeks’ rent in arrears, the agent informed me – did I know to whom bills might be sent? I paid the man off & departed in a state of perfect confusion: Frank, I knew too well, would have enjoyed this moonlight flit, but if he truly was in difficulties why had he not told me, & where might he have gone? Bafflement then gave way to anger, for I had (with the help of Rawlins) been diligent in securing the lease & helping him to settle, & indeed had paid the deposit out of my own pocket. A fine reward for my fraternal solicitude! Having not the least clue as to where he might have fled, I spent the days immediately preceding Christmas in frantic turmoil, sensible of Frank’s capacity to ruin the occasion altogether – my mother, I knew, would be inconsolable if her favourite son, after all those years of absence, failed to present himself at the Eames hearth. Christmas morning arrived, we attended the service at St Catherine’s, & still we had received no communication from him. My store of seasonal goodwill was almost exhausted by fretting when, just after noon, a knock came at the door & there, resplendent in his best togs, stood Frank, bearing gifts for one & all. The scenes of familial joy that ensued were something to behold as Frank, his charm in full blossom, enchanted the company with his tall tales & mischievous sallies. Even Rawlins, to whom I had confided some of my trouble, was beguiled when he arrived at the evening festivities (Georgy had made a punch that somewhat accelerated the flow of conviviality). As is his wont, Frank consumed a prodigious quantity of spirits without ever seeming to be intoxicated, though I was pleased he saw fit not to smoke that confounded pipe in the company of Ma & Pa. At a quiet moment of the evening – there were very few – I took Frank aside to ask about his recent disappearance, & why he had abandoned the Mount-st. lodgings. ‘Ah, Pete, they were too quiet, those rooms – I need a place that’s got a bit o’ life about it. Found meself a crib down Greenland-st. by Queen’s dock. You don’t mind, do you?’ What in Heaven’s name could I say? His manner was so affable, & his conscience so plainly innocent of the anxiety he had caused, that the acerbic speech I had been rehearsing all that day dissolved on my tongue, & we were once again caught up in the joyous mood of the occasion. Yet even in my relief I could not quell deep misgivings as to Frank’s erratic behaviour; during those dark hours when I speculated upon his sudden disappearance I had a ghoulish presentiment that he might one day be found lying dead in a ditch. Am I my brother’s keeper? These intimations of dread persuade me that I must be.
Wednesday, 17th January, 1866
Today I visited Frank in his present ‘crib’. The walk from Hope-pl. to Greenland-st. measures but a half-mile, yet between these addresses lies a chasm. Liverpool has hitherto seemed to me a city of which one might be proud to be a citizen – its temples of commerce, its vast docks, its gracious thoroughfares, its fashionable shops. To declare oneself a Liverpolitan I believed comparable to Cicero’s defiant proclamation, ‘Civis Romanus sum’. Intimations of a quite different city had disturbed me before – the squalid district Rawlins & I walked that evening of the prizefight – but I continued indifferent by the simple expedient of ignoring them. Whenever a hansom happened to carry me through these wretched streets I chose not to let my gaze linger, & thus could live untroubled.
But today, on foot, in broad daylight, I passed men & women in the direst grip of poverty, & barefoot waifs carrying pitchers of ale, their faces pinched by the cold & emptied of the light of childhood; I saw crowds spill out of taverns, & people wandering drunk, but drunk despairingly, joylessly, as if to drown the misery of this netherworld they inhabited. I felt many pairs of eyes upon me as I walked, & none of them friendly. Frank’s lodgings were on the upper floor of a grim-fronted doss-house, & I was admitted, as before, by his young factotum Jem. The smell of grog & fried fish hung thick in the air. I found Frank & Jess sitting together mutely – Jess’s hand was heavily bandaged, & it took no wild surmise to discover that something was gravely amiss. ‘Gone & broken his damned flapper,’ muttered Frank, gesturing at the boxer’s hand. ‘And such a tuppenny-ha’penny fight it was. He’d already knocked him down twice, this feller looked ready to tumble again – so Jess roundhoused him & next thing his fist goes crack.’ Jess merely stared, impassive as a Buddha. Grievous as this news was, of more concern to me were the abysmal surroundings in which we held our colloquy. ‘What is this place?’ I asked him, failing to conceal the note of dismay in my voice. ‘Home,’ he shrugged. I could scarcely believe my ears. It was piteous enough that drunks & paupers were obliged to call this neighbourhood home, but to see my own brother settled in amongst them was insupportable. Right there I asked him – implored him – to give up this pathetic accommodation & come back to Hope-pl. with me, we would put old troubles behind us & begin anew. Frank looked at me sadly & said, ‘And where should Jess live?’ That silenced me. I had no inkling that their companionship extended to such … He perceived my confusion. ‘Don’t worry, we get along here very well, & Jem here’s our trusty mascot!’ At which the young shaver smiled & gave an absurd salute.
Useless to argue. My spirits utterly depressed, I bade them farewell & left the house. As I turned on to the street Frank followed after & called me back. I thought for a moment he had reconsidered my plea & was prepared to come home – but all he said was, ‘Pete, could you lend me some money?’
February [1866]
The staircase at the rear of Magdalen Chambers is complete, & today as I gazed upon it the enigma of its creation struck me anew. From what recesses of my teeming brain did I glean this iron-wrought astonishment? My sketching work I have always done as quietly & fastidiously as a carpenter at his bench, secure in the dexterous play of my hand & the accuracy of my eye. But then I was merely capturing the perceived surfaces of the world before me: an aspen, a windmill, a wave toppling & creaming on the shore. Once I ceased to be a student of architecture & became its master, unsuspected vistas of possibility began to unfold, & whatever principles had been absorbed I knew I could now transform into something that was indisputably mine. Yet why this inventive faculty would express itself in one way rather than another I could never rightly tell – & still cannot.
Thursday, 8th March, 1866
Cassie’s wedding day. My beloved sister, having endured a number of disastrous suitors, has at last found a fellow – a lawyer, Thos Jackson – who loves her dearly & appears sensible of his good fortune in making her love him. At Abercromby-sq. I was surprised to see Frank arrive in good time & attired as neatly as a guardsman, though he did not scruple to ask for a stirrup cup (‘a medical necessity before a wedding’, he said) before we set off for St Catherine’s. Ma clung to Frank’s arm & cried silently as her older daughter was led up the aisle & thence (one must hope) to matrimonial bliss. We proceeded to the reception in the Concert Room, where Pa’s speech expressed all that we should have liked to hear about our dear Cassie. Indeed, the day appeared blessed, not only in the radiant happiness of the bride herself but in the crisp spring weather & the gaiety of the wedding breakfast. Alas, the occasion was to have a sting in its tail; Cassie & most others did not witness it, thank Heaven, but it utterly quashed the merriment of those who did. Will quietly reported the matter to me late in the evening. It seemed that some light-hearted remark Pa had made in his speech about children being a ‘trial’ to their parents had offended Frank, whose long antagonism with Pa had lain mercifully dormant since his return last year. I felt grim forebodings as I sought out Frank in one of the Hall’s upper rooms; it seemed too likely that he had been drinking, & indeed his slurred speech & face as red as a Chinese dragon confirmed the worst. He was angrily denouncing
Pa as a ‘miser’ who had refused him the preferment that was his due when at Eames & co., then had compounded the offence by humiliating him in a public speech. The small crowd of guests who gave him ear seemed utterly confounded, & I feared that they might be kinsmen of the groom. Unable to suffer this drunken tirade any longer, I took Frank aside & spoke to him sternly, more sternly than I ever had – whatever his grievance with our father (I argued) this was not a fit occasion on which to raise it. Frank even in his cups saw the justice of this & fell to brooding, while I promised to have a private talk with Pa on the subject. But this only started him off again. ‘Why should you or anyone else intercede on my behalf? Am I not entitled to fair treatment from my own father without another prompting his conscience?’ & so on – he could not be reasoned out of his deluded indignation. It pains me now to remember Frank as he was, the genial schoolfellow of my youth who saw what other people got angry about as merely a humorous part of the nature of things. Time was when my older brother’s gentlemanly ease in the world was an inspiration to me. But the man I saw this evening is not the same one who left us nine years ago.
18th March 1866
Emily gave birth this morning to a girl, now ‘mewling & puking’ in her mother’s arms, & very beautiful she is. Evangeline Rose is the name we have given her, for her face was as pink & delicate as that bloom when she emerged into the world. Sir Wm, the child’s grandfather, called at Hope-pl. in the afternoon to inspect her, pronounced himself satisfied & departed in his carriage twenty minutes later.
July [1866]
Triumph & disaster. Rawlins & I celebrated the completion of Magdalen Chambers today with a luncheon of Chablis & oysters at the Cockspur. We merrily reviewed the troubled history of the building, begun in the wake of my trial by mockery in the press, then continued in the face of financial reversals & my own doubts as to its originality. The late addition of the spiral staircase I now see as its most vital component, & I thanked John for his faith in this & other architectural oddities of mine that many would have disdained as outlandish. As I toasted the fine fellow I noticed an untypical awkwardness in his manner, & in truth I imagined he was about to request of me a partnership in the practice. How happily I should have obliged him! – but no, this was not his meaning at all. He has lately been in correspondence with a cousin who has started an architectural business of his own in Chicago, Ill., & has been eagerly urging John to return to America & take up a position there. This news fell like an axe upon me. As he related it, John’s eyes never met my own & his voice hardly rose above an undertone; he seemed quite mortified, & mumbled something to the effect that I must think him ‘an ingrate’. I laughed at this, assuring him that nothing could be further from the truth. He had cheered me when my spirits had been most afflicted, & he had brought to bear his practical assistance & indefatigable energy at a time when they were most needed. Indeed, I was the one at fault, for I had forgotten how much John – still only two-&-twenty – had left behind when he fled his country; his mother still lives, so too a brother & sister. Heart-stricken as I was, I told him simply what a friend he had been to me, & what a true companion in hardship. This seemed to have the opposite effect I had intended, for tears now stood in his eyes, & he seemed bereft of the capacity to speak. Poor John! I decided not to oppress him any further, & instead held out my hand, which he took sadly but warmly.
27th July [1866]
A footman came early this morning bearing a note from Pa. His message was to the point – ‘Pandemonium here. Be kind enough to come immediately.’ Minutes later I was hurrying along the street, my footsteps light with trepidation. My father, of a naturally equable temperament, would not have issued such a summons without grievous cause, & I feared that Ma had been taken ill, or worse. On arrival at Abercromby-sq. I found Georgy & my parents unharmed (Will away travelling in Italy) though this relief was tempered by the egregious spectacle of the house turned upside down. They had returned from a dinner late last evening to discover that the back door had been jemmied & the place ransacked. Intruders had made off with whatever they could lay hands upon – candlesticks, ornaments, the silver, an ormolu clock that had stood on the chimney piece for years, a gold hunter of Pa’s; his desk had been forced, & a sum of money taken. I found Ma slumped on the couch in the piano room, weeping inconsolably while Georgy looked about the disarray in shock. The burglars had tossed about the furniture so savagely it seemed as though a tornado had suddenly whistled through the house. A police inspector who had just concluded an interview with Pa tipped his hat to me on his way out.
‘Mark of a proper cracksman, that back door,’ he said, almost admiring the handiwork.
I went to talk to Pa in his looted study, books & papers strewn about the floor. The servants had already been questioned, & were plainly innocent of any implication in the robbery – two of the maids had been overpowered & locked in a cupboard. The policeman had told him certain suspected housebreakers had attracted the notice of the constabulary on the streets hereabouts, & were at present being watched. Small comfort to us, I replied, & Pa nodded absently. The single consolation he could entertain was that none of Ma’s jewellery had been stolen, although to have broken the locked drawer of the dresser where it lay would have been the work of a moment. My response to this news passed rapidly through three distinct stages, bafflement at first, then curiosity, & finally distant but horrible tremors of suspicion that the author of this outrage might – No, inconceivable – I cannot bear to write it. Too late, the vile thought has taken root. I dared not mention it to Pa, for even to voice it I feared would pollute the family hearth for ever. My brain in violent turmoil, I felt obliged to take my leave, having promised to call at the house again the next day.
August [1866]
Several days passed & still I waited for news that the police had apprehended someone – anyone – & thus have my suspicions rebutted. But no such intelligence came. I returned to Abercromby-sq. to supervise the replacement of the locks, stouter than the previous, & to help Pa compile a thorough inventory of all the stolen items. Still the fact of my mother’s untouched jewellery tolled through my head. I dearly wanted to believe that the thieves had in their haste overlooked this treasure, & that we should be thankful for a small mercy. But their diligent rapacity elsewhere argued against such carelessness: they had deliberately omitted to raid that dresser, I felt certain of it.
With heavy heart I set out for Greenland-street, taking a life-preserver with me; the ruffians I saw thereabouts the last time would put a man on his guard. Through that mean district I walked once more, trying to order my thoughts the while. The summer season had not improved the aspect of those streets; indeed, they seemed more poisonous than when I first made acquaintance with them in January. Again, it was shocking to find so many children plying the squalid trades of adults; one girl, aged no more than twelve, brazenly tugged at my sleeve & begged me to come with her – to what end I dread to imagine. That people should have to abide in such wretchedness –
I should have learned my brother’s ways by now. On reaching the doss-house he called home I enquired within, & was told by the sour-faced landlady that Frank had ‘slung his ’ook’ some weeks ago, & his two companions gone with him. Naturally no forwarding address had been left. On the one hand I was worried & depressed about this latest disappearance; on the other I admitted to myself a kind of relief. It is no enviable duty, after all, to ask a man whether he has burgled the house of his own parents.
That was the final entry of the journals’ second volume. Baines realised his view of Eames had changed in the course of his reading. The cocksure young fellow of the early 1860s had fascinated him, but he had not much cared for his tone of strutting braggadocio and the slightly tiresome acclamations of his own genius. Once his brother’s volatile behaviour had begun to make itself felt, however, and Eames took on the responsibility of minding him, he suddenly appeared a more human and sympathetic figure. He wanted this story to end well for the architect,
and at the same time had an inescapable sense that the gathering storm clouds prefigured tragedy. The third and final volume awaited him, but for the moment he felt unable to press on to the denouement. He wanted to preserve the faint possibility of Eames’s salvation for a while longer.
The Rescue Man Page 20