The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t have you take that one when you visit the Darnays,’ he said, as if I was in on the joke. He peered into the chest, nodding to himself as though he’d brought in the last of the harvest, and then wove his way back to the vault. He threw the book inside and shut the door with a thud. ‘Should do it,’ he added. ‘If he isn’t happy with that lot …’

  ‘The Darnays?’ I said. ‘You’re sending me to—’

  ‘Don’t mention it!’ he said, swinging round. ‘Don’t you dare mention it. Sometimes they can hear that, you know, even if everything else is gone, and then you wouldn’t believe the trouble you can get into, with hysterical customers wanting their books back, or rebindings, or … Don’t tell me – no, of course Seredith didn’t teach you, damn the woman …’ He sighed. ‘When you see him, you behave as if the name means nothing. Got it?’

  That gaunt black-and-white face. A flash of dark eyes, fierce as a hawk’s.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He narrowed his eyes. I thought dimly that I must be in a bad way, if he noticed through the haze of drunkenness … ‘What is it? Pull yourself together.’

  ‘I can’t go to see Lucian Darnay.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t even you who bound him, was it? In any case, you probably won’t see him. It’s Darnay senior who matters. Just look at them all with respect and deference and you’ll be fine.’ He muttered, as if to himself, ‘Respect, deference, with that face … Heaven help us.’

  I didn’t answer. The dragging, desperate dream-sense that I was missing something important had come back, stronger than it had ever been. What was it trying to tell me? What had I been searching for? Lucian Darnay had been about to turn, to tell me …

  De Havilland yawned. He fumbled for his keys and locked the vault door.

  ‘You’ve got the key,’ I said. ‘Seredith wore it all the time. How did—’

  ‘Seredith gave it to me.’ He turned to stare at me. His expression was level; his eyes were red-rimmed, but now you wouldn’t have known he was drunk. ‘A binder’s books are a sacred trust. As her confidant and colleague—’

  ‘But you said they were going to the Darnays.’

  He tilted his head, as if he would forgive me one mistake but no more. ‘Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand enough.’ I swallowed. ‘I heard her say she didn’t want you to have the books. She didn’t give it to you, you must have—’

  ‘Don’t you dare accuse me, boy.’ He raised his hand, pointing one finger upwards; it was more of a threat than anything else he could have done. ‘Nothing that you have seen tonight is any of your business. Put it out of your mind. If you mention it to anyone … well, it will be the worse for you. That’s all.’

  I heard myself say, ‘You took it from her body. You knew that was the only way you could get it. You watched her die, and then you took the key from round her neck, because that was the only thing you cared about. Why would she have given it to you? She would have given it to me.’

  The room was as still as stone. If I could have taken the words back, I would have done.

  At last he said, very softly, ‘I think, after you have been to the Darnays’, there will be work to be done. I do not like your spirit, boy. I think you will have to be entirely broken.’

  Somewhere out of sight a pile of books collapsed with a slithering thud; then everything was quiet again.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘We will pretend that you were there all night. Go.’

  I turned and began to climb the stairs. I was shaking, and he could see it.

  ‘To address your … concern,’ he said, so suddenly I almost tripped, ‘she did not trust you with a key, because the books in that vault were none of your business. Her secrets are not your secrets. Get that into your head, or you will go mad.’

  But I remembered the certainty I’d felt. He was wrong. There was something in there that did concern me – that was mine, as surely as my own bones. I understood, too late, what I’d been looking for: Lucian Darnay’s book. An answer to a riddle that was deeper inside me than my heart—

  ‘And she did trust me,’ he said, ‘no matter how it might have seemed to a stranger, because I am her son. And whatever love you think there was between her and you, you may put it out of your mind. She was as cold as ice, and if you think you were anything more than her slave, you are a fool.’

  IX

  The undertaker and the doctor arrived the next morning, early. It was foggy, with a biting damp that seemed to crawl under my skin, and the mist had got inside my head, too. Details flickered out of the blankness and were swallowed again: Ferguson shaking the moisture off his coat on the hall floor, ‘What a journey to do by night, we were lucky the horses didn’t break a leg,’ his voice too loud for the house; a man who looked more like a carpenter than an undertaker shaking my hand with a frigid grip, smelling of peppermint; the sound of their feet coming past, later, shuffling and awkward with the weight of a loaded bier. We were summoned to witness the death certificate in the parlour – ‘a mere formality,’ the doctor said, as if I might be too nervous to write my name in such august company – but for the rest of the time I waited in the workshop, beside the stove, packing it with wood as if I could keep it burning forever. De Havilland’s words came and went in my ears. I was almost sure that Seredith had loved me, in her way: but if de Havilland was her son, maybe he knew her better than I did. Cold as ice … It was like vertigo: everything I thought I knew about her was wavering, slipping through my fingers. Now all I wanted was to leave as soon as possible; but when at last de Havilland called from the hall, as impatient as if he’d been shouting for hours, it took an effort to get to my feet.

  The doctor had brought his own carriage, and he and de Havilland huddled inside it while the undertaker – what was his name? Oaks, was that it? – helped me load the boxes and trunks on to the roof. The coachman watched us with a baleful neutrality, as if his eyeballs had iced over. De Havilland had only brought a small bag when he arrived, but now the carriage creaked under the weight. I recognised the chest and the box he had filled with books, and there were more: one box clinked gently, and another seeped golden ink from the bottom. I hesitated, but there was no time to find the leaking bottle, and anyway it was de Havilland’s now. I tied the boxes in place while de Havilland murmured irritably in the carriage below.

  The undertaker set off before us. I stood for a moment watching the tarpaulin-covered cart trundle along the road: if you didn’t know, you’d think he was a farmer or a craftsman, taking a load of wares to market. I wondered whether I should feel anything, as Seredith’s body was carried further and further away; but I didn’t. It was only when I was in the carriage, watching the bindery recede, that the sadness grabbed me by the throat. De Havilland studied my face with those pale eyes – a parody of Seredith’s – and I tried to stare him out. If I could make him look away first … But I couldn’t. Had I really been her slave? Maybe the Seredith I’d loved had never existed, and I’d been a fool all along … I dug my nails into my thighs, trying to distract myself with the pain. He turned back to Ferguson and went on with their conversation as if I wasn’t there.

  It was a long journey. After a while the swaying suspension of the carriage on the bumpy road made me feel sick. I was glad not to have to talk; but as the mist closed against the windows and the cold crept into my limbs, I began to feel less and less real. Even the clouds of their breath were more solid than mine. Once, we got out to piss – by that point we had skirted the marshes and the road was bordered by woods on both sides – but the fog amongst the dark bars of the trees made the world seem so distant and comfortless that I wanted to get back into the carriage. But every minute that we creaked along was an eternity; de Havilland and Ferguson’s conversation might have been interesting if I had recognised the people they gossiped about, but as it was I tried to shut it out along with the rumbling of the wheels. What did I care about Lord
Latworthy, or the Norwoods or the Hambledons, or whether Honour Ormonde was marrying for love or money? I thought I’d give my little finger for a few moments of silence; but then, at last, they stopped talking and it was worse. Now, if I wanted it, I had time to wonder about Seredith, or my family, or where I was going.

  Castleford built itself up around us slowly: first as looming shapes and faint echoes, then as shadows behind a thicker fog, tinged with a miasma of sewage, coal fumes and brick-dust. We rattled past a building site where a clamp of firing bricks smouldered, pouring out acrid smoke that made de Havilland cough and spit neatly into a handkerchief; then through wider streets where the traffic rumbled beside us and the smoke had the choking, ammoniac note of old manure. He pulled up the shutters and we sat in a grey semi-dark, while I fought my nausea; but it didn’t keep out the noise. Horses snorted and neighed, men shouted, women shrieked, dogs barked, and all the time there was a lower hum of wheels and machinery and more, an indistinguishable cacophony. I didn’t remember Castleford being like this – but then, I was here after months of living out on the marshes, where there hadn’t even been the noise of animals to break the silence. I shut my eyes and imagined Seredith’s – my – workshop, abandoned but still solid and quiet, and held the thought of it like a talisman.

  When at last we came to a halt I was stiff and numb, and my head was pounding. De Havilland clambered out of the carriage and clicked his fingers at me from the pavement. ‘Come on, boy. What are you dallying for?’

  I’d been waiting for the doctor to get out ahead of me, but he settled himself more comfortably into the corner and I realised that he was going on without us. Awkwardly I climbed past him and found myself in the street. The coachman hissed through his teeth at the cold, crossing his arms across his chest. The carriage stayed where it was.

  I looked about me, pulling my coat tighter against a gust of chilly, sooty wind. We were in a road of tall brick houses and wide, bare pavements, carpeted in patches with dirty snow. Railings ran along the front of every house, between uniform front doors with steps leading up to them. There was a bay tree in a glazed pot standing on the doorstep of the nearest house, and from ten feet away I could see the smuts clinging to the leaves, like black mould.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop dawdling.’ De Havilland mounted the steps and rang the bell, and I hurried after him. There was a brass plaque beside the door, with an elegant line of engraving: De Havilland, S.F.B. Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

  A severe-looking woman with a bun and a pince-nez around her neck answered the door, and stepped aside with a smile to let de Havilland in. The smile congealed when she saw me, but she said nothing except, ‘I’m so glad you’re back, Mr de Havilland. Mrs Sotherton-Smythe is most in need of your services. Mr Sotherton-Smythe even threatened to go to someone else, if you were away much longer.’

  ‘While his wife’s books are in our vault? Hardly,’ he said, with a quick humourless laugh. ‘What is it? She’s found out about the latest mistress, I suppose?’

  She cleared her throat, glancing at me, but de Havilland fluttered a hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry, this is my new apprentice. He’ll learn it all eventually. Did you make an appointment for her?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But I will send him a note in the afternoon post.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see her tomorrow. Check he’s settled his last bill before you write, though.’ He strode ahead of me down a tiled hallway. On one side was a half-open door, with another plaque: Waiting Room. Through the gap I saw a pale, fashionable parlour, the wallpaper patterned with reeds and birds, a spread of periodicals on a table, and sprays of unseasonable flowers in a porcelain vase. There was another door at the far end, but I didn’t have time to see more before de Havilland paused and frowned over his shoulder. ‘Will you hurry up? Anyone would think you’d never been inside a house. This way.’

  The severe secretary had disappeared – into another room on the other side of the passage, I thought, hearing the latch click – and I sped up, so that I was nearly at de Havilland’s heels as he pushed through a jib door and out into a cramped yard. Opposite us there was a lopsided, shabby building. Shadows crossed back and forth behind grimy windows. De Havilland picked his way across the puddles and yanked the door open. ‘This is the workshop,’ he said. ‘You’ll sleep in the room upstairs. Well, come in, boy.’ He took a few steps into the dingy passage and slapped a door on his left so it swung open. There were four or five men in the room beyond, all bent over benches or presses. One of them drew himself up, a hammer in his hand, and started to say something; but when he saw it was de Havilland he touched his forehead and said, ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Jones. Baines, Winthorn, there are some boxes that need to be brought in from the street. They’re on the roof of the carriage outside the front door. Bring them round, will you? Oh – the chest can go to my office. Everything else in here.’ He didn’t even glance at the men putting down their work. One of them was in the middle of covering a corner with leather, and I saw him grimace as he pulled it apart so it wouldn’t dry half-finished. They shuffled past us, but de Havilland still didn’t seem to see them. ‘Jones, this is my new apprentice. He’ll be sleeping upstairs and working with you.’

  ‘Apprentice binder, sir?’

  ‘Yes. But as it happens he knows how to do some of the …’ de Havilland gestured vaguely at the lay press. ‘The … er … physical crafts, so while he is learning to bind he may as well be of use in here.’ He turned to me. ‘I shall summon you when I need you. The rest of the time, you may take your orders from Mr Jones.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It goes without saying that you are not allowed in the house unless I call for you.’ He turned and left. A moment later I heard the swollen door drag across the lintel and thud shut.

  The man next to the window raised his head and watched him pick his way across the yard, his mouth pursed in a silent contemptuous whistle. The three of them didn’t swap a glance, but after a pause they all started work again at the same moment. I pushed my hands into my pockets, trying to warm my fingers, waiting for Jones to ask my name; but he bent over the lay press and went on banging the back of an unbound book with his hammer.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Mr Jones—’

  Someone snorted. When I looked at him – the man closest to the door, who was tilting a finished book this way and that, checking the definition of the tooling he had done – he rolled his eyes at me. ‘It’s not Jones, it’s Johnson. Bastard doesn’t bother getting our names right.’

  ‘Can’t get his own name right,’ one of the others said, without looking up. ‘De Havilland, my Frenchified arse.’

  I said, ‘Mr Johnson, then.’

  But Johnson still didn’t answer. The other man shrugged and laid the book down on the table at the side of the room. ‘Wrap this up, will you?’

  It took a second before I realised he was talking to me. I picked my way awkwardly through the aisle between the benches. By the time I’d reached the table he’d gone back to his station next to the stove. He said, scrutinising the end of a tooling wheel, ‘Brown paper and sealing wax. Label it with the name and volume and mark it “Vault”. Then fill in a card. I’ll show you what to do with that in a minute.’

  Johnson asked casually, between hammer-blows, ‘Who was that you’ve just finished?’

  ‘Runsham.’ They all laughed.

  I picked up the book. It was a slim, small volume, half-bound in leather and marbled paper. I hesitated, but no one was watching me, so I opened it and glanced inside. The endpaper had a thread peeling away where it hadn’t been cleanly cut, and there were no whites before the title page. Sir Percival Runsham, Vol. 11. On impulse I rolled the fly between my fingers: the grain direction was wrong. I flicked through and stopped, at random. The writing was elaborate and hard to read, full of thorny flourishes. … her figure and decided plumpness, I congratulated her husband on her fecundity, so splendidly demonstrated, a
nd asked him when the new addition was expected; imagine my horror and confusion when he responded with, at first, bewilderment and then offence …

  ‘Pity it’s not trade, that one,’ Johnson said. ‘Runsham’d give some collector a good laugh.’ He gave the book in the press a final bash, and then started to undo the wooden screws. ‘You ever seen him make a speech, Hicks? I heard him once at the Town Hall. On his hobby-horse, shouting about the rights of the lower classes … The man can’t help embarrassing himself. No wonder he gets bound twice a year.’ He slid the book out of the press, discarded the wedges of wood, and peered at the rounded spine. ‘That’ll do. Well, are you going to wrap that up? Or are you too much of a proper binder to bother with the hard work?’

  I dragged a sheet of paper towards me and began to wrap the book up as quickly as I could. I fumbled and made a bad job of it; then I realised I hadn’t made a note of the name, and had to undo the package to check it again. Finally it was done. I dripped wax on the knot and sealed it with a monogram, an elaborate ‘d’ and ‘H’. I should have guessed that de Havilland wasn’t his real name. A tiny shiver of gladness went through me: whatever Seredith’s surname was, he’d chosen to change it. He hadn’t liked her, or trusted her, or understood her. What did he know, about whether she’d loved me? But the flicker of warmth only lasted an instant: I was here, and it didn’t matter any more.

  Once I’d labelled the parcel the younger man – Hicks? – took it from me and pointed at a stack of cards. ‘Write the name, the volume and the date on one of those. At the top right, put “vault”. Now, follow me.’