The Butcher's Hook

by Janet Ellis

  Sometimes you need only add the smallest amount to balance the scales exactly. Now this last piece of information weighs everything even. However unlikely and unpalatable their alliance, Onions and Dr Edwards link arms and block my path.

  ‘My father told me.’ To my relief, my voice does not tremble.

  He taps the nail against his upper teeth. ‘Do you grieve very much for your beloved teacher?’

  ‘My father grieves enough for both of us. I had not seen him for many years.’

  ‘Oh, but you had.’ He pretends disappointment. ‘Anne, do not lie to me,’ he sighs, raising his eyes to heaven as if he and God despaired together at my moral failure. ‘You read the note. Are you going to deny you know that name?’

  I return his stare, blank eye for blank eye.

  ‘I know the name,’ I say.

  ‘Thomas was convinced that you and . . . oh, what is he called?’ He frowns, as if he really cannot remember Fub’s name, ‘Frederick, is that correct? Yes, Frederick. He thought that you and the butcher’s boy, Frederick, were planning a future together. One visit to his employers was enough to convince me what a foolish notion that was. He would not own two pence to his name and they’d a pretty bride planned for him, anyway.’

  ‘You went to the Leveners!’ I speak too loudly but I cannot help crying out. I wish I could stuff my words back into my mouth.

  Onions watches my distress dispassionately. ‘The Leveners,’ he says eventually, as though he might introduce us later. ‘I am a little peeved, to tell the truth, that I have had to reveal my hand so soon.’ Onions rubs lightly at the base of his throat, his skeletal fingers spread wide. ‘You had no doubt hoped to taunt me with what you saw. Simeon, you would say, I know about your boy. And I was so very much hoping to reply: ‘And I know about yours.’ But your father came to see me in such distress that I had to abandon my plan for a drawn out game.’ He has made his move. He thinks he has won.

  ‘ ‘‘Simeon, can you forgive me?” he said.’ He mimics my father’s guttural tone. ‘My sister was mistaken to send you away and I will remonstrate with her.’ He imitates the way my father stands as he speaks, precisely catching his habit of looking out from under his eyebrows as though he had a broad brimmed hat squashed low on his head.

  ‘I reassured him that I was not offended. That woman, his sister, is obviously an imbecile and not worth engaging with. ‘You tested her honour, Sir!’ he parrots, flapping his hands as Elizabeth does.

  He had better not begin to describe my mother to me, should he wish to amuse himself further with more mockery of our household. ‘I have not told your father of your dalliance, Anne. Merely that I will consent to pay you court once again. Suffice it to say, if you give me the smallest cause for my feeling vexed, then . . . I’m afraid I shall be persuaded to confess what I know.’ He drops his head for a moment, saddened by the prospect. ‘So you would do well not to disturb my fragile equilibrium.’

  He glares at a passer-by who comes too close to us and then closes his eyes, as if the sight makes him dizzy and nauseous. He looks at me as though he has me trapped under a glass. ‘Do you walk home now, Anne? Or will you try and run to the butcher’s to whisper of your being discovered ?’ He steps back to let me pass, motioning me to leave. ‘I have no need to follow you; do not think that I shall. I never did. The streets are as full as ever of my little spies.’

  Of course. Every small boy who ran past me, who crept behind me when I walked or looked down on me from high walls or through windows was in his employ. The world is a pierced screen through which I have been watched by hundreds of pairs of eyes. He has been noting my movements with care and over time, as when you observe mice going in and out of the skirting, the better to choose the place to set the trap.

  ‘I have no plans to elope with that fool Fub,’ I say. ‘He was an experiment. I wanted to see if I could make someone dote on me and his fawning was instant and abject. It only served to persuade me that I have no need of the affections of men. And I will never let you near me.’

  Onions breathes hard through his nose. He moves his tongue in his mouth as if chasing a splinter of bone. ‘We are united in our oppositions, aren’t we?’

  I laugh at both my little wit and his larger discomfort. ‘I do not know what you said to my father.’ He opens his mouth to speak. ‘And I do not wish to,’ I continue. ‘But I will rail against any union with you as long as I must.’

  It is as if a great hand plucks me by the back of my dress and holds me aloft. I look down at us both. Onions is greatly reduced from this vantage point. His miniature person sways and topples like an ant carrying a leaf. What he knows is a burden only to him.

  I can squash him with my littlest toe.

  ‘Miss Jaccob.’ Onions elongates his neck, then bows in courtly politeness. ‘I had hoped you would begin to see that our nuptials might be beneficial and appropriate, if not a meeting of minds. And there will certainly be no mention of love!’ He snorts at the thought. ‘But it is of no importance whether you do or do not appreciate my offer. Your recalcitrance presents a challenge, to which I shall rise. Let us create our own unique companionship. Each, as it were, to his own.’ He gathers himself upright. ‘I am in no hurry. It is your father who may wish to proceed with haste.’

  He winds away through the crowds. After I am gone, he will easily bear the humiliation of my absence. He will shed me like a snake his skin and wrap his coils around another. I imagine Fub beside me now, one hand at my waist while the other pats my behind in approval. ‘You’ll soon be rid of that idiot,’ he says, squeezing me, ‘We will be away from here by nightfall. One more!’

  His words in my head are a tonic. I feel as restored as if I had newly bathed. And I have my little task to complete, to which I am greatly looking forward.

  Chapter 25

  The house bristles with purpose when I arrive home. Someone has severed a small branch of leaves from its tree and placed it, together with a wilting tangle of flowers, into a large vase on the hall table. Lace covers sit awkwardly on the surface of every piece of furniture; they have been kept hidden for so long that they are marked with brown striations of folded storage. A bundle of fresh lavender scents the air with the inappropriate smell of fresh laundry. The coverlet underneath it is already peppered with its tiny fallen flowers.

  ‘Anne!’ My mother leans over the banister; she looks relieved to see me. ‘I feared you would not be here in time. The vicar comes soon. Are you prepared?’

  I can only change my clothes to be ready, not my attitude. I will answer only for my attire. I had wanted to extricate myself with another imagined malady, but she holds my gaze in a way that prevents me leaving. ‘In a moment,’ I say, climbing the stairs towards her, but she is already gone – doubtless to squash the baby into the christening gown. I had helped dress my brother when he wore it, easing his plump hands through its tight sleeves and laughing at him almost trussed with its starching when I had finished. She calls me to follow but she will have to manage alone this time; I could not promise to be as gentle with my sister’s pink skin.

  We assemble in the drawing room. The newly scattered cloths flutter up with each arrival. Aunt Elizabeth practically sweeps them away; she comes like a ship in full sail. The feathers on her hat tremble magnificently. She glares at me in greeting. I suspect my answering smile is more of a simper. My father is nervous: having the vicar visit is akin to being examined. His ways of household management will be held up to the light and he himself appraised. He shifts from foot to foot and adjusts his coat several times.

  When the vicar comes in, my father and Aunt Elizabeth both stiffen as if a lightning bolt struck them. The vicar beams as though this rigidity was normal. He has a boy with him, dressed in a similar collar and carrying a Bible and a small box, but his face has such a livid rash of pimples that it’s hard to notice his calling. He keeps his eyes to the floor, doubtless to avoid an
y familiar expressions of revulsion in those who look at him.

  The entrance of my mother and the baby softens the room, as when you suddenly feel the warm sun on your back. Swaddled in layers of linen, the child’s face is almost obscured but her small fists beat the air. Jane and Grace follow, both concentrating on my mother and the infant. They have no proper place here, no task to perform, so they do not know what face to make in our company. I won’t indulge them by being friendly. My mother smiles at each of us in turn, probably celebrating that this infant lives another day as much as her welcome to the church.

  There’s a sudden rapping at the door and when Jane goes to it, she comes back in so swiftly she trips and collides with the blemished boy. They shout together in discomfort then apologise in unison, then both are silenced by my father’s cold stare. All this does nothing to distract from the fact that she went to admit Onions. Of course he comes! He has discarded his enveloping coat and is dressed in a ludicrously bright velvet coat with so much lace hanging from his sleeves and at his throat it’s as if he has an entire other person underneath his clothes, struggling to escape.

  My mother does not react, so preoccupied is she by her child, but she is the only one unaffected. Aunt Elizabeth almost levitates with anger. Jane’s distress has coloured her cheeks a livid mauve and the vicar is loudly introducing himself, although there is no need. His curate has flattened himself to the wall, avoiding more collisions, and my father is propelling Onions into the room with a hearty slap on his back. Grace is looking at me and there is a flicker of something like solidarity in her expression, though I do not return it.

  ‘Simeon! ’ my father booms.

  ‘Ssshh . . .’ warns my mother, shielding her child from his bluster. Then she looks up properly, first at Onions, next across at my father. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘Mr Onions, I did not know—‘

  ‘Madam,’ he cuts her short. ‘I am honoured to be a guest at such a propitious occasion. When an infant is baptised, how special and how splendid it is.’ He peers at the bundle from a safe distance. ‘And to think that soon I shall forever be joined to your family!’ He does not look at me, though I am sure he can feel my eyes on his back, for he wriggles and hunches as he speaks.

  My father steps forward. He addresses all his remarks to the vicar, rightly thinking this is a safe port of call. ‘Sir,’ he says, ‘my sister is standing godparent for me.’ Aunt Elizabeth whinnies in delight. ‘And, as my wife comes from a sadly reduced family,’ he glances at my mother, who is impassive, watching him, ‘my friend, Mr Simeon Onions, therefore deputes for her.’

  There is such a forceful, simultaneous intake of breath at this that you might imagine there was no air left to breathe in the room afterwards. Without knowing that he does so, the vicar provides a welcome distraction from the consternation by setting out his stall. The boy shakes a length of material loose and lays it across the table, next he takes a small vial of holy water from the box and sets it on top. There is much crossing of themselves and muttering throughout, though it seems to stem from routine not holy observance.

  My mother looks aghast, but what can she do? She can hardly clutch the baby to her and run from the room, can she? Jane and Grace look ready to catch her if she falls, at least. I take some small comfort from the incredulous expression on Aunt Elizabeth’s face. She opened her eyes wide at the announcement and her mouth fell open, while her hands clutched her cheeks and thus she has remained, as though set in stone. The coffin will have to be modelled to accommodate her pose when she dies.

  Onions is preening; he directly faces a large mirror which affords him much opportunity for admiring glances and adjustments of his garments. He probably imagines the room newly-papered in a garish design of his choice. I hear a strange thumping in my ears and it is a while before I realise it is my pulsing blood. As quickly as I have identified the sound, so do I feel an immense gathering nausea and my head feels so light I think all matter must have been removed from it. Unaccountably, the floor rushes towards me in a manner which is both mysterious and swift.

  When I come to, Grace is kneeling beside me, one hand holding a cold cloth to my head, the other a little glass of water. My mother kneels on the other side and it is her voice I hear, insisting I am safe and will be well. She is not holding the baby and I get to my feet shouting ‘Evelyn!’ although I did not know I cared where she might be. My father stands at the far end of the room as though my fainting were a female concern and might, in addition, be contagious. Onions sits alone, bored by this new demonstration of my physiology. Aunt Elizabeth steps forward, holding her great niece with such awkwardness it makes me laugh. At least I have unlocked her arms. I’m dizzy again – I have stood up too fast.

  ‘Where is the vicar?’ I ask.

  ‘He has gone to the kitchen,’ says Grace. ‘Jane said she would take him for refreshments while you recovered.’ Then he has his daily cake. All is well for him, it seems. I am consumed with the suddenly remembered horror of Onions’ threat to me. My cage is closing – unless I am quick, the lock will turn. I must get to Margaret as I promised. I am weak as a kitten. I close my eyes, it is suddenly too wearying to look at the world.

  The vicar, summoned to return, comes in wiping his mouth and brushing his hands as he always does. His little acolyte follows suit, adding gazing wistfully at Grace to his repertoire. Even if he were miraculously cured of his pustules in an instant, I doubt she would pay him heed. He is too frail and too nervous, and he quivers where he stands: she would bend him in half like a reed in a gale.

  ‘So,’ the vicar begins. My father has not met my eyes once since his speech. Onions likewise has not glanced my way. But now, as if on cue, they both turn in my direction. I think of the helpless bear, held fast by its chains to be bitten and torn. But I am not tied up. I flex my feet in their shoes and feel them move when I wish. I curl my fingers in to a fist and dig my nails in to my palms. I smile winsomely at them both and in an instant they are disarmed, grinning at each other. They think I am so easily won! The tables are turned. I am no captive beast but instead I am the serpent hypnotising its prey. Do not think, I hiss to myself, that I will waste my venom on either of you.

  ‘We name this child Evelyn Anne,’ the vicar says, startling me as effectively as sal volatile held under my nose. I choke on my own spit, but disguise it as a cough.

  ‘For you,’ my mother says to me. ‘For my treasured daughters, that they will always share a name.’

  When my brother died, Jane told me that all my mother’s lost children would wait for her in heaven. As they were quite large in number, I imagined my mother burdened for eternity with their care. If anyone thinks that, because I am now mentioned on some godly roster, I will be a heavenly nursemaid too, then they had better have another thought coming.

  I nod my head, hoping that this passes for happy acquiescence. Behind the vicar a small spider winches itself slowly down on its strong thread. I watch it intently while the vicar banishes the Devil. He sprinkles water on the baby’s head and she mewls in protest. The assembled company are so focussed on these events that no one sees me sidle towards the door. I have no need to explain my leaving; after all I fell to the ground insensible not long ago, didn’t I? I am permitted fragility and a desire for air. The hallway seems so delightfully empty that I luxuriate in it for a moment. Then I fetch what I need and leave it where I can easily find it.

  As I am sliding back to my place in the gathering, Onions appears beside me like a summoned shade. ‘Anne,’ he whispers, his wet mouth at my ear, ‘we must resume where we left off, must we not?’ I try and move but he takes my elbow and holds it too firmly. His fingers are stiff and the long nails prick. ‘I will arrange a further outing for us.’ He tightens his grip and I bite my lip to avoid crying out. ‘She is recovered,’ he announces to the assembly, as though we had been discussing my health. ‘Such very, very good news. Now we can all turn our full attention to Evelyn, as
befits the day. It is hard to turn from one beauty to another, but we must!’

  ‘I have prepared sweetmeats,’ Jane rushes to the door and stands like a plump sentry beside it.

  ‘I fear I cannot consume them,’ Onions pats the velvet fabric over his stomach, staying his hand to caress himself while he speaks. ‘I do not tolerate baked goods. Although I am positive that you will produce the most delicious of all.’ Where once she might have reddened with pleasure, Jane now stays immobile. He is the invading army of her fortified domestic terrain. Grace glowers at him too, sergeant to Jane’s general. Onions ignores their hostility. ‘Madam’, he bows to my mother, ‘since I shall not join you in happy consumption, I will take my leave to meditate on my rewarding and spiritual role. I shall call soon.’

  There is an air of embarrassment when he has gone, as if he left behind a noxious smell. My mother wraps the baby’s shawl more tightly about its little form. ‘I will take some food,’ she says, ‘I have eaten very little today.’ Jane takes the bundle from her.

  ‘Come, Madam,’ Grace says, all three visibly relieved to have their duties and place restored.

  ‘Will you stay, Sir?’ my father asks the priest. To my surprise, he refuses.

  As he draws level with me, he says: ‘We buried the child yesterday evening. The poor boy who fell from the bell tower,’ he adds, mistaking my silence for forgetting. ‘There was sparse attendance, of course. He sometimes lived in a shared house, with a transient population. Only a few of them attended. And I learned that one of their number was . . .’ he leans in, thinking his voice is hushed, but he whispers with great force, ‘recently murdered!’

  This is a word everyone hears. It rises above any hubbub. It has no difficulty reaching the ears of each person in the room, stopping them in their tracks.