by Liz Jensen
‘So I left you in a little church, in a village near Judlow. Thunder Spit, it was called. I kept your little tail as a sort of memento,’ she said softly. ‘To remind me of you, and of my gentleman friend, and what happened between us.’
‘How did you know about Parson Phelps?’
‘I didn’t, when I left you. I had no idea. I just reckoned a church was as likely a place as – well, you know. Charity, and all that. And I wasn’t wrong, was I?’
‘No, I said, remembering Parson Phelps’ story of finding me beneath the altar of St Nicholas’s Church the day after the Fair left Judlow, and his piglet story.
Wrong animal, I thought.
‘Parson Phelps saved my life, then,’ I murmured.
‘Yes. Parson Phelps,’ she said. ‘Though I doesn’t find out his name till later. I asked about you every time the Fair came to Judlow. Asked a few questions, you know. Looked out for you. Didn’t even know if you’d survived or not, but thought you would have. You were a tough little bugger. Then I meet a man who I service once a year at the Fair, a bit of money on the side, turns out he’s a cobbler from Thunder Spit.’
‘Mr Hewitt?’
‘Dunno. I don’t do names. Names is extra. They want me to use a name, they pay. Your Grace costs more. Any kids there with funny-shaped feet, I asked him. Great big fat man, smelt of leather. Just the Phelps boy, he says. The Parson’s son. Tobias. I don’t do names, but I remembered those two, Parson Phelps. And Tobias. Wrote them down, after. The cobbler docks me sixpence for jabbering while he was at it, and spoiling his peace and quiet, but after that I knew you were alive.’
She turned to look at me, and I saw that the tears were once more trickling down her face, leaving little painted rivulets on her cheeks. She looked suddenly old.
‘I saw you,’ I stammered. ‘At the Travelling Fair of Danger and Delight. I saw you doing your act.’
‘And I saw you, too,’ she said slowly. She held out her arms to me, and we clasped each other tight. She was sobbing into my shoulder now. ‘And I saw the fear on your face. It nearly killed me, that.’ I fought back my own tears now.
‘But then, the next year,’ she’s sobbing, ‘some bloke in Hunchburgh attacks me when I’m doing my sherry-glass act, and I need some money bad. I tied myself in a knot, got all twisted up, couldn’t work. Hillber refused to pay me. So when we goes on to Judlow, I goes to the Parson with the jar. And a letter, telling him the story.’ She looked up at me then, and I saw that there was a small glimmer of pride on her face. ‘I wrote it myself,’ she said. ‘I learned writing when I was a girl.’
But I pulled back from her. ‘You blackmailed him with this jar, and your letter?’ I asked, looking into her tear-stained face. Her eyes dropped, and would no longer meet mine.
‘Call it what you like. He paid me all he had to get rid of me. He made me promise I’d never approach you, or tell you about the tail.’
‘So he knew all along that my father was a –’ I couldn’t quite say it. ‘Gentleman?’ That sounded much better.
‘From that day, yes. I told him. He wouldn’t have believed me, he said, if it hadn’t been for some book by a man called –’
‘Darwin? Origin of Species?’
‘Some such. He kept talking about it, said it was beginning to make sense. Anyway, after a while I think he sees I might be telling the truth. Either way, he curses me, and wants me gone for ever.’
No wonder her visit had put the seal on my poor father’s madness: shortly after the Origin of Species had rocked the Christian world, Parson Phelps had had his own, personal version of the crisis. I could imagine his distress on discovering that he had taken a half-monkey to his bosom all these years. He, who had so railed against the very idea of our origins being anything other than stated in the Bible! If you know of anything crueller than that, gentle reader, I would like to hear about it.
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘I went to see a quack, and he fixed me up, so I could do my contortions again. Forgot you existed,’ she said. She was still looking at the floor. ‘Or tried to.’
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ I asked her, weakly, in a sudden, last-minute attempt to make myself believe the whole thing was falsehood. I was suddenly aware of a terrible commotion outside in the ballroom.
‘You don’t,’ she was saying. ‘I might be lying. Perhaps I wishes I was. But I bet you’ve got a scar at the base of your spine. And a couple of strangely shaped feet stuffed into those fancy shoes of yours.’
I could not deny it.
So here I was, at last, in the company of my two long-lost natural parents. Was that not something? I looked at my father. Despite being a towel-holder, he looked smart, I thought, in his ruffed shirt and his red pantaloons. There was nobility in the way he stood. And why not? He had after all died in an act of bravery, attempting to save the lives of a woman and her unborn child. His wife. That’s what she was, though no priest had married them. Suddenly I was caught unawares by a great shudder of pride. It gave me a fierce urge to take the towel away from my father; it demeaned him, to stand there before us like a servant. Or a slave, I thought with a sudden chill, thinking of the fate Trapp had planned for me and my eventual siblings.
Then the Contortionist did a strange thing, which touched me deeply. She leaned forward, put her arms around him, and kissed the Gentleman Monkey on the lips.
‘It was love,’ she said, slowly. ‘True love. Between me and him.’ She kissed him again. ‘Can you understand that? Can you forgive me?’
At this, an extraordinary feeling of calm and of well-being and of Godliness swept over me. It came from nowhere, and filled my heart to bursting.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ I said.
Just then a meringue-clad figure shot in from nowhere and grabbed me. She squashed me against her marvellous pastry bosom and squeezed me until I could hardly breathe.
I was choking in the beery fug of the community centre. I had to get some air. The heat of the bonfire blasted me in the face as I stepped out of the double doors.
‘Welcome!’ yelled a voice at me. It was Gawvey, his arms loaded with logs. Sparks were flying all around us, and I caught the unmistakable smell of burnt hair.
‘Hey, that monkey you bought off the twins!’ I yelled. ‘I want to buy it back!’ And I reached in my pocket and thrust the hundred yo-yos at him.
Gawvey straightened himself up and laughed. ‘Tempting, mate,’ he said.
The Hokey Cokey ended and a stream of people began to emerge from the community centre, their faces flushed with alcohol and merriment.
‘Well?’
‘Sure,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the bonfire. ‘If you can get him down from there, me old cock.’
I looked up. Through the smoke and the swirling fragments of ash, I could see the Guy standing on the pinnacle of the bonfire, his tail curled behind him like a jaunty question mark. His whole head was lapped by a halo of blue flames, and the towel he was holding in his crooked arm had transformed into a sheet of fire. I groaned. Then yelled at him.
‘Christ! You can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’ asked Gawvey, laughing. ‘He’s only an old monkey, mate. Terrible old specimen, according to the Antiques Hotline. Hasn’t even got a dick.’
‘But you can’t burn him!’
‘Sure I can mate,’ he said. ‘Hey, who rattled your cage? Get yourself a beer and calm down, Bucko. Bloody original idea, if you ask me. Beats an old stuffed-clothes-and-a-mask job hands down.’
‘But he’s not a monkey,’ I wailed, watching the halo of fire curl around the creature’s head. I could feel water on my face. I brushed it with my hand, and realised I was crying. ‘He’s – he’s a – a sub-human! He’s almost a man!’
Gawvey laughed and laughed.
‘That’s why he’s called a Guy, mate,’ he said.
‘Come on,’ said Norman gently, taking my elbow and leading me away. ‘Big boys don’t cry.’
Violet and I kissed.
‘Bless you both,’ said the Contortionist, her arm around the Gentleman Monkey. ‘You must take love where you can find it, and enjoy it while you can. I did, and I’ve no regrets.’
‘May I present my mother?’ I said to Violet. ‘And’ – I hesitated to call her this, but she had no other name that I knew of – ‘Mother – Mother – this is Miss Scrapie.’
‘Pleased, I’m sure,’ said the Contortionist.
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam,’ said Violet, curtseying prettily.
‘I can see you’re a fine young woman,’ said my mother. ‘My son’s in good hands. You take good care of him, Miss Scrapie. I can see you love him, and that he loves you.’ Violet and I glanced surreptitiously at one another and blushed deeply. ‘But I must leave you now,’ she continued, hitching up her tutu and adjusting her little stockings. ‘I’ve got my scorpion act to do before they dance the polka.’ And she was gone.
After a short silence, during which neither of us knew where to look, Violet cleared her throat. ‘They’re searching for you,’ she whispered. ‘We don’t have much time. We must escape.’
I was puzzled. ‘Who is searching? Why?’
She did not answer my question immediately. Instead she looked me in the face and said slowly and delicately, ‘Mr Phelps, I am – aware – of your true origins.’
Oh God. My heart plummeted to the floor, and Mildred twisted within me.
‘And?’ I was quivering. ‘Do you –?’
‘Of course!’ She cried. ‘I love you all the more!’
I flung my arms about her marvellous bulk, and held her tight, and for a moment our two hearts seemed to beat as one. Then I noticed she was crying.
‘I, too, have a confession to make, Tobias,’ Violet sniffed. She looked into my face. ‘I – ate your father’s flesh.’
I felt myself going pale, and swallowed hard. Then I remembered. Something Scrapie had mentioned. ‘Was that – Cuisine Zoologique?’
‘Yes. I didn’t know, Tobias!’ she sobbed. ‘I had no idea who he was!’
‘Of course not,’ I soothed her.
‘It poisoned my mother,’ she was saying. ‘And Father and I were both nearly killed, too. His flesh contained –’
‘Praxin,’ I finished. ‘Yes, I know. Trapp injected him when he and my mother attempted to escape from the Ark.’
‘Can you forgive me?’ she begged, clutching at my hands.
‘Of course!’ I assured her, clasping her hands in mine. ‘You were an innocent!’
We kissed.
‘Whatever I have learned here in London, Violet, in my heart, I am a man,’ I whispered. ‘I was born a half-breed, and I do not deny it. In fact I can say now, after all that I have learned tonight, that I am proud of my uniqueness. But monkey though I am, I was raised to be a man, Violet, and above all else, I should like one day to prove it to you.’
Violet blushed, and whispered, ‘My monkey-man, Tobias! I love you no matter what!’
Outside, a single silver firework exploded.
A burst of music awakened us from the tender reverie that followed.
‘We must go,’ Violet said, glancing nervously about her.
‘Why?’
‘My father,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
She said bleakly, ‘He plans to stuff you.’
A cold wave of nausea rushed through me. I also felt instantly foolish for not suspecting. But proud, too; Parson Phelps had always told me to think the best of people. Those measurements – of course!
Only men have rights.
‘Quick!’ said Violet, blowing her nose and getting creakingly to her feet. ‘We must leave this place!’
Peering out from behind the door of the ladies’ powder room, we saw a curious procession of ladies and gentlemen gyrating around the ballroom, in the wake of Charles Darwin and Dr Ivanhoe Scrapie.
‘Find the Phelps creature!’ Scrapie was yelling. ‘Grab him, quick, and pin him to the floor!’
‘AAAGH!’ yell the twins in unison. The last bottle of Perrier slithers from Oscar Jack’s hand and smashes. Abbie screams. Rose and Blanche lie prone on the emperor-sized bed, their four legs aloft.
It’s real!
‘Push!’
‘I can see the crowns!’ yells Abbie. ‘Push again!’
‘AAGH!’ yells Rose.
‘OUCH!’ shrieks Blanche.
‘YEEEEH!’ they scream together. And one, two, out they come.
‘My God!’ breathes Oscar Jack. Although he has been moved to tears by the historic event he is witnessing – none other than the rebirth of Homo Britannicus – he has nevertheless maintained enough of his cool professionalism to check that the Camcorder is still running. For which footage he will surely clock up a Bafta nomination in days to come.
But what’s going on now? Why are Rose and Blanche still screaming?
‘AAAGH!’
Screams that are fierce enough to drown out the lusty cries of the two babies flailing about unheeded on the bed.
‘Push again!’ yells Abbie.
Three! No! My God! Four!
Two sets of twins!
‘Hey!’ murmurs a panting Rose, staring down at the writhing beasts. ‘A whole litter!’
‘We did it!’ groans Blanche, choking and laughing at the same time.
Together, the four adults peer at the four babies.
‘Look!’ gasps Abbie. ‘I can’t believe it!’
They look. There are the family feet – more like hands, really. The deep, close-set eyes. The copious down of red hair.
But – down there – my GOD!
‘Do you see what I see?’ falters Abbie. They stare. Exchange glances. And stare again. Yes. They do.
‘Throwbacks, surely,’ murmurs Oscar Jack.
Violet lunged behind a pillar, and dragged me with her in the direction of the Contortionist, who had emerged from the ladies’ powder room to resume her duties as artiste. As my mother scaled the carcass of the elephant and stood on its still-steaming skull juggling peaches, it was easy enough to gain a moment’s anonymity in which to return to the ladies’ powder room and steal the gentleman monkey. A ghostly petticoated figure who had materialised at Violet’s side (‘My late mother,’ she explained hurriedly) advised us to keep a cool head.
‘Just brazen it out,’ she advised, ‘and they’ll never notice. He just looks like a rather hirsute guest with bad dress sense who is a bit the worse for wear.’ She had a point. ‘Come on, Fatty,’ commanded the phantom, giving Violet a shove. ‘Get a move on.’
So Violet and I took one hairy arm apiece, and hauled my father, still attached to his wooden plinth, out of the ladies’ powder room.
In the ballroom, the Contortionist was still giving the show her all. Letting out a high screech, she leaped around atop the head of the elephant, executed a sudden somersault in the air, and then proceeded to dance a wild and dangerous-looking jig in her little ballet shoes, pitter-patter, all the while maintaining her scream and hurling strawberries from a panier upon the heads of the throng below.
As far as distractions go, I had not seen better. With the room now raining strawberries, and the women beginning to scream as their ballgowns became increasingly spattered with red juice, as though a terrible bloodbath was occurring in their midst, we had enough cover to haul the Gentleman Monkey across the back of the crowd and through the door which Cabillaud held open for us, and to escape through the Palace kitchens.
‘Zis way!’ the chef yelled, indicating that we should follow him past the ranks of steaming pots and pans, and the flurries of chefs and the little clouds of icing sugar. Violet and I were both panting and dishevelled. I kept tripping on my over-long trousers, and Violet’s hair had become unpinned and had tumbled across her face. Her meringue dress was clearly not designed as a garment in which to race, but somehow we managed to stagger to
the back door of the kitchens, whence we escaped into the night.
‘I wish you all ze best!’ Cabillaud called after us, as we hailed a hansom cab and bundled the Gentleman Monkey inside with us. ‘Do not forget zat you av ze blessing of Jacques-Yves Cabillaud!’
As the cab jerked into motion, I took Violet’s hand in mine.
‘If I am Adam,’ I asked her, ‘will you be my Eve?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, my dearest Tobias! I will! I will! I will!’
Norman was still helping me blow my nose on the Mickey Mouse napkin when his mobile phone rang. He stuffed a finger in one ear and retreated to a corner.
‘WHAT?’ he shouted after listening for a minute. ‘No! Say it again, clearly … No. Abbie! You’re kidding me! Abbie! Tell me you’re bloody kidding me!’ He began to jump about. Then he looked up in my direction, grinning his head off and signalling at the phone with his free hand. Finally he said, ‘Right, I’m telling him now. Be over in a tick,’ snapped the phone shut, and shoved it in his pocket.
‘You’d better sit down a minute, mate,’ he called across. His voice was breathless with emotional exertion. ‘Cos you’re about to receive the shock of your life.’
‘I thought I just had,’ I muttered. I didn’t like the look of this. My priceless Gentleman Monkey had just gone up in smoke. Wasn’t that enough for one evening? For a whole lifetime?
‘What is it?’ I asked, approaching him warily.
‘Congratulations and celebrations!’ yelled Norman. Then his face crumpled and he burst into tears. I handed him the Mickey Mouse napkin. Too much beer, I thought, as he grabbed me in a big bear-hug. That’s his problem. ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’ he whispered, and squeezed me tighter.
‘Come on, Norman!’ I muttered, trying to shake him off. But he was attached to me like a heavy rucksack. ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
‘You’re a father of four, mate! And I’m a bloody grandad! I kid you not!’
And with that he fell away from me, reeling with it.
I don’t really know what I felt. Shock does the strangest things to a bloke. Look at me. I’m just standing there. Not moving. Covered in soot. My eyes are smarting. Must be from all the smoke. I’m rigid. Rooted to the spot, like I’ve been stuffed.