Mayhew shed his swaddling towels, studied his reflection in the mirror. Call into my office and my clerk will pay you the wages you’re owed. At the same time you can deliver your account of your expenses. After that, I must beg you to bother me no more.
Curled, oiled, scented, they stood up side by side. Donning hat and coat, Mayhew nodded. I wish you a very good day.
He strode away. At the mouth of the alley, he turned off towards Fleet Street. Joseph leaned against the barber’s shop doorframe. His skin seemed to have loosened, his muscles to have turned to strings of melted cheese. He was shaking. As though he had a fever. His legs would not stop trembling. This was like getting sacked from Bow Street, all over again.
His boots forced him along. He stumbled to the food-stall on the next corner, bought himself a well-sugared cup of coffee, a jam sandwich. Sweetness revived him. Even rancid butter consoled him, calmed him. The thickly sliced bread stopped his insides churning. What should he do now?
Go home? Tell Cara what had happened? His stomach twisted afresh. Jesus, all those bills she didn’t know about. She’d start talking about selling her jewellery. And Milly. She’d never respect him again. They’d have to turn off the new maid, and the slavey. Milly would want to help. She’d insist on going out to work.
People surged past him, bumped into him, cursed him. Move, damn you! Get out of the way! He put his head down, shoved himself along. He hurt, as though he had a bloodied nose. Mayhew had smashed his face to pulp. So find somewhere quiet to sit, recover. Write out his invoice for the wages Mayhew owed him. The money might tide them over, just, while he looked for a new job. A dray jolted past, piled with milk churns. The acrid air of the street assailed his face, settled around his shoulders like ash. He continued walking in the direction the crowd was going. Hard to see. Soot got under his eyelids. His eyes streamed. He felt in his frock-coat pocket for his handkerchief.
Keys. Purse. Nothing else. A shape of absence. He’d left his notebook at home. The new notebook, too. Where? On the hall table, where anyone could find them, read them? Coming in so late last night, drunk, had he just cast them down and forgotten them? He must have been even drunker than he thought.
Surely he’d have noticed them this morning, though, even as he left in such a hurry. What had the hall table looked like when he went out? Covered with a pile of unironed laundry, that was it. Last night, swaying on the doorstep, he’d emptied his pockets to find his keys, hadn’t he, come in clutching all his bits and pieces. Perhaps he’d dropped the notebooks onto the hall table. Perhaps someone had thrown down that mass of linen on top of them. In that case he’d better get a move on.
The hall smelled of onions frying. Voices sounded downstairs in the kitchen. Cara’s. Doll’s, answering. Chiming against each other predictably as church bells.
He hung up his coat on the hallstand, bowled his hat onto the rack above the row of brass hooks. The hall table had been dusted, polished. The scent of beeswax sprang at his nostrils, made him sneeze.
Milly’s voice said: hello, Pa.
He wheeled. Her boots at eye level. Her ankles in grey wool stockings. Skirts pulled well down over knees. She was sitting halfway up the stairs. She’d barred the top of the space behind her with a broom and a mop, presumably to keep the children from coming any closer, falling down and hurting themselves. To keep them off her. Tiny lions rampaging and his daughter bored with lion-taming. The cross cubs stamped and howled invisibly behind her, safe in their attic enclosure. Later he would go up and play with them, but not now.
Milly posed like some goody-goody schoolgirl, one hand propping up her chin, the other displaying her textbooks spread across her lap. See, teacher. See me read. See me study. See me peep at Pa’s secrets. His notebooks. The dark blue cover of one, the sprigged cotton cover of the other. Ties of black ribbon dangling. Knots undone. The black strings hanging loose. Uncorseted books, revealing the body-thoughts inside. The drawing of the apricot. His musings during the halts on his journeys from one orchard, one fruit tree, to another. The orchards of Waterloo, Holborn, the Strand.
Milly picked up the new notebook and brandished it. That fake, sweet voice she put on when she wanted to annoy him. Funny lot of writing, Pa. Didn’t know you were a poet!
He clenched his fists. Stay calm, stay calm. He found some dull words. Did he believe them? They’d do to hold back the boil of blood. He said: those are my private papers! How dare you rummage in what’s private!
He had liked having a secret, the secret life he’d begun to live inside the new notebook. A safe house. Milly had wrenched open the door. Blown his house down.
Milly dropped her bravado. Now she looked puzzled, uncertain. What’s all this writing about? Why are you writing about that Mrs Dulcimer?
Cara, clad in a pale linen apron, blundered up from the kitchen. Mopping her streaming face. She must have been peeling onions. Her weak eyes always reacted extravagantly, her eyelids staying red and swollen for hours. She was blowing her nose, pushing her limp hair back under her cap. Joseph, what are you doing back home so soon? We’re all at sixes and sevens this morning. Dorothy’s got everything to learn about her work, and Milly’s all behind with the ironing, and the children have been quarrelling so you wouldn’t believe. If you want lunch, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Milly’s very upset about something but she won’t tell me what. I can’t get a word out of her. And I’m in the middle of showing Dorothy how to make onion sauce, and I mustn’t leave her too long or she’s bound to let it catch and then it’ll burn.
He cried: be quiet! She turned pink, compressed her lips. Milly sat immobile on her step, looking down her nose at him. Fire rose inside him. He shouted: give me those notebooks and go to your room.
Fierce joy in losing his temper. A red tempest scorched through him and he just let go into it. Freedom and release: saying exactly what he thought and not caring. All his life he’d longed to and now finally he could let rip properly. Power flowing through him. Nobody could push him around. Lord in his own home. Current of life rushing through him, hot and pure.
Cara looked ready to burst into tears. The first time he’d ever shouted at her. But he couldn’t apologise. Not yet.
Milly glared. It’s not fair! I didn’t know they were private! You left them lying around, it’s your fault!
Her very ringlets bristled with outraged virtue. She spoke through tears. What Ma hasn’t told you yet is that the landlord’s been round looking for you. A whole quarter’s rent owing, he said. He’s coming back later for the money and if he doesn’t get it, he’ll have us put out on the street.
Cara said: I told him that couldn’t be right. We always pay our rent on time!
Done for. Nothing for it but to keep blustering. Hold on to rage as to a mast in a storm, deck leaping up and down beneath his feet. Joseph addressed Milly. You stupid, interfering little girl!
Cara started to blub. Gulping into her handkerchief. He turned on her. While as for you! What have you got to cry about, may I ask?
She hiccupped, shoulders heaving. She stepped towards him, timidly touched his arm. Oh, Joseph, don’t take on so. The landlord must have made a mistake, that’s all. I’m sure Milly didn’t mean to misbehave, reading your notes. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I’ll find out. Let her go upstairs now, while you calm down, and I’ll have a word with her later on.
He flung off her hand. Don’t tell me to calm down! I know how to discipline my own child! Be quiet and let me deal with this!
Cara shuddered, turned rigid. She gazed at him as though she hated him. He’d gone too far. He knew it. He wanted to say sorry but couldn’t.
She threw back her head and let out a wail. She’s not your child. Why else do you think my sister married you? The only reason was so that her child would have a father.
The words flew up, hovered in the air above his head. Like vultures circling. Razor beaks. She wanted to peck out his eyes. Aim, fire. The words thudded down, spattered him with bl
ood.
Cara screeched on. She and I planned it between us. I said to her, go on, he’ll be up for it, you’ll see. What else could she have done? She was desperate.
From her judge’s seat high on the stairs Milly hurled the notebooks into the hall. They bounced on the bottom step, skidded over the floor, bumped at his feet. He bent over and picked them up, smoothed their splayed pages. Very careful movements or something might break. The dead birds, wings spread, bled red ink. He stowed the corpses in his trouser pocket. Someone was making a horrible noise. That woman with the red eyes and greyish apron and the open black pit of mouth. She smelled of onions and he needed to get away from her. She was gabbling out some tale or other. Explanations. Excuses. He wrung the tale’s neck. Another dead bird. Look at it some other time. Get back to your onion sauce, you harpy disguised as a wife.
He went into the sitting-room, put the notebooks into his little portable desk. He locked it, put it back under the piano, pocketed the key.
Later, he could not remember leaving the house. He knew he had walked about in the drizzle for several hours, slipping in the mud underfoot, banging into people, shouldering them out of his way. Mind where you’re going, chum. Mind your manners, you. Oh, look, Mama, that man’s crying. At one moment, when drizzle changed to rain, soaked his shoulders and arms, he began shivering, realised he’d left his hat and overcoat at home. No wonder passers-by, shooting up their umbrellas with a crack of taut fabric, darting at him with black spikes, regarded him as though he were a madman. One woman turned, tentatively put out a hand. Curly fair hair. Swirl of blue skirts. Intent grey eyes. Her again. He blinked, and she was gone.
Where could he shelter? The rain drove him into a church porch, somewhere deep in the City. Bells clanged, smartly dressed people under a fluster of umbrellas began processing through the churchyard, two by two, between the graves. They halted, spotting him, flinched away. Red, well-fed faces. White nosegays in two little girls’ mittened hands, white flowers in the men’s buttonholes. A wedding, was it? Let me warn you. Let me tell you. He tried to speak, but choked. Wild and desperate he must look: did these gentlefolks take him for a beggar, a thief, about to rob them? A black-frocked verger appeared, chased him away: you can’t stop here, my man, be off with you.
He leaned on a bollard, panting. He had hurt Milly so much. Why had he done that, lost control like that? Poor Milly.
Don’t think of Milly now. Think about her later. Work out what to do later.
His sodden jacket clung to him, his waistcoat and shirt were solid rain. Water poured down his collar, seeped up, thickened with mud, into his boots. He weaved down a side alley, over greasy cobbles clotted with filth. As long as he kept going he’d be all right but he didn’t know where to go, that was the problem. This journey had no beginning and no end. No map for it. No sketch. He was a bit of scrap paper the wind tossed to and fro he was waste paper sodden pulp. Keep walking. Just keep walking.
Somewhere near Waterloo he paused, gave up. Feet squelching coldly in his boots. Just find somewhere to sit, think things over. Not a pub. Too many bodies. Find somewhere else. The dark buildings pressed him between themselves. Meat in their sandwich. Black streams of people in the black rain. He couldn’t breathe here. He turned off the Strand, down a narrow side street, rounded a warehouse, ducked inside a brick archway.
Water dripped from the curved vault above him, pooled round his feet. He was under some kind of viaduct. Tarry, sour smell of the river, thick with sewage. Just go down to the river and fall into it. Open your mouth and swallow it. Your bitter medicine your sleeping draught.
He leaned against the wall, slid down it rather than sat. He slumped against the sooty stones, his feet in a puddle. His head lolled onto his chest. Wait here for a while. Sleep for a bit.
The two young women who spotted him were on their way to work, they told him, seizing his shoulders and shaking him. Giddy up, mister, you’ll make us late, stir a stump, wake up! Their concerned faces, bright with rouge, loomed close to his. Reddened lips exclaimed. He’s a goner. No, he ain’t. Feel in his pockets, quick! No, don’t. Ruched velvet cloaks, black lace mittens. Gently they slapped his cheeks, hoarsely they ticked him off. You’ll catch your death! One of them produced a flask and tipped brandy down him. He spluttered, shook his head, snorting. His throat burned. His stomach burned.
The women argued across him. He can’t stay here. Why bother? The others’ll be along soon. So? They’ll have him turned over in a trice, poor devil. So what? So we better take him along with us.
They hauled him to his feet, frogmarched him into the street. His arms around their necks. Breath smelling of peppermint cachous. Hair and skin smelling of oranges and flowers. His legs wilted: stems of grass. His boots trailed after him. Up a muddy slope they half-walked, half-dragged him, panting, swearing. Back into the Strand, choked with people and traffic, the din of iron wheels on rough paving-stones. Where’ve you got to get to, ducks? Where’s home?
Joseph shook his head. His escorts clicked their teeth. Come on, come on, spit it out. Joseph mumbled. Walworth. Right you are. That’s the ticket. Got some money to pay your fare? Show us your purse, dear. Off you go, then. They flagged down a passing omnibus, shouted to the driver, checking it was going south, pushed him on board. As the bus lurched forwards, one woman threw his purse after him and the other held up the shilling she’d filched from it. Both waved and shouted, their red lips glossed by raindrops. They ducked out of sight into the crowd of passers-by.
Joseph jostled through the group of men clinging to the platform rail, managed to get inside, forced himself onto the end of a seat. The woman next to him gathered her cape round her, ostentatiously shrank away from his damp body. Sorry, missis, Joseph said. She turned her head. He must look a mess, must reek of sweat. He dozed, words loosening themselves in his mind, dancing to patterns of nonsense.
Later, looking back, he thought perhaps he’d even slept, because suddenly he jerked as someone shouted, yanked him to his feet. Walworth! Chap here for Walworth! Eventually he had arrived in Apricot Place, banged on the yellow-painted door, been admitted by a thin, fair-haired girl clutching a dishcloth. She draped it over one arm and whispered: yes?
He held out his hands. Come on hands: talk for me. The girl gaped at his soaked sleeves, his mud-clotted boots. Why had he forgotten his outdoor clothes? He couldn’t think. It didn’t matter.
He hadn’t completely lost his memory, though. He said: you must be Annie. I’ve heard about you. The girl jumped. Took hold of her apron edge, began to pleat it. She said: so what if I am? Who are you, then? What d’you want?
Joseph said: I’ll go up. Don’t bother announcing me.
Annie tried to block his path. The mistress is busy. She can’t see you, whoever you are.
He pushed past Annie, her open mouth squeaking protest, went on up the stairs. His boots must be leaving wet, dirty marks on the treads. Nothing he could do about that. He didn’t knock. Just barged straight in.
She was wearing the green and grey striped sack dress. Shawl round her shoulders, a green scarf twisted around her hair. Sitting in her chair pulled close to the fire. Pen in her hand, a board in her lap. Drift of paper. Eyes cast down. Scritch-scritch of her nib.
As he banged the door she jerked. She frowned, gave a little shake of the head, sighed. As though he were waking her from a daydream.
He lurched forwards. Put out a hand, clutched the back of a chair. She rubbed her forehead. What do you want, Joseph? Annie shouldn’t have let you in. I am working.
The chair back propped him. Pull yourself together, Joseph. Breathe.
He said: working? What do you mean? What are you doing?
Mrs Dulcimer tapped her board with one brown hand. I am writing. Well, I was. Until you came in.
Writing her tenants’ letters home for them, presumably. She’d told him she did that sometimes, hadn’t she? Accounts of floors scrubbed, meals eaten, walks taken, sermons heard? So spice it up, lady. Add a
new anecdote. He said: I’ll tell you a funny story, shall I? Make you laugh all right, this one will.
He hurled it out. Falling in love. Betrayal. He was destroyed. Punchline: he’d lost his wife he’d lost his life.
Had he gone mad to speak so? Button your lip, shouted the Hoof: you little whinger. He was shaking. Yes, he must be mad.
She got up, put her writing materials on the side table. She said: you’re wet through. Come to the fire and get dry.
Someone began wailing. A little corkscrew of noise, piercing Joseph’s heart.
Mrs Dulcimer lifted her head. She said: Betsy had her baby last night. Luckily Mrs Bonnet got here in time. I must go upstairs in a minute and see how Betsy’s doing.
She turned to Joseph. You seem to have lost your handkerchief. Let me fetch you one.
She moved to the side door that he had guessed led to her bedroom. She opened it, disappeared into the interior. Her contralto voice called: just a moment.
Just a moment. Wait. Not now. Later. That’s what women so often said. Poor Cara. Not her fault! Only Nathalie hadn’t said wait she’d said yes yes yes. All through that honeymoon weekend. When two months later she began saying no it was because she’d fallen pregnant. Too early to tell yet, surely, he’d said. Nathalie said: I just know. He’d swallowed her lies. Knives pricked his belly. He wanted to howl.
He got up and followed Mrs Dulcimer in. The curtains, only half pulled back, the blind raised a little way, let in a dim light. Her coiled black hair. The curve of her spine under her loose green and grey dress. She bent over, pulling open a drawer.
She turned, a folded handkerchief in her hand. She contemplated him. He wanted to say something but could not speak. He swayed in the doorway. She said: you’d better lie down for a bit, Joseph. Rest.
He stumbled to the bed. His knees gave way. He fell against the soft tumble of quilts and pillows. Someone lifted his knees, pulled them up. He lay back. Hands pulled off his boots, drew the covers up over him. The curtain-rings rattled and clicked. The light narrowed, vanished. He slept.
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