Doll said: we’ll meet up with the others, I daresay, and we’ll all come home together for supper.
The tow-haired boy squared his shoulders, straightened his skimpy jacket. He said: no need to worry about them, Mrs D., they’ve got me in charge. I’ll take care of them! I’ll see they don’t misbehave! Annie clouted him on the shoulder and they all banged out, scuffling and shoving.
Mrs Dulcimer put the blooms into water, in the ebony vase she brought downstairs from the sitting-room. She patted and pulled the stalks into place, as though flower-arranging were the only thing that mattered. Joseph fetched the remainder of the leeks from where someone had carelessly left them in a heap on the windowsill. He’d been with her when she bought them, hadn’t he? The leeks fell into neat ranks of slices under his knife. Leeks did not bleed when you cut them up. Just as well. Joseph didn’t want to eat meat today. No thanks. A suffocated baby might not bleed but he was still dead as dead. But here came Mrs Dulcimer briskly handing him the pot of beef broth left over from the day before: see what you can do with this.
Mrs Dulcimer gathered up the litter of stray leaves. He’s a smart boy, that one. He does an early shift in the market up at Covent Garden, and any damaged blooms he sees thrown down he brings back for Mrs Bonnet, and some of them she gives to me. You can hardly tell they’re bruised if you arrange them right. The flowers that people throw away, or won’t buy, you wouldn’t believe!
Betsy the scarlet poinsettia blossom, plucked for some chap’s flash buttonhole, ripped from her flowerbed, all right, Mrs Dulcimer, raped, he had her, he dropped her in the gutter.
He kept remembering Betsy’s small footprints. The baby’s squeals. He put the bacon into simmering water. It looked like a baby. A haunch of waif. For lunch, obediently he boiled up the broth. He disguised its meatiness, adding a minced onion, pinches of saffron and curry powder, a fistful of sultanas, a spoonful of chopped parsley. The tabletop was very clean. Somebody must scrub it every day. You could prepare vegetables on its smooth, whitened surface and feel sure no particle of dirt got into them.
The tabletop calmed him, as though it could talk. Easy, there. Easier to talk while cooking: he could put his back to Mrs Dulcimer when necessary, stop speaking while he stirred and scraped delicately with his wooden spoon, resume his flow as the broth began to reduce just as it ought. He tipped in the chopped leeks, two handfuls of rice.
Mrs Dulcimer took up a flat-edged knife, smoothed butter into neatness on its glass dish. She said: you were working for Mr Mayhew before, weren’t you? That must have been interesting. Perhaps working for me here will feel like a comedown.
Joseph looked round. You’ve heard of him? I didn’t tell you he was my employer. My former employer, I should say. I’m sure I didn’t mention his name.
Mrs Dulcimer began putting the pottery jars of dry goods back onto their shelf. Lining them up exactly, patting them into place. Just so did the mistresses of households try to organise their servants. Stay still! Behave! But the servants didn’t always obey. Minds of their own. They tied on their Sunday bonnets and ran out to play, barged into boys, took a twirl with them, sat on their laps on the swings at the fair, swung higher and higher. And why not? They were young. They should enjoy themselves. He’d never taken Milly to the fair, but he should have. He’d kept her cooped up too long, so now she’d broken out, flown away. Come back, Milly, please come back. He’d have to go to Boulogne and find her. If necessary, escort her to Paris, see her safely to that hospital. Did those nuns sport starched white head-dresses, like the ones Nathalie had described worn by the sisters at her convent school? White wings flapping. Seagulls hovering above the Channel, searching for food. Seizing fish in their sharp beaks. He was hungry like them. He stirred the pan of rice.
Mrs Dulcimer said: of course I’ve heard of him. I do read the paper, you know.
So she did. That first morning when he’d visited her here: she’d cast down her paper in order to deliver a lecture on manners. He’d been too taken aback by her cold reception of him to bother wondering about her reading-matter. He’d eyed her breakfast. Her blue dressing-gown. Drunk in the scent of warm bread, her warm skin.
She indicated the scrunched-up ball of newsprint sitting next to the shoe-cleaning box on the floor by the range. Didn’t you notice that was the Morning Chronicle? When you told me, in the market while we were shopping, about your research, I felt sure it must be Mr Mayhew you were working for.
She spotted a stray sultana on the tabletop, picked it up, ate it. Then another. She looked musingly at her fingertips, licked them, glanced at Joseph. When I first met you, that evening you first came here, I got an idea about doing some research myself.
He poked the glistening rice. Shook the pan, to make sure it didn’t scorch underneath. Must be nearly ready.
Mrs Dulcimer continued. There are many predators who prowl about. Some of these gentlemen, as you may know, have precise and particular tastes. If they pay enough, they will be catered for. Talking to you, I wondered how far someone might go to buy himself a very young girl. A long way, as it turned out.
She took up a little, flat brush by its biscuit-coloured wooden top, began to sweep crumbs and green debris across the table. Careful, graceful movements, swooping in half-circles.
Joseph protested. Not under-age, at least. It was obvious to me that Doll was more than twelve years old. Fourteen if she was a day! And you seem to forget that I was only asking to talk to her!
Mrs Dulcimer continued brushing. I didn’t know that then, did I? I thought you were disgusting.
She pushed her heap of mess into her cupped palm. So I decided on the spot, that evening, to experiment. String you along, if I could, then write an article about your seeking to procure a virgin of tender years. I thought I’d send it to Mr Mayhew, see if he’d publish it.
Joseph banged his wooden spoon on the side of the pot. She’d assumed he was a monster. A criminal gobbler of young girls. The white plates on the dresser stared back at him like accusing faces. The black-haired girl the Italian girl the country girl the lace-maker girl. Doll, Annie, Betsy. The tenants. Milly. Dear Lord, Milly.
Joseph blew out his breath. Concentrated on his cookery, lifting and nudging, very gently, so as not to break up the grains of rice. Rather than a spoon you needed a wooden fork for this, but he hadn’t found one. He tried to sound calm. But then you changed your mind?
She bent her head, concurring. Yes. Doll intervened. That was that. Later on I realised that you and I had misunderstood each other.
She ferreted at the back of a shelf, drew out a small decanter of red wine, removed the stopper, sniffed it. She said: if we were in France eating Sunday lunch, we’d have a glass of wine with it. So I don’t see why we shouldn’t do the same thing in Walworth.
She’d completely misread him. A hand clutched his heart, squeezed it. Irregular beat that he could somehow taste in his throat. His blood thumped and thundered in his ears. He tipped out his rice dish onto the oval platter he had set to warm. Mrs Dulcimer arranged plates and cutlery, cut bread. She reached to the dresser, surveyed the little heap of linen squares twisted through looped raffia, tossed him the napkin he’d used the night before.
Joseph rested his fists on the tabletop. Tried to breathe deeply. Nathalie’s voice whispered: calme-toi, calme-toi. Tears wetted his eyes. So she hadn’t quite gone. He sipped his wine. Earthy and dry at the same time. He drank more. Warm redness spread through him. Nathalie murmured: ne t’agace pas. He sighed. His anger dried, broke loose, fell off him like a dried crust of mud.
He said: I’m still not sure what you are up to.
Mrs Dulcimer tried a mouthful of rice. You’re not?
Joseph bit into a grain. It resisted, softened. Perfect. He waited for her to comment on his cookery. She said nothing, but tasted another forkful. He said: you were going to write an article?
She nodded. Certainly. Let me pour you another glass of wine. This won’t keep. Let’s finish it.
> What did a black woman write about? A missionary had come to the church once, when he was a child, had read out a story composed by a black female, a former slave in the West Indies. So full of cruelty that Joseph had closed his ears. Could not remember. It ended in the arms of Jesus. Then they stood up and sang a hymn.
He said: you write for the newspapers?
She swirled the wine in her glass, tipped it back. She said: stories for magazines, mainly. Adventure stories, ghost stories. It’s a good way to increase my income. I don’t make enough from letting rooms.
Did she believe in ghosts? Or just invent stories about them? Had she ever heard the voice of a dead person, as he’d just heard Nathalie? His lost loved one had eventually found her way back to him, knocked at his soul, come to live inside him. Hardly a ghost story; interesting to him alone. What kind of adventures did Mrs Dulcimer write about? Did she compose tales of derring-do? Melodramas? Girls in peril rescued at the last minute by stern-jawed heroes, by faithful dogs, by kindly clergymen? Nathalie had enjoyed such absurdities, reading them out to Cara, laughing.
He said: perhaps you don’t charge adequate rates.
Mrs Dulcimer said: but I like writing. I enjoy it. All sorts. As I told you before, some of the tenants, those who can’t write, dictate their letters to me. Love letters, very often. Sometimes they ask me to spice them up a bit. Sometimes I have to tone them down!
He could feel his lip curl. Nathalie pinched his earlobe and he jumped. She whispered: you don’t like her thinking about her girls, do you? You want her to think about you, only about you!
On her afternoons off, Cara would visit Nathalie, stay as late as she dared. He would come in from work, speechless with tiredness, in need of supper, find the two sisters seated beside the unlit fire, heads bent towards each other. The tinkling flow of French. Women’s talk in women’s time. Nathalie would jump to her feet, lift her face for his kiss, Cara pushed aside like a piece of mending you rolled up, thrust into the workbasket. Husbands came first. He’d taken that for granted, hadn’t he? Now he knew Nathalie and Cara had loved each other far more than they’d loved him. Theirs was the true romance, yes. No point being bitter about that.
After lunch, he washed up. Doll’s job, or Annie’s, but they were out, weren’t they, disporting themselves. Yet again he cleaned plates and pans. He scraped away the black grease layering the pots underneath, scoured the knife blades to make them shine. If you’re going to do a job then do it properly. That was his mother talking, wasn’t it?
Mrs Dulcimer reappeared in the kitchen, wearing her red walking dress, her bonnet with its curling red feather, carrying her cloak over one arm. I’m going out for an airing. I’ll go as far as Mrs Bonnet’s, maybe. I’ll come back by the common, take a look at the fair, hope to fall in with those young ones.
He went up to her sitting-room, carrying a bucket of coal and wood, replenished the fire. The flames leaped at him, warmed him, tempted him to sit down. Finish reading that novel he’d begun last night. Or don her black eye-shade, take a doze. Wearing her velvety mask, would he dream as she did? What was it like to be Mrs Dulcimer? Just forty winks, and he’d get going again.
He stood eye to eye with the turquoise pot on the mantelpiece. He lifted its lid. Inside lay Mrs Dulcimer’s gold hoop earring with its cluster of blue beads, and a small curl of black hair tied with a scrap of red thread.
His own little ring, plaited from Nathalie’s hair: presumably Cara had taken it to Boulogne. He’d not considered it hers. Now, perhaps, she would wear it all the time.
Mrs Dulcimer’s stack of papers perched on the side table. Foolish to leave them there, where anybody could spot them, take an idle glance. She was almost inviting someone to pick them up, riffle through them. If you didn’t like what you read, her tone of voice, her turn of phrase, if you disapproved of her opinions or her plots, you could just feed the manuscript to the fire, leaf by leaf. Let the fire have it. Let the fire consume it.
The manuscript bore a title. The Story of My Life. Did she plan to send it to the Morning Chronicle? A nice serial that would make, Deptford to Walworth via Paris, rags to comparative riches. Bring her in a tidy sum too. Mayhew would seize her hand, pump it, compliment her. Bile scorched the back of Joseph’s throat. Unfair, unfair.
Forefinger poised to scoop up and turn the page, he stopped. The sour taste receded as he swallowed. Her private papers. Leave them alone. Don’t pry. If she wants you to read them she’ll tell you.
He settled himself in front of the heaped wood and coals, which crackled and tinkled as the re-nourished flames steadied themselves. He tied on the black velvet mask, leaned back in the chair. The mask pressed his eyelids gently. Like a hand stroking him. If you couldn’t open your eyes and see then you turned your gaze round and saw inside. Dreamy blackness pierced by golden stars. In just a moment he’d get up, stretch, move. He should go out, walk towards the common. See if he could spot the young ones and Mrs Dulcimer. Fall in with them, accompany them home. Protect them if need be. The police might yet turn up. Insist on searching the house, ask tricky questions. First of all, open the front door. Heavy, for some reason. Heavy as his eyelids. Out into the dark street, the dark clouds scudding overhead in the dark sky.
EIGHTEEN
Madeleine
By night, Borough becomes an urban landscape built from darkness: no lit shops, few passers-by. The railway viaduct cuts across it, carrying the trains above short rows of early Victorian houses jammed up against weed-rimmed parking lots, derelict warehouses, lock-up garages. One soot-blackened arch frames the entrance to Redcross Way, a dim tunnel running between mansion blocks. Traffic rumbles in the distance. Madeleine’s footsteps tap out a percussion. Her long silk skirt flurries around her ankles as she strides along. Her shadow slinks ahead of her.
Other shadows collect, stretch out. Opposite the Boot and Flogger, on the far side of the narrow street, a small crowd, forty or so strong, has gathered, spread along the strip of pavement in front of the fence sealing off the ancient burial ground. The wind rustles the ribbons and strings of beads laced to the wire barrier, the bunches of dried flowers, the gilt streamers. People cup lit candles in their gloved hands. A few children jig from foot to foot. A musician in a striped woollen cap strums a guitar. Bells chime from an invisible church: St George the Martyr, presumably; near Borough tube.
Madeleine takes up a position to the side of the crowd, close to the kerb, with a good view of the street, the pub, the railway arch. A young man and woman nearby, muffled in coats and scarves, push up to make room for her. Thanks, Madeleine says: I may need to make a quick getaway. I don’t know what this will be like. The young man says: perhaps we’ll raise a couple of ghosts. There ought to be a few about on Hallowe’en.
A woman nearby shakes her head. Fur hat, a quilted brown coat with brass fastenings. Almond-shaped brown eyes in a thin face. She addresses them in a contralto Italian accent. Don’t mock! This is a sacred place. Why come here if you’re going to make jokes? The young man replies: but I am serious. The Italian woman frowns: I don’t think so. You should respect the spirits of this place.
Marcia the estate agent. Marcia who acknowledges household gods, who salutes them as she steps over the threshold. Madeleine greets her. How’s the job?
Marcia shrugs. I got the sack. I was too friendly with the clients, they said. I annoyed them. And if a place felt wrong to me, I used to say so. But I’m OK. I’m working as a teaching assistant, I like it better. See you later, maybe? Now I want to take a candle, before the ceremony begins.
Marcia wheels away, makes towards the stone Madonna on her plinth at the far end of the fence. A group of women clusters there. Bright coats and scarves, lace shawls. Friendly faces beam out smiles. One woman holds an armful of flowers, one proffers a cardboard box of candles. Tapering white sticks lifted out by their wicks. Struck matches spurt fire.
Marcia clasps her wax wand in one hand, shields its flickering flame with the other, bends her head o
ver it. Lit from underneath, her face turns to sockets and hollows. As in that game Madeleine and her friends played in childhood, dressing up as ghouls. A sheet flung over the head, a torch gripped under the chin, its light distorting your features. Acted out in dark bedrooms, along dark corridors. You waylaid each other, sprang from cupboards, screeched. You could play ghouls all year round, not only on Hallowe’en.
The Eve of All Hallows: the day before All Saints. Sitting in the Adam and Eve with Toby and Anthony two nights ago, comparing childhood rituals and games, Madeleine recounted the rites of All Souls night, as practised by her family. Evening Confession in the chilly, incense-scented, darkened church. Latin Mass. Litanies of prayers, pleading for the release of the Holy Souls suffering in Purgatory. Invocations to the happy souls who’d made it to Heaven, performed miracles by God’s grace, therefore could be hailed as saints.
Toby said: no one nowadays knows or cares what Hallowe’en originally meant. Everything’s been Disneyfied. No loss for an atheist like me.
He went to the bar for another round. Madeleine said to Anthony: you’re a Christian. Do you believe in life after death? He said: I’m not sure. Sometimes. What about you?
He listened while she struggled to define what she had concluded about the dead. The lost ones. Yet somehow still present, still alive in some way. In that invisible layer of the world called imagination. An army of dead people, centuries of them, marching, marching through the night. You live on earth with a host of invisible people at your back. The dead lean in on you. Some of them leave traces. The writers, for example. Mayhew, Brontë, Gaskell, Dickens, Eliot. You read the books they wrote. Relish their words. Their fought-for language brings dead authors shiningly alive. Readers make that happen; not God. All Saints: all writers, flying up out of their graves. Language is the Resurrection: holy body of imagination created by reading, nourishing reading and being nourished by it.
The Walworth Beauty Page 31