Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  Sheremy shook his head, folded the newspaper and tucked it under his right arm. Time to move along.

  After a while he discovered a way of walking as if through water, whereby he moved his legs slowly and rhythmically, allowing the hair to move naturally, as if well conditioned. It was exhausting, but not so exhausting as his earlier, frenetic attempts at motion. Where he needed to – thick clumps of old white hair, tight curls not unlike those of Lord Blackanore – he used the machete to clear a way. Half an hour later he was forging his way through brunette thickets up Chancery Lane, with Bedwards House in sight. At last!

  Gentleman Smyth waved to him. “Sir! This way, sir!”

  Sheremy clambered out of the hairy street and struggled up the steps; at the top he sat down, fatigued beyond endurance. “My word,” he said between hoarse breaths, “I’m quite exhausted. It’s taken me well over an hour to walk here from Gough Square.”

  “I have heard similar tales, sir.”

  “Are there many at the club?”

  “Very few this morning, sir. Most of your associates have not been able to escape their homes.”

  “It’s the very devil of a pickle,” Sheremy said. “Fetch me a double brandy, then find out if Sir Hoseley is available.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sheremy regained his breath then, when Gentleman did not reappear, entered the marble hall, spotting the doorman high up on a balcony. “Gentleman! My query?”

  “Sir Hoseley is in the Chinese breakfast room, sir. My apologies for not returning sooner, I was detained by a phantasmagorical Mongol.”

  Sheremy ascended to the breakfast room, where he found Sir Hoseley and Lord Blackanore busy with plates of Saharan baboon. Lord Blackanore gestured him over. “Quite melts in the mouth! Tuck in.”

  Sheremy glanced at Sir Hoseley, then took a seat, allowing a servant to deliver a plate of steaming bushmeat. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Nobody knows,” Lord Blackanore replied. “I’ve been on the tele-combustion machine, but not even my man in Whitehall knows the score. I can’t understand it.”

  “Damn papers are saying the entire city is beneath hair. Can that be true?”

  “Until more reports come in, we can’t be certain. I fear insurrection if truth be told. The Cockneighs will be up in arms and tearing down the East End before you know it – you simply can’t trust them, you know.”

  “You just can’t trust them,” Sir Hoseley mournfully echoed.

  “What will the club do?” Sheremy asked Lord Blackanore.

  “For the moment, continue as if nothing has happened. I find that is usually the best way to proceed. Alas Pharaday has not yet appeared, and I fear he is entangled in this wretched wig somewhere.”

  “With luck,” Sheremy mumbled under his breath.

  “What was that?” Sir Hoseley asked.

  “He’s stuck,” Sheremy said. “Decent bit of baboon, this. Any stewed leeches for dessert?”

  Sir Hoseley frowned. “So, Pantomile, know any good barbers?”

  “I have my man see to that kind of thing,” Sheremy replied. “I find barbers to be vulgar more often than not. Don’t you agree?”

  “Quite,” Sir Hoseley replied, with an acid smile. “But Pantomile… the wager is unaffected by this hirsute development.”

  “I had realised that, dear fellow.” Sheremy stood up, dabbed a napkin to his lips, then said, “I’m too full for leeches. If I can, I’ll be here for supper. Farewell gentlemen.”

  Returning to the front of the building Sheremy stood for a moment on the top step, Gentleman Smyth at his side. The doorman said, “Are you planning to return home, sir?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Try to see if aught can be done about this cursed hair. There must be some explanation.”

  “No doubt the illusionists at the Institute will be dreaming up scientific experiments right now. That Rutherford chap seems sound.”

  Sheremy nodded. “Why yes… the Institute! Good notion, that. Those chemical-stained boffins will have some answers. I believe I may go there at once.”

  “But how, sir?”

  “Aboard an Archimedean floater, if I can locate one.”

  With that Sheremy jumped down the steps and entered the hairy thoroughfare, heading south for Fleet Street, but before he reached it he heard a scream and saw a white parasolette waving above Chancery Lane’s brunette locks. At once he forced his way across the street, to grab the parasolette and pull it free. Nothing. What on Earth was going on? But then he heard a muffled cry, and without thought for his own safety he reached down, to encounter a hand. The hand grasped his. He pulled until the rest of the person appeared.

  It was a lady. Or at least, a woman. She appeared to be wearing trousers.

  ~

  Velvene Orchardtide departed Bedwards House and hurried to the nearest empty Handsome Cab. Climbing aboard he said, “To Ebury Mews Belgravia as quick as you can. And don’t spare the whip.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the cabbie.

  Velvene sat back. He had taken something of a risk accepting Pantomile’s ludicrous wager, but, with nothing better to do, and little by way of funds…

  “Hurry up, man!” he called out.

  “A lot of traffic tonight, sir,” the cabbie replied. “The Strand is packed with horseless carriages doing the Chinatown To Whitechapel Race. I think they should ban it, sir.”

  “Well, just go as fast as you can, eh?”

  “Or, they could hold it on a Sunday when everybody’s at church.”

  Velvene chuckled. “Good idea! You a religious man, are you?”

  “No, sir. I like what that Mr Marx has to say. Religion–”

  “Well that’s quite enough of that. Shut up and drive on, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before disembarking, Velvene checked his appearance in the glass window before him: of middle age, thinning hair, clean shaven, with watery blue eyes and a hook nose. Black jackette and pantaloons. He glanced down to see shiny black shoes and white socks.

  Out on the street he glanced up at his parents’ apartment, which sprawled over a number of floors and house-numbers. Luckily for him the Orchardtide family were exceedingly wealthy.

  “Funds, Velvene,” he muttered to himself. “It is all about funds.”

  He unlocked the front door and entered, but at once sensed an atmosphere in the house. Normally there would be a rivulet of chatter falling down the stairs, the sound of music from a string orchestra, or perhaps the latest 78 record playing on the monogram. But tonight, nothing.

  He decided to creep up to his own rooms, which lay at the top of the building, below the flat roof. But he did not get so far.

  “Velvene!”

  That was his mother, the dragon. “Yes?” he replied.

  “Come to the evening parlour at once.”

  Velvene swore under his breath. Surely they had not discovered his rearrangement of the Lyon candlesticks?

  His mother awaited him, standing by the fireplace, tapping her fingers against the mantelpiece; his father sitting in a bath chair, a tartan rug over his legs, half asleep in the glow of the coal.

  “Have you moved my candlesticks?” she asked.

  “No, mother.”

  “You know how valuable they are. Two are missing. Have you sold them?”

  “Sold them?” Velvene said. She had discovered his rearrangement.

  “Yes, sold them Velvene, something you’ve done before. But you know how precious those candlesticks are to me.”

  “Well, I did not touch–”

  “You did! And, God help me, I have proof.” From the mantelpiece she took a twist of paper, which she opened to reveal a small amount of cigarist ash. And he had been smoking when he rearranged the candlesticks…

  “Mother,” he said, wondering how to explain the indefensible.

  She raised her right hand, her face white with fury, lips compressed, eyes narrowed. “Velvene Orchardtide, you are banishe
d from this family! From this very house. You are banished from Orchardtide Manor also. You are banished from Orchardtide Fairings, from the Church and from the entire Scottish estate. You are banished from the chateau in Lyon. You are banished, forever, do you hear!”

  His father woke up, glanced across the parlour, then waved with one hand and said, “Don’t come back, there’s a good lad. We prefer not to see you again, don’t you know.”

  His mother made the final pronouncement. “You have one night to collect your personal belongings, which I shall be checking before you leave. You are a common thief, Velvene, though God told you thou shalt not steal. You are a wastrel and a fool. I hope never to see you again. Now get out of here and go to your room!”

  Velvene did not simply go to his room: he ran.

  Words reverberated around his brain… banished… forever… entire Scottish estate. He collapsed into a chair as full realisation hit. How would he survive? Where would he go? Suddenly he felt rage inside him. He hated his parents. He hoped they would die soon – they were old enough, they should be pushing up the daisies in a decade or so, perhaps he should help them along–

  No! That way was madness. And there was quite enough madness in his family. But he had one night to plan his exit; he could take a few things yet. Nothing obvious – none of the gold icons for instance, though they were worth a fortune and could sustain a lifetime of gallivanting – but enough to keep him alive for a few years. And of course he could stay in rooms at the Suicide Club.

  Midnight did not lie too far away. He undressed and prepared for bed, deciding that he would pack in the morning, after a good breakfast and a decent shave… and a bath, of course.

  Sleep came, and then the dreams.

  He twisted in his bed, the sheets winding themselves around his body. Climbing up the steps of Orchardtide Manor: running in terror through valleys of fur: playing shove-badminton with his mother in the pear garden: shaving himself until his skin was as pink as a strawberry blancmange: looping the loop in an implausible Archimedean floating system: showing Lily-Bette Spoonworthy his chest hairs: unbuttoning his waistcoat, buttoning it again, unbuttoning, buttoning, unbutton, button, unbutton, Jesus there was blood on his fingers–

  “Zigizmund!”

  He jumped into the air as the nightmare halted and he awoke. Sweat poured from his body, all the sheets damp, an odour of smoke in the air from a cigarist that had gone out… and it was already five in the morning.

  He dozed… woke… dozed… and the clock struck seven.

  Somebody hammered on his door. “Velvene! You have one hour!”

  His mother. Wide awake, he panicked, throwing clothes, shoes, oddments, papers into a leather rucksack that he had bought in Catmandu.

  He dressed in hiking gear. No time for breakfast. No time for a bath, even! He had to shave, though.

  But in his bathroom stood a figure.

  It did not move. It seemed to be made of clay. Lumpy legs, lumpy arms, barrel body and a lump of a head. No features, nor even any way to determine if it was a man or a woman. What on earth was it?

  No time to investigate. He prepared his soap, brush and razor, then shaved, dropping the implements into a bag once he had finished. He glanced into the mirror: pale face, definitely going a bit thin on top; was he losing his looks? He was almost forty.

  No time to dawdle. He turned, to face the figure. It commanded him, stared without face, without expression, without eyes, as if demanding an explanation, forcing questions and answers. He grabbed it, found that it was not too heavy to carry, and placed it beside his rucksack.

  Now for the escape.

  He opened the door and listened. Voices and clinking cutlery downstairs, the sounds of his parents having breakfast. Both his brothers away, one in Ely Cathedral, one in Lincoln Cathedral. No servants upstairs, two maids in the kitchen. Effectively, he stood alone.

  He crept along the corridor to the skylight, grabbing the stepladder, setting it up, then opening the skylight and poking his head through, to see, lying in its frost-limned rack on the roof, the bovine Archimedean floating system that he had bought earlier in the year. The cud-chewing machinora, he was pleased to see, looked in perfect condition.

  Without delay he returned to his room, pulling his rucksack onto his back, grabbing a few final things – wallet, penknife, storm lanternette – then creeping into the corridor and into his father’s bedroom. There: a gold crucifix, a silver guillotine-tray from Parisi and a set of diamond encrusted spigots. All saleable.

  He crept out again, but the tray, being awkward, somehow fell from his grip and with multiple crashes bounced down the stair. The sound of voices from the breakfast parlour stopped.

  He ran: back to the roof. He threw everything into the machinora’s wicker capacity, then returned to his bedroom. He heard his mother call, heard her feet thunking on the stairs as she ascended.

  “Velvene! What are you doing?”

  He grabbed the clay figure and manhandled it along the corridor, climbing the stepladder and pulling it onto the roof just as his mother’s head appeared over the banister.

  “Velvene, you thief!” she screeched, waving the dented tray. “Come back here!”

  He tried to kick the stepladder away, but missed. No time to lose! He carried the figure to the machinora, hauled it into the wicker capacity, then turned to see his mother emerge onto the roof, just ten yards away. He primed the bovine heatorix then cast off, cutting the two restraining ropes with his penknife. The machinora floated up.

  His mother launched herself at the machinora, grabbing the flailing end of a rope and pulling it. “Come back here, you thief! I’ll whip you myself! Stop, Velvene, stop this at once.”

  “Goodbye mother,” he shouted back. “I most cordially loathe you! You say you shall never see me again, well, that means I shall never see you. And that fills me with joy! Joy, do you hear?”

  “You useless man, you’re no son of mine! I’ll have you excommunicated.”

  “I do not care. Since you have banished me, I am free to go where I please.”

  “May God have mercy on your soul!” she shrieked as the rope slipped from her grasp.

  “Goodbye! And thank you for everything!”

  With that, the machinora rose with resonant lowing into the heavens, leaving a trail of part chewed grass that splattered in a line along the roof.

  ~

  Kornukope Wetherbee led his wife Eastachia to the Chancery Lane Underground station, where, one hundred feet down, they awaited the last equucade of the night going to Hampstead.

  Kornukope glanced down at her. She was more than two decades younger than him. Would she regret the lunatic wager he had made at the Suicide Club, or would she welcome it as a change from tedious home life?

  “Dearest one,” he said, “you are probably wondering why I did it.”

  She looked up at him, smiled, then turned away. “I will wonder later,” she replied. “At the moment I just want to get home. Your runner interrupted my sewing.”

  “Yes, yes… my apologies.”

  There seemed nothing more to say, so Kornukope said nothing.

  With a clatter of metal on metal the equucade drew up, its engine legs a blur of coal-fired motion. Steam hissed in billowing clouds from rubber-ringed nostrils, and from the rear ends of the engines came thunderous blasts of carbon dioxide.

  “Mind the crap! Mind the crap!” called the autovoice over the tannoy. There was a rustle and a click as the operator put the needle back to the beginning of the wax cylinder. “Mind the crap! Mind the crap!”

  Kornukope opened a carriage door and helped Eastachia inside. They sat down next to one another in a carriage empty apart from a bejewelled hussy reading a copy of Harlot Times. Kornukope tapped Eastachia’s thigh and smiled at her to reassure her that she was safe. She smiled back, but seemed to be thinking more about her sewing.

  Pistons screeched as the dual engines powered up, then the brake was released, the carriage jerked
forward and they were away, rolling along the moon-bright steel tracks of the Up Northern Line. The hussy got off at Chalk Farm, proffering her broadsheet as she did, but Kornukope, who had never once been strumpeteering, waved a forefinger at her in refusal.

  They got off at Hampstead, allowing the midget-pulled escalator to take them up to ground level. Fresh air at last; a delight after the fumes and steam of the Underground. Ten minutes later they stood at the front door of their house in East Heath Road. It was almost midnight, and the house showed no lights. The heath itself lay dark beneath a moonless sky. Owls hooted.

  Then a candle was switched on, and the door was opened by Lacortia ffordd, their maid. Eastachia stepped inside, pressing her palms together, saying “Namasté,” then ascending the stairs, leaving Kornukope to shrug and put his top hat on the hatstand.

  “I believe she was annoyed that her sewing was interrupted,” he said.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  Kornukope shook his head. “Thank you so much for staying here, Miss ffordd. You may begin at noon tomorrow.”

  “Ooh, thank you. Goodnight.”

  Kornukope watched the maid depart the house, then shut and bolted the door. What a very strange evening it had been.

  Next morning he got up early, knowing that Lacortia would not be present to make breakfast. He poured hot milk on shredded beet, dropped sugared almonds into bowls, then made tea; the final touch a pair of raspberry doodahs that he found at the back of a cupboard. With this repast he walked upstairs to the bedroom.

  “Dearest one,” he said, “I gave Lacortia the morning off, so I have prepared breakfast for us.”