Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

“Well, he’s right,” Eastachia replied, “but if you tell him we’re not German he might let us go.”

  “Wir sind Engländer,” Kornukope explained.

  „Engländer? Sie gehören mir also nicht. Wohin gehen Sie?”

  “Where are we going?” Kornukope muttered to himself. “Nach Richmond.”

  „Ich kann Sie bis Cross Deep in der Nähe von Twickenham tragen.”

  “Will we be safe with you if you take us to Twickenham?”

  „Ja, für Deutsche bin ich verantwortlich. Ich trage Sie am Rucken.”

  “He’s going to carry us,” Kornukope said. “Germans are his prey.”

  Death stood upright then picked them up and nestled them in his arms, one on each side, as if he was carrying a couple of sacks of grain. He walked north through the shattered land, the rattle and clank of his knees reverberating across the fields. From his front teeth two beams of yellow light emerged, which he used to navigate the bombed out wastelands of eastern Bushy Park, and on occasion he would stop, listen, then walk on. His breath ponged with the odour of sauerkraut and paraffin.

  Through Teddington he carried them, ducking to avoid rifle fire; then along Waldegrave Road and into Cross Deep, where, at a boathouse beside the Thames, he placed them on the ground.

  “Danke schön,” Kornukope said.

  „Sie mussen zahlen dafür.”

  Kornukope blanched. “He said you must pay, Eastachia.”

  “Me?” Eastachia said. “Pay, why?”

  “Because you do not speak German.” Kornukope turned and asked, “How should she pay?”

  „Sie und ich mussen spielen.”

  Kornukope gasped. “You will play a game with her?”

  „Wenn Sie gewinnd, ist Sie frei.”

  “He says,” Kornukope said, “that if you win you go free. If you lose, I suppose you will go with him forever… which means–”

  “I will die,” Eastachia said. “I will play. What’s the game?”

  At once the great figure sprawled upon the ground, and on the moonlit field of hair and grass a rectangular board appeared into which twenty four holes had been drilled.

  “Nine Men Morris,” Kornukope said.

  Eastachia felt no fear. She had played this parlour game all her life, indeed had played the Indoo version Nine Nabob Bhangra in Moonbai. “I’ll play,” she said, taking the set of twelve red pins. Death took the twelve black pins.

  The object of the game was to make a line of three pins of her colour, whilst preventing her opponent from achieving the same objective. As the guest, she would play first. She placed a pin into a hole.

  Death played. Then her, then Death, then her… and each blocked the other for eight moves. But they had been playing across the board from right to left, and Eastachia, who had set a pin down first, had counted the number of columns left of the edge so that she could both block Death and make a full row at the end. But he spotted her plan and was forced to block it, whereupon she placed a pin that both blocked him and gave her two lines of two. He could not block them both. She had won.

  She sighed and sat back.

  „Das Beste von drei?”

  Kornukope frowned. “The best of three?”

  Eastachia laughed. “Tell him I’ve won the game,” she said.

  “Eastachia is the winner!”

  And Death shrugged.

  They were free.

  They slept for a few hours inside the boathouse, then, at dawn, ate a breakfast of fruit and stale bread, before heading along York Street, then Richmond Road. As they walked, war departed, and the familiar sight of London streets full of hair returned. At Richmond the land was once again hairy up to their waists so they headed for Richmond railway station, where they were delighted to see a nougat locomotive with candyfloss emerging from its funnel. It was a matter of fifteen minutes to negotiate a deal allowing them to claim two single tickets on pain of an IOU made out in the name of the Foreign Office.

  They sat in their seats and relaxed. They were on their way home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Pearly Queen helped Sheremy get over the first few hours after Missus’ drowning, then the first few days…

  As the generals of the Cockneigh Uprising prepared a solid front line in St Martin’s Lane and Monmouth Street to match the Government’s soldiers in Charing Cross Road, Sheremy sobbed into the patterned silk dress of the Pearly Queen. All he could see before his mind’s eye was that terrible final sight; Missus, her clothes caught on the cubic missile, splashing in panic as the thing dragged her down.

  The Pearly Queen let him talk, made him talk when the words ran out. And Sheremy got over the shock and the pain, until he was left with a feeling of loss, ache, and a dread of what the future might hold for him now that he was alone again.

  Eventually he felt strong enough to think about his immediate future. He dressed in stout clothes, armed himself with dirk and swordington, put on a top hat, and strode through thick ginger hair from the uprising’s war camp in Covent Garden Piazza to Bedwards House. It was a fine, warm morning.

  There was no Gentleman Smyth at the top of the steps; no open door, no welcoming chatter from half open windows. The great double doors of the building were shut, stained black with soot and grime, and every window was closed. It being morning there were no lamps lit inside, but even from his streetside level Sheremy could sense that the place was deserted. Damn it, he would have to use the geographer’s entrance.

  He struggled through a thick beard of curly brown hair to the rear of the building, where he saw the metal and bakelite porthole that marked the entrance designed for explorers. Wiping algae off the Babbage Machine and tapping the secret code into it, he shoved open the round door and squeezed through, until he found himself inside the South Seas Chamber – unlit, dusty, silent. Moments later he stood in the main rear hall, listening.

  He could hear voices… damn it, he could hear men talking!

  Dirk in hand he crept up the staircase to the second floor, where, through clouds of sunlight-lit dust motes, he saw an open door. It was the Dooziestan Room. He crept forward, peered around the doorway.

  They noticed him almost immediately. “Sheremy! By the great hooves of Simla-Bimla. Come in dear chap.”

  There sat Lord Blackanore, Franclin Spar-Turney and Grubiander Tune, the noted Russio-math. But most astonishing was the figure seated alone by a window, working on a tapestry: Juinefere Bedwards. She looked pale, wan, her short blonde hair almost ragged, her dress torn and dirt-sullied. But she glanced up when he entered the room, and smiled.

  “Sheremy, by all the Nords,” Lord Blackanore said, rising from his seat and shaking Sheremy by the hand. “Where have you been?”

  Sheremy hesitated. Now, in his new frame of mind, he was not sure what he felt about the nobility of the Suicide Club.

  In a low, wavering voice he replied, “Had a bit of a to-do in hairy London. Very difficult times dear fellow.”

  “Indeed! The blasted Cockneighs are on the march. Going to be a big battle on Charing Cross Road.”

  “Yes… yes, so I’ve heard,” Sheremy replied. “And you fellows? Where is everybody else?”

  “Dead or vanished,” Lord Blackanore replied. “Except for us here. The wager is still on, of course.”

  Sheremy nodded.

  “Not heard from dear old Kornukope however, nor Velvene.”

  Sheremy indicated the other two men. “Are we four the last remaining members of the Suicide Club?”

  “Seems so. But don’t feel too bad, there are chaps still coming out of the woodwork, yourself not least. We’ll be back in business once those wretched Cockneighs have been crushed.”

  “And what about Sir Hoseley?”

  “We’ve not seen him for some considerable time.”

  Sheremy nodded again, affected a grin, then said, “What do the Government plan?”

  “Lord Gorge has got a war cabinet going. Rallied the troops, you see, got all manner of agents and officers work
ing in the field. Those Cockneighs are in for a bashing, let me tell you.”

  “And London’s hair?”

  “Still a total mystery. The boffins at the Royal Institute are trying to crack the problem, but, well, nothing concrete yet.”

  Sheremy nodded, glancing across the chamber to Juinefere. “You carry on with your breakfast,” he said. “I need to speak with Lady Bedwards.”

  He strolled across to the window where Juinefere sat, seating himself on the sofa next to her. The three men were out of earshot, but, unwilling to reveal himself, he spoke in a quiet voice. “How are you, Juinefere?”

  Her charisma, even her beauty seemed reduced, as if by age, though she was but twenty five. She replied, “Fatigued by…” She waved a hand at the window and concluded, “… all this.”

  “Me too. I’ve seen some terrible things.”

  “I also, Sheremy. But I am truly glad to see you here, and alive.”

  He perked up a little at this. “Tell me Juinefere, have you… suffered?” He gave the word special emphasis.

  She looked at him, frowned, glanced away, then stared at him. “You do surprise me. Yes, I suppose I have suffered.”

  He nodded. “I’ve learned a lot during my adventures,” he said, “and I realise now that I’ve said inappropriate things to you about the cause you espouse. For that, I apologise.”

  A smile illuminated her face, but swiftly faded. “I know how you feel,” she replied.

  He did not know if she meant the rumours of his feelings for her – now buried deep – or his conversion to Suffering, which he realised she would be suspicious of. He replied, “I’d do a lot to put you in that war cabinet.”

  “Me? A woman?”

  “Yes, you Juinefere. Why not? You are intelligent, compassionate, morally sound. Why shouldn’t you work for the Prime Minister?”

  She seemed intrigued now. “I can hardly believe what I am hearing.”

  He grinned. “Doubtless. But I’m genuine. You know that’s true Juinefere, for I’ve always been sincere.”

  “That is true, Sheremy.”

  He hesitated. “We need to act. The men of this club are old fossils. Times are changing.”

  She arched her eyebrows and sat back. “What do you suggest?”

  “Minister without portfolio. You.”

  “Lord Gorge would never accept me. War is a man’s game.”

  Sheremy leaned close. “Not entirely. Recently I chanced upon the joint leaders of the uprising, one of whom is a lady.”

  “This Pearly Queen from the East End? However did you escape her clutches?”

  Sheremy decided to take a risk. If nothing else Juinefere Bedwards was a woman of Suffering, despite her noble status; how else could she have negotiated a deal with the men of the Suicide Club to avoid having to wear a bag on her head? He replied, “The Pearly Queen’s revolution isn’t just a struggle for food and clean water amongst all this hair. She seeks justice, Juinefere. I didn’t escape her clutches. I walked away from her of my own free will.”

  “I am astounded!”

  “You must trust me now. The fate of hairy London lies balanced between two possibilities.”

  “I believe I do trust you, Sheremy.”

  He smiled. “Good. On the one hand, the Government may crush the uprising, and if they do everything in this country will be as it used to be. For women, you understand?”

  She nodded, her fingers playing with her diamond necklace, her eyes wide, her mouth half open; breathing fast and shallow.

  Sure now that it was safe to continue, he said, “On the other hand the Cockneigh Uprising may succeed. Personally, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. We need balance. But anything’s better than the hidebound system we’ve got at the moment.”

  “Are you a man of the uprising?”

  He shook his head. “I’m affiliated. Believe me, I’m no thuggish rebel. But recently I’ve seen things, and now I want justice for the downtrodden of London just as much as you do. Hairy London, terrible though the plague is, has changed me forever.”

  “I can see that it has,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “What then will you do now?”

  Sheremy glanced back at the men. “I’ve got a little personal problem to solve. A police officer on the lookout for me. Then I’ll return to you.”

  She nodded. “Take care, Sheremy.”

  He took her hand and kissed it, then returned to the men. To Franclin Spar-Turney he said, “Dear fellow, do you remember that incident you had with the Kensington Strangler?”

  “Of course!”

  “Who was the detective you took on to solve the case?”

  “Why, Jomb Gravelspitte.”

  Sheremy said, “And where does he reside?”

  “Just down the way, in Carey Street at number six.”

  “Excellent. Let’s hope he’s still alive.”

  Franclin chuckled. “I imagine he is. Toughest old boot I’ve ever met.”

  Without delay Sheremy bade farewell to his suicidal colleagues, departing Bedwards House using a side window then heading for Carey Street. At number six he saw an imposing house, dark of stone and heavy of roof, with gothic lineaments and a curved spandrels. The front door, solid ebony, was reached by steps of granite. Sheremy ascended, and was about to knock when he noticed the small brass plate beside the bell-push: J. Gravelspitte, Private Detective to the Rich and Notorious.

  He shrugged, decided he was notorious, and rang, whereupon a single bell inside the house, deep as the big boy of the Kaiser’s Church tower, intoned. Sheremy felt the vibrations through his fingers. After a minute the door creaked open and there stood a small man, hunched forward a little and leaning on a stick, wearing a dark grey frock coat and shiny black pantaloons. His boots were Wellington, and he wore a top hat. His face was lined, sallow; Sheremy guessed him to be fifty, perhaps more.

  “Yes?”

  Sheremy hesitated. Jomb’s voice was nasal, whining, yet his manner was aloof. At length he said, “My good friend and colleague Franclin Spar-Turney recommended you.”

  Jomb nodded, then pulled the door back and stood aside. “You may turn left into the Spooling room,” he said.

  Sheremy did as he was bid, sitting on a greasy chair. The room was full of desks upon which hundreds of newspapers lay strewn; elsewhere umbrella stands, slashed oil paintings and stuffed porcos in glass-fronted cases. A single moo-clock tick-tocked, and as Jomb entered the room it lowed eleven am.

  “Well, sir,” Jomb said, “you must have work of import to arrive here in these hairy times.”

  “Indeed I do,” Sheremy replied. “I am Sheremy Pantomile–”

  “Of the Buckinghamshire Pantomiles?”

  “–the very same, and I need your help. A while ago I was set up by somebody, to deleterious effect. I was arrested – on no basis whatsoever – by Murchison Volume of the Yard. I believe I know who set me up. Then, a few nights ago, I stumbled across none other than Jacques–”

  “Le Violeur?”

  “–the very same, and I believe I know who he is.”

  “The same person who set you up?”

  “Sir Hoseley Fain. I want you to prove my case.”

  Jomb uttered a sound like a goose honking, which Sheremy realised after a few moments was laughter. “Fain of the Suicide Club? My goodness. Sir Hoseley Fain. And you a member of that institution also.”

  “This is no boy’s tattle-fight,” Sheremy said, stung by Jomb’s reaction. “I’d not come here on the basis of no evidence. Sir Hoseley is the man. And he set me up. I’m sure a detective of your ability could prove this.”

  “It will be expensive, rather expensive.”

  Sheremy thought back to the wager, and the likely loss of ninety nine percent of his fortune. “As you know,” he said, “I am independently wealthy.”

  Jomb nodded. “Then I will take on your case.” Jomb stood up, tottered over to Sheremy, and shook his hand.

  ~

  With no Lily-Bett
e, Velvene had no access to the chameleonic Archimedean floating system, and with no chameleonic Archimedean floating system he had no way of getting back to London. So he stole some silver spongs from the Orchardtide coffers.

  “Nobody will notice,” he reasoned to himself. “Besides, even though I am banished, this is one of my ancestral homes.” Another thought occurred to him. “Besides, I killed the dragon, which really they should be paying me for.” He took another handful of spongs to account for the dragonslaying.

  Tring boasted a railway station that terminated at St Pancras, so he bought a single ticket for the chocolate express.

  “Third, second or first class, sir?” the attendant asked.

  “First,” he replied.

  “Ordinary first or superior?”

  There came a twinge from his conscience. “Ordinary,” he replied.

  The express engine pulled up half an hour later, a line of sixteen nougat carriages behind it. Velvene got aboard the middle carriage, telling a conductor to lead him to his seat. And he travelled in style. All the seats in the first class carriage were studded with brazil nuts, their marshmallow cushions the epitome of luxury, while from aerial trays dainty serving women offered whipped cream and cocoa frumpets. Velvene enjoyed himself, ordering a carton of milk-choc catseyes for later.

  At St Pancras however he faced once more the problem of hairy London. He had become used to flying over the city, but now, alone, he had to confront it again. Fortunately he only had to walk half a mile or so to reach Gordon Square, so he did what everybody else on the chocolate express did: he set out to make his own way into the city, slowly but surely.

  The hair along Euston Street was as tough as wire, and by the time he turned left into Upper Woburn he was sweaty and irritated, but, heading south, the hair turned fine and blonde, and he was able to make better progress. At Gordon Square he walked up the steps leading to the flat owned by the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London. He had said goodbye with some conviction: would they have him back? Would they even remember him? He knocked on the door.

  It opened, and he saw Sylfia’s face.

  He grinned. “Well, hello,” he said.

  To his great relief she gestured him inside. “Velvene Orchardtide has returned!” she told the assembled quartet in the main room.