Sweet Thames

by Matthew Kneale

  She was a weightily formed woman, built of the kind of flesh that seems always faintly reverberating, as if containing bags of thickened liquid. Persons thus shaped are held in the popular imagination to be of a warm-hearted disposition, but Miss Symes was proof of the weakness of such theories. She was sulky and complaintive, also lazy, and, I was sure, of limitless appetite, as our larder seemed constantly in need of replenishment. We had chosen her only for one reason: she was cheap. Even then we could afford her for only seventeen days in a month, sharing her with the family of a Highbury legal clerk. She had insisted on board, though the arrangement was only part-week, and slept in a room hardly larger than a cupboard, into which it was a mystery to me how she managed to fit herself.

  Despite her inexpensiveness, her ill-manners had several times led me to suggest to my wife that we try and find somebody else. Isobella had surprised me with her insistence that the woman stay. The only explanation I could see was that Miss Symes’s indolence gave her unrestrained opportunity to throw herself into her passion – so admirable – of domestic activity; cleaning and polishing every object until it shone.

  ‘There were a good eight slices of the ham last night,’ I insisted. ‘Where’s it all gone?’

  Miss Symes put on a look of studied indifference. ‘Must’ve just went, mustn’t it sir.’

  ‘It’s of no matter,’ my wife suggested, before I had time to remark further on the matter. ‘We’re better off without it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’ As Miss Symes manoeuvred her person back through the doorway there was a scrabbling about her feet and Pericles, my wife’s terrier, scuttled into the room.

  It had been my idea that she should have a pet, so she would have a companion to brighten up her hours in the house. Indeed, in some ways the dog might have been viewed as a success; Isobella took to him from the first, embracing him whenever he appeared and inventing all manner of affectionate names for him: ‘Peridog’, ‘King Peri’, ‘Little Naughty’ and many others.

  I, however, found myself unable to stifle a growing loathing for the creature. There was something vile about the way he would lick her face so keenly, even her very lips, how he nuzzled the cloth of her dress just where it thinly contained the soft roundness of her bosom. He must have somehow discerned my dislike for him – animals can be surprisingly sensitive to human feelings towards them – for he soon regarded me as his foe, yapping at me with his small dog bark whenever the opportunity arose, growling, and occasionally attempting to nip my ankle with his teeth. Isobella would reprimand him, but without great severity, still referring to him as ‘Little Dog’ or ‘Perikins’. I sometimes retaliated when the creature was out of view of his mistress, with discreet kicks to his person.

  ‘Peri, Peri, Peri the Bad, where have you been?’ she almost sang to him as she plucked him from the ground, and allowed him to lunge with his mouth towards her ear. ‘Were you playing in the kitchen?’

  With small-animal impatience he sprang from her grasp and darted across the room, pausing to stare at Gideon, who reached out, with the idea of patting his head. ‘Hello my fine little fellow.’

  The dog growled audibly, then snapped, jaws not quite reaching the proffered fingers.

  ‘Pericles,’ my wife scolded him, without great feeling. ‘How bad he is.’

  ‘He’s charming.’ Gideon manufactured a smile.

  The creature had already moved onwards, now leaping up at the edge of the table, overhanging which was my wife’s embroidery. Embroidering was a hobby of hers, and one which she pursued with the same restless perfectionism that she exhibited towards the domestic arrangements of the house; this was already the tenth such creation in eight months of our marriage; an astonishing pace of production. The nine so far completed – now framed and displayed on the walls, fast diminishing in unused space – all took the same form; of a biblical quotation framed by flowers. This latest had not progressed far, and as yet read only, DOEST NOT…

  ‘Little dog, really now.’ She got up from her seat to reclaim the animal, grasping him firmly on her lap.

  It was then I saw the knife.

  To look at, it was hardly remarkable; a slim piece, more ornamental letter-opener than cutting blade, with a delicate mother-of-pearl handle. It was on the table among Isobella’s embroidery things, and she must have been using it to snap the threads cleanly. Probably it had lain about the house since the day of our marriage, and I had never given it a thought in all that time. Until it had featured in my dream.

  In my distraction I had, I realized, been staring directly at Gideon’s weak chin for some moments. The conversation having moved onwards from the parlour to the question of work, he had embarked on an interminable description of the duties of an architect of church buildings; his own profession.

  ‘We have the chance to look back over church styles of all ages and nations, take the best from each, and so create such a design that none other will ever be needed again. Think of it. An epilogue to the whole great volume of ecclesiastical architecture. Responsibility indeed.’ He paused, regarding me kindly, appearing to assume my blank glare had told of a fascination with his words.

  A thump outside the door warned of Miss Symes’s return. ‘It’s ready now, missus.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Symes.’

  An idea came to me. As the others rose from their places I lingered, allowing them to chatter their way out of the room before me. Then, when I could hear all had made their way across the hall and to the dining-room, I plucked up the knife. The very touch of the metal was troubling; almost as something so cold that it threatens to stick fast to one’s skin.

  I saw a pair of eyes staring at me. Pericles, lodged beneath the table, uttered a growl. A neat tap to his backside with my foot elicited a yelp and caused him to scurry from the room.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ called out my wife.

  ‘Just coming.’ There was no time to do more than open the front door – as noiselessly as I was able – and hurl the thing into the street slop dirt, grinding it in deeper with the toe of my boot.

  At last the Lewises had left us. I closed the door and we made our way back into the house. Miss Symes was clearing plates and such from the dining-room to the kitchen – sporadic thumps and crashes reverberating through the house told of her labours – and so we took refuge in the parlour.

  What a relief that they had gone. Only my unwillingness to spoil an occasion into which my wife had invested such effort had prevented my directing some sharp remarks to the two guests. Gideon, in particular, had been infuriating.

  The fellow was, it seemed, a keen amateur painter and, during the roast lamb, had embarked on an account – both dull and fairly lengthy – of the lives of Italian Renaissance masters; while the plates of the rest of us grew empty, his remained all but untouched, and the dessert was greatly delayed. Worse was the man’s smugness. He talked of Guido Reni and Michelangelo as if both were his personal acquaintances, and described their works with the knowingness a school-ma’am might employ when detailing the efforts of her more able infants, beaming all the while – doubtless at the pleasure he imagined he was affording his hosts.

  Isobella perched herself upon the French stool and picked up her embroidery that she might resume her work. She seemed not to notice the knife’s absence. For my part, the panic I had felt earlier seemed now painfully absurd: the delusions of a man weakened by tiredness and hunger. I had half a mind to retrieve the object and replace it, at some moment when my wife was busy elsewhere in the house.

  Where to sit? Normally I would have chosen one of the upright chairs. Perhaps it was my pleasure at the Lewises’ departure that persuaded me otherwise, or the two glasses of wine I had had with the luncheon. Or the bright smile I had watched earlier on my wife’s face. Whatever the reason, I sat down beside her on the French stool. It was quite a squeeze, true enough, but still her response distressed me; she fairly jumped, edging away so we were not touching.

  One
action, one instant, and so much seemed changed. Already I could sense the quiet – that quiet I knew so well – beginning to descend. Speak before it could encircle us both. Say anything.

  ‘The apple and meringue pudding was most tasty. Did you make it yourself?’

  ‘I did.’ She did not so much as look up from her work. Though I could not see her eyes I knew, from the very tone of her voice, how they would be changed; animation vanished. Her lips, too, would be altered; taut, as if unwilling to form words. So often it was thus. She resented my absence – complaining of my long hours of work – and yet my presence in the house seemed to make her hardly less uneasy. And of course…

  The busts of Queen Victoria and Albert glowered down from the piano, as if saddened by the scene before them.

  ‘I thought it must have been yours. Much too good for anything of Miss Symes.’ I struggled on against the hush. ‘I’m sure I detected a small tot of rum.’

  ‘I put in a couple of teaspoonfuls.’

  Still not so much as a glance. It was all the more galling after her bright cheerfulness during the meal.

  Did she prefer the company of the Lewises to my own? I wanted to pluck her up from the French stool, to stir her up – as some mixture left too long, in which the worst has floated to the surface – to shake her in the air, until the brittle silence was gone.

  If only there were something…

  Then I remembered the advertisement I had seen in The Times a few days earlier.

  Why not? An expedition might do much to blow away the staleness. At least I should try. I made my way up to my study to seek the edition in which it had been.

  MONSIEUR TOULON’S CONCERTS MONSTRES

  A third Concert Monstre and musical ballet, in the style and scale for which M Pierre Toulon is so justly renowned, to be performed on Easter Monday at the Surrey Zoological Gardens. Programme entirely changed from M Toulon’s great five-hour concert of 1847, held before an audience of 12,000 persons. Meyerbeer’s music from the Camp of Silesia to be played for the first time in this country. M Toulon’s famous Corps of Dwarves to perform a ballet d’action entitled Pompey and the Deserter. Also M Toulon’s own arrangement of The Grand Triumphal March of Julius Caesar, complete with Double Orchestra, Four Military Bands, and Roman trumpets. Finally M Toulon’s own rendering of God Save the Queen, each bar being marked by the report of an eighteen pounder cannon. Admission only…

  Just the thing. I hurried down to the parlour. ‘Come along, my dear. We’re going out.’

  She frowned. ‘Whatever d’you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. It’s Easter, half London is enjoying the holiday, so why not us too?’

  Though she protested at first, she seemed not altogether displeased to find herself in an omnibus, streets flashing by outside. My spirits began to rise.

  Perhaps it had been just such a notion that had been required all along. For all these months. I simply had not thought to try.

  The concert was quite as popular as Monsieur Toulon’s previous visit of two years before, judging by the throng of metropolitan citizenry we found gathered in Kennington, joining the queue to the gardens. Once inside, ambling with the crowd past grottoes, classical statues, an ornamental lake, the sight of such a multitude of excited souls took me back to my time as a follower of the Association for the Promotion of Health in Cities. Splendid days.

  Best of all, the liveliness of atmosphere seemed to have infected Isobella, causing the smile of lunch time to return to her face. Success. And who knew where it might end.

  ‘But it’s lovely. How is it I’ve never been here before?’ She paused, detaining our progress with an outstretched hand, her expression one of almost childlike intensity as she listened. ‘What are those cries?’

  ‘The animals.’ We were approaching the seats – a veritable ocean of them, enough for an entire army, freshly returned from some Easter battle – behind which rose up the circular glass building that contained the zoo’s creatures. I had briefly visited the place some years previously, and inspected the collection – not a poor one – of lions, camels, monkeys, bears, parrots and other tropical birds, as well as a rather scrawny giraffe, and a single giant tortoise on which small children were invited to ride for a small sum.

  ‘But can’t we see them? Perhaps after the concert is finished?’

  ‘If the animal house is still open to the public at such an hour, then certainly.’ Though most doubtful it would be, I was unwilling to risk forfeiting my wife’s newly re-found good humour.

  I had bought good seats, despite the extra expense, and our places were close to the front, from where we had an excellent view of the conductor, Monsieur Toulon, as he stepped upon the rostrum. Bespectacled, and with a hairless dome of a head, he was surprisingly clerk-like in appearance for one responsible for so giant an event, and with the huge assembly of players ranged behind, he seemed quite a speck. I glanced up at the sky; though the day was not a cold one there was a stiff breeze and ranks of clouds were chasing each other across the sky, eastwards towards Greenwich. Brave indeed to hold an outdoor event at so early a season.

  Isobella seemed to read my thoughts. ‘I hope it won’t rain’

  ‘At least we have the umbrella.’

  The concert began splendidly, with The Grand March of Julius Caesar, a finely furious piece. To be seated before the whole ensemble of double orchestra, four military bands and twenty Roman trumpets – strange instruments that produced a sound not unlike a donkey’s braying much amplified – was as being perched before a kind of musical hurricane.

  For some time thereafter, however, the programme – though noisily diverting in its way – was of less interest. In fact I found myself struck more by the brief intervals between the music than by the items themselves. After Monsieur Toulon brought down his baton with a flourish, and the last great crash of noise of the double orchestra faded away, one would hear – through ringing ears – the strange cries of the tropical creatures, as if they were offering their own retort to the earlier din; the harsh screeches of birds – conjuring up imaginings of fiery plumage – the questioning whoops of monkeys, perhaps the growl of a lion. The effect was most pleasing. Then Monsieur Toulon would raise his hand, abruptly drowning their exotic voices, as the players began work on the next monumental piece.

  The concert also offered other delights. It may seem strange, but I do not believe I had ever spent so long a time in such close proximity to my wife until that afternoon. The seats were narrow, and placed tightly together, so it seemed only natural to find my knee gently pressing against her thigh; pleasantly soft to touch even through the cloth of my trousers and her dress. Encouraged by her cheerfulness – she appeared to be enjoying the performance – I made a few experimental movements of my knee upwards and downwards, in a manner that might merely have been considered precautionary against cramp.

  Her response was puzzling. While she did not glance in my direction, but stared somewhat fiercely at the orchestra, nor did she shrink from my touch, leaving me uncertain as to whether she was shyly enjoying such attentions, or simply could not move her leg away, being so tightly wedged beside me. Perhaps she had not even noticed. Whatever the truth of it, the sensation had a most agreeable effect, and I was obliged to place my top hat on my lap, that I would not risk scandalizing the venerable lady seated stiffly to my right.

  It was a long concert. After four hours, with only one brief interval, the audience began to show signs of restiveness, and also cold – the warmth of the afternoon was fading – with people shifting in their seats, and adding, during the interludes between pieces, their coughs to the cries of the tropical animals. The music, too, had assumed something of a noisy monotony. Consequently Monsieur Toulon’s announcement of a quite different kind of item was greeted with some relief, and much clapping.

  ‘I now will like proudly to present the very famous Corps of Dwarves.’

  I had been looking forward to something in the nature of a rough and tumble
comedy – what else would one expect from a dwarf act – but it was not to be. Though the players looked sufficiently comical in their tiny togas to raise a faint ripple of laughter from the audience, their sombre march on to the stage proclaimed the piece to be a serious one.

  ‘How dull,’ I murmured.

  The drama took the form of a mime, accompanied by the double orchestra in a quieter but more emotional mood than before. The players’ expressions and gestures being so difficult to see, the narrative proved elusive, but I managed to understand the gist of the story. Pompey – played by a dwarf smaller even than his fellows, and clutching a sword as tall as himself – had had brought before him a soldier, his head hooded, who was accused of deserting. Inclined to be harsh at first, the great general then – for reasons I could not quite comprehend – felt pity for the man, and ordered him released. When the hood was removed, however, it was not a soldier who was revealed, but a girl dwarf. One whom, moreover, the famous Roman recognized at once, throwing his tiny hands into the air and embracing her with passion.

  Though part of the audience evidently found this greatly moving – there was an approving murmur as the little couple embraced – I was not thus affected. ‘Absurd. As if his wife, or whoever she’s supposed to be, could have been mistaken for a soldier.’

  ‘And besides,’ agreed my wife, ‘why did she not cry out from beneath the hood?’

  As if in answer to our criticisms an attempt at explanation seemed imminent. The violins moaned effusively and Pompey and the girl dwarf engaged in a dance of reunion, during which she conducted what appeared to be a series of mimes recounting her adventures. Their significance, however, was not obvious, and, beyond her having been violently hurled from a high place, I was still quite as much in the dark as before when the weather so abruptly intervened.

  Even as the dwarves first pranced their way on to the stage the sky had darkened with warning suddenness – from somewhere north of the river rolled an unhurried rumble of thunder – and by the time Pompey had discovered the deserter’s true identity the leaves on the trees were waving, their rustling just audible above the glad wailings of so many violins. The rain began moments later, commencing with a few ominously large drops, then dissolving into a general rush.