The Anagram

by Russell French

  It ends:

  God! Where are you, God?

  And Jesus! You’re supposed to save!

  But answer came there none,

  Only the endless eerie echoes of eternity

  And the crushing, cracking blackness of the grave.

  Silent night, holy night.

  All is calm, all is bright

  And the lurid-hued incarnadine seeps slowly through the white.

  Gloria in excelsis deo!”

  “That is tragic! I think I remember reading that one. It’s called “Carols”, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. It breaks my heart to think of her so young, so beautiful and yet so vulnerable and alone. There’s a real cry of despair in there, turning away from the God, she may have once thought was on her side. I thought that publishing her whole oeuvre might give a more rounded view of her and help exorcise the ghosts. After all, some of them are a bit more cheerful—the poems, I mean, not the ghosts. There’s another one about Christmas, for example:

  Christmas Thoughts

  The winter is upon us now

  The evenings are much darker.

  We’ve got to wrap up warm somehow

  With anorak or parka.

  We’ll all be spending far too much

  With Mastercard and Visa

  On presents, drinking, food and such

  For Gemma, Bill, Louisa.

  When all the Christmas food’s been scoffed

  And all the guests departed,

  When all the Christmas booze is quaffed

  That’s when you’ll feel down-hearted.

  We’d hoped our loved ones would have bought

  Us presents by the twenty.

  Instead, we bickered, scrapped and fought

  With arguments a-plenty.

  So when you hear the Christmas Bell

  Will you be hale and hearty?

  You will? You won’t? Oh what the Hell!

  Let’s go and have a party!

  Joyeux Noel!”

  “An old head on young shoulders,” Beth commented. “Even that one’s a bit forced. Almost as though she’s trying to make herself have fun.”

  “She didn’t like Christmas. Her mother died in December, so neither Gwyneth nor Seth were exactly a barrel of laughs at that time of year, I’m told. I think Christmas was barely acknowledged. Seth was a grumpy old bugger, anyway, most of the time. I know when I was there it took me all my time to get him to put up a Christmas tree. And Christmas dinner would have been out of the question if it wasn’t for the fact that he didn’t want to upset Mrs. B—she’s the housekeeper. Yep, grumpy’s the word!”

  “I see. That’s where you get it from!”

  “Could be! At least I’ve got some of my Dad in me as well, his sporting ability if nothing else. I’m not bi-polar, just in a bad mood most of the time. At least, I was ’till I met you!”

  He squeezed her buttock affectionately, then, with a little more intent, began stroking the inside of her thigh, a silly grin on his face.

  “Typical,” thought Beth. “Either they go to sleep at once or they stay awake long enough to start thinking about more.”

  “Good night, darling,” she said and kissed him tenderly on the lips. She turned over languorously, nestled her rear end into the pit of his stomach and went to sleep. Gareth grinned to himself and thought: “Two can play silly games, lady” before he too quickly and willingly entered the land of Nod. There were challenges to be faced, but for now all was well with the world.

  30

  There are capital cities and then there are capital cities. Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. Some are built with the specific purpose of being a capital: Brasilia, say or Islamabad. Some are chosen as a compromise, to prevent others from taking the crown. This could certainly be said of Canberra. Who could deny that Sydney is the biggest and surely most important city in Australia? The British chose Delhi to be their political capital; why not Mumbai or Chennai; why did they change it from Kolkata? The minds of politicians move in mysterious ways.

  Some countries are schizophrenic about their capital: Amsterdam or The Hague? Cape Town, Pretoria or Johannesburg? And why isn’t New York capital of the USA?

  One or two capitals flatter to deceive. Prague, allegedly the most beautiful capital city in Europe, does not quite live up to expectations, good though it is. (St. Vitus’ Cathedral is the coldest building I have ever been in!) Copenhagen, too, is disappointing. That Little Mermaid is hardly worth getting out of bed for! Ditto the Mannequin-Pis in Brussels, which doesn’t have much else to recommend it, apart from a decent-sized main square. Other cities might be called on to deputise for a brief period while the real capital is politically unavailable. Bonn in West Germany is one such—asked to stand in for the mighty Berlin while the latter was being carved up, pizza-like, after the Second World War, it’s a town that has no great claim to capital status. It is only a small city with a pleasant-enough main square but little else to promote it over other West German cities. It does, however, have one thing going for it that dwarfs everything else. It is the birthplace of that bad-tempered, cantankerous, curmudgeonly, deaf old buzzard, the great Ludwig himself. Yes, Beethoven, the greatest of all great musicians, was born in Bonn in 1770. What other recommendation does a town need? Let’s make Stratford-upon-Avon capital of England!!!

  But some capital cities are unquestionably born great. There is no doubt that Rome deserves to be the capital of Italy, situated as it is on the coast, neatly tucked in between the rich industrial North and the poor agricultural South. (Florence was the capital of the new kingdom briefly, from 1865 to 1870. Florentines, a snooty lot at the best of times, have never been able to get over the loss). Rome does have historical, political and religious stature and bears its proud status well, even if does look like an open-air museum at times.

  Paris is the capital of chic, as well as France. Take the Metro to Etoile—Charles de Gaulle, make your way under the incredible twelve—street roundabout encircling the Arc de Triomphe (or try going round in a taxi, a truly death-defying experience) and come up the steps onto the Champs Elysees. Look back towards the Arc from the top of the exit. This is one of the great sights of the world. Did you know that if you stand underneath the exact middle of the Arc de Triomphe and look down to the Obelisk on the Place de la Concorde and then on to the Carousel Arch in front of the Louvre (near to where the glass pyramid is, for all you Dan Brown fans), you will be following a mathematically perfect straight line? Rustle up a few centimes and take your place in a chair outside one of the multitudinously expensive cafes on the Champs-Elysees, then watch the women go by. I don’t know what it is about Parisian females but they seem to have, collectively, a style and chic that is just so much more sophisticated than anywhere else you care to mention. Paris is truly one of the great capital cities.

  But the capital city of capital cities just has to be London. Confident in its position as one of the greatest cities in the world, it has everything a capital town should have. You want history and culture? You’ve got them in spades. You want royalty and pageantry? Nobody does it better, baby (Yanks, eat your hearts out). You want financial and political power? It’s all there for you. You want tourist attractions and famous landmarks? By the bucketful! For a lot of foreigners, the images that England conjures up are Big Ben, red buses and policemen’s helmets. Just one day’s stay in London will make you realise why. More than any other city (except just possibly New York), London gives you the sense of history in the making, the feeling that something global could be going on even as you speak. Those iconic black cabs could contain who knows which famous politician, actor or other celebrity personage.

  Of course it has its drawbacks, the main one being that everyone seems in such a hurry in our capital
, as though every second represents a potential money-making opportunity lost or won. Nobody talks to you, nobody has time for you, everybody seems to be in their own White Rabbit world, dashing around with their own large personalised stopwatch. (Another black mark involves the price of tube tickets. Why are they so damned expensive compared to everywhere else? Why can’t you buy cheap books of ten tickets as you can for the Metro in Paris or Barcelona or just about any other place you care to mention?)

  Gareth, being a native of these parts, was used to the everyday frenzy; dare one say it, he almost enjoyed the daily cut and thrust. Beth, on the other hand, found it rather unpleasant and slightly off-putting. Of course, the Christmas rush was on, so the shops were even busier than usual and people even more than habitually irritable. Nevertheless, she was determined to enjoy her stay in the capital, in an attempt to put to one side, temporarily at least, the challenges that lay in wait.

  She had admitted to Gareth at breakfast that she had never really “done” London; her previous visits had been mainly for shopping or theatre trips. Yes, she’d seen “Phantom” “Les Miz” and “Mama Mia” but not the National Gallery or the British Museum. They decided to tackle the former, thus putting Trafalgar Square, Westminster and the Houses of Parliament within range. The National Gallery is not the Louvre or the Hermitage but the great national favourites are there, especially the Hay Wain and the Fighting Temeraire. Then they admired the huge traditional Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square. Next, down Whitehall past the Cenotaph towards Westminster Abbey. The admission fee was extortionate but they decided to cough up, particularly when it emerged that Gareth, for all his London background, had never been in it either. There are many great men and noble monarchs buried there, but probably the most compelling tomb is the one you see when you first go in, that of the Unknown Soldier, a truly fitting tribute to the folly of war. (The French one is underneath the Arc de Triomphe and is guarded by an eternal flame—another memorable sight.)

  The cold, inclement weather precluded any boat trips, so they took the Central Line to St. Pauls and admired its vast spaces and wonderful dome and also the second version of William Holman Hunt’s sublime Light of the World. Feeling energetic, they even ventured up to the Whispering Gallery. Then they meandered back towards Charing Cross Road and wandered into Foyles, where Beth was able to pick up one or two books she’d been looking for, notably Claire Tomalin’s biography of Thomas Hardy. Finally they headed back towards their hotel. They were just passing the Dominion Theatre when two men, somewhat the worse for wear, even though it was only four o’clock, barged into them. Two ladies of doubtful virtue clung to their arms. Muttered profanities ensued, although not from Beth. On parting, they realised that the two offenders were none other than their old sparring partners. Patterson glared at them with an expression of pure hatred and mumbled something about “Getting you”. Etheridge, ever the dandy, contented himself with making the traditional obscene middle finger and thumb gesture and moved his hand to and fro. The girls shrieked and shouted unpleasantries. They disappeared into the Yuletide throng, making uncouth whooping animal noises as they went. Gareth could see that this had upset Beth, who had turned an unhealthy sickly shade of pale.

  “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “You’re quite safe here. And don’t forget that we’ve got the trump card, which will give us the upper hand when the time comes.” He put his arm round her comfortingly.

  “Yes, you’re right, of course. Even so, I shall be glad when this is all over and those two have been safely dealt with. There are some nasty people in the world.”

  “Oh, they’ll be dealt with all right, don’t you worry,” Gareth retorted grimly, with an expression of such fierce determination on his face that it frightened his partner.

  “I don’t know what you’re planning on doing,” she said miserably, “But I hope it’s nothing that’s going to get you into trouble.”

  “I’m just going to make sure those two are never in a position to threaten you again. It’ll all be discreet. No doubt Theeth and his cohorts will make sure no traces are left after the meeting. After all, the last thing they want is the Police nosing around in their affairs. Can you imagine it if their true identity was revealed, after all these years? The press would have a field day! There’d be gnome-hunts and goblin-chases all over the place.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.” She squeezed his arm tightly and smiled up at him, looking for reassurance.

  “Yeah. Like you, I’ll be glad when it’s all over. Let’s get back to the hotel and look up where we’re supposed to be meeting Theeth tonight. I’m curious to know what he’ll have to tell us… . and how he’ll react to our piece of good news.”

  They made their way back to the hotel. Snowflakes were starting to fall and they combined with the early darkness to give the atmosphere an eerie, almost unearthly, feel. There was magic in the air!

  31

  Tachbrook Street is a quiet street of elegant Victorian terraced buildings in Fulham, just a few minutes walk from Victoria Station. On a cold, rather murky, winter’s evening it seemed to return to its original Dickensian glory and you half-anticipated seeing a man with a long pole going round to light the gas lamps.

  “You almost expect to see John Jarndyce come striding down the road,” said Beth wistfully.

  “John who?”

  “John Jarn… you know. No. Obviously you don’t. I keep forgetting you’re not a Dickens fan.”

  “It’s not that I’m not a fan. I just haven’t read any, that’s all. No, I tell a lie. I have read David Copperfield. Not really to my taste.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, a lot of social realism and all that, but the ending’s a bit twee, you must admit.”

  “Yeah well but….”

  Many of the houses in the street had basement flats and at that moment a voice emerged from one they were passing.

  “Pssst.”

  They looked around, surprised. Bit cloak and dagger, they both thought. They located the voice below and to the right of their feet. A now-familiar-looking silhouette emerged against the light.

  “My name is Athagos,” it said. “Theeth would like you to come in.”

  Gareth and Beth felt a tinge of anticipation and excitement, plus a soupcon of curiosity. This was the first gnome other than Theeth himself they had ever met. They walked gingerly down the steps to the entrance of the basement flat. Gareth had to stoop as they made their way through the doorway.

  “Follow me, if you would be so kind.” The voice had a similar guttural quality to Theeth but they both noticed that despite physical and sartorial likenesses to his leader, Athagos did not quite have the quiet dignity and strong presence of the chief Gnome.

  He led them into a dimly-lit back room, low-ceilinged but comfortably-furnished. Theeth was there and rose to greet them, with a mixture of affection and relief. He hugged them both vigorously.

  “I am so pleased to see you! Tell me about the attack. That should not have happened. I should have been better prepared. Let me look at you both!” His usual verbal composure deserted him briefly as he almost gabbled at his two young friends. He scrutinised them in turn with a look of such intensity it was almost painful. “I do not know what we would have done if we had lost you”, he added ominously, before releasing them from his collective embrace. “Let us have some refreshment. Athagos will get you whatever you like.”

  They chose soft drinks before settling themselves into comfortable armchairs opposite the agitated gnome.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, honestly, Theeth,” Gareth did his best to reassure him. “They seemed to be after something. With hindsight and, I have to say, a clever piece of detective work, we think we know what they were after, and I can assure you they didn’t find it, in spite of all their efforts.”

 
“What was it?”

  “A picture.”

  “A picture? Hmm. And why didn’t they find it?”

  “Because it was rolled up in one of the walking-sticks you gave us. Theeth, did you know something like that might happen?”

  “No. No. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I happened to have them handy. Why do you ask?

  “Well, that’s it, you see. You “happened to have them handy.” Beth and I have been convinced more than once that there is some great masterplan being rolled out for us to follow. We sometimes think we have no control over what is happening. Events seem to be taking a pre-destined turn almost in spite of, rather than because of, our actions.”

  Beth nodded in agreement, then started talking, the words gushing out like a bubbling stream. “Yes, what with Stan and his dark Lady, then that awful little man and his shop and the Guardian crossword on the train, it almost seems too neat, as though we’re just pawns in some supernatural game.”

  “Steady, steady,” Theeth held up an indulgent hand. “You are losing me now. Even my great intellect is having trouble following this. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  Beth looked at her partner, who said, “You tell it, Beth. You’re much better with words than I am.”

  “What, and you being a lawyer and all?” she replied incredulously. “Oh, ok then.”

  She started off with their arrival at Paradise View and their encounter with the ogresome Sue Flounders and her meek and mild husband; she went on to stress how his tales of goings-on at his local hostelry had led them to the idea of Crazy P being a ghost called the Dark Lady. Theeth nodded intermittently and confirmed their impression that Stan was “a good man.” She mentioned in passing the story of Lewis Lamprey and his extraordinary bet, all of which added credence to their tale.