But no one comes. Rupert and Salvatore are working downstairs. Far away, in the drawing room, the music begins. But I must not abandon my post or fall asleep. At all costs I must guard the door. The intruders may poison the dogs, murder Rupert and Salvatore with machetes, cutting their throats at once so that their screams are inaudible, swarm up the staircase. I am the last outpost of defence. The city depends on me. I stand guard. But no one comes. I begin to doze off, clutching the stone bannisters. My arse is getting cold. The candles gutter above me.
Suddenly I am awake again, staring at the huge picture that is always there, halfway up the staircase. A man and a woman lean close together. They are vast, giants on Olympus. She holds him close to her. Her fingers are entwined in his long black curls. She shows him her naked breast, her nipple appearing pink between the tresses of her torrent of golden hair. The figures are two solid masses of pink and gold, a gigantic expanse of rich merging flesh, looming far above me. Their nakedness shimmers and gleams in the candlelight. His mouth almost touches hers. For a moment I am terrified. Francisco and my Beloved. They have become monsters. Then the world turns black.
‘Why aren’t you in bed yet, child?’
Francisco has stepped out of the painting, dressed in seconds, and is relieving me of my duties.
‘Will you take the second watch?’ I murmur as he disentangles my legs from the cold stone diagonals of the staircase. If he takes over my post he will not be able to climb back into the picture. Yet again I have rescued my Beloved.
‘I’m on duty all night, soldier.’
Now his moustachios are against my face, his arms around me. I hold on tightly, just in case he tries to get away.
‘You are my prisoner. Don’t try anything,’ I give the orders here. He strides up the stairs, two at a time. There is the library, also lit by candles, brown, red and black leather volumes with a gold globe on the top of one of the bookshelves. The wooden ladder is there for a second, then vanishes as we turn the corner. The terrible painting sinks beneath us. I lean over to see whether it is torn at the edges where Francisco stepped out. But now it is too far below us, it is becoming too dark to see. The nursery is engulfed in shadows. We have reached the top of the house.
‘You can’t get away from me,’ I mumble accusingly.
‘You’ve taken me prisoner, have you? Right, I yield.’ Francisco lays me out flat upon my bed. He removes my boots.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, child, your feet are freezing.’
I used to sleep with my Beloved. She used to warm my feet. Since we came to live with Francisco I have been banished to the nursery. There are compensations, but sleeping alone is not one of them. Francisco gives my toes a bracing rub.
‘All right, soldier. Get in. Wriggle down.’
‘Will you tell me a story?’
Anything to keep him here. And out of the painting.
‘Which one do you want? The escape across the marshlands? The battle with the alligator? The Mohammedan brigand who saved my life?’
‘Tell me the story of the picture on the staircase.’
‘No game, soldier. You’re not old enough for The Rape of Lucretia.’
‘No, no. Not the one with the black horse. The big, big one with the woman and the man.’
‘That’s Juno and Jupiter on Mount Ida. They were the King and Queen of the gods. But Juno was playing a very clever game. You see, there was a war on between the Greeks and the Trojans. All because Paris had run off with Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world . . .’
‘Is she more beautiful than my Beloved?’
‘No, of course not. Juno wasn’t pleased about this, so she was on the side of the Greeks . . .’
‘Why wasn’t she pleased?’
‘She thought that married people shouldn’t run off with people they aren’t married to, so . . .
‘But you said . . .’
‘Listen, soldier, do you want this story or don’t you?’
‘But . . . all right . . . go on.’
‘Juno was on the side of the Greeks and Jupiter was backing the Trojans. So she was hoping to seduce him off to sleep so that she could arrange the war without any interference. She asked Venus, the goddess of love, for help and Venus gave her a secret potion made with the dew of plants from the forest. And Jupiter was overcome with drowsiness and love . . .’
I don’t hear all the story. But I have the impression that Juno and the Greeks are going to win. And so I am reassured. This is my Beloved’s doing. My Beloved is always on the winning side.
* * *
I hear her step, somewhere in the room. I smell warm roses in sunshine. She has been dancing. Her hands are damp.
‘Is that you?’
‘Shhhh, darling. Sleep now. It’s nearly morning.’
But I am wide awake.
‘Did you dance all night?’
She laughs softly.
‘Most of it, yes. When we weren’t eating supper.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘More than anyone else in the world.’
This sounds sufficiently extravagant. But I want more.
‘But do you love me the best? More than Francisco?’
‘Well, it’s different. You can’t really compare.’
This will not do.
‘But if you had to choose?’
There is no hesitation.
‘I would choose you.’
‘Mmmmm.’ I snuggle back down into the dark, satisfied. But there is one more question.
‘Who painted you and Francisco on the staircase?’
‘On the staircase?’
‘Yes, enormous.’
She laughs again. She has gathered up her shawl. She is leaving.
‘That’s Juno and Jupiter. Not us. And that was painted by your uncle, James Barry. Now go to sleep, my love.’
But she is lying. I know she is. It is them.
* * *
I knew who James Barry was. And I was afraid of him. He hated children. He had the reputation of being cantankerous and unreasonable. He was not often in the house. When he was there he ignored me. He usually ignored my Beloved too. He only talked to Francisco. But I spied on his passage through the hallway, up the staircase, into the library, out of the French windows, down the garden walks and into the bushes. I watched over his steps. I hid behind the great ornamental chest which contains the logs to watch him stump into the drawing room. I tried to remember all his swear words. I practised them in secret, on my own, hiding in the gardens. I counted the holes in his stockings. His wig smelt of linseed oil and ashes. I was afraid of him, but I was also fascinated. There was one particular thing about him which held me in thrall.
He looked like me.
And so I began to stalk him. After the night when I saw his painting move I began to lie in wait for him. I stared out of carriage windows. I hunted the walkways in the park, keeping low to the ground. I followed my Beloved’s steps. I checked her daily collection of visiting cards. I listened out for gossip. James Barry was my target, the focus of my imagination.
When I knew James Barry he was an old man, stocky, robust, heavy on his feet, violent with the servants, rude to rich men, and ruder still to ladies who believed in religions. His lined face was impeccably shaven, his eyebrows thin, arched, aristocratic, his glance an inferno of desires.
Barry came to find Francisco. I had seen him from the schoolroom window, where I was sitting in a draught, learning Latin verbs by heart. I looked down through the early leaves which had just begun to thicken and shine. I saw his shabby hat bouncing up the gravel four floors below me. I knew Francisco was out. James Barry was hammering at the door. I crouched and slithered, calculating every distance crossed in relation to the sight-lines up the staircase. I must not be seen. Out of the schoolroom and along the landing, I uncoil steadily, oozing like liquid jelly, one step at a time, flat on my belly, all down the staircase. My Beloved is coming out of the upstairs drawing room; a breath of warm air accompa
nies her steps. I freeze into a wooden pilaster and become one with the tall clock in the corner as she patters down before me.
Salvatore opens the door. Spectacular, majestic in his bad manners, Barry drops his hat on the bench, refusing to wipe his muddy shoes on the scraper, and marches into the house, leaving a handsome trail of prints all across the immaculate sequence of black and white. He sees my Beloved and grunts the most minimal of greetings. She increases the speed of her descent, but he does not wait for her and stomps away into the downstairs breakfast room. Wherever Barry goes he leaves a trail of dirt. I wait for her to close the door, and for Salvatore to sweep up the mud on the hall flags. Then I continue upon my spiral downwards. By the time I have flattened myself against the breakfast-room door they are having an argument. Unfortunately, James Barry is winning.
‘Ask your husband’s family, girl. I’ve told you. Not a farthing. Not one damned farthing . . .’ Barry’s voice is sharp with irritation. ‘She’s not my responsibility. Can’t you save something out of the housekeeping? Doesn’t Francisco give you enough?’
‘James, this is a family matter. It ought to be. Can’t I even discuss it with you?’
‘Oh, don’t bother me, Mary Ann. If the child’s clever she’ll make her own way in the world. And a better marriage than you did. Let her amuse herself. You’re like a harp with a single string. One long irritating whinge . . .’
I could hear one of them fiddling with the fire irons. That meant that their backs were turned. I risked the door. One of the great advantages of being small and thin is that you can ooze through doors like a flat shadow. I sat holding my breath, crouched between the piano leg and the curtain, when the door, which I had failed to re-shut properly, blew open. They both turned quickly away from the fire. My Beloved was pale, with two red spots, high on each cheek. She stepped across to the door and shut it firmly. Barry pulled one of the chairs closer to the fire. He spat a sizzling gobbet into the flames, then farted as he settled into his seat.
‘Shall I ring for tea?’ he asked rudely, as if nothing was the matter between them. My Beloved sat down upon the sofa, ignoring the bell rope, her back straight.
Barry chuckled, grunted, bit his lip, stared into the flames.
‘I have enemies, Mary Ann. They are jealous of my success. Yes, my success. You may not see me as a success. But even if every door in London was locked against me they would still envy my work.’
Then he began to stare at her. She remained seated in silence while the fire snapped and shuddered. For a few minutes neither of them said anything. Holding my breath involved an enormous effort. I began to dribble into the curtains. Suddenly she rose and tugged at the bell rope. All the drapes shuddered. I feared discovery. Barry watched her every movement, as if he saw her bones beneath the skin.
‘Sit for me again, Mary Ann,’ he cried out with terrible intensity. She sprang to her feet. She was facing me. The two red spots in her cheeks flooded out to her ears and down her neck.
‘No,’ she shouted. And she rushed out of the room, creating a huge gust of air which lifted the curtain and exposed my toes. I felt the tug of her skirt and pelisse, billowing out like a sail as she passed. The double doors slammed behind her.
I peered at the vibrating doors, astonished and impressed. Francisco and my Beloved never shouted at each other. When they discussed their affairs, especially the account books, there was a good deal of laughter and kissing. But she occasionally shouted at me. Barry had made her shout. He not only looked like me, he had the same effect upon my Beloved. As the vibrations from her departure gradually ceased Barry settled back into his chair, then he drew out a pipe and a leather pouch of tobacco. He chuckled to himself. I tried not to breathe. He puffed away quietly for about twenty minutes, accumulating a blue haze by the writing desk and the huge Oriental vase with blue shiny dragons, their faces like Pekinese dogs, which Beloved had told me never to touch. Pins and needles developed in my knees. I was on tiptoe, my single eye pressed to the crack in the curtains.
I grew bored with watching the lines on his face, the creases on his hands, the frayed edge of his coat, his stringy greying hair poking out from the offensive smelly wig, and the mud slowly drying on his tattered shoes and stockings. He was less frightening when he was closely observed. His hair had once been red like mine. I could tell from the thin streaks tied back behind his ears. But it was straight, as Beloved’s would have been had she not spent hours with papers and curling tongs, persuading it to froth and whirl into beautiful curls. Barry clearly spent no time whatsoever on his toilette. He was neither handsome nor glamorous, he wore no jewellery and no frills. He was uncompromisingly plain.
Suddenly he was on his feet, four strides across the carpet and his fist clamped to the back of my neck, flesh and collar and all.
‘Come out, you jealous little bastard or I’ll pull you out by those damned red curls!’
I began yelling at the top of my voice as he dragged me onto the hearth rug. I knew at once that he intended to put out my eyes with a red-hot poker.
‘Silence,’ he thundered, and boxed both my ears.
I shrieked and struggled. Barry picked me up by the belt and suspended me over the fender. The flames were barely two feet away and Barry’s face was bloated and purple. I bit his wrist as hard as I could. He dropped me at once with a tremendous roar and reached for the poker. I somersaulted backwards on the rug, ready to run. Barry was upon me. The double doors flew open with a crash. Handsome, laughing, magnificent in his military uniform of unknown origins, every inch a revolutionary general, Francisco was standing in the doorway, peeling off his gloves.
‘Well, well, James,’ he said, ‘am I interrupting a family discussion?’
* * *
‘You mustn’t bite your uncle,’ my Beloved reproaches me gently, ‘whatever he says to you.’
‘He made you shout too,’ I counter.
‘And you mustn’t spy on your elders.’ She flushes slightly, reopening the abandoned Latin verbs. ‘Let’s try confiteor.’
‘Was he really my father?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she says sharply, but I am watching closely and she has turned slightly pale. ‘He’s your uncle. He’s my brother.’
‘But I never met my father.’
‘Yes you did. You just don’t remember him. You were very small when he died.’
A pause. I am still looking at her intently and my Beloved picks up her embroidery. She bites her lip. Then she continues.
‘Won’t Francisco do? He’s like a father to you.’
‘He’s not my father. He’s my commander-in-chief.’
‘But that’s what fathers are.’ At last relaxed, she laughs. I persist gently.
‘He’s my General. Not my father.’
But she was right too. Francisco had become a father to me and I loved him for it. I wanted to give in to her. I wanted her to win. And so I recited the verb confiteor, through all its conjugations, without hesitation or mistake.
* * *
It was Francisco who taught me to read and to write. He taught me geography, history, philosophy, Latin, Greek, German and Spanish. We read the classics together. I read Homer in Greek long before I read Pope’s translations. We also studied botany, but his books were about the plants in South America. All this information was exotic and marvellous and proved useless when I was confronted with English hedgerows. Every morning, even on the mornings when they had had guests or had been to the theatre the night before, Francisco would be waiting for me in the library, and I would stand before him and recite whatever I had learned, before we proceeded to the next lesson. Learning was like building a cathedral. There was a proper order in which to construct the building. Francisco had a masterplan. I never doubted that. I learned many things by heart. Francisco said that it was important to learn with all your heart. And to know things, so that whatever else was taken from you, if you were a prisoner, or a hostage in the mountains, you would still guard many
things that were secret, that only you would know. Knowledge would always protect you from destruction. He told me that it was more important to be clever than to be beautiful.
Beloved also heard me recite everything I had learned. Often in the late afternoons, when she was getting dressed. I loved to deserve her lavish praise. She never praised without kissing. And she taught me French, because he said she had a charming accent, which I would do well to acquire. But I never learned dancing, drawing, embroidery or theology. James Barry said that I had never learned any morals either. I heard him say so. And Beloved turned pink again with rage. But she didn’t say anything. That was years later, when I didn’t need her to speak up for me.
Francisco would wait for me in his library and when I appeared and saluted formally, legs together, back straight, keep your elbow parallel with your ear, that’s right, he would always ask the same thing: ‘What’s the news from the front today, soldier?’ turning his face to the fire so that all his colours matched the bindings of his books, red, grey, brown, black, gold. His lamps had special safety devices, which snuffed them out, in case they were overturned. But he ordered a fire in the library, even in July, because he loved and treasured his books so well. That was one way I knew he loved me. He let me read his books.
On the lower shelves were ranks of huge encyclopaedias with blue and black leather bindings, dictionaries and books on natural history with hand-coloured engravings. Each image was separated from the facing page by a soft detachable sheet of absorbent paper. I was allowed to look at them if I could prove that my hands were clean. Francisco had travelled the world, amassing trunks of foreign languages and images. He had great hard-backed portfolios of maps and diagrams, architectural plans, political cartoons and anatomical explanations. He had an enormous collection of scrolls, some of them in Arabic and Hebrew. I was shown these on special occasions, but never allowed to touch them, no matter how clean my hands were. They were covered in a strange white powder, which slaughtered approaching insects.
James Miranda Barry Page 2