James Miranda Barry

by Patricia Duncker

  ‘I . . . That is . . . Good evening, Doctor . . . I came . . .’ James tried to get it all out in one breath and ended up coughing into his gloves.

  ‘You came here to apologise.’ Barry glittered, looking up at him. ‘That would be the correct thing to do. But in this case there is no need.’

  ‘Well, I did . . . that is . . . I must reveal to you Doctor, that Miss Walden . . . I saw her this morning and she . . . well, she confessed everything to me. I owe you the deepest apologies for my behaviour, my insults, my . . .’

  What precisely has she confessed to you?’ snapped Barry. He was like a terrier scenting a rabbit, every sense alert. This did not help James, who had turned scarlet and was inarticulate with embarrassment.

  ‘She . . . well, sir, I must admit that her frankness has quite startled me. She was very honest about her feelings for you.’

  Barry stood, chilly and impassive, on the highest step above him. Even then his eyes were only just level with James’s collar.

  ‘Miss Walden,’ Barry barked, ‘is a lady deserving of every man’s courtesy and respect.’

  The terrier had the rabbit of reputation by the throat. Barry was clearly quite prepared to fight the duel again. James was reduced to mumbling.

  ‘Indeed, sir . . . I had no idea . . . I am most deeply sorry . . .’

  ‘Speak up, man,’ Barry retorted.

  James pulled himself together.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I was quite in the wrong and I make the most unreserved of apologies. I will of course take responsibility for the entire affair.’

  Suddenly, the lizard, which had hung perpendicular on the wall throughout their exchange, flickered, shifted, and vanished into the shadow beneath the building. Barry leaned forward. His thin, pale face became warmer and more generous.

  ‘Come inside for a moment, Captain Loughlin,’ he said quietly. His welcome was still reserved, but the change in temperature was unmistakable.

  James stepped cautiously into Barry’s still, dim rooms. He had the impression of a ruthless, spartan orderliness. A stack of reports lay on the desk. Only the blotter, spattered with ink, demonstrated that Barry did anything other than polish his furniture day and night. The same strange smell, musk, alcohol and the sharper, heavy, burning odour, which he had detected in the doctor’s curls, clung to the objects in the room and to the curtains that were made of French lace. James heard an unpleasant growl at his heels and almost stepped into a tiny mass of bristling white fur. Barry summoned the little dog directly and it pattered back across the boards towards him. No eyes or feet were clearly visible. The creature made one or two appalling noises and then sank at Barry’s feet. Both the dog and its master looked peculiar and ridiculous.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Barrry’s rooms were white and green. The floorboards glimmered in the half-light and the officer was forced to take small steps to avoid falling. By the fireplace a heavy green rug softened the effect. The evening sun was blocked by thick white lace across the blinds, so that the air within was murky and cool. James felt that he had been pulled underwater by the nymphs and was now lying, drugged and submerged, face upwards, in a stagnant pond. The doctor waited for him to sit down. The chair, with its upright, green-striped back, brought him to his senses. He stared at Barry, who was staring fixedly back at him. Barry rang a little bell on his desk. The sound hollowed out the green cavern. The heap of white fur stirred and growled again. The doctor now resembled an intelligent midget with a toy dog, about to perform in a circus. There he stood, holding a small silver bell. James realised that his stare had now continued well past the point of politeness.

  ‘I will order green tea,’ said the Doctor, as if administering a tincture. ‘You should drink something hot in this heat. The water is always boiled correctly. My boy sees to that. And Captain . . .’ here Barry smiled slightly ‘you should drink a great deal of tea to dilute the alcohol you are given to consuming in such abundance.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ James remembered his manners and that Barry was reputed to be cranky on diet. But he felt like a schoolboy, receiving a mild dressing-down from the headmaster.

  Barry’s servant was tall, swarthy and ironic. He appeared in the doorway, glanced at James, then grinned broadly at Barry. He had a wonderful array of teeth, all extraordinarily straight, like a military cemetery.

  ‘Tea, sir?’ He grinned some more.

  ‘Indeed. And do you have any of those lemon cakes we made on Sunday? Or have we eaten them all?’

  ‘I’ll look, sir.’

  With an easy bow, the man strolled off, followed at full gallop by the little dog, its nails clicking on the polished boards.

  ‘Psyche and Isaac are fond of those cakes,’ said Barry, sitting down at last. He vanished inside his chair. James had no idea whether the servants were called Psyche and Isaac, or if one of them was the dog. But he had noticed that Barry’s domestic arrangements were casual and good-natured. The man had no fear of his master and clearly knew all about the abortive duel.

  There was a long silence. Far away, James heard the rattle of crockery and low voices, interrupted by laughter. He felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

  ‘You realise that I have already been sent for by the Governor himself?’ said Barry suddenly.

  ‘I didn’t know. I . . .’

  ‘I have an appointment to see him at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I believe that the Deputy Governor called upon you last night, but that you were – how shall we put it? – indisposed . . .’

  ‘I was disgustingly drunk.’

  Barry smiled. James realised that it was the first time he had ever seen this smile, a wonderful, transforming smile, which lit up the pale grey eyes, and covered the doctor’s face with the cheerful glitter of a merry child. How old was Barry? He had no idea. How had he gained so much authority? No one knew. James smiled back, a little bewitched. He had entered the green domain of the Erl King.

  ‘Shall I tell the Governor that we are reconciled and both heartily apologise for the disruption occasioned by our quarrel?’

  Barry’s actual words were still perfectly formal, but there was now an intimate complicity in his manner, which had never been there before. The doctor still had the whip hand, but the distance between them had narrowed abruptly. James could not fathom the register within which Barry conducted his conversations. The mixture of intimacy and menace was too much for him.

  ‘I shall call on the Governor tomorrow,’ James declared. ‘I am entirely to blame. I shall make that clear. And I will explain everything.’

  ‘Not everything, perhaps,’ said Barry mildly. James blushed scarlet once again. Even his ears went red.

  ‘No, sir. Of course not. But I shall say all that needs to be said.’

  Barry bowed slightly. There was another long pause. Then he said, ‘This is a very small colony, Captain Loughlin. There has already been a good deal of unfounded gossip, and I would be grateful for a few judicious words from you in the right quarters on the question of Miss Walden. And it would be best, whatever your sentiments, if, in public at least, we were seen to be on excellent terms. May I count on your discretion?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ James floundered at Barry’s candour. Then he spoke from the heart. ‘I trust that we shall indeed be on good terms. Whatever the circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Barry replied simply, but he smiled again. James gazed at him and then sank, hopelessly and without trace, into the spell of Barry’s green kingdom. He was excessively relieved when the servant reappeared with the tea.

  The entire apparition on the tea tray was a miracle of elegance. Here were delicate bone-china cups, thin as rice paper, huge circles of lemon laid out like half moons on tiny saucers, one each, a gleaming pair of sugar tongs wrapped in a miniature lace napkin, with a hand-stitched design of two swallows flying in formation, wing tips outstretched, silver spoons with little claws and the familiar initials, F de M. James stared at this fastidious demonstration of good t
aste. The service would have graced the table of any well-bred lady in the empire.

  ‘Thank you, Isaac. I will pour it myself. Where are the cakes?’

  Isaac leaned forward and lifted another fine linen cloth with a little flourish, like a matador, to reveal a charming array of biscuits.

  ‘Cakes all gone, sir.’

  ‘Wolfed down by you, Psyche and the boys, I suppose,’ said Barry cheerfully. Isaac stood there, ogling James and grinning, unabashed.

  ‘Run along then,’ said Barry to the dog, which trotted out of the room, with Isaac in her wake.

  ‘I assume that you live in the officer’s quarters?’ Barry handed James his cup and James found himself staring down at the tiny, steady hands, pale, scrubbed, unshaking, with a gold signet ring on the third finger of the right hand.

  ‘Umm . . . Yes. I do.’

  ‘I prefer my independence and my privacy.’

  Barry’s voice was quiet and even, but the timbre was that of a boy, rather than a man. At that moment James wondered if the rumours were correct. Could Barry be some kind of hermaphrodite, with a spectacular intelligence? He was neither man nor woman, but partook of both. He had a woman’s delicacy and grace, but the courage and skill of a man. Barry’s courage was legendary. James tried to order his thoughts and was unable to do so. There were very few men in the army whose aim was as infallible and murderous as that of James Miranda Barry. He had both saved and taken lives. He was the lord and owner of every one of his gestures and expressions. He knew neither hesitation nor uncertainty. He gave rather than took orders. The Governor himself deferred to Barry’s judgement. But even so, he was not a man like other men.

  James felt himself sinking down into the green tea, the green air and the green rooms, drugged by the pale oval of Barry’s face and the odd, heavy scent that lingered about the doctor. Barry talked easily and pleasantly. James let down his guard. He heard the multitude of insects battering against the mesh. At dusk, Barry rang the bell again to summon Isaac with the lamps. The dog pattered softly back into the room and leaped onto Barry’s lap.

  ‘. . . and so operating conditions have greatly improved.’ Barry stroked the dog. ‘I am not yet able to offer these facilities to the native populations. But we have begun basic training for some of the more able apprentices.’

  James gazed spellbound as the doctor talked about his work and his plans for the hospital. The spell was cast not so much by his conversation, which was practical, even of a somewhat specialised nature, and well beyond James’s range of comprehension in all but the most general terms. There was something uncanny in the doctor’s manner, but James was unable to make sense of the source. What was so hypnotic, strange and intense about this man, which began to appear like a deliberate tactic to beguile and seduce? He urged James to imbibe more and more green tea, until the young officer feared for an explosion in his bladder. He was increasingly anxious to relieve himself, but did not dare beg permission to step further into Barry’s green kingdom or to take his leave.

  Finally, when it was quite dark, Barry allowed him to go. As he rose to escape he ventured one personal question. He had no certain idea who Barry was, only rumours and gossip.

  ‘We share a Christian name, sir.’ James hesitated. ‘Am I right in thinking that the painter James Barry was one of your relations?’

  ‘He was. James Barry was my uncle.’

  ‘And forgive my impertinence, but I noticed that your silver was marked with the initials F de M. Is it indeed the case that you are connected to the famous Argentinian General, Francisco de Miranda?’

  James did not dare to mention the pistols.

  ‘Venezuelan. General Miranda was born in Venezuela. And yes, he was my patron. He was like a father to me. He lives yet. He is an old man now. But his intelligence is undiminished. He is at present engaged in important research into the conditions of the unfortunate Negroes upon his West Indian estates. It is my greatest privilege to merit his continuing good opinion.’

  This was delivered with uncharacteristic passion. For the first time, Barry flushed slightly. James bowed. He sincerely believed that his next observation was merely polite.

  ‘I did not, of course, give credence to the rumour, but I was told that General Miranda fought with the French.’

  ‘Then, in this case, Captain Loughlin, you should have believed what you were told. General Miranda was, and is, a true son of the Revolution. He supported Bonaparte with his sword and with his life on precisely those grounds. He believed, as I do, that Napoleon was a great general. Napoleon towered above the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserving all that was good in it – equality of citizenship, freedom of speech and of the press – and that was the only reason he possessed himself of power.’

  Barry’s voice was low and his manner was intense. James turned pale.

  ‘The Revolution, sir, is the one grand event of our times. You and I are too young to remember that early blaze of enthusiasm, but we are fortunate enough to witness the first ripples of its aftermath in a changed world.’

  James sat open-mouthed at this torrent of treason and subversion. Barry had a reputation for expressing himself with unnerving frankness, but here he had exceeded all expectations. James looked around in desperation for his cap. If he did not rapidly escape from this green lair of odd smells, bone china, fluffy dogs and revolutionary opinions, he was in grave danger of urinating on the rug. The dog sniffed the air and growled. Once outside, James staggered out of view and pissed at length, up against a menacing hibiscus. It took him nearly an hour to walk back to the town in the luminous, shimmering dark, with the great sky and Barry’s pale, oval face, vast and mysterious as eternity, hovering before him.

  James pondered his namesake all the way home. The man was like quicksilver, fluid, indeterminate, yet utterly beautiful. He still could not understand the perversity of Charlotte’s passion. A woman should, after all, fall in love with a proper sort of fellow, not a creature outside the boundaries of this world. But he too had succumbed to Barry’s magic, and was, knowingly, a little in love with this man who had been tempted to kill him. And had resisted that temptation.

  * * *

  But what on earth had happened? What on earth could have happened on the night of that fateful dinner, during the Governer’s absence? How had it ended? Barry was a man of honour. He never lied. He had stated, without ambiguity or hesitation, that Miss Walden was a lady who deserved every man’s courtesy and respect, whose reputation was beyond reproach. He was so sure of himself and of her innocence that he had been prepared to barter words for bullets. No honourable man fought duels for whores. Either Charlotte Walden was lying, or Barry was. James abandoned the struggle to imagine a scene of passion that was, indeed, quite beyond the reach of his imagination. And gradually he forgot all about it. This is what actually happened.

  * * *

  There was something too knowing, too well informed, about the boy’s glance. Barry was an acute observer of every gesture, every glance, even of the tension in another man’s back or the muscles in his neck. He was very quick to sense change. And here, from the flicker of a lash, the rapidity of the boy’s gesture as he opened the door, his smothered grin, Barry knew at once that this was no ordinary dinner engagement and that something was wrong. He stepped inside the cool, tiled hallway with the tiny fountain exploding in intermittent bursts and the stairs curling away into the darkened storeys above. Nothing was out of place: the sound of a piano and Charlotte’s laughter, uncoiling in the distance, were nothing out of the ordinary, but as Barry stepped into the bright, fashionable drawing room, already dominated by slightly too many china ornaments, hunting portraits and Chinese vases for his taste, he saw at once what was wrong. There was nobody there.

  Lotte sat gorgeous at the piano, her famous bosom unaccountably revealed to great advantage. Her brother, handsome and gauche, barely sixteen, with still fewer hairs upon his chin, was mixing up her music for her and making a mess of things. He was dr
essed in a formal black coat, but giggling like a schoolboy. Neither of them had heard the cloche. When they saw Barry standing warily at the other end of the carpet, they both jumped up, excited and embarrassed, like two children meeting one of their parent’s friends for the first time. Charlotte gambolled down the room, calling out long before she got within range of polite greetings, ‘Dr Barry! I’m so sorry that we didn’t hear you come in. We were only fooling. How kind of you to come. It is wonderful to see you this evening.’

  She gabbled all this far too quickly. Then she cantered round him like a lively pony, as if she was trying to absorb him from all angles at once. Barry raised one eyebrow. Charlotte was being too silly and too gushing to be affected. On the other hand, she had never looked so pretty nor so young.

  ‘Father’s not here. It’s just us. He had to go off to the other side of the island at short notice. He suggested that I should put you off until Friday. I told him I would. But then I didn’t want to. We’re so dull with nobody here.’

  The unfortunate brother, a head taller than the doctor but just as fresh-faced and pale, stood stifling giggles and scuffing his shoe.

  ‘Lotte’s an awful hostess, Dr Barry. Would you like a drink? We’ve made some terrific fruit cup. Enough for forty people.’

  Lotte pinched him, her face all puckered up and cross.

  ‘Oh, Joe, don’t say I’m no good at entertaining. I’ve only just got started. He’s always teasing me and making me embarrassed. Please sit down, Dr Barry. Don’t mind us.’

  She dragged Barry into the full glare of the candles and revealed the fruit cup in its vast silver bowl. There were apricots and cucumbers floating on its surface, and the entire thing had been excessively chilled.

  Lotte was overdressed. She was wearing too many trinkets and looked like a saint’s shrine in the aftermath of a miracle. She had the sense to allow the opals in gold that hung from her ears to set off a plain miniature on a red velvet ribbon tied tight in the French style, like a knife-cut round her throat. But she had gone quite mad with the bracelets and rings. Barry gazed at this child, this thoughtless, silly girl, and remarked the bizarre figure that she cut, aping her elders, and, no longer supervised by older hands, getting it all wrong.