The Indecent Death of a Madam
Page 25
Epilogue
Peter stood in his kitchen, aware of a quiet certainty. He’d have to do it; it was a force inside. And it was the conversation with Sarah that had done it.
Something had seemed to shift as they spoke, for she was so like Rosemary yet quite unlike her as well. Were all sisters like this? They’d talked after the funeral, over tea in the church hall. They’d found a small table in the corner and their own supply of flapjack.
‘So how did you know her?’ she asked, glad to be out of the crowd. Sarah found crowds difficult, especially when they contained family . . . and friends of the family, with whom things had not been easy. Strangers would have been easier today. She’d almost not come.
‘Well, a long time ago I was a patient of hers.’
‘Where?’
‘Highgate Asylum.’ He hadn’t wanted to mention that.
‘So you were a nutter?’ She said it with charm; you could not take offence.
‘We all have our moments, Sarah,’ he said defensively.
‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve had my own.’
‘Your own moments?’
‘Well, one moment really – it just went on for a while. I’m not sure how long a moment is permitted to last. But it wasn’t good.’
Peter did not push the matter. He’d only just met her, and this was her sister’s funeral.
‘But you must have kept in touch?’ she said. ‘With Rosemary, I mean.’
‘We did on and off. More off than on. I was away in the desert for a while.’
‘Another asylum?’ Her questions were childlike in their simplicity, and quite disarming.
‘Some would say so, though it was called a monastery.’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said, looking at his clothes. She was mid-fifties but seemed so much younger.
‘And you were Rosemary’s younger sister.’
‘I still am.’
‘Of course.’
‘We didn’t always get on. But we got on better when she stopped trying to save me or tell me what to do.’
‘And you reached that happy place?’
‘I should probably tell you something.’ She leant forward. ‘I mean, everyone else in this room knows, which is why they aren’t so keen to talk with me.’
‘And what do they all know?’
‘I was a prostitute for a while.’
‘OK.’ It came as a surprise.
‘Or as good as . . . no, I was, I was. Why disguise it? Not that I knew what I was doing at the time. I mean, you can look back on your life, on moments, on times, and wonder what on earth you were doing.’
‘I do it frequently – not the prostitution, the other bit.’
‘But that’s what I did. That’s where I found myself, in that sort of life, and it was hard to leave, very hard. There were others involved, forceful people; and I wasn’t very forceful.’
‘No.’
‘And then Rosemary saved me – well, organized the intervention – and she thought I should be grateful to her.’
‘That’s what she said?’
‘I don’t know if she actually said it, but you don’t have to say it, the demand is still there – or that’s what I felt. And I mean, I should have been grateful, in a way – but it was my life, and I wanted to make my own choices. And we got on better later when, as I say, she stopped trying to save me; or stopped as much as she could ever stop. She was always my big sister and very free with advice.’
Peter smiled. ‘Perhaps she turned to saving others instead.’
‘I imagine so. She did a lot for people, or so I hear.’
‘You are aware she ran a brothel?’ said Peter after a pause.
‘She what?’ Both tea and table almost went flying.
‘She ran a brothel.’
‘Rosemary!’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘Really, you are.’
‘I’m really not.’
Sarah was in a state of shock, smiling and shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Well, in your own time.’
Sarah breathed deeply. ‘It’s true?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Then no, I was not aware. Can I tell everyone else here?’
‘Well, some of her employees are present.’
Sarah looked incredulous. ‘Oh, this is too good. Just too good! I somehow love her more now.’
‘She was very eager to look after her girls. Their well-being was really at the heart of the business.’
Her mood suddenly darkened. ‘Not for the clients – it’s never their first concern.’
‘Well, no.’
‘Unbelievable. The things we don’t know.’ She held her tea tightly, sipping occasionally. Peter allowed her time. ‘Still in shock, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a boulder to throw in the pond.’
‘And I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Peter. Abbot Peter.’
‘Very grand.’
‘Not from the inside.’ And then as casually as he could: ‘I don’t suppose she mentioned me.’
‘Rosemary?’
‘Yes.’ He felt a fool.
‘Not that I can remember, no.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have expected it.’
‘She was pretty secretive, though. There was much she didn’t speak of. She had an outer shell like a crab, and nothing behind the shell or beneath it ever got out. But I mean, you should ask the rest of the family. They saw more of her.’
‘It doesn’t matter . . . it really doesn’t matter. And it’s probably time I was off anyway.’ He’d seen Tamsin signalling and he began to get up.
‘We must meet again,’ she said. ‘I hope so.’
‘Yes, we must, Sarah, we must – it’s been very good talking.’ And that felt strange, because she looked so similar to Rosemary. Perhaps a little prettier . . .
He had known then that it was time. He’d been awaiting his moment . . . and this was it.
And so now he left the kitchen and slowly climbed the stairs, looking up at the simple flame burning, climbing towards the light. It had danced delicately in the window for so long – and often forgotten. A light of longing, even in the dark, a calling out, the whisper of a homecoming. But there’d be no homecoming now, for Rosemary was dead. Or perhaps the dream was dead, for Rosemary had merely given this longing a name.
‘Goodbye, Rosemary,’ he said. ‘Rest in joy.’
He bent down and blew out the flame, staying still until the last ember had died on the wick and the winding column of smoke had dissolved into the dark space at the top of the stairs.
‘Rest in joy.’
Acknowledgements
A book is always the work of a community and I am indebted to mine. So my thanks to Shellie Wright, Elizabeth Spradbery, Alison Barr and Rebecca Parke for kindly reading early versions of the manuscript and sharing their delights, quibbles and bugbears; to my keen-eyed and trusted editor, Karl French, whose questions opened new asylum doors; to my neighbour Dave Burton for telling me all about planes and taking me up in his; to Marylebone House, whose fine craft is to make good books happen; and to all those kind readers whose encouragement along this fictional way (you won’t have known) would sometimes save my fragile day.
A story is just an introvert’s way of starting a conversation . . .
First published in Great Britain in 2017
Marylebone House
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Copyright © Simon Parke 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fa
ct, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978–1–910674–48–2
eBook ISBN 978–1–910674–49–9
eBook by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN