by Edward Carey
‘What are those ones kept in this small mean chest beside the great one, a pillbox, a skipping rope, a glass vase, a glass eye – what’s that about?’
‘Those are the Iremonger suicides,’ I said.
‘Poor beggars. No, I prefer the bigger chest, thick glass isn’t it?’
‘As thick as the glass used in deep-sea helmets worn by men who venture underwater, there’s a marking on the bottom right corner – PREBBLE & SON GLASS MANUFACTURERS FOR THE DEEP. Well, that’s the Marble Hall and the Great Chest.’
‘Thank you. Very much.’
‘I’ve shown you several rooms now, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘And now I’m going to ask something, and be very blunt about it.’
‘Do it then and all in a rush.’
‘I think you have my Aunt Rosamud’s door handle in your hair beneath your bonnet.’
‘I . . . how . . . well . . . I don’t say it isn’t so.’
‘I know you do, Lucy, and it isn’t right.’
‘How do you know? Maybe I haven’t.’
‘I can hear it.’
‘It’s a doorknob! You can’t hear . . .’
‘It’s very faint now . . . quite a whisper, I hear it talking, saying its name.’
‘All guff, isn’t it? Don’t you try to frighten me.’
‘It’s saying “Alice Higgs”, very weakly, it’s barely audible now.’
‘So you say. That doesn’t prove a thing.’
‘Then take off your bonnet.’
‘Shan’t!’
‘Please, please, Lucy. It isn’t safe, not any more.’
‘Finders keepers! I found it!’
‘And they’ll find you but I doubt they’ll keep you.’
‘I don’t have anything else! Nothing at all! Nothing in the whole world! Not a single thing, Clod, not one object! You wouldn’t take it from me, would you? It’s such a weight, a perfect little weight.’
‘I must take it from you and get it to Aunt Rosamud, and then it’ll all stop I think, all will be back to normal, the city Iremongers will go back to the city and all will be well again, and I’ll come and see you every night, without fail. And you’ll be safe, quite safe. You’ll be safe just as soon as you give me the door handle, but if you don’t give it to me then they’ll keep searching for you and they’ll find you, and then, oh Lucy, if they find you with that door handle I’ve no notion what they’ll do with you, but it shall be awful dreadful, and whatever it is they do to you, it will mean one thing for certain, that if they find you with that in your bonnet then they’ll not forgive you, and then, for certain, for an absolute certainly, you shan’t be coming upstairs any more, and I shall never see you again. And the thought of that is so terrible to me. Give it to me, Lucy, give it to me now, Lucy Pennant, and let me help you!’
What a speech it was. I found my hands undoing my bonnet, but stopped a moment.
‘On one condition,’ I said.
‘Now, Lucy, you ought to hurry! You know you should!’
‘There’s something you must do.’
‘Anything! Only name it and give me the handle!’
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine, an Iremonger downstairs, she was out on the heaps, or in the ashroom, and she’s disappeared and they’re making such a fuss about it, and I want to know where she’s gone, I think she’s in danger, and I want you to help me.’
‘Anything, just give me the handle.’
‘You’ll find out what happened to her?’
‘Yes, I’ll try what I may, what was her name, how will I know her to talk of?’
‘That’s the easy part,’ I said, ‘she’s the Iremonger that’s gone missing.’
‘Right then!’ he said and held out his hand.
‘She lost her name, she scratched it somewhere here in Heap House, but she can’t remember where she put it.’
‘I’ve probably seen it. You should have asked earlier. People have written their names all over the shop.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Some have been burned with a magnifying glass like Jaime Brinkley, 1804, but that is on a window seat that was made before it got here.’
‘A female, Clod. Seen any female names?’
‘Helen Bullen, Form 2B.’
‘Where was that?’
‘It’s on a ruler in the schoolroom.’
‘I don’t think that’s her.’
‘This is the Property of Prunella Mason, Keep Off. That’s on a chest in the Long Gallery.’
‘No, no I don’t think so.’
‘Florence Balcombe, 1875.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Um, one of the back staircases. On a step scratched in.’
‘That’s it! You’ve found her, Clod, you’ve bloody found her!’ I gave him a kiss then, right on the lips for the joy of it. He looked punched afterwards, as if I’d struck him. ‘Got her name!’ I said. ‘Now we need to find her. You’ll ask about, Clod, won’t you, find out what happened?’
I took the bonnet off and my hair came down, and I heard Clod whispering, ‘I shall start flying. Oh, I’ll bump on the ceiling!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all, Lucy Pennant,’ he said. ‘It’s very red, isn’t it, your hair. You kissed me.’
But then he went all white again.
‘Just a kiss, Clod.’
‘Albert Powling!’ he whispered. ‘Hurry!’
We hid behind the Great Chest, which now had twelve feet when only a moment ago it stood on eight.
Footsteps, then more footsteps, different footsteps. Then speaking too.
‘I heard something,’ came a man’s voice.
‘Yes, Uncle Timfy, what was it?’ This one was younger.
‘I think it was voices. Stunly, Divit?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘I want you very alert, I’ll not have these city Ires telling us what’s what. I’m the what’s what around here. I don’t care that Idwid’s back, what’s Idwid to me? He’s always putting me down. So what that he’s a Governor? I’m the one that looks after Heap House, I’m the one with eyes that work. I’m a House Uncle, I am, and I will have my respect. Well then, you’ve done your rounds, who’s missing, who’s out when they should be in?’
‘Tummis, Uncle.’
‘And Clod.’
‘There’ll be no trousers for them if ever I have a say in it. Where’s Moorcus?’
‘On the task!’
‘What’s that now?’
A rustling sound, a patter of feet upon the marble slabs.
‘It’s that bird again.’
‘Catch it! Trap it!’
And from our hiding place I heard Clod whispering, ‘Oh no.’
A great shriek.
‘Got it, Uncle!’
‘Good boys, good boys.’
‘Hilary Evelyn Ward-Jackson,’ whispered Clod, ‘oh no!’
More footsteps, more people arriving. ‘Look what I found!’
‘Tummis Iremonger!’
‘Wateringcan! Wateringcan! There you are at last!’
‘Wring it, snap it!’ yelled the one called Uncle.
And then there was a noise like a stick being snapped in half.
‘Wateringcan!’ someone yelled in pain.
‘Well done, Moorcus. Take him, upstairs now, to Umbitt himself!’
And then they all went away again. And panting, shaking, we crawled out, there was the seagull on the floor.
‘Oh, my poor, poor Tummis,’ said Clod.
‘And poor Wateringcan,’ I said.
‘It must all stop, it’s all going wrong,’ he said. ‘Give me the door handle, Lucy, for good and all.’
I untied my hair then, and handed it over.
‘We’ll meet tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ Clod said in a panic, ‘you know the Sitting Room?’
‘With the red sofa?’
‘That’s it, we’ll meet there, tomorrow night
without fail.’
‘Why there?’
‘It must be there, I should so like to see you there. Oh, everything’s going wrong. I’ll get this to Rosamud, that’ll help, I know it will. Tomorrow night, Lucy, dear Lucy!’ he cried, holding my hands, kissing me hard on the lips and then he was off. I don’t suppose he’d kissed many people before. I didn’t mind, he might try again if he liked.
I ran off too, back to my buckets and things and quickly down the stairs. I was very late, so late, because there was a very slight light coming up from the windows, some day trying to get through. I thought in all the chaos they shouldn’t concern themselves over me. As I went back down, all was quiet as it should be, some noises from the kitchens as breakfast was ready, but nothing out of the usual. I’ve made it, I thought, I’m safe now, no harm should come to me now, all over with. Clod will help, bound to, he’s all right he is, after all. Yes, I like him. And knowing that and the pleasure of thinking it, was something of sudden and curious delight. I like him, Clod Iremonger. I couldn’t stop my smiling. I put my buckets in their place, and went to the dormitory, all safe, all better now, try to sleep maybe. I’ll see him again tomorrow, all will be well. Florence Balcombe, I said to myself, Florence Balcombe and Clod Iremonger. I opened the door, all was quiet, in the many beds all those lumps sleeping. I moved quietly along the line of beds, and all was well. Quite well. Nearly at mine. Nearly there. Then I thought, that’s a bit odd, there’s someone sitting beside my bed, on the stool there, I must be mistaken, it’s some other Iremonger’s pit, surely, an Iremonger sitting up and getting ready for the day, some other Iremonger, not to worry, my bed must be further along, and I went on further a little, and that person at the bed watched me as I went on, and then that person, whoever it was sitting on the stool, said, ‘Good morning, Iremonger, I’ve been waiting for you.’
And I said, in my horror, ‘Good morning, Mrs Piggott.’
14
An Ice Bucket
Clod Iremonger’s narrative continued
In the Corkscrew
We were like some fleas or bees or small flies or croak beetles, or shrink blats, or scarab ants, or horned moths, that live only for a short time, flutter, scurry, creep, eat, live, love and then die within brief moments and then are all done with and then are only flecks of dirt. A whole life pushed into such little time. Oh, she’s a thought, the best of thoughts. The best thoughts I’ve ever had are all Lucy Pennant. I shall see her again tonight, I told myself, when it is dark again, that’s not so very long away and she shall be in the Sitting Room, and we shall sit together upon Victoria Hollest and I’ll tell her then what I think of her. I’ll kiss her again then.
‘Aaaaleeesss Heeeeeegsssssss.’
‘James Henry Hayward.’
‘Right you are, Alice, on we go,’ I said to the door handle, rubbing it a little in my waistcoat pocket. It sounded so faint, so unsteady.
It was at least a half hour’s journey to the Infirmary. I must hurry this door handle back to Aunt Rosamud before Uncle Idwid found me, or, worst of all, found Alice Higgs in my possession. I could not go the direct way, the main staircase would be shrieking with birth objects any moment. It was the start of a new day, the Iremonger family was getting up, the middle floors were already swarming. I would go the back way, up the winding stone stairs called the Corkscrew and take the door halfway up which would come out onto the Long Gallery – formerly a covered bridge over the Fleet River – and then climb down the other side, until at last I might achieve the Infirmary, which was, once upon a lifetime, a Turkish baths near St James’s Square.
Up the Corkscrew I went and round and round, my steps making clanks and shocks and hallo-here-I-ams upon the old stone stairs. It took so many ups and rounds to get to the door halfway up, but at last it was there, only when I tried it, it did not open. There was something the other side of the midway door, something with a name. I couldn’t catch it at first, the door was so thick. Was someone guarding the door – had Idwid had a sentry posted? Perhaps, I thought, it was Tummis’s ostrich come to surprise me. Then the handle turned and the door began to open, and then the name was quite clear enough to me:
‘Robert Burrington.’
That did it. That had me moving. And in my terror, not thinking properly, instead of going back down which would have been the right thing to do, I went up and up, north up the Corkscrew which was not a place to go. Quietly. So quiet at first and slow, slow as I dared, and the door, I thought, is the door still opening? As I slipped on upwards there came an answering thump, an answering clank from below. I prayed it was only my echo, only it seemed to be growing, that echo, it seemed to be stamping out on its own and coming to its own life and to be its own thing entirely. I caught the name in that horrible clamouring and it was, fast and faster, speeding onwards like Grandfather’s engine did through the heaps:
‘Robert Burrington. Robert Burrington! ROBERT BURRINGTON!’
Whoever carried the it that called out ‘Robert Burrington’ was scaling the twisting stairs through the darkness towards me. On I went then, gasping and panting, that deeper heavier clanking beneath me. There was no door now but the one at the top that gave onto the space where the bell of the bell tower once stood, but the bell had been moved down into the house, it was the bell that now summoned us to mealtimes.
At the top was a door into the attics, and it was that door, that terrible out-of-bounds door, which now I and James Henry Hayward and, though fainter, Alice Higgs fled, slipping and sliding on those ancient steps worn by so much foot treading over the centuries, making it dipped and cupped and smoothed out and treacherous at even the slowest pace. On I scrambled, on and up, on and round, to the deafening roar of Robert Burrington, closer and louder, but there was the door at last, arched and ancient, a turn of the screw above me, and on I went, slipping, on hands and knees now, as that Robert and that Burrington bellowed so much, and there was the door, I touched it now, and there, just one turn below, was the bellowing of Robert Burrington, and a heave, and a Robert, and another heave, and a Burrington, and at last the door gave way and I was out of that horrible stone throat and into a different peril.
The Attics of Heap House
The attics of Heap House were never to be visited, for in those rotting chambers lived bats. Tens of thousands of them, they bit at living things with great determination and could cause monstrous infections. There were at least seven cases in my lifetime of an Iremonger succumbing to rabies after bat bites. Unto these regions, with something shrieking Robert Burrington behind me, did I come, in my terror beyond the door of the bell tower ignoring the moulding sign that said TRESPASSERS WILL NOT BE.
I slammed the door behind me. Into the thick, stinking, damp darkness I sank. Above me there was rustling. I mustn’t wake them, I must be very quiet. I shifted onwards as carefully as I might, sliding once and feeling a thick dampness and muddiness along my arm, but on I went, in desperation through the dung field to try and find myself some sort of hiding place.
There was a great mound, slightly luminescent, which was especially tall and funnel-shaped, and there I crouched and waited. I could not hear Robert Burrington yet. The attic door remained closed and dark. Perhaps the holder of Robert Burrington shan’t come, I thought, perhaps he knew all about the attics and was thinking twice about it, and was sensible and wanted no part of it, yes, perhaps he was not so foolish as to try the unstable upper storeys. Only then, as I considered this, there was a certain small creaking and with that creaking came a sound, and whoever he was that carried Robert Burrington stood in the doorway. I could just make out a shape, of a man, a long tall man with a black topper, taller and thinner than any man I had ever seen before, eight foot tall perhaps, and so little width about him. I waited behind the mound. What shall he do?
‘Robert Burrington?’
From deep in my pocket I could just make out the muffled response. As if my plug longed to reply.
‘James Henry Hayward.’
&nb
sp; I shoved my plug deeper down.
‘Robert Burrington?’ came again.
‘Al . . . Al . . . Al . . .’ was all the poor door handle could manage.
‘Robert Burrington?’ once more.
Now as the stretched man waited, something very curious began to happen. I began slowly to hear other names coming from him, to hear that other names existed beneath the loudest and certainly dominant Robert Burrington. I heard Edith Bradshaw talking and Ronald Reginald Fleming and Alasdair Fletcher, there was an Edwin Brackley and a Miss Agatha Sharpley, there was Cyril Pennington. Cyril Pennington was the fire bucket from my landing, for some reason this man had taken it. I had never heard so many names before on a single person, and still, listening carefully, there was another wave of names behind the first. I caught a Matron Sedley and a Tom Packett and a Jenny Rose Finlay and a Stoker Barnabus and then ever so faintly a Nobby. Yes, something was very quietly saying, ‘Nobby.’ And there were other names yet, I could make them out bit by bit as if they were coming in and out of hearing, as if they were breathing in and out. Amongst them I caught another familiar name. I heard, rumbling slightly, ‘Florence Balcombe.’
Florence Balcombe, why should she be calling with the objects? It made no sense, and yet, under the waves of names, I heard it once more, ‘Florence Balcombe.’
I was so struck by hearing Florence Balcombe’s name that I almost forgot my predicament, but James Henry called out as if it wanted to talk to them all. And then, above everything else, it came once more, ‘Robert Burrington!’
And my own plug cried, ‘James Henry Hayward!’ I stuck my hand in there and shoved it deeper down, covering it with my handkerchief to deaden its cry.
‘Robert Burrington?’
Had the long man heard my plug? Could he hear? He stood there, and then I thought he seemed to sniff very slightly. I kept so still and quiet, a statue, a statue, I thought, I’m a statue, I’m made of marble, nothing in the world shall make me move.
‘Robert Burrington? Robert Burrington? Matron Sedley? Alasdair Fletcher?’
Can the bats hear them, I wondered, oh, please let the bats hear them. But there was only the faintest rustling from that vast dangerous ceiling above me. The stretched man stood in the doorway and from him something wondered loudly once more, ‘Robert Burrington? Robert Burrington? Edith Bradshaw? Nobby?’