“Daisy, fetch him,” Hedwig said. “We need assistance.”
“With…?” asked Daisy scornfully.
“Masks, you goose! He graduated in Fine Art. That should help us considerably.”
“And if he doesn’t want to come?”
“He will – just say we need his insight.” Flattery, in Hedwig’s view, was always a persuasive strategy.
During Daisy’s absence, Imogen divided up the diamante studs, and argued that her paintbrush was too stubby. Shortly, Daisy reappeared with Larkin, and instructed him to take a seat.
“I’m not sure what help I can be,” he said.
“I heard you went to art school.” Daisy sat upon the arm of Hedwig’s chair.
“Yes – but you make masks every year,” Larkin said. “By now, I’m sure you’re all experts, degree or not.”
“Daisy’s just completed her own degree,” said Hedwig. “In Italian!”
“Ganzo! Essere in gamba,” Larkin said to Daisy.
Daisy shrugged. “È il mio cavallo di battaglia.”
“Do share,” Hedwig urged.
“We exchanged pleasantries – that’s all,” explained Larkin.
“I expect you’ve worked in Italy,” said Hedwig. Larkin still had that mysterious lull in his employment history. Italy was just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Occitania.
“No,” Larkin said. “My Italian is very basic. I learnt a few phrases to impress a girl.”
“And was she impressed?” Daisy asked.
He laughed. “Initially.”
“Was this a girl at university?” enquired Hedwig.
“Yes, actually.”
“D’you get nostalgic, for your student days?”
“There’s no point in missing university. I don’t think I ever miss anything. When a time has gone, it’s gone.”
“That’s never stopped me missing a time – or place, or person,” Daisy cut in.
More fool Daisy; Hedwig agreed with Larkin, and never felt nostalgic. It was pointless loving something that was dead.
Imogen scanned the table, lifted paint pots, and nudged the bowl of sequins to one side. Where did the tweezers go? she signed. I used them to position some sequins.
Nobody knew what had happened to the tweezers.
“Leave your glass of wine out on the window ledge,” suggested Daisy. “That should suffice.”
Imogen swung the window wide, admitting an October draught. She balanced her unsipped grenache on the ledge before drawing the window back again with a shiver.
“Hang on,” Larkin said. “What’s wrong with Imogen’s drink?”
“Nothing,” answered Daisy. “It’s an old eyot superstition. When we lose an object, we say it’s been taken by the Thief; he’s one of the fae folk, and he rides a winged horse. He only returns what we’ve lost when we offer something in exchange.”
“What a racket,” Larkin said. “There’s an engraved tree, isn’t there, in the quince orchard? The first day I arrived, I saw a man on a winged horse scratched on the bark.”
“Imogen’s grandmother did that, to warn people to leave those quince for the Thief,” Hedwig explained, though she strongly suspected Imogen’s grandmother of picking the quince herself.
“Will I run into him, this Thief?” Larkin said.
“He’s tricksy and elusive,” Hedwig said. She meant she’d never seen him. Only a few eyot residents claimed they had; even Conrad, who fervently believed the Thief must be obeyed, was yet to actually meet him. Hedwig trusted in the Thief’s existence. She also knew that residents weren’t above blaming him for their own light fingers. It was bad etiquette on the eyot to say as much out loud.
Daisy, spurning etiquette, said: “D’you remember when Dennis’s hip flask went missing? He made an offering but the flask never showed up again. I always thought that Briar Kendrick took it.”
“We don’t know that.” Hedwig saw a glint of metal in the bowl of feathers. She pulled out the tweezers, and returned them to their rightful owner. “Sometimes the Thief works invisibly, and sometimes he works through other people. Sometimes he decides the offering isn’t good enough.”
“He sounds an interesting fellow,” Larkin said. “If rather creepy. I’m not at all sure I would want to meet him, after all.”
“It’s not the same for Hedwig,” Daisy said archly. “A meeting with the Thief would just be like a family reunion.”
Hedwig tutted.
“What am I missing?” Larkin asked.
“She’s making jokes at my expense. I don’t know who my father is, and on the eyot, traditionally the Thief is held responsible for single women’s pregnancies. Daisy apparently suspects that my conception was a more banal affair.”
“I didn’t realise,” Larkin said. “I’m sorry for prying – it’s none of my business.”
“Hush, I’m not offended. Just be careful how you speak of it round Conrad… He insists my mother calls herself Mrs, as a fae bride. Can’t have people thinking she’s a common or garden mum on her own. I expect you think we’re old-fashioned, and I couldn’t blame you… We are behind the times; who else cares about legitimacy, nowadays?”
“Not me. But some people do,” Larkin said, with rare bitterness.
Hedwig looked at him, surprised by his vehemence. He swirled a brush in umber paint, and swept a line above the eye of Imogen’s mask.
“Were you brought up by both your parents, Larkin?” Hedwig asked.
“After a fashion. We were all under the same roof.” He changed the subject. “This masquerade. Am I invited, or not?”
Hedwig saw no reason to forbid it. Still she answered impishly.
“That depends!” she said.
“On what?”
“The masquerade’s a special opportunity for matchmaking.”
“It is?”
“I’ll ask a question; if you answer, you can come. Who’s the prettiest woman in this room? Reply without evasion.”
Imogen and Daisy focused on their handicrafts, affecting lack of interest. Hedwig laid a dilemma at their feet, too – desire to be chosen by Larkin, wrested with fear of Conrad’s censure. Expectation swelled; the snug was thick with it.
Larkin looked from one face to another.
“You’re all delightful,” he said.
“No, that answer’s not acceptable. You must choose.”
Larkin drew breath to speak again, and Mrs Mayhew swept into the snug to clear their glasses. She possessed a strong resemblance to her daughter, with great limpid eyes, hair as blonde as brass, and a perpetual Californian tan which took an effort to maintain in Oxford’s autumn climate. Hedwig saw her as unambiguously middle-aged – for she was pushing forty – even if she were more youthful than the mums of Imogen or Daisy.
“My choice is Mrs Mayhew,” Larkin said with relief.
Hedwig had sufficient grace to laugh. He was shrewd to take that opportunity; everyone would assume his selection of her mother was chivalric – a mark of respect for an older woman – whereas to choose a peer must snub the other two.
“My ears are burning,” Mrs Mayhew said.
“You’re the prettiest woman in the room, Mama,” Hedwig explained. “According to Larkin.”
Mrs Mayhew laughed. “For that he can have a free drink.”
Larkin stood to pass her his empty glass. “Thank you. I think I’ll take it up in my room.”
At the doorway he verified with Hedwig: “Have I earned my invitation?”
“On a technicality,” she said. Satisfied with this response, he left.
“Daisy,” Hedwig said, “what did Larkin say in Italian?”
“He said my choice of degree was cool.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much. Although, I got the impression, that the girl he was trying to impress – she was probably from Florence. Or his teacher was.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
“His pronunciation.”
Hedwig made a me
ntal note to check which doll makers were based in Florence. She was sure she’d find some. And she wouldn’t be at all surprised if Larkin knew every one of them.
8
Persephone didn’t linger, with her untouched orange juice, after Larkin had been summoned. She had viewed his departure with commingled disappointment and relief. Since seeing the kissing automatons she had been keenly aware of Larkin’s presence whenever she caught sight of him. She’d had crushes on people before – for a while she’d harboured longings for the lissom woman who brought their post, and one spring fortnight staying with her mother she’d been smitten with the Scottish man in the downstairs flat. But they’d existed for her mainly in glimpses; they weren’t walking round the shop all day, like Larkin. The nature of his appeal felt more complicated, as well. There was a blurred line between her longing to possess his advantages, and wanting to be near him. His talent acted like a halo, making every aspect of him of greater interest to her. She didn’t know how to convey that interest. And churlishness was ingrained in her so deeply, she wasn’t sure she was capable of acting differently. To have talked longer in the pub would have prolonged her conviction she was making a fool of herself.
It was almost pleasant to return to the night air, despite the chill, as the sky was clear and the moon full. Persephone’s ears rang after the roar of the pub. Nearly everyone had been there that night, cheered by their weekend beginning early. More were coming – Alastair met her on the path.
“Not like you to be at the Tavern,” he remarked.
The borrowed jig was in her coat pocket, pressing heavy and square against her thigh. She would return it on Monday – she always returned anything she borrowed over the weekend – but if she had asked outright for it, he would have refused her. She placed her hands in her pockets too, as if Alastair might otherwise see and reclaim his property.
“I was looking for Dad,” she lied. “But he must be at the pub in town.”
Alastair’s bulbous eyes slid past her to the bright windows of the pub. She sensed his wish to be gone.
“Drink in town a lot, does he?” he asked, offhand.
“The beer’s cheaper.” She added pointedly: “And he’s not earning any more.”
“Probably better to cut the beer altogether then, isn’t it? Have you ever suggested to him he should drink less?”
When, Persephone wondered, should she have begun parenting her father? When she was six? When she was thirteen? When Alastair had fired him – no, when he had encouraged him to take retirement? What stung her was not the letting go of her father, who she agreed had no place in the workshop if he was covertly drinking all day. The injustice was Alastair’s smug certainty that Persephone was responsible for her father’s behaviour, and thus responsible for her father losing his job. Not Briar himself; and not Alastair, who was surely the victim in this scenario, because he had to shoulder the unpleasant business of dismissing an ageing relative.
Persephone said none of this, because – after Conrad and Hedwig – Alastair had the most power over who worked where at Kendricks. If she were ever to escape the sales counter Alastair must agree. So she said, truthfully: “Dad doesn’t listen to me.”
“No? Pity. Maybe it’s something about the approach you take. You’d best get on, see if he’s reached home.” Alastair swept past her into the pub.
His parting words would fester. Persephone concentrated on the jig in her pocket; she imagined telling Alastair that she had taken it, that she could take anything he had for herself, if he drove hard enough. But it was a consolatory daydream. She didn’t really believe in it.
*
Persephone remembered first visiting the Eyot Tavern when she was around eight. Certainly it was some time after the dolls’ house had been completed by Briar, and they had obtained her maquettes from the shop – the candid child; the detached father; and the appeasing mother. Akemi, Persephone’s own mother, was spending a few days in hospital for an operation, the purpose of which had been left unexplained to Persephone. Briar was thus solely responsible for her. He was sober for the first two days. On the third, he announced they were going to the Eyot Tavern, as he’d promised Mrs Mayhew he would fix her rotten window sash. Mrs Mayhew, he explained, didn’t have a man to do such things, like Persephone and her mother did. Anticipating complaints of boredom, he told Persephone that Hedwig would be there, too, for her to play with.
In this he was wrong. Hedwig was not there, and Mrs Mayhew admitted them by the side door because the bar was closed. She said Persephone could play with Hedwig’s toys in the girl’s absence. This suited Persephone very well. She was not overly fond of Hedwig, who had somehow mastered the art of persuading adults she was sweet and well behaved while always obtaining just what she wanted. Briar and Persephone were led up the stairs and she found it endlessly strange that a whole house should be positioned on top of the pub – a house starting at the wrong level, rather than on the ground – and it seemed to rearrange the world’s order for her. Did every supermarket checkout girl, she wondered, sleep upstairs when the customers had gone for the day? The thought had never occurred to her.
“This is where Hedwig’s things are,” Mrs Mayhew announced, ushering Persephone into a lemon-hued room with a canopy bed and neat rows of toys on shelves. “Play with whatever you like.”
Persephone heard the click of the door closing behind her, and turned in surprise. She hadn’t expected to be fenced in. She heard Mrs Mayhew’s and her father’s voices, soft and getting softer on the other side of the wall. A shame you couldn’t find someone to watch her, Mrs Mayhew said. Briar’s reply was too indistinct for Persephone to understand.
The room was silent then. She turned her attention to the toys, some of which were unexpectedly intimidating. Hedwig had a mini video camera in primary colours for making real films, a hefty Play-Doh factory, an extensive collection of Night Garden soft toys – but no dolls’ house, Persephone noted. No dolls with enchantments either. A selection of fashion dolls with vinyl heads and hard plastic bodies were stacked in a blue crate. Their wardrobe of frilled dresses and tiny heeled shoes was extensive. These plastic ladies were sophisticated, compared to Persephone’s wooden family. She couldn’t decide whether their lack of enchantment was preferable to being candid or detached or appeasing.
Replacing the dolls in the crate, Persephone reasoned that there must be magic dolls somewhere at the Tavern. Maybe Hedwig was too young for such a doll or even a sturdy maquette. Everyone went on about what a sensible girl Hedwig was for her age, but she was still two years younger than Persephone. So that at least explained why there weren’t any magic dolls in Hedwig’s room. Mrs Mayhew, as a grown-up lady, must have one. Alastair said everyone born on the eyot learnt an enchantment when they were thirteen. This idea immediately excited Persephone. Yes; Mrs Mayhew must have made her own doll, and given it her own enchantment.
Persephone bit her lip. She stared at the closed door. Mrs Mayhew hadn’t said she must stay inside. If they met in the corridor, Persephone would say she was looking for the bathroom. She twisted the door handle and looked through the gap. A tune played from the living room, something soft sung by a lady. Persephone heard laughter and smelt cigarette smoke. It would be easy for her to tip-toe past without anyone knowing, and check the other rooms, to see where the magic dolls were stored.
There were a lot of rooms at the Tavern – and Persephone had not fully understood this was because it offered accommodation. She entered bedroom after bedroom, where the drawers were empty and the wardrobes bare. Never mind dolls; there were very few belongings of any kind. Over every bed was a framed picture: a print of a horse flying through the clouds. It was pretty, Persephone believed, if you saw it once. To see it over and over again quickly became boring, then sinister, because it made Persephone feel as if she were visiting the same spot repeatedly, no matter how much she wished to see something new and different.
Finding Mrs Mayhew’s room broke the cycle conclusively. Th
e door was open, and Persephone knew immediately this was where Mrs Mayhew slept, because it was a grown-up version of Hedwig’s room. The walls were yellow, though not lemon this time – their shade was deeper, and murkier, like the end of Mrs Mayhew’s fingers where cigarettes had stained the skin. An overflowing ashtray was next to the four-poster bed. A ginger cat, fat and twitching its tail, dozed on the bedspread. Instead of the print of the flying horse, Mrs Mayhew had hung an immense painting above the mantelpiece, in which that same horse bore a rider. Persephone thought the man was familiar, though the paint was grimy with age, obscuring the detail of his face.
Persephone remembered she could be caught by Mrs Mayhew, and should search faster, not stare at the painting. No dolls were displayed, not on the window ledge or the shelves. She checked the wardrobe. Many garments were stored inside. Some were pooled across the base, having fallen from their hangers at some point and never been picked up. Persephone ran her hands along each dress, searching for a doll that Mrs Mayhew could have tied to a waistband. Nothing. And there was nothing on the vanity, or in the bedside cabinet. She looked under the pillows and found only wrinkled sheets. Finally she lay face-up on the floor, and wriggled beneath the bed. The dust made her sneeze. She blinked as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. And here, here she discovered what she’d been looking for. Trapped between the bed slats and the mattress was a doll, made from a clothes peg. A pipecleaner was twisted round the middle for arms. The face was painted on the top – glossy pink with cupid’s bow lips. One of the legs had black writing on it. The letters were joined up, and Persephone sometimes struggled to understand joined-up writing. She puzzled out the words. Visionary Delirium. They were not words that she knew.
The doll would be small enough to shuffle between the slats. Eager to feel the doll that she imagined Mrs Mayhew had made, and the enchantment Mrs Mayhew might have laid, Persephone touched the pipecleaner arm. Immediately she felt lightheaded. The pipecleaner seemed to move of its own accord, circling Persephone’s finger, and the doll rolled its way into her hand. Was this Visionary Delirium? The doll winked and smiled, then curled up with a pipecleaner thumb in its mouth.
The Thief on the Winged Horse Page 5