“Around midnight, a masked man asked Esme to dance. She couldn’t tell who he was from his voice, but she was very flattered and bashful. He led her to the gazebo. Nervous that her high heels would trip her up, she clung to his arm tightly. But as the music played on they danced with increasing grace, faster and faster, until she was wholly absorbed. She felt as though she were all movement and playing notes and rhythm. She might have been one of the streamers twirling above their heads. Others by the river noticed the change in her and slowed as they watched. Yet there was something disconcerting about the couple, too. A wrongness in the scene that they struggled to identify. It was Angela who noticed what was amiss. She saw, amongst the jostling couples, that the man Esme danced with had cloven hooves instead of feet. She cried out but her warnings were drowned by the clock striking twelve. The handsome stranger pulled Esme to his chest, danced her to the far side of the room and crashed through the window.
“The other dancers ran to the broken pane to see what had happened. Esme lay in the grass, cut by the glass, which was strewn round her like crystals. Her little finger had been sliced clean off. The cloven-hooved man had taken it – and was nowhere to be seen; he was widely thought to be the Thief. At Esme’s death, the eyot residents speculated, the Thief would come to collect the rest of her.
“In the months after the masquerade Esme assumed a fearsome air. She wore a false golden finger where her real one should be. Everyone was awed by her. Yet she was riddled with shame and sorrow, that she should be the one who accepted the Thief’s invitation. She feared he had approached her because he sensed she was different from the other eyot residents; that she contained some flaw, or weakness, that made her less likely to discern his true intentions.”
“What happened to her?”
“She became very reclusive and didn’t marry. That may have changed given time; she died young from a Second World War bomb. My father said that they stopped holding the masquerade for years after the Thief stole Esme’s finger.”
“Do you believe the story?”
“Yes. Stories about the Thief are rarely factual accounts,” Persephone said. “But they’re still true – they’re full of the fears and anxieties of everyone who lives here.”
“It sounds so obviously an urban legend, doesn’t it? A cautionary tale, for young girls, not to dance with strangers. Or sleep with them, more like, given how Freudian fingers are.”
“Maybe. When we were teenagers, we did used to talk about whether uninvited guests had gatecrashed and blended in among the rest of us. People who weren’t the descendants of Kendrick or Botham or Jackson. The rumour was that Alastair sneaked Rieko into the masquerade before they were married, back when I was a child. I suppose that’s not the same as Esme. Alastair was a man dancing with an uninvited guest, and maybe people don’t think men need cautionary tales. Part of me used to wonder if that was what the masquerade was for. A way for men to relax the rules of secrecy while looking like they were keeping them. And to bring in new blood, while everyone was disguised. Otherwise, we’d die out.”
“Is that how your mother was introduced to the eyot?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t ask my parents about their courtship.”
“But you’re still in touch with her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think of her very much?”
When Persephone looked inside herself, she found only a numb space. Was that missing someone? Her mother had to leave, and Persephone had to stay; it was simply the way things were.
“I’m sorry,” Larkin said. “I’m prying.”
“No, it’s a fair question. It’s just, I could have had my mother, and I was the one who chose to stay. It was my decision. I wouldn’t change it. And that means I’m not entitled to cry over it.”
Larkin stood the doll on the table, and posed her taking a bow. “You should make a cloven-hooved Thief, too – a matching pair, for a dance.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You shy away from depicting lovers,” Larkin observed.
“I don’t know about lovers.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before; but when you don’t know how to depict something, you have to study other people’s work until you figure it out.”
“I’m talking about life experience.” She was on the verge of oversharing. But she wanted to overshare with him; and when the admission was enmeshed with her work, to do so felt justifiable.
“Life experience doesn’t matter,” he said. “You just have to know what the expected tropes and symbols of a story are, and comply with or subvert them.”
Persephone shook her head. “You’re saying that because you take your own experience for granted. You’ve slept with a lot of people.”
He leant back in his chair. “I think you’ve made a flattering assumption. But I don’t know what it’s based on; I’ve lived like a monk since I got here.”
“If you hadn’t slept with a lot of people, you wouldn’t think a couple of months was living like a monk. Anyway, I assumed it because I know how people react to you, and I see you take it as the normal way of things, even if you don’t act on the opportunity.”
Larkin half smirked, his enjoyment of the digression clear. “How do people react to me?”
“As if they’re making an invitation. Like the way Hedwig and Daisy and Imogen whisk you away when they see you in the Tavern – and at the masquerade, Conrad talked about you in a way that was, I don’t know, indulgent against his better judgement—” Persephone stopped. At Kendricks, if you weren’t straight, you pretended to be, and everyone else pretended to believe you. It occurred to her that Larkin’s current abstinence might be rooted in a similar pretence. From dismay, she blurted: “It is women you like, isn’t it?”
“Oh god.” Larkin rubbed at his eye. “Yes. Just not exclusively.”
She felt a rush of relief and identification. She was not outside of his scope of interest. They were, in fact, alike.
He misinterpreted her silence. “Does it bother you, that I’m queer?”
“No. I’m the same, really… I like both.” No one else knew this; but his own disclosure made him seem safe to tell.
He said only: “Maybe that’s how you subvert the trope with your dolls – you make a female Thief, with cloven hooves, as Esme’s lover.”
“Yes – but just switching the gender doesn’t help – I don’t have experience of any pairings, women or otherwise. For me it’s theoretical, being… queer.” She tried out the word, tentatively, aware it was a new way to describe herself. “I’ve only felt attraction in my head. I can’t draw on anything real if I make a lover for Esme.”
“I still don’t believe inexperience has anything to do with your doll-making. But if I’m wrong, it’s a problem with an easy fix.” Larkin held Persephone’s gaze a fraction too long without speaking; she was trying to determine if this was flirting, when he tapped the space on the table before the doll. “So. No lover; just Esme. She can’t be in the gazebo if she’s not dancing. Where does that leave her? What kind of setting does she belong in?”
“For a diorama, you mean?”
“Yes. It’s such a shame you’re not interested in making the Thief on the Winged Horse – imagine designing his lair. Where does he keep all his purloined goods? Surely it would be very palatial?”
“Yes – it probably would be.”
“Then we could go looking for inspiration. Have you seen Titania’s Palace?” He was talking about an antique Irish dolls’ house currently displayed in Denmark.
“I’ve never left the country,” Persephone replied.
“It probably is a bit far for a flying visit. What about Queen Mary’s dolls’ house?” Larkin continued. “Less fae, but still luxurious, and much closer to home.”
“I’ve heard of it, obviously. But I’ve never been to take a look.”
“Then let’s arrange a morning away from here. In fact we could make a day of things; there’s a Ceramics Co-Op in Lo
ndon where I can show you how to make a porcelain doll and they’ll fire it for us, too. It’s not like you can use the workshop kiln. How are you fixed Monday?”
“I’m working. But Cosima could cover. She said she wanted extra shifts.”
“Very well. I will tell Alastair I’m due a day’s leave. I’ve had no holiday since I got here.”
“Whatever you think best,” Persephone replied. People would surely talk, if Persephone and Larkin were seen leaving the eyot for the day. She found the idea pleasing, although the status of the outing was ambiguous. Perhaps it was no more than another lesson. Sometimes she allowed herself to daydream they might marry. It would solve Larkin’s problems, because he could have all the sorcery he wanted if he’d married in; and she envisaged a partnership of creative energy, making and discussing dolls with a true understanding of the depth of each other’s obsession. But it was only a daydream. The reality of marriage, she was sure, would horrify her.
30
It had to happen eventually, Larkin knew. He ventured into the centre of Oxford – he wanted to check those animation devices on Turl Street, before using similar mechanisms in his own work – and as he walked past University College, a woman with lank hair and a tired green mac stared at him. He avoided her look until she called his name.
It was his mother.
“You’re here,” she said. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“Only briefly.” It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t been on the eyot very long.
“But why? Your uncle said you were in Italy.”
“I had some paperwork to sort out – I lost my birth certificate, and had to pick it up from the original register office.” This was complete fabrication. He had no idea why such an excuse occurred to him. But he could hardly tell her he was working for Kendricks. She would be horrified, and might even insist on going there immediately, to tell them all sorts of things he would rather leave in the past. Getting excuses in early, Larkin added: “I’ll be catching a flight out at the earliest opportunity.”
“I don’t know how you could be in Oxford and not tell me.” Her voice took the martyred tone Larkin remembered so well.
“I wouldn’t know how to contact you.”
“I’m where I’ve always been.”
“In that case, I know I wouldn’t be welcome.”
Unable to contradict him on this point, she stayed silent, and merely looked at him with reproachful eyes.
“If that’s all, I’ll be getting along.” Larkin took a step backwards.
“You might let me buy you a cup of tea.”
He rubbed the back of his head. On the other side of the road, he spotted Daisy Gilman weaving through a crowd of tourists. She hadn’t seen him yet, and he didn’t want her to come over while his mother was there, when it might prompt all sorts of questions.
“All right,” Larkin said quickly, and walked past his mother to the nearest café in view, keen to get indoors. He heard her running, in a trotting fashion, to catch up with him.
“What are you rushing for?” his mother said. “Slow down!”
In the café, Larkin made a beeline for the table furthest from the window. The leatherette-covered menus stood to attention at the centre. Mother sat opposite him, smiling to have secured his company for this long.
A waitress approached. Scanning the menu wildly, Larkin said: “Scones and tea and a sundae and some sweet potato fries.”
The waitress looked from him, to his mother, and back. “Is that all for you?”
“No. We can share it.” While his mother was eating he could excuse himself and slip out the back door, if there was one.
His mother tittered hesitantly. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. Could I have a cheese sandwich?”
Larkin was shaken. He knew when he moved back to Oxford that he risked exactly this sort of encounter. She was so close – and yet he’d grown complacent in the weeks he’d been there, assuming when he didn’t see her that fears of contamination kept her indoors. It had even crossed his mind she wouldn’t recognise him. The last time they’d seen each other was eight years ago; he was a boy then and grown now. But of course a mother would know her son.
They were silent until the food arrived. As planned, Larkin said he was going to the gents, but unfortunately no other exit was visible. He returned to the table, and tucked into a scone with resignation. (He wasn’t hungry at all.)
She said, shyly: “What have you been doing all these years, son? Your uncle told us you were at college.”
“Yes, to study art. Now that’s how I make my living.” If he mentioned dolls she would go spare. A generic artist was a good enough description. “I don’t expect you to approve of such a flamboyant career choice.”
“Are you settled? You know, with a girl?” Anxiety crept into her voice. She was always worried he was gay.
“Work takes up all my time,” Larkin said, before gulping down some tea.
“I’m glad you found a trade, son,” she said. “After You Know. We were worried you’d have a record.”
She bit into her own sorry-looking sandwich. Larkin asked: “How long have you been able to leave the house?”
“Hm? A few years now. I went to see someone.”
“A therapist?” Larkin clarified.
She chewed, veiling her mouth with her napkin. “A doctor. Father David paid for it.”
Of course he had. Larkin abandoned his second scone.
“I was hoping he’d be dead by now,” Larkin said.
“That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Why? He believes in the eternal life anyway, doesn’t he? Or is he as flexible on that as other articles of faith?”
“You should talk about him with more respect,” she lectured. “He saved you. If he hadn’t—”
“This,” Larkin said. “This is why I didn’t tell you I was in Oxford. You expect me to humiliate myself at the feet of a man who is wholly and utterly bankrupt.”
He opened his wallet, teased out a twenty and laid it on the table. His plan to wait till she had gone was forgotten. The only thought in his head was to get away from her as quickly as possible.
Rather than walk back, he caught the 3 to Iffley Road, thinking that his chances of losing her would be better. Once he was at the entrance to the eyot, he saw she had, nonetheless, trailed him on the next bus and disembarked when she saw him descend ahead of her. Her cunning didn’t extend to effective concealment; when she saw Larkin looking at her, she leapt to the side of the path, behind a bin that barely came to her waist. Her shoulders sagged with the futility of what she’d done, and she resumed walking towards him. He was motionless with indecision. He didn’t wish to engage in further conversation, but nor did he want her to follow him through the gates to his workplace. It may have been more consistent with his earlier lies to catch the bus to the station – but where would that have ended? With him on the train to Gatwick? She might have insisted on watching him check in for his flight.
By extraordinary bad luck, Dennis was crossing the footbridge over the river – so Larkin faced his imminent arrival on one side, and his mother’s on the other.
She reached Larkin first, her face full of dismay.
“I thought you’d be coming here.” More reproach. “That wasn’t true, about your birth certificate, was it? Were you ever even in Italy? Or have you just been here, looking for what you could get?”
Dennis drew near, his face broad with smiles.
“Hello,” he nodded at both of them, clearly in expectation of an introduction.
Calmness welled in Larkin.
“Dennis,” he said. “This is my mother, Mina. She lied to me about who my father was, for years, after having a sordid little affair.”
Her lip trembled and she reddened at the gills.
“I can see you’re busy,” Dennis replied. “I’ll catch up with you later. Lovely to meet you, Mina.”
He strode past them, up the Iffley Road.
“Shameful be
haviour,” his mother muttered.
“I didn’t even tell him the worst of it. Serves you right for following me and sticky beaking.”
“I just wanted to know you were staying out of trouble.”
“I am. All the better for keeping my distance from you.”
“So you say. How does that man know you? Have you been insinuating yourself?”
“Scuttle off, Mother.”
“Does he know about what you did when you were a boy?”
“I’ve been very open.”
She started crying then, because he’d been very open with Dennis about her own horrible conduct. Her tears brought the conversation to a natural stop. Larkin made no effort to comfort her; and she turned and ran in that funny trotting way, towards Iffley.
He didn’t think she’d come back. She’d be too worried about being shown up again. But then, Larkin had thought her neuroses would keep her away too, and she surprised him by overcoming them.
He made a point of visiting Dennis later that evening, offering apologies for involving him in a domestic squabble.
“Let’s just say the family troubles didn’t start and end with Jemima Ramsay’s elopement,” Larkin said.
“Your mother – she’s a descendant of Ramsay too, is that right?”
“No,” Larkin said quickly. “That’s my father. And we’re estranged. It was my paternal uncle who told me our true heritage.”
“Huh. But you must have other relatives on that side – surely, now you’ve made your home here, you should invite some of them to visit? It could be quite the family gathering.”
Dennis wasn’t stupid. He knew there was something fishy about Larkin’s family background, and that it may compromise claims to be a Ramsay.
“For some years now I’ve felt I’m alone. I’ve even told people my parents are dead because that’s how it feels to me,” Larkin said, truthfully. Then, with less probity, he added, “But I will consider whether it is time to bring the other descendants of Ramsay back to the fold.”
The Thief on the Winged Horse Page 17