Along the Endless River

by Rose Alexander

  ‘Look at this!’ He indicated with an expansive sweep of his arm the frenetic scene, shouting to make himself heard above the din. ‘This is what rubber induces – paranoia, fever. Could you ever imagine it, stuck in that benighted bit of forest of your mother’s, far from the rest of the world?’

  Anthony shrugged. He’d been morose all day. Mayhew shook his head and clicked his tongue in irritation.

  ‘Let’s get to the station,’ he ordered. Perhaps the fresh air would bring the boy to his senses.

  * * *

  On the moors, the heather was purple, the hills a distant lilac ribbon. The wide-open expanses could not be more different from the enveloping vegetation of the rainforest. It was August, and not cold, but nevertheless there was that nip in the air that never seems to leave the Highlands, whatever the season.

  Mayhew could feel his chest expanding, and it wasn’t just the full English breakfasts he was consuming every day.

  ‘Makes you feel you can breathe, doesn’t it?’ he said, exhaling loudly.

  Mac, inspecting his gun, nodded. ‘The chance to see a distance, a horizon – what you never get amidst all those damn trees.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘It’s almost as good as back home in Ireland.’

  Mayhew smiled wryly. As far as he knew, Patrick McNamara hadn’t set foot in County Kerry for over thirty years. But he had been somewhere lately; not in the Amazon, nor in London but in some undisclosed location. Mayhew wondered briefly what his business rival was up to, but then put the thought aside. Why should he care?

  ‘Don’t know how those seringueiros do it though,’ said Mayhew, shaking his head. ‘Festering deep in the jungle for months and years on end.’

  Mac made a moue of reflection. ‘They have their reasons, I suppose. Everybody’s searching for something,’ he concluded.

  A shot rang out, making both men pause in their conversation. Beside them Anthony, grim-faced, tracked another bird and brought it down.

  ‘Oh, good shot,’ called one of the other guests, as a setter ran out to retrieve the bird.

  ‘You really have become an English gentleman, haven’t you?’ congratulated Mac. ‘You’ve got your old uncle to thank for that.’ He raised his gun, attempted a shot, missed. ‘Sending you off to school was the making of you.’

  The keeper signalled for the guns to move to the next butt.

  ‘Pity your mother couldn’t make it out here, after all,’ Mac continued, waiting for an opportunity to take aim.

  Anthony narrowed his eyes, scanning the cloud-laden sky. ‘She wants me to go and see Aunt Mabel,’ he said. His voice sounded rusty as if from lack of use. He’d barely spoken since the brothel. ‘Take her to a photographer, get some pictures done to send back with Uncle Mayhew. To show the baby, when it’s older.’

  Mac glanced at him sharply, a frown creasing his forehead.

  ‘Oh no, old chap, you don’t want to do that. Wouldn’t do at all, a public-school boy like you hobnobbing with a lady’s maid. Stay away from Mabel!’ He laughed, long and loud, the artificial sound echoing off the hills and moorland.

  Anthony raised his gun again, aimed and fired. Another hit. Mac nodded admiringly.

  ‘What did you say about Aunt Mabel?’

  Mac hooked his thumbs into the pocket of his britches. ‘Say? I didn’t say anything, did I?’

  Anthony clicked his tongue against his teeth impatiently. ‘You said she was a lady’s maid.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Mac lifted his gun, followed a bird in the sky, realised he would miss and brought the gun down again. ‘That’s because she is a lady’s maid. For my daughter, actually. Lady Alexandra Cardburn.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ It was such an obvious lie that Anthony realised as soon as he said it that it would make him sound stupid. But if that was what Mac thought, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he just walked away, strolling towards where the rest of the guns were gathering for a shot from their hip flasks.

  Anthony went to stand by his uncle’s side.

  ‘Mac says that Mabel is a lady’s maid for his daughter. Nobody told me.’

  Mayhew shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, coughed. ‘No, well. I suppose it just never occurred to anyone to do so.’

  Another blatant lie.

  ‘Does my mother know?’

  ‘Tsk.’ Mayhew was annoyed. Mabel was of little consequence but Anthony being aware of her circumstances – which Mayhew himself had only found out about by chance when Mac had drunkenly let it slip a few weeks ago during a dinner engagement – was not ideal. Anthony needed not only to act like a gentleman but to believe he really was one; this was Mayhew’s grand plan for him. That was a whole lot harder to do if the boy knew he had a family member in service.

  ‘It’s her choice,’ he stated, bluntly. ‘Wants to be independent, earn her own money. Doesn’t want your mother to know so don’t you be the one to tell her.’

  Mayhew lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. He offered one to Anthony but he merely shook his head and stomped off in the direction the rest of the party were headed.

  Later, over whisky, Mac and Mayhew sat by the outdoor fire. Anthony was nowhere to be seen. The midges were out in force, undeterred by wood or cigar smoke.

  ‘Just like the bloody Amazon,’ joked Mayhew, batting them away with his large, flat hands.

  ‘Not for much longer.’ Mac was staring into his whisky glass, looking at something far away.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mayhew was finding Mac’s cryptic utterances more and more exasperating.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, old sport.’

  Mayhew felt a momentary flash of irritation. Why was Mac talking in this maddening way, using all these over-familiar forms of address? He never did that in Brazil. He wasn’t even English, he was Irish, so why try to sound like a member of the English landed gentry?

  Mac got up, announced he was going to bed and left the room. Mayhew wondered if he was feeling his age. He must be pushing fifty or fifty-five these days. It was natural to slow down. He drained his glass and called to the waiting servant for another. If there was a hint that Mac wanted to sell up in the Amazon, he should tell Katharine. Finally, the money was rolling in hand over fist from the Norwood estradas and Mayhew envisaged this continuing for years into the future. What could possibly stop it? There were no sizeable stocks of rubber anywhere else in the world, not even the Congo came close and there were so many problems there anyway. King Leopold had really messed up, the horrors of his reign now out in the open. Buying more land in Brazil would be a very sound investment.

  Mayhew thought of his savings, the money he was squirrelling away. The deal he’d done with Katharine paid him handsomely and it was only a little clerical error if the price he got the exporters to invoice him for was a little less than he actually received. Everyone understood this way of doing business out there – it was the Brazilian method, the jeitinho, the little way, oiling the wheels of commerce so that everything ran smoothly. Katharine was far from a fool and her mathematical ability was second to none – but even she could only add up figures that were in front of her. And when the price of raw rubber changed daily, it was impossible to keep track of it from so far upriver.

  Most important of all, she trusted him – her brother – to do right by her. And so he had, by and large, and taken care of her son. She was lucky to have such a shrewd and canny business partner and supporter, not to mention surrogate father to Anthony.

  Next morning, Mayhew came down the shooting lodge stairs to find Mac’s servant manhandling a large trunk into a waiting carriage.

  ‘I’m leaving early,’ Mac said, tersely. ‘Got to get back to London for my daughter and son-in-law’s annual ball.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Mayhew wasn’t really that bothered, but he knew what was polite.

  Mac nodded.

  ‘Shall I pass on your best wishes to
your sister?’

  Mayhew frowned. ‘My sister? But she’s in the Am… Oh, I see, you mean Mabel. That sister.’

  Mayhew was still not entirely used to the idea that Mabel was employed by Mac’s daughter, and therefore by Mac, as everyone knew Mac had been keeping the Cardburns financially afloat for decades. Henry Cardburn was a typical aristocrat – all the credentials of lineage and ancestry and not the first idea how to actually do anything useful like run a business or make money. He was also known to be monumentally stupid. Not like Mayhew and Mac, who were both shrewd-minded master negotiators. Nothing like them at all.

  His eyes narrowed as he pictured Mabel in his mind. ‘The beautiful one!’ he cried, chortling. ‘Oh, yes, do give her my regards.’

  Mayhew watched as the footman finished loading Mac’s belongings. He and Anthony were staying a few days longer, and then he’d take the boy back to Winchester before departing for the Amazon.

  He’d see Mac again soon enough, he reflected, as the carriage pulled away. Bad pennies always turn up. He chuckled to himself at his joke, then waved goodbye.

  Anthony was standing by the corner of the house, waiting for the rest of the shooting party to gather. Mac called out to him as he trundled past.

  ‘Come and see me when you’ve finished school. I’ve got opportunities for a boy like you. Out East. I think you’ll like it there.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  London, 1907

  Ideas of both revolution and of rubber receded into the background as work took all the hours of Mabel’s days. Whatever was happening on the Amazon or in the suffragette meetings, the routines and rituals of the aristocracy continued unchanged. Mabel had shoved all thoughts of Archie out of her mind. His dishonesty was still incomprehensible but given the indisputable truth, there was nothing to be done but forget him. And in any case, they were back in the frenzy of social activity again, and it was time for the Cardburns’ annual ball.

  Invitations had been sent out far and wide and the house was bursting at the seams with guests staying for a few nights or several weeks. Mabel was rushed off her feet in the run up, coping with Lady Cardburn’s exacting demands for every aspect of her wardrobe, including new dresses, jackets and underwear. Her ball gown would be made at a specialist supplier, but Mabel’s stitching was so exquisite and her work so accurate, that she had somehow acquired the job of making most of her ladyship’s other requirements. Sewing the silk chemises and bloomers and a racy garment called French knickers that were the last word in Gallic sophistication and style, she sometimes fell asleep over her needle, she was so tired. But she’d been promised a couple of days off when it was all over and she held that in her mind as her goal.

  On the day of the ball itself, tensions were high across the household, and not just amongst the servants. Lady Cardburn was short-tempered, anxious that everything should be just so. His lordship upset Mr Robson by suggesting that the silver was not highly polished enough and Mrs Bustle looked as if she were going to be stricken by apoplexy at any moment.

  Mabel kept her head down and got on with her chores, while trying to ignore everyone else. Despite the hard work, she adored such occasions, seeing all the ladies in their finery and the men in their suits, moustaches oiled and shining. She had to keep up with Lady Cardburn’s love of late nights, because she had to help her get undressed and ready for bed however late the hour. The advent of electricity and hot and cold running water hadn’t changed the length of Mabel’s days one iota.

  The ball went on forever. There was a formal dinner beforehand, and then a supper brought out at midnight. At one o’clock the dancing was still going on. Mabel saw lots of people she recognised, including Anna Lawless, who had no shortage of dance partners, despite the absence of Dennis Whitfield, apparently in the Far East again. Mabel wondered if he’d be jealous if he knew how many times she partnered with the Earl of Blackshire.

  Mac was there, of course, relishing his position as the father of the hostess, his pale skin wind-burnt and healthy-looking after his time on the grouse moors, gaily dancing Irish reels and conversing with the other men, laughing heartily and drinking whisky. She wondered where Mrs McNamara was; she’d never seen her in Hanover Terrace. The other servants said she was in poor health these days and had become a recluse, rarely if ever emerging from the Highgate mansion. Some even whispered that she’d gone mad. Mabel felt sorry for her, for being unwell and having to miss so much jollity.

  At one point, as she was searching the room for Lady Cardburn to ensure she wasn’t needed for anything, Mac caught her eye and winked. Mabel, flustered, looked hastily away. It was a peculiar gesture but everyone was in high spirits and little bit drunk. Eventually, Alexandra gestured to her that she was ready to retire for the night. Mabel scurried off upstairs to get everything ready. Her ladyship was tired and soon dismissed Mabel. In the dressing room, Mabel carefully hung the discarded garments and tidied Alexandra’s shoes away. Work finally done, she made her weary way across the corridor to her own room, longing to take the weight off her feet.

  She was at her bedroom door and almost through it when she became aware of someone behind her. A flashback to the master passed through her mind and she jumped, involuntarily emitting a gasp of surprise.

  A soft voice said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s only me.’

  Mac.

  Mabel blinked in surprise. ‘Mr McNamara!’ In her astonishment, she forgot to call him by his nickname. ‘Wh-what are you doing here?’

  He ignored her, just quietly gestured her through the door and followed her in. Once inside, he slipped the latch and locked it.

  ‘I thought I’d come and see those gloves of yours that I gave you,’ he said. His words were slightly slurred, his eyes hazy. Mabel could smell the whisky on his breath, and the stench of cigarettes emanating from his clothing. ‘I still haven’t seen you wearing them.’

  It was true. Mabel had been too nervous to take them out of her room, especially since Archie’s disgrace. Apart from not wanting Lady Cardburn to question her about them, or think she was trying to rival her, if the other servants saw her with them, they might think she had stolen them, that Archie had infected her with his dishonesty – and something deep inside told her she could not let on where they had really come from. She wore them in her room, on her own, just so that she could feel and enjoy the softness of the leather, the luscious smell of them.

  ‘You haven’t lost them, have you?’ Mac was asking. His voice was concerned and understanding, not censorious.

  ‘Oh no,’ she stuttered, ‘they’re here, I just – I don’t want to spoil them, is all.’ She still wasn’t sure why he was there, in her room. The gloves didn’t seem to be enough of a reason.

  Mac smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Wear them and spoil them all you like. And when they are ruined – I shall buy you a new pair.’

  Mabel gulped. ‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured. ‘Too kind.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mac gestured to the bed. ‘Sit down.’ Mabel sat, perched nervously on the edge of the mattress. Mac took the chair, turning it around from the dressing table and sitting astride it.

  ‘Did you – did you want something?’ Mabel asked, helplessly, utterly unsure of how to deal with this unprecedented situation.

  Mac frowned. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied, enigmatically.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver flask. ‘I’ve brought something for both of us.’ Mac removed the stopper and the smell hit her, pungent and heady. He took a swig and handed the flask to Mabel. She didn’t really want any but it seemed rude to refuse. She sipped daintily from it. It tasted disgusting, like earth and mud and rainwater in puddles, and it scoured her throat as she swallowed, burning all the way to her stomach.

  ‘Gosh,’ she hiccupped, ‘that’s strong.’

  ‘God, this is good.’ Mac looked around him as if he hadn’t heard what she’d said. ‘Away from the fuss and hullabaloo, all those bores and shrieking banshees.’
He stared at the floor and carried on, as if he’d forgotten Mabel was there and was talking to himself. ‘That’s what I like about the Amazon. When I want to get away from it all, I go to Lagona and nobody bothers me there.’

  Mabel nodded, though Mac wasn’t looking. She had a hazy vision of Lagona from Katharine’s letters and imagined a grand house surrounded by a garden of banana, mango and pineapple trees and the river roaring by.

  Suddenly, he sat up straight and handed Mabel the flask again. ‘Have some more,’ he said, ‘have lots. Plenty more where that came from.’

  This was certainly true. Mabel had seen the cellar beneath the house; she’d been amazed by the sheer number of bottles, too many to count, too many to take in: wine, whisky, brandy, gin – the quantities were endless.

  ‘I’ve invested a fair bit in wine,’ Mac mused, ‘Claret, mainly. And good port. But there comes a time when there’s nothing left to spend one’s money on. And then—’ He snapped his fingers in his air as if to signify the futility of it all.

  Mabel felt sorry for him. He was rich beyond measure but she now saw what she’d probably been semi-conscious of all along – his wife was crazy, his children grown up and he was lonely. It was a shame. He was so handsome, so generous and kind.

  She drank some more of the liquid, enjoying the burn this time. When she put the flask down, it hit the table with a bump as she misjudged the distance. She felt lightheaded and fuzzy, but enjoyably so, and as if everything was funnier that it had been before. Mac started to tell a joke about three men in a pub, an Englishman, a Scottish man and an Irish man. Mabel lost the thread long before the punch line but laughed heartily anyway.

  ‘It’s always the Irish man,’ Mac was saying, ‘always the Irish man who’s the butt of the joke. But look at me. Rich as Croesus, I am. They can’t laugh at me now, so they can’t.’