Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (25 page)
“And yet every man and woman across the world experiences love in the same way.”
“Well, true, true...” Velvene murmured. He thought for a moment, then said, “You must be correct, Mr Marx. Though we are all different in the circumstances of our lives, love is universal. It must therefore be an aspect of our mental template.”
“Moreover, it
must
be a deducible aspect – as with any scientific theory.”
Velvene nodded, intrigued. That was a notion he had never considered. “By reasonable extension of what he have decided so far,” he said, “love must be an aspect of the process of placing experience inside us as we grow up.”
“But what aspect?”
Silence fell over them. Velvene glanced up to notice a number of people staring, people who looked away when Velvene’s glance fell upon them. He pondered what Marx had said, then had the idea of applying his own experience to the question.
“Mr Marx,” he said, “you mocked me when I told you I was not married, but when I was younger I did have an, er... an...” It was difficult for him to say the word. “I did have a sweetheart. Well, after a fashion.”
“Who?”
“Her name is Lily-Bette Spoonworthy. I reacquainted myself with her recently. In fact, she may have saved my life. But my point is this. If a man truly... you know... if a man...”
“Loves a woman?”
Velvene nodded. “If that happened, would he not want everything possible for his beloved, eh? Including her freedom, her happiness, her enjoyment of life.”
“He would want that,” Marx replied. “I certainly wanted that for my wife.”
“Then this surely is what love must be. It is the way we most profoundly understand the beloved, so that they may experience the best of what life has to offer. After all, we enter this world knowing nobody – yet we, as a social animal, have no option but to know the people around us.”
“Indeed!” Marx said. “Then love, understanding, and freedom must all be words for the same thing.”
Velvene felt excitement course through him. “They must be! And though I have heard it said amongst cynical, and often very young men that love is blind, the opposite must be true. Love is like spectacles. We see better through it.”
“A remarkable analogy, sir! I believe I may put that in my pamphlet.”
Velvene felt very proud when he heard this. At once Marx grasped his fountain pen and a sheet of paper and began to write, so that, after ten minutes, he had produced a pamphlet. He handed it to Velvene.
“This may be printed without further reference to me,” he said. “I give it to you freely. I see, Mr Orchardtide, that you are indeed a changed man. What will you do next?”
Velvene replied, “The Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London is led by Sylfia Fermicelli, who is not as energetic as I would wish. I shall give her this pamphlet as proof of my sincerity, then decide how best to acquire converts to the cause.” He paused for thought then added, “And I may well rescue that poor lad Tyko, eh? I cannot stop thinking of him and that terrible work master.”
“The working class has an excellent ally in you. Good luck, sir.”
They shook hands, then Velvene left, emerging into warm sunlight at the front of the British Library. The eagle stood quiet, pecking at the pavement, but beside it stood the dung attendant. Not even the presence of this man however could depress Velvene’s mood.
“I trust all is well, eh?” Velvene said as he made to alight on the eagle.
“You planning to fly off now, sir?”
“Well, are you planning to stop me?”
“No,” the man replied, “but do mind how you go, sir. With all this hair in town every man and his missus is acquiring flying vehicularisation, which means the skies are becoming crowded.” The man doffed his cap. “Just an observation, sir. I wouldn’t want you to have an accident.”
Velvene unhitched the eagle and urged it into the air. He replied, “And I wouldn’t want you to have a compassionate thought.”
~
Silence enfolded the annular space between deadly mimosa tree and deadly chamber. At length Bane cleared his throat and spoke.
“We must investigate further,” he said. “We must open the door and see what lies inside.”
“Indeed,” Kornukope agreed, “but how? You said the door is sealed and beyond your capacity to open.”
“Perhaps there will be letters beside the door that Eastachia can read.”
They shuffled around the chamber to the door, which was visible as the thinnest of cracks in the external wall. Eastachia tried to read the script, but Kornukope could see she was struggling.
“It is unlikely that Gandy would have explicit entry instructions written beside the door,” he pointed out.
“I can read some of this,” Eastachia said, “but they refer to times of the day, of the year, like a calendar or a plan of some sort.”
“Mayhap entry is gained by some peculiarly Indoo method,” Kornukope suggested.
Eastachia nodded. She became silent, and Kornukope began to wonder if she was having second thoughts.
“If there is a machine inside,” he said, “we might be able to use it against the uprising.”
Eastachia frowned. “Nobody as practical as me would consider such a daft idea,” she said. “Be quiet, Kornukope.”
“But the rabble–”
“The government will
parley
with them, of course,” Eastachia snapped. “Now do be silent while I think.”
Kornukope glanced at Bane, then, certain Eastachia’s gaze was elsewhere, he gave an eloquent shrug. Bane did nothing to respond.
At length Eastachia stirred and spoke. “Kailash,” she said.
Nothing happened. Kornukope said, “What are you attempting?”
“Words that may unlock the door. I see no handle – do you?”
Kornukope shook his head.
Eastachia continued to speak. “Nandi... Trishula... Nataraja!”
Still nothing.
“Those words didn’t work,” she said. “The names of his mount, his trident and his name as Lord of the Dance. Hmmm... I wonder?
Om Namah Shivaya!
”
The door slid aside without a sound, and Kornukope faced a dark interior. At once Bane took from his pocket an automatic candle, which he switched on. They peered inside the chamber to see a single object, a statue of Shiva made, it seemed, of bronze. Slowly, like scared cats, they crept inside.
The statue was no ordinary bronze of Shiva. In his four hands he carried weapons with great conical barrels, while beneath him, in place of Apasmara, lay a simulacrum of Lord Gorge, the Prime Minister. The circle of flames surrounding Shiva was marked with atomic symbols.
“It is a weapon, a
device,
” Bane said, “intended for use against us by Gandy’s Home Rule cabal.”
“We can use it against the Cockneigh Uprising if we know its words of power,” Kornukope said. Already he saw the possibilities of this remarkable creation.
“
No!
” Eastachia cried.
Kornukope jumped; her yell echoed around the polished interior of the chamber. “No?” he queried. Eastachia rarely shouted.
“I
won’t
be a part of this,” she said. Confronting Kornukope she continued, “You’ll get no more Indoo words out of me. Do you seriously imagine a
weapon
should be used against thousands of innocent people?”
“But they are not innocent,” Kornukope pointed out, becoming annoyed. “They are disturbing the peace–”
“It’s the leaders who are guilty, if anybody,” Eastachia interrupted. “The mob is just that, a mob. They’re guilty of nothing more than starvation and lack of opportunity. And for centuries they’ve been exploited by the rich and powerful.”
“I will not hear any more of this social equity talk!” Kornukope retorted. “This is verging upon Leninism.”
“Don’t you slander me!” Eastachia replied. “Leninism? Have you seen me travelling to Bloomsbury then, is that it? Have I put a copy of
Das Kapital
in our bookcase?”
“I... I have never looked,” Kornukope replied.
Eastachia seethed with anger. “Then you think there’s a chance I
might
have?” she asked.
Kornukope knew he could not back down, partly because of the presence of Bane, but more because he knew he was right. Eastachia, for all her fine qualities, knew little of the esoteric world of politics and the Empire.
“Dearest one,” he said, glancing at Bane, “this is perhaps not the place–”
“And don’t you dare tell me what I can say and when! I’m a functioning member of Britisher society, Kornukope Wetherbee. Have you forgotten what we’ve been through just lately? Escape from Swiss Cottage? Gandy in the back garden of Number Ten? Escape from cannibal tribes in Windsor Great Park? Passing through war? And just
who
was it who gamed with Death, and won?”
“Is this–”
“And may I also remind you that I was a member of the Rhododendron Mob in Moonbai, with all the courage that entails? Or is your Suicide Club the superior organisation because you’re all men? No! Now use your loaf, and
think!
”
With that, to Kornukope’s astonishment, she turned to leave.
Bane pulled out a pistol and said, “Do not move, either of you.”
Kornukope gasped. “Sir!” he croaked. “You are an agent of the Britisher government, as are we.”
“Do not tell me who I work for,” Bane replied. “Mrs Wetherbee, are you refusing to explore this device any further?”
Eastachia put her fists to her hips and declared, “Yes I
am,
you stupid little man.”
“Then you will remain motionless here, or I will fire to wound and disable you.” Bane side-stepped to the chamber door and, leaning out, shouted, “Banksia? Banksia! Can you hear me out there?”
Through the mimosa curtain a man’s voice, muffled but intelligible, replied, “Yessir, can hear you quite alrighty.”
“Arm five men and post them outside the tunnel entrance. Then tell Spooner-Whatington to get to the Royal Institute as fast as he can – tell him to use the telegraphical Psittacidae to call back the gyrfalcon. He is to bring the Indoo mathematician Sir Raman here without delay.”
“Yessir!”
Kornukope stared at Bane. “What do you intend doing?” he asked.
“Raman will know many words relating to this Indoo totem–”
“It’s an image of Lord Shiva and must be respected,” said Eastachia.
“I shall call it what I like,” Bane replied, enunciating every word.
Kornukope raised his hands and held them out, palms up. “Look here old chap, this is ridiculous. We are both fighting the same enemy, are we not? The Bosch, the Leninists... Gandy when he was alive. My wife here is a Britisher heroine, if you take account of her work in Moonbai.”
“You will not blather your way around me,” Bane replied. “All that matters is that we activate this device. Then, as you kindly pointed out, we shall have the Pearly King and the Pearly Queen by the short and curlies.”
“Yes, but...”
“A plan I seem to recall
you
supported, Mr Kornukope Wetherbee.”
Kornukope said nothing. Events had spiralled out of control. He turned to look at Eastachia, but she folded her arms and walked behind the statue.
Bane again walked to the entrance and shouted more orders. Returning to Kornukope he said, “You two will be an inconvenience when Raman arrives, so I shall escort you to the southern end of the glasshouse.”
With no other option, Kornukope and Eastachia were forced to crawl back along the tunnel, then proceed, under armed escort, to the distant edge of the glasshouse, where they sat on barrels of Tamil wine. A mournful guard watched over them.
For a few minutes nobody said anything. Then Eastachia stood up and said, “I need to go to the convenience of the lady.”
“The what, ma’am?” said the guard.
“The necessary of ladyfolk.”
“The toilet!” Kornukope grunted.
The guard looked about, then grinned. “Use that bush,” he chortled.
To Kornukope’s surprise, Eastachia agreed, walking towards the bush at once then vanishing behind it. Silence. More silence...
The guard began to fret, then told Kornukope, “Go see what she’s doing, old man.”
Kornukope went to look. Nobody about. He span around. “She has escaped, you idiot!”
At once the guard blew on a whistle and ran to the nearest door, opening it to peer out. Kornukope did likewise, but saw nothing moving amidst the greenery and mats of hair. A few minutes later he heard pattering feet; he turned around to see Bane and a detachment of armed soldiers.
“She’s escaped, sir,” the guard said.
“I can see that, you dozy oaf,” Bane replied. He turned to Kornukope and said, “Well, we do not need you two any more now that Raman is about to arrive. You can go.”
“Go? Where?”
“Outside Kew Gardens. If you do not I shall order you thrown out.”
“But my place is here, serving the government!”
Bane positioned himself two feet in front of Kornukope and said, “It seems you have a decision to make, Mr Wetherbee. Will you stay and work with us, or will you go out to rescue your wife?”
Kornukope ground his teeth together out of frustration, half of him desperate to serve his country, the other half desperate to save his wife from a hairy fate worse than death. And at the heart of this dilemma was the sneering visage of Bane Flumerushett.
“You dastard,” he said. “I shall have your testicular orbs for this. I shall have your testicular orbs, sir, and display them upon London Bridge.” He raised himself on tip-toe to conclude, “On a
spike!
”
But Bane laughed. “I do not think you
have
the balls,” he replied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sheremy returned to the St Paul’s headquarters and sought out the Pearlies. They sat in their marquee taking tea and wormwood biscuits, and greeted him with smiles, and cries of, “Mon!”
Sheremy sat beside them, affecting a serious pose. He said, “Your majesties, there’s a lot we need to discuss. Tell me... if you could declare the East End an independent country, ruled by yourselves, would you do it?”
The Pearly King shrugged and replied, “Maybe, but dat never gonna happen.”
“But what if it could?”
The Pearly Queen chuckled. “Dat Prime Minister never gonna listen to us. We capture his stupid number ten by force, den take what we wantin’.”
To this Sheremy replied, “But you’ll lose hundreds, if not thousands of your people. Cockneigh blood will make the Thames run red. D’you want that?”
This made her think. She replied, “If it mean we win, dat gotta be done.”
“Your majesty, there is another way. I’m a man of the Suicide Club, and I have the ear of many nobles. I could perhaps negotiate a settlement–”
“A settlement? Dey never gonna settle with da likes of us, mon!”
“They
might,
” Sheremy insisted. “I’ve been right so far – you must believe me. The Government soldiers are drilled for war. They’ve
fought
wars. What if the Cockneigh Uprising fails because their military expertise is too good?”
“We got dem superior numbers.”
Sheremy stood up. “We’ll see, sir. I’ll count them myself!”
The Pearly King also stood up. “I not likin’ dis. You tryin’ to force us into a corner.”
“No, sir! I’m trying to save Cockneigh lives. Is that so terrible a wish?”
The Pearly King hesitated. Then he said, “Right, you count dem. An’ come back quick now, y’hear?”
Sheremy bowed, then departed the marquee. He found that he was trembling. This was not going to be easy. Heading west, he returned to his house in Gough Square, which, for want of something to do, he tidied. Then he returned to St Paul’s to give his report.
“Your majesties,” he began, “the forces of the Government number nine thousand five hundred, of which four thousand five hundred are experienced troops from the Amsterdame campaign. Not even a concerted push by the Cockneighs can overcome them, though your numbers slightly outweigh theirs.”
“So many soldiers,” the Pearly King muttered. “Dis not good. I gotta consider. Options, y’know?”
Sheremy nodded, bowed, and retreated. In his little tent he slept, until a shout awoke him. “Mr Pantomile, mate! Pearly King demandin’ your presence. Quickly now.”
Sheremy dressed and hurried over to the marquee, but at once sensed a new chill in the air. “Are you well, your majesty?” he asked.
“Your numbers not matchin’ ours,” the Pearly King said. He frowned. “I t’ink you cheatin’. I t’ink you over estimate da Government forces to bring us down–”
“Sir, I’d never do that–”
“
Quiet,
mon! You in da presence of da
King.
”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“We gonna push on, capture Whitehall. Dem ministers are idiots. I want you on my side, help me, like.”
Though he knew this could not be, Sheremy said, “Yes, your majesty.”
“Good. I trust you. But if you betray me, I hang you.”
Sheremy bowed and departed.
For a while he sat dejected inside his tent. Then he departed for Bedwards House, knowing that his time with the Cockneigh Uprising was over – at least, for the moment. But there might yet be time to halt the war.
He discussed the crisis with Juinefere in her rooms.
“We’ve got to convince Lord Gorge to draw up a plan for the declaration of an independent East End,” he said. “Only then will the Pearlies believe that the Government is serious. I think the Pearlies
want
to believe me, but they just can’t.”
“It was a courageous plan, Sheremy–”
“Was? I’m not done yet!”
She nodded, awaiting more.
He continued, “I’ll come with you to Downing Street in the morning. I don’t want to, but we’ve got to use every tactic we can to make Lord Gorge do what we want. I
know,
I know Juinefere, it’s not true to the spirit of Suffering, but I fear for London, and the lives of thousands. We must demand a document outlining a declaration of independence. If I can take that to the Pearlies then perhaps London Town will be spared destruction.”
She nodded. “I admire you, Sheremy, for your devotion to humanitarian causes.”
He smiled. Praise from the praiseworthy was valuable indeed. He took her hand and kissed it. “You honour me, Juinefere.”
He glanced up at her face as his lips touched her hand, and suddenly he had a mental image of Missus kissing his own hand. He sat back, disconcerted.
“Are you all right, Sheremy?”
He nodded. He realised he was below her station. And yet, was he? Could Juinefere Bedwards love any man other than one of her exalted stature? He glanced away. He did not know. A jumble of messy, painful feelings rose inside him, and once again he felt his old compunction to hide them. He stood up, knocking back his chair, which fell with a clatter.
“I’ve got to run,” he said. “See you... tomorrow morning.”
He hurried away, alarmed to find there were tears in his eyes.
Next morning dawned dark and rainy. Dressed in Phabergé coats, hats and tough old boots they forced a way through slick and slippery hair to Fleet Street, where Franclin grazed the aerial flimflam. An hour later they were scraping the soles of their boots on the Number Ten scraper, then walking inside. The aroma of tea and almond biscuits greeted them.
Lord Gorge recognised Sheremy at once. “Pantomile isn’t it, what? Chap who licked at the Azure Temple of... well, you know what I mean.”
“Sheremy Pantomile at the service of the Government, Prime Minister.”
“Yes, yes, quite, what? So you’re with Juinefere today.”
“I’m supporting her. Juinefere is in charge.”
Lord Gorge looked uncomfortable. “Strange kettle of fish, what, for a lady?”
“Not really. History pushes on. And Juinefere is the key to all this.”
“Yes, the good lady. But I’m not so sure now. My Cabinet–”
“Juinefere is at least–”
“I am
here,
gentlemen,” Juinefere said with some acidity.
Sheremy nodded. “The Prime Minister’s ear is at your beck.”
Without preamble Juinefere said, “Lord Gorge, I want today a draft declaration of independence for the East End.” She withdrew a parchment from her blouson, which Sheremy was amazed to see contained a map of the eastern reaches of London, a map she must have drawn herself, in secret. She continued, “This is my suggestion for where to put the borders. You can see I’ve included Whitechapel, Stepney, Wapping, Poplar, Limehouse and Bow within those borders. The new country would therefore have a good length of riverbank to use for imports and exports, over which it would of course exercise total control. The East End is to be ruled as a constitutional monarchy, but, unlike ours, there would be a written constitution. The eldest son
or daughter
would succeed to the Jellied Eel Throne however, a state of affairs we would insist upon in our negotiations should the Pearly King and Queen prefer inheritance through the male line only. Border controls would be entirely the affair of the East Enders, as would taxation. Cockneigh would be the official language.”
Sheremy took a deep breath. Lord Gorge took a deep breath.
Juinefere sipped her tea then continued, “Each country would have an embassy in the other, with ours, I venture to suggest, occupying the Cock’s Egg Building in Bow. Theirs could be in Mayfair. An ambassador would look after the vital interests of each country, and the usual diplomatic mores would be followed. The creation of a standing army would be the sole right of the East End, and all external influence over the creation and control of that army would be forbidden. Men
and women
of any background and race could join that army. The East End would have a parliament and an elected government, which would be voted in on a party basis, as is ours, every five years, or less depending upon circumstances. Free speech, free association and the right to a free joanna must all be in the written constitution, a state of affairs we would again have to insist upon in our negotiations.”
Juinefere paused. Took another sip of her tea.
“I think that is everything, Prime Minister.”
Lord Gorge sat, slack jawed, staring at her. Silence in the room. Then he said, “My dear lady, you simply can’t be serious, what?”
“I am perfectly serious. You must realise that this is a turning point in British history.”
“A turning point? Over my dead body, what?”
“That’s what we’re trying to avoid,” Juinefere pointed out.
Lord Gorge stood up and gestured at the door. “Out, both of you! This is madfoolery of the worst kind, what? You thought I would
agree
to this?”
For the first time, Juinefere’s aura of confidence seemed wan. She glanced at Sheremy, then turned to Lord Gorge and said, “You would not want me to tell the Pankhursts that.”
Sheremy winced.
“And now,” Lord Gorge thundered, “you
threaten
me? Out! Before I call for the Basher-at-Arms!”
Sheremy took Juinefere by the hand and led her out, hurrying into Downing Street with her at his side, whereupon the door to Number Ten slammed shut.
“Where did I go wrong?” she asked, turning to face him.
“You didn’t,” he replied. “He’s too dyed-in-the-wool to accept that London’s changing. Unless we can stop it, there will be war now between rich and poor.”
“But Sheremy, thousands will be killed, and London ruined.”
“I know, my dear, I know. And, just at this moment, I can’t think of anything we can do to stop that happening.”
~
Velvene landed the eagle on the roof of the Gordon Square flat and scrambled down, calling out as he did, “Sylfia! Wrocher! I have the pamphlet.”
Everybody sat in the common room, Sylfia standing up when he entered.
“I found Marx in the British Library and persuaded him to write us a pamphlet,” he continued. “He said I was an excellent ally to the working class, and he wished us luck.”
Sylfia, unimpressed, snatched the pamphlet from him. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she said. “What’s it about?”
“Well, it is a call to action, for the working class to support the Cockneigh Uprising.”
“This isn’t by Marx. It could have been written by anybody. He hasn’t even signed it.”
Velvene frowned, annoyed by her lack of faith. “Why would he sign a pamphlet, eh?” he replied. “But it
is
by him, and we can use it as we wish.”
Sylfia flung the pamphlet back at him. “It’s worth nothing,” she said.
Velvene gathered the papers from the floor. Now angered, he confronted Sylfia. “Why do you have to demean everything I do for this group?”
“Because, Velvene Orchard
tide
, you are a spy, an aristocratic spy sent here to ruin us.”
Velvene said nothing for a moment. “It is true that I am an Orchardtide,” he admitted with a shrug, “but I am banished from the family and will never again be one of them. I have put all my energies into the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London, you must see that by now–”
“You lie. That isn’t by Marx. You wrote it.”
Velvene did not know what to say. He had no proof, after all.
“You’re trying to take over my group, aren’t you?” said Sylfia.
“No I am
not,
” he retorted. “I am not interested in taking over the group. Why do you constantly accuse me of that, eh?”
Sylfia walked up to face him. “Because you don’t like a woman leading the group. Because you don’t approve of Diamony and Percivalia being here. Because
you,
Mr Aristocrat, don’t like women, you think they’re worthless and should be at home looking after the babies and making soft furnishings.”
“This is nonsense.”
“Are you married?”
“No, but–”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No I have not,” Velvene said, “but what has that to do with me struggling day after day for the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London, eh?”
Sylfia turned to address her colleagues. “I think my point has been made,” she declared.
But then Velvene, seeing the pained look on Percivalia’s face, said, “Am I right in thinking you proof-read Engels’
The Condition Of The Working Classes In England
, Percivalia?”
She nodded. “Many years ago,” she said.
“And have you ever seen the handwriting of Karl Marx?”
“On quite a few occasions.”
“Then,” Velvene said, trying his best to keep the triumphalism from his voice, “you can tell me who wrote this.”
He handed her the pamphlet, which she read a few lines of. “It’s by Marx,” she said, handing it to Sylfia.
Sylfia seemed half astonished, half infuriated. At length she managed to say, “Then I suppose we’ll have to have a few hundred copies printed up.”
“Make that a few thousand,” Percivalia said. “Are we aiming for the heavens or muddy earth?”
“A thousand then,” Sylfia muttered.
Velvene nodded. “Thank you, Percivalia. We are indebted to your intellect and to your prowess in this group.”
“I’m still leader,” Sylfia insisted.
“Doubtless you are,” Velvene replied. “I suspect I shall always be the outsider. But you cannot now doubt my motives, eh? Here we have a Marx original, which we could use to support the Cockneigh Uprising. And there is something else I want to suggest–”
“Oh, really?” Sylfia said.
Velvene ignored her sarcasm. “We need foot soldiers. As many as possible, young, old and middling. There is a factory on Pentonville Road where an innocent boy was incarcerated, along with hundreds of others. I want them released so that they may serve the cause. Who is with me for a raid, eh?”
At once Wrocher raised his hand. “We need as many freed workers as possible,” he said. “I know the place you mean, Velvene – the tall black building with high walls and small windows. Rotting brown doors and a workmaster with a sallow face.”
“That is the place,” Velvene said. “Those children may have nowhere to go, but the Cockneigh Uprising will have need of them. And then we shall release other workers – perhaps even the darkies of Grafton Place, though they rejected us last time.”
