Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (8 page)
Pertrand looked Velvene up and down for a while then said, “I’m gonna do you a favour, guv. Come with us back to our headquarters. You need some grub, some tea, and then some good solid reading. What you say?”
Velvene shrugged. “I suppose I could, I have nothing else to do.”
From the station entrance a toffee landau emerged in which two figures could be seen, glittering with jewels, as Velvene noted. The Marxist-Leninists threw stones and sacks of Curious paint at the vehicle, which, resting on an inflated bag, sped off down Euston Road with little hindrance from the hair.
“That showed ’em,” Pertrand observed. “All right, everyone! Fun over. Back to Gordon Square. This here is Velvene Orchard, a sculptor. He’s interested in Marx and Lenin, so be polite to him.”
With some embarrassment Velvene waved to the half dozen protestors.
Pertrand’s headquarters was a dingy upper floor flat situated opposite the tree-strewn greenery of Gordon Square, an apartment in which lay a Marxist library, a number of living rooms and bedrooms, and a shared kitchen. The bathroom was a shed erected on the roof. Plumbing was rudimentary.
“This’ll be your home for a while guv,” Pertrand said. “It’s basic, but it’s all a human being needs. No need for gold and opulence, is there? Plenty for all, if the confounded aristocracy would just share it out fairly.”
“I know what you mean,” Velvene said, nodding. He glanced at the others, settling down to tea and toast, then said, “I notice you have three women here.”
“Yeah. Women are part of the revolution. Men and women are equal, as Marx and Lenin pointed out.”
“But politics is a man’s job.”
“You need to disabuse yourself of
that
idea soon as maybe,” Pertrand said. “And don’t go repeating it inside these walls. I can chuck you out, you know.”
Velvene felt uncomfortable. A woman’s place was in the world of women. Everything else was the world of men. He decided to use Pertrand for a brief time, get himself back on his feet, then move on. Bedwards House lay less than a mile away.
“This afternoon I’m going out on a scouting mission,” Pertrand said, “to a hidden factory using cheap labour. You should come, guv.”
Velvene nodded. Just this once...
“It’s not situated too far away,” Pertrand continued, “so the hair won’t make the walk impossible. Grafton Place by Euston Station, it is.”
“A small trek,” Velvene replied, recalling treks of his own that had stretched for hundreds of miles across jungle and desert.
After a luncheon of mouldy cheese on toast and weak tea, Velvene and Pertrand departed the flat and headed north. Velvene said as little as possible, not wanting to give his Belgravia background away, but also hoping to entice hints from Pertrand as to what his intentions were for the group.
“Bring down the aristocracy,” Pertrand said. “Simple ’nuff. By any means, guv, know what I mean? We got all sorts of plans. Maybe one day I’ll let you into a few little Marxist-Leninist secrets, depending on how well you serve the cause.”
“Serve the cause, eh?”
“I can see it in your eyes. You hate ’em as much as me.”
Velvene said nothing. He hated his family, of course.
The Grafton Place factory stood in a yard hidden behind a mercantile row, small windows piercing high brick walls, one great chimney belching smoke, and one great door strengthened with steel; upon the main gate a plate:
Black-á-Nor Developments, Private Property, NO ADMITTANCE.
“Private property,” Pertrand chuckled. “We know what Marx has to say about that, don’t we guv?”
“I certainly do,” Velvene replied. “What do we do now?”
“Climb round the back. I wanna see how the master works his crew. Gonna make it the front page report on the next
Marxist-Leninist Times
– tomorrow with a bit of luck. C’mon guv, quiet like, else the dogs’ll hear us.”
Tip-toeing through mud, discarded paper and mats of hair, the pair rounded the factory to see a high wall behind a tall chainlink fence.
“That wall can be climbed,” Pertrand observed. “See, they’ve put stays out to hold up the sheds round this side. Reckon we could jump across to ’em, then crawl along and shin up that drainpipe.”
“You could be correct,” Velvene agreed, recalling a similar situation at the Brown Temple of Berber-Time. He sized up the leap. “It may be done, Urricane. But we must hurry, eh?”
Like skulking squirrels the pair clambered up the fence, jumped upon the nearest stay (a two yard leap not for the fainthearted) then crawled over to the wall and the drainpipe. Velvene, his confidence increasing, took the lead for the climb, explaining to Pertrand the safest way of ascending.
“Sheesh! I’m impressed, guv.”
At the top of the drainpipe Velvene leaned across and clambered upon a wide sill, shuffling along so that Pertrand could follow. A hundred foot drop below; the wind whistling around his ears.
He turned to look through the window, and was astonished at what he saw.
It was indeed a site of cheap labour. Hundreds of half naked darkies sat at steaming machines, all of which produced something familiar to Velvene. Soft leather undergarments.
“It’s a sweat factory,” Pertrand said. “Forced labour, cheap labour, immigrant labour.”
Velvene felt sick. He had no idea the standard undergarment of the Suicide Club – indeed, of so many gentleman’s clubs – was produced in this way.
But then he saw something so shocking he almost fell off the sill. It was the master of the factory. And that master was Lord Blackanore.
~
Eastachia Wetherbee, though a housewife, was no shrinking violet. As a girl she had been one of the Rhododendron Mob who had rallied a groundswell of public opinion in Moonbai so that the rule of the Koh-i-Noor Rajah could be peacefully overthrown. Later, refusing to be married, she ran away with a British gentleman who fell in love with her – and she with him – travelling in a rude schooner all the way to London, where they settled. That gentleman was Kornukope Wetherbee.
For a while they were happy and in love. But years of marriage in a society where only men were allowed to be active dulled her senses, mothballed her mind and enlarged her body. Fires started to burn low, though she had hardly turned forty.
The appearance of hairy London set a spark to tinder. With Kornukope at her side she felt a hint of the Rhododendron Mob stalwart that once she had been, though she was less fit and he had grey hair. And she was determined not to miss the opportunity given to her by Lord Blandhubble.
So they stood now at the edge of Kew Gardens, the sun low upon the horizon setting into a haze of orange clouds, the air cool, the locale quiet. Swathes of fine brunette hair swished along Kew Road in the evening breeze.
“What do you make of the place?” Kornukope asked her.
Eastachia put away the monocular. “Many Indoo people, all working. Some make vehiculars with long legs, some make miniature machinoras, others make coal-powered scissors. They’ve got large stocks of anthracite, which is a worry... and I’m sure I can smell paraffin.”
“Do you see any way of getting inside the Gardens themselves?”
Eastachia pointed to a section of the outer fence where a Nonpareil Tree grew. “Do you see how a long branch bows low to the ground on our side? I think we could climb that branch, drop down on the other side, then hide until dark behind the Carnivorous Plants House.”
This plan they followed, settling for a couple of hours in a thicket of soft black hair, through which camomile daisies grew like exploding stars in a nebulous sky.
Lord Blandhubble had given them a method of keeping in touch, a miniature postbox painted red, which Eastachia kept in her handbag. On a scrap of paper she wrote:
By Richmond Circus. Have penetrated Kew Gardens. Indoo work force hard at it, manufacturing devices of transport. All here is frenetic activity. E. & K. W.
Folding this
slip and sealing it with a dab of elephant wax, she took out one of the books of stamps given to her by Lord Blandhubble.
“Use second class,” Kornukope advised. “First class is only for urgent messages.”
She nodded, sticking a second class stamp on the folded slip, taking out the postbox and popping the note through the letterbox hole. In seconds, she knew, her letter would be inside the postbox beside Blandhubble’s desk at the Foreign Office.
When they judged the night to be dark enough they crept out from behind the building and tip-toed through the mixture of hair and grass that covered the Old Deer Park at the southern end of Kew Gardens. They had to avoid numerous carnivorous plants – sundews the size of footballs, pitchers like wells, and flytraps hanging on vines that hissed like snakes. In the dark this was not easy, and it slowed their progress.
Activity to the north was restricted to a few workshops showing yellow turmeric lanterns; the occasional sound of a hammer on metal, or an Urdu curse. Crouched low behind a Vexatious Tree near one of these workshops, Eastachia listened to the conversations.
‘Kaisa chal raha hai?’
“What does that mean?” Kornukope asked her.
“How’s it going.”
‘Thik thak.’
“Very well.”
‘Kya ap meri madad kar sakte hain?’
“Can you help me?”
‘Mujhe thandi biar dijiyega.’
“Please give me a cold beer.” Eastachia sniffed, then added, “I can smell gulab jamun. These men must be Bengali, which means they’re lazy. No wonder they’re drinking beer and eating sweets on duty.”
“Yes, yes, and perhaps we can use that against them,” Kornukope said. “Come along dearest one, we need to locate Gandy’s headquarters. My guess is that it will be in the centre of the gardens, out of sight of the roads.”
They explored further, and half an hour later spotted a glasshouse surrounded by Nous Trees, whose soft and luxuriant feather-leaves concealed much of the structure. Eastachia took out her monocular again, to see that the glasshouse was vast: as long as a railway platform at Eustonia, with a roof as high, all manner of walkways and wrought iron spiral staircases filling the upper reaches. Lower down, the place was crammed with verdancy.
“This might be it,” she said. “I see men walking along gangways, carrying nightlights. I see noticeboards amongst the plants on which maps have been pinned.”
“We could try to sneak in,” Kornukope suggested.
Eastachia studied the darker southern end of the glasshouse. “The nerve centre is to the north,” she said. “There are many doors further away though. I’m sure we could get inside without being seen.”
“Are there any guards?”
“None. Gandy must feel secure here. Kew Gardens is a labyrinth of horticultural borders, carnivorous plants and hair.”
“He’s returned to this country many times,” Kornukope observed, “and must think the government has gone soft on him. We shall put a stop to that misapprehension.”
With that, they crept through drifts of hair-entwined foxgloves to the southern extremity of the glasshouse, where Eastachia appraised their options. A single door labelled
Anglocide Zone
seemed their best bet, and a minute later they had slipped through it and were hiding behind a jacaranda.
Eastachia listened to the distant voices.
‘Downing Street kitni dur hai?’
“How far is Downing Street?”
‘Meri chori ho gai hai.’
Eastachia gasped. “I think that was Gandy! I recognise his voice. He said he’d been robbed.”
‘Char kos.’
“Four kos... that’s about nine miles.”
‘Main tin hafte ke liye Downing Street ja raha hun.’
“I’m going to Downing Street in three weeks, he says. Kornukope, Gandy means to assault the government itself!”
“We must warn Lord Blandhubble. Write him another letter.”
Eastachia took out a slip of paper and a pencil at once. Gandy planning an assault on Downing Street. Indoos gathering in Kew Gardens. Will investigate, and write again when we know more details. E. & K. W. To this message she affixed a first class stamp, before posting it.
There was a rustle in the foliage behind her and she turned to see four men spring out from a clump of glass mistletoe. Their leader was a small man in round-lens spectacles and a dhoti, whose hands had been replaced with, on the left a clump of tentacles, and on the right a crab claw. Gandy!
He stared at them. “Good evening strangers,” he said. To his companions he said, “Guards, search them for weapons.”
This done, Gandy approached. Eastachia pressed her palms together and said “Namasté,” then added, “What do you want with us?”
He replied, “I am Nohandas Karamchand Gandy, and you, I suspect, are spies. I want information out of you, and I will do anything to get it. Guards, take them to the Venus Fly Trap Chamber.”
CHAPTER SIX
Valantina thought they may have crash-landed in Archbishop’s Park, close to Lambeth Palace; but, she said, she was not sure. Hairy London looked different from the air, with only the river as a guide, and as they fell from the sky she had lost her bearings.
Sheremy listened to her as they watched the darkie faces moving around the selenowiz, like curious cats. Damn, this was tricky...
He said, “Shall we stay inside? Perhaps they’ll get bored of us and go.”
She nodded. “Stay quiet for now. Let us see what they do.”
Sheremy watched and waited. There were five of the natives, three men and two women, all of them naked, all of them bald, carrying bows and arrows, the men brandishing assegais; all five of them decorated with fabric armbands and straw waist-belts. They spoke to one another in a non-English language that he did not recognise. They looked confident, dangerous.
Then one of the women turned the gullwing door handle, and the door swung upwards. She grinned. In halting style she said, “You come out now.”
With a sinking heart Sheremy disembarked, standing quiet while Valantina followed suit. “Who are you?” he asked. “Where do you come from?”
“Vauxhall,” she said. “This now our tribal land. You come with us.”
“You’re taking us prisoner?” he replied. “Why? We’ve done nothing wrong–”
“You shut up, posh man! You in our land now. We make you become like us. Good fun.”
They had no choice but to surrender. Sheremy whispered to Valantina, “What d’you think she meant by make us become like them?”
Valantina shrugged. “I hope they are not going to eat us.”
Worried, Sheremy considered this notion. Surely these people were ordinary darkies – servants most likely, formerly in the houses of Britishers. How could they have reverted to tribal mores so quickly? Was this part of the baleful influence of the hair? He felt his heart beat fast as he pondered the fate lying before him. Lord Blackanore was a decent cove, and he was the Secretary of the Suicide Club. Why were these people so different?
“At least they speak our lingo,” he said. “That’ll make it easier for us to bargain with them. Have you got any bright, sparkly jewels on your person?”
Valantina shook her head, a mournful expression on her face.
As they walked on through the moon-limned hair of Lambeth Walk (for such it was), Sheremy noticed that the tribespeople were not as restricted in their movements as ordinary folk. Considering their state of undress, he noticed that both men and women shaved their armpits, bodies and indeed their nether regions. It had been quite a shock for him to see women bald, but more so was the sight of their drimes lacking the appurtenance of pubicity. He shuddered. Damned tribal customs, no doubt. A terrible state of affairs, and most unnatural.
At the Coal Board offices on Glasshouse Walk they stopped, one of the men uttering a whoop before leading them inside the building. The place, formerly meeting rooms and the like, had been ripped to pieces, creating a maze of chambers – caves, almost – in which a great number of darkies and even a few Britishers lived. Sheremy saw Hindoos also, and a Red Indian, all of them naked, like natives of the African interior.
He stopped and in a loud voice said, “Why exactly have you people brought us here? We mean you no harm. Our vehicle was accidentally–”
“Shut up! You increase the tribe, make it stronger. Then we take over south of the river. Make big land, all for us. Hunt lice.”
Sheremy took Valantina’s hand in his and said, “We have our answer, my dear. They mean to induct us into their tribe. I’m afraid it’s drums and dancing for us now.”
“Who is that man over there? He is staring at us.”
Sheremy looked. The white man Valantina had noticed had a familiar face, but, seeing him bald and naked, Sheremy could not bring his family to mind. “Familiar,” he murmured, “but no more than that. Looks like one of Lord Offal’s brats.”
“I think he is staring at
you,
” Valantina said. “Perhaps he recognises you.”
Sheremy nodded. “Could be one of the runners I’ve worked with on expeditions... I don’t know.”
“Don’t stare back at him Sheremy, it could give his position away.”
Sheremy shrugged. “Looks like he’s gone totally native to me.” He glanced at Valantina and said, “My dear, what are we going to do? The thought of you in all this pickle makes me angry. You’re a good woman, and don’t deserve this.”
“Sheremy, you speak from the heart... and you are a good man.”
Sheremy felt his heart thump as she said this. He realised he entertained
feelings
for her... warm feelings. She was a wonderful woman! “We’ll get out of this, don’t you worry,” he said.
“You shut up!” one of the tribal men barked. “Follow us now.”
Sheremy scowled. “You, sir, are an absolute Berkley Hunt.”
They were led into a side chamber from which a number of corridors branched off. A fire burned in the centre of this chamber, which was filled with desks, chairs and tables. A few tribespeople wandered around, but the main occupant was a tall darkie wearing chieftain headgear; feathers and straw.
Sheremy said, “What d’you intend doing with us, chief? We’ve got jewels, and much money–”
The old chieftain thumped his assegai upon the floor. “We not need jewels. We need people. Make tribe big and strong. Now take off your clothes.”
“What, sir? A Britisher never removes his clothes before a lady.”
“Do as you told, or head bashed in. Blood sacrifice.”
Sheremy quailed. To Valantina he whispered, “My dear, I’m so sorry, but it looks like we’ve got no choice. Be strong–”
“We
will
survive,” Valantina said. She appeared anxious but not frightened, Sheremy thought; another example of her courage.
Slowly, they undressed. The chieftain watched, a leer on his face. Sheremy vowed not to glance at Valantina as her corset and lace netheries appeared, but as she stood in bassoumbierre and pantette he could not resist... to see her glorious, womanly figure in all its voluptuous charm. He, by comparison, seemed scrawny, if athletic. He began to wonder what she saw in him.
Then they both stood entirely naked. Sheremy said, with all the menace he could muster, “What now, you black-hearted devil? You’ve had your fun. Now beat your drums, chant your silly chants and have done with it, what?”
The chieftain took shaving gear from the desk at his side. “You hairless. Move more swift through hair outside. Then part of Vauxhall tribe.”
“Never, d’you hear!”
The chieftain began mixing soap and water in a brass catch-all. A number of shaving brushes and razoranda lay nearby. But then there came a loud
bang
that echoed like a gunshot around the chamber. Sheremy jumped, turned, and saw at the mouth of one of the corridors a gesturing figure. The white man Valantina had noticed! What
was
he doing?
Valantina grabbed his hand and ran towards the corridor, dragging him with her. The chieftain growled a curse and threw his assegai, but missed.
The white man threw two coal sacks at them, which they caught. Then he ran off, crying, “Follow me!”
They followed, their flight chaotic through half-lit corridors, the sound of drums, screams and yells behind them. Briefly they paused to put on the coal sacks, which they wore like baggy coats, then the white man turned and shook Sheremy by the hand. “Digglesby String-Offal at your service,” he said.
“Digglesby!”
“Sir,” Digglesby wailed, “I couldn’t bear to see a Pantomile humiliated so!
You,
a member of the Suicide Club and all.”
“By Jove,” Sheremy said. This lad’s father had been one of the founders of the Suicide Club before the Patagonian Geegaw got him.
“No shoes I’m afraid,” Digglesby said, “but there’s no time for luxuries.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“The Underground, sir. We may yet make it. Now hurry!”
On and on they ran, through the labyrinthine corridors, stairways and chambers of the Coal Board building, until they stood, clammy and panting, in a cellar. A single candle on a stick illuminated the bare chamber.
“This is where you’re on your own,” Digglesby explained. “We made a doorway here that leads into the Vauxhall Underground station service shaft. There’s a ladder, a very long and precipitous ladder... I do so hope you can make it sir, and your lady too.”
“I’ve climbed the Steaming Ladder of the Moon,” Valantina replied, her voice firm. “Come along, Sheremy. Steps and ladders hold no terrors for me.”
“Good luck sir,” Digglesby said.
Sheremy shook him by the hand. There were tears in both their eyes. Decent family, the String-Offals. “And good luck to you lad,” he said. “If you ever get out of this place alive there’ll be a medal for you. Damn, I’ll see to it myself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Digglesby operated the doorway by pushing on a stone. Valantina led the way out of the cellar, leaning out into the brick-clad chimney that was the service shaft, rotating her body, then placing her feet on the upper rungs of the ladder. Sheremy shuddered. The shaft was three feet wide. A cold breeze blew up. When Valantina had descended a few yards he followed her, and then the door above him slammed shut and he hung in complete darkness.
His stomach rumbled. “Are you secure down there, my dear?” he called.
Her voice came faint; she had already descended some distance. “Hurry along, Sheremy.”
He climbed down as best he could. The descent seemed to take hours. It was a living hell for him, but, buoyed by Valantina, he managed it.
Then: “I see light below, Sheremy!”
A couple of minutes later he stood in a tunnel: rails upon the ground, a cool breeze blowing in his face, the reverberated noise of thuds and distant voices in his ears. “We made it!” he said.
From an alcove an old man in a blue uniform appeared. “Tickets please,” he said.
Sheremy approached the old man. “But we’ve clambered down from–”
“All tickets please.”
“But we had no opportunity to purchase any.”
The old man tutted, shaking his head. “You can’t come on the Underground without a ticket, mate.”
“But...”
“Lordy me, s’pose I’ll ’ave to write you a chit.”
“Yes, yes,” Sheremy said, “write us a chit. But we’ve no money.”
The old man raised his gaze to the ceiling and chuckled. “If I ’ad a farthin’ for every bleedin’ time I ’eard that one...”
Valantina took a ring off her finger and handed it over. “That will pay for us to travel to Parisi and back,” she said.
“Yeah, well, we ain’t got no link with the Metro just yet, luv. Napoleon’s plan didn’t work out, ’adn’t you ’eard?”
“Don’t you speak to my beloved like that!” Sheremy said.
“Sheremy!” Valantina gasped, staring at him.
Sheremy shrugged. He cared not who knew of his feelings now.
“’Ere you go, mate,” said the old man. “Your chit. You’ll ’ave to work it out with the guv’nor as to payin’ it. Now clear orf, the both of you.”
Sheremy grasped Valantina’s hand and led her away. In the half light of the tunnel they walked on, side by side, until he saw the ghostly hint of a station platform ahead. Turning to Valantina he said, “I believe I’m falling in love with you, Valantina. I just wanted you to know.”
She leaned forwards and kissed him. “I think the feeling may be mutual,” she replied.
~
Velvene could not sleep. On the bedbug-ridden mattress he turned this way and that, unable to rid his mind’s eye of the images of the last few days: Tyko happy eating chips & fishes; the sallow faced man throwing a distressed Tyko; the protestors and their placards; and worst of all Lord Blackanore’s grinning face.
He sat up. Anger burned in his body. Lord Blackanore was
so
proud of the softness of the leather undergarments,
so
pleased with their distribution amongst the nobles of London, so
keen
to increase their uptake. No wonder! He was indeed a blackguard.
Velvene knew he had been converted. He had a war now in which to fight.
He got out of bed and walked across to the window of the box room in which he had been put. He was lucky: he slept alone. The three women shared a room, while Pertrand, showing off Velvene thought, slept on a sofa.
In the pale light of dawn he glanced at the clay figure, to see it had changed once more. He approached it. The figure was better modelled, all the lumps gone, the limbs smooth, shapely, the posture better, the back showing a hint of vertebrae and ribs. Still no sign though if it was a man or a woman. But what on earth was the thing?
He returned to his bed. There was just enough light now to read.
He took up his copy of Engels, and read: I have never seen a class so deeply demoralized, so incurably debased by selfishness, so corroded within, so incapable of progress, as the English bourgeoisie; and I mean by this, especially the bourgeoisie proper, particularly the Liberal, Corn Law repealing bourgeoisie. For it nothing exists in this world, except for the sake of money, itself not excluded. It knows no bliss save that of rapid gain, no pain save that of losing gold.
Velvene cursed and put the book aside. That was a description of him! A man for whom gold was all and men so little. He had been a lummox. Well, now he was a Marxist-Leninist. The sight of Lord Blackanore, who he knew so well, who he had admired for his suave insight, for his energy, for his devotion to his undergarments, that sight of the man grinning at his kinsmen slaving in their steamy hell... it would remain with him for life.
Later that morning they made plans. Velvene said, “I want to destroy the darkie factory and release all the workers.”
Pertrand nodded. “How?”
“From above, eh? I am skilled in the flight of Archimedean floating systems, but alas we have none.”
“We could steal one,” Pertrand said.
Velvene nodded. “Our best chance would be from London Zoo – you, Pertrand, and I could undertake that theft. The rest of the group could set up the raid itself.”
“Sounds good, guv.”
And so the plans were set. But Velvene foresaw a difficulty, which he broached as he and Pertrand forged their way up Eversholt Street on their way to the zoo that evening. “I must wear a mask for the duration of the raid,” he said. “The darkie owner is known to me.”
