White Stone Day (15 page)

precious hour when the sun tips into the longer light of afternoon. A
short while later, sunlight streaming through the window in columns,
he photographed the girls. They posed as wood–nymphs in white
dresses with garlands in their hair; as country maids with bare
shoulders and impish visages; and as the most charming beggar girls
ever. The sitting ended naturally as the sunlight entered the red end
of the spectrum and then faded. By this time Miss Pouch lay slumped
in her chair as though boneless, having grown drowsy from sandwiches
and tea, not to mention the ether fumes that attend the preparation
of ever}' plate. How time flies! Suddenly it is dusk. The day is
over. In a reverie of sweet regret, Boltbyn puts away his chemicals
and his portable darkroom as 102 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS,
OXFORDSHIRE though packing up after a picnic, while the two sisters
settle luxuriantly into velvet cushions on the big couch, like angels
nestled in clouds, while a gentle fog of ether wafts dreamily through
their clever little minds. He joins them on the couch, in his
customary spot at the opposite end, seated upright – if
anything more than upright – with his pocket watch, as usual,
open on one knee. Story time. 'I expect you ladies have grown
accustomed to the particulars of our setting; but in case some detail
escaped your attention, I shall sum up. 'Treacletown is a small,
sunny settlement in the uppermost branches of an extremely ominous
forest. Though constructed of the lightest building materials, the
town is populated by the darkest of citizens – which became
immediately evident, you will recall, when a hedgehog subjected our
Emma to a bad–mannered display, about which the less said the
better 'That is when I fled back down into the forest,' pipes up the
older girl, unexpectedly. 'I do not recall that having been the case,
Miss Emma.' 'It was. You implied it yourself. You said the magical
talking tree functioned like a mechanical lift. Therefore it must
have been capable of transporting a person down as well as up.' 'You
seem to know a good deal more about the conveyance than I do. Would
you care to continue the narration from here?' 'You don't have to be
snippy. It was just a suggestion.' 'I am not being snippy. Please
continue.' 'Mama says you are deaf in one ear, Mr Boltbyn,' says
Lydia, who wishes to change the subject. 'Is it true?' 'I see no need
to discuss either one of my ears, Miss Lydia. Miss Emma, if you have
a contribution to the story please make it now.' 'It is not so much
an addition as an unforeseen character.' 'And who might that be?'
Lydia groans, theatrically. 'You are diverting the story again,
Emma.' Boltbyn hesitates, sensing that Emma has begun to find the
story childish and seeks to complicate matters. As though reading his
mind, Emma hops onto the floor, marches to Boltbyn's end of the
couch, deposits her chin upon his knee (he must rescue his watch from
falling to the floor), and looks directly into his eyes. 103 WHITE
STONE DAY 'Emma has a twin,' says Emma, watching the vicar's response
carefully. 'How extraordinary. And what is her name?' Expecting a
long detour, Boltbyn closes the lid of his watch and drops it into
his waistcoat pocket. 'I do not know anything about her. At least not
yet,' says Emma. 'Is it me?' asks Lydia. 'Certainly not,' replies
Emma. 'You may be my sister, but you could never be my twin.' 'Tell
us more about this twin,' says the vicar. 'Where did you meet her?'
'I didn't meet her, I dreamt her up. She is the subject of some
verses which I wrote down and learned by heart. Would you like me to
recite them?' 'Please do.' The prospect of a poem elicits another
groan from Lydia, for the story is now postponed indefinitely. She
settles resignedly into the pillow while Emma recites: A girl inside
my looking–glass Presumes to be my twin; Tho' she is plain and
I am pretty, She is plump and I am thin. She has freckles, I have
dimples, She is tall and I am short; Her eyes squint close together,
Mine do nothing of the sort. She insists we shared a womb, Tho' we
were borne by different mothers; Yet no argument will serve To
warrant one side or the other. So I call upon my sister dear To
settle the affair, But when she peers inside my looking–glass,
My twin is never there! Thus without a witness, My solution is no
nearer; Must I forever live with An impostor in the mirror? 104
CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXEORDSHIRE The vicar nods and scratches
his chin while his eyes grow moist. Emma the little girl is
disappearing or, rather, is assuming a different form– Is it
any wonder she imagines a twin – the grown–up Emma, whom
she no longer recognises as herself? 'Very good, miss. And . . . and
. . . and what inspires you to apply these admittedly fine verses to
Emma's Adventures in Treacletown?' 'Perhaps the story is all a dream.
Anything can happen in a dream, you know. The question is, which Emma
is the dreamer, and which Emma is the dream?' 'I'm afraid I do not
follow.' Emma is not certain she understands it herself, yet she
cannot resist an opportunity to tease. 'Why do you find it puzzling,
sir? You once told me that the greater part of your own life is a
dream.' 'Did I say that?' 'Yes.' 'Be s–so good as to sit upon
the cushion and give my leg a rest.' 'Very well. Is that better?'
'Somewhat.' Lydia stirs drowsily in her cushion, wishing to make her
point before falling asleep. 'It would be nice if I made an
appearance to some extent,' she says. Having taken the floor, Emma
continues the narrative in a parody of the vicar's rhetorical style.
'Encouraged by the presence of someone who might be a stranger but is
at least friendly, Emma accompanies her twin up the tree to
Treacletown, which, as we remember . . .' 'Yes, yes, I remember,'
replies Boltbyn, somewhat snappily. Curled up like a dormouse, Lydia
has fallen into a sound sleep while her elders bicker, and Miss Pouch
snores on. 'Upon their return, the two sisters meet with a quite
different reception from the hedgehog, for it is a superstition in
Treacletown that twins possess superior powers.' 'That is thought to
be true in some quarters. But wait a moment, if you don't mind: if
the girls do not resemble each other as your poem suggests, how is it
that the hedgehog takes them for twins?' Emma gropes for an answer to
this reasonable caveat. 'Perhaps someone has cleverly disguised one
of them to make her appear like the other. Only by looking very
closely can one tell which twin is real and which one is in
disguise.' 'That – that – th–that is indeed a most
curious circumstance.' 'Why does it bring out your stutter, sir?' 105
WHITE STONE DAY 'It does not. D–do you have an explanation for
this – a reason for the deception?1 'Not yet.' 'I am trying to
see where you are headed, without success. Yet Emma's Adventures can
surely accommodate your presumed twin.' 'You are patronising me, Mr
Boltbyn, and I do not like it.' Lydia jolts awake: 'What is
happening? Has the story gone on without me?' 'No, Miss Lydia,'
replies the vicar, with an inexplicable feeling of relief, 'we have
been patiently awaiting your return.' Rising from her pillow, Lydia
studies him closely. 'Mr Boltbyn, you have grown red and I fear that
you are vexed.' 'Indeed, Miss Lydia, I – I – I am vexed,
and I have been saving a particular item of amusement for just such a
vexed occasion. Miss Emma, that was a singularly line poem, an
excellent poem, and one fine poem deserves another.' Rising from his
seat, the vicar rummages among his noses and masks and other
materials until he produces two sheets of paper, and returns to the
couch. After cleaning his spectacles with his handkerchief, and after
clearing his throat, he reads aloud the following poem, which he
wrote the previous night as the clock chimed a sleepless three. THE
BADGER AND THE MAID by Wallace Beverley The brittle badger means to
bite The maiden of the moor, With morganatic pride his wattles laden;
O forswear thou from force majeure. Barbarian or blackamoor, Nor
shall falsely thou adjure An aplanatic maiden! O Maid, be not
content, secure In Innocence's sin–o–cure! His smile is
like a garden–snake, His tongue an asphodel, As opens he the
mandibular maw. Now tolls a ghostly gloaming hell – O hear the
phantom philomel! 106 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE
Behold, foretold, the hinds of hell, Now blooms the devil's claw! Be
chaste, the hitter–cup untaste, Be ever–green! Be
ever–graced! 'If you please, Mr Boltbyn,' mutters a groggy
Lydia, 'I do not understand the meaning of aplanatic? 'Spherical
perfection, Miss Lydia. Perhaps you should have looked it up. That
would be the s–s– – the intelligent thing to do.'
'Am I unintelligent?' Lydia turns to her sister for support. T said
no such thing!' the vicar protests. 'Have you made any headway with
our puzzle?' In a sudden temper, Emma rises to her feet. 'Lydia's
intelligence, sir, does not reside in her ability to solve your
childish riddles!' Feeling the charmed afternoon begin to
disintegrate around him, he dabs his eyes with his handkerchief,
replaces his spectacles and, with a sudden flourish, produces from
his pocket a mechanical tortoise. 'D–do you see what this is?
What do you suppose it calls itself? See how it s–sticks its
neck out, wags back and forth, s–s–s–see how its
little feet thrash about as though scrambling to an invisible
sh–shore!' Emma and Lydia exchange glances, for it is clear by
the vicar's stutter that they have ventured upon tender ground. 'What
time is it?' asks Miss Pouch – who, having awakened, gathered
her knitting together and positioned herself as though that was what
she was doing the whole time. 'Oh, dear, have we fiddled away another
afternoon? Mr Lambert will not be pleased.' 'Not so, Miss Pouch,'
replies Reverend Boltbyn, putting away his tortoise, which has not
been a success. 'The afternoon has been full of s–s–surprises.'
'I'm afraid I have made Mr Boltbyn rather cross,' says Emma. 'And
vice–versa.' Boltbyn is about to make a sunny reply, a funny
reply, when Emma abruptly leaves the room, 'Emma, come back this
instant!' calls Miss Pouch. 'NOR DO WE spells "new door",'
says Lydia. 'But you said it was to be one word!' 107

19

The
Hen and Hatchet, Houndsditch Lying in a semi–conscious state,
Whitty's mind turns to the Book of Job, in which an industrious man,
having led an exemplary life, is arbitrarily– impoverished and
infested and infected as a test of his subservience to God, so that
the Creator might win a celestial bet. Which, being omnipotent and
all–seeing, He won – God always does, with the exception
of the Fall of Man, depending upon your catechism, or the Fall of
Satan, depending upon your Milton, or the Fallen Woman, depending on
your . . . Where am U Millbank Prison .. . abducted by ratters ...
assisted escape, indebted, indebted,indebted . . . Oh dear God. His
body shivers in the foetal position, naked as a newborn, draped in
two damp towels, with a most adult headache. His mind returns to Job,
whose absurd outcome at least gives reason for hope. For his
suffering, Job's possessions were not only restored but doubled, and
he lived another hundred and forty years. From which we might draw a
moral such as: When on the receiving end of a thrashing from above,
lie still and await compensation. The room is nearly as black as the
dark cell, unless he has been struck blind. He starts to roll out of
his cramped position and nearly falls over the edge of some sort of
precipice. Is the squeaking coming from below? Not to dwell upon his
future, he reflects upon the past: not so many years ago, he was
attacked by a rat, named Rodney, if memory serves . . . Looking on
the bright side, Whitty does not expect that he will be murdered, if
only because a citizen of the next world retains no obligations in
this one. Nor is the Captain likely to have him damaged in a way that
will impede the practice of his profession. Injuries to the brain,
eyes and fingers are unlikely; on the other hand, he can earn some
sort of income without his legs or teeth. Oh if only he had not made
that one ruinous wager, committing his fortune and his future to a
dog. How mortifying to admit that no loss of a loved one, no
childhood horror, no spiritual crisis has ever burdened his soul so
much as the money he owes to the Captain! To some, the title
'Captain' might evoke a picture of hearty paternity, ro8 THE HEN AND
HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH yet the reality is quite different. Any man
addressed as Captain has overseen unspeakable punishments, while
commanding a class of men for whom the fear of punishment is all that
stands between order and bedlam . . . Whitty clears his mind of this.
He is sinking into despair when he must rise above it all.
Ecclesiastes. All is vanity and vexation of spirit. To every thing
there is a season: a time to mourn, and a time to dance, a time to
fight – and a time to lie still and await compensation. These
comforting catechisms form a small yet sturdy paper boat in which he
drifts back into a half–sleep. As his mind retreats into its
own dark cell, he smells shit, and spilled ale, and wet fur, and
blood. He awakens in a puddle of gaslight. What he had presumed to be
a subterranean dungeon is in fact the main ratting theatre of the Hen
and Hatchet, with its horseshoe–shaped, whitewashed arena,
enclosed by a high wooden wall and railing: the scene of his
downfall, unchanged but for its emptiness, with neither patrons nor
employees present, nor the usual melange of scarred, yapping mongrels
and their fevered, desperate owners. He notes a six–foot cage
nearby containing some two dozen rats, his serenaders of the evening
– Embankment rats by the look of them, the same unwholesome
breed that brought about the demise of Tiny, Whitty's terrier, the
most promising ratter in the city, once the focus of his worldly
hopes. The Captain once painted a man's bare arm with lard and held
it in a similar cage full of the creatures, for an hour. It is said
that the gentle– man now wanders the drinking–places with
a hook for a hand, the sight of which turns the most brazen toff to
introspection and melancholy. Someone is watching him. It is not a
rat. In deep shadow at the far side of the arena, the watcher is
seated in the high chair from which the signal is given for a small
dog in a fit of excitement to be dropped among fifty rats, to kill as
many as he can . . . Rising upon one elbow, Whitty conjures up the
memory of rats in the scarred wooden arena, scratching frantically at
the walls, forming themselves into small barricades against the
approaching monster. Having no longer any stomach for the sport, he
lies back and his mind retreats to its dark cell . . . Now it is
Whitty who is standing within those arena walls scarred by 109 WHITE
STONE DAY claws and teeth, having shrunk to the size of a terrier,
while the rats remain the size of wharf rats. Let this be a dream! He
opens his eyes: some of it is a dream, but not all. It is the Captain
sitting over there. It must be. The high chair is, after all, his
customary position – a pilot's–chair captured during the
Battle of Copenhagen – from which he oversees the betting, the
level of competition and the tallies, without stirring his bulk.
Whirry can discern his distinctive silhouette – like the body
of a spider with a set of massive whiskers – and the glow of
his meerschaum pipe. Now the figure turns sideways, drinks from a
pint of liquid and wipes his beard with the back of his sleeve. Brass
it out. 'I don't suppose . . .' Whitty begins, clutching his precious
towel and curling tighter into the foetal position. T don't suppose
that a sincere apology will suffice.' Silence. Only squeaks from the
cage nearby. 'I thought not. And I expect that my heart–rending
tale of misfortune and hardship is unlikely to raise a tear.' Another
silence. Whitty continues, if only to hear his own voice for the last
time. 'Sir, your muteness is positively medieval. I beg you to cease
the dramatic pause and proceed: bring out the whips and the pincers!
Do your worst!' Having exhausted his supply of brass, Whitty begins
to weep. 'Cease yer bleating, boyo, it be not manly.' The voice is
ominous – how could it be otherwise? 'Confound your manliness,'
Whitty replies, not being in a masculine frame of mind. 'Yer misread
the position, ye glock. It does yer mind no credit.' Whitty hears an
unfamiliar note in that dreaded voice that he is at a loss to
interpret. 'Are we at a tea–party, sir? Cucumber sandwiches?
Scones and jam?' 'Yer be warmer there.' 'In what possible way can I
be warmer?' 'Yer in luck, boyo. On the pig's back, yer be. On the
sunny side o' the hedge.' 'I'm not certain I catch your meaning, sir.
I'm not sure I wish to, tor I suspect you are toying with me.' 'What
a fortunate man be Edmund Whitty, I says to meself directly yer hove
in view.' 110 THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH 'I feel somewhat less
than fortunate to be frank, sir. I was hove into view by force. The
evidence is before you.1 'That be the odd thing about evidence. It is
an unsteady glass for seeing what is.' For an interminable moment,
the Captain refills his pipe, lights it with a lucifer, and
continues: 'For an instance, I allows that a man in a suit of
fashionable clothes, with a good dinner in his belly and a filly on
his arm, might see yer situation in an inferior light. On the other
hand, boyo, I see no fish– hook sticking out of yer eye; nor be
yer fingers broken like chalk. It is true that yer be situated on a
hard surface, sticky with spilled lager; but yer be not in yonder
cage – which would be stickier, I expect.' The correspondent
turns sideways and permits the meagre contents of his stomach to
splash upon the floorboards. 'Something 'as disagreed with yer?' The
Captain partakes of another quaff of ale. 'It has been a week of
disagreements, sir.' Here the Captain raises his voice to an unseen
audience. 'Lads, I believe she be time to usher Mr Whitty to his
quarters.' Recalling the Captain's penchant for understatement,
Whitty thinks of the rat cage, and vomits a surprising amount of
additional fluid. 'Relax, boyo. I did not pluck ye from Millbank just
to feed ye to the little fellows.' Whitty uses one of his towels to
wipe a film of feverish sweat from his cheeks and brow as Will comes
nearer, with his long coat and his flap for a nose, followed by his
stocky companion. Both men are wearing grey wool gloves, like
undertakers. 'Sleep well, boyo,' says the Captain, raising his
tankard as though proposing a toast. 'In the morning we will all
awaken as better men.' The cloth descends, and Whitty re–enters
the enchanted land. 111 20 Crouch Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire
And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And
cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet hear parting? 'Mr Boltbyn, I
beg you to forgive Miss Emma's conduct.' Miss Pouch clings to the
Reverend's favourable opinion of her like a woman overboard; Mr
Boltbyn has behaved courteously and attentively to her since their
first meeting; he is the only man in her memory who has seen fit to
do so. 'I should check her for fever, Miss Pouch, there is a lethal
ague about the district.' The vicar dons the paper nose of the Iron
Duke, then abruptly whirls about and glares down its tubular bridge
at Miss Lydia, who starts with fright, then giggles. Miss Pouch backs
away from the doorway. 'Of late she has become headstrong and
difficult. I have requested that Mrs Lambert call Dr Briars.' The
vicar expects that Dr Briars will recommend the same tincture he
gives to Mrs Lambert, and every other woman with an inexplicable
nerve complaint. 'Never mind the doctor, Miss Pouch. I shall speak to
her.' So saying, Boltbyn rises from the couch and, still wearing the
false nose, marches out of the nursery and downstairs. Seated in the
breakfast room (unused at this time of day and therefore a good place
for a quiet moment), Emma nibbles at a leftover scone while watching
Mrs Rusk count the knives on a tea–towel at the buffet. Emma
cannot prevent herself from staring at the cook's sore, chapped
hands. So absorbed is Emma in the thought of how they must feel, it
is the cook who takes note of the vicar's silent presence in the
room. 'Hello, Mr Boltbyn, sir. May 1 fetch you a nice cup of tea?'
112 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE Emma does not look up
from her scone, for she expected his arrival. Of late, she can
predict Mr Boltbyn's responses as accurately as she can predict what
will happen if one pulls the tail of a cat. Without looking up, she
expects, knows, that he will have entered the room in some sort of
disguise, and that he will put on a funny voice, to ease the tension.
'Explicate, young lady, the meaning of such an inelegant with–
drawal.' The vicar speaks in the nasal honk of a cartoon commodore.
She knows without looking that he has chosen the Wellington nose. She
also knows that the point of the performance is to reveal, and yet
not reveal, that she has hurt his feelings. Soon the strain will get
the better of him and he will stutter. It seems that this defect has
appeared more often, of late. Likewise, the air between them is
frequently brittle and thin. Emma wishes she understood what is
happening. 'I left, sir, because you snapped at my sister, when you
should have snapped at me instead. For it was I who vexed you.'
'Wh–which . . .' There, thinks Emma. 'What you say may or may
not be true,' Boltbyn replies. 'Yet I wonder: who vexed whom?' Emma
catches the metre and replies, 'Why did the maiden shirk the groom?'
'Did the vicar . . .' 'Start to snicker?' 'Will she beat him with a
broom?' It does him good to see her laugh at his rhyme, though it was
rather weak. 'We were saying,' he continues, 'something about being
vexed.' 'I was perplexed by your poem, sir. Was there something in
particular you wished to say to me through it? Am I in some sort of
danger? If so, why do you not simply say it?' 'No, it was only a
p–p–p– . . .' 'A piece of fancy?' 'Yes.' Boltbyn
removes his spectacles to make use of his handkerchief. After a
pause, Emma gets up from her chair, walks to his side and puts her
hand upon his sleeve, with an almost maternal expression on her face.
'Don't be troubled, Mr Boltbyn,' she says. 'Don't be sad.' 'I do not
know you any more.' (How absurd he feels, babbling like a rejected
swain, with a pathetic smile as a brace for his lip.) 'I have watched
you change week by week, each change more startling than the last.
Now you are nearly a–a–a woman.' 113 WHITE STONE DAY 'You
are a mathematician, sir. Surely you have a knowledge of numbers, and
can count.' Emma smiles teasingly. 'Don't you remember my eleventh
birthday? You came to my party, and we ate cake, and you brought me
an acrostic poem.' Elastic as a bouncing ball, Momentary as a rhyme;
Memorable as summertime, Ageless as a waterfall – Emma shall
defy the beast, Lick it with her biting tongue; Abiding it in one
mind at least, Maiden shall be ever young; Beaming from both West and
East, Even past when even sung, Radiating without cease, Thro
Winter's fall, till summer's sprung. 'My goodness! You remember it
still!' 'Of course I do. In the first verse my name is spelled both
down and up. Then my last name, with my first name in–between
the two, like a fence. It was ever so clever of you.' 'I should not
have gone to such bother were you named Hyppolita.' 'You gave me a
Chinese chess game. It is in the study. Would you like to play?' 'No
Chinese chess at present, thank you.' Emma's face has become blurry
again. The vicar takes off his spectacles and cleans them with his
handkerchief. 'I think I shall find thirteen an uncomfortable age,'
she continues. 'Some people want you to be a grown–up woman,
while others want you to remain a little girl.' He replaces his
spectacles – much clearer now. 'I confess myself to be of the
latter persuasion. If you'd asked my advice I'd have told you to
leave off at eleven.' 'One should never ask advice about growing up,'
Emma says. 'Do you mean that one should be whatever one has become –
notwithstanding?' 'I mean that one cannot help growing older, and one
must make the best of it.' 114 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS,
OXFORDSHIRE 'That is true. But even so, I think it is a mistake,'
says the vicar, and at last removes his nose. 'Here is your tea,
sir,' says the cook, setting the cup and saucer before him. 'A nice
cup of tea is the very thing.' 'The very thing,' replies Boltbyn.
Emma looks at Mrs Rusk's dry, reddened hands – will they be her
hands, one day?