White Stone Day (6 page)

It
was at this point of increasing turmoil that Lambert's teeth began to
bother him. First one tooth throbbed, then its neighbour, until the
entire set took turns. As the affliction worsened, he began to
suspect, however irrationally, that a connection existed between his
constant pain and his stunted ambitions.

Eventually,
word of a chill in the relations between the shepherd of Upper
Clodding and his flock (as well as a drop in collection revenue)
caught the attention of the bishop, whereupon the Reverend C. G.
Lambert at last received a new appointment, as precentor at the
Church of St Swithan, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire, where his fine
baritone was to lead the singing – an inferior designation, but
in a superior church.

Like
a divine intervention a window had opened to admit the warm sunlight
of Hope. Surely it will not be long before the Oxford congregation
becomes his – for it is well known that the current vicar,
Reverend Spoole, suffers from declining health.

Like
Job, C. G. Lambert is about to receive his reward.

Thou
shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord
thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon
the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate
me; and shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep
my commandments.

Emma
listens while her sister recites the commandments, thinking that it
does not present a flattering picture of the Creator that He punishes
children for the sins of the father. And yet, do not the children of
drunkards and brutes suffer for the sins of the father? Emma thinks
she might understand her father better had she met his father; but
then her grandfather might have simply pointed to his own ancestors,
on and on, back to Adam.

As
for Emma's mother, it was hoped that the new position at St Swithan
would likewise herald a new beginning, that she might walk freely
without her veil. Instead, she chose not to go out at all.
Transplantation seemed to have a withering effect, so that now she
spends most mornings in bed, her afternoons under medication for
nervous hysteria, and her evenings in books.

Thou
shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy
neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his
ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's . . .

'You
are progressing well, Lydia,' her father interrupts, feeling no need
to hear the entire ten. 'Say a prayer that you remain steadfast. Miss
Pouch, as I mentioned, Emma's drawing and her languages are a worry.
The family cannot afford a finishing governess for her, and you must
make the most of the resources God has chosen to provide.' 'Is that
clear, Emma?' asks Miss Pouch.

'Yes,
miss. J’entends ce que vous dites. Cela a l’air d’être
de la frime.'

'Quite,'
says the Reverend. 'Very good. Off with you, then.'

With
the parley at an end, Miss Pouch ushers her two charges out of the
room for a half–hour of moral instruction before supper. The
Rev. Lambert warms his hands by the fire, opening his mouth wide in
order to admit the soothing warmth into his gums and teeth. Hearing
the door open and close, he closes his mouth, leans back in his
chair, and assumes an aspect of calm forbearance.

Due
to the chronic indisposition of his wife at this critical period in
his career, he has come to depend more and more upon Lizzy, the maid–
of–all work, a distant cousin taken in out of charity, who has
grown to become a presentable, compliant, womanly presence during his
wife's indisposition.

'Your
tea, Mr Lambert,' she murmurs, setting the tray upon the table in the
centre of the room. Heavily laced with laudanum, the beverage will
provide hours of comfort, perhaps even sleep.

Reflected
in the looking–glass, Emma watches her mother, behind the gauze
curtain that surrounds her bed. Coloured glass bottles grace the
side–table beside her Bible, among them the sleeping–draught
she takes in the early evening. Lydia has been put to bed early with
a chill (a window was inadvertently left open during supper), while
Father is dozing in the drawing room, having taken something for his
toothache. Sometimes it seems to Emma that, but for the servants and
cousin Lizzy, she is the only conscious person in the house.

She
has taken her mother's rouge from the drawer – without asking
permission, but surely Mother will not mind, for she has no use for
it. Her face on the pillow is as white and smooth as if it has been
covered with powder of arsenic – something The Ladies' Home
Companion warns against in the issue spread out on the
dressing–table, which Emma has opened to a feature on
'making–up' by one of the great ladies of the stage.

It
should be put on in straight lines under the eyes, for a layer of
carmine heightens their brilliancy . . . Emma longs for clarification
of this phrase, for her eyes do not appear any more brilliant, in
fact she looks rather like a harlequin. Three other layers should be
gently placed exactly between the nose and ears, never reaching below
the mouth. This slight touch of rouge will not altogether vulgarise
the face . . . Twice already, she has had to scrub her cheeks clean,
having rendered them, if not exactly vulgar, not exactly ladylike
either. Intently she searches her reflection for signs of the
glamorous woman of the future. 'Oh, bother,' she says to herself.
'You look like a little girl with make–up on. You don't look
like me at all.' Behind the curtain, her mother opens her eyes to
behold a vague form through a silvery mist. 'Who is there?' Birdie
calls out, in a small, frightened voice, thinking it might be a
ghost. 'It is Emma, mother. Don't you recognise me?' Emma climbs
through the curtains, and puts her arms around her mother's neck. 'I
didn't at first, my dear,' Birdie replies, holding her daughter
close. 'For a moment, I thought it was me.' 27 5

Fleet
Street, west of Ludgate Holding a scented handkerchief about his
mouth and nose, Whitty proceeds south on Bow Street, pausing opposite
the half–completed London Opera House to scan the area for
suspicious parties, but identifies only the customary array of
bottom–feeders, carrying on commerce of the most basic kind: a
standing patterer, chaunting his litany of outrages a seller of
trotters, eel pie and plum duff the Indian street–sweeper, a
fixture for many years a begging street–seller, pretending to
offer three pairs of boot–laces, representing his entire
inventory Old Sarah, the blind hurdy–gurdy player, grinding out
'Patrick's Day In The Morning' – her only selection – on
her defective instrument, accompanied on the cymbal by her companion
and guide, an emaciated crone named Liza. The duo compete in
cacophony with the farmyard player across the street, also blind, who
imitates animals on the violin. All vie for the attention of a
procession of frock–coated gentlemen, handkerchiefs held over
their faces with suede fingers, bent forward as though resisting a
gale. Unjustly perhaps, Whitty holds the street–people in the
highest esteem while resenting the gentlemen, indistinguishably.
Inspired by Khali's prospect of a harem of virgins, he slips Old
Sarah a shilling he can scarcely afford, before proceeding along a
series of streets that wind down to the Embankment like drains. At
last he reaches Ingester Square – the rotting church, the
imploding graveyard, the tiny patch of shade under a near–dead
tree – and enters the queer brown lump of a building that
houses The Falcon. At the editor's office he pauses at the green
baize–covered door to review his tiny arsenal of ideas –
consisting of Julius Comfort's invitation to Mr Henry Willows, Esq.,
and the week–old copy of Dodd's containing Fraser's
pseudoscientific twaddle: could life offer a more soothing unguent
for his abraded soul than to make an ass of the brute who has spoiled
his career – and to be paid handsomely for the pleasure? 28
FLEET STREET, WEST OF LUDGATE Uttering a silent prayer to nothing in
particular, he pushes through the heavy door and into the editor's
cheerless office – choked with cigar smoke, splattered with
ink, and in a state of perpetual vibration, thanks to the presses and
other machinery in the bowels of the building. Never pleasant, the
office is made more hideous thanks to gaslight, which has replaced
the evil–smelling moon–glow of tallow. Now every splash
of dried ink on the Turkey carpet, every layer of dust, every greasy
finger–spot, every chip and crack in the plaster bust of some
worthy from a previous administration, stands out in macabre relief.
The complexions of the occupants (even those who have drunk deep at
luncheon) glow with a corpse–like pallor. Hunched over their
desks beneath the monstrous, clattering clock, Algernon Sala and his
sycophantic chorus of sub–editors and sub–sub–editors
appear as in a ghastly intaglio print, an allegorical representation
of some death– dealing bureaucracy, charged with administering
the mortal procedure of disease and decay. Which, in a way, is not
far from the fact. Sala sits in the geographical centre of the room
like the yolk of an egg, half–visible behind a bruised oaken
desk piled high with the business of the day: competing publications
to be slandered, novels to be butchered, characters to be
assassinated, requests for employment to be ignored. Presiding over
this terminus of shattered hopes, the editor rests his bulk in a
creaking, cane–bottomed armchair as he shuffles myopically
through packets of telegraphs, newspaper clippings, hand–written
reports, scribbled rumours and lies. In a slow news period, it falls
upon the editor to construct issues virtually out of whole cloth, to
apply sensational lard to bare bones of facts. In this quest, Sala
operates as both master and bird–dog, scanning his desk for
meat, then barking a header, to be chewed into copy by his pack of
hounds. Whitty looks down upon his old friend with a mixture of
fascination and disquiet. In particular, he wonders at the capacity
of the editor to talk, even to think, in the form of newspaper
headlines. This facility has enabled Sala to survive a remarkable ten
years in this snake–pit of intrigue, despite the unconcealed,
patronising scorn of his Proprietor, for whom it is axiomatic that
one understands newspapers by reading them, and controls the news by
owning it. To Whitty, it is their shared impotence against powers
beyond their control which accounts for their tacit alliance through
feast and 29 WHITE STONE DAY famine: hence, when on an upswing,
Whitty refrains from snapping at competing offers, and when in
defeat, Sala does not throw him down the drain. It is the nearest
thing to security Whitty has ever known. At the same time, The Falcon
has taken a heavy toll on both men. While at Oxford, Algernon Sala
excelled in debate, wrote voluminously, even published an edition of
presentable verse. Today, he is like a missionary who has spent too
many years speaking pidgin: 'Fellow of King's College dies from
anuris of the aorta during visit with prostitute! Header – His
Last Seminar! Subhead, Dead in the Arms of a Fallen Woman!' 'Couple
convicted of starving servant–girl, weight 59 pounds, teeming
with vermin! Header – Atrocious Abuse of Servant–Girl!
Subhead, Beastly and Outrageous Treatment!' Observing from the
opposite side of the desk, as yet unnoticed, Whitty sees that his
friend's eyes have become inflamed, as though by the language he is
reduced to working with. 'Good–day to you, Algy. I say old
chap, your hyperbole is worthy of the Gothics – absolutely
top–drawer.' 'Edmund, dear fellow! Take a seat! I say, you look
fecking hale and healthy – Weighty Matters Cast Aside, sort of
thing?' The editor's monocle glints at the correspondent like the
spotlight of a distant search–party. 'Positively of the first
water, Algy. Flush with the bloom of cash and collateral.' 'I wish
The Falcon could say the same, Edmund. Crimea over and done with,
cholera gone from the rookeries, royals relatively continent –
we are scraping the bloody dregs for shocking outrages, old man. It's
a disaster, haven't been out of my clothes since Wednesday.'
Returning his attention to the raw meat splayed on his desk, Sala
continues: 'Kansas Abolitionist Hacks 5 to Death! Header –
Barbarity Reigns in America! No, better – Severed Heads on the
Kansas Plain!' 'Student murders mistress, saws up body! Header –
Student Dismembers Mistress! Bishop Cites Lack of Religious
Instruction . . .' 'Stop, Algy, stop! Give us a moment, will you?' At
the sound of Whitty's voice, Sala's attention returns to the here–
and–now. 'Sorry, old chap. There is something obsessive about
the writing of fiction.' 30 FLEET STREET, WEST OF LUDGATE 'This will
be the death of you, Algy,' says Whitty. 'There is more to life than
journalism, as surely you know.' 'I do not. But you, seemingly, do.
Damn me, you've supplied not a scrap of copy in a fortnight!' 'Not my
fault, old boy. The Falcon hasn't seen fit to publish.' 'Your last
item had already appeared in Dodd's. And the one before that.' 'The
point stands. You did not see fit to publish.' 'How could I? To do
otherwise would violate the Proprietor's fundamental policy –
First in All, Second to None.' 'What the devil is that supposed to
mean?' 'That timing is everything – When to strike, when to
draw back . . .' 'And when to play another game entirely.' Whitty
says, staring inscrutably into space. A pause, while the monocle
examines him for clues. As happens often in these conversations,
Whitty has no idea what he meant by that last retort. That is one of
the difficulties in playing it by ear, in brassing it out: one can
talk oneself into performing a face–plant upon the editor's
Turkey carpet. The monocle glitters in the narrow space that
separates Sala's beard and brow. 'You seem remarkably sanguine amid
the prevailing drought, old man.' 'Sanguine indeed.' This last remark
came from Mr Cream, the sub– editor, seated behind Sala and to
the side, a vole–shaped man with a spidery moustache and a
squint. 'Mr Whitty is surprisingly sanguine amid the current
infecundity.' Receiving no reply other than a withering look from
both men, Cream returns to the copy of Lloyd's on his desk. 'Other
activities have sparked my interest,' Whitty says. 'Well come out
with it, old chap. Inheritance from a distant aunt? Cash Pours from
Unlikely Source, sort of thing?' Sala removes his monocle and cleans
it with his handkerchief, an indicator of concern. 'Other irons in
the fire, Algy. Hunches Bear Fruit. Investments Accrue? Sala's
exposed eye narrows before the monocle returns to its position.
'Congratulations, old boy, I must say. But surely you didn't
undertake the journey to our office just to declare your disinterest
in the profession.' 'Quite so,' contributes Cream, attempting a
conspiratorial wink in the direction of his superior. 'A paradoxical
peregrination, surely.' 31 WHITE STONE DAY While Cream dislikes
correspondents as a general rule, his loathing for Whitty is closer
to the bone. It is not just the envy of an homely man for a handsome
one, nor the disdain of the prig for the bon vivant. It takes all of
these and more to create a dislike as intense as this. Listening to
the banter between editor and correspondent, it is obvious to Cream
that the normal relation between those who command and those who
serve is nothing but a sort of game. Witness these two, who schooled
at Rugby (before Whitty's family difficulties), rowed on the same
eight at Oxford (before Whitty's expulsion), who stand united by the
Old School Tie. This is what enables a dissipated correspondent to
speak to an editor by his Christian name (in diminutive form!), and
it is what will enable a Whitty, not a Cream, to one day take the
editor's chair. Cream watches with distaste as Whitty, perched upon a
corner of Sala's desk, helps himself to one of the editor's cigars
and awaits a light, calm as you please – which the editor
supplies! In dismay, Cream conceals his face behind Lloyd's,
listening carefully. 'Got something for us, old man?' asks Sala in an
undertone. 'Could do with anything really.' The two associates eye
one another, each searching for clues as to what, if anything,
remains between them in this time of adversity. Whitty observes his
oldest friend, a mound of tension and distension, not to mention
luncheon. Sala, for his part, eyes a bone–rack in fine
tailoring. 'Come now, Edmund. One hates to think the sharpest pen at
The Falcon has lost its edge.' Cream lowers his copy of Lloyd's.
'Well put, Mr Sala. And a worthy obituary for Mr Whitty: Arrow has
lost its Edge, leaving Correspondent aquiver.' 'Ah, Mr Cream,' says
Whitty. 'Good to see that your snout is, as always, fully embedded in
Mr Sala's bottom.' Three clerks, while on their knees praying to
their filing–drawers, titter: Oh, I say! Fine cut! Cream
blanches at the obscenity. 'Mr Sala, I protest this foul language.
The proprietor would never countenance it.' 'Mr Whitty, please
express yourself in more civilised terms,' cautions Sala, a stern
expression beneath his beard. 'Very well, I suggest that Mr Cream has
set a new standard for obsequious proctology, commonly described as a
nose for ooze.' 'Much more mellifluous – don't you agree, Mr
Cream?' 32 FLEET STREET, WEST OF LUDGATE The sub–editor
ventures no reply while thinking, I will be revenged on the pack of
you. Thinks the editor: Another instance of his need for Whitty, for
the office is alive with poisonous toadies. 'By thunder, Edmund,
you're not thinking of leaving us? Many years' association and all
that.' 'It is only an option,' Whitty replies, affecting a pensive,
Keatsian air. 'Blast, Edmund!' Sala's descending fist causes tiny
globes of black liquid to spatter from his inkwell onto the desk.
'Give over to the fecking Scotsman? Can't have it, old man!' 'Get
used to Mr Fraser, Algy. The Proprietor might well tender him an
offer.' 'True, the fecking Scotsman seems to have taken the field at
present. Uncanny, the way the rascal has developed an instinct in
recent months.' Cream interjects: 'Uncanny is precisely the word for
Mr Fraser's intuitive manifestation.' 'Quite,' Whitty says. 'How
timely that Mr Fraser should enter the discussion now, for several
new and interesting facts have surfaced concerning that Celtic
gentleman.' 'Interesting in what way?' Sala and Cream speak in
unison. 'Following a persistent investigation I have obtained the
confidence of an impeccable source, who leaves no doubt that Dr
Gilbert Williams, the subject of Fraser's latest series on psychic
phenomena, is in truth a proven humbug with a litter of innocent
victims in his wake.' 'Continue, Edmund, old boy. You warm the
cockles of my heart with your little tale.' 'A plethora of aliases
have come to light: Professor Herbert Zollner of Prague, Herr
Schrenk–Notting of Konnersreuth, Bavaria . . .' 'Capital!
Foreign names!' 'Only last year he was observed cheating in Biarritz
– in the presence of Louis Napoleon himself!' says the
correspondent, for added effect. 'A royalty angle!' 'By various
means, I have acquired an invitation to our man's little spook show
under the name of Willows – that is, should I decide to
undertake the story.' Sala's monocle drops to his lap. (The sacks
beneath his eyes are a shade of yellow that suggests liver trouble.)
'Dear heaven, Edmund! Can there be any question, with such crisp copy
at hand? Naturally, The Falcon will provide a substantial advance.' 3
3 WHITE STONE DAY Behind his newspaper the sub–editor takes
notes in a round, careful script. At this rate, it should only be a
matter of weeks before the proprietor orders the dismissal of Mr
Whitty – and, God willing, Mr Sala as well – with a
bright possibility of promotion for the meritorious Mr Cream. 34 6