Feral Park (37 page)
Authors: Mark Dunn
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #British & Irish, #Historical, #Dramas & Plays, #Genre Fiction, #Drama & Plays, #Historical Fiction, #Irish, #Scottish
Said Miss Godby without enthusiasm, “Good. I was wondering when the second would arrive.”
The hours which succeeded were very busy ones indeed, for Sir Thomas did not rescind the evictions as Mrs. Taptoe had hoped, however feebly, that he would (sleeping upon the decision and then waking with a clear head to see the unfairness of it—this had been her wish, but, alas, it was chimerical), and there was a great deal of packing and preparation for the move to Feral Park with waggons to be procured and men to be hired to transport the largest of the small furniture. There was even more that must be done at the house of the Alford brothers, who had hardly settled into their rental cottage in Turnington Lodge before being made to remove themselves entirely from the premises, some of their father’s many paintings having not yet been taken out of their crates from the previous move.
Miss Godby and her maid were promptly deposited in the Feral Park wine cellar and each found the room serviceable. The maid Cecilia noted that it was even better than her own room at Godby Keep.
Gemma, however, was appalled. Anna had returned from a brief limping walk with her mother the next morning and Gemma was waiting upon the lawn in front of the house in a stance of indignation.
“I cannot believe that you have dumped Miss Godby into your father’s mouldy wine cellar!”
“We had no other choice, and it was, in fact, at
her
suggestion that we did so.”
“There was not much else which Anna could do, my dear,” echoed Mrs. Dray whilst holding Anna’s hand tenderly and familiarly in her own.
“I suppose that you are right,” admitted Gemma with a sigh of reluctance, “but I cannot think but that John will be uneasy with the arrangement. Is everyone now settled here?”
“Slowly each is moving in. The Alfords will not be finished until Sunday night. Papa was somewhat uncomfortable at first with the whole business of turning Feral Park into an inn. Then I told him that Miss Younge was to be amongst the new lodgers, and he came to see things somewhat differently. The two have been nearly inseparable since her arrival yesterday. Last night they sat up very late playing cards and backgammon and reading to one another. I have never seen Papa so happy, even as disarray and disorder reign all about him.”
“Do you think that he shall ask for her hand?” asked Mrs. Dray.
“I believe that he will.”
“And how go the preparations for the dinner to-night?” enquired Anna’s mother. The look of an errant curl drew Mrs. Dray’s eye and she arranged it in a slightly different way against her daughter’s forehead.
“My father and I wished to cancel it, but such a thing would have been impossible to effect at this late hour. Yet the dinner will be much more troublesome to facilitate now than it would have been before. There are now too many guests to be comfortably seated at the dining parlour table even with the addition of the center leaves. So Papa is directing that card tables be set out upon the rear terrace and we shall eat alfresco. Does ‘card table dinner’ not have a familiar ring to it, Mamma?”
“It seems our destiny, does it not!”
“Mrs. Dorchester is well-nigh ready to quit us from all of the extra mouths that must now be fed and from preparing for a dinner for so many this evening most especially. Umbrous Elizabeth has been a mitigating help within the kitchen, however, so that it is not just Mrs. Dorchester and Betsey to do all the boiling and baking.”
It was at that very moment that Anna heard her name being called by none other than cook herself. “I must go to see what she requires now,” said Anna with a weary sigh.
“And Gemma and I must be off to do our marketing,” said Mrs. Dray between motherly kisses upon Anna’s cheek. “Have yourselves a lovely dinner to-night, my dear daughter. Your sister will, no doubt, give me the full report when she returns tonight. I am certain that it will be a charming and most successful affair.”
“I could easily set another place at one of the card tables, Mamma.”
“No, no, my dear. You have far too many guests as it is. I will sip soup with May and do some mending. I value a quiet evening. There has been far too much excitement in the parish as of late. Quietude is a blessing.”
In the kitchen Anna found Mrs. Dorchester seated at the table with a glum look. She was holding the now half-emptied bottle of absinthe.
“It is not enough that I am being worked to the bone by this carnival which has rolled itself into our Park and by this dinner to-night which should have been cancelled or at the very least should be no different from the other cold sideboard collations that we will be arranging out of necessity each evening to feed this army, but upon my honour, I now go and find that someone has drunk over half of my precious absinthe given me by my very own son, and I do not know who it could be except that it be
you
!”
“You are correct,” said Anna, examining the bottle. “It appears that someone has had several drinks from it.”
“Do not dance round my accusation, young lady; was it you or was it not?”
Anna coloured. “It was I. I confess that I have had another drink or two from the bottle since you first gave me a taste. I apologise for the theft and will pay you for what was taken.”
“A drink or
two
? My naughty child, you have emptied half the bottle! Here. Take it and swig the rest of it like some cross-eyed winebibber if you wish. I have no more desire to look at it. I only hope that you should not go insane from it. And you just
may
if you have not already.”
“Go insane? Whatever do you mean?” asked Anna with much concern.
“My son tells me that one cannot imbibe too much absinthe without it bringing on madness. Had I told you this earlier you may not have been so rudely inclined to steal so many glasses. I wonder if it is too late. Do I appear to you as either the Queen of England or a Judy puppet?”
“Neither. You appear only as Mrs. Dorchester.”
“Then perhaps your brain has not yet dismantled itself. But take the bottle nonetheless and do with it what you will.” The Feral Park cook proffered the bottle with a stiff arm, but Anna did not take it.
Anna was frightened. “I
do
see strange things when I drink from it.”
“Do you see strange things when you do
not
drink from it? That would be the test.”
“I have not as of yet.”
“Then trust that I have stopt you in time. Take it, though, and remove it from me, for it only reminds me that my son is most miserly with his visits and I dearly miss him.”
“I know exactly the feeling of which you speak,” said Mrs. Taptoe, who had just that moment entered the kitchen. “My own son has been gone from me for fifteen years.”
“Sons do not care how much pain they inflict upon their poor mothers.”
“But mine is making amends by returning himself to me by Michaelmas!”
“That is most joyous news, Mrs. Taptoe. Now would you help me knead this bread, and we will talk about our sons and how they love and wrong us at the very same time.”
Mrs. Taptoe seemed only too happy to help in the kitchen, and Anna was happy that Mrs. Taptoe seemed happy, for this should make Mrs. Dorchester happy. All things seemed pointed in the proper direction except that Anna did not know what to do with the odious bottle of absinthe which could make one insane. She would take it to the rubbish, but first it would stay in her room for a while, because it was a nicely contoured bottle and the pretty glass would catch the sunrays in her window and refract them in a pleasing pattern onto her floor. She would not even think of drinking from it. It would merely reside there for the purpose of decoration and beauty.
Later that morning, Perry Alford took the liberty of calling on Anna Peppercorn with his unfinished poem in hand.
“I had completed the first and second cantos when my brother Colin told me that we were to be evicted and that I should begin packing. I was wondering, nevertheless, if you wished to hear me read those verses I have already finished.”
Anna, who was seated with her guest on a bench in the Feral Park shrubbery, replied, “I think that I should like to hear a little. Nay, nay! Let me wait to read it in its finished form. I cannot unwrap a present only a little and be satisfied.”
“I had hoped that you would say this, for the sentiment is strongest when taken as a whole. I brought it along, nonetheless, to shew that I am a man of my word. See? Here is the title: ‘Miss Peppercorn, Thou Art All.’”
“Mr. Alford, you are bold.”
With a wink: “That I am, and yet why should I not be? I have carried only the warmest thoughts of you since we met on Wednesday, and then your generosity to my brothers and myself and to our butler and our cook and to Mrs. Taptoe and her servants makes you a Samaritan of the highest order, as well. May I ask if the foot is mended?”
“’Tis much better. This morning I took a walk about the Park with my mother, using this cane. There was little pain or discomfort and I did not even tire. I think that I shall not even require the cane to-morrow. May I ask how is your oldest brother? Am I to assume that he was let go by Sir Thomas and will no longer be working at the Turnington farm?”
“Aye. And the dismissal was a blow. Wallace, who was once a muchrevered and respected lieutenant in the army, has now not even a single horse to break or stable to superintend. My younger brother Colin has himself grown dispirited in the wake of yesterday’s events; it will take much longer now for him to open his dancing school in Berryknell, for the money that was to pay for his first month’s lease upon the old butcher shop is now required to move all of our furniture and effects into the Super House. I cannot be a help to either of my two brothers, as my publisher will not give me an advance payment on my next book of poems, given the fact that I have not even put the first one to paper.”
“I take it, then, Mr. Alford, that you will not be including within it the poem which you write for
me.
”
“Upon my word, Miss Peppercorn, that work of literary genius is for your eyes alone. I should never allow another soul to see it.”
“Not even my sister Gemma?”
“Not even she, whom, I have, by-the-bye, finally met. It was yesterday as I had ventured into Berryknell to help Colin negotiate greatly reduced terms for the empty butcher shop, alas, to no avail.”
“And how did you find my sister?”
“Pleasant and most amiable.”
“And pretty to look at?”
“She
is
pretty, I will admit, but I must confess that all the time she was speaking I was hearing only
your
voice and seeing only
your
face, so much have you been on my mind.”
“But do you not wish to get to know her better at all events?”
“Over time I shall get to know
all
of my neighbours better, but you are the one whom I chuse to acquaint myself with the most. Ah! I have finally made you blush; that was the purpose of this visit, you see.”
Anna could not stop herself from smiling.
“By-the-bye, my brothers and I have found the Super House to be smaller than we had expected. As a result, much of what we own will have to be stored away, including a good many of my father’s paintings, which have been passed along to us. I do not think that we will be able to reside there for long, for I must tell you, Miss Peppercorn, that the Alford brothers are most in need these days of
permanent
and fairly spacious lodgings, and these we have found somewhat wanting. Colin, for his part, would live out-of-doors all the year round if the weather permitted it! But now you frown. Please do not. Have I not already said how much we appreciate what your father has done for us during our homeless interval and all that you have done to facilitate
his
hospitality? It is my belief that when one extends a kindness to another, that kindness will later be returned through the instrument of a third party. I base my theory on nothing concrete; it is merely the product of my long observation of human nature. Perhaps, of course, there could be some astrological design to it.”
“Do you not believe in God, Mr. Alford?”
“Hum. I believe in the
possibility
of God.”
“Meaning?”
“That such a being
may
exist, and were it not for the finitude of the human mind we would know it for certain. Therein lies the paradox of the human brain: that we must either take it on faith that man was created by an all-encompassing, omnipotent power, or use that brain within its present narrow parameters to conversely
deny
the existence of such an entity through insufficient evidence.
Or
we may take a third route which
I
have conveniently done, which is to leave open the possibility for the existence of that of which the limited mind can conceive through faith only, or
cannot
believe due to doubt. Put me snugly in the middle of the two extremes and then let us drop the matter and turn to a much more apprehensible topic such as the weather!”
“Yet I respect the fact that you chuse to leave the door to belief cracked open enough to feel the breeze of divine possibility.”
“Why should I not? Does not the goodness inherent in most men argue the case for a loving God—should there be a God at all?”
“It is still a refreshing thing to hear a doubter with such an open mind. It is refreshing as well to hear someone say a thing to
recommend
mankind, for as of late I have seen and heard little to place humanity in a favourable light.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Peppercorn. I should therefore think of other things to raise the cachet of our species within the animal kingdom.”
The two sat for a silent moment, thinking, with Perry Alford, all the while, smiling to himself.
“Have you some little ‘funny’ you may wish to share with me, Mr. Alford?”
“’Tis not funny, Miss Peppercorn, but does warm me in recollection: you see, many years ago, my own father did a great deed of kindness himself for one who was in dire need of assistance. They speak of the sins of the father being passed along to the sons, but I think that in this regard it was this act of charity by Father that has now passed itself to my brothers and me through your very kind offices.”
“And what was the deed that your father did?”
“It was most extraordinary in its generosity. Do you know of Stornaway Asylum on the road to Winchester?”
Anna nodded solemnly, thinking of how she had come to know the place with some intimacy. “Indeed, I do.”
“And why do you say ‘indeed’?”
“Because many of the roads which transverse my own life lead to and from that miserable place. Some day I shall catalog them all for you. But for the time being, pray tell me of your father’s own connexion to it.”
“Father was engaged by Dr. Goulding, who runs the asylum—who, as far as I know has always run the place and
will
always run the place even though he must by now be ancient! The doctor wished, you see, to have paintings put upon those walls within his study and library which were not already given over to shelves of books and scientific charts such as the one with all the different human heads of various sizes and with cross-eyed expressions on the faces of the idiots. Father said that never was there an institution more in need of brightening its drab walls with colour and art than the dismal Stornaway Asylum. Whilst he was there he was taken on a tour within it and had the opportunity of visiting some of the dungeon-like cells which themselves appeared in great need of enlivening by any means possible. Only one of the cramped and gloomy rooms where lived the pitiful imbeciles and madmen and madwomen had anything upon its walls save crustings of mould and layers of black soot. Few had even a chair upon which its the occupants might sit. Most of the inmates were provided with only a single horsehair mat on the floor upon which the poor souls would recline and eat and sleep and do every other little thing that one is capable of doing in such miserable circumstances.”
Anna could hardly bear to hear what Perry Alford was telling her. “After all that has already been related to me about Stornaway, it rips my heart even further, Mr. Alford, to audit
this
account.”
“Then I should stop. Please forgive me for upsetting you so.” With this, Perry Alford took Anna’s hand, and a small part of her wished that he would tell her other disturbing things so that he would be forced to maintain the clasp or perhaps even to squeeze the hand tighter in a clutch similar to that which lovers enjoy, or if she were very lucky, to take
both
of her hands and look deeply into her eyes with all the affection that was in him.
“Oh, but you must
not
stop, sir, for I must know what your father did that produces so much fondness in your heart for him in the recollection.”
“Very well.” (Now came an agreeable pat to the hand.) “As I have said, in only one of the chambers could one find any thing upon a wall but blackened grime, and this was the one occupied by three small boys, two of whom had idiot physiognomies and the third who had neither arms nor legs.”
“Oh, merciful Heaven!”Anna put down both of her hands to steady herself upon the bench so as to receive additional details from the wrenching story.
“This cell gave more than a black wall only. Upon it one found the most beautiful picture drawn in white chalk that the eye has ever beheld! It was a rustic scene with coppices and rolling hills and a circuitous brook and corn blowing in the field and in the foreground a farmer and his cart and a cat licking its paw, and the whole of it covered the entire wall from corner to corner. My father said that he had never before seen any thing so breathtaking in its artistry, and if he could have, he would have dismantled that wall to take it back to London with him, brick by brick, and then sell it in his gallery in Bond Street for the benefit of the three wretched young inmates. He asked of Dr. Goulding when it had been drawn and the doctor replied that it had been put there only very recently, when a Methodist charity worker had distributed toothbrushes and chalk to each of the inmates—at least to those still in possession of teeth.”
“My word! So it was done by one of the two idiot boys. I have heard of those without brains who may still perform miraculous feats, such as the girl who sang like a nightingale for the king but could not even fold her own napkin.”
“And yet it was done by neither of these two, but by the boy without arms or legs! It was all drawn using the instrument of his little-boy mouth!”
“What a miraculous thing!” Anna felt that she must kiss Mr. Alford at that revelatory moment but then checked herself and only nodded with animated attendance.
“And so what was the deed which followed for which your father shewed the best that was inside him?”
“He asked if he could have the boy, to raise as his own.”
“And did Dr. Goulding agree to the request?”
“For a price. The lad was an unusual case, and perhaps this is why Goulding was willing to let him go. Even though he required great care, he had all of his faculties and was neither imbecilic nor mad, and should never have been put there in the first place.”
“Then how
did
he come to be there?”
“He was dropt there as a baby with a sum of money for his keeping. But the papers which said who brought him had either been lost or were deliberately destroyed. ‘Besides,’ said Dr. Goulding, ‘no one will ever come back for him. The purpose was to leave him here until death granted him sweet release from his deformity.’”
“How monstrous!”
“Indeed. So the boy whom my father named Roland—or Rolly for short, because he was a roly-poly sort of youngster with not much more than a head projecting from the cushion of his torso and truncated hips—was raised almost as a brother to Wallace and Colin and me, although he required more care than the three of us all put together and could never come out and play unless it was to sit and direct our games from a chair.”
“And did he continue to draw?”
“I should say that he did! And he got even better with the chalk and then took up the pen with equal aplomb and then the crayon and then the brush, and by the time he had reached adulthood he was a master painter—all with his mouth only.”
“And where is Rolly now?”
“He lives in London still. Since my father lost his shop, Rolly exhibits his work in other shops and galleries and does quite well for himself even amongst those who are not aware of his disadvantage.”
“Mr. Alford, I must say what a wonderful story it is that you have just told me, and to think that if it were not for your father, Rolly would surely have died a sad and lonely death within those dark and dreary chambers.”
“Aye. You see, Miss Peppercorn, that as terrible as the world sometimes appears, there are those put amongst us who make it better. By saving the life of a little boy, my father has brought artistic beauty into the lives of hundreds of others through the paintings which that boy, now grown to manhood, creates for their pleasure from his talented lips and teeth. And now if I may turn the topic, I must entreat you to allow me from this point forward to call you Anna. I know that I should not, but it is most difficult not to. Could we not suspend these inconvenient rules of address which do not permit a man to speak the Christian name of his heart-object unless they be married?”