Authors: Stephen Palmer
Hairy London (28 page)
Lord Gorge spluttered.
“Perhaps,” Mizanthrop continued, “the Foreign Secretary would hand you and your husband over to the army. I believe they specialise in torture–”
“That is enough,” Lord Blandhubble warned.
“What then is your reply to my offer?” said Mizanthrop.
Nobody spoke for a while. Lord Gorge stared at the table before him, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. Lord Blandhubble puffed at his pipe.
Kornukope said nothing. Every decision he could imagine would be the worse for him and Eastachia. He sat motionless, silent and powerless.
And then Eastachia leaped forward, bent down to the table and grabbed the letter opener laid next to Lord Blandhubble’s writing pad. She raised it to her head.
Mizanthrop stood up, sending his chair flying into the wall. “No!” he cried, raising both his hands and shaking them. “Don’t do it!”
But before anybody could move, Eastachia raised the letter opener and cut open her forehead to the bone, from the left temple to the right.
Blood gushed out over the table. Calmly, she took a headscarf from her handbag and pressed it to her forehead.
Mizanthrop fell to the floor, his hands trembling, his face blanched, murmuring, “No... no... no...”
“What have you
done,
woman?” Lord Gorge said.
“The only thing I could do,” Eastachia replied, “once I heard the device was useless without the word. Cut that word in two.” She sighed, and seemed to sag, as if a great emotional burden had been removed from her shoulders. At once Kornukope ran to assist her, and she, he was relieved to see, smiled at him and accepted his help.
“The word, what?” Lord Gorge said. “It is no longer here?”
“No longer available,” Eastachia said.
“But–”
The door to the Primrose Office opened and a runner sprang in. “Prime Minister!” he cried. “The Cockneigh Uprising have called a parley in Trafalgar Square! They say they have the means to cure the plague and free London Town of all the hair.”
~
Velvene woke up.
He lay in a warm room, red coals in the grate, a smell of stewed vegetables in the air. He glanced out of the window to see that it was morning.
“Sheremy?” he said.
He heard the sound of tapping feet, then the door opening as Sheremy walked in. “How are you feeling, dear fellow?”
Velvene sat up, pulling away the blanket that covered him. “Well, not too bad. Not bad at all.”
“We’ll have some breakfast,” Sheremy said, “then go back to the Cockneigh Uprising.”
“The uprising? Yes, we must support it. Where are they now, eh?”
“This morning’s
Times
says it all, dear fellow!”
Velvene read the headlines of the proffered newspaper.
COCKNEIGH UPRISING REACHES TRAFALGAR SQUARE
Battle Looms As Britisher Army Squares Up To Cockneigh Hordes
Enormous Loss Of Life Feared On Charing Cross Road
“Great Oates,” Velvene said. “Hurry up with that tea, eh?”
They finished the remains of the stew, drank their tea, then pulled on stout clothes and tough boots. Sheremy led Velvene out, locking his front door with a grin.
“You are in a good mood this morning, eh?” Velvene remarked.
“Capital, dear fellow!”
With no floating machinora to hand they were forced once again to walk down Fleet Street and the Strand, but the sheer number of Cockneighs who had passed that way, not to mention the vehicles and engines of war, and the West African hair methods, meant that the journey was easy. Soon they approached the west end of the Strand, and glimpsed one corner of Trafalgar Square.
Velvene halted. It did not look much like a scene of war.
“Anything wrong?” Sheremy asked him.
Velvene tried to peer beyond the mass of people crowded into the western end of the Strand. “Well, Trafalgar Square looks rather empty,” he replied. “There is something afoot, Sheremy.”
“We’ll walk on,” Sheremy replied. “With you at my side, and I at yours, we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Velvene considered this. “True,” he murmured, half convinced.
They barged their way through the crowds, then entered Trafalgar Square. At once Velvene saw something unexpected: a great white marquee sited beneath Nelson’s Column, from which both the Union Flag and the Cockneigh Standard fluttered. Again he halted.
“I do not like the look of this,” he said.
Sheremy took him by the arm. “My dear fellow,” he said, “we aren’t being shot at, so let’s go and see what’s going on. It looks to me rather like some sort of parley.”
“Parley, eh? No... the revolution must not be stopped by parley.”
Sheremy laughed at this and led him on, but Velvene, his suspicions aroused, decided to leave the square once he had seen what was afoot.
Now he stood at the flapping canvas door of the marquee – and he stopped and gasped, for inside he saw the most unexpected group of people he could ever have imagined.
They sat at an oaken round table, Lord Gorge and three high ranking members of his Cabinet, opposite them the Pearly King and Pearly Queen. Near the table stood a large wooden box, which shuddered from time to time, and from which a faint, feminine voice sounded. Also present was Lady Bedwards, standing next to the box.
The Pearly King turned, then smiled. “Sheremy, mon! Come in, yeah?”
Sheremy led Velvene into the marquee, until they stood behind the Pearlies. “This is my very dear friend Velvene Orchardtide,” he explained.
Lord Gorge scowled and banged his walking cane against the table. “Will you people explain the meaning of all this? Have we been brought here to meet wastrels of the minor aristocracy?
War
looms!”
The Pearly King sat up, leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. “I no likin’ your attitude, mon. You gotta give us bit more friendly.”
“Just state your case, what?”
“Sure, mon. ’Ere it is, den. We wantin’ an independent East End for us selves, yeah? We got documents what we like to be presentin’ to you.”
“The independence of the East End?” Lord Gorge said. “I’ll die before that ever happens.”
“Listen, mon. ’Ere’s da best of it. We know ’ow to make all da ’air go away, so dat London returnin’ like it use to be.”
But Lord Gorge laughed. “
You
know how to remove the hair? Preposterous, what? I am wasting my time here with you fools.”
The Pearly King frowned. “I tellin’ you da truth. We know ’ow to do it. You really wanna refuse dat? What your people gonna say when dey find out? Most of dem starvin’, mon, askin’ you for answers.”
Lord Gorge, incoherent, spluttered and said nothing, but Lord Blandhubble, shaking his head, said, “Let them have their fun, Dafydd. They are both deluded. Let them have their fun, and then we shall set the army upon them, and all this will be over.”
Lord Gorge also shook his head. “My goodness me, that my rule should come to this, what? Parleying with oafs and loons. So you think you know how to make the hair go away do you, darkie boy?” He began chuckling, tears falling down his cheeks. “I say Blandhubble, they will put this on my gravestone, what?”
“Your gravestone?”
“It will be my blasted
epitaph,
what? He played games with damned darkie Cockneighs!”
Hesitantly, and with a certain reserve, the Pearly King said, “Den you will agree to independent East End if we is removin’ da ’airy plague, yeah?”
“Oh, have your little
game,
” Lord Gorge shouted. “Yes, we agree, what? We agree in the name of the
King!
We even agree to Juinefere Bedwards’ wretched document if you damned well insist!”
Red-faced with emotion he stood up, but then his laughter turned to anger.
“Go on then,” he yelled, “work your darkie magic! Are you a Witch Doctor, what? Going to snap some bones, kill a chicken and pray to the cursed god of voodoo?”
The Pearly King retained his composure. Velvene watched him turn, glance at Juinefere, then nod once.
Juinefere unclasped the catch on the box and pulled open its front. And from it staggered Lily-Bette.
Velvene wailed. He stared. Lily-Bette stared back at him.
Velvene did not know what to do, what to say. This was surely some kind of dream-world.
Then Sheremy took his right hand and moved it to his coat pocket. He felt something there, a small, cool object, quite heavy for its size.
In a low voice Sheremy said, “Why not tell Lily-Bette what you feel inside, dear fellow?”
Velvene looked down to see a large diamond ring in his hand.
Lord Gorge said, “What the devil is going on here?”
Juinefere shushed him, one forefinger to her lips.
Sheremy guided Velvene forwards, so that a few moments later he stood before Lily-Bette.
“Go on, dear fellow,” Sheremy said. “Tell her.”
Lily-Bette said, “Tell me what? Why did you force me to come here?”
Velvene said, “Lily-Bette! I believe I
do
have something to tell you... yes, I do! I can feel it inside me, like... like...”
“What are you saying, Velvene?” she replied.
“Lily-Bette... I love you.”
“What?”
“I love you! And I shall take you away from all this, I swear.”
Lily-Bette looked to her right, where Lord Gorge and his Cabinet members sat. Then she looked at the Pearlies and at Sheremy.
Red in the face, she raised her arm to point at him. “You’re on
their
side!”
Velvene glanced at the Pearlies. “Well, of course I am.”
“You’re on their side! And you dare to tell me you
love
me? I will never walk down the aisle with
you,
Velvene Orchardtide! Look at you! A grubby, greasy man on the wrong
side!
”
“But–”
“Never, never,
never,
do you hear! Now somebody, take me away from this horrible tent!”
Velvene cried, “But Lily-Bette!”
She ran to Lord Gorge, but before anybody could move, a Cockneigh sprang into the tent and yelled, “The bleedin’ ’air is comin’ dahn!”
Everybody scrambled outside to see. And it was true.
Trafalgar Square was filled from top to bottom with floating hair, falling off the National Gallery, from the walls of the Portrait Gallery, from Nelson’s Column; from the sides of every building and from every pavement; whipped up by the wind into blonde clouds that floated into the sky.
Velvene looked down at his feet. The blonde locks of the square lay flat, limp, fallen free of the stone into which they had been locked.
He heard cheering coming from the Cockneighs lining the Strand. Hair choked the pavements, filled the sky, fell in clumps from the walls of tall buildings all along that great street. He glanced up. The blue sky had turned blonde.
Sheremy hugged him, shook him, tears falling down his face. “You did it, dear fellow!” he cried. “You saved London Town!”
Velvene found himself unable to comprehend. “But Lily-Bette...”
“You said what you had to say, dear chap, that’s what matters! It’s not the end. I expect she’ll come round to your way of thinking!”
And Velvene considered this, then replied, “I don’t think she will.”
Then the Pearlies walked up to Lord Gorge, and in full sight of all the uprising leaders both shook him by the hand. The sound of church bells in distant steeples began to echo around the square.
The Pearly Queen said, “Thank you for agreein’. Thank you also for avertin’ da war. We lookin’ forward to workin’ with you, yeah?”
Lord Gorge stared, stunned into silence.
The Pearly King said, “Yeah mon, thank you! We likin’ your style.” Then he turned to the approaching Cockneigh horde and shouted at the top of his voice, “We
won!
We gettin’ da independent East End! Send out da runners! Tell dem to be spreadin’ da word! We comin’ into us home, da King and da Queen!”
A huge cheer erupted from the crowd, many of whom threw hats, gloves and other items of clothing into the air. Church bells could be heard ringing across London now, in random, reverberant harmony.
Lord Gorge, perplexed beyond his capacity to understand, said, “But... but... but...”
The Pearly King turned and grinned. “Too late for dat, mister!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Every member of the Suicide Club known to be alive was called to Bedwards House for a meeting to determine the result of the wager. It was a damp, dismal evening, the weather turning to chill and rain. Sheremy dressed in plaid galoshes and artful coat, unfurling his umbrella before stepping out into the downpour. Without a valet and uncertain of the security of his wealth, not to mention his status, he had devised a plan that he felt suited his new circumstances. But would it work? He dared not guess, for this plan could be characterised as foolhardy...
Outside his house stood a large covered cart, at the front of which sat a sodden driver; a single horse the method of traction. Sheremy waved to the man. “Ready, are you?”
“Yessir,” the man replied.
“It’ll stop raining soon, I expect. Don’t forget, one hour from now you leave here.”
“One hour, sir.”
Sheremy nodded. “I’ll see you later then, at the agreed place.”
“Yessir.”
Sheremy hurried along Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, then turned into Chancery Lane, whereupon a feeling of sadness overwhelmed him, and he found himself in tears. He paused, took a deep breath, then carried on.
Gentleman Smyth met him at the top of the steps of Bedwards House. “Good evening, sir. You are well, I trust?”
“Very well. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Parboiled egg of flightless cuckoo sir, brought last year from the cloud jungles of Nepal and served on a bed of Tibetan grubs.”
“Excellent!”
Sheremy ran up the steps to the dining room, where he saw everybody that he expected: Lord Blackanore, Juinefere, Franclin Spar-Turney, Grubiander Tune, Velvene, Kornukope and Eastachia, who, by special request of Lord Blackanore, had been allowed to present herself unbagged, though she wore a headscarf low over her forehead.
“Am I late?” he said with a grin.
A muttered grumble was his reply. He glanced at Juinefere, then smiled and winked at her. She smiled back. He glanced at the front sash window, to see it open just a fraction.
Then he said, “But where’s Sir Hoseley?”
Lord Blackanore handed him a manila envelope, saying, “This arrived for you. It carries both the monograms of Sir Hoseley and of Jomb Gravelspitte.”
Sheremy recognised the handwriting so he ripped open the envelope, pulling out the single sheet within. It was, as he expected, a photogram.
Standing on a footstool, he exhibited it to the assembled crowd. “This image,” he said, “was taken by Jomb Gravelspitte from a rooftop on Ludgate Hill. It shows myself, Officer Murchison Volume of Scotland Yard, and Sir Hoseley Fain. Can you all see?”
More mutters...
“Ladies and gentlemen, you can indeed see that Murchison and Sir Hoseley are in cahoots, swordingtons raised to kill me. Yes! That’s terrible enough, isn’t it? But there’s something more, something that will shock you to your core. We won’t be seeing Sir Hoseley ever again, because he is Jacques the Raper, Le Violeur, who stalked Whitechapel and murdered so many innocent night birds.”
The men of the Suicide Club gasped and murmured to each other, their faces showing how appalled they were. Eastachia shook her head and lowered her gaze. Juinefere did nothing; Sheremy had already told her.
“One of our own number,” Lord Blackanore said. “How grim that we should come to this. I shall pass on the information to the police.”
Sheremy nodded. “And now dear colleagues, ladies... I wish to begin my presentation concerning the wager.” He paused for a sip of water, glanced once again at Juinefere, then took a deep breath. “The three of us in this wager – four of us including the esteemed Eastachia Wetherbee, who worked alongside her husband – gave ourselves the task of discovering the real nature of love. I can tell you in full truth, dear fellows, ladies... it has been a difficult journey for me. I was born into a family of lesser aristocracy, and, as is the way of such things, I joined a club of gentlemen when I was old enough. But for me it had to be a special club, and so I joined this one, the club attempting the most daring schemes, so that I might gad about the world doing good for one and all. Or so I thought. For it transpires that we of the upper classes have rather neglected the lives, and indeed the livelihoods, of much of the population of London Town – specifically of women. And, yes, of the lower orders too. I can tell you, it gave me the greatest pleasure to see our Prime Minister yield to the demands of the Pearlies – and all because he was a true Britisher who couldn’t go back on his word. Ah, the irony!”
“Get on with it, Pantomile,” Lord Blackanore muttered.
Sheremy turned to him and replied, “I’ll take all the time I need, dear fellow. My wealth is at stake, do you remember?”
Lord Blackanore raised his gaze to the ceiling, but said nothing more.
Sheremy sipped more water then continued, “Women have been treated abominably by us men. It’s time for that to change. I wish, here and now, to declare my full support for the cause of Suffering, led so marvellously by Lady Bedwards. I’ve written to the Pankhursts to this effect already, in case you’re wondering.”
“I can attest to this,” Juinefere said.
Sheremy smiled at her. “And so to love.” He paused, glanced up at the ceiling, then took another sip of water. “I can sense you all waiting for me,” he said. “Could the Suicide Club change the world through this simple wager? Christianity, after all, changed the world because of one man – St Paul. Might I become a kind of St Sheremy in years to come?”
“No,” said Franclin Spar-Turney.
“Why, I agree with you, dear fellow!” Sheremy said. “And I thank you for saying that, for it allows me to present to you the real nature of love.”
“Then what is it?” asked Lord Blackanore.
“Let’s first ask why Franclin is correct in saying that I won’t become a St Sheremy of love. It’s because, to do that, I would have to use
words.
Words, my friends, such as the Bible utilises! But love can’t be captured in a net of words. No combination of words known to us, nor to any other man or woman who has ever existed, can describe love.”
“Then this wager is pointless,” Franclin said, a frown on his face.
“Ah, dear fellow! Not at all – because the true nature of love is
action.
It’s not what we write that matters, it’s not what we say, it’s what we
do.
Actions, as has been observed on many a previous occasion, speak louder than words. And so, in conclusion my dearest of colleagues, members of the Suicide Club, and ladies also, I present to you my action, my deed, that is my offer to you, Lord Blackanore, in the matter of the wager.”
Sheremy leaped down from the footstool and ran over to Juinefere, who, seeing him, stood up, an expression of puzzlement on her face. And Sheremy took her hand and pulled her to the sash window, where lay a miniature machinora constructed from a large Iranian tea tray and a bag of steaming moisture. He pulled up the window, allowing cold evening air into the chamber.
He waved to everybody – most of them stood on their feet, eyes wide and mouths open – then pulled Juinefere onto the tray, which promptly rose and passed beneath the window. Sheremy pulled Juinefere to her knees and pushed down her head, ducking as the machinora carried them outside the building. Then they sank to ground level, and Sheremy leaped off. Juinefere followed suit.
“My darling,” he said.
“Sheremy, what are you doing?” she replied.
“This is love, Juinefere, this is life, this is
action.
I’ve loved you for so many years, and now I’m proving it by deed. Will you elope with me, a man poverty stricken, to an unknown future, and all for love?”
“Poverty stricken?”
He shrugged. “I have by default lost the wager, my darling. My action in spiriting you out of the building has made my claim but at the same time ruined my chances. It is a paradox! Much like love, in fact.”
“Oh, Sheremy!”
She leaned forward and kissed him; and in that moment, though the rain poured down and he knew not what might happen next to him, he was the happiest man in the world.
Juinefere said, “But where to now?”
Sheremy indicated the covered cart standing beside the pavement. “In there lie all my worldly possessions, that I took from my house in Gough Square. Leave behind the world of the aristocracy that you’ve so far known, leave it Juinefere and come with me. I know a little place in Wales where we can be two ordinary people, living ordinary lives.”
She hesitated. The rain pelted down. Then she said, “Very well. You have convinced me!”
Sheremy leaped upon the cart footplate then pulled Juniefere up, so that they sat side by side, cramped and somewhat damp beside the driver.
“To Wales,” Sheremy said. “And freedom.”
~
Eastachia Wetherbee watched Sheremy jump upon the Iranian tea tray, pass with Lady Bedwards through the open window, then vanish into the dark of the night. She glanced at Kornukope, who sat, head in hand, beside her.
“Are you well?” she asked him.
He nodded. “As well as can be expected, dearest one.”
“Did that surprise you?”
He lowered his hand and looked at her. “Yes it did, of course it did. Pantomile is a man of spontaneity, which, we now see, is his undoing. He has lost the wager.”
“Then the wager is ours to win,” she observed.
He managed a weak smile. “Ever the practical one,” he observed.
Eastachia nodded, waiting for Kornukope to turn away again; and when he did she put her hand into her handbag and pushed the protective end off the syringe that lay there, raising it, shaking out the air bubbles, then jabbing it into his upper arm. She pulled back her hand at once, avoiding the response; Kornukope tapped his arm as if bitten by a gnat.
He turned to glance at her, frowned, grunted, then turned away again.
Lord Blackanore said, “Now it is your turn, Kornukope.”
Eastachia stood up. “I’ll be making our claim on the wager,” she said.
Lord Blackanore also got to his feet. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
Lord Blackanore looked at Kornukope and said, “Is this–”
“Do you
really
need to ask him?” Eastachia interrupted. “I may be a woman, and I’m not a member of the Suicide Club, but we’ve heard tonight a lot about the importance of women... not to mention the importance of the lower classes – and of course foreigners, such as myself. That is, if you call me a foreigner.”
She glanced at her audience. None of them spoke.
“I’m a Britisher,” she continued, “though I was born in Indoo. And the matter of Indoo is one close to my heart.”
“Is this part of your presentation?” Lord Blackanore asked.
“I’d be grateful,” Eastachia replied, “if you could afford me the same courtesy you afforded Mr Pantomile when he began his presentation.”
Lord Blackanore nodded, then shrugged. “Very good,” he said, with a sigh.
At this, Eastachia said, “Lord Blackanore, I know you are the Secretary of the Suicide Club, and doubtless now the Treasurer because you lack the input of Sir Hoseley Fain, but
I
signed the wager alongside my husband, and
I
have the right to make our presentation. I do not expect to be patronised, I do not expect to be mocked, and I do not expect to be
endured.
Do I make myself clear?”
Lord Blackanore nodded, then looked away.
Eastachia took a deep breath. She felt good! She glanced at Kornukope – no sign of his behaviour changing yet – then continued, “Kornukope and I spoke much about the true nature of love during our adventures, and we found the truth while dealing with Gandy, Mizanthrop and others of the Indoo Home Rule movement. You see, gentlemen, we agree with Mr Pantomile. Love cannot be described in mere words.”
“What then would you use?” asked Franclin.
“Your question is as pertinent as the others you’ve put tonight,” Eastachia replied. “What can we use if words are no good?”
She let the question hang in the air for a few moments. Still no sign of emotion from Kornukope. She had to time this right...
She continued, “In fact, we did arrive at a form of words that we felt might encapsulate the truth of love. Kornukope spoke them in a fit of passion to Pysgod, the King of the Underwater Realm in Windsor Great Park, and they go as follows.” From her handbag she took the sheet of paper that they had inscribed with Kornukope’s words, and read. “‘I would do anything for Eastachia, my most dear wife. Do you think love can be handed around, like sweetmeats? It is a thing of the heart, of time and patience, a thing of giving – and, Your Majesty, of taking, though it be in equal measure. It is the understanding of life, if you will, over time, and with one other of merit.’ That is what he said.”
To this Franclin replied, “But you have negated the validity of your premise, since you have told us these words.”
Eastachia shook her head. “On the contrary, Mr Spar-Turney,
you
have missed the important point.”
“What then is the important point?”
“That Kornukope spoke the words in a situation of stress, when he thought Pysgod was going to take me away and make me Queen of the Underwater Realm. He spoke in a fit of passion. He was emotional. For you see, gentlemen, you men of this country suffer from a debilitating condition, that my countryman Gandy noticed. It so happened that Gandy intended exploiting your crippling condition, but luckily, through the agency of me and my husband – and it must be said because of a sharp-shooting policeman – he failed.”
Lord Blackanore stirred himself. “Perhaps you should tell us the nature of this condition,” he said.
“I will. It’s the prelude to our claim on the wager, which I’ll make shortly. Kornukope... are you well?”
Kornukope shook his head. “I feel... a little drunk.”
Eastachia raised her hands to calm the murmured hubbub. “Gentlemen, silence please! Kornukope is well. But very soon he will illustrate the nature of your debilitating condition.”
“What exactly is it?” Lord Blackanore insisted.
“You are unemotional,” Eastachia replied. “You can’t express your true feelings. Whether those feelings be grief, joy, fear or embarrassment, you keep them inside yourselves, held back by your stiff upper lip.”