Mr. Timothy: A Novel (20 page)

And now the path rises very gradually beneath our feet--the gentlest of inclines--and the darkness opens out into dimensions, and for the first time, I am able to walk unaided. But Arpelli, far from consigning me to my fate, hoops his hand all the more protectively round my elbow, and as we walk the final yards, we assume a constitutional gait. There is one last barrier--a heavy oaken door with no handle--and Arpelli gives it such an indolent kick one would think this was the most natural ritual in the world.

--After you, Mr. Cratchit. One last flight of stone steps, and the day rears up before us, its pallor lambent now to my dark-adjusted eyes. Compassless, I squint up at an enormous Doric column...a span of granite...seagulls and pigeons wheeling in mad circles.

--Waterloo Bridge, says Arpelli.--Not the accustomed angle.

I check the coordinates. Somerset House to the east. The handsome Roman arches of the Adelphi Terrace. And directly before us, the river, with the high, belching chimneys of a passing tug, and a colony of gulls floating placidly as ducks. And an oncoming front of amber fog, nullifying everything.

--We will stay by the river for now, Mr. Cratchit. And we will take the precaution of doubling back, in the unlikely event we are still being followed.

From here, it is a leisurely fifteen minutes' walk to Craven Street, and having assured ourselves twice over that we are unescorted, we slip into the topsy-turvy lodging house and clamber up the stairs. I am already raising my hand to knock when I notice a tiny splinter of light coming from the room inside.

The door is ajar.

Arpelli's eyes meet mine. We pause for a moment to gather ourselves and then, on a silent count, push the door open.

I can't say what it is I am expecting to find--no particular nightmare has imprinted itself on my brain--but this is not even in the realm of possibility. A family tableau, shocking in its completeness. Colin by the window, whistling a sea chantey as he buffs his shoes. Philomela on the hearth rug, applying a damp calico cloth to the Captain's headless elephant figurine and pausing just once to stroke the tabby that has coiled itself round her feet. And the benign paterfamilias of Captain Gully, camped in his chair, with the
Times
streaming across his lap, and on his face a look of genial abstraction that turns apologetic the moment he sees me.

--Christ! Did we forget to lock it again?

His spirits swiftly restored, he hoists the newspaper like a sail.

--Suicide in Shadwell, Tim. Jumped right off the pier. Care to go for a bit of dredge tonight?

--I can't, Captain.

--Come now! Gully was thinkin' we could make a reg'lar party of it, us and the boy and the lass. Reg'lar family outing.

--I'm afraid I'm already engaged for a party. Colin, too. Some other night, perhaps.

His spirits are too abundant to be doused completely. Rolling his eyes, he allows as how there are always going to be folks itching to kill themselves.

--Specially round Christmas, he adds with a knowing look. And then he rattles the paper back into place and rejoins the tableau, and I feel much the way I felt on entering Mrs. Sharpe's drawing room that long-ago night. The interloper. The chord that won't resolve.

--Philomela, I'd like you to meet Signor Arpelli.

She has replaced her dress with a pair of trousers, a fustian plasterer's apron, and a cambric shirt that, unless my eyes deceive me, belong to her host. No denying it makes for a comical costume on her, but she carries herself with equanimity, never once trips as she crosses the room, even though the trouser legs have wrapped themselves under her feet, and she inclines her head very nicely and extends her hand to Arpelli, who studies it with merry-melancholy eyes.

--Buongiorno, signorina. Come sta?

What is it like, I wonder, hearing one's native tongue spoken again after a long absence? All I know for certain is that Philomela waits awhile before disgorging her reply:

--
Bene, grazie
.

And that is as far as I am able to follow, for very soon they have lapsed into intonations and inflections that resonate as strangely in my ear as the call of falcons, and before long their entire bodies have entered the conversation--arms, hands, shoulders--a kind of streetside theatre as riveting as it is unintelligible.

And then Arpelli breaks off and opens his arms to me.

--It is very delightful. This girl and I, we are both of us Calabrese.

--Is that...oh, I see....

--And now I am going to propose something distinctly un-Calabrese, Mr. Cratchit. I am going to ask you and your friends to step into the hallway, if that will not be too dreadful an imposition. I think it might be best, you see, if Philomela and I enjoyed a short spell of privacy.

The hallway is indeed large enough to accommodate the three of us, but the captain seems deeply reluctant to quit his own lodging. And as the door fastens after us, I understand why: we have thrust him into the belly of the beast. As the minutes pass, his nostrils dilate, and beads of perspiration well up along his neckline, and his eyes dart in all directions, scouring every niche and crevice of the stairwell for predators.

--That was a purr. Damn it, we heard us a purr.

Colin, already bored by the cats, uses the interval to go over his recital program.

--Start in with "Cherry Ripe," that's always good for a hand. But not knowing the crowd or anythink, maybe "The Tartar Drum" or "The Banks of the Blue Moselle"? Not sure. Save "Isle of Beauty" for later, I expect, people need to be a bit stewed for that one, then finish with "The Mistletoe Bough"--that's fetched me many a dinner in my day. What I don't know is, should I insert a character song--somethink along the lines of "Sam Hall" or "Jack Sheppard"--or is that too racy for this bunch?
The program is still in flux when Arpelli emerges from Gully's flat, and everything else is suddenly in flux, too, because there's something about the way he closes the door behind him, something about the clipped demeanour, the smile curling into a frown...yes, I'm back in the old house, I'm standing outside Mother's room, and that Harley Street physician with the hairy brow is resting his hand on Father's shoulder, speaking in that low, resigned tone perfected at a million bedsides: "Won't be long, Bob."

Curious, I can't even remember the look on my father's face. All that comes back is the indignation I felt on hearing my father addressed by his Christian name, as though he were the hostler or the groom.

Signor Arpelli, by contrast, gives me the most deferential bow, then pauses to assure himself of my attention.

--It is a fine thing she is Calabrian, Mr. Cratchit. We grow very tough there. Like thistles.

--Did she tell you anything?

--Not much more than she has told you. Her father, Signor Rotunno, came here to start a business, the framing business, with his cousin. But this cousin, it turns out, has gone to America, perhaps to avoid arrest, no one knows. Shortly after coming here Signor Rotunno fell ill--with what sounds to my ear like typhus--and the tale ends therein. Very sad, I'm sure.

--No other relations?

A shake of the head.

--What about the man in the carriage? Did you inquire about him?

--Of course.

--Did she know his name?

--No. Just that he was--how would...?--someone with rank and title. A lord or a duke, this was her thinking. Of course, there is no being certain of that.

Yes, there is: I saw the carriage, the coat of arms.

--Did she offer up anything else about him?

--She knows very little, Mr. Cratchit. He introduced himself to her soon after her father's funeral.

--How did he find her?

--She believes he was directed to her by...by a missionary, I believe? Could that be?

--It could very well be. --This man never told his name, but he claimed to be most sorry for her and asked if she would like to come stay with him in a very nice home. And be a servant in his household. She did not...you understand, at the time she did not have any...which is to say, she said yes.

--And then?

--This is where I cannot penetrate, Mr. Cratchit. It appears this...I will not use the word
gentleman
...this
person
had other ideas. It appears he fancied our young girl, in a great way. And indicated that many of his friends would do the same.

At this, Colin, previously absorbed in the mechanics of his recital, looks up for the first time. The churning of his mouth becomes a mirror for his revolving brain.

--Christ! Sounds like a bloody ring.

--A ring?

Arpelli turns to me for glossing.

--A sort of organized community, signor. In this instance, employing many women for the same purpose. Did she--would she say whether other girls were involved?

--That was the implication, yes.

--And what happened to those girls? Did she tell you anything else about them?

Arpelli gazes at me for a moment without speaking. Then:

--I'm afraid, you know, when I pressed the matter...

He waves his hand in front of his face, but he needn't bother re-creating it: I know that look of hers quite well by now.

--And did she say whether they had harmed her in any way?

--She did not.

--Not even, you know, marked her with a brand or anything?

--A brand? She did not say.

--Or mention anything about the police?

--No.

--And that gesture, signor--the one I told you about, in the carriage?

--That she
did
mention. It seems that the man in question was signaling to her that if she ever breathes a word to anyone, he will cut out her tongue.

The silence that falls over us appears almost to embarrass Arpelli. He shrugs and says: --That is what it means.

It's too much for Gully. He slashes a vent through the air, then waves his box wrench in such violent circles that one might think he was trying to refashion it into a hook by sheer force of friction.

--Let 'em try! We'll cut their fuckin' hearts out first!

Arpelli extends a placating hand.

--All good and well, my stout fellow, but it seems to me there are questions more pressing at the moment. For instance: Who will look after this girl? Knowing her story, I myself would be happy to offer, but what space I possess, I share with M. d'Antin. As a consequence...

--I know a woman in Southwark, Colin says.

--And I've a brother in Oxford Street, I say.

--No need, interposes Gully.--Not to worry. She can hunker down here as long as she bloody likes.

And with a meaningful glare at the floorboards, he adds:

--We don't care who raises no ruckus over it.

All of us, in our own way, convey our deepest respects to the captain, who shakes each of our hands before blustering into silence. I turn one last time to Arpelli.

--You are quite right, signor. We do need to find a home for this girl. But I couldn't in good conscience leave her anywhere until we have arrested the men who have so cruelly used her. It seems to me as long as they are at liberty, she is in danger.

--An excellent point, Mr. Cratchit, and a laudable aspiration, but how do you expect to accomplish it? You are, I hasten to say, one man.

--And a man with no plan, I confess it. But I expect to conjure one up soon.

--Then I will remain at your service until such time. In the meantime, Mr. Cratchit, may I consider my debt discharged?

--Many times over.

--Only there is one more thing. The girl was quite insistent on a certain point.

--Yes?

--That point being that she is still pure. She said this over and again: she can still be someone's wife.

Scratching his big, round head, Gully mutters: --Well, 'course she can, young missy. Why, in Majorca they marries at seven or eight, never looks back, more power on 'em.

Narrowing his eyes and speaking more distinctly, Arpelli continues:

--She especially wants her papa to know this about her. She asked me to tell him when I see him.

--Her father?

--She believes he walks still. As a spirit, you know. A ghost.

I have to suppress my first reaction, which is simply to laugh, as well as the next, which is to pose a rather obvious question:

Does he ever bump into Bob Cratchit?

It's at least conceivable, isn't it? The pair of them squaring off each day over cards, or sharing a cup of grog before bedtime. Boasting of their children. It is all quite possible, and it raises another, more urgent inquiry:

Why isn't Signor Rotunno doing a better job of watching over his daughter?

That's how I come to notice that the door to Gully's flat has been pulled open, just a fraction, and that the girl inside, rather than pressing her face to the opening she has created, has fallen back, the better to dramatise her indifference to our proceedings.

All the same, she is there, framed in the crevice, watching us. Watching
me
, in particular. And on her face, a full palette of tones, from which a few hues emerge: dread, anticipation, the prickings of conscience, and (here I read more deeply into the canvas) an undisguised resentment.

And something else, too: an open challenge, as if she were bouncing back the question I just posed to the air.

Who's watching over you?