Mr. Timothy: A Novel (49 page)

--What about Filly?

--She'll be well taken care of, I promise. And very close by.

He gives Uncle N one last round of scrutiny, then says:

--I s'pose, you know, as a bit of favour to you, Mr. Timothy, I could give it a couple nights. Or a week, like. But keep in mind now, Colin the Melodious is an
artiste
, and he ain't the sort to settle down, you
know
that. Saps the creative muscle, don't it?

--You know, Colin, I just caught sight of a pretty lady in the hallway. I'm fairly certain she was winking your way.

--Don't be daft.

And still he arches his head over my shoulder to get a glimpse. And still he believes.

It is this belief--the unresisting faith in his own future--that draws him, finally, into the safe harbour of Uncle N's home. And as the door closes after him, I can just make out the barely suppressed excitement in Uncle's voice as he asks Colin:

--You wouldn't have a passing interest in
fungi
, would you?

And now the door is shut. Nothing left to do but tip my hat to the gargoyle St. Nick. Who nods right back.

It is getting on five o'clock when Philomela and I turn in to Oxford Street. A day's worth of vehicular traffic has left the streets black and swilly and nearly impassable, but the snow still clings to the gaslights and frames the plate-glass storefronts and props up the old beggar, dozing on the corner with a sign that reads: I AM JESUS' SECOND COUSIN, ONCE REMOVED.

We walk in peaceable silence. Philomela has, like me, availed herself of the largesse of the stationmaster's wife. In her bonnet and dress, she looks more presentable than she's done in some time, like someone out for a country stroll with no particular destination in mind, and there is indeed a part of me that wishes we had no endpoint. But then Philomela goes and finds one of her own. Clutching my arm, she draws me to a halt in the middle of the pavement. Her hand drops away, and I disappear from her consciousness, as she stands wrapped in amazement.
--What is it, Philomela?

I follow the line of her stare...across the street...to a pair of men with fingerless gloves, sitting on either side of an inverted water pail and playing a round of backgammon.

Neither of them is known to me. Drop them into any street in London, and I'd pass right by without a second thought. The only thing I honestly
recognise
is the look on Philomela's face. I recognise that at once.

--You
see
him, don't you, Philomela? Serafino.

At a loss for any other response, she simply nods. Nods and keeps on staring, as if daring the vision to pass.

I kneel down until my head is level with hers.

--Well, funny as it may sound, I've some experience in this area. Dead fathers, I mean.

Her eyes flick towards me, flick away again.

--Now, I don't believe you can actually speak to them or touch them. But if you can...if you can
convey
to them that you're happy and everything's fine...well, then, they needn't worry about you, and they can...they can
rest
, can't they? Finish their journey.

Whether she marks me, I cannot say. Certainly, she is no more willing to relinquish her post now than before. If anything, she holds to it with greater fervour as the minutes pass. And so, as gently as I can, I stoop down once more and murmur in her ear:

--Serafino must have his rest, Philomela.

It is, I think, the strongest appeal one could make to a survivor. For do we not require rest as well?

And so Philomela, drawing up every last particle of resolve, drags a smile across her face. And then--in a gesture of bashful intimacy, a gesture that hints at vanished domestic covenants--she taps her nose three times in succession.

And turns at last to me. And says:

--Ready.

Cratchit's Salon Photographique is closed for the day, but the shop is still ablaze with light, and the framed luminaries still hover in the galaxy of the front window. The season has exacted only small tributes: a sprinkling of holly berries, nearly invisible among the velvet tiers, and a rosette of leaves and holly on the door, intermixed with white grasses and Cape flowers and sprinkled with flour to make it look even more snow-laden than it already is.

The rosette has the additional effect of rendering the knocker unusable, and so I find myself (once again) pounding on the door, with a greater urgency than I truly feel. Oh, but there is urgency on the other side--enough for all of us. See how quickly the door opens. The way Peter and Annie scramble into view, adjusting each other's fringes, pinning back errant locks of hair, composing and recomposing their faces. Something of great moment is in the making.

And it all begins with my saying:

--This is the gift I wrote you about.

I fully expected to find Peter stymied by the occasion. The surprise is to see Annie, for the first time in my memory, struggling to find her way. All the words she must have prepared, all the accompanying gestures--they have slipped out of her grasp and left behind only a pair of converging brows and a pair of slack lips.

Philomela herself is no more inclined than they to break the impasse. She hangs by my leg like a girl of three, refusing to meet anyone's eye, declining any show of intention. The sight of her flushes me with embarrassment.

--I don't know whether I mentioned...she's still learning the language, but she...I've found she understands almost anything one puts to her.

Enough time has passed now for Annie to mount a show of normality. She totters forwards and extends a welcoming hand.

--How lovely to meet you, dear. You must be perfectly famished. I've made some Yorkshire pudding special, and there's a...well, a bit of a present under the tree, you might--

Her face folds over on itself, and she turns away. It falls to Peter to fill the silence with a rush of disclaimers.

--Oh, it's nothing special, of course, is it, Annie? But just for starters, eh? And perhaps we can...sometime...clothes, you know, that kind of thing. Can't have her running about with no clothes, can we, Annie?

His wife's voice comes back in a much smaller form.

--I should say not.

Taking Philomela by the hand now, I lead her over the threshold and halfway into the vestibule. Annie and Peter fall back and, out of some unspoken tact, draw away altogether, leaving Philomela and me to loll by the door.

Pulling clear of my leg now and turning all the way round, the girl makes as if to leave and then, stopping herself suddenly, emits the most furious of whispers.

--Why
here
?

--Where better, Philomela?

Her hands twitch in the air. A spasm of irritation rolls across her face.

--With...with
you
. It is as if she were listening to herself for the first time, for she says it again, in a quiet, bemused tone:

--With you.

--Well, that would be lovely, Philomela, but I'm afraid it's not possible. I told you, I'm going on a trip. A long trip.

Her mouth turns down at the corners. Her eyes flash with scorn.

--Oh, long trip.

--Yes.

--Some place. No place.

--Well, I don't yet
know
, you see. But wherever it is, I'll write you often, you can be sure of that. And when I come back, you can show me how much you've
grown
and, oh, all the things you've learnt and all the boys who've gone mad for you....

She rolls her eyes at that, but I press on.

--Why, you'll have changed so much, I shan't even know you.

--I know you.

She says this very gravely.

--Well, yes, Philomela. I'm rather counting on that.

Over her shoulder, she takes a furtive measure of Annie and Peter, leaning tensely against the studio door. She turns slowly back to me.

--They are good?

--The kindest people in the world, I promise. Although rather stricter than me about bedtimes.

She casts her eyes downwards.

--When are you go?

--Not for several weeks, likely. So until then, I'll look in on you every day, would you like that? And Colin, too, if that's agreeable.

--That is agreeable.

She nods, once, quite solemnly. And then she binds her arms round her chest--binds them tight, in a protective vise--too late to avert that first wracking sob. The second follows in short order, shaking her from head to waist.

--Oh, dear. Oh, no. What's wrong? It's disconcerting, I confess, to see her cry for the first time. And a great pleasure, too. For tears are the finishing touch on the canvas of her face. All the hard, proud angles of her features soften and harmonise; every line of rancour and resistance is purged clean. She bows her head, and a ball of air jolts her chest, and the words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them.

--I want to go home.

Oh, she speaks English quite well enough, thank you.

I draw my face closer to hers. I chuck my finger under her chin.

--You
are
home. I promise.

And still the sobs keep coming. Every compounded sorrow of the last six months surges out, hot and fast and pure.

--And someday, Philomela, when you're ready, we'll all go back to Calabria together, wouldn't that be fine? Oh, I can just
see
you, you know. Dragging us through the streets and pointing out the sights, and all the old neighbours will come running, and won't they just-- why, they'll fall back in admiration. "Can that be her? Serafino Rotunno's daughter, grown so beautiful? Oh, no it can't be!"

She smears a hand across her eyes, gives her head an angry shake.

--They no no.

--Sorry?

--No
know
. No
know
me.

--Don't be silly, of course they'll know you. To see you once is to know you. Believe you me.

And gradually the finitude of her tears is reached. One last seismic tremor squeezes through her ribs, and then her arms fall gently to her sides.

I place my hand on the back of her head.

--Shall we try again?

And this time, it is she who takes the first step, without any further prompting from me. Nor does she have to venture very far, for Annie has now recovered
her
faculties and is coming towards us with that ravishing directness of hers, her eyes smiling right into us.

--Philomela, would you care to have your portrait taken?

The girl thinks it over. And then silently consents.

--Splendid. Now I happen to know before
I
get a portrait taken, I like to sneak a quick peek at myself in the glass. We can't have any hairs out of place, can we? Would you like that? Another nod, this one more decisive. Annie takes the girl by the hand and leads her over to the mirror on the wall and rests a hand on her shoulder...while Peter stands off to the side, still at a loss, but finding his way, too, and listening gratefully to his wife's prattle.

--Have you ever been in a studio, Philomela? No? Well, it's quite simple, really, but you must keep very still. And there's this very alarming sort of
tongs
thing we fasten round your head to make sure it doesn't move. Oh, it's awful, but it's only for a minute or two. Can you stand it?

--Why, yes, I can.

--Of course, if we don't get a good likeness the first time out, we'll just keep at it, shall we? There's loads of time. Oh, and you mustn't mind the smell too much, that's just the chemicals in the darkroom. Now, you're not to go
in
there just yet, it's far too dangerous. Mind you, Peter said the same thing to
me
, but you know, he's quite hopeless at mixing things, so it's...and I seem to recall some rumour about you being an artist?

--Yes.

--Well, that's just the ticket. We're always needing new backdrops, aren't we, Peter? And it's so tiresome engaging other people to do it when there's someone on the premises. And besides, I think that sort of thing is woman's work, don't you?

--Woman.

I stand there, watching, in a daze of admiration. And in case I needed any further sign, there is this: a red ribbon, appearing mysteriously in the vicinity of Annie's palm and travelling straight to the crown of Philomela's head.

It takes only a few seconds of gazing at that ribbon...wrapping her fingers round it and undertaking the near-religious labour of putting it in its proper place...and the symptoms of bereavement begin to slough off Philomela's face. So engrossed is she in girding herself for the camera's scrutiny--so absorbed are they all--that it becomes the easiest thing in the world to leave them to one another and slip out the door. The bell rings as I go, but when I glance through the window, no eyes are turned my way.

Indeed, my privacy has rushed back to me with a vengeance. The old beggar on the corner refuses to stir. Three oblivious young boys dash past me, cuffing one another and dragging sleds after them.

And the two backgammon players on the opposite side of the street simply carry on as before. The only thing that has changed is their appearance. One of the men has traded in his scarf for a rather jaunty cravat. He has even traded in his features. Acquired a pair of round, wide-set eyes...a half smile and a dimpled chin...oh, yes, Philomela drew an excellent likeness.

The other man has his back to me, but of course, I would know that back anywhere. Just as I would know every feature of that long, wizened body: the pipestem legs, the elbows pointing in the wrong directions...the hectored attentiveness...all unmistakable.