Silver (12 page)

             
“Bloody hell, it’s hot in here.” His voice was deep but soft. He didn’t sound as confident as Avery had expected but rather he sounded a little nervous.

       
Connie backed into the room, leading the man by his wrists much as she had tried to with Avery the previous evening. She glanced at the wardrobe and thinking herself to be in the agreed position, she got to her knees and began unbuttoning the trousers of the man before her. He was a labouring man, Avery judged, his boots had tidemarks of dust and grime. His woollen jacket was patched several times over and he wore a cap. Avery smiled, self-satisfied, as the man took off his jacket immediately and threw it on the bed. Beneath his coat, his shirt sleeves were rolled up showing thick forearms, dark with hair. As Connie reached inside his trousers and drew out his furled member, the man pushed his hands through her hair. Avery was surprised by the size of the man’s cock, it was much smaller than he had imagined and less imposing. The effect of it poking out of the man’s trousers was at once both comical and absurd.  He was disappointed when Connie took the entire thing into her mouth and he could no longer see the shape of it. The man was clearly not disappointed by this manoeuvre and rolled his head back with a moan, grasping the back of Connie’s head as he did so. It was difficult to see with the man’s arms obscuring the view but Avery could see her head bobbing as she sucked at him. A few moments later, the man took his left hand away and rubbed his chest and Avery was shocked to see the change that had occurred. Where before Connie had been sucking at a soft purple lump of flesh which barely hung from out of the front of the man’s trousers, there now stood a thick baton the size and length of an infant’s arm bobbing slightly as it defied gravity. Connie’s hand was inside the man’s trousers fondling something else hidden out of Avery’s sight. There was none of the nerves as the man’s voice came again.

“
On your hands and knees.”

       
Obligingly, Connie dropped onto her hands facing the window and lifted her skirts up to her back. The man dropped his trousers, crouched over her, bracing himself with his hands on her haunches and, leading with his cock, he dipped down to position himself over her. Avery could see the moon of Connie’s white thighs and buttocks between which a dark crop of hair formed a frame for two crescents of pink flesh. It was only visible for a moment before the man’s own thigh eclipsed the view and all Avery could see was the back of the man’s trousers. Avery heard the man spit and fumble with his cock before the sound of Connie’s moan punctuated the air.  There was stillness and an almost complete silence before the room seemed to pivot entirely on the scene in front of Avery. The man dipped and thrust on his haunches, slowly at first, building up a rhythm which rocked Connie forward. Her legs were set wide, the soles of her feet facing Avery, in his hiding place, bounced upwards from the wooden floor with every plunge of the man’s hips. The silence had been broken by the rise and fall of the man’s breathing, each time he pushed himself deep inside her he let out a grunt. From Connie too there was a corresponding sound as if the air was being pushed out of her from the inside and she exhaled loudly on each slap of flesh upon flesh. Avery was all too aware that he had been holding his own breath but now he joined in with each breath that the man took. His own hips began to twitch in time to the fierce rhythm. He was aware of his own desire as he imagined his own cock squeezing up inside Connie. He closed his eyes and imagined the tight feeling as he pushed his way inside. There was a scuffling sound and Avery’s eyes snapped open, his breath held. The pumping motion had stopped and the man pushed harder into Connie, causing her to buckle under his weight. His buttocks twitched spasmodically. As he grunted, he thrust a final time and then his legs relaxed and he collapsed forwards, covering her completely. There was but a moments’ silence before Connie’s legs turned as she tried to move the man off of her. For a moment, Avery wondered if the man had fainted or fallen asleep before he seemed to stir. He rolled off Connie, beneath him and pulled himself to his knees. Connie sat back on her feet, the dark hair between her legs slick with a white deposit which had begun to roll down her thigh.  There was a strange and uncomfortable silence as the man, now stood and ignoring Connie, pulled up his trousers and tucked himself in. There was a wet patch across the front of his trousers which he dabbed at with a rag from his pocket, cursing. Connie meanwhile raised herself to her feet and waited beside the door. The man collected his jacket from the bed and took out a coin. He tossed it on the nightstand and walked out of the door without looking at Connie. The final exchange took less than a minute. Avery was stunned at the intimacy of the act that had taken place yet the brutality of the parting.

“Get what you come for did you?”

        There was a hard edge to Connie’s voice which Avery had not noticed before and he held Connie’s gaze as he climbed out of the wardrobe for some more evidence of this different side to the woman.

             
“Are they all like that?” Avery asked.

             
“Like what?”

             
“So...,” he searched for a word “…perfunctory?” He noticed that she looked confused and he added, “So quick?”

       
Connie looked at him and shook her head incredulously.

             
“No Mr. Silver, some of them aren’t such Gentlemen.”

~o~

Avery left Connie’s that night not ready for home. His fingers were burning with the desire to touch somebody. He knew that when he arrived home, Kate would be waiting to let him in and that it would take all of his willpower to resist the urge to pull her to him. There was a niggling frustration that he was unable to perform what he had just seen. Trying to delay that moment for as long as possible, he walked slowly down the main streets before flagging down a cab. When Avery finally returned home that evening, he was able to avoid a scene with Kate. He neither met her gaze or responded to her enquiries beyond a mutter. He fell into bed confused, visions of that evening played across his mind. In some ways, he was excited but in many others he was frustrated, he would be unable to accomplish the same act. He had not known what to expect and the reality had left him un-sated and more curious. He had seen in the alleyway chaotic and fervent fumbling and he had seen a short, animalistic coupling on the floor like dogs. The whole act had seemed without much pleasure for either party and was more like a transaction than any other sale he had witnessed. The word ‘spent’ seemed quite appropriate. The man had spent some money and spent himself. The exchange perfunctory.

       
When he finally fell asleep, Avery’s dreams were mixed up. His own self became the man he had seen earlier. The whore, Kate. He plunged himself inside her but each time he thrust, Kate’s face became that of Connie. Annoyed, he thrust harder at her body willing Kate’s face to remain but with each stroke, her face would melt away into the ambivalent faraway gaze that Connie had adopted to ease the discomfort of her chore. It was in this confused state that Avery awoke the following morning. He had got back in to the house late and it was past three when he had fallen asleep. Now Kate was leaning over him, trying to rouse him and he was still half asleep as he put his hands about the real Kate’s face and pulled her down to him. After a night spent dreaming of forcing himself between her legs the touch was tender and gentle. It was the only weapon left to him after the ferocity of his passion had failed to bring her any pleasure. He was quite unaware that this was no longer a dream yet Kate was fully awake as he reached out from the bed. His breath was hot and slightly sour from sleep but the kiss he laid was velvety on her top lip. It was a moment before he realized his waking world had collided hard with his dream and Avery felt awash with uplifting happiness. His eyes flickered open and he saw Kate’s face above his own; her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Startled, he immediately began to apologise, the kiss still fresh on his lips as his words tumbled out.

             
“I’m sorry. Kate...I was still. What are you doing?” he stammered.

       
Kate recoiled from the bed, her hand pressed to her face where Avery’s lips had been. She coloured immediately and he could see her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

             
“Miss Silver. I’m so. Avery, sir...”

             
“Forgive me.”

       
The position into which he had placed her seemed unforgiveable and he watched helplessly as her tears came readily. She ran to the door in a state of panic but in that moment, Avery had climbed out of bed and ran to prevent her from opening it. He too was panicked by the situation and was keen to keep Kate inside the room until he could convince her that it had been a mistake.

“
Kate, please you mustn’t go. I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”

“I’
m sorry…oh God, I knew this would happen, it’s all my fault.”

       
Their words tumbled together.

             
“...all my fault,” they said together.

       
Avery’s hand covered Kate’s over the door handle. It was larger than hers by some proportion. There was a moment’s pause as they found each other’s eyes again and a shiver of recognition coursed between them. Avery gripped her hand longer than was necessary and it was Kate who withdrew hers first, sure that this was not Avery’s intention. She turned her face away from him. Avery’s jaw tightened. It seemed like a harsh rebuke and he was ashamed of who he was. Ashamed too of who he could not be and his thoughts. How he had spent his dreams that night defiling the woman stood beside him and how one simple kiss obviously disgusted her. If she knew of the filth in his mind, she would be horrified and he was all at once filled with self-loathing. He turned, his face contorted in self-disgust. Kate’s voice came from behind him.

             
“Please don’t tell anyone about this. Please.”

       
Avery snorted, hardly believing her ingenuousness.

             
“Kate, I shall hardly admit it to myself let alone another living soul.” He turned to face her. If she was so disgusted by him, then at least the secret hope that she might feel the same was now settled.

“
I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” he agreed.

       
Kate looked at him, slightly bewildered.

“
Of course,” she nodded. “Of course.” She dropped her gaze and looked around the room. She shrugged her shoulders and stepped back in to the middle of the room.

“Best get your clothes ready,”
she indicated to the wardrobe. Kate looked relieved seemingly able to shrug the episode off. She bustled across the room, wringing her hands a little. Her nerves manifested themselves verbally as she busied herself in the room.

“
Well, breakfast will be late this morning. Mrs. Druce has had a to-do with Mary-Ann again. You know how those two bicker. Not that you would ‘cos you don’t get down to the kitchen do you? But if you did, you’d know how those two bicker. This room won’t straighten itself out. Oh, your father wants to see you when you’re dressed.”

       
Avery froze. His father very rarely wanted to see Avery at the moment, his time was roundly being monopolized by the widow Fearncott. When they did see each other, talk invariably got around to his father’s wish that Avery become more ‘sociable’ as his father put it. The intention was clear, to find Avery a husband and the idea put a chill in Avery’s heart that even winter alone could not.

“
I don’t think there’s anything to worry over. It’s about his fancy woman. Sorry, you know. Mrs. Fearncott. Sorry.” She shot a grimace at Avery.

       
Avery snorted with laughter. His frustration was completely dissolved by the impropriety of her comment. Given all they already shared, the commonplace suddenly seemed so absurd. He stepped forward, sat on the bed and put his head in his hands before breathing a sigh of relief as Kate continued to bustle around him.

The noise in the room grew steadily as the jurors whispered to one another. I watched the Coroner who rubbed his temples and called the Clerk across to the desk where he proceeded to direct him on an urgent errand. Beside me, John had taken up his hat once more, twisting the brim methodically round and round. He had begun to regurgitate the proceedings to me as if I had not witnessed them myself.

“
Thank you, John. I have been beside you the whole time, have I not?”

       
He shot me a look and grimaced before continuing at a mumble.

“
I tell you it’s a sham, a waste of taxpayer’s money.” I smelled a sour odour from him that I hadn’t detected before. He must have been drinking last night. “It’s an excuse to drag this side show out for as long as possible. I tell you, there has never been such a clear cut case as this!”

       
I won’t deny that his words made me flinch with their thunderous insensitivity but at that moment I was numb to them; all my energy instead was focused on breathing in, breathing out and remaining upright. After a short interlude, the clerk hurried back into the room carrying a glass of water into which the coroner now tipped a sachet of salts. He mixed the two with a silver stirrer, that he took from his inside pocket, and the room quieted in anticipation. He sipped from the glass, his face twisted in distaste.

“
Ah. That’s better. Now where were we?” He consulted the papers in front of him again and narrowed his eyes as he read the file. “Mrs. Imogen Bancroft?”

       
He looked up at me and I surprised myself with the confidence in my voice as I acknowledged him. “Yes, sir.”

       
He indicated the chair which Leech had vacated and I stepped past my husband briskly to take my position in front of the jurors. I was aware of the Coroner’s voice introducing me as I watched them appraise me.

“
This is Mrs. Imogen Bancroft. Daughter of the deceased, wife of John Bancroft of Hampstead, London. Mrs. Bancroft made the third and official identification on the evening of 4th January.”

       
There had been one or two wry smiles at the mention of John and I felt, rather than saw, the look of annoyance on his face at this remark.

“
May I remind you that this is a difficult time for Mrs. Bancroft and would respectfully request that you keep your enquiries brief and to the point.” Here, he levelled his gaze at both men who had already spoken. He then moved his gaze to me and raised his eyebrows, his voice softening slightly. “Mrs. Bancroft, thank you for your time today, if you are ready then could we begin with your own account of the deceased?” He indicated with his hand that I could begin but I had not been expecting such an open question and could not imagine where to begin. There was an uncomfortable silence marked with the coughing of the clerk and the scraping of a chair. My gaze skipped over all of the faces that waited for me to speak when one of them spoke for me.

“
Perhaps you could tell us what kind of a father he was?” the man said kindly. I stared at him, his hair was dark and flecked with grey like the feathers on a starling. My mouth was dry and he smiled at me. The corners of his eyes crinkled with his upturned mouth and I knew he was a father too. I focused on him and no one else as I offered a cautious reply.

             
“A generous one.”

       
The speckle haired man leaned forward slightly, his eyebrows opening his face into a question urging me to continue. I considered what he was asking, wary of what hidden trap I might be lured into.

             
“My father was generous with whatever he had to give.” I licked my lips to lubricate the words as they formed. ‘His time, his money, his love, he would give it all freely and without a scratch on a slate.’

             
“Hadn’t you better say she?”

       
There were a few stifled sounds of amusement as the comment sank in. It had come from a man I had not appraised up to that point. He was young, roughly attired and slightly grubby looking. He wore an expression of distaste as though there were a smell emanating from his fellow jurors. It was an expression I had encountered before when John and I had visited the small church on the borders of his family’s estate at Christmas. It was the look of envy and of disgust rolled in to one. This man was jealous of the wealth I displayed in my clothes, my simple jewellery, in the pallor of my skin, yet at the same time, he was superior to me. Was it not my father and not his that was being picked over in this way. Yet despite this, he would return tomorrow to his life of toil and I would return, in my grief, to my more privileged one. His words were the only way he could, momentarily, redress this balance.

             
“I beg your pardon,” I asked.

             
“I said, hadn’t you better call her a she?” he enunciated each syllable carefully.

       
The words stung me and I felt my cheeks grow warm.

             
“No sir. I will never say she.”

       
The young man sneered at me, his arms folded across his chest, a ready retort upon his lips.

             
“Now then, we’ll have enough of that if you please.” The Coroner flashed the young man a warning glare and gradually indicated to the speckle haired man to proceed

“
You were close to your father?” he continued.

       
My heart skipped a beat and it was all I could do not to look at the shape of my father’s body under the cover of the sheet in the centre of the room. Of course I had been close to him, growing up he was the king of our family castle. My mother ruled my world but father was king and how I loved him. Kind and strong, strict and funny, it seemed there was nobody he couldn’t be. When John came into my world, I found John could also be many of those things and of course, when I married, my father’s role in my life was diminished but not vanished. Contrary to John’s belief, my father had still been king. As I pondered this, I wondered whether this was normal. Would the men before me see something in our relationship which was unsavoury, unsatisfactory. I looked to Geoffrey for assistance. He too wore an expression of mild benevolence and, instead of fearing the question, I allowed my answer come naturally.

“
I always thought I was closer to my mother.”

       
As I suspected, there was an audible acknowledgement and several of the men made notes in their matching notepads.

             
“My mother and I were more alike you see. As a child, she was more involved in my daily care. Whilst we had a nanny, it was my mother who brushed and plaited my hair at bedtimes. Of course, Father and I would play when he had the time but mother and I would talk about anything and everything. We talked of pretty shoes and of handsome knights from days of old. Whenever I think of her, my ears tingle with the memory of her voice. We would talk about anything. Anything at all. But with father it was different; we didn’t seem to need to talk. We would weave hours of silence into an invisible shield, that even mother could not find us beneath. Mother and I spent most of our time together but it was a relationship we always worked at. Whereas father and I just belonged together, it is as easy as recalling a fond memory.”

       
My eyes had been scanning the room sightlessly, as I had tried to put words to the strength of bond I never appreciated I had with my father, when I realised I was staring at John. He looked at me curiously like I had been describing a lover instead of a father and again, I felt guarded.

             
“Thank you Mrs. Bancroft.” The Coroner broke the spell and I glanced at the speckled hair man who was still smiling paternally at me. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly, though for the record we must ask. Had you any notion that the deceased was ever in disguise Mrs. Bancroft?”

             
“None,” I replied curtly. In contrast to the last question, I had been anticipating exactly this line of thought and even the raised eyebrows from the men in front of me that followed. I had expected even a snort or two of derision, from the young man at the end but not from John. Even the Coroner looked slightly incredulous as my husband shuffled uncomfortably to hide his outburst.

             
“No notion, whatsoever? There was no hint of a double life of which you were aware? No peculiar habits?” he added.

       
A double life! That struck me as laughable. When my father was usually up to his eyes in the day to day running of his one busy life? As for habits, this had taken me a little by surprise. How do you suppose one would know what a strange habit consists of?  That John must take off his left shoe before his right has always seemed compulsive but not unusual? Did my father have any habits which may have indicated to us that he was hiding a dark secret?

             
“What kind of habits do you mean?”

       
The Coroner continued, “The details are a little delicate but of course what we are trying to establish is how this business came to pass and how...”

             
“What kind of habits do you mean?”

             
“Well, it was evident from the post mortem that….the deceased was…..er…. in possession of female reproductive organs and we can therefore conclude that she…er…..that the deceased would have had…….” The coroner, so used to dealing with the dead, was struggling to communicate with the living. “…would have had…..monthly courses,” he concluded eventually. Scanning the rest of the room, there were a number of men who looked blankly at one another. Rolling his eyes, he added, “The concealment of a monthly course from everyone in the household  I would imagine to be very difficult.”

       
I was aware that he was waiting for me to respond to this deduction but the thought was so peculiar, so alien to me that I simply could not acknowledge it. After several minutes of silence, he moved on to his next line of investigation.

             
“Mrs. Bancroft, I know that this is very difficult for you but you must understand that the records held by the Public Record Office must be irrefutable. In this room, we have several questionable facts that must be righted and it is the job of the men before you, and myself to record the truth.”

       
My face must have shown some of the confusion I felt. Several questionable facts? That my father had concealed his gender was disputable but what else was being analysed here? The coroner removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a tired but practiced gesture.

             
“Mrs. Bancroft. If it is the finding of this inquest, and believe me, I find little to suggest that it would not be so, that the person you believed to be your father was female, then I am afraid, your own birth certificate must be considered void, as too, shall be the marriage certificate, both of which have been used by the deceased on a number of official contracts.” He waited whilst some of the meaning penetrated my now spinning mind. “Mrs. Bancroft, have you considered who your real father is likely to have been?”

       
Of all the things I expected to be aired in that room, despite my utter acceptance of what was now incontrovertible, I honestly had not considered that question. My father lay before me on that table. The thought that, in fact, he was a stranger to me, chilled me and I blinked into the silence, my face flushed.

             
“And your mother?” he added.

       
I jerked my heard around to face the man full on.

“My mother?”
I repeated.

       
He looked apologetically at me and indicated the paperwork in front of him.

             
“Mrs. Bancroft, it is entirely plausible that if the deceased concealed her identity and that the woman posing as her wife was complicit in the deceit, which we must assume,” he added as I opened my mouth to defend her. “…then it would not be entirely improbable that your own identity is in doubt.”

             
“Now just hang on a minute!” John erupted. “My wife is not the one on trial here, she is an innocent in this.”

“
Thank you, sir. This is not a trial of any sorts. Please remain seated. We are merely trying, for good order sake, to unravel this mess.”

             
“This is absurd!” Geoffrey joined in. He too was rattled by the methodical dismantling of the Silver family.

             
“Please. Can we please remain calm. Mr. Leech, you of all people must see the possibility of what I am suggesting?”

             
“I see exactly what you are suggesting and this is a rum show Mr. Barrowclough, a poor show indeed. Can’t you see that the poor girl has just lost the only father she has ever known and now you are trying to take her mother away too. For shame.”

       
There was some murmured agreement and interest from the group of jurors as Leech worked himself into a shrill pitch. His face was pink with the excitement and John was attempting to get him to take his seat.