Elijah’s Mermaid (10 page)

‘Oh, poor Papa. It is very hot. Why, this girl . . . she fainted too. She . . .’ Suddenly indecisive and pausing, my words were replaced by the veiled apparition, her voice assured and very smooth, her tone slightly foreign and musical when she turned my way and asked, ‘Do you refer to my ward?’

I nodded my assent, really too nervous to do much else, very glad when she addressed Freddie again. ‘Ah . . . you see how she is. Did I not say? Such refinement is prone to fragility. A tender flower . . . so quietly raised.’

‘Indeed, a remarkably pretty child.’ Freddie continued to stare at the girl, who appeared to be looking straight through him, her green eyes glazed and empty, except for the flicker of candlelight that made them glitter like emeralds when the woman who held her arm replied, ‘
Bon!
You have the finest taste, and how fortuitous this encounter! Clearly, fate has intervened in the hope that I might make amends . . . our last transaction too tragic by far.’

What could she mean by that? What past did she and Freddie share? But no time to consider the riddle more, for the woman seemed to glance my way, veils swaying around like an inky mist through which her words were lightly voiced. ‘But, I see you are otherwise engaged. We shall not delay you a moment more . . . only to give you my
carte de visite
.’

At that she dipped a black-gloved hand into the black-beaded reticule that dangled from her slender waist, from which she extracted a small white card. The sepia tones of a photograph. The glint of gold borders embossed at the edges. The tightest of smiles on Freddie’s lips when he slipped it within his jacket’s breast pocket.

Nothing more was said. The woman led the girl away. Titania came prancing back and Uncle Freddie glanced down at the dwarf with barely concealed disgust on his face. A good job he did not cast his eye on the horror that lay in that mermaid tank, instead of which he strode right past, and we followed without another word, no sound but the crunching of our feet on the sand of the exit tunnel floor, where a small way ahead more tent flaps opened up and I saw a vivid slant of light in the centre of which were two female forms, one very tall, one shorter, both of them wavering silhouettes.

When we emerged from darkness to light, squinting at the glare of the lowering sun, that mismatched pair had disappeared. Freddie walked all the faster, pushing his way through the milling crowds, through an avenue of spreading trees where the leaves danced above us from silver to green, where there was a table with several spare seats at which Papa was sitting, drinking some tea – smiling, insisting himself quite well, and just as if to prove the point one of his feet was tapping along to the strains of an orchestra playing near by.

The bandstand below a towering pagoda – something alluringly oriental – was surrounded by wooden decking, upon which some couples were starting to dance, and a wonderful vision I thought that to be, and all that was needed to lure my thoughts from what had occurred in the mermaid tent.

Freddie’s humour was also restored after that cryptic exchange of his with the mysterious woman in black. Now, all charm and beaming smiles, he said, ‘Ah, what larks! The polka! What a glamorous picture of beauty and youth!’ And catching the eye of a white-aproned waiter, he called out, ‘Champagne! Yes, it
must
be champagne. After all,’ he offered Elijah a wink,
‘this
is
the twins’ special day . . . that is,’ he glanced at Papa, questioning, much less confident, ‘so long as Augustus approves?’

Papa looked benign and nodded assent. ‘I can’t see that one glass could do any harm . . . though hard to believe it has been a decade since we were all in London last . . . since that day when I came to the orphanage.
Tempus fugit
.’ He heaved a great sigh, at which my mind was filled again with what Freddie had mentioned at breakfast – about Elijah coming to London.

Again the thought of growing up was something I didn’t want to face. But then Elijah was changing fast, that transition more than physical, for in the blinking of an eye my usually cheery brother seemed to be cast in an evil spell, become brooding and silent, slumped over the table at my side, his expression really very glum.

And Papa – why was his hand trembling again, so much so that he tried to conceal the fact by holding it in his jacket’s folds? But I’d noticed – if no one else had done – and I’d noticed how subdued he was. I felt sure he would rather have been at home with its peace and quiet and solitude – which right then seemed a million miles away, with Freddie waving his arm about and shouting at two passing gentlemen, ‘Samuel . . . Samuel Beresford!’

In a flash he was standing to make introductions. ‘You already know Augustus . . . and these are my dearest two young friends . . . Lily and Elijah Lamb.’

‘Hello, Freddie . . . what a surprise!’ Considerably younger than Freddie or Papa, my uncle’s new friend appeared to be suffering greatly from the heat. He carried his jacket across one arm. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows. He wore a top hat, very shiny it was, as shiny as his gleaming brow, against which was plastered some sweat-damp hair – a lovely glossy chestnut hue. He wasn’t exactly handsome. His nose, though straight, was a little too large, and his chin perhaps too prominent. But those brown eyes were filled with such friendly light, and his smile was as bright as his paisley cravat. And how jaunty
those peg-top trousers! I supposed he must be some ‘dandy’ type, and he carried the whole ensemble off with such a degree of swagger – until his nose began to twitch as if he’d been sniffing the pepper pot, his features contorting into a sneeze which was spluttered into a handkerchief, though, when that fit was over and done, he continued much as he had before – and in only slightly nasal tones, ‘How delightful . . . to meet the twins today! Freddie often mentions you.’

He was very charming. I felt only drab. My blue muslin dress might be good enough to wear of a Sunday in Kingsland church. But here, in London, here in Cremorne among all the shimmering colours and light, and compared to that girl in the mermaid tent, I was surely as dull as a little brown moth in a house of exotic butterflies. For the very first time I was relieved to be wearing the cage of my crinoline. At least
something
about me was fashionable, even if it was not visible!

‘Cremorne is an idyll, is it not?’ Uncle Freddie was in his element. ‘I love to come here whenever I can, well away from the city’s grime and smog. They say a few hours spent here in the gardens works better than any medicine, that the atmosphere expands the lungs . . . as much as the imagination.’ With a rumbling chuckle deep in his throat, he turned to smile at his friend again, and he on the verge of another sneeze – ‘Don’t you agree, Mr Beresford?’

I didn’t mean to laugh. I don’t think Mr Beresford took offence, giving his nose another wipe before saying, ‘Forgive me . . . this wretched hay fever. I find the month of May in Cremorne not at all conducive to
my
health.’

Intense dark eyes held me quite rapt, even if they were somewhat reddened by then, and I started to grow very flustered and hot, wanting to fidget and squirm in my seat, relieved when his gaze moved on to Papa, who spoke with genuine warmth in his voice. ‘Sam, I would hardly have known you! It’s been too long since last we met, when I came to the office of Hall & Co. But Freddie’s been passing on the news . . . all
about your promotion in the firm. From errand boy to editor. I must offer my congratulations!’

‘And I am delighted to meet
you
again . . . I’ve always admired your children’s books.’ The younger man glanced at some empty chairs. ‘Are you expecting any more guests? Freddie always draws a crowd.’

‘There was one,’ Elijah broke in. Did he look expectant or petulant? Perhaps he was hoping to learn her name, the fainting girl who he had held when stating so very suddenly, ‘Someone Freddie met in the mermaid tent.’

‘Oh . . . speaking of mermaids,’ Samuel Beresford went on, ‘you must meet my cousin, Osborne Black . . . why, he’s only come to the gardens today in the hope of seeing that display.’

He glanced back, calling out to the other man, who still dallied a little way behind, scuffing his feet upon the grass and looking decidedly churlish, perhaps peeved to have been ignored so long. And what a strange couple they seemed to make, with Mr Black’s dress much more austere, his jacket shiny and worn at the elbows, and the front of it – what?– was it streaked with paint? He was older than Samuel Beresford, looking to be in middle age, and something too predatory in dark eyes which were set in a tanned and rugged face, around which was a growth of coppery beard, thick and bushy, so tangled with knots I wondered if it had been groomed in a year – the same with the hair upon his head.

‘Ah yes . . . the artist Osborne Black!’ Uncle Freddie seemed somewhat less enthused. ‘We once worked together on
The Germ
.’

‘
The Germ!
’ I exclaimed, just as the younger man sneezed again.

‘A magazine,’ Uncle Freddie explained.

‘Goodness,’ I tried to suppress a laugh, ‘it sounds as if you might catch a disease simply by picking the covers up.’

‘An infection soon eradicated!’ Uncle Freddie continued with the theme. ‘And like many a classified disease it has . . . or
had . . . a much longer scientific name. In this case,
Thoughts toward Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art
.’

At this Mr Black’s voice was found. It was deep and measured and gravelly with the trace of a northern accent. ‘The name was intended to describe a seed – the growth of creative ideas, if you will. At the time Mr Hall was most generous, advising on printing costs and such. But the venture was always doomed to fail. No more than four issues published . . . so much bickering, boorish behaviour . . . those poets as bad as a bunch of old spinsters.’

Uncle Freddie raised a questioning brow. ‘Yes, the seedling shrivelled and died, and Mr Rossetti perhaps better employed with his painting than his poetry. And you, Mr Black . . .’ the artist received a knowing glance, ‘are perhaps above the lowly task of providing illustration work. But, enough of such matters for now . . . won’t you join us and share a glass of champagne?’

Freddie’s invitation was a command, hardly pausing for breath before going on, ‘Elijah, Lily . . . now you know that Osborne Black is an artist, and Samuel employed on my magazines, as editor, writer, whatever we need, not to mention his famous recipes, which are written . . .’

‘Under a pseudonym . . .’ Samuel Beresford interrupted, giving an enigmatic smile while one finger tapped at the side of his nose. I feared that might set off another eruption but for then everything remained quite calm, leaving him able to carry on, a false expression of shock when he said, ‘Mr Hall. You should not be divulging
Mrs
Beresford’s secrets. What would our trusted readers think? What of the rumours of royal connections which have helped to boost circulation so? We really should be more discreet.’

Freddie’s answering smile was equally wry. ‘I doubt
Mr
Beresford ever so much as brewed himself a pot of tea. Still, he makes an adequate journalist.’

‘A journalist who would rather be as fine a writer as Mr Lamb.’ The younger man was serious in his flattery of dear Papa, who, very much like my brother then, was making me feel
uncomfortable, too quiet, too introspective by far – become more like strangers than family.

‘Thank you,’ Papa replied at last, extending his hand to the painter, ‘ and I am most honoured to meet Osborne Black, having read a great deal of his recent success . . . the sea studies in particular. One review praised the use of colour and light as reminiscent of Turner’s art.’

Mr Black condescended – or so it seemed – to reach over a hand and shake Papa’s, and I saw that his shirt cuffs were grubby and frayed, the flesh thickly furred with more auburn hair, and his fingers rather stubby and thick. You would never think him the artistic type – his cousin perhaps, but no – not him.

‘Yes,’ the stern Mr Black went on, ‘that was the general consensus . . . that my work was too derivative. Not one spark of Turner’s genius.’

‘Forgive me, I meant no insult.’ Papa was clearly taken aback.

‘Oh, it is no matter,’ the artist replied. ‘Those critics were right. I need to expand my horizons, to create something different . . . something new.’

While proclaiming this ambition, rather than following Samuel’s lead and taking one of the vacant seats, Mr Black simply lowered himself to the grass, stretching out his long and muscular legs with the trousers quite worn into holes at the knees – at which I began to consider that he must represent those impoverished types who live all their lives in a garret, starving to death for the sake of art.

‘Osborne has a calling, you see,’ Samuel Beresford was explaining. ‘He’s recently back from the Holy Land, having hoped to seek inspiration there . . . to work in the clarity of light that they say is so extraordinary.’

‘And has he returned with
extraordinary
works?’ Uncle Freddie’s tone was sceptical.

‘No.’ Osborne Black’s response was sharp, that single word spoken while looking down, thick fingers engaged in the delicate task of plucking a single blade of grass, which was
then placed between his lips, upon which he sucked when he glanced back up, his eyes almost black between slitted lids. ‘But, I believe I shall make some . . . based on the time I spent at sea, not what I saw in that desolate land.’

‘Do you know Holman Hunt?’ Papa leaned forward with interest. ‘Those paintings he made in Palestine were . . .’

‘Cynical and commercial.’ Osborne Black exhaled a sigh while raising his eyes to the heavens, as if this was a subject that bored him to death. ‘I know him in passing, of course. But we have very little in common these days. The Brethren never accepted me.’

‘The Brethren?’ Did he mean priests or monks, what with all of this talk of the Holy Land?

‘The Brotherhood of the Pre-Raphaelites.’ Papa turned my way to explain. ‘You have seen some of Mr Hunt’s work, my dear . . . that print of
The Scapegoat
which hangs in our church?’