Elijah’s Mermaid (8 page)

‘What are you looking at, Papa?’ I shivered while threading my fingers through his.

His voice sounded flat and exhausted. ‘The offices of Hall & Co. I thought . . . for a moment he might be there. I thought I saw Gabriel looking out. But of course,’ he tried to force a smile, ‘that is completely ridiculous. No more than an old man’s fancy.’

‘Oh!’ I could barely conceal my surprise. Papa told us that Freddie had moved, no longer living in the house from which his publishing business was run, but I had no idea it might be so close – the place where my parents once lived and worked, and—

And that made me feel terribly guilty, for in all the excitement of coming to London I had not once stopped to consider them, or the fact that Papa would think of his son; the father I had never known and who, however heartless it sounds, I found it very hard to mourn. I really felt no bond at all. I always thought more of my mother. But Papa still grieved, of course he did, and I saw the sorrow in his eyes when he turned to me and squeezed my hand, and I laid my head on his shoulder a while, until he eventually turned his back on that unlit memorial to
lead me up the pristine steps and into a hall that blazed with light – and so vibrantly coloured those flocked walls that Ellen Page would no doubt fear the destruction of our optic nerves, not to mention the risk of a fainting fit, with the flaring flames in those hissing jets sure to suck all the oxygen out of the air.

I found myself yawning and desperate for sleep when Freddie suggested we go and eat – a cold collation in the dining room – and it looked like a banquet fit for a king.

Who could eat at such a time, almost one o’clock in the morning? The answer was Elijah, who still looked as fresh as a daisy, announcing himself to be ravenous. (In those days he could eat from dawn ’til dusk and still find room for something else.) But I had no appetite at all, already filled with a sense of discomfort, an odd sort of loss as I held Papa’s hand – and how weary he looked to be just then, such a ragged, throaty edge to his voice when he said, ‘Freddie . . . it is rather late. I should prefer to find my bed.’

Freddie did not argue, leading the way up two flights of stairs until we all stood on a landing where a door was opened and then closed up, with Papa disappeared behind.

I didn’t know what to do. Papa had not even said goodnight. Should I knock to ensure that he was well, or—

Freddie interrupted my thoughts, now having opened another door, the one standing opposite Papa’s, announcing that this room contained my bed. His moustache tickled stiff against my cheek when he stooped forward to plant his kiss, his breath smelling oddly fiery and sweet when he murmured in his deep brown voice, ‘Sleep well, my dear. Tomorrow we all need to be our best. There is quite a surprise I have in mind.’

‘A surprise!’ Elijah was grinning at me.

‘Indeed, a surprise!’ Freddie echoed his words, and before I could think to blink or yawn my uncle had stepped away from me, he and Elijah descending the stairs to make their way back to the dining room – though at the turn of the landing below Freddie looked back and softly called, ‘If you wake . . . if you
need me during the night, my room is on the floor below . . . the one situated beneath your own.’

I had no idea where Elijah was sleeping. Like Papa, he had not said goodnight and thinking of that I lifted a hand to touch my face, to where Freddie’s caress was tingling still and where, normally, Papa’s kiss would be. I felt myself oddly hot and flushed, slightly afraid to be alone, grown invisible on that upstairs hall. I felt as if all of Papa’s grief had leaked from his heart and under his door to form a puddle at my feet.

Such confusion when I opened my eyes, unable to think where I could be; red flowery walls, and chintzy chairs, and the paintwork a gleaming emerald green – and a maid setting down a cup of hot chocolate, brightly announcing while next engaged in folding and sweeping back shutters and drapes, ‘I’ve been sent up to wake you. The others are already downstairs.’ And then, when heading out again, she looked back from the door with a sniff of disdain. ‘I do ’ope you’re not the flaky type, or you might get an ’eadache from sleeping in ’ere. But then, Mr Hall likes it cheerful and lively, what with being so lively and cheerful ’imself . . . a man of extravagant, colourful tastes.’

I quite liked the room myself, though in the harsh glare of daylight I suppose it was rather gaudy. The thing that had unnerved me more was that maid being so familiar. But I very soon forgot about that, only wondering what the day might bring, quickly washed and dressed and heading downstairs from where masculine voices were rising up, and Uncle Freddie’s the loudest with words like ‘printers’ and ‘new publications’, all the business that he was discussing with Papa.

The dining room was at the front of the house, very formal, rather gloomy and chill with its thick damask drapes and panels of lace preventing any view beyond – particularly the house standing opposite, the offices of Hall & Co., the door of which I fervently hoped we should never have cause to enter – knowing now how that would upset Papa, and not wanting to stir any memories that were better kept quiet, kept buried. And, on a
somewhat cheerier note, those curtains created a barrier so that any of us who sat within were safely concealed from the street’s prying eyes – which was probably just as well with Freddie like a beacon in red, wearing a paisley smoking gown, and a sleeping cap with tassels of silk that hung very jauntily on one side. It made him look louche and theatrical. It made him look like a magician, the ensemble carried off with style – even if it would seem ridiculous on anyone less confident.

Elijah and Papa were both attired in the same Sunday best from the day before, both seated on the left of our host at one end of a dark polished table. There, I thought Papa looked somehow diminished and no less exhausted than he had been when going to bed the previous night. His eyes were like two swollen bags of blood, his expression strained and very pale – but Elijah – my brother was nothing but smiles when glancing up to see me there, and Freddie – he was much the same, patting the empty chair on his right, saying, ‘Ah, and here is Lily. Our sleeping beauty wakes!’

‘Did a prince come to kiss her?’ My brother grinned though I pretended not to hear, smiling at Freddie and saying Hello!’ when I made a twirling entrance, two hands held wide to show off my shawl – a lovely embroidered Chinese silk that my uncle had sent some weeks before, though I felt much less sure of the yards of blue muslin that seemed to protrude a good yard ahead and lifted too high above the ground by the wooden cage of my crinoline. Such a contraption it was. But the draper in Leominster, he would insist that it was quite ‘the London thing’, showing me several fashion plates in which ladies appeared to float like bells. I felt more like a bobbing boat, and I dreaded more teasing to come from Elijah, but my brother was much too busy to look, what with having to do all that eating again, chewing great mouthfuls of kippers and eggs.

Once seated and offered a plate of the same I found I still lacked appetite and only nibbled a corner of toast, almost feeling as if I had two heads – the one full of worry about Papa, the other fizzing up with excitement, wondering what the
day might hold – what Freddie’s mysterious surprise could be. And almost as if he could read my mind Uncle Freddie set down his knife and fork and gave a small cough to clear his throat, which must have been some sort of cue, for one of his maids then entered the room and there on her tray was a brown paper parcel – which Freddie placed into my hands.

‘What is it, Lily?’ My brother set down his cutlery while I tore my way through the wrappings. He looked on with curiosity, his eyes grown wide and the twitch of a smile to see me uncover two brand-new editions of Papa’s mermaid storybook which, after much deliberation, had been titled
Of Lost Mermaids ~ and Other Salty Wanderings
. It had proved to be very popular, now having sold for several years; this new edition with green leather bindings, the letters and patterns embossed in gold, and its surface as soft as velvet when stroked beneath my fingertips. In excitement I handed the spare to Elijah, my arms stretched across the tabletop before settling back in my chair again to flick through the pages of my own, where I saw my name as clear as day right there on the dedication page, and underneath it, there was my brother’s, and something that made me cry out loud, exclaiming, ‘Elijah! Did you know?’

As he swallowed the food that remained in his mouth the surprise on his face soon answered that, no, he really had no idea that some of his pictures were printed inside, those swirling visions in sepia tones that my brother had worked on the previous year, that Ellen Page had considered dull – she always preferring a vase of pink rosebuds, or a robin’s nest filled with forget-me-nots, the sort of pretty clichéd thing that Elijah might have painted once, when he was very much younger, when Ellen liked to save each one and pin them on our kitchen walls. But Papa was Elijah’s champion, encouraging originality, taking Ellen Page to task for making such blinkered crude remarks. And although I knew nothing about such things I did know those pictures were beautiful – menacing, dark, but beautiful, each beginning with simple pencil lines upon which the washes of colour were built, creating such depth and
translucence – all now reproduced in this brand-new book, the sight of which rendered my brother dumb, blushing to his very roots when Uncle Freddie smiled and said, ‘Dear boy, you should be immensely proud. Everyone here at Hall & Co. has been most impressed with your workmanship . . . so much so that we might discuss future commissions. And perhaps we should think to get you enrolled you in the Royal Society of Artists . . . at the very least to arrange for a tutor. It’s not only the education. It’s the contacts you’ll make along the way, all so crucial to forging a future career.’

‘Oh, Uncle . . . that would be wonderful!’ Elijah’s eyes glittered with excitement, bathed in his uncle’s adoring gaze. But to think of my brother going away – well, mine were cast down in sudden dismay, pricked with the sharpest sting of tears. I can only say I was much relieved when Papa made the stern intervention, ‘Freddie, the boy is but fourteen years.’

‘Why, Millais was less than that when he trained at the Royal Academy and . . .’ Freddie’s challenge was boldly begun, though soon broken off with a lengthy sigh, after which came his earnest apology. ‘Ah . . . Augustus. Forgive me. I grow too enthused and forget myself. I shall simply count my blessings that Elijah and Lily are here today . . . not to mention yourself, my dear old friend!’

The tinny tinkle of porcelain alerted my senses to Papa’s nerves, for his hands were shaking violently while pouring some coffee into his cup. He looked down at his plate, his breaths too loud. He did not attempt to return Freddie’s smile. And me, I did try to look cheerful but my heart felt as heavy as lead in my breast because for the very first time in my life I realised there would come a day when my brother might think to go away, to leave me alone in Kingsland House.

But how fickle the sorrows of youth can be, because even that cloud on the distant horizon melted away into clear blue skies when Freddie took my hand in his and announced we should make a trip to Cremorne.

Freddie was paying at the gate. Papa loitered a little way off, and Elijah and I were standing between, me fidgety, shuffling from foot to foot while glancing back towards the pier and the steamboat from which we had disembarked, having sailed all the way from Hungerford Bridge with the engine vibrating and rumbling below, and a flutter of flags and bells above and the constant shouts of ‘Creeee-morne! Creee-morne!’ I was sad when we puttered to a halt, the vessel then banging against the pier’s landing so hard that I had to clutch Freddie’s arm until the violent rocking stopped and, at last, we were able to disembark and return to the safety of firm, dry land where, crushed in with a small tide of humanity, we streamed along the riverside path – and then caught our very first sight of the gardens – and just like a heaven it seemed to me, with everything manicured, shining, green, and that day in May so very warm I would gladly have kicked off my stockings and shoes and paddled about in the fountains. But there would be no dillydallying. Freddie had ordered a table for lunch, marching us off towards the hotel, where, thankfully, there was cold ginger beer to wash down the devilled kidneys, the platters with lobster and shrimp on ice, followed by sorbets and coffees and cakes which left me so bloated and full inside I thought I should never eat again – which was when Uncle Freddie drew out his gold watch, springing up from his seat to make the announcement, ‘Come along . . . come along! We must be off. We don’t want to miss the aquatic displays!’

Next thing, the human dynamo had whirled us through a theatre’s doors, where we were amazed to see a stage made up of a huge glass aquarium. The audience was rather thin, barely numbering more than twenty souls, but each of us ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ with glee when presented with ‘The
Beckwith Frog
. . . one of
the world’s finest acrobats
’, who dived into the water, gyrating among all the goldfish and eels, or else walked back and forth on his hands while consuming a bottle of milk in one – all the time with his head completely submerged!

‘You didn’t get that in Kingsland!’ Elijah nudged my side
and laughed, and too soon the spectacular came to an end and a man called Professor Beckwith appeared – he being the human frog’s trainer – and once he and his protégé had bowed, sated with our hurrahs and pattering claps, the professor proclaimed two other shows for the audience’s delectation that day. I was sorely tempted by the sound of Signor Rosci’s ‘Educated Monkeys’, which were due to perform on the lawns at three, though all thoughts of that wonder were soon eclipsed when he spoke about the mermaid tent, and what was enticingly described as being ‘
half beautiful woman, half fish, upon whom even the doctors cannot agree. Go, see, and decide for yourself
’.

Could he really mean a mermaid . . . an actual living mermaid? I itched for the chance to ‘see and decide’, my head bobbing first to the left, then the right, begging with Freddie and then Papa, ‘Oh, may we go . . . may we go and see?’