Magpie Hall (15 page)

‘Go away!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll never let you, not in twenty years!’

‘But it has been twenty years,’ she called back. ‘I’ve been a waif for twenty years.’

The knocking on the walls began again in earnest. I yelled, threw my face into the pillow and woke up.

I lay on my back. Sweat pooled between my breasts. I looked at the window but it was intact, and the tapping sound was once again just the walnut tree. I was breathing heavily, and I wished I wasn’t alone.

In the morning, I woke with a start to see sunlight spilling through the curtains. I thought for a moment there had been another earthquake, that this was what had disturbed me. But as I lay there, getting my bearings, I heard the front door close with a bang. Voices. Deep. A guttural laugh.

I leapt out of bed and opened the curtains to look outside. The back end of a shiny SUV was visible below my window. I crept to the top of stairs and listened. The voices — two of them, male — drifted up from the direction of the kitchen, but I couldn’t quite make them out. I hesitated, unsure what to do — to get out now, or to find out who the casual intruders were. I decided to be brave.

The two men stopped talking and just stared at me when I appeared before them. One of them, short and weathered-looking, flinched a little as though he had seen a ghost. I guess I must have looked unusual, to say the least — still dressed in old-fashioned black clothes, my face drawn from lack of sleep and crying.

The other man, taller, with a sheepskin jacket over a dress shirt and pants, spoke. ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t know anyone was here. You are?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Andrew Preston. This is Bill. We’ve been asked here by the family.’ He was looking at me as though I didn’t belong, as if I were something that had crawled up from the river and taken shelter in the house. He held a large roll of paper in both hands, and a briefcase was propped beside him on the kitchen bench.

‘Well, I’m the family. Can I help you?’ It was less a polite offer than an accusation.

‘Look, I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here.’ He moved towards me. Bill hung back, still eying me warily. ‘We’re here to look at the house. I’m the architect the family’s employed to do the renovations. Bill’s here as project manager. We’re due to start next week, and just need to take a look around if that’s okay …’ He searched the air for my name.

‘Rosemary.’ I was stunned — I hadn’t realised it was all happening so soon.

‘Right. Are you Joe’s daughter? Or Brian’s?’

‘Joe’s.’

‘I’m sorry, he didn’t say you’d be here.’

That was because I hadn’t told them I was coming. Any of them.

‘It’s not a good time now,’ I said. ‘I’m working. You’ll have to come back another day.’

Bill gave an explosive, nervous laugh, then went solemn again.
Andrew turned to look at him, then back at me.

‘I don’t think you understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve come from the city. That’s a two-hour drive. I left at dawn to get here.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

He stared at me, unsure what I was going to do next. I saw him looking at my wrist, at my magpie, and I covered it with my hand.

‘Look,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ll just give Joe a call. We’ll get this cleared up.’ He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and I couldn’t help but smile as he flicked it open and looked at it. He sighed and looked at Bill. ‘You got any reception?’ Bill went through the same process and shook his head.

‘Got a landline?’ asked Andrew.

‘Sorry, no,’ I said in a sing-song, innocent voice.

It was a stand-off. They glared at me, I glared at them. Finally Andrew started to move towards me. I stood aside as he went through to the hallway. Bill took the opportunity to scan the walls and ceiling, turning to look at the spot where I expected french doors were going to go.

‘Right,’ he said when he saw me watching him. As if he couldn’t help himself, his meaty fist came out of his pocket and knocked on an internal wall as he passed. He joined Andrew in the hall and I herded them towards the front door. I could hear them murmuring to each other.

‘Got our work cut out, mate,’ said Bill, ‘but she should come up nice. All original?’

‘Pretty much. Some of these rooms were reconfigured about the 1930s, but those walls’ll be coming down. Get some light into the place.’ Andrew glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice even more, but I still heard. ‘It’s a big job just to make it habitable. Don’t know how anyone could live in it like this.’

‘I can hear you, you know,’ I said. ‘And you can just fuck right off.’ My voice was rising; I had no control over it. ‘You don’t know anything about this house. You’re just going to come in and
butcher
it with no regard for its history. Just piss off. Go!’

They were at the door now and couldn’t open it quickly enough. As they scampered for their four-wheel drive, Andrew flipped his phone open again, and for a moment I thought he might be trying to call the police, though he’d have no more luck out there than inside. He pocketed the phone and roared off, wheels spinning in the gravel.

Henry

Magpie Hall. That is what he will call it, for the black and white birds that lurk inside the ruined corner of the house. It will signify a new beginning, both for the house, and for Henry.

It was the earthquake that brought the house to him. Part of it had fallen down, killing its owner, and the family, which consisted only of married daughters, was selling it for a good price. He wrote to his father and told him of the opportunity:
If you can see your way to
making the purchase on my behalf I can assure you that I will not attempt
to return to England
. It was a risk, but eventually a letter arrived from his father in which he agreed to the terms.

Now he stands before it: a small house by the standards he is used to in England, with only two storeys, but the rooms are large and there is plenty of space for the two of them and some servants
— after all, he doesn’t plan to stay here too long, or to start a family soon.

He wants to surprise her with the additions he has planned. He will rebuild the crumbled part of the house, making it sturdier than ever before, strengthening its walls and chimneys. No earthquake will shatter it again. The brick exterior lends itself perfectly to the Gothic style of architecture he admires, and knowing how much Dora loves Gothic novels, he will make it a miniature castle for her. He will add arched windows and a tower; he closes his eyes, sees turrets and ramparts stretching into the sky. He will create a walled garden for her, with a gazebo, just as his mother has at home, and where he lost himself as a child, hiding from her and collecting beetles and caterpillars for his fledgling collection.

He will retain the staff of the station as they are. He has made enquiries and discovered it is in good hands. The land is returning a profit. But the very best thing about this property is the presence of limestone caves over the crest of the hill. He is sure that with some digging they will yield all manner of curiosities, animal or mineral. Or perhaps human. When he questioned the daughters about them, they shrugged and said they had never even seen them, so who knows how long it is since they have been investigated, if at all.

A river runs through the property, and he has already discovered a perfect bathing place, not far from the house. The daughters have described with nostalgia the many picnics they have had along its banks, and how in stormy weather it swells dramatically. They are never short of water, although the presence of limestone can clog the pipes sometimes and he will have to take proper care of them. A trifle, really.

Yes, he and Dora will be very happy here, he can tell. His engagement to her is not something he had originally planned, but the more
time he spends with her the more he discovers that she is the perfect companion for him. He is charmed by her lively and enquiring mind, her hunger for travel and the fact that she can both hold her own in polite society and shoot a rifle (her father insisted she learn, for her protection). He has never come across a woman like her, in London or New Zealand, where the ladies are universally silly and interested only in fashion and gossip. Dora, his Dora, is different. And there is no denying the calming effect she has on him. In her presence, his anger at last appears to be under control.

He’d had too many drinks the night he proposed to her and was perhaps a little carried away by the moment, but after the earthquake, he knew he had no regrets. And the fact that, for the moment, she was the sole heiress of her father’s estate did nothing to diminish his ardour.

As he turns to leave, he disturbs the magpies that have gathered to investigate the intruder. They are different from the curious birds with the glossy feathers and long tails he knows from home. These birds are bullish black and white crows, and their presence, he confesses, makes him a little uneasy. But he admires their gumption. They may be sifting through the remains for shiny treasures to take back to their nests, but it is as though they are staking their claim on the house. They remind him of himself. He must remember to shoot one for his collection when he gets the chance.

Dora

She wears white silk and orange blossoms in her hair. As they say their vows in front of a gathering of well-wishers, the sun breaks through the clouds and pours through the stained-glass church windows; the patterns dance on her body, colouring her dress.

And later they are finally alone, in the house he has restored for her. There are two bedrooms with an adjoining door, and a large bed in each. One will be hers and one will be his.

He was so proud the day he brought her to inspect the property and its restoration.

Look, my dear, he said, his hand resting lightly on her waist. He pointed out the turrets and the tower. A team of gardeners was planting the walled garden; by summer it would be alive with colour and the hum of insects. He stayed close behind her as she ascended
the narrow spiral staicase to the tower and stood by, looking pleased with himself, as she surveyed the view on all sides, feeling the light on her face. The river glinted through the trees.

I love it, she said finally, and she did. She loved the effort he had poured into it on her behalf. The house felt uncannily cold, but she was sure once the fires were lit and the servants had moved back in it would be as warm as a beating heart.

He leaves her in her room to get ready for bed. She sits at the new dressing table and looks at her face, pale in the lamplight. Her hand shakes as she pulls the pins from her hair and watches it fall about her shoulders. Next, she takes her brush and runs it through her curls so they fly away and fan about her face. This mundane routine calms her, as if it were any night. Her maid waits patiently nearby, and when Dora nods, comes over to plait her hair, then helps her take off her wedding dress. It rustles about her ears as it lifts over her head and the loss of its weight makes her body light. Next, the maid unlaces the corset. Dora takes a deep breath and sits down, suddenly dizzy. Thank you, Mary, she says. I can manage now.

She removes her remaining undergarments and lays them on a nearby chair. Her nightgown lies fresh and new on the bed. She pulls it over her head and breathes deeply again; its newness smells like a spring lawn. Then she slides under the covers.

She lies with the sheets pulled up around her ears, listening for signs of her husband. She hears him bump into something, and laugh gently to himself, which makes her smile. If she didn’t know better she would think he was drunk, but he has hardly touched a drop all day and night. As she waits, she looks around the room, at the lamplight shadows flirting with the walls. Henry has had the room decorated just for her, with rich burgundy floral wallpaper and heavy velvet drapes over the tall arched windows — only the finest for my
bride, he said. A collection of beautiful blue butterflies decorates the wall. All different sizes, their wings catch the light and glow like waterfalls. Her trunks sit by the wardrobe, waiting to be unpacked. Her new home.

A gentle knocking comes from the door between their rooms.

Come, she says, but her voice is a whisper. Come! she says again. The door opens and Henry pokes his head in.

She is relieved at first that he seems as nervous as she is, pacing around the room in a silk jacket, smoking the last of his cigarette. But the smell offends her suddenly and she becomes irritated. He is supposed to be the man; he is supposed to put
her
at ease and guide her on their wedding night.

Please put that thing out, she commands him and he stops pacing and stands erect. He looks at her in surprise then bursts out laughing.

Yes, madam! he says and disappears back into his own room for a moment, before emerging empty-handed. She has broken the ice and feels the irritation subside. They are both smiling now.

He sits on the opposite side of the bed.

Dora, dear, he says. There is something I need to show you.

She bites her lip. A disease, she thinks, a horrible deformity. He is not as other men. He is a eunuch. But all of these thoughts peel away as he opens his jacket, and then the neck of his nightshirt. He pulls it to one side and reveals a picture on his chest — a rose.

What is it? she asks. She leans over the bed towards it. A tattoo?

He nods.

She has never seen one before, only heard of them. May I? She reaches out towards him. The rose feels slightly raised on its stem, but otherwise it is as smooth as if it weren’t even there.

You’re not angry? he asks.

Angry? No. I think it’s … I think it’s lovely.

She is not lying, not trying to put him at ease. The red blooming against his pale skin is as arresting as a real rose would be, had she come across it in the snow.

That is good, my love. He raises the covers and slides into bed beside her. Because there are more.

He shuffles around beneath the bedclothes, and then his nightshirt is travelling up his body and over his head. He drops it on the ground.

She gasps.

How had she not known about this? A dragon wrapped around his forearm — intricately drawn, breathing hot fire; a mermaid with long golden hair covering her nakedness; an insect she does not recognise, with a long tail and pincers like a crab; a springing tiger. In the golden light they emerge from the shadows of his body as he lies down and turns over for her. She runs her hands over the snake on his back and his skin shivers under her touch.

She hasn’t even registered, until now, that he is naked beside her and she pulls her hands away sharply.

She surprises herself by saying, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.

He turns and pulls her to him and she allows herself be encircled by his tattooed arms. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.

They don’t sleep all night. He is gentle with her, but still the pain is too much this first time. He holds her instead, and they talk until a finger of light tries to pull back the curtains. She asks him about his tattoos, tries to understand how they came to be. He tells her about his first visit to Hori Chyo, in Japan, shows her how the dragon dances when he flexes his forearm.

But you have to hide your body all the time, she says.

It is not hard, he says. I bathe alone. The only people who usually see them are … he hesitates.

Women, she thinks. His other women.

The tattooers. But I didn’t need to hide them back in England. Many of my friends have tattoos. Even the Prince of Wales and his sons have been tattooed, by the same artist that tattooed my dragon. Once they had tattoos, everyone wanted them. You should see them all, trying to outdo each other. And the ladies, too.

She sits up. The ladies? she repeats.

He laughs. Yes, my dear. They are quite fashionable among the ladies of London society. You will see. I will take you there. There is a famous London beauty, Lady Churchill. She has a snake tattooed around her wrist.

But what if she ever wants to hide it?

She simply wears gloves, or a bracelet. But she has no need to hide it. All those women, they copy each other.

Dora thinks for a moment, stroking the colourful patterns on his arms.

I should like one, she says.

Oh, now, come, my dear, it is not something to be entered into lightly.

But if those ladies have one, why should not I? Do you think we colonials are not sophisticated enough?

Shhh. He strokes her hair, kisses it. Not at all. But it is permanent. If you decide you do not like it after all, there is nothing you can do about it.

But I do like it. I liked your tattoos from the moment I saw them. They are part of you.

What she doesn’t say is,
They excite me
. They remind her of how
worldly he is, and how domestic she is. As if she somehow does not quite measure up.

They lie there for a while longer, enjoying the warmth of each other’s skin. Finally, he speaks.

Very well. If in one month’s time you decide that you would still like to be tattooed, I will take you. We shall go together.

And with that, she thinks — never mind the vows — we will be bound until death parts us.

They take the train to the port, as the night falls. Henry does not want to risk being seen; he thinks it will damage her reputation.

It is a short walk over the bridge into the town. On every corner stands a hotel; as they pass she glances in the windows at the dull light and swirling pipe smoke, the dark shapes of sailors and other men moving within. She holds Henry’s arm more tightly. A carriage comes close, throwing up mud, but Henry moves them both deftly out of the way. The driver doffs his cap at them and sniggers, showing yellowed teeth in the light of his lamp, then is gone. Dora sees a woman’s face pressed to the carriage window, with a look of alarm.

All about them the smells of the place swirl: wood smoke, rancid fish, oil from the lanterns. Men hurry past them with heads down, suspicious bundles under their cloaks — at least, Dora thinks they are suspicious, imagining them to contain dead animals, or body parts. A woman trussed up in velvet and feathers stops a man and murmurs to him, but he pushes her arm away and continues walking while she makes a rooster noise after him. She laughs when she sees Dora and winks.

‘Ello, sir, the woman says. Nice to see you again. She calls after
them: Got yourself a nice one there, my love! A real gentleman. Knows how to please a lady.

Henry pulls her in closer. Don’t listen, he says. She is nothing. She is fooling with you.

They turn a corner into a deserted lane. They pass darkened shopfronts — a butcher, with pig carcasses hanging in the window, a printing shop, a draper with faded bolts of cotton lawn on display — until they come to one that gives off light. There is just one word painted on the window:
Tattoos
.

We have arrived, says Henry. Are you sure about this?

Dora nods and takes the first step towards the door, pushes it open with heavy hands. Her heart is beating so hard she feels the blood pulsing in her face and arms.

The room is deserted. The floor crunches as they walk. A single lantern burns in the far corner, illuminating the nearest shapes drawn on the walls while the rest fade into the darkness.

They had talked earlier about where the tattoo should be placed. Henry suggested her back, a location that was unlikely to be seen by anyone, but Dora wanted to be able to look at it. On her back she would need a mirror to see it and she would never be able to gaze at the actual picture. She likes the idea of the butterfly on her chest, the symmetry of it, but in the end she settles for her leg, to one side, above the knee.

A huge man emerges from the back room, drying his hands. His voice is as rough as the room around them.

You came, then, he says to Henry. And this is the young lady.

My wife, says Henry.

Right you are. The man nods. Come through then, madam.

She is grateful that he is at least respectful.

Have you … have you tattooed women before? she asks as she
follows him behind a curtain to a well-lit room with a worn bed and an armchair. A table with instruments stands beside.

One or two, McDonald answers. There’s one girl — Lucy — she’s in the Quirk Brothers’ circus. I’ve done most of hers. She stops by whenever she’s in town.

Dora hesitates and looks at Henry. Circus? she asks. Like a freak show?

Henry takes her hand. You won’t be on display, he says. You are nothing like that woman. She is tattooed from head to toe, I’m sure. He looks at McDonald, for reassurance.

That’s right, he nods. Not her face, mind, but just about everywhere else. Quite a beauty she is too. Now, madam, you just make yourself comfortable on this chair. Did you bring the picture?

It is one of Henry’s own paintings of the
Morpho rhetenor
he captured in Brazil. He hands it to McDonald, who looks at it and shakes his head.

Is there a problem? asks Henry.

It’s blue, see? Ain’t no one invented blue ink that will stay put. It bleeds. Terrible mess. We only got the five colours.

And which are they? Dora asks.

Black of course. Green, brown, red and yellow. You want a yellow butterfly, or a green, fine.

This is an unexpected setback. She had dreamed of the blue butterflies, watched them alighting on her body. She wanted her tattoo to remind her of that love.