Mrs. Engels (12 page)

I gather up my ends and make the window in time to see Frederick climb into his cab. But there's only a flash of him to catch, and it strikes a chill in me, the fact that I see less of him now I'm living with him than in Manchester when he had us separate; the fact that we were better off the old way, better friends to each other. And there's other facts, too, that come dashing towards me like the rain against the glass, but I turn from them and come away, for I'd hate for him to look back and see me here, watching at his coattails.

December

XII. The Holy Family

Like flies on gristle, the mad bodies of London swarm the Zoo. A thicker brew of hatters in this corner of the Park than in the whole rest of the city. In the parrot house, weird old women trill and chirp and throw buttons to the birds. In the aquarium, gents softened by idlement leer into the murk and, by the looks of it, dream of sprouting fins of their own. The reptile house, the giraffe house, the camel house, the pelican house: little asylums, all, for those nuts with the shillings to spare for the turnstiles; wealth enough to be separate and peculiar, the busy world not daring to put on them or hinder their temper. It makes me queasy to be here, in and among them, and I worry that Tussy's love of the place is a sign she's headed the same way.

“I beg you, Auntie Lizzie,” she said. “Come with me to see the moving crib.”

“The what now?”

“The moving crib. Every year before Christmas they build a stable and fill it with exotic animals. And instead of statues, they have real people playing the holy family.”

Am I the only one who sees it?

I agreed to come, against my own wishes, for I was afraid that alone she'd be approached, or in her innocence would do the approaching herself and, by there, get herself into situations. I'm so fond of the poor child, I'd hate to hear of her tricked or fouled. “All right, all right, the Zoo it is,” I said, and no sooner was it out of my mouth than I began to look forward to the hours spent away from the house, and to the hand-holding and the secret whispers. “We'll bring a picnic, make a day of it,” I said.

But, of course, by the time today arrives around, bright and free of rain, she's assembled herself an entire army of keepers, in the middle of which I vanish, bare noticed.

Frederick leads us down the paths with the confidence of a man who has come to see this Christmas spectacle before. With his women, it's probable; the ones he fears will go to the bad if they're not given proper distraction. He's dressed light for the freezing weather, in a frock coat built for September. Beside it, Karl's broadcloth suit, buttoned up to the whiskers, appears a solemn demand for respect: from the season, from the people, from the animals the same.

Scattered around are the comrades Tussy has convinced to come. One of them, a young strap I don't have a name for, looks to have tied invisible twine from his sleeve to Janey's, so firm does he stay by her, so little does he let her drift from his air. To watch it makes my heart sink, for I've seen it before, the clever and quiet eldest girl dashing into the arms of a rake, not for love or money but to avoid remaining at home as help to failing parents. My wager is she'll be engaged before we even realize.

Two others, old enough to know better, are making circles around Tussy like stalking dogs. She puts a sweat on them by darting from cage to cage, pointing at the fur and feathers, lecturing on the ins and outs of the mating business, and now, for breaks, insisting they repeat the English names of the beasts till they can say them proper and with no foreign slurring.

Pumps is climbing a railing to get a better view of something. I watch her and worry that I've made a mistake by allowing her to come while keeping Spiv at home. She's getting used to the little privileges that come with having Burns in her blood and it's hard to know whether that's right or wrong.

Jenny is far off with the women Jaclard and Goegg. I'm being tanned by her, I can tell. Every time I come near her, she turns her head towards the bars and puts on to be interested in the life going on behind them. And her face: a window once wide open, now closed fast. Her behavior is no mystery to me, of course. She acting like she is because I refuse her invitations. Because I don't call to see her. Because I've not turned out the way she'd planned.

Walking alone, I follow the company into the tunnel. Our noses closed against the reek, our eyes lowered against the loiterers in the shadows, we soon come out by the deer paddock.

“This way,” Frederick calls out, and marches us towards a stable where a small crowd has gathered. A collection of forlorn-looking boys in sandals and robes and false beards are stood, shivering, around a cot lined with straw. The Virgin Mary has blue paint around her eyes and red on her cheeks and a shadow where her fluff has been sheared. The Babby Jesus is a doll in winding sheets. The Wise Men have gold slippers and blackened faces. Scratching around the sad scene is a collection of impossible animals. Trunks, tusks, horns, hooves: it's all there, a ridiculous array. Saddest and loneliest of all is an animal half-zebra and half-donkey standing on three legs in the corner of the stall. Tussy lures it over with some grass she's pulled up from someplace.

“I consider that nothing living is alien to me,” she says when, final, it takes her offering.

It chews. Flaps its lips. Trundles back to its place. Lifts its tail and pisses a gush.

“What
is
that thing?” I says.

“It's called a quagga,” she says, reading from the plaque.

Fact: the hippopotamus is the only thing worth the fare.

Frederick suggests taking tea in the rooms by the bowling green, and we agree.

“Everyone, follow me!”

Jenny takes Tussy by the hand, steers her onto Frederick's arm, leaving her admirers to tussle over Karl's attentions. Karl humors them the length of the llama pen (it's Tussy, again, who tells us what they are), before breaking away and coming across to me.

“Do you mind, Lizzie? Can I beg the favor of a word?”

“Of course, Karl. What can I do for you?”

He applies just enough tug on my arm to draw me to the back of the pack. I watch Tussy move farther and farther away and, trapped like a bird, curse myself for having left the nest at all.

“As you can probably see,” he says, “my wife is not in the best of shape.”

I look at Jenny giggling onto Frederick's shoulder. “I've seen her worse.”

Karl can't hide his surprise. “I must object, Lizzie. Please do take into consideration that she likes to put on a good face. I can assure you the woman is—”

Suffering. I get it. The lot of the thoroughbred.

“My wife loves company,” he says. “Even when the season is over and the days are shorter, she likes to receive guests and to get out as much as possible. True, she is beginning to understand that she must cosset herself a little more and not try to make every single event. But, on the other side, when she spends too much time at home she becomes, well, she becomes weary and crabbed, and her temper fires quick at the trigger. Like one of these animals here.” He looks around and rubs the back of his hand in a fretful way. “Please do call on her, Lizzie. She would benefit greatly from your company. We all would.”

“I'll do the best I can, Karl. I've a house to run.”

He turns and, with desperate eyes, searches me through.

“I'm sorry, Karl. What I mean to say is, it would be a pleasure. You don't have to worry. I'll make sure Jenny is well looked after for the winter.”

He sighs and smiles and lands one on my cheek. “Thank you, Lizzie. I just wanted to mention it.”

“Of course, Karl. Any time.”

The bogwork done, he brightens. “And now we have Christmas to look forward to, don't we? We're delighted you will be joining us. We are inviting all the comrades who have no families to go to. Making it special for them. I guarantee a ruckus. I know Jenny will love to have you there. And Nim will appreciate the extra help from Pumps and Camilla.”

He grins and pecks me again, his beard dipping down into my collar and tickling my neck, and like a ninny I let out a titter, but inside there's a fury bubbling, fired by the feeling that, once again, I've been tricked.

“What's this about Christmas at the Marxes?” I says to Frederick when I get him alone later.

“Didn't I tell you?”

“Nay, you didn't. As usual I've to find out from the wrong people.”

“Are you angry?”

“What do
you
think?”

“I thought you'd like the idea. Less work for you.”

“Oh, by the willful ass of Mary and Joseph.”

“You don't want to do it?”

“Of course I don't want to do it! Our first Christmas in London? Spent with Jenny and the whole wide world? Why can't we have it alone, as a family, quiet-like?”

“All right, if that's what you want, that's what we'll do.”

“Nay, it's too late now. You've already committed us.”

“We can change our plans. I'm sure Jenny would understand.”

“Nay, we can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Blessed be, Frederick, for a man who claims to know the destiny of mankind, you understand diddly-dick about the laws of womenfolk.”

Where the greatest crime is to have your own mind.

XIII. An Irish Lie

I know I ought to go up to her. There's things she'll want me to do. A list. To buy and to do. But I can't rouse myself to it. Tomorrow the spirit might be in me, but not today. Today my duty is to my own. My own place. My own house. And Lord knows it's long overdue a laundry wash.

“Frederick, I'm going to need your help.”

He's bent over his desk, scribbling. “Uh-huh,” he says without looking up.

Sighing, I get down and check under his chair for slut's wool. “It's going to be a busy day, Frederick.”

“I understand. If you need a hand”—he waves the free one in the air over his head—“all you have to do is ask.”

“Well, that's what I'm here doing, Frederick. I'm asking.”

“Ah.” He turns his eyes up and looks at me through his fallen fringe.

“It's laundry day,” I says, “the last before Christmas. And I've no intention of putting it off or getting the woman in. If we're to get it done before suppertime, we'll all have to pitch in our bit.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Follow me.”

“Now?”

“Take that plate and those dirty glasses with you.”

Down in the scullery Spiv is bent over the washing book.

“Sir,” she says, “what are
you
doing here?”

“He's going to help,” I says.

He winks.

She looks him up and down, a lick of scorn, before getting back to her list.

“Right, Frederick,” I says, “you can start by sorting the pile out into aprons, collars, shirts, body linen—and what's else?—nightclothes, pinnies, and petticoats.”

“I am not certain I—”

“Any muslins, colored cottons, or woolens, leave to me. Unusual-looking stains, put them at one side and I'll have a look.”

“But, Lizzie, I have not yet eaten lunch.”

“You'll be having a big dinner.”

“I do not think I will make it that far alive.”

I take the old cheese from his plate (he's still holding it, of course, for he has no idea where to put it down) and push it into a bit of yesterday's bread. “There, that'll keep you going.”

The aggrieved look he pulls doesn't prevent him from stuffing it in.

“Spiv, where's Pumps?”

She nods towards the storeroom.

I shake my head, not grasping.

“Hiding,” she says.

“Oh, by the burning hole of Moses.” I pull on the storeroom door but it doesn't come. “Pumps, let go of the handle.” I try again, but it stands with. “Pumps!” I bang on it with a fist. “Get you the blazes out of there!”

The silence of a cringing animal.

“Mr. Engels is here, do you want him to see you acting the brat?”

A yelp, the sound of things falling from the shelves. The door gives, swings open.

“Git!” I says.

She stays cowering in the gloom.

“I said, git!”

Keeping herself as far from me as the area allows, she creeps into the light. A scarf is tied round her face to cover her nose and mouth.

“What in the name of—” I tear it down: a line of blisters across the top of her lip.

“She's been at the arsenic again,” says Spiv.

“Shut up!” Pumps screams.

Spiv mimics her—
Shut up!
—before turning to Frederick. “She spreads it on her lip to burn her runner off.”

Middle-chew, Frederick lets his mouth fall open, crumbs and wet bits falling. He puts a hand to his own whiskers, hides them away, as if they too were in danger. You forget they can be a shock, the home doings, when you're not used to them.

Pumps runs crying from the room. I follow her out. “Spiv, I'll deal with you later.”

She shrugs, dips her pen in the pot, scribbles something down.

“Frederick, when you're done separating, take the sheets out from soaking and rinse them. Spiv'll show you how. We'll be right down.”

He swallows and gawps like a man out of his depth, a man sunk too deep.

I find Pumps upstairs, slumped and sobbing.

“The consequences of vanity,” I says.

She buries her weeping puss deeper into the crook of her elbow.

“Shall I call Dr. Allen?”

She shakes her head.

“We'll dress it, then, and you'll be right. I hope you've learnt your lesson this time.”

She lifts her head and wipes her face.

“Come now, Pumps. It's not the end of the world.”

Laying on liberal with the sniff and blubber, she lets herself be led to my room. There I put a tincture on the wound that leaves a purple stain all about her mouth and cheeks. It looks a fright, from three paces like a regular mutton chop, so I allow her to put the scarf back on, but only as far as the nose and not over it; I'll not have her going around looking like a sneak-thief. I tell her where I've hid the cake and send her down to it.

“Get it into you quick and don't dawdle, there's work to be done.”

Left alone, I stop a minute at my dressing table. Take my favorite brush from the tin. Run it through once. Pull a handful round. Start at the ends. There's relief in this stolen moment, and I'm certain there'd be pleasure too if the tart I baked yesterday hadn't just now crowded in on my mind. I wince remembering how Spiv and Pumps looked at it coming out of the oven, hard as stone from too much rolling.

I put the brush down. It's not the big but the petty things that keep us from sitting. It's against the little mistakes that we bear on, on, on. Through the mornings of upped nerves and wasted breaths, the breakfasts warmed with a sup to steady us. On into the lonely lunches and the afternoons of blaspheming in the mind and reflecting on what can't be helped. On across the halls and landings, the seeing-afters and well-doings, the fires and folds. The book room. The cook room. The privy. The parlor. On and on and into the bedroom again, where again we pale at the filth of the windows and the chimneypiece caked and the mirror smeared, and we catch the cut of ourselves, nuddy but for our workaday dress, head bare of a cap and in want of attention, exhausted and deserving of a sit-down, if only we could learn proper how to air the dough.

Back downstairs, Spiv has the possing stick and is beating the linen. I send her out to make a start on the supper—I suppose we can't have Frederick starving—and I give the job over to the man himself. He takes the stick without complaint. But then he starts to enjoy himself too much, whacking at things and creating a mess, and making lewd gestures to put Pumps into convulsions, so I put the two of them to shave the soap and do it myself.

We take turns rubbing in the jelly and throwing the water. I wait till the soda is done before coming away to the kitchen to check on Spiv, leaving them alone to do the blue. When I come back some minutes later, I see they've come round to be on the same side of the copper, and are stood close enough to hold the holy host between their hips, three hands in a line down the stirring pole—hers, his, hers—and for an awful minute I'm reminded of himself and Mary, standing in that boat in the river, the hold of the oar shared between them, him showing her how to push off.

I elbow between them and look down into the pot. “Have you mixed it well through? If there's streaks it'll be your head, Pumps.”

After a minute, I take her off to the kitchen to dab the woolens and silks. “Start with this light conduct and you'll always be taken light. Easy to put on, easy to cast off.” I leave her there to sulk.

Back in the scullery, I tell Frederick to follow me to the garden with the load, for there's a strong breeze and still an hour or two of good winter sun left in the day.

“I'm sorry about my niece, Frederick,” I says when the largest sheets are up and hiding us from the house.

“She is certainly a personality,” he says.

“Do you find her handsome?”

“Lizzie!”

I snatch at his sleeve. “She's a young thing yet. I'll not have her meddled.”

Startled, he steps back, tugs at his arm to free it. “Lizzie, I am appalled.” He looks about as if waking up in a place he doesn't recognize. “Do you need me for anything else?”

“Nay, go on.”

He shakes his head and marches back inside.

“Don't disappear, Frederick,” I call after him. “We'll need you for the flatirons.”

Is there a loneliness more lonely than mistrust?

Boating on the river was his idea. He comes back to Manchester from the Continent full of them. His first, straight off the boat, is to take up with Mary again, to take up with her as if no time has passed to make him wiser, though in fact it's been a full eight years.
Eight years
he's stayed away, writing his books and chasing the great revolutions around Europe. And for the same length she has lived here, as she has always done, a tiny cog in the Manchester machine, only now with her heart locked in a secret box that she believes only he can open. And here he returns, the prodigal son, to run his father's mill—the job that family duty more than poverty has forced him to resume—and he comes to Mary with his idea, his big idea, which is to have her again as his woman. And what does she do, only spring open with gratitude. And from there are born further ideas. To travel to Ireland on holidays. To move in together. To one day marry . . .

But first there's the river: what will be Frederick and Mary's first daytime outing as a reunited pair. They've been seeing each other as they always did, at night and behind curtains, but now they've decided to go broad with themselves, and they insist I come along (not for my good company, mind, but to take some of the philistine gape off them). I've vowed never to play the goose for them again, not since last week, when they dragged me around every music hall in Ancoats and then ditched me in a hush-shop to go up the stairs together, so I tell them I'll come only if I can bring a friend.

“Which
friend
?” says Mary.

“Lydia,” I says. “Lydia from the carding room.”

Says Lydia: “Not a chance in highest hell.”

But she shows mercy when I grease her with the promise of beer and a free lunch. “He'll pay for everything,” I says.

“Is it right, though?” she says. “Going about with yer man?”

“It's himself who wants it, Lydia. And Mr. Ermen knows about it and can't do anything. Isn't it a free country? Don't worry, you won't lose your place, you have my oath.”

She thinks on it a long time. “All right,” she says, “I'll do it.” But only if she can bring her sweetheart Jamie. Which puts me right back in the muck. There's no road left for me but to tell Lydia to bring someone else, a man, to even the numbers.

She brings Moss. His real name is Donal Óg, but they call him Moss because of the fair hair that grows in small clumps on his cheeks, never quite joining to become the full beard. It's a name born out of envy, of course; a name devised by men who won't ever look half as handsome as him. He's a dyer at the same place our own father used to work. We once met at a wedding in the Grapes, and I've noticed him on other occasions since, but in truth I could whistle down the wind for all I feel for him. His fifteen shillings would never get you anyplace.

We meet at the park gates. Moss is late, but he comes with flowers.

“Picked not bought,” Mary whispers.

Frederick puts himself between Jamie and Moss, takes their elbows. “They're called Pomona Gardens after the Roman goddess of fruit trees and orchards,” he says, and leads them ahead towards the water.

The men made themselves neat, but put beside Frederick they seem but cadgers, their efforts to spruce and shine themselves only making them look wretched, as if they've come straight from the early house. Understanding this, and prickled by Frederick's high talk, Jamie flashes back and gives a face. Lydia and Mary trade tittles. Moss understands the rareness of the occasion—it's not every day you're put level with the powers—and acts the brown-noser, looking to where Frederick points and nodding along to whatever he's told, the effin' eejit.

I look down at my flowers. Not bought and looking beaten. But fair's fair, Mary, he'd have had to walk out to the fields to find them.

We spread the rug while Frederick goes to talk to the boatmen about renting a boat.

“Don't come with us,” says Mary when we're sitting. “Let me go out alone with him. Say you're scared of drowning or something and you'd prefer to watch from here.”

The men shrug. Lydia winks. I look daggers.

“I got us a good deal,” says Frederick when he comes back. “Two hours for only a little more than the price of one.” He looks thrilled with himself. “It's always worth your while to bargain.”

They nod. I pick at the grass.

Mary gets up and takes his hand, makes a show of dragging him away to the banks.

“Aren't you coming?” he calls back to us.