White Stone Day (22 page)

envelope and extracts the two photographs containing Eliza. 'Do you
see the background, Dermot? And the gentleman accompanying her?'
'Indeed I does, and I am not surprised that you are leerish of
telling the Captain.' 'I am counting on your discretion in the
matter, Dermot.' 'I know nout of what matter you mean, sor.' The
correspondent holds two photographs in Dermot's bullet–lamp for
comparison: in one the brother stands alone, as though gloating over
his own perfection of form; in the other he is joined by naked Eliza,
as though they are about to participate in an unspecific sexual act.
In the third, Eliza sits alone, in the same surroundings. 179 WHITE
STONE DAY 'Dermot, I appeal to your experience with this sort of
material. Does anything strike you as unusual or suspicious?'
'Indeed, sor. The gentleman in the picture is, shall we say, in
repose.' 'In repose?' 'There is no evidence of excited tumescence, if
you take my meaning.' 'Quite.' That had not occurred to him.
Sometimes Whitty is appalled by his own naivete. 'As well, sor, if
you hold the pictures together it is plain that the girl is somewhat
ill–focused, while the gentleman is sharp and clean. From this
it is my belief that it is a combination print.' 'A combination of
what?' 'Where the glass plates is stacked one upon the other.' Of
course, thinks Whitty. A mongrel technological oddity, the technique
was a highlight of the Manchester Art Treasures exhibition two years
ago – a piece of unimaginative trickery which thrilled the
queen. He could shout for joy on David's behalf, would not the sound,
if heard outside, earn him ten years' transportation. 'My thanks,
Dermot. You have taken a weight from my mind.' Whitty returns his
attention to the cabinet and the remaining pictures of David. Who
took them, he wonders? Which member of the photographic club? Despite
the oriental wallpaper, the impression is undeniably Greek, and
undeniably vain – a man in the prime of life, holding himself
up to be the Platonic ideal of manliness. 'Note, sor, how the
background of the two is the same – rather Chinese unless I am
mistaken, who knows nout about art.' On the back of the photograph,
as with the rowing club, someone has written a commemorative poem.
'Might you read that, sor?' asks Dermot. 'We has a interest in poems
but no knack for reading.' Whitty complies: A is for Angley in anger
to dwell, B is for Boltbyn and Bracebridge as well; C is for Crede,
the cock in a cage, D is for Danbury, shocking the age, And for David
Whitty, stalking the stage . . . 'That is a deepish one,' mutters
Dermot, scratching his chin. "Tis a bundle of rhymes.' 'What is
your sense of it?' 180 MACHPELAH STREET 'Seemingly they is a sort of
club. 'Tis a clubbish thing to make a joke of one another's
character.' 'You are correct – it is the Oxford Photographic
Club.' 'That would explain the nature of the photographs themselves,'
says Dermot, taking a picture from Whitty's hand and indicating David
with one long finger. 'Look at your brother, sor; by the looks of
him, he be very much on stage.' 'Dermot I salute you,' says the
correspondent, 'for you have cut to the heart of it. I must search
out the Oxford Photographic Society.' 'Perhaps, sor. Yet if it was
me, I would search for the wallpaper.' 181 34

Crouch
Manor LOSS of TEETH Dr Gunter Eisler, the dental surgeon, of 17
George Street, Hanover Square, announces production of an entirely
NEW DESCRIPTION of ARTIFICIAL TEETH, without springs, wires or
ligatures, which so perfectly resemble natural teeth as not to be
distinguished from the originals. They will never change colour or
decay, nor does the method necessitate painful extraction. Interested
parties should avail themselves of this discovery. The most bitter
misfortunes in life are those one brings down upon oneself, while on
the quest for happiness. How often has the Reverend Lambert longed to
have his teeth pulled out – to put an end, once and for all, to
this constant torment, these demons infesting his mouth. Yet as a man
with a calling, a man destined to lead, Lambert would consent to
worse tortures before surrendering to a set of rattling, hissing
dentures like those of the Reverend Spoole. Recently, however,
Lambert has been eagerly following, in the press, news of a
remarkable advance in dentistry thanks to a Dr Eisler, a dentist of
Swiss descent and training, credited with bringing to London the most
modern European developments. Maintaining a sceptical frame of mind,
Lambert took an exploratory trip to London, to seek out Dr Eisler's
offices. Not only did the doctor himself present a most impressive
figure (and a set of excellent teeth), but an entire wall of the
consulting–room displayed photographs of previous patients,
dozens of them, smiling for the camera, row upon row of perfect,
white, painless teeth. The Reverend made his decision there and then.
A week thereafter, having informed the house of his intention (if not
the cost), and after informing Mr Spoole of an unspecified medical
necessity, once again he took the train to London. 182 CROUCH MANOR
Instead of pulling the teeth, in the Eisler method they are sawn flat
to the gum, after which the roots are scored with tiny wire brushes,
leaving a secure foundation, to which an ivory bridge is anchored by
means of steel pins. The result, according to the literature, is
'exactly like having one's own teeth for life, and without pain'. The
latter claim could not be made for the operation itself. In Lambert's
case, only direct applications of chloroform enabled him to withstand
the sawing, and the chemical burnt his mouth abominably. After what
seemed like an eternity in Hell, it was over, and the patient was
able to stagger out of the surgery with his new teeth, minus several
months' salary. After a sleepless nightmare in a rented room,
delirious with opiates, he made the return journey to Crouch Manor
with the lower part of his face covered by a scarf, whereupon he
immediately took to his bed, there to await what Dr Eisler termed
'the healing process of nature'. The healing process has been slower
than expected. Lambert and his teeth have remained festering in his
bed for two weeks now, drugged with morphine and under constant
attendance by Lizzy, the maid–of–all–work, whose
own face is becoming increasingly drawn with fatigue and distaste.
Meanwhile, in the rest of Crouch Manor life goes on. Emma, whose own
teeth are excellent, has observed recent events in the household with
interest, if not engagement. It is a sad truth that, while she
respects her father as the head of the house, she has no clear
picture of him as a person. While she hearkens to everything he says,
the state of the mouth itself is of little consequence. It is her
mother she worries about more, especially in light of recent events.
For of late there has occurred a curious reversal of position between
her parents, in which Mother, who rarely ventured outside the bedroom
before, now spends hours out–of–house, at the dress
shops, or off to Bissett Grange by private coach, while it is Father
who remains closeted like an invalid. Mother's stated reason for
visiting Bissett Grange is as an intermediary for her husband's
spiritual counsel during his illness. The lessons must be subtle
indeed, for Emma has not heard Father utter an intelligible syllable
to anyone. Meanwhile, Mother has acquired a new, almost feverish
vitality; upon one occasion, when Emma entered her dressing room for
the ritual kiss and to watch her mother braid her hair before
retiring, Birdie 183 WHITE STONE DAY suddenly took her daughter into
her arms in a frenzy of joy, and recited a nursery–rhyme: If
her father's cottage Turned into a palace, And he owned the hilltops
And the flowering valleys, She 'd be none the happier, Happy little
Alice! 'Oh, my darling, I am happy!' Mother cried out. 'I am happy at
last, and you shall be too!' Emma didn't know what to think of that.
184 35

Crouch
Manor So passed they on with even pace: Yet gradually one might trace
A shadow growing on his face. There was a time when the nursery
seemed a magic place to Boltbyn, a safe haven of innocent wonder. Not
so today. Now it is a place of inchoate menace, and the picture by
William Nixon Crede fills him with such inexplicable revulsion, he
would like to tear it from the wall and trample it to pieces.
Likewise, the bars in the window no longer represent protection but
imprisonment – again, he does not know why. Worst of all, while
it has always been his practice to encourage the imaginative flights
of his little friends, no matter how nonsensical, for some reason he
cannot bring himself to follow Emma's train of fantasy concerning a
twin in the mirror named Eliza. What comes to his mind is the subject
of the last photographic session, and the insinuation in Danbury's
aspect, in that moment, standing above the sleeping girl who looked
like Emma . . . 'Mr Boltbyn!' cries Lydia from her place on the
couch. 'Are you going to begin the story or not?' 'Ah yes. In fact,
there has been a change of course: Rather than return to Emma's
Adventures, we turn our attention to Miss Lydia – who, while
waiting for Emma to come home from Adderleigh Forest, has encountered
a hedgehog, who is able to provide Miss Lydia with important insights
which will surely be of benefit in later life. With this in mind, we
turn to the Song of the Hedgehog: I'll say the little that I can,
Confined to my set; Pondering on Afghanistan And points of etiquette:
"What badge of hedgehog be thou?" To the mirror me I said;
"I see thy malady now You've been eating peas in bed ..."
185 WHITE STONE DAY 'Excuse me, Mr Boltbyn,' interrupts Emma, though
he wishes she wouldn't. 'Lydia and I have decided something about the
hedgehog.' Boltbyn sighs. 'The hedgehog is Mr Lush. Have you not
observed that he looks like one?' 'It is true,' says Lydia. 'I was
the one who first noticed.' Boltbyn finds himself in agreement. 'It
is true: Mr Lush does indeed correspond to the shape and the
prickliness of a hedgehog. Yet I do not see how this advances our
story.' 'That depends upon how one looks at hedgehogs,' replies Emma.
'Hedgehogs are neither friends, nor pets. A hedgehog is a sniffer,
who lies in wait.' 'Miss Emma, I don't have the slightest purchase on
your meaning.' 'She is always doing this,' says Lydia. 'She should
make up her own stories rather than ruin ours.' 'I sympathise,'
replies the vicar, patting the blonde head of this remarkably pretty
and intelligent girl. Emma remains undeterred. 'I mean that it is a
curious thing to encounter a creature whose desires are not the least
like one's own, it can take one by surprise.' 'That is true,' replies
Boltbyn. 'Which is what happened to Eliza.' 'What on earth do you
mean?' 'Eliza is a ghost.' 'I see.' 'Eliza has entered the other
world, yet there is something she must accomplish in this one.' 'And
what might that be?' 'Did you once tell me that the savages refuse to
have their picture taken?' 'True. There is a belief among the natives
that it will steal one's soul.' 'That is how it was with Eliza: The
hedgehog stole her soul, and she wants it back.' Unaccountably, the
vicar succumbs to a bout of stuttering. 'Th–th–th–
the story cannot progress f–further. Please forgive me, I am
f–f–feeling ill and must retire.' 'Mr Boltbyn, what is
wrong?' asks Lydia. 'Something has upset him,' says Emma. 186 36

The
Thames Easily the most efficient way to Oxford nowadays is by train.
However, Whitty has not forgotten Governor Whidden of Millbank, who
will surely have put crushers onto the case of the escaped murderer
named Willows. Thinking it best to take an unorthodox route, Whitty
consulted the Captain, who suggested (of all things) a canal–boat.
The craft in question now awaits him at the Paddington arm of the
Union Canal, ready to transport him to the Thames and north to his
destination. Holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, Whitty
grimly regards the Endeavour, easily the most dissipated hulk at the
dock, packed to the gunnels with wooden kegs. Other than its fugitive
passenger, the Endeavour's obligation is to transport the handiwork
of Dr Uriah Pegg, the 'drink–doctor' who can double the volume
of a keg of gin with the drinker none the wiser, other than to remark
that it is a signal vintage of the Out–and–Out. A sure
winner for the myriad drinking places catering to the sailors,
longshoremen, porters and watermen who populate the Thames, and a
gold–spinner for the Captain who controls the distribution. The
boat–horse, a lumpy animal with a wiry coat like a pig's, is in
the process of being harnessed by a small, leathery horseman of
indeterminate age, of the Islamic persuasion, whose task is to
direct, feed and water the lumbering beast through upwards of sixty
locks, all the way to Birmingham. 'How do you do, sir?' Whitty
addresses the keg–shaped man at the stern. 'Are you Mr
Neffici?' The gentleman rolls his eyes towards the bow, where Whitty
encounters another gentleman, also keg–shaped but with a wedge–
shaped beard, who lifts one palm upward, shrugs, and makes a
mysterious clicking sound with his mouth, as does a third Mussulman
at the stern. 'Quite. Gentlemen, I believe I am expected. Edmund
Whitty, correspondent for The Falcon. I bring greetings from our
employer.' The correspondent heaves his carpet–bag onto the
deck and stumbles aboard, having received neither greeting nor a
hand–up. 187WHITE STONE DAY According to the Captain the three
Mussulmen once served the Sultanate of Shihr and Makalla, of the
protectorate of Aden. While in command of a naval ship, the Captain
moved guns and opiates on the sultan's behalf. For this, he was given
a generous stipend, and three slaves. Given that slavery is, to a
Briton, an evil to be expunged from the earth (without harming
British interests, of course), the Captain was not about to parade
around London with a contingent of slaves; neither could he simply
turn them loose: such an insult to the sultan, even in London, could
earn him kbukuri in the back. Knowing that the three once piloted a
dhow in the Red Sea, the Captain opted to utilise them in
transporting Dr Pegg's prized cargo to the thirsty mouths of
Middlesex – with the assurance that Mussulmen abstain from
alcohol and would not deplete the stock. Having apparently taken his
arrival as the signal to depart, the two boatmen busy themselves with
the tie–line and tow–line, while the horseman mutters a
syllable to his unlovely steed, inspiring the beast to trudge
methodically along the narrow path, ankle–deep with steaming
turds, at a steady pace of three miles an hour. In a little while
Whitty feels a slight tug, and the Endeavour is on its way. There
being no roof, furniture, nor any other accommodation upon the
vessel, the hold being filled with kegs to the gunnels, Whitty
settles down on his carpet–bag and proceeds to view the passing
cavalcade of London's seediest architecture, her flimsiest bridges,
her poorest neighbourhoods. Soon the Endeavour settles into its
accustomed rituals, a regimen of coffee–drinking, ghat–smoking,
sullen contemplation and intermittent prayers to the East, as the
vessel lumbers on past Bulls Bridge, past the Railway Works,
forty–five locks to Marsworth. In that time, not once does the
horseman lift his gaze from the shit immediately ahead of him –
clearly our man takes no solace in the English countryside. Or
perhaps he is in prayer, drawing on some ancient legacy of camel
trains plodding through the Sahara. Nor does an intelligible sentence
emanate from the beak of Mr Awad at the stern; and as for Mr Neffici
at the bow, the English language exists as a series of non sequiturs,
with smiles and nods at either end. As the Endeavour passes the Grand
Junction Canal, a gentle shower moistens Whitty's head and neck for
an hour, then turns to sleet – another whimsical turn of the
weather on a summer day in Britain. By the time the barge makes its
way through Ealing it is early evening and 188 THE THAMES the sleet
has become a gentle drizzle, warm only in comparison to what came
before. By the third day, Whitty finds it possible to breathe the air
without an intervening handkerchief, the Endeavour having penetrated
deep into the countryside – a rolling vista of rectangular
fields coloured various shades of green and yellow, like a
nonsensical game–board, dotted with thatched cottages, each
containing a country family, cuddled up with the pigs. At regular
intervals they unload a portion of their cargo, at night and in eerie
silence, as the lumbering shadows of local workmen appear and
disappear like ghosts . . . 'Lock hoo!' Mr Awad cries out. Awakened
from a feverish slumber, Whitty faces the prospect of a set of
lock–gates, green with slime, groaning as if in pain. The gates
open slowly before him, and their vessel slides into a dark pit
smelling of rotten fish; now the mournful lock gates close, leaving
the Endeavour floating in rubbish. The level slowly rises until he
glimpses a lock–keeper, whip–thin and as dry as an old
pocketbook, moving the blunt wooden levers of the windlass. Now the
second set of gates opens in front of them and they re–enter
the Thames, as grey and as flat and as heavy as slate . . . Nothing
can be seen but the spoiling effects of water: discoloured metal,
rotten wood, dank deposits of loathsome vegetation, suggesting a
potential story – Through the Belly of Britain, sort of thing.
While musing on the prospect, Whitty is startled when Mr Neffici,
apropos of nothing and with the peculiar discourse of his race,
speaks, and at surprising length. 189 37