White Stone Day (5 page)

Comfort
transfers the envelope, then grasps Whitty's hand in a hot, wet palm.
'Your invitation, sir. And your advance. On that note, allow me to
bid you a very fine day.'

Whitty
opens the envelope to find two banknotes, a tenner and a fiver, as
negotiated. For the American at least, everything has gone according
to plan.

Mahumud
el Khali bin Sai–ud, proprietor of the Alhambra, in a black
frock coat and fez, reclines upon a faded pillow, puffs upon a hookah
and watches Whitty dress, while Ahmed performs the service of valet.
Excellent training for his son, to become conversant with details of
the English gentleman's way of life.

The
bin Sai–ud line is the oldest house in south–western
Sudan, having fought many battles with honour before times changed.
Now there is no longer a place there for honourable men, Khartoum
being overrun by dirty fellows with foreskins, unbelievers, and
descendants of slaves who hold a grudge against their former owners.
Therefore bin Sai–ud removed his family and relations to
London, where the caliphs reign by means of lawsuits and not torture,
and where ordinary men may conduct their affairs in peace.

His
regard for the English press owes much to Edmund Whitty of The
Falcon, who came to his rescue during one of London's episodic
outbreaks of moral indignation, when Parliament, spurred by the
League for Moral Hygiene, resolved to combat vice. Obediently, the
Metropolitan Police selected the Alhambra for a symbolic raid, in
which the pot–hatted Crusaders would save Christendom from
godless Arabs and their harems, and rid the world of sodomy into the
bargain. Clearly, the Mussulman stood as designated scapegoat du
jour. It is not Whitty's normal practice to ride to the rescue of
maltreated foreigners; there are too many of them, and their names
too difficult to spell. Moreover, it is generally wise for a London
correspondent to keep his head down when Miss Grundy stalks the
streets. Yet the hypocrisy was too much to resist – not to
mention the opportunity to settle some professional scores.

Shortly
thereafter, an issue of The Falcon featured a social note by the
Amateur Clubman, the pseudonym he employs when baiting the reigning
establishment.

Having
suffered an onset of neuralgia, the Amateur Clubman recently had
occasion to elicit the services of the Alhamhra Baths, where he
encountered several well–connected gentlemen with similar
complaints, including Mr Coxwell and Mr Glaisher of the Whigs, as
well as Mr Angerstein, MP, the Conservative Party Whip . . .

A
framed copy of the piece now hangs above the proprietor's head like a
diploma – another example of Whitty's former style and dash,
another memory to torment him in his time of trouble.

Following
this piece of reportage, members of the League for Moral Hygiene
became curiously mute. A week later, an article appeared in the Daily
Telegraph on the benefits of the Turkish bath as an economical
safeguard against the pollution that bedevils this overpopulated
city. Thanks to The Falcon, the Alhambra transformed from Sodom to
health spa overnight, and Whitty acquired a welcome line of credit.

A
dusty stream of sunlight filters through the lattice shutters,
casting a dappled pattern onto his precious city clothes, which hang
neatly over a chair–back.

Whitty
fastens his necktie (stiffened, to put the chin properly at
attention) and with painful awkwardness seats himself upon a brocade
pillow on the Turkey carpet (bin Sai–ud marvels at the
stiffness of the English leg), to help himself to a wad of the
proprietor's morning qat. Through an archway he can see sons Seven,
Three and Six, as well as trusty Ahmed, crouched upon their haunches
around a neatly drawn circle of sand on the floor, tracing letters
and words in Arabic with their fingers and chanting verses from the
Koran. Beyond that room is the kitchen in which, to judge by the
sounds heard from time to time, the bin Sai–uds butcher their
own goats.

'Esteemed
Khali, I spoke at length with an American gentleman this morning and
wonder if he might be known to you.'

'He
has honoured our establishment only once before, Mr Whitty.'

The
proprietor raises his voice in order to be heard over the prayers:
'Ahmed, come please, and reveal to Mr Whitty your estimation of the
American gentleman.'

Obediently,
young Ahmed ceases chanting in Arabic, enters the room and replies in
a startling cockney: 'Bloke have the wide–eye of a gamesman.
Dunnage be of a macer or a nobbier, could be. Takes arsenic powder
for snuff. Wears an 'at wif a finny in the band an' a chif in 'is
gaily. 'Is clock 'as the colour of an arsenic–eater . . .'

So,
thinks the correspondent: A fiver in his hat–band and a knife
in his shoe – suitable equipment for an agent with the
Pinkertons, and for a dangerous tout. The picture of Julius Comfort
remains ambiguous; Whitty allows the £15 in his pocket to cast
the deciding vote, and resolves to remain on his guard.

Rising
to his feet, he takes his plum–coloured coat (well regarded on
Bond Street) from the back of the chair, smooths his waistcoat, and
extends one leg to inspect the fit of his peg–top trousers.
Khali extends the tube from his hookah to Whitty, who accepts a
lungful of spiced tobacco smoke. 'May I enquire as to any change in
the prospects of the esteemed journalist?'

'You
are a patient man, Khali, and I am in your debt. It is a burden and a
sorrow to me and my house – which, at present, we must bear
together.'

'Do
not disturb yourself, my friend. Should I die, it shall be counted as
part of the poor–rate, for which Allah's blessing awaits: a
soft couch of petals and a choice of young virgins served with
breakfast.' 'Whereas, should I die before payment in full, I shall
receive a couch made of nettles, and a choice of toothless hags.'

Crouch
Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire

He
thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife; He looked
again, and found it was A letter from his wife. 'At length I
realise,' he said, 'The bitterness of life.'

The
Reverend Charles Grantham Lambert seats himself in his comfortless
chair, in his comfortless drawing room, where his collected offspring
silently awaits the daily reckoning; silently, for it is a rule of
the house that nobody shall address Father until first addressed by
him. Emma knows this to be common practice in the more respectable
households, yet it makes her feel somewhat like a ghost, for it is
said that they too must be spoken to before they can speak.

Miss
Pouch hovers over her charges, reading her employer's every twitch;
with Mrs Lambert so frequently confined to her chamber, the governess
must assume full responsibility for the girls' behaviour and
deportment.

From
the day of his birth to the moment he received his calling at the age
of twelve, it was a given that the Reverend Lambert was not only
destined for the cloth (the family abounds with clerics) but that his
handsome head would surely be measured for a bishop's mitre one day.
Now approaching forty–five, he still has the form and bearing,
the luminous certitude of one who is firmly anchored to the rock that
cannot move.

'Emma's
French is pretty well, Miss Pouch, but her Italian is still a worry.
Her music may be adequate – I'm no judge – but her
drawing could be better . . .' As always, he speaks of his daughter
in the third person, so that morsels of praise do not nourish the sin
of pride.

'Mr
Boltbyn arrived for his visit a bit earlier than usual,' answers Miss
Pouch. 'It necessitated a curtailment of her drawing–time.'
'Surely Mr Boltbyn knows better. I wish to speak to him at once.'

'He
has left for the day, sir. I shall convey your wishes to him.' In
fact, Lambert is glad that the vicar has gone for the day; the
prestige afforded by the author's interest in the girls is offset by
the fact that, in Lambert's opinion, Boltbyn is a theological
dabbler, woefully lacking in seriousness.

'See
that it does not happen again. Mr Boltbyn's amusements are no
substitute for an education.'

'I
shall indeed, sir.'

'I
shall speak to Mrs Lambert about this matter. She should keep a
closer watch over what goes on in the nursery.'

'Mrs
Lambert was unwell today, I am afraid, and retired for the
afternoon.'

'How
unfortunate.' Lambert expects she will miss supper – which is
also just as well, for in her present state she would cast a pall
over the entire meal.

Emma
watches her father pore over her notebook as though it were a legal
text, knowing that he does so as an alternative to dealing with her
mind directly. She has been aware for some time that her thoughts
make him uneasy, and suspects that her very existence bothers him in
the way of his toothache – as a worrisome daily burden, endured
with the patience of Job.

Lambert
gives special attention to Lydia's grasp of the Commandments, for her
confirmation is only a few months away, and her performance of the
catechism before the bishop will surely reflect upon her father.
Indeed, he doesn't entirely mind the exercise, for Lydia has proved
much easier to control than her elder sister.

Soon
enough, Lizzy will bring his tea, then his supper, and he will take
respite from his toothache and his various disappointments. For now
he listens patiently to Lydia's catechism, which she has mastered
quite admirably.

Thou
shall not make unto thee any graven image . . .

Blessed
with a baritone suited to preaching and hymn–singing, upon
graduation from All Souls College the young Reverend Lambert received
an immediate posting at St Alban the Martyr, in the parish of Upper
Clodding. The congregation at St Alban were well pleased with their
new spiritual leader, who showed an especial interest in the young
people. With his manners and breeding, to his parishioners it seemed
inevitable that he would receive wider notice as a future leading
light in the diocese – an expectation held no less by Lambert
himself.

This
happy prospect came to nothing. Months and years ground by with no
invitation to chair a committee at a synod, no guest sermon at
another parish. At times he felt as though he had been beached upon
some obscure island to minister to the natives in perpetuity. (In
fact, his ostracism stemmed from a decades–old incident in
which a great–uncle accused a fellow clergyman of simony,
occasioning a general animosity in the church hierarchy to anyone who
bore the name Lambert.)

Unaware
that his fate was sealed, Rev. Lambert did his duty. For ten of this
earth's revolutions about the sun (still a subject of dispute in
Upper Clodding), he conducted holy services, sipped weak tea with the
elders, delivered his sermons and read his Bible, while tormented by
dreams of missed trains and lost objects. Over time, disappointment
surely took a toll upon his disposition; yet his sermons continued to
deliver more honey than brimstone, his house–calls provided a
wellspring of solace and hope; in sum, their bachelor reverend seemed
settled and content.

Thus,
it came as no small shock to the congregation when the fixture in the
pulpit announced his engagement to one Euphemia Root –
familiarly known as 'Birdie', a comely girl of fifteen whose family
owned a dry–goods shop in the village.

Less
than a month after this startling broadcast, the pair were married by
the vicar from Hereford. Nine months later, or possibly less (fingers
counted the weeks, the human hand became an abacus), Birdie gave
birth to a daughter, who was named Emma. Three years later, Lydia
appeared.

It
is true that the Church of England does not adhere to the tradition
of a celibate priesthood; notwithstanding, among Anglican
parishioners the prospect of sexual activity by the clergy is an
unsavoury one, even when practised within the bond of holy matrimony.

At
service, the presence of his young wife and girls stimulated unwanted
fancies among the faithful, and if there is a time and place in which
such thoughts should remain absent, surely that place and time is in
church of a Sunday morning. To some, the marriage of their vicar came
to symbolise the Fall of Man, with the Lamberts as the first couple
and a serpent coiled beneath the pulpit. The rift grew wider when
Emma blossomed into a miniature version of her well–favoured
mother, with an unsettling gaze and an aspect of premature knowing.
Despite the whispers at every tea–table, Lambert continued his
duties with stoic determination. Less sanguine was his young wife,
for whom the disapproving stares were like needles in the flesh. As
the stares and the whispers grew sharper, it became her practice to
cover her face with a white veil – not out of modesty, but from
a desire not to see the faces of her former acquaintances.