Authors: Essie Fox
In London, I find myself thinking too much about the artist, Osborne Black. Such things are still said about the man. Such things are said about Pearl, his ‘wife’ – and sometimes even to my face. But then I bear little resemblance now to the child nymph with the golden hair whose image hung high on Academy walls. I charade as the wife of Elijah Lamb, and
her
hair is a great deal darker. When in town, her husband calls her Blanche – Blanche for the whiteness of her skin, as white as the lustre of a pearl. But, however convincing this new disguise, the gossip and curiosity can never quite be wiped away because so many know that Elijah Lamb was once employed by Osborne
Black, and such rumours are spread about what occurred while Elijah lived at Dolphin House – when the young man disappeared for months, when Osborne’s muse had gone insane, thereafter being put away.
Society thrives on such scandals, the delight in the ruin of great reputations. But Blanche Lamb can never be drawn on such things. Blanche Lamb has no wish to indulge in this gossip – to damn the soul of an innocent girl who, in truth, had been tainted by a corruption far worse than the blight of insanity.
But there is one story cannot be denied and that is the fate of Osborne Black, who I find myself constantly yearning to see, though I hardly know why that should be. Not after what he did to me.
We have been in Camberwell some days. Today is Angel’s fourth birthday. A trip has been planned to Regent’s Park, to visit the Zoological Gardens. But when the time comes for us to leave I profess to be weary and stay behind. It is not quite a lie, I hardly slept a wink all night, and being so big with child again I have grown clumsy, slow and lethargic. It is the perfect alibi, and Elijah says he understands – though my son is less forgiving.
‘Mama . . . do come!’ he whines at me from the open door, and when I lean forward to kiss his head, black curls are like silk against my lips. I try to keep my voice light when I answer, ‘I think you shall see enough elephants without bringing one of your own!’
Angel laughs and skips off down the path, the mention of elephants quite enough to make him forget all about his mama, not even turning to see me wave. I would have waved to Lily too but she is already inside the cab, along with Samuel Beresford, and no doubt they are both deeply engrossed in discussing Lily’s latest book, a discussion embellished with touches and smiles. (When we are not in London, at least twice a week he writes to her. You might almost think it a little romance – though if so it is very protracted.)
I have written some letters of my own. I have signed them as from a ‘Mrs Lamb – a concerned friend and relative’. And then, last month I received a reply. It came from one of the medical men who work at the Bethlem Hospital. He invited me to visit there, and though I dread to enter those doors I want to look Osborne in the eye. I want the chance to say goodbye – a thing never properly done before.
It takes more than an hour to travel to Southwark. I fear that the cabman might be a buck, intent on diddling the fare. But the jams are very bad today and we make a diversion, along the Thames. I stare at black rippling waters. They look as heavy as lead to me, and it may be due to the imminent birth but I think of my mother so much these days, reliving the tale that Tip once told, the one written up in the Book of Events.
When the cab sets me down I am panting for breath. For a while I have to lean on some railings and when I recover my self-control I tell myself I have legs, not a tail. I tell myself I have lungs, not gills – whatever the others may once have said – whatever the artist Osborne Black was determined to try to make of me. And yet, I do feel like a fish out of water, gasping to see the vastness of Bethlem. How could anyone think to escape such a place with those high front walls like a fortress, and behind them the doming cupola – like one of the Florentine churches that Osborne frequented in Italy. And on either side are the long brick wings that are said to house more than a thousand souls. And one of those souls is Osborne Black.
The corridor is scrubbed very clean. The walls are newly painted. The doctor walking at my side tells me we live in enlightened times. He points to signs above ward doors. ‘Aged and Infirm’, ‘Moderately Tranquil’, ‘Refractory’ – whatever that means! He mentions the homely touches about, such as the flowers on the tabletops, the embroidered antimacassars on chairs. This is not the refuge of years gone by, of which there were horrors and terrors described, being one step away from
the fires of Hell, with all those who entered condemned to burn. Even so, I hope every inmate
is
mad, not conveniently, not cruelly, ‘put away’.
Now, the rattle of keys and the creak of a door and we enter a spacious airy room. It is an artist’s studio! It is immaculately kept. A porcelain sink is gleaming white. Wooden shelves are well stocked with materials, the brushes, the papers, the charcoal sticks, and great piles of manila envelopes, which appear to be stuffed with photographs. There are sheets on the floor to protect the boards. They look like a sea with waves of white. Tall windows stream with a clear northern light. The lower parts of them are barred. The higher ones are opened up, but still there is no escaping the fumes; the pigments of paint, the turpentine.
‘Osborne?’ The doctor walks on ahead, his tone relaxed and familiar. ‘Osborne, you have a visitor. She has been most anxious to visit.’
‘Can’t you see that I’m working?’ the patient growls back.
The doctor tries to reassure, We are so encouraged that Osborne is working. Very few of his paintings survived – some damaged by water, some slashed with a knife during one of his psychotic episodes. But here we mean to encourage his gifts, as we do with all our unfortunates. And working helps to keep him calm.’
I know that Osborne hears him. His knuckles have clenched around his brush. But he does not stop his painting. He does not attempt to look around – though if he was a dog you would see hackles rising, instead of which the jacket he wears, an everyday jacket, quite normal attire, as if he is a perfectly normal man, living in the normal world, suddenly stretches and flattens out as the muscles beneath it flex and contract. His undiminished bulk is poised upon the edge of a stool before which an easel carries a canvas, and the form on that surface is clear to see, though the details of her face and hair have yet to be filled with colour. The painting is large and unusual in that its shape is circular, and with Osborne sitting in front like that, his
tousled crown of auburn brown is auraed by the greens and blues of the vibrant willow and ivy leaves, and the tiny insects hovering, and the light spilling through, like beams of gold.
Oh, but I had forgotten his talent. So exquisite this new picture is. It almost takes my breath away. But somehow I manage to speak the words, ‘Osborne . . . it is me. It is Pearl.’
‘What do you say?’ He spins around.
I lift the nets that fall at my face and push them back over the brim of my hat. Now, I think –
now
I have you. And yet, his expression is menacing, a look of sheer malevolence, and I find myself clutching the doctor’s arm, stepping backwards towards the open door when Osborne shouts, ‘Yes, go . . . get out! Get out and leave me alone, will you. All you fat women, you wealthy do-gooders who come here to see the mad artist paint. How dare you try and deceive me! How dare
you
claim to share
her
name?’
‘What is he saying? What does he mean?’ My thoughts must be spoken aloud for the doctor answers casually, ‘A misunder-standing . . . nothing more The name is common enough, of course, but Osborne is overprotective and jealous . . . about his muse, I mean.’
‘His muse?’
‘Yes, Pearl! And about to begin her long day’s work! You have come at the most fortuitous time. You will see how progressive the hospital is . . . permissive of certain liberties. We allow him four hours a day with her. Any more than that and he can become overstimulated. He is still prone to violent moods. You know the facts? You know his crime?’
I nod. The story is well known. A dramatic scandal. A cause célèbre. But my thoughts are diverted by the sound, the clanking jangle of the chain, one end being bolted against a wall, the other a cuff round the patient’s leg. Manacled he is, like a wild beast. But then, when the doctor pulls back a drape to show what lies on the other side, Osborne’s expression is tender again. Something like a trance washes over his features. There is a tangible shifting of tension as his shoulders relax, as he sighs
and smiles, as he says those words that have haunted me, that will haunt me ’til my dying day,
‘My mermaid . . .’
All the raging questions and blunt accusations that I had been determined to voice are suddenly lost in a surge of emotion. I feel adrift, hardly able to register the meaning of the doctor’s words when he addresses this man as a child, when he asks, ‘Would you like me to wind her up?’
Osborne smiles. The doctor smiles at me. He does not know I have seen her before, how I hate the grinding mechanical tick as the automaton stirs to life. The scales of her tail rustle and jerk. A buzzing there is, like wasps in a nest. The head makes a clicking as it inclines. Emerald eyes glint as they catch the light. They seem to be staring into mine, and malicious they are, victorious. But the worst of it is, the thing that makes this Pearl so real, is what falls across those budding breasts. The gleaming waves of molten gold tinged here and there with auburn lights are the hair that was stolen from my head when Osborne Black put
me
away, humiliated and shorn like a convict, left to rot in the bowels of Chiswick House.
I cannot bear to look any more. I shiver and turn my face to the wall. I think of a beach with smooth hard rocks, and the hushing suck of little waves, so cool as they ran through my fingers. I stare at my reflection, now superimposed in veils of cloud scudding grey beyond the windowpanes. What I see through that glassy drifting light is everything that Osborne hates. My heart is thumping. Blood pounds in my temples. A great gush of water breaks from my womb. It smells fishy. It trickles across the white sheeting. It is puddling, sticky, at Osborne’s feet.
Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale of all
.
Hans Christian Andersen
The child was not due for another month, though I think we should have realised, with Pearl – or Blanche as we call her in London – become so distracted and restless that morning. There was something about her demeanour that I could not put my finger on, only later reminded of how she had been in the days before little Angel’s birth, when she’d wandered off to lie in the stream and imagined herself a mermaid.
This time she gave birth to a girl, and the image of her mother she was – even down to the tips of her malformed feet. But the baby was small and frail in health, which meant that we stayed in Camberwell for much longer than we had intended, which pleased me very much indeed because then I saw more of Samuel.
He was there in the Zoological Gardens when Angel grew fractious and started to cry, though up until then he’d been perfectly happy, quite thrilled to have had his birthday ride on Jumbo the famous elephant. But perhaps that was too much excitement for such a sensitive little boy, for when we arrived at the cage with the bears Angel began to grow upset, obsessed with one beast which did nothing more but lumber back and forth again, its dark eyes intense, intelligent, but seemingly lost in another world. My nephew was scowling, staring hard, his plump little fingers clutching the bars when he called in a mournful piping voice, ‘Papa . . . why won’t they let him free?’
‘Bears can be very ferocious.’ Elijah tried to divert his son by lifting him up into his arms, then swinging him on to his shoulders. And while my nephew was sitting there, I said, ‘He might try to eat you for tea. Bears are terribly fond of little boys . . . sweet little boys who look like you, who smell of honey and sugar and jam.’
Normally, Angel would have laughed. Normally, Angel liked to be teased. But that day he was only frightened, struggling to get down to the ground again, stamping his feet and wailing that he wanted his mama; a tantrum that showed no signs of abating until Elijah took him home, where he came to be glad of his son’s distress, finding Pearl on the point of giving birth, with a doctor already sent for and the house maid explaining the fright she’d had when hearing the doorbell jangling and finding her mistress collapsed in the porch – having only gone out for some morning air when taken with the labour pains.
All of this I came to learn when arriving back well after midnight myself, for when Elijah took Angel home Samuel persuaded me to stay, taking my hand in his to say, ‘I thought we might take a trip to Cremorne.’
‘Cremorne?’ I felt myself torn in two, wanting no more than to have the chance of spending some time alone with him, but the prospect of going back to the place where I once saw that horrible mermaid display, where Papa had been so upset by those whores, where Samuel did little but sniff and sneeze – ‘It does not hold the happiest memories,’ I finally found the courage to say.
‘But it does! It is where you and I first met . . . where we have unfinished business.’
As if the dancing had not been enough (although I could only manage the waltz, and then Samuel had to teach me the steps) we dined on oysters and drank champagne. But, oh, what followed after, to rise up into the heavens like that – the rushing of air – the snapping of fabric, bloated with surging blasts of heat. I was giddy with all the excitement. I felt like a child
again, and how I wished that Papa was there, because Papa would be in his element, and what stories he might have concocted – of magic carpets, of horses with wings. It really was the most wonderful thing to be floating so high in that big balloon, to feel ourselves weightless, to think that if we let out one more tiny breath then we might soar yet higher and fly like the birds, our fingers stretched wide and feathery tipped, ruffled by breezes as soft as silk. And then all the fireworks around – even though I have now come to realise that every explosion held danger for us. But we were entranced, only ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ at all the cascading fountains of colour, colours as iridescent as jewels, like shooting stars in ebony skies, like rubies and emeralds and sapphires and pearls, every jewel mirrored back in the night-time Thames, reflected in mirrors of gleaming black before suddenly fading away to dust.