Authors: Stephen Palmer
Velvene did not simply go to his room: he ran.
Words reverberated around his brain... banished... forever... entire Scottish estate. He collapsed into a chair as full realisation hit. How would he survive? Where would he go? Suddenly he felt rage inside him. He
hated
his parents. He hoped they would die soon – they were old enough, they should be pushing up the daisies in a decade or so, perhaps he should help them along–
No! That way was madness. And there was quite enough madness in his family. But he had one night to plan his exit; he could take a few things yet. Nothing obvious – none of the gold icons for instance, though they were worth a fortune and could sustain a lifetime of gallivanting – but enough to keep him alive for a few years. And of course he could stay in rooms at the Suicide Club.
Midnight did not lie too far away. He undressed and prepared for bed, deciding that he would pack in the morning, after a good breakfast and a decent shave... and a bath, of course.
Sleep came, and then the dreams.
He twisted in his bed, the sheets winding themselves around his body. Climbing up the steps of Orchardtide Manor: running in terror through valleys of fur: playing shove-badminton with his mother in the pear garden: shaving himself until his skin was as pink as a strawberry blancmange: looping the loop in an implausible Archimedean floating system: showing Lily-Bette Spoonworthy his chest hairs: unbuttoning his waistcoat, buttoning it again, unbuttoning, buttoning, unbutton, button, unbutton, Jesus there was blood on his fingers–
“Zigizmund!”
He jumped into the air as the nightmare halted and he awoke. Sweat poured from his body, all the sheets damp, an odour of smoke in the air from a cigarist that had gone out... and it was already five in the morning.
He dozed... woke... dozed... and the clock struck seven.
Somebody hammered on his door. “Velvene! You have one hour!”
His mother. Wide awake, he panicked, throwing clothes, shoes, oddments, papers into a leather rucksack that he had bought in Catmandu.
He dressed in hiking gear. No time for breakfast. No time for a bath, even! He
had
to shave, though.
But in his bathroom stood a figure.
It did not move. It seemed to be made of clay. Lumpy legs, lumpy arms, barrel body and a lump of a head. No features, nor even any way to determine if it was a man or a woman. What on earth was it?
No time to investigate. He prepared his soap, brush and razor, then shaved, dropping the implements into a bag once he had finished. He glanced into the mirror: pale face, definitely going a bit thin on top; was he losing his looks? He was almost forty.
No time to dawdle. He turned, to face the figure. It commanded him, stared without face, without expression, without eyes, as if demanding an explanation, forcing questions and answers. He grabbed it, found that it was not too heavy to carry, and placed it beside his rucksack.
Now for the escape.
He opened the door and listened. Voices and clinking cutlery downstairs, the sounds of his parents having breakfast. Both his brothers away, one in Ely Cathedral, one in Lincoln Cathedral. No servants upstairs, two maids in the kitchen. Effectively, he stood alone.
He crept along the corridor to the skylight, grabbing the stepladder, setting it up, then opening the skylight and poking his head through, to see, lying in its frost-limned rack on the roof, the bovine Archimedean floating system that he had bought earlier in the year. The cud-chewing machinora, he was pleased to see, looked in perfect condition.
Without delay he returned to his room, pulling his rucksack onto his back, grabbing a few final things – wallet, penknife, storm lanternette – then creeping into the corridor and into his father’s bedroom. There: a gold crucifix, a silver guillotine-tray from Parisi and a set of diamond encrusted spigots. All saleable.
He crept out again, but the tray, being awkward, somehow fell from his grip and with multiple crashes bounced down the stair. The sound of voices from the breakfast parlour stopped.
He ran: back to the roof. He threw everything into the machinora’s wicker capacity, then returned to his bedroom. He heard his mother call, heard her feet thunking on the stairs as she ascended.
“Velvene! What are you doing?”
He grabbed the clay figure and manhandled it along the corridor, climbing the stepladder and pulling it onto the roof just as his mother’s head appeared over the banister.
“Velvene, you
thief!
” she screeched, waving the dented tray. “Come back here!”
He tried to kick the stepladder away, but missed. No time to lose! He carried the figure to the machinora, hauled it into the wicker capacity, then turned to see his mother emerge onto the roof, just ten yards away. He primed the bovine heatorix then cast off, cutting the two restraining ropes with his penknife. The machinora floated up.
His mother launched herself at the machinora, grabbing the flailing end of a rope and pulling it. “Come back here, you thief! I’ll whip you myself! Stop, Velvene, stop this at once.”
“Goodbye mother,” he shouted back. “I most cordially loathe you! You say you shall never see me again, well, that means
I
shall never see you. And that fills me with joy!
Joy,
do you hear?”
“You useless man, you’re no son of mine! I’ll have you excommunicated.”
“I do not care. Since you have banished me, I am free to go where I please.”
“May God have mercy on your soul!” she shrieked as the rope slipped from her grasp.
“Goodbye! And thank you for everything!”
With that, the machinora rose with resonant lowing into the heavens, leaving a trail of part chewed grass that splattered in a line along the roof.
~
Kornukope Wetherbee led his wife Eastachia to the Chancery Lane Underground station, where, one hundred feet down, they awaited the last equucade of the night going to Hampstead.
Kornukope glanced down at her. She was more than two decades younger than him. Would she regret the lunatic wager he had made at the Suicide Club, or would she welcome it as a change from tedious home life?
“Dearest one,” he said, “you are probably wondering why I did it.”
She looked up at him, smiled, then turned away. “I will wonder later,” she replied. “At the moment I just want to get home. Your runner interrupted my sewing.”
“Yes, yes... my apologies.”
There seemed nothing more to say, so Kornukope said nothing.
With a clatter of metal on metal the equucade drew up, its engine legs a blur of coal-fired motion. Steam hissed in billowing clouds from rubber-ringed nostrils, and from the rear ends of the engines came thunderous blasts of carbon dioxide.
“Mind the crap! Mind the crap!” called the autovoice over the tannoy. There was a rustle and a click as the operator put the needle back to the beginning of the wax cylinder. “Mind the crap! Mind the crap!”
Kornukope opened a carriage door and helped Eastachia inside. They sat down next to one another in a carriage empty apart from a bejewelled hussy reading a copy of
Harlot Times
. Kornukope tapped Eastachia’s thigh and smiled at her to reassure her that she was safe. She smiled back, but seemed to be thinking more about her sewing.
Pistons screeched as the dual engines powered up, then the brake was released, the carriage jerked forward and they were away, rolling along the moon-bright steel tracks of the Up Northern Line. The hussy got off at Chalk Farm, proffering her broadsheet as she did, but Kornukope, who had never once been strumpeteering, waved a forefinger at her in refusal.
They got off at Hampstead, allowing the midget-pulled escalator to take them up to ground level. Fresh air at last; a delight after the fumes and steam of the Underground. Ten minutes later they stood at the front door of their house in East Heath Road. It was almost midnight, and the house showed no lights. The heath itself lay dark beneath a moonless sky. Owls hooted.
Then a candle was switched on, and the door was opened by Lacortia ffordd, their maid. Eastachia stepped inside, pressing her palms together, saying “Namasté,” then ascending the stairs, leaving Kornukope to shrug and put his top hat on the hatstand.
“I believe she was annoyed that her sewing was interrupted,” he said.
“Will there be anything else?”
Kornukope shook his head. “Thank you so much for staying here, Miss ffordd. You may begin at noon tomorrow.”
“Ooh, thank you. Goodnight.”
Kornukope watched the maid depart the house, then shut and bolted the door. What a very strange evening it had been.
Next morning he got up early, knowing that Lacortia would not be present to make breakfast. He poured hot milk on shredded beet, dropped sugared almonds into bowls, then made tea; the final touch a pair of raspberry doodahs that he found at the back of a cupboard. With this repast he walked upstairs to the bedroom.
“Dearest one,” he said, “I gave Lacortia the morning off, so I have prepared breakfast for us.”
“Thank you, Kornukope! What a surprise.”
She seemed in a better mood today. They ate, drank their tea, and then Kornukope cleared away the bowls and trays. “I do not intend going so far as to wash up however,” he joked.
“What exactly is this wager you joined last night?”
“I remember Pantomile’s very words,” he replied. “If, one season from today, one of us returns to the Suicide Club with an explanation of human love that mankind – from East to West – can accept, they will take the pot. That is what he said.”
“And you said to me, this is a test of our marriage that we can’t ignore.”
“Yes... yes, I did,” he admitted.
“And your meaning?”
“Dearest one, we both agree that our marriage has become a trifle stale. It was an unpleasant realisation and a difficult one to admit to, and since then I have been wracking my brains to think of some method, some
venture
that would allow us to rekindle the spark we felt twenty years ago.”
“I see.” She said it in the way that meant she did not approve.
“I admit, I did it on the spur of the moment,” he said, “but as a member of the Suicide Club I cannot now revoke my word.” He leaned close and took her hand. “You mean much to me, Eastachia, but I do not seem to be able to
explain
why. Perhaps this is why our marriage has faded. Do not rebuke me. I am a philosopher by trade and by inclination. With you at my side to provide vital feminine insight, I will win this wager.”
She smiled, and at last it seemed genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. You are a fool sometimes, Kornukope. How you got into philosophy I don’t know. But anyway, it seems I have no choice but to follow your lead.”
“Suppose it rekindled our marriage. Would you not be truly glad?”
She hesitated, then replied, “I suppose I would.”
“Then we will take our season, and we will answer Pantomile’s challenge. We will discover what love is and broadcast our wisdom to the world. And that will make it a better place.” He laughed. “You know, I have always wanted to be a philanthropist.”
“Will we use our house as our base?”
He looked at her. “You mean, will we travel?”
She nodded.
“I really do not know. It is an open ended wager. Perhaps we will explore uncharted regions of human psyche, as they say Mr Freud does, and yet never leave these four walls. Or perhaps we shall travel to the southern tip of Indoo. What matters is that you are at my side, and I am at yours. I took on this wager as one half of a couple. I believe only a couple can discover what love is, and that is why I called you over to Bedwards House.”
She sighed. “Indeed you did, and very late in the evening. I must say, that thin waif Juinefere Bedwards needs to know what love is.”
“Do not drag her into this. She is a luckless specimen. Our season must be
our
season. We shall see what fate brings us.”
“Kornukope! How many times have you told me you don’t believe in fate?”
“Yes, yes... it was a figure of speech, no more.”
She shook her head, and they both laughed. Kornukope rose to pick up the breakfast trays, but as he did his gaze flickered across the sash window that looked out over Hampstead Heath.
“Great Oates!” he cried.
“What is it?”
He ran to the window and stared out. East Heath Road, the hedge behind it, and the entirety of the heath behind that were covered in hair, a thick cap of blonde hair that shimmered and waved like July wheat in the sun.
He turned to her and said, “Everything is hairy!”
At once he ran down the stairs and headed for his study, where lay one of the new-fangled telegraphical Psittacidae that Grubiander Tune had brought back from Jazziristan. He raised the device to his mouth, placing one of its tail feathers in his ear. “Get me Bedwards House,” he told the operator.
The device parroted his words. Then he heard a tinny voice: “Connecting you to Bedwards House.” There was a click, a buzz, then a scratching sound. “Hello?”
He cleared his throat. “Is that Gentleman Smyth?”
“It is indeed, sir. Is that Mister Wetherbee?”
“What the devil’s going on, Smyth? The whole place is covered in hair.”
“Haven’t you seen the morning papers, sir? All of London is covered. The government are warning people to stay indoors.”
Kornukope stood up straight. “I am a member of the Suicide Club. Nobody tells
me
to stay indoors.”
“I was just repeating what the government said, sir.”
“Yes, yes... quite. Listen, Smyth, how many of us chaps have made it to Bedwards House?”
“None, sir. It is just me and Lady Bedwards.”
Kornukope gasped. “Then, nobody can travel?”
“It would seem not, sir.”
“Sit tight, Smyth. There will be somebody along soon enough. Until then, do not do anything rash. If you feel a panic coming on, there is a secret whisky tot in the back of the three-eyed idol of Catmandoo. You know the one I mean?”
“I do sir.”
“You have my permission to swig from it. Until later, Smyth.”
“Take good care, sir.”
The connection closed with a click. Kornukope put the Psittacidae back into its cage, then walked to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Eastachia? London is hairy! We must go out to investigate. Wear something stout.”