Authors: Charles Caselton
Closing the door he realised he could put it off no longer.
“Hum,” Ollie called.
The dog sat down obediently at the bottom of the stairs and looked at his master.
“It’s time isn’t it?”
Ollie took a deep breath and opened the door to his workroom.
It’s surprising how neglected something can look in just a few weeks, he thought. Dust covered the surfaces, his tools huddled in disarray, sketches lay scattered over the desk and floor.
Spiders’ webs stretched over and between the work in progress – an Empire table for Mrs Harrison, a cabinet for the Delameres, some elaborate arrow curtain rods and door handles for Lady Fairland, a coffee table – heavily inspired by Allen Jones – for Johnson Ogle and eight dining room chairs to match the table he delivered in July for Donal O’ Keane.
The answerphone flashed urgently with weeks of messages. Faxes, curling over and over, buried the dusty machine. Ollie booted up his neglected laptop, watching in dismay as three hundred and forty three emails flooded his inbox.
He looked around, took another deep breath and set to work.
In the corner house Auntie Gem took Ollie’s envelope and sat before her shrine. She knew what was in it before she opened it.
Ollie never disappointed.
Inside was a picture cut from a magazine, a picture she hadn’t seen before. It showed a tall, fair-haired woman with extraordinary eyes. She wore an evening gown, simple
diamond drop earrings and a radiant, radiant smile.
Auntie Gem found a place for it with the many others that made up her shrine. All the pictures were of the same elegant woman taken at various points in her life.
Auntie Gem wouldn’t be going to any more masses today, she decided. She would stay in front of her shrine, the warmth of the woman would calm and ease her soul.
Auntie Gem lit a candle and asked forgiveness for eavesdropping on the others this afternoon, she asked for the young girl’s wandering soul to find its home and she asked that Ollie be comforted in his sorrow.
Auntie Gem looked into the eyes of the woman smiling down at her.
Diana ‘the Queen of Hearts, the People’s Princess’ would help – Auntie Gem knew she would.
R
ion couldn’t have imagined she would ever feel this good.
She could hear Jake clattering plates, cutlery and pans as he washed up by the canal. The taste of the fish and vegetables he had cooked remained with her. The blackened billy atop the small fire promised tea within minutes and the stars pinpricked the darkness above. Rion pinched herself hard to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Was it really less than fortyeight hours since she had left home?
Home was such an ugly word, it sounded as though it was always a place meant to be left. Rion shivered, lightly feeling the cigarette burns on her wrist – a souvenir of ‘home’.
But here she was. And no one from ‘home’ knew she was here.
Jake had helped her clean out the chamber. The mattress had been scrubbed and aired, the table, chest and shelf wiped down, the floor swept and when the candles were lit – well, you could be anywhere.
Rion smiled with a sense of pride as she looked down the steps into the candle-lit space. It was really rather cosy she thought. The picture of Blondin was pinned under the one of Jesus with the open red heart. Her thin trousers of black
and white checks, her socks and assorted tops were neatly laid out on top of the chest of drawers. Her washpack and prized mini-ipod were on the shelf by the bed. The collection of magazines from Tanya’s salon (dog-eared copies of year-old Vogue, Glamourista and Hello) and her favourite self-help book were on the rickety table. The only thing Rion had put away was her underwear, which she had placed in the top drawer of the small chest.
Jake had given her a faded pink blanket which was now tied back over the open doorway. As long as it didn’t rain, or at least didn’t rain too hard, she would be ok.
The clattering stopped. Within seconds Jake pushed into the small, fenced clearing.
“If Blondin inspired you there are several others here you should know about.”
Rion held out her hands over the flames, enjoying the warmth of the fire, “Like who?”
“Like Dr James Barry for a start.”
Rion shrugged her shoulders, “Who’s he?”
“Who’s he?” Jake laughed. “Don’t you mean who’s she?”
“She?” Rion shook her head in disbelief. “James isn’t a woman’s name!”
“Marion isn’t a man’s name but it was John Wayne’s.”
“John Wayne – the actor?”
“The icon,” Jake carefully put two measures of tea in the bubbling billycan and left it to stew. “Dr James Barry – ” Jake let out a loud sigh of appreciation, “ – was way cool. She disguised herself as a man and had a hugely successful army career, eventually becoming Inspector General of the Army Medical department.”
“Didn’t anyone know?”
“Not even her landlady or her servant. The truth only popped out, so to speak, when she died.”
Rion giggled. “But someone must have guessed, must have suspected, I mean they
must
have.”
“She even fought and won a duel with a fellow officer at the Cape of Good Hope.”
Rion paused for a while to take in the extraordinary information. “I guess if there were doubts,” she conceded, “fighting a duel is a pretty good way to remove them.”
“It’s a typically dumb male thing, fighting a duel I mean, not a very feminine response is it?”
“And her name was Dr James Barry?”
Jake nodded.
“There are other characters here like – Wilkie Collins?” Jake looked over at Rion.
Rion shook her head. She hadn’t heard of him either.
“He wrote
The Woman in White
– acclaimed as the first detective story. He was a friend of Dickens and Thackeray and is buried here
with his mistress.
” Jake glanced at Rion who wasn’t shocked. “He was extremely tall and due to a difficult birth had a huge head and tiny feet – feet so small that he could wear women’s shoes.”
“Did he? Wear women’s shoes I mean?”
Jake didn’t think so but to make the story more interesting said, “Embroidered with red roses I hear!”
Rion clapped her hands in delight.
“Throughout his life he suffered from rheumatoid arthritis and so was prescribed laudanum – an alcohol/opium mix and very popular in Victorian times – which he took to like a natural. His fondness for laudanum increased his tolerance and he was forced to take it in ever larger measures, so much so that when, at the end of his life, his housekeeper mistakenly swallowed half of his draught she keeled over and died!”
“I bet she didn’t mistakenly swallow it.”
Jake smiled, “Probably not but I bet she regretted it!” He poured the tea into two mugs, “Milk and sugar?”
Rion nodded, “One please.”
Rion felt herself relax. Sipping the hot, strong tea she listened as Jake told of villains, rogues and royalty. There was something rather calming about someone else doing all the talking. Rion’s heart went out to the sadder stories, amongst them Princess Sophia, unhappy daughter of George 111, who was seduced and made pregnant by a scheming courtier more than twice her age. Almost exiled to Europe she led a lonely life and was, towards the end, totally blind.
There was also an infant prodigy pianist by the name of Elizabeth Soyer who took fright, poor thing, during a tremendous thunderstorm and died; but perhaps saddest of all was the story of Mary Hogarth, Dickens’ sister-in-law to whom he was devoted. She died of a heart attack at the age of seventeen in her carriage on the way back from seeing one of his plays. Her death at such a young age affected the great writer for the rest of his life.
“And he never, ever got over it.” As Jake finished he looked over at Rion who was clearly entranced.
Rion took a last sip of her now cold tea. She swirled the tea leaves around the bottom of the mug before tipping them out on the ground. Straining her eyes to see them in the darkness she realised their pattern would hold no clue to her future. Rion slowly raised her eyes to the tousled young man in front of her, “And how did you come to be here Jake?”
Jake laughed at her question. “You realise if I tell you my story I’ll expect to hear one in return…”
Rion weighed this up. His story must be more interesting than hers, she guessed, and besides when the time came to tell her story she could plead tiredness or – ? Or? Something would spring to mind.
“Are you sure that’s fair? I mean, the story of how you came to be living in a treehouse in a cemetery in London will take some b – ” Rion was going to say ‘beating’ but the word was abit too familiar for comfort, “will take some topping.”
“It’s not a competition Rion.”
He said Rion! That was the first time she had heard someone say her new name.
“Would you say that again?”
Jake’s face glowed in the firelight. “Wha – ?”
“I’ll tell you about it – perhaps in my story.”
“Perhaps?” Jake asked.
Rion gave in, “Perhaps certainly.”
“It’s not a competition.”
Rion gestured for him to continue, “It’s not a competition– ?”
“It’s not a competition, Rion.”
Perfect. It sounded perfect she thought. And natural. Perfectly natural.
“Ok. Where to start?” Jake was silent for a moment and then began his tale. “I dropped out of university in my second year and I’ve been here ever since. It was easier then, there were no guards and there were more of us – well, just Old George and me were here but under the gasometers was a whole secret community. You’ll see on the other side of the canal there’s an old cherry tree – its main branch twists over the towpath wall – well, you could just hop over there and you would be in this hidden world. There were also many more people living on canal boats then too.”
“But why here?”
Jake didn’t have to think to answer. “Because it’s so easy. There’s everything I could want here. Fish, eels, duck and goose eggs, Cuban meals twice a week, even spliffs and rum.”
Rion wrinkled her nose. She knew what a spliff was even though she hadn’t tried one. Or wanted to.
“Where do you get those from?”
“From the grave of a Caribbean bandleader, Mr Marks, amongst other places. His funeral was packed. Packed! I’ve never seen who leaves them but they’re regular – not as regular as Senora Padilla, but not infrequent either. And I love it here. It’s so quiet and where I sleep moves and creaks with the tree. Where else in London could I get that?”
Rion didn’t know. Feeling that it might be her turn soon she stretched and gave an exaggerated yawn.
“And I do P & D – painting and decorating – there’s always work.” He pulled a mobile phone from his worn jean jacket, “I get a call – I’m there. I’ve got work for the next month.”
“And your family?”
“Haven’t seen them in years. We’re not compatible – you know?”
Did she ever.
Rion stifled another heavy yawn. “What about your friends?”
“A couple know. Most don’t. If they want me,” Jake tapped his mobile phone, “they know where to find me.”
“What about….” How could she put this? “What about, ‘when the tree’s rocking, don’t come knocking’?”
Jake chuckled, “That’s personal.” With relief Rion saw him get up to leave. “I’m going to turn in, I can see you’re tired too.”
Saved, Rion thought.
“I’m working early tomorrow. There’s a couple of apples in the bag, longlife milk, sugar and – are you up to making tea?” -
Jake could see the thought of bubbling billycans, fires and
pan holders, even in daylight, was not an attractive one to Rion.
“If not you’ll have to wait until about five. I’ll bring some supper but you’ll have to sing for it.”
Oh God, Rion cringed, he can’t possibly mean karaoke can he?
“And you’re ok?”
Rion nodded.
Jake smiled and was gone.
Rion stayed beside the dying fire until it lost its warmth. With a real yawn she went down the steps, got into the sleeping bag, blew out the candles and was soon fast asleep.
A
untie Gem didn’t mind Mondays. Unlike others who dreaded the start to the week Auntie Gem looked forward to it. She liked the fresh feelings Mondays brought, no matter what the weather, like slipping into clean sheets in an old bed.
She had worked at Peters & Peters ever since she had come to England with Emma. Every day she walked to and from the factory that bordered the canal on the other side of the cemetery. Auntie Gem was sure the daily walk, rain or shine, blow or snow, was the reason she was so rarely ill.
For the first time in three generations there was only one member of the Peters family in the business. The company, makers of ‘Peters Garden Helper – the Spray the Garden Loves!’ and ‘Peters Kitchen Helper – the Spray the Kitchen Loves!’ amongst numerous other snappily named and advertised household cleaners, was run by the last of the line, her boss Sir Edwin Peters.
Auntie Gem was in charge of the executive trolley for teas, coffees and biscuits. She would also bring Edwin his meals when he was too busy to come to the dining room. Despite his recent knighthood she still addressed her boss as ‘Mr’ Edwin, a fact that both endeared her to him as well as annoyed him. It was easy work and Gem enjoyed it.
Walking down the canal on her way to work this Monday morning she was struck at how her daily life so often turned her thoughts to the Queen of Hearts.
Ollie’s dog Hum made her think of Diana. His eyes, large, trusting and sometimes sorrowful were so like the princess’ – especially when he looked up at her through his heavy eyelids. Could human souls move into animal souls?
Could they?
Auntie Gem wondered. Afterall Ollie had said Hum had been born on the tenth anniversary of Diana’s death.
Had the soul of the Diana, Princess of Wales, somehow moved into Ollie’s dog?
Such a bizarre notion was too weird, especially for Mondays. Auntie Gem immediately felt guilty for thinking such a thing. She quickly crossed herself and carried on.
Another reminder of Diana was the heron she almost always saw on the way to and from Peters & Peters. If she didn’t see the heron she felt disappointed and strangely abandoned. Seeing the slightly sinister looking bird always took her back to the eve of Diana’s funeral, a clear, cool Friday evening in early September at least ten years before, when she had gone with Emma to Kensington Gardens.