Tidetown (15 page)

Joshua ignores the screams and yells, the sloshing beer and spit and sawdust, as he matches the mighty weight of the opponent who grinds his nose into Joshua's cheek. Nose to nose, locked in combat, Joshua can see the huge bloodshot eye of the Samoan staring into his, closer than any lover. He can smell the exotic island breeze of his silky skin, taste the sweet sweat on the other man's lips as they strain and twist for supremacy.

‘In for the kill!' he hears the booming command of the Walrus above all others. And in an instant, Joshua flares his nostrils, twitches the soft cartilage at the bridge of his nose, and the huge Samoan slips to the ground with an almighty thud. The room falls silent. For the first time ever the Islander has lost his grip, defeated by a technical knockout. Joshua sniffs and clears his nose and resettles his hat, as the judge, a half-blind lobster catcher with a limp, lifts Joshua's hand in victory.

So even though he had no clear plan in mind, this is how Joshua achieves his goal of being invited to the Captain's Table. There he will enjoy the finest victuals, but more importantly, keep his ear as close to the captain and the captain's thoughts, as he had kept his nose to the Samoan's skull.

Angelica has set the table with such care. The placemats show landscapes of country houses and immaculately cultured gardens. She took the best silverware and the Waterford crystal glasses from the Welsh dresser. Each place has a pale green napkin neatly wrapped inside an engraved antique napkin ring. She readjusts the knives and forks, turns the glasses on their stems, nervously glancing out of the window for any sign or sound of the coach and the arrival of her guests.

This is the morning she has longed for, even prayed for, begging forgiveness for her murderous act in the stables. If ever her conscience pricked, she would repeat the mantra she often hears from her father: ‘the end justifies the means'. After all, had not her actions, she reasoned to herself, the sacrifice of the one thing she loved above all others, ultimately led to the freeing of the twins so they could spread their message from God's ambassador, the Archangel?

Now, in that strange hypnotic state of deep thought, Angelica hears the sound of the coach's wheels on the gravel of the drive. Rushing to the window she peeks behind the curtain to witness the arrival. When the twins step down from the carriage, first Perch and then Carp, Angelica's excitement heightens. She steadies herself on the window ledge as she watches them standing outside the house. The twins have such a presence. It is not only their striking appearance and similarities, but the aura, the energy that comes from them, even from a distance, even through the frosted glass of the bay window. They walk up to the porch and the front door and out of Angelica's field of vision. She listens to the door open, the voice of the maid greeting them and then the sound of their footsteps on the parquet floor of the hallway. Anna, the maid, enters the room ahead of them.

‘Your guests have arrived, Miss Angelica,' says Anna, her hands clasped in front of her thin body, her head bowed, her tone reverential. She stands aside, away from the door, her back to the wall.

The sense of the twins precedes them, as if the air filling the room is aware that something special, elemental, is about to occupy its space. Anna breathes in deeply as Perch and Carp enter the drawing room.

‘Welcome,' says Angelica nervously, ‘to your new home.'

The twins, side by side, stand in the middle of the room, possessing the space with consummate ease, fully confident of their place in this world. And the next.

Joshua cuts a strange figure to anyone who might spot him in the herb garden. Despite the teeming downpour he walks to and fro, deep in thought. ‘How to? What to?' he mutters to himself, crisscrossing the pebbly pathways between the kale and the rosemary. He brings a finger to the tip of his nose in concentration, pauses for a moment, oblivious to the wet, then walks on. He scowls and wrinkles his brow, rivulets of rainwater running along the lines of his forehead. ‘Hmm,' he mumbles, as he stops dead in his tracks, looks to the skies, arms aloft, as if he has stumbled upon a miracle or revelation. ‘Of course, you stupid man,' he says to himself and then hurries past the line of cloches towards the kitchen.

‘Mrs M,' says Joshua from the doorway that leads to the scullery. ‘I will not enter until I have shaken the rainwater from my hat.'

‘Quite so,' she says without turning around, busy as she is with skinning the rabbit for today's luncheon.

Joshua, half in, half out the door, shakes his hat sending the raindrops spraying in all directions. When he is satisfied that he is dry enough he removes his kid-leather gloves and lays them on the table. Placing the hat on the dresser that stands proudly in the passageway, he straightens his collar, stretches his neck and commences the conversation.

‘Mrs M, there is a matter on which I request your counsel.'

‘Always happy to oblige,' she says, wrenching the guts from the animal and tossing them aside for the dogs to feast on later in the day.

‘You know the elections are upon us. Exciting times for citizens one and all. Well, it is my duty to ensure the mayor is dutifully returned to take up another term in office. My dutiful duty, you might say. To serve. To ensure stability and growth.'

Putting the skinned and gutted rabbit to one side, Mrs M now turns her attention to chopping carrots, onions and celery on the thick wooden block. The sounds of chopping provide a perfect accompaniment to Joshua's electioneering preamble.

‘… excellent record … civic duties … common touch … magnanimous and manificent.'

She tips the sliced and diced vegetables into the big copper pot filled with boiling water, seasoned with herbs and pepper, wipes her brow on her apron, then turns to her companion who is still in full flow as if he were at the hustings.

‘… what finer man is to be found, in this fair land or any other, than our very own Mayor Bruin?'

‘Bravo,' Mrs M claps loudly, ‘you have my vote.'

‘You know I am on a mission. And that is what we need, Mrs M, the support of the common man.'

A fierce look from Mrs M.

‘And woman, common or otherwise,' he stutters. He sniffs the air, then continues.

‘Ah, but to garner such support … what a beautiful aroma arises from the pot …'

‘A rabbit stew in the making,' says Mrs M, softening.

‘Aha … but I digress … to garner such support requires an intimate understanding of what ails, what is of greatest concern, nay what it is that worries, the good folk of Tidetown. I have heard from old and young men of the sea, the high and the low. But what of the scullery maid and the butcher? The milliner and the candlestick maker? What will harvest their votes? What is it that bothers them most?'

Mrs M stirs the broth with a huge ladle. Then, momentarily suspending the rabbit over the bubbling water by it ears, as if it were a heretic priest at the Reformation, she drops it with a plop into the stew.

‘Unruly children, Mr Barnum.'

‘Unruly children, Mrs M?'

‘Yes, not just in general, but in particular,' she says, staring into the pot, breathing in the gamey scent. ‘It's those ruffians that everyone talks about. Well, all the women, at least. The mothers, for sure. Setting such a terrible example to all the other children. There may be no more than half a dozen of them. But you know what they say about bad apples in a barrel. If the mayor was to do something about those ruffians, he'd be mighty popular indeed, mighty popular.'

‘Hmm, the ruffians,' contemplates Joshua, as Mrs M scoops up a ladle of broth and vegetables from the stew.

Joshua sniffs the meaty air. Mrs M holds the ladle aloft. Tantalising.

‘A little sample, Mr Barnum? A taste of things to come?' she says with a wink.

Over the following days and weeks Perch and Carp settle in to the Mayoral Mansion as if it were their given, if not divine, right. Mostly they spend their time together in the two spacious rooms the mayor has allocated to them on the floor above Angelica's bedroom. New clothes and furnishings are provided; nothing is too much trouble. Angelica lies on her bed listening to their footsteps, straining in vain to catch a snippet of conversation, waiting to be summoned. Soon they will call for her, to tell her more of their plans, their destiny and the role she has been preordained to fulfil.

As Angelica waits in anticipation in her bedroom, the mayor (in his) puts his hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating a worrisome rhythm. He looks in the mirror to see his reddened and bloated face, his tired and dull eyes, stare back at him. Turning around he continues his rant to the ever present, ever attentive merry widow, Fraulein Rumple. She is sitting up in the bed, a box of handmade chocolates on her lap, fingers poised mid-choice.

‘They hide away like a pair of ghouls. Witches in a coven. Planning, scheming. If they come down to the dining room you would think, by their demeanour, that they were bestowing upon us the greatest of honours with their presence.'

The merry widow bites into a dark chocolate ganache.

‘Hmm …' she mutters in enjoyment of her chocolate, savouring the moment, yet being sure to give the impression of encouraging the mayor in his rantings.

‘They command the cook to bring their meals to their rooms,' he laments, watching his face contort in the mirror. ‘And I can't get Angelica to do a single other thing. She just mopes around at their beck and call. As if they are royalty and she is a handmaiden. What can I do?'

The merry widow licks her fingers and smiles, beckoning him to bed with an outstretched hand and the offer of a chocolate.

His eyes close, he presses his fingers to his forehead.

‘A strawberry cream,' whispers Fraulein Rumple, patting the empty space in the bed, purring and cooing. ‘Come to humpy rumpy, chocolate boy.'

‘Irresistible,' he murmurs, ‘the perfect combination for a momentary distraction.'

Meanwhile, in the opposite tower, Angelica sits enraptured. Seated next to her is the new acolyte. She is Angelica's best friend, Simone, from the pony club, recruited at the twins' behest.

‘You two are the Special Ones,' says Perch, ‘not by chance have you come to be here. You are chosen. Sent by the Archangel Gabriel.'

‘To be the first among many,' adds Carp, cajoled to speak by the stern look on her sister's face.

The two congregants, still in their riding attire, their horses being cared for by the stableboy, look on wide-eyed. This is the third ‘Rapture' for the four of them, the term Perch has given to their meetings. The first followed Angelica's invitation to Simone to the Mayoral Mansion for a surprise tea party and introduction to the twins. The second was an induction to the new Remnantic faith and the swearing of oaths of allegiance and commitment. This third Rapture was to be the revelation of the ‘Will and Way of the Archangel Gabriel'.

‘In years, in centuries to come, the scribes will mark this day,' says Perch, ‘as auspicious, notable. When we gathered in Rapture to set forth on the true course.'