Tidetown (32 page)

Over the coming days the plague moves through the town as a mist from the moors. Some fill their houses with sweet-smelling herbs to ward off the malignant vapours. Others turn to gods and mysteries from a long-forgotten past in the hope of salvation.

As Professor Wells and Dr Knowles enter the bank, its emptiness is eerie. No customers, no sign of staff. They walk to the counter and break the silence by ringing the bell. After a short pause a door opens on the other side of the counter and Miss Peacock shuffles over to greet them.

‘Ah, Professor Wells. And your companion. Come through, come through,' she says, opening the barred gate, enthused as she is by these important visitors. ‘Mr James is expecting you.'

She leads them past empty desks and full in-trays to the bank manager's office. There in the doorway is Mr James, short, overweight and billiard ball bald, with a welcoming handshake and a handkerchief at the ready to pat his sweating brow.

‘Sit down … please,' he says, as he makes himself comfortable in the leather chair beneath the large arched window looking out on to the square and the bay beyond.

‘Now, I know what this is about,' he says shuffling some papers on his desk and fishing one out, ‘on account of the letter you sent me. Of the thirty-first ultimo …'

‘The matter is simple,' says Professor Wells. ‘On behalf of the town council, we need to transfer the sum noted in the letter to the nominated account.'

‘To the provincial governor's discretionary account, I see,' says the bank manager, in the officious tone he believes is required for such matters. ‘A considerable sum of money,' he proclaims, with a raised eyebrow and a daub of the forehead.

‘And much needed for the health and welfare of the population,' chips in Dr Knowles to ensure his voice is heard.

‘The account in question is the mayor's stipendiary fund, one that he controls,' says Mr James.

‘No longer,' says Professor Wells. ‘As you know, due to the health crisis, the elections have been postponed … indefinitely … and the council will be disbanded as of next week. The mayor will at that time be out of office and he has already been relieved of his control of council funds. The authorisation from Legal Affairs will be with you in the morning.'

The sweat on the bank manager's forehead begins to flow in direct proportion to the realisation that his handsome management fee from the mayor will soon dry up.

‘But this will totally empty the mayor's coffers,' pleads the bank manager.

‘One might say,' replies the professor, ‘that the coffers were never the ex-mayor's in the first instance.'

Back on the street Dr Knowles turns to the professor, pausing as he seeks the right words.

‘You have been silent on the matter of isolating the sick and the carriers. I wondered whether you had considered further.'

‘I have, and I will advise the council that we should find an isolation ward, some distance from town. I cannot condemn these people to a barbaric and callous end to their lives. To board them into their own homes is inhumane and evil.'

‘Ah, words sprung from the heart of a man, sir. Not from the mind of a medic and scientist.'

‘Sometimes there is a place for the heart.'

All the children sit cross-legged and eager. Mrs April looks at the anticipation in their faces, an eager anticipation, almost a trance. She begins with those beguiling words, the ones that she knows have from time immemorial transfixed listeners, across ages, across space, across culture and creed. ‘Once upon a time …'

The idea for the storytime had come to her one night a week earlier. Outside, the wind and rain had rattled at the window. But inside, by the warmth and balm of the crackling fire, she sat reading one of the last of Brother Alphonso's documents. The paper was yellowed and brittle, but the sentiments were fresh and vibrant. His words extolled the value of ‘the other', ‘the outsider'. He bemoaned the ‘insularity and small-mindedness of the times' and the need for ‘the people to look beyond their own shores and ways, to expose themselves to alternative visions of heaven and earth'. As she read these words she thought of the young children and their stay in the monastery and the chance to open their hearts and minds. A month or so earlier she had been sorting through a box of Oscar's books when she came across some loose sheets of paper tucked inside a copy of
Great Expectations
. Written there was a lovely story telling the adventures of penguins and polar bears, beautifully illustrated in crayon and ink.
What fun
, she thought, after reading Brother Alphonso's words,
to tell the story to the children to brighten up a day
. It was the twinkle in the eye of Brother Paul, when she told him of her plans, as he dramatically twirled on the spot and extended his arms, that gave Mrs April the notion that the story was ripe for acting.

‘The story can come to life,' she enthused. ‘The children can act it out! The play will be the thing!'

Tidetown is a ghost town. Its streets are empty of people; the boats in the harbour shift impatiently on the tide, the rip beckoning, but no captain or crew in sight. Here and there a twist of smoke rises from a chimney stack, signalling a glimmer of life. Mrs M, as robust and ruddy cheeked as ever, sits by the hearth cradling a mug of steaming tea. Opposite her is Joshua, examining the backs of his hands.

‘No black spots for me, Mrs M.'

‘Nor me, I'm pleased to report.' She stares into the flames, glad of the warmth, beguiled by the light. ‘What will become of our fair town, Mr Barnum?'

‘Who knows,' says Joshua, ‘it surely is a sad and sorry state of affairs. Death is everyone's companion. But this town's seen many a black day and I know it'll survive. Bricks and mortar, Mrs M. And harbour walls, cliff faces and woodlands. And history, Mrs M.'

‘Yes,' she says, blowing away the steam and then sipping on her tea. ‘Harbour walls and history.'

‘A plague on this plague. If it had kept its pusy fingers away for another month I would be installed as mayor again. Instead, all that I've built is crumbling around me.'

Dr Knowles listens to the mayor as he rants and bangs his fists on the huge mahogany table.

‘What to do? … Is this God's vengeance? … My properties … The end of order …'

When it became clear that Professor Wells would not support his plans to isolate the sick and infectious, Dr Knowles took it upon himself to petition a higher authority. With other towns to attend to, his men were getting itchy feet at their encampment by the river, and with the mayor's days in office numbered, there was no time to lose.

‘… people dropping like flies … cattle dead in the paddocks … my fields empty of crops … my political career in tatters … the people doubting my powers of judgement … calling me weak and toothless.'

‘Your Honour,' interrupts the doctor, grasping the opportunity, ignoring the strong smell of early morning alcohol on the mayor's breath, ‘now is the moment for you to exhibit decisiveness and leadership. One final act, at the eleventh hour of your current reign. An act that will show vision and fortitude. And, no doubt, be the catalyst to rejuvenate your popular support for the next term of office.'

And, with a little more encouragement and flattery, the mayor signs and seals, for the last time (with the crest of office), the dictate that will ensure the incarceration of the seventy-three named households that Dr Knowles has identified as plagued. Dr Knowles rolls up the document with a gratified sigh, satisfied in the knowledge that the purse from the provincial governor of seventy-three times seven crowns will keep his troop of guards happy, while continuing to boost his own hoard of gold.

‘Rest assured, by this noble action, you, the mayor of Tidetown, will go down in history,' he says, then leaves the room.

With no time to waste, as he is expected in Rotherwich three days hence, Dr Knowles summons his soldiers. Then, in the literal dead of night, red crosses are daubed on the houses where the plague has entered, and the band of the Provincial Guard set about their dreadful duty of securing and boarding up the dwellings of the afflicted. Each doomed house is allocated a soldier who will stand guard until the end comes to those entombed within.

The news of what has transpired spreads through the town as rapidly as the plague. Those who are spared stay indoors, horrified at what is taking place, yet quietly relieved that their turn has not yet come.

‘There is no choice,' whispers Mr Falconer, the furniture maker, as his wife sobs in his arms.

‘But she is my cousin,' she cries. ‘We cannot let it happen.'

‘We cannot not,' says her husband emphatically, holding back his own grief. ‘This too will pass and we can live again.'

Joshua strokes the bruise on his cheek. It is a badge. When the mayor struck him this morning, ‘for stupidity', ‘for forgetting to remember', the pain was exquisite, a recognition of being acknowledged. He'd been worried that the mayor was so worried himself, so weighed down by the weight of his office. He adjusts the top hat he wears as much to extend his height and trap his unruly hair, as to shield himself from the elements. Standing on the steps of the Mayoral Mansion, the sweep of ornamental lawns and statue-filled fountains before him, he looks left and right, as finger by finger he pulls a kid-leather glove onto either hand, coughs loudly and shouts.

‘Footman!'

No reply. No sign of life.

‘Footman!' he yells at the top of his voice.

A door opens and slams; there is a sound of feet running on gravel and a young man hurtles around the corner, crashing into the privet hedge in his haste. He tries to button his coat as he runs, almost tripping himself over in the process. As the footman brakes Joshua takes off his top hat and thwacks the youth across the head with it.

‘That's for where you were and where you were not,' he yells, striking the footman twice on the neck, ‘and that's for running,' he says, adding another blow, ‘and that's just for that,' he concludes, with a final blow across the unfortunate youth's right ear.