Tidetown (8 page)

‘Ah, Angelica,' he sighs, ‘my one and only princess, my angel.'

Looking out of the landing window across the dale, he remembers, as he does almost every morning of his life, that fateful Sunday afternoon that left his Angelica motherless. It had been after lunch (of roast duck and quail eggs) just as the port was served that the argument erupted. A trivial matter to begin with: of Angelica's demands for new satin drapes. He said, ‘The child has had enough.' His wife said, ‘Nothing is too much for our only child.' His wife worked up a frenzy, ran from the room, across the hall, up and down stairs slamming doors and smashing pots and vases against walls and then stormed out of the house.

From where he sat he could see and hear that she had taken her favourite horse from the stable and was galloping across the huge ornamental lawn, churning up the carefully laid turf, whipping the beast into a frenzy. Horse and rider leapt the gates and disappeared into the woods that rose up to the escarpment and the meadows beyond. It was not until dark that the mayor became worried and organised a search party. First light had set in before she was found down by the old dam. The horse was still alive, though barely. His wife was a crumpled heap trapped beneath the huge bulk of the animal that, exhausted and near to collapse, she had forced to jump a hedge that skirted the dam. The poor horse had crashed and tumbled, shattering a leg and splitting an artery in the effort, pinning its rider under its heavy girth. The woman's back was broken. For an hour she lay in agony, her face close to the huge brown eye of her stallion. Once, the horse tried to raise itself, in a death rattle or lunge at life, only to fall heavier upon the lady, crushing and splitting more organs and bones, ensuring her gradual demise. The horrible mess of woman and horse was prised apart, one to the knacker's yard, the other to the family vault in the ancient graveyard of St Andrew of the Hill.

When Zakora first travels in to Tidetown from the monastery he has no idea what to expect. He is sitting alongside Brother Xavier as they head along Main Street on the cart, the old horse neighing ahead of them, recognising the sights and sounds and the promise of rest and fresh hay. They are delivering four barrels of the monks' highly regarded stout to The Sailor's Arms. As they make their way through the lanes leading down to the harbour and the inn, those on the pavements stop what they are doing to observe the strange sight of the monk and his new companion.

The postmaster's wife had heard of an exotic ebony-skinned survivor from the wreck, but no one in town had set eyes upon him. A slave, some surmised. A witchdoctor, others guessed. And here he is, in their midst. This is a town where foreign lands and alien ways are told as stories, only rarely to be presented in the flesh. One or two strangers have drifted in on the tide and made the port their home. But none so striking, none so different. In the main, the families of Tidetown can trace their roots through the thick-blooded veins of generations past. The merchants and seamen, the farmers and shopkeepers. It is this belief in continuity and certainty that binds them; this that holds them firm.

Zakora, sensing the suspicion, the animosity, keeps his head high, his eyes fixed to the fore, as they wind their way to the inn.

Once the barrels are unloaded, Zakora and Brother Xavier are invited into The Sailor's Arms for refreshments.

‘So here he is,' says Midshipman Hawkins, turning from the warmth of the fire, ‘the mysterious African who survived the treachery of our rip and reef. Come sit by the fire and tell us the story.'

Zakora looks to Brother Xavier and smiles.

Angelica loves few things better than to pile strawberries, ice cream and chocolate sauce onto a tower of steaming waffles (Mrs M knows exactly how she likes them: crisp on the edges, soft in the middle).

‘Crunchy on the outside, smooth on the inside, just like an armadillo, is that not so, princess?' jokes the mayor, sitting at the far end of the table in the breakfast room.

‘That's not funny anymore,' mumbles his daughter, her mouth full of sugary food, cream and chocolate sauce dribbling onto her chubby chin. ‘I'm eighteen and your jokes are not funny.'

The mayor sighs and sips his tea. He takes an envelope from his jacket pocket and taps it on the table. His daughter ignores him.

‘Wouldn't you like to know what I have here?'

‘Why would I?' asks Angelica without looking up, shovelling strawberries and waffle into her mouth.

‘This letter is from the County Judiciary,' he says in his most pompous mayoral voice, ‘the body responsible for female prisons.'

Angelica stops mid-chew, wondering where this might lead.

‘Now that you have turned eighteen you are of an age to visit the gaol.'

He looks to her for a reaction. Her mouth has fallen open as she begins to comprehend the implication of what he has said.

‘And, yes, prisoners numbered 2367 and 2368 have agreed to you visiting.'

‘Perch and Carp!' shrieks Angelica, spraying waffle and mush in her excitement.

‘And the next visit is … wait for it … tomorrow.'

She lumbers around the table and falls upon her father's neck.

‘You did it for me, you did it. You are the best papa in the world.'

‘Like an armadillo?' asks the mayor.

‘Yes, like an armadillo … and I do like that joke. I do. It is so funny, Papa, so funny.'

This is a time of fear in the Greater Province. Every new day brings rumours of conflict at home and abroad. New sicknesses spring up unannounced. There is the quiet whisper of plague, like poison being dripped into the ear of the listener. Funerals multiply. Prices at market and wharf fall daily, yet traders and politicians grow wealthy. The land seethes with discontent. Children close their minds and hearts to their parents. Elders lose their place and status in society. In the midst of it all, a seeming oasis nestled on the edge of the land, Tidetown goes on as Tidetown always has. It is as if the town has a special immunity, a solidity and resilience at its core that keeps it apart, that enables it to resist all that is outside, all that circles beyond. It makes its own laws to suit its folk. It turns its diurnal course in the face of all that surrounds it. Today the election date is announced, with six hopefuls standing against the mayor. Yet he is the patriarch. The benign. But no fool is he, happy to share crumbs from his table, so long as he keeps the loaf.

As Angelica walks along the long echoing passage, she takes in every sight, every smell, every sound. It's all she'd hoped for, all she'd imagined. A heady mix of
The Castle of Otranto
, Bedlam, and all the workhouses that ever were, with their oakum picking and sad poets on treadmills. High grey walls of solid stone. Corridors of mysterious and heavily bolted doors. Cold flagstones underfoot, empty space above that disappears into blackened voids. She is led down a steep stairwell to a tiny room where she is asked to sit at a table. The one small window is high above, the hazy shaft of light highlighting the immense thickness of the walls.

A side door opens and there they are: the Fishcutter twins, led into the room by a stockily built female guard who beckons them to sit at the two chairs opposite Angelica. Angelica is dumbstruck, even though the twins barely seem to notice she is there. The guard sits down next to her on the fourth chair.

‘You must not talk about the case or the sentence,' says the guard in a monotone. ‘Nor of any matters pertaining to the judiciary or the penal system. If I raise my hand, like this,' she raises her right hand, ‘then you must stop talking and I will inform you of the nature of the inappropriateness. Am I understood?'

Angelica mutters a ‘yes'; the twins say nothing.

‘Your mother is dead?' asks Perch.

‘Yes,' replies Angelica, slightly surprised.

‘Your father is still alive?' says Carp.

‘Yes … he is,' answers Angelica, almost apologetically.

‘He is the mayor?' says Perch.

‘Of Tidetown?' adds Carp.

‘Yes, the mayor of Tidetown,' she replies, curious that as close as they are to her, the twins seem to be looking past her, speaking away from her, yet drawing her closer into their orbit.

There's a short silence. The prison officer looks down at her nails and yawns. Somewhere beyond the walls of the room there is the clank of a heavy door. Carp leans forward and stares intently at Angelica. Her long, straight black hair falls forward like a veil. The guard inches closer in case of whispers and conspiracy. Perch's eyes pierce Angelica like two jet-black pinpricks. The look, the glare, both unnerves and attracts her.

‘Your name tells us you are a messenger,' she says softly, reminding Angelica of her favourite note from them.

Then Perch bends forward to join the closeness of her sister.

‘The Archangel has decreed we will live with you,' says Perch.

‘In your mansion,' says Carp.

‘When we leave here,' says Perch.

The guard stretches her neck to hear where this might lead.

‘Would you like that?' asks Perch.

‘We three,' encourages Carp.

‘Oh yes,' squeals Angelica excitedly, ‘like three sisters.'

‘Yes,' says Perch, glancing at her twin.

‘We together,' says Carp.

‘You will arrange it,' says Perch.

‘With the mayor,' says Carp.

Confused as she is, the guard raises an arm.

‘Stop. I'm not sure where this is going, but wherever that may be is far enough.'

Perch and Carp sit back and settle their gaze on a point just above Angelica's head.

‘Any more to say?' asks the guard after a short pause.

‘No more,' say Perch and Carp in unison as they both stand and turn away to the door.

‘Oh … goodbye then,' says Angelica, trying to be cheery, caught short by the abrupt ending.

Perch turns in the doorway.

‘Speak to the mayor,' she says, ‘Angelica the Messenger.'

Then they disappear. Angelica is alone. Another door opens and she is beckoned away.