Tidetown, page 10
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.’
‘Like no other,’ adds her sister.
The pony club girl titters in excitement, as if she is about to be presented a ribbon at the county gymkhana.
The twins catch each other’s glance. This is to be their destiny as decried by the Archangel Gabriel, whose vision appeared to them in the depths of their solitude in their prison cell. On those nights they whispered of the truth they were preordained to declare to the non-believers. ‘Do you see him, sister?’ one would say to the other in the middle of the night. ‘Yes I do.’ … ‘Do you adore him, sister?’ … ‘Yes I do, yes I do.’ Then by day, to the amazement of the wardens in the prison, they would write handwritten page after page, sitting silently in their cell. Unbeknown to any, they were writing down the Book of Remnantics, as decreed to them in vision and visitation. Deep and dark into the night, one twin would hear the other murmur, see the rapture in her sister’s face. The whites of her eyes, the beatific smile, the muttering in tongues. In the morning, before speaking, the one twin would open the ledger to a fresh page and lay out the pencils they were permitted. The raptured twin would sleep longer, the exertions of the night having drained her. Her sister would sit beside her, mopping her brow, filling the jug with fresh water. Once she awoke, no words would pass between the two, not a sound. Then she would sit at the desk and write furiously, remembering all that had happened in the night: the revelations, the decrees and commands. Night by night the Book of Remnantics came to be written. And so it would be, each twin taking her turn, the awakened and the guardian. Words of guidance. Commands. Predictions. No more cheek turning; rather the wait for a sign to inherit the earth. And then the letters came from the child in Tidetown. Angelica was her name. The messenger.
How thoughts come up. Lost thoughts. Hidden-away thoughts. The very stuff of memory. Mrs April catches hold of a long-ago afternoon in the corner of her mind. And there, just out of vision, is the Reverend Simmons. Tall in the remembering. Strong and handsome, as she recalls. Her mind settles on a sunny afternoon, was it really so many years, even decades ago? She can smell the heat of the day. Feel the touch of her lover’s hand on her shoulder. In the distance comes the sound of children, not hers, none for her. Would there ever be? They are playing a game: hide and seek, or peek behind the curtain? Boys and girls laughing and jostling, oblivious, as yet, to the pain of love lost and the thrill and danger of love but newly found. Searching out the nuances, the edge of her mind rekindles the day, pieces together the fragments: to recreate, reassemble, so that her thoughts inspire her feelings. Of love, of hope. Of lust, of longing. There he is: the first man to hold her close after the death of her sailor husband. Her husband, her darling man, drowned and taken from her before they could truly find each other. As she retells the story to herself, as she reimagines the moment, the Reverend Simmons lies beside her, so close that she can see the green speckles in his wolf-grey eyes. The grass is tall and dry, longing for the overdue rains of late summer. She reaches out as if to stroke his hair, relishing the intimacy, holding precious the moment.
‘It’s not my place, I know, Mr Barnum, but I do not have a good feeling about the twins.’
‘And what might a good feeling be, pray tell, Mrs M?’
‘A good feeling,’ she says, breaking apart the cloves of garlic, ‘would be one that endears them to me, in spite of the memory of what they did. I can forgive errant ways. Especially among the young. A good feeling would bring warmth to the house.’
‘And there is no endearment? No warmth?’
‘Yesterday,’ she says, crushing the garlic under the flat edge of a kitchen knife as if hoping to ward off evil, ‘they appeared in the doorway. I all but shudder at the memory. I felt a cold draught on my neck. I turned around and there they were. Just standing and staring at me.’
‘They said nothing, Mrs M?’
‘Not a word. Of greeting or otherwise. They have brought no warmth to this house, Mr Barnum, not even a flicker.’
Perch and Carp sit facing each other less than a foot apart. They are holding hands and quietly repeating, over and over again.
‘Make yourself known, your will and your way, oh Master, your will and your way.’
There is a knock on the door. Then another knock.
Perch opens one eye, Carp another.
‘Madams,’ comes the voice from behind the door. It is Anna, the housemaid. ‘You have a visitor. In the mayor’s study.’
‘Yes,’ says Carp.
‘What will I tell him?’ asks Anna.
‘We will come,’ replies Perch.
‘Presently,’ adds Carp.
Downstairs is Mr Osprey, the solicitor. He is arranging his papers on the desk in front of him. Satisfied that everything is in its place, he reclines in the high-backed leather chair and imagines himself as the mayor (who is presently out of town on council business). He gesticulates to an imaginary audience, nodding sagely, ready to impart wisdom and the orders of the day. He looks around at the room, which is dominated floor to ceiling by shelves stacked with rows of identical leather-bound books. Gold lettering on the spine of each tome denotes the volume and date of its contents: planning applications, committees and subcommittees, bylaws and regulations. Turning around he is startled to see Perch and Carp standing across the table from him. He shuffles the papers to compose himself and takes a fountain pen from the breast pocket of his jacket.
‘Yes, good afternoon,’ he says in his most officious voice, trying to mask the discomfort he feels in the presence of these identical young women with a notoriety that precedes them. The peculiar essence they exude is totally unfamiliar and unknown to him.
‘Well, Miss Fishcutter and … Miss Fishcutter. I imagine you are curious as to why I am here.’
They say nothing. Mr Osprey clears his throat, picking up a sheet of paper from the closest pile.
‘Well, let me tell you then. Here I have a copy of a decree from the Crown Court, dated one year after your trial and sentencing.’ He pauses, looks up in expectation of a reaction: maybe of surprise, maybe uneasiness or embarrassment at the mention of crime and punishment. But the twins are unmoved.
‘Let me get to the point,’ says the solicitor, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. ‘Mrs Fishcutter, your stepmother, left Tidetown shortly after the trial and the banning of the cult to live at the Bethel, the headquarters of her religious group.’
‘We know what the Bethel is,’ says Carp.
‘What has become of her is of no interest to us,’ says Perch.
Mr Osprey looks up, both relieved and unsettled at hearing the voices of the twins.
‘That aside, you might be interested to know that she renounced all worldly goods and that subsequently the Crown has held in trust the estate of Mr Fishcutter, passed from his wife and now to you, his surviving children. All property was sold and assets combined into a trust fund. Now that you are,’ he pauses to choose his words, ‘… back in the community, these funds are at your disposal.’
The solicitor sits back in the chair waiting for a response.
Perch takes the paper from the desk.
‘Our decree?’ she asks.
‘Yes, yours,’ says Mr Osprey, expecting further instructions.
‘Then we will take it with us. Now,’ says Carp.
The twins look at each other, turn their backs on the man who is of no more use to them, then leave the room.
The mayor peels an apple with his small paring knife. The skin curls and coils around his fingers in the shape and fashion of a snake making its way from a tree to the jungle floor.
‘So what have you to report, my good man?’ he asks of Joshua, who stands to attention on the other side of the huge mahogany table. The mayor is seated, offering nothing to his deputy from the plate of fruit before him. He pops a grape into his mouth, then quarters the apple. Joshua notices a bead of juice shimmer on the edge of the blade. It drops onto the mayor’s wrist, trickles and disappears.
‘The ruffians, your worship.’
‘The ruffians?’
‘Yes, the ruffians,’ repeats Joshua. ‘It is they who are troubling our townsfolk. As I reported to you the captain’s main concern is on the levies and commissions. But the talk of the ruffians comes from all quarters. The sailors, the merchants, the fisherwomen. They, the ruffians, insinuated themselves into my inveigling, always popping up one way or another, in one shape or form.’
