Tidetown, page 5
‘Beautifully put, Mrs April,’ he smiles.
‘Someone before me, methinks.’
‘Isn’t it ever? Nothing new under the sun, but beautiful nonetheless in the recounting.’
She looks out the arched window across the cloisters. The sun is setting, casting a long shadow across the deep green of the lawn. The heavy wooden door of the chapel opens and there stands Zakora, framed in the doorway. Their eyes meet: she smiles and he smiles. She waves and he waves back, both caught in a shared moment.
Mrs April came from an unlikely home, but one bristling with potential and open minds. Her father was an eminent astronomer whose wonder at the mysteries of the universe turned him into an astrologer before Mrs April was born. His amazement at what he saw through the end of his telescope began to translate to patterns and destiny. By the time Mrs April was a toddler he was telling her stories of the alignment of stars and planets and how these would shift and shape the course of world events and individual lives.
‘Do the stars tell us what to do?’ she asked one clear night as she peered skyward.
‘Not quite,’ said her father, his long white beard caressing her cheek as he bent down beside her, ‘but they send out star mist that wafts around us to guide and protect us through each day.’
‘I can feel it,’ her enthusiasm emphasised by her arms waving in the night air.
Her mother was a poet, inspired by the Romantics in an era sorely lacking in romance. She was a perfect match and foil for her stargazer husband. On many a night they would sit on a rug high on a hilltop, their baby daughter between them. Together they would seek out the night sky: he looking for signs, tracing orbits; she imagining mystery, composing beauty. Each in their own way waxed lyrical on the movement and characteristics of the celestial bodies. Their baby, then toddler, then child, drank in their words as elixir itself and grew to wonder at the world and the stars and the poetry and language to phrase it all.
Joshua stands at the crossroads, where once, in darker days, the gibbet stood ready for miscreants and the condemned to be dangled for all to see and be forewarned. Waiting for the stagecoach to arrive with letters for the mayor, he recalls a childhood memory of a distant cousin hanging by the thread of his neck as the crows picked at the soft tissue of his face. He shudders and slaps his leather gloves against his cheek to bring himself back to the moment. He hears the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching and then recognises the sizeable girth of Angelica sitting astride her True Beauty as they turn the corner and come into view. He doffs his cap and bows.
‘How charming and elegant a sight. A graceful, and may I be so bold as to say, beautiful young lady and her ride.’
The horse stumbles then finds its feet and balance under the considerable weight of its charge.
Angelica turns up her nose at the sycophancy of this man she abhors. The horse neighs and rears up, nostrils flaring. If she had her way she’d like to see the full force of the animal come crashing down on this stupid man’s head. “What a terrible tragedy, Papa”, she would say, “and such a fine and noble fellow”. Rather, she pulls on the reins, turns a semicircle and then urges True Beauty to surge forward and leap the hedge into the freshly ploughed field beyond. Secretly hoping the horse would clip the privet and send the spoilt brat of a child to a cracked skull and a coma, Joshua smiles and waves them on their way. He flips open his fob watch to check the time, and precisely as he does so a rumble of thunder rolls in from the hills to the east. A single drop of rain falls onto the glass of Joshua’s watch. He wipes it away with his glove, puts the watch back in his waistcoat pocket and turns his collar to the weather. A sheet of lightning illuminates the spot where the gallows once stood and Joshua makes the sign of the cross in remembrance of his executed cousin. The rain begins to fall more heavily and through the deluge he hears the unmistakable clatter of horses and the wheels of the stagecoach. Joshua straightens his cravat, adjusts his hat and stands to attention, eyes fixed ahead.
The stagecoach rattles to a halt at the crossroads, steam of perspiration vying with the rain on the horses’ backs. The packages and suitcases tied to the roof shift and settle as the wheels find purchase on the muddy road. Joshua nods to the driver and his offsider as the door opens and the postmaster gestures for him to step forward.
‘Punctual as ever, Mr Barnum,’ he says, ‘come hell or high water.’
‘Whether hell is yet upon us is still a matter for debate and conjecture,’ replies Joshua, the rain running off the rim of his hat. ‘But we can confidently predict high water this day.’
The postmaster, a man of middle age, born and bred in Tidetown and renowned for having never misplaced a letter in his forty years of service, steps down from the coach and takes Joshua by the arm.
‘Come this way,’ he says, leading Joshua away from the prying ears of those seated in the stagecoach, ‘I have the mayor’s packages and despatches, but I want you to take a message to him. In strictest confidence and secrecy.’
‘Of course, of course,’ entreats Joshua, ‘you can be wholly confident in my adherence to secrecy.’
The postmaster hands Joshua a small sack.
‘Here is your master’s correspondence etcetera, but the other matter to impart is of gravest concern.’
Thunder claps and lightning strikes on cue.
‘There are,’ says the postmaster, whispering in Joshua’s ear, his warm breath a welcome relief from the fierce coldness of the day, ‘confirmed cases of the plague in the Greater Province.’
He stands back waiting for Joshua’s reaction. Joshua purses his lips, takes a deep breath, then does his own whispering.
‘The Black Plague?’
‘Show me a plague that isn’t.’
‘And this one?’ asks Joshua.
‘The blackest,’ is the reply.
By now two heads have appeared at the stagecoach door window, wondering at the cause of the delay.
‘So,’ says the postmaster, for all to hear, ‘please pass on my best wishes to the mayor and be sure he receives all the messages.’
At that he waves to the driver, climbs back into the coach and they set off on their way to the next stop. Joshua watches the stagecoach climb the hill to the edge of town, wondering if its cargo might harbour more than exotic spices, fancy cloth and the mail from Bray, the provincial capital.
THREE
‘Hear ye, all persons! Ye people as many as ye are! I have done things according to the design of my heart.’ – Hatshepsut
Walking on the pavement, confident of his place in the social order, the mayor is recognised by all. On approach, his most noticeable and distinguishing feature is his rotundity. As he gets closer the onlooker is taken by his sideburns. They are white and curly and fulsome: mutton chops, so called; though his huge belly loves not only its fill of mutton, but of venison and partridge, wild boar and pigeon, and all that the woods and hills around have to offer. If, as he passes close by, you were to bid him good morning, you may well be surprised by his rummy-red eyes and the broken veins on his bulbous nose. Too much fine wine, you might think, and you’d be correct. It is a favourite pastime of the mayor’s, to walk among his people; for caps to be doffed and greetings voiced. But this morning the mayor has yet to leave home for his daily promenade up and down the High Street. Standing at the top of the main stairs he is thinking that soon Mrs M will have finished preparing breakfast and he can revel in the repast before taking up the responsibilities of the day and the joys and chores of office. Behind him he hears the shutters of the bedroom being opened and the shriek of his daughter, chastising the maid for her intrusion.
‘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.
‘Angelica the Messenger,’ smiles Angelica, whispering to herself as she walks back along the passageway to the front gates. ‘She spoke my name.’
Three days later Angelica receives a letter with a postmark from the prison. As always it is stamped with the declaration ‘APPROVED BY GOVERNOR’S CENSOR’.
