The Palace Of Curiosities Part 8

I had stopped listening. I dreamed of a priest with a swim of lace around his throat, four white horses pulling my carriage, hymns sung, bells rung, a fat cushion of orange-blossom in my arms; breakfast after, with beer for the men, tea for the ladies. I pictured myself swathed in a sumptuous gown of the latest organdie, primped with tulle so fine as to be almost invisible, a veil of tambour lace floating around my head.

Donkey-Skin leaned on her elbow, yawning at my fancies.

'Are you not excited?' I gasped.

Lace tears easily, she said, digging in her ears with a long fingernail. And you can never get the stains out of organdie. I'd rather have a st.u.r.dy pair of boots and a five-pound note tucked inside them.

'You don't have a breath of romance in the whole of you,' I sulked.

Good thing too, she said, drily.

'Won't you be happy for me?'

There was no answer.

'Glad to see the dirty back of you!' I shouted into the emptiness. I would not let her spoil my day.

Mama begged and borrowed plates and saucers from every room in the house, so that my wedding feast was served on a higgledy-piggledy mismatch of crockery and all of it chipped and cracked. I barely noticed. I believe Mama could have poured tea from a leather bucket and I would not have cared.

All morning she was a fury of bread-b.u.t.tering, slicing it so thin you could have hung it at the window and seen through to the houses opposite. There were three vast pots of tea, a whole cup of sugar. She kept muttering 'Friday for losses' until I had to tell her to keep her empty-headed superst.i.tions to herself. I was gaining a husband.

I stood at the window, pulling on my gloves only to draw them off when my paws grew too hot, which was very quickly. I kissed the soft lilac leather, for surely he had touched it when he picked them out for my trousseau. There was no extravagant gauzy bridal gown, but he had bought me a pleasing and practical costume: a going-away dress in dark lavender, a pretty hat and new boots made for me alone. It was very kind of him.

I paced up and down so that I would not sit creases into my new skirt, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my head first to one side and then the other so that I could keep my eye on the street. It had to be the most long-drawn-out morning in the history of the world. Surely the moments had never ticked by so slowly.

'Mama, I think the priest is late.'

'Eve, sit down. You are making me dizzy with all this to-ing and fro-ing.'

'I cannot be still.'

'It is unladylike to bustle about, and in such a nice dress. You will become overheated.'

She could not bring herself to say the word 'sweaty', but it was true: my fur was clinging to the inside of my blouse.

'Mama, do not fuss.'

'Do you want to faint away? That'd be a fine business, if the priest asks you to say "I do" and I have to fan you awake with a hymn sheet.'

At last the wedding party arrived, to a fanfare of much rapping at the outer door. I fought to stand still while Mama went to greet them. Mr Arroner was first through the door, greeting my mother with loud declarations of apology for his lateness. He burst into our room and bowed deeply, heaping me with tender compliments and presenting me with a small posy of violets to match the dress. He was followed by a priest and two plainly dressed strangers who stared at me and my not-quite-yet husband back and forth until I thought their heads might grind their necks down to their shoulders.

There was no Order of Service, no hymn sheet, no hymns of any kind; only the briefest of prayers and I do not remember a word of them. The only words worth treasuring were the ones which dropped from his lips when he said he would have me as his wife.

'Do you take this woman?' said the minister, too hastily for my liking.

'Indeed I do.'

They were the sweetest sounds I had ever heard, so delightful I half expected doves to fly out of his hat. He could have stood before me in sack-cloth for that vow clothed him more royally than any king. Then the minister blinked at me.

'Do you take this man?' he said, unable to keep a curl of distaste from his lips.

'I do,' I said, boldly.

Holy eyes flickered between my husband and myself.

'Yes, she can speak for herself,' said my new man, and I squeezed his arm for the champion he was.

I went to throw my arms around his neck, but his eyebrows climbed so far up his forehead I thought they might drop off. Mama also shot me a look, and I tempered my behaviour. We would be alone soon enough: I could wait for marital embraces a little while longer. I dropped my head and made a courageous attempt to behave decorously, as befitting a bride. I clenched and unclenched my fingers around the spray of flowers so often that I quite strangled them.

My mother did not cry. We signed our names and my man gave a coin to the witnesses: they were quick to leave and I did not see them again. It was not a grand ceremony, but it was good enough. I had the greatest prize, a husband who had already taken up a shield in my defence against the world. I loosened the word 'girl' from my shoulders and dropped it at the side of the front door.

Mr Arroner took me then into my new home, our new home: a palace with high ceilings and five steps leading up from the pavement to the door and a pink-and-white maid who bobbed her head and called me 'mum'.

'You will want to prepare for bed, Mrs Arroner,' he said as soon as we were through the door. 'As shall I. I shall be in my dressing-room.'

'Yes, Mr Arroner,' I said, delighting in the words.

He was mine. I followed him up the stairs; he showed me into the bedroom and left me there. My head swam with the notion that he had an entire room in which to dress and undress, for it was thrilling enough that there was a room set aside for sleeping. Of course, not only for sleeping: there were the other things husbands did with wives in their bedrooms.

I flushed beneath my fur and began to undo the b.u.t.tons at my cuffs, but discovered those running down the back of my blouse were out of reach. Mama had fastened me into my clothes that morning, which seemed a very long while ago. I was not sure what to do next. I looked around the room: a small fireplace, a jug and basin on the chest of drawers, the window shutters closed tight, a cheval-gla.s.s leaning into the corner.

He did not return. I did not know what mysteries husbands engaged in to prepare themselves for their wedding nights, and the room into which he had retired was very quiet. I thought of how he had looked earlier that day, not yet my husband, and I not yet his wife: his polished hat, new stiff collar, bright waistcoat and gloves so fresh they were not yet rubbed from holding the head of his cane. I had tried diligently to be as nervous as a virgin should be, but I could not stop my eyes from wandering over his body, even when Mama pinched me.

Still he did not come. There was no clock ticking, but it was my opinion that enough time had pa.s.sed for him to remove his clothing. Perhaps he was smoking a cigar; perhaps he thought me so timid that he wished to give me time to compose myself. But I was not composed: I was sitting with my cuffs open and no other preparations made. I tried once more to reach the b.u.t.tons laddering down my back but failed. It was easier at home: my clothes were simpler and I had Mama to help me. I slapped away the ungrateful thought. I was wearing the beautiful clothes he had picked out with his own hand. They were just troublesome to get out of.

Then it came to me: perhaps he did not want me undressed at all. He wanted to do it himself. I was deeply stimulated at the thought of him standing behind me, unlooping each pearl b.u.t.ton from the nape of my neck down to the dip where spine flares to hip, pressing his palms on to my unclothed shoulders, weaving his fingers into my hair and pulling me towards him for our first wedded embrace. My pelt p.r.i.c.kled, imagining itself ruffled up under his hands. These imaginings were no longer sinful, for I was a married woman and such thoughts were permitted.

My stays were very tight. I hoped he might come soon, for I needed loosening and a tickle of sweat was stirring between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I wondered if he was shaving himself; I thought how grand it would be to say to him, Now you are my husband, I wish you to grow a beard. I itched for him to open the door.

My delicious dream returned, that he had chosen me because he was hairy too, just like Donkey-Skin said he would be, but he shaved and kept it secret. Now he had me, he would no longer need to do so for I would throw away his razor, tie up his wrists with his handkerchief and feed him soup as I waited for him to sprout the bristles hidden in the gift-wrapping of his skin. Days would pa.s.s, and he would sigh, Oh, untie me, do. Set me free, my love, but not angrily, and each day with less conviction.

I imagined his hair set free from the confines of his clothing: wandering up and down his breast from navel to neck, spreading its paw-prints over his shoulders and down his back to the sweet damp crease of his b.u.t.tocks. He would be my faun, my Pan, the Lord of my Woods, and I would be his maenad for he was the strange prince Donkey-Skin had told me to look out for. He must be.

The handle of the door turned; my heart leapt. I looked into my lap, I looked at the bedspread, at the ewer, the bowl, the wallpaper, the window-shutters. At last I looked at my husband. The dark rug between us seemed the width of a continent. He smiled.

'My dear wife!' he said. 'Dear little wife!'

He crossed the s.p.a.ce in three strides. He was dressed in a smoking jacket which reached past his knees, his oiled-down hair catching the light from the candle. His chin was smooth.

'Dear little wife!' he said again. 'Or should I call you Mrs Arroner?'

'Wife is a very good word.'

'Is it not? A capital word! To me you are wife; to the world you are Mrs Josiah Arroner. What status! What gravitas!'

'Yes, my dear.'

I thought it a little overwrought, but tonight I could allow him any of his fancies.

'Come now, Mrs Arroner.'

He took my hand and patted it; I lifted my golden wrist to his chin and he pecked at it with dry lips.

'My name is Eve, dearest.'

'It is indeed. The sweetest of names to my heart from the day I met you.'

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the velvet of my forehead. A deep thrill swept from that spot down to my inmost parts until I was running over with richness, churning instantly from milk to cream.

'Oh, Josiah,' I breathed, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at his coat, pulling him towards me.

The weight of his breath warmed the crook of my neck, perfumed with coffee and tobacco. I wrapped my arms around him and we rocked backwards and forwards. I rubbed myself against him, purring. Unsheathed my claws and dug them into his back, chewing on his neck.

He shoved me hard; my eyes sprang open to find him breathing in short bursts, his collar awry where I had torn it. He staggered to the mirror where he examined the spreading wine-stain of my mouth on his throat, and began to tie his cravat very high, to cover the dark spot. I watched the way his fingers slipped the silk over and about until he was satisfied with his handiwork, devouring his every gesture. However, I was confused, for I would be proud to have his mark on me would parade our pa.s.sion without shame. Then I understood: he did not want to share our secret. I giggled.

'Was I a little rough?' I simpered. 'You will forgive me?'

He turned, eyes wide. 'What are you staring at?' he wheezed.

'Just you, my dear Josiah.'

I tried to pull him towards me again in this newly-wed game we were playing, but he slipped out of my grasp.

'Dear wife,' he said.

'Yes?' I smirked, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

'Dear Mrs Arroner. You will be tired, my pet, after such an enervating day. I shall retire and allow you to rest and restore yourself. As any gentleman should.'

He clicked his heels together, and was gone.

The room was suddenly very empty, the walls too far apart. I cursed myself for being so forward. I should have let him take the lead, should have held myself back, acted the bashful maid. But I would bring him back to me; tonight, even. How could he resist my bounty? I was his harvest-home, safely gathered in: a full larder that would never be empty, a heaping board, cartwheels of cheeses, thumbed loaves, oozing cuts of crackling pork, dishes of plump curds. I would gorge him. I could not understand why he would not taste me. All he needed to do was gather me in for year after year of happy ploughing, seeding, cropping.

I would purr spells to bind him to me. Witch words no-one taught me. I would draw them up from the secret book of my body, written during the long years of want and wanting. An alphabet of need, spelling an A-B-C of love me, need me, want me, hold me. He would want me. Would not be able to resist.

I would make my own fortune. I did not need any of Donkey-Skin's bewitching flummery. A hairy gentleman with sword in hand? No. I would settle for this man of solid flesh, not some childhood fancy. Tellers of fortunes were tellers of lies. Butcher, baker or candlestick-maker, Josiah Arroner was the only one to come wooing. In this hand I had been dealt there were neither princes nor gla.s.s shoes. He was married to me: that would serve me well enough. And what did I care if he was as close-shaved as a peeled boiled egg? If that was as close as the prophecy got, it was sufficient.

'You were wrong,' I said to Donkey-Skin.

Well, she said. I wonder.

ABEL.

London, MayAugust 1857 I am deafened by the shouting of commands. The boat heels sharply to the side, ropes groaning, planks straining against each other. Vast sails slap as they are taken by the wind.

I look about and see for the first time manacles upon my wrists and ankles, a chain which leads from the cuffs to an iron ring nailed into the deck. I have no time to wonder at my situation, for all about me are naked men chained in the same fashion in the belly of this leviathan. The stink of s.h.i.t and sweat makes my head swim. A man dark as a tanned goatskin squats before me, holds a ladle to my lips and I drink thirstily. I smile but he is gone down the line, to desperate entreaties of 'Water! Here! I beg you!'

We lean forwards as one body, shoving the tree-trunk of the oar; at a yell from the steersman we haul backwards. Beneath me I feel the huge vessel slip through the water to the chorus of oars moaning in their rowlocks and the grunting of my fellows. So it goes on: I rock to and fro, faster and faster, my breath catching, head ringing with the stench.

I am shaken by the movement of the body next to mine, and tumble into wakefulness.

'Good morning, Abel,' he says, pulling on his boots.

I rub the crust from my eyes. I was on a boat, and am now in a cellar. This man is smiling at me. His name is ... His name is ... I will have it in a moment.

'It's Alfred, you dozy b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he laughs. 'Rough night?'

I shake away the dream of the boat, seep back into myself. Of course, this man is Alfred. Truly, no man has such a friend. My dull soul awakens and rubs a bleary eye as it comes forth into light. I owe Alfred everything. There is no gift too precious to repay all he does for me. I smile, stretching my limbs into the warmth of the morning.

'Is it time to get up?'

He looks away. 'I am going to work,' he says.

Yes, of course. We work together: we are slaughter-men.

'Wait, I shall be ready straightway,' I say.

He pauses in the lacing of his boot.

'Abel, you cannot come with me. Don't you remember?' he sighs. 'Every morning you've forgotten and I have to tell you afresh. It's been weeks and weeks now.' He tightens the kerchief around his neck. 'The carcase. You must remember.'

He makes a stabbing movement with his bunched fist. The trickle of memory becomes a flood and I see myself hack the carcase to pieces, hear the angry shouts of the gaffer. Most vividly, I remember my body, monstrous in its ability to heal.

Alfred is still occupied with his laces.

'What will you do today, Abel?'

'I do not know.'

My hopeful mood melts away. I think of the hours until he returns: this room, my mattress, the swelling tide of pictures I do not want; images of myself cut and healing, rising from a river that refuses to drown me.

'Will you go and find new work?'

I am intrigued by the idea. Although I remember that I am a slaughter-man, I do not recall how I rose to that state, nor what else I can do.

'Maybe I could be a surgeon?'

I do not know whence comes the notion, but the word slides easily into my mouth. Alfred guffaws.

'Bullocks are a bit of a different matter to men!' he crows. 'Though you'd not think it, by some of the sawbones I've seen.' He finishes fastening his boots. 'You must find work, Abel. You have no money.'