Hairy London (24 page)
Authors: Stephen Palmer
“For the sake of my country, yes.” Kornukope paused, then said, “But tell me, what news of this Cockneigh Uprising?”
“Of that I cannot speak. But the government defences are strong, Kornukope. In my opinion, my
personal
opinion, the uprising is a storm created by starvation, that will in due course blow itself out.”
“Let us hope so,” Kornukope said.
Bane stood up and clapped his hands together. “Then all is agreed. The gyrfalcon will arrive tomorrow.” He glanced out of the window and added, “It will land on the heath just across the road at ten sharp in the morning.”
“We shall be ready.”
Next morning, dressed in leather jackettes and flying goggles, Kornukope and Eastachia awaited the great white bird, which landed in a cloud of downy feathers at a minute past ten. Boarding, Kornukope found himself in a leather tooled lounge in which a young blonde lady sat, bottles and glasses surrounding her.
“Gin and tonic, sir?” she asked. “Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“G and T sounds good to me,” he replied as he sat down on the two-person couch. “What about you, dearest one?”
“A double Somerset on the rocks for me,” Eastachia replied.
In this fashion, and nibbling small olives on sticks, they waited for the gyrfalcon to take off. Lurching up and down as it flapped its wings (they clung on tight to their tumblers) the gyrfalcon eventually lifted off the ground, uttering its eerie call as it did. A number of jackdaws mobbed it, but the gyrfalcon saw them off with small arms fire.
Twenty minutes later they landed in Kew Gardens, to be escorted to the glasshouse by a guardsman in red uniform and bearskin. From the south came the faintest hint of the Hampton Hill war; distant rumbles, a pall in the sky. Then Kornukope saw Bane Flumerushett and a number of other, more elderly gentlemen.
“Good morning,” Kornukope said.
Eastachia pressed her palms together and murmured, “Namasté.”
Kornukope noticed at once how the gaze of every man was fixed upon her.
“I trust you had a pleasant flight?” Bane asked.
“Both pleasant and safe,” Kornukope replied. “I must work for the Special Hair Service more often!”
Bane led them into the glasshouse, then through a maze of gigantic plants, bakelite furniture and discarded watering troughs to a central platform, concealed, almost as if in green curtains, by a hemispherical mass of leaves growing downwards from an aerial mimosa tree. The sweet smell of the yellow flowers filled the air.
“This is a cunningly wrought sensitive-tree,” Bane explained, “which the Indoo grew to defend the chamber. If you touch the leaves, they move, setting off the alarm. We have done this. Poison sprays out from the tree bole. We have lost three men so far.”
“How then shall we approach the chamber within?” Kornukope asked.
Bane pointed to a hole in the platform base. “Not daring to move the whole tree,” he said, “we took five days to drill that. It leads to the chamber. I must warn you however that the gap between mimosa leaves and chamber is nowhere much more than a yard. Care will be required.”
Kornukope nodded. They squeezed through the tunnel as best they could – it was narrow, jagged and claustrophobic – until Kornukope, following Bane, was able to poke his head out and see the chamber. Emerging fully, he stood up and stared. The substance was dark grey, incised over all its surface with white letters and strange diagrams. The light, filtered by the mimosa, was weirdly green, and made him feel a smidgeon nauseous.
Eastachia emerged, then stood up. She too stared, taking in the majesty of the structure.
“What do you think?” Bane asked her.
“Extraordinary,” she replied. “But look there – I’ve already seen a clue.”
“A clue? Show us!”
Kornukope and Bane shuffled around the chamber until Eastachia stopped and said, “Here!” She pointed to an image of a dancing man inside a flaming circle, whose right foot rested upon a recumbent child and whose four arms were held outstretched as if in terpsichorean delight; one hand enflamed, another holding a small drum.
“What is it?” Bane asked.
“This is the Lord Shiva,” she said, “balancing upon the demon Apasmara, the demon of ignorance. The chamber must be devoted to Lord Shiva.”
Bane nodded. “And what are these dots and lines coming out of the flames surrounding him?”
Eastachia shook her head, but then Kornukope remembered something: the diagrams of Röntgen from the Camden Town Institute. “Why, they indicate high energy waves and nuclear particles,” he said, “such as those discovered by old Rutherford.”
“Then this image is of a device?” Bane said.
Kornukope considered. “The Indoos built a flying Kali,” he pointed out.
And then he noticed his wife’s face had gone pale.
“What is it, dearest one?”
“Lord Shiva,” she said, “is the Destroyer. Why is he depicted emitting such terrible rays and particles?”
“But are they terrible?” Kornukope said. “Shacqueline Soone seemed happy enough to work with them.”
“Is this the same Mrs Soone,” Bane said, “who last week died most horribly of radiation sickness?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sheremy had never set foot inside Juinefere’s private chambers, so he was surprised to receive an invitation when he returned from Jomb Gravelspitte’s house. But there it was, written on an acorn in black-and-white:
Lady Bedwards requests the pleasure of the company of Sheremy Pantomile Esq. at his earliest convenience.
She owned Bedwards House of course, and as a consequence had the run of the upper floors, which constituted a third of the building’s interior space. Through the vine-haunted Burmeer Chamber he walked, then up the Iranian Pasha staircase and through the gold and silver elekertricko-arch that forbade persons of unsavoury character from bothering her. He passed beneath that arch without setting off the alarm.
She sat in her breakfast room, dressed in a flapper gown and ruby-buckled loafers; drinking tea, a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate before her. She looked tired. Damn, she looked unhappy... such a shame.
He smiled and approached, sitting on the chair beside her, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarulé. “I have a plan,” he said.
She returned his smile and, as was her wont, began fiddling with her diamond necklace, a habit he felt sure betrayed inner turmoil. “Tell me, Sheremy,” she said.
“Though I support the Cockneigh Uprising – at least, in principle – and loathe Lord Gorge’s government, I don’t want battle in London. But neither do I want the Pearlies’ revolution to succeed. All that will happen is that a new ruling class will be set up – as was the case in Parisi.”
“I remember it well.”
“Of course! You were there. But we digress... my plan involves playing one side off against the other, and you, Juinefere, will be the lynchpin.”
“Me?”
He nodded. “I’m certain you’ve got the strength and the character to do it. Now then, the one thing that most annoys the poor of the East End is how the upper classes, and even the middle classes, rule their lives. Though the ordinary Cockneigh cleans and cooks and sells and labours and works all the hours of day and night, almost none is their own master.” Sheremy paused, thinking back to his encounter with Serjeant Cough. “It was a police officer who made me realise. ‘The East End is a different country,’ he remarked. When I mentioned this to the Pearlies they gnashed their teeth in anger, for they’d like the East End to be a separate country, ruled by them.”
Juinefere gasped. “But how could that work?” she asked.
“Don’t you see? They want to run their own lives according to their own wishes. They’re exploited by people living miles, often hundreds of miles away.”
“Nobles, like me.”
Sheremy took her hand in his and leaned forward. “Juinefere,” he said, “you’re a woman, and thus know injustice. All you have to do is transfer your feelings of injustice to the poor. They feel like you do, don’t you see? It’s no different. You’re treated damnably bad by men, and the poor are treated damnably bad by the rich and the privileged. I know, I’ve seen it all during my adventures.”
She nodded, her gaze focussed upon some far off imaginary place. “You are right,” she said. “If women Suffer, then so do the poor.”
He nodded. “This, then, is the heart of my plan. I know the strategy of the Pearlies and the disposition of the uprising troops. Therefore you’ve got that knowledge too.”
“Oh, Sheremy... the burden.”
“You can do it Juinefere, and I will support you. It’s me who’ll be in most peril – a traitor to both sides.”
She nodded, a look of fear on her face.
“Don’t worry, I’m made of stern stuff.”
“You are a member of the Suicide Club, after all.”
He nodded. “Now then, you need to approach Lord Gorge and demand to become a Minister without portfolio in his cabinet, so that you can help direct the Government’s strategy – using the knowledge I transfer to you. We’ll have to play it careful, though. We’ll need to exaggerate the strength of the uprising so that Lord Gorge is panicked, and agrees to negotiate. Then you, and perhaps also me, will have to become mediators.”
“A dangerous tactic.”
“Indeed. But preferable to the destruction of the uprising and the dreams of the Cockneighs... and preferable also to blood soaked revolution.”
“I will do it,” Juinefere said. “I will do it for all those who Suffer in Britain.”
Sheremy sighed and sat back. Good! Events were in motion...
Later that day they prepared the psychotronic equipment that would allow Sheremy to partake of Juinefere’s conversations. The gear had been invented by the Kaiserisch johnny Herr Einstein, and consisted of a number of elekertrick nodules existing in Hilbert Space. These nodules spoke to other nodules, rather in the manner of Serjeant Cough’s multiple notebooks.
And so, the day after, Juinefere went to Downing Street. Because of the hair, the distance and the battlefront she travelled by aerial flimflam, piloted by Franclin Spar-Turney, who swore a most terrible oath of silence; Franclin was a notable gobster, so Sheremy and Juinefere insisted. Landing in St James’s Park, Sheremy prepared the psychotronic gear, then pecked Juinefere on the cheek and wished her good luck. She walked away. She looked confident, even determined. Sheremy cast an eye over her garb. Aha! Sensible shoes and no jewellery.
Leaving Franclin in the flimflam, he walked off into the park, settling beneath a chestnut tree to operate the gear. Already Juinefere was speaking with the Downing Street guards.
Juinefere: My good man, I do not care who says nobody is allowed inside Number Ten, I am Lady Bedwards and Lord Gorge is a friend of mine. Kindly tell him I am here – at once.
Guard: Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am. We have to check these–
Juinefere: Hurry! The Cockneigh Uprising is nearby.
Sheremy spoke softly into the syntactical expressor. “Well done!”
She replied, “They have a job to do, I suppose.”
Fifteen minutes later she was in the Primrose Office.
Juinefere: Lord Gorge, how pleasant to see you.
Lord Gorge: I don’t believe we’ve taken tea since the hairy plague, what?
Juinefere: Indeed not. Lord Gorge, I have two things for you – a request, and information. Which will you hear first?
Lord Gorge: I can never resist a request from a lady.
Juinefere: My request is this. Because of these dangerous times, I wish to be a Minister without portfolio in your Cabinet.
Lord Gorge: My dear! But you are a–
Juinefere: A woman, yes. Will you then refuse the wisdom and strength of half London’s population because of their gender?
Lord Gorge: Well, it’s most irregular, so unfortunately–
Juinefere: And what will London’s people think when they find out you rejected vital information simply because the informer was a lady?
Lord Gorge: Well, you see–
Juinefere: They will vote Labour, Lord Gorge. And then, when you are out, they will lynch you.
Lord Gorge: Most irregular, what? I would need to hear your information first.
Juinefere: I need to be assured of your sincerity first.
Lord Gorge: Juinefere, my dear, where did you of all people get this so-called information from? You are a socialite, not a secret agent. One might say you were a little addled, what?
Juinefere: You forget I live in Bedwards House, home of the Suicide Club. The men of that club know much.
Lord Gorge: Ah... now I see. Then all we have to do is invite the informer chap here, what?
Juinefere: I am the mediator, nobody else.
Lord Gorge: But why you?
There came a pause. At a loss, Sheremy whispered, “Tell him you have... that you have... secret ties with the Pearlies.”
Juinefere: Because I will represent the stout hearts and wisdom of those who Suffer in London. You know it is only a matter of time before everybody can vote. Was it not your party that suggested universal Suffering?
Great jumping Indoos! The woman was quick-witted.
Lord Gorge: Yes, yes, I see your point.
Another pause.
Lord Gorge: Very well, it seems you have a case, what? I will make you Minister without portfolio, and you shall be in charge of negotiations – if any occur – between the Cabinet and the uprising.
Juinefere: Good. Thank you. And so you would like to know...?
Lord Gorge: I would indeed!
Juinefere then reeled off the exaggerated disposition that Sheremy had devised the previous evening, and he was pleased to hear that she did not forget even one line of the list. Damned impressive.
After another pause and the clinking of tea cups, Sheremy heard more.
Lord Gorge: Piece of drattenburg cake, what?
Juinefere: No, thank you. But there is one last thing. I do not want war in London, I do not want Charing Cross Road destroyed by battle, I do not want good men and women killed on either side of the divide. And I know you do not either. Despite your gruffness, Lord Gorge, you are a reformer, a Liberal, and you know the people of this city stand in the right. Therefore do the right thing. In history, some progressions are inevitable. Suffering is one such.
Lord Gorge: I hear you, what? Yes, I do hear you.
Juinefere: And now I must depart. I will return tomorrow morning.
Sheremy sat back and let out a sigh of relief. The woman was a marvel.
~
The British Library was quiet indoors, but not empty; Velvene observed a few score men and women reading, writing, occasionally staring out of the windows. He walked up to the nearest librarian and said, “Is Mr Marx in today?”
The librarian pointed to a distant chair, where sat a figure in a crumpled coat and muddy boots. Velvene recognised the beard at once.
Approaching Marx, he considered how best to open the conversation, but in the end, when Marx glanced up, he simply said, “You remember me from Highgate Cemetery?”
Marx frowned. “The imperialist with the clay figure.”
Velvene sat down in the chair next to Marx. “I am a member,” he said, “of the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London.” He paused, then added, “And if you do not believe me, I know where they are based.” He gave the address then reeled off the four member names.
Marx appeared unimpressed. “So, what made you change your mind, Mr Orchardtide? Is it that you just want to be on the winning side?”
Velvene controlled his annoyance. “It was a small boy,” he said, “a small boy who labours to this day – I hope – in a work factory on Grafton Place. I am happy enough to admit that I was wrong. But Mr Marx, we need your help. The Cockneigh Uprising is rolling west and soon it will reach Whitehall. We need a pamphlet, something written in your own hand, to enthuse the masses and to help us acquire more converts. Can you help, eh?”
“Possibly, possibly. You support the Cockneigh Uprising, then?”
“Well, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because for every Tyko Matchmaker there are ten thousand others in London, and the same number again in Manchester, where worked your esteemed colleague Engels – whose book, sir, I have read from cover to cover. And because I do not wish to see any more a tiny minority ruling the mass of ordinary people–”
“But you come from that tiny minority,” Marx interrupted, “you are a scion of one of the richest families in England–”
“Was,
was
a member. I am banished. Why, I even stole from my own family to support my continued work for the Marxist-Leninist Workers’ Movement Of London.”
“It is not easy to believe you.”
Velvene tapped his finger on the scraps of paper by Marx’ side. “Write us a pamphlet,
please,
which I swear I will take back to the group. Then you can come down to the uprising and see for yourself – your words echoed back to you by the grateful working class of the East End.”
At last, Marx seemed persuaded, if nothing else by Velvene’s oratorial passion. “Very well,” he said, “but if you have my work taken to the government, the army, or any so-called noble house, I will have you blacklisted from every worker’s group in town. Let me see your hands.”
Velvene, perplexed, reached out so that Marx could grab him by the fingers. “Not bad,” Marx muttered, “a few calluses coming along. But you need to work much harder.”
Velvene pondered this. “I could rescue Tyko,” he said.
Marx glanced up at him as if to indicate by expression alone how unlikely he thought that eventuality. “And what of love?” he asked.
“My research continues.”
“Who then have you questioned?”
Velvene, annoyed again, decided to oppose Marx by attacking. He replied, “Tell me, do you believe, as Freud and Reich do, that man is a
tabula rasa,
or do you side with Jung, who believes all men are born with unconscious personality already within him?”
Wrongfooted by this question, Marx peered long and hard at Velvene, then glanced away and said, “I suppose I side against Jung.”
“Then we are born, effectively, a blank sheet of paper?”
“Yes.”
“Well, where then do our personalities come from?”
Marx considered, then replied, “I suppose they come from the real world, from our experiences, placed inside us through memory.”
This chimed more or less with what Velvene had decided before he went to war. Intrigued, he said, “I concur. Do you suppose that more might be placed inside us, perhaps through the actions of our parents, our siblings, our family, eh?”
“I suppose that to be perfectly possible.”
Velvene considered. “Then it must be that love, and all the other psychological templates, are also placed inside us, in such a way as to chime with the theories of the estimable Mr Darwin.”
Again Marx considered this point, before answering, “You mean, because we are all of the same species, descended from apes, we all partake of the same mental template?”
“Yes, sir!”
Marx smiled – the first time Velvene had seen this – and said, “What a remarkable idea. What then shall we decide about love?”
Velvene felt ideas flooding his mind as the implications of his notion arrived. He replied, “Though we all partake of the same mental template, we all grow up in different conditions, eh? The working class man has a different experience of life to the imperialist. Therefore, it must be that we all approach love from different angles.”