Mrs. Engels (24 page)

My bonnet is off before I'm through the door. Seeing Frederick's hat not yet on the hook, I allow myself a bellow.

“Up off your arses, he'll be back any minute!”

I make for the kitchen, loosening ties and tugging on buttons as I go.

“Pumps, if I find you in that bath again, you'll know all about it!”

I'm stopped on the second step by voices coming through the parlor wall. The door opens and Pumps appears in the hall with an arrangement on her face—eyes wide as an owl's, brows touching the fringe of her cap—that can only mean Jenny and Karl.

I hurry my ties back into their knots, my buttons back through their holes. Pumps reaches an arm out as if to present me, but I push past her in the tone of “I can usher myself in.”

In the parlor the middle doors have been folded back and the good table has been set. They're all sat round, eating.

“Lizzie, you're soaked through,” says Jenny. “Where on earth did you get to?”

I don't feel called on to make excuses in my own house. “I thought you were dining in town. In that
restaurant,
” I says.

“We changed our minds,
mein Liebling,
” says Frederick. “You were right. It was full and uncomfortable. It makes a better celebration to eat at home, just the four of us. We thought we'd find you already here.”

“I had some things to do,” I says.

“Well, you're here now,” says Karl, to prevent a scene, “that's the main thing.”

“Go get changed,” says Jenny, “and then come and join us, please. I've been overseeing things. The girl was going to do broccoli and gravy with the fowl, but I had a look at what there was and I thought some savory rice and a curried sauce would be more amusing, or?”

Side-splitting.

“As long as Camilla wasn't put out.”

“Oh, she was delighted. She says she loves a change.”

In the hall, I put my wet back against the wallpaper, close my eyes, and breathe.

“Better?” says Jenny when I return in my good dress.

“Much better,” I says.

The dinner is curious, but I'm supposing usual to its kind. I'm left to eat alone. The men have already cleaned their plates. Jenny's is still full, but she's only pushing its contents from one side to the other; none of it goes near her mouth.

“Lizzie, we've been talking about the success of Karl's address,” she says, “and what a nightmare it has been for us personally. Nothing short of ruinous to our private life. We have no peace day or night. The
Telegraph
was around again yesterday. And now there is a journalist in New York who wants to come over and do a feature. All that way, can you imagine?”

Aye, and for what?

“It certainly is making a devil of a noise,” says Karl. “I have the honor to be at this moment the most abused and threatened man in London. But I have to say, it really does me good after the tedious twenty-year idyll in the backwoods.”

“Well, you've never looked healthier,” I says.

They laugh.

I miss the Girls.

“How have things been here, Lizzie, for you?”

“Fine. No complaints.”

Pumps, puss-faced, appears in the doorway. She looks at me. Usual, Frederick allows her to take her supper with us, but with the Marxes here she's not sure which foot she's standing on.

“You can take these away, Pumps,” I says. “And bring in the pudding.”

“Didn't you like it, ma'am?” she says to Jenny when she takes up her plate, still packed with food.

“It was delicious, Pumps, thank you.”

There's quiet till Pumps is gone.

“So, what now?” I says, to break it.

“Good question,” says Frederick.

“The refugees are the priority,” says Karl.

“Refugees?” I says.

“The Communards,” says Jenny. “Hundreds of them. Come to London to escape the forces of repression.”

“Oh. More of the French.”

Jenny blinks at me. “Didn't you see them, Lizzie? Thronging the streets around the Club? Thin as sticks and with no clothes on their backs. Their only belonging that bewildered air which encircles them.”

“I saw them,” I says. “I just didn't know what they were.”

“Proper accommodation will need to be found for them,” says Frederick.

“And then we must get them educated,” says Karl.

“Yes. They must be taught the significance of what they have achieved,” says Frederick.

“And they must be made aware of their mistakes,” says Jenny.

“Won't they know these things already, for themselves?” I says, tired now after the food.

“Some of them might,” says Frederick. “But we mustn't presume a high level of self-consciousness or theory in these men.”

Karl nods. “Our main aim now must be to make the Commune's historic experience available, firstly, to those who were directly involved and, subsequently, more widely. We must analyze theoretically the lessons of the rebellion and thereby turn spontaneous sympathy into the conscious desire and ability of the proletarian masses to carry its cause forward to victory.”

“Oughtn't we be hearkening to what they themselves have to say?” I says. “They being the revolutionaries?”

“Of course, Lizzie,” says Frederick. “No one is suggesting otherwise. But many of these men are infused with a mood of failure and disappointment. We must press upon them that the Commune was merely the first attempt at working-class government, and therefore destined to failure. And that this failure is part of the necessary course. For you see, Lizzie, the death of the Paris rebellion is more historical than its life. Its dying is only the beginning.”

The beginning? How many of those must they have before they start to see they're the end?

XXII. The Art of Being Well

Dr. Allen comes and orders me onto my back.

“You've been called in error,” I says. “I'm not ill.”

“Mr. Engels tells me you've been coughing.”

“I'm not one to fly to the medical man every time my throat tingles.”

“He doesn't like to hear it. He says it won't leave you.”

“I've had a cough since I was a child, Doctor. It's what you get for growing up in Manchester.”

“Is that so.”

“Aye. Since back-when I've had it, and till my death I'll have it. My wind gets wheezy and it hurts, and then it doesn't. That's always been the way of it.”

“He says you insist on going out in bad weather. Getting wet in the rain.”

“Mother of Moses, I've never known such a talker.”

“Exertion is the instigation of your illness, Mrs. Burns. You must be careful against agitation of all kinds and against excessive application.”

“English, Doctor?”

“Stop your running about. Too much exercise can imbalance a woman.”

I throw him a look.

“Well, at least wait for a clear day, Mrs. Burns.”

He feels around me. “How are your knees?”

My knees? Growing more and more watery. Bare a bend left in them. Not long till I'll be obliged to walk with a stick. “Grand.”

“And down here?” He presses down into me. “Do you have urgency?”

“Urgency, Doctor?”

“Passing water.”

“I've never been able to hold it long, if that's what you mean.”

“Is there a sting?”

“Nay.” Sometimes.

“Hmm. I feel something here. A small swelling. Nothing to worry about in the immediate term. But we'll have to keep an eye on it.”

“We're getting on, Doctor. We can't expect to be well, most of us.”

He recommends that I stay inside and revive. Makes up a prescription for something he knows I won't get. For the fact of it is: we're oftener killed by treatment than disease.

July

XXIII. The Other Half

In search of a missing slipper, I come through the middle doors of the parlor, and there on the chair in the corner, on the wolsey bought special for the move, is a strange man, lounging.

“I'm afraid Mr. Engels is from home, sir.”

He sweeps his wet hair back. “I was told to wait here.”

“You'll have to come back.”

“I am sorry, but that was not what I was told at the door.”

“Sunday is what you ought've been told. We receive on a Sunday.”

“That's no good. No good at all.”

“If you have a card, I can make sure Mr. Engels gets it.”

“A card, a card, that's very well, a card is something, better than nothing, but now that I'm here and have been made sit for so long, and with the water coming down outside, and being without a proper coat and liable for a soaking, maybe all these factors considering I should be allowed to see the lady of the house? A short minute from her schedule is all I ask,
s'il vous plait.
”

A pause; a tiny gap into which the whole world could fit.

“Bah, of course! You must be Mrs. Burns!” He stands and bows. “Delighted and honored. The name is Delamer”—he opens his coat and settles back into my afternoon—“Roland Delamer. Just in from Paris.”

“Welcome to London, Mr. Delamer.”

“
Merci, merci.
”

“And if you are still here Sunday, I'm sure Mr. Engels will be happy to receive you.”

“Still here Sunday? Mrs. Burns, with the situation at home as it is, I shan't be leaving London until long after Sunday. Ah, the things I've seen.” He closes his eyes and, like an actor of the stage, shakes his head. “The weight I carry.”

The fashion of his collar, up at middle-cheek, makes it seem like he's peering out over a wall and not liking much what he sees: now the pictures, now the carpet, now the ornaments, now the lamps. He smoothes his hair over the other way and looks back at me.

“You'll have met some others, Mrs. Burns? Communards who have fled the repression?”

“A few.”

Torn carpets, I have, from the volume of them coming through, and I've noticed it's the ones with the look of butchers, stern and strong-made, who are ashamed about bringing their filth higher than the kitchen, while it's the ones grown delicate from bookwork who waltz about and stamp their prints deep. And even by the standards of the dainty fellas, this one here is spare and thin, a ballroom the fitter place for his shoes, time enough on the barricades to macassar his brow and whisker.

“It's as I thought. For everywhere I look in London, I see French faces, my brothers, my comrades, and they all have the same aspect, the same eyes filled with the same horror. It's an abominable situation. The things I have seen. The things I have seen!”

I don't conceal my sigh. “I'll order some tea, Mr. Delamer, and you'll have a cup. But then I must ask you to—”

“Not Dull-a-mare, Mrs. Burns. D-E-L-A-M-E-R. De-la-mer. Of the sea.”

I pull the bell-cord, and now harder, and am glad when no one stirs to answer it and I have to go myself. “Do excuse me a moment, Mr. Delacey.”

Burns. Of the fire.
Enchanté.

I find Spiv in the kitchen, picking the chicken.

“Spiv?”

“Name's Camilla, ma'am.”

“What day is it?”

“It's bird day, ma'am.”

“And what day is bird day?”

“Bird day's the day I'm stuck in here as always, not a sinner to help me.”

“It's Wednesday, Spiv. Today is Wednesday.”

“Aye, ma'am, bird day.”

“And what day do we receive?”

“Sunday, ma'am.”

“Too hard to remember?”

“No, ma'am.”

“The only house in the country that dares, God forgive us.”

“Aye, ma'am.”

“Aye, ma'am, aye, ma'am, three bags burst ma'am, but what's there a gent doing in my parlor on this, a Wednesday?”

“Couldn't say, ma'am.”

“Couldn't say.”

“Bird day, ma'am. Been stuck in here, not a sinner to help me. Ain't seen no man.”

Even the blunt ones would cut you with argument.

I nose out Pumps in her room, melting candles and putting her knuckles into them.

“Put that out.”

She laps her tips, pinches the wick.

“Didn't you hear the bell?”

“The what?”

“Is that wax going into your ears?”

Unmade bed. Scab on the arm. Pinny a doubtful white. A day in the mill and she'd know what from what.

“What have I told you about callers?”

“None past the door when Uncle Angel's not here.”

“Mr. Engels.”

“That's what I said.” She scratches herself. “Oh, and as well, I'm to take their card and tell them to come back on Sunday. And if they don't have a card, I'm to write down their name and their current residence.”

“The rule isn't for saying but for obeying.”

“All right, don't overcook, Aunt Liz.”

“You have to be firm at the door or they'll put on us, these frogs.”

“I don't know what you're on about, I didn't let anyone in.”

“Now look at where you've got us. Frederick not back till supper, our stores empty, and another one on our hands till Jesus knows when. The shape will be pulled out of my day entire. I just pray he doesn't want a bed for the night.”

“No need for a song and dance, Aunt Liz. Do you want me to go and talk to him?”

You do what you can, and that's all you can do. You tell them whose house they're in, and why a stray caller isn't a light thing, not here. You tell them to keep a special watch on the French, for the French are ignorant of what's done and what's not, most of them being
refugees,
which means on the run and penniless and with nowhere to put down their heads. You tell them it's forgivable they decide to call on this house, and it's forgivable that once inside they forget their manners and overstay their time telling their grievings, darkening the rooms with wild words and dead faces, and giving eye to the sofa, hoping to put themselves on it. But the truth is, we can't help everybody who comes. We have to draw a line. It won't do the Revolution any good if a lodging is made of our parlor and Frederick is kept from his work. You tell them all this, you go blue in the face, and still it doesn't sink. Still they let pass any creature that can hobble. And it's hard to pin on them any wrongdoing. So sometimes the only thing for it is a swift clip round the ear.

Back down in a fresh dress.

“We'll have tea direct, Mr. Delacey. You'll have to pardon the running about.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Burns, I understand. I have a wife myself.”

It takes Pumps three trips to bring all the tea things, so concerned is she with her bobs and her ribbons.

“Thank you, Miss Burns, that'll be enough.”

“A sweet girl. Is she your daughter?”

“Niece.” Half-niece. Plenty-removed.

“Well, I knew there was some connection. There's the same heat in your eyes.”

The same heat that burns.

“Weak or strong?”

“
Comme ça.
”

“Milk?”

“Some lemon, if you have it.”

“Of course.” I call Pumps back in, much to her thrilling. “Bring the gent some lemon.”

“Ma'am?”

“Slices, Miss Burns, slices.”

“I hope it's no trouble.”

“Not a bit of it, Mr. Delacey, after all you've been through.”

He takes his cup from the tray and holds it out for pouring, but in a mean way, close to his chest, which obliges me to stand and reach over. And, now, just when I'm at my most uncertain, up on pointed toe and with no free hand to lean down on—she's gone and brought me the pot that needs a finger to keep the lid on—he parts his whiskers to show his teeth (good and strong) and the front of his jacket to show the lining (silk, no less) and the lip of the inside pocket (abulge with money notes, a terrible lot of capital to have clear all at once). Tea pours over the lip of the cup onto the saucer and fountains down onto his fingers. He lets everything drop. Most of the tea ends up on his shirt and breeches. The wolsey—praise be—is saved.

While he prances and yells, I find myself calm. How queer his speech is, I think as I watch him dance across the carpet and pull the scalded clothes away from himself. How it has changed from before. As a man in his cholers, I wouldn't have guessed him French. German or English perhaps. One of the efficient races. But not French.

Pumps comes in with the lemon. “Sir, are you all right?” she says.

“What does it bloody look like,” he says, as far from French as I am.

“Why don't we get those off you, sir, and we'll give you—”

“Pumps! Go get a cloth and fettle up this mess.”

Two curtsies, the scut manages, in the middle of the chaos.

“I'm awful sorry, Mr. Delacey,” I says, handing him some napkins, “my mind went elsewhere and I didn't know where I was.”

“Mrs. Burns! It would do you well to train your mind on matters, particularly the handling of hot things. You would be surprised how many people are injured or even killed by accidents in the home.”

Fine advice. From a rebel.

We fall into an uneasy quiet. I could ask him about Paris and what he did and saw there, test him that way. But you never know with that. It can bring you to places you'd rather not be.

“Sandwich?” I says instead, and seeing now that they're the ones left over from Sunday, I give them a sly sniff as I pass. Tolerable. He takes one and puts it in whole. Chews. Rearranges his crotch. Swallows.

I sip and shift round and am about to call time when he fixes me a stare. He pats his pocket, the one with the money, as if I've forgotten about it, a swelling as big as one of Karl's carbuncles.

Says he: “So a chat, then, Mrs. Burns?”

I put my cup down, fold my arms across.

“Is there something you want, Mr. Delacey?”

“A quiet one, are you, Mrs. Burns?”

I ignore his wink. “What is it you want? I run a busy house.”

He takes up a second sandwich and begins to play with it. Turns it like a coin till the bread turns gray. Puts it back on the plate. “So what has Mr. Engels been up to this past while?”

I look past him, out the window.

“And Dr. Marx? How is his health?”

“I don't know what it's like in France but here, Mr. Delacey, you oughtn't credit what you read in the papers.”

He leans towards me, arse lifting right off. “So you see a lot of him?”

“A lot of who?”

“Marx. Dr. Marx. The Red Terror Doctor.”

“What is it you're after, Mr. Delacey?”

“Bah, nothing in particular, Mrs. Burns, anything you want to give me, any small thing.”

I rise to a stand. “I suggest you come back on Sunday.”

He stands too, and talks fast, his speech slipped right out of foreign. “Is it Marx who started the Paris Commune, Mrs. Burns?”

“It was the proletariat as did
that.
”

“But guided by Marx and the International, am I right?”

“You ought know more about it than me. You
are
a Communard, aren't you?”

“Tell me, Mrs. Burns, now that Dr. Marx has waged war on one government, does he have plans to wage war on every government in the world?”

“If you're looking for information on Dr. Marx's activities, you ought read the Association reports, they'll have what you're looking for.”

I start to gather the tea things.

“Leave that, Mrs. Burns, I'll be out of your hair in a jiffy, I just want to have a little chat with you, a head-to-head between friends.”

I pick up the teaboard. He tries to take it from me. I grip it tight. He pulls. I pull back.

“Boo!” he says, giving me such a fright that I go foot-totting backways. He clatters it down on the good table.

“You ought leave now, Mr.— ”

“What do you make of the rumors?”

“I try not to listen to blather. You listen to blather and you get to believing all species of things.”

“Wise words, Mrs. Burns, wise words. But isn't it interesting, fascinating, I'd say, what they're saying?”

“I don't know what they're saying about any cursed thing. Now it's time for you—”

I make for the door, but he lunges forward and takes tight of my wrist. He puts a hand over my mouth, skin too soft for a soldier, the smell of scented water. I'm not afraid. I look into his eyes and see his own fear, and that way I'm not afraid. Slow, he takes his hand away and steps back. Before I start screaming there's a moment, an empty moment, when there's naught but stillness between us. He breaks it with a wink.

“Get out!” I'm so loud I can hear myself against the walls. “It's not a bit of a Frenchman you are and I want you out!”

“Oh now, Mrs. Burns, what's all this? Let's calm down now, shall we?”

“I'll howl the road down, don't think I'll not.”

“Now now, darling, just a couple of minutes, that's all I'm after. We're looking for the inside track. The story behind the story. Inside the home of the Revolution. The other half gets her say.”

“Out, I said. Out!”

He shows his hands in the manner of “I surrender.” “All right, all right, you win,” he says. “But just in case you change your mind.” He reaches into his jacket, slides a card and a money note, a whole five-jack, between a cup and the pot. “And there's more where that came from,” he says, and is gone.

The door slams.

Rain.

Pumps comes in looking pale.

“Nay, child,” I says, “I'll clear this. Go put the chain on the street door. And don't tell Frederick about any of it.”