Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (2 page)

‘Hush, my dear,’ said Mrs Blackhorn, covering her husband’s
head with a damp cloth. ‘It’s the fever talking, you see. I will love him until the end of time, as you would expect, but once he is gone, I feel it only right that I treat myself to a few of the finer things. Have my lovely hair done and such.’ She patted her locks as if they were spun gold. ‘The curls are natural, of course.’

I laughed. Rather loudly. Mrs Blackhorn twirled around to glare at me. But her curly locks did not. As such, her delightfully round face vanished behind a pile of tangled ringlets. While the poor creature retrieved her hair, Mother Snagsby pulled me towards the deathbed.

‘The young lady has selected a poem that may provide some comfort, Mr Blackhorn,’ she said loudly. ‘It is a service we now offer to all of our customers free of charge.’

Mr Blackhorn pulled the cloth from his face. The candle beside his bed cast ghostly shadows upon his skin. He had sunken cheeks. Grey whiskers. But his eyes had a certain spark. ‘Haven’t I suffered enough?’

His wife turned back and looked mournfully at him. ‘It will comfort his sister when I write and tell her that the last words George heard were a few lines of lovely poetry. Go ahead, girl.’

‘Last words?’ spluttered Mr Blackhorn. ‘I’m not dead yet, Martha, so you can tell these blasted coffin makers to clear off! I’m feeling better than I have in days.’

‘You are not!’ scolded his wife with some force. ‘You’re
dying, George, so stop fighting it.’ She dabbed at her eyes and her bosom heaved. ‘I just want my dear husband to be at peace.’

Mother Snagsby nodded at me and I fished the poem from my pocket and began:

‘
As my true love fades away in the dying of the light,

I know his soul will scatter, petals on the wind.

In any life there are seasons and we all must submit

Surrender unto death, petals on the wind …
’

It was a ghastly poem. So dull and worthy and bleak. It was monstrous! Which was why I continued with the following:

‘
Mrs Blackhorn vows that her love will never die,

But the poor cow hasn’t shed a tear, though she really does try.
’

Mrs Blackhorn gasped and covered her mouth. Mr Blackhorn began to chortle and clap his hands. Which was terrifically promising!

I went on:

‘
Poor Mr Blackhorn shall find peace beyond his flea-ridden bed,

And his dear wife a new wig, once Old Gloomy Guts is dead.
’

‘Stop it this instant!’ hissed Mother Snagsby. She turned to Mrs Blackhorn. ‘I do apologise for the girl. She has been warned about making up her own verses.’

‘I thought it was grand,’ declared Mr Blackhorn.

His wife had fallen to the bed, shrieking something rather unkind in my direction. Mother Snagsby tried to comfort her, while Ezra ushered me over to a chair in the corner of the room. ‘Sit here, Ivy,’ he instructed, ‘while we finish up.’

When Mrs Blackhorn stopped bleating, she left the room to freshen up and straighten her wig. A maid came in carrying a pot of tea for the Snagsbys and glass of warm milk for me. I hate warm milk as a general rule. Revolting stuff. But for some reason Mother Snagsby
insisted
that I drink it, while she and Ezra conducted the last part of each sickbed visit – discussing particulars with regard to the coffin and whatnot.

‘Shame on you,’ scolded Mother Snagsby, handing me the glass. ‘What you have done is unforgivable. Drink the milk and button your lips.’

For once I did as I was told.

‘Wake up.’

I was shaking. Or rather, a hand had grabbed my shoulder and was rattling it.

‘Wake up, I say.’ It was Mother Snagsby. ‘Wake up this instant!’

I opened my eyes. Felt a burning in my chest. Looked about, blinking a great deal. Then yawned like an infant and stretched my arms. It took a moment or two to realise where I was. Mr Blackhorn’s dreary bedroom. Except that it was no longer Mr Blackhorn’s room. For he was dead. A sheet covered his lifeless body. His wife was sobbing real tears at his side.

‘But I thought … Mr Blackhorn said he was feeling better,’ I said softly.

‘He was mistaken,’ came Mother Snagsby’s reply.

‘How long was I asleep?’

‘Long enough,’ said Mother Snagsby, picking up the empty glass of milk from the table beside me. ‘You are making a habit of this, young lady. Are you not sleeping at night?’

‘I sleep like a log, dear,’ I said, getting to my feet. My head spun furiously and I sat back down again. I
had
drifted off to sleep several times in the past few months. Right after reading a poem at the bedside of a nearly departed. Which was odd. And another thing. My chest felt terribly warm. I lifted my
hand to my heart. But it wasn’t my chest that was hot. It was the Clock Diamond. I felt certain there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. I just couldn’t think what.

Ezra shuffled over to Mrs Blackhorn and offered his condolences.

But Mother Snagsby did not. She handed Mrs Blackhorn the bill of sale. ‘My men will be along to collect the body within the hour.’ Her tone with the grieving widow was cool and businesslike. ‘Death acts quickly, Mrs Blackhorn, so I would advise against looking under the shroud. Remember your husband as he was and Snagsbys’ Funerals will take care of the rest.’

Mrs Blackhorn nodded her head in silence.

‘He’s at peace,’ said Ezra. ‘That’s got to be a comfort.’

‘I thought it would be,’ said Mrs Blackhorn meekly.

Mother Snagsby grabbed her parasol, then motioned to Ezra and to me.

‘Let us go,’ she said, already striding towards the door. ‘Our work here is done.’

The Snagsbys disappeared every Sunday morning at nine o’clock sharp. Which was a great relief. It was all on account of Adelaide Snagsby – Ezra’s favourite sister. Once a week the Snagsbys would put on their finest clothes and set off for Adelaide’s boarding house in Bayswater. But I wasn’t invited.

For I didn’t exist.

Apparently, finding out that her brother had adopted a twelve-year-old maid of dubious origin would upset the narrow-minded nitwit. Therefore, I was kept a secret. Left behind with a list of chores, while the Snagsbys went off to shovel cream cake in their pie holes and chat about the weather.

Sometimes I threw a thrilling tantrum. But not today. Mother Snagsby was still cross with me about Mr Blackhorn’s poem. Two days had passed and she had barely uttered a word in my direction.

‘We are running late,’ muttered Ezra as he shuffled in from the workshop. Ezra made all of the Snagsbys’ discount coffins
in the carriage house out at the back, though he spent a great deal of time snoozing under the almond tree.

‘Mother Snagsby is in the kitchen,’ I said, moving my dustpan and broom to let him pass.

The Snagsbys’ home was narrow and tall and terribly fond of dust. The downstairs was devoted to the funeral business – the viewing chamber and consulting room were handsome and elegant. The upstairs was for living – these rooms were faded, worn and bleak (with the exception of Gretel’s room).

Ezra looked towards the kitchen. Scratched at his jowls. ‘Bacon?’

I nodded my head. ‘She’s on her third plate.’

Mother Snagsby had an unnatural fondness for bacon. Ate it by the bucketful. Poor Mrs Dickens (the housekeeper and cook) was forever sending me to the butcher for another pound.

The old man sighed and sat down in a chair beneath a portrait of his daughter, Gretel. There were paintings of her in every room of the house, including the kitchen – one for every year, from a little girl up until the age of eighteen, when she was sent off to finishing school in Paris. Mother Snagsby had painted each one. She was rather gifted with a brush. In the picture above Ezra’s bald head, Gretel looked to be about ten or eleven, sitting atop a horse and looking rather delighted.

‘It cannot be good,’ said Ezra softly, ‘all that bacon.’

‘I wouldn’t worry, dear,’ I said, wiping my hands on the beastly apron Mother Snagsby insisted that I wear. ‘Back when I worked for the Midwinters, Miss Lucy ate nothing but turnips for a whole winter.’ I gave Ezra a reassuring smile. ‘It did her no real harm. Well, apart from her skin turning green. And I seem to recall she lost all feeling in her face. Other than that, fit as a fiddle.’

‘Get up, Ezra!’ snapped Mother Snagsby as she bustled into the narrow hall.

Ezra jumped to his feet – he was frightfully obedient.

Mother Snagsby wiped some bacon grease from her chin and regarded me coolly. ‘Why are you sitting there, young lady? The hall will not dust itself.’

‘I feel I must point out that, as your
daughter
, it isn’t proper that I should dust and polish and sweep like some sort of pint-sized Cinderella. Not to mention answering the door, fetching endless pots of tea and cleaning your diabolical undergarments.’

‘And where would you be if Ezra and I had not taken you in?’ Mother Snagsby slipped on a pair of pale green gloves (which matched her pale green dress). ‘This house is a place of work and everybody must play their part, even
daughters
.’

It was hard to say exactly how old Mother Snagsby was. She had a most interesting face. Lumpy skin covered by a thick layer of white powder. Fine lines scrunched around her bright
blue eyes and tiny mouth. Black hair with a streak of white at the temple. And a stupendous mole, sitting above her upper lip like a Christmas pudding.

‘But there must be more to life, dear,’ I said, picking up the dustpan. ‘Why can we never have company over? Haven’t you any friends?’ I gasped with great commitment. ‘I know! We could throw an enchanting afternoon tea and invite some girls my own age. Just think how nice it would be to have people in the house who haven’t come to view a dead body.’

‘Out of the question,’ came Mother Snagsby’s stiff reply, ‘but as you are keen for company, young lady, once you have finished your chores, you may go to the library and select a few
suitably
sombre poems – no more making things up. It’s unseemly.’

Ezra put on his cap and opened the front door. ‘Be sure to walk the main roads, Ivy,’ he instructed, same as always. ‘No shortcuts, you hear?’

‘Yes, dear,’ I said with a sigh.

Then the Snagsbys passed out into the morning sun and were gone.