The Crimson Petal and the White (8 page)

What a curse that his father can’t see this! The old man, grown rich working at the same thing daily from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. for forty years, has lost any natural sense of the pain that monotonous drudgery might inflict on a finer soul. To Henry Calder Rackham, even the recently introduced half-day holiday on Saturdays is a shameful waste of man-hours.

Not that Henry Calder Rackham is working as hard now as in earlier years, his involvement in the company being more deskbound now. He’s still fit as a horse, mind you, but, with William’s marriage prospects to consider, a change was needed. A better address, a respectably sedentary routine, a few offers of assistance to members of the aristocracy experiencing a spot of pecuniary bother: without these gestures on Rackham Senior’s part, his son would never have won Agnes Unwin’s hand. Had the old man still been striding up and down the lavender farm in his worsted jacket and boots, there would have been no point even asking Lord Unwin if Agnes was available.

Instead, by the time of the marriage negotiations, Rackham Senior was ‘keeping an eye’ on his business from a very presentable house, admittedly
in
Bayswater but
very near
Kensington, and his son William was
such
a promising young man, sure to become a notable figure in … well, some sphere or other.

Oh, certainly it was understood that the younger Rackham would eventually take charge of Rackham Perfumeries, but his grip on the reins would no doubt be all-but-invisible, and the public would see only his other, loftier accomplishments. At the time of his courtship of Agnes, William, though long out of university, still managed to glow with the graduate’s aura of infinite promise and the vivacious charm of the contentedly idle. All sham? How dare you! Even now, William keeps up to date with the latest developments in zoology, sculpture, politics, painting, archaeology, novel-writing … everything, really, that is discussed in the better monthly reviews. (No, he will
not
cancel any of his subscriptions – none, do you hear!)

But how can he
possibly
make his mark in any of these (William frets as he finds his favourite bench in St James’s Park) when he’s being virtually blackmailed into a life of tedious labour? How can he
possibly
be expected …

But let me rescue you from drowning in William Rackham’s stream of consciousness, that stagnant pond feebly agitated by self-pity. Money is what it boils down to: how much of it, not enough of it, when will it come next, where does it go, how can it be conserved, and so on.

The bald facts are these: Rackham Senior is getting tired of running Rackham Perfumeries, damn tired. His first-born, Henry, is no use whatsoever as an heir, having devoted himself to God from a young age. A decent enough fellow and, as a frugal bachelor, not much of a bother to support – although if he really means to make his career in the Church, he’s taking a powerful long time deliberating over it. But never mind: the younger boy, William, will have to do. Like Henry, he’s slow to show a talent for anything, but he has expensive tastes, a stylish wife and a fair-sized household – all of which suck hard at the nipple of paternal generosity. Stern lectures having failed to have the desired effect, Rackham Senior is now attempting to hasten Rackham Junior’s halting steps towards the directorship of the business by reducing William’s allowance, slowly and steadily. Each month he reduces it a little more, whittling away at the style to which his son is accustomed.

Already William has been obliged to reduce the number of his servants from nine to six; trips abroad are a thing of the past; travel by cab has become, if not a luxury, then certainly no longer a matter of course. William is no longer prompt to replace worn-out or outmoded possessions; and the dream of employing a male – the true yardstick of prosperity – remains emphatically a dream.

What grieves William most is how
unnecessary
his suffering is, given the value of the family assets. If his father would only sell his company, lock, stock and barrel, the sum it raised would be so enormous that the Rackhams could live off it for generations – What was the old man working for, all these years, if not for that?

The desire to make more money when more than enough has already been made disgusts William, a socialist by inclination. Besides, were Rackham Senior to sell up and invest the proceeds, the money would be self-replenishing; it might even last forever, and come, in time, to be regarded as ‘old money’. And if it’s sentimental attachment to the business that prevents the old man from selling, why oh why must it be William who accepts the burden of leadership? Why can’t some capable trustworthy fellow be appointed from the ranks of Rackham Perfumeries itself?

In his grief, William resorts to a political philosophy of his own invention, a scheme he hopes might one day be imposed on English society. (Rackhamism, history might call it.) It is a theory he’s toyed with for a decade or more, though he’s sharpened it recently; it involves the abolition of what he terms ‘unjustifiable capital’, to be replaced with what he terms ‘equity of fortune’. This means that as soon as a man has made a large enough fortune to support, perpetually, his household (defined as a family of up to ten persons, with no more than ten servants), he is banned from stockpiling any more. Speculative investments in Argentinian gold-mines and the like would be prohibited; instead, investment in safe and solid concerns would be overseen by Government, to ensure that the return, although unspectacular, was perennial. Any excess income flowing to the wealthiest men would be re-routed into the public coffers for distribution among society’s unfortunates – the destitute and homeless.

A revolutionary proposal, he’s well aware of that, and no doubt horrifying to many, for it would erode the present distinctions between the classes; there would no longer be an aristocracy in the sense nowadays understood. Which, in William’s view, would be a damn good thing, as he’s tired of being reminded that Downing College was hardly Corpus Christi, and that he was lucky to get in at all.

So there you have it: the thoughts (somewhat pruned of repetition) of William Rackham as he sits on his bench in St James’s Park. If you are bored beyond endurance, I can offer only my promise that there will be fucking in the very near future, not to mention madness, abduction, and violent death.

In the meantime, Rackham is jogged violently from his brooding by the sound of his own name.

‘Bill!’

‘Great God yes: Bill!’

William looks up, head still full of sludge, so that he can only stare dumbly at the sudden apparition of his two best friends, his inseparable Cambridge cronies, Bodley and Ashwell.

‘Won’t be long now, Bill,’ cries Bodley, ‘before it’s time to celebrate!’

‘Celebrate what?’ says William.

‘Everything, Bill! The whole blessed Bacchanalia of Christmas! Miraculous offspring popping out of virgins into mangers! Steaming mounds of pudding! Gallons of port! And before you know it, another year put to bed!’

‘1874 well-poked and snoring,’ grins Ashwell, ‘with a juicy young 1875 trembling in the doorway, waiting to be treated likewise.’

(They are very similar, he and Bodley, in their ageless ‘old boys’ appearance. Immaculately dressed, excitable and listless all at once, slick-faced, and wearing hats superior to any sold by Billington & Joy. They are in fact
so
similar that William has been known, in moments of extreme drunkenness, to address them as Bashley and Oddwell. But Ashwell is distinguishable from Bodley by sparser side-whiskers, slightly less florid cheeks, and a smaller paunch.)

‘Haven’t seen you in
aeons
, Bill. What have you been up to? Apart from cutting all your hair off?’

Bodley and Ashwell sit heavily on the bench next to William, then perch forward, their chins and folded hands resting on the knobs of their walking sticks, grotesquely attentive. They are like architectural gargoyles carved for the same tower.

‘Agnes has been bad,’ Rackham replies, ‘and there’s that cursed business to take over.’

There, it’s said. Bodley and Ashwell are trying to seduce him into frivolity: they may as well know he’s not in the mood. Or at least that they must seduce him harder.

‘Be careful the business doesn’t take
you
over,’ cautions Ashwell. ‘You’d be such a bore gassing on about … oh, I don’t know … crop yield.’

‘No fear,’ says William, fearing.

‘Far better to make a trembling young beauty
yield
to the
crop
,’ snarls Bodley theatrically, then looks to Rackham and Ashwell for praise.

‘That’s utterly feeble, Bodley,’ says Ashwell.

‘Maybe so,’ sniffs Bodley. ‘But you’ve paid pounds for worse.’

‘At any rate, Bill,’ pursues Ashwell, ‘– pornography aside – you mustn’t let Agnes keep you out of the great stream of Life this way. The way you’re worrying so much over a mere woman … it’s dangerous. That way lies … uh … what’s the word I’m looking for, Bodley?’

‘Love, Ashwell. Never touch the stuff myself.’

A wan smile twitches on William’s face. Stroke on, old friends, stroke on!

‘Seriously, Bill, you mustn’t let this problem with Agnes turn into a family curse. You know, like in those frightful old-fashioned novels, with the distracted female leaping out of cupboards. You have to realise you’re not the only man in this position: there are
hordes
of mad wives about – half of London’s females are positively
raving
. God damn it, Bill: you’re a free man! There’s no sense locking yourself up, like an old badger.’

‘London out of Season is enough of a bore as it is,’ chips in Ashwell. ‘Best to waste it in style.’

‘And how,’ asks William, ‘have the two of you been wasting it?’

‘Oh, we’ve been hard at work,’ enthuses Ashwell, ‘on a simply superb new book – mostly
my
labour,’ (here Bodley scoffs loudly) ‘with Bodley polishing up the prose a bit – called
The Efficacy of Prayer
.’

‘Awful lot of work involved, you know. We’ve been quizzing hordes of devout believers, getting them to tell us honestly if they ever got anything they prayed for.’

‘By that we don’t mean vague nonsense like “courage” or “comfort”; we mean actual
results
, like a new house, mother’s deafness cured, assailant hit by bolt of lightning, et cetera.’

‘We’ve been terrifically thorough, if I do say so myself. As well as hundreds of
individual
cases, we also examine the
general, formulaic
prayers that thousands of people have uttered every night for years. You know the sort of thing: delivery from evil, peace on Earth, the conversion of the Jews and so on. The clear conclusion is that sheer weight of numbers and perseverance don’t get you anywhere either.’

‘When we’ve chalked it all up, we’re going to talk to some of the top clergy – or at least solicit correspondence from them – and get their view. We want to make it clear to everyone that this book is a disinterested, scientific study, quite open to comment or criticism from its … ah … victims.’

‘We mean to hit Christ for six,’ interjects Bodley, driving his cane into the wet earth.

‘We’ve had some delightful finds,’ says Ashwell. ‘Superbly mad people. We talked to a clergyman in Bath (wonderful to see the place again, capital beer there) and he told us he’s been praying for the local public house to burn down.’

‘“Or otherwise perish”.’

‘Said he supposed God was deciding on the right time.’

‘Completely confident of eventual success.’

‘Three years he’s been praying for this – nightly!’

Both men thump their canes on the ground in sarcastic ecstasy.

‘Do you think,’ says William, ‘there’s the slightest chance you’ll find a publisher?’ He’s in better spirits now, almost seduced, yet feels compelled to mention the spoilsport realities of the world as it is. Bodley and Ashwell merely grin at each other knowingly.

‘Oh yes. Sure to. There’s a simply thundering call nowadays for books that destroy the fabric of our society.’

‘That goes for novels, too,’ says Ashwell, winking pointedly at William. ‘Do keep that in mind if you still mean to produce anything in that field.’

‘But honestly Bill – you really must show yourself more often. We haven’t seen you at any of the old haunts for ages.’

‘Got to preserve your bad name, you know.’

‘Got to keep your hand in.’

‘Mustn’t be foiled by the march of time.’

‘What do you mean?’ says the startled William. His traumatic haircut has exposed strands of premature grey amongst the gold, so he’s sensitive to any mention of advancing age.

‘Pubescent
girls
, William. Time catches up with them. They don’t stay ripe for ever, you know. Half a year makes all the difference. Indeed, you’ve already missed
some
girls that have passed into legend, Bill –
legend
.’

‘To give just one example: Lucy Fitzroy.’

‘Oh yes – Lord Almighty yes.’

The two men leap up from the bench as if on a pre-agreed signal.

‘Lucy Fitzroy,’ begins Ashwell, in the manner of a music-hall recital, ‘was a new girl at Madame Georgina’s in the Finchley Road, where there is chastisement a’plenty.’ By way of illustration Ashwell brings his cane down hard on his calf several times. ‘
Down
, flesh!
Up
, flesh!
Down
!’

‘Steady on, Ashwell.’ Bodley lays a cautioning hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Remember, only a lord can make a limp look distinguished.’

‘Well, as you may know, Bodley and I occasionally take a peek in Madame Georgina’s to see what calibre of girl is wielding the whips. And late last year we came upon an absolute fizgig of a girl, introduced to us by the madam as Lucy Fitzroy, illegitimate daughter of Lord Fitzroy, with horse-riding consequently in her blood.’

‘Well no doubt it’s all bosh, but the girl seemed convinced of it! Fourteen years old, smooth and firm as a babe, with the most
glorious
pride. She had on all the riding gear, and she wore it so well – she’d come down the stairs,
sideways
, like this, one boot, then the other, as though she were
dismounting
from the steps. She’d be clutching a
very
short and quite
vicious
riding crop, and on her cheeks you could see those little spots of colour burning – genuine, I’ll swear. And Madame Georgina told us that whenever a man was sent up to her, the girl would stand on the landing and wait there just so, and when the poor fool got close enough,
ssshwish!
she’d slash him across the cheek with the crop, and then point with it towards the bed and say—’