Foxes, p.17
FOXES, page 17
Shafeen looked lost. ‘What rhyme?’
‘It goes, Remember, Remember the Fifth of November … ’
‘Oh yes!’ said Nel, joining in. ‘Gunpowder treason and plot.’
‘We see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot,’ we chorused, finishing the rhyme together.
Shafeen was looking at us like we were both crazy. ‘I’ve literally never heard that before.’
‘That’s because you were at school in Jaipur before STAGS. If you’re in a primary over here, they teach it to you. It’s a British schoolkid’s first real encounter with revolution. Terrorism 101. Civil Disobedience for Dummies.’
‘OK,’ said Shafeen. ‘So you’re saying Nashe gave you a coded message about Guy Fawkes.’
Was I? ‘I guess I am, yes. Then Abbot Ridley led us to Guy Fawkes’s lantern in the Ashmolean Museum. Containing the very flame Fawkes was going to use to light the fuse and blow up both Houses of Parliament – Guy Fawkes’s suicide vest. Then we go riding in Hyde Park, and who is at Speaker’s Corner? A bunch of anti-Establishment protesters, all wearing Guy Fawkes masks.’
I spread out both my hands, waiting for them both to catch up.
‘Think about it.’ I took a breath. ‘There’s some connection between Volpone and Guy Fawkes. And Ty found out about it. Ty said, See if you can find out about Foxes. Volpone literally means “fox”.’
‘When was Volpone written?’ asked Shafeen suddenly.
Nel flipped out her Saros and tapped away. ‘Late 1605 to 1606.’
‘And when was the Gunpowder Plot? November, obvs, but what year?’
Tap, tap. Nel looked up, and we knew from her face what the answer was before she even said it. ‘It was 1605.’
‘OK,’ said Shafeen. ‘That’s suggestive. Let’s have the facts about the Gunpowder Plot. I know a bit but not enough. A gang of young nobles, wasn’t it?’
‘Hello, Wikipedia,’ said Nel, typing rapidly with her thumbs. ‘Here goes:
The Gunpowder Plot of 1605 was a failed assassination attempt against King James I by a group of provincial English Catholics led by Robert Catesby. The plan was to blow up the House of Lords during the State Opening of Parliament on 5th November 1605. Guy Fawkes, who had ten years of military experience fighting in the Spanish Netherlands in the failed suppression of the Dutch Revolt, was given charge of the explosives.
‘Why didn’t they like James I?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Other way round,’ said Nel. ‘According to this, the king had renounced the Catholic church and ordered all Catholic priests to leave the country. But I’m not sure the plot was personal against James – it says here the plan was to get rid of senior judges, aristocracy and bishops, who’d all be attending the State Opening of Parliament on 5th November. In other words –’ she looked up –‘the whole of the elite Establishment.’
‘Beat the Elite,’ said Shafeen. ‘And why didn’t the plot work?’
‘Hang on.’ She swiped up the screen with her forefinger. ‘Ah, OK: The plot was revealed to the authorities in an anonymous letter sent to William Parker, 4th Baron Monteagle, on 26th October 1605. During a search of the House of Lords at about midnight on 4th November 1605, Fawkes was discovered guarding thirty-six barrels of gunpowder – enough to reduce the House of Lords to rubble – and arrested.’
‘Presumably holding the lantern you saw,’ put in Shafeen.
‘Yes – there’s a picture of it here,’ said Nel. ‘It even says Ashmolean Museum.’
‘There we go,’ I said.
‘Ooh, also there’s a section on the actual Monteagle Letter. They’ve reproduced the text here.’
‘Read it,’ urged Shafeen.
Nel did. And as she read, she didn’t sound like everyday Nel. This was Chanel the actor, the player who had spoken Ben Jonson’s lines so beautifully in The Isle of Dogs.
My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life, to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at this parliament; for God and man hath concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. And think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country where you may expect the event in safety. For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be condemned because it may do you good and can do you no harm; for the danger is passed as soon as you have burnt the letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you.
‘So whoever sent the Monteagle Letter,’ said Shafeen slowly, ‘just wanted to warn one bloke – Lord Monteagle. They didn’t necessarily want to stop the plot. It was just a warning to a friend to stay away. But Monteagle told the authorities.’
I was caught up in the drama of it all, just as I had been in the Ashmolean. Fawkes, in a dark and cavernous Westminster cellar, crouching over his fuse with his lantern. And, above ground, Lord Monteagle’s fastrider galloping through the streets of London, hooves sparking on the cobblestones, riding, riding, to warn the king. I could almost see it playing out like a movie, and it was an effort to wrench myself back into the real world. ‘This is all very cool,’ I said, ‘but what does it have to do with Volpone?
‘Dunno,’ said Nel, scrolling up and down. ‘No mention of the play here.’
I grabbed the phone. ‘Let’s put both search terms in.’ In the search bar, I typed Volpone/Gunpowder Plot.
The long list of answers came back in less than a second. ‘There is a connection besides the date,’ I said. ‘The results are mostly about one book by a writer called Richard Dutton.’
‘A novel?’
‘No, more like a textbook. It’s called,’ I looked up, ‘Ben Jonson, Volpone and the Gunpowder Plot.’
‘Well, that’s pretty clear,’ said Shafeen. ‘What’s his argument?’
‘Let’s see.’ I tapped one of the results, which seemed to be giving some sort of summary. ‘Listen: Dutton’s basic argument is that Jonson’s play reflects directly (if obliquely) on the events of the 1605 Gunpowder Plot, and that in particular the playwright seems to have taken subtle but satiric aim at the role of Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury and James I’s chief minister, in that nearly explosive affair.’
‘All right,’ said Nel. ‘So this play, as well as taking a shot at Robert Cecil, was a reflection of the Gunpowder Plot, which makes sense as it was written just after.’ She turned to me. ‘Did you clock that when you read it?’
I skimmed my hand over my hair in a whooshing motion. ‘Nope. Went right over my head.’
‘But if that is the case, what does that mean for us, and for Ty,’ asked Shafeen, ‘in the here and now?’
I handed the phone back. ‘It’s clearly directing us to some sort of plot. Has to be, doesn’t it?’
Nel pocketed her phone. ‘But what kind of plot?
‘Well, we’re pretty certain they’re going after Ty on Boxing Day,’ I said. ‘But there’s something bigger here. What about a medieval plot by the Dark Order of the Grand Stag to remove the non-white threat to the white Establishment, one kid at a time? Starting with Ty?’
‘Well, that would certainly fit with what we saw at the STAGS Club, and with the new game book. They’re up to something, that’s for sure.’
‘This is making my head hurt,’ I complained. ‘But we have to figure it out. Tomorrow is our last day here. Then it’s Christmas Eve and we go home before meeting back at Longcross.’
‘Actually, that reminds me –’ Shafeen checked his watch – ‘I’d better call India.’
Shafeen left the drawing room to make the phone call he’d been dreading. He had to tell his parents that he wouldn’t now be coming home for the holiday. If he was determined to come to Longcross on Boxing Day, which he was, it wouldn’t be worth flying to Jaipur and back before school started, as he’d only have a few days. Nel and I chatted idly about the logistics of our journey back to the North – she was going to drop me and Shafeen in Manchester on the way to Chester – but really we were waiting for Shafeen to come back.
When he did, he had an unreadable look on his face.
‘Was it OK?’
‘–ish.’ He flopped down in an armchair and blew his hair out of his eyes. ‘Mother was OK. Father was … well, he was really upset actually.’
‘Had he made loads of plans for you?’ asked Nel.
‘Yes, but it wasn’t that. He doesn’t want me to go to Longcross.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It was the first time I’ve heard my father call the house by name. And it was the first time he’s given me anything approaching a warning.’
‘What did he say?’ I asked gently.
‘Nothing explicit. He just told me to be careful. The only thing that shut him up was telling him we were going to help a girl in trouble. That, for some reason, he got.’
‘Did you tell him everything would be OK?’ said Nel.
‘Sort of.’
‘You didn’t, did you?’ I said.
‘Well –’ he shrugged – ‘I thought it would be tempting Kismat.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘fate.’
Before he could explain further, Bates entered the room, opening both doors at once with that silent flourish only he could pull off. ‘Her ladyship’s compliments, but if you would like to change for lunch, it will be served shortly.’
It was obviously more of an order than a suggestion, so we all trotted upstairs to get out of our horsey clothes.
After lunch, which the countess spent complaining angrily about the ‘vermin’ at Speaker’s Corner, we went to the library. Soundproofed by all those books, we tried, once again, to contact Ty – and once again there was no reply.
‘That’s been two days now,’ I said. ‘Nothing since the STAGS Club night when we missed her call.’
We sort of sat about, at a bit of a loose end, until Shafeen said, ‘Fancy seeing how the other half lives?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, before we go haring off to Longcross, there might just be some other people in London that Ty has been in touch with.’
‘Who?’ asked Nel.
Shafeen said, ‘Her family.’
‘God!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d completely forgotten she was from here.’
‘Well, she’s not from here, is she?’ he said pointedly. ‘She’s from somewhere quite different.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I said. ‘That she lives in London.’
‘We should at least check with them, shouldn’t we?’ asked Shafeen. ‘See if they’ve heard from her.’
‘Have we even got her address?’ queried Nel.
‘I have,’ I said. We’d exchanged addresses the very first time she was invited to Longcross. She’d promised to send me a postcard. ‘It’s in my phone somewhere.’
‘Let’s go then,’ said Nel. ‘We’ve got time before dinner.’
And that’s how, on a snowy December afternoon, we found ourselves heading to a place we’d all heard of a thousand times but never seen. A place that had enormous significance to all of us, but where we’d never set foot.
We were going to the Isle of Dogs.
32
From the minute we got off the train we knew we were in a different world.
We’d taken the Docklands Light Railway from the space-age silver city that was Canary Wharf, and got off at a stop called, unpromisingly, Mudchute. Mudchute was surprisingly green and open, but as we followed Google Maps to the Limehouse Estate, our expectations lowered all the time. Ty’s ‘manor’ was even more grim than we’d anticipated. There was an old sofa in the middle of the scruffy courtyard, like it was The Wire or something. Everywhere we looked there was graffiti – huge bubble letters saying SLUG. I don’t know who Slug was, or is, but he got through a lot of spray paint in his time. There was a helpful map, also graffitied, with a faded schematic of which block was which. We identified Topcliffe House and headed in what we hoped was the right direction. Even the snow, which had looked so beautiful in Regent’s Park, looked quite different here. It was slushy and brown, punctuated with broken scooters and old bike wheels, and personified by a threatening-looking snowman with a backwards baseball cap.
I have to admit, and I’m not proud of this, I felt really uneasy. It was way too quiet, with the snow muffling everything and the blank windows on four sides of the flats watching us like eyes. I was glad, then, that we’d dressed down. Only that morning we’d been in velvet jackets riding in Hyde Park. This afternoon, without even discussing it, we’d all put on the most casual clothes we had with us – Puffas, hoodies and jeans. Even then I felt like we stood out way too much as we made our way up a pee-smelling stairwell, where the ubiquitous Slug had also sprayed his tag.
Along a balcony littered with pushchairs and kids’ bikes, we found Number 2, Topcliffe House. We tried the doorbell, then knocked, but there was no answer. After a moment we peered through the window. There was a plastic windmill stuck in a plant pot on the windowsill, revolving sadly in the bitter wind. Beyond its sails and through the glass we could see a little black kid looking at us with round eyes. At the sight of us he turned and scrambled under a table as if he’d had the four-minute warning.
Somebody came up behind us, jingling housekeys belligerently. ‘Oi!’ said the somebody, and it seemed like such a London syllable. ‘What you lot want?’
I turned to see a girl no taller than me but with enough aggression to scare all of us. She had on a silver Puffa jacket, and her snaky dreadlocks were tied up in a red do-rag. I couldn’t blame her for looking annoyed. We were, at that moment, engaged in looking through the window at what was presumably her brother. This girl had such a resemblance to Ty that I realized she must be her sister. And she got right up in our faces.
‘Sorry,’ I said instinctively, backing away. She was so threatening, even though we outnumbered her, that we were very much on the back foot. ‘We’re friends of Ty Morgan’s – schoolfriends – and we just came to – we wanted to … say hi?’ I finished weakly.
At that the girl completely transformed. She smiled a welcoming smile and clasped my arm so tightly it almost hurt. ‘Come in, come in! Don’t just stand there. I’ll put the kettle on.’ She unlocked the door and we filed in after her. She threw the keys on a little side table with a clash. The front door opened right into the living room. In the corner there was a tiny Christmas tree standing sentinel over a bunch of wrapped presents, which were so large they seemed to take up most of the room. As we crammed into the tiny space she called, ‘DeAngelo! You can come out, baby. Mama’s home.’
Shafeen turned to her, wide-eyed. ‘Are you … Mrs Morgan?’
‘That’s me. But I don’t need no title. Missy’s my name, so you might as well use that.’ She laughed loudly. She was lovely: ballsy, warm and much, much younger than I’d expected.
The kid we’d seen came out from under the table. I’m crap at guessing little kids’ ages but he looked maybe six or seven. His expression explained her aggression. She was being a tiger mother. He half hid behind his mum and looked out at us with enormous eyes.
‘Where’s your book, DeAngelo? You do your reading while I talk to these nice people. I’ll be testing you later. These are Tyeesha’s friends, baby.’
She crossed over to the kitchen, which was just behind this kind of breakfast bar, so really also in the living room. She clicked the kettle on and got out a bunch of mugs with a clatter and started chucking tea bags into them. She did everything in a hurry, as if time was precious to her. She talked loudly over the rising kettle. ‘So who we got here? How d’you know my Ty?’
‘I’m Greer,’ I said. ‘I directed the play she was just in.’
‘And I’m Nel,’ said Nel. ‘I was in it too.’
‘Oh, I know all about you girls,’ she said, delighted. She pointed a long fingernail at me. Her nails were amazing – long acrylics, and the one she was pointing had a crystal set in it. ‘You were Poetaster, and you –’ she moved the fingernail to Nel – ‘was Canis. Right?’
She mashed the teabags vigorously and then lobbed them accurately, Kobe-style, at the bin. She jerked her head at Shafeen. ‘And who’s this one?’
‘I’m Shafeen. Let me help you.’ He sprang up to help distribute the teas. None of the cups matched. The mug he put in front of me was enormous and said SPORTS DIRECT on the side. The tea was nothing like the anaemic Earl Grey that we’d been offered at Cumberland Place in wafer-thin bone-china teacups, but it tasted about a million times better.
Missy watched Shafeen as he passed her a cup, looking him up and down in a comic way. ‘Charmed, I’m sure. Right young gent, ain’t he?’ She sat down at the table with the heaviness of the bone-tired. Now she pointed at Shafeen, eyes narrowed. ‘You wasn’t in the play though, hun, else I would’ve heard about it.’
Shafeen smiled shyly and shook his head. ‘No. I saw it though. Ty was tremendous as the queen.’
Missy put those amazing fingertips up to her mouth, then moved them to her heart, her breath a catch of regret.
‘I so wanted to go to that play. Isle of Dogs, hey? Like it was meant. And my girl getting the main part in her first term! But I had two shifts, and DeAngelo’s Nativity play. Playing the star, weren’t you, D? Cos you are a star, right?’
DeAngelo had nothing to say to this.
‘Then I had Dwight’s football trials. And Rose had her dance exam the next day.’
It took me a while to realise that she was making excuses. She was actually apologetic that she hadn’t made it to Ty’s play, this multitasking machine with three other kids. It seemed so unfair that this … this superwoman should feel anything approaching guilt. Suddenly she seemed much older. The lines around her eyes, and from nose to mouth, were more pronounced. She did look, at that moment, as if she could have a seventeen-year-old daughter.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said soothingly. ‘None of ours made it either.’
