Foxes, p.18
FOXES, page 18
She looked like she’d been given a present. ‘Really?’
‘Yup. My dad was working too.’
Then she looked sadder again. ‘There’s Ty’s dad,’ she said, motioning to a framed picture on the wall. It was a lovely picture – Ty looking about thirteen, with train-track braces, smiling an enormous tin grin with her dad’s hands on her shoulders.
‘Where does he live?’ asked Nel gently.
Missy smiled at Nel sadly. ‘You think he left. Bad Babyfather, that’s it, isn’t it? Probably got another family.’
‘I never –’
‘It’s all right, girl. That’s what white folks think. But that ain’t it. He was the best man, my Desmond, but he died. A man can’t help that. Can he?’
‘No,’ said Shafeen soberly. ‘A man can’t.’
‘So now there’s just me.’ I wanted to say that was more than enough but couldn’t think of a way to say it that wouldn’t sound incredibly patronising.
But she changed the subject. ‘Where you guys staying?’ she asked brightly.
‘Regent’s Park,’ Nel replied.
‘Ah. I bet that’s nice,’ she said. ‘I never been, ’cept to the zoo once.’
‘It’s a bit fancy,’ I said, trying to downplay just how palatial it was.
She wagged her finger in my face. ‘Never mind that, girl. It’s safe. That’s what you want. That’s the real treasure.’
She pulled DeAngelo to her and kissed the top of his head. ‘Safety. That’s what you want for your family. It ain’t about just money, or nice clothes or food. You want safe. I want DeAngelo and Dwight to be able to walk the streets without being shanked by some little toerag.’ DeAngelo squirmed away and his mother took a gulp of tea. ‘I’ve told him how to get off the Isle of Dogs. I told all of ’em. Book learning.’ She nodded her head decidedly. ‘Book learning did it for his sister. My girl Ty studied up and look where it got her. Scholarship girl.’
I thought of Ben Jonson, literally saved by the book.
‘Books are a fire exit,’ she said. ‘They’re a door to somewhere else.’
‘Like Narnia!’ I said. Then I explained, ‘It’s a magical land that you reach through a wardrobe door.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Girl,’ she said, ‘I know about Narnia. Who you think book-learned all these kids?’
I could feel myself going red and shut my stupid mouth. Who was I to school this woman?
In the awkward silence that followed, Shafeen and Nel stared into the depths of their tea. Registering the sudden quiet, DeAngelo peeped over his book with his enormous eyes. That kid was as cute as a button. I made a funny face at him, and the eyes disappeared behind the book again. We all laughed and it broke the tension.
‘Have you heard from Ty?’ asked Shafeen as casually as he could.
‘Bless you, darlin’, not a word since she went up to that big house. She text me to say she got there OK, then nada.’ Missy smiled wistfully. ‘But I don’t expect it. If she’s livin’ her best life, that’s enough for me.’
I looked at the presents, wrapped with such love, and Mrs Morgan followed my gaze.
‘We miss her. Of course we miss her. But she did so good, that girl. Look where she is! Great school, fancy house, nice young feller! Of course I’d love her here for Christmas Day. But that’s being a mother, ain’t it? You gotta let them go. You can’t stand in your kids’ way.’
I compared her love and dedication to my own mother’s. The hours Missy had worked, the sacrifices she’d made. My mum had pretty much given birth to me and then pissed off.
We didn’t have to worry about outstaying our welcome. Missy, in the nicest possible way, threw us out, as she had to get to her second job. But she piled us up with a box of Quality Street from under the tiny tree and all good wishes for Christmas. Her generosity nearly made me blub. She gave DeAngelo firm instructions about not answering the door, telling him that his sister Rose had keys and would give him his tea when she came home from her dance club.
As I got up from the table and headed for the door, I spotted something. DeAngelo had his book upside down. His mum had gone ahead to see us out so I discreetly turned it the right way up for him. As I did so, I realised he had his phone hidden behind the pages.
He looked at me with his huge eyes.
Busted.
I’m pretty sure he thought he was in trouble. But I was just thinking what a perfect Medieval/Savage thing it was to do. As he stared at me, I closed one of my own eyes in a conspiratorial wink.
And, for the first time, he smiled.
33
When we left the house we sort of wandered for a bit, strangely unsettled by the meeting.
On the corner of the road I noticed a pub and idly read the sign. It said THE FERRY HOUSE. This was the pub Ty’d told me about, where her uncles used to drink. I remembered what she said about being able to hear the ghosts of Elizabeth’s hunting dogs barking at twilight, so I looked over the silvery winter Thames, straining my ears to hear the baying across the centuries. But there was nothing to be heard other than the sounds of traffic and a plane high above, heading to City Airport – Savage sounds crowding out the Medieval past. ‘Let’s go in here,’ I said.
Inside the pub was welcoming. It was one of those old-fashioned ones – no dove-grey paint and blackboard menus, but crap carpet, a telly on and a dartboard. We all ordered Cokes. It was a beverage I’d never seen on offer at Cumberland Place. At a sticky corner table, we discussed our encounter.
‘So I guess Missy doesn’t know what Ty is up to,’ said Shafeen.
I said, ‘But she must know about Leon Morgan, no?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Nel. ‘He was the dad’s uncle.’
‘How do you know?’ I demanded.
‘Because he was called Morgan, dummy.’
She had a point. I thought then of the game books at Longcross. One of them, way back in the stacks, would have held Leon Morgan’s name. Then I thought of the new game book, squat and malign, lying on the counter at Cornellisen’s. That book, like all the others, would soon be written with death. But then I looked at Nel and Shafeen and was sure of two things.
One, there was no way that we could tell Missy Morgan that Ty was in danger.
And two, there was no way we were going to let any harm come to Ty on Boxing Day.
34
When we got off the Tube and walked through the snowy twilight of Regent’s Park to Cumberland Place, it felt as though it was us who had pushed our way through the wardrobe door and got into Narnia.
It was hard to believe the difference between where we’d just been and where we were staying. I had to admit to myself that I felt completely safe walking across Regent’s Park in the near dark, and had none of that prickly, edgy feeling I’d had walking through the Limehouse Estate in broad daylight. It was then that I truly understood what Missy Morgan had been saying. The things you wanted for your family were not only material. You wanted safety too. How could two boroughs of the same city be so different? How could one family have so little, and another have so much? This afternoon I’d been drinking tea from a Sports Direct mug. Tonight I’d be drinking Veuve Clicquot 1984 from a crystal glass. Not for the first time that day, I began to believe that all those anti-Establishment protesters we’d seen at Speaker’s Corner, wearing the face of Guy Fawkes, had a point.
35
After another one of those politely charged dinners at Cumberland Place, Shafeen, Nel and I collected in the library – something that had become a habit.
That booklined room, with the eternal fire, was the nearest thing to cosy that the grand house could provide. We could, of course, have retired to one of our bedrooms to conspire, but that would have felt too obvious. Besides, as I was beginning to understand, there were certain rules in this world. The privileged elites of the Order of the Stag might be cavalier about the sanctity of human life (so long as you were poor, common or a person of colour), but they would freak out if a young man was in a bedroom with two unmarried girls. In the library we knew we would be alone and could say what we pleased, with the early-warning system of the double library doors to protect our privacy. We could be safe and secret unless someone came through those doors. And that night, someone did.
It was Bates. He looked as he’d looked that first day, not smooth and composed, but grey and sweaty. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if he was more worried about being overheard than we were. He spotted us with something like relief, and then crossed the room to where we were. High in his hand he held a silver tray, like he was a cocktail waiter. There appeared to be nothing on it, certainly no glasses or coffee cups or anything like that, but when he lowered it we could see that there was something there, something so flat that it did not even protrude above the lip of the tray. Bates bowed his head slightly and addressed Shafeen.
‘I’m glad I caught you, sir. A letter just arrived for you.’
Shafeen took the letter from the proffered tray. ‘Thank you, Bates.’ He had authority, did Shafeen, but he didn’t quite have the haughty entitlement that allowed the Medievals to totally wipe the phrase thank you from their vocabulary. Shafeen looked at the writing on the front of the letter and raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Just arrived? A bit late for the post, isn’t it?’
‘This was hand-delivered to the house, sir.’
‘By whom?’
I was impressed that even under duress Shafeen didn’t forget his grammar.
Bates looked shifty under Shafeen’s glance – in fact, he looked positively ill. ‘That I can’t tell you, sir.’
‘Can’t?’ queried Shafeen somewhat sharply.
Bates looked a bit panicky. ‘Merely a figure of speech, I assure you, sir. I meant only that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity, because unhappily I did not see the messenger.’
‘Very good, Bates. Thank you.’
‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight.’
As soon as Bates had pissed off, us girls crowded round the letter in Shafeen’s hand. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘Dunno,’ said Shafeen, much less formally. ‘I don’t recognise the writing. And who even knows I’m here?’
‘Enough speculation,’ said Nel. ‘Just open it.’
He turned it over and instead of a normal envelope flap, there was a fold secured by a seal.
I went cold. It reminded me strongly of The Invitation, the missive that had set all of these events in train.
‘Wait,’ I said, just as he was about to crack the seal with his long fingers. ‘Look at the device first.’
It was hard to see what was stamped into the wax in this low light, so we took the letter to the fire and crouched on the hearthrug. The wax was not the blood red of the seal I remembered from The Invitation, the red of the STAGS stockings and the Longcross dog rose. It was a more orangey, rusty red. And the imprint on the wax was not a pair of antlers but a face.
A pointy animal face.
Nel was the first to say it. ‘It’s a fox.’
‘May I?’ said Shafeen elaborately, and we both nodded vigorously. He broke the seal. ‘What the …?’
We craned over his shoulder. There, printed in neat calligraphy, were the following words.
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 Longcross; 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 Boxing Day; 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.
We all looked at each other, the firelight kindling our faces.
‘It’s the Monteagle Letter,’ whispered Shafeen. ‘Someone sent us a Monteagle Letter.’
‘Sent it to you, you mean.’ I had a revelation. ‘Do you think it’s from your dad?’
‘Don’t be a dumb bunny,’ he said fondly. ‘How could it be, possibly, when I only talked to him about Longcross this afternoon?’
‘Then who could be trying to warn you?’ asked Nel. ‘Who else do you know here?’
‘It says for the love they bear my friends,’ he said. ‘Monteagle passed on his warning to King James. Maybe I’m just the messenger. Perhaps whoever it is is really trying to save you two.’
‘Probably Greer,’ said Nel, without malice. ‘No one’s really noticed I’m here. Who would try to save you, G?’
Henry, I thought, but I said nothing and just shrugged.
‘OK, let’s leave aside who gave us the warning for a moment,’ said Shafeen. ‘Next question: are we going to listen? And act on it?’
‘Of course not,’ I said at once. ‘If we are being warned off, that gives us even more reason to go. There’s something happening that has to be stopped. We can’t leave Ty to her fate.’ Especially not now we had met her mother and little DeAngelo.
Shafeen folded the paper decisively, and Nel said, ‘And are you going to burn it like they asked?’
He looked at the fire and the flames burned in his eyes. ‘I think I’d better.’
‘Really? To protect us?’
‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘To protect whoever sent it.’
He tossed the thing on the fire and we waited until the letter glowed, flamed and fell into ash before we felt it was safe to go to bed.
36
I waited up for Henry until my eyes were closing.
I was pretty sure he of all people would know exactly what was going to happen at Longcross, and why it was so important that we stay away. But that night I didn’t feel his weight on my bed or hear his mother at the door. There was just me, and Reynard on the wall. Under the terrified eye of the dying fox, a question occurred to me: if Henry was real and alive, how had he entered the room if a locked door kept his sleepwalking mother out? I didn’t think it was ‘all a dream’, like some story you write in Year 6 English, because I had the dog rose from Longcross. But there were only two explanations, and as I drifted to sleep I turned them over in my mind.
1) Henry was a dream after all.
2) Cumberland Place had its secrets, and somewhere, somehow, there was another door.
37
I knew that the de Warlencourts were Catholics, and had been for centuries, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been at all surprised that on our last evening at Cumberland Place, 23rd December, we should be invited to a Christmas Mass at their church.
Their church was in Kensington – where else? – right by the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was called the London Oratory, and it was properly posh. That evening we put on our smartest stuff, our going-to-the-House-of-Lords outfits, and we were decanted from the car with the earl and countess outside what seemed like a mini white cathedral. The night was cold and clear, and about a million Christmas stars shone above the dome of the church. As we filed in with all the smart churchgoers, the inside was a jewel box of gilt and marble. By the light of a thousand candles I looked at the mosaic of Jesus Christ above the golden altar, and he looked back at me.
As we walked down the aisle with the de Warlencourts – who were obviously important enough to sit right down the front – they both seemed to stumble. I put out an arm to save Caro, like a mum crossing the road with her kid, but it was fine – they were both just bobbing a little curtsy to the altar, after which they crossed themselves. As we shuffled into the front pew, I suddenly found it unbelievable that these God-fearing pillars of society were planning to celebrate the Saviour’s birth, and then hold a death hunt for a young black schoolgirl before Jesus had even blown out his candles.
I was sitting between Shafeen and Nel. Shafeen had the honour of sitting between me and the earl, with Caro sitting beyond him, and Nel was between me and a pillar. Someone unseen rang a bell, and the carol service began.
I say carol service – actually, this was not like any carol service I had ever known. This was not a jolly romp through the Nativity story interspersed with popular Christmas hits. This was much more serious, and quite beautiful.
For a start, it was all in Latin. I was not too bothered by the Latin-ness. It was actually nice to tune out and just listen to the music of the words. Of course I’d taken a Latin class at STAGS, everyone had to, but I wouldn’t say I was brilliant. I only caught the odd word here and there. I recognised the paternoster – Lord’s Prayer to you – but that was about it. Shafeen was probably the same level as me. Nel was the real expert, as she was taking Latin for her Probitiones, so I could see she was really listening.
And the carols were amazing. The Oratory had a really excellent choir, who, like the choir at STAGS, gave you that cold-water-down-your-back feeling. The carols weren’t all the well-known Victorian ones – although they did sing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ in Latin – but medieval ones, properly medieval, with those lovely crunchy discords and monkish chants. Then came the confession, and everybody knelt at the sound of the overworked bell. Apparently the priest confessed and we forgave him, then the people confessed and he forgave us. At least, that’s what I thought was going on. Of course, I didn’t have a clue what I was saying, but the bits we were supposed to speak were helpfully typed in bold on the service sheet, so I did my best, mumbling along with the rest of the congregation.
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.
