The joiner who had raised the level of the invalid’s bed so that she could see out of the window told of Dora Bellman sitting up in bed, her dark hair turned to tufts of down and not much of it at that.
“You wouldn’t hardly know she were a girl. A scarecrow maybe, or a puppet made to frighten the children.”
And had she lost her mind?
No. The joiner did not think so. That’s not what he had heard from the girl who looked after her.
And they gossiped about Bellman. His frown and his somber gaze; the absence of his old energy; if he was seen in the high street at all, he kept his head down, no more the nods and the tilts of the hat he had once broadcast with liberal geniality.
The Bellman family graves were not being tended, and Bellman was never in church these days.
“He is too occupied with his daughter,” people said, and for a time Bellman’s neglect was forgiven.
“Has he still not gone to the mill?” they wanted to know.
He hadn’t.
Nor did he go to the Red Lion.
“He does nothing but fret over his poor scarecrow,” the townspeople concluded. They pitied him for his losses. They admired his paternal devotion. Yet all the same, he was Mr. Bellman of the mill. Surely the mill was where he should be? This state of affairs couldn’t go on forever. Could it?
CHAPTER TWO
Dora’s hair did not grow and her eyelashes did not come back. But flesh softened the contours of her bones and a tinge of color grew every day more marked in her cheeks. Her breathing deepened. Her pulse was firmer. There came a time when it was clear that her eyes were following movement with intelligence, and then one day Mary was astounded to hear a hoarse old man’s voice asking for honey water: it was Dora. She kissed Dora and shouted at the top of her voice for Mr. Bellman.
“You have come back!”
Bellman wept.
· · ·
For three months Bellman had thought of nothing but his daughter. Back in March he had laid down the reins of his life to sustain Dora in hers. Now that she was out of danger and her health was stable, it was time to return to the world.
Mary cleaned the study window and left it open to air the room that had gone so long unused. She took the carpet out to beat and rubbed wax into the furniture. She polished the brass fireguard, plumped the cushions of the armchair, and refilled the inkwell.
At ten o’clock Bellman entered and sat at his desk. He exhaled a great sigh of old, stale breath and replaced it with fresh April air. He ran his fingers with satisfaction over his empty desk. There were days out there waiting for him to awake them. There was a future. It wanted only his touch to stir it into life.
From his pocket he took his leather notebook. He flicked past the lists of temperatures and times and pulse rates. He’d done with that now. He tucked them under the loop of string that he used to separate yesterday’s dead pages from today’s and tomorrow’s.
What about these other pages? A wild scrawl, written at speed, the lines sloping up or down, a second line sometimes superimposed over the earlier one. Oh, yes, he remembered. A father must do something to while away the dark hours while he keeps vigil over his child. Notions, that’s all it was. Playthings for a fretful mind at midnight . . .
A word caught his attention, and he peered more closely.
From the growing intentness of his reading an onlooker might have judged that he was finding more interest in his half-forgotten notes than he had expected. He turned the pages slowly, scrutinized the nighttime writing with close attention so as not to miss a thing. Once or twice he flicked back to something he had read before. Here and there he made a few brief annotations.
The things a man does not think about can incubate in him without benefit of conscious attention. The idea, blithely indifferent to William’s human troubles, had implanted itself, sucked sustenance from him, fed on his blood without his knowing it. Now that he was ready to turn his daytime mind to it, the incubus was ready to be born.
At the end of his reading he stared into space for a single minute, gathering his thoughts, then turned the page and wrote unhesitatingly, fluently, for a full hour. Objectives, timetables, lists, costs, plans, obstacles, strategies. At the final word, he put down his pen and, waving his diary in the air for the ink to dry, smiled the smile of a man who has put his hand in his pocket for a farthing and drawn out a golden goose.
What a gem of an idea! he exclaimed. What a glorious opportunity!
The word made an echo in his mind. It evoked the raw earth smell of the graveyard. He knew he ought to track down the man in black and hammer out a proper contract. He wouldn’t negotiate hard. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do. The idea was such a good one, and the man had offered it with such an air of generosity that it would be churlish to argue too hard over terms. Find out what he wanted, a bit of argument for form’s sake—business was business, you had to respect that—but at heart he meant to give the man what he asked for. He could afford to be generous; there was more than enough to go round.
There was the matter of finding him. That raised a difficulty or two. The man must have said his name was Black at some point in the conversation, even if Bellman couldn’t remember it precisely. But his appearance was distinctive, wasn’t it? One day when he had the leisure for it, he would sit down for a minute or two, that is all it would take, and the man’s face would swim up to the surface of his mind easily enough. And then it would be enough to ask around. He had tried before to find out about Black, but that was different. Admittedly he hadn’t been methodical in his approach. Clearly he had asked the wrong people. His failure then meant nothing. When he applied himself, things would come right. Things always did, when he applied himself.
When the time was right.
Bellman took up his pen to add an addendum to his notes, but the nib had dried. Between the page and the inkwell his pen hovered uncertainly. Was he missing something here? Was there something else he should be taking into account? He thought for ten seconds, fifteen. He found his thoughts entering unfamiliar, unsignposted territory. He frowned. It was a thing he had seen too often in others: people got lost in their own doubts. With a strong objective in mind, success well within reach, they hesitated and pondered, fretted over minutiae, and in the time they lost, the whole project was sunk. Essential to keep abreast of the whole. Details always sorted themselves out in the fullness of time.
Bellman didn’t write Find Black in his notebook. There was no need. It wasn’t something he was likely to forget.
Bellman rubbed his hands in anticipation at the thought of his new venture, and anticipated his lunch with an excellent appetite.
“Did you hear all the racket we made?” Mary asked Dora, when they were alone together. “The piano and the gong and the pans?”
Dora shook her head. “The only thing I heard was the rooks. I heard them for a long time. And then I woke up.” She thought for a moment. “Don’t tell my father.”
CHAPTER THREE
On a Tuesday at the beginning of May, William Bellman returned to the mill. He heard in the rhythm of the machinery that things were all right. There was some awkwardness: he saw in people’s faces that they found him changed. Well, he found himself changed. He did the rounds with Crace, nodded and shook hands with the senior men, took in a hundred and one pieces of information and asked short, considered questions. He left early.
He spent Wednesday in the office with Ned. Orders, invoicing, accounts. All was in order. He left early.
On Thursday he made a methodical and rigorous assessment of mill affairs and concluded that it was running perfectly well without him. He sent Mary over with a note, and fifteen minutes later, Ned and Crace were before him in his study. He set out what he wanted of them and they agreed that it was no more than they had been doing these last weeks. He asked them what aspects of the work they needed him for. They mentioned one or two things, and when he added one or two more they nodded. Otherwise they thought t
hey could manage.
“Good.” He nodded.
What was this all about? Ned and Crace wondered. Just when Bellman had come back, sound as ever, troubles behind him, he appeared to be making plans for another absence.
“How long might this new arrangement be for?” Ned asked. “If it is to be more than a month or two, is it worth training one of the junior clerks to take over some of my responsibilities?”
“Certainly,” said William. “The new arrangement is to be permanent.”
This new future was too large to be grasped immediately.
Crace found his bearings sufficiently to ask a question: “But who will manage the mill?” and immediately lost them again, when Bellman answered, “You two.”
Ned was stunned. The mill without Bellman? He and Crace to run it? It was unthinkable! He took a deep breath in shock, but as the air entered him, he felt himself expand. Was it unthinkable? It took Bellman to think of it, but now that he had—
Ned breathed out.
It could be done.
For a week William was quite busy at the mill. He sat in the office while foremen and clerks were called in to talk about their changed futures, changed fortunes. Bellman insisted that it must be Ned and Crace who took charge of these interviews. He was just overseeing, there for his new managers to refer a question to, to offer an opinion when asked. At first they hung back, expecting to take the lead from him; very quickly they understood what he intended: they were the decision makers now. They interviewed, conferred, made their choices, and then glanced at William. A nod was all that was required. They knew as well as he.
During the following weeks, Bellman gradually reduced his hours at the mill. His presence was enough to stabilize confidence during the handover. What was already clear to Bellman now became clear to everyone else: the Bellman touch was there in the system, the routine, the habits. Like a clockmaker who has weighed and cleaned and balanced every cog and spring in a mechanism, he could leave it to others to wind it every day. There was no need for him to be there in person, and little by little he withdrew.
Six months after the fever left the town, the mill was running all by itself.
· · ·
When all was still in the house, when the candles were all blown out and the last steps had sounded creakily in the landing, Dora heaved herself to a sitting position in her bed and arranged the pillows around her like companions.
Fussing was over for the day. Mary and her mother were asleep. At last there was no one to take her temperature, ask about her appetite, weigh her or measure her or otherwise scrutinize her well-being. Only now was she free to remember.
As she gazed into the blackness of her room, she could conjure the past. The noise, color, and movement of remembered scenes from the life she had lost reproduced themselves on the darkness, and the more she gave herself to this practice the more vibrant it became. It was effortless, this casting off of the present, this reunion with what had gone before.
She began where she always began: Thursday evening, father arriving with the red felt bags and her brothers cheering. She saw and heard the pennies tumble into the bowl, felt the weight of the pitcher, smelled the vinegar as it splashed onto the coins. The tang of vinegar on Phil’s little hands all night long, no matter how many times he scrubbed them.
From the coins, any number of other scenes, all as bright and as vivid as the day they happened. One day and another and another, days and days of living there had been, and she remembered every one with such freshness and vigor that it was scarcely less true and real than life itself. Her eye lingered on faces and expressions, she received again her mother’s loving looks, she made her brothers laugh, she sniffed the sweet and musty baby smell of her sister. Her remembering nights were vividly alive to her though they passed in a flash. It was the days she lived now that were long and dreary.
The lightening of the sky, discernible through the curtains, drew her out of her reverie. She wriggled back into a sleeping position and closed her eyes. When Mary brought the tea, not long after, she put her head on one side to study her.
“Hm,” she said, unimpressed. “You don’t look very rested.”
“Would you open the curtains?” Dora asked her. “The rooks will be coming soon.”
&
Rooks are not fussy eaters. They like insects, mammals (dead is best), acorns, crustaceans, fruit, eggs. If the rook has a preference, it is for earthworms and juicy white grubs. But really he is pleased to gorge himself on almost anything he can find or steal.
The poor blue tit loses heat so quickly that he must spend almost every waking moment looking for food. Equally the guillemot, whose wings are so inefficient out of water that he must think of nothing but eating all day long if he is to stockpile enough energy to get airborne. In contrast the rook, supreme creature that he is, can find all the food he needs in a couple of hours a day and consider the rest of his time leisure.
What does the rook do with this leisure time?
1. He tells jokes and gossips.
2. He engineers handy, throwaway tools.
3. He learns to speak foreign languages. The rook can imitate the human voice, a logger’s crane, the crash of broken glass. And if he wants to really make fun, he can call your dog to him—with your own whistle.
4. He enjoys poetry and philosophy.
5. He is an expert on rook history.
6. He knows more geology than you do—but since it is knowledge passed down through the generations from his ancestors he calls it family anecdote.
7. He has a good grounding in mythology, magic, and witchcraft.
8. He has a keen passion for ritual.
In essence, the benefits of having the key to the world’s larder are that rooks have the time to think, the brain power to remember—and the wisdom to laugh.
· · ·
In Latin the rook is called Corvus frugilegus, which means “the food-gatherer,” because of the extraordinary efficiency with which he meets his nutritional needs.
CHAPTER FOUR
In a large house in the Oxfordshire countryside, a wealthy haberdasher named Critchlow sat in his high-backed armchair by the fire and opened a letter with a silver blade. He had not been born to comfortable firesides and silver blades; the pleasure he took in them was greater than any earl’s or prince’s.
The letter was from a man he knew only by reputation: William Bellman. It was not a long letter: from the opening salutation it went straight to the point. That was in keeping with what he knew of the man. William Bellman, a person of great drive, acted with purpose and didn’t waste time.
“What do you know of William Bellman?” he asked his wife.
“The clothier from Whittingford?” She put her head on one side. “He lost his child in that outbreak of fever, didn’t he? Unless it was his wife . . . What does he want?”
“Money.”
“Hasn’t he plenty of his own? Besides, we’ve never met him.”
“Fact that a man prefers working to standing about chatting in other people’s reception rooms isn’t a reason not to invest in him. On the contrary.”
Critchlow’s interest was piqued. He wrote a reply inviting Bellman to his house.
· · ·
By the same log fire, twenty-four hours later, William revealed the scheme to the haberdasher. He set out the idea, the costs (building, stock, labor costs, warehousing), the time scale, the product range, the demand, the supply chain.
“All very sound,” the haberdasher said. “The profit?”
Bellman passed a leaf of paper to him containing a table of figures. “The first three years.”
In private Bellman had higher expectations than were shown on the paper. The private figures looked well founded to him. Still, he was businessman enough to know that a canny investor is likely to be put off by promises of gains that look too great. Safer all round to promise something less ambitious, enticing but attainable. So he had reined the figures in.
 
; Critchlow drew the paper toward him and looked. He raised a rapid eyebrow at Bellman. “You’re sure of these figures?”
“No sensible man of business is ever sure of anything. An estimate is a guess. A conservative estimate is a conservative guess. But death doesn’t go out of fashion.”
The man rubbed his mouth with his hand, looked back at the page. The guess of a man like William Bellman had to be worth something.
“How much do you need?”
Bellman named a figure. “I’m putting up a quarter of that myself. I need three others.”
“Whom have you spoken to?”
William mentioned the names of the other investors with whom he had made appointments. Critchlow nodded. He knew them, and they were solid people.
“I like the idea. Give me some time to think it over.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You don’t waste time, do you? Tomorrow it shall be.”
William picked up his table of figures and left. The man sat back down in his chair by the fire and looked into the flames.
Death doesn’t go out of fashion, he thought.
This interview was repeated twice. William was offered brandy or whiskey; he sat by a roaring fire; he set out his idea; he passed across a sheet of figures. None of the meetings lasted more than an hour.
William went home believing he had not long to wait, and he was right.
None of the haberdashers had ever invested so much money in a single project. None had ever made his mind up about a deal so rapidly, nor with such a surge of confidence. William Bellman was putting up a full quarter of the money himself, was he? Well, well, well.
Three men by three fires poured themselves another brandy—or whiskey—and leaned back in three chairs with three satisfied smiles. They were rich men and they were about to be made richer.