‘It’s to be a celebration of all that’s good in the world,’ he explained to me. ‘A massive structure containing works of art, machinery, wildlife, everything that you can possibly think of; too big to see it all in one day. Something from every corner of the empire. It’ll be the greatest living museum that the world has ever seen. A symbol of our unity and ability. Of what we are, in other words.’
The greatest living museum; I thought his home was already that. I had never seen a house so crammed with belongings before, nor known a man so keen on displaying his every possession. There were shelves running along every wall, each one holding books, ornaments, outlandish cups and teapots, every different type of collection known to man. One sudden gust of wind through the room could have caused chaos. Remarkably, there was not a speck of dust to be found and I came to realise that Betty Jennings, Richard’s wife, spent her entire life cleaning it. Her very existence revolved around a feather duster and a sweeping brush, her raisin d’etre to keep the place spotless. Whenever I entered their home she would greet me in her familiar apron, wiping the perspiration from her brow as she rose from washing the kitchen floor or sweeping down the stairs. She was always friendly with me, but kept a polite distance as if whatever business her husband and I had -more often than not the simple business of drinking and good conversation – was the business of men and she was better off left out of it. For my part, I would have enjoyed her company on some occasions as I suspected there was more going on behind that human cleaner than she was letting on.
Richard and Betty were the proud parents of what they called ‘their two families’. A middle-aged couple, they had brought three children into the world by the time they were nineteen, a daughter and twin boys, and eleven years later had given birth to another set of twins, this time daughters. The difference in age between them gave the impression that the baby daughters were a second family and that the first three children were more in the role of aunt and uncles than older siblings.
Although I have never much concerned myself with children, I grew to know the eldest daughter, Alexandra, quite well during my time there. The Jenkinses had high ambitions for their children and had named them accordingly; the twin boys were George and Alfred, the girls Victoria and Elizabeth. They were regal names but, like so many of the offspring of the European royal houses of the time, they were sickly children, those four, forever coughing or running temperatures or splitting their knees open simply by running down a road. I rarely called on the family without discovering that one of them had taken to their bed with some disease or ailment. Bandages and rubbing oil were familiar products on their sideboards. Theirs was a house of constant nursing.
Unlike her siblings, however, Alexandra never displayed a day’s illness in all the time that I knew her. Not physical illness anyway. A headstrong girl of seventeen, she was taller than both her parents and slim, with the kind of body that turned heads in the street. Observed in the right light, her long dark hair became almost auburn and it appeared to me that she must brush it a thousand times every night in order to extract the perfect shine which glistened from its surface. Her face was pale, but not in a sickly sense, and she had the ability to control her blushes, waiting for an opportunity to impress and captivate with the charms that she had developed so naturally.
I became interested in Richard’s work and he invited me to Hyde Park one day to view the Crystal Palace as the preparations continued for the May opening. It was agreed that I would walk the short distance to the park with Alexandra, who was also interested in viewing the structure. She had heard so much from her father about the delights which lay within that it surprised me that she had never asked to visit it before. I collected her from her home on a fine February morning, when the air was just a little frosty and the ground had only the slightest covering of smooth ice.
‘They say it is so big that even the great oak trees in Hyde Park are contained within its surface,’ said Alexandra as we walked along, our arms linked in a platonic, parental-style lock. ‘They thought about cutting down any trees within the Crystal Palace but decided to just build the ceiling higher instead.’
The fact struck me as impressive. Some of those trees had stood rooted to the same spot for hundreds of years. Most of them were even older than I was; an impressive achievement. ‘You’ve been reading up about it then,’ I said, making casual conversation with the girl. ‘Your father would be impressed.’
‘He leaves plans around the house all the time,’ she announced haughtily. ‘You know he’s had several meetings with Prince Albert, don’t you?’
‘He did mention it, yes.’
‘The Prince consults my father on almost everything to do with the Great Exhibition.’ Richard had mentioned to me on several occasions that he had taken part in some meetings concerning the manner of the Exhibition, meetings which were generally jointly chaired by the Prince Consort and Joseph Paxton, the chief designer. Although he clearly enjoyed speaking of his contacts with royalty, he never overstated the connection, always insisting that his role in the business, while a senior and important one, was mainly supervisory of plans which Paxton had already put in place. There had been some disagreement over which side of the structure to place the British goods with relation to light, air and visibility. Albert had asked several people for their advice and eventually a section on the western half was chosen.
‘You’ll be his guest on the day it opens, of course,’ I said, naturally ignorant of the chain of events which would follow over the coming months. ‘It will be a proud day for him to have his family there at such an important occasion. I hope to attend myself.’
‘Between you and I, Mr Zéla,’ said Alexandra then, leaning in towards my shoulder in a conspiratorial fashion as we entered the great gates of Hyde Park, ‘I’m not sure whether I will be in attendance or not. I’m engaged to be married, you see. To the Prince of Wales. And there’s a good chance that we shall elope before the summer is over, for his mother would never agree to the match, you know.’
Two hundred and fifty-six years is a long time to be alive. With such a life-span, one gets to meet many different kinds of people. In my time, I have known honest men and crooks; I have met virtuous men who suffer moments of crippling madness which have led directly to their downfall, and mendacious rascals whose singular acts of generosity or integrity have cleared a path for their salvation; I have acquainted myself with murderers and hangmen, judges and criminals, workers and sloths; I have been brought into contact with men whose words have impressed me and stirred me into action, whose conviction in their own principles has ignited the spark in others to fight for change or the simple rights of man and I have listened as charlatans read from scripts, proclaiming great ambitions which they have failed to enact; I have known men to lie to their wives, women to cheat on their husbands, parents to curse their children, offspring to damn their ancestry; I have seen babies born and adults die; I have helped those who are in need and I have killed; I have known every type of man, woman and child, every facet of human nature which exists on the shores around me and I have observed them and listened to them and heard their words and seen their deeds and walked away from them with naught but my memories to translate them from my head to these pages. But Alexandra Jennings was a girl who barely fits into any of these descriptions for she was an original, a true singularity in my time, the kind of girl one meets only once in a lifetime, even if that lifetime happens to last for 256 years. For she was a fictionalist, in that every word, every single phrase that ever escaped her mouth, was based upon a fiction. Not a lie exactly, for Alexandra was not a deceitful girl or a dishonest one, she simply felt the need to create a life for herself which was absolutely at odds with the one which she was actually leading and a compulsion to present that life to others as the plain truth. And it is that fact alone which holds her memory – despite the brevity of our time together – alive in my mind even today, a century and a half later.
‘I’m engaged t
o be married, you see. To the Prince of Wales.’ These were the words that Alexandra had spoken. The year was 1851. Prince Albert, later crowned King Edward VII, was aged ten and in no condition to marry anyone, although an arrangement for the future had most likely been already made by his mother. (Ironically, he eventually married another Alexandra, the daughter of the King of Denmark.)
‘I see,’ I replied, more than a little surprised by this announcement. ‘I was not aware that there was an understanding between the two of you. Perhaps I have not been paying as close attention to the Court Circular as I might.’
‘Well, it is imperative that we keep it secret,’ she said casually, tossing her hair a little as we walked through the park, able now to see the great glass and iron building which stood in the distance. ‘His mother has a rotten temper, you know, and would be terribly angry if she found out. She’s the Queen, you see.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said slowly, looking at my companion suspiciously as I tried to ascertain whether she was completely convinced by what she was saying or whether this was some form of youthful entertainment with which I was not familiar. ‘But there is something of an age difference between you, surely,’ I added.
‘Between the Queen and I?’ she asked, frowning slightly. ‘Yes, I expect there is, but -’
‘No, between the prince and yourself,’ I said irritably. ‘Isn’t he just a child? Nine or ten perhaps?’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered quickly. ‘But he intends to grow much older. He’s hoping to turn fifteen by the summer and perhaps make it into his twenties by Christmas. I, on the other hand, am only seventeen, and I must admit that I quite like the idea of an older man. Boys my own age are so stupid, don’t you agree?’
‘Well, I don’t know very many,’ I admitted. ‘But I’ll take your word on it.’
‘If you like,’ she added after a few moments’ silence, and she spoke now with the tone of a person who is unsure whether this is a good idea or not but is going to say it anyway, ‘if you like, we could invite you to the wedding. I’m afraid it won’t be a grand, state affair – neither of us want that – just a simple ceremony, followed by a pleasant reception. Family and close friends only. But we would be delighted to have you there.’
I wondered where she had picked up her speech pattern, which mirrored that of society ladies almost perfectly. Her parents, while relatively well-off and suddenly mixing in elevated circles, came from simple London stock and their accents gave their ancestry away. They were regular folk who had enjoyed some luck, Mr Jennings’s abilities and business sense giving them a fine home and a higher standard of living than many of their peers. Their daughter was obviously hoping to take it a step further.
‘Of course, it means I’ll be queen myself one day, which is tiresome,’ she said eventually as we approached the dome. ‘But when one is called to duty -’
‘Alexandra! Matthieu!’ The voice of her father reached the great doorways of the Crystal Palace a few moments before he did himself and he ushered us in excitedly. I was delighted to see him at last, unsure how much more of his daughter’s bizarre ramblings I could endure before either bursting out laughing or stepping cautiously away. ‘I’m so glad you got here,’ he said, opening his arms wide to signify the majesty of what we saw before us. ‘So. What do you think?’
I had not known quite what to expect and this enormous structure with its walls of iron and glass was without a doubt one of the most impressive sights I had ever laid eyes upon. We were standing inside and there was still an incredible amount of work to be done, however, so what we saw resembled a building site more than the great universal museum which it was no doubt intended to be.
‘It’s hard to get a good idea at the moment,’ said Richard, guiding us along one path, on which we were surrounded by enormous glass cabinets which were currently empty and at the time covered in enormous dustsheets. ‘They’re not staying there,’ he said quickly, indicating the cases with a flick of his wrist. ‘I think they’re going to the India section for a display of their local pottery but I’d have to check the chart to be sure. Over here we’re going to have an astronomy section. Ever since they discovered that new planet a few years ago, what do you call it ...?’
‘Neptune,’ I said.
‘That’s the one. Ever since they discovered that, there’s been huge interest in that whole field. That’s why that display’s going there. When it eventually arrives, that is. There’s still so much to be done,’ he added, shaking his head in worry. ‘And we’ve only got three months left.’
‘I never expected it to be so big,’ I said, catching sight in the distance of the very trees which Alexandra had mentioned on the way here, rooted in the ground and continuing to grow within the glasshouse effects of the palace. ‘How many people will fit in here?’
‘At a guess?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly. ‘Perhaps thirty thousand. Which is only a fraction of the number who will want to attend.’
‘Thirty thousand!’ I repeated, stunned by the figure which, for the time, could have represented a large portion of any major city in England. ‘That’s incredible. And all these people ...’ I looked around at the tribe of workmen who were walking to and fro, carrying equipment and every type of wood, glass or iron known to man; the noise of their activities meant we were never speaking below a dull shout.
‘There’re a thousand people working here, aren’t there, Daddy?’ asked Alexandra, the future queen of England.
‘Well, several hundred anyway,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know the exact figure. I -’ One of their number, a dark, swarthy man with a hunchback and a cloth cap, interrupted him, whispering something in his ear which was clearly bad news for he slapped his forehead dramatically and rolled his eyes with something close to music-hall theatrics. ‘I have to go see about something,’ he announced to us, cupping a hand to his mouth as he shouted. ‘Take a further look around but be careful. I’ll meet you back here in about thirty minutes. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t touch anything!’
An opening emerged in the protocol department and, although the salary was negligible, I accepted it, as I found the whole business of the Great Exhibition fascinating. There was to be a procession of foreign representatives brought before the Queen and the Prince Consort on the opening day and I had responsibility for making sure that all those who had been invited were in fact coming and would have a place to stay in London for the duration of their visit. This work brought me into some contact with Richard, for he was making sure that there was enough room between the various exhibits for the delegations to pass through.
I tried not to see too much of Alexandra during this period for, while I was baffled by her conversation on the day we had first visited the Crystal Palace, I was also less than happy about being a foil for her delusions. I wondered about her behaviour at home, whether she created as many fictions there about her life as she had with me that day, and resolved to ask her father about it. The thing which surprised me the most had not been what she had said, so much as her utter conviction in the things that she was saying, as if she truly believed them herself and was utterly serious when she implored me to keep her secrets for her.
‘How is Alexandra these days?’ I asked Richard one afternoon in as casual a manner as possible. ‘I thought I would see more of her down here. She seemed so interested in your work.’
‘Well, that’s my daughter for you,’ he replied, laughing. ‘She takes a fancy to something one minute and it goes out of her mind the next. That’s always been the case with her.’
‘But what does she do with her days?’ I asked. ‘She’s not still schooling, is she?’
‘She’s training to be a teacher,’ he explained, poring over a detailed map of the ground floor of the Exhibition. ‘She’s under the tutelage of some of them who taught her in the first place. Why do you want to know?’ he asked me suspiciously, looking at me as if I was considering making some illicit move on his daughter.
‘No reaso
n,’ I replied. ‘No reason at all. I just wondered why I hadn’t seen her in so long.’
In fact, I did not have to wait very much longer, for there was a knock on my door late that night. I opened it, just a crack to see who was there for there were a great many robberies and murders taking place in London at the time and it was unwise to simply fling open one’s doors to anyone. I saw her standing outside, looking around her nervously.
‘Let me in, Mr Zéla, please,’ she said in a nervous voice. ‘I must speak with you.’
‘Alexandra,’ I said, opening the door as she rushed inside. ‘What’s wrong? You look quite -’
‘Close the door, he’s after me!’ she shouted and I shut it quickly, looking at her in surprise. Her normally pale complexion had grown flushed and, as she sank down into an armchair, she put one hand to her throat as if to catch her breath. ‘I’m sorry to come here,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn.’ Considering her family lived only downstairs, I found this an odd statement, but let it pass, pouring her a glass of port to steady her nerves and seating myself at a safe distance opposite her.
‘You’d better tell me what has happened,’ I said and she nodded slowly, taking a careful sip from her glass and closing her eyes gently as it warmed her inside. Again, I could not help but notice how beautiful she was as she sat there, clothed in a simple blue dress with a pale grey shawl at her neck.
‘It’s Arthur,’ she replied eventually. ‘He has gone mad, I believe! He wants to kill me!’
‘Arthur .. .’ I said thoughtfully, running through the members of her family in my mind, as if one of them might be the intended murderer. But the boys’ names were George and Alfred, and her father’s name was no more Arthur than my own. ‘I’m sorry ... who is Arthur?’