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 o/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 oflightning, 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 d
ifference. 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–’
‘Good God!’ exclaims Ashwell, having chanced to look in the direction of Bodley’s pointing stick. ‘God almighty! Who would you say that is?’ He shades his eyes with one hand and peers intently at the far end of St James’s Park. Bodley falls into position at his side, peering likewise.
‘It’s Henry,’ he proclaims delightedly.
‘Yes, yes it is — and Mrs Fox!’
‘Of course.’
The two men turn to face William once more and bow gravely.
‘You must excuse us, Bill.’
‘Yes, we wish to go and torment Henry.’
‘You have my blessing,’ says William, with a smirk.
‘He avoids us, you know — avoids us like the plague, ever since …uh… how shall we put it …?’
‘Ever since his own personal angel alighted at the end of his bed.’
‘Quite. Anyway, we must do our very best to catch him before he makes a run for it.’
‘Oh, he couldn’t, not with Mrs Fox in tow: she’d drop dead! They haven’t a chance, I tell you.’ ‘Cheers, Willy.’
And with that they are off, pursuing their victims at high speed. Indeed, they run at such a furious pace, despite their formal dress, that they must pump their arms for balance, quite unconcerned about the impression they must be making on anyone watching — in fact, they exaggerate their ridiculous chuff-chuffing gait for their own amusement. Behind them they leave two long, wet, dark-green trails in the grass, and a rather dazed William Rackham.
It’s always been very much Bodley and Ashwell’s style to swoop in and out of conversations, and if one wishes to feel comfortable in their company, one must swoop alongside them. As William watches them dashing across the park, the burden of despondency descends on his shoulders once more. He has lost, through lack of use, his own nerve and agility for this sort of banter, this brand of exhibitionism. Could he even run as fast as his friends are running? It’s as if he’s watching his own body fleeing across the park, a younger self, speeding away.
Could he perhaps leap up and follow? No, it’s too late. There’s no catching up now. They are dark, fleet figures on a bright horizon. William slumps back on the bench, and his thoughts, briefly stirred up by Bodley and Ashwell, settle into their former stagnancy.
What grieves him most is how unnecessary his suffering is, given the value of the family assets. If his father would only sell the company …
But you have heard all this before. Your best course is to leave William to himself for ten minutes or so. In that time, while his brain forms a crust of reflective algae, the rest of him will feel the influence of all he’s been plied with this morning: the alley whore’s proposition, the sight of the French girls in Trafalgar Square, Bodley and Ashwell’s talk of brothels, their own teasing courtship of him followed by their desertion, and (just in the last hour or so) the arrival in St James’s Park of a number of beautiful young ladies.
A potent brew, all that. Once sufficiently intoxicated, William will rise from his seat and follow his desires, follow them along the path that leads, ultimately, to Sugar.
FOUR
Waiting for William to stir, there’s no need for you to gaze unblinking into his lap until he does. Instead, why not look at some of the objects of his desire? They’ve come to St James’s Park to be looked at, after all.
If you’ve any love for fashion, this year is not a bad one for you to be here. History indulges strange whims in the way it dresses its women: sometimes it uses the swan as its model, sometimes, perversely, the turkey. This year, the uncommonly elegant styles of women’s clothing and coiffure which had their inception in the early Seventies have become ubiquitous — at least among those who can afford them. They will endure until William Rackham is an old, old man, by which time he’ll be too tired of beauty to care much about seeing it fade.
The ladies swanning through St James’s Park this sunny November midday will not be required to change much between now and the end of their century. They are suitable for immediate use in the paintings of Tissot, the sensation of the Seventies, but they could still pass muster for Munch twenty years later (though he might wish to make a few adjustments). Only a world war will finally destroy them.
It’s not just the clothes and the hairstyle that define this look. It’s an air, a bearing, an expression of secretive intelligence, of foreign hauteur and enigmatic melancholy. Even in these bright early days of the style, there is something a little eerie about the women gliding dryad-like across these dewy lawns in their autumnal dresses, as if they’re invoking the fin de siecle to come prematurely. The image of the lovely demon, the demi-ghost from beyond the grave, is already being cultivated here — despite the fact that most of these women are daft social butterflies with not one demonic thought in their heads. The haunted aura they radiate is merely the effect of tight corsets. Too constrained to inhale enough oxygen, they’re ethereal only in the sense that they might as well be gasping the ether of Everest.
To be frank, some of these women were more at home in crinolines. Marooned in the centre of those wire cages, their need to be treated as pampered infants was at least clear, whereas their current affectation of la ligne and the Continental confidence that goes with it hints at a sensuality they do not possess.
Morally it’s an odd period, both for the observed and the observer: fashion has engineered the reappearance of the body, while morality still insists upon perfect ignorance of it. The cuirass bodice hugs tight to the bosom and the belly, the front of the skirt clings to the pelvis and hangs straight down, so that a strong gust of wind is enough to reveal the presence of legs, and the bustle at the back amplifies the hidden rump. Yet no righteous man must dare to think of the flesh, and no righteous woman must be aware of having it. If an exuberant barbarian from a savage fringe of the Empire were to stray into St James’s Park now and compliment one of these ladies on the delicious-looking contours of her flesh, her response would most likely be neither delight nor disdain, but instant loss of consciousness.
Even without recourse to feral colonials, a dead faint is not very difficult to provoke in a modern female: pitilessly tapering bodices, on any woman not naturally thin, present challenges above and beyond the call of beauty. And it must be said that a good few of the wraith-like
ladies gliding across St James’s Park got out of bed this morning as plump as the belles of the previous generation, but then exchanged their roomy night-gowns for a gruelling session with the lady’s-maid. Even if (as is now becoming more common) there are no actual laces to be pulled, there are bound to be leather panels to strap and metal hooks to clasp, choking their wearer’s breath, irreparably deforming her rib-cage, and giving her a red nose which must be frequently powdered. Even walking requires more skill than before, on the higher heels of the calf-length boots now fashionable.
Yet they are beautiful, these tubby English girls made willowy and slim, and why shouldn’t they be? It’s only fair they should take other people’s breath away, suffering such constriction of their own.
And William — what is he up to? All these attractively clothed women circling his park bench (albeit at a distance) — have they made him ripe and ready for a naked one? Nearly.
He’s been mulling over his financial humiliation so long now that he’s been inspired to compose a metaphor for it: he imagines himself as a restless beast, pacing the confines of a cage wrought in silvery £ symbols, all inter-twining like so: £££££££££££££££££££££. Ah, if only he could spring out!
Another young lady glides past from behind him, very close to his bench this time. Her shoulder-blades protrude from her satin thorax, her hourglass waist sways almost imperceptibly, her horse-hair bustle shakes gently to the rhythm of her walk. William’s financial impotence shifts its focus, ceasing to be a challenge to his wits and becoming instead a challenge to his sex. Before the young lady in satin has trod twenty more paces, William is already convinced that something important — something essential — would be proved about Life if he could only have his way with a woman.
And so the passing strollers in St James’s Park are transformed unwittingly into sirens, and each glowing body becomes suggestive of its social shadow, the prostitute. And to a blind little penis, swaddled in trousers, there is no difference between a whore and a lady, except that the whore is available, with no angry champions to duel with, no law on her side, no witnesses, no complaints. Therefore, when William Rackham finds himself possessed of an erection, his immediate impulse is to take it directly to the nearest whore.