Behind her freckles Naomi turned pale. She felt slights keenly, and never more keenly than this. Before she had a chance to respond Joanna was at the woman’s side, and had kissed her cheek, and was saying, ‘I thought you did very well’ – Just as if she were a grown-up too, and didn’t still wipe her nose on her sleeve when she thinks no-one’s looking! Naomi hadn’t eaten that day, and hunger made the room begin to turn about her; she tried to stand, but Mr Caffyn appeared at her desk and set down a pot of black ink, a sheaf of paper, and something that looked like a garden snail made of grey stone.
‘Oh do sit up straight, Naomi Banks,’ said the teacher, who was not unkind, but who felt that Mrs Seaborne and her monsters had turned out to be less of an asset to the day than he’d hoped. ‘You’re a better artist than most of us here: see what you can do with that.’
What will I do with it, thought Naomi, hefting it in her right hand and then her left: she would’ve liked to toss it at Cora Seaborne and strike her square on the forehead. Who was she anyway? They’d all been all right before she came, Jo and her with their spells and fires. Probably she was a witch, she thought: wouldn’t put it past her with a coat like that; probably the Essex Serpent was a familiar she’d brought with her. The wickedness of the idea cheered her, and when Joanna came back to her seat Naomi was circling her paintbrush in the pot of ink, laughing. Probably sleeps with it tethered to the end of the bed, she thought: probably rides it. She stirred and stirred the pot of ink, and blots appeared on the sheet of white paper in front of her. Probably gives it her breast at night! she thought, and laughed harder, only wasn’t sure whether the laughter really had anything to do with her own thoughts, because it was so loud and strange, and she couldn’t stop it, even though she saw Joanna look puzzled, and a little cross. It’s probably here – on the step – outside the door, she thought: I bet she whistled for it like the farmer does with his dogs. She looked down at her own hands, with the little white pockets of flesh that linked each finger, and they seemed to her to be gleaming with salt water, and scented with scraps of fish. Her laughter shook her and grew a little high-pitched, and it was the unmistakable pitch of fear: she glanced over first her left shoulder and then her right, but the classroom door was closed. The paintbrush in the inkpot went frantically round, as if someone else were guiding her hand, and the desk jolted, and a jar of water toppled and spread across the ink-stained page. Look at it, there it is, thought Naomi, still laughing, still jerking her head over her shoulder (when it came she’d be the first to see it!): ‘LOOK,’ she said, to Joanna, or to Mr Caffyn, who appeared again in front of her, wringing her hands, saying something she couldn’t hear above her own high peals of laughter. ‘CAN’T YOU SEE IT?’ she said, watching the water make the ink bloom, making – surely they could see it! – the coiled body of a serpent of some kind, heart pulsing through the thin skin of its belly and a pair of black wings opening. ‘Not long now,’ she said, ‘not long now –’: over her shoulder she looked, again and again, absolutely certain the serpent was on the threshold – she could smell it, certainly she could: she’d know the scent anywhere … and besides, others could see it too – there was Harriet in her yellow dress, and she was laughing, and craning her head so far over her shoulder you’d think her neck would break, and there were the twins from across the road, who barely spoke, even to each other, and now dashed their heads left and right, left and right, snapping them back and forth, and laughing as they did it.
Cora, appalled, watched as laughter spread outward from the red-haired girl’s desk, missing Joanna, moving around her like a flow of water interrupted by a rock. It was as if they’d all heard a silent joke which had passed the adults by: some girls laughed behind hands pressed to their mouths; others threw back their heads and roared, thumping the desk in front of them, as though they were older women and the joke had been a bawdy one. Naomi, who’d begun it all, had worn herself out, and sat giggling quietly, putting her hands in the water-and-ink that spilled across the paper, now and then pausing to look over her shoulder and giggle a little more loudly. The child in the yellow dress, who was nearest the door, had laughed herself into frantic tears, and instead of turning to look over her shoulder had turned her chair around and sat facing the door, her hands pressed to her cheeks, chanting It’s coming ready or not, coming ready or not between open-mouthed gulps at the air.
Mr Caffyn, both outraged and afraid, plucked at his tie and cried, ‘Stop this! Stop this!’, looking furiously at their troublesome visitor, who’d gone very white and stood gripping Joanna’s hand in hers. Then a girl doubled over, laughing so violently her chair toppled and she fell to the floor with a yell that pierced the muddle of foolish laughter, which immediately began to recede. Naomi put a hand to her neck – ‘It hurts,’ she said: ‘Why does it hurt? What have you done?’ and looked around at her classmates, blinking and shaking her head, bemused at their tear-streaked faces. Little Harriet twisted the yellow hem of her dress and had a fit of the hiccups, and one or two of the older girls had gone to comfort the weeping child who cradled a swelling wrist beside an upturned chair.
‘Joanna?’ said Naomi, looking at her friend, ‘What’s wrong? Was it me? What have I done this time?’
Cora Seaborne 3,
The Common
Aldwinter 15th May Luke – You’re basking in your celebrity I know and are probably up to your elbows in a chest cavity somewhere, but now WE need you.
Luke, something’s going wrong. Today something went through the children here as fast as fire – not sickness in the way it’s usually meant, something in the mind, and down they all went like dominoes. By evening all was well again but what could have done it – was it my fault?
You understand these things: you had me under hypnosis when I would not believe that you could – had me walking over the heath to my father’s house while I lay there on the couch – won’t you come down?
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything anymore: that all got used up a long time ago. But something’s here – something’s going on – something isn’t right …
Besides, you must meet the Ransomes, and most of all Will. I’ve told him about my Imp.
Can you bring more books for Francis? Murder, please, and the bloodier the better.
Love,
CORA
Luke Garrett MD
Pentonville Rd
London N1
15th May Cora – Don’t fret. There are no mysteries anymore.
One word: ergotism. Remember? Black fungus in a crop of rye – a pack of girls hallucinate – Salem hangs its witches. Check their lunches for brown bread and I’ll be with you by Friday next.
Enclosed: 1 x note for Martha, with Spencer’s regards. Something about housing: he bores me and I don’t listen.
LUKE
George Spencer MD
10 Queen’s Gate Terrace
15th May
Dear Martha –
I hope you are well. How is Essex in the spring? Do you miss civilisation? I thought of you when I saw the gardeners out in force in Victoria Park, and how neat the flowerbeds are. I don’t suppose Aldwinter is growing tulips in the shape of a clock face.
I’ve been thinking about our chat. I’m glad you shook me out of my complacency and made me look elsewhere and ashamed it took you to do it. I’ve read everything you said I should read, and more. Last week I went to Poplar and saw for myself the state of their homes, and how they live, and how the one feeds the other.
I’ve written to Charles Ambrose, and hope he’ll write back. He has more influence than me, and understands better how government works, and I think he can be useful. I’m hoping he can be persuaded to come with me to Poplar or Limehouse and see what you and I have seen. If so, might you come too?
I’ve enclosed a clipping from The Times I thought might cheer you: it seems the Housing of the Working Classes Act is at last making itself felt beyond the city. The future’s coming to meet us!
With good wishes,
GEORGE SPENCER
4