Page 21 of Infamous

‘All right, you poor sentimental creature,’ said Eddie, stroking Rose’s hair fondly until she sighed. ‘Let me walk you home.’

‘Then who’s going to walkyouhome?’

‘It’s ten minutes, Rose. I’m not going to get into any trouble in ten minutes.’

‘If anyone can,’ said Rose, lifting her head and looking at Eddie with genuine consternation, ‘it’s you.’

Chapter Nine

Nash had not exactly invited Eddie to his reading later that week, but hehadmentioned it within her earshot at his house, which felt almost the same. The subject of poetry (and those who wrote it) was enough of a sore spot between her and Rose that Eddie did not immediately launch into aggressive negotiating tactics in an attempt to get Rose to accompany her; it was, unbelievably, Mr Albert Rednock who proved himself useful on this particular occasion.

‘He asked if we wanted to go with him to thisreading, or whatever they call it. All their old friends from the pamphlet they wrote for are going,’ Rose said reluctantly as they walked with the Millers in the park one morning, watching as Amelia attempted to lure a duck to her by whispering what might either have been sweet nothings or an attempt at some sort of occult enchantment. ‘Amelia, darling, I don’t think that duck wants to be stroked.’

Mr and Mrs Miller were both preoccupied up ahead, trying to chase Beatrice while maintaining a somewhat dignified pace; Beatrice, who had never spared dignity a thought in her life, was on a firm trajectory towards the pond and showed no signs of slowing down. Lucy-Anne and Simon were doing their family proud simply by walking along the path like ordinary human beings.

‘I still cannot picture Albert Rednock as a writer,’ Eddie said, trying to keep the distaste out of her voice just this once.

‘Do not be such a hideous snob,’ said Rose. ‘He has a lot of thoughts on the state of the world, you know. He and Nash worked together, when Nash was just starting out – I think Albert tried to take Nash under his wing for a while, steer him right, not that it had any effect whatsoever. I imagine .?.?. you want to go. To the reading.’

‘Excellent guesswork,’ said Eddie. ‘Though I imagine you’d rather embrace Amelia’s duck.’

Rose pulled a face. ‘Albert said there would be some people there he’d like me to meet. So I suppose I shall go, for him. Perhaps I can just tune out the poetry.’

‘Should be no problem at all, at a poetry reading,’ said Eddie. ‘Perhaps you could stick your fingers in your ears and hum, like Trix does whenever Lucy-Anne sings. Damn, speak of the devil .?.?.’

‘Edith,’ Mr Miller called, quite red in the face, ‘could you catch her, please?’

Beatrice had made an about-turn, dodged between her father’s legs and come sprinting back towards the rest of her family; Eddie tried to meet her, spreading her arms wide as if she were defending a net at some sort of sporting event, but at the last minute Beatrice pirouetted away with surprising grace and sprinted towards Amelia. Eddie didn’t quite understand what happened next, but she heard twin shrieks of triumph and despair, and a second later Beatrice was holding a very perturbed duck aloft like a trophy.

‘That’smy duck!’ Amelia wailed. ‘Don’thurtit, Trix!’

Beatrice seemed so overcome that she could only gaze up at her prize, which was now flapping its wings violently in protest; Mr and Mrs Miller were shouting at their youngest daughter todrop it, please, Beatrice, it likely has allmannerof diseases, which only seemed to strengthen her resolve.

‘It’smine!’ she shouted, her voice taking on an alarming resonance, as if she might be possessed by some bird-fancying devil.

At that precise moment, the duck lifted its tail feathers and defecated on her.

*

The reading was to take place at Woolton’s, a club that restricted its day-to-day patronage to gentlemen but was apparently willing to make exceptions for celebrated poets. Eddie was torn between her perpetual outrage that places such as this existed, and an undeniable sense of wonder at being allowed to see behind the curtain –twocurtains, in fact, which were opened wide so that she, Rose and Mr Rednock could step inside. The club was a tall, narrow building in the classical style, sandwiched between two similar but less imposing neighbours; the entrance hall was flanked with marble columns, and from the morning rooms on either side Eddie could hear the grumble and bark of many overlapping male voices.

The man who had allowed them entrance seemed mortified to be aiding and abetting the admittance of two ladies, and hurried them through to the stairs in the manner of a hound helpfully escorting a fox. They passed a group of frowning grey-haired gentlemen, who seemed to inflate with indignation at the sight of them; Eddie was glad when they reached the card room, which contained some five or ten other ladies and was so stuffed with people that nobody noticed them enter. Guests were crowded around card tables, calling to one another as they weaved through the crush, leaning against the ornately moulded walls with glasses of wine in hand. All were laughing and talking and contributing to the most unbelievable din. It seemed impossible that they would find a place to sit, but Mr Rednock spotted a middle-aged gentleman he knew and was waved over to a half-full table to the right of a small platform.

They bowed, curtseyed and attempted introductions, but it was simply too loud for banal niceties. Eddie left Rose to it and settled back in her seat instead to gaze around the room at the menagerie of people who had been drawn here by the promise of port and poetry. She was convinced she recognised a few faces, although she could not quite place them; the lady in forest-green silk with an entire bottle of wine in her hand was perhaps an actress, the gentleman in the beautifully cut rose tailcoat with his hand on her elbow potentially a famous orator who had featured in the paper. It was almost more thrillingnotto know, and to aggrandise them in all directions.

‘Mr Nicholson’s friend Valentine is over there,’ Rose said in Eddie’s ear as Mr Rednock poured them glasses of wine; Eddie craned her neck until she spotted that Valentine was indeed standing near the door, dressed rather more traditionally than the last time Eddie had encountered them. As she watched, Nash appeared through the doorway, clapping Valentine on the back; when the crowd spotted him he was greeted with raucous cheering, and he held up his hands in sheepish greeting with a roll of his eyes before making a dash for the stage. Somebody let out a long whistle as he ascended, and he shook his head disapprovingly and scrubbed a hand through his hair as the audience cackled.

‘Please calm yourselves, this isnotthat sort of establishment. Christ, is that Grimaldi in the second row? In that case, I am gravely mistaken .?.?. itisin fact that sort of establishment, and I am honoured that you would all besmirch your good names for the love of a lowlypoetiser.’

More cheers; Rose tried to say something in Eddie’s ear again, but she was entirely drowned out, and Eddie could not tear her eyes away from Nash. He seemed superhuman, like some gilded god of chaos; he certainly hadfarmore energy than a normal person could expect to generate. It was practically coming off him in waves as he grinned wickedly around at the crowd, drawing them all in. Somebody stood up to pass him a glass of wine, and he gave a small bow of thanks and then downed half of it in one gulp.

‘In all seriousness .?.?. No, no, I mean it, you must all join me in looking grave for a moment .?.?. Do notlaugh, Miss Watkins, I can see you behind that fan .?.?. You may recall that the last time I entertained you all here, there was a brief and very polite altercation with another member, during which some poor bystander called for the constable. Yes, you may well boo – I booed, at the time – but really, a moment of silence for my worthy adversary on that occasion, who has gone toextrememeasures to avoid a repeat by leaving the country altogether. I believe that particular poet is currently terrorising the poor people of Italy – so please join me and drink to this.’ He raised his remaining wine, looking at them all expectantly, and glasses were raised all around the room to match. ‘ThankGodwe aren’t Italians. Cheers!’

There was an explosion of laughter and applause – accompanied by a few good-natured shouts of protest, which Eddie could only assume had come from any Italians present – but Eddie was too enchanted to do more than grin up at Nash like a fool. She thought she saw his eyes dart in her direction, but then he was off, eliciting more riotous laughter from the crowd as he worked himself up to the main event. He had his audience in the palm of his hand; when his easy patter finally gave way to a reading of his longest and most famous poem, ‘The Death of Beauty’,everybody listened in rapt silence.

Eddie forgot she was in a gentleman’s club; she forgot that Rose was sitting next to her, or that she was breathing the same air as Mr Rednock. She was on a windswept parapet; she was at the bow of a ship; she was on a battlefield, listening to Nash lament the death all around her. She felt speared through with feeling, pinned to her chair by the force of it. It was a magical enough thing to read poetry lying with Rose in the treehouse, or alone by the light of a candle in the middle of the night, but somehow this felt just as personal and more besides. It was as if he was reading directly to her; as if every word he spoke had been written to appeal to the most private and burning parts of her heart.

Nash read two more, but they flew past far too quickly, and suddenly he was being dragged off the stage by the many people who wanted to buy him a drink and shake his hand. Eddie watched as he was swallowed up by one group and then another, everybody trying to touch him as much as possible, as if some of his magic might rub off on them; she didn’t realise that she had half-stood out of her seat until Rose gave her a gentle yank downwards.