The Elephant Keeper Page 23

  “There is no reason.”

  “In that case, why do you ask? Are you jealous?”

  “Jealous?” She tossed her head. “I am no more than a half-reasoning animal.”

  A half-reasoning animal, indeed! I stared, and if she were human, I believe, she would have been covered in blushes. “Why—the truth is, Jenny, you are jealous!”

  “The truth is,” she retorted hotly, “I do not want you to be hurt. But I am only an Elephant.”

  This was, as she well knew, the very phrase that Lizzy herself had once used, and I was so annoyed that I left her without another word. I busied myself in filling the lion’s water-trough and sweeping up his dung. He did not stir, even when the broom brushed his whiskers. Well, Sir, I said to him, give me your advice. Jenny says, or thinks, that I should not go back to Thornhill, on the grounds that I might meet Lizzy Tindall, but this is a distraction, it is not the main point at issue, which is to meet Joshua Harrington and thereby escape the present situation. Now, Sir, what is your considered opinion? The lion yawned and yawned again, revealing four ginger stumps in his jaws. I am too tired, he seemed to say, leave me alone. My tail hurts, my bones ache. I need to sleep.

  Over the next few days, Jenny beamed the entire force of her affections upon Mr. Scott. Whenever she saw him, at least when I was watching, she would trumpet with pleasure and hurry forward. “The Empress is in a good mood,” he remarked. “I don’t know what’s come over her lately. Here—stop that, will you—steady, steady now,” for she was wafting hot air into one of his ears. I, by contrast, was treated with a shew of cold civility. She pretended not to hear me, and when she did, pretended not to understand.

  “Jenny, what is happening?” I said at last.

  She turned toward me. “What is happening?”

  “Why are you behaving like this?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I repeated the question. “You and Mr. Scott. I am not entirely blind. What are you attempting to achieve?”

  “I am not attempting to achieve anything.” Her expression was one of extraordinary innocence, while her tone was nothing short of haughty. “I happen to enjoy Mr. Scott’s company.”

  “Indeed, so I perceive, you make that very plain.”

  “Why,” she flapped her ears, in apparent consternation, “am I not allowed to talk to Mr. Scott? I am sorry, I did not know.”

  “This is nonsense, as you know very well. You cannot talk to Mr. Scott, and Mr. Scott cannot talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he cannot!” I said impatiently. “Jenny!”

  “I am sorry, Tom. I thought that you had finished. What is it?”

  “You are being ridiculous. All this is intended to prevent me from going back to Thornhill. I understand, it is transparent. You are jealous of Lizzy Tindall.”

  “Not at all, Tom,” she said smoothly. “I am not at all opposed to you going back to Thornhill, and leaving me with Mr. Scott. He is a man of many excellent qualities, as you have told me yourself. We will rub along very well together, I am sure. I shall teach him to talk to me.”

  “O, this is impossible!” I cried. “Yes, I am going back to Thornhill, though not to see Lizzy Tindall, but in the hope that it may enable us to leave this damp, flea-ridden pit of horrors. Are you content to stay here for ever?”

  “I am only an Elephant,” she repeated. “It is not my decision. Stay away as long as you like. I shall be content here with Mr. Scott as my keeper.”

  Why, how provoking this was! In her resolve to keep me by her side, she had determined to make me jealous of Mr. Scott!

  Our dispute continued for longer than I care to remember, through the autumn and into the winter. At times I felt angry with her; at others, with myself, for being swayed by her female behaviour, which seemed more human than Elephant. I said to myself, am I being so very un-reasonable, when this is our best hope of escape? She does not understand; all she can see are the five days that I will be away, and a groundless fear that I will never return; she is unable or refuses to look into the darkness which lies ahead if we do not escape from the Menagery. It was true, I knew, or I think I knew, that there was a certain risk in what I proposed; at risk was the hope itself, the little piece of cheese on which I liked to nibble. However, it seemed to me that at some point I would have to put the hope to the test, to discover whether it was worth anything; and, that being so, the better sooner than later. To delay gained me nothing: better to know the truth now, than to feed on a falsehood.

  3

  It was a dark day in February when, my heart full of foreboding, I finally caught the Coach for Bath. The passage of every dull mile, rattling me further from Jenny, made me feel that the thread which held us together was being stretched thinner and thinner to the point of breaking, and when the Coach stopped at the Castle in Marlborough I was in half a mind to return at once. I reproached myself for cowardice: having come this far, I told myself, I must go on for Jenny’s sake. Yet I was resolved to make my journey as brief as possible; indeed I had solemnly promised both Jenny and Mr. Scott that I would be back in London by the Saturday, that is not five but four days hence (though Mr. Scott had urged me to stay away longer, if necessary).

  Once in Bath, therefore, I did not linger a single moment but set forth at once on foot, though the day was well advanced. Having climbed the brow of the hill which looks over the city, I asked a man who stood by an inn, The Bear, whether the road before me was the one which led to Wells (for I knew that, once I was near Wells, I should be able to find my way easily enough to Glastonbury and thence to Thornhill). He answered that there were two roads which led in that direction, and either would do; but, he added, after about six miles I would come to a fork, and there I should be sure to take the right prong, else I should go completely out of my way. I thanked him and took the road, which led me on to a high open plain marked by a few stone walls and thorn bushes. Not having been abroad in such wild country for so many years, and without Jenny at my side, I wondered whether I would have been wiser to have spent the night at The Bear, especially when the possibility of footpads, cut-purses, and other ruffians came into my head; moreover, I began to doubt whether I was on the right road, despite what the man had told me; there had been something about his face which lacked conviction. As darkness fell apace, this doubt grew, for there was no moon and I could not see the way clearly, and though I watched for the fork which the man had mentioned, I never found it. The road seemed to turn too much to the south, when I needed to go further west, and when it plunged into a dark wood my confidence deserted me entirely. However, I pressed on, and made out the dim shape of a mile-stone, and my fingers, fumbling over its mossy face, seemed to trace the letters WELLS XVIII, which put me in better heart. Thereafter I looked for every mile-stone, counting my steps.

  It had been my intention to march through the night, for the sooner I reached Thornhill, the sooner I would be able to return to London. I made good progress, however toward the end of the night the rain fell and my legs began to ache, and, the distance between each mile-stone growing greater and greater, I allowed myself the luxury of a rest in the lee of an old stone barn, where I eased myself and lit a pipe. I had brought a loaf of bread with me, and now I ate some, reserving the remainder for my journey back. While I was sheltering by the barn I heard voices and two or three men rode close by, but did not see me, to my relief. Toward day-break, I drew near Wells, and within an hour having struck on a lucky road came to a particular sheepfold which I recognised, and so knew that I was back in my home country. My steps quickened, and finally I stood on the top of the down above Gillerton.

  In the distance lay the grey shape of Harrington Hall and, somewhat nearer, the little cottages of Thornhill clustered round the tower of the church, and the beloved woods and fields and ponds which my imagination had haunted for so long. The rain had stopped, and below the pale of the dawn sky hundreds of rooks and daws were flying in long black straggling lines, borne on t
he currents of the wind; and as they drew nearer, uttering their familiar caws and chacks, O what a pleasant, friendly greeting this was, or ought to have been! Yet, at the thought of entering the village, of meeting someone who might know me, I was filled with a nameless apprehension, which left me sick in the pit of my stomach. Indeed, soon enough, as I descended the sunken cart track which leads off the down, I did meet a shepherd, a young man, who leant on his crook and eyed me narrowly. Mustering my reserves of courage I left the down and walked through Gillerton, and began along the lane to Thornhill. Hundreds of times, and without the slightest sense of fear, I had trod this same lane, so why did my feet weigh so heavily? Why did I feel that I was walking to my death?

  As I entered the village, two barefoot children were trying to catch a hen which had run into the street, while a young woman, in a dark smock, was stooping at the well. My legs carried me onward; I saw a bowed old woman shuffling along with a load of sticks on her back and I knew at once that she was Mrs. Perry, though I could scarcely believe that the old witch was still alive. I recognised no one else; nor did anyone give any sign of recognising me, though I was much stared at. I thought, I am a stranger here now, I am a stranger, though I am not a stranger. The village seemed to have changed, but I could not tell how it had changed. Perhaps it is still the same, only I have changed, I said to myself, but I was not sure.

  The Hall, at least, seemed much as I remembered, and I waited in the grounds with my back against a tree to see whether anyone might come out. In my mind I had told myself how, if Joshua rode toward me, I would step out of cover and salute him, at which point he would stop and I would make myself known, and I rehearsed the words that I would say. An hour or two passed, and a small herd of spotted deer grazed near me, and a yaffle gave a loud laugh as it flew past, but no one came out of the Hall. At last I heard the sound of an axe, and making my way in that direction I found a white-haired old man and two boys about ten years of age, standing beneath the same elm tree to which, long ago, I had chained Timothy when he had the Ooze. They were chopping up a giant limb, brought down by some gale. This ancient was Mr. Judge, who had once been head gardener at the Hall. I approached, and asked him, whether he could tell me anything about Harrington Hall, however he was deaf and I had to repeat the question several times before he understood. Leaning on the haft of his axe and scowling, he demanded what it was I wanted to know, and I said, who owned it now, who owned the estate, to which he replied that it was owned by Mr. Harrington, the squire. “Why do you want to know?”

  “You do not recognise me, Mr. Judge?”

  His face was very red and mottled under his white hair. “No; should I?”

  When I told him my name he staggered. “Tom Page? Tom Page? Son of Timothy Page, the groom?”

  “The same.”

  “Well I’ll be d—ned!” He peered at me, suspicious, with rheumy eyes. “You were the lad with the Elephants!”

  “The same, I was.”

  “Well! I don’t know!” He turned to the boys. “Did you know that? There were Elephants once, up at the Hall. Two Elephants! Monsters!” He raised a hand to shew how big the Elephants had been.

  The boys gazed to the height of the elm. “Yes, Gran’fer,” one replied in a piping voice; however, he and his brother exchanged a sly, smirking glance which said as plain as a pike-staff that they did not believe him.

  “It is true,” I said to them. “I still care for one of the Elephants, in London.”

  Mr. Judge gave a grunt. “Anywhere’s better than here, as you’ve likely heard.”

  “Why so?”

  “Why? Why? The master! The Squire!”

  “Mr. Harrington?”

  “Bearing down on poor people!” In a voice of indignation, Mr. Judge told me how wages had gone down, and prices had gone up, and rents, and no one was allowed to collect wood any longer, even in winter, or take their pigs or cows on the commons, even though it had been their right to do so since the days of Adam. “It’s our right to graze on the commons!” he said angrily. “It’s an Englishman’s right! No one keeps a cow now, as there’s nowhere to graze it.”

  “What then do people do for milk?”

  “Milk? No one drinks milk! No one drinks it! Or they do buy it, but the price of milk…” Even redder in the face, he kicked at the axe. “Same with butter! And cheese! And meat! He thinks we’re horses, he thinks we ought to live on oats and water! He’s a tyrant!”

  “Is this Mr. Joshua Harrington, or his father, John Harrington?”

  “The father?—He’s dead. No, the son, worse luck, the son. You wouldn’t remember him. He treats us like slaves.”

  “I do remember him, I do, Mr. Judge.”

  He muttered a curse. “There’s more misery here I’d say than in any other village in the whole of England.”

  The rest of the conversation I cannot recall very clearly, my mind was so over-thrown. That Joshua, who had been such a sweet boy, should have grown into a tyrant—how was this possible? When did the corruption set in? As I walked back through the village, I went into the churchyard to visit my father’s grave, and found that at the head of the grave a large stone had been erected to my father’s memory, and to the memory of my mother, who had been laid to rest in the same plot seven years earlier. This stone could only have been erected by Jim, and it raised my hopes that he might now be living in the village; and thus I made my way to the old cottage where he and I were born. In London I had often pictured it but always in spring and summer, not as now, in the dead days of winter, with the thatch rotten and mouldy. A he-goat with a sleak white beard raised its head and fixed me with its mad eyes.

  A little girl answered the door, and called for her mother, who soon appeared. She was a woman of about thirty-five with a tired face and red nose. “O, but it is Tom Page!” she cried, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Annie, run and fetch your father and tell him it is Tom Page, who used to look after the Elephants!” It turned out that her name was Margaret Edwards, but I had known her as Margaret Porter, the daughter of Robert Porter, who was the wheelwright in Thornhill when I was a boy.

  She asked me into the cottage, which was very cold and shabby, with no sign of a fire and only a few sticks of furniture. At her invitation I sat on a stool, which rocked on the uneven floor. I could scarcely believe where I was. “Did you not once live here?” Margaret asked.—“I did, indeed.”—“I am sorry there is no fire—what happened to the Elephants?” When I told her that one was still alive, and living in London, her face broke into smiles. “After so long!” she exclaimed, “O, I am pleased!”—“Well, they are long-lived creatures.” As we were talking, her husband came into the room. A stocky man with one wall eye, John Edwards was some years younger than Margaret and did not remember the Elephants, though he could remember being told about them. He seemed chiefly interested in the question whether London was truly such a sink of vice and corruption as people said, with dozens of harlots and jezebels on every street-corner. When I informed him that there were indeed harlots, and jezebels—returning the phrase without amendment—he gave a low, lecher’s laugh. “I knew it! Heh! Heh! What be they like?” I replied that such women were probably the same the world over. He leant greedily forward, fixing me with his wall eye. “They be sometimes known as hackneys, be n’t they? Seein’ as how they be for hire. Heh, heh! What be the fare?”—“About six pence, generally.”—“Six pence!” said he, and gave his leg some hearty slaps, while Margaret merely smiled. The little girl crouched on her haunches and stared.

  At length they asked what brought me back to Thornhill, and being reluctant to divulge my main purpose, for fear of looking foolish, I mentioned Jim; but they had heard nothing of him lately, though they remembered that he had been in the village some time after my mother had died. “Weren’t he Master of some ship?” John asked. I said that I did not know. “O, he were—the ship’s name—what were it called?”—“It was the Fortune,” Margaret said.—“That were it—the Fortune! Tra
ding out of Bristol!”—“The Fortune is one of Mr. Harrington’s ships,” said Margaret. “He was the Master, your brother. And may be still, very likely. He was very well dressed.” She spoke of him in very respectful terms, as if he had become a gentleman.

  I confess that I found this intelligence strangely painful. To learn that the brother whom I knew, or thought I knew, who could neither read nor write, and who suffered from such head-aches he could scarcely stir abroad for two or three days at a stretch, was now in sole charge of a great ship and its crew, to whose members he would issue orders which would be obeyed forthwith, and that this ship sailed, no doubt, all round the world, was entirely unexpected. He was my one and only living relation, and I had always counted upon meeting him again at some point in our lives, and renewing our friendship; for, certainly, we had been friends as well as brothers. Yet now, as the Master of the Fortune, he seemed a stranger, and I wondered what, if chance were to bring us together, he would say to me.

  I went on to ask John and Margaret about Mr. Harrington, and here they had a great deal to say, much of it confirming Mr. Judge’s account. It seems that, soon after his father’s death, Joshua Harrington fell under the sway of some new agricultural ideas, which persuaded him to inclose the common land, supposedly to improve it; however, the effect had been to deprive many people of a large part of their livelihoods. Those with a trade were barely able to make ends meet, while those without, that is, the ordinary villagers, no longer had land on which to graze their cows, or pigs or sheep, as they were used; nor were they allowed to gather fire-wood or brush, nor even to glean after the harvest. I suggested that Mr. Harrington did not, perhaps, understand the sufferings which his Improvements had caused; at which Margaret said bitterly, “O, he understands well enough, but he has no heart. If you were to cut him open, you would find a hole where his heart ought to be.”

  As these words sunk into me, I understood that there was no longer any point in applying to Mr. Harrington, and that my hopes were in vain. Before leaving John and Margaret, however, I cautiously inquired about Lizzy Tindall.