‘Opin, vinsamlegast! Opin!’
‘What the fucking hell!’ Finn springs from the bed in the dead of night.
A persistent knocking accompanies the pelting rain. Clovis slips into her dressing gown and lights a taper from the embers in the fireplace. Finn is too rattled and impatient to have any concern about modesty or decorum and streaks down the stairs in his nightshirt.
‘It must be midnight or later,’ Clovis hisses. ‘Who can this be?’
Then they hear the language they have not heard for years.
‘Opin, vinsamlegast! Opin!’
The man is tall, middle-aged and handsome. The woman, older, carries a swaddled baby on her back. Weighed down by the dragging rain, the woman’s mouth drops open a bit when she sees Clovis. Taken by a moment of jolting recognition, Margrét had not expected the sisters to appear so similar.
Undaunted, Stefán steps in uninvited, quickly, in the manner of a man on urgent business.
‘My apologies for the late hour,’ Stefán says in his language.
‘Do you speak English?’ Finn asks.
‘If you prefer. Margrét is still learning.’ Stefán’s English is good.
The commotion has brought Willa and Jonesy down from the attic. Neither is sure what they should do, except relieve the strangers of their sodden outer jackets.
‘Welcome. Forgive me. We are taken by surprise.’ Clovis motions for the strangers to follow her.
‘Our late hour is necessary for the safety of the child,’ Stefán says.
Without further comment Clovis leads them into the front room. The visitors note right away that with the exception of their midnight arrival, Clovis is prepared. For there, dominating the corner opposite the armonica, suspended high off the floor from its base, a rocking cradle awaits an occupant.
Margrét carefully unties the baby’s carrying cloth. She struggles in an awkward moment and looks to Clovis for help. But Clovis remains rooted and instead motions to Willa who is wrapped in her own blanket. The girl is relieved to have something useful to do.
‘Tea.’ Jonesy bows before he retreats to the kitchen.
‘No. Coffee for our visitors. Hot and strong,’ Clovis orders.
Once the baby is free from its bindings, Clovis takes the sleeping bundle from Willa and places it in the cradle. The dismal months looking after her aunt’s newborn come to the fore now as she gently lowers the baby. She turns back to her audience beaming, as if she’d accomplished a great act.
An awkward silence settles on the guests and their hosts. In it, Stefán and Margrét take stock of the baby’s future. In what kind of household will this child be raised? What might he report to Elísabet that will ease her mind? And who, exactly, has Koldís Ingólfsdóttir become?
Margrét has never been surrounded by so great a quantity of wood. And there are so many things made from wood in this country. Her eyes rove to a writing table, an occasional table, a screen, a round table, chairs and the sofa upon which she now uncomfortably sits. How heavy it all makes a place. There are, well, things everywhere. Objects crowd the mantelpiece. There are cloths on tables, brackets tipping with china. Collectors of dust.
Stefán and Margrét offer Jonesy a grateful nod for the steaming coffee.
Upon yesterday’s arrival, the claustrophobic, filthy London streets and the number of people in them quickly overwhelmed Margrét. There seem to be more people in one street than in all of Iceland. And now, in the weary midnight hour, this woman who has not even asked the name of her sister’s child, is clearly concerned only with herself, and would try to steal their attention over that of the baby’s. Margrét cannot hold silent.
‘Would you like to know the name of the child?’ she asks in Icelandic. ‘Would you like to know its sex?’
Clovis hesitates and casts a glance at the judgemental faces that stare at her. Damnation. She must repair this.
‘You read my thoughts exactly! I have been itching to know.’
‘His name is Rafe,’ Margrét says quite sternly, mixing the languages.
‘It is Rafe Fowler now.’ Clovis meets the woman’s glare.
It is for Stefán to quash the potential storm brewing between the two women. Clovis’s husband looks amused, which does not make their departure any easier. Their journey, the planning, and the resources used to deliver the child safely have clearly not been considered by these two Fowlers. Stefán stands and retrieves an envelope from his jacket and places it on top of the round table. Immune to Clovis’s beauty and her trap of a smile, and not at all interested in her husband’s thoughts, he delivers final instructions with a bare disregard of convention.
‘You will keep the boy safe and healthy. His education is primary. If he develops any unusual aspects or habits, or displays any physical abnormalities you must contact our emissary immediately. A man named Benedikt will be looking after you. But you must only communicate with him as he directs.’
‘What a lot of mystery there.’ Finn finally speaks.
Stefán ignores him.
‘If anyone else takes an interest in the boy – strangers asking questions, that sort of thing, stay out of their company and report it. Be detailed. You are being paid for such information.’ He nods towards the envelope that contains a great deal of money.
‘If you are involved in any illegal business, it must stop.’ He registers Finn’s glare. ‘Well, you do not think that I believe this house, its furnishings, the two servants, and the gown your wife wears is a result of the sale of a few clocks, do you? Your decoration is paired with an income that does not match it by any other means. A vital part of our agreement is that you raise no questions, court no trouble.’
‘Sir, I can assure you that …’ Clovis starts.
‘I think we have some right to know why this child needs such special protection and why Elísabet cannot raise it herself,’ Finn says.
‘No, you do not have a right. If there comes a time when you need to know, you will be informed.’ Stefán hesitates. ‘Honestly, we do not yet know all the answers ourselves. Your servants, they must honour our demands for secrecy.’
‘Sir, I give you my word. You have no worry there.’ Finn feels he must be heard and acknowledged.
Stefán nods, but will not make eye contact with this man, who has behaved so dishonourably in the past.
Clovis studies Stefán more closely. It is futile to probe him any longer about the baby, but perhaps she can learn more about him.
‘My goodness. We do not even know your name, sir.’
Again, Stefán catches the tone, the insincerity.
‘Come Margrét, it is time. We must go.’
His abruptness does not phase Clovis. While Margrét approaches the cradle for one last glance at the boy, Clovis edges closer to Stefán.
‘Does my sister send any message for me?’
‘None.’
She nods, a smug half-smile spreads across her face.
‘Do you have any message for her?’ he asks.
‘None.’
‘Well, there is this.’ Margrét says as she opens a bag made of dyed and untreated seal skin. Sewn with overlapping seams to keep it watertight for their journey, its contents are precious. Margrét lays a number of folded knitted items on the table beside the envelope. She then carefully removes a delicate piece of linen and lace that is clearly a christening gown.
‘Your sister’s hands. The lacework, the embroidery – all the white work is hers. Her wish is that he be christened.’ She reverts to Icelandic as she speaks.
Then Margrét takes one last item from the bag.
‘Rafe is to be fed dúsa from this spoon. Meat, fish and butter.’
‘Ah. Their marriage spoon.’ Clovis, toneless, barely glances at it.
‘Rafe is accustomed to dúsa from this spoon. He will soon grow out of the clothes and the boots, the mittens and caps. But he will always have the spoon. Your sister might find some comfort that he has it and requests that you keep it safe.’
Stefán places a hand on Margrét’s shoulder. ‘We must go now.’
Margrét nods and then fastens the silver buttons of her outer jacket. Her hands begin to shake when she picks up her cap, the style of which looks odd even in this mongrel neighbourhood, with its tassel dangling down to her shoulders. The anger she feels is thinly obscured when she gives it a strong jerk. The sadness, the hurt and the wicked unfairness of it all leave her overwhelmed and with an urge to grab the boy and run. But instead, she thinks of the enormous strength Elísabet has shown in the face of these most damnable events and reaches down into her own reserve and pulls herself up. She clears her throat.
‘He’ll want feeding in an hour.’
Stefán stops at the door.
‘For as long as Benedikt reports that the boy is well – and make no mistake, he will know – then you will be paid regularly. But if any harm befalls him, there will be no more compensation and other arrangements will be made.’
The clouds have wrung themselves dry and steam rises from the pavement. The river fog eats the shadows of the two Icelanders.
Finn stands by the table holding the envelope, which he now opens.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Let me see.’
This couple seldom share an agreeable moment these days. No sooner had the banns been read did the passion that previously directed all their actions begin to wane, and their interests split and separate like a ruined curd. They woke up one morning in their London marriage bed, exhausted from all their efforts of running from the scandal they had so famously created in Iceland. The domestication of their union did neither of them very good at all. They are best together when they are bad.
‘I told you, Finn. And this is just the beginning.’
Her eyes dance over the notes and sovereigns. In this they find common ground.
Finn tucks the envelope of money under his arm. Before he makes his way to bed, Finn takes a good long look at the baby. A stirring, a memory, and he thinks how queer and mysterious it is that a child of Elísabet, a part of her, would find its way to him.
‘Mistress?’ A bleary-eyed Willa yearning for sleep pops her head in. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘The remains of the cold joint. I’d like that and the butter. Bring them in here in a bowl. And fetch another bowl.’
Willa is sure she can hear her muscles whimpering over the sound of the second stroke of the clock. She must be up at five because she has not yet laid the morning’s fire in the kitchen.
Jonesy is still awake and hovers by the kitchen worktable.
‘You might as well help. Standing around like that for no reason. You might lay the fire for the morning. If you know how,’ Willa says to him, cross and spent.
She monitors the strange, young man as he works the fireplace. He is precise, she will give him that.
They hear the baby’s cries along with Mistress’s call to hurry it up. Quickly, Willa lays a tray with a bowl of sliced meat, the butter dish and an empty bowl.
‘Hurry, will you? He irritates me. Christ! Didn’t I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, mistress. Sorry, mistress.’
Clovis slathers a coating of butter on a slice of meat and begins chewing. There are many things about her country that she does not miss, one of which is the sour butter that was a staple of their diet. The rancid stuff never agreed with her. Upon her first taste of the sweet butter of the Irish she was a convert.
‘Willa, where are you going? Come back here. You must watch. I certainly will not do this each time he needs feeding. Jonesy, you, too.’
Clovis suddenly points her knife at her two servants, using it to punctuate her words. ‘If either of you ever disclose our secret arrangement with Iceland I’ll kill you. Both of you.’
Then she chews, exaggerating the mastication until finally she spits it out into the empty bowl. She places more food in her mouth and begins again. When she has thoroughly ground a spoon full of the moistened beef and butter, she dips the baby’s spoon so that a small amount rests on the tip.
‘Bring him over, Willa.’
Willa’s hand has been in her pocket, rubbing the back of the jade cicada. She is so distressed from her mistress’s threat and what she fears is about to take place, her fingers are sore. She does as her mistress asks.
Clovis holds him like she might a loaf of bread, loosely, with one hand under his head. She places the tip of the spoon to his pouty mouth. His cheeks move as he sucks, first slowly, then ferociously.
In an appearance of unexpected kindness, Clovis orders Willa and Jonesy to bed.
‘We can’t have you dead on your feet tomorrow. Off with you both.’
‘Thank you, mistress. I’m sure I’m very grateful.’
‘I stay, if you wish,’ Jonesy says.
Clovis looks up at him and considers. ‘Yes. You can sleep downstairs tonight near the baby. Feed him more of this when he wakes. But leave me with him for a few moments. Here. Put him back in the cradle.’
Jonesy seems adept at handling a baby, or he is doing a fine job of pretending. He is so eager to please his mistress that he bows deeply before going off to gather the makings of a pallet for the floor.
Finally, alone with the child, Clovis begins to undress him. Off come the knitted dress and the cap, which she will discard in the morning along with the others that the bristly Margrét brought. She refuses to have any further reminders of her sister in the house. The baby is quite enough. And she has just noticed after removing the cap that his hair has a pale reddish hue. She throws her head back and laughs. He squirms as her laughter fades and now she stares at him coldly.
At the beginning of their union, each month she waited, hoping for a sign that she would carry Finn’s child. She caught the look of relief on his face when no such thing occurred, though he tried to disguise it month after month, year after year. She suspected something within her had withered, and so too did her hope. Now, just in case, she takes the reins in the matter to prevent a thing so clearly unwanted.
In the small cupboard on the stair’s landing she has stored a newborn’s layette, the result of Willa’s seamstress skills. She removes a white cotton undershirt, long dress and nightcap, and with these, puts her stamp on him and erases her sister’s.
As she towers over him he screws up his face and forms little fists in preparation for a fit.
‘No,’ she warns.
His legs begin pedalling while he stares up at her.
‘No,’ she says again more firmly.
He blinks and searches for another view.
‘I’ve been instructed to teach you both English and Icelandic. Let your first lesson commence. My bitter old father once sang this lullaby to me.’
Sofur thu svid thitt
Svartur i augum
Far i fulan pytt
Fullan af draugum
She then sings in English.
Sleep, you black-eyed pig.
Fall into a deep pit of ghosts.