I

‘Jack, Jack, show me your light!’

Darkness. I found myself in a corridor behind a moth-nibbled red velvet curtain, holding a candle in my right hand. Wax seared my skin, cooling and solidifying in blotches on my knuckles. The flame was a barometer of my heart, trembling nervously on its wick, threatening to blow out but clinging on as best it could. Yet I realised that I was deriving pleasure from it too; the race of my heartbeat, the damp of my brow all giving rise to a state of heightened awareness.

‘Where am I?’ I whispered.

Everything seemed both familiar and unfamiliar. Then, once again, came the voices. They were childish and they rang out with threat and thrill:

‘Jack, Jack, show me your light!’

My body acted with a will of its own, as though it knew entirely how to behave. My hands wrenched aside the curtain; my feet hurried across the wooden boards; the golden halo of the candle shimmered. At the far end of the corridor, in the grey gloom, I saw the face of a young girl, not yet 26fourteen, her rosy cheeks framed with fair plaits. My hand curled around a doorknob; I twisted it.

‘One … Two … Three …’ A voice was counting in the distance. ‘Four … Five … Six …’

The room was a chaos of silhouettes which my candle was too weak to give substance to. Stepping forwards, I tripped and thereupon grabbed at the closest mystery to save myself from falling. My saviour began to rock, emitting a repetitive squeak. The rocking horse was dappled grey in colour, and when I held the candle close to its eyes, I perceived a sadness in the glass. It made me yearn to press my cheek against its neck, but when I stroked its mane the desiccated feel of the wool made me feel foolish.

A rattling sound at the door! Out, out, I blew the candle. The dark shape that appeared in the doorway was unmistakably the girl with the fair plaits: Eleanor. Her breath was dramatic, rapidly rising and falling with the thrill of the game; she seemed unable to deduce whether my silhouette was human or toy.

‘Jack, Jack, show me your light …’ Her voice was soft and lyrical now, as though she was singing a hymn in church; yet firm too, possessing the threat of a governess. Closer and closer she tiptoed. The uncertainty of whether she had seen me caused my heart to become so loud, I feared it would give me away.

Only once before had I been in such close proximity to a girl, to the possibility of a kiss.

Last summer, when Nanny had been quite sick with a fever and Father had been attending a lecture by Mr. Darwin, I had been taken on an adventure by Ruffles, the boy who worked in our kitchen. I had just turned thirteen 27years old, and if someone had asked me to sketch a map of England I would have drawn my genteel Oxford as large as a continent, and the rest of the country would have appeared as but a crumb, separated by my ocean of ignorance. The wider world that Ruffles introduced me to was one of dark alleys and back streets possessing lurid smells. There were children who shocked me with the dirt and dust in their hair, and I fear Nanny would have had a fit at the very sight of them. They had been playing football with a pig’s bladder (Ruffles said they had been gifted it by the butcher) until they broke off and squealed, ‘The Hurdy-Gurdy Man is coming!’

Ruffles led me down an alleyway in the shape of a crooked finger. Up until then, I had only seen women who were drab as a dreary winter’s day, like Nanny, or parcelled up in feathered hats and swishing dresses. These women showed flesh I had not seen before, dirty skin revealed by soiled white hems; these women lacked teeth and had hair that fell about their faces; these women possessed a sort of recklessness, prowled with mischievous menace.

One woman, poised in a grimy doorway, beckoned us. As we drew closer, we saw that her beauty was a mirage, painted on to a face that ill fortune was already marring with premature scars and lines. The children’s distant voices became a chant – ‘The Hurdy-Gurdy Man is coming! The Hurdy-Gurdy Man is coming!’ A sweep of her skirt; a flash of her thigh, around which was tied a red ribbon. She informed us that if we paid 6 d., she would allow us to touch her skin. I begged Ruffles to pay for us both, and he did, his eyes starry, and I wondered if this must be how it felt to imbibe laudanum, I was so drugged with 28desire. She examined me as though she were purchasing me, and I stood very tall, cheeks so red I feared birds might mistake them for cherries and peck at them. Having counted out the money, she stowed it in the rim of her dress, before warning us that we had better be gone, or she would inform the police what services we had paid for. A shady figure appeared at the end of the alley and, fearing our throats might be slit, we turned and ran. I tumbled back home with bursting ribs, my eyes bittered with tears, for I was convinced that the Hurdy-Gurdy Man was chasing me, ready to toss me straight into the pits of Hell for the sin of lust.

As I stood there in the nursery, this remembrance came rushing back vividly. Eleanor was but a few paces away from me now. She seemed so solid – the white flashes of her eyes and teeth confirming her presence despite the persistence of darkness – that an uneasy sensation crept over me; though I knew her failure to acknowledge me was part of her game, I felt as insubstantial as a spirit, as easily blown out as a candle.

Our breaths caressed. I remained still, so as to make her believe that she was safe. Then I quickly grasped her by the shoulders and pressed my lips to hers. The moment was over before it had begun. The door opened. It was the Hurdy-Gurdy Man, ready to punish me, to whip me to death. I let out a cry that Eleanor took up as a scream.

‘Children! What is all this noise and fuss!’

Curtains were yanked open; light flooded the room: reality asserted itself. Nanny, peevish, declared that we were disturbing my father, who was working below in his 29study. What did we think we were doing, playing with such savagery of spirit?

‘If you play, then you must play quietly, with your toy soldiers. Soon you will be home, Eleanor, and I hope then that you will pick up your Bible and pray.’

The other children crept into the nursery, meek and shrunken. We settled down in a muted manner, whispering, self-conscious. I picked up the lead soldiers and pretended that I was fighting the Russians. Eleanor set herself down on the rocking horse and forced it on at an exuberant pace. From her furtive glances, I deduced that she was trying to ascertain whether Nanny had seen our illicit act; she appeared tortured by the uncertainty.

Through the window I gazed across at the dreaming spires, picking out the tall, spiked one where the Vicar preached. My soldiers clashed and bashed and battled, until I could bear my agitation no longer – I stood up, grabbed Eleanor and pulled her down from the rocking horse, declaring that it was my turn to ride him.

‘Goodness me, Thomas, you rude boy, how dare you behave like a savage!’ Nanny sprayed fury over me.

I enjoyed the trembling relief of admonition, like the absolution at the end of confession – even if it did mean the end of playtime for us all. The other children were sent home, Eleanor sobbing loudly, and I was told to clean up the nursery. I felt calmer then, as I gathered the soldiers in their tin and the rocking horse’s violent pace became slower and slower, until it finally came to a rest.

30My father’s study was a place that I was forbidden to enter without permission. It possessed towering bookcases filled with scientific volumes whose titles were either difficult or silly, like Zoonomia, which made my mouth trumpet into a funny shape when I spoke it. By the window there was a desk covered in a messy heap of Father’s papers. The room had a heavy, ponderous feel; the grandfather clock ticked as though it was forever marching on the spot. I wondered how a clock died and if its death would sound like the slowing of footsteps. I was in the hallway, pretending to be a flying machine, my lips reverberating with the thrum of an engine, when my vehicle crashed into the door of Father’s study. It opened a few inches.

I stood very still, gazing at a fragment of Father’s face, crumpled and made wet with tears. Nanny – with her artful predilection for silently appearing – was suddenly behind me, whispering, ‘Come quick, Thomas,’ and drawing me away up the stairs.

‘But – Father – he needs my help,’ I cried, wriggling against her grip.

‘You know it is the most difficult time, with it being the anniversary …’

For once, Nanny did not berate me for being so slow to change into my bedclothes. I lay in bed and recalled some advice that Father had given me about thoughts being like trains; if one was upset, the best cure was to simply switch to a superior carriage and find a nicer journey. Thus, I pictured a train with Eleanor painted on the side, puffing smoke and charging forth at a glorious speed. The thought of when I might see her again was a vexation, until 31I realised that tomorrow was a Sunday. For the first time in years, I ardently looked forward to attending church.

‘Father,’ I asked, ‘do you think Mother in Heaven hears us singing hymns when we go to church?’

I regretted the words the moment I uttered them. My father had been pulling gloves on to his hands and he paused, so that the leather half hung from his fingers like a bat, and addressed me quietly: ‘We’ll visit her grave after the service.’

I loved my father beyond anyone or anything else in the world. If God had made man in his image, then I longed to be made in the image of my father; indeed, I felt as though he had created a mould for me to fill as I grew up. He was a tall, formidable personage. His face was habitually set in an expression of stern grandeur, from the firmness of his jawline to the two large eyebrows that fierced above his eyes. Yet if one looked a little closer, one might detect a softness, perhaps even a nervousness, in his smile, as though his commanding countenance was a cultivated front. His frock coats and waistcoats were always spotless, and his hair never had a curl out of place. He was precise about the value of manners and there were numerous etiquette guides hidden in the drawers of his desk, which advised on whether or not to remove gloves when shaking a lady’s hand or how to respond if one’s nemesis greeted one with a bow. His cane had only ever been used to tap me gently as a child, and if a fly entered his study, he 32would refuse to swat it, but wait patiently for it to zizz its way back through the window.

In recent years, his interest in science had grown ardent. Many a thrilling experiment had been performed in his study. For example, there was the evening he left a female butterfly in a cage on his desk and awoke to find the room veritably wallpapered with the male of the species, a key breakthrough in proving his theory that insects attract through scent. My father regularly exchanged correspondence with Mr. Darwin, Thomas Henry Huxley and Émile Blanchard. He lived life with zeal, though he was so absorbed in his ideas that I sometimes felt jealous of them. So often did the door of his study present its stern face to me that when I did spend time with my father, I felt anxious to elongate it, to be wise enough to earn his attention. Ever since the death of my mother, there had always been a palpable tension between us before Sunday service.

Outside, the church bells were echoing among the rooftops and spires, weaving into the rattle of carriages and the patter of hooves. The men strolling past looked so tall in their top hats, while the women yanked their shawls tight around their shoulders to see off an unexpected chill. As they reached the entrance of the church, they formed one body that flowed through the stone gate.

I pictured my mother’s grave beneath the hawthorn tree. The loss had made me vividly aware that anyone I love might be seized from this world at any time. Fears beset me: that my father would not manage to reach the entrance of the church, for a carriage would suddenly veer from the road and crush him, the horses’ hooves painted 33red with his blood; or else a chimney might crumble from a house and tumble on to his head, splitting his skull. His body might easily share the earth with my mother, their bony fingers inches apart. By the time we reached the church, I had devised thirty or so unfortunate ends for my father and was clutching his arm with my trembling hand.

Various neighbours greeted us and I noted that while the men were respectful and cheerful, the women were unable to resist smiling. I felt relieved, as though all the love that was being directed towards my father would sustain his place in the world, ensure that he lived for many years to come; yet the dilution of his attention also filled me with unease, and I tugged gently at his sleeve, prompting him to smile down at me in reassurance.

We sat three pews from the back. I spotted the blonde head of Eleanor shimmering in the congregation; she gave me a cool look, one that did not thaw even when I smiled at her. Nanny pinched my hand, and filled it with a hymn book. She often spoke of how the Vicar’s youthful charisma had drawn a new throng to the Sunday service, though at the age of twenty-four he seemed ancient to me. She was so attentive to his address that I was able to let my eyes venture once more across the pews, without her noticing. Next to Eleanor sat a young woman in possession of chestnut hair, held in a bun that was escaping its pins. There were rows of candelabras at the front, and the flickering light danced off the choirboys’ faces, haloed the statues of angels, sparked in the colours of the stained-glass windows. When the light reached her hair it seemed to slow down and linger lovingly on the curls straying down her back.