walking the streets. I couldn’t quite relax, though. All the time I wondered if Honey Peppers was out there somewhere looking for me.
To the east, rising up into the purple night, I saw the bulging spires of the City. The place I was going tomorrow. The blue monkeys were whooping loudly. I heard the terrified yowling of cats and I touched my pistol for reassurance. Someday the monkeys would turn their attention from the cats to bigger amusements. When they did, I would be ready for them. I walked through the stillness of the evening, listening to the sounds of the city.
Eventually, I returned to the Poison Yews and slipped upstairs to my room.
I undressed and pulled on the blue and white cotton nightgown that someone had folded neatly on my pillow, then got into bed and picked up the first book from the pile by my side. It was a book of poetry. I turned to the first page.
The Foundation, by T. S. Eliot
April is the happiest month, laughing
Lilacs in the fresh wind, bobbing
Memory and Desire, awakening
Feeding roots with spring rain...
I didn’t recognise the poem, but that’s no surprise, as I don’t read poetry. It was enjoyable though, if rather long. Flicking through the pages I noted the poem was made up of several sections.
I read the first section, The Welcoming of Children, wondering at the closing lines where people walked the streets of Dream London.
My eyes became heavy, and from somewhere in the house I heard the sound of someone playing scales on a trumpet.
I laid down the book, turned off the light, and drifted to sleep to the silver sound of arpeggio rain.
YELLOW
THE NUMBERS FLOOR
I WAS WOKEN by the sound of a tap on the door. The maid entered the room carrying a steaming jug of water which she placed by the basin. She nodded at me and left the room. The window was open and I could smell the heavy scent of flowers awakening. Today was going to be hot.
As I was shaving, Anna knocked on my door. I turned to see her looking like jail bait in a grey school uniform.
“I see you’re awake,” she said.
“Was that you I heard playing the trumpet last night?”
“The cornet. Your breakfast is ready.”
There was no sign of Margaret; I guessed she was in bed with a hangover. Anna served us bacon and eggs and mushrooms from the dishes on the sideboard. We ate in silence. I left the house with Alan shortly before seven.
The whores and the costermongers of the night before had faded from the streets, and I found myself part of a growing river of businessmen dressed in identical dark suits and starched white shirts, all heading towards the railway station. The blue monkeys that nested on the window ledges looked down at us, laughing, and I found myself laughing along with them at the absurdity of it all.
“What’s so funny?” asked Alan.
“How long before we’re all wearing bowler hats?” I asked.
The railway station was set above street level. A green electric train glided towards it between the red tiled roofs, a crocodile swimming between clay river banks.
“Oh, good,” said Alan. “I hate the steam trains. They get your clothes so dirty.”
We ran up the steps to the station. A ticket inspector waited at the top, dressed in a black wool uniform and peaked cap bearing a polished brass badge with the letters DLR entwined upon it. I showed him the little rectangle of cardboard that Alan had given me that morning. A season ticket.
We boarded the train.
“I usually read the paper on the way in,” said Alan, shaking out a pink copy of The Financial Times he had picked up outside the station.
“Okay,” I said. I looked at the headlines: commercial rents were up by forty-five per cent. Bored, I gazed out of the window, down at the streets below.
London had always been a patchwork, Dream London was even more so.
The train ran on stilts above the streets, and looking down I could see how the disparate elements of the city were stitched together: slums
To the east, rising up into the purple night, I saw the bulging spires of the City. The place I was going tomorrow. The blue monkeys were whooping loudly. I heard the terrified yowling of cats and I touched my pistol for reassurance. Someday the monkeys would turn their attention from the cats to bigger amusements. When they did, I would be ready for them. I walked through the stillness of the evening, listening to the sounds of the city.
Eventually, I returned to the Poison Yews and slipped upstairs to my room.
I undressed and pulled on the blue and white cotton nightgown that someone had folded neatly on my pillow, then got into bed and picked up the first book from the pile by my side. It was a book of poetry. I turned to the first page.
The Foundation, by T. S. Eliot
April is the happiest month, laughing
Lilacs in the fresh wind, bobbing
Memory and Desire, awakening
Feeding roots with spring rain...
I didn’t recognise the poem, but that’s no surprise, as I don’t read poetry. It was enjoyable though, if rather long. Flicking through the pages I noted the poem was made up of several sections.
I read the first section, The Welcoming of Children, wondering at the closing lines where people walked the streets of Dream London.
My eyes became heavy, and from somewhere in the house I heard the sound of someone playing scales on a trumpet.
I laid down the book, turned off the light, and drifted to sleep to the silver sound of arpeggio rain.
YELLOW
THE NUMBERS FLOOR
I WAS WOKEN by the sound of a tap on the door. The maid entered the room carrying a steaming jug of water which she placed by the basin. She nodded at me and left the room. The window was open and I could smell the heavy scent of flowers awakening. Today was going to be hot.
As I was shaving, Anna knocked on my door. I turned to see her looking like jail bait in a grey school uniform.
“I see you’re awake,” she said.
“Was that you I heard playing the trumpet last night?”
“The cornet. Your breakfast is ready.”
There was no sign of Margaret; I guessed she was in bed with a hangover. Anna served us bacon and eggs and mushrooms from the dishes on the sideboard. We ate in silence. I left the house with Alan shortly before seven.
The whores and the costermongers of the night before had faded from the streets, and I found myself part of a growing river of businessmen dressed in identical dark suits and starched white shirts, all heading towards the railway station. The blue monkeys that nested on the window ledges looked down at us, laughing, and I found myself laughing along with them at the absurdity of it all.
“What’s so funny?” asked Alan.
“How long before we’re all wearing bowler hats?” I asked.
The railway station was set above street level. A green electric train glided towards it between the red tiled roofs, a crocodile swimming between clay river banks.
“Oh, good,” said Alan. “I hate the steam trains. They get your clothes so dirty.”
We ran up the steps to the station. A ticket inspector waited at the top, dressed in a black wool uniform and peaked cap bearing a polished brass badge with the letters DLR entwined upon it. I showed him the little rectangle of cardboard that Alan had given me that morning. A season ticket.
We boarded the train.
“I usually read the paper on the way in,” said Alan, shaking out a pink copy of The Financial Times he had picked up outside the station.
“Okay,” I said. I looked at the headlines: commercial rents were up by forty-five per cent. Bored, I gazed out of the window, down at the streets below.
London had always been a patchwork, Dream London was even more so.
The train ran on stilts above the streets, and looking down I could see how the disparate elements of the city were stitched together: slums
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