The Crimson petal and the white

THREE

William Rackham, destined to be the head of Rackham Perfumeries but rather a disappointment at present, considers himself to be in desperate need of a new hat. That's why he is hurrying so.

That's why you had better stop staring at the gently bobbing bustle of Sugar's dress as she moves away from you, stop staring at her sharp shoulder-blades and wasp waist and the wisps of orange hair fluttering under her bonnet, and run after William Rackham instead.

You hesitate. Sugar is going home, to a bawdy-house with the most peculiar name of "Mrs Castaway's". You'd like to see the insides of such a place, wouldn't you? Why should you miss whatever is about to happen, just to pursue this stranger, this… man? Admittedly his bouncing mop of golden hair was comical, but he was otherwise not very fascinating-especially compared to this woman you're only just getting to know.

But William Rackham is destined to be the head of Rackham Perfumeries. Head of Rackham Perfumeries! If you want to get on, you can't afford to linger in the company of whores.

You must find it in you to become extraordinarily interested in why William Rackham considers himself to be in desperate need of a new hat. I will help you as much as I can.

His old hat he carries in his hand as he walks along, for he'd rather go bareheaded in a world of hatted men than wear it a minute longer, so ashamed is he of its unfashionable tallness and its frayed brim. Of course, whether he wears it or doesn't wear it, people will be staring at him in pity, just as they stared at him in the omnibus… do they truly imagine he can't see them smirking? Oh God! How is it possible things have come to this! Life has conspired… but no, he has no right to make so all-embracing an accusation… Rather say, there are unfriendly elements in Life conspiring against him, and he can't yet see his way clear to victory.

In the end, though, he will triumph; he must triumph, because his happiness is, he believes, essential to a larger scheme of things. Not that he necessarily deserves to be happier than other men, no. Rather, his fate is a sort of… a sort of hinge on which much else depends, and if he should be crushed by misfortune, something greater will collapse along with him, and surely Life wouldn't risk that.

William Rackham has come… (are you still paying attention?) William Rackham has come into the city because he knows that in Regent Street he can put an end to his humiliation by buying a new hat. Which isn't to imply he couldn't buy just as good a hat at Whiteley's in Bayswater and save himself the journey, but he has an ulterior reason for coming here, or two ulterior reasons. Firstly, he'd rather not be seen in Whiteley's, which he's been heard to disparage, in the course of those smart dinner parties to which he always used to be invited, as hopelessly vulgar. (where he's heading now is vulgar too, of course, but he's less likely to meet anyone he knows.) Secondly, he wishes to keep a careful eye on Clara, his wife's lady's-maid.

Why? Oh, it's all very sordid and complicated. Having recently forced himself to make a few calculations of his household's expenses, William Rackham has concluded that his servants are stealing from him-and not just the odd candle or rasher of bacon, but on an outrageous scale. No doubt they're taking advantage of his wife's illness and his own disinclination to dwell on his financial woes, but they're damned mistaken if they think he notices nothing.

Damned mistaken!

And so, yesterday afternoon, as soon as his wife finished describing to Clara what she wished bought in London the next morning, William (eavesdropping outside the door) smelled avarice. Watching Clara descend the stairs, looking down on her from the shadowy landing, he fancied he could see plans for embezzlement already simmering in her stocky little body, simmering towards the boil.

"I trust Clara with my life," Agnes objected, with typical exaggeration, when he told her privately of his misgivings.

"That may be so," he said. "But I don't trust her with my money." An uneasy moment followed then, as Agnes's face was subtly contorted by the temptation to point out that the money wasn't his but his father's, and that if he would only comply with his father's demands, they'd have a lot more of it. She behaved herself, though, and William felt moved to reward her with a compromise. Clara would be trusted with the actual purchase, but William would, by sheer "chance", accompany her into the city.

And so it is that the master and the lady's-maid have travelled down from Notting Hill together on the omnibus, a cab being "out of the question, of course" -not (rackham hoped the servant would understand) because he can ill afford cabs nowadays, but because people might gossip.

A vain hope. The servant naturally chose to believe she was seeing yet more evidence of her master coming down in the world. (she'd also noticed how worn and outmoded his hat has become; in fact, she was the only person who'd noticed it, for he has been avoiding all his fashionable friends in shame.) Every change in the household routine, no matter how trifling, and every suggestion of economy, no matter how reasonable, Clara interprets as further proof that William Rackham is being squashed under his father's boot like a slug.

In her delight at his humiliation, it doesn't occur to her that if he isn't rescued from his predicament he might eventually be unable to keep her employed: her insights are of a different kind. She's detected, for example, a cowardly retreat on the matter of the coachman, whose coming has been foretold for years, but who has never yet materialised. Lately there appears to be an unspoken agreement that there should be no further mention of this fabled advent. But Clara doesn't forget! And what about Tilly, the downstairs housemaid? Dismissed for falling pregnant, she has never been replaced, with the result that Janey is doing far more than should be expected of a scullery maid. Rackham says it's only temporary, but the months pass and nothing is done. Good lady's-maids like Clara may be hard to find, but surely downstairs housemaids are plentiful as rats? Rackham could have one within the hour if he was willing to pay for it.

All in all it's a disgraceful situation, which Clara handles to the best of her abilities-that is, by making her displeasure felt in every way she can think of short of outright insolence.

Hence the pained expression she maintained on her face all the way into London on the omnibus, an expression which the miserable Rackham didn't even notice until the horses pulled the vehicle through Marble Arch.

Perhaps all members of the female sex are sickly, he thought then, guessing that the servant must be in some sort of pain.

Perhaps (he tried to reassure himself) my poor sick Agnes is not so unusual after all.

William has deliberately made an early start in the city, so that he'll have plenty of time to study, on his return home, the long-avoided progress papers and accounts of Rackham Perfumeries. (or at least take them out of the envelopes his father sent them in.) Then tomorrow (perhaps) he will visit the lavender farm, if only to be seen there, so that report of it may reach the old man's ears. It would probably be as well to ask the farm workers a few pertinent questions, if he can think of any.

Reading the documents will help, no doubt-if it doesn't drive him insane first.

Madhouse or poorhouse: is that what his choices have been reduced to? Is there no way forward but to… to sell a false image of himself to his own father, faking enthusiasm for something loathsome? How, in the name of… But he mustn't dwell on the deeper implications: that's the curse of higher intellect. He must meet the day's demands one by one. Buy a new hat.

Keep an eye on Clara. Go home and make a start on those papers.

William Rackham does not imagine he will master the family business in a day, no: his aims are modest. If he shows a little interest, his father may surrender a little more money. How long can it possibly take to read a few papers?

One afternoon wasted on it ought to be enough, surely?

Granted, he once opined in a Cambridge undergraduate magazine that "a single day spent doing things which fail to nourish the soul is a day stolen, mutilated, and discarded in the gutter of destiny." But, as his recent haircut proves, the Cambridge life can't last for ever. He's made it last a good few years as it is.

So, light-headed and blinking in the sun, legs still stiff from the long omnibus journey, William hurries along the Stretch. At his side, clutched in his gloved fingertips, swings the detestable hat; a few yards ahead of him walks his detested servant; and immediately behind him follows his shadow. Feel free, now, to follow him every bit as close as that shadow, for he is determined never to look back.

There, up ahead, its grand mysterious interior glowing with a thousand lights, is the place where he'll put an end to his misery. Buying a new hat should take no more than an hour or so, and Clara's errand had better take less, if she knows what's good for her. Straight in, get what's wanted, then straight out, that's how it'll be. Back home by midday.

William Rackham's view of the enormous glass-fronted Billington and Joy emporium, unobstructed by the crowds through which he had to usher Agnes last time he was here, is panoramic. Dozens of display windows, huge by comparison with most shops' humble panes, proclaim the store's grand scale and modernity.

Behind each of the windows is a showcase, offering for public admiration (the possibility of sale is not alluded to) a profusion of manufactures.

These are artfully displayed against painted trompe-l'oeils of their settings in rooms of a fashionable house. Clara is moving past the dining-room display just now, a thick pane of glass separating her from the sumptuously laid table of silverware, china and wine-filled glasses. In the painted backdrop behind the table, a hearth glows convincingly with life-like flame and, to the side, poking through a slit in a real curtain, two porcelain hands with white cuffs and a hint of black sleeve hold aloft a papier-m`ach`e roast.

So impressive are these displays, so diverting, that William almost careers into a headlong fall. There are hooks jutting out of the wall at ankle-level, provided for the tethering of dogs, and he very nearly trips. It's just as well Clara has already entered Billington and Joy's great white doors slightly ahead of him, at his instruction. How she would adore to see him fall!

Once inside, William tries to catch sight of her, but she's already lost in the wonderland of mirrored brightness. Glass and crystal are everywhere, mirrors hung at every interval, to multiply the galaxy of chandeliered gas-light.

Even what is not glass or crystal is polished as if it were; the floor shines, the lacquered counters shimmer, even the hair of the serving staff is brilliant with Macassar oil, and the sheer profusion of merchandise is a little dazzling too.

Mind you, as well as selling many elegant and indispensable things, Billington and Joy also sells magnetic brushes for curing bilious headaches in five minutes, galvanic chain-bands for imparting life-giving impulses, and glazed mugs with the Queen's face scowling out of them in bas-relief, but even these objects seem already to have the status of eccentric museum exhibits, as though showcased for public wonderment alone. The whole effect, indeed, is so suggestive of the great Crystal Palace Exhibition on which the store is modelled, that some visitors, in their awe, are reluctant to buy anything, lest they mar the display. The fact that no prices are attached only adds to their timorousness, for they fear to ask and discover themselves insufficiently affluent.

Therefore less is sold than might be sold-but at least not much gets stolen. To the urchins and thieves of Church Lane, Billington and Joy is Heaven-that is, not for the likes of them. They could no more hope to pass through its great white doors than through the eye of a needle.

As for breakages, the most fragile displays endure safely for months at a time, because even prosperous children are rarely seen here, and on a tight leash when they are. Also, more crucially, the evolution of ladies' fashions has meant that stylish female shoppers can move through a shop without knocking things over. Indeed, it would be fair to say that Billington and Joy, and other establishments of its kind, have expanded in celebration of the crinoline's demise. The modern woman has been streamlined to permit her to spend freely.

Once more before mounting the stairs to the hat department, William looks around the store for Clara. Though she was a dozen footsteps ahead of him at most, she has disappeared like a rodent.

The only thing resembling a servant he can see is the dummy serving-maid behind the display curtain, but there's nothing to her except disembodied plaster arms that end abruptly at the elbows, mounted on metal stands.

Clara's errand, which she is to complete unsupervised while William Rackham chooses his new hat, is to procure for her mistress eighteen yards of ochre silk, plus matching trimmings, to be made into a dress when Mrs Rackham feels well enough to apply herself to the pattern and the machine. Clara likes this errand very much. In performing it, she experiences not only the thrill of saying, "Well, my man, I'll need eighteen yards of it," and handling all that money, but she also executes a neat swindle whereby an additional item is bought-ostensibly for her mistress. This is the beauty of working for the Rackhhms: he pays but has no stomach to understand what he's paying for, she has needs but has no idea what they ought to cost, and the accounts disappear in a chasm between the two. And there's no housekeeper! That's the most convenient thing of all. There was a housekeeper once upon a time, a tubby Scotchwoman to whom Mrs Rackham attached herself, limpet-like, until it ended in tears: thereafter, a ban on the very subject.

"We can run the house perfectly well between us, can't we, Clara?"' Oh, yes, ma'am.

We surely can!

Clara already decided yesterday, while discussing the purchase of the dress material with Mrs Rackham ("The prices lately, ma'am-you wouldn't believe them!") to buy herself a little something. A figure, if you must know.

Clara hates her dowdy servant's uniform fervently, and she knows only too well that for Christmas this year she'll get exactly the same gift parcel she got last Christmas.

Every year the same insult!-seven yards of double-width black merino, two yards of linen, and a striped skirt. Just what's needed to make a new uniform-well, fancy that. Damn William Rackham and his stinginess-he deserves everything that befalls him!

All year she slaves to make her mistress beautiful, breaking her fingernails on the clasps of Mrs Rackham's corsets, simpering in feigned admiration, and now, five years on, what has she to show for it? Her own body is thickening in the middle, and grievance is etching lines in her face. She possesses nothing that would make a man look at her once, let alone twice. Nothing, that is, until now. With her heart in her mouth, she hurries back towards the corsetry department, where she'll duck behind a curtain and stuff her illicit purchase, parcel and all, into her capacious drawers.

Although it was partly for fear of such wickedness that he insisted on chaperoning Clara today, there's really nothing William can do to prevent it. All he can verify, without soiling his mind with money matters, is that Clara does indeed, as agreed, emerge from the store with one big parcel in her arms. The theft she's now committing, easily detected and mercilessly punished in stricter households than the Rackhams', will go unnoticed.

For all his chagrin at his wife's frailty, William hasn't quite grasped just how ignorant Agnes has become, with every passing month of her seclusion, of what's what in the world at large. He would never guess, for example, that she could possibly entrust the costing of eighteen yards of material to a servant. Instead, he's relieved that she's no longer having dresses made for her, because that indulgence cost him a fortune in the past-a fortune wasted, given how little of her life Agnes spends out of bed.

Luckily, Agnes seems to agree. In giving up her dressmaker for a mechanical toy, she has side-stepped social disgrace as deftly as possible, by claiming genteel boredom as her excuse. The tedium of convalescence can be whiled away so much more agreeably, she says, with a diverting (never to mention money-saving) invention like the sewing-machine.

Anyway, she's a modern woman, and machines are part of the modern landscape-or so William's father keeps declaring.

She's putting on a brave face,

William knows that. In her more reproachful moments, Agnes lets him know how humiliating it is to maintain a pretence of genteel boredom when anyone can see she's economising. Couldn't he make a gesture to appease his father-write a letter or something-that would make everything all right again?

Then they could have a coachman at last, and she could -but No, William warns her. Rackham Senior is an unreasonable old man and, having failed to bully his first-born, he has turned his bullying on William. If Agnes feels she's suffering, can she not spare a thought for what her husband must endure!

To which Agnes responds with a forced smile, and a declaration that the silvery Singer really is an amusing novelty, and she'd best be getting back to it.

Agnes's willingness to save money on clothes pleases William well enough, but he's less pleased with having to buy his new hat from Billington and Joy and pay for it on the spot, as if it were a roasted chestnut or a shoeshine, rather than having it fitted at a prestigious hatter's and adding its cost to a yearly account.

Why, the top-notch gentleman visits his hatter every few days just to have his hat ironed! How has it come to this? Penury, penury and piecemeal disgrace, for a man by rights so rich! Isn't it true that Billington and Joy stock shelves full of Rackham perfumes, soaps and cosmetics? The name Rackham is everywhere!

And yet he, William Rackham, heir to the Rackham fortune, must loiter around hat stands, waiting for other men to replace hats he wishes to try on! Can't the Almighty, or the Divine Principle, or whatever is left now that Science has flushed out the stables of the universe, see there's something wrong here?

But if It does, It snubs him regardless.

At a quarter to eleven, William Rackham and Clara meet briefly outside the emporium. Clara has a large, crackling parcel clasped to her bosom, and walks more stiffly than usual. William has his new hat screwed firmly on his head, the old one now removed to that hidden store-room where the unwanted hats, umbrellas, bonnets, gloves and a thousand other orphaned things are banished. Where do they go, in the end? To Christian missions in Borneo, perhaps, or a fiery furnace. Certainly not to Church Lane, St Giles.

"It suddenly occurs to me," says William, squinting into the servant's eyes (for he is exactly her height), "that I have some other business to attend to. In town, I mean.

So, I think it would be best if you returned alone."

"As you wish, sir." Clara dips her head meekly enough, but still William thinks he detects a note of sly mockery, as if she thinks he's lying. (for once, she isn't thinking that at all: she's merely savouring how convenient it will be not to have the secret package squashed against her itchy buttocks all the way home in the omnibus.) "You won't lose that, will you?"' says William, pointing at Agnes's bounty of silk.

"No, sir," Clara assures him.

William tugs his watch out of his fob-pocket into his palm and pretends to consult it, so that he has an excuse for looking away from the irritating little minx he pays l21 a year to be his wife's closest companion.

"Well, off you go then," he says, and

"Yes, sir," she replies, and off she goes, mincing as if she's straining not to fart. But William doesn't notice. In fact, much later today, when he sees Clara flitting around his house with a waist she didn't possess before, he won't notice that either.

It wasn't always thus. In the past,

William Rackham was very much the sort of man to notice small, even tiny, differences in dress and personal appearance. In his University prime, he was quite a dandy, with silver-handled cane and a shoulder-length mane of golden hair. In those days it was perfectly normal for him to dawdle in front of the flower vases in his own "set" for half an hour at a time, selecting a particular flower for a particular buttonhole; he might spend even longer matching silk neckties of one colour with waistcoats of another, and his most dearly beloved trousers were dark blue with mauve checks. On one memorable occasion, he instructed his tailor to shift a waistcoat's buttonhole to discourage one troublesome button from peeping out indiscreetly behind the overcoat. "A quarter of an inch to the right, no more, no less," he said, and God help the fellow if it weren't done just so.

In those days, William was proud to correct faults of dress few people had the good taste to perceive in the first place. Now his shrinking fortunes make him prey to faults which anyone, even his servants, can perceive all too clearly.

Nervously, William feels above his head, to check that everything is still in place. It is, but he has good reason to worry. Only an hour ago, in a mirror, he saw a vision so shocking that he still can't erase it from his mind. For the first time since rashly whipping off his old hat in Regent Street, he was made aware of the anarchy that had broken out on his scalp.

Once upon a time William's hair was his proudest feature: all through his childhood it was soft and golden-bronze, cooed over by aunts and passing strangers. As a student at Cambridge, he wore it long, to his shoulders, brushed back without oil. He was slender then, and his flowing hair disguised the pear shape of his head. Besides, long hair stood for Shelley, Liszt, Garibaldi, Baudelaire, individualism-that sort of thing.

But if his intention, in getting those long locks cut shorter a few days ago, was to retreat into anonymity, it had all gone terribly wrong.

Reflected in the looking-glass, he saw what his hair had done in defiance of the ruthless barbering; it had sprung loose from oily restraint, and risen up in outright rebellion against him. God in Heaven, how many onlookers witnessed him in this state, a clown with a ludicrous crown of tufts and crinkles! With a spasm of embarrassment, right there in Billington and Joy's hat department, William hid his fleecy halo under the nearest hat he could lay his fingers on. And that was the hat, despite many subsequent tentative choices, he finally bought.

Since then, he's combed the halo flat, and applied more oil, but has it learned its lesson?

With his fingertips he touches it nervously, smoothing it under the hat-brim. His bushy sideboards prickle. "I want it like Matthew Arnold," he told his barber, but instead he got the Wild Man of Borneo.

What has he done? He'd convinced himself (well, almost) that a modest new exterior would help him stride forwards into the final quarter of the century, but does his hair have other ideas?

As William walks in the general direction of the Thames, he keeps an eye out for an alley in which, hidden from judgemental eyes, he can run a comb through his hair again. He has offended against decent manners quite enough for one morning.

At last a suitable alley offers itself, an alley so narrow it doesn't merit a name.

William slips inside it immediately. Standing there in the dimness between the filthy walls, only a few steps from Jermyn Street, he has to be careful not to tread in maggoty garbage as he chastises himself with his ivory-handled comb.

A voice behind him-an ugly, nasal sound-makes him jump.

"Are you kind, master?"'

William spins around. A mousy-haired little whore, easily forty or even more, is toddling out of the gloom towards him, wrapped in what appears to be an old tablecloth. What the devil's she doing in this part of town, so close to the palaces and the best hotels?

Speechless with disgust, William retreats.

Four hasty steps take him back into the sunshine. A prickle of sweat has broken out on the scalp he's just combed, and against all reason he imagines his hair springing up, popping his hat off like a cork.

Minutes later, not far short of Trafalgar Square, William Rackham passes a pastry shop. It occurs to him that he would enjoy a small treat.

Of course, what he really ought to do, if he wishes to dine, is make his way to the Albion or the London or the Wellington, where his old school chums are probably sitting even now, lighting up their first cigar of the day-that is, if they're not still sleeping in the arms of their mistresses. But William is in no mood to go to any of these places. At the same time he's afraid that if he eats a cake in Trafalgar Square, he might be spotted and shunned forever after by an important acquaintance.

Ah, to be a carefree student again! Was it really twelve years ago that he did all manner of outrageous things in the company of his laughing, fearless companions, without anyone ever doubting his status? Didn't he go to public houses, the working man's sort with no screens dividing the classes, and drink himself stupid, right there in amongst the toothless old women and tosspots? Didn't he buy oysters from street stalls and toss them into his mouth? Didn't he wink saucily at promenading matrons just to scandalise them? Didn't he sing bawdy songs, in a louder and fruitier baritone than any of his friends, while dancing bareheaded on the Waterloo Bridge?

Oh, my love is a thing of airs and graces, Her chins are held to her neck with laces, Her hair is red, likewise her nose, From out her skirts an ill wind blows…

Why, he could still sing it now!

Everyone in the patisserie is all ears, ready. "Yes, that one please," he mouths, sotto voce. He'll risk it, yes he'll risk it (the cake, that is, not the bawdy song), if only out of nostalgia for his old abandoned self.

And so William takes his chocolate and cherry confection into the Square with him and nurses it, worrying. The lower half of his body is only just beginning to respond to the suggestion made to him by the alley prostitute and, since she's by now out of sight, out of mind and out of the question, he ogles a trio of French girls scampering gleefully among the pigeons.

"Moi aussi! Moi aussi!" they're shrieking, for there's a photographer nearby, pretending to be taking pictures of things other than them. They are pretty, their dresses are pretty, they move prettily, but William can't give them the attention they merit. Instead he broods on a glowing memory of the photograph that was taken of him a week ago, just prior to getting his locks cut shorter. The last photograph, in other words, of the old (the young) William Rackham.

This photograph is already hidden away in a drawer at home, like pornography. But the image is sharp in his mind: in it he is still a Cambridge gallant, quite the cocky scholar, wearing the canary-yellow waistcoat which even the current generation of swells wouldn't dare to wear.

The facial expression, too, is a relic of the past, in the sense that he no longer wears that either; it's the one that Downing College put on his face, contrary to the hopes of his father: good-humoured contempt for the workaday world.

The difficult part was explaining to the photographer the reason for the outdated clothes, namely that this picture should be regarded as a… (how should one put it?) a retrospective record of history, a re-capturing of the past. (he needn't have bothered: the walls of the photographer's foyer were crowded with slightly faded debutantes in resurrected triumphal gowns, tubby old men squeezed into slender military uniforms, and a variety of other resurrected dreams.) "Moi aussi, oh ma-manffj'

Back in Trafalgar Square, a silky white girl of about nine is given permission to pose for the man with the camera. One sprinkle of seed and she's deluged with pigeons, just in time for the exposure. She squeals excitedly, arousing the jealousy of her companions.

"Et moi maintenant, moi aussi!"

Another girl clamouring for her turn, and William is already bored. Having finished his cake, he pulls on his gloves and continues on his way to St James's Park, gloomily asking himself how, if such enchanting sights bore him so soon, will he ever be able to stand being the head of Rackham Perfumeries?

What a curse that his father can't see this! The old man, grown rich working at the same thing daily from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. for forty years, has lost any natural sense of the pain that monotonous drudgery might inflict on a finer soul. To Henry Calder Rackham, even the recently introduced half-day holiday on Saturdays is a shameful waste of man-hours.

Not that Henry Calder Rackham is working as hard now as in earlier years, his involvement in the company being more deskbound now. He's still fit as a horse, mind you, but, with William's marriage prospects to consider, a change was needed. A better address, a respectably sedentary routine, a few offers of assistance to members of the aristocracy experiencing a spot of pecuniary bother: without these gestures on Rackham Senior's part, his son would never have won Agnes Unwin's hand. Had the old man still been striding up and down the lavender farm in his worsted jacket and boots, there would have been no point even asking Lord Unwin if Agnes was available.

Instead, by the time of the marriage negotiations, Rackham Senior was "keeping an eye" on his business from a very presentable house, admittedly in Bayswater but very near Kensington, and his son William was such a promising young man, sure to become a notable figure in… well, some sphere or other.

Oh, certainly it was understood that the younger Rackham would eventually take charge of Rackham Perfumeries, but his grip on the reins would no doubt be all-but-invisible, and the public would see only his other, loftier accomplishments. At the time of his courtship of Agnes, William, though long out of university, still managed to glow with the graduate's aura of infinite promise and the vivacious charm of the contentedly idle. All sham? How dare you!

Even now, William keeps up to date with the latest developments in zoology, sculpture, politics, painting, archaeology, novel-writing… everything, really, that is discussed in the better monthly reviews. (no, he will not cancel any of his subscriptions-none, do you hear!) But how can he possibly make his mark in any of these (william frets as he finds his favourite bench in St James's Park) when he's being virtually blackmailed into a life of tedious labour? How can he possibly be expected…

But let me rescue you from drowning in William Rackham's stream of consciousness, that stagnant pond feebly agitated by self-pity.

Money is what it boils down to: how much of it, not enough of it, when will it come next, where does it go, how can it be conserved, and so on.

The bald facts are these: Rackham Senior is getting tired of running Rackham Perfumeries, damn tired. His first-born, Henry, is no use whatsoever as an heir, having devoted himself to God from a young age. A decent enough fellow and, as a frugal bachelor, not much of a bother to support-although if he really means to make his career in the Church, he's taking a powerful long time deliberating over it. But never mind: the younger boy, William, will have to do. Like Henry, he's slow to show a talent for anything, but he has expensive tastes, a stylish wife and a fair-sized household-all of which suck hard at the nipple of paternal generosity. Stern lectures having failed to have the desired effect, Rackham Senior is now attempting to hasten Rackham junior's halting steps towards the directorship of the business by reducing William's allowance, slowly and steadily.

Each month he reduces it a little more, whittling away at the style to which his son is accustomed.

Already William has been obliged to reduce the number of his servants from nine to six; trips abroad are a thing of the past; travel by cab has become, if not a luxury, then certainly no longer a matter of course. William is no longer prompt to replace worn-out or outmoded possessions; and the dream of employing a male-the true yardstick of prosperity-remains emphatically a dream.

What grieves William most is how unnecessary his suffering is, given the value of the family assets. If his father would only sell his company, lock, stock and barrel, the sum it raised would be so enormous that the Rackhams could live off it for generations-What was the old man working for, all these years, if not for that?

The desire to make more money when more than enough has already been made disgusts William, a socialist by inclination. Besides, were Rackham Senior to sell up and invest the proceeds, the money would be self-replenishing; it might even last forever, and come, in time, to be regarded as "old money". And if it's sentimental attachment to the business that prevents the old man from selling, why oh why must it be William who accepts the burden of leadership?

Why can't some capable trustworthy fellow be appointed from the ranks of Rackham Perfumeries itself?

In his grief, William resorts to a political philosophy of his own invention, a scheme he hopes might one day be imposed on English society. (rackhamism, history might call it.) It is a theory he's toyed with for a decade or more, though he's sharpened it recently; it involves the abolition of what he terms "unjustifiable capital", to be replaced with what he terms "equity of fortune". This means that as soon as a man has made a large enough fortune to support, perpetually, his household (defined as a family of up to ten persons, with no more than ten servants), he is banned from stockpiling any more. Speculative investments in Argentinian gold-mines and the like would be prohibited; instead, investment in safe and solid concerns would be overseen by Government, to ensure that the return, although unspectacular, was perennial. Any excess income flowing to the wealthiest men would be re-routed into the public coffers for distribution among society's unfortunates-the destitute and homeless.

A revolutionary proposal, he's well aware of that, and no doubt horrifying to many, for it would erode the present distinctions between the classes; there would no longer be an aristocracy in the sense nowadays understood. Which, in William's view, would be a damn good thing, as he's tired of being reminded that Downing College was hardly Corpus Christi, and that he was lucky to get in at all.

So there you have it: the thoughts (somewhat pruned of repetition) of William Rackham as he sits on his bench in St James's Park. If you are bored beyond endurance, I can offer only my promise that there will be fucking in the very near future, not to mention madness, abduction, and violent death.

In the meantime, Rackham is jogged violently from his brooding by the sound of his own name.

"Bill!"

"Great God yes: Bill!"

William looks up, head still full of sludge, so that he can only stare dumbly at the sudden apparition of his two best friends, his inseparable Cambridge cronies, Bodley and Ashwell.

"Won't be long now, Bill," cries Bodley, "before it's time to celebrate!"

"Celebrate what?"' says William.

"Everything, Bill! The whole blessed

Bacchanalia of Christmas! Miraculous offspring popping out of virgins into mangers!

Steaming mounds of pudding! Gallons of port! And before you know it, another year put to bed!"

"1874 well-poked and snoring," grins Ashwell, "with a juicy young 1875 trembling in the doorway, waiting to be treated likewise." (they are very similar, he and Bodley, in their ageless "old boys" appearance.

Immaculately dressed, excitable and listless all at once, slick-faced, and wearing hats superior to any sold by Billington and Joy.

They are in fact so similar that William has been known, in moments of extreme drunkenness, to address them as Bashley and O.well. But Ashwell is distinguishable from Bodley by sparser side-whiskers, slightly less florid cheeks, and a smaller paunch.) "Haven't seen you in aeons, Bill.

What have you been up to? Apart from cutting all your hair off?"'

Bodley and Ashwell sit heavily on the bench next to William, then perch forward, their chins and folded hands resting on the knobs of their walking sticks, grotesquely attentive. They are like architectural gargoyles carved for the same tower.

"Agnes has been bad," Rackham replies, "and there's that cursed business to take over."

There, it's said. Bodley and Ashwell are trying to seduce him into frivolity: they may as well know he's not in the mood. Or at least that they must seduce him harder.

"Be careful the business doesn't take you over," cautions Ashwell. "You'd be such a bore gassing on about… oh, I don't know … crop yield."

"No fear," says William, fearing.

"Far better to make a trembling young beauty yield to the crop," snarls Bodley theatrically, then looks to Rackham and Ashwell for praise.

"That's utterly feeble, Bodley," says

Ashwell.

"Maybe so," sniffs Bodley. "But you've paid pounds for worse."

"At any rate, Bill," pursues

Ashwell, "-pornography aside-you mustn't let Agnes keep you out of the great stream of Life this way. The way you're worrying so much over a mere woman… it's dangerous. That way lies… uh… what's the word I'm looking for, Bodley?"' "Love, Ashwell. Never touch the stuff myself."

A wan smile twitches on William's face. Stroke on, old friends, stroke on!

"Seriously, Bill, you mustn't let this problem with Agnes turn into a family curse.

You know, like in those frightful old-fashioned novels, with the distracted female leaping out of cupboards. You have to realise you're not the only man in this position: there are hordes of mad wives about-half of London's females are positively raving. God damn it, Bill: you're a free man! There's no sense locking yourself up, like an old badger."

"London out of Season is enough of a bore as it is," chips in Ashwell. "Best to waste it in style."

"And how," asks William, "have the two of you been wasting it?"' "Oh, we've been hard at work," enthuses Ashwell, "on a simply superb new book -mostly my labour," (here Bodley scoffs loudly) "with Bodley polishing up the prose a bit-called The Efficacy of Prayer."

"Awful lot of work involved, you know.

We've been quizzing hordes of devout believers, getting them to tell us honestly if they ever got anything they prayed for."

"By that we don't mean vague nonsense like "courage" or "comfort"; we mean actual results, like a new house, mother's deafness cured, assailant hit by bolt of lightning, et cetera."

"We've been terrifically thorough, if I do say so myself. As well as hundreds of individual cases, we also examine the general, formulaic prayers that thousands of people have uttered every night for years. You know the sort of thing: delivery from evil, peace on Earth, the conversion of the Jews and so on. The clear conclusion is that sheer weight of numbers and perseverance don't get you anywhere either."

"When we've chalked it all up, we're going to talk to some of the top clergy-or at least solicit correspondence from them-and get their view. We want to make it clear to everyone that this book is a disinterested, scientific study, quite open to comment or criticism from its… ah… victims."

"We mean to hit Christ for six," interjects Bodley, driving his cane into the wet earth.

"We've had some delightful finds," says Ashwell. "Superbly mad people. We talked to a clergyman in Bath (wonderful to see the place again, capital beer there) and he told us he's been praying for the local public house to burn down."

"Or otherwise perish"."

"Said he supposed God was deciding on the right time."

"Completely confident of eventual success."

"Three years he's been praying for this-nightly!"

Both men thump their canes on the ground in sarcastic ecstasy.

"Do you think," says William, "there's the slightest chance you'll find a publisher?"'

He's in better spirits now, almost seduced, yet feels compelled to mention the spoilsport realities of the world as it is. Bodley and Ashwell merely grin at each other knowingly.

"Oh yes. Sure to. There's a simply thundering call nowadays for books that destroy the fabric of our society."

"That goes for novels, too," says

Ashwell, winking pointedly at William.

"Do keep that in mind if you still mean to produce anything in that field."

"But honestly Bill-you really must show yourself more often. We haven't seen you at any of the old haunts for ages."

"Got to preserve your bad name, you know."

"Got to keep your hand in."

"Mustn't be foiled by the march of time."

"What do you mean?"' says the startled

William. His traumatic haircut has exposed strands of premature grey amongst the gold, so he's sensitive to any mention of advancing age.

"Pubescent girls, William. Time catches up with them. They don't stay ripe for ever, you know. Half a year makes all the difference. Indeed, you've already missed some girls that have passed into legend, Bill-legend."

"To give just one example: Lucy

Fitzroy."

"Oh yes-Lord Almighty yes."

The two men leap up from the bench as if on a pre-agreed signal.

"Lucy Fitzroy," begins Ashwell, in the manner of a music-hall recital, "was a new girl at Madame Georgina's in the Finchley Road, where there is chastisement a'plenty." By way of illustration Ashwell brings his cane down hard on his calf several times. "Down, flesh! Up, flesh!

Down!"

"Steady on, Ashwell." Bodley lays a cautioning hand on his friend's arm. "Remember, only a lord can make a limp look distinguished."

"Well, as you may know, Bodley and I occasionally take a peek in Madame Georgina's to see what calibre of girl is wielding the whips. And late last year we came upon an absolute fizgig of a girl, introduced to us by the madam as Lucy Fitzroy, illegitimate daughter of Lord Fitzroy, with horse-riding consequently in her blood."

"Well no doubt it's all bosh, but the girl seemed convinced of it! Fourteen years old, smooth and firm as a babe, with the most glorious pride. She had on all the riding gear, and she wore it so well-she'd come down the stairs, sideways, like this, one boot, then the other, as though she were dismounting from the steps. She'd be clutching a very short and quite vicious riding crop, and on her cheeks you could see those little spots of colour burning-genuine, I'll swear. And Madame Georgina told us that whenever a man was sent up to her, the girl would stand on the landing and wait there just so, and when the poor fool got close enough, ssshwish! she'd slash him across the cheek with the crop, and then point with it towards the bed and say-"' "Good God!" exclaims Ashwell, having chanced to look in the direction of Bodley's pointing stick. "God almighty! Who would you say that is?"' He shades his eyes with one hand and peers intently at the far end of St James's Park. Bodley falls into position at his side, peering likewise.

"It's Henry," he proclaims delightedly.

"Yes, yes it is-and Mrs Fox!"

"Of course."

The two men turn to face William once more and bow gravely.

"You must excuse us, Bill."

"Yes, we wish to go and torment Henry."

"You have my blessing," says William, with a smirk.

"He avoids us, you know-avoids us like the plague, ever since… uh… how shall we put it…?"' "Ever since his own personal angel alighted at the end of his bed."

"Q. Anyway, we must do our very best to catch him before he makes a run for it."

"Oh, he couldn't, not with Mrs Fox in tow: she'd drop dead! They haven't a chance, I tell you."

"Cheers, Willy."

And with that they are off, pursuing their victims at high speed. Indeed, they run at such a furious pace, despite their formal dress, that they must pump their arms for balance, quite unconcerned about the impression they must be making on anyone watching-in fact, they exaggerate their ridiculous chuff-chuffing gait for their own amusement. Behind them they leave two long, wet, dark-green trails in the grass, and a rather dazed William Rackham.

It's always been very much Bodley and Ashwell's style to swoop in and out of conversations, and if one wishes to feel comfortable in their company, one must swoop alongside them. As William watches them dashing across the park, the burden of despondency descends on his shoulders once more.

He has lost, through lack of use, his own nerve and agility for this sort of banter, this brand of exhibitionism. Could he even run as fast as his friends are running? It's as if he's watching his own body fleeing across the park, a younger self, speeding away.

Could he perhaps leap up and follow? No, it's too late. There's no catching up now. They are dark, fleet figures on a bright horizon.

William slumps back on the bench, and his thoughts, briefly stirred up by Bodley and Ashwell, settle into their former stagnancy.

What grieves him most is how unnecessary his suffering is, given the value of the family assets. If his father would only sell the company …

But you have heard all this before. Your best course is to leave William to himself for ten minutes or so. In that time, while his brain forms a crust of reflective algae, the rest of him will feel the influence of all he's been plied with this morning: the alley whore's proposition, the sight of the French girls in Trafalgar Square, Bodley and Ashwell's talk of brothels, their own teasing courtship of him followed by their desertion, and (just in the last hour or so) the arrival in St James's Park of a number of beautiful young ladies.

A potent brew, all that. Once sufficiently intoxicated, William will rise from his seat and follow his desires, follow them along the path that leads, ultimately, to Sugar.