The Crimson petal and the white

FOUR

Waiting for William to stir, there's no need for you to gaze unblinking into his lap until he does. Instead, why not look at some of the objects of his desire? They've come to St James's Park to be looked at, after all.

If you've any love for fashion, this year is not a bad one for you to be here. History indulges strange whims in the way it dresses its women: sometimes it uses the swan as its model, sometimes, perversely, the turkey. This year, the uncommonly elegant styles of women's clothing and coiffure which had their inception in the early Seventies have become ubiquitous-at least among those who can afford them. They will endure until William Rackham is an old, old man, by which time he'll be too tired of beauty to care much about seeing it fade.

The ladies swarming through St James's Park this sunny November midday will not be required to change much between now and the end of their century. They are suitable for immediate use in the paintings of Tissot, the sensation of the Seventies, but they could still pass muster for Munch twenty years later (though he might wish to make a few adjustments). Only a world war will finally destroy them.

It's not just the clothes and the hairstyle that define this look. It's an air, a bearing, an expression of secretive intelligence, of foreign hauteur and enigmatic melancholy.

Even in these bright early days of the style, there is something a little eerie about the women gliding dryad-like across these dewy lawns in their autumnal dresses, as if they're invoking the fin de si@ecle to come prematurely. The image of the lovely demon, the demi-ghost from beyond the grave, is already being cultivated here-despite the fact that most of these women are daft social butterflies with not one demonic thought in their heads. The haunted aura they radiate is merely the effect of tight corsets. Too constrained to inhale enough oxygen, they're ethereal only in the sense that they might as well be gasping the ether of Everest.

To be frank, some of these women were more at home in crinolines. Marooned in the centre of those wire cages, their need to be treated as pampered infants was at least clear, whereas their current affectation of la ligne and the Continental confidence that goes with it hints at a sensuality they do not possess.

Morally it's an odd period, both for the observed and the observer: fashion has engineered the reappearance of the body, while morality still insists upon perfect ignorance of it. The cuirass bodice hugs tight to the bosom and the belly, the front of the skirt clings to the pelvis and hangs straight down, so that a strong gust of wind is enough to reveal the presence of legs, and the bustle at the back amplifies the hidden rump.

Yet no righteous man must dare to think of the flesh, and no righteous woman must be aware of having it.

If an exuberant barbarian from a savage fringe of the Empire were to stray into St James's Park now and compliment one of these ladies on the delicious-looking contours of her flesh, her response would most likely be neither delight nor disdain, but instant loss of consciousness.

Even without recourse to feral colonials, a dead faint is not very difficult to provoke in a modern female: pitilessly tapering bodices, on any woman not naturally thin, present challenges above and beyond the call of beauty. And it must be said that a good few of the wraith-like ladies gliding across St James's Park got out of bed this morning as plump as the belles of the previous generation, but then exchanged their roomy nightgowns for a gruelling session with the lady's-maid. Even if (as is now becoming more common) there are no actual laces to be pulled, there are bound to be leather panels to strap and metal hooks to clasp, choking their wearer's breath, irreparably deforming her rib-cage, and giving her a red nose which must be frequently powdered.

Even walking requires more skill than before, on the higher heels of the calf-length boots now fashionable.

Yet they are beautiful, these tubby English girls made willowy and slim, and why shouldn't they be? It's only fair they should take other people's breath away, suffering such constriction of their own.

And William-what is he up to? All these attractively clothed women circling his park bench (albeit at a distance)-have they made him ripe and ready for a naked one? Nearly.

He's been mulling over his financial humiliation so long now that he's been inspired to compose a metaphor for it: he imagines himself as a restless beast, pacing the confines of a cage wrought in sterling silver "@l" symbols, all intertwining like so: @llllllllllllllllllllll.

Ah, if only he could spring out!

Another young lady glides past from behind him, very close to his bench this time. Her shoulder-blades protrude from her satin thorax, her hourglass waist sways almost imperceptibly, her horse-hair bustle shakes gently to the rhythm of her walk. William's financial impotence shifts its focus, ceasing to be a challenge to his wits and becoming instead a challenge to his sex. Before the young lady in satin has trod twenty more paces, William is already convinced that something important-something essential-would be proved about Life if he could only have his way with a woman.

And so the passing strollers in St James's Park are transformed unwittingly into sirens, and each glowing body becomes suggestive of its social shadow, the prostitute. And to a blind little penis, swaddled in trousers, there is no difference between a whore and a lady, except that the whore is available, with no angry champions to duel with, no law on her side, no witnesses, no complaints. Therefore, when William Rackham finds himself possessed of an erection, his immediate impulse is to take it directly to the nearest whore.

Perversely, though, he's too proud of his newly conceived metaphor of financial entrapment -the cage of wrought-iron sterling symbols-to let it go so easily. There's something grand, ennobling even, about the hopelessness of his plight, the tragic unfairness of it. Bound and frustrated, he can be King Lear; granted a climax, he may find himself the Fool. And so William's mind conjures up ever more fearsome pictures of his cage, l@lrong@lr and l@lrong@lr and l@lrong@lr. And, in response, his lust suggests ever more vivid fantasies of sexual conquest and revenge. By turns, he rapes the world into submission, and cowers under its boot in piteous despair-each time more ferocious, each time more fawning.

At last he springs up from his seat, completely sure that to quell his turmoil nothing less will do-nothing less, do you hear?-than the utter subjugation of two very young whores simultaneously. What's more, he has a damn good idea of where he might find two girls ideally suited to the purpose. He'll go there at once, and the devil take the hindmost! (only a manner of speaking, you understand.) Inconveniently, the strategic redistribution of blood among William's bodily organs has no effect whatsoever on the rotation of the Earth, and he finds, when he returns to the centre of town, that it's lunch-time in London, and the clerks are out in force.

William and his manhood are rudely jostled by a hungry crowd, a dark sea of functionaries, scribes and other nobodies, threatening to carry him along if he tries to swim against them. So he stands close to a wall and watches, hoping the sea will part for him soon.

Au contraire. The building against which he presses, distinguished only by the brass letters COMPTON, HESPERUS and DILL, suddenly throws open its doors and yet another efflux of clerks pushes him aside.

This is the last straw: dismissing his last pang of conscience, William raises his hand above the crowd and hails a cab. What does it matter now that he denied himself cab travel earlier this morning? He'll be a rich man soon enough, and all this fretting over petty expenses will be nothing more than a sordid memory.

"Drury Lane," he commands, as he mounts the step of a swaying hansom. He slams the cabin door shut behind him, bumping his new hat on the low ceiling, and the abrupt jog of the horse throws him back in his seat.

No matter. He's on his way to Drury Lane, where (bodley and Ashwell never cease reminding him) good cheap brothels abound. Well, cheap ones at least. Bodley and Ashwell enjoy "slumming", not because they're short of money, but because it amuses them to pass from the cheapest to the most expensive whores in quick succession.

"Vintage wine and alehouse beer" is how

Bodley likes to put it. "In the pursuit of pleasure, both have their place."

On this excursion to Drury Lane,

William is only interested in the "alehouse beer" class of girl-which is just as well, as that's all he can afford. The two particular girls he has in mind… well, to be honest he's never actually met them, but he remembers reading about them in More Sprees in London-Hints for Men About Town, with advice for greenhorns. It seems an awfully long time since he consulted this handbook regularly (is he even sure of its current whereabouts? the bottom drawer of his study desk?) but he does have a distinct recollection of two very "new" girls, included in the guide by virtue of their tender age.

"You know, it boggles the mind," Ashwell has mused more than once. "All those thousands of bodies on offer, and still it's a hellish job to find a truly succulent young one."

"All the really young ones are dirt poor, that's the problem." (bodley's response.) "By the time they come to bud, they've already had scabies, their front teeth are missing, their hair's got crusts in it… But if you want a little alabaster Aphrodite, you have to wait for her to become a fallen woman first."

"It's a damn shame. Still, hope springs eternal. I've just read, in the latest More Sprees, about two girls in Drury Lane …"

William strains to recall the girls' names or that of their madam-tries to picture the page of text in the handbook-but finds nothing. Only the number of the house-engraved on his brain by the simple mnemonic of it comprising the day and month of his birth.

The brothel opens to William Rackham virtually as soon as he pulls the cord. Its receiving room is dim, and the madam old. She sits dwarf-like on a sofa, all in purple, her baroquely wrinkled hands clasped in her lap.

William has not the faintest recollection of what she or any of her stable might be called, so he mentions More Sprees in London and asks for "the two girls-the pair".

The old woman's red eyes, which seem to swim in a honeyish liquid too thick for tears, fix William in a stare of sympathetic befuddlement.

She smiles, exposing string-of-pearl teeth, but her powdered brow is frowning. She forms her hands into a steeple, lightly tapping her nose with it.

A fat grey cat ventures out from behind the sofa, sees William, retreats.

Then suddenly the old woman unclasps her hands and holds her palms aloft excitedly, as if an answer is dropping, out of the heavens or at least through the ceiling, into each.

"Ah! The two girls!" she cries.

"The twins!"

William nods. He can't recall them being twins at the time of their inclusion in More Sprees in London; no doubt the first bloom of their youth has passed and further enticement has become necessary. The madam shuts her eyes in satisfaction, and her raw bacon eyelids glisten as she smiles.

"Claire and Alice, sir. I should have known -a man such as you, sir-you would want my best girls-my most very special." Her accent and phrasing are a bit on the foreign side, making it difficult to guess how well or ill bred she might be. "I will see that they are prepared to receive you."

She rises, hardly any taller for it, many yards of dark silk tumbling off the sofa with her, and makes as if to escort him directly to the stairs. She pauses theatrically, however, and casts her gaze at the floor, as if embarrassed to speak the words: "Perhaps, sir, to save troubling you afterwards…?"' And she looks up at him once more, her eyes heavy with translucent fluid.

"Of course," says William, and stares into her hideous smile for a full five seconds before prompting her. "And… what is the price, madam?"' "Ah, yes, forgive me. Ten shillings, if you please."

She bows as William hands her the coins, then tugs at one of three slender ropes which dangle beside the banister.

"A few moments, sir, is all they will need. Do make yourself easy in one of the chaises-longues-and be free to smoke."

So it's that kind of brothel, thinks William Rackham, but it's too late now to withdraw, and in any case he wants satisfaction.

For no other reason than to rest his gaze on a cigar rather than on the madam's ugly face, William sits on a chaise and smokes while he waits for his predecessor to finish.

No doubt there's another staircase at the back of the house, through which this fellow will leave, and then the dirty sheets will be changed, and then…

William sucks sourly on his cigar, as if he has just bought a ticket for an inferior conjuring performance at which the magician's sleeves sag with devices and there's a stench of rabbits under the floorboards.

But while William broods, let me tell you about Claire and Alice. They are brothel girls in the truest and lowest sense: that is, they arrived in London as innocents and were lured into their fallen state by a madam who, resorting to the old stratagem, met them at the railway station and offered them a night's lodgings in the fearsome new metropolis, then robbed them of their money and clothing. Ruined and helpless, they were then installed in the house, along with several other girls similarly duped or else bought from parents or guardians. In return for snug new clothes and two meals a day, they've worked here ever since, guarded at the back-stair by a spoony-man and at the front by the madam, unable even to guess how much or little they are hired for.

Finally the time arrives for William Rackham to be shown upstairs. Claire and Alice's room, when he enters it, is small and square, draped all around with long red curtains puddling down onto dingy skirting boards. The lone window is shrouded by one of these drapes, so that the claustral little chamber is lit less by the sun than by candles, and is jaundice-tinged and overwarm. Flattened velvet cushions are strewn on the threadbare Persian carpet, and above the large rococo bed is displayed, in an ornate frame, a photograph of a naked woman dancing around an indoor maypole. Claire and Alice, dressed in plain white chemises, are sitting together on the bed, pretty little hands folded in their laps.

"'Ow d'you do, sir," they welcome him in unison.

But, unison or not, it's obvious they aren't twins. They aren't even, pedantically speaking, girls-as William verifies when he removes Alice's chemise. The undersides of her breasts no longer stand out from her midriff, but lie flat against it. The pink of her hairless vulva is tinged with tell-tale shadow, and her lips are no longer a rosebud, but a full-blown rose.

Worse than this, she moves like any other mediocre whore. A bit of puppyish curiosity would be delightful, but this practised submission, like a tame Labrador rolling over, is merely dispiriting. God damn it! Is there never such a thing as exceptional value for money? Does it always have to be a king's ransom that buys promise fulfilled? Is it the sole purpose of the modern world to disappoint ideals and breed cynicism?

As Alice begins to wrap her body around him in the waxy heat, William wishes suddenly to flee the house, never mind the money wasted. For a moment he pulls back, squirming to be free, but he cannot persuade his erection to accompany him.

So, making the best of things, he pulls Claire's chemise off as well, and finds her to be younger than Alice, with cone-shaped breasts and subtle, welt-like nipples of hyacinth-pink.

Encouraged by this, William throws himself into the business at hand with a passion, a passion to exorcise his griefs and frustrations. There is an answer to be found, a solution to his suffering, if he can only break through the obstacles of the flesh. With such furious vehemence does he fuck that he loses, at times, all awareness of what he's doing, the way a frenzied fighter may become blind to his opponents. Yet these are, for him, the best moments.

Aside from such transcendent lapses, however, he is not to be pleased. The girls are no good: they don't move as he wishes, they are the wrong shape, the wrong size, the wrong consistency, they collapse under him when he requires them to bear his weight, they totter when he requires them to stand firm, they wince and flinch and all the while keep so damnably silent. Too much of the time, William feels himself to be alone in the room with his own breathing, alone with the faintly absurd sound of his foot sliding a cushion along a carpet, the dull musical twang of the bed-springs, the comical ugh-ugh of his own allergic cough.

The blame he lays entirely on Claire and Alice. Hasn't he had the most sublime, the most joyous times with prostitutes in the past?

Especially in Paris. Ah, Paris! Now there was a breed of girl that knew how to please a man! As William presses down heavily on these glum English girls, themselves lying crushed breast to breast, he can't help reminiscing. In particular, about one occasion when he ventured out on his own to the Rue St Aquine, leaving Bodley, Ashwell and the others still drinking at The Cul-de-Sac. By some strange chance, God knows how (he was squiffed to the gills) he ended up in a room full of exceptionally friendly whores. (is there anything more delightful than the laughter of tipsy young women?) Anyway, inspired by their boisterous vulgarity, William invented a hilarious erotic game. The girls were to squat in a circle close around him, legs spread apart, and he would toss coins, gently and carefully aimed, at their slits. The rule was that if the coin lodged, the girl was allowed to keep it.

The long years since that extraordinary night haven't dimmed its sights and sounds: even now he can hear the ecstatic giggles and the cries all around him of "Ici, monsieur!

Ici!" Ah! to think that those girls are probably lying idle at the Rue St Aquine at this very moment, while he toils here, hundreds of miles away from them, straining to extract an ounce of enthusiasm from these dull English pretenders.

"Do try to do your best for me," he urges Claire and Alice as he prises apart their squashed bodies, noticing that each of their clammy torsos bears the flushed imprints of the ribs of the other. He turns them over, over and over, as if hoping to find an orifice not yet detected by previous customers. His lust has become almost somnambulistic; he demands ever greater liberties, in a voice he hardly recognises as his own, and the girls obey like figments of his own sluggish dream.

He hardly knows what he's saying, then, when at last he takes Alice by the wrists and gives her the command which will transform many lives.

The girl shakes her head.

"I don't do that, sir. I'm sorry."

William releases her wrists, one by one.

With the first hand freed, Alice tucks a lock of her hair nervously behind one car. William flips it back onto her cheek.

"What do you mean, you don't do that?"' He looks from Alice to Claire who, sensing that the ordeal is over, is surreptitiously pulling her nightdress up over her shoulders.

"Me neiver, sir."

William rests his hands on his naked knees, speechlessly outraged. His blood, redistributed from below, flushes his cheeks and neck.

"We would if we could, sir," says

Alice, taking up her position next to Claire on the edge of the bed once more. "But we can't."

William reaches for his trousers, as if in a dream.

"It seems odd," he says, "to draw the line at that rather than at… well, something else."

"I'm sorry, sir," replies the elder (for so she obviously is), "And so is Claire, I'm sure. You know it ain't nuffink to do wif you, sir. Troof is, we wouldn't do it for nobody, sir. Troof is, it would put us off, sir, put us off altogevver, and then we'd not be wurf a farvin' to you, sir."

"Oh, but," pursues William, catching sight of a glimmer of hope, "I wouldn't blame you for that, oh no. And it wouldn't matter, you see. You'd not have to do anything more after that, just that one thing, and with your eyes closed if you liked."

The girls' faces are by now ugly with embarrassment.

"Please, sir," begs Alice,

"don't press on us; we can't do it and there it is, and we are very sorry to 'ave offended you.

All I can do for you, sir, is give you a name-the name of a person z'd do what you ask."

William, huffily dressing, and preoccupied with locating a lost garter, is not sure he has heard correctly.

"What did you say?"' "I can tell you 'oo'll do it for you, sir."

"Oh yes?"' He sits taut, ready to vent his fury on yet more whore-bluff. "Some poxy hag in Bishopsgate?"'

Alice seems genuinely abashed.

"Oh no, sir! A very 'igh-class girl in ever such a good 'ouse-in Silver Street, sir, just off The Stretch. Mrs Castaway is the madam there-and it's said this girl is the best girl in the 'ouse. She's the madam's own daughter, sir, and 'er name is Sugar."

William is by now fully dressed and self-possessed: he might be a charity worker or a parson come to inspire them to seek a better life.

"If… If this girl is so high-class," he reasons, "why would she be prepared to… do such a thing?"' "Ain't nuffink Sugar won't do, sir.

Nuffink. It's common knowledge, sir, that special tastes as can't be satisfied by the ordinary girl, Sugar will satisfy."

William voices a grunt of sulky mistrust, but in truth he's struck by the name.

"Well," he smiles wearily. "I'm sure I'm most grateful for your advice."

"Oh, I 'ope you may be, sir," responds Alice.

Standing alone in the stinking alley behind the brothel, William clenches his fists. It's not Claire and Alice he's angry with; they're already forgiven and half-forgotten, shut away like unwanted lumber in a dark attic to which he will never return. But his frustration remains.

I must not be denied, he says aloud-well, almost. The words are loud in his mind, and on the tip of his tongue, withheld only for fear that to proclaim "I must not be denied!" in an alleyway off Drury Lane might attract mockery from uncouth passers-by.

It's blindingly clear to William that he must proceed directly to Silver Street and ask for Sugar. Nothing could be simpler. He is in town; she is in town: now is the time. There isn't even any need to squander money on a cab; he'll take the omnibus along Oxford Street, and then another down Regent Street, and he'll be almost there!

Rackham strides forth, hurries to New Oxford Street and, as if the universe is impressed-no, cowed-by the sheer strength of his resolve, an omnibus turns up almost instantaneously, allowing him to board without breaking his pace.

Mrs Castaway. Sugar. Give me

Sugar and no excuses.

Once William is actually seated in the omnibus, however, and the solid street outside the soot-speckled windows becomes a moving panorama, his resolve begins to weaken. For a start, paying the fare reminds him of how much money he has already spent on his new hat (not to mention the lesser expense of Alice and… whatever the other one's name was). Who can say how much this girl Sugar will cost? The streets around Golden Square contain a mixed assortment of houses, some grand, some shabby. What if this girl demands more than he has on his person?

William stares across at the passengers opposite him-dozing old fossils and overdressed matrons-and notes how vividly real they are compared to the blurry world beyond the window-glass. Has he really any choice but to stay in his seat, a passenger among other passengers, until the omnibus horses have pulled him all the way back to Notting Hill?

And shouldn't he be getting home, anyway? The responsibilities awaiting him there are most urgent-so much more deserving of his attention than this secret ember of lust glowing inside him. This Sugar, whoever or whatever she may be, can only make him poorer, whereas a few hours spent in duteous study could well rescue him from ruin.

William is staring sightlessly ahead of him, deep in thought; suddenly he notices a prune-faced dowager staring back at him.

What an ill-mannered creature you are! she seems to be thinking. Chastised, he lowers his head, and stays stoically seated, even as the omnibus rattles past Regent Circus.

He's had his extravagance for the day; he has made his stand. Now he sinks back, closes his eyes, and dozes for the remainder of the journey.

"Chepstow Villas cor-nerrr!" warbles the conductor. William jolts back to life. The world has turned greener; the buildings have thinned.

It's sleepy Notting Hill in the sunny glow of afternoon. London is gone.

Blinking and groggy, William dismounts the omnibus right behind a lady he doesn't know.

Indeed, he almost blunders into her, trapped in the wake of her black and terracotta striped skirts. In better circumstances, he might find her enticing, but she's too close to home and he is still hankering after Sugar.

"Forgive me, madam," he says as he circles free of her snail's-pace.

She glares at him as if he has treated her shabbily, but William feels a second apology would be excessive. There ought to be a limit to how much allowance men make for the delicate speed of women.

Forging ahead, William hurries past the long ornate fence of the park to which he is one of the private key-holders. Where that key might be, he has forgotten; he's in the habit nowadays of ignoring the pale flowers, evergreens and marble fountains that twinkle so fetchingly behind the wrought-iron bars. Oh, granted, in the beginning, when Agnes was still well, he did occasionally take the air with her in this park, to prove to her how nice a place Notting Hill could be despite everything, but now…

He slows his pace, for the handsome house directly up ahead is the Rackham house-his own house, so to speak-in which lie waiting for him his problematical wife, his ungrateful servants, and a stack of unreadable business papers on which (outrageously!) his entire future depends. He draws a deep breath and approaches.

But already there is an obstacle, before he's even set foot on his own grounds. Just outside the front gate sits a dog-a fairly small dog, admittedly-at fully erect attention, as if volunteering its services as gatekeeper.

It wags its tail and nods its head as

William steps near. It's a mongrel, of course. All the proper dogs are indoors.

"Get away," growls William, but the dog doesn't budge.

"Get away," William growls again, but the animal is stubborn, or confused, or stupid. Who knows what goes on in a dog's brain? (well, actually, William did publish a monograph, during his time at Cambridge, called Canines and the Canaille: The Differences Explained. But Bodley wrote some of it.) William pulls the gate open and hastens through, in the process shoving the dog's body aside with the great hinged grille.

Locked out, the animal takes offence at the rebuff. It rears up against the gate, paws scratching at the wrought-iron curlicues, and barks clamorously as William walks up the steep path towards his own front door.

These last few steps of his homeward journey tire him more than all the rest. The lawn on either side of the path hasn't been cut for months. His private carriage-way leads to a coach-house with no coach and a stable with no horses, and serves only to remind him of the Sisyphean challenge ahead.

And all the while, the dog barks tirelessly on.

It should never be necessary to ring a doorbell more than once-especially if it's one's own.

Principles like that should damn well be tattooed on servants' thumbs, to help them remember.

Nevertheless, William's arm is raised for his third tug on the bell-pull when Letty's face finally appears in the doorway.

"Good arfernoon Mr Rackham," she beams.

He brushes past her, resisting the urge to dress her down in case she protests it's the heavy weight of her new duties that's to blame. (not that such a complaint could ever come from Letty, and William would do well to accept her ovine placidity for what it is, rather than mistaking it for Clara's grudging acquiescence.) As Rackham clumps towards the stairs, Letty's smile falters; she has disappointed her master yet again. He was so full of praise for her when Tilly was dismissed, but ever since then … She bites her lip, and shuts the front door as gently as she can.

In truth, there's nothing she can do to make William happy. Her new status has transformed her from a human being, albeit of a lower order, to a walking, breathing sore point.

There's simply no escaping the fact that before Tilly was dismissed, he had an upstairs and a downstairs housemaid, and now he has only one. This, Rackham knows, is basic social arithmetic that a child could understand-so what, then, must he make of Letty's cheerful simper? She's either stupider than a child, or else she's faking it.

Every time William speaks to her, he recalls his words of encouragement when he first told her the way things would be from now on-his insistence that she was very privileged to be "promoted" with a pound extra on her wage, because "that naughty Tilly" did nothing Letty can't do better alone. And, after all, isn't the Rackham house much easier to maintain nowadays, with its master rarely at home and its mistress rarely leaving her bed? (what hogwash! But Letty seemed to lap it all up and, despite his relief, how William despised her for swallowing!) So: that is why William now refrains from demanding an explanation for her tardiness in answering the door. (are you curious to know, though? No, she wasn't snoozing, or gossiping, or stealing from the pantry. It's just that when a housemaid is summoned by a bell in the middle of cleaning out a fireplace, she must wash her hands, roll down her sleeves, and descend two flights of stairs, all of which can't be done in less than two minutes.) However, our Rackham, given a moment to reflect, is not an unreasonable man. In his doleful heart, he knows very well that prompt service can only be expected in a house stuffed to the rafters with servants, each with very little to do. Letty's bearing up well, under the circumstances, and at least she always has a smile for him.

He'll probably keep her, when things improve.

In the meantime, he's growing almost accustomed to slow service. Lately he has even taken it upon himself to perform such menial tasks as drawing a curtain, opening a window, or adding wood to a fire. In a tight spot, everyone must do his bit.

He's adding more wood to the fire now, in his smoking-room. Clara has been summoned, but she too is taking some time to arrive, and he's impatient to be warmer. So, he's thrown a faggot on the flames. It's not so difficult, really. In fact, it's so easy he wonders why the damn servants don't do it a damn sight more often.

When Clara finally turns up, she finds him installed in his favourite armchair, pushing his head wearily against the antimacassar, calming his nerves with a cigar. The girl's hands are demurely folded in front of her new twenty-inch waist, and she looks very much as if she has something to hide.

"Yes sir?"' Her tone is cool and a little defiant. She has already rehearsed an ingenious response to the challenge, "Where did you get that waist?"'-a rather far-fetched tale involving a non-existent niece.

Instead, William merely enquires, "How has Mrs Rackham been?"' and looks away.

Clara clasps her hands behind her back, like a schoolchild about to recite a poem.

"Nothing out of the usual, sir. She has read a book. She has read a journal. She has done some embroidery. She has asked once for a cup of cocoa. Otherwise she is in perfect health."

"Perfect health." William raises his eyebrows in the general direction of the not sufficiently dusted bookcases. No wonder Agnes claims she trusts Clara with her life. The two of them are in clammy female collusion, cooking up the notion that the decline of the Rackham house is not the fault of its mistress-for isn't she a fine lady in perfect health?-but solely due to her husband's want of will, his fear of his appointed destiny. Oh no, there was never anything wrong with the small, perfect woman upstairs, yet still her cruel and ineffectual husband persists in demanding round-the-clock accounts of her behaviour.

William can picture Agnes now, doing her bit to prop up this lie by sitting in her bed, her cameo face innocent, reading Great Thoughts Made Plain for Young Ladies or some such book, while he, the villain, slumps down here in his oily armchair.

"Anything else?"' he enquires sourly.

"She says she doesn't wish to see the doctor today, sir."

William clips the end off another cigar and flicks it into the fireplace.

"Doctor Curlew will come today, as always."

"Very well, sir. But you are a spineless fool and that's the only thing making your wife sick." Well, no, actually Clara doesn't say that last sentence. Not aloud.

What time remains before dinner, William whiles away with a book. Why not? He can't very well get started on the Rackham proprietary papers, can he, if he's going to be called away shortly to the dining-room?

The book of his choice is Exploits of a Seasoned Traveller, or, Around the World in Eighty Maidenheads, and he makes no attempt to hide it or even obscure its title when Letty enters the room to stoke the fire. She can barely write her own name, so complicated words like "fleshy orbs" and "rampant member" are mysteries to her.

You see them there in the smoking-room together, William and Letty, and wonder if this is going to be a scene from a moralistic drama, a Samuel Richardson tale of seduction and ruin, for Letty is a servant with no means of defence or recourse to the law, alone in a room with her master as he reads inflammatory material. Nevertheless she finishes her tasks and leaves without being molested, for to the preoccupied William at that moment she's merely the means by which his lamps are lit, no more alive than the wires and switches which light yours.

William carries on reading his book with the nonchalance that men like to affect when contemplating pornography. In his own mind, he is a picture of roguish sophistication sitting there in his armchair, but still there's a fierce little fire raging inside him, converting the words that pass under his level gaze into a smouldering punk of fragmented anatomies.

"Dinner is served, sir," a servant informs him, and he folds closed his book, pressing it down on his lap, half to caress and half to suppress his desire.

"I'll be there shortly."

Seated at one end of the long mahogany dining-table, William samples his first mouthful of yet another of the cook's excellent meals (ah, but how long will they remain so?) She really is a treasure-the only female in the house whose worth has never been in doubt, since the very first day he got her. Informing her that she can't have quite so much sirloin in future is going to be difficult. Especially since, by rights, it should be the mistress of the house who passes on such news.

William stares down the length of the table, along the glowing white trail of table-cloth leading all the way to the empty other end. As always, cutlery, glassware and gleaming vacant plates are laid out for Mrs Rackham, should she feel up to attending. In the kitchen, there is still the bulk of a chicken's warm and juicy carcass she could have if she wanted it. William has consumed one thigh and a leg, no more.

Not long after dinner, Doctor Curlew arrives at the Rackham house. William, ensconced once more in the smoking-room, consults his watch, to measure how much time elapses between the sound of the doorbell and the sound of the doctor being admitted.

Better, he thinks. Better.

There is a creak of banister as Dr Curlew climbs the stairs to Agnes's room. Then a silent quarter-hour is scalpelled from the evening.

Afterwards, the doctor visits William in the smoking-room, as he does each and every week.

He proceeds directly to a particular armchair which he knows to be the most firm and resilient.

Flaccidity of all kinds is his bugbear.

Uncommonly tall without being bony, he cuts an impressive figure, as if his frame has expanded, over time, to make room for the growth of experience within. His long, strong-browed face, his dark eyes, his fastidiously sculpted beard, hair and moustache, and his austerely dashing dress sense, make him a more distinguished-looking specimen than Rackham.

He's also highly skilled, with a long list of initials after his name. To give but one example, he can dissect a pregnant rabbit for the purposes of anatomical study in ten minutes and can, if required, pretty well sew it back together again. He enjoys the reputation, at least among general physicians, of being something of an expert on feminine illness.

Puffing thoughtfully on one of William's cigars, he speaks for a few minutes on this subject as far as it applies to his host's wife. The atmosphere is thick with smoke and alcohol, and you may be forgiven for losing the thread of the good doctor's thesis, but do rouse yourself for his conclusion:

"I'll admit she's tolerably lucid just now, and no great trouble. I suspect the improvement is due to the time of the month. I certainly don't think we should be lulled into thinking there won't be another relapse: in fact, I'm expecting one very soon. With every visit I observe more clearly how strenuously she must fight to compose herself. It's like a quantity of vomit that will not be kept down. This is not a healthy state of affairs… Not for anyone." Here Curlew pauses in order that William may be struck squarely by his point. "I must emphasise, my dear Rackham, that you continue to show the unmistakable signs of mental strain."

William grins. "Perhaps I'm trying to maintain some consistency of mood in the family, doctor."

Curlew frowns impatiently and uncrosses his legs. He knows William well enough to forgo decorum. "Don't joke about it, man," he says, leaning closer. "You should know that mental illness in the male has nothing to do with nature.

Every man has his breaking-point. Once the suffering is beyond endurance, madness strikes, and note that I say strikes, for often it comes suddenly, and it is not reversible. You and I have no womb that can be taken out if things get beyond a joke-for God's sake remember that."

William glances up at the ceiling, looking for a way to cut short the argument.

"I don't believe the continued presence of my wife in this house is likely to drive me mad just yet, Doctor Curlew. Perhaps the strain you detect is merely… tiredness."

"My dear Rackham," sighs the doctor, as if seeing through a brave falsehood to the fearful truth beneath. "I understand, of course I understand, that having Agnes committed to an asylum would cause you pain and shame. But you must trust me: I've seen other men wrestling with the same decision. And once they make it, they are relieved beyond words."

"Well, not quite beyond words, it seems," demurs William sardonically, "if they can give you their testimonial."

Doctor Curlew narrows his eyes in disapproval. Too clever for their own good, these men with literary pretensions; they can split hairs, but fail to see what's in front of their faces.

"Think about what I've said," the doctor says, rising from his chair.

"Oh, I shall, I shall," William assures him, rising likewise. The two of them shake hands, with nothing agreed, and William squeezing harder and harder to prove he's not the weaker man.

But enough of this. There's a limit to how long William can be a disappointment to all who observe him. He's not so spineless as everyone supposes! True to his earlier resolve, he finally climbs the stairs to his study, where the Rackham Perfumeries documents lie in wait for him. It's time to take the bull by the horns.

Seated at his desk, William grasps the Manila envelopes by the scruffs of their sealed ends and empties out their contents. His plan, when he sees the documents spread like this before him, is to pick them up one by one, in no particular order, and scan them as quickly as possible. All that's needed is a vague sense of how the business holds together. An inkling is better than nothing.

Getting bogged in the details is what's fatal: better to read everything half-comprehendingly, to get the gist of the thing.

He coped with far worse than this at school, didn't he?

William takes the topmost paper from the nearest pile and peruses it with an ill-humoured squint, impatient for it to make itself clear. There's a fearsome density of words here … Who would have thought the old man had so many words in him? Many of them misspelled, too-how embarrassing! But that's not the worst of it: how is it possible that so many nouns can conjure up so few pictures? How can so many verbs suggest so few actions worth attempting? It beggars belief.

But he struggles on.

Ten lines down, half-way through the eleventh, William's eye is caught by the interesting word "juices". This gets him thinking about this woman in Silver Street, Sugar, and how she'll gasp, perhaps, at his demand. Well, let her gasp, as long as she submits! What, after all, is she-But he is straying from the task at hand.

Breathing deeply, he returns to the beginning, this time reading each word aloud in his mind.

Utilisable cuttings down 15% from last year. Many would not div. at the root but crumbld. 4 gross ordered from Copley.

Only 60 of the 80 acres prime. @8..Buy more prime from Copley. @8Rackhams good name. First gallons will tell.

Drying House needs new roof-@8Saturday afternoon if workers will stretch to it. Rumour of trade union infiltraitor. 2% rise in cost of manure.

At this, William lets the page flutter through his knees to the floor. This tabulation of mucky stratagems, this intimacy with manure-he cannot bear it-he must be free of it.

Yet there is no escape. His father has told him that if he doesn't wish to be head of an empire he's free to get a job elsewhere-either that, or surprise everyone with sudden success in one of those "gentlemanly" pursuits he's always talking about.

Stung by the memory, William girds himself for another assault on the Rackham papers.

Perhaps the problem is not so much the content as his father's cryptic shorthand. And if it must be this incoherent scrawl, could it please be in black ink, rather than faded blue or pale brown? Would proper ink cost the old skinflint ninepence more per gallon, perhaps?

William rummages through the papers, and at the bottom of the pile he finds what appears to be a more substantial document bound into sturdy pamphlet form. To his astonishment, it proves to be More Sprees in London-Hints for Men about Town, with advice for greenhorns. So this is where it's been hiding!

He lays it on his lap, turns it over and opens it. The pocket in the back still contains half a dozen condoms made of animal intestine. They've dried out now, poor withered things, like pressed leaves or flowers. In his prime, in France, they were a daily necessity.

The whores swore by them, in a manner that was friendly but allowed for no excuses. "Mieux pour nous, mieux pour vous." Ah, those girls, those times! Far away and long ago.

William flips through the pages. He bypasses the "Trotters" section (street girls) and flicks through "Hocks" (the cheapest brothels). "Prime Rump", at the back of the book, is out of his range, being the class of establishment where one is expected to call for first-rate wines on top of everything else.

Thankfully, Mrs Castaway's is listed in

"Mid Loin (for Moderate Spenders)"'.

This Good Lady's Establishment contains an Embarrassment of Pulchritude, viz, Miss Lester, Miss Howlett, and Miss Sugar.

These Ladies may be found at home from the middle of the afternoon; after six o'clock they are wont to take Entertainment at "The Fireside", an unpretentious but convivial place for Nocturnals, and will leave with any suitable Escort at a time of mutual choosing.

Miss Lester is of middling stature, with …

William pursues Miss Lester no further, but proceeds directly to:

We can presume that "Sugar" was not the name our third Lady bore at her christening, but it is the name under which she rejoices now, should any man wish to baptize her further. She is an eager Devotee of every known Pleasure. Her sole purpose is to put the demanding Connoisseur at his ease and far Exceed his expectations. She boasts tresses of fiery red which may fall to the midriff, hazel eyes of rare penetration, and (despite some angularity) a graceful enough carriage. She is especially accomplished in the Art of Conversation, and is most assuredly a fit companion for any True Gentleman. Her one shortcoming, which to Some may well be a piquant virtue, is that her Bosom scarcely exceeds the size of a child's.

She will ask for 15's., but will perform Marvels for a guinea.

William feels for his watch in his waistcoat pocket and fingers it into his palm. For a long time he stares at it, then folds warm fingers shut, enclosing the golden time-piece ticking in his fist.

"I'd better make a start," he says to himself.

But hours later, Letty, alerted by a loud, unidentifiable snore in the stillness of the night, tiptoes into the study and finds William asleep in his chair.

"Mr Rackham?"' she whispers, ever-so-gently. "Mr Rackham?"'

He snores on, his big pale hands hanging loose at his sides, his golden hair ruffled and wayward, like an urchin's. Letty, at a loss what to do, tiptoes out again. Obviously, her master has been working too hard today.