Miss Widdecombe's Marmalade

Miss Widdecombe’s Marmalade

(for LP and LL, with my love)

1

The smell of oranges was the first thing that I noticed when I crossed the threshold of the lodging house of the Misses J & E Widdecombe on that fine summer’s evening three years ago; a burnt, sweetened smell that lingered in the nostrils, and seemed to hang like a rumour in the sun-cooked air. It brought to mind the fruit-groves and lazy days of my adolescence, and as I set down my valise and shook off my travelling cloak, I felt an immediate, comfortable, torpor settle down on my shoulders, brushing away the cares of the day. It had been a most wearying journey.

“Oh, it must be Professor Timeus, bless me.” said one of the Misses Widdecombe, “we were expecting you yesterday, of course, but I’m glad you’ve finally arrived.

Miss Widdecombe was a stout woman of about seventy, I judged, with iron-streaked hair that she kept pinned-up, and a rather pale, benign face that was washed with an insipid smile of hospitality, like a strict schoolmarm on the first day of class. Her voice held the hint of a frail quaver, but otherwise recalled the cuckoo to one’s mind with its smooth flow and soft timbre. She too had that indefinable orangey whiff about her, and I guessed that it might be her custom to bathe in citrus oils. I recalled the dowagers that visited the estate sometimes using cloves or lavender as a signature fragrance and decided that this Miss Widdecombe must have opted for bergamot, or some such concoction. No, not bergamot, that has a tart, acidic smell, perhaps –

“Isn’t that right, Professor dear?”

I realised that I had been inhaling deeply with my eyes closed and stuttered an apology, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ll likely want to have a nice cooling bath before you do anything else, and then we can see about having a little supper before you retire. You must be very tired.”

I thanked her and followed her rump up the staircase. She wore high-heeled boots that poked from beneath her skirtings, and as she tottered up the stairs, as nimble as a mountain goat, her tread made an assured clacking noise on the creaking wood of each step. This clacking and creaking competed with the loud ticking of a mechanical clock that was going somewhere in the house, and these sounds all muddled together, bouncing off the plum, velveted wallpaper. I followed her up past the first, then second floors, until we reached the landing of the third floor, when she turned to me with that sugary smile.

“Your room is here, Professor, and the bath is already drawn and awaiting your pleasure in this little bathroom here. I thought that the top of the house was the most appropriate place for a man of your studious,” And she whispered, “disposition”.

I thanked her profusely. Finally, I thought, a place where I could get some work done! I could have kissed the old maid’s cheek.

“That’s awfully kind of you, Miss Widdecombe,” I said, “I really have quite a deal of work before the next semester at the Academy, so I do appreciate the chance for some quiet.”

She giggled, a most alarming gesture in one so aged, and looked at me as if I was General Larego reborn,

“I must say, it is a pleasure to have an esteemed man of letters in the house. Quite the coup for me and my sister. Why, I feel almost like a patron of the arts.” She clutched at her bosom, mired in the romance of it all.

2

As Miss Widdecombe skittered back down the stairs, I moved into the darkened room and removed a few necessary items by touch alone from my valise. I felt almost mortal with fatigue, and with my dressing gown and some toiletries in hand, I made my way into the salle de bain. I quickly disrobed and almost floated into the large tub. It was blissful. The water was cool (but not cold), and a little cup of mandarin tea had been left for me to sip on as the dust of the journey was washed away. I placed a cloth over my face and wallowed, enjoying a silence I hadn’t known in a long time.

“You’re the adventurous sort, Timeus old boy. You’ll love it, I promise.” Blasken had said, flicking cigar ash into the roses. He had braved the crossing on a little polacca from Port Hector and had required a tot of brandy when I met him at the harbour. Now his portly face was suffused with a sheen of mischief.

“Which part, Blas, the journey, the job or the meagre pay?” I retorted. I was reluctant to leave Harp Island, and the estate. “Besides, I have work to do here. You haven’t forgotten the Guild’s commission, have you? I’ll hardly find the time to compose if I’m teaching a troop of young aristocrats how to deconstruct haikus.”

Blasken gestured up to the house, the windows now cold and lifeless. “You’re wasting away here, Timeus, all of us in the Guild can see it. Now be a good fellow and follow a friend’s advice. She wouldn’t want you to merely dwell, would she?”

And so I had followed him back the week after, sailing to Port Hector, then taking a coach-and-four along the highway. Blasken had steadfastly refused to take a steamer to cross Questioners Bay, vowing never to take to the seas again, and so we stopped each night in a tavern as we travelled north, then east, then south. Blasken was not a good travelling companion. He was fond of revelry, and talked when one ought to be contemplating, but he helped the miles tick along well enough and soon we had cleared the highlands and entered into more civilised country. We parted ways in Cambra, where he had an assignation with a young widow, and I carried on alone. The last leg of the journey had been the most trying. As accustomed as I had become to solitude, the incessant rumbling of the carriage wheels and the steady crawl of the unknowable countryside beyond the cab’s window had become oppressive, even taunting. As we jolted along and the world seemed to be revelling in light, I found myself blocked and unable to think, it was a most frustrating time.

I hoped that once I could find a comfortable silence that the words would come. Oh, good Lords, I dearly hoped that the words would come. Otherwise, there was nothing left.

As I lay in the bath these thoughts seemed to chase themselves around my mind. I sighed, and again, the smell of sweet oranges filled my senses. My breathing became deeper, slower, and the frustrations and memories ebbed away, as if overpowered and banished by the pervading scent of the establishment. I felt a soft glow in my skin as all matters for concern seeped away into the oiled water and a placid sense of ease took their place. I thought of absolutely nothing at all.

“Ottova rima.” I said.

After a long period of this meditation, I took the cloth from my face to soak again in the water, and that’s when I saw a most peculiar addition to the room. On a shelf on the opposing wall was a pine-marten, staring down at me.

“Hello?” I said, absolutely flummoxed. What on earth was a pine-marten doing here? Or was it a pole-cat? Or a stoat? Definitely one of the mustelids, I decided.

The creature looked at me accusingly, a light of stern disapproval dancing in his black eyes. I was suddenly aware of my nakedness and tried to calculate the speed with which I could retreat before the beast could snap at me with those keen little teeth.

And then my blunder hit me. What an ass I had been! I gave a great hoot of laughter and saw what my fatigue-beguiled eyes had failed to register beforehand. The creature was reared up on his hind legs, which was natural enough, but the miniature towel wrapped around his head, and the bath-brush that he held aloft in one paw were most certainly not. It was a stuffed mount, a creature long since expired, and now evidently put towards more jocose employment. That gleam of the eyes had been nothing but a shimmer of light, reflected from the water in which I now sat, giggling like a school-boy as it drained away. I got out of the tub, dried myself vigorously and bid a salute to the taxidermised beastie.

3

I was creaking downstairs, comfortable in a smoking jacket and linens, just as the invisible clock chimed eight. I was eager for a bite of supper, and then an early night with a book and a glass of brandy. I found myself coming to a stop in the hallway; where was I to go? There were several rooms to choose from, and I couldn’t recall Miss Widdecombe having given me any form of direction as to which was the dining room. I hovered near one door but could not hear any sound from within. From the next came the discrete sound of metallic clanking, as if pots and pans were being used. From behind one door, there came the melody of an old love song, played on a cylinder. As the floorboard creaked under my slippers, the tune was hastily cut off.

“There you are, Professor, I was worried that you might have fallen asleep in the bath.”

Miss Widdecombe’s head popped out from the furthest doorway. Her sweet smile affixed and her eyes unblinking.

“Oh, I’m sorry to have kept you,” I replied, “I was being entertained by my furry company.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Martin can be a chatterbox so’s he can.” she trilled. She skittered up to me and taking my arm, led me along the corridor to the furthest room. Inside was a quaintly appointed dining parlour. The table was set for three, and an old man, dressed in regimentals, was already seated, waiting with ill-disguised impatience.

“We have supper at eight o’ clock sharp in this establishment, young man.” He said, when I was within earshot of his croaking bark. “Punctuality is very important for the digestion, you know.”

“Oh fie, Colonel, it’s not a minute past” said Miss Widdecombe, “and besides, the professor here has just arrived after a long journey. You’re to be very welcoming to our newest guest, do you hear?”

The old man fumbled himself to his feet and harumphed, “Ah yes, of course. My apologies young man, I’m an old dog who’s used to cer-tain set things, but take no notice of me.’ He offered me a gnarled hand. “Colonel Madra, formerly of the 11th Huzzars.”

I shook his hand, “Professor Timeus, it’s a pleasure, sir.”

“And what subject do you teach?”

“Poetry, Colonel. I’m a writer.”

He looked at me with a queer eye. I could see him place the pieces together.

“I had a sergeant under temporary command once named Timeus. Some damned lovestruck fool. Not you. I suppose?”

“The same, sir.” I replied.

He harumphed again and closed his eyes. “I can’t seem to walk anywhere without putting my foot in it. I beg your pardon, sir.”

I bade off his apology. The Terrier, we had called him. He once used the knife that had stabbed him to kill three men.

“I remember you jumping the walls at Craighorn. We all thought you had a death-wish.” said the Colonel.

My mind conjured my wife beside him. I swear I could almost see her. Upright and blonde and fresh and new and-

“Some hope, sir” I said.

“So, you’re the one from the Guild, eh?”

And so we chatted about duty, and about the poem I was to conduct. We had both fought for him. For Larego, that beautiful bastard. I would write it in ottova rima. I was hoping it would fix something.

“You haven’t touched your dessert, Colonel.” Said Miss Widdecombe.

She was back again, and neither of us had heard her. She waggled a ramekin under his nose and I saw his ears twitch.

“Is it the marmalade sauce, Juniper?” he asked. She giggled.

“Are we to be joined?” I asked Miss Widdecombe, Juniper apparently. There was still a plate and cutlery empty. Miss Widdecombe made a scowl, an awful thing to see with food.

“The slut will be back soon. Too late for any meal we had in mind, though.”

“Slut?” I said, “I beg your pardon?” I received a scowl in reply.

“Madame Bellatore, the swords mistress,” coughed the Colonel. “a fine lass.”

“And consistently late for supper.” snapped Miss Widdecombe, as she passed me the dessert, orange duff with raisins.

4

I slept unwell.

There was a stuffed goose on the cadenza in the room. I only saw her when I lit the gas lamp. I was so tired.

Then came the dreams. The ones I had been fighting since the summer. My beautiful darling clutching at water and trying not to scream. My daughter getting sucked into the whirlpool first. Me standing there like a statue, unable to move, my voice a whisper. The deck shuddering beneath me. Frozen as my family die.

I stopped crying before cock-crow and sat at my new desk. I just needed time to write, time to write. I would have prayed if I believed. Instead, I dreamed of summer dances and the exchange of blades. I didn’t know I had fallen asleep on my arms.

The damned goose was looking at me. Who puts a goose in a bedroom? I would need a flat blade to unscrew the window, and then I could throw the bitch out. I noticed that glimpse in the eyes, that little shimmer. Mister Martin the Pine-marten seemed like a prophet.

“What?” I shouted at it, trying to pick up a sabre that wasn’t there. Instead, I threw the ink-pot, clocking the bird with a splash of colour before it toppled.

There were footsteps below. A slightly quicker click-clack of heels. It must be the slut, I thought. I could see her height based on that gait. Click-clack. Tall. Strong.

I imagined red hair.

“Sorry.” I muttered, picking up the goose.

I could smell oranges.

5

I met Miss Bellatore two days later. Ink-stained and smoked, I creaked down to breakfast and met a remarkably beautiful young woman. She wore an oxblood skirt and a cream waistcoat. Her hair was red. I had guessed correctly.

“Are you that Timeus?” she asked, by means of an introduction.

Juniper Widdecombe was moving plates and tutting.

“I am, miss.” I stood and bowed.

“Isabella.”

Her hand was soft in mine. When she gripped my wrist, I could feel the steel in her ligaments. Her eyes had a yellowish hue, at odds with her hair. I tried to sit more correctly. She was ravishing.

“Timeus, miss, at your service.”

“Bella” she countered. Gods, her eyes flashed, I swear. “Call me Bella”

“Then you must call me Giacomo,” I said. Her hand hadn’t left mine. “or Jack.” I don’t think she felt the shiver that ran through me.

I had work to do. Actual important work. Burn the sun, I was employed on a commission! The troops needed me to write the poem, and then would come the teaching. I was trapped. I had fought with Larego, back-to-back at one point, keeping the compass with our blades and death dancing from our fingertips. I could write one silly poem, I could. I just needed a space, and some time.

Good Lords, I was distracted. There was a ripple to Bella’s hair. Barely to be seen.

My wife was beautiful. Her hair was the colour of August wheat and her eyes were like fire. And Maggie, my daughter, was a spitting image of her mama.

I let them die. I deserved to be put to a slow death.

But Isabella was beautiful too, as she looked at me over her coffee. I could smell her perfume. I lost my sense of time for a while, looking into her eyes.

“You’ll allow me to present you to my students, I hope?” she said.

“Here’s your marmalade.” A sharp finger jabbed me. Miss Widdecombe again. I saw the moment die in Bella’s eyes too, damned life.

“Of course, ma’am.” I said. I bowed myself out of the room, my cheeks ablaze. I was jealous of the spoon that Bella was licking. Juniper Widdecombe was staring at her with that awful smile. I took the marmalade, Lords help me. It was delicious. Bella was delicious. I felt so horribly guilty.

6

I set about writing. The craft. My sense of self.

When I wrote, I made quite the habit of it. I made it into a ritual. It started, of course, in the war. I had joined up on a dare. Magryt had seen me before that, possibly noticed me that time I fixed the cracked spokes when her father’s guest had a wheel run off. She was wearing emerald green and a smile. I joined up to make her notice me.

The war was rough. You’ve read my works, you know what happened. I was never a hero though, I wasn’t. I was a man with a good eye.

When I wrote, it took me a while. All I needed was time and space.

I am one of those chaps who can get lost in a puddle. Wondering where the water came from.

I had a good chair, a decent desk, and a full stylus. I could write.

But could I? I was aware that the damned clocked ticked downstairs, bloody somewhere, and I hadn’t written a word in weeks and oh, Lords, I didn’t deserve to write at all.

I addressed the ink to Miss Bellatore. I wrote the most lurid things I could think of. Depraved, sensual things. I would burn it when it was done. When I finished, I wiped the marmalade off myself and drank some water. I felt new-born.

My door opened.

“Not now, Miss Widdecombe, please.” I started, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“Now”.

The voice was ragged and torn, like the Duke’s colours. I would write the bloody poem for him. The beautiful, horrible bastard.

I didn’t mean to become a hero. I just killed a lot of people. Please remember that.

I just wanted space and time to write.

One eye was milky, the other was dark. She had her hand around my sword-arm.

“Eunice” she said.

What a horrible sight. I raised my fist to strike and the woman grinned.

“War hero.”

“Miss Widdecombe, please, you startled me.”

“Eunice is my name”

“Miss Eunice, I just need time to write.”

The damned crone flinched and then giggled. I was certain I saw it, the moment it happened, the change. That marmalade, the oranges. I felt so sleepy, so full. It only occurred to me afterwards.

“Has Miss Juniper asked you to come here?”

“Craighorn.” She said.

“Yes ma’am, Craighorn.” I was sure she had read my books or heard the songs. “I was Captain Timeus, then. Now I must rest and work. Shall you grant me that?”

“Lust and hatred.”

“Indeed.”

“Raised from the ranks.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“A wise little owl now.”

I felt like mocking her as she left, but the sanity prevailed. It would be cruel to hurt a being so affected. I didn’t go through hell to hurt the weak.

“And forever.”

I had the taste of oranges in my mouth. I felt dizzy. I would ask Madame Bellatore for a private lesson. I deserved some love. A good rut. Gods-be-damned, I was Jack Timeus.

The sword-mistress yielded to me. She was fresh and strong. I woke up with her smell on me. In her room there was a stuffed lemur. It just looked at me whilst we coupled. Those wet eyes staring into my soul.

I practiced the poem in my head so I didn’t complete too soon. I’d never seen a lemur roll its eyes before.

8

I awoke when Juniper lifted me, taking me from under Bella. We had driven ourselves to exhaustion before dawn, her and I. Eating that damned marmalade off each other, variegating and breathing heavily. Our sweat mingling and both left reddened.

I really just needed a space to write, and some time. It could come later if it needed to, the poem. Larego had seen me fight and the Guild had my catalogue to respect, but I needed the time. I needed time to plan my lessons for the first day of autumn.

The ottova rima would make the papers, and young men with swords would recite it. The hero writes the anthem, after all. I would be back on top.

When musket balls were fired and charges spent

We worked with blades to cut the fire blown

And to our deadly task we men were sent

And by the sword of man the path was shown

“Craighorn.” Whispered Miss Juniper.

She sat me on a bedside table, just opposite the mirror, right beside the old hunting dog with a regimental collar. The Colonel’s eyes met mine and he woofed. I hooted.

“I know.”

“I know”

In the mirror was a barn owl. A beautiful beastie, creamy and brown and me. I felt the need to hunt, to swoop. To scream. I couldn't move.

I watched as Eunice ladled some marmalade into my bowl and then set about the sheets. Juniper was chatting gaily. They had a new guest soon after. She put me beside Bella, at least. We catch each other’s eye occasionally. She tends to shake it off. I have plenty of time now.

“Hello?”

“Eunice, my dove, General Larego has come to pay us a visit.”