Yes, the house. Although the fog’s presence had been purest chance, I got the impression that Mr Whybrow did not want anyone to know where Uncle Arthur’s house was. That organ, in the wrong hands, could raze a city. And that made me all the more determined to learn the keyboard. Uncle Arthur’s organ was the ultimate instrument to master, and I was going to master it. Or should that be “mistress?”
I’d have found it difficult to focus, anyway. Llyr had cast its spell over me; I needed to go back there. And I was going to. I felt a smile stretch across my face as I heard again the shush of the waves, the crackle of the flames, the soft clashing of the treetops overlooking the Sound; I began to drift -
The next day I was awoken late by a hammering coming from the direction of Miss Folger’s shop, I presumed she was uncrating another of those fabulous instruments. As it was Sunday, my day was my own so I got straight onto sketching out all those ideas that had kept me awake, dealing with any arithmetic as it came to me. I remembered the rough proportions of Mr Whybrow’s airship and how it behaved in the air; everything else was deduction. What it MUST have. With the double spur of Llyr’s magic and Uncle Arthur’s organ, my pencil flew over the paper as fast as I could think.
Yes, I could do this!
A knock came at the door, which I answered in my nightie. It was Mr Whybrow, looking cheery as though he himself had just accomplished something.
“I’m sorry, sir; it’s Sunday so I took the liberty of indulging – “
He held up a placatory hand. “It’s all right, this is nothing to do with the shop. I promised you something to practice on.”
He stood out of the way to reveal what looked like a thickly-topped walnut table on the pavement beside him. My memory of Miss Folger’s shop told me what it was. “Why, sir, it’s a clavichord!”
He flipped open the lid with a proud flourish. “Indeed. Bach himself loved this instrument; it’s also popular with organists. They stack them one on top of the other to practice in their own rooms. Oh, and you’ll need these.” He handed me two slim books by – he interpreted my frown correctly. “It’s pronounced ‘Tscherny,’ he’s one of the best teachers you’ll find.”
Mr Whybrow carried the instrument inside and essayed a quick broken chord to make sure it had survived its journey. I was quite enchanted by its tone – curiously solid, like a piano, but diffident and with the veriest hint of harpsichord twang.
“Pull up a chair, Miss Bluebird,” he instructed. As I took my place at the keyboard, tingling with excitement, he stood over me and gave me some quick instruction in posture. Elbows out – don’t drop your wrists – I was sure that a workhouse teacher would have terrified me into obedience with a rap on the hand with a ruler at the least infraction, but Mr Whybrow might as well have been taking me through a technical manual.
“The whole posture is intended to keep your fingers parallel to the keys wherever they are on the keyboard, and allow you maximum control over them,” he told me. “Let your posture slip and your control will suffer. Other than that, the only advice I’ll give you is to take everything as quietly as possible, and as slowly as necessary to produce an even tone. Let speed come by itself. And once you start making silly mistakes, get on with something else. Your concentration’s like a muscle; it needs to develop in its own time. Forcing it’s a bad mistake.”
I was sure he knew what I would be doing when I was not practicing; he must have seen my sketches on the bed. But he did not allude to them by so much as a glance.
“While I’m here, there is something else I want to show you,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me down the road? It’s all right, nobody’s around to see your nightie.”
I began to wonder what I could have done wrong now, as I followed him across the street. He stopped at the small park between his shop and that of Miss Folger, and I discovered the source of the hammering I’d heard. He had put up a sign whose elegant inscription stopped my breath.
“Bluebird Park.”
“I think it’s a nice name,” said Mr Whybrow, ignoring my stupefaction. “It’s a small enough thanks for ridding us of the flasher, but now you know that you’re not only one of us, you’re respected among us.”
I had to swallow a large lump down my throat. In fact, I had to clench and force it down. I hoped a slight change of subject might help. “Won’t there be any official trouble at all, sir?”
“Not a bit of it. But you are the talk of the town,” he warned me. “Gossip here spreads faster than the flux in the East End. Don’t worry,” he added with a mischievous grin. “I’ve dissuaded the overcurious from coming to examine The Shopgirl. One can use gossip channels to one’s advantage, after all. A few words in the right ears - ”
His words flowed over me, barely noticed as one pang of guilt after another stabbed at me. He had named a park after me. In London, one had to have been very prominent to receive such an honour, but Mr Whybrow’s expression suggested that his sole concern was whether the sign was straight. It’s just his way, I reminded myself.
I finally found my voice. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” I didn’t add, “in return.” I didn’t think he’d have appreciated that.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Mr Whybrow gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Well, the airship is out of petrol. It’ll be blocking the sun from half SouthEnd until I can move it. If you wouldn’t mind looking after that? You’ll find some petrol in the yard. Big red drum, you can’t miss it.”
I found a hand pump in the cellar. I dressed before lugging the thing up to the roof and dropping the hose down to the yard. He had not pointed out that some effort is needed in pumping anything up to such a height, and that the airship’s tank held twenty gallons. I began to suspect that this was one of his subtle punishments for having blown his balloon to shreds.
It seemed forever before the tank’s sight glass was brimming full, and I was able to release the vacuum which let the residual liquid in the hose slosh all the way back into the drum from which I had so laboriously raised it.
The rest of the day, however, would be my own. And I had noticed an old easel in the cellar. The dust alone told me that it had not been used in years. Well, it was my easel now! I felt like a real engineer as I began turning my sketches into something I might be able to work from.
It was as well that I’d made the best use of my free time. The next day, I found a note on the counter from Mr Whybrow, requiring my presence in the workshop. In white with tiara hair. As you wish, sir.
I duly reported to find him examining a new tiara, turning it over against the light. It sparkled with diamonds, their rising and falling curves reminded me of the waves crashing against the shore at Llyr. But it was the large central stone that held his attention; it resembled an emerald but was darker, more opaque.
“Try this on, Miss Bluebird,” he told me, briskly. “Bet you’ve never seen one of those stones before.”
I was glad he hadn’t asked me what it was. I’ve no doubt that whatever answer I gave would have made me look stupid. Trying to sound more intelligent than I felt, I turned it over as he had. “It reminds me of an emerald, sir, although it clearly isn’t one.”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Close the curtain over the doorway and look at it again.”
It was a strange suggestion; one would expect to need more light to examine a stone, not less. But I did as I was bidden and with most of the light shut out, I found that the would-be emerald had become –
“It’s red now!”
Even in the poor light, I could see Mr Whybrow’s nod. “It isn’t your imagination, it really has changed colour. It’s an Alexandrite. A Russian emerald prospector stumbled across it in 1831 near Yekaterinburg; thought he’d found an emerald. Then he looked at it by lamplight and discovered precisely what you just have. Our Mrs Galicia-Constantine asked me to introduce them a while ago; they sell pretty well. The ladies love the gimmick aspect, and in terms of quantity, the stuff’s rarer than diamond. It just so happens that when it is found, it’s more likely to be in large specimens such as the one you’re wearing. I have to confess that I’m rather fond of it myself. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your position on the stand?”
[Editor’s note: Some have assumed that Mr Whybrow actually invented Alexandrite, as a fictitious stone. This is untrue. He hadn’t, and it’s quite real. VB]
That was it. Romance over, back to the grind. He flicked back the curtains to blast me with sunlight, and even as I took my position before the camera, the Alexandrite reverted to a deep lush green. I was used to the sort of pose which Mr Whybrow would want, so his Alexandrite was immortalised on glass plate in a couple of minutes.
And then it was back to the shop. “And would you mind keeping the tiara on while you’re down there?” he called after me. “Won’t do any harm to spark some interest before I get it out on sale.”
Well, it wasn’t one of his heavier wares, and I felt like I was introducing a new discovery to the world when I stood in the shop, proudly displaying the colour-changing stone, so I’d have been happy to wear it all day. But if I was hoping it would generate a flurry of interest, I was to be disappointed.
Mr Whybrow had been true to his word in dissuading the curious but despite his efforts, we did receive an unusual increase in visitors. Pity more of them hadn’t bought anything, but then as you might have gathered, they were here purely to inspect The Shopgirl like a new arrival at the zoo. I could tell they’d been warned off as they all, with scant exceptions, tried to be discreet rather than blatant, and all without exception failed miserably. They kept me on the stand modelling one thing after another, while insinuating questions about the griefer, about whom they were clearly more interested than in anything I might have been showing them. As for the Alexandrite, I might as well have been wearing an old sock on my head.
“No, Miss, we don’t supply facelights.” We have enough lighthouses already, thank you.
“No, Miss, we don’t include added bling, we prefer to offer a more discreet natural sparkle. Might I suggest you try the Mainland?” I believe Messrs Lucas have opened a headlamp factory there.
“No, Miss, we don’t offer discounts except where stated. Perhaps Miss would care to negotiate with Mr Whybrow directly? No? As Miss wishes.” I didn’t think you would. And I don’t care how long you say you’ve known Mr Whybrow. I doubt if you’ve ever even met him.
That Mr Whybrow had asked them to be easy with me on the matter of the griefer also showed in their style of questioning. Trying to appear oblique, when their interest shone in their eyes like an overactive facelight.
“Thank you, Miss, but shopgirls aren’t permitted to socialise with the master’s contacts.” As if I’d dare!
And more predictably, “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m afraid Mr Whybrow’s schedule doesn’t permit him to attend dances.” At least he’d made his wishes quite clear on that one! And I didn’t care how many titles she held.
But when they left, I could tell from their gleeful scurrying that they were going to report on me to their own little circles of friends, and come sunset, I would be known far and wide as the griefer-killing shopgirl of SouthEnd, and many would be placing themselves an extra rung up the ladder of social prominence purely for having met me.
I’d have been happier if one of them had mentioned the Alexandrite, which had apparently gone unnoticed by all. I’d been tempted to point it out myself, but Mr Whybrow did not approve of cold-selling what the customer had not asked for; that was something he left to barrow boys.
There were also some who came for other purposes. Mr Whybrow had warned me about those, too. I’m glad that Miss Creeggan didn’t get to see him; she’d have fainted clean away.
Ooh, what I wouldn’t have given to unleash the cattleprod on that one! But Mr Whybrow would not have approved; that item had featured rather too prominently, of late. He did, however, permit me to use more traditional means of dealing with “those” customers.
Plus, of course, there was Postie. I discovered his interest to be the most acute of all, and went deeper than mere local curiosity. He handed over the afternoon post with his usual needless announcement, but I noticed a rose in his buttonhole which was not only out of official uniform, but was completely out of character, too. I did not dare remark on it, but there was no need. He had prepared his script well.
“I gavver you’ve become somefink of a local ‘eroine ‘ereabouts, Miss. Over that griefer.”
My smile stretched perhaps a little too tightly. I’ll kill the next person to mention that. “I only did what was necessary, sir.”
“Modest too. Gawd, ain’tcha sumfink else? Yer master’s obviously prahd o’yer; I saw ‘e’d named ‘is park after yer.”
“Just his little way of expressing his appreciation, sir.”
“Yerr, well, we all got our own ways o’ doin’ that, ain’t we. But to my mind, a gennelman wot really wants to show ‘is appreciation, does it wiv flahrs.”
It was exactly what I’d been afraid of. He’d been angling for a cue. Wiggling the stem free, he presented me with the flahr from his buttonhole.
“Just a little gestcher of me own, darlin’. Picked it meself, I did.”
Inwardly I cringed at his familiarity. And I knew exactly where the rose had come from. The park.
“Uh – thank you,” I muttered, trying to avoid the prickles as I gingerly received his tribute. “I’d better go and put it in water.”
“Awright, gel, got me own rahnds ter take care of. But I ‘opes you’ll let me present ya wiv a few uvver tokens of me regard, like.”
I wanted to run out screaming. “Uh – thank you, sir – I think we’ve a vase out the back somewhere, don’t let me hold you up.”
I scuttled out to the yard and waited until I heard the shop door swing shut before daring to return. Oh, dear God. And by not turning him down out of hand, I’d encouraged him to come back. I wish I’d been quicker off the mark with a simple, “Thank you, but I really don’t think this is appropriate” type of response. But I’d panicked and thereby made things worse for myself. Oh, well. It was bound to happen.
It also happened that a customer really did come in to buy something; after the influx of the curious, she came as a complete surprise. And she knew what she was doing! Our Tanzanite made a perfect complement to her gown; she picked it out before I could even recommend it, and she bought the whole parure. So that’s an extra pickled onion with my fish and chips tonight, if you please, Mr Whybrow.
All this time, Llyr’s rending double pull on me continued unabated, like an angel at my shoulder ever reminding me of an unfulfilled demand. It wasn’t just the eternal beauty of the place; it was rather the meaning it had come to hold for me. Mr Whybrow and I had always kept our master/staff relationship quite clearly marked, but Llyr been the key to show him as a friend, too. One with whom I could discuss anything, without fear. I knew I had to go back there and renew my acquaintanceship with its benign mystery, even if I went there alone. But the only way to get there would be by airship. I had to have my own airship. I resisted the temptation to rush my drawings; I checked and rechecked them, calculated and recalculated, and not until everything was satisfactory did I set about turning them into reality.
Luckily, the deluge of interest in Shopgirl soon petered out and I was given more time to myself. In idle moments when Mr Whybrow was out on call, and in the evenings, long after I presumed he was in bed, I worked on my airship gondola in the cellar, stripped to my underwear to preserve my clothes.
I found the exertion a relief after some of the more trying customers of the day. Therapeutic, in fact.
If my drawing and designing had been an absorbing occupation, then the building – forming my dream with my hands – was doubly so. It was so easy to lose track of time working in the cellar, and I had to be careful to reserve time for my musical studies.
I looked forward to my bath at the end of the day, with Messrs Czerny and Prout a welcome anodyne before bedtime.
I lay awake, still haunted by the prospect of further overtures from the postman, but I did not dwell on him for long. He was not a bad man as such, I just did not like being taken for granted, particularly in such a gauche manner. And I’d found too many exciting new hopes to be fulfilled in Mr Whybrow’s establishment for any suitor to stand a chance of attracting me. Of more interest, even on a platonic level, was the strange jeweller himself with his penchant for the insane. Everything I had, I owed to him; he was making me more of a woman than I’d imagined possible.
But what did he stand to get out of it for himself? It was puzzling; if he had any “romantic” intentions toward me, he’d had every opportunity to show them. Irritatingly, it wasn’t the sort of thing I could ask him directly. Even if I had the nerve to, he’d have prevaricated, or just clammed up completely and killed any future chances of a straight answer by receding even further. I know that he had already answered me in some detail, and his reasons had made sense. I was more than happy with my situation as its own reward, and would seek none other from him. But they were not sufficient, on their own. He had almost been bribing me to stay, when I’d have done that anyway.
I harked back to the recent visitors to the shop, and it was obvious how badly he needed a shopgirl. But something was still missing. What did he hope to gain from investing so much of his time and effort in me when he could have focussed purely on teaching me the business?
I must have fallen asleep turning the matter over. At least, I must have been dreaming. If I were not, then I really did open my eyes to find Uncle Arthur standing at the end of the bed, smiling crookedly yet without malice. He spoke with a friendly drawl, clearly but without moving his mouth, his words dinning directly in my mind.
“As you have admitted to yourself, some things are worth doing for their own sake. The satisfaction in doing them is its own reward. There are those who’d agree with you, Miss Bluebird. Those who lock themselves away, furiously creating, gladly eschewing what most would call human relationships, provided that they can – just occasionally - do the right thing in the outside world. If you would honour him at all, then accept what he offers and make it grow. His pride in your accomplishment will be all the fulfilment he wants.”
I sat up with a sharp electrified jerk. My skin felt cold and damp. The room was, of course, quite empty; quite still.
But it was not the visitation that had shocked me, it was that Uncle Arthur had been right. An image came into my head of Mr Whybrow standing over me, as I would come to stand over my airship, and preening himself as I would come to do, telling himself, I did this.
As my breathing returned to something approaching normality, sleep descended with a balmy blessing. Of course, you silly girl, didn’t Mr Whybrow tell you that Uncle Arthur was to be trusted?
And Uncle Arthur was right. I’d been given a couple of dreams I hadn’t even known that I had been harbouring, and thanks to Mr Whybrow, I was making them happen.
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