The Parentations Read online

  Praise for The Parentations

  ‘Mayfield’s delightfully rich and uncanny novel, The Parentations, manages to be pacy and addictive, while simultaneously asking profound questions about life and death. Quite unlike anything I’ve ever read before.’

  Ben Fergusson, author of The Spring of Kasper Meier and The Other Hoffmann Sister

  ‘The Parentations has all the twists, richness and atmosphere of a dark Dickensian epic but with a tale that casts its net over two centuries. It’s rare for a debut novel to have this much ambition and flair but what Kate Mayfield promises in The Parentations she delivers in spades.’

  Jason Hewitt, author of The Dynamite Room and Devastation Road

  ‘A strange and marvellous tale of death and long, long life from a startling imagination. A joy to read.’

  Michael Ridpath, author of the Fire and Ice crime series and Amnesia

  ‘The Parentations turns the epic on its head. It is a family drama splashed across the decades, with a changing and shifting London rendered in exquisite detail. The research is gripping and the ambition breathtaking, and the journey this story takes you on is quite unlike any other I’ve experienced.’

  Lloyd Shepherd, author of The English Monster, Savage Magic, The Detective and the Devil and The Poisoned Island

  ‘The Parentations is a story told on an epic scale, taking the reader from the wilds of 18th century Iceland to present day Camden Town, and which is as much about the nature of love as it is about the nature of evil. Kate Mayfield weaves her uncanny tale with rich historical detail, creating an atmospheric read which is vivid and compelling.’

  Sophia Tobin, author of The Silversmith’s Wife, The Widow’s Confession and The Vanishing

  ‘Reminiscent of both Carr’s Alienist and Norfolk’s John Saturnall’s Feast, this debut novel is utterly compelling – acute plotting, vivid characters and writing so accomplished that Mayfield has you by the throat from the very start.’

  Kate Colquhoun, author of Mr Briggs’ Hat and Did She Kill Him?

  ‘So inventive and unexpected and original.’

  Sally Magnusson, broadcaster, presenter and author of Where Memories Go and The Sealwoman’s Gift

  ‘A shadowy crawl through the caverns of London’s murk-filled past. Clovis Fowler is the most magnificent monster. In her Mayfield has created a dastardly villain easily able to outwit Hannibal Lecter or take on Moriaty if the whim so took her. The Parentations is a masterful work, by turns thrilling, beautiful, revolting, sexy, moving and downright nasty. Mayfield’s prose glitters like icy stalactites illuminating the lesser-explored corners of the human (and inhuman) condition. Perfectly and sweetly chilling.’

  Syd Moore, author of Strange Magic

  ‘A hugely impressive novel – I loved it.’

  William Ryan, author of The Constant Soldier and the Captain Korolev crime series

  ‘An ambitious, wildly imaginative masterpiece.’

  Isabel Costello, host of The Literary Sofa, and author of Paris Mon Amour

  ‘The Parentations is beautiful, innovative and atmospheric. I was completely captivated.’

  Anna Mazzola, author of The Unseeing

  ‘Epic. Gothic. Magic. Somebody better snap up the film rights.’

  Jane Harris, author of Sugar Money, Gillespie and I and The Observations

  For Malcolm.

  And for the two sisters of Marylebone In Memoriam

  Four thousand, fourteen thousand years, might give us pause, but four hundred years is nothing in the life of our race, and does not allow room for any measurable change.

  E.M. Forster

  Death. It is in the very air of London. It is stacked in charnel layers under the streets, it dances in whispers through the churchyards and falls into step with young and old alike, in whips of gritty breezes. Old kings, young whores and secret piles of children’s bones lie beneath the pavement.

  Death is the law that rules every living thing. Until one remarkable day, when death turns its head for a perfect second; when, after nature’s foul breath is cleansed, a crevice is formed. A phenomenon breaks through the fissure to cast off the caul of death’s darkness.

  In the absence of death, true darkness emerges.

  CONTENTS

  LONDON 2015

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  ICELAND 1783

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  LONDON 1783

  CHAPTER TEN

  ICELAND 1830

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LONDON 1831

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  LONDON 1914

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  LONDON 1922

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  LONDON 1956

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  LONDON 1978

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ICELAND 1978

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  LONDON 1997

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  LONDON PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  ICELAND PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  LONDON & ICELAND PRESENT DAY

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  LONDON

  2015

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the winter, when the low veil of cloud forms against the rooftops of London, there is little difference between night and day. The past and present may become confused under the charcoal sky, swirling together in a sudden gust of wind, until finally, they both die down, entwined in the fine soot that coats the city.

  It is but noon, yet candlelight illuminates the rooms of Lawless House as if it were midnight. The macilent fingers of the sisters Fitzgerald pinch tapers that bring the candles sputtering to life, throwing light on this day, December 17th, to mark the afternoon’s ritual of hope.

  ‘Shall we turn on the lights?’ asks Verity. The taper, still burning in her hand, casts a soft hint of warmth to her face and catches the rose gold chain that rests around her neck.

  ‘No, no. Let’s do as we’ve always done.’

  Her siste
r Constance moves to the fireplace where the embers spit final sparks. She lays her hand on a thick cloth and wraps it around the handle of the fire shovel that has been resting near the flames for hours, red-hot and ready for her task. She lifts it like a beacon and strides into the kitchen.

  It has taken two days to make the stew: pottage they once called it. Three bowls steam with a fusion of Jerusalem artichokes, almonds, milk, bread and a partridge, all of which Constance has pounded, sieved, minced and coaxed into a thick soup. She raises the shovel and carefully places the blade directly on top of the stew, toasting it without disturbing the delicate pastry that forms a rim around the pale blue china bowl. Twice more she brings the shovel down on the remaining servings. She beams with satisfaction and then, with a little flick of her fingers, garnishes the bowls with pomegranate kernels and pistachios.

  It is the only day of the year upon which the sisters Fitzgerald lay three places at their table. It is another gesture of hope. Their spines ripple with just a fraction, just a tinge of excitement containing the whole of the past year’s anticipation.

  They eat in silence. Earlier, Verity had thrown eucalyptus leaves on the fire, along with frankincense and sandalwood. The exotic aroma lingers still. Neither has an appetite, but they eat for strength for what may happen later. Or what may not.

  Verity clears the table while Constance climbs the winding stone stairs to the first floor to draw two baths. She sits on the side of the claw-footed bath while her hands seek the perfect temperature and her memory stretches to something cold and shocking, a time when water was never hot enough. ‘A little more heat,’ she says aloud. Her bathroom, austere in its lack of adornment is nevertheless comfortable; cosy with thick cotton rugs and heavily lined sea-green silk drapes that fall in a thick puddle to the floor. She opens them to reveal a view of the garden.

  The second bathroom down the hall is slightly larger. Silver pots full of potions and lotions shoot shards of silver light through the room, crowding the small table by the window. A strand of beads hangs from a shelf littered with Mercury glass bottles from which peacock feathers shoot up and fan out. A decoration dangles from the beads in the form of death’s head, a skull carved from lava stone from Mount Vesuvius.

  As always when she enters Verity’s holy retreat, Constance balks under the eyes of the saints that bear down upon her. She opens the taps fully in an effort to drown her claustrophobia with the sound of rushing water. Around her, Anthony of Padua, Felicity of Rome, Adjutor of Vernon, saints protected by vapour-proof glass, hang in gilt frames, resisting the rising steam.

  Constance hears Verity making her way up the stairs. They glance at each other as they pass in the corridor, and for a second or two it seems that all of their long lives, each moment, is contained and met in the invisible space between their brilliant blue eyes.

  The sisters close their doors, undress, and sink into the water, each surrendering to their private reverie of the afternoon’s possibilities. A train’s distant, low rumble disturbs the familiar ticks and clicks, groans and creaks that Lawless House has developed over its years.

  Verity adds a few drops of oil to the water, closes her eyes under the gazes of the saints and in a quick anxious burst, chants a prayer of her own invention.

  ‘May he still be alive. May he be safe. May he find us today.’

  Later, the sisters are seated at their tables in the dressing room when Constance notices that Verity’s hands tremble as she makes an effort to pin her hair. Gently, she takes the pins from Verity.

  ‘I always expect that I won’t remember how to pin your hair in exactly the right way.’

  ‘You do it perfectly. I’m going to cut it all off soon. It’s easier when … you know.’

  Constance looks at her sister’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘No hiding today,’ she says, gathering Verity’s hair and twisting it into a long, silver tress. ‘No disguises.’

  ‘No.’ Verity rubs a hint of colour onto her cheeks. ‘The only disguise we wear today is—’ She stops and turns to her sister. ‘I wear blue and you wear lavender, his favourites. So that he might recognize us in a crowd, he used to say. Do you remember?’

  They speak these words as if they were new thoughts, as if they’d not spoken them many times before.

  ‘Of course,’ Constance whispers.

  ‘He cried out from his dreams in this house. “Auntie Connie! Auntie Very!” No one had ever called you Connie before. He couldn’t pronounce my name and shouted in his little voice, “ Very! Very!” And he was so cross with us when we laughed at him.’

  The sisters are brought to silence with a memory that is older than they dare say.

  Constance is the first to break the spell by reaching for the necklace she wears, one that is similar to her sister’s. Searching by habit, she grasps a golden fede ring that dangles from the delicate chain. She checks that the ring is secure.

  Verity, too, fingers her own necklace with an impatient twirl.

  The day the boy proudly presented the sisters with the rings, he bore their kisses of thanks with patience.

  ‘So that we’ll always find each other,’ he’d said, producing a third ring, one that he also wore on a chain around his neck.

  They had thought it an odd thing to say, and were amused that he was so delighted by his own chain, which he kept tucked underneath his shirt. Perhaps it was a premonition of what would take place shortly after his plump little hands proudly presented the gifts.

  The sisters rarely leave the house together any more; staggering their departures makes them less noticeable. But today is different and they allow the indulgence this afternoon. The sky darkens, though it is but half past two. Verity chooses a pair of sunglasses with round-shaped lenses, similar to a pair she wore when the boy was still theirs.

  The air is sharp and a quick wind hits them like a sheet of ice. It’s a perfect excuse to wear their long capes without fretting about unwanted attention. After all, this is Camden Town, and nowhere else in London, nor in all of the United Kingdom does costuming reach such soaring heights. It’s only one day, they reason, and their only risk-taking of the year. For if their boy appears at the meeting place, they are determined to make it impossible for him not to recognize them. They are resolved that he will set his eyes upon their long, blue and lavender cloaks, he will catch sight of their necklaces with his rings shining in the dull winter light, and look into their faces, and he will know them.

  Constance waits for the sound of the front gate to click into place before they turn their backs to Lawless House. The weeping willow shed late this year; its tiny yellow leaves look like eyelashes that create a carpet on the pavement.

  ‘Oh good great God, the streets are throbbing,’ says Constance as they turn the corner onto one of the main thoroughfares.

  ‘And it’s only Wednesday.’ Verity replies.

  ‘Christmas shoppers.’

  Their long capes swirl in a breeze that carries discarded sheets of newspapers and the invisible grit of the high street. The sisters reach the pulsing intersection, where one of Camden Town Station’s resident buskers plays a cheesy, pop rendition of ‘ White Christmas’. People surge from the Underground in droves; pulled by the gigantic magnet of the market, they make an orderly migration to the stalls.

  The sisters, immune to the market’s force, turn their anxious faces south to one of London’s secret gardens, nestling off the high street. They arrive at the gates of St Martin’s Gardens gripped in anticipation.

  They aren’t even sure he’s still alive. They’d tossed around ideas about him so often and for so many years that they’d created a shared fantasy about the kind of man he might have become. He might still be a boy, they reasoned. They considered, too, that he might be dead. They have no way of knowing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Clovis Fowler’s eyes race across a sheet of paper. The longer she reads, the stronger her fury builds. She tosses the letter on the table.

  ‘
Willa!’ She bellows.

  Nothing.

  ‘Finn!’

  Sheathed in a long black dress, she stands like a proud raven in her gleaming white kitchen. She gathers and twists her burnt-red hair that flows in a thick wavy mass, and secures it with a wide clip, then begins a swift search through her house.

  On the top floor in the converted attic, her boot heels clip across the wooden floor of Willa’s room. She surveys her employee’s space. Once littered with charms and tokens, the room is now home to bolts of fabric and a small sewing table. Shelving holds remnants of old lace, a pair of Victorian ladies’ boots and boxes of buttons and trimmings. An original Mary Quant fits snugly to the form of a tattered dressmaker’s mannequin. Her single bed is neatly made.

  Clovis feels the quiet of being high above this south-east corner of London. Her glance falls towards the small window tucked into the eaves as a steel-grey cloud passes. In a rare moment, her expression is unguarded and her thoughts ride that dark cloud to the green and blue shimmering skies of her birth country. But this indulgence passes in an instant and her face returns to its more familiar mask, steely like the cloud, and she walks out of the room, satisfied that Willa is out for a while.

  ‘Finn!’ She calls from the landing.

  Clovis moves quickly down the stairs. She jets around the house, stalking the rooms for a sign of her husband. She won’t allow him to trick her again. Satisfied that neither Willa and Finn are in the main house, she takes the stairs again to her bedroom on the first floor and quickly enters her compact walk-in wardrobe. There, behind the shelving, is a small concealed compartment. She enters the code. When the door pops open she snatches a silver chain belt, places it around her waist and then reaches back into the compartment for the chatelaine.

  She fastens the chatelaine to one of the links in her belt. Six delicate chains hang from the chatelaine’s clip. Suspended from five of the chains, keys of various shapes and sizes jingle against each other. It is the sixth chain that she grasps tightly for a moment. Attached to it is a glass phial filled with a fluorescent greenish-blue liquid. She closes the compartment and changes the code.

  Downstairs again, she dashes to the back of the house, puts her ear to a door, raps and waits. Satisfied, she uses one of the keys to unlock the door and steps into an anteroom. Here, another heavy wooden door leads to Finn’s workroom. This, the oldest section of the house, is in stark contrast to the modernized rooms in the front.