Francis knew nothing of the domestic and public miseries of the O’Gormans, as he was not going to school, and the morose atmosphere in St. Kilda did not greatly affect him. He had a scandal of his own.
He now knew for a certainty that several nights in every week Zadok Hoyle mounted the staircase that was forbidden to himself, because it led to Victoria Cameron’s private domain. What went on up there? What was the relationship between these two important figures in his own life? If there was nothing fishy about it, why did Zadok take off his boots and go upstairs in his socks?
There were noises, too. Laughter, which he could distinguish as belonging to Zadok and Victoria. Singing, in what was plainly Zadok’s voice. Sometimes thumps and bumps and scuffling. Seldom, but often enough to puzzle him, there was a sound that might have been a cat, but louder than a cat. He didn’t like to ask Aunt; it might be squealing. Certainly he couldn’t ask Zadok and Victoria, because if they were up to something they shouldn’t be up to—something to do with the great mystery, perhaps, and related to the dark world half-unveiled by Dr. Upper—they would be angry with him, and his long, philosophical talks with Victoria, and his visits to Devinney’s embalming parlour which were so necessary to his study of drawing, would be at an end. But he must know.
So, one night as Lent began, he crept slowly up the stairs in his pyjamas, feeling his way in the darkness until he became aware that the walls were covered with something soft, which felt like blanketing. On the landing he could see, by moonlight from a window high in the wall, that it was indeed blanketing, and that a heavy curtain of blankets hung directly in front of him. This was odd, for he knew that Victoria’s room was in the other direction, and what lay toward the front of the house, beyond this curtain, was above his grandparents’ large bedroom. An unlucky stumble, though a boy in his bare feet does not make much noise. But suddenly light, as a door opened, and there stood Zadok.
“You see, Miss Cameron, I told you he’d find his way up here one of these days. Come in, me little dear.”
“Are you prepared to take responsibility for this?” said Victoria’s voice. “You know what my orders are.”
“Circumstances alter cases: Shorter pants need longer braces,” said Zadok. “He’s here, and if you turn him away now, you’ll regret it.” And he beckoned Francis into the room, the door of which had been thickened and padded amateurishly but effectively.
The room was large and bare, and suggested a sick-room, for there was a table covered with white oilcloth, on which were a basin and pitcher. The floor was covered with what used to be called battleship linoleum. The light was harsh, from a single large bulb hanging from the ceiling, with a white glass shade that threw the light downward. But what Francis saw first, and what held his eyes for a long time, was the bed.
It was a hospital bed with sides that could be slid up and down, so that at need it became a sort of topless cage. In the cage was an odd being, smaller than Francis himself, dressed in crumpled flannelette pyjamas; its head was very small for its body, and the skull ran, not to a point, but to a knob, not very big, on which grew black hair. Because the top of the head was so small, the lower part seemed larger than it was, the nose longer, the jaw broader, and the very small eyes peeped out at the world without much comprehension. They were now fixed on Francis. The child, or the creature, or whatever it was, opened its lips and made the mewing sound that Francis had sometimes heard downstairs.
“Come along, Francis, and shake hands with your older brother,” said Zadok. Then to the figure in the bed, “This is your brother, Franko, come to see you.”
Francis had been taught to obey. He walked toward the cage, his hand out, and the figure sank back on its blankets, whimpering.
“This is Francis the First,” said Zadok. “Be gentle with him; he’s not very well.”
Francis the Second had been ill for some months, and he was still weak. He fainted.
When he came to himself again, he was in his bed, and Victoria was sitting by him, dabbing at his brow with a cold towel.
“Now Frankie, you must promise me on your Bible oath that you will never tell where you’ve been or what you’ve seen. But I expect you want to know what’s going on, and I’ll answer a few questions. But not too many.”
“Victoria, is that really my brother?”
“That is Francis Chegwidden Cornish the first.”
“But he’s in the graveyard. Aunt showed me the stone.”
“Well, as you’ve seen, he’s not in the graveyard. That was just something I can’t explain. Maybe you’ll find out when you’re older.”
“But he’s not like a human person.”
“Don’t say that, Frankie. He’s not well and he’ll never be any better, but he’s human right enough.”
“But why is he up there?”
“Because it would be very hard on everybody if he was down here. There are problems. It wouldn’t be nice for your grandparents. Or your parents. He may not live a long time, Frankie. Nobody expected he’d live as long as this.”
“But you and Zadok spend a lot of time with him.”
“Somebody must, and I was asked to do it by your grandfather, and I’m doing it. I’m not much good at cheering him up. Zadok does that. He’s wonderful at it. Your grandfather trusts Zadok. Now you’d better go to sleep.”
“Victoria—”
“Well?”
“Can I go to see him again?”
“I don’t think it would be for the best.”
“Victoria, I get so lonesome. I could be up there with you and Zadok sometimes. Maybe I could cheer him up.”
“Well—I don’t know.”
“Oh, please!”
“Well, we’ll see. Now you go to sleep.”
Grown-ups always think children can go to sleep at will. An hour later, when Victoria looked in again, Francis was still awake, and she had to take the extraordinary step of giving him a glass of hot milk with some of his grandfather’s rum in it to induce sleep.
During that hour his mind had raced over and over the same ground. He had a brother. His brother was very strange. This must be the Looner that Alexander Dagg’s hateful Maw declared that McRorys kept in their attic. A Looner! He could not encompass the idea.
But one thing was uppermost and demandingly powerful in his mind. He wanted to draw the Looner.
The very next night he was there, with his pad and pencil, and Victoria Cameron was angry: did he mean to mock the poor boy, and make a display of his trouble? No, certainly not; nothing more than he had been doing at Devinney’s—just carrying out the advice of Harry Furniss to draw anything and everything. But in his heart Francis knew that his urge to draw the Looner was more than art-student zeal; drawing was his way of making something his own, and he could not hope to comprehend the Looner, to accept him as something related to himself, if he could not draw him, and draw him again, and capture his likeness in every possible aspect.
How much Victoria understood of that Francis could not tell, but the revelation about Devinney’s made her open her eyes very wide, and breathe heavily through her nostrils, and look fiercely at Zadok. But Zadok showed no discomposure.
“We have to recognize, Miss C., that Francis isn’t just your run-of-the-mill young scallawag, and circumstances alter cases, as I’m always saying. I wouldn’t take just any boy to Devinney’s, but for Francis, it’s part of his education. It’s not that he’s nosy; he’s a watcher, and a noter, and they’re not the commonest people. Francis is deep, and with a deep ‘un you have to give ‘em something deeper than a teacup to swim in. This here’s a deep situation. Francis the Second downstairs, sharp as a razor; Francis the First up here, and Dr. J.A. giving orders right and left about how to keep him as he ought to be. Aren’t they ever to meet? Haven’t they anything for one another? I put it to you fairly. Miss C., haven’t they?”
Was Victoria convinced? Francis could not tell. But it was plain that she put great trust in the coachman-embalmer.
“I don’t know, Zadok. I know what my orders are, and it wasn’t easy for me to convince His Nibs that you should come up here sometimes—which you’ve extended to nearly every night.”