3 Great Historical Novels by Fay Weldon Page B

he left. The fact that she was also the madam of a well-run brothel was of no consequence. One had to make a living. Since the upstairs trade was profitable, Michael’s rent was low; and Maggie no more cared what he got up to, than he did she. There were so few women in the settlement that purchasing the company of one of them was perfectly sensible, being as it provided everyone involved with a reward of some kind.
    Michael knew as soon as he took the latch from the gate that something was amiss, because the windows were shuttered and bolted. The gas lantern that normally flickered on the verandah, informing punters that all was well, was not lit. His guess was that the law had been to visit. It almost certainly wasn’t a small-time brothel they were after, so what did they want? Information, perhaps. Maggie was doyenne of the street-walkers , and the street was the conduit of the Sydney underworld, a criminal network that had imported its highly skilled practitioners from the most infamous of London’s prisons . Something was definitely up.

Paisley
    The stair timbers creaked. Rhia put the pen down silently, hardly breathing. Its silver shank rolled across the table, then rolled back towards her, coming to rest at her fingertips. The fountain pen was a gift from Mamo, but until now, Rhia had been too afraid to use it. She had thought it foolish to imagine that using a gift from her grandmother might call her from the grave. The pen was graceful and decorative, and the knot-work of its engravings glowed like illuminations. Even perhaps a little brighter than they should by candlelight.
    The stair creaked again. Mab was fat enough to make the stairs groan, but Mab wouldn’t move from the stones by the hearth until there was cream in her dish. It could only be Mamo again, moving through the house, doing whatever ghosts did in the faraway hours. The faraway hours . Strange that she should remember. It had been their secret name, long ago, for the time when the household was sleeping. Mamo had told her stories to help her sleep, which kept her awake. Mamo had also taught her a little rhyme to keep ghosts away, but Rhia couldn’t remember it now.
    The shadows scattered as the door creaked open. Mamo’s spindly legs were clad, as before, in her husband’s too-big long johns. She’d worn them to bed from the time that he died until her own death, and had insisted on being buried in them. The underclothes of a dead man might seem unconventionalnightwear to some, but to Mamo it was perfectly sensible. She was from the hills and had always complained that the cold sea mist coiled around her bones. Her husband had been from the sea, being Black Irish and, supposedly, descended from the wrecks of the Spanish Armada. Mamo had liked to think him silkie . The silver braid of her hair was draped across her bony shoulder and half-hidden by her old paisley shawl. Her feet were, as usual, bare.
    Mamo stood for a minute looking at Rhia’s drawing book open on the table. ‘You’re expecting a visitor?’ Her grandmother could never simply say ‘are you drawing?’ Any artistry must be a visitation from Cerridwen, muse of the bards.
    ‘Not tonight. I thought I’d write. Say goodbye to Thomas.’
    Mamo looked at the page. ‘You’ve not much to say.’ She couldn’t read, but anyone could see that the parchment was unmarked. ‘Don’t be a milksop, Rhiannon. Say goodbye to his face.’
    Rhia sighed. She knew that she should.
    Mamo was still looking at the page. Her neat little walnut face was smoother, as though she’d grown younger in death. She traced a crooked finger over the knot-work on the pen, as if it were a pattern in cloth. It was a simple triple knot; the oldest of designs; the sign of the goddess. Mamo turned away and knelt by the wood basket, looking for faggots. ‘Write to me,’ she said.
    Rhia laughed. ‘But you can’t read! And besides you’re—’ Should she state the obvious? Better not. Mamo was easily