“That is something your mother and I have considered at length, and we have decided, for the sake of safety rather than decorum, that you should have a chaperone, someone who will ensure safe passage for you wherever you choose to go.”
“Who is it?”
He paused to finish his tea. “Frederick Honey,” he said.
Instantly, Johnny said, “Then Peter can come too?”
Mother left the table. There was silence. At last Father said, “I don’t see what harm can come of that.”
I thought about this for some time. The combination of Johnny, Peter, and Honey was not one I wanted to be near. But then again, perhaps once we were away from my parents and this house, Johnny and I might converse more easily; the opportunity to tell him everything might arise.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Father said, “I thought perhaps you might like to see the Seven Maidens.”
MY POWERS OF DECEPTION are being tested to their limit. Today Johnny came home and said, “Peter has found a house for us. It is a house and a shop.” His voice was full of vigour and hope and longing. “Soon we will be able to move out of this house, away from your parents — at last.”
I smiled to mask my unease.
“I will be able to run my own business, a shop with my own name. We will be able to build a new life without them,” he continued, dropping his voice and looking over his shoulder as if wary of some hidden danger. Since the Incident at the Shop, Johnny has been very restless; he speaks constantly about plans for a new shop. This enthusiasm seems to have escalated since Peter arrived in the Valley last month.
I searched for something to say. “What is this place like?”
“It is magnificent,” he said. I noticed that it was the first time he has ever used that word; he has learnt it, no doubt, from Peter. “It is by the river. I will take you there soon.”
“That would be nice,” I said. “Have you thought of a name for it?”
“Yes,” he said, fetching a piece of paper. He reached for a calligraphy brush from my desk and wrote out its name in slow, uncertain strokes. He had obviously been practising this for some time. He showed it to me as if it were a secret, holding it close to his chest, just beneath his chin.
“The Harmony Silk Factory,” I said.
He gave me the piece of paper and brushed my hand with the lightest of fingertip touches. That is the only way he has ever touched me.
HONEY CALLED ROUND AGAIN for tea today. He wore a white shirt and a cream-coloured suit made of linen that was crisp and flat as a sheet of paper. I have never seen him wear anything else. His tie, too, was the one he always wore — black with thin diagonal purple stripes.
“Frederick,” said Father, without getting out of his chair, “how nice to see you. How are the mines doing?”
“Reasonably well,” Honey replied, hovering at the threshold of Father’s study. He looked at me uncertainly. “Will you be joining us for a cup of tea, Snow?”
I looked at Father. He was sitting at his desk with a half-written poem on a scroll before him. Slowly, he placed his brush on its rest. “Yes,” he said, “why don’t you join us briefly?”
“Let me see,” said Honey, inclining his head as he sat down. Father’s gramophone was playing so softly that it was difficult to hear the music. “Bach. The forty-eight. Prelude in, hmmm, F-sharp major.” Though he is not fat his chin has a habit of wobbling when he speaks. I have always found his face perfectly ordinary and featureless. I decided once and for all that he looked like a schoolteacher.
“You have a very good ear indeed, Frederick,” said Father.
“Father always listens to music when he works,” I said.
“Always Bach?” Honey asked.
“Yes,” said Father. “I feel there is a certain symmetry in Bach which mirrors the construction in Chinese poems. Chopin — whose works I am very fond of — I find too. . what is the word. .?”
“Vulgar? Florid?” said Honey.
“. . no. .”
“Too poetic,” I ventured.
“Thank you, Snow,” Father said, looking me straight in the eye. “Yes, too poetic in its sensibility. Too full of emotion, you might say. Inappropriate. It should only be listened to in times of turmoil.”
Honey laughed politely. “Speaking of things vulgar and florid,” he said, “what about this chap Peter Wormwood? I can only apologise for his performance at your Autumn Festival celebrations the other week. I’m terribly sorry. You must have a terrible impression of Englishmen. We’re not all like that, you know.”
“Of course not,” Father said.
“What was he thinking?” Honey continued. His face became flushed, and deep lines scarred his furrowed brow. “What on earth was he thinking? I mean, that. . costume. . I’m so awfully sorry. It must have been dreadfully embarrassing for you — it certainly was for me. What sort of man behaves like that? He must be insane. Needless to say, we haven’t welcomed him with open arms at the club.”
“He hasn’t been here for long,” I said. “Perhaps he is uncomfortable in these surroundings.”
