Page 37 of The Midnight Carousel

‘You land-stealing son-of-a-bitch. You’ve no right to encroach on my side.’

Mr Melville of the Botanical Soap Company is poking his index finger dangerously close to the face of Mr Parry from the Popcorn Palace. The men are squared up to one another on either side of the imaginary line separating their concession stalls.

‘No need to holler, Eustace. All my faculties are intact including my eyesight and I can see that my joint is on my land. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you cantankerous old goat.’

Mr Melville turns to Maisie, his face pinched. ‘Are you just gonna stand there and let him take liberties? Anyone can see he’s moved the marker stakes.’ He points to the iron pegs at the corner of his pitch. ‘And you know my needs take priority.’

For no reason that Maisie can discern, food stands are considered less important than stores selling non-perishable goods, which in turn sit below the independent rides.

‘But I pay good money for my spot,’ Mr Parry complains. ‘If you can’t deal with this fairly, we need Sir Malcolm here.’

Maisie doesn’t miss the questioning of her competence, but she really isn’t in the mood to handle a dispute today.

Her head hurts, her eyes are bloodshot, and she feels nauseous.

After Laurent left last night, she sobbed alone in her bedroom for hours, wanting to crawl into a hole and never come out.

‘Fine. Perhaps he can knock some sense into you both,’ she snaps.

Both concession holders are surprised into silence by her uncharacteristic sharpness.

Maisie goes looking for Sir Malcolm. But he’s in none of his usual haunts at Silver Kingdom, neither by the ticket booth nor near the carousel. He doesn’t appear to be indoors either.

‘If you’re after the master, he’s poorly today and is upstairs in bed,’ Eric says, passing by the parlour, where Maisie has ended up.

Maisie wonders what’s wrong with him. She had noticed that he was off during last night’s dinner; he barely ate or spoke, but neither did she, so she didn’t think much of it. There were no empty bottles in the drawing room this morning, so alcohol hasn’t caused this mysterious illness.

‘Oh, and he says there’s a letter for you from the detective,’ Eric adds. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

Maisie feels like her senses have been set on fire. Eric seems to take an eternity to return, though he’s back within a couple of minutes. ‘In actual fact, I found two for you,’ he says, handing her both.

Maisie’s fingers are trembling so violently that she can barely tear open the first envelope, the smaller of the two.

Dearest Maisie,

A courageous man would have declared his true feelings earlier. I am not such a man, but I couldn’t leave without confessing that I have fallen in love with you. It has been an unexpected joy to find myself captivated by your kindness and beauty.

I have not always behaved decently, but this is my attempt to do so. It pains me to admit that I am not a free man, Maisie. If only I was, everything would be different, please believe me. But I am married, and you deserve better.

You are always in my heart,

Laurent

Maisie is winded by the shock. Married! All this time she was allowing herself to open up to him, and he was secretly committed to another woman.

It can’t be true. She could feel their connection, as tangible as a silver thread stretching between their hearts.

And what about the kiss that they shared?

It was like melting into a pool of liquid love.

But it meant nothing, and she was naive.

She screws the letter into a ball and throws it into the trash can.

The room swirls. Maisie can hear Clara humming from the dining room, organizing the crystal, and in the kitchen Peggy Mae is bustling about with large pans.

It’s like listening in to a life that isn’t her own.

Maisie doesn’t really belong here. For a while, she thought she belonged with Laurent, but, now that hope is extinguished, she has never felt lonelier.

Maisie has no idea how long she sits staring at nothing. As she rouses herself to open the second letter, she feels as weary as someone who has been trudging through a snowstorm for days.

She pulls out two pieces of paper entitled ‘Report on the Parents of Miss Maisie Marlowe by Detective Laurent Bisset’.

She can hardly believe it. This document must contain some of the details that Aunty Mabel never had the chance to tell Maisie.

With a growing sense of excitement, her eyes roam over the sentences on the pages.

There’s a brief introduction explaining that the following information has been gleaned from birth certificates, marriage certificates, death certificates and official reports.

And then comes the real substance, the knowledge that Maisie had long given up ever learning.

It appears that her mother, Eliza Marlowe, was born in Chelmsford, Essex, to George, a haberdasher, and Margaret. Both passed away within months of each other from consumption twelve years ago. Maisie pauses to pray for her grandparents before moving on.

There’s a jump in the timeline, and the next two events are the birth of a baby– Miss Maisie Marlowe– and the marriage of this child’s parents one month later, at twenty years of age, in Pimlico, London.

Eliza Marlowe and Mr Yousuf Ch oudary from India became husband and wife in February 1898 , the report reads.

Her father was Indian. Maisie’s mind latches on to the one thing she knows about the country, the story of the Maharaja of Lahore riding bareback on an elephant, as told by Nancy at Grand Central Station five years ago. It all sounds so exotic.

Maisie’s excitement flounders on the second page.

Several police reports indicate that the couple turned to crime.

A pair of gold candlesticks were stolen from a church in Islington…

to evade the law fled England for France, where further police reports have been uncovered.

Last such reports for the pair were from the Cour des miracles area of Paris in January and February of 1919.

February 1919 was only five months ago. Maisie’s emotions veer from shock to joy to distress at the realization that her parents had been alive all this time and never tried to make contact.

There is a roar in her ears as she reaches the final sentence.

Local law enforcement believe that the pair still operate in this area– Yousuf as a pickpocket and Eliza as a prostitute known as Belle .

Maisie retches. It feels like everything she thought she knew about herself was contained within a glass ball that has shattered into a million pieces, and she is wading through shards that cut her to the core. The Sixpences were better parents than her own, which is saying something.

The voice inside her head begins to scream.

How dare Laurent go poking into her past and stirring everything up?

As if he hasn’t already done enough damage.

Her fingers are shaking, and a tremble starts that travels up her arms and through her body.

With a violent sweep of her hands, she sends the objects arranged carefully on the surface of Sir Malcolm’s desk crashing to the floor.

Clara runs into the room, quickly followed by Eric and Arnold.

‘Get out!’ Maisie screams. ‘Get out!’

Knowing better than to interfere, they scurry away.

Maisie rounds on the desk drawers next, tossing everything on to the floor. Leaving Tommy; believing her parents were dead; Aunty Mabel and Miss Catherine dying; the worry for the missing children– they are now like wild animals escaped from a cage.

She glimpses a decanter of a dark brown beverage on the windowsill.

If it works for Sir Malcolm, there’s no reason why it can’t work for Maisie.

She removes the stopper and sniffs. The sharp smell makes her nose wrinkle.

She takes a swig. The whisky is bitter, repulsive, and Maisie has an urge to spit it out, but she makes herself swallow every drop.

The second mouthful is easier; she holds her nose and forces in the liquid.

As she takes a third, Maisie spots the carousel in the distance, silent and mysterious, as though it’s mocking her.

She wants to take an axe and smash it to pieces.