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 sister 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
