‘Well, you can see how convincing the letter is. I could not fathom why she might make such a confession if it were not true. I wonder how she made the connection between Nora and you?’
‘Oh, she was a cunning one. Always full of schemes. Your wife was well known. Nora was a respected member of this neighbourhood, and simple to locate. It would have been easy for her to make the connections. You visited us many times at Millbank and tongues wag and tales spin quickly. And Henrietta had nothing but time to think up her hateful deeds.’
‘Then I suppose I owe you an apology.’
‘No. Let us never speak of it again. Let us move forward as friends and partners.’
The day that Owen Mockett kills his name he stands alone in his shop on the Commercial Road surrounded by shelves and jars, filled with nothing but the scent of their former contents. The echoes of the neighbourhood footfall, the cries of sick babies and the jumble of voices that over the years filled this space, seep into his memory.
There will be no more Mockett pills, wafers, ointments, or anything bearing the Mockett name.
‘Rest in peace, Mockett’s Apothecary.’ His voice echoes as he prepares to leave this life and form another.
I’ll chain thee in the north for thy neglect,
Within the burning bowels of Mount Hecla;
I’ll singe thy airy wings with sulphurous flames,
And choke thy tender nostrils with blue smoke;
At every hiccup of the belching mountain,
Thou shalt be lifted up to taste fresh air,
And then fall down again –
Prospero to Ariel, The Tempest
During Hekla’s twelfth-century eruption people proclaimed the birds they watched fly into the mountain’s fire were hovering souls. Until the nineteenth century, the belief that Hekla was the entrance to hell was firmly held. The legend persists that on Easter, witches gather to meet the devil on Hekla.
In 1913, having remained quiet for thirty-five years, Hekla’s explosive eruptions spewed an average amount of lava, creating two large fissures.
The hidden pool’s water rose brighter, and shimmered as green as polished malachite.
LONDON
1914
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It happens so suddenly. Overnight London inhales, and when it exhales, its air hovers, thick with anticipation. Soldiers appear everywhere canvassing the streets in khaki. Thousands of Londoners who are strewn across the country and abroad to celebrate the August Bank Holiday weekend are pouring back into town. The atmosphere pulses with excitement and the sense that London life is on the precipice of changing forever.
When war is declared on the Tuesday there is fear of a rush to withdraw funds. The holiday is extended so that the banks may remain closed. But it is not money that is sought in Bermondsey. On Wednesday, Clovis Fowler stands at the counter in a Bermondsey grocer’s shop with women who are throwing food. They swipe it off the shelves onto the floor and hurl it at the windows. The grocer has hiked the prices overnight and they are having none of it. Clovis throws her groceries down too, but not out of any protest. She would not even be here if she hadn’t sent Willa and Jonesy to purchase buckets and sand. Her nerves are frayed and for once in her interminably long life she feels vulnerable. She elbows her way out and is safely away from the shop just as the police arrive. Down the street she marches in tempo with the monologue running in her head that refuses to quieten:
And just where are Finn and Rafe when Britain declares war on Germany? According to Finn’s itinerary, in holy fucking godforsaken Berlin, that’s where. The people in Iceland are furious with me. How was I to know that Rafe would sneak off? It is the first time. He’s a grown man for God’s sake. I cannot keep him tethered.
When she received Finn’s telegram explaining Rafe had secretly booked passage, she first went limp with relief and then she snapped. She was so enraged that she shook Jonesy until his brains rattled; he swore he was unaware of the plan. Willa’s eyes bulged with innocence.
Clovis is so engrossed in these thoughts that she forgets to avoid the recruiting office on Jamaica Road, where the queue of men runs down the long stretch and curls around the corner. She ignores the men whose eyes follow her proud figure as she crosses to the other side. Normally she relishes a man’s raised eyebrow, but now their lust grows stale on her, like a dead mould. In the months that Rafe and Finn have been away she admits, if only to herself, that she misses them. And now with a war on there are so many concerns, so many possibilities that did not exist before. Mainly, what is to become of her men?
The owner of the photographic studio on Jamaica Road pulls the shade down just as Clovis arrives, but he beckons her to enter, eager for his payment. It was a whim, a moment of unabashed sentimentality when she defied Iceland’s rule that forbids a visual record and insisted on a family photograph.
‘Madam.’ He twists his moustache and presents her with the photo.
Clovis stifles a gasp. Here they are, together, in the palm of her hand. How completely modern they look. She stands in the centre between Rafe and Finn, her narrow skirt of charmeuse satin falls just above her buckled pumps. Willa sits in a stiff pose, as straight-backed as the chair. How young she looks, still budding. And Jonesy, the exotic touch, perches on a low, tapestry footstool. Behind them, a muted pastoral scene. From this thick photographic card, Rafe’s reserved gaze endures the scrutiny of the camera and Clovis is
