No Worse
than Here

HENRY FOUND flat black seeds lying loose on a pantry shelf and planted a few at the foot of Meg’s grave. He watched faithfully, witnessing the first shoot, the subsequent withering and dying. He gave thought to starting over, but knew the same would happen. He’d never had much luck in a garden. So he quit, and his days turned that much longer.

Mr. Freylock rode out at the end of June. “Good God,” he said straight off. “Have a flock of filthy sheep been run through here?”

Henry said nothing. A bit of dust, a dried rat turd or two hardly warranted comment.

Mr. Freylock clucked like a woman. “There’s no excuse for squalor. Even for a chap on his own.” He dropped a slim packet of envelopes on the table. “A spot of comfort from home for you, Henry.”

Henry didn’t get up. “Her parents?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He picked up Henry’s urinal and went outside to pour it over the porch rail. Henry watched without interest from his usual place by the front window. Recently he’d moved from the wheelchair to an armless ladder-back and felt less the invalid for it. He was able to move about as necessary, using the broom as a crutch.

Mr. Freylock came back in. “Have you written her loved ones?”

Henry studied his fingernails, broken and blackened from tending her grave. He hadn’t written to her parents or his own. He hadn’t the words. “I’ll get round to it in due course.”

“You should inform them immediately. They’ve a right to know.”

“A right to know what precisely?”

“The facts, boy.” Mr. Freylock pumped water and rinsed his hands, drying them on the only dish towel. “You know in your heart of hearts they’re gone.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” said Henry. “Show me my dead children, sir!”

Mr. Freylock ran last night’s plate under the water. What had he had to eat? Henry couldn’t remember. “You’re in a bad way, Henry. I’m sorry. I won’t say any more about it.”

Henry spoke to the window, the one thing he kept cleaned. “What do the savages do with them?” Hideous images too frequently rose from a black hell in his mind, visions of his maimed children screaming his name.

Mr. Freylock said softly, “What are you asking?”

Henry looked at him. “They wouldn’t consume a tiny innocent, would they?”

“Oh, Christ, Henry. Please. Don’t torture yourself. They’re past their suffering now.”

Henry’s voice quaked. “They wouldn’t.”

“It isn’t healthful, you know. Sitting out here all alone, with only your morbid thoughts for company. You’d be better off in town, in my opinion.”

Henry turned back to the window, resuming his vigil.

Mr. Freylock offered to put the kettle on. Henry shook his head, willing the man gone. “Work is what you need,” said Mr. Freylock. “Why not ride back with me now. Have you a decent shirt and trousers? You cannot go out as you are.”

Hot tears rose in Henry’s eyes. “Would they kill them first? Surely they wouldn’t boil a live screaming child….”

Mr. Freylock threw up his hands. “Henry, Henry. For the love of God, don’t dwell on it. Think of them at peace with Jesus, will you? Think of your children quit of all adversity.”

“They’d shoot them first,” said Henry decisively.

Mr. Freylock sighed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Henry put his face in his hands, depleted. “I’m going mad, sir. And it’s not doing my kids the first bit of good. There’s no reason to believe they didn’t escape. My boy’s as clever as they come.”

“Ah, Henry. They—”

“You don’t know him,” said Henry, cutting him off. “John’s sharp as a needle. The lad reads the night skies as well as you do the gazette.” He stood with the aid of the broom and hobbled toward the back room, planning his next move. There were men in town he might call upon to help, resources he’d not yet thought of. It was merely a matter of keeping a rational mind, resisting the panic. That’s all. He managed yesterday. He’d manage today.

He changed his clothes, and then wrote a note while Mr. Freylock waited.

Outside he turned, scanning the forest, the road in both directions, looking for them.

MR. FREYLOCK DROVE, breaking the silence with small talk every mile or two. His wife’s brisket was mentioned, the new accountant with a penchant for the bottle. “Tom Flowers is coming along well,” he said, interrupting Henry’s reverie yet again. He’d been thinking about the babies, wondering what John was doing to feed them. It took a moment to recall Tom’s amputation.

“That’s very good news, sir.”

“At his desk Monday last,” said Mr. Freylock, casting a sidelong glance. “Taking it all in his stride.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Henry.

Mr. Freylock’s thin mouth tightened. “I can tell you don’t find me particularly helpful.”

Henry lied. “I do, sir.” Roots or mussels mashed with river water. John would find a way.

They arrived on the outskirts toward dusk. Nothing had been said about where he might stay. “I won’t impose on your family a second time,” Henry said, expecting an argument.

“I know of a suitable bachelor’s flat,” said Mr. Freylock.

The word bachelor brought to mind an irresponsible, glib sort, no one like himself. He began to regret leaving the cottage, though he couldn’t possibly endure a return trip. His leg throbbed from heel to groin. The day had gone on too long. And now the night was upon him. Nights were the worst with his kids out there.

THE TIDY BEDSIT was located over a haberdasher. Mr. Freylock helped him up the two pair of stairs, and then went out again, bringing back a pasty and tea for one. He remained standing, driving gloves in hand.

“Will you be all right, Henry?”

“I shall get on fine, sir. Go on home now. Your wife will be waiting.”

“I’ll say it again,” said Mr. Freylock in parting. “Work is what you need.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry, and was rid of him at last.

The following Tuesday he returned to his desk, where he could not concentrate for the blinding headaches. On Friday he requested and was granted a leave of absence.

“You may as well go,” said Mr. Freylock, signing the permission form. “You’ve no head for numbers these days.”

That Sunday, in the social hall after services, Henry clapped his hands once and asked for volunteers. He’d hoped to find some of the Maori parishioners about, but everyone there was English, two dozen or so, prattling away.

“Who’ll come with me to look?”

They stirred, scraping their feet. Someone offered to bring him tea.

“I’m posting a reward for their safe return. One hundred pounds sterling.”

“Poor man,” said a woman by the door.

Henry turned slowly, looking them in the eye individually. “I’d go without question were it any one of your children.”

“God bless you, Mr. Oades,” the same woman chirped.

“And God blast you, madam,” said Henry, storming out. “God blast you one and all.”

Someone called after him. “You’re looking to get eaten, brother Oades.”

HENRY RODE NORTH, following the river, tying blue rags to tree limbs as he went, marking the places searched. He turned after a week, starting first south, and then west into the higher elevations. The pristine forest revealed nothing but the impossibility of survival. Sometime during the fourth week he lost what little hope remained and did not recover it. His children were gone. He stayed out looking another two weeks before finally giving up. Coming back, he saw that the blue rags had turned gray.

The return brought him past the cottage, where clothes hung on the line. Henry hitched the horse to a post and ran up the grassy rise, praying to find his children inside, feverishly calculating the chances. Miracles occurred every day. Anything was possible on this earth. A squat lady opened the door and his heart quieted. Behind her skirts a red-faced toddling child bawled, a glistening slime streaming from both nostrils. The woman did nothing to comfort or shush it. They both needed a hair combing.

“I had not expected to find the home occupied,” he said.

Her fists went to ample hips. “I’ve papers to show we paid.”

A spotted dog lapped at a pie on the table. The place was a mess, the walls and floor streaked with black God-knows-what. Even he’d been a better housekeeper. Henry gestured toward the back of the cottage. “Are you aware of the grave, madam?”

A look of horror came into her yellowish eyes.

“My wife,” he said.

“Animals must have been digging,” she said. “My husband spent a good portion of his day restoring it. He put up a wall of stones, did a fine job of it, too. Didn’t want the little ones bothering it. You know how children can be, particularly curious boys. You’re welcome to have a visit with her.”

Henry declined, sickened by the idea of scavengers and brats. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the slovenly family there. He’d abandoned the place after all, without bothering to inform the owner. He rode back to town to discover that his bedsit had been leased as well, his clothes given to the Sisters of Mercy.

“You might give notice next time,” said the landlord. “Was I supposed to hold the room indefinitely?”

On the man’s cluttered mantel, next to a dusty shepherd-boy figurine, stood Meg’s ginger jar. Henry noticed almost immediately and took it down. “It belonged to my wife.”

“I was keeping it safe,” the landlord said defensively.

Henry turned to go, not knowing where.

The landlord spoke up. “The Germans might have a room to spare. The old frau won’t allow you in as you are, though. Five pence will buy you a hot bath. I’ll toss in a trim free of charge, knowing your sorrow.”

Henry paid double for a full tub, refusing the charity. There was sufficient money in the bank. The landlord sold him a threadbare suit, the sleeves of which were too short. The castoff got him to the tailor, where he was measured for a mourning suit, to the undertaker’s after that, where he arranged for Meg’s immediate unearthing. He went next to the Germans’ and took the one available room without inspecting it.

Three days later, when the suit was ready, he hired a hack and rode out to the Freylocks’. He had in mind a simple graveside service. He meant only to ask Mr. Freylock for an extended leave.

Mrs. Freylock fell upon him weeping. She called her husband to the door. Together, with far too much chatter, they brought him inside, seating him in the best chair in the best room, feeding him tea and crumpets he could not taste.

“Shall we host the memory service here, Mr. Oades?” She glanced toward her husband, who nodded.

“I couldn’t ask it of you,” said Henry. “Just a marker might be best.”

“Forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Freylock. “But that hardly seems adequate.”

Henry shook his head, his weary thoughts clashing. He was incapable of making the smallest decision lately. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Freylock touched his sleeve. “For your wife and children.”

Henry felt himself on the brink of tears. “All right. Thank you.”

She smiled. “It’s settled then. Is there a beloved photograph we might display?”

“The fire took everything, madam.”

A little whimper escaped her lips. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Her nervous hands did not still for a second; they went to her throat, to her hair, to her ear bobs, and back to her throat. She pushed the plate of crumpets his way again. How unlike his Meg she was. His wife had possessed a certain feminine manliness all women could learn from.

Mrs. Freylock said something. He leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

She pantomimed plucking. “Flowers, Mr. Oades. What sort would you prefer?”

“My wife enjoyed her roses,” Henry said. For a light-headed half moment he thought to correct himself. Enjoys. My wife enjoys her roses. He was deliriously tired, and missing her so.

Something was said then about the funeral biscuits, but Henry did not retain it. He was allowed to leave finally. The same hackie drove him back to the Germans’, where the stench of cooking cabbage reached even his small attic room. He vomited into the empty basin and swiped his mouth. Minutes later the downstairs girl knocked on his door. He vomited again, and then let her in to take the basin. Her elfin face pinched in disgust. But he was past caring what others might think.

THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY he drove himself to the service. His hands trembled on the reins; they were freezing, despite the heavy black gloves, despite the unseasonably warm weather. He wished the day over and done with.

A large crepe bouquet with a card attached was fixed to the Freylocks’ front door. Henry approached, squinting to read the names of his wife and children. The loss flooded. He would never see them again, never touch them or be touched by them. His weakened leg bowed and began to give way. He clutched the knocker to keep from falling. The door opened. Mrs. Freylock caught him and ushered him inside, where the perfume of cut flowers—roses, daylilies, and glads—put sparks in his vision and started a jabbing headache behind his right eye. Good God, they were stashed in vases everywhere.

“Please sit, Mr. Oades. It’s all so difficult, I know.”

Henry sat, and then stood again. “I’m fine,” he said. “If I may have a moment to collect myself, please, Mrs. Freylock.”

She excused herself, leaving him alone in the sweet humid darkness. The heavy curtains were drawn, the clocks stopped at six o’clock, the imagined time of their deaths. The mirrors were covered in the old-fashioned superstitious manner, to prevent his family’s spirits from becoming lost in their own reflections.

Meg’s closed coffin lay on three straight-back chairs against the north wall. A pair of lighted candles had been placed at her head. He went to her, wondering if the Freylocks had looked inside, as he was tempted to do one last time. He had an aching need for her, a painful desire to see her whole and naked, with her hair loose and long. He wept, stroking the coffin lid as he might her lovely flank. “You’re the best girl,” he whispered. “The very best girl.”

The mourners began arriving at eleven, in twos and fours. By half past the air was thick with their scented hush. Henry stood sentry alongside the coffin, accepting condolences. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over.

Cyril Bell took him by surprise. Henry had not seen him come in. Bell stepped up smart, bringing forth the simpering matron on his arm. “May I present Mrs. Wells.” There was a lewd flush to Bell, an obscene glint in his eye. “She’s walked in our same sad shoes, Mr. Oades.”

A widow then, evidently recovered quite nicely from her own grief. She clung to Bell as if he were a sweepstakes prize. Batting eyelashes and painted puckered lips. Would he marry her, take her to his wife’s still warm bed? Look at the blatant creature. She’d accept in a wink, wouldn’t she? Seeing them together deepened Henry’s sadness. There was only rot everywhere he looked, both malignant and ordinary. He thought it time to leave these lawless islands, home to the Maori and the debauched pair standing before him.

HE ORDERED A memory stone to be placed over Meg’s grave. Two months later, Henry went alone to the cemetery. He saw that his wife’s and children’s names were spelled correctly and then he left. He didn’t like the place, with its imposing spiked fence and brown grass. There was no comfort to be found among the blank-eyed stone cherubs, no peace. God knows, he did not feel his family there.

He returned to work, but still could not concentrate on the ledgers. On Monday, the distillery’s caretaker quit his post. Henry impulsively asked to replace him.

“Fancy emptying the slops of your underlings, do you?” said Mr. Freylock.

Henry ignored the sarcasm. He knew what the lowly job entailed. “May I or may I not have the post, sir?”

Mr. Freylock sighed. “You’ll last a week, if that.”

HENRY BEGAN coming in earlier and leaving later. He checked the rattraps first thing every morning, tossing the carcasses into the bin to be burned. Next he swept and cleaned the lavatories. He appreciated the mindless hard work; it allowed him not to think. Nights he spent at the Germans’. The old couple rarely bothered him. He ate supper in the frau’s kitchen, and then went straight to bed, too tired to read. He stayed at the same routine for nearly six months, until the purposelessness won out. He presented his resignation in writing.

Mr. Freylock peered over his spectacles. “You’re leaving altogether?”

“I am, sir.”

“Returning home, then?”

Henry shook his head. He’d written to Meg’s parents finally, and was not about to compound their anguish or his own by returning to England alone. “I’m off to America.” How foreign it sounded said aloud. “To San Francisco, California, to be precise.”

“Why there of all godforsaken places? I have an acquaintance who’s been. It’s a filthy city. Chock full of thieves and cutthroats. Nothing but the lowest class of humanity.”

“No worse than here,” Henry said flatly. “I sail on Saturday.”

“What are your plans upon arrival?”

“I’ve none at present.”

“You’ve truly gone round the bend, Henry.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

He might have gone to Mexico or Argentina; but the ship to America was due to leave port first. Had a ship sailed for China that morning, he’d be gone.

ON SATURDAY, the Germans insisted on a hearty farewell breakfast, and Henry got off later than planned. The men’s hatch was nearly full by the time he came on board. He walked the smoky narrow aisles between the tiers of bunks, searching out an empty.

“Here’s one, mister.” An American kid called from the across the way, pointing to the berth just beneath him. “Better come claim it.”

The kid introduced himself. “Willy Morgan.” He watched Henry take out Meg’s jar and wrap it in his spare flannel. “What’s in the jug?” He hung over the edge of his berth, exhaling a rotten onion stench. “Strange thing to be bringing along,” he said.

Henry paid him no mind. He returned the jar to his satchel, placing the satchel at the foot end, where he could keep an eye on it.

Willy Morgan continued to study Henry. “You’re not one of those funny types, are you? If you are, let’s get one thing straight here and now.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ve come across a few in my travels. More girl than boy, some of them. Can’t fault a genuine man for asking, mister. I was only making certain. The ladies’ jug and all.”

“It belonged to my wife, if it’s any of your concern, which it decidedly is not.”

The rancid lad laughed, mocking him. “Which it decidedly is not.”

It took no time to discover that the boy was the cheery sort, with a lust for camaraderie equaling Henry’s desire for solitude.

That first night at sea Willy thrashed above, nattering without letup. The lamps were out. The men were preparing to sleep. “They say,” said Willy, “that a man can live two hundred and fifty years in California.”

Henry punched his hard pillow and turned to the wall. “Who in God’s name would wish it?”

“Just making conversation,” said Willy. “Did I say I was foolish enough to believe it? There’s plenty that do, though. I knew a crazy old man once. He was—”

“Jesus,” hissed Henry. “Go to sleep now.”

Somewhere in the dark a man gasped and began breathing heavily, with obvious building pleasure. Willy let out a nervous giggle and whispered, “Funny types. They’re everywhere, I tell you.”

Henry said nothing. He was sick to death of all types.