Hairy London Read Online Free Page A

and they were away, rolling along the moon-bright steel tracks of the Up Northern Line. The hussy got off at Chalk Farm, proffering her broadsheet as she did, but Kornukope, who had never once been strumpeteering, waved a forefinger at her in refusal.
    They got off at Hampstead, allowing the midget-pulled escalator to take them up to ground level. Fresh air at last; a delight after the fumes and steam of the Underground. Ten minutes later they stood at the front door of their house in East Heath Road. It was almost midnight, and the house showed no lights. The heath itself lay dark beneath a moonless sky. Owls hooted.
    Then a candle was switched on, and the door was opened by Lacortia ffordd, their maid. Eastachia stepped inside, pressing her palms together, saying “Namasté,” then ascending the stairs, leaving Kornukope to shrug and put his top hat on the hatstand.
    “I believe she was annoyed that her sewing was interrupted,” he said.
    “Will there be anything else?”
    Kornukope shook his head. “Thank you so much for staying here, Miss ffordd. You may begin at noon tomorrow.”
    “Ooh, thank you. Goodnight.”
    Kornukope watched the maid depart the house, then shut and bolted the door. What a very strange evening it had been.
    Next morning he got up early, knowing that Lacortia would not be present to make breakfast. He poured hot milk on shredded beet, dropped sugared almonds into bowls, then made tea; the final touch a pair of raspberry doodahs that he found at the back of a cupboard. With this repast he walked upstairs to the bedroom.
    “Dearest one,” he said, “I gave Lacortia the morning off, so I have prepared breakfast for us.”
    “Thank you, Kornukope! What a surprise.”
    She seemed in a better mood today. They ate, drank their tea, and then Kornukope cleared away the bowls and trays. “I do not intend going so far as to wash up however,” he joked.
    “What exactly is this wager you joined last night?”
    “I remember Pantomile’s very words,” he replied. “If, one season from today, one of us returns to the Suicide Club with an explanation of human love that mankind – from East to West – can accept, they will take the pot. That is what he said.”
    “And you said to me, this is a test of our marriage that we can’t ignore.”
    “Yes... yes, I did,” he admitted.
    “And your meaning?”
    “Dearest one, we both agree that our marriage has become a trifle stale. It was an unpleasant realisation and a difficult one to admit to, and since then I have been wracking my brains to think of some method, some venture that would allow us to rekindle the spark we felt twenty years ago.”
    “I see.” She said it in the way that meant she did not approve.
    “I admit, I did it on the spur of the moment,” he said, “but as a member of the Suicide Club I cannot now revoke my word.” He leaned close and took her hand. “You mean much to me, Eastachia, but I do not seem to be able to explain why. Perhaps this is why our marriage has faded. Do not rebuke me. I am a philosopher by trade and by inclination. With you at my side to provide vital feminine insight, I will win this wager.”
    She smiled, and at last it seemed genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. You are a fool sometimes, Kornukope. How you got into philosophy I don’t know. But anyway, it seems I have no choice but to follow your lead.”
    “Suppose it rekindled our marriage. Would you not be truly glad?”
    She hesitated, then replied, “I suppose I would.”
    “Then we will take our season, and we will answer Pantomile’s challenge. We will discover what love is and broadcast our wisdom to the world. And that will make it a better place.” He laughed. “You know, I have always wanted to be a philanthropist.”
    “Will we use our house as our base?”
    He looked at her. “You mean, will we travel?”
    She nodded.
    “I really do not know. It is an open ended wager. Perhaps we will explore uncharted regions of human