Incomparable World by S. I. Martin

Author:S. I. Martin [S. I. Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241991992
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2021-02-04T00:00:00+00:00

London, 23 June 1786

It was a bigger house than Buckram had expected and when he knocked on the door a gaunt white man with a bloodless face answered.

‘Aye?’ He was a Lowland Scot.

Buckram knew he wasn’t mistaken, this was definitely number forty-three.

‘I’ve come to visit a Miss Charlotte Tell, the schoolmarm.’

‘Mr Buckram, I presume?’

Buckram said yes.

‘Above,’ said the Scotsman, ushering him in. ‘Follow me.’

Buckram walked behind him up a flight of stairs, feeling foolish with his bunch of wilting tulips.

Charlotte was laying out fancy cutlery at a table set for five. Behind her on a chaise longue, two earnest-looking black men were locked in animated argument. On seeing Buckram enter the room they rose to greet him as if he was a woman.

‘You’re just in time, Mr Buckram,’ said Charlotte. ‘Do come in and make yourself at home.’

Buckram wondered what was going on. A smell of stewing chicken filled the apartment.

‘Mr Thomas Hardy you’ve already met,’ she said.

The Lowlander said, ‘Aye,’ closed the door and brushed past Buckram to stand beside her other two guests.

‘Allow me to present Mr Olaudah Equiano, though you may know him better by his nom de plume, Gustavus Vassa of the Public Advertiser.’

Buckram didn’t know him. Mr Equiano had an extraordinarily serious face. His large round eyes brimmed with awesome, unwieldly sanity. It was the sort of face to which only outright victories could bring a smile.

The third man, Mr Ottobah Cugoano of the Gold Coast, resembled William Supple with his look of a well-flogged ex-slave, old before his time.

‘Tulips, how sweet!’ Charlotte took the flowers and carried them into the kitchen.

Two empty wine bottles stood on the varnished floorboards beside the chaise longue. Mr Cugoano opened a third and poured for himself, Buckram and Mr Hardy.

The men found seats and studied each other for a while longer than was comfortable.

‘Charlotte informs me that you are a man of letters,’ Ottobah ventured.

‘I live in the world of words, it is true,’ replied Buckram, surprising himself at the ease with which he spoke amongst them.

‘Perhaps then you can settle an argument we were enjoying prior to your arrival.’

‘Speak on, sir.’

‘My good friends, Tom and Ola here, maintain that the work of old man Sancho is superior to that of Gronniosaw. For my part I disagree, finding Sancho’s prose as stale and unappetizing as the almond custards his wife sells in that dreadful shop of hers. What do you think?’

‘Firstly,’ said Buckram, ‘like all of us, I know the Sancho establishment well and I do not wish to speak ill of the dead. In his defence, however, I must say that his widow is a purveyor of the most exceptional apple dumplings.’

There was a pause then everyone, except for Olaudah, exploded with laughter.

‘Capital, sir! Capital!’ guffawed Thomas. ‘But seriously, as a writer yourself, which do you find the more meritable document, Gronniosaw’s Narrative or Sancho’s Letters?’

Charlotte returned from the kitchen carrying the half-dead flowers in a china vase. She placed it at the centre of the table.

Buckram

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