Free The Apple by Michel Faber Page B

understood, regular shipments go to Calcutta. But here at home … He uncrumples a letter from a household goods emporium in Walthamstow, whose manager points out that the toiletries shelves are already overflowing with other men’s soaps and bathwaters. William sweeps the hateful piece of paper back and forth across his desktop, mopping the specks of snot with it. A second letter – unsolicited mail from the Tariff Reform League – scuffs the leather dry. All is well, until the next sneeze.
    William tosses one of Frampton’s Pills of Health into his mouth and washes it down with a gulp of port. Alcohol is the best thing, really, for colds; better than any number of quack remedies and expensive drugs. Were it not for the absolute necessity of remaining sober enough to do his work, he would polish off a few bottles of port and wake up a day or two later, cured.
    He picks up his pen, loads it with ink, and begins to write. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Determination is all. There is no time for self-pity. Push ahead, ignoring one’s suffering, and before one knows it the job is done.
    Minutes later, a knock on his study door. It’s Letty, the maid, bringing him a plate of bread and cold meats.
    ‘The luncheon you asked for, Mr Rackham,’ she says.
    He cannot recall asking for this. It does look like the sort of thing he would ask for, though, if he were peckish, which he suddenly remembers he is.
    ‘Thank you, Letty,’ he says.
    She carries her serving-tray to his desk, puts the plate on the old brown ledger-book according to long-established custom.
    ‘Cup of tea, Mr Rackham?’
    ‘No thank you, Letty, I have a fever.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Rackham. Coffee?’
    The half-empty bottle of port is standing on the desk, in plain view. William appraises the servant’s face, finds it vaguely well-disposed and unjudgemental, as always.
    ‘Yes, some coffee,’ he says. And, with a nod that is half-way to a curtsey, the servant backs out of the room.
    Good old Letty. He likes her. She’s not pretty anymore, and she’s grown rather scrawny and wrinkled, and walks with an unladylike gait, the result of crumbling hip-bones. But a servant shouldn’t be ladylike anyway; Rose was like that, with airs above her station. She left him in the lurch after only a few years of service, poached by a richer man. Letty is loyal, God bless her. And who’d have her now, if she weren’t? She’s lucky to have an indulgent master. He will keep her until she drops.
    William lays aside his correspondence and selects a slice of meat. Roast beef, from yesterday’s dinner. Still succulent, with a nice crisp rind and a pink blush in the middle. His latest cook is not at all bad, despite her lack of talent for desserts. Lord, how many cooks has he had in the last fifteen years? It must be half a dozen. Why can’t these women remain in a good position when they’re put in one?
    ‘This is an unhappy house, Mr Rackham,’ one of the departing cooks told him. Stupid pug-faced biddy: she did precious little to make it happier! Her breakfast toast always had an ashy texture, and her puddings never had enough sugar in them. He would probably have dismissed her, if she hadn’t left first, and if it hadn’t been such an inconvenience to lose her.
    The thought of puddings makes William crave something sweet. His luncheon plate is all savoury: roast beef, silverside, smoked ham. Even the butter on the bread is generously salted. Could he call Letty back and ask her to fetch him some marmalade? Or better still, some cake and custard? Or even better yet, some hot apple crumble, dusted all over with sugar?
    Anything you ask of me . That’s what she said. That’s how she snared him. Sugar. The whore who called herself Sugar. Promised him all his dreams fulfilled. As whores always do.
    No day goes by when he doesn’t think of her. He had hundreds before her, and he’s had a few since, but she was the one who wrote herself into his heart