Elijah’s Mermaid by Essie Fox

the other man, who still dallied a little way behind, scuffing his feet upon the grass and looking decidedly churlish, perhaps peeved to have been ignored so long. And what a strange couple they seemed to make, with Mr Black’s dress much more austere, his jacket shiny and worn at the elbows, and the front of it – what?– was it streaked with paint? He was older than Samuel Beresford, looking to be in middle age, and something too predatory in dark eyes which were set in a tanned and rugged face, around which was a growth of coppery beard, thick and bushy, so tangled with knots I wondered if it had been groomed in a year – the same with the hair upon his head.
    ‘Ah yes . . . the artist Osborne Black!’ Uncle Freddie seemed somewhat less enthused. ‘We once worked together on
The Germ
.’
    ‘
The Germ!
’ I exclaimed, just as the younger man sneezed again.
    ‘A magazine,’ Uncle Freddie explained.
    ‘Goodness,’ I tried to suppress a laugh, ‘it sounds as if you might catch a disease simply by picking the covers up.’
    ‘An infection soon eradicated!’ Uncle Freddie continued with the theme. ‘And like many a classified disease it has . . . orhad . . . a much longer scientific name. In this case,
Thoughts toward Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art
.’
    At this Mr Black’s voice was found. It was deep and measured and gravelly with the trace of a northern accent. ‘The name was intended to describe a seed – the growth of creative ideas, if you will. At the time Mr Hall was most generous, advising on printing costs and such. But the venture was always doomed to fail. No more than four issues published . . . so much bickering, boorish behaviour . . . those poets as bad as a bunch of old spinsters.’
    Uncle Freddie raised a questioning brow. ‘Yes, the seedling shrivelled and died, and Mr Rossetti perhaps better employed with his painting than his poetry. And you, Mr Black . . .’ the artist received a knowing glance, ‘are perhaps above the lowly task of providing illustration work. But, enough of such matters for now . . . won’t you join us and share a glass of champagne?’
    Freddie’s invitation was a command, hardly pausing for breath before going on, ‘Elijah, Lily . . . now you know that Osborne Black is an artist, and Samuel employed on my magazines, as editor, writer, whatever we need, not to mention his famous recipes, which are written . . .’
    ‘Under a pseudonym . . .’ Samuel Beresford interrupted, giving an enigmatic smile while one finger tapped at the side of his nose. I feared that might set off another eruption but for then everything remained quite calm, leaving him able to carry on, a false expression of shock when he said, ‘Mr Hall. You should not be divulging
Mrs
Beresford’s secrets. What would our trusted readers think? What of the rumours of royal connections which have helped to boost circulation so? We really should be more discreet.’
    Freddie’s answering smile was equally wry. ‘I doubt
Mr
Beresford ever so much as brewed himself a pot of tea. Still, he makes an adequate journalist.’
    ‘A journalist who would rather be as fine a writer as Mr Lamb.’ The younger man was serious in his flattery of dear Papa, who, very much like my brother then, was making me feeluncomfortable, too quiet, too introspective by far – become more like strangers than family.
    ‘Thank you,’ Papa replied at last, extending his hand to the painter, ‘ and I am most honoured to meet Osborne Black, having read a great deal of his recent success . . . the sea studies in particular. One review praised the use of colour and light as reminiscent of Turner’s art.’
    Mr Black condescended – or so it seemed – to reach over a hand and shake Papa’s, and I saw that his shirt cuffs were grubby and frayed, the flesh thickly furred with more auburn hair, and his fingers rather stubby and thick. You would never think him the artistic type – his cousin perhaps, but no – not