Constance Power Tibbins Will Not Stand For It

As I watched the man once again smoking his pipe full of candied peel and haranguing the air with great vigour, it seemed to me that in this world one could be purposeful, even whilst being quite thoroughly mad.

I thought, moreover, he was hard of hearing, as he produced two tiny trumpets, placing one in each ear, before announcing himself with the prodigious volume of the extremely deaf.

‘Wassup?’ he said, to nobody.

He spoke often of blessings, which led me to consider whether he was a holy man. His attire was not that of the clergy - he in fact wore scarcely any clothes. He did not appear to have a hat, waistcoat, cravat, or even a tailcoat, merely a shirt and loose jacket, unbuttoned. His haircut was so severe I questioned whether he had received it as penance for some terrible transgression. Perhaps he was unwell. He certainly seemed irregular in some sense: he was far angrier than good Parson Grieg, even at his most exercised.

I found myself in a quite singular place. My surroundings were unsettling at first. Buildings were adorned with moving pictures. People in tight and unseemly garments ran through parks as though they were the Hare, and yet there were no Tortoises to be seen. Meanwhile, others were engaged in posturing for gleaming rectangular stones. Plainly, this was not my Willowfield in the year of our Lord, eighteen forty-three.

The first time this fellow produced his pipe of candy, enshrouding me in volumes of sweet-smelling smoke, I found it quite agreeable. It had a curious fragrance of the like I had never encountered, though it bore some similarity to grapes, which I had eaten once as a delicacy. I took comfort in his company, even though he may have been better suited to a place in Bedlam.

But several days had now passed and it transpired that he regularly repeated the infusion. I grew sick of the scent. It seemed not to have any sacred properties I could discern. And his proclamations to the spirits - they too became tiresome. He spoke at great length with little sense, although in the absence of other matters of interest, I longed to know his story.

That is, until one day, as the heavy, cloying smoke swirled around me once again, I felt a stirring within me. Not that I could speak, as such, but the possibility of articulating - something.

‘Sir, your candy peel pipe is making me feel quite unwell. Please desist.’

He stopped, withdrawing an ear trumpet. He glanced around him, as though expecting to see another soul. There being no one, he lifted the stick once more to his pouting lips. Please, no.

‘Can you not hear me?’ I enquired, realising that being just a child, I was being impudent, but its unceasing sweetness was becoming quite foul.

He looked about again, greatly perplexed. He removed the other ear trumpet and circled around. He saw no one at all, until at last, his eyes alighted on me.

‘Yes, me,’ I said, relieved I had finally been acknowledged. ‘The statue.’

The man gave a cry, dropped the pipe, and fled.

***

I was aware of my form as a statue, because people had referred to me as such. They mentioned it as they passed by, and held up their gleaming rectangles at me, which I had deduced were some kind of photographic device. Some came and stood alongside me, smiling and making nonsensical gestures, but then, within moments, they left.

The shrieking man did not return to see me. I quite regretted my actions: not for the impudence, but because he had been my only regular companion in the week since my erection. Not many people passed by where I stood, in an alcove between glass buildings which scraped the sky. Most of those who passed by me were grown persons in the same loose suit jackets, and I observed that the wearers often seemed low-spirited in their demeanour.

Given this poor company, I even missed hearing this fellow's rantings to his invisible interlocutor, whom he often said was ‘getting emotional’ and was ‘bang out of order’. He also frequently made reference to, ‘sir pokesalot’, which I assumed must be some sort of common expression.

After a week, I noted his face peering from behind the nearest building. I said nothing, lest I cause him to flee again. He looked at the floor. He looked at me. He did so thrice more. Finally he looked around and, assured there were no witnesses, said, ‘Has my vape gone?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My vape.’ He pointed at the floor. ‘Sorry, my pipe. I presume someone took it.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. And then: ‘I didn't mean to scare you. I hope I did not disturb you.’

‘Can’t say I’m not freaking out a bit,’ he said. ‘But I did miss my little ritual. Only just discovered this spot. I had to come and, y’know, check I wasn’t going insane. But turns out I am.’

‘I do believe you are insane,’ I said, relieved he was not entirely labouring under delusion.

A ritual. I concluded that he must belong to some peculiar order - a priesthood, perhaps, or sorcery. Or else a conjurer, who harnessed the scents of the Indies. The only conjuror with which I was familiar was Maegar the Magnificent, who performed at the Willowfield midsummer fair, but there was no similarity in their mannerisms. Then again, Maegar did decapitate a dove quite by accident, so perhaps it was best that their magics were of different character.

‘Do you know God?’ I asked him, wishing first to establish whether I was in the presence of a heretic.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, stepping more confidently into the small courtyard in which I stood. ‘I don't even know you, let alone God.’

He regarded my plinth.

‘CONSTANCE POWER TIBBINS. 1829 to 1917,’ he read. ‘Yeah, nah, never heard of ya.’

‘Well I've never heard of you either,’ I said sniffily. Nonetheless, not wanting my obscurity to cause him to depart, I asked, ‘Will you assist me?’

‘Depends,’ he said, warily.

‘Can you take a photograph of me?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to see myself.’

It appeared he was amenable, and produced his gleaming stone. He held it momentarily still, then revealed one side to me. I saw the image of a child wearing a pinafore, one hand on her hip, and the other, holding out paper and quill in a way that seemed ludicrously impractical for deploying them for their intended use. She looked out, gaze aloft: bold, determined, defiant.

‘I am satisfied,’ I said. ‘Although the paper seems a peculiar touch.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, what’s that about?’

‘I haven’t any idea,’ I confessed. ‘I, too, wonder why I am here. In my experience, only kings and saints are afforded such monuments. I am the child of a textile factory owner, not royalty. And if I shall marry royalty then I think that shall be very inconvenient, as firstly, I’m not very good at following instructions, and secondly, they shall have to meet uncle Edgar and he likes to pick his fingernails and eat it in company.’

The fellow seemed amused and I was glad that he was, today, less preoccupied with his spirits.

‘Now you know, I am Constance,’ I said. ‘What’s your name, Mr…?’

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this to a statue,’ he said, ‘but Dan. Dan Bradley.’

‘And Mr. Bradley, what world is this? I lived on Earth, in Willowfield.’

He snorted. ‘Constance, this is Willowfield. It’s the future.’ He proclaimed this like he was Prospero himself.

‘What year is it now?’ I enquired.

‘Twenty twenty-five. So we’re two hundred years into your future.’

All things considered, this seemed reasonable. The world, though vastly changed, had threads of familiarity. Working folk remained laden with the burdens of employment. At night, a poor soul without a home sometimes sought shelter in my urban alcove, often then moved on by constables. And where I did see glimpses of life, I recognised the commonality of simple human exchanges: the joy of meeting friends, a spirited debate, or the antics of a mischievous child. And as for language… I understood some of it.

‘It’s interesting, Mr. Bradley,’ I said. ‘You often say, ‘Do you know what I mean?’, when you speak to the spirits, but I confess I rarely do.’

‘When I speak to the spirits?’ he asked, frowning. ‘Oh,’ he said, a hand going to his ear in understanding. ‘Of course, you didn’t have phones in your day.’

‘Phones?’ I asked.

He held up his gleaming stone, and proceeded to describe something which, had I not seen it myself, I would believe to be fantastical.

‘So you use your phone to … pour blessings upon those who are in need?’ I ventured.

He laughed.

‘Blessing is, um, a person. She’s a friend of mine. Well, a former friend.’

‘I do not wonder, given the way you speak to her.’

He paused. ‘Didn't they say in your time that children should be seen and not heard?’

‘Even my father said that was an out of date view, and he was born in the eighteenth century. You're more of a fossil than anything unearthed by naturalists.’

‘Ouch,’ he said, but he was smiling. ‘No offence, but you’re just a kid. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Offence, sir,’ I countered, ‘is a grave matter, and should be repented before Easter. Why don’t you tell me your story? I daresay you are running short on time. What has become of Blessing?’

He looked awkwardly up at the sky, as though seeking celestial aid, and shuffled his feet. ‘We were friends for about ten years, but you know, things change. Well I guess you wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘Seeing as that’s basically your whole life. One minute you’re dreaming about old age together, and the next minute she can’t stand to hear you breathe.’

‘It seems an improbable transformation,’ I said. ‘Did you betray her?’

‘No!’ he said, motioning with his hand as though cutting down the very notion. ‘No I never cheated on her. I mean, er, betrayed her.’

‘It sounds as though she has been cheated of something, nonetheless,’ I said. ‘What does she tell you is the cause of her distress?’

‘I dunno, she’s just so emotional,’ he said. ‘Wants to make an argument out of everything.’ He sighed. ‘And now, she just wants everything. Even Sir Pokesalot.’

‘What is Sir Pokesalot?’ I asked, for truly a term of that sort demands explanation.

He looked downcast. ‘My Peruvian guinea pig. She knows how much I love him.’

I brightened - here was common ground. ‘I too love animals. Is Sir Pokesalot a terribly wicked guinea pig?’

His expression was hard to read and he seemed to be struggling with something. Perhaps he had a stomach ailment, or perhaps he was remembering the noble exploits of Sir Pokesalot.

‘My lunch hour’s over, Constance. I gotta go,’ he said. ‘This has been wild, Constance. I’m glad I came back.’

Before I could say farewell, he departed, shaking his head.

‘Oh my days,’ he muttered. ‘A talking statue.’

***

After an absence of two days he returned, puffed up with some unknown occurrence. He strode in, fixed himself squarely in front of me, pointed impolitely and without even so much as checking to see if anyone else was in the vicinity, declared: ‘I know who you are.’

‘Constance Power Tibbins. Nice to make your acquaintance.’

‘No,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘I know who you are, and why you’re here.’ He gave me a triumphant smirk. ‘Do you want to know?’

‘You need not ask twice,’ I said, before adding with trepidation: ‘Surely I did not marry a prince?’

‘So,’ he said. ‘Where we are now, in Willowfield, this is where your dad’s factory was!’

He was most terribly enthusiastic. I felt some sadness to hear that my father’s factory was no longer, but I did not share Mr Bradley's sense that this constituted a full stop. Whilst he awaited my response, he began his vaping ritual, drowning me in strongly perfumed orange smoke, so dense I could scarcely see my quill.

‘Mr. Bradley. Pray tell me that you found a little more information than that. For instance, if I lived to eighty four, then why has someone depicted me at fourteen?’

‘Well,’ he said, as if this were a mere appendix. ‘You did loads of things in your life. From what I can tell,’ he says this with an unfortunate air of apology, ‘mostly writing.’

He hurried on. ‘But you’re brave. You believe loads of stuff which is ahead of your time, like giving the vote to women, offering them better education, more opportunities. You write things about women, for women, to help them be independent. Anti-vivisection stuff too, which is pretty radical these days.’

‘You definitely don’t marry a prince, because you spend much of your life with a… er…’ and he began to flounder terribly, as one who has paddled joyfully on the sands only for the tide to unexpectedly cut them off. ‘Female companion,’ he said at last.

‘How lovely,’ I said. ‘I have many female friends I find companionable.’

‘And to go back to your original question,’ he interjected. ‘When you were fourteen, you began writing a series of mini-biographies, of the women working at your father’s textile factory. Working-class women. And you tried to write down exactly what they had said, like, word-for-word. Never been done! They called you The Little Spinner. I don’t really get it, but apparently you’re the Mozart of women’s rights.’ He looked apologetic: ‘But maybe a little bit less famous. Apparently it was a huge deal - helped get labour laws reformed and everything. Don’t think your dad was too happy, though.’

‘I suppose I must accept that,’ I said, with the serene air of one who must resign themselves to changing history. Pride stirred within me, and relief too - that it is admissible that women’s lot would improve, and that I would be one of its architects. I wonder if some of the modern women who passed by were the masters of their own factories.

‘And you?’ I ask. ‘How does it fare between you and Blessing?’

‘Oh, don’t get me started,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘She’s still making problems out of nothing.’

Mr. Bradley had indeed cast a spell upon me when we first met. His unfamiliarities, and voluminous amounts of smoke, had clouded my vision, and my understanding. He enchanted me now, by bestowing me with the unnatural but illuminating knowledge of what I would go on to do: indeed, what I had already done.

But he was no holy man; no sorcerer. He was not even a conjurer.

He was a buffoon.

I asked sweetly. ‘Have you perhaps considered that Blessing may not be the source of your troubles?’

‘Oi,’ he said, affronted. ‘I didn’t come here for a lecture.’

I ventured, tentatively, ‘might you have any idea as to what you came for?’

He appeared to be without inspiration. I had no notion that the role of catalyst would be so taxing.

‘So,’ I say, allowing time for the words to sink in, ‘you mean to say some higher power has visited upon you a talking statue, an embodiment of the power of women, and you… fail to imagine what your next steps may be?’

He looked most astonished, as if it had never occurred to him that the power in this moment might not be entirely his.

Emboldened by the knowledge of what I had it within me to achieve, I continued: ‘Mr. Bradley, I am but fourteen years of age, and it is plain to me that you sir, are the master craftsman of your own misfortunes. And recognising this - that is the path to reclaiming Sir Pokesalot, and perhaps even achieving the dizzy heights of becoming a better man.’

‘What would you even know about it?’ he demanded.

‘Well I know, for a start,’ I said, ‘that you have not heeded my request about the candy-peel pipe.’ He looked guiltily at the stick and placed it in his pocket. ‘And furthermore, that you scarcely permit Blessing a syllable when you converse with her on the phone. I collect women’s stories that they might be heard - you, sir, collect only the opprobrium of one who once loved you dearly. How many times have you come skulking back to this place, only to rehearse the same foolish errors? Have you no desire to improve your lot?’

Mr. Bradley held his head in his hands. ‘I didn’t want a reality check. I just want Sir Pokesalot.’

‘You astonish me,’ I said, reflecting on how very much work remained to be done in this world.

‘You’d still be a handful today, you know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I mean you’d be trouble. But good trouble,’ and I was surprised to see that he did appear to be somewhat chastened.

‘A wager, then,’ I proposed. ‘I challenge you to a conversation with Blessing in which you ask nothing but questions. You shall hear her story - truly hear it. And if you find yourself in any way improved by the experience, you shall repay me with a small favour.’

‘And what’s that?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I should like to continue the good work I once began. If you might contrive to have me placed somewhere more lively - where I might listen to the world and the world to me - I should consider it a kindness beyond price. I have a plan, I merely need an executor. Might that be you?’

‘And you think I could… get Sir Pokesalot back?’

‘It is not impossible.’

He grinned. ‘You’ve got a deal.’

I was obliged to admit it was far from perfect - but needs must when the devil drives.

And so, by the smallest of enchantments, my labours began anew.