The Quickening Maze Part 3

'I have to go,' he said.

'To that place away up the road?' she asked. He nodded. He had suspected that she would have guessed. 'Don't see why you have to be there myself,' she said. 'Anyone who plays the fiddle like that.'

'Thank you.' He stood, shook out and folded his blanket, then, not wanting to give her anything to do by handing it to her, placed it back on the ground where he'd slept.

'We'll be here the winter most likely, so if you want to come back . . .'

'Thank you,' he said again. 'I will, if I can.' He raised his voice to address anyone near. 'Thank you. I have to go now.'

'After a bit of food,' Judith suggested.

'Thanks, I'm full enough for a while.'

John hurried away or tried to. First he had to shake hands with all the children who'd run to make a ring around him.

The sun was still low and he reckoned it to be early, perhaps early enough to slip back in unnoticed. The charcoal burners weren't at their hut. He pa.s.sed a bird-catcher with two cages swinging from his pole, on his way to London where song was needed.The morning's catch of finches flew against the narrow bars. The catcher tilted his hat. John did the same and when he'd pa.s.sed him shook his head at the gross symbol, refusing the easy poem he was offered.

He was back at the gate before Peter Wilkins. With his own key, he let himself back in. He trudged up the path to Fairmead House and was almost in when Matthew Allen stepped out.

He saw John - he couldn't not, they were barely three feet apart - and looked disappointed.

'John, this is very bad,' he began and John felt anger suddenly buckle inside him, with no possible release. He had done wrong and he knew it and had now to submit to being reprimanded like a child. He tried answering like a child.

'I got lost.'

'Did you?'

'In the dark. I walked too far.'

Matthew Allen looked at him, sucked at his moustache. John looked back, then down. There was a moment of stalemate before Allen said, 'It absolutely must not happen again. Can you a.s.sure me of that?'

'I won't walk that far, doctor. And I'll pay more mind to where I am. I was composing was maybe part of the trouble.'

'Ah, yes, John. After our conversation I collected a few poems from your room. To send to editors.' Matthew Allen blinked a few times, perhaps not quite sure of the decency of this invasion.

John saw this,but didn't mind;he welcomed the chance to even the advantage. 'Oh, did you?' he said casually to heat any embarra.s.sment there might be in the doctor. 'As I was saying,' John went on, 'I was composing yesterday. A poem to my wife, Mary. It's fine I think. I can write it up for you fair to go with the others you took.'

Matthew Allen shook his head. 'John, we've talked about this.You know that Mary is not your wife. She was your childhood sweetheart. A child, John, a girl of what nine or ten? Patty is your wife, and I know she finds this fixed idea of yours most distressing.'

'No,' John said. 'No, I am well acquainted with the truth.' He knew also that what was law and what was natural were not the same thing. 'Mary is my wife. And so's Patty. Just because a thing hasn't happened before doesn't mean it can't. And anyway it has occurred, in the Bible.'

Hannah had offered to take Abigail for a walk. As they'd set out, she'd confused the child by turning her from the usual route, on this occasion, towards Beach Hill House.

Abigail preferred walking with her mother, who took more of an interest in what she picked up, pretty stones or feathers. Hannah's attention was elsewhere, across and away somewhere, not down with Abigail, and she walked too quickly. Abigail caught her sleeve and leaned her whole weight back over her heels to slow her sister, but she was pulled forward into a trot.

'I hope you're planning to behave,' Hannah said, 'or I shall take you straight back.'

Hannah's angrily swis.h.i.+ng legs marched ahead. Abigail chased after, then her sister suddenly stopped.

'Why have we stopped?' she asked. 'Stopped the wrong way?'

'Shh, Abi. I'm thinking.'

'But what are you thinking?'

'Shh.'

Hannah stood and looked at the house where he was living, set behind its own large pond and lawn. Formerly of no significance, this place was now charged and thrilling as a beehive. She stood up on her tiptoes to see more.Taking a few paces up like a ballet dancer to bring a hidden corner of the garden into view, she saw him. It must have been him. Such a tall man, his back turned to her, standing still, in a thick cloud of his own manufacture, wearing that cape. She stood as still as she could, her heartbeats strong enough to unsteady her, absolutely at the edge of her life. Something had to happen soon. It had to.

Abigail, bored and frustrated, ran into her with both arms outsretched and shoved at her bottom.

'Don't,' Hannah span round and hissed. She caught hold of Abigail's hand and tugged the child towards her. Abigail saw her sister's face, bright with a flush of anger, swooping towards her. Her lips were trembling. She looked very ugly like that. Abigail tried to free herself from Hannah's grasp, but Hannah shook her arm hard, standing up and looking away again.

Uncertainly postured between cringing out of sight and standing up tall to see, Hannah tried to ascertain whether Alfred Tennyson had heard the commotion. As she did so she felt the warm wetness of Abigail's small mouth close around her wrist and her little cat's teeth bite in. She couldn't help it, she cried out and definitely now Tennyson had heard. She bobbed up and saw his large shape turning. She ducked and ran, dragging a wailing Abigail after her. When they returned and had calmed down she could bribe the child with a chip of sugar not to tell.

Alfred Tennyson did not try to comfort or even make contact with his brother, Septimus, sitting beside him. When he had tried, the little hits of familial concern seemed to hurt him, and he'd shrink away, raising a hand and trying, horribly, to smile. Instead, Tennyson stretched his long legs in front of him in a casual manner he permitted himself while the patients were still arriving but would be corrected when the evening prayers began.

He looked vaguely towards Mrs Allen who played the organ, actually rather well. Her pale daughter, so thin and restless she flickered in his field of blurred vision, turned the pages. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound. It rose in regular crests of force as the treadle pump cycled air through the pipes and Tennyson saw the ridged sound abstractly, thought of the sea, of Mablethorpe, the heavy, low waves and hardened undulations of the sand after the tide had withdrawn.Words began. Waves. Rocks. Lashed Waves. Rocks. Lashed. Or felt. Waters that feel the sc.r.a.ping rocks, scourging rocks. Waters that feel the scourging rocks as they rush.That feel the sharp rocks as they rush. felt. Waters that feel the sc.r.a.ping rocks, scourging rocks. Waters that feel the scourging rocks as they rush.That feel the sharp rocks as they rush.

Margaret watched the other poor souls take their seats to pray and again did not know what to think. She suspected that nothing there could be real, that when the doctor preached his watery sermons the Presence would swerve away, offended. She would. But then she lacked compa.s.sion, hating human weakness, so when they prayed was she the only one cut off, bogged down in sin, while the others prayed purely and were heard? G.o.d pitied them. And why pity her who was pitiless? She'd never liked the complications of joined prayer, all the human interference and distraction. She could only find her way alone. And in that solitude a part of her suspected she was lost, cut off, adrift.

They all started singing now, all upright. John Clare stood and added his voice to the compound of mad voices without much fervour. Seated beside the fire, he was distracted by its bl.u.s.tering heat.The attendants sang evenly, watchfully. One of the idiots sang very loudly but Simon beside him sang without noise, just opening and closing his lips while he rubbed at his left eye. Clara, the witch, never sang. She stared around and tried, when people looked back at her, to laugh to herself.

After they'd all stumbled down the short step of the two notes for 'Amen', Dr Allen patted them back into their seats with gently flapping hands and began this evening's sermon.

This was the seventh of his addresses on the Beat.i.tudes and he cleared his throat before p.r.o.nouncing, 'Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of G.o.d.' He felt splendidly paternal and sincere when he gave his sermons, looking out over his flock of patients, their stricken eyes latched onto him. He sensed his wife seated behind him at the organ, saw three of his children seated before him. Fulton had his hair combed differently, somehow, perhaps in the opposite direction to usual, and this made him seem independently attentive, his own man, making his own decisions, and voluntarily there, voluntarily following his father into medicine. Dora, the quietest of his children, well matched with her betrothed, appeared to be trying to stop Abigail kicking her legs under the seat. Among the others, George Laidlaw's gaze was particularly direct. He waited each day for the evening prayers; they brought him his only short hours of relief from the terrors of the National Debt for which his mind told him he was solely responsible.

Dr Allen enumerated several categories of peacemakers, among them those who bring an end to wars and discord. But there were other kinds of peacemakers, those who bring an end to the bitter strife of internal discord. Margaret knew that he meant himself and scorned his weakness for saying it. She almost pitied him the affliction of his vanity. Friends are such peacemakers, he went on, who bring peace through calm and the nouris.h.i.+ng atmosphere of affection. It is not only those we know as peacemakers - curates, amba.s.sadors, doctors - who bring these resolutions, then, but all of us, in our fellows.h.i.+p.

John knew what would bring him peace: his wives, Mary and Patty. Peace would have been lying beneath an oak with them on either side in a sweet, heavy smell of gra.s.s, the sun warm on them, thick curds of summer cloud moving slowly over. He turned from the sight of Matthew Allen rocking up onto his toes with each commonplace preacher's phrase that pleased him, and stared into the fire. His thoughts began picking up uncomfortable speed as he looked and realised that those were particular logs being consumed, logs from particular trees burning with particular flames in that exact place at that specific hour and it would only ever occur once in the history of the world and that was now. Birds had landed on them, particular birds, and creatures had crawled across them, light had revolved around them, winds swayed them, unique clouds pa.s.sed over them, and they would be ashes in the morning. There was so little time. He needed to be free with his wives in each living day, not consuming them here. Forked or foliate, the flames themselves were as singular as the trees, eternal and vanis.h.i.+ng in quick snaps.

Hannah ignored her father's words, looked past the tails of his coat, his hands floating from the sides of the lectern to pat his pages square, to where the Tennysons were sitting. Alfred Tennyson's face was pensive, brooding - how else would it be? - but she couldn't keep her eyes on him.To his right, his brother's face seemed as set as a death mask, his eyes lightly closed, but down his cheeks ran tears. Eventually she saw him part his sore lips to inhale. Without opening his eyes he dried his cheeks with a handkerchief. As he then wavered to his feet with the rest, Hannah realised it was time to sing again.

Tennyson stood and sang as all of the afflicted opened their valves to G.o.d. The sermon had been decent, in his estimation, clearer and more clearly delivered than those of his own deceased father, more generously and compa.s.sionately addressed to his congregation. Afterwards, as the patients handed their hymnals to the attendants and began to leave, and Septimus hobbled away,Tennyson approached the doctor to offer his compliments. Hannah saw him do this and hurried to her father's side.

Tennyson took Allen's hand and shook it. 'I thought that sermon fine,' he said.

'I'm pleased at that,' Allen replied.

'It was excellent,' Hannah chipped in.

Allen turned with some surprise at this interjection from his unusually interested daughter, smiled indulgently and grasped her shoulder. Hannah stiffened at this contact and looked down, feeling painfully thwarted by only being able to appear as a child to them. But instantly she decided that to take the part of a pretty and devoted daughter was her most winning option, so again she surprised Allen by patting the back of his hand in response.

As this family interchange was happening,Tennyson was distracted by the approach of another man. He smiled,Tennyson saw as he neared, and his head lightly trembled. He took the doctor's hand in both of his own and shook it. 'Thank you,' he said, 'thank you again.' After he had turned away, Allen explained to Tennyson who he was, how he suffered from the National Debt, and how these prayers were his only respite. Tennyson watched the man's retreating back, his gait tightening the further away he was from this remarkably effective doctor.

Winter

Margaret stood in the dead of the world and looked down at the stopped fish under their dirty window of ice. In the black forks of the trees hard snow was pock-marked by later rain. Crows, folded tightly into themselves, clasped branches that plunged in the wind. Voices of other patients reached her there, the sound dulled by the covered winter surfaces like the clapping of gloved hands.

She liked the pinch of absence, the hollow air, reminiscent of the real absence. She wanted to stay out there, to hang on her branch in the world until the cold had burned down to her bones. She could leave her whitened bones scattered on the snow and depart like light. Whitened bones. A whited sepulchre. A whited sepulchre. The phrase came to her. Was it aimed at her? Is that why she'd thought of it? Habitually, she tested every bit of scripture that came to her for immediate significance. The whited sepulchre was the Pharisee, according to Him, who appears beautiful, but inside is full of The phrase came to her. Was it aimed at her? Is that why she'd thought of it? Habitually, she tested every bit of scripture that came to her for immediate significance. The whited sepulchre was the Pharisee, according to Him, who appears beautiful, but inside is full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness dead men's bones and all uncleanness . But isn't that every human creature? And what if the uncleanness had been her husband's, had been daubed on her, slapped on, smeared across her face? What use was always asking questions? As though thought was in any way helpful. Nothing could be argued into being. Whatever was, was. The only useful thing was to be unclouded by thoughts, to be in nothing. To be nothing. To be as empty as the cold. And to wait. . But isn't that every human creature? And what if the uncleanness had been her husband's, had been daubed on her, slapped on, smeared across her face? What use was always asking questions? As though thought was in any way helpful. Nothing could be argued into being. Whatever was, was. The only useful thing was to be unclouded by thoughts, to be in nothing. To be nothing. To be as empty as the cold. And to wait.

Again she was denied this. She heard the crunch of footsteps behind her and waited for them to diminish away, but they grew louder. She turned. Footprints ran everywhere across the buried lawn like blue st.i.tches.The sky was grey, darker than the ground: dreamlight: a steady stormlight. At the head of new lines of footprints were Clara the witch and Simon the idiot who dawdled after her, kicking up spurts of ice.

Margaret stared at Clara, at the large lips that didn't quite fit together, at the unpinned hair that draggled over her shoulders. Clara obviously thought of herself as sensual with a rolling walk, a flaunt in it, but she wasn't. Her figure was ordinary, her face unexceptional, blander and healthier than her mind. 'Good morning, Mary,' she smiled. Calling Margaret Mary was a spiteful joke of hers. Margaret said nothing. 'Not going to say anything, are you?' Margaret stared.'Devils eaten your words?' Scratching his thighs through his pockets, the idiot asked, 'What devils?'

'I told you before.'

Margaret looked at them for a moment more, then turned back to the pond.

Their voices said more words, finally the hard separate ones of insult. But they were mistaken in thinking they could disturb Margaret's concentration.

An hour or so later she heard more footsteps coming towards her. This time hands landed on her shoulders. She was pivoted around to find herself looking into the doctor's face. He said, 'Margaret, you're freezing. How long have you been out here?' He chafed her hands between his. 'You're s.h.i.+vering.' She was - that flas.h.i.+ng and shuddering was s.h.i.+vering. 'Come inside.' With an arm across the bones of her shoulders, he shepherded her into Fairmead House and a fire.

In its thick, disappointing heat she gradually stopped shaking. Hot tea was forced into her, causing pain to the chilled stones of her teeth. The liquid billowed inside her, swelled her. She closed her eyes, let the doctor's words b.u.mp like moths against her, and drifted into sleep.

Eliza Allen opened the door to someone whose face was familiar but unplaceable. The face had evidently been out in the cold for some time, the skin grey and granular. The man blew a fog of warm breath around his hands. He smiled.

'Do you not recognise me, Eliza?'

With the voice, the accent, she did. 'Of course I do. It's Oswald. Come in, come in. I had no idea you were in the area. Matthew hadn't mentioned to me . . .'

'Because he doesn't know. I thought I'd surprise you.'

'And you have. Come in. Do.'

Oswald stooped to pick up a bag. Presumably he was expecting to stay. When he was upright again a noise startled him. Eliza saw his body for a moment lose organisation. He half-crouched, knees bent, and raised a hand. His gaze locked with hers. 'One of the patients?' he whispered.

'No, no,' she rea.s.sured him.'That was a dog barking, surely.'

'Of course.'

Inside, she relieved him of his coat and hat. By the fire his face flushed, his eyes reddened and filmed. He looked tired.

'Do sit down.' She indicated the chair.

He did so, crossing his legs and tucking his clasped hands down the side of one thigh in his peculiar fas.h.i.+on, wearing his arms like a sash. By now he was very recognisable. 'I shall fetch tea. You must need it after your journey.'

'Most kind.'

She hurried out. Finding Dora in the second drawing room, she instructed her to put down whatever it was and go and tell her father that his brother had suddenly materialised. 'Father's in his study,' Dora replied.

'Then it won't take you a moment.'

Eliza returned with a tray of tea things just as her husband launched himself into the room.

'Oswald, I had no idea.'

'I didn't give you any idea,' his brother smiled. 'And I'm delighted to see you too.'

Matthew blended a smile and a frown to indicate fondly that the implication was foolish. 'I'm pleased to see you, too, of course.Your journey was comfortable?'

'Perfectly agreeable, at least so far as these things are. And I rounded it off with a pleasant walk from Woodford.'

'You walked up? Carrying your bag? You could have hired a cab, you know. Mr Mason is known around the station to take people.'

'Oh, no. Thrift, Horatio, thrift.'

Horatio? That meant Hamlet Hamlet. Oswald was reminding Matthew of the cultured company he kept in York, that not only in London was there literary conversation to be had.Typical of him to arrive stealthily like this, unannounced, and full of messages about himself, all his little flags flying.

Matthew Allen, fl.u.s.tered, forgot the tongs and picked up a lump of sugar with his fingertips, dropping it with a small splash into his tea. 'It's a surprising time for you to visit,' he said, 'by which I mean for an apothecary. Are you not now besieged by the winter ailments?'

'Fortunately, yes,' Oswald laughed. 'But I have left the shop in good hands. I have an apprentice and two others at the moment.' More impressive news about himself. 'I keep my hours at the shop to a minimum now that I'm able, and so have more time for my benevolent activities and so forth.'

'Oh, very good.' Matthew gulped his tea.

'You could have been joined with me in that, had you not chosen another course.' Oswald smiled. 'But we needn't go into that.'

Matthew smiled.'Ah, but I did choose another course.' He would not be drawn again into this conversation. Indeed he saw an opportunity for a moment's triumph and couldn't resist, relis.h.i.+ng the plural he was able to deploy.'I shall give you a tour of the buildings, my alternative course, later before we install you in a room.'

Dr Allen savoured his time at the lectern during evening prayers as a period when he was unopposed, central and secure. He chose to read his brother's expression - downcast eyes, thoughtfully lengthened lips - as simple absorption even though he knew he would not approve. Oswald's face instead insisted on his own distinct piety. He did not hesitate to begin his criticism after the service was concluded. With patients still ambling out and George Laidlaw having offered again his heartfelt thanks, at which Oswald smiled, apparently bemused, he began: 'It's a long way from anything our father would recognise, Matthew.'

'It is indeed. As I suppose we are, or I am.'

'Hm.' Oswald nodded. 'Father would not have approved such Lat.i.tudinarianism.'

'Of course. But you see, needs must. I'm preaching for a very mixed congregation, and not only denominationally, if it comes to that.'

'He would maintain that there are differences between sects and that he'd brought us up in the true dogma. I mean to say, the point is simple. How can the truth be graspable by churches that we know to be in error?'

'Oswald, even if I wanted to I could not make this inst.i.tution Sandemanian. For one thing, our little church would require a great deal of explanation to those whose intellectual faculties are in many cases already strained to breaking point. And the need for the congregation's unity of mind - it's hardly a practicable aim with a congregation of the insane and the idiot.'

'And indeed you yourself rarely managed it.'

'Indeed.' Matthew Allen looked down at his brother, some years older, some inches shorter, and still trying to rule in their father's place. 'I was excluded often enough. So there, you see,' he attempted to laugh. 'I was not a good enough Sandemanian to be worthy to attempt to create a community here.'

Oswald did not laugh. 'You were always too soft in spirit and too distracted by the world. It didn't suit you to be part of an isolated church, unknown to society, and lacking all ornament. You didn't like the poverty, the hards.h.i.+p . . .'

'Really, Oswald, must we discuss this? I thought we very much had some time ago.And I see enough hards.h.i.+p here among my patients, often without seeing to what end it serves.'