The Quickening Maze Part 9

'I am civil. You weren't even here.'

'Evidently. If I had been, perhaps you would have behaved in a less . . .'

'Less? Less what?'

Abigail cringed close against Annabella's skirt, holding the fabric with one hand.

'Or perhaps if you hadn't been here . . .'

'Oh, that's fine. That's really fine. I shan't be here.' Hannah stood up and fled the room. Annabella, in the pained silence, fitted the cat's cradle again around Abigail's fingers, then got up and followed.

'Look at that,' Matthew Allen said to his son. 'Marvellous.' He bent forward with his hands on his knees, peering.

'It's a Maudsley,' Thomas Rawnsley told him.

'Oh, I know, I know. I've studied all the designs. It's simply that I haven't really seen a table engine working before.'

The hypnosis of its movement, silent, balanced, rhythmical.The viscous thrusting of its arms, well oiled. And the turning of the triangular centrifugal governor at the top, back and forth, like a girl hearing her name and turning towards him, saying Yes? Yes? Yes?

'This type of engine,' Rawnsley said, 'would probably suit your purposes as well as mine. I use charcoal, which is of course abundant here with the forest.'

'That I have already decided,' Allen told him,'having studied all available specifications. But I haven't yet told my son what my purposes are.'

'It's true, he hasn't,' Fulton confirmed, wincing as the man working the drill filled the air with its screaming. 'So what is it?' he asked his father.

'Look around you. All the materials are here.'

Fulton did look around at the piles of squared wood, some of it still with the natural roughness of bark on its back or along its edge, most of it squared out of nature and geometrically regular. He looked at the tools, the sweet-smelling dust, the display cabinet of variously sized wooden cogs, the boxes filled with the same. 'We're going to make machine parts also?'

'No, no. I wouldn't want to compete with our friend Rawnsley here,' Allen smiled. 'No, think.' He paused, then announced, 'Mechanical wood carving.'

'Like this?'

'I just said not like this. No, for furniture. Domestic. Ecclesiastical fittings.'

'It could well be a success,' Rawnsley commented, who already knew of the scheme. 'The market for ma.s.s production - not inconsiderable.'

'I see,' Fulton said.

'You don't seem quite as enthused as I expected you to be,' Allen told his son. 'It will make you rich. Think of all the new churches in all the cities. And think of all the people unable to afford fine furniture hand-carving, but who can have the same, of the same quality, carved to guildsmen's standards, because they are simply perfectly exact and precise mechanical copies of hand-carved originals, for a fraction of the price. That beauty and dignity, that elevating spiritual environment, made available to great numbers of people.'

'I see.'

'You see, you see,' Allen grinned and swiped a hand down his beard. 'A little investment and it will take place. Il aura lieu.'

'More difficult than producing these things, but plausible, ' Rawnsley said, dipping his hand into an open box of tiny cogs, 'entirely possible.'

Matthew Allen also dipped his hand and scooped up a few cogs in his palm. They were warm still from the machining and felt nutritious, like nuts. He liked Rawnsley, liked the prosperous sheen to his hat, his fine-checked trousers tightly strapped under his boots. 'Perhaps you would care to be one of my lucky investors?' he asked.

Stands in the wilderness of the world, stands alone, his face from his own house, a book in his hand, surrounded by strangers, trembling, unable, the sun heating him, his will breaking inside him, until he bursts out, 'What can I do?'

As though it were possible, he searches again the strangers' faces to find Mary or Patty or one of his own children or anyone, but there is no warm return from them. They are alien, moulded flesh only, and they frighten him.

A jarring of magpies overhead. He turns. He breathes. He is in a garden. He knows where he is. So why can't he stop it, why can't he kill it in himself, the sense that at any moment he might see her, that she might come for him, a door in the world swing open and there she is? That she might end this for him? John, you have a visitor. John, you have a visitor. John, you have a visitor. John, you have a visitor. The phrase repeats inside his head, endlessly, boringly, because he craves it, that she might come and end this for him. The phrase repeats inside his head, endlessly, boringly, because he craves it, that she might come and end this for him.

Something tugs at the corner of his vision. He looks: a rising, a thing of the summer season. He walks over quickly to see. Like the plume of steam from a kettle's spout, ants are rising from the sandy hole of their nest. He crouches, his belly softly crushed behind his knees, and peers at the glittering black bodies swarming up to the surface, raising their heavy transparent wings, flying up. He looks up at those already airborne. They hold mostly together, a cloud of them funnelling and warping in the wind. They fly beyond limits. He gets up and follows them as far as he can.

They disperse along the line, flaking off into clear air. Some land on the trees. He stands by one, in the cool wood-scent of its shade, and watches a single ant walk along a leaf. A breeze flips its platform, but it adheres. Many leaves shine against the light, the sweet, living green. He quotes himself under his breath.'Leaves from Eternity are simple things.'

Ants fly over, carry beyond him. He can't follow them further. Like a lock gate opening in a ca.n.a.l, the water slumping in, his heavy rage returns. He presses himself to the tree, looks down and sees the roots reaching down into the earth.The admiral's hands. He has them himself for a second, thick, rooty fingers, twisted, numb. He shakes his hands and they're gone. They reappear at his feet, and clutch down.The painful numbness rises, his legs solidifying, a hard rind surrounding them, creeping upwards. He raises his arms. They crack and split and reach into the light. The bark covers his lips, covers his eyes. Going blind, he vomits leaves and growth. He yearns upwards into the air, dwindling, splitting, growing finer, to live points, to nerves. The wind moves agonisingly through him. He can't speak.

Stands in the wilderness of the world.

Dr Allen found the company he was in highly congenial. Thomas Rawnsley had brought him along to an informal gathering of the area's industrialists, brisk and cheerful, ambitious and duplicitous men. They ate beef and the spiced foam of roasted apples. They drank beer. A light rain petalled against the windows. Pipes were smoked. Rawnsley turned out to be quite a different man with drink inside him. His stiff exterior was broken up and he emerged boyish and excitable, red-faced, clumsy and loud-voiced. He showed off his new acquaintance to the small crowd and implored him to hold forth on his scheme, which Matthew Allen did readily. He drew a.s.sent from them when he spoke of their great good fortune in having the forest at their disposal, with the charcoal burners to render it down to useful fuel and their own imaginations to turn the timber into anything at all. Tanning and ship building were old occupations. The new was up to them. Seated at their centre, Matthew Allen felt he easily outcla.s.sed them all, gifted as he was in so many respects, so educated and already a published author on chemistry and insanity. He was reflected back to himself in their smiles, their interested gazes. For a moment he heard his father's voice in his own, holding forth among the Sandemanians.When he had finished his description of the Pyroglyph there was even applause. Rawnsley picked up the jug and sloshed more beer into his gla.s.s.

Alfred Tennyson walked to loosen his blood. He had spent the day sunk in a low mood. The word 'sunk' was the right one, the mood soft, dark, silted, sluggish; it smelt of riverbed, of himself. He'd managed no new lines. Poems lay around half-formed and helpless, insects droned in the garden, a fly b.u.t.ted its hard little face against the window panes. He'd sat and smoked thickly enough to make his stupid head light with it, his heart flutter, his limbs feel shaky and hollow. Distantly he heard the rhythmic clubbing of woodmen at work among the trees.

The doctor might be a comfort. That man always had energy, afflatus, interest.

He pa.s.sed among the tired lunatics and up the path to the doctor's house. He pulled on the bell and turned and watched a madman flinch and talk at nothing until the door was opened. A servant had opened it, but immediately the doctor hurried towards him, hand outstretched. He took Tennyson's larger hand in his own and shook it warmly, patting him on the shoulder as he drew him inside. 'How splendid of you to stop by,' he said. 'Come in, come in.' Tennyson handed the servant his hat and cape. The doctor led him in.

Mrs Allen met him in the vestibule. From a doorway, the youngest child veered out and clung to her mother's skirts. 'How lovely to see you again,' Eliza said. 'Do come through to the drawing room.'

From that farther room music started. Hannah had heard his arrival and rushed to the piano, her cheeks freshly pinched, to be accidentally discovered playing a Clementi sonata. She stumbled on a phrase as they entered the room, her face starting to burn. Abigail ran to her side, arriving with a soft thump against the stool, and began to plink at the highest notes. Not daring to lift her head - she was still being accidentally discovered - Hannah pushed Abigail away with her forearm. The child tripped; her upflung arms were caught by her mother. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' Hannah stood up.

'No, no, you were playing beautifully.' Her mother smiled.

'Mr Tennyson,' Hannah said, 'what a pleasure to see you again.' Suddenly she remembered to be afraid: had he told her father of her solitary visit to him all that time ago? There was no sign of it that she could see. Perhaps her father knew and didn't mind. He was in one of his enthusiastic moods anyway, meeting everything headlong, with pleasure, his movements large and rapid. He looked delighted to have found her in the drawing room; he wore the warm, suffused, small-eyed smile of paternal pride. She was part of his achievement. To the benefit of her own desires, she would be shown off to their guest. 'That was delightful, Hannah. Would you play us something else?'

'If you are sure . . .'

'Of course we are.'

Tennyson made a gruff noise of agreement.

'Alfred, please take a seat.'

'I shall call for tea,' Eliza whispered and walked away. Hannah refused to meet her glance; she felt it needling at her forehead. She sat again and began another of the sonatas, but immediately thought of what was happening, who was listening: the tempo crumpled, notes clattered into one another. She shouted at herself in her mind to be calm, to play as usual, and even as she felt sweat p.r.i.c.kling on her upper lip she regained control. She slowed through sweet phrases, held them up in display. She played on, only making further errors when her mother returned to the room with Fulton and Dora, and Tennyson lit his pipe. It was difficult also to look as well as possible while concentrating and knowing that her face had reddened in that awful flecked way it had. Through her closing bars the tea arrived. She played the final cadences with great vehemence and separation, then stood up feeble and helpless, her face slippery with sweat.

'Wonderful,' her father congratulated her.

'Very eloquent,' Tennyson said.

'Really?'

He nodded, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. 'Indeed,' he said.

The word hotly pierced her. Eloquent! And from a poet. She must have touched his soul! She now sat triumphantly among them and looked at her warm fingers while Tennyson went on with the thought that all young ladies ought to be musical, that it brightens a home. He asked Eliza if she played.

'Not as much as I used to, with so much to attend to. Dora plays also.'

'Ah, yes,' Matthew leaped in.'And she will be brightening her own home soon. Dora is to marry in, what, just a couple of weeks now. I hope you will do us the honour of joining us for the wedding. The party will be here.'

'Well, yes. Why not?' Tennyson turned with courtesy to the silent Dora. 'I would indeed be honoured.' Such a thing, a lively and happy family. It was a pleasure for him to be among them. It was life as it ought to be lived, unlike his private, stagnant whatever you may call it.

The wedding, Hannah thought, would be ideal. What better, more conducive day could there be? It would happen! He had practically announced it himself. With her eloquent music, she would brighten his home.

Tea was taken while the conversation continued, light and cheerful and without hesitation.Tennyson ate a noticeable quant.i.ty of toasted tea bread and, slightly to Hannah's dismay, relit his pipe while still chewing.

When tea was done, Matthew announced, 'Ladies, if you will excuse us. Alfred, perhaps you would care to join me in my study. There's something I'd rather like you to see. Fulton, you too.'

'Certainly,' Tennyson said, and, along with his host, rose and bowed to the ladies.

'Good bye,' Hannah said.

'Good bye,' he answered.'And thank you once again for playing.'

With an arm held out in a curve around his shoulders, Matthew Allen edged around Tennyson and guided him to the door. Fulton followed them, satisfied at being invited to leave the irrelevant women behind.

'Now, you may recall a conversation we had some time ago,' Allen began, softly closing his study door behind them,'in which I expressed a desire to broaden the scope of my activities once more.'

'Indeed, I do. A most agreeable conversation.'

Allen smiled.'Well, I believe that I have been inspired with just the sort of idea, one that is absolutely ripe for the moment, with truly remarkable prospects. Fulton, would you bring the drawings from my desk.' Allen picked up a mineral sample, tossed and caught it as he spoke. 'These are my designs. I am convinced that they represent the best of current thinking in these matters and, though it's not my intention to flatter myself, may represent a significant advance. Certainly the scheme is in advance of anything currently operating.'

'This is all very intriguing,' Tennyson said, sitting up as he received from Fulton the pages. He peered closely at the first. 'It's a machine.'

'Indeed. A machine,' Allen repeated the word as if he'd come to love it. 'A machine. A machine of my own devising.'

'The Pyroglyph,' Tennyson read. 'Odd bit of Greek. Fire mark. Marking what?'

'Wood. It is a wood carver,' Fulton piped up. His father checked his interruption with a glance.

'Precisely. A machine for the carving of wood. A Pyroglyph. Here,' Allen stood beside Tennyson's chair and pointed at the workings with his nugget of rock. 'This is a tracer. It follows the design of a piece that is carved by hand, by a master craftsman. This arm connects it across to a drill piece that carves the design exactly onto a fresh piece of wood fixed in this tray. The craftsman's carving is reproduced so precisely that it is impossible afterwards to tell the original from the copy. Here on this sheet, some designs.' Tennyson looked down a page of curling leaves, diamonds, crosses, eggs and darts, cherubic faces. 'The implications of this? Well, just think of them, think of all the homes in our growing cities unable to afford the work of guild craftsmen, now able to afford indistinguishable examples. There is, let us not forget, a moral enhancement that comes with living with fine design, in wood. It connects people to the natural world and to English history. And think of all the new churches also unable to afford teams of craftsmen to decorate them . . .'

Tennyson felt the surge of Allen's articulacy pa.s.sing into him. The doctor's enthusiasm was positively galvanic.

'Fulton, would you excuse us for a moment?' The boy looked at his father as if to check that he really meant it and then, in the silence, left.

Now was the moment for Matthew, the crucial manoeuvre. He seemed to have Tennyson in a receptive state.

'Now,' he began again, 'the project is in a very advanced state of realisation. I will shortly be investing all of my savings in the building of the Pyroglyph and purchase of its engine. However, that still leaves an amount of capital required for materials, premises and so forth.' Tennyson did not seem to betray any dismay at the turn the conversation was taking. Allen pressed on. 'So my hope is that you will consider investing in the scheme along with me. I already have a site selected. Everything, in fact, is primed and ready to go.'

'It sounds most convincing,'Tennyson said.'No doubt the market exists. The cities . . .'

'Oh, I'm quite sure the market exists.'

'And as it happens, I have money. We all do. An inheritance from my father.' Money that could be active in his place, flowing through the world, returning increased. Tennyson could join with the doctor and himself become a man of enterprise, of energy.

'Well, I would sincerely ask you to consider it.'

'Consider it considered.'

'You mean to say . . . ?'

'Dr Allen, I would very much like to buy a share in the Pyroglyph.' Tennyson held out his hand. Allen grasped and held, forgetting in his excitement to shake it.

'That's wonderful. Quite wonderful. I'm . . . I really am delighted. Now, shall we consider some sums?'

Mary's mouth was tired. She felt as if she'd spoken for days, for weeks, her spit thickening to a paste, her tongue always lifting and falling to spread the Word. She had lost the ability to sleep. At most she experienced a quick splash of black in the depths of the night before waking again, already praying and speaking. As she walked, the world bulged towards her, close and particular, full of signs. She walked in her bright tunnel from person to person, from soul to soul. It led her now to the pond where John stood.

John stood and stared down at the widening hem of slime where in the heat the pond had shrunk down into itself. A thick smell to the heavy green water, a s.e.xual stink. It looked oily, frog-coloured. He was about to crouch and see if he could see through its reflections to the creatures living within when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Good morning,' she said.

'Yes,' he said. 'Yes? Who are you?'

'My name is Mary.'

'It can't be.'

'It is my name, given me by an angel of the Lord.'

'Yes, but you look - I suppose we are - older. We couldn't escape it, could we?' He reached up and touched her face. 'Oh,' he said. 'Oh.' Mary smiled. She had his attention. She could see he was ready. The contact was deep and sincere. 'I knew you'd come,' he said.

'Of course.'

'But you're thin.'

'I have something to tell you,' she said.

'Let's go somewhere, somewhere out of sight. We can hide, be free together.'

'Listen . . .'

'Ah!' He startled her by crying out. 'Why did you take so long?'

'G.o.d's will,' she said. 'We must not question it.'

'Yes, yes. But it's been so hard.'