I couldn’t afford to abandon the project now. I had to make it work. I did not have a choice. In order to find out more about Crace, I knew I would have to gain access to the school. Yet I could hardly breeze in and start asking questions about Crace. Telling them about my proposed biography was completely out of the question, as there was a risk that word would leak out, either to Crace’s publisher or even back to the writer himself. I thought about various options—presenting myself as a son of an old boy, pretending to be a tourist who wanted to look around—but realized that none of them would work.
What about the truth or something near to it? How would that work? What if I said I was an art history student who had taken an undergraduate course at London University—a fact that could be checked if necessary—and that I was embarking on an MA or PhD thesis exploring one particular art historical aspect of medieval churches? Crace had told me that Winterborne Abbey contained an interesting collection of relics, sculpture and statutory, objects that I was sure would have been documented in some way and the records held, I presumed, in the school archives. At least that would give me an excuse to get inside and hopefully strike up a conversation with the librarian. And if somebody checked with my old college and came up with the fact that I had not enrolled in an MA or PhD course, what would I say then? That I was doing this as research so as to strengthen my application for next year? It sounded just about plausible to me and certainly worth taking the risk.
At least this way I wouldn’t have to dissemble that much. I needn’t have to act. I could just be myself.
The next day, a Saturday, after an early breakfast, I decided to walk to the abbey to do a spot of research. Dark clouds cast shadows over the dense woods that enveloped the valley. As the wind roared through the trees, I stood outside and, in the back of my notebook, did a quick sketch of the building, which looked like an enormous Oxford chapel, complete with elaborate flying buttresses. What was unusual about it was the fact that the abbey did not have a nave, only a covered entrance where the central part of the church would have stood.
I turned the cold metal ring on the thick wooden door and pushed. Inside, the air was chilly and damp, as musty as the inside of a tomb. Weak sunlight filtered through the huge stained-glass windows, casting blood-colored shadows onto the tiled floor. I listened for the sound of other people, but I couldn’t hear anything except for the wind high in the trees outside. Inside, the stillness was oppressive, unnerving.
To my right there was a table selling illustrated guides to the abbey for two pounds, above which a notice read, “This stall is run on a trust basis. Please place money in honesty wall box. Please do not abuse this trust.” As far as I was concerned, my honesty was above question—in fact, I rather prided myself on my trustworthiness—and I promptly dropped two pound coins through the slot in the wall. As I did so, I remembered something I had read in Aretino’s Letters: how the king of France had given the writer a heavy gold chain decorated with tongues enameled in vermilion on which was written the message LINGUA EIVS LOQUETUR MENDACIUM—his tongue speaketh a lie.
On the wall facing me, above which sat the huge organ, hung several old prints in ancient frames, one of which had an inscription describing the origins of the abbey. It was said that the church was built by King Athelstan in atonement for the death of his younger brother, for which he was responsible. Apparently Athelstan had accused him of a crime, falsely, it later turned out, and set him to sea in a boat with no sails or paddles and only one page for company. After his brother drowned and Athelstan learned the errors of his ways, he built the abbey, together with another monastery, and underwent seven years’ penance in a bid to try and make his peace with God.
I noted all this down before walking underneath the curtained archway to the treasury that lay below the organ loft. According to my little guidebook, this is where I would find the relics of the church, all displayed beneath a glass panel. I switched on a timed light to illuminate the abbey’s collection of precious objects, an ivory triptych of a nativity scene; cigar-shaped parts of a pectoral cross dating from the fifteenth century; a pewter chalice and paten from an abbot’s grave; and on the very bottom shelf of the display, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, the only surviving book of John Tregonwell, who had left his library to the abbey. As I bent down to have a closer look at the book, its spine half-eaten away by age, the volume surrounded by clusters of silica crystals, I heard a footstep behind me.
“Not what you’d call a great collection, I’m afraid, but still quite fascinating, I think.”
I turned around, startled, to see a woman in late middle-age wearing a tartan jacket, a gray skirt and black sensible shoes, carrying a pair of yellow rubber gloves and a large pair of scissors.
“Sorry if I made you jump,” she said. “I was in the back of the vestry doing a spot of tidying.”
She eyed me up and down and smiled.
“It’s always pleasing to see young people show an interest in the past,” she said, her gray-blue eyes twinkling behind her tortoiseshell-frame glasses. “I mean, so many of them haven’t got a clue about what went on in their grandfather’s day, never mind in the Middle Ages. Really quite a disgrace.”
As she gestured around the abbey with the scissors, she looked down at the sharp point of the implement and laughed gently to herself.
“Sorry, so sorry, you must think me extremely odd, not to mention very rude,” she said, stretching out her free hand. “I’m June Peters, the headmaster’s wife. About to go into battle with the altar flowers over there.”
“Hello,” I said, shaking hands. “Yes, it is rather a fascinating group of objects. All extremely unique and actually quite moving.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Down on holiday? Beautiful countryside around here. Walking?”
“Well, sort of a working holiday,” I said. “I’m an art history student, working on a thesis.”
“Really? That’s wonderful. How interesting. Some of these things go way back, as you most probably know. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.”
She waved her scissors in the air as a parting gesture and breezed down the aisle toward the altar. As I walked around the abbey, noting down its art and sculpture, including the rather fine reredos, an elaborate family tomb fashioned out of white marble and a wonderful nine-foot-tall oak hanging tabernacle, I came up with a plan to try and enlist the woman’s help.
“Excuse me. So sorry to bother you,” I said, walking up to her as she was beginning to trim the dead foliage away from a display overlooking the stone sedilia.
She looked up and smiled, only too pleased to help.
“I don’t know whether you might know, but I’m trying to find out some more information about the collection here.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I just wondered if you might know anything about any of the objects on display?”
“I’m not an expert, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask my husband about that. But there is a charming story about how the book came into the abbey’s possession. Have you heard about that?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“Oh, it’s wonderful, quite amusing, really. When John Tregon-well, whose family lived in the house next door—are you sure you don’t already know this? Did you not see the notice outside on the verge?”
“No,” I said, smiling.
“Well, one day the little boy, John, who must have been no more than five at the time, was playing in here and climbed to the top of the tower. I suppose the wind must have been quite ferocious up there, or perhaps he got too close to the edge. Anyway, he fell sixty feet and was only saved by his nankeen shirts, which I suppose must have acted as a sort of parachute. As a gesture of thanks, he gave all his books to the abbey. And so it’s thanks to his petticoats that we have this volume here.”
“That’s quite incredible,” I said, doing a spot of quick thinking. “What a story. In fact, just the kind of thing I’m looking for.�
��
“Really?”
“My thesis is going to concentrate on oral history,” I said. “I want to ask local people what they think of art.”
“I see,” she said. “As I said, it’s probably best if you talk to my husband. He’s the real expert. He’s at home this afternoon if you would like to see him.”
“Would that be okay?”
“I don’t see why not. In fact, I’m sure he would be delighted with the excuse to take a break from his work.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”
“Now, don’t be so silly. In fact, when I finish up here in a couple of minutes, I’ll go over to the house and ask him.”
“That’s ever so kind. Thank you.”
“That’s no problem. Why don’t you continue looking around while I go and check? I’m sure there’s still a lot you would like to see. Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask your name.”
“It’s Adam,” I said. “Adam Woods.”
As she left the abbey, letting the thick wooden door bang behind her, I continued on my tour, past the altar and into the north aisle. I turned a corner and saw a tomb of a woman, her likeness carved in marble. In her left hand she held a book, presumably a missal, in her right, a skull missing its bottom jaw. The sight of the skull unsettled me, and I turned away from it without making any notes and walked down the aisle back toward the entrance. I stopped by another white marble tomb of a man gazing upon the supine form of a lady. The decorative flourishes—the brocading on the woman’s dress, the twill cord around her waist, the tassels on the cushion supporting her—were all extremely fine, but at that moment I wasn’t interested in aesthetics. It was the pose of the two of them there, the man gazing upon the lifeless body of his wife, that fixed me to the spot.
I used to wake up in the middle of the night and watch Eliza sleeping. I would rest my elbow on the pillow, my hand on my cheek, and gaze on her while she rested. At times her breathing was so inaudible that I thought she had slipped into unconsciousness and died. At that moment I loved her so much. But then her chest would rise and fall and she would begin to stir.
I heard the door bang shut and turned around to see the head-master’s wife staring at me.
“Good news,” she said, walking toward me. “Just as I had said, my husband would be happy to see you later today. He suggests tea at four o’clock, if that suits you.”
“That’s wonderful.”
She gave me directions to the house, which stood in the school grounds, before excusing herself.
“Sorry, I have to run, otherwise we could have had a chat. Even though I have to confess I’m quite at a loss to know exactly what it is you want to write about, I think it’s just wonderful you are interested in art and in the past. Just wonderful. The way you were looking at that sculpture there almost brought tears to my eyes.”
“You must be Mr. Woods, the young man my wife was telling me about,” said the headmaster, opening the door of his large Victorian house and stretching out his hand. “Hello. I’m Jeffrey Peters. Come in, come in.”
The gray-haired, smartly dressed man led me through the entrance hall to a large sitting room where a fire cracked and spitted and cast a warm glow over the buttermilk-colored walls.
“Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a bergère chair with olive-green cushions. “May I get you some tea?”
“That would be wonderful,” I said, sitting down.
“I won’t be long, but please make yourself comfortable,” he said.
As he went off to make the tea, I stood up and took the opportunity to look around the tastefully decorated sitting room. On one wall stood an enormous bookcase, filled with books on church and cathedral architecture, spirituality and Christianity, while on the top of a highly polished mahogany chest of drawers stood a number of photographs of the headmaster and his wife and family. It was obvious that since the photographs had been taken, the headmaster, once quite a rotund figure, had lost a considerable amount of weight. In the corridor I heard the sound of the headmaster carrying the tea things, so I quickly resumed my seat.
“Here we are,” he said, placing the tray on the low-lying table between our chairs. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just milk,” I said.
“And cake? June does rather pride herself on her fruitcake.”
“What a good idea,” I said. “Thank you.”
“June told me a little about your proposed thesis,” he said, passing me a plate, “which does sound rather intriguing, but I wondered if you could outline it in a little more detail.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, trying not to think too much about the library of specialist books on the shelves above me. “I’m not an expert in church or cathedral architecture—I’ve only just finished an art history degree—but I wanted to research the way objects in places like Winterborne Abbey are displayed and experienced.”
The headmaster reached out to take his teacup, but his intelligent eyes registered a keen interest in the subject.
“For instance, when you go to a museum, a world-class museum like the Tate or the V & A or the National Gallery, you see objects of great genius and beauty and intelligence, but often I believe you don’t feel a personal connection with the art. Whereas if you live or study or work in close proximity to a place, such as the abbey, that can trace the provenance of the objects in its collection way back in history, I think a viewer has a very different experience of the things on display.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said the headmaster. “It’s an interesting idea.”
“Your wife told me that fascinating story about the little boy who fell off the tower.”
“Oh, yes, terribly charming,” he said, laughing. “The famous nankeen petticoat.”
“And how he went on to leave his library to the school. I would be really interested to research the history of the book on display, of course, together with the ivory triptych, the chalice, cross, and other objects. And also some of the sculptures in the abbey as well, some of which are very fine indeed.”
“Yes, we would have had a great deal more, I should think, if the Norman church that stood on the site had not been struck by lightning and consumed by fire in the early fourteenth century.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. A case of totalier inflammavit, columnis decrustatis.”
“I see.”
He took another sip of tea and fixed me with his eyes.
“Of course I will help in any way I can, but I really can’t see what I can do.”
“I wondered whether the school keeps records of the objects, whether there is an archive of any sort.”
“Yes, there is something in the library I seem to remember, a ledger of some kind, I think. You’re welcome to have access to that if it helps.”
“Thank you, that’s extremely kind of you. And also, as I’m interested in the way people perceive these objects, I wondered whether it would be possible for you to put me in touch with any former staff members, for instance, or old boys of the school. I think it would be good to hear from as wide a range of people as possible, those from older and younger generations.”
“What kind of questions will you ask them?”
A currant from the fruitcake lodged itself in my throat.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I said, coughing. “It would be things like, what was your reaction when you first saw the particular object? Did you consider it to be an historical exhibit or a work of art or both? And how would you say it differed from the objects on display in a conventional museum?” I thought about the religious books on the shelves. “And did the relics or the objects have any kind of religious significance for you? Were they invested with a sort of spirituality?”
The headmaster looked down at the floor as he thought this over. As I waited for his decision, my heart began to race. I forced myself to keep my composure. Finally he raised his head, looked at me and smiled.
“I can see that could be very intere
sting indeed,” he said. “And I presume you will study other places as well.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m not sure which ones yet, but basically it will be anywhere that has a collection of art objects on display that have been there for years and that have a local, quite specific connection. So it may be things in a church, a local museum, a school or wherever. Of course, I am going to have to limit myself to the number of places I study, but if you have any suggestions, I’d be very happy to hear them.”
By the time I had finished, I had almost convinced myself that it was a worthwhile, and even quite interesting, subject for research.
“I think it’s a splendid idea, but I just have one question,” he said, staring intently at me. “Why on earth did you choose Winter-borne Abbey? After all, we are hardly, as they say, in the center of things, and the collection here, although we have a number of very fine pieces, is extremely modest.”
It was one question I had not prepared myself for. I pretended to clear my throat once more to give myself a few extra seconds to think.
“Sorry about this,” I said, as I coughed. “Oh, rather a silly reason, I’m afraid. When I was a teenager, I read The Debating Society, which I think was written by a former teacher here, Gordon Crace.”
On the mention of the name, the headmaster’s eyes narrowed. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant, but I had no choice but to continue.
The Lying Tongue Page 16
