by Jem Poster
‘If we don’t take it?’
There was a moment’s pause. Then she rounded on me with a flash of something like anger.
‘We have to take it,’ she said. ‘We’ve no right to refuse. You know that as well as I do.’ And then, still with the same odd intensity: ‘Listen, I’ve written to you again.’
‘I’ve received nothing.’
‘I haven’t sent the letter. I wanted to give it to you myself.’
She slid her hand beneath her mantle and drew out a folded sheet. I caught a faint warmth, a breath of perfume on the damp air.
‘Why don’t you simply tell me what you have to say?’ I asked.
An obvious question, I should have thought, but she seemed momentarily taken aback. The letter slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground.
‘I don’t always get things right when I say them. This’ – she stooped to retrieve the letter – ‘is what I’d like to be able to tell you to your face but can’t manage. I’m nervous when I speak to you. I forget words, or if I remember them I can’t put them together in the ways I want. In the ways you’d want me to.’
‘Let me see it.’ I held out my hand.
‘You’re not to open it now. I’d like you to read it later, when you’re back in your lodgings. Promise me you won’t look at it till then? I want you to have time to think, to imagine—’
She blushed, faltered.
‘Imagine what?’
‘Imagine me sitting there writing it. For you. Finding words to tell you of my love.’
How easily we may be caught off balance: a look, a phrase, fingers brushed lightly across a sleeve. And the heart springs suddenly wide, the lips part. Love, I might almost have breathed, is the only word: we need no others. And I suspect that my residual sense of the notion’s absurdity would not of itself have prevented me from articulating it, but I retained enough self-possession to see how unwise it would have been, at that particular juncture, to say more than the situation actually demanded.
‘Give me the letter,’ I said. ‘I’ll read it tonight.’
Jefford was perched on the scaffold a little to the right of the chancel arch, prising the plaster from the wall in thick flakes. He was evidently too close to see what I, entering by the north door, spotted at once.
‘Lay off for a moment, will you, Jefford? Step aside.’
He scrambled clumsily across the planks, dislodging a shower of whitish dust.
‘What is it, sir?’
His voice shook a little. I realized that he had imagined himself to be in danger.
‘It’s all right, Jefford. I just want to see the wall you’ve been working on.’
The images were by no means entirely clear, but from where I stood it was possible to make out a naked female figure, arms raised high above her head, emerging from, or sinking thigh-deep into, a gloomy waste of rippled water. The artist had highlighted the woman’s protuberant belly and breasts, as well as the sinews of her long neck. Her head was tilted to the right, and just above her left shoulder hung a reddish whiskered face whose goggling eyes leered sideways and upward as though seeking her attention. Her own eyes were averted and seemed, I thought as I approached more closely, expressive of unmitigated horror. Her mouth was wide open in what I could only interpret as a scream. Beside her, still partially concealed by the plaster and severely abraded around the head and shoulders, a second figure, apparently male, grappled with what I took to be a beaked serpent. The left arm held back the reptile’s head, but the scaled coils looped tightly around the lower part of the torso chillingly suggested the inequality of the struggle.
There was a spurt of light from the scaffolding above. I took a pace or two backwards and looked up to see Jefford holding a flickering match to a candle stump.
‘We don’t need that,’ I said.
‘It’s strange, sir, but I’ve been working on this wall all afternoon without seeing—’
‘The less we see of such things the better.’
Even as I spoke, I became aware that the dark patch running diagonally across the woman’s left hip and into her groin was not, as I had previously thought, an area of damage or discoloration but a clawed hand, red-brown against the pale tints of her flesh; and following back the line of the wrist, I was just able to distinguish the outline of another body, shadowing hers, in the darkness at her back. Despite the guttering of the flame and the relative dullness of the pigments, I saw immediately how this body connected with the leering face above her shoulder, and I was seized by the certainty that what I was witnessing – what the painter had depicted – was the bestial coupling of the woman and her grotesque consort.
‘He’s got her in his clutches all right.’
I started. Harris had come up behind me and stood gawping at the wall.
‘Get back to your work.’
He ignored the command.
‘The rector will be interested in that,’ he said.
‘I sincerely hope not. And in any case I don’t want Banks, or anyone else, to be told of this. Do you understand?’
‘You can’t stop him finding out.’
‘I’m not going to discuss the matter with you, Harris.’
‘No, sir. In any case, that wasn’t what I came to speak to you about.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I’ve been worrying about Will. Do you think he should be working up there?’
‘I can’t see why not. It’s a dusty job, but relatively undemanding.’
‘Maybe so. But I was thinking, if he has one of his turns, he might easily lose his footing.’
‘I appreciate your concern, but if he’s to receive his wages he’ll have to do something to earn them. I’m doing what I can to accommodate him, but the plain truth is that he shouldn’t be here at all. If you want to take it upon yourself to explain that to him, I shan’t object. I’m sure there are others in the village who would be only too happy to take his place.’
Jefford stopped work and looked towards us. I lowered my voice.
‘I’ve been more than generous in this matter, Harris. From a strictly practical viewpoint my retention of Jefford’s inadequate services is sheer folly. I’ve made very considerable allowances for him, and shall no doubt have to make more. But you must realize that I can’t pay him to stand around doing nothing at all. Now get back to your own work and stop worrying about other people’s.’
I had known, of course, that Harris was right about the impossibility of keeping Banks in the dark, but I was not prepared for his arrival at that particular juncture. I think it was the scaffolding that drew his attention at first, but he was quick to spot what lay behind it. He strode down the aisle and stood a couple of paces behind me, his head tilted upward.
‘It’s a doom painting,’ he said.
‘I know that.’
‘And quite a remarkable one by the look of it.’ He fished a small pince-nez from an inner pocket and perched it on the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve seen quite a number in my time, but nothing directly comparable to this.’
He began to move backwards and forwards experimentally, ducking and weaving where his sightline was impeded by the scaffolding. Jefford had stopped work and now moved to the edge of the structure to offer a clearer view. Banks’s face was flushed, his voice thick with suppressed excitement.
‘Do you mind if I go up, Stannard? I’d like to take a look at some of the details.’
I hesitated, but I could hardly refuse the man in his own church. ‘Do as you wish,’ I said, ‘though I can’t imagine you’ll find the thing much improved by closer acquaintance.’
He scrambled up the ladder and squatted on the platform in front of the painting. There was a long silence before he rose to his feet again.
‘Have you a soft brush?’ he asked, leaning over the handrail. ‘A paintbrush or something of the sort?’
I knew exactly what he had in mind, and I was having none of it.
‘I’m afraid not. And we need to press on with
the job.’
‘Of course. But I’d like you to see this. Would you mind …’
I climbed the ladder in a state of considerable irritation and joined him on the platform. As I had anticipated, the painting was even less impressive at close quarters than it had appeared from ground-level, and I saw no reason to keep my opinions to myself.
‘But look at this, Stannard. This face. These hands. There’s real delicacy here.’
‘Delicacy? The term seems singularly inappropriate.’
‘And at the same time, a quite extraordinary vigour in the execution of some of the larger masses. Here, for example.’
He ran his fingers lightly across a patch of flesh-coloured pigment. The action struck me as unnecessary and faintly distasteful.
‘Primitive cultures always display a certain vigour,’ I said. ‘What they lack is restraint. And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like Jefford to get back to work.’
‘Of course. But make sure he goes carefully. You see this, Jefford?’ He indicated a deep scratch across the scaly tail of the serpent. ‘No more gouging. Keep the blade flat. Any plaster which doesn’t come away cleanly should be left for the moment.’
I could see the business taking a highly undesirable turn, and I stepped in quickly.
‘Jefford’s in my pay, Banks, not yours.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m simply concerned to avoid further damage.’
‘We’ll do our best. But in the end we shall have to score the whole surface for re-rendering, and a little damage at this stage is really neither here nor there.’
Banks stared at me as though I had been guilty of some gross impropriety. ‘We can’t do that,’ he said. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘On the contrary, it’s absolutely essential. If the job had been done properly last time we shouldn’t have this problem now. No plasterer worth his salt would dream of applying rendering to a surface as poorly prepared as this.’
‘What I mean,’ said Banks slowly, ‘is that we shouldn’t even be considering re-rendering. The doom must be conserved and displayed.’
I should have responded rather more sharply if Jefford had not been present.
‘My task here is difficult enough as it is,’ I said. ‘I should prefer to avoid unnecessary complications.’
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
Jefford shuffled forward.
‘Shall I get on now, sir?’
Banks held up his hand. ‘Just one moment, please. Listen, Stannard, I realize that this isn’t quite in your usual line of business, but as an architect you must be aware that there’s been considerable public and professional concern lately about the over-zealous restoration of our churches. A great deal has been lost in recent years.’
‘Most of it not worth keeping. We’ve come a long way, both technically and morally, since this was painted. What purpose do you imagine might be served by lumbering ourselves with daubs like this? Why should we cling to the nightmares of a graceless age, or sanctify its follies?’
Jefford shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Down below, Harris had stopped work and was staring up at us. Banks reached out and touched me lightly on the arm.
‘Perhaps we should save this discussion for another day,’ he said. ‘I should like the Dean’s opinion on the matter. I hope you won’t object if I invite him to pay us a visit.’
It was a shrewd move. I nodded to Jefford.
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘Carefully.’
I was still seething when I got back to my lodgings. By involving Vernon, Banks was issuing an oblique challenge to my own authority. He had not struck me as a man skilled in the ways of the world, but he had certainly identified a point of leverage and would not, I imagined, hesitate to make full use of it.
I might well have spent the evening brooding on the matter if I had not been reminded, removing my jacket, of Ann’s letter. I took it from my pocket and carefully unfolded it; and as I began to read the world and its irritations seemed to recede, as though I had come home to some shared space and found her waiting for me.
It was a surprising letter, strikingly irreticent and, indeed, decidedly presumptuous in its implicit claims; yet I was obliged to recognize that its very audacity constituted a significant part of its appeal.
Dearest,
I am writing this letter late at night; and you must picture me sitting in the firelight with my hair loose about my shoulders, glad of this respite from the business of the day. It is at moments such as this that I feel most keenly the need to communicate with you, to send my thoughts out to you across the dark space that lies between us.
It will not always be like this. I imagine another world, a world shining under the bright light of the sun; a world in which love and order hold sway and in which we walk as one, your hand in mine, towards a deeper fulfilment than our present lives allow. The details are unclear, and perhaps it is better so; yet the vision itself has transformed my innermost being and given focus to the inexpressible longings of my thirsting soul.
The clock ticks in the shadows, beating out time. And who registers the passage of time more acutely than those who love? Yet in loving truly we may also come to know those moments of timeless wonder that bring us close to the very source and centre of life. In your dear company I have indeed known such moments; moments which now, relived in your absence, give me at once the strength to continue and joy in continuance.
I have been dreaming, drifting in and out of sleep. And now the first birds are beginning to stir and sing. The fire is almost out, a heap of grey ash in the grate. But the love in my heart, my darling, is unquenchable and will blaze out through this present gloom, a beacon guiding you safely to the haven of my arms. I await, eagerly but without impatience, the realization of my vision.
The letter’s astonishing intimacy was, if anything, enhanced by the absence of any signature. It was as though the writer had broken off to gather her thoughts and might at any moment resume her discourse; or, I imagined with a sharp thrill of pleasure, as though she could not bear to bring the communication to a close.
And I was taken, too, by the letter’s style: florid certainly, more than a little overwrought, but suggestive of an appreciably higher level of sophistication and accomplishment than I had previously given its author credit for. Yes, I thought, suddenly flushed with excitement, I could make something of the girl; and though I suppose I should not at that or at any other time have felt entirely comfortable about articulating the word, it was undoubtedly marriage that I had in mind.
13
Taking his cue from Banks, Jefford worked with infuriating delicacy, spinning out the job until the end of the week. I had resolved not to intervene in advance of the Dean’s visit, but found my patience tested to the limit.
His pride on completing the task was almost as irksome to me as the pointless meticulousness with which he had carried it out. I arrived a little late that morning, tired and irritable after a third successive evening spent in fruitless vigil on the hillside, to find him in the middle of the nave, contemplating what he had clearly come to think of as his own handiwork.
‘That’s a job well done,’ he said, glancing my way as I approached. ‘Though I say so myself.’
His demeanour had lightened noticeably while he had been occupied with the painting, and my suspicions had not unnaturally resurfaced. I was not inclined to humour him.
‘Faster done would have been better done,’ I said brusquely.
‘I was mindful of the rector’s words, sir. Go carefully he said, and that’s what I did. There was a fair bit lost before they covered it up but there’s been no damage in the uncovering, barring a scratch or two. Even at that edge there, where the plaster had bonded—’
‘It’s immaterial to me, Jefford, though I’ve no doubt Mr Banks will be delighted.’
‘Yes, sir. He was good enough to say as much.’
Banks had spent more than an hour up the scaffold on the afternoon of the previous day
, examining Jefford’s fresh discoveries in minute detail. I had resisted his invitation to join him there, having seen enough from below to convince me that I should be wasting my time.
The painter had evidently possessed only the most rudimentary sense of perspective. A ladder footed in the grey water a little above the right shoulder of the screaming woman ascended without diminution to the top of a towering cliff from which a gang of blood-coloured demons were pitching the small white bodies of their victims, while at the base of the cliff, and in indeterminate spatial relationship to the four larger figures below them, a man and a woman stood naked on an island of ochre stone or sand.
There was, it was true, something about the handling of this couple which hinted at a slightly greater degree of sophistication. There was a compelling tension in the attitude of the two figures, their bodies leaning towards one another, their long fingers almost touching, while at the same time their averted faces stared out over the desolate waters as though even that prospect were preferable to the meeting of eyes. And I was struck, too, by the uncharacteristically fluent treatment of the flames which flickered around the couple’s loins – suggestive, it seemed to me, not so much of ambient hellfire as of an inward conflagration erupting uncontainably from its hidden centre. I was, I must confess, faintly intrigued, but these discoveries could hardly be said to compensate for the general crudeness of design and execution which had been apparent from the first. Vernon might conceivably find Banks’s enthusiasm engaging, but surely, I thought, the facts would speak for themselves.
The Dean’s arrival was felicitously timed. I had just set Jefford to work on the area of cracked tiling around the base of the font and was having a quiet word with Harris about the removal of the remaining pews when the door swung open and Banks ushered his visitor into the church. First impressions are important, and Vernon would have seen nothing at that crucial moment to suggest either slackness or disharmony. I strode forward to greet him, and as I did so, the sick fatigue which had oppressed me all morning seemed to lift like a summer mist.
