Courting Shadows

by Jem Poster

  He met me half-way down the aisle, clasping my hand with extravagant warmth. He was very much as I had remembered him – the thick mane of hair a little greyer perhaps, the face a little fuller; but the years had obviously dealt leniently with him.

  ‘It’s good to see you here,’ he said. ‘Very good indeed. And what a splendid figure now. Let me have a look at you.’ He grasped my shoulder and thrust me back a pace, holding me from him at arm’s length, scanning my face with unabashed curiosity.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, relaxing his grip, ‘I believe you have more of your mother than your father about you. No bad thing: she was a fine-looking lady. And a lady, I might add, of considerable character.’

  He paused just long enough to suggest appropriate respect for my mother’s memory, but not so long as to let the shadow of her death chill the atmosphere.

  ‘And your father? Well, I trust.’

  ‘Tolerably well for a man in his seventieth year.’

  Vernon gave a deep chuckle. ‘I’m not far short of that myself. You’re still a young man and can hardly be expected to understand, but these can be – I speak from my own experience – years of great fulfilment.’

  ‘Of course. But my father seems to have aged a good deal recently, whereas you seem to be—’

  ‘In excellent health and spirits, thank the Lord. But I’ve always held that it’s essentially a question of attitude – the state of mind in which one tackles life’s demands. As any cricketer will tell you, the player who steps forward with confidence to meet the ball is the player who makes the runs. No use ducking or bobbing at the crease – foot firmly forward and a bit of power in the elbow. The analogy can be sustained and amplified – I’ve given more than one sermon on the subject – but you’ll appreciate the fundamental point. Foot firmly forward: simple advice but no less valuable for that. Take it to heart, young Stannard, and you’ll live to thank me for it. Am I not right, Mr Banks?’

  Banks averted his eyes. ‘Perhaps we should examine the doom,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to rush you, but I know how busy you are.’

  ‘Ah, yes, this – what did you call it in your letter, Mr Banks? – remarkable example of mediaeval English church art. I take it’ – he gestured towards the chancel wall – ‘that this is the work in question. Rather unprepossessing from our present vantage-point, I have to say, though perhaps its charms will become apparent upon closer inspection.’ He stepped forward, squinting up between the scaffolding-boards and the guard-rail. There was a long silence, then he turned to Banks.

  ‘Is this the full extent of the thing?’

  ‘A certain amount is concealed by the scaffolding.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realize that. But you’re not expecting to discover any more of it, are you?’

  ‘There’s no reason to suppose that we shall. The painting would originally have extended across the top of the archway, of course, but nothing of the other half seems to have survived.’

  Vernon nodded reflectively and returned to his examination of the wall, his face impassive. Banks seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking again.

  ‘We might get closer. If, that is, you don’t object to the climb …’

  ‘No, I don’t object, though I find it difficult to see how my appreciation of the work could possibly be enhanced by such intimate scrutiny. Surely it was designed to be viewed from ground level?’

  ‘That’s undoubtedly true, but there are one or two details I should like to point out to you. I can do so more easily at closer range.’

  ‘As you wish. Will you lead the way, Stannard?’

  He was hard at my heels as I climbed the ladder, moving, despite the unsuitability of his attire, with the agility of a far younger man. He swung himself round the upright and squatted down on the boards a yard or so from the painted surface. He looked up as Banks stepped on to the platform.

  ‘Well, Mr Banks,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to enlighten me. Which particular details should I be looking at?’

  ‘You might start with the brushwork: as you can see, it’s by no means delicate, but there’s a sureness of touch which suggests an artist of more than common ability. The highlighting of the body’s contours here, for example; or here. And these faces’ – he indicated the features of the screaming woman and her demonic companion – ‘are, it seems to me, unusually expressive. Then there’s the artist’s rendering of perspective: rather primitive, I admit, to the modern eye, but not entirely unremarkable by the standards of its own time. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not suggesting that we’re looking at a work of genius. But there’s evidence here of something more than routine workmanship, and I very much hope you’ll take account of that in your deliberations.’

  That our behaviour alters according to our circumstances is a truth so obvious as hardly to need stating, but I was sharply and forcefully struck by the difference between the Banks I had seen shortly after my arrival in the village – master of his flock, master of his own compelling discourse – and the figure who now squatted awkwardly beside the Dean, waiting for the word of approval or support which, I could see, was unlikely to be forthcoming. I think Banks was aware, too, that he was, as Vernon himself might have put it, batting on a losing wicket: when he resumed it was with the anxious and brittle enthusiasm of a man who feels his audience slipping from his grasp.

  ‘And there’s something else that might interest you. By rights, as Mr Stannard will tell you, the whole surface should have been rough-tooled before the new rendering was applied. But look at this: a bare minimum of tooling, and what there is has been placed so as to cause the least possible damage to the figures. That’s why the plaster has lifted, of course; that’s why it peeled away so easily. A source of irritation to you, Stannard, I know, but I must confess that I like the thought of that workman, at some time in the distant or not-so-distant past, compromising his own craft out of respect for that of one of his predecessors.’

  Vernon glanced in my direction, clearly expecting me to respond. It was the moment I had been waiting for.

  ‘It’s an interesting hypothesis, Banks, and I understand the appeal it must hold for you. But I know Dr Vernon will agree with me when I observe that sentimentality and professionalism make uneasy bedfellows, and I think I know where his sympathies would lie if he were obliged to adjudicate between the two. I have a job to do here, a job which I naturally wish to complete in good time and to the highest professional standards. I am, of course, sensitive to the context of the enterprise – any Christian edifice, however humble, rightly commands our respect – but I don’t believe that I should allow my work to be hindered – or, to take up your own term, compromised – by every residual scrap inadvertently exposed as I go about my necessary business. I’m prepared to accept that this particular fragment is, of its kind, unusually good; but the modern observer is far more likely to register its deficiencies than its virtues. And then there’s its subject: how many of your parishioners do you think would wish to be confronted by these images as they sit in their pews? More to the point, would you yourself wish your congregation to be confronted by them?’

  It was, I flatter myself, a well-judged intervention: I was aware, as I spoke, of Vernon nodding at my side in what I took to be agreement. Banks was silent, registering, no doubt, the disabling force of my final thrust.

  Vernon reached out for the guard-rail and pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps we should return to firmer ground.’

  Banks led the way, pausing at the foot of the ladder to steady it as Vernon descended.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Banks. And thank you for your helpful advice. I very much value your views and your willingness to share them with us.’

  ‘Then you agree that the painting should be preserved?’

  ‘I neither said nor meant to imply anything quite so definite. It’s a complex question, and one to which I shall have to devote some thought. And now, if
you don’t mind, I should like a word in private with Mr Stannard.’

  Banks opened his mouth as if to speak, but seemed to decide against it. He inclined his head slightly and withdrew. Vernon watched him out of the door before turning back to me.

  ‘Let me make my position plain, Stannard. I’m speaking confidentially, you understand, but I’m with you entirely on this matter. As you suggest, the mural itself is fragmentary and, to put it at best, unedifying. Then we have to consider the question of delay – and preservation always, in my experience, involves delay – and the inescapable financial implications of that. Banks is in many respects a good curate – a good man – but he has, shall we say, a rather limited perspective on these issues. You and I understand, far more clearly than he does, the practicalities which – the term seems apposite in the circumstances – underpin his faith. Even so …’

  He paused ruminatively, fingering his collar.

  ‘Even so?’

  ‘There are difficulties. The truth is that Banks hasn’t dealt entirely straightforwardly with us. He seems to have communicated his concerns – without any consultation with me, mark you – to a society of architectural enthusiasts, one of whose representatives has just dashed off a letter to the Bishop arguing for what he terms a stay of execution. Briefly, this fellow wants us to stop work on the chancel wall pending evaluation of the mural’s merits. And the fact that I now know those merits to be negligible doesn’t, unfortunately, release me from the obligation to meet him when he turns up here to give us the dubious benefit of his scholarly opinion.’

  ‘When might that be?’

  ‘Not before the end of next week, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Stannard. It’s such a waste of everybody’s time. To be frank, I’ve no patience at all with these people: they impede progress, offering by way of compensation only a hazy retrospect on a world we’ve long outgrown. But the problem is that we can’t readily dismiss them. Many are learned men – ostensibly so, at least. Some have a certain social standing. Collectively, they exercise a surprising degree of influence. The Bishop himself seems disposed to – well, perhaps it’s simply that he’s a more charitable man than I am.’

  Suddenly, surprisingly, he threw back his head and laughed, setting the nave ringing. And at the same moment Ann peered round the edge of the door.

  If I was pleased to see her – and I suppose I must have been – I was also acutely embarrassed. For one panicky instant I imagined her walking down the aisle to stand at my side, obliging me to introduce her; then, with a faint, disquieting smile, she withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

  Vernon could not have seen her, and seemed not to have noticed my own discomfiture. He drew a heavy silver watch from beneath the folds of his cloak and held it at arm’s length, scrutinizing the dial through half-closed eyes.

  ‘Time,’ he said, tapping the glass with a blunt forefinger. ‘Never enough of it. You must forgive me: I have other duties to attend to. I hope this unfortunate business won’t hinder your progress unduly.’

  ‘There’s plenty to keep me occupied. The fabric of the north wall—’

  ‘We can talk about that at my next visit. I shall let you know when I have further news. In the meantime’ – he draped his arm across my shoulder and walked me firmly towards the door – ‘let me just reassure you that your work here is very much appreciated. I like a man who recognizes nonsense when he comes across it – and between you and me, Stannard, the world is full of nonsense of one kind and another – and I’m even fonder of the man who knows how to deal with it. You have a way about you, no doubt of it, and I’d like to see you get on in the world. Perhaps we can do something about that. And now,’ he concluded, hauling open the door, ‘I really must be on my way. Please convey my regards to your father when you next see him. I’ve promised to visit him myself when circumstances permit, but such opportunities are rarer than one would like.’

  Ann was waiting for me. Not, fortunately, in full view; but I had barely seen Vernon out of the churchyard before she emerged from the far side of the tower, hurrying across the drenched grass to head me off as I walked back up the path. This was, I suppose, the moment I had anticipated or imagined so keenly through four restless nights; but there was an unbecoming audacity about her approach – a certain presumptuousness perhaps – that kept me on my guard. She laid hold of my sleeve and might well, I thought, have embraced me had I not stepped smartly out of range. Her face clouded momentarily, but she kept her eyes on mine.

  ‘We must talk,’ she said.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Wherever you like. We might take a turn down the lane.’

  ‘Now? In broad daylight?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious. Besides, I have work to do.’

  ‘This evening, then. Meet me on the hillside.’

  ‘At what time?’

  She broke away abruptly and walked down the path, not pausing until she reached the gate. Then she looked back over her shoulder, her face set, her voice suddenly hard.

  ‘When it’s dark enough for you,’ she said.

  14

  I am conscious now of the absurdity of my actions – sprucing myself up for an evening on a windswept hillside with all the care of a man preparing for a visit to the opera – but that was not the way the matter struck me at the time. I washed, shaved, pared and cleaned my fingernails and brushed back my hair, sprinkling it with oil until it shone. And though I knew perfectly well that most of my clothing would be concealed beneath my greatcoat, I changed my shirt and trousers and put on my dark jacket.

  The truth is that I had begun to play the lover in earnest. I remember casting about for a gift, a token – for something that might convey to Ann my sense of the evening’s significance; and it was at that point that I recollected my letter. I went down to the sitting-room and retrieved it from my writing-case; then I slipped it into my coat pocket and hurried out.

  If I were of a more superstitious turn of mind, I might be tempted to imagine that what I experienced over the next few minutes was a form of premonition. Just a vague unease at first, depressing my spirits and slowing me in my stride as I made my way up the lane; but climbing the hillside in the gathering dusk, I found myself gripped by a kind of terror, shivering violently, my strength gone. I worked my way round to the lee of a stunted thornbush and stood there waiting for the tremors to subside. And as I waited she came into view, a small dark stain moving steadily across the hillside above me. The thought crossed my mind that if I were to remain absolutely still, I might escape her notice, slipping quietly away when she had passed. Then she began to move obliquely down the slope towards me, and I knew it was too late to change anything.

  I was still trembling when she reached me, and she too, I noticed, scanning her face in the dying light, showed signs of agitation. She held out her hand in a gesture so ambiguously poised between the familiar and the formal that I was uncertain how to respond.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ she asked.

  I am not sure that I made any answer, but she took my arm and we walked together towards the black bulk of the beechwood. It seemed to me that I was not moving entirely of my own volition, yet there was nothing obviously coercive about the light pressure of her hand on my sleeve.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ she said.

  ‘I’m cold.’

  She stopped and turned to face me; then she reached up and fastened the collar of my greatcoat, her small knuckles grazing my throat as the button slipped through the stiff cloth. It was a gesture of extreme simplicity, yet charged, I felt, with unfathomable meaning.

  ‘I have something for you,’ I said. I fumbled in my pocket and drew out the letter.

  She took it from me and unfolded it, peering at it as though she might have been able to read it.

  ‘It’s too dark,’ she said. ‘Tell me what it says.’

  ‘It says,’ I began, and faltered, wondering how I might translate the letter’s florid excesse
s into an idiom more appropriate to my immediate situation.

  ‘Tell me,’ she insisted.

  ‘It’s a message of love. You must read it when you get home.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She tucked the letter away beneath her mantle and latched on to my arm again.

  By the time we reached the wood it had begun to rain, a fine pervasive drizzle driven by a light wind. We stood under the sighing boughs with the darkness deepening around us, her face close to mine but inscrutable now, a shadow among shadows. It might, it occurred to me, have been any one of the faces upon which, over the years, in tram-cars, drawing-rooms or crowded streets, my imagination had played so hungrily, creating for itself the illusion of a moment such as this.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered with sudden breathless intensity, her body stiffening as she strained upwards, one hand pulling at the lapel of my coat. I was like a bather on an unfamiliar shoreline feeling the sands shelve unexpectedly beneath his feet, struggling for balance.

  ‘At the churchyard the other day,’ I said, ‘seeing you standing there in the sunlight, I’d have said you were—’

  ‘Sssh,’ she said, and pressed her mouth against mine, stifling the words on my lips. And as she did so, it all receded – the remembered face, the apt phrases, the daylight world itself, all lost in the breathing dark. I slipped both hands beneath her mantle, feeling through the harsh stuff of her dress the movement of her shoulder-blades as she locked her fingers behind my neck; and then, sliding my left hand round beneath her raised arm, I let it come to rest – though not, I am certain, with any dishonourable intention – against the warm curve of her breast.

  She gave a muted cry and writhed sideways, bringing her arm between us.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  She placed her open palm gently against my chest, half cautionary, half caressing.