White Stone Day (23 page)

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire 'I don't understand, Harry. I don't know what it
is you want.' 'I would wish for a clear focus for once. Therefore
please oblige me by remaining still and by closing your mouth.'
'Please do not use that voice to me, Harry, I don't like it.'
'Forgive me, my dear, but the procedure is difficult enough as it
is.' The duke is beginning to wonder if he needs spectacles, for it
takes him ages to focus, and even then the result is at variance with
what he thought he saw through the lens. Even more irksome is the
artistic difficulty. Though the face beneath the muslin hood, and the
undraped form beneath (exactly as he imagined beneath the skirts of
the condemned woman so many years ago), are sufficient to arouse in
Danbury the most passionate sentiments, Birdie cannot seem to capture
the expression, the cool defiance on that statue–like visage.
Still, if he continues to badger her about it she will weep, and the
session will be ruined. 'Listen carefully, Birdie, while I explain it
to you once more. First, lift your chin slightly – no, a bit
more, and to the left. Now purse your lips, and allow your eyes to
drift upward to the rope, while assuming a proud expression, full of
defiance.' 'But wouldn't a person be frightened, Harry? Standing
before the hangman, unclothed? I certainly would,' At her
pronunciation of the word 'unclothed', Danbury struggles to contain
himself. 'But that is just the point, my dear. You are not simply
anyone. Alone and – and – and naked before the beastly
throng, and yet you defy them – with your lack of fear and your
. . . nakedness 'Are you all right, Harry? Your face is very
flushed.' Birdie regards him curiously, having no idea why he should
want such a picture, yet wishing to please him in the way that he
pleases her. 'Harry, I think I am running out of patience with this –
indeed, I must say that I find it most peculiar . . .' 'Yes! Yes,
that is the expression. That is it. Oh, yes indeed. Hold very still
now. Do not move. Perfect!' And the Duke of Danbury takes his
photograph, satisfied at last. 190 38

The
Thames 'Hail ho, Mr Whitty, and you honour my house. Peace be to you
on this narrow path to the sea, like the path to the vastness of
Heaven, down which all travel! Allah Akbar! God is great!' So saying,
the Mussulman exhales a puff of smoke, which is not the usual qat,
more like fragrant clay. Now he removes the mouthpiece lips and
extends it to Whitty, while performing a foreign gesture with the
other hand. For politeness' sake, Whitty inhales the musty smoke from
the tube, then repeats the operation, for the flavour is not
unpleasant . . . After a certain amount of time he finds himself, and
Mr Neffici, staring upward in wonder – at the greatness of God,
the vastness of the universe, and the frangibility of human existence
. . . If thoughts are chemicals swishing about the skull, thinks the
correspondent, does it follow that chemicals are thoughts? Can a
chemical produce, not just an effect, but an idea} A treatment as
innocuous as coffee will induce not just wakefulness but a wakeful
sense of purpose; ale will create hearty thoughts, while gin can be
wild or indecent, depending upon the brand . . . Whitty looks at the
Mussulman, only to discover that he has enlarged considerably,
especially the head, while beneath his little beard there seems to be
no neck at all. Who are you? asks the Mussulman, meeting his gaze.
'Odd that you ask, sir, for the question has been much on my own
mind. Father was incognito, it seems. Mother so subsumed her life to
his, I cannot imagine her, beyond the word Mother. If one does not
know who one was, how to know who one is?' What do you mean by that?
demands the Mussulman with the tube dangling from his mouth. Explain
yourself. 'I mean that leading one's life is rather like piloting a
rowboat. Propelling oneself forward while facing astern, don't you
see.' I do not see. 'One sees everything, except where one is going.
It is very confusing.' It isn't. 'Maybe not to you, sir. You are a
foreign race with primitive, simple 191 WHITE STONE DAY beliefs. Were
your child to attend Balliol, he would see things with less
certainty.' Not a bit. The Mussulman blows a puff of purple smoke in
his direction, and Whitty feels his spirit rise out of his body like
a hot–air balloon, and now he is looking down at the canal,
like a grey serpent far below, writhing and twisting through the
fields of Oxfordshire, and the Endeavour is a match–box
containing three tiny animals, moving with comic slowness towards
Oxford, the heart of the civilised world, where lies the answer to
everything. 192 39

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire From the sickbed of The Reverend C.G. Lambert,
Crouch Manor, Oxfordshire Your Grace, the Duke of Danbury, Please
excuse the script in which this document must needs be communicated,
as I am indisposed and rely upon my children's Governess, by whose
hand I communicate herein. Circumstances beyond my purview have
effected a disruption of that intimacy which, as Spiritual Adviser to
the House of Danbury, I had hoped to effect. A misfortune, which is
God's Will, deters me from providing such advice as may be within my
ability to convey. It comes as a comfort that my dear Wife has
willingly undertaken this ministry in my absence. It is natural to
one blessed with the gold of distinguished elevation not to soil
one's ears with the base coin of the rabble. Notwithstanding, it
would be a relinquishment of my duty to remain silent. I must,
painfully, inform your Grace that Rumours have reached my ears of
Improprieties which I shall not dignify by name. These rumours, were
they to spread, would cause Great Harm, not only to the Danbury name,
but to those who look to Danbury as a moral beacon in a confused
world. In the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of
the Holy Spirit, I remain Your loyal and obedient servant, the
Reverend Charles Grantham Lambert 'I say, of all the impudence!'
cries Danbury, crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing it into
the fire. Lush moves quickly to save the paper from burning in order
to get the gist of the message. 'I beg your Grace to look at the
situation calmly. After all, you did appoint him your spiritual
adviser.' 'What the devil has that to do with it? Surely it is a
given that when I want advice I shall ask for it.' 'Harry, the lady
under discussion is his wife. It has been many years 193 WHITE STONE
DAY since the nobility enjoyed droit de seigneur. Surely you can
appreciate that.' 'I promise you, Lush: if you continue in this
supercilious vein I shall not be pleased.' 'Very well, your Grace,'
replies Lush. 'He is threatening me. It is as simple as that. It is
tantamount to blackmail. It cannot be permitted. Next thing you know,
the villain will be demanding half my estate in return for his
silence. Well, I won't have it, and there is an end to it.'
'Truthfully, Harry, this business with the Lambert family has gone
altogether too far. First the daughter, now the mother – why
not simply confiscate the entire family?' 'An interesting suggestion.
I shall take it under advisement.' 'No, Harry, it is not interesting.
I beg you not to think about it.' 'I'll think about what it pleases
me to think about. In the meanwhile, I feel a need for personal
protection. Go and fetch your brutes, will you? They cost me a small
fortune, they should be eager to come.' 'What is it you want them to
do?' 'I shall announce my wishes upon their arrival.' 'I must warn
your Grace that these are not ordinary men, either in character or
appearance. I have gone to great pains not to associate them in any
way with your name and estate – and with good reason.' 'I
certainly won't allow them on the grounds, if that's what you mean.'
'I mean that it is imperative that they avoid the vicinity of Bissett
Grange. There is simply too much risk involved, Harry, I will not
have it.' 'If you think I give a damn about what you will have or not
have, you are very much mistaken. As the estate manager of Bissett
Grange, your function is to do my bidding. And I will not have my
Christian name bandied about in my own house. I find that our
association has taken on an inappropriate familiarity, and I want it
stopped at once.' 'Yes, your Grace,' replies the estate manager. And
as they stand side– by side before the fire, it is as if an
invisible door between them has closed. About time, Lush thinks. 194
40

Crouch
Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire The condition of Lambert's mouth
has not improved. Desperate letters to Dr Eisler, dictated in agony
to Miss Pouch and mailed twice daily, have gone unanswered. He cannot
take anything but consomme without pain, nor speak coherently for the
swelling; his morphine dosage would kill another man and has begun to
produce alarming side–effects – hallucinations, lack of
impulse–control, and a complete inability to sleep. Upon
discovering what was clearly a love–poem while inspecting
Emma's drawing book, it being beyond the Duties Description of a
governess to speculate upon the hand that wrote it, Miss Pouch's
response was, purely and simply, to do her duty. Indeed, for her not
to act upon such a shocking document would be grounds for instant
dismissal. Therefore, without delay and with a clear conscience, she
proceeded upstairs to present the offending document to the head of
the house, and to request instruction. Only after observing her
employer's alarming and excessive response did the specific content
of the document, and the fact that the script could only have come
from one hand, sink in. Miss Pouch had no wish to possess such
inappropriate knowledge; indeed, it put her in a profoundly awkward
position, pressed into service as confidante and secretary to the
Reverend. At his insistence she was made to fetch writing materials,
whereupon her employer dictated a letter – which took the
entire afternoon to accomplish, due to the swelling of his mouth and
consequent difficulty in speaking. Once accomplished, Mr Lambert took
a medicament and proceeded to become quite unhinged, uttering words
and phrases of such shocking indecency (especially from a man of the
cloth), that Miss Pouch came to bitterly regret her dutiful
disclosure. Thereafter, for the sake of the family and her position
in it, she destroyed the offending verse, and determined never to
mention its existence, ever again. Having destroyed the evidence of
one disgrace, Miss Pouch had begun to fear one that was far more
dangerous to everyone concerned: for if there is anything more
socially damaging than to lose one's 195 WHITE STONE DAY reputation,
it is to go mad. Suffer a betrayal, and you receive a measure of
pity; go mad, and you become infected with an incurable, contagious
disease. Miss Pouch's fears, and those of the rest of the household,
are confirmed when Mrs Lambert orders the closure of the topmost
floor of Crouch Manor, where Lambert can be heard wandering from room
to room at all hours, talking to himself, swearing atrociously, and
threatening to murder anyone who summons a doctor. Of course there
can be no question of calling a local physician: the congregation of
St Alban's would hardly seek spiritual guidance from a man who has
gone out of his mind. It would not be an exaggeration to say that,
should it become known that Mr Lambert has succumbed to mental
disease, the resulting scandal will put his entire household in the
poorhouse. As for Birdie, she soon sought out her one source of
assistance, the Duke of Danbury. The Duke responded with sympathy and
concern: in particular, he worried that Crouch Manor might have
already become an unwhole– some place for the children, and
proposed a plan. 'I assure you,' he said, 'that you are under my
protection.' Later, relieved of her worry, Birdie dropped her veil of
her own accord at the height of their exertions, to Danbury's evident
delight. . . It is an hour before dawn, when even the
maid–of–all–work is asleep. The house is silent but
for the clock in the parlour, and the muffled footsteps of Mr Lambert
upstairs, pacing the floor and moaning at the moon. Abruptly,
urgently, the Lambert girls are awakened and commanded to remain
silent. It is Miss Pouch, who hurriedly drapes them in
dressing–gowns, then shoos them out the door and downstairs,
where Mother awaits them at the front door. Outside, the four women
scurry down the elm–avenue to an awaiting carriage –
which, they are informed by Mother, is to transport them to temporary
quarters in a wing at Bissett Grange. 'What about Father?' asks
Lydia. 'Your father is very ill,' replies Mother. Emma finds it all
very peculiar, and very sad. She glances back at the receding shadow
of Crouch Manor, and for the first time in her life she feels pity
for her misfortunate father, and for what he has lost, in addition to
his teeth. 196 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE Mother tucks
her into a bed several times larger than her own, while Miss Pouch
arranges their clothes for tomorrow. Though the room is scarcely lit,
by the echo of their whispers Emma knows that it is much larger than
the nursery at home. Now the four of them join in a good– night
prayer and Miss Pouch proceeds to blow out the candles. 'Leave us
just one candle, please,' says Emma. 'For I am afraid of the dark.'
'Now, Emma,' says Birdie, 'I should think you far too grown–up
to be afraid of the dark.' 'I'm afraid too, Mother,' whispers Lydia
from her side of the room. 'And I'm not so grown–up as Emma.'
'Very well,' says Birdie, placing a candle on a stool in the middle
of the floor, safely away from the curtains and bed–linen. 'You
may keep one candle. But it must not be touched except to blow it
out. We don't want to return his Grace's kindness by burning down the
house.' 'We promise.' Snuggling beneath the weightless luxury of down
and cotton, watching the shadow of the candle dart to and fro upon
the ceiling, listening to the muffled rhythm of footsteps marching
back and forth in the hall (so many servants!), Emma thinks about
this new situation, and their furtive flight from Crouch Manor. Her
mind turns to the room upstairs where Eliza once slept, to the
servant who mistook her for a ghost, and the graveyard in the forest,
and her peculiar encounters with the hedgehog. Lastly she thinks
about the room containing the picture she believes to be Eliza, and
the one she could not decipher but which disturbed her, nonetheless.
That is why she has made up her mind to return to the other room with
the candle; for there must be many other photographs inside, in
addition to the two they were able to glimpse (before they were
interrupted by the hedgehog), and who knows what they might contain?
Some time after the footsteps in the hall have ceased, Emma and Lydia
slip out of their beds, Emma claims the candle, and the two proceed
unseen and unopposed out the door and to the main stairs; no doubt
the servant named O'Day who received such a fright previously would
be doubly shocked at the sight of two small ghosts in white
nightdresses, one holding a candle, gliding through the darkened
halls of Bissett Grange, up the stairs, past Eliza's room and into
the dark, chemical–smelling room next door. 197 WHITE STONE DAY
'I still think it looks like a laundry,' says Lydia while Emma holds
h candle above the basins on one wall. 'It smells like one too.' 'Do
you see the wood–and–brass machine in the corner? That
where they make the photographs.' 'How?' 'For that you must ask Mr
Boltbyn,' Emma replies while searching one corner, where she locates
a wood–and–brass rack divided into compartments and
containing photographic plates. She holds them one by one in front of
the candle, finding it curious how the light part is dark and
vice–versa . . . 'Do you think it was Mr Boltbyn who took the
photograph of Eliza and . . . and the other one too?' 'I don't know,'
replies Emma, gazing wide–eyed, at one of the glass plates. 'I
hope it was not Mr Boltbyn.' 'Why?' 'Because . . . because they are
not very well done.' 'You look surprised,' says Lydia. 'Are you
looking at something surprising?' 'No. They are just pictures of
Eliza, and . . . and someone else.' 'Who is it, Emma?' 'Nobody you
would know,' Emma says, and blows out the candle. Emma opens her
eyes. She cannot believe she slept a wink, yet morning sun is pouring
through the enormous arched window and sparrows are singing outside.
As she lies drowsily in the sunlight, gazing at the cracks in the
plaster ceiling, the smell of rising damp reminds her of where she
is, and how she came to be here, and what she saw last night. . . T
am vexed with you, Emma. I think you are very naughty.' Seated on the
floor in a corner in her nightgown, Lydia is in the process of
arranging the many pieces of her Noah's Ark. Rising on one elbow to
look about the room, Emma sees her favourite dolls on the
prayer–stool beneath the window – porcelain blonde Alice
with the prim snood, and Nell, the French poupee with eyes like
marbles of blue ice; both are arranged in attitudes of prayer, which
is just the sort of thing Miss Pouch would do. 'How, Lydia? How have
I made you cross?' 'Because you refuse to tell me who it was in the
picture. That is so mean of you, Emma.' So it was not a dream. 'It
was nobody familiar.' 198 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE
'You're fibbing. I know when you are fibbing.' So I am, thinks Emma.
Lydia would want it explained, and she is scarcely able to explain it
to herself except that it was an alarming situation in which to see
one's mother. She is still puzzling over the incident in the wood and
the strange sounds and movements under the blanket. What can it mean?
What was he doing to her? Their new room, the dolls, the photograph
upstairs, the hedgehog, the scene in the wood – could it be
that the peculiar events of past days, taken together, are all part
of some sort of plan? If so, is it the duke's plan? The hedgehog's
plan? Shrinking from the thought without quite knowing why, again she
lies back and gazes up at the road–map of cracks in the
ceiling, until she hears the muffled slap of hooves upon the hardened
earth of the carriageway. The rhythm is a dactyl, she thinks –
or is it an ansepest? Now the squeal of springs as the carriage
rattles to a halt; the passenger does not wait for the driver to open
the door, but climbs out immediately, and crosses the carriage–sweep
at a run. Something has happened. Footsteps two floors below –
urgent, adult footsteps, joined by others. She recognises the voice
of Mr Boltbyn, uncommonly serious and businesslike, almost harsh,
followed by a long, primitive wail that could only come from Mother.
She is about to say something to Lydia when Miss Pouch bursts into
the room with reddened eyes and cheeks, her thin, nervous fingers
rubbing an imaginary piece of cloth. 'Girls, you must dress
immediately! There has been a misfortune!' 'What sort of misfortune?'
Emma asks. 'Do not question me! There has been an accident and that
is all there is to be said!' The urgency with which Miss Pouch pulls
Lydia to her feet suggests that the house might be on fire. And what
did Mr Boltbyn say downstairs that so upset Mother? Reverend Boltbyn
has never experienced a day such as this, and fervently hopes he
never will again. Upon his arrival at Crouch Manor for morning tea,
equipped with the usual games and puzzles, he could hear a great
wailing within, so unnerving that he was tempted to return to the
carriage and go home. When repeated knocking went unanswered he
pushed open the front door and entered, to discover a house empty of
servants and family, 199 WHITE STONE DAY and that the keening sound
was coming from upstairs. Reminding himself that it is part of his
vocation to offer solace in desperate situations, with his heart
pounding at the speed of a rabbit, he climbed the stairs to the top
floor, where he found the maid–of–all–work in a
state of the utmost alarm. Upon entering the bedroom he saw the cause
of her disarray: \\r Lambert, in a half–seated position,
hanging from the neck by a noose which had been tied to the
curtain–rail of the bed. His face! The black, protruding
tongue! Beyond the paintings of Brueghel and Bosch, the vicar had
never seen anything like it. Not until the maid–of–all–work
had calmed somewhat did Boltbvn ask about Mrs Lambert and the girls.
Receiving no satisfactory reply, and with a gloomy sense of duty, he
took the carriage to Bissett Grange, there to pass on the melancholy
news and to ask what is to be done. Boltbyn was not in any way
prepared for the role of spiritual counsel, as his meeting with Mrs
Lambert revealed. Running from the carriage, he barged into the hall
like a fireman and blurted out the terrible news the instant she
appeared, with his stutter performing in all its attenuated glory.
Then for the first time in his life (outside a theatre or
carnival–ride), he heard a woman scream – or perhaps the
word is bowl. He was unprepared for the galvanising effect such an
utterance can have at close range, and for a minute his mind ceased
to function. Viewed in retrospect, he should have immediately
assisted the lady to the divan, providing her with a comfortable
place to swoon. Instead, as the poor woman fell into a faint, his
first impulse was to avert his eyes from the sight of her legs, so
that he failed even to break her fall – and heard the poor
woman's head crack upon the mahogany floor! Nor was Boltbyn prepared
to wrap his arms around a lady's upper torso in order to raise her to
a seated position, to have his face in such contiguity with hers,
thus receiving the full benefit of her soaps, perfumes and creams . .
. Now, thank Heaven, Miss Pouch has taken charge and is applying a
cold compress to Mrs Lambert's forehead, while the vicar endeavours
to calm down. Satisfied that all that can be done is being done at
present, Boltbyn has just begun to find refuge in a mathematical
conundrum he \^s under construction, when out of the corner of his
eye he sees Emma and 200 CROUCH MANOR, CHKSTKR WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE
Lydia in their nightdresses, side by side, standing beneath the
archway chat divides the hall from the reception room. Presented with
the two little girls whom he loves more than his own life Boltbyn
must now deliver the most dreadful news. Somehow he finds the
strength to rise and cross to the archway. Sighing deeply, he looks
down at his two little friends with a gentle, sad smile, crouches
down to Lydia's height, and speaks. 'E–E–Emma and Lydia,
your f–f–f–f–' 'Take your time, please, Mr
Boltbyn,' Emma says. 'Your f–f–f–f–father . .
.' 'Slowly, now.' 'Has had an, ah, ah . . . accident.' The sight of a
pair of riding–boots stops him in mid–falsehood; his gaze
travels upward to the face of the duke, wearing a dark brown
riding–suit, with a blue bird's–eye handkerchief around
his neck, carrying a riding–whip and gloves. 'What has
happened?' asks the noble face above him. No fish could maintain a
more unwinking stare than the duke does in this moment. Boltbyn feels
uncomfortably like a dwarf. His knees crack disconcertingly as he
struggles to his feet – too abruptly, for he must brace himself
against the archway until the dizziness subsides. 'What has happened,
Mr Boltbyn?' repeats the duke. 'I b–b–b–' 'Sir,'
offers Emma with a curtsy, 'it concerns our father.' The duke bends
down to pat her upon the shoulder with one gloved hand. To Emma he
smells of leather and horses and other male smells: scents she never
detected on Mr Boltbyn, nor on her father, on the few occasions when
they were sufficiently close. 'Whatever has occurred, Miss Emma,