Courting Shadows Page 9

  He paused for a moment, then rose clumsily to his feet.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

  He took the lamp from the sideboard and led the way across the hall and up two flights of stairs to the door of an attic room. He entered, motioning me to follow, and set the lamp down on a grimy side-table. I had a general impression of clutter: a collapsed stack of books in one corner, papers scattered across the floor, dusty boxes of seashells and fossils occupying the entire surface of a vast mahogany desk. At the centre of the room was a marble statue, a little less than life-size but dominating its surroundings both by its position and by what I can only call its presence. The figure was that of a young man stepping forward almost to the point of imbalance, his left arm slightly extended, his right held firmly by his side. He wore a light cloak, pinned at the shoulder by a brooch and lifted clear of the back by the extended arm, over which it hung in stiff folds; the body was otherwise entirely naked. The face, framed by a mass of intricately worked curls, seemed oddly ambiguous: around the lips an almost feminine sweetness, but the eyes stern and resolutely fixed on a point in the middle or far distance.

  Redbourne glanced at me.

  ‘You’re admiring the marble?’

  ‘It’s certainly a striking piece.’

  ‘Yes, though like many things in this house, not quite what it appears to be. It’s a modern copy; not worth a great deal, but self-evidently the work of a genuine craftsman. Whoever made it had an intimate understanding not simply of the form itself but of the Greek feeling for that form – I mean, specifically, the male form.’

  He stepped forward and ran his hand down the hollow curve of the back, then he looked up at me with uncharacteristic directness.

  ‘Are you a connoisseur of such things, Stannard?’

  ‘I’m an architect. Naturally I know a certain amount about sculpture, but I’d hardly describe myself as a connoisseur.’

  He lowered his gaze and withdrew his hand.

  ‘Of course not. In any case, this isn’t what I wanted to show you. Come over here.’

  He crossed the room, opened the doors of a large rosewood cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers. ‘Look at this. All around us the work goes on: men constructing railways, composing symphonies, building empires. And I hide myself away in a corner with my collection of insects.’

  ‘It’s a respectable hobby.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a long silence. A whiff of camphor rose from the cork-lined tray. I leaned awkwardly over the pinned specimens, uncertain how to respond.

  ‘Sphingidae,’ he said at last. ‘A remarkable family. Almost every member found in this country has a claim to be ranked among the most beautiful of our moths. This elephant hawk-moth, for example. You see the combination of pink and ochre? Aesthetically almost unthinkable, but blended here with such extraordinary delicacy. And this lime hawk: a common enough insect, yet each time I take a new specimen I feel its beauty as a kind of shock.’

  ‘You still collect these things, then?’

  ‘It’s my only permissible passion. But you’re right: it’s an activity I should have outgrown years ago.’

  ‘I didn’t say so.’

  He passed his hand across his face as though suddenly fatigued. Then he pushed back the drawer, closed the doors and straightened up.

  ‘I could show you more,’ he said, ‘but it would make no difference. You’d still be as far as ever from grasping the essence of the thing. I’m not blaming you. What you see is a drawerful of faded husks. What I experience, though with increasing difficulty these days, is the excitement of discovery – no, not the excitement itself, perhaps, but a faint, thrilling aftertaste. I’ve tried to explain it to others, always with the feeling that I’m missing the point or, at least, failing to convey it. But let me try you. Listen. I’m about ten years old. I’m on my knees in the shrubbery. Perhaps someone is looking for me; certainly I have a sense of having deliberately concealed myself. I’m gazing at a moth, a brown triangle on the glossy surface of a laurel leaf. The sunlight falls in small flecks and lozenges around me, shifting as the twigs stir. The leaf-mould disturbed by my feet sends up a smell so dark and potent that I enter what a man of Banks’s persuasion might describe as a state of ecstasy. As I lean forward the moth begins to vibrate, gently at first but with increasing vigour, half revealing the brilliant crimson of its underwings; and it’s with a shudder or start that I return to myself, reach into my jacket pocket for one of my pill-boxes and clap it over the insect before it can take flight.’

  He paused, breathing heavily.

  ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Very little, though I sense something of what it might mean to you. Each to his own: my buildings, your bugs.’

  ‘Quite so. An admirably uncomplicated response.’

  I thought I detected the faintest hint of mockery in his voice, but his face gave nothing away. He leaned over and laid his hand gently on my shoulder.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said, ‘and you no doubt have a great deal to do tomorrow. I shouldn’t detain you.’

  I had wondered earlier whether I might be invited to stay on as an overnight guest, but he gave no sign of having even entertained the idea. I should not have minded except for the sudden drenching shower which swept the hillside as I descended towards the lane, so that I reached my lodgings wet, cold and as thoroughly miserable as I had been at any time since my arrival in the village.

  8

  Jefford’s return to work was hardly a cause for celebration. Banks, who had been visiting him regularly, had hinted in broad terms that he was by no means fully recovered, but I was nevertheless disconcerted to see with what evident difficulty he was moving as he made his way up the path at Harris’s side, limping a little, slightly stooped, his face taut with anxiety or pain. I realized at once that our progress was not going to be significantly accelerated by his return, though I was naturally careful not to betray my disappointment and the warmth of my greeting must, I think, have appeared entirely genuine.

  ‘Welcome back, Jefford. I’m glad to see you on your feet again. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, sir. A bit stiff, and not as strong as I’d like, but a few days will see me right.’

  ‘And Mrs Jefford?’

  ‘Not as bad as she was, but this is a difficult time of year for her. She spends the whole winter longing for spring. She wanted me to give you her apologies for having been out of sorts when you visited us. We can’t offer much in the way of entertainment at the best of times, but she wanted you to know—’

  ‘There’s no need to apologize. Now listen, we’re about to begin the final section of the underpinning. Harris knows what needs to be done. I suggest you work alongside him, perhaps clearing up the loose as he undercuts the footings. I don’t mind how you organize it. What’s important is that we speed up the process and get ourselves back on course again.’

  Jefford limped to the edge of the trench and peered in. ‘It’s like a prison down there,’ he said. ‘All those bars and struts. A man would be hard put to it to get out in a hurry if he needed to.’ And then, turning with an odd shudder, a catching of the breath: ‘I don’t suppose you’d have anything else for me to do, would you, sir? I’m sorry to ask, knowing how good you’ve been to me, but I feel I’m not ready for—’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find the work too strenuous, Jefford. Go at it reasonably easily, resting when you like. But this is undoubtedly where you’ll be most useful at present. If we can complete the underpinning by the end of the afternoon, we shall be able to backfill the trench tomorrow; then we can start work on the interior. Just stick at this for today. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  He looked away and turned up the collar of his thin jacket, shivering miserably, his shoulders hunched against the wind. I suppose I might have relented at that point. The idea certainly crossed my mind; but it seemed to me that it
would be unwise, particularly in Harris’s presence, to say or do anything that might be interpreted as a sign of weakness.

  ‘I’ll leave you to explain matters, Harris. I shall be in the church if you need me.’

  It was a relief to be out of the worst of the wind, though there was no escaping the draughts which crept beneath the door and shrilled through the holes in the inexpertly patched windows. It was difficult to believe that a church could have been allowed to decline to such a point. The state of the pews in particular was atrocious, a fact I had emphasized in my preliminary report. Two of those in the north aisle had collapsed sideways, clearly unusable; a third had been barred with a rough lath, evidently to ensure that nobody made the mistake of sitting there. I got down on my knees and put my hand into the damp space between the rearmost pew and the wall, feeling again the sponginess of the wood, smelling rot on the boards, in the air, on my wet fingers as I withdrew them. And as I knelt there on the flags, my head bent over my stinking hand in what I suddenly recognized as a disquieting parody of prayer, I felt disgust mounting in me like a tide; a wave of loathing or nausea which had me on my feet and making for the door before I was able to regain control of myself. Indeed, I think I should have continued my irrational flight if Harris had not entered when he did, stamping his boots on the door-sill, plucking his cap clumsily from his head.

  ‘What is it, Harris?’

  It occurred to me that my discomposure must be apparent, but he gave no sign of having noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘It’s about Jefford, sir. Could I have a word?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be down that trench. He’s shaking all the time – I mean shaking so he can hardly hold his shovel. And he can’t concentrate on anything: I tell him things, but it all goes by him. You’ve only to look at him to see the state he’s in. With respect, sir, it would be better for him to start on the indoor work now before his nerve goes completely.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Harris. Let me speak with him.’

  Harris stood aside to let me pass, and then followed me out. Jefford had abandoned his task and was walking aimlessly around the top of the trench, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head bowed. He looked up as I approached and started towards me, stumbling on the upcast, speaking with the nervy urgency of a troubled child.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly I am. But I can’t stay down there on my own. To be honest with you, I don’t know if I can stay down there at all. I was thinking about it before I set out this morning. I shall be all right when I get there, I said to myself. And I believed I should be, only somehow I can’t seem to …’

  He tailed off, staring miserably into the distance, evidently on the verge of tears. I was struck by the uncomfortable thought that his return in this abject state might actually hinder our progress.

  ‘Are you sure,’ I asked, ‘that you’re well enough to rejoin us?’

  ‘Well enough? Oh yes, sir. No question of it. If I can only work above ground, I shall be fit for anything.’

  This was so plainly untrue that I almost challenged it, but there seemed little point either in doing so or in holding out any longer against his request.

  ‘Very well, Jefford. Harris will finish off out here. You can start dismantling the pews.’

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  ‘When you say dismantling—’

  ‘I mean cut them up. Break them up. It’s immaterial how you go about it. I’ll show you where to start.’

  I picked up a sledgehammer and a saw from the porch as we entered; then I led Jefford across the nave to the most severely damaged of the pews.

  ‘This should be easy enough,’ I said. I put down the tools, gripped the backrest and rocked the pew towards me – quite gently, but there was a sharp crack and a splintering of wood as the rickety structure lurched backwards. Jefford looked nervously about him.

  ‘Do we have to do this, sir?’

  ‘Of course. We’re replacing them with new ones. One of the effects of that will be to brighten the nave a little: I’m having them made in Canadian pine, an altogether lighter wood. But the most obvious benefit will be the improved safety and comfort of the congregation. Those have naturally been my prime considerations.’

  ‘It seems wrong, though. Breaking things up inside a church.’

  ‘Believe me, Jefford, I regret it as much as you do. But look at the condition of the wood. How could we possibly preserve this?’

  I picked up a fragment from the floor and tapped it smartly on the back of the pew. It cracked along the grain, releasing a cloud of buff powder into the air. I held out the splintered rectangle. ‘Feel this,’ I said. ‘Go on. The weight, I mean.’

  He took it gingerly on the palm of his hand.

  ‘It’s very light. But—’

  ‘Riddled. Absolutely riddled. Look at the inside; it’s like a honeycomb.’

  ‘It can’t all be as bad as that, sir. After all, most of the pews are still in use.’

  ‘In a number of cases that seems little short of miraculous. And if there’s one thing we can be sure of, it’s that they will continue to deteriorate. Not only that, but the infestation will spread – perhaps not rapidly, but inexorably.’

  He frowned as though he were having difficulty with the idea, though on what grounds I couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Let me show you something.’ I retrieved the fragment from his outstretched hand and indicated with my thumbnail the small larva still lodged in its broken chamber. ‘Take a close look at this: this is your true agent of destruction, not the luckless architect called in to deal with the problem.’

  He seemed reluctant to concede the point.

  ‘That’s natural, sir. But what we’ll be doing—’

  ‘Listen, Jefford, I don’t expect you to understand all the implications of this, but an architect’s work is, more or less by definition, one long battle against nature. It’s a losing battle, inevitably so; but one of the measures of our success is the length of time we can hold back the inevitable. The buildings we construct, the monuments whose upkeep we undertake on behalf of our predecessors, are under permanent siege. Frost and rain, these beetles, the fungus eating away at the base here, mosses, lichens, stonecrop, the force of gravity itself – they’re all in league against us. The architect’s work is, in a quite literal sense, man’s bulwark against nature’s encroaching forces; and if what we do appears at times a little drastic, that’s simply because we see, more clearly and less sentimentally than most, both the necessity and the enormity of the task that faces us.’

  As I had anticipated, this was rather over Jefford’s head; at least, he gave every appearance of having failed to grasp my argument.

  ‘What if we just mended the worst parts, sir? A good carpenter could fix these so you’d hardly know it had been done. And at a quarter the cost of the new pews, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Reflecting on the moment, I find it difficult to account for the violence of my response. I can see that my patience must have been wearing thin, but there was really nothing in Jefford’s words to justify my actions. I tugged off my jacket and flung it to the floor; then I seized the hammer and drove it hard at the back of the pew, sending the dusty splinters flying. Jefford stepped back a pace, visibly startled.

  ‘It’s all to go,’ I shouted. ‘This’ – I swung the hammer again – ‘and this; and this. The whole filthy lot’s to be cleared and burned. The sooner the better. Is that understood?’

  I threw down the hammer and looked away in momentary confusion, the blood throbbing at my temples, congesting my throat and chest. I realized almost immediately, of course, that I had behaved foolishly: I remember hoping fervently as I stood there that Jefford would not report my outburst to Harris, and recognizing with sudden sobering clarity that he almost certainly would. I turned to him.

  ‘I owe you an apology, Jefford. It’s just that the question of the pews has already been discussed and my proposals given ap
proval by the Dean. It’s no longer a subject for debate, either between you and me or at any higher level.’

  ‘No, sir. I meant no harm.’

  ‘I accept that. But you must remember that these are matters which are properly the concern of others. Your role is simply to carry out the tasks I assign to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I watched him for a moment as he gathered together the splintered fragments, down on his knees among them, every movement so careful, so absurdly decorous, that I could have cried out with frustration.

  ‘The wood’s to be burned, Jefford. Just clear the scraps to one side and get on with the job. I’ll have Harris take them away as soon as he’s free.’

  I turned and walked slowly down the aisle towards the chancel, breathing deeply in an attempt to regain my composure; but before I had gone a dozen paces I heard the south door grind open. I swung round to see Harris approaching, briskly at first but slowing to a standstill as he drew level with the wreckage of the pew. I saw him flash an interrogative glance at Jefford, but as he lifted his eyes to mine his face was stonily impassive.

  ‘It’s a necessary part of the work, Harris. I shall want to involve you as soon as you’ve finished out there. I hope you’re maintaining a good pace.’

  ‘Good enough, sir. I’ve only broken off to let you know Arthur Webster’s outside, wanting to see you. He won’t tell me what it’s about. Says he has instructions.’