The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [527]
‘I have no idea what they are,’ said the fox-like man newly arrived at her elbow, ‘but you must tell me. What are they? I only know what they become … and perhaps … what drove them to it.’
‘Oh, but you are clever. Wickedly clever. But you must tell me all. How am I, darling?’
The fox-like man (a narrow-chested creature with reddish hair above his ears, a very sharp nose and a brain far too large for him to manage with comfort) replied:
‘You are feeling, my dear Mrs Grass, in need of something sweet. Sugar, bad music, or something of that kind might do for a start.’
The black-eyed creature, her lips half open, her teeth shining like pearls, her eyes fixed with excited animation on the foxy face before her, clasped her delicate hands together at her conical breasts.
‘You’re quite right! O, but quite!’ she said breathlessly. ‘So absolutely and miraculously right, you brilliant, brilliant little man; something sweet is what I need!’
Meanwhile Mr Acreblade was making room for a long-faced character dressed in a lion’s pelt. Over his head and shoulders was a black mane.
‘Isn’t it a bit hot in there?’ said young Kestrel.
‘I am in agony,’ said the man in the tawny skin.
‘Then why?’ said Mrs Grass.
‘I thought it was Fancy Dress,’ said the skin, ‘but I mustn’t complain. Everyone has been most kind.’
‘That doesn’t help the heat you’re generating in there,’ said Mr Acreblade. ‘Why don’t you just whip it off?’
‘It is all I have on,’ said the lion’s pelt.
‘How delicious,’ cried Mrs Grass, ‘you thrill me utterly. Who are you?’
‘But my dear,’ said the lion, looking at Mrs Grass, ‘surely you …’
‘What is it, O King of Beasts?’
‘Can’t you remember me?’
‘Your nose seems to ring a bell,’ said Mrs Grass.
Mr Spill lowered his head out of the clouds of smoke. Then he swivelled it until it lay alongside Mr Kestrel. ‘What did she say?’ he asked.
‘She’s worth a million,’ said Kestrel. ‘Lively, luscious, what a plaything!’
‘Plaything?’ said Mr Spill. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ said Kestrel.
The lion scratched himself with a certain charm. Then he addressed Mrs Grass.
‘So my nose rings a bell – is that all? Have you forgotten me? Me! Your onetime Harry?’
‘Harry? What … my …?’
‘Yes, your Second. Way back in time. We were married, you remember, in Tyson Street.’
‘Lovebird!’ cried Mrs Grass. ‘So we were. But take that foul mane off and let me see you. Where have you been all these years?’
‘In the wilderness,’ said the lion, tossing back his mane and twitching it over his shoulder.
‘What sort of wilderness, darling? Moral? Spiritual? O but tell us about it!’ Mrs Grass reached forward with her breasts and clenched her little fists at her sides, which attitude she imagined would have appeal. She was not far wrong, and young Kestrel took a step to the left which put him close beside her.
‘I believe you said “wilderness”,’ said Kestrel. ‘Tell me, how wild is it? Or isn’t it? One is so at the mercy of words. And would you say, sir, that what is wilderness for one might be a field of corn to another with little streams and bushes?’
‘What sort of bushes?’ said the elongated Mr Spill.
‘What does that matter?’ said Kestrel.
‘Everything matters,’ said Mr Spill. ‘Everything. That is part of the pattern. The world is bedevilled by people thinking that some things matter and some things don’t. Everything is of equal importance. The wheel must be complete. And the stars. They look small. But are they? No. They are large. Some are very large. Why, I remember –’
‘Mr Kestrel,’ said Mrs Grass.
‘Yes, my dear lady?’
‘You have a vile habit, dear.’
‘What is it, for heaven’s sake? Tell me about it that I may crush it.’
‘You are too close, my pet. But too close. We have our little areas you know. Like the home waters, dear, or fishing rights. Don’t trespass, dear. Withdraw a little. You know what I mean, don’t you? Privacy is so important.’
Young Kestrel turned the colour of a boiled lobster and retreated from Mrs Grass who, turning her head to him, by way of forgiveness switched on a light