The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [559]
‘Eh? Eh? How many have you sent to their deathbeds through hapless poisoning?’
Even Crabcalf was apt to become tired of his own heavy banter, and he shut his eyes. Carrow as usual made no answer. But Crabcalf was content. Even more than most he felt a great need for companionship, and he spoke only to prove to himself that his friendships were real.
Carrow knew all about this, and from time to time he turned his hawk-like features towards the one-time poet and lifted the dry corner of his lipless mouth in a dry smile. This arid salutation meant much to Crabcalf. It was part of the day.
‘O, Carrow,’ murmured the recumbent Crabcalf, ‘your desiccation is like juice to me. I love you better than a ship’s biscuit. You have no green emotions. You are dry, my dear Carrow: so dry, you pucker me. Never desert me, old friend.’
Carrow turned his eyes to the bed, but never ceased in his stirring of the grey broth.
‘You are talkative today,’ he said. ‘Don’t overdo it.’
The third of the trio, Slingshott, rose to his feet.
‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, addressing the space halfway between Carrow and Crabcalf, ‘but speaking for myself I’m hand in hand with grief.’
‘You always are,’ said Crabcalf. ‘At this time of day. And so am I. It is the eternal problem. Is one to be hungry, or is one to eat old Carrow’s gruel?’
‘No, no, I’m not talking about food,’ said Slingshott. ‘It’s worse than that. You see, I lost my wife. I left her behind. Was I wrong?’ He lifted his face to the dripping ceiling. No one answered.
‘When I escaped from the merciless mines,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘When the days and the nights were salt, and my lips were cracked and split with it, and the taste of that vile chemical was like knives in my mouth and a white death more terrible than any darkness of the spirit … when … I escaped I swore …’
‘That whatever happened you would never again complain of anything whatever, for nothing could be as terrible as the mines,’ said Crabcalf.
‘Why, how do you know all this? Who has been …?’
‘We have all heard it many times before. You tell us too often,’ said Carrow.
‘It is always in my head, and I forget.’
‘But you escaped. Why fret about your deliverance?’
‘I am so happy that they cannot take me. O never let them take me to the salt mines. There was a time when I collected eggs: and butterflies … and moths …’
‘I am growing hungry,’ said Crabcalf.
‘I used to dread the nights I spent alone: but after a while, when for various reasons I was forced to quit the house, and had to spend my evenings with the others, I looked back upon those solitary evenings as times of excitement. It has always been my longing to be alone again and drink the silence.’
‘I wouldn’t care to live alone in this place,’ said Crabcalf.
‘It’s not a nice place, that is very true,’ said Slingshott, ‘but I have been living here for twelve years and it is my only home.’
‘Home,’ said Carrow. ‘What does that mean? I have heard the word somewhere. Wait … it is coming back …’ He had ceased to stir the bowl. ‘Yes, it is coming back …’ (His voice was sharp and crisp.)
‘Well, let’s have it then,’ said Crabcalf.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Carrow. ‘Home is a room dappled with firelight: there are pictures and books. And when the rain sighs, and the acorns fall, there are patterns of leaves against the drawn curtains. Home is where I was safe. Home is what I fled from. Who mentioned home? Who mentioned home?’
The tight-lipped Carrow, who prided himself on his control and who loathed emotionalism, sprang to his feet in a fury of self-disgust, and stumbling away, upset the grey soup so that it spread itself sluggishly beneath Crabcaf’s bed.
This disturbance caused two passers-by to stop and stare. They had heard Carrow’s outburst.
One of the two men cocked his scorbutic head on one side like a bird and then nudged his companion with such zest as to fracture one of the smaller ribs.
‘You have hurt me bad, you