The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [91]
As it happened Miss Prunesquallor, before her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Steerpike’s feet padding past her bedroom door, had been in a state of dejection. Most people have periods of retrospection in which their thoughts are centred upon the less attractive elements in their past. Irma Prunesquallor was no exception, but today there had been something wild about her dejection. After readjusting her glasses irritably upon the bridge of her nose, she had wrung her hands before sitting at her mirror. She ignored the fact that her neck was too long, that her mouth was thin and hard, that her nose was far too sharp, and that her eyes were quite hidden, and concentrated on the profusion of coarse grey hair which swept back from her brow in one wave to where, low down on her neck, it gathered itself into a great hard knot – and on the quality of her skin, which was, indeed, unblemished. These two things alone in her eyes made her an object destined for admiration. And yet, what admiration had she received? Who was there to admire her or to compliment her upon her soft and peerless skin and on her sweep of hair?
Steerpike’s gallantry had for a moment taken the chill off her heart.
By now all three of them were seated. The Doctor had drunk rather more than he would have ever prescribed to a patient. His arms were moving freely whenever he spoke and he seemed to enjoy watching his fingers as they emphasized, in dumb show, whatever he happened to be talking about.
Even his sister had felt the effect of more than her usual quota of port. Whenever Steerpike spoke she nodded her head sharply as though in total agreement.
‘Alfred,’ she said. ‘Alfred, I’m speaking to you. Can you hear me? Can you? Can you?’
‘Very distinctly, Irma, my very dear, dear sister. Your voice is ringing in my middle ear. In fact, it’s ringing in both of them. Right in the very middle of them both, or rather, in both their very middles. What is it, flesh of my flesh?’
‘We shall dress him in pale grey,’ she said.
‘Who, blood of my blood?’ cried Prunesquallor. ‘Who is to be apparisoned in the hue of doves?’
‘Who? How can you say “Who?”! This youth, Alfred, this youth. He is taking Pellet’s place. I am discharging Pellet tomorrow. He has always been too slow and clumsy. Don’t you think so? Don’t you think so?’
‘I am far beyond thinking, bone of my bone. Far, far beyond thinking, I hand over the reins to you, Irma. Mount and be gone. The world awaits you.’
Steerpike saw that the time was ripe.
‘I am confident I shall give satisfaction, dear lady,’ he said. ‘My reward will be to see you, perhaps, once more, perhaps twice more, if you will allow me, in this dark gown that so becomes you. The slight stain which I noticed upon the hem I will remove tomorrow, with your permission. Madam,’ he said, with that startling simplicity with which he interlarded his remarks, ‘where can I sleep?’
Rising to her feet stiffly, but with more self-conscious dignity than she had found it necessary to assume for some while past, she motioned him to follow her with a singularly wooden gesture, and led the way through the door.
Somewhere in the vaults of her bosom a tiny imprisoned bird had begun to sing.
‘Are you going forever and a day?’ shouted the Doctor from his chair in which he was spread out like a length of rope. ‘Am I to be marooned forever, ha, ha, ha! for evermore and evermore?’
‘For tonight, yes,’ replied his sister’s voice. ‘Mister Steerpike will see you in the morning.’
The Doctor yawned with a final flash of his teeth, and fell fast asleep.
Miss Prunesquallor