The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [23]
‘Really, Oswald, must we discuss this? I thought we very much had some time ago.And I see enough hardship here among my patients, often without seeing to what end it serves.’
Oswald snorted. ‘A different meaning of hardship, surely. I remember your disgust at father’s funeral because of its simplicity.Yes, maybe simplicity is closer to my meaning.’
That was true enough. Matthew Allen remembered the scene with discomfort - the bare hills dotted all over with the little wet tubes of sheep turds, the animals’ loud bleats carried to the mourners on the slanting wind, the ugly, parted ground, and hardly a word said, and no headstone.‘It’s true, it always seemed to me to be . . . harsher than necessary. I would have paid for a headstone, at least for something to mark the place. To lie unmarked . . .’
‘God knows the place.’
‘I know He does. But men live among men. The social virtues are virtues.’
‘Worldly concerns.’
‘Yes, I know that’s what you think. I believe our positions are quite well established.’
‘Established, indeed. I know how you crave respectability. It is understandable, given what you’ve been, where you’ve been.’
‘What I have been has no place here . . .’ Matthew heard his own voice raised and stopped himself. It was so tiring talking to Oswald, who scoured Matthew’s words for weakness, for the double meanings that betrayed his sin. He was now, as always, seeking some kind of victory that Matthew had learned he could withhold from him simply by remaining genial, cheerful, apparently unconcerned. If he appeared not to be on the battlefield, how could he lose the battle? ‘Perhaps some other topic over dinner,’ he said, clapping his brother on the back.
The worldliness of Matthew and his family was confirmed in detail to Oswald when they were all gathered round the dinner table. Both of the elder daughters wore lace shawls, had lace handkerchiefs, and wore brooches. Even the stolid, sensible son (whom Matthew had described as industrious and dutiful and therefore - here he poured on the warm oil of flattery - resembling himself, Oswald) appeared to have ivory buttons adorning his waistcoat. Oswald did not know which suspicion he favoured, or which was worse: that his brother was successful enough to finance an extravagant home life or that he was again running up debts. Perhaps he would ask for money - Oswald rather expected that - and to that request could come only one answer. A man who has been imprisoned for debt, no matter how long ago, should have learned to live more circumspectly, more within his bounds.
Oswald declined a refilling of his wine glass by covering it with a swift hand. The movement was sharp and attracted attention. He thought that sufficient comment. Matthew suspected that he drank more freely in other company and saw rhetoric in his brother’s stiff comportment. James, Dora’s betrothed, did drink wine - Matthew Allen watched him doing so - drank it with the quiet commitment of a frightened, shy man, grasping the bottle whenever it was near. Really his lack of spirit was disappointing. He hoped Oswald wasn’t watching too closely this dull new addition to the family. He decided to distract him by forcing him to compliment his wife.
‘Most delicious,’ he said.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Oswald chimed in on cue, but adulterated his praise. ‘What is it precisely?’
‘Boiled fowls,’ she answered brightly. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. If I’d known you were coming, perhaps we could have produced more of a banquet.’
‘Oh, no doubt, but really there is no need on my account.’
‘Abigail, do sit up and chew properly.’
‘So, Uncle Oswald,’ Hannah began, deciding in her boredom to break the crust of tedious adult conversation, ‘you must have many stories of Father when he was young.’
‘Ah, well,’ he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, ‘there is such a thing as discretion and familial loyalty.’
‘I hadn’t mean anything