The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [25]
‘To help you see better?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And does it?’
‘Good morning,’ Alfred said to Oswald, who had arrived and stood, arms folded. ‘It does mean that you can’t not see. In so far as you ever can.’
‘I see. Hunting that Grand Agent.’ Allen smiled, although Alfred hung his head a little shyly at that. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my brother, Mr Oswald Allen. Oswald, this is Alfred and Septimus Tennyson.’
‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.’
Alfred Tennyson raised his hand, compelling Oswald to unfold his arms and shake hands with the tall, peculiar brothers. Afterwards he clasped his hands behind his back and stood surveyingly, a visiting dignitary.
‘And how are you feeling today, Septimus? You look in better spirits.’
Before Septimus could answer, a wood pigeon clattered out of the tree above their heads. Septimus cringed at the noise, then smiled. He made a gesture, softly raising his hands and floating them apart, half-apology, half-explanation. But Matthew waited him out, required that he should talk. Septimus looked again at the tattered leaves around his feet and said in a whisper, tangentially but positively, ‘I like the winter.’
‘Very good.Well, good day to you both. I shall leave you to your excursion.’
Walking on into the asylum grounds, Matthew explained to his brother whom they had just met, but not before Oswald had asked, ‘What on earth were they doing with their faces?’
‘They explained, didn’t they? Or were you still catching up?’ Matthew glanced at Oswald’s worried face and felt, oddly, a flush of affection for him. Oswald was always frightened, scared and strict. Even as a little boy he was serious and orderly; alarmed by their father’s ringing voice and fervour, he lived quietly within a set of reassuring rules of his own devising. Matthew pictured him as a child: combed head, woollen suit, the dark nervous gaze mutely requesting calm, peace, things done properly, and found the picture endearing.
‘They’re the Tennysons,’ he went on.‘A Lincolnshire family. And quite a family. My word, the things I’ve been hearing from Septimus. Opium. Spirits. A menagerie also. A monkey. Owls. Innumerable dogs. They’re nobility somewhere along the line, in part degenerate. The brother Alfred is a poet, starting to elbow his way into the world. Great things are predicted by some, mostly his friends from Cambridge. It’s a shame you won’t be staying for longer.There’s a literary evening I frequent in Bedford Square.’
Oswald had not particularly listened, hearing only the little missiles of ‘nobility’, ‘Cambridge’, ‘Bedford Square’.
‘Yes, yes. Well, there we are.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m very pleased for you that you are acquainted with the minor nobility. You must be very proud.’
‘Oswald, really. Septimus is a patient.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Oswald stopped, looked up into his brother’s face. ‘Another opportunity for your dreadful pride. Another chance for you to humiliate me.’
‘Oswald, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘Don’t play that game with me, Matthew.’ Oswald was shouting now, his face white and spiteful. ‘You may have established yourself in this respectable situation, the good doctor, but don’t forget that I know who you are. No doubt you have contracted sizeable debts to create all this. Just know that you won’t get a penny out of me.’
Oswald was as boring as the mad, with one thought choking him, controlling him, blaring out of him. Matthew tried to remain dispassionate, tried to chuckle even, but it was difficult. His brother’s face was so familiar, so powerful, and his words once again loosened his past into this place, and Matthew was so tired of the mad.
‘Yes. Don’t forget that I know who you are. Literary evenings in Bedford Square! Matthew Allen. I’m sure your new friends would be intrigued by the history of your debts, your imprisonments.’
That was too much. Matthew grabbed at his brother’s lapels. Oswald skidded back on the wet path, but Matthew held him upright, his fingertips bending painfully under the thick cloth. ‘Just you . . . just you . . .’ Matthew