The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [46]
Stands in the wilderness of the world.
Dr Allen found the company he was in highly congenial. Thomas Rawnsley had brought him along to an informal gathering of the area’s industrialists, brisk and cheerful, ambitious and duplicitous men. They ate beef and the spiced foam of roasted apples. They drank beer. A light rain petalled against the windows. Pipes were smoked. Rawnsley turned out to be quite a different man with drink inside him. His stiff exterior was broken up and he emerged boyish and excitable, red-faced, clumsy and loud-voiced. He showed off his new acquaintance to the small crowd and implored him to hold forth on his scheme, which Matthew Allen did readily. He drew assent from them when he spoke of their great good fortune in having the forest at their disposal, with the charcoal burners to render it down to useful fuel and their own imaginations to turn the timber into anything at all. Tanning and ship building were old occupations. The new was up to them. Seated at their centre, Matthew Allen felt he easily outclassed them all, gifted as he was in so many respects, so educated and already a published author on chemistry and insanity. He was reflected back to himself in their smiles, their interested gazes. For a moment he heard his father’s voice in his own, holding forth among the Sandemanians.When he had finished his description of the Pyroglyph there was even applause. Rawnsley picked up the jug and sloshed more beer into his glass.
Alfred Tennyson walked to loosen his blood. He had spent the day sunk in a low mood. The word ‘sunk’ was the right one, the mood soft, dark, silted, sluggish; it smelt of riverbed, of himself. He’d managed no new lines. Poems lay around half-formed and helpless, insects droned in the garden, a fly butted its hard little face against the window panes. He’d sat and smoked thickly enough to make his stupid head light with it, his heart flutter, his limbs feel shaky and hollow. Distantly he heard the rhythmic clubbing of woodmen at work among the trees.
The doctor might be a comfort. That man always had energy, afflatus, interest.
He passed among the tired lunatics and up the path to the doctor’s house. He pulled on the bell and turned and watched a madman flinch and talk at nothing until the door was opened. A servant had opened it, but immediately the doctor hurried towards him, hand outstretched. He took Tennyson’s larger hand in his own and shook it warmly, patting him on the shoulder as he drew him inside. ‘How splendid of you to stop by,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in.’ Tennyson handed the servant his hat and cape. The doctor led him in.
Mrs Allen met him in the vestibule. From a doorway, the youngest child veered out and clung to her mother’s skirts. ‘How lovely to see you again,’ Eliza said. ‘Do come through to the drawing room.’
From that farther room music started. Hannah had heard his arrival and rushed to the piano, her cheeks freshly pinched, to be accidentally discovered playing a Clementi sonata. She stumbled on a phrase as they entered the room, her face starting to burn. Abigail ran to her side, arriving with a soft thump against the stool, and began to plink at the highest notes. Not daring to lift her head - she was still being accidentally discovered - Hannah pushed Abigail away with her forearm. The child tripped; her upflung arms were caught by her mother. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Hannah stood up.
‘No, no, you were playing beautifully.’ Her mother smiled.
‘Mr Tennyson,’ Hannah said, ‘what a pleasure to see you again.