The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [68]
The bishop had a kind and dignified face, of the grand and passionless type of piety. His pale eyes were set in large orbits, his lips were full and set back beneath a long, arched, nacreous nose. His sideburns were a rich white trim. He looked well fed, well kempt. The cracked brown portraits of previous bishops Matthew Allen had passed on his way through the palace had included many harder, more austere faces set on stiff ruffs.
The palace inspired violent emotions in Dr Allen. He felt goaded by the fierce, thin ghost of his father, could hear his voice pouring scorn on the complacent wealth of the established church, its spiritual torpitude. The relentless Sandemanian would not have admired the large cross of chased silver on the mantel shelf, or the painting of Christ that was in the line of Matthew’s gaze: a varnished, dark Italianate Jesus, head bowed, with strong, sensual shoulders and the doleful dark eyes of a deer. His father’s Christ had been like himself: lean, definite, endlessly imparting the truth, presumably with the same spittle-flecked lips and reddened throat. He was a narrow lever inserted into ancient Palestine to turn the whole world over. Nothing here was turning over. Everything was still, solid, polished and would outlast the flesh of the two men now seated there.
The palace reminded him also of university and provoked both a passionate recoil and a desire to stay there, to be welcomed. His debts had forced him from university. After that had come a shop and evening classes. If the bishop agreed to more time for the manufacture, Allen would love the place and belong there. If not, he would know he had been right about it all along.
When a servant entered bearing tea, Allen bent forward in his seat. The servant was instructed to pour immediately because, unfortunately, the bishop hadn’t much time.Allen watched as the bishop’s tea was poured through a strainer into the porcelain cup and a short ribbon of milk was added. He accepted the same service for himself, the calming, intimate, impersonal ritual, like a visit to the barber, and felt afterwards cleaner, better equipped to continue the conversation.
‘So, I am sure you understand, your grace, that these technical difficulties represent an entirely surmountable obstacle. I am perfectly confident that I will be able to inform you that I can supply the carvings required in one or two months.’
The bishop, blowing on his tea, answered, ‘That is good news. I have seven churches in my diocese, doctor, that as you know are awaiting their fittings. In this part of the North Country, with the new industrial parishes, we have great need of them.’
‘And they will be supplied.’
‘In one month?’
‘In one or two months.’
‘In one month?’
‘Assuming that the technical difficulties are . . . the required refitting has occurred . . . the part of the machine that needs replacement has been replaced, replaced, then yes, in one month.’
‘I’m afraid I heard rather a lot of dependent clauses in that sentence.’
Matthew Allen moved his teacup from hand to hand. ‘I cannot guarantee that everything will be ready in one month.’
‘That is disappointing. I had hoped to be able to rely on you and conclude our work together, but given this delay I am sure you will understand if we approach an established workshop.’
‘I can fulfil the order.’
‘Not in time. You have just said that you cannot. I’m sorry, I have no wish to argue with you. Can you guarantee delivery in one month’s time?’ The bishop regarded Allen with raised eyebrows, the fine ridge of his nose lengthened and shining.
‘No.’
‘Very well, then. That is a disappointment. Now, if you will excuse me.’
‘But we have a contract.’
‘I hope you are not intending to haggle with me like an Israelite merchant. I believe we had an agreement and not a contract, as a matter