His Last Fire Page 11

  Only he and she knew; he believed the servants didn’t. Caution made him ask her to send a child for the money instead, to keep encounters rare. His upbringing told him what they did was wrong. His reason, that tenderness was a virtue.

  For years he’d cared only for plants. In the garden hollyhocks were shooting up ready to flower, purple verbena bonanensis and sweet mauve heliotrope already out – well-established purchases from Chelsea. Cat’s Head apples flourishing.

  Polly became conversational. She was learning her alphabet at school; he encouraged her, wrote words, drew pictures. H was for holly or Herbert, his name, Hannah, her mother’s; I for ivy, J for Jack, her brother, K for king.

  ‘Jack says damn to the king.’

  ‘How old is Jack?’

  ‘Fourteen. He says father said it and father is right.’

  ‘Jack will get into trouble if he says such things. Don’t tell anyone else, Polly. It’ll do no harm to tell me.’

  ‘Mother says you’re good. Jack says damn to Mr Powyss, too.’

  ‘Who is right, do you think?’

  ‘Mother of course! Jack is bad. He hits me.’

  ‘Enough now. On your way.’

  It was not extraordinary that a fourteen-year-old boy of almost no education should spout against the monarchy. Liberty was in the air, wherever you looked. Found inscribed on the Market Cross together with ‘equality’. Only weeks ago magistrates dispersed a Disputing Club in an ale-house a mile away.

  Philip had sent a sixpenny Rights of Man, determined to shake him up. He’d not cut the pages. Not that he countenanced hostility. He’d never pay men ten shillings and sixpence to carry Tom Paine’s effigy about and shoot at it. He preferred to avoid disruption in his life. Yet already he realised that his best new plants came from America, that radical land: delicate dodecathon meadia, ceanothus americanus. The proud juniper that withstood last winter’s intense freeze.

  He thought he heard movement. The child had gone. He locked the door, knelt on an Ottoman prayer rug at the end of the room near piles of papers. Lifted a sheaf from the floor. Put his ear to the hole.

  Thud of clogs on flags. Monotonous, obsessive mumbling passed beneath, moved away out of hearing.

  Samuel had drilled two-inch holes in the floorboard and the cellar ceiling. The house was older than it looked from its light-loving façade. Powyss had imposed reason on it years before, upon inheritance. Behind were thick stone walls and foundations out of which cellars had been gouged. Samuel needed help to drill the hollow through which a copper tube would conduct sound from below to the hole under the paper. The hole in the cellar ceiling was unnoticeable: a knot-hole.

  That was four years ago, when the advertisement was published, the offer made; made, he’d assured Philip, with the best of intentions. Something he’d read made him ponder for days about the nature of human endurance. About solitariness free from the burden of punishment. Hermits chose to live for years alone, after all. He determined to carry out an experiment, write a full account, publish it.

  Was it so unreasonable? To see if a man could exist without the comfort of others? Others often provided no comfort. His own life was unsociable, his principal friendship conducted on paper. Weeks passed when he spoke to no one except Stephens, then barely. Felt closer to his new, blue-flowered lupinus nootkatensis, whose growth he recorded in a vigorous hand. With books, music, resources of the mind, one surely could exist alone.

  A reward of fifty pounds a year for life, the advertisement read, was offered for any man who would undertake to live for seven years underground without seeing a human face, without speaking to a soul.

  The only man to respond was Warlow. In a burst of lucidity he said he cared not for human faces, would be glad to be shut of them. For seven years? Yes. Nor was he troubled by the other conditions: to let toe and fingernails grow during the whole of his confinement, together with his beard.

  By now he would be shaggy, clawed. But requests were allowed. He had only to ring a bell and barely literate notes were hauled up on the dumb-waiter. Daily ringing signalled removal of his night soil. His clothes were washed on occasion, new ones provided. He’d asked for larger clogs.

  Powyss had carefully prepared the underground ‘apartments’ before he knew who their occupant would be. Under the ballroom – shuttered, untouched – several unused cellars extended to just below the far end of his library. He’d equipped them with good furniture, matting, rugs, oil lamps, books. Candide, Robinson Crusoe, Defoe’s Journal of a Plague Year, The Tempest, Ferguson’s Astronomy Explained upon Sir Isaac Newton’s Principles and made easy to those who have not studied Mathematics. A cold bath, a chamber organ. Provisions served from his own table sent down three times a day.

  For Warlow, a labourer with eight children, here was space unknown, the calm of responsibilities removed, luxury. Time’s oppression, invasions of vermin. The company of insects.

  At first Powyss had noted down each demand, what was eaten, what left. Warlow wouldn’t touch venison, sauces or pickles. Ice-cream returned uneaten, a pool of scummy cream in a dish. He’d listened for every sound. There was little. One day a few notes from the organ. Warlow couldn’t play. Whistling that suddenly ceased. Smell of oil smoke from the lamps came up through the hole; the tobacco he’d asked for. Powyss recorded. Sent periodic accounts to Philip.

  At some point Warlow began to talk to himself. For months there was intermittent muttering. Then outbursts. Shouts. Thumps. Wild yells. Great shatter of sound as he smashed the organ’s keyboard with his fists, arms or what? Powyss imagined the man, huge, bear-headed, howling amid heaps of books he couldn’t read. Weeks of silence.

  Moreham House, 20th August, 1797

  Dear Philip,

  Don’t imagine I haven’t thought about Warlow, even though it’s hard to enter the mind of a man with no learning. I do sometimes hear complaining sounds from below, let me tell you, my friend, and these disturb me deeply. But, he agreed to it. Nor has he ever asked to be brought out. And his wife and children are now well fed and clothed (as is he).

  Unkindly, you suggest I’m like the man who found a gold ring in a turnip in Northallerton. It is surely Warlow who has found the ring.

  These days he rarely completed a letter to Philip. He hated the sight of his complacency spreading like grey mould across the page. He took up the newspaper, read of sea battles with the French and Spaniards; the Thunder bomb, mutiny, violent riot at Tranent.

  Escaped to the long south-facing wall where espaliered Ribston pippins began to glow. He pocketed some blemished fruit with which to reprimand Price. Flowerheads heaved with bees and hoverflies.

  Polly had begun to read. Powyss was pleased with her. He realised she was never fearful, hadn’t learned anxiety. He’d lectured the servants, insisted they give her no hint. They complied but grew sour. Warlow’s proximity – one staircase and a nailed-up door were all that separated him from kitchen, pantries, sculleries – made it hard for them to ignore his presence.

  Powyss looked forward to Fridays, ink and paper ready. He rewarded each advance by showing her a curio, allowing her to handle it, telling her its story. He watched her when she came and when she left, how she’d find some gaudy flower, touch it, set off its scent. Saw her in his window-framed landscape of garden, fields, hills.

  Today, a perfect ammonite lay on his desk.

  She broke out as soon as he greeted her.

  ‘My father’s in this house! In prison!’

  ‘Who says so, Polly?’

  ‘Catherine.’

  ‘What else does Catherine say?’

  ‘She says he’s mad. What is “mad”? She says you give money so mother be’s quiet. She says it’s not fair we have clothes and food and others have none.’

  Her look was frank. She expected the truth from him, was amazed he’d been deceptive. He felt a sensation not experie
nced since childhood. Blushed with shame.

  Stumbled to explain. Yes, her father did indeed live in the house, though neither as prisoner nor mad, that he’d agreed to live on his own as an experiment. He would go home in three years, he said and then they’d all have new clothes and plenty of food for the rest of their lives.

  She couldn’t comprehend ‘experiment’.

  The image of her face, furious, unfazed by his authority, blazed in his mind.

  His equanimity broke.

  He walked with Mrs Warlow in his garden, fully visible to the servants.

  ‘I shall free your husband.’ Aster, coreopsis, phlox paniculata. Red and pink, late summer’s blood and flesh.

  She shrank as from a blow. Clasped her arms against her ribs.

  ‘I see you don’t want that, Hannah.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Herbert, not ‘sir’. No one can hear us. The experiment was wrong. I thought of Warlow as an object to observe, like a plant. I wanted to see how he’d survive in certain conditions. Didn’t think he might suffer. He should return and your old life resume.’

  ‘Old life?’

  ‘The agreement would be broken, of course. I could no longer support you. If I did, everyone around would make a claim.’

  ‘The children are well. They will be poor again.’

  ‘And I have taken advantage of you, Hannah.’ Rudbeckia, black-eyed.

  ‘I am yours.’

  He went to the hothouse to think. Melon leaves shrivelled in the heat, their great growth over. He cleared spent cucumber haulm. The experiment was utterly ill-conceived, the results blurred by his selfishness. He needed to cut it down, clear out the wayward growth.

  The night’s expected storm was violent. Hail stones shattered the lower lights of the hothouse. The valley would be flooded. He abhorred superstition, thought, with Voltaire, that God cared no more for us than a captain for the mice on his ship. Yet, he’d known so much joy. Fondness for Hannah and Polly, convolvulus, grew new blooms daily. Smothering all beneath.

  He would release Warlow at midday. Instruct Catherine to pack two baskets with provisions, find work for him for a month or so.

  A letter arrived from Philip.

  You no doubt realise that when the time comes, Warlow may not return gladly to his previous position after so much meat and fish! Have you thought how his bruised children may hate you for releasing him?

  But you have raised them above their lowly state. Relieved Mrs Warlow of her ‘slavery of fear’. We should attend to the rights of woman as to those of man. The spirit of God lives in each person, but in this case the advantages for eight children and their mother far outweigh seven years of minor deprivation for their father. Greater good thus drowns out evil.

  You joke that I’m your conscience, Herbert. I commend your experiment.

  Reason’s clean cut. Just when he’d begun to succumb to a desire for reprobation; to burn before the fiery glance of a child.

  Of course, Philip’s balance might shift if he learned all. But Powyss knew that the strangely moving exertion of tenderness towards Hannah, the pleasing nurture of Polly could only be weighed with the good.

  ‘Here we are again, Polly! Which flowers did you look at in the garden on your way here?’

  ‘Big, red daisy flowers, Mr Powyss. I likes them.’

  So much would flourish. There was yet his paper on the nature of human endurance – his contribution to knowledge. Warlow would be spoken of when he came to light.

  He must remain below. The experiment would continue until its end.

  Polly would come; encouraged by her mother she would trust him again. There remained the matter of noise, its erratic disturbance. How to prevent her suddenly hearing her father bellow.

  He instructed Stephens to move his desk, cabinet and most-used books upstairs to the small sitting-room. The view from the window was less good. He’d have to stand to watch the child against the backdrop of fields and hills. But he could still observe the magnolia, note date and conditions each year when its first buds opened, creamy with promise.

  AN EXPERIMENT: BELOW

  Powyss showed him round. He was proud of the ‘apartments’. ‘Commodious’ the advertisement said. He’d had to ask Powyss what that meant. Two big rooms, furniture, cupboards, bed. No windows. Not this far down. Powyss strode about. Waved his hands.

  ‘Look, Warlow, you’re provided with plenty of fuel, kindling. Candles, oil-lamps, tinder-box,’ he said.

  Table, white cloth, knife and fork. Silver. Glinting in the light from his lamp. Padded chair with carved legs. Pictures on the walls. Looking-glass.

  ‘We’ll eat the same food, but yours will come down on the dumb-waiter. Open the hatch. There: two shelves enough for small trays. It’s a long way down but with covers the food should remain hot. Pull this cord to send back empty dishes. Ring the bell first.’

  Then the organ.

  ‘You keep pumping with your feet while you play. See?’

  ‘Couldn’t never learn that.’

  ‘Try, Warlow! There’s a box of music: Handel, hymns. Of course I didn’t know who would take up the offer. Here’s a bath. Ewer, soap – Military Cake, nothing too perfumed. Tooth-brush, powder. The water’s cold but it’s not far from the fire. The cistern’s over there to the side. You could keep an eye on it.’

  ‘Bath?’

  ‘You’ll want to wash yourself even if there’s no one to see you. Your beard and hair will grow long. Remember? No cutting. No scissors, no razor. Send up your dirty linen. Send up your pot from the close-stool.’

  ‘What work’ll I do, sir?’

  ‘Living here will be your work. Living here for seven years. For the sake of knowledge, of science: to see how you fare without human society. Hermits choose to do it for at least seven years. Your name will become known.

  ‘Keep it tidy, swept. There are brooms, everything you need of that nature. Wind the clock and mark off the days or you’ll lose track of time. Read the books, Warlow. I’ve chosen them carefully.’

  ‘Never read a book.’

  ‘Yes, but you can read, can’t you? And write. Write things down. There are pens, ink, paper and a journal. I’d keep a diary, if I were you. It would also be very useful to me when I write everything up to send to the Royal Society.’

  ‘Journal, what’s that, Mr Powyss, sir?’

  ‘You write in it what you do each day. What happens. What you’re thinking. It’s a good thing you had some schooling.’

  He shook his hand.

  ‘Good luck, Warlow! Remember your wife and children are taken care of. You’ll do it! We meet again in 1800.’

  He smiled. Walked off in his fine black velvet breeches and coat.

  Samuel nailed planks across the door.

  Bed is soft and warm. No straw, no sacking. He’s never slept in a bed like this. Could stay in it all day. Is it day? Clock strikes. He loses count. Utter darkness; the fire is out. No daylight.

  He feels for the tinder-box, lights a candle. It’s cold out of bed though he’s still wearing his clothes. Pulls a blanket round him. Must find daylight. How else tell the time of day? Clocks are useless.

  Takes the candle along the walls, floor, to corners, backwards and forwards. From one room to another. Starts again. Over the same ground. Along the walls, peering. Feeling with great rough fingers. Paper on walls near the fire. Plaster on others. Thick stone. Sudden cold air. Ventilation grating half-way down in a corner near the cistern. Curled ironwork flakes at his touch. Behind, a narrow brick-lined shaft that goes up out of sight.

  A cut of light slants through. He breathes it. Smell of rust, leaf mould, morning.

  *

  Time is a stretch of toil. Eat. Another stretch. Plough half an acre of clay. Bread, beer. Plough another half. Horses back; brush them down. Home. Tirednes
s blotted by drink, bread, meat. Up again at daybreak.

  Now there’s no work. Nothing set. No compulsion. He’s not tired. Not hungry. Meals descend. He rings the bell, hauls up scummy plates. His full pot in the morning. Days punctured by the dumb-waiter. Distant clatter the other side of the nailed door; muffled thumps way above.

  Night’s noise is children stirring, kicking, crying in the other bed, Hannah whimpering in her sleep, scratch of rats running overhead, dogs outside, owls. Now only ticking, ticking. Nothing else. Nothing. He takes a kindling stick to the clock on the wall, opens the glass, jams it under the big hand. Which comes off. Can’t read the time anyway. Tick, tick, tick. Unlatches a door in the side, reaches in. Heavy pendulum slips off its perch, crashes through the thin wooden base onto the floor. Tickticktickticktickticktickticktick. Stops.

  His head ticks in the silence. No. That will make him mad. Stumbles to the grating to listen. To hear the life he’s given up. Above, far away, a dog howls. Still coldness speaks of frost. Cracked crust of frozen earth. Roots alive beneath it. He is lower than turnips, potatoes. Lower than moles.

  *

  He’s touched everything, handled, opened, closed, picked up, put down. Knows every damned thing here. Sits in the high-backed armchair, watches the candle burn down. Candlesticks, snuffer, oil lamp on the round table, cask of oil. Never used an oil lamp. Fiddles with it till it flares, melts an eyebrow, singes overhanging hair. He curses soundly. (Often talks to himself now.) Small Turkey rugs all swirling patterns, tongs, poker, shovel, brush, shelf of books, press with blankets, drawers of linen. Pictures of trees and lakes, people at a well: bible story, can’t remember which. Stares into the looking-glass. Holds up the candle: a face recognisable only from the mouths it pulls at itself.