So that was it. The falling object was nothing more than an emblematisation of the general liveliness of matter. People started to nod and smile, or shake their heads in acknowledgement of their own slow-wittedness. Ken struck his forehead with the heel of his hand and said what an idiot he was. No one demurred.
Shortly after this the Master said they should leave May to rest. ‘And to give thanks to her guardian angel in the proper manner.’ He moved away then and Tim followed, almost stepping on the blue robe in his anxiety not to be left behind. At the door the Master turned. ‘I’m rather concerned about your regression this evening May. These journeys can be quite demanding. Would you care to put it off till another time?’
‘Certainly not, Master,’ said May sturdily. ‘It is the time of the new moon and, we have heard from Hilarion, most propitious. How would I feel if a manifestation from Astarte arrived and I hadn’t taken advantage of all that extra-dynamic energy? And in any case,’ she sat up, drank a little oxymol and beamed at them all, ‘I am already quite myself again.’
Chapter 4
It was half past five. At dinner the Craigies would be present. Afterwards there might not be an opportunity to catch Sylvie on her own. So Guy had arrived early at Compton Dando. His slight anxiety that this might cause annoyance had been easily subsumed beneath a general surge of excited anticipation.
In fact, being driven down, he had managed to convince himself that, reading between the lines, what Sylvie’s letter was really about was a decision to forgive him. She couldn’t write herself, Guy appreciated that. She had been badly hurt and would not for a moment assume a petitioner’s vulnerability. Neither would he wish her to do so. But that the invitation had been issued, not just with her permission but at her instigation, he now had no doubt. His years of lonely sorrow were nearly at an end. Standing by the main door of the Manor House, a bouquet of sweetly scented flowers with a card reading simply ‘With love’ in his hand, happiness broke over Guy. He was bathed in it, like perspiration.
He looked around for signs of life. There was a big Gothic key in the lock and a vertical iron rod fixed to the wall, attached to a rusting bell. He put his finger through and tugged. The bell was quite loud but no one came. He waited a while, gripping the flowers awkwardly. There were two wooden seats in the porch flush to the wall, worn and smooth like those often found outside old country churches. Guy put his bouquet down on one of them and stepped back for a better view of the beautiful and imposing house.
It hadn’t occurred to Guy that she might simply not be there. Should he check into his hotel and come back? Gina had booked a room at Chartwell Grange, the only halfway decent place within miles. Guy had decided that, whatever direction the evening took, he did not wish to return home afterwards. He wanted to be by himself to absorb, digest, relieve and, surely, to celebrate. And although Felicity knew nothing of the invitation, and in any case would be zonked out of what was left of her mind by the time he got back, Guy still felt a trace of disquiet at the idea of being in her presence so soon after parting from their daughter.
Reluctant to give up, he strolled down the side of the house. What a mess the border was. Flowers that should have been upright trailing in the dust. One immensely tall many-spired blue thing had collapsed entirely and was spread all over the gravel. He came to a shaggy yew hedge running parallel to the right-angle wall. At one point the branches had been chopped away to make an opening. Guy stepped through.
He was standing on a lawn, very large and multi-starred with daisies and white clover - some of which were being eaten by a stoutish goat. In the centre was a vast cedar of Lebanon which looked as old as the house itself. At his feet was a rectangular pond full of lively darting fish. Some striped like tigers, others smaller with spiny backs and transparent snail-like horns. At the far end of the lawn were a lot of bamboo wigwams and a general air of leafiness indicating some sort of vegetable garden. And at last, a sign of human life. Someone raking or hoeing. Perhaps Ian Craigie?
Guy started off again but had not gone far when the man stopped work, threw back his head and started to declaim. It sounded like blank verse and it was very loud. He gestured, too, throwing his arms about and gazing at the sun. Guy retreated, much perturbed.
Back at the porch he decided to give the bell a final try but then, reaching upwards, changed his mind and on impulse turned the iron ring handle. The door opened and he stepped inside.
He was in a huge hall with an arched soaring roof punctuated by brilliantly painted bosses. A grand staircase with elaborately carved newel posts and banisters led to a three-sided minstrel’s gallery. The place was sparsely decorated with very plain bits of furniture. Two large wooden chests, one of which had a splintered lid, some rush-bottomed chairs, a round nondescript table which could have been from any period and a tall, free-standing cupboard. The only attractive item visible was a large stone Buddha, about five feet tall, on a plinth. Its head was covered with curls so tight and small they looked like pimples. There were a glass jar of lupins on the plinth and a little pile of fruit.
The air smelt disagreeable. Floor polish, unsavoury cooking and dampish clothes. An institution smell. He should know. He’d been in enough. All overlain by a pungent rather sickly odour which Guy feared might be incense.
The table held two wooden bowls, each supporting an exquisitely written card. These read ‘Feeling Guilty?’ and ‘Love Offering’. Inside the guilty bowl was five pence. There were also lots of pamphlets which proved to be hand-cranked, hugely exclamatory, full of unnecessary italics and oddly situated quotation marks. Guy picked up The Romance of the Enema by Kenneth Beavers: Clairaudient: Intuitive Diagnostician FORW. Behind the door through which he had just entered was a green baize noticeboard. Guy walked over to have a look, making his footsteps louder than was strictly necessary.
The material displayed was uninspiring. Rotas mainly. Cooking. Cleaning. Feeding and milking Calypso. He read quickly through the list but Sylvie’s name was not there. He didn’t know whether to feel encouraged or frustrated. There was also a large poster: ‘Mars & Venus: Longing To Help But Are We Ready? Talk: 27th Aug Causton Library. Book early and avd. disappointment.’
Was it some daft quasi-religious set-up then? The rota listed both males and females so that ruled out a nunnery. Or a monastery either, come to that. Perhaps it was some sort of retreat. The thought of Sylvie in such a place was frankly risible. And where did Craigie come into it? ‘Have dinner with us.’ Was all this lot ‘us’? Guy didn’t like that idea at all. He had no intention of sharing his reconciliation with a load of freaks. He looked around for further clues.
There were two corridors leading off the hall and a door marked ‘Office’. Guy opened it and peered inside. The room was windowless, full of stationery and files, some stacked on the floor, some on shelves. A Gestetner stood on a card table and, in a tall-backed leather chair, a further sign of life.
Long blue-jeaned legs, glorious tumbling amber hair with a fine golden fuzz clustered around the pale brow. A board creaked under Guy’s foot and the figure turned. He caught a brief glimpse of her face before she scrambled up and ran towards a dusty tapestry wall-hanging which she seized, wrapping it around herself as if she were naked.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Perfection. Guy gaped like a fool. It was half a minute before he recollected himself and when he did it was to realise she was terribly afraid of him. As she stood pressed against the wall, her breath was snatched and rasping like a cornered animal’s. Guy mumbled into apologetic speech.