His Last Fire (11 page)

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.

A
N
E
XPERIMENT:
B
ELOW

P
owyss 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. Tiredness 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.

‘Ohh. That . . . is me.'

The hand raised to feel the beard.

Powyss told him to write each day. He bites off tobacco, chews rapidly. Opens the journal, grasps a pen. His nails dig into his palm. He tears at them with his teeth. Dips the pen, writes his name.

John Warlow

Tries to remember what they used to write in school:
I am 7.
Writes:

I am 4 3 yers old I live in Moram Moream Morham Moreham

Febry 1793

He knows the year, but days have passed, weeks. He crosses out
Febry
and writes
March
. Crosses that out, puts
Aperl
. He has no idea of the date though he hasn't yet smelled summer. That's enough for one go. His fingers are covered in ink; he's spilled sand all over the book.

He plunges his hand in the cistern and a frog jumps out, hops away into the dark. He bawls at it, spits, dries his fingers on his breeches, warms his arse before the fire.

Remembers what he said to Powyss. He'd be glad to be shut of human faces.

‘For seven years, Warlow. To see nobody for seven years?'

‘Yes.' Yes. Yes. He'd had no doubts.

It was the money. £50 wouldn't make him rich. But every year for the rest of his life! That was it. It'd keep the lot of them. He wouldn't work if he didn't feel like it. And if he did he'd keep his wages for himself. Drink as long as he wanted. Liberty. That was the word, wasn't it? Or was it freedom?

‘For the rest of my life,' he murmurs over and over.

The others were envious you could see, though they said he was a fool.

But it was true about the faces. He'd rather look a horse in the face than see old Martin day after day, grimy dewlaps wobbling each time he took a swig. Dick grinning. Wind blew, they said, his mouth stuck. Sucking soaked crusts between his gums.

‘No woman for seven year.'

He'll get by. There's no joy in Hannah. So scared of another child she'll do anything to avoid him. Scraping
damned pans into the night, mending, scrubbing again and again. In the morning asleep at the table head on arms. She's had that many, eight living, five buried. Thin as a skeleton herself. He could kill her easy rolling on top. Her coughing, struggling for breath. The last time he hit her her arm broke. He hadn't done it since the girl was born.

Polly. He'll miss her. Her sweet look. But the rest. Good for nothing. Hungry all the time, fighting each other, he had to knock them about. Roars out loud at the thought of them. Can't tell one from the other. Sometimes calls them by the names of the ones who died. Dick says children are punishment.

*

Each day he goes to the grating to sniff the outside world. Soil, damp or dry. Knows when it's been raining; when spring begins to warm. When leaves on the other side, piling up in the brick-lined shaft are dusty with summer; when scores more gust in; rattle of ash-keys. Smoke-smell of fog; hears hail, soundless snowfall. And hooves on gravel, wheels, boys shouting, bells. Cocks, pigeons, rooks. All sounds shrunken, as from a tiny country.

It's through the rusting grating the frogs get in. He came across that first one, a flat, dried-out frog shape on the ground near the bed. Now he catches them, drops them in the cistern. Scatters crumbs, fragments of food on the surface.

It's when he smells hot earth that he longs to get out and shit among the leaves at the edge of the wood, chew bread with the others while sweating horses rest.

*

There's tapping. He's had his third meal so it must be evening. Strong dark meat he didn't recognise, boiled celery, plum dumpling. Pint of porter.

He scratches his scalp, the beard now down to his chest. Thinks he imagined it, but it's there all right. Other side of the nailed up door. He doesn't move. Mustn't reply. To get his reward he must speak to no one. Then it stops.

Is it Hannah? No. Powyss said he'd take care of them while he's below. And she'll not have anything to say. She'll be glad, very glad he isn't there.

Days later it happens again. He pushes hair from his eyes, presses his ear against the door. A woman's voice.

‘Mr Warlow? John? I know you're there. Just the other side of the door.'

He presses harder, accidentally scratches the door with long nails.

‘I can hear you're there.' He thrusts his fingers into his mouth, gnaws off the nails.

‘I know you're there, John. You poor man.'

He's breathing hard. Mustn't reply. For so long now he's been saying his thoughts aloud, taking comfort from the sound of himself. Perhaps it's a trap. To make him speak, lose the money.

‘John?'

A young voice. Who is she?

‘It's Annie. I work in the kitchen.' He doesn't know her. But he never had to do with the house until all this. ‘I know what you look like, John. What you
looked
like. You look different now, I reckon. I could tell you things, John.'

He groans to himself. Maybe it's the voice of the devil. Isn't that what they say? He speaks in the voice of an angel to tempt you. He moves away from the door. Behind the table as if to protect himself. Says the name of Jesus three times. Tiptoes back.

Then there's scuffling, a man's voice.

‘Come away! Stupid girl!' He recognises Stephens. ‘What are you thinking of? He's not allowed to speak.'

‘It's cruel. Poor man! And his wife …‘ Her words suddenly muffled as by a hand.

‘He agreed to it. Didn't need to. He must abide there.' Shouted for his hearing. More scuffling. Silence.

For some time he is buoyed by this episode. The girl is thinking about him! She's kind. Young. Pretty no doubt. Ample. She'd need to be strong in the kitchen. He pictures her reddened by steam, meeting him in Horseshoe Copse. Eager. Greedy. He imagines.

For he'll be famous when he comes out. Powyss said so. He'll be a wonder. They'll all want him. And Hannah? Hannah will probably be dead by then. Yes, these thoughts buoy him up for days.

*

He can sense daylight. Knows he's right when he hears the first meal begin its downward journey. Gets up, greedy for bread. Or doesn't. They'll not wind the dishes up till he rings the bell. Can lie as long as he likes. Imagining Annie's breasts, buttocks. Eventually bladder compels.

Kidneys, lamb chops, white bread, butter, jam, the beer he asked for. Sits on the close-stool scratching back, groin, behind the knees, digging into the skin until it bleeds. Buttons himself, lifts the pot, rings for its shaky journey up to where he cannot go. Clean one descends.

At the grating he breathes heat or dripping cold. Confirms the world still exists. Grips the flaking iron, shakes it. If he loosened it what then? Too small to get through. Not think about getting out.

Checks traps. He has several, sent down when he wrote:

I ned rat trapps pleas 5

Builds a new fire, burns the corpses.

Tends to frogs. He tried putting them back between the curls of rusting iron but they can't jump high enough to get out of the chute. Once fallen they're stuck. Drawn to the cistern, lured to its lifeless water.

The futility of their life troubles him. When he finds one floating on its back he's depressed for days. Then he thinks to catch them, put them under a dish-cover, send them upstairs. He laughs to think of the women shrieking as frogs spring off the dish. But he won't have them killed.

pt froggs in pon pleas

Now the long gap of morning. Once in a while he opens a book and flicks its pages as if this time it will make sense. Writes only when there's something to ask for. Chews. Spits. Sits. Stands by the nailed door. Distant kitchen sounds. Annie hasn't come back. Sits again. Scratches the webs of his fingers. Kicks off clogs, scratches the webs of his toes. If Annie's left she'll have no option. He thinks of Moreham men enjoying her.

His sight grows used to dimness, smell and hearing sharpen. As seasons pass he labours in his mind: mud, seed, weeds, grain. Herding, thwacking flanks, tugging warm udders. Plods up a furrow, down the next. But this occupies minutes only. Mind grinds down like a windless mill with no corn. Great stones, weighted, waiting.