Silent multitude, p.12
Silent Multitude, page 12
Somehow at last he was down on the floor of the nave. Above him he could only think of Great Peter of Gloucester—in his fancy the massive bell had moved on its pivots as he passed it. Moved like a trap. He ran flapping down the south aisle and out by the nearest door, stumbling across the grass from the south porch. Pigeons rose in curving flocks as he trampled through them—fleeing out of the Close and under the archway into St. Mary’s Square. He fetched up against the monument to Bishop Hooper and sank down on its steps. John Hooper who the inscription said was burned to ashes. Dean Goodliffe was crying. Burned to running pools of stinking lard, more like.
His fear resolved itself into anger. He thought of the holy martyr with scorn—his noble assurance, his certainty, his spiritual pride. The grandness of his final sacrifice, by it condemning his tormentors to bum in fires eternal. Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.
As his shame grew, so his anger fed upon it. He pounded the steps of the monument, weeping. Till suddenly his anger fled, leaving him nothing. He turned his face up to the weatherworn head of the bishop, and behind it the low shape of the church of St. Mary de Lode. He felt his own face to be as gray and featureless, his own robe to be as stiff and dead. The silence weighed on him like stones. He could not move. He wished to die, and so sinned, and still he could not move.
The sun was setting between the towers by the side of St. Marys Church. The Cathedral clock began to strike four. Clouds were gathering in the east, bringing a new feel in the air, a hint of rain. At last Dean Goodliffe moved, bowed his head, dared from his depth to pray.
When he stood up his robe was dusty, his hands impressed with the surface of the worn stone steps. Nearby a large section of building fell like gunfire. The Dean walked slowly back into the Close. The pigeons were choosing roosting places and he walked gently. He entered the west door of the Cathedral and stood for a long time, unable to think, unable to feel, barely able to exist. He had opposed for so long, acceptance came at first as a pain, slowly.
Finally he turned and made his way back to the Deanery. As he went he brushed the dust from his clothes with stiff hands.
By the time Sim and Sally succeeded in finding their way up into the daylight there had been three other minor falls. As they wandered in the increasingly darker tunnels Sim fretted that he was missing the best of it. At last they found themselves in the deserted taxi rank and from there they were able to climb the ramp up to the Concert Hall environ.
The sun was setting and there was no sign of any police. The loud hailer had stopped its ranting. Even the noise of the motorcycles was drawing off.
“He won’t risk his men in the city after dark. Not now it’s really started falling. You’re only worth so much, you know.”
She didn’t answer, and he supposed she was ashamed. He knew she must have a story, a list of excuses bubbling somewhere in her and bursting to get out. How Daddy had always cotton-wooled her, how this was her great chance to do something really on her own, how hard it was being the child of a successful parent He was surprised that she’d kept it bottled up so long. And it was all nonsense—his own father had been a hundred times more distinguished than her scabby parent, and that hadn’t stopped him from making his own life.
They were crossing the Concert Hall environ. Like the icing slipping from the side of a cheap birthday cake a large section of the hall frontage broke away and thundered onto the paved courtyard. It started several smaller falls from the buildings around. Sim put an arm around Sally and held her there to see the acres of yellow glass bend and splinter. First the retaining band of concrete above the main entrance foyer had crumbled, then the panels above it, the white tiles and the shimmering glass, had slithered a little downward, curving outward from the top—for a moment the inside of a huge yellow bowl. The fragments spattered to within feet of where the two people were standing. Sim’s eyes were bright He laughed at the sight of it “You’ll get us killed, Sim.”
“I’ve learned the danger areas around buildings to within inches. Look—look how the roof horizontals are bending up there. The load was formerly shared by the front members as well—now they’re taking it all. See how they’re bending.”
“It isn’t only one building that falls, Sim. What if—”
“Just shut your mouth and watch. That’s what we’re here for.”
With the front of the Concert Hall gone its various levels were exposed like the side of a gigantic doll’s house. Sim was fascinated by the complexity of the interlocking streams that led to different parts of the auditorium; he could admire the detailing of the mahogany banister rails, smile at the concession to tradition in the thick red carpet. Rows of light fittings stretching back out of sight into the building swung wildly as the ceilings above them buckled. The side of the stalls bar was laid open, its bottles jangling. Over to the left a green upholstered chair was inexplicably falling down a staircase. The thought of an outraged usherette hurrying from the door of the powder room opposite to stop it amused him. He noticed the caretaker’s room, with ranks of electric polishers like soldiers.
“Here it goes now. It’ll go inward, so don’t worry. There’s the weight of the auditorium dragging it in.”
It went inward. Almost as if somebody had simply pulled out the plug. From a tearing sound somewhere in the very heart of the place the floors began to tilt. Staircases bent surprisingly far before they snapped. Stair rods burst, letting the carpet billow in crimson festoons. And then suddenly the slow adjustments became a tumult, floorboards and plaster and loose door-frames showering in among the cracked joists, central heating ducts, indoor plants and pattering acoustic tiles. Water fell in thick masses from the roof space storage tanks. Air was driven out, blowing hot in their faces. It brought with it dust and flock upon flock of tossing concert programs. Abruptly the building was still, only the programs still leafing in the wind.
“Look out, Sim. Look out behind you.”
“Take your time, love. One thing leads to another—it’s a law of nature.”
The roof of the shops at their backs appeared to be sliding out above them. Holding her hand he ran lightly back down the ramp to the taxi rank. Pantiles clattered on the stones behind them. Under the Concert Hall the ground had given way so that the center of the carway tapered down to nothing. A large pool of water was spreading. The door of the taxi office had been flung off and lay at the foot of the ramp. Its wired glass still said manager. He laughed and tore off one of the journey dockets still fixed to it by a spring clip. He noticed that Sally was crying.
“Cheer up, love. Let’s see who was the last lucky man to take a taxi ride.”
“It’s horrible, Sim. It’s horrible.”
“You knew it’d be rough. If it was going to upset you then you shouldn’t have come. Now, let’s see—hell, I can’t read the damned man’s writing.”
Gradually the roaring above them subsided. Sally groped for her handkerchief.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if it was bombs doing it. You know, people. People you could hate.”
“But it is people. Little tiny people with little tiny claws. You can’t see them, but that doesn’t stop you from hating them if you want to.”
“You make it worse, of course. Thinking it’s all so bloody funny.”
“Interesting, girl. Perhaps even satisfying. But certainly not funny.”
“I used the wrong word. Orgiastic would have been better.” He looked up at her.
“You’re a savage little thing.” He smoothed the docket in his hand. “But you might be right.”
They went up the ramp. The dust was dispersing. Against the background of rapidly piling clouds the Concert Hall was hardly more than a bare metal framework. Electric cables trailed between the uprights. Sim listened for the departed music, knowing he would hear nothing but the thin whistling of the wind. Sally started crying again, made no attempt to control herself as she stared at the rubble and the sentimental shreds of billboards. He led her carefully across the square and along a broad walkway as yet untouched. Dusk was gathering against the faces of the shops.
“This isn’t the way back to the Bon Marché.”
“We’re not going there. I told you, we’re going to see the Dean.”
“I was hoping you might have changed your mind.” “Don’t you think we ought all to be together at a time like this? Besides, I missed Wells Cathedral. I don’t want to miss Gloucester as well.”
A motorcycle passed the end of the walkway, its headlamp swinging wildly. Sally shouted. She ran after it. By the time she got to the end it was gone, the concourse there Uttered with piles of broken glass. She waited for Sim by the shattered frontage of a pet shop. He saw her stoop and turn a dog’s drinking bowl the right way up.
“You can go if you want to. Leave the city. I’ll give you back your camera.”
“Not on my own. I daren’t go on my own.”
“Stopped worrying about the old tramp, have you?” “There’s no use in worrying. I can’t possibly find him, not with the city like this.”
“I have a feeling he’ll survive. Old men like that are very tenacious.”
An awning fell onto the pavement a hundred yards ahead.
“Don’t worry, girl. You stay with me and you’ll be safe enough. I lead a charmed existence.”
He spoke with bitterness that he himself did not understand. He’d been following the Sickness now for weeks, increasingly careless. Some people were just lucky—you might as well take advantage of it. He looked up at the towers around them, each as soft as cheese. Any one of them might fall at this moment and he’d be killed, he and Sally together. A piece of coping would be enough if it was only him the fungus was after. A few drops of rain blew harshly down from the darkening sky.
“Come on,” he said, “unless you want to get wet.”
“Will the rain make any difference? To the Sickness, I mean?”
“Cools it down a bit. Slows it. Nothing much. Come on if you’re coming.”
They ran through the changed piazzas. Down among what was left of Old Westgage and right into the Cathedral Close. It struck Sim as funny that in the circumstances they should be running from a shower of rain. It occurred to him that in the half-dark it might be difficult to find the Deanery. He needn’t have worried. There were lights in all the Deanery windows and the front door stood wide open. Music could be heard, music that Sim recognized as a Bach unaccompanied cello sonata. The sky above the Deanery was still stormily luminous from the last of the sunset. And the Dean himself stood in the open doorway, waiting for them.
ELEVEN
He observed how when they saw him they stopped running. In spite of the rain that was now torrential, they came up the path toward him slowly, holding hands, incredulous, like children approaching a Christmas tree. He had time to see them very clearly, the lights from the house gleaming on the man’s rain-sleeked hair, the woman with a look in her eyes that suggested she had been crying. He had no children of his own—if he had they might well be such as these.
“Come in. I’ve been half expecting you. A happy Christmas to you both.”
They went past him into the hall and he closed the outside door. They stood close together under the small crystal chandelier.
“The police officer came about half an hour ago. He said they were calling off the search. I told him there was nothing to worry about—I was sure you would have looked after the young lady.”
Simeon laughed. He stamped his feet, shaking rainwater willfully about.
“He asked me to ring headquarters if you turned up. Have you any objections to my doing so?”
“It’s your telephone.”
“I won’t if you’d prefer me not to.”
“Please, Sim. Just to stop Daddy worrying.”
For Simeon to act in character he should have poured out his scorn on her. He was silent; they were curiously united. The Dean went to the console table where the telephone was, lifted the receiver, watched the young woman help Simeon off with his jacket. He head the dial tone.
“The land line's still in one piece.” He began to dial. “That's a mercy.”
“It was you who sent the police to the Bon Marché?” Gathering aggressiveness.
“Certainly I told them I had seen you all there. I had no reason not to.”
“I've always wondered where not bearing false witness ends and open informing begins.”
“You were in no sort of trouble. I deny that I informed against you.”
“Something's happened to you, Dean. You're answering back.”
The faint ringing in the telephone stopped. “Cheltenham central police station. Inquiry desk.”
“This is Dean Goodliffe speaking. I have a message for the Superintendent.”
“He's not back yet. Is it urgent?”
“No, not urgent. Just give it to him when he does arrive please. Tell him that Miss Paget and Mr. Crankshawe are now at the Deanery. Miss Paget and Mr. Crankshawe. Both unharmed. He'll know what to do.” “Which Deanery is that please?”
“Gloucester Deanery. Thank you so much.”
He rang off. The young constable was eight miles away—Gloucester would be just another flag 'on his map. The Dean saw that Miss Paget was smiling at Simeon, giggling almost.
“Is your name really Crankshawe?”
“With the final *e.' It's most important.”
“I know it'll make you furious, but I've actually heard of your father.”
“It would make me more furious if you hadn't. He's my whole reason.”
The cello sonata ended and Dean Goodliffe went regretfully into the study to turn off the record player. He missed the physical presence of the instrument, the wood, the harsh reality of rosin and horsehair on catgut.
“Would you like the other side?” he called.
The house shook, rattling the windows. He closed his eyes, leaned for a moment on the loudspeaker cabinet. When the two in the hall didn't answer he turned the amplifier off and replaced the record carefully in its plastic sleeve. Then he returned to his guests.
“I suppose I must remind you a bit of Nero.” Trying to budge them from their fixed place just inside the door.
“We shouldn't have come here.”
“Indeed you should, Miss Paget. The Superintendent explained to me that these old low houses will be among the last to go. And he said that they give plenty of warning. So at least you're out of the rain for a while.”
“By plenty of warning he meant that you get the chimneys through the roof first.” Simeon was enjoying it. “After that there's about three minutes before the eaves break away and the whole lot comes down.”
“Three minutes should be enough, if we don't dawdle. Now please go in and sit down. I've got a sort of high tea warming in the kitchen.”
Simeon moved toward him, giving way to the house with difficulty.
“I want to shout and run about. I feel exalted. Do you understand that? It's not a feeling you'll be able to smother with your toast and Gentleman's Relish.”
“As long as I understand the terms on which you're accepting them I trust there’s nothing intrinsically wrong either with toast or with Gentleman’s Relish.”
“I’m quite without humor, Dean, when it comes to my joys and my beliefs.”
Dean Goodliffe looked up at him, smelling the rain on his clothes and the fear that burned. Oh God, he prayed, help me to find out what this young man is afraid of. He went out into the kitchen, made some more toast and opened a large tin of sardines. He took mince pies out of the oven and fetched his housekeeper’s Christmas cake from the cupboard. He examined the trolley, ticking off the things that he had to remember. It was irrelevant that he resembled an old lady fussing with cutlery and Crown Derby. Within himself he felt no fear, no anger, no uncertainty.
When he had made the tea he trundled the whole array through into the sitting room.
“—and he did. My father really believed he was working toward what he called psycho-social integration.” Miss Paget had her jacket off, thrown over the back of the sofa. Simeon was crouched, talking earnestly, all knees. Dean Goodliffe paused in the doorway.
“Your father was all for the scientific method. I admired his intellect while not always respecting the results he obtained with it.”
“Words.” Simeon glared up at him. “When are you going to say something that actually means something?” Dean Goodliffe pushed the trolley across to the table by the end of the sofa. The heating was turned full on, and made the room oppressively hot. As he began to transfer the cups and saucers onto the table Miss Paget got up to help him.
“I can offer you yesterday’s mince pies,” he said. “Tea ^ made with yesterday’s water. Also yesterday’s bread and yesterday's milk. The cake was made at least a month ago and the sardines tinned I don't know when."
“All right, I'll play along. If they're good to eat, what of it?”
“None of these things will be as good to eat tomorrow. And by January or February even the cake will probably have mold on it.”
“Oh God for a straight answer. Are you saying that the only things you have to offer will soon be stale and useless? If they aren't already?”
“Isn't that what you believe, boy? And isn't that what you're afraid of?”
He knew he was wide open for Simeon to laugh at him. Laughter would mean nothing, might be no more than a defense mechanism. Yet he dreaded—for a reason he didn't examine—he dreaded the young man’s mockery. Simeon's eyes flickered awkwardly down to the toes of his orange boots.
“I wouldn't suddenly be afraid of something I'd known all my life.” Could he actually be ashamed? He looked up, as if with an effort. “It’s your own fears you're talking about, Dean. Not mine.”
Miss Paget leaned across, quietly helping herself to toast.
“Beliefs aren't like food. They grow and change themselves. The best beliefs are never out of date.”
