The Children's Book

34

When Geraint, or Gerry, Fludd left Purchase House he wanted, he thought to himself, deliberately using the cliché, to shake its dust from his feet. His mind was full of images both mocking and distasteful. The holes in the long dirty carpets in the corridors. The vacancy in his mother’s large eyes. Pomona being skittish or girlish. Half-cooked fish (before Elsie came) and watery porridge. Clutter, as though the workshop was trying to infest the living space with drying knobs of clay and smears of engobe. He needed to get out, and he had got out. Now he was calmer, and had his own life, he began to feel he might have responsibilities.

This feeling was inextricable from his need to continue to visit the Cains, which was easy for him to do, because his sister was there. But after some time he began to be really interested in Imogen’s future, as opposed to appearing to be so. She was good-looking, in an elongated, old-fashioned way, and her slow speech and gestures were less mannered, more natural. She appeared to have talent. She was worth helping. And if he helped her, intelligently, he would be helping those abandoned helpless ones in the Marshes. His father might be a genius but he was the exact opposite of a good businessman, even more a good salesman. He did not appear to want to part with anything he had made. And he might turn Philip Warren into a copy of himself. Geraint visited the Cains when Prosper came back from his visit to Berlin. He said he thought there should be a showplace somewhere in London, where Imogen’s work could be displayed and sold—and the work of the Purchase potters also, and possibly other selected artists who had been at the Royal College with Imogen. Somewhere perhaps in Holborn or Clerkenwell. It could combine a studio with the display—so Imogen, perhaps, and a potter, maybe—could be seen working, and could explain the work to interested visitors. He had talked to Basil Well-wood, and Katharina, and they were interested in investing in the project. And he himself could help with managing.

Imogen said she had thought she should leave South Kensington and set up on her own. Major Cain said he hoped she would not—it was good for Florence to have her company—she should feel more than welcome to stay at least until this excellent idea had been put in place, and was running. Geraint looked at Florence, to see if she was happy. He did not think her expression was one of pleasure. Much of the smiling poised calm he had loved her for had vanished lately. But he still loved her, doggedly. He thought of her in the beds of the women he visited, and he remembered this now, as he looked at her, and flushed. “What do you think?” he asked her. She said it was a clever idea, and she wished she had a talent, as Imogen had.

The showroom was set up in a street in Clerkenwell where other artisans already worked and showed. It had a plate-glass window and display shelves and cabinets (made by furniture students) in elegant modern Arts and Crafts forms. There was a counter which was more like a long hall table, also in pale wood, and behind the counter, a recessed space in which Imogen’s work table, with blow-pipe and leather bags, was set up, next to a wheel for a potter. Various young women from the college came and threw pots from time to time. Geraint brought in young men from the City and Basil Wellwood himself came, and bought large vases by Benedict Fludd, which Geraint had had transported from Lydd. There was argument over what to call the place. Geraint thought of “Kiln and Crucible,” which Florence said sounded industrial. Imogen, who had been working on some small silver, walnut-shaped boxes, said “Why not The Silver Nutmeg?” and that was agreed on. They made a strange tree, from bronze and silvery wire, about five feet high, which they stood in a large jardiniere, made at Purchase by Philip and Benedict, in a glaze shading from pale sea-green to deep indigo, painted around with a prancing dragon with fourteen legs, whose teeth closed on his own scaly tail. Imogen hung this tree with small gold and silver objects made by herself and other silversmiths and from the top branch she hung the Silver Nutmeg and Golden Pear, smooth and glowing.

Geraint liked fixing things. He believed he was the prime mover behind the summer crafts camp in 1904. One idea led to another. If there was a camp in and around Purchase House—a camp where people could come and make things, and other people could come and learn, then the carpets might be replaced, and the furniture spruced up, and the house full of talk and work instead of female lethargy and retarded tocking clocks. It came into being in his mind—tents in the orchard, for men and for women—classes in the empty stables, painting, weaving, Imogen at a table in the harness room, surrounded by a circle of eager learners, classes at all levels from elementary to masters, in making pots … He thought about the studio in the dairy, and his father in the studio. He was a man of moods, Benedict Fludd, many of them evil, more of them morose, some of them manic. In one of his good moods—by which he meant manic—his son thought, he might be got to agree. There would then be the problem of the mood he might be in by the time the camp was set up. Geraint quailed. He went to talk to Prosper Cain who suggested that the summer camp should be set up elsewhere—they might ask Frank Mallett and Dobbin and Miss Dace if they could suggest a site—but it should be set up in reach of Purchase House, so that Fludd could perhaps give a lecture on his work—or a demonstration—and so could Imogen. It would be good for Pomona to have something happening—she must be given employment.

The person who helped out—instigated by Dace, Mallett and Dobbin—was Herbert Methley. A neighbouring farmer had just died, and his widow was happy to let the run-down farm buildings to the proposed camp to make studios for classes. She would provide milk, bread, apples and cider. There was plenty of room in the meadows for tents, there was a farm pond even if there was no river, the bathing places of Dymchurch and Hythe were within reach. Methley proposed some lectures on the Art of Writing. Wood-carvers and landscape painters were suggested. Geraint went, with Prosper Cain, to Purchase House, where they ate a lamb pie, cooked by Elsie, and surreptitiously studied Benedict Fludd. They asked if he would, when the camp was in place, spare Philip to help with the pottery classes and perhaps even lend his kiln to fire the work of the pottery enthusiasts. Fludd said Philip was more than busy, and he did not propose to put his kiln in danger. But his mood was not savage. Geraint had spent a short lifetime calculating how savage his father’s mood might be. His lip muscles were relaxed. Geraint looked from his father to Prosper Cain. He thought: I do not love my father. I have never loved my father. I wish I had a different father—a man like Cain who protects people, a man like Basil Wellwood who understands that I’m clever and ambitious. Benedict Fludd had loved his daughters in some odd way. But he rarely acknowledged the existence of his son.

“Imogen will be here,” Geraint said. “Imogen will be giving classes in silver-working. You really should make the effort to come to London and see The Silver Nutmeg. We sold two of your Janus vessels. It’s going well.”

Fludd had been making two-faced vessels, benign and calm on one side, possessed by rage, or grief, or pain on the other. They were in dark ruddy earthenware, decorated with black, in the hair and beards. Geraint did not like them, but the cognoscenti appeared to.

“Imogen does not come here. She has left us.”

“She will be here for weeks in the summer, for the camp. I wish you felt able to join in. Everyone would want to see you and your work. You could even work with Imogen—to make some things …”

Philip said he didn’t mind directing beginners on how to wedge clay and how to centre pots and so on. But what was needed was a talk by Benedict Fludd, about the whole history of working with clay, about Palissy and majolica, porcelain and slipware …

“I might think about it. If the time was right—”

“And people could come—not every day, but once or twice—to see where you work—” said Geraint.

“I don’t want people prying or messing.”

“Imogen and Philip will make sure they do neither.”

Fludd said neither no nor yes to this, which was more than could be hoped for.

The summer drew nearer. Geraint worked with those other organisers, Patty Dace, Frank Mallett, Arthur Dobbin and Marian Oakeshott, who said there should be someone to teach healthy exercises, and there should be drama of some kind. There should be theatre classes. This plan, too, burgeoned. Geraint was despatched to speak to August Steyning, who said that he had a master puppet-maker staying with him, who might be induced—he and his son—into giving classes on puppets and marionettes. And he himself might put on a performance—he had always wanted to make a hybrid work, with marionettes and fallible human actors.

And so it advanced, day by day. The Fabians and the Theosophists, the Anglicans and the craftsmen’s guilds put up notices and offered services of hammer and chisel, teapot and cake, stage and workshop, healthy drill and movement classes. The original campers were rather put out—there was a lack of intimacy, a lack of spontaneity, an absence of the pagan and the sun-worshipping. But Geraint said persuasively it wasn’t instead of the wild wood, it was as well as—it was an opportunity to create beautiful things and enjoy Nature, all at once. He started planning the day-to-day life of this so far shadowy world. They would build up to a climax, when Fludd would lecture, the play would be put on, and there would be an overnight firing in the bottle kiln, with everyone helping to carry wood, and midnight feasting.

Imogen acquiesced in all these plans on her behalf, but made no suggestions, either for activities, or for organisation. Florence Cain said she had no handicraft talents of any kind, but would stay in a hotel and drop in on the campers from time to time. She didn’t want to be prancing about in gym slips and knickers, either, thank you. Geraint was briefly mortified—he had imagined her playing some unspecified role. He said Imogen would be disappointed. Florence said “I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

A few days before the campers arrived, Prosper Cain went in a cab, one summer evening, to Clerkenwell, to collect Imogen Fludd and her tools. It was a very hot summer. The early evening light, though full of particles and floating debris, was gold in the grey. Prosper stood outside The Silver Nutmeg, and looked in. The tree shone with its perpetual fruit. The shelves were bright with precious metals and subtle glazes. Enamel work and threaded beads hung from ceramic branches on miniature ring-trees at either end of the long table. Between these trees was a pale mass, tawny hair, spread shoulders in a grey, Quakerish shirt. She had got tired of waiting—he was late, the streets were crowded—and had gone to sleep, he thought, looking with pleasure at the abandon of her limbs, usually so inhibited. He had done well, he thought—for the last time, as it turned out—to take her in, this companion for Florence, his motherless daughter.

He went into the shop. The pretty brass bell over the door trilled, and Imogen started. She did not lift her head. Prosper stepped across the room and touched her shoulder. He said he was sorry he was late, and did she need help, getting things together?

She raised her face to him. It was, briefly, the face of a madwoman, staring, puffed up, blotched with crimson stains. Her eyes were wet, and her face was wet, and even the collar of her shirt was damp. She caught her breath, heaving, and tried to say she was sorry.

“My dear—” said Prosper. He took two steps backwards, drew up the only other chair in the room, and sat down beside her. What was the matter? What had so distressed her?

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t…”

She wept. Prosper offered his own perfectly folded handkerchief. “What can you not do?” he asked.

“I can’t go there. I can’t go back there.” She paused and sobbed, and was more explicit.

“I can’t sleep in that house. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Prosper Cain did not ask why she could not. He drew back from the answer, which he thought it was better for her not to give. He said

“Then you must not. We will make other arrangements.”

Imogen murmured desperate liquid things about Geraint—and betraying Pomona—and dirt, dirt on the carpets, dirt in the kitchen. She began to wave her hands, agitatedly, and Major Cain caught them, and held them down, wet and hot, in his own.

“It must be possible for you to join the other young women, in the encampment? Or to remain with Florence and me in a comfortable hotel?”

“You don’t know—”

“I don’t need to know. You are part of my family. I care for you. I shall take care of you.”

“There is no reason. No need, not—not—not really.”

“There is clearly a need if you are reduced to this state. Perhaps we should say you are ill, and cannot attend this summer school at all? Maybe we should take a holiday.”

“Don’t. I must stop this nonsense.”

“You will soon be independent. Your work is good, as you know.

You will be able to earn a living, and, I hope, find someone to love, and a home of your own, where you will be safe.”

This caused renewed, quieter tears. Then Imogen said

“I must go away, now. But not back to that house. I don’t know what to do.”

“I hope you will let me look after you, until you have found,” he repeated his earlier phrase, “someone to love, to care for you—”

“I do love someone,” said Imogen. Her eyes were closed. There was an infinitesimal silence of decision: “I love you.” The silence went on. “So I must go away.”

They sat still, side by side. Then Imogen put out her arms and cast herself from her chair into Prosper Cain’s chair, her face against his, her body leaning into his.

His arms closed automatically around her, to save their balance. So long, so very long, without women, even though his small house felt full of them. He kissed her hair. He held her, and tried to stay stiff as a ramrod, which he found he was in a perfectly double sense.

“It isn’t possible,” he said, very gently. “For every reason we can think of. It is an impossible thing, in this world. It must be forgotten.”

“I know that. So I must go away. And instead, everything is conspiring to send me back into that house—”

He found he felt violently that she should not go back into that house. He said

“I will take care of everything. Dry your eyes, and tidy your hair, and let us go home.”

He did not know what he would do. But he imagined he would think of something, as he always did.

He found it hard to go to sleep, that night. He looked at himself in the mirror. A sable, silvered moustache elegantly clipped, a lined face, steady eyes, the right side of fifty, but not for much longer. And a young woman—a lovely young woman—had fallen into his arms and said she loved him. He stroked his moustache, and stood to attention. She was probably right, she should go away, but who would look after her, if he did not? He had made her happy, when she had been unhappy and at a loss. He was not her father. She had a father, of whom she was afraid. She loved him, he was sensible enough to see (he told himself) because she was afraid of her father. That could be described as a tangle, or a muddle. He was good at cutting through tangles, and smoothing muddles, in the army, in the Museum. But they were not his own tangles or muddles. He had had enough of self-scrutiny, and got ready for bed in his military cot. Who dares, wins, he said to himself drowsily, without knowing what he meant. He couldn’t, he thought, ask Florence about this, as he had asked her about everything else. Damn that self-satisfied young animal, Gerald Matthiesen.

Cold water, he said to himself. Clean cold water, pour on it.

He had one of those terrible dreams in which things will not fit. In it, he found himself, as he frequently did, supervising the movement of furniture in the Museum, furniture swathed in dust sheets, shrouded and bound about and about. There was a large crew of beetlelike workers shifting an object, first in one direction, then in another. They were trying to get it through a door into the Crypt, and it was too large, it would not go. “You will scrape it,” said Prosper in the dream, “you careless fools, try some other way.”

Then he was back with the removal men, all boys, who were now struggling to move the piece of furniture round a sharp angle on a narrow staircase where it would not fit. They were carrying it down; it was suspended over the narrow banister. He said “Can’t you see it won’t go?” “Then us mun tek it up, see,” said one of the men or boys, in the voice of a thick corporal whose life Prosper Cain had once saved when the lad made a silly error with a firing mechanism. He had gripped his wrist, and the boy had thought of aiming a blow at him and had thought better of it. In the dream, Prosper Cain was pleased to see Simms. He said “Use your head, Simms, it won’t go up there, it’s too big by far.”

“You told us, sir, it mun go up,” said Simms, and gave an almighty heave, which broke the bands on the shrouding, and caused it to flap to earth over the banisters.

The object was a huge, beautifully carved, ebony bed, fit for a sultan. “And all his harem,” said Prosper’s mind, as the beetle-men rammed the monstrosity into what he saw was his own wall, toile de jouy and all. The staircase began to disintegrate under the weight.

“You’ll bring the house down,” said Prosper to Simms, and, perhaps fortunately, woke up.