The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy (9 page)

‘Prunesquallor,’ he said.

‘My Lord?’ said the doctor, inclining his grey hayrick to the left.

‘Satisfactory, Prunesquallor?’

The doctor placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘I am exceptionally gratified my lord, exceptionally. Indeed I am. Very, very much so; ha, ha, ha. Very, very much so.’

‘Professionally you mean, I imagine?’ said Lord Sepulchrave, for as Steerpike had begun to realize to his amazement, the tragic-looking man was none other than the seventy-sixth Earl of Groan and the owner of, as Steerpike put it to himself, the whole caboodle, bricks, guns and glory.

‘Professionally …’ queried the doctor to himself, ‘… what does he mean?’ Aloud he said, ‘professionally, my lord, I am unspeakably satisfied, ha, ha, ha, ha, and socially, that is to say, er, as a gesture, ha, ha, I am over-awed. I am a proud fellow, my lord, ha, ha, ha, ha, a very proud fellow.’

The laugh of Doctor Prunesquallor was part of his conversation and quite alarming when heard for the first time. It appeared to be out of control as though it were a part of his voice, a top-storey of his vocal range that only came into its own when the doctor laughed. There was something about it of wind whistling through high rafters and there was a good deal of the horse’s whinny, with a touch of the curlew. When giving vent to it, the doctor’s mouth would be practically immobile like the door of a cabinet left ajar. Between the laughs he would speak very rapidly, which made the sudden stillness of his beautifully shaven jaws at the time of laughter all the more extraordinary. The laugh was not necessarily connected with humour at all. It was simply a part of his conversation.

‘Technically, I am so satisfied as to be unbearable even to myself, ha, ha, ha, he, he, ha. Oh very, very satisfactory it all was. Very much so.’

‘I am glad,’ said his lordship, gazing down at him for a moment. ‘Did you notice anything?’ (Lord Sepulchrave glanced up and down the corridor.) ‘Strange? Anything unusual about him?’

‘Unusual?’ said Prunesquallor. ‘Did you say unusual, my lord?’

‘I did,’ said Lord Sepulchrave, biting his lower lip. ‘Anything wrong with him? You need not be afraid to speak out.’

Again his lordship glanced up and down the landing but there was no one to be seen.

‘Structurally, a sound child, sound as a bell, tinkle, tinkle, structurally, ha, ha, ha,’ said the doctor.

‘Damn the structure!’ said Lord Groan.

‘I am at a loss, my lord, ha, ha. Completely at a loss, sir. If not structurally, then how, my lord?’

‘His face,’ said the earl. ‘Didn’t you see his face?’

Here the doctor frowned profoundly to himself and rubbed his chin with his hand. Out of the corner of his eyes he looked up to find his lordship scrutinizing him. ‘Ah!’ he said lamely, ‘the face. The face of his little lordship. Aha!’

‘Did you notice it, I say?’ continued Lord Groan. ‘Speak man!’

‘I noticed his face, sir. Oh yes, definitely I noticed it.’ This time the doctor did not laugh but drew a deep breath from his narrow chest.

‘Did you or did you not think it was strange? Did you or did you not?’

‘Speaking professionally,’ said Doctor Prunesquallor, ‘I should say the face was irregular.’

‘Do you mean it’s ugly?’ said Lord Groan.

‘It is unnatural,’ said Prunesquallor.

‘What is the difference, man,’ said Lord Groan.

‘Sir?’ questioned the doctor.

‘I asked if it was ugly, sir, and you answer that it is unnatural. Why must you hedge?’

‘Sir!’ said Prunesquallor, but as he gave no colour to the utterance, very little could be made of it.

‘When I say “ugly” have the goodness to use the word. Do you understand?’ Lord Groan spoke quietly.

‘I comprehend, sir. I comprehend.’

‘Is the boy hideous,’ persisted Lord Groan as though he wished to thrash the matter out. ‘Have you ever delivered a more hideous child? Be honest.’

‘Never,’ said the doctor. ‘Never, ha, ha, ha, ha. Never. And never a boy with such – er, ha, ha, ha, never a boy with such extraordinary eyes.’

‘Eyes?’ said Lord Groan, ‘what’s wrong with them?’

‘Wrong?’ cried Prunesquallor. ‘Did you say “wrong” your lordship? Have you not seen them?’

‘No, quick, man. Hurry yourself. What is it? What is the matter with my son’s eyes?’

‘They are violet.’

As his lordship stared at the doctor another figure appeared, a girl of about fifteen with long, rather wild black hair. She was gauche in movement and in a sense, ugly of face, but with how small a twist might she not suddenly have become beautiful. Her sullen mouth was full and rich – her eyes smouldered.

A yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. Her shapeless dress was a flaming red.

For all the straightness of her back she walked with a slouch.

‘Come here,’ said Lord Groan as she was about to pass him and the doctor.

‘Yes father,’ she said huskily.

‘Where have you been for the last fortnight, Fuchsia?’

‘Oh, here and there, father,’ she said, staring at her shoes. She tossed her long hair and it flapped down her back like a pirate’s flag. She stood in about as awkward a manner as could be conceived. Utterly unfeminine – no man could have invented it.

‘Here and there?’ echoed her father in a weary voice. ‘What does “here and there” mean? You’ve been in hiding. Where, girl?’

‘’N the libr’y and ’n the armoury, ’n walking about a lot,’ said Lady Fuchsia, and her sullen eyes narrowed. ‘I just heard silly rumours about mother. They said I’ve got a brother – idiots! idiots! I hate them. I haven’t, have I? Have I?’

‘A little brother,’ broke in Doctor Prunesquallor. ‘Yes, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, a minute, infinitesimal, microscopic addition to the famous line is now behind this bedroom door. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, he, he, he! Oh yes! Ha, ha! Oh yes indeed! Very much so.’

‘No!’ said Fuchsia so loudly that the doctor coughed crisply and his lordship took a step forward with his eyebrows drawn together and a sad curl at the corner of his mouth.

‘It’s not true!’ shouted Fuchsia, turning from them and twirling a great lock of black hair round and round her wrist. ‘I don’t believe it! Let me go! Let me go!’

As no one was touching her, her cry was unnecessary and she turned and ran with strange bounds along the corridor that led from the landing. Before she was lost to view, Steerpike could hear her voice shouting from the distance, ‘Oh how I hate! hate! hate! How I
hate
people! Oh how I
hate
people!’

All this while Mr Flay had been gazing out of a narrow window in the octagonal room and was preoccupied with certain matters relating to how he could best let Lord Groan know that he, Flay, his servant for over forty years, disapproved of having been put aside as it were at the one moment when a son had been born – at the one moment when he, Flay, would have been invaluable as an ally. Mr Flay was rather hurt about the whole business, and he very much wanted Lord Groan to know this, and yet at the same time it was very difficult to think of a way in which he could tactfully communicate his chagrin to a man quite as sullen as himself. Mr Flay bit his nails sourly. He had been at the window for a much longer time than he had intended and he turned with his shoulders raised, an attitude typical of him and saw young Steerpike, whose presence he had forgotten. He strode over to the boy and catching him by his coat-tails jerked him backwards into the centre of the room. The great picture swung back across the spy-hole.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘back! You’ve seen her door, Swelter’s boy.’

Steerpike, who had been lost in the world beyond the oak partition, was dazed, and took a moment to come to.

‘Back to that loathsome chef?’ he cried at last, ‘oh no! couldn’t!’

‘Too busy to have you here,’ said Flay, ‘too busy, can’t wait.’

‘He’s ugly,’ said Steerpike fiercely.

‘Who?’ said Flay. ‘Don’t stop here talking.’

‘Oh so ugly, he is. Lord Groan said so. The doctor said so. Ugh! So hideous.’

‘Who’s hideous, you kitchen thing,’ said Flay, jerking his head forward grotesquely.

‘Who?’ said Steerpike. ‘The baby. The new baby. They both said so. Most terrible he is.’

‘What’s this?’ cried Flay. ‘What’s these lies all about? Who’ve you heard talking? Who’ve you been listening to? I’ll tear your little ears off, you snippet thing! Where’ve you been? Come here!’

Steerpike, who had determined to escape from the Great Kitchen, was now bent on finding an occupation among those apartments where he might pry into the affairs of those above him.

‘If I go back to Swelter I’ll tell him and all of them what I heard his lordship say and then …’

‘Come here!’ said Flay between his teeth, ‘come here or I’ll break your bones. Been agaping, have you? I’ll fix you.’ Flay propelled Steerpike through the entrance at a great pace and halted halfway down a narrow passage before a door. This he unlocked with one of his many keys and thrusting Steerpike inside turned it upon the boy.

Like a vast spider suspended by a metal chord, a candelabrum presided over the room nine feet above the floorboards. From its sweeping arms of iron, long stalactites of wax lowered their pale spilths drip by drip, drip by drip. A rough table with a drawer half open, which appeared to be full of birdseed, was in such a position below the iron spider that a cone of tallow was mounting by degrees at one corner into a lambent pyramid the size of a hat.

The room was untidy to the extent of being a shambles. Everything had the appearance of being put aside for the moment. Even the bed was at an angle, slanting away from the wall and crying out to be pushed back flush against the red wallpaper. As the candles guttered or flared, so the shadows moved from side to side, or up and down the wall, and with those movements behind the bed there swayed the shadows of four birds. Between them vacillated an enormous head. This umbrage was cast by her ladyship, the seventy-sixth Countess of Groan. She was propped against several pillows and a black shawl was draped around her shoulders. Her hair, a very dark red colour of great lustre, appeared to have been left suddenly while being woven into a knotted structure on the top of her head. Thick coils still fell about her shoulders, or clustered upon the pillows like burning snakes.

Her eyes were of the pale green that is common among cats. They were large eyes, yet seemed, in proportion to the pale area of her face, to be small. The nose was big enough to appear so in spite of the expanse that surrounded it. The effect which she produced was one of bulk, although only her head, neck, shoulders and arms could be seen above the bedclothes.

A magpie moving sideways up and down her left forearm, which lay supine upon the bedclothes, pecked intermittently at a heap of grain which lay in the palm of her hand. On her shoulders sat a stonechat, and a huge raven which was asleep. The bed-rail boasted two starlings, a missel-thrush and a small owl. Every now and then a bird would appear between the bars of a small high window which let in less than no light. The ivy had climbed through it from the outside and had begun to send its tendrils down the inner wall itself and over the crimson wallpaper. Although this ivy had choked out what little light might have trickled into the room, it was not strong enough to prevent the birds from finding a way through and from visiting Lady Gertrude at any hour of night or day.

‘That’s enough, that’s enough, that’s enough!’ said the Countess in a deep husky voice, to the magpie. ‘That’s enough for you today, my dear.’ The magpie jumped a few inches into the air and landed again on her wrist and shook his feathers; his long tail tapped on the eiderdown.

Lady Groan flung what remained of the grain across the room and the stone-chat hopping from the bed-rail to her head, took off again from that rabous landing ground with a flutter, circled twice around the room steering during his second circuit through the stalactites of shining wax, and landed on the floor beside the grain.

The Countess of Groan dug her elbows into the pillows behind her, which had become flattened and uncomfortable and levered her bulk up with her strong, heavy arms. Then she relaxed again, and spread out her arms to left and right along the bed-rail behind her and her hands drooped from the wrists at either extremity, overhanging the edges of the bed. The line of her mouth was neither sad nor amused, as she gazed abstractedly at the pyramid of wax that was mounting upon the table. She watched each slow drip as it descended upon the blunt apex of the mound, move sluggishly down the uneven side and solidify into a long pulpy petal.