The Underground Man (4 page)

This morning I chose the spiral stairs, so my descent was accompanied by the clanking of my boots on the steps, their echo ringing eerily back at me from high above and far below. The coldness of the tunnels first introduced itself at my ankles then crept slowly up me, in the same way a bather's body is coldly embraced by the sea. As requested, the gas jets in the lower reaches of the house had all been lit. I passed the entrance to the original monastery passages (all gated and bolted now), the underground chapel and the family vaults and came out, at last, behind the landing stage where Clement and two stable lads waited, with their shadows splashing on the walls behind them like great inky cloaks.

I am proud to say that, broadly speaking, the design for the new tunnels was very much my own but put in place, of course, by the ingenuity of Mr Bird and his men. An inner circle, roughly two hundred yards in circumference, links the entrances to all eight tunnels and the passages which lead off to the stables and so forth. The stairways come out at a grotto by the staging platform and it was here that the four of us gathered, to wait for Mr Grimshaw and his carriage.

Standing around on that stone landing stage was a rather chilly affair, due in part to the cold earth all around us but
also from the stiff breezes which came sweeping down the tunnels – a problem I admit I had not foreseen. But, looking down one of them, I was pleased to see how the skylights lit the way admirably and made it appear altogether quite inviting. I reckoned that only on the most overcast days would it be necessary to light the gas jets much before dusk. To my eye, the tunnel nearest us looked like the inside of a flute, with the skylights representing the finger holes where columns of daylight streamed through. So it was quite fitting that as we stood there in our quiet little gang, different-pitched whistles slowly made themselves known. Very weird to hear them washing in from the tunnels and stairwells and have them mingle around our feet.

Asked Clement if he would mind fetching me an extra frock coat and my Inverness cape as the carriage coat would clearly not suffice, and suggested he perhaps go up in one of the dumb waiters, to give it a try-out. He was most reluctant, worrying I think that his being so large might cause the lift to fall, but I assured him that it was built with a mind to taking a load many times his weight and, after some concerted cajoling from myself and the stable lads, he rather timidly squeezed himself into its compact little compartment. What an excellent sport! The lads took turns pulling on the rope and the wooden box in which he huddled slowly ascended into the belly of the house. I stuck my head out into the shaft and kept up a reassuring conversation with him which bounced all about the place. ‘I shall keep my head in the shaft, so that if you fall we shall both of us be killed. How's that, Clement?' I called.

The lifts were originally installed to save lugging baggage up and down the stairs, but I see now how they might prove to be a source of entertainment in themselves.

Clement had returned (by the stairs, I might add) and we
were all beginning to wonder what was up with Grimshaw when a distant rumble came at us down the inner circle which started up reverberations down all the other passageways. Seconds later, the horses and carriage came crashing round the corner with Grimshaw, very flustered, clinging to the reins. It was a long while after the carriage had ground to a halt that its clattering quit swimming up and down the place and the dust settled to reveal Grimshaw, who was apologizing most profusely, saying how he had got himself first a little confused and then hopelessly lost. He promised to properly acquaint himself with all the turnings and linking passages at the soonest opportunity. Then Clement and I clambered in and made ourselves comfortable and I tied my deerstalker firmly under my chin.

Grimshaw, high up on his driver's seat, pulled back his little hatch and presented his head to us upside-down and framed by his boots, saying, ‘First off, Your Grace. You're quite sure there's no danger of me banging my head on owt?'

I told him there was not. He nodded gravely at us, obviously not the least bit convinced. He then asked, ‘Which tunnel is it I am to take, Your Grace?'

I gave it a little thought. ‘North,' I announced. ‘North towards the Pole … And with a little spice, if you don't mind.'

Grimshaw nodded again, still grim and upside-down, then closed his little hatch. I heard him let out a sigh as he settled himself in his seat. Then, with a crack of the whip and a call of, ‘Gee-up, there … I say, gee-up,' we moved off, past the stable lads who were waving their caps in the air. They appeared to be heartily cheering us – I can only assume so for I could not hear a thing above the wheels and the hoofs. I had no inkling there would be such an intense din and might have considered plugging my ears with my handkerchief had I not
been so busy shouting up at Grimshaw, who had missed the North tunnel entrance, forcing us to take an extra run of the inner circle and pick it out next time round.

When we raced past the stable lads again they looked mightily confused but, to their credit, raised their caps a second time and set up another bout of muted cheering. Then, at last, Grimshaw found the right entrance (I made a mental note to have each one clearly signposted) and we went haring down the North tunnel with the horses champing at the bit.

All morning we raced up and down the tunnels – first North, then North-east and so on. The noise was unimaginable; like shouting down a well. The skylights flew by at regular intervals, which had the effect of a constantly flashing light. This initially proved a little sickening, along with the almighty noise, but, in time, became quite exhilarating, with the smell of the heaving horses and Grimshaw's exhortations adding to the drama.

With my precious pocket watch I timed the duration of each journey (both away from the house and returning, as some of the tunnels are on a gradient). I had brought with me a notebook and recorded all my findings, at both
trot
and
full
gallop.

By midmorning we were in need of a change of horses and the lads took the first two off to give them a brushing down and soon after I sent a message to Mrs Pledger asking her to put together some refreshment, which we picked up when we next went by the landing stage and ate as we went along.

I was disturbed to hear from Grimshaw how as we emerged from the tunnels into the light the horses were sometimes dazzled, but it was his opinion that blinkers would remedy the problem. I made a note of this in my book.

Both Mr Pyke and Mr Harris stood to attention by their
respective lodges and were plainly most intrigued, so I invited them to join us for a trip to the house and back. Mr Harris (one of our best dog men) seemed to enjoy himself but Mr Pyke needed more encouragement to come along and looked decidedly shaky when we dropped him off.

From the expression on the faces of the stable lads I saw that they had lost a good deal of their punch and each time we passed them I noted how it had waned a little more. So, as a treat, I allowed them a ride on the luggage shelf which cheered them up no end and by the time we were done they were grinning at each other like a pair of gormless fools.

It was close to two o'clock when I finally drew proceedings to a close. A sticky heat filled the tunnels. We had exhausted three sets of horses and Mr Grimshaw needed some help getting down from his seat. Gave him the rest of the day off and had the young lads lead the carriage away. My coats were powdered all over with dust and my ears rang like church bells.

As Clement and I made our way towards the spiral stairwell and passed the door to the underground chapel my eyes lit upon a rather unusual carving. One I felt sure I had not seen before. The design could not have been simpler: on a circle of stone, six inches wide, an infant's face stared out through a screen of grasses or reeds. I stared back at him. Something about his gaze deeply disturbed me, though I couldn't say just what.

I quizzed Clement about it but he claimed to have no more knowledge of it than I did myself. Wondered if Bowen might have knocked it up, though I must say it did not look new, just unfamiliar. I found myself coming over a little sick.

This behaviour, this constant vacillation of mood, is becoming something of a habit with me. One minute I am triumphing over a depressive fit and feeling positively tip-top.
The next, for no good reason, I feel myself start to sink again and spend the rest of the day mooning all about the place.

I have nothing but admiration for the engineers of this world. Scientists, mechanics, inventors  …  I take my hat off to them all. How I envy their ability to comprehend how a thing is put together without their head getting in the way. To be able to fix that which was broken, to make the apparently irreparable sound again. I should very much like to have that knack.

But I'm afraid such a faculty is something one is blessed with either at birth or not at all and however one might try quantifying it there is no doubt I have always been short on the stuff. At age ten I was still having difficulty tying my bootlaces, and even now the whole fiddly business can get me in a state. Anything remotely technical, such as distinguishing right from left, has, for me, always necessitated a great deal of mental stress and strain, so that my first tutor, a Mr Cocker, perhaps misinterpreting these inadequacies as slovenliness and, worse, something of a challenge, took it upon himself to set me straight. Every day for a whole month a piece of paper was tied with string to each of my wrists – one with the letter R on it for right, the other with L for left. But if he had asked me I could have told him how they were helping me not a jot and at the end of each day when they were taken off I was as lost as when I'd begun. They only made me feel very foolish and tended to get in my soup until, at last, Mr Cocker threw his hands in the air, made a strange sound through his nose and admitted defeat. I remember very well my holding my hands out like a chained prisoner about to be granted his liberty. It was a relief of no small magnitude for I was still spending half an hour every morning guessing which piece of paper went on which wrist.

But I am not happy in my ignorance. Far from it. I like to
think I have the same curiosity as the chemist or the architect; it is simply their talent I lack. Believe me when I say that my backwardness has never stopped me taking things apart, merely putting them back together again.

Since I was a boy I have periodically suffered from the irrational fear that I am on the verge of fatal collapse. I think I am right in saying it is my mind which is chiefly to blame. Left to its own devices my body appears to function reasonably well, requiring feeding and watering and a good deal of rest but being for the most part a quite contented and smooth-running apparatus. Yet the moment I begin considering some particular pump or piston – the lungs being a prime example – an alarum goes off inside me and suddenly all hell is let loose.

My mind panics, tries to wrest from my body the breathing controls and before long I am in a fit of difficulty, not knowing whether to breathe out or in. And once I am started I find there is no way back. All that's left is to try and get me to think of something else. So, to distract myself, I might have to recite poetry or skip madly around the room.

But are we not all of us ignoramuses when it comes to our own bodyworks? I somehow doubt that even those who claim to understand every fleshy connection – every last valve and gland – actually regard themselves with such sophistication as they go about their day. For it is my opinion that we all tend to rely upon the simplest mind-pictures which represent for us the functions of our body's various parts. For example, I have one for my lungs, which is as follows …

I believe I first conjured up this image when I was still quite small but must have since spent several hundred hours of my life (including a good many as an adult) endeavouring to keep my lung-trees sufficiently leafy. As an infant I would often lie in bed too terrified to fall asleep lest my body forget to keep me breathing through the long dark night ahead.

I would claim that, in fact, the majority of us know next to nothing about our bodies and how they really work. Yet surely such information is essential; should be available to us without having to read it in books. When we are delivered into this world the very least we might expect is to come complete with a comprehensive manual to ourselves.

‘Why no manual?'

That is my plea.

‘Why no instructions?'

My work for His Grace was my first proper job after finishing my apprenticeship so, as you can imagine, I was altogether very pleased with myself and walked about the place with a few inches added to my stride. I was on the estate about six months in all. Was paid and treated very well. I had a room in the servants' quarters and it was left to me to get myself up and out first thing. I would take with me a little bread and cheese wrapped in linen, which I would eat while I was on the job, and my dinner would be keeping warm for me in the kitchens when I came in around seven or eight.

After meeting with His Grace a time or two I was left very much to myself. I'd go to him with my designs and he might sometimes slip me one or two sketches of his own. Odd little drawings, they were, on bits of paper. I would pin them on my workshop wall. But His Grace was not much of a draughtsman, so I would take care to listen to his ideas and work from what he said. Once in a while he might drop by to see how I was faring but on the whole he left me alone.

I was given some of the finishing touches to do on the tunnels, such as the gateposts and so forth. Well, I assumed that what would be required would be an obelisk or a Grecian urn. The usual sort of thing. But when I was ready to get on with them and went to ask His Grace what he had in mind, he asked me how I felt about onions. Onions about a foot and a half wide.

Well, it took me a while to come up with an onion we both
felt happy about. They caused me a bit of a headache. To be honest, I was worried I might become something of a laughing-stock. What I eventually came up with was something quite similar to a traditional stone orb, but fatter in the middle and with a stalk coming out the top. But there was no mistaking it for anything else – it was an onion from top to toe. His Grace told me that he thought it was just the job. Once it was erected folk would come up and ask me about it. Most of them thought it first rate. It was my own design, so of course I was very pleased to be asked if I was the onion-man. Quite proud, I was. So we had onions by the lodge at Norton and cauliflowers on the gateposts out at Belph.

My largest undertaking was what the Duke always referred to as ‘the Grotto', which was down where all Mr Bird's tunnels came in above the landing platform. Well, I was instructed to cover the ceiling with plaster – easily thirty feet high – then carve out of it the likenesses of various ‘natural' things. His Grace gave me a list of suitable subjects for me to bear in mind, such as pineapples, grapes and fish-heads. I remember he asked if I could do a seashell and maybe some barleycorn.

Well, just like the onion and the cauliflower before it, I had no training in such things and I was a little hesitant at the start. But His Grace asked me if I had an imagination and when I replied that I believed I had, he told me I had better get on and make some use of it. I was told I could include more or less anything which took my fancy, just as long as they were ‘natural'.

Well, I gave it a go. Did some fruit to start off and then some creatures … snakes and snails and so forth … and soon found I'd fairly got the hang of it. After a day or two I didn't worry at all. A bird's head here, an acorn there. Perhaps a fern leaf alongside a feather.

In the evenings I would occasionally nip out for a drink – the
Vault in Whitwell or the old Bird's Nest – and, of course, I would come across all the stories about the Duke which were doing the rounds at the time. As a stranger to the area and with my being a good bit younger than the other drinking men, I sometimes found it hard to go against what they said. If I am honest, I will say that after a couple of jars I found I could spin a tale or two myself. I am most ashamed of that now.

In my last week on the estate I was called in to see His Grace and the first thought I had was that I must have done something wrong. I thought perhaps something I'd said in the pub had got back to him and that I was going to get a dressing down or even dismissed. But he only asked me about a roundel he'd seen by the underground chapel. Wondered if it was anything to do with me. He took me down there and I had a look at it. Very simple it was – just a face peering through a bush. At a guess I'd say fourteenth century, though I'm no historian. Probably put in when the chapel was first built. The stonemasons, of course, wouldn't have shared the beliefs of the monks who paid them so it was maybe just a little pagan symbol which they tucked away. I've heard that they would often do that. At a guess I'd say it was just old Jack in the Green.