The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  ‘You were three when she left. How could you possibly understand that your mother was struggling for money? She had to marry Smith. He was already old when she married him. It was just your bad luck that he lived until he was seventy-one.’

  Newton’s eyes locked with hers briefly, then turned to the gleaming pots and their curved reflections of the scene. ‘You’re trespassing. Leave my grounds and never return.’

  When he glanced back, a half-smile played across Mrs Harrington’s face. As she stalked to the kitchen door, she turned and said: ‘One day, you will meet someone who will do to you what you have done to me. Mark my words.’

  2

  Southwark

  A stooped figure paced the cobbles outside the Crown Inn, hands clamped behind its back, downcast face invisible beneath a shock of greasy hair. Only a sharp nose protruded, from which dripped the occasional dewdrop of clear fluid.

  Most people gave the shuffling homunculus a wide berth even when the courtyard became crowded with carriages and new arrivals. They edged around him as if his crooked spine were contagious. It was a reaction that Robert Hooke was used to and, for the most part, ignored. After all, avoiding eye contact was the easiest thing for a hunchback to do. So he contented himself with watching his own feet, craning his neck only when the whirling clatter of approaching wheels and hooves drew his attention.

  What would she look like?

  Certainly not the vivacious young woman he had sent back to the Isle of Wight eighteen months earlier, if her mother – his sister-in-law – were to be believed. No, Grace would be broken and contrite. Perhaps he would put a protective arm around his niece as they walked home, to let her know that one member of the family still loved her.

  The evening air invaded his ill-fitting jacket through the gaping cuffs and the threadbare patches at his elbows and shoulders. His stockings and voluminous breeches offered little protection from the chill either. He pulled the jacket tighter and paced around some more.

  The colour was draining from the rectangle of sky above the courtyard. If the Portsmouth coach did not arrive soon, Hooke would have to leave before the bridge gates were closed for the night and return in the morning.

  Perhaps, he thought, I could book a room and wait here.

  He checked the pouch containing his money and was about to head inside when a battered old coach rattled into the yard. Almost at once the passengers disembarked, stretching and helping each other down. They laughed and exchanged pleasantries as their luggage was unloaded. A young woman turned to leave the group.

  It was not her.

  This woman wore a velvet cape and walked with purpose, carrying a large bag with ease. He looked past her, hoping for another female to sidle out. Perhaps he should go and look inside; maybe she was afraid to face him. She had good reason.

  ‘Hello, Uncle,’ said the woman.

  Hooke fought to straighten himself to look at the stranger.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  ‘Grace?’

  She smiled, a flash of white teeth behind cherry lips, and the breath left his lungs. He stared into her dark eyes. Where was the ruined girl he had been expecting? Grace was supposed to be cowed, not yet nineteen but her bloom already plucked. He had imagined her on the verge of tears, unable to look at him for shame.

  She produced a handkerchief and dabbed his chin. A red spot appeared on the material, no doubt the result of his last-minute decision to shave before hurrying to Southwark. The gesture broke his paralysis. He swatted her away and said angrily, ‘I can look after myself.’

  She looked around in case others had witnessed the rebuff.

  ‘You’re not even sorry, are you?’ he said.

  ‘Uncle. . .’

  He could hardly bring himself to look at her. ‘From now on, you will address me as Mr Hooke. You are my housekeeper. Nothing more.’

  They walked in silence to the bridge, where a large crowd was milling around the gatehouse. The imposing wooden structure towered above them, and people looked blankly from one to another. As was usual when confronted with a crowd, Hooke tried to burrow through, but this time the way was blocked by the press of people. The musty smell of unwashed clothing hung in the air.

  A plump woman turned to stare down at him. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn like the rest of us.’

  Hooke retreated. He could see nothing but people’s backs. ‘What’s going on?’

  Grace stood on tiptoe and peered into the crowded passage. The bridge was like a tunnel with wooden buildings lining either side. She saw people hanging out of top-floor windows, calling to each other and pointing at something, while at street level the shopkeepers hurried to gather their wares before they were trampled or stolen in the crush. ‘Everything’s at a standstill. I cannot see why.’

  Hooke singled out a young man who had just emerged from the throng. ‘You there, what’s the hold-up?’

  The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘A cart’s got a wheel off. You’ll be lucky to get across before the hour’s up.’ He paused long enough to look Grace up and down, then hurried on his way.

  ‘We’ll take a wherry. Come on, before everyone has the idea,’ said Hooke irritably.

  They cut through the crush of people into one of the alleys that ran parallel to the riverbank. It was dark now, and Hooke stepped up his pace. As they headed downstream, away from the torrents of water cascading between the wooden bulwarks of the bridge, Hooke’s breathing became laboured.

  ‘We can slow down if you want,’ said Grace.

  ‘I will walk at whatever speed I choose,’ he said, but slowed down nevertheless.

  It grew cooler as they descended a flight of stone steps to the riverside. Shadows moved on the quayside and the lanterns on a line of river taxis bobbed up and down.

  ‘Need a ride?’ asked a gruff voice.

  ‘North bank,’ said Hooke.

  The wherryman caught sight of Grace and quickly reached for her bag. ‘Allow me, miss.’ His voice had softened.

  ‘Thank you,’ she purred.

  Hooke’s blood almost boiled.

  The man stowed Grace’s bag, then he took her gloved hand and guided her into the boat. For a moment, they looked as if they were dancing.

  Hooke plunged from the bank, setting the small vessel rocking. Unbalanced by the motion, he sat down heavily.

  ‘Are you all right, Uncle?’

  Hooke glared.

  ‘Sorry . . . Mr Hooke.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ he spat. ‘Now, let’s be on our way.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ the wherryman said with just a hint of sarcasm. He cast off and pumped the oars with his big, muscled arms, straining against the river. As he rowed, he stole frequent glances at Grace.

  The towering shape of the bridge loomed to one side, almost lost to view except for the occasional lighted window. They cut through the inky water, navigating the constellation of boat lights that danced around them as others crossed the river. When they reached the far bank the wherryman set the oars, ensuring that they landed with nothing more than a soft tap on the quayside.

  Dismissing the man with some coins, Hooke turned to Grace. ‘Hurry up, girl,’ he grumbled.

  They headed northwards, leaving behind the crowds and entering the hinterland between the stone of rebuilt London and the older realms of wood and plaster. Half-finished buildings lined their way, deserted now that the workmen had left for the day. In the darkness, it was easy to confuse the nascent buildings with ruins.

  Hooke crossed the road, pacing out its width from force of habit. Anger flashed as he reached the opposite kerb; the road was at least two feet narrower than his written specification.

  Why did the authorities insist on squeezing London back into its mediaeval claustrophobia? Did no one ever learn? The labyrinthine old alleys and shanties had proven to be coffins when the fire came. Nursing his annoyance, he even forgot to watch the corners for pickpockets.

  After what seemed like an age, with Grace
trailing along silently behind, the familiar bulk of Gresham College loomed. A dozen years ago, it had been on the safe side of the Duke of York’s firebreaks and escaped the flames. It had become a sanctuary for city officers and financiers. Now, however, it found itself painfully unfashionable. The flesh was gone from its timbers, leaving just the matted sinew of the wood to hold the structure upright. Yet, for all its obvious antiquity, it was home.

  Hooke fumbled with his keys and the side door creaked open. He led Grace through a shabby hallway and back outside into the quadrangle. They crossed to the far corner.

  Hooke’s rooms were little warmer than outside. He wasted no time getting a collection of apple logs burning in the grate, then set about kindling the rushlights dotted around the main room. As the fire drove away some of the cold and the strong odour of rat droppings, Grace circled the large room. Her footsteps set the floorboards creaking beneath the threadbare rugs. She stepped over the pieces of abandoned apparatus and ran her fingers along the wood panelling. She straightened a few of the portraits and lingered by the fire. ‘It’s good to be back.’

  Hooke buried the shred of pleasure provoked by her comment.

  ‘Am I to sleep in the turret room?’ she asked.

  He gave a curt nod.

  With a rushlight in one hand and her bag in the other, she disappeared through the door that led to the turret.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ Hooke called. ‘There are provisions in the kitchen for you to make us supper.’

  He dropped into a chair at the large dining-table squatting in one half of the room. The chunky piece of furniture doubled as his workbench during the weeks when it was too cold to work in the cellar. Taking up half of the scuffed tabletop today was a wide wooden cone, upturned and sitting in an iron cradle. Resting at the bottom of this shallow funnel were three iron balls, each smaller than Hooke’s clenched fist. He scooped them out and set one after the other rolling around the wooden rim.

  The growl of the iron on the wood blocked out his thoughts as his eyes followed their elliptical trajectories. Each ball would dip low and gain speed, then whip round the centre to climb the incline, never quite reaching as high as on its previous lap. He became lost in the repetitious motion, rolling ball after ball, wondering what would happen if there were no friction between the iron and the wood. Would the balls circulate endlessly like planets?

  Grace reappeared wearing a simple shift with her brunette hair pinned rather brutally into the nape of her neck. In the lamplight she seemed to have less rouge on her cheeks now.

  That’s better, thought Hooke.

  ‘You have new-fitted my room. Thank you,’ she said.

  Hooke rolled another iron sphere, and Grace went to the kitchen to prepare supper.

  She returned almost an hour later, carrying two chipped bowls. Each was filled with a colourless gruel.

  Hooke peered at the one she laid before him. ‘Is it soup?’

  ‘Potatoes and oysters.’

  ‘From the pail near the window?’

  ‘The oysters, yes.’

  He pushed the bowl across the table. ‘They were for an experiment next week on water temperature.’

  ‘It’s not my fault. I’m not used to this kind of work.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re too fine to cook for yourself, let alone others. Well, it’s all you’re good for now. You’re nothing but a servant of your own making.’

  ‘I won’t spend the rest of my life in servitude,’ she cried.

  ‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before you let Sir Robert Holmes make a whore of you.’

  She gasped. Her head dropped and she pressed her hands to her cheeks before speaking in a quiet voice. ‘I thought that, of all my family, you might have forgiven me. We have a bond, remember?’ She looked up. The hope in her face elicited a stab of hatred inside him. He knew exactly what she was trying to do, and the knowledge extinguished the provocative memories she was attempting to revive. ‘Did you expect me to greet you with open arms? John is dead because of your shameful behaviour.’ He stumbled from the table, seized the poker and stabbed at the embers. What on Earth had possessed him to spend this past fortnight fashioning new bedposts and remaking the chest of drawers in her room? What a fool . . .

  ‘I have suffered enough,’ she pleaded.

  ‘My brother, my only brother. Gone because of you.’ He glared over his shoulder at her.

  Silent tears cut streams across her cheeks. ‘Don’t you think I would change things if I could? I never dreamt that Father would . . . ’

  ‘Go on, say it. Say it. Take his own life. Your father committed suicide because of you and your despicable behaviour. For all your London airs and your good looks, you’re nothing but a foolish slut.’

  Her eyes blazed. ‘Indeed! I must have been utterly foolish to think that you would still love me.’ She fled.

  Hooke watched her disappear, an awkward mixture of guilt and satisfaction replacing the hatred that had swirled inside him. Had he not wanted her to cry, to show remorse? He thrust the poker back into the bucket, raising a sharp clatter. Yes, he knew, he had wanted those things. So, why did they now feel so wrong?

  3

  Woolsthorpe

  Apples carpeted the orchard outside the manor-house, ripped from their branches by last night’s gale. The wind had begun its journey over the North Sea, roused from its slumber at the urging of some great westward attraction. It had begun its blind tumble slowly, but by the time it reached the plains of Lincolnshire it was howling round the house’s stone walls, piercing the gaps in the window-frames and invading the chimneys to blow soot across the hearths.

  The maelstrom had roused Newton from his dreams. He lay for a moment trying to separate the real wailing outside from the one in his sleepy mind. In his dream he had been watching impassively as people screamed and shouted, their bodies tumbling in an avalanche of limbs towards molten lakes. He had been surrounded by tin furnaces and flasks of chemicals, the very things that had lain abandoned in Cambridge these past months. Shaking his head at the images, he had stumbled, sweating, from the bed and stared outside until the storm had abated.

  Now, as he walked through the dewy grass, the air was still once more and suffused with the sweet tang of ripe apples. Around him, the servants were collecting the windfalls in large wicker baskets. He stooped to retrieve one of the fruits himself and rolled it from one hand to the other. If not for the fallen apples he could have dismissed the storm as part of the nightmare, the product of that dark place in his imagination he had promised to atone for had his mother been spared.

  Years ago, during one of her haphazard visits, he had insisted that she walk with him through this orchard. Pulling at her arm and ignoring her requests to know where they were going, he coaxed her further into the grounds. Choosing the most circuitous routes, he guided her into the furthest grazing-fields, where the sheep might look up with curiosity but no one else would notice them. With every step he had hoped that they would become so lost she would have to stay the night.

  But she had turned him around with a soft stroke of his head. ‘It’s getting late,’ she had said, even though it was early afternoon.

  The memory jarred him back to the present. Those words were the last thing she had said before unconsciousness had taken her, and then death. It’s getting late. What a hatefully dishonest way to announce her departure, then and now. He had not thought of it at the time, but now the phrase banged around his head.

  He passed close to one of the farm hands. ‘Send someone to examine the fences for damage,’ he said.

  The man touched his forehead in acknowledgement. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Newton, that’s already been seen to. There’s some little damage to attend to, but nothing serious.’

  Newton pursed his lips. ‘Very well. See to it that all is fixed by nightfall.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Newton dropped the apple at the servant’s feet and walked on.

  He had to find a tenant farm
er so that he could go home – yes, home. Cambridge was home: his books, his experiments, John Wickens. The yearning to return was becoming all-consuming. He and Wickens would start the experiments again. Perhaps the work would drive the troubling dreams from his head. The nightmares came almost every time he slept now and often lingered well into the next day. Something was coming, he could feel it. It was less than a shadow at the moment, but still perceptible. It was everywhere, a kind of latency, as if the whole world were waiting for something.

  He looked at the servants gathering fruit.

  Could they feel it too? He scanned the trees and above, to the islands of clouds in the sky. What was coming? An inner voice whispered a reply. He could not quite make it out, but it sounded like a single word: apocalypse.

  4

  London

  Hooke climbed the tiny twist of staircase to the turret room, a fluttering sensation in his stomach. Over these last few days since Grace’s arrival, they had settled into an uneasy rhythm in which each tried to avoid the other. They spoke in guarded terms, holding back all but the mildest hints of emotion. After each frosty encounter, something akin to remorse would churn inside him. He would have to fight the urge to comfort her, yet the moment she came into view, with those deep eyes and her perfect complexion, he felt repulsed.

  Steeling himself, he knocked before opening the door to her room. The bed dominated the tiny space. The chest of drawers was covered with brushes, toiletries and a mirror. There was still a hint of the worked timber in the air, and the unmistakable smell of her particular rose-water.

  He had not smelled that since . . .

  She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, working with a bundle of mahogany-brown material, looking up at him.

  ‘There is the Society meeting here this afternoon. Please remain out of sight.’ He realised only after the words were out of his mouth that his intended command had come out as a plea.

  ‘Will Edmond Halley attend?’

  ‘No, he will not. He’s in the South Atlantic, mapping stars from Saint Helena – not that his whereabouts are any concern of yours. You must stay in your quarters. No one is to know you’re here.’