Christopher Uptake

by Susan Price

  The decoration didn’t end there - the walls were plastered, and painted with a design of scarlet and white droplets - the blood and tears. "It's beautiful," I said, looking round, and my voice, through no wish of mine, was hushed and hoarse.

  Brentwood said nothing. I looked for the altar, but there was none. I could see where it had been, because there was a patch of wall under the window that was not painted with droplets. There were four empty niches in the wall too; I supposed that they had once held saints. "Beautiful," I said again.

  "Not now," Brentwood said, and I looked at him. His eyes, between their heavy lids, held brilliant points of white light; but then, his eyes always brilliantly reflected light.

  "Surely," I said, "it could be used for prayer?''

  "My father closed it," he said, "before he died. To reopen it would invite suspicion. Shall we go up to the solar? I think dinner will be served soon."

  In the solar, we took seats at the table, and he told me about the harvest of the year before: how much wheat, how much of oats, how many cows for the slaughter . . . I tried to keep my attention on what he said, and away from the servants, but it was difficult. They came with towels hung over their arms, carrying covered dishes from which drifted a smell of food. I had to try to hide the fact that my mouth was watering. Finally, a man carried a bowl of steaming water to a table in the corner, and stood waiting with towels. Brentwood said, "Shall we wash our hands, Christopher?" I rose quickly and followed him over to the bowl of water.

  The dining-table was set for two people only, so Mistress Cowling was not going to eat with us. The servant standing behind my chair pushed it in for me as I took my seat again, which embarrassed me, and I felt uncomfortably certain that I would spill my food and drop my spoon . . . The man then gave me a cloth, neatly folded into a square, and I thanked him, and accepted it, but did not know what to do with it.

  The other servant asked me if I wanted some of whatever was in the dish he was holding, and I said "yes'' without seeing what it was. He filled the dish in front of me with a sharp-smelling stew, and turned to serve Brentwood, and while he was doing so, the man behind me took the square of cloth from my hand, unfolded it, and spread it across my lap. I gave a quick nod to thank him; he winked, and then withdrew with his fellow.

  Brentwood, across the table, began to say grace, and I ducked my head just in time to appear pious.

  "We can be sure of being alone for a while now," he said, grace over. He took up his spoon and began to eat, and I copied him. "We must talk of what I can do for you, Christopher. I had to read your poem very quickly." I felt a stir of panic. Now it was coming; the questions about the warning. "I had to, if I was to give you a reply before leaving town - but I saw what you were trying to tell me immediately.'' He nodded thoughtfully. "It can be extremely difficult for anyone with Catholic sympathies in these days, as I know only too well."

  I was puzzled; his words did not seem to fit the situation. "I have been thinking about you, Christopher, and I am afraid that I cannot help you as much as I would wish. Are your difficulties actually caused by your Catholic sympathies, or - ?''

  I suddenly remembered meeting him just after I had heard of the arrest of the twenty Catholics, and realized what impression of me he had taken away with him; and I realized, too, that the ''message'' I had written into the poem, and which I had thought so clear, could be interpreted in another way, or in a dozen ways . . . He thought that I was appealing to him, as a fellow Catholic, for help; and now what was I to do? Should I lie, and pretend to be a Catholic as well as I could – or admit that I was not - or take the chance to tell him about Bagthorpe, and make it clear why I was there?

  I had already taken such a long time in answering that he was looking at me curiously. I had to decide, and answer quickly. I doubted if I could pretend to be a Catholic for long, since I was not well versed even in the practice of the English Church, it had been so long since I had attended the services - and if I failed to provide Bagthorpe with the information, not only I, but my family, would suffer; of that I was sure - and whatever story I told Brentwood, especially if I told him of Bagthorpe at this late date, would surely make him extremely suspicious of me. He was in great danger himself; would he be likely to allow me to live if he considered me an additional threat?

  He was frowning, evidently puzzled and displeased by my long silence.

  "I have Catholic sympathies, yes," I said, hurried into an answer. I could always hedge by saying that I did sympathize with the plight of many Catholics. "And - it's always difficult, sir, to keep your own opinions out of anything you write, and it's hard to sell a play which shows any sympathy with Catholics . . .'' Damn! I thought, now you've got yourself into a corner.

  Brentwood nodded. "And it is hard to live when no one will buy your plays. I understand."

  He ate for a while, seeming to think over what I had said - or perhaps only giving me time to frighten myself with my thoughts. "It is curious," he said at last, "that you should think your plays to be Catholic in sympathy. I have read them, and I would not have guessed from them that you were a Catholic. But I suppose it is difficult for you to judge them as clearly as another."

  "Yes sir," I said, ''and then - well; I'm not really a Catholic."

  He lifted his head and stared at me with an intensity which felt almost like a push, and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Bagthorpe. "Then what are you?" he asked.

  "I mean, sir - I am not a Catholic now, but - I think - I would like to become one." He nodded, inviting me to go on. I did, inventing desperately. "At University, I read - a little about Catholicism, and I have heard something more from friends old enough to have been brought up as Catholics - and when I see that people are willing to die for the faith, I - well, I would like to be instructed in the faith, sir. I would - would like to become one of St. Peter's flock."

  "I see," he said, and ate a little more before wiping his mouth with the cloth from his lap. ''Were your family Catholic, Christopher - or are they?"

  "No,'' I said, before I had time to consider that a lie might have been safer there.

  "They are Protestant?"

  "Yes . . . That is, my father attends church, but . . . '' I suddenly felt that the closer I stayed to the truth, the more convincing my story would be, and I blurted out, "He is an atheist, to be truthful, as I am - was."

  "An atheist,'' Brentwood said, and sat back in his chair; but he spoke with amusement. "Of course,'' he said, "you have been at the University. That explains everything." He smiled, and began to eat again.

  This annoyed me; I could not help it. "I was expelled for being an atheist,'' I said.

  "Oh, I have no doubt. What would have been the point if your tutors had not shrieked like old women with their skirts on fire?"

  "I was not an atheist to shock my tutors,'' I said. "There were a dozen other ways I could have done that. I did not believe in a God - in any god."

  "Ssh, you will shock Williams," he said, as the servants returned, one carrying another bowl of hot water. "The young man says he does not believe in God, Williams."

  "But God believes in him, sir, so he'll be saved at the last,'' Williams said, a remark which I would bet he had been rehearsing for years. It amused Brentwood, and he smiled as he rose to wash his hands. I rose too, and while we were washing, the table was cleared and laid with a second course.

  We returned to the table, I feeling piqued that Brentwood should be so amused by my atheism when people far less devout than he had been horrified and angry. A roast fowl had been set before both our places. The man behind my chair gave me another folded napkin, which I knew how to use this time; and as I made to draw my own knife from my belt, he surreptitiously drew my attention to the knife he had placed beside my plate.

  As the servants left again, Brentwood said, "I have never been able to understand how anyone can be an atheist. No one can live in this world and not see everywhere the power and care of God. In the days when you called yourself an ath
eist, was there never a time when you turned to God and asked for His help, and His love and understanding? I cannot believe it."

  I knew it would be wiser to say nothing, and I tried to say nothing, but it was too tempting. "An atheist would reply to that, sir, that he couldn't understand how any intelligent man could believe in a god for whose existence we have no proof whatsoever.''

  "Proof?'' he said. "What manner of proof? How would your atheist explain the existence of the world he lives in, Christopher?"

  "He would not," I said.

  Brentwood wiped his mouth and fingers with his napkin, and, holding the cloth bunched in his hand, said eagerly, "And that is the answer which makes nonsense of atheism. If the world was not made by God, then how did it come to be?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Then you must admit the existence of God."

  "No," I said. "If I was an atheist, no. The existence of the world in no way proves the existence of God."

  "But, Christopher!'' he cried. "It does!''

  "No," I said, "no. If I were unable to tell you, sir, that Paris is the capital of France, would that prove anything about the whereabouts of that city, or country - or anything about their existence or non-existence?''

  He shook his head at me with a kindly, soothing smile. It was maddening.

  "So many new facts are being discovered,'' I said. "That the earth revolves around the sun and it is not fixed; that the earth is spherical - These are facts, but until recently we were in ignorance of them, and denied them, or invented explanations for what we did not understand - as people say that paralysis is caused by an elf-strike. Perhaps in the future - not soon, but in a hundred years' time, or two hundred - we shall discover how the world came to exist, and I do not think - "

  I had been going to add that I did not think it would be discovered that the beginning of the world had anything to do with a god, when I caught sight of his face across the table. His kindly smile had hardened into a direct stare, the light gleaming in his eyes; and I realized that I had unwittingly dropped the pretence of speaking for an atheist. I had spoken as one.

  "I cannot think, Christopher," Brentwood said, "that you will make a good student of Catholic theology."

  "I'm sorry," I said, and I was; very sorry that I had given myself away. "I have doubts,'' I said. "Sometimes I think that the new sciences... But I do want to study the Faith."

  He considered the tablecloth for a while. Then he said, "You are young as yet, Christopher, to appreciate God's truth. If you grow wiser as well as older, that appreciation will come, and then, I think, will be the time for you to look for instruction in the Faith."

  I said nothing to this, and as the servants returned just then, to bring another bowl of water and to clear the table, there was a lengthy pause, during which I was able to speculate on what Brentwood was really thinking of me.

  After we had washed our hands again, he said, "There are some books in the Rents Room on the meaning of the ritual, I suggest that you read them while you are here, but - for the present, shall we agree to forget about religion?"

  I was very ready to agree with this. He suggested that we should go for a walk, and, leaving the long robes in the solar, we crossed the drawbridge to the other side of the moat and walked through the fields. I tried to seem attentive as he named breeds of pig, and pointed out favourite cows, but it grew harder and harder as time went on.

  When we returned, at last, to the house, I felt so tired that I wanted only to go to bed; but first there was another meal with Brentwood to endure - thankfully, a very light one - and then there were evening prayers to be said, with Brentwood, Mistress Cowling and myself standing on the dais of the great hall, and the entire staff of the house murmuring, some in English, some in dog-Latin, below us. Finally, at almost ten o'clock, it was bed-time. Some candles had been placed on the table on the dais, and a girl lit them with a spill from the hall fire.

  Brentwood passed me a candle, and said that he would see me to my room. As we were climbing the steps, there came a great noise from outside, from the courtyard. I stopped in surprise. A grinding, rattling, rasping noise.

  Brentwood stopped too, and looked down at me. "It is the drawbridge being raised,'' he said.

  I thought: He has the drawbridge raised! I was trapped.

  In the Rents Room, Brentwood pointed out those books on his shelf which were concerned with the Catholic ritual, while I was thinking of high walls, moats and sealed gateways.

  In the room where I was to sleep a great change had been made. The fire had burnt up and it was warmer. Rushes had been spread on the floor, covers had been put on the bed, and a table and. high stool had been added to the furniture. Bundles of dried flowers and leaves now hung from the mantel, and a stack of wood, and fire-irons, had been placed by the fire. But still it was the priest's room, and I was not very happy at the thought of spending the night in it.

  Brentwood wished me a good night, and left me. I went over to the window and fastened the shutter across it, but there were still draughts, and I crouched on the hearth for a long time, trying to get warm before undressing for bed. I wondered what the place was like in January. I knew I should be searching for hiding-places - that was why I was there, and I couldn’t afford to waste time. But I did not want to search. I wanted to go to bed.

  Round and round went my thoughts again, until my brow and eyes felt as hot, from the friction of the grinding thoughts behind them, as my back was cold in the draught from the window. I stood up, eventually, determined not to let those thoughts keep me awake; stirred up the fire, hung my long robe over the shutter, undressed, and went to bed.

  I dreamt that Brentwood's severed head, still fresh and bleeding, but somehow repulsively and secretly decayed, spoke to me and told me things which I needed to know, things which might save my life - but in the second of waking the frightening words, which I had heard so clearly, turned to gibberish, and then faded altogether.

  I could not lie down and sleep again, or even close my eyes, because I knew that I would see the head, mouthing.

  I got out of bed, took the long robe from the shutter where it hung, and put it on. I found my candle on the floor beside my bed; lit it at the fire and carried it into the Rents Room, meaning to find a book, preferably a book of jokes, if Brentwood had such a thing.

  As soon as I passed through the door, and the light of my candle fell on the floorboards, I heard a noise from the platform at the end of the room. I turned, and my candle dimly illuminated the figures of two men, one standing on the platform at the top of the ladder, the other very close to the cupboard. I took a step nearer to them, holding my candle high. They both stared at me and the man at the top of the ladder demanded, "What are you doing out of bed?"

  "Looking for a book," I said and then, belatedly angry. "What are you doing here, in the middle of the night?"

  His tone changed immediately. "Is there anything you need?" he asked. "We were told to make sure that you were comfortable."

  "By waking me?" I asked.

  "Is there anything you want, sir?"

  "No!'' I said. I saw the other man very quietly and gently shut the cupboard door behind his back.

  "Is there anything in particular you would like for breakfast, sir?"

  "Shouldn't you have asked me that before I came to bed?" I kept my eyes on the man near the cupboard.

  "Well, if there is nothing else, sir, we'll leave you to your rest,'' he said, as if I had sent for them, or as if waking people in the night to ask what they wanted for breakfast was a normal practice. With bobs of their heads, he and his companion clattered down the steps, passed me, and started towards the door. I turned to watch them go, the light of my candle spinning with me. I called out, "Wait. What did you want from the cupboard?"

  They stopped. "The cupboard?" said the more talkative one. "Oh - the cupboard. Nothing."

  "You can invent a better story than that if you try," I said. "What were you doing here?" There was a pau
se. The silent one looked at his partner.

  The talkative one said, with aggressive dignity, "We were doing our jobs, sir. Good night." And they both went out and down the stairs.

  I followed them on to the landing and watched them disappear into the darkness of the hall below. I could see a dull, reddish glow from the fire, and that was all.

  Returning to the Rents Room, I climbed the short ladder to the platform, and opened the door of the cupboard, holding up my candle to light inside. It was a well-made cupboard, but quite ordinary. One half of it was taken up with heavy shelves stacked with piles of bound papers.