by Ted Hughes
Enriching the conflagration, angering the flames
That claw for the sky,
Hooking upwards, clenching about the Cathedral
Like talons
Of a giant dragonish gripe.
As if the Cathedral
Were being crushed in the upreaching foot
Of an immense upside down griffon
Which is falling
Into a crater of black smoke
The griffon being aflame,
Beating deeper and deeper,
A star of struggling rays,
A glowing spot
Muffled away
By the banging –
Till only a hard banging remains.
Lumb
Lies unconscious on the carpet, face crawling with sweat
In front of the burned-out fire.
Maud
Striped with the dove’s blood, which has now dried,
Lies face upwards on the bare boards
Of the room beneath, still gripping
The blood-rag of the bird.
Her eyes flicker open.
She listens
To the banging on the door downstairs.
Felicity
For a moment can make nothing of the blood-smeared brow, cheekbones and throat in the crack of the door opened three inches.
Maud studies the weak pretty face, which is trying to interpret her sheet-draped nakedness, as the door widens.
Felicity has to speak to Mr Lumb. Very urgent. Maud’s smile seems to understand, as she steps back and lets the tear-flurried face surge past her with its agitation.
So it is that Lumb, opening his eyes, finds Felicity staring down at him.
He springs up. He is cleansed and renewed.
His arms close round her, as if joyfully.
At once she is crying freely.
She feels his embrace is safety and assurance.
She tells him everything
About that picture and about Garten.
Already she can hardly believe any of it.
She prays it was faked.
She begs him to tell her it was faked.
He tells her it was faked.
His laugh frightens her, but she grasps it as more
reassurance.
She tells him she has put her suitcase in the back of his car, just as they said. She wants to leave now, this moment. Why can’t he just cancel that meeting tonight.
He kisses her, overpowering her with his kisses and easy
smiles.
He starts to unzip her dress.
She stops him with hard fingers.
She wants him to save it
Till they have escaped right away from all this and from
everybody.
Till they are alone together, absolutely together.
Why can’t they go now?
When he will not be stopped,
Explaining without explanation that he cannot cancel the
meeting
Because he simply cannot
She suddenly announces
That she is coming to the meeting, too,
So she can see for herself,
So she can be completely sure
That the rumour about those meetings is a lie.
That will prove everything to her.
And she needs it to be proved.
She is suddenly strong.
She realises she is strong.
She adds something else:
She is never going home again.
Lumb
Gazes blankly toward a reassessment
Impossibly beyond him. Two worlds,
Like two strange dogs circling each other.
The door opens, and Maud stands there. Lumb asks Maud to look after Felicity and prepare her for the meeting. And to instruct her. They will introduce her to the Institute.
Felicity
Looking at Maud, and looking again at Lumb
Reasons herself scramblingly
Out of the sudden terror
The light electrical gust
That grabs at her, to rush her
Away from this house,
Away from these two –
She takes firmer hold of her new initiative.
She goes out with Maud.
Holroyd
Though it is after five, is in his cattle yard with his man and the vet. They are sawing the horns off a young bull. Its hooves slam, its muscular half ton convulses, like a fist, racketing the locked steel bars of the crush, as the three men strain, two of them levering the head far over to one side, and Holroyd, his full weight leaning backward, sawing with a wire.
Seeing his wife climb into her car, and knowing where she is going, Holroyd shuts his mind from her, grimacing like a face in the dentist’s chair, as he concentrates on the rip of the wire, the angle of his double punching pull, and the ammonia smoke of the horn burn.
The bull roars long and horribly, like a tiger. The horn pulls loosely over and off, heavy. Nimbly the vet tweezers for the cut end of the vein, that showers him with a rigid thread of blood. He twirls the tissue to a knot. He sprays smoking purple antiseptic into the blood-streaming skull-crater, while Holroyd stands back, crimsoned and panting.
But now as they grip the bull’s nose-ring, and lunge into wrestling and levering the surviving horn upwards, Garten appears beside Holroyd.
Garten is an agricultural pest.
But he is coming closer, not answering Holroyd’s query.
He is holding out the photograph, like a peace-offering.
Holroyd has taken it, lifts it.
In spite of himself, his eyes are fascinated.
His mystification narrows.
He is wondering why Garten presents him with this
questionable picture.
The horn stands ready for the wire, which dangles in curls from Holroyd’s preoccupied hand. The two men, with locked joints, and full strength at full strain, have pinned the dangerous weight. The bull’s gruelling roar vibrates the concrete of the yard beneath their boots. Garten is saying something.
Holroyd’s dignity has stiffened. A big florid man, with handsome brown eyes and silver curls.
He glances at Garten, flushed and stormy and full of hatred. He responds to nothing Garten says, and hands him back the photograph as if it were of no interest.
He returns to his bull. The animal’s uplooking eye squirms like a live eye in a pan. It emits a yodelling weird roar, like a steel roof being ripped by a power saw, as the wire bites.
Estridge
Is looking right through the photograph to his unburied daughter and the stump-raw amputation of that morning’s event.
He is sharply aware of his age. The recurrent idea to kill Lumb keeps foundering in the proliferating concerns for what ought rightly to be done, in a civic and rational manner. Apart from taking council with Hagen.
And what is this other strange tale, this new religion? Something diabolical, concocted, filthy, very possible. A lecherous priest and a gaggle of spoofed women. Hysterical bored country wives. Credulous unfortunate females.
Evans is giving his simple statement. Evans, it seems, intends to walk into the church basement tonight and see what’s going on at the W. I. meeting. Anybody else will be welcome. But nobody must think they’re going to restrain him, when he meets Mr Lumb.
Looking at Evans’ dangerous, thick-set face, Estridge feels the draughty lack of his uniform. He feels the sheer-fall possibilities of being left out. But mostly he feels age, the wrinkle-crisp caul of the life-husk, an inert scratch-numb detachment. It would be so easy now to do nothing.
But then the sudden raving fantasy comes
Like a lump of insane music
Pulping Lumb’s skull with an axe
And Estridge’s heart bounds again and flutters.
Estridge and Evans
Drive into the gravelled court behind Hagen’s house, circling the old well which is surmounted by a looted Silenus, decorated wi
th fantails. Mrs Hagen, negotiating the grass-verge, drives out past them without a glance.
Hagen’s man is holding a tall bay mare by a snaffle. Hagen, leaning his chest against a steel gate, watches the slender sooty stallion descending from its horsebox, on powerful springs, restrained by an insect-thin manager.
The too-heavy clay of Hagen’s face is sagging as the day lengthens. His eyes are fixed in a spiritless nicotine-yellow dullness. Estridge, coming beside him, hands him the photograph without a word, casually as a cigarette.
Then stands watching the flashing ballet of the two horses, as they touch noses and flare tails, like great fish, like yachts.
Hagen, absorbing the photograph, massages his brow between thumb and forefinger, as if resting. The stallion whinnies, a squealing barrel-echoing snigger, as he feels his power swell, glitteringly, in the odours of the mare.
Hagen is contemplating the photograph, which seems very satisfactory, as if it were a just-completed jigsaw. He lifts his brow, to raise his head slightly, letting his whale’s eye, small and cold, rest on Estridge. He is thinking: so it is proved, and now they want me to do something about it.
Taking his old friend’s arm, he leads him toward the house, as if to impart something even worse. Their old wars go with them, cleaned and simplified, under the glare sunlight.
Evans, a grin stuck on his face, watches the stallion sprawling on the high mare, like a drunk on a table.
Estridge’s shout interrupts.
Garten
Leans his bicycle on a low wall, between Westlake’s car and Dunworth’s, and goes straight into the house. He pauses, surrounded, as by sudden guards, by all that polished modernity, the positioned furniture, in ultra colour, designed by Dunworth himself, like the demortalised organs of a body.
Through and beyond, framed against the panoramic feature window, he sees the two men sitting, a whisky bottle between them on a low table, and glasses in their hands.
Dunworth is discussing killing himself, which is what he seems to consider appropriate. Westlake does not say what he thinks. He makes provisional noises.
Their sentences
Falter and evaporate.
Bottomless silence drinks their ideas.
They are trying to imagine logicality.
Neither can quite feel the seriousness of their own words
or of the others.
They stare out, like yarded beasts, across the blue-
layered monotony of the distance,
And sip.
They feel gently around in the illusory emptiness of these
minutes,
Which are passing with such crowded rapidity.
They are quietly aghast
At the certainty that sooner or later they will have to move
Westlake is afraid that when he moves he will do
something barbarous, disproportionate, insane.
Dunworth is afraid that if he is left alone he might well
kill himself in a light-minded effort to be sincere.
Westlake hunches hooded in tortoised concentration,
behind his dark-rimmed spectacles.
Dunworth’s face is exposed and woebegone, like a
beggarwoman’s at a crossroads.
Garten introduces the photograph.
With one glance Dunworth has seen too much. Now he only wants to escape right away, fast enough and far enough for all this to disappear in slipstream and exhaust. He wants to lie down and sleep for fifty years in some utterly different landscape, and wake up in another age.
Westlake stares into the photograph as into a culture under a microscope.
Dunworth paces about the room. He can feel the whole day slipping like some horrible landslide, towards a brink. Everything is on the move, everything inside this house is on its way to the brink, the house itself, everything in the garden and those trees, it’s all on the slide. Even the clouds. The whole day. And himself in the middle of it, helpless.
His skin panics with hot and cold draughts
As Westlake stands up.
Women
Are assembling in the church basement.
Mrs Davies is in charge of refreshments. Mrs Evans follows her instructions. Dainty triangular sandwiches, prettily stacked. Tinned salmon, liver paste, cucumber, lettuce and tomato.
A hushed animation, sombre and uneasy.
Something is wrong and everybody is aware of it.
It is not only the gossip funeral for Janet Estridge.
Mrs Davies peels a blue razor blade from its wrapper.
The glans of a withered fungus
Receives its edge, and releases slices
Into each of three sandwiches.
Mrs Davies sets these apart.
Mrs Evans is pouring a milky liquid from a medicine
bottle into the tea-urn.
The loudspeakers cough and clear their throats at the
corners of the ceiling.
Betty has put a tape on the stereo.
Suddenly the women are engulfed
Under archaic music of pipes and drums,
An inane cycle of music, hoarse and metallic.
Mrs Davies is setting out cigarettes of her own blend.
Plates of sandwiches circulate and trays of cups of tea.
The birdlike agitation of women, fussy, tense, watchful,
thins
As the music works behind their faces
And a preoccupation deepens.
A snaking coil of smoke materialises.
Already their eyes are glazed like young cattle.
They are waiting for the first shiver of power.
Something is obstructing it.
A difficulty, the power will not flow.
The music is tangling with some obstacle.
Everybody is here, except Maud. And the Master.
Jennifer
Knows more and more clearly that she should not have
come.
Mrs Evans shuts herself up in busyness.
Women in groups wait nervously for things to warm up.
Mrs Dunworth sits with the doctor’s wife and Mrs Hagen
A little apart,
Like three asked to stay behind after the doctor’s tests –
All are quiet with something like fear –
Nearly a definite prickle of fear.
Like passengers in an aircraft, just as it lifts off the
runway,
Hearing a peculiar note in the engine.
Betty turns the music up purposefully.
Maud
Is ready.
Black lace in her hair,
But under her black shawl
A long dress of white satin, a bridal dress, flashes as she
moves.
Felicity is sitting with brilliant eyes, at the kitchen table.
The drink Maud served her
Has made her ears ring. Her lips feel numb.
Her fingertips feel enormous.
She is waiting to be conducted to the meeting
And sits watching Maud fixedly.
It occurs to her
That Maud’s regalia is some special craziness
Connected to her dumbness.
Lumb promises to follow within minutes.
Felicity appeals with a last look.
Words seem suddenly too big, they refuse to shape in her
mouth.
She interprets his look as reassurance.
Actually his face is impenetrable.
Now as Felicity follows Maud out
She takes a deep breath, and for a moment has to pause
For the sudden smouldering fire under her midriff.
She sees the church.
It looks like an evil black shape painted on a wall.
Simultaneously she remembers that she left no note for
her grandfather.
She is heavily aware of her lips, lying together as if they
were swollen
And of the in
ner surface of her thighs brushing together,
as she follows Maud.
She feels Maud’s madness in that processional stately
walk, flashing whiteness,
As they go among the graves.
Lumb
Is cramming books into a trunk.
He crams in clothing.
Among the clothing
He nests, with hurried care,
His magical apparatus.
He lifts the stone woman from the mantel
And settles her snugly among underclothes.
He searches in the box, in the drawer –
Something is missing. His dagger is missing. His weapon
of weapons.
He scrabbles, he unearths – vainly. He listens.
He knows
It is not in this room.
Maud
Enters the church basement, pausing impressively
Like a slightly tipsy actress.
Maud is impressive in her get-up – and frightening.
Felicity is frightened
Seeing so many confusedly familiar faces
Looking unfamiliar
As if police held her.
She meets Mrs Davies’ mystified savage look
But it is Mrs Davies’ welcoming smile,
Her surprise of affection.
It is Mrs Davies’ arm round her shoulder
Guiding her among the confusion of women, the harsh
music, and all the movement of hands and faces
Which numb her every second more deeply.
Vaguely she looks round for Maud.
Maud is already poised motionless at the corner of the
rectory.
She is watching Lumb.