The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  Holdsworth blinked and rubbed his eyes. Mulgrave was standing at the head of the narrow stairs looking sideways into the room. He and Frank were wearing the shirts they slept in, and nothing else.

  ‘What the devil is it?’ Frank said. ‘Why were you shouting?’

  ‘Forgive me – a dream – it was nothing.’

  The old dream. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, and there never would be.

  On Monday evening, Elinor heard a familiar, heavy tread on the stairs. Dr Carbury came into the sitting room, wished her good evening and sat down. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  ‘You are early, sir,’ Elinor said. ‘Shall I ring the bell for the tea things?’

  He shook his heavy head. Supper could only just have finished in the hall, Elinor calculated, and usually her husband would have lingered over his wine in the combination room for at least another hour. He patted his pockets one by one, searching for his snuffbox.

  ‘You know, if Miskin goes, I am minded to reserve the Rosington Fellowship for Soresby,’ he said abruptly, as if they had been talking about this subject for some time.

  He found the box, tapped the lid, opened it and took a pinch. She waited, her stomach clenching, knowing what would follow but not when. At last he gave an enormous sneeze, spraying fragments of snuff over his lap. When he had blown his nose, he fell silent, fanning himself ineffectually with his hand and moving restlessly in his chair.

  ‘I thought Mr Soresby had not taken his degree yet,’ she said.

  ‘He will in January. And he is very able: he will almost certainly be highly placed on the list, and the terms of the endowment permit me to hold it open for him as long as I wish. I have been turning the matter over in my mind for some time.’

  ‘Your decision will please Mr Richardson, I am sure. Is not Mr Soresby one of his pupils?’

  ‘I don’t care a fig whether I please Richardson or not.’ Carbury was now speaking in a vehement, jerky voice. ‘It’s a matter of serving the best interests of the college and of rewarding individual merit. That’s all there is to it, ma’am.’

  Elinor held her peace. Her husband was coming it very high all of a sudden. She knew that something must have happened to bring about this extraordinary change of heart. Soresby was in Richardson’s camp, and in the ordinary course of things Carbury could expect nothing in return for his patronage. Unless, of course, Soresby had changed his allegiance.

  Dr Carbury took another pinch of snuff, spilling much of it on his waistcoat. He sneezed again and the two of them sat in a stunned silence, Carbury with his eyes closed. Elinor stared at her husband and thought how ugly he was. She told herself sternly that she should feel grateful to him for nearly everything that made life endurable, including the roof over her head.

  ‘Mrs Carbury, there is something else I must say to you.’

  She felt a jolt of guilt. It was as if he could read her mind, her thoughts about himself, even her thoughts about Mr Holdsworth.

  ‘I had intended to mention this for some time but it was never the right moment.’ His eyes were open now, watering from the snuff, and he was staring at her. ‘Perhaps it is never the right moment. You know that I have been concerned about my health.’

  ‘And so have I, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. And I’m much obliged to you. As you know I have long been troubled by a distemper in the guts.’ He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘The English malady.’

  ‘Is not the remedy at least partly in your own hands, sir? If you were to change your diet, and perhaps not linger quite so long over your wine, I am persuaded your health would soon be the better for it. During the Long Vacation, you might even consider a course of sea bathing. I understand the waters of Scarborough are notably beneficial.’

  He raised his hand to block the flow of words. She fell silent. She felt inexplicably unsettled, almost on the edge of panic.

  ‘You are very good, ma’am, but these remedies will not answer. I don’t know whether you were aware that Dr Jermyn called on me last week?’

  ‘About Frank?’

  ‘Yes. He grew heated, and I cannot blame him for that altogether. But he’s no fool – he don’t bear a grudge, or not for long. While he was here, I asked if I might consult him about my own case.’

  ‘You, sir? But surely you have no need for – for a man like him?’

  ‘You mean for the services of one who makes his living from patients with maniacal disorders?’ Carbury smiled awkwardly, almost shyly, at her. ‘No, I have not come to that. But Dr Jermyn is of some eminence in other areas of his profession. I believe he is well qualified to treat any patient he chooses.’

  ‘Then why did you consult him, sir?’

  ‘Because I desired a second opinion. Dr Milton has already examined me and diagnosed my case with I believe tolerable accuracy. But old Milton is set in his ways, and I fear has not kept up with recent discoveries.’

  ‘But you said nothing of this to me.’

  ‘I did not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. But now Dr Jermyn has confirmed the original diagnosis, the time has come.’

  She stood up and went to stand beside his chair. ‘Then what is it, sir?’

  ‘I regret to say that I have a growth.’ He patted his abdomen with both hands. ‘Here.’

  ‘Surely a surgeon may cut it out?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is impossible to remove it because of its position. I understand that the growth is in an advanced stage and that Dr Jermyn thinks there may be similar malignancies in other places.’

  ‘Another opinion might say very differently, sir,’ Elinor said wildly. ‘You are still a comparatively young man. It –’

  ‘No, no, my dear.’ Dr Carbury rarely used even so mild an endearment as that: it seemed all of a piece with the dreadful news he brought. ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt about it. Dr Jermyn asked to examine my stools, and I took him out to the privy where I had reserved a sample. He tells me the signs cannot be interpreted in any other way.’

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She had seen the two men on their way to the outhouse from the window of this room. She tried to speak, and the words came out in a jumble. She was obliged to try again. ‘How long do they say you have?’

  ‘Not long. Neither of them felt able to be precise. It may be a few weeks or it may be a few months.’ He looked up at her and smiled with unmistakable warmth. ‘You must not be so distressed, my dear. I am living under a death sentence and I do not know when the sentence will be carried out. But is that so very different from the generality of mankind? We all know we must die, but none of us knows the hour of his death.’ The smile broadened. ‘Unless he is to be hanged, of course, but I trust I may escape that fate.’

  ‘What can I do? How can I best help you?’

  ‘There is nothing, thank you. Or not at present. But you must naturally be anxious about your own future. You are still a young woman. I will provide for you the best I can, but I am not a rich man. When I go, the house and income must go with me. But I shall do what I can.’

  With a series of grunts, he edged forward on the seat, gripped the arms of the chair and stood up. ‘I find I am a little fatigued. I wish you goodnight, madam.’

  He shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him. Elinor listened to his footsteps on the landing as he made his way slowly and painfully to his own room. She knew now that the signs had been there for weeks, if not months. Dr Carbury had not suddenly become a sick man. He had been dying in front of her eyes. She simply hadn’t noticed.

  She sat down again in her chair by the window and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She wept for her husband, and because she would be sad to lose him, even though she had never loved him. She wept because of what life would hold for her as a widow. She wept because she was desperately afraid she would be poor again.

  And finally, she wept because she felt guilty: because part of her was glad that she would soon be a widow.

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  ‘Why were you screaming?’ Frank Oldershaw said.

  Holdsworth looked up from his book. ‘What?’

  ‘Why were you screaming? When you woke us all at dawn.’

  ‘I told you, sir – a foolish dream. I cannot now remember it.’

  Frank leaned forward on his chair. ‘You must remember something. One always does remember something.’

  They were sitting in the garden on armchairs they had dragged out from the parlour. The heavy, overhanging thatch soaked up the air inside the house. The cottage had grown stiflingly hot.

  The ginger cat strolled through the long grass and weeds towards Frank. It leaned against him and purred, its tail waving like a flag above its body.

  ‘Quack,’ Frank said amiably. ‘Quack.’ He looked up and caught Holdsworth staring at him. ‘Quack,’ he said for the third time. ‘Now I wish you’d tell me what you were dreaming of.’

  ‘I cannot tell you what I do not know.’

  ‘Quack,’ Frank said. ‘It’s so damned hot. I’m going on the water.’ He pointed towards a willow tree on the river just below the millpond. ‘There’s a punt down there. We’ll go out in that. And you can come too and make sure I come to no harm.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and walked down the garden towards the water. The cat glanced at Holdsworth and then stalked away. Holdsworth swore under his breath. Frank was no longer as docile as he had been when they first came here. Then, the regimen at Barnwell had reduced him to a cross between a child and a vegetable. Now he was more assertive, and appeared more capable of sustaining a rational conversation. Sometimes he would lapse and quack and talk nonsense; or he would allow a strange grief to master him; or converse with the cat as though it were his equal. But these episodes happened less frequently.

  Now, Holdsworth thought, as he followed Frank through the long grass, there were glimpses of the true nature of the young man. He was physically vigorous. By nature and by upbringing, he was accustomed to lead and to believe that God had ordained him to do so. After all, Frank Oldershaw was a gentleman, and John Holdsworth was not. As far as Frank was concerned at least, it was in the natural order of things that a man like Frank Oldershaw should give the orders.

  When Holdsworth reached the willow tree, he found Frank studying the punt. It was much heavier and more crudely built than the ones that Holdsworth had glimpsed on the river in Cambridge. It was no more than a heavy rectangular box constructed of rough planking. To Holdsworth’s eyes, it looked as watertight as a colander.

  ‘We shall be afloat in a moment,’ Frank said. ‘You take this side and I’ll take this. We’ll turn it on its side first and let the water run out. Then we’ll slide it into the water.’

  ‘But there’s no pole.’

  ‘That’s what these branches are for.’ Frank nodded at two mud-streaked sticks leaning against the trunk of the tree. ‘Now lend me a hand, will you?’

  Reluctantly, Holdsworth obeyed. They pulled the punt on to its side, emptied out most of the water and lowered it again. They manoeuvred it slowly down the muddy bank. The punt scraped down the bank and slid into the river, where it rocked alarmingly. The cat watched from a safe distance.

  ‘There’s water coming in,’ Holdsworth said. ‘It’s leaking. It is not safe to go on it.’

  ‘Nonsense. These old punts always leak. It’s nothing to be frightened of. You may get your feet a little wet but these old tubs never sink. We’ll take off our shoes and stockings and be none the worse for it.’

  For a moment, Holdsworth was tempted to assert his authority and insist that they stayed on dry land. He held back, however, not least because he was not perfectly convinced he could make Frank Oldershaw obey him. There were other reasons. Headstrong though he was, Frank was behaving in a manner that was entirely rational, or at least entirely to be expected from one of his rank and age. In other words, he was growing better, and that surely should be encouraged. Also, Holdsworth himself was shamefully scared of going on the water. Was it possible to conquer somebody else’s demons before you had conquered your own?

  Frank tossed the branches aboard and scrambled after them. He held the punt to the bank by holding one of the roots of the willow. ‘In you come, man,’ he said. ‘Sit at that end.’

  Since the drownings, Holdsworth had avoided boats of all descriptions, even those that made such easy work of crossing the Thames. He climbed aboard and the punt rocked under his weight. His stomach lurched with it. Frank seized one of the branches and pushed off with a jerk. The boat inched out into the stream. In a moment the bank was out of reach.

  ‘Why, you’re as white as a ghost,’ Frank observed. He pointed at the shore with his makeshift pole. ‘Look, there’s Puss watching us. Quack.’

  The ginger cat looked gravely at them.

  ‘Sit quiet and you will soon be yourself again,’ Frank advised. ‘You seemed such a solid fellow I thought nothing in the world could disturb you.’

  Holdsworth gripped the side of the boat, squeezing the rough wood until he felt it biting into his skin. A pain tore into his chest. He forced himself to breathe. ‘It’s not to be wondered at, sir. I cannot swim.’

  ‘That’s soon remedied. Nothing to it. I’ll teach you.’

  Frank threw down his pole and stood up. The punt swayed and rocked.

  ‘Pray sit down, Mr Oldershaw – have a care – the motion will overset us.’

  The punt tilted violently. Frank Oldershaw laughed. And as he was laughing, there was a blur of movement, a great splash and a shower of spray. A wave flooded over the side, soaking Holdsworth’s breeches. Holdsworth shouted, a wordless sound, both a protest and a plea. And also a cry of fear.

  Frank was now floating in the water, his white and spectral arms waving to and fro beneath the surface. ‘It’s so refreshing. You see how simple it is. Our bodies are like pigs’ bladders full of air, so we float.’ He swam to the side of the punt and gripped the edge with both hands. ‘If you jump over the side of the punt and hold on to the edge like this, you will find you are perfectly safe. In a moment or two you will grow used to the sensation of your body moving in the water. I assure you, it is delightful, if a little chilly at first. The body becomes so light. I think that angels must move through the air like this.’

  Maria, Holdsworth thought. Georgie. Drowned at Goat Stairs. He looked at Frank Oldershaw’s smiling face and saw theirs behind his: and their faces were pale, wet and waxy with death.

  ‘Take me back,’ he whispered. ‘Pray, sir, pray take me back.’

  Frank shook the side of the punt, making it rock. ‘On two conditions.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘First, that you allow me to teach you to swim while we are at the mill. Not now, if you want, but later when you have grown more used to the idea, and nearer the bank, where you will be able to feel the bottom under your feet.’

  ‘Take me back.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the second condition is this: that you tell me why you woke us this morning.’

  ‘I do not know.’ The punt rocked again. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Mr Oldershaw –’

  ‘Of course you know. One always remembers one’s bad dreams.’

  Oh yes, Holdsworth thought, the boy is right.

  Frank laughed at him, though not unkindly. ‘Come, sir, I shall take your silence for assent. You shall tell me later. See – we are nearly back on terra firma.’

  Holdsworth turned his head. For the last few minutes, his misery and his fears had trapped him in a small bubble consisting of the punt, Frank and the stretch of water immediately surrounding it. It was only now he realized that all this time the current of the river had been moving them imperceptibly downstream. The river had entered a shallow bend, and the punt was now no more than a couple of yards from the bank.

  Frank suddenly stood up. The water was little higher than his waist. He pushed the punt to the bank. Holdsworth groped blindly over the side for anything to
hold on to. He seized a tussock of grass and it came away in his hands. The side of the punt scraped against the sloping bottom. He launched himself over the side, and landed heavily on solid land. On the grass around him were thistles and cowpats. A group of cows, sheltering under the branches of an oak tree in the corner of the field, turned their heads one by one to look at him. He lay there, trembling, wet and panting, and pressed his cheek against the hard, dry ground.

  Frank scrambled out of the water and sat down. He was streaked with mud. He pushed back the wet hair from his face and turned towards Holdsworth. ‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘I should not have teased you like that. It was very disagreeable of me.’

  Holdsworth sat up and tried to control his rapid breathing with an effort of will. In the circumstances the apology was both unexpected and generous. It was also in its way a perfectly sane gesture. Not for the first time, Holdsworth wondered about the precise nature of Frank Oldershaw’s madness.

  ‘You were not to know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What was I not to know?’

  Holdsworth shrugged. ‘That I – that I have such a deep-rooted aversion to water.’

  ‘There is more to it than that, I fancy.’

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Holdsworth thought how very strange it was that he should be sitting with the grandson of an earl in a cow pasture beside a muddy river. His own life seemed no longer to make any sense whatsoever. It was as if the universe itself, with all its laws and regulatory mechanisms, had been struck with a fit of madness.

  ‘You cannot swim,’ Frank said softly. ‘But that in itself is not a reason to fear water. So there must be a particular cause.’

  Holdsworth thought that the madness of the world had now rearranged itself and become the new mode of being rational. It seemed quite as a matter of course that he should be talking of his night terrors and his sorrows to a youthful madman he had been hired to help. After all, who better than the sorrowful to help those who are sad? Who better than a lunatic to understand the ravings of a madman?