Read Online The Quickening Maze by Adam Foulds - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adam Foulds
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, History, England, London, Psychiatric hospitals, Mentally Ill, 19th century, London (England), Mental Health, Tennyson; Alfred Tennyson, London (England) - Social Conditions - 19th Century, Clare; John - Mental Health, Psychiatric Hospitals - England - London - History - 19th Century, Mentally Ill - Commitment and Detention - England - London - History - 19th Century, Commitment and Detention, Poets; English - 19th Century - Mental Health, Poets; English
Ads: Link
back.
The worldliness of Matthew and his family was confirmed in detail to Oswald when they were all gathered round the dinner table. Both of the elder daughters wore lace shawls, had lace handkerchiefs, and wore brooches. Even the stolid, sensible son (whom Matthew had described as industrious and dutiful and therefore - here he poured on the warm oil of flattery - resembling himself, Oswald) appeared to have ivory buttons adorning his waistcoat. Oswald did not know which suspicion he favoured, or which was worse: that his brother was successful enough to finance an extravagant home life or that he was again running up debts. Perhaps he would ask for money - Oswald rather expected that - and to that request could come only one answer. A man who has been imprisoned for debt, no matter how long ago, should have learned to live more circumspectly, more within his bounds.
Oswald declined a refilling of his wine glass by covering it with a swift hand. The movement was sharp and attracted attention. He thought that sufficient comment. Matthew suspected that he drank more freely in other company and saw rhetoric in his brother’s stiff comportment. James, Dora’s betrothed, did drink wine - Matthew Allen watched him doing so - drank it with the quiet commitment of a frightened, shy man, grasping the bottle whenever it was near. Really his lack of spirit was disappointing. He hoped Oswald wasn’t watching too closely this dull new addition to the family. He decided to distract him by forcing him to compliment his wife.
‘Most delicious,’ he said.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Oswald chimed in on cue, but adulterated his praise. ‘What is it precisely?’
‘Boiled fowls,’ she answered brightly. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. If I’d known you were coming, perhaps we could have produced more of a banquet.’
‘Oh, no doubt, but really there is no need on my account.’
‘Abigail, do sit up and chew properly.’
‘So, Uncle Oswald,’ Hannah began, deciding in her boredom to break the crust of tedious adult conversation, ‘you must have many stories of Father when he was young.’
‘Ah, well,’ he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, ‘there is such a thing as discretion and familial loyalty.’
‘I hadn’t mean anything shameful.’
Oswald compressed his lips at that, embarrassed.‘No, I hadn’t meant . . .’
‘But if they are, I’m sure that would be even more interesting.’
‘Well . . .’
A hot spurt in Matthew’s chest: cringing in hiding, running, reprimands.What of that mess would Oswald drag out with his slow, relishing words? Perhaps the endless exclusions. Sandemanians required the congregation to be one in spirit, those who were not were required to leave. Matthew remembered the wooden meeting house at the moor’s edge, the blunted fervour of their voices inside as he wandered outside, exultant and ashamed. But that was the mess, perhaps, of every child’s life. He knew that from his patients’ unbosomings, and had heard much worse. It was Oswald’s pretence that Oswald had never been a child.
‘Hannah, really,’ her mother chastised.
‘Do we have to?’ Matthew asked, his eyes quick around the table.
‘Have no fear, younger brother, I shan’t divulge your darkest secrets.’
‘Oh, please do.’ Hannah clapped her hands.
‘No, no.Although there was one occasion . . . I recall that your father was always strong-willed and not, let us say, unspotted by the smaller sins.’
‘Who among us could claim to be?’ Matthew reasonably asked.
‘He had a teacher when he was small . . .’
‘Oh, I know what you’re about to say,’ Matthew interjected. ‘The man was a savage. I left every class bruised.’
‘And that being the case, it was natural that your father, being your father, would not leave his feelings unexpressed. Opportunity came when writing pattern letters.’
‘What are pattern letters?’ Abigail asked, holding her fork vertically on the table by her head
The worldliness of Matthew and his family was confirmed in detail to Oswald when they were all gathered round the dinner table. Both of the elder daughters wore lace shawls, had lace handkerchiefs, and wore brooches. Even the stolid, sensible son (whom Matthew had described as industrious and dutiful and therefore - here he poured on the warm oil of flattery - resembling himself, Oswald) appeared to have ivory buttons adorning his waistcoat. Oswald did not know which suspicion he favoured, or which was worse: that his brother was successful enough to finance an extravagant home life or that he was again running up debts. Perhaps he would ask for money - Oswald rather expected that - and to that request could come only one answer. A man who has been imprisoned for debt, no matter how long ago, should have learned to live more circumspectly, more within his bounds.
Oswald declined a refilling of his wine glass by covering it with a swift hand. The movement was sharp and attracted attention. He thought that sufficient comment. Matthew suspected that he drank more freely in other company and saw rhetoric in his brother’s stiff comportment. James, Dora’s betrothed, did drink wine - Matthew Allen watched him doing so - drank it with the quiet commitment of a frightened, shy man, grasping the bottle whenever it was near. Really his lack of spirit was disappointing. He hoped Oswald wasn’t watching too closely this dull new addition to the family. He decided to distract him by forcing him to compliment his wife.
‘Most delicious,’ he said.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Oswald chimed in on cue, but adulterated his praise. ‘What is it precisely?’
‘Boiled fowls,’ she answered brightly. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. If I’d known you were coming, perhaps we could have produced more of a banquet.’
‘Oh, no doubt, but really there is no need on my account.’
‘Abigail, do sit up and chew properly.’
‘So, Uncle Oswald,’ Hannah began, deciding in her boredom to break the crust of tedious adult conversation, ‘you must have many stories of Father when he was young.’
‘Ah, well,’ he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, ‘there is such a thing as discretion and familial loyalty.’
‘I hadn’t mean anything shameful.’
Oswald compressed his lips at that, embarrassed.‘No, I hadn’t meant . . .’
‘But if they are, I’m sure that would be even more interesting.’
‘Well . . .’
A hot spurt in Matthew’s chest: cringing in hiding, running, reprimands.What of that mess would Oswald drag out with his slow, relishing words? Perhaps the endless exclusions. Sandemanians required the congregation to be one in spirit, those who were not were required to leave. Matthew remembered the wooden meeting house at the moor’s edge, the blunted fervour of their voices inside as he wandered outside, exultant and ashamed. But that was the mess, perhaps, of every child’s life. He knew that from his patients’ unbosomings, and had heard much worse. It was Oswald’s pretence that Oswald had never been a child.
‘Hannah, really,’ her mother chastised.
‘Do we have to?’ Matthew asked, his eyes quick around the table.
‘Have no fear, younger brother, I shan’t divulge your darkest secrets.’
‘Oh, please do.’ Hannah clapped her hands.
‘No, no.Although there was one occasion . . . I recall that your father was always strong-willed and not, let us say, unspotted by the smaller sins.’
‘Who among us could claim to be?’ Matthew reasonably asked.
‘He had a teacher when he was small . . .’
‘Oh, I know what you’re about to say,’ Matthew interjected. ‘The man was a savage. I left every class bruised.’
‘And that being the case, it was natural that your father, being your father, would not leave his feelings unexpressed. Opportunity came when writing pattern letters.’
‘What are pattern letters?’ Abigail asked, holding her fork vertically on the table by her head
Similar Books
