and while she did not doubt he was indeed internally affected, he was not quite at
death’s door.
Not yet, and she hoped not ever.
For she loved him dearly, in her way.
But he was tricky as Mercury.
‘Louis – you have not said a word?’
‘Haven’t I?’ he murmured. ‘I expect so.’
‘There is much to do.’
Stevenson swallowed along with the phlegm a waspish retort that he could not fail to be aware of this since it was pushed in his face on an hourly basis. He contented himself with a
noncommittal, ‘I expect there is.’
Fanny was not to be deflected.
‘You spend your time looking out of the window.’
‘I’m hoping the weather might change.’
Margaret, who was a decent, sweet soul and in time to come would prove to be as hardy an adventurer as the two in her presence, sensed there might be a storm brewing that had nothing to do with
weather.
She had developed this intuition through near forty years of marriage with Thomas, whose sudden intemperate outbursts of rage often directed at or caused by his wayward son had to be subsumed
and cradled, but, of course, never dealt with directly.
That was not in her marriage vows.
A soft answer turneth away wrath.
‘I wonder if you remember, Louis,’ she remarked gently, ‘a saying of your father’s –
All hands to the pump?
’
‘Maritime, I believe,’ replied her son. ‘He often went to sea. To tame the wild ocean. I myself enjoyed being under the surface. The vasty deep.’
Twenty years before, he had gone diving. In Wick of all places, where half the population spoke Gaelic and the other half didn’t speak much at all.
Despite bone-crushing weights and great bolted helmet he had found the experience exhilarating.
Weightless, womblike.
Like a world of dreams.
All hands to the pump, eh?
Stevenson had a sudden onrush of anger and grief; his father’s face swam before him, slack-jawed in his dying bed like an imbecilic gargoyle, like a gargoyle!
He wrenched away from the women back to the window lest hot tears betray a wounded heart.
From the presented back view they watched a lazy plume of cigarette smoke rise into the velvet curtain while his voice floated, itself like an insubstantial vapour in the air.
‘Where is Lloyd? Where is my bonny boy?’
This was Fanny’s son, who had recently declared he might wish to follow the compromised occupation of story-telling despite, in truth, being somewhat lazy by nature and showing little gift
or talent for the calling.
He adored Stevenson as a father figure and the older man revelled in such adoration, returning a deep affection of rare quality.
The young man was possibly and wisely staying out of the firing line.
‘He is occupied,’ Fanny answered briefly.
‘At what, pray tell?’
‘Writing. Lloyd is writing.’
‘Dear me.’
Stevenson watched the streaks of rain slide grudgingly down the glass and swore inwardly that by hook or by crook, he would be out on the streets tonight.
The darkness might be his disguise.
Enough of the four walls of rectitude.
By hook or by crook.
‘Writing?’ he said with grave intonation. ‘Dear me. What a strange and unrewarding pursuit.’
Chapter 9
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,
Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles.
John Milton,
L’Allegro
The operation had been performed with near military precision.
A grimy carriage whose driver wore a shapeless hat pulled down over his eyes, drew up near the immaculate, gold tipped wrought iron gates, which stood sentry over the back garden of the Just
Land.
Some six young men disgorged, all muffled up, two carrying most carefully a small cauldron of tar, the other four each a bulky sack that they bore with ease.
The cauldron was set down on the wet pavement, not fissured, not cracked, for this was an area well kept by the authorities whose officials at the end of weary day’s vigilance over the
heaving city might
death’s door.
Not yet, and she hoped not ever.
For she loved him dearly, in her way.
But he was tricky as Mercury.
‘Louis – you have not said a word?’
‘Haven’t I?’ he murmured. ‘I expect so.’
‘There is much to do.’
Stevenson swallowed along with the phlegm a waspish retort that he could not fail to be aware of this since it was pushed in his face on an hourly basis. He contented himself with a
noncommittal, ‘I expect there is.’
Fanny was not to be deflected.
‘You spend your time looking out of the window.’
‘I’m hoping the weather might change.’
Margaret, who was a decent, sweet soul and in time to come would prove to be as hardy an adventurer as the two in her presence, sensed there might be a storm brewing that had nothing to do with
weather.
She had developed this intuition through near forty years of marriage with Thomas, whose sudden intemperate outbursts of rage often directed at or caused by his wayward son had to be subsumed
and cradled, but, of course, never dealt with directly.
That was not in her marriage vows.
A soft answer turneth away wrath.
‘I wonder if you remember, Louis,’ she remarked gently, ‘a saying of your father’s –
All hands to the pump?
’
‘Maritime, I believe,’ replied her son. ‘He often went to sea. To tame the wild ocean. I myself enjoyed being under the surface. The vasty deep.’
Twenty years before, he had gone diving. In Wick of all places, where half the population spoke Gaelic and the other half didn’t speak much at all.
Despite bone-crushing weights and great bolted helmet he had found the experience exhilarating.
Weightless, womblike.
Like a world of dreams.
All hands to the pump, eh?
Stevenson had a sudden onrush of anger and grief; his father’s face swam before him, slack-jawed in his dying bed like an imbecilic gargoyle, like a gargoyle!
He wrenched away from the women back to the window lest hot tears betray a wounded heart.
From the presented back view they watched a lazy plume of cigarette smoke rise into the velvet curtain while his voice floated, itself like an insubstantial vapour in the air.
‘Where is Lloyd? Where is my bonny boy?’
This was Fanny’s son, who had recently declared he might wish to follow the compromised occupation of story-telling despite, in truth, being somewhat lazy by nature and showing little gift
or talent for the calling.
He adored Stevenson as a father figure and the older man revelled in such adoration, returning a deep affection of rare quality.
The young man was possibly and wisely staying out of the firing line.
‘He is occupied,’ Fanny answered briefly.
‘At what, pray tell?’
‘Writing. Lloyd is writing.’
‘Dear me.’
Stevenson watched the streaks of rain slide grudgingly down the glass and swore inwardly that by hook or by crook, he would be out on the streets tonight.
The darkness might be his disguise.
Enough of the four walls of rectitude.
By hook or by crook.
‘Writing?’ he said with grave intonation. ‘Dear me. What a strange and unrewarding pursuit.’
Chapter 9
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,
Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles.
John Milton,
L’Allegro
The operation had been performed with near military precision.
A grimy carriage whose driver wore a shapeless hat pulled down over his eyes, drew up near the immaculate, gold tipped wrought iron gates, which stood sentry over the back garden of the Just
Land.
Some six young men disgorged, all muffled up, two carrying most carefully a small cauldron of tar, the other four each a bulky sack that they bore with ease.
The cauldron was set down on the wet pavement, not fissured, not cracked, for this was an area well kept by the authorities whose officials at the end of weary day’s vigilance over the
heaving city might
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