when
walking in the Black Mountains, the faces of men whistling their dogs to round up distant sheep, faces full of native cunning.
No, Gilbert thought, I’ve got it, it’s not a shepherd’s face, not quite, it’s the face of an outside half in rugger, that’s
it, the face of a man who lives on his wits, who relies on natural physique and instinct to see him through whatever defences
are lined up against him.
As for Alfred’s clothes, the clothes Laura first noticed in the lane – well, they changed as regularly as his moods. How many
wardrobes did he have? (Looking round, Gilbert could see none.) Tonight the centre of attention wore a check suit with a black
velvet collar, black velvet cuffs and pocket flaps, with broad black braiding trimminghis trousers. Everything had a distinct, raffish cut. The man, Gilbert admitted to himself as he stood by the door in his
wet socks, had style.
There was something else, too, about Munnings which Gilbert, as a soldier, had spotted quite early on, less obvious than his
clothes and less obvious than his clipped tones but possibly more central: the way Alfred looked at you. If Alfred looked
at you, really looked at you, you did not forget it. More often than not, with his Panama modishly tilted, he did not engage
your eyes, but when the piercing glance came you needed courage (as Gilbert had) to look steadily back.
‘All right, you buggers,’ Alfred said at last, ‘you win.’
Far from being troubled by this abuse, his semi-circular audience seated on the floor glowed, drinking punch and expectation,
sensing the plot was afoot, and sensing the game was going to be very good. His erratic mood was over, the storm had passed
from his eyes; once again he felt he was the main artery.
‘You’ve run me to ground,’ he went on, looking at Laura and then Joey (squeezed tight between Dolly and Prudence), ‘and I
don’t mind telling you I feel as cornered as a fox … we cornered a fox yesterday, but that’s another story, another time,
and I feel as baited as … as John Clare’s Badger, with the whole village baying for his blood. So I must turn to keep the
dogs at bay … I … I’m … I feel like Macbeth … you remember the final bit … bearlike I must stand the course … but if I fail
you won’t chop my head off, eh, you won’t be Macduffs?’
‘No’ and ‘Yes’ came in equal measure as they encouraged Alfred the Fox, Alfred the Badger and Alfred the Scottish Hero-Villain.
Sensing their readiness, he tilted back his head, his bloodshot eyes squinting open, and raised his hand. He wagged a finger
for the final depth of calculated,concentrated silence, a conductor holding them before the opening chords were sounded, a mower before he brought down his
scythe.
On the fire Laura could hear the lemon slice hissing.
‘“The Raven”’ he said into the silence, ‘by Edgar Allan Poe.’
It was, of course, not silence. The silence merely brought out the strength of the wind, the power of the rain, and the unappeasable
storm off West Cornwall that night. Before Alfred began the poem Gilbert, with the storm pounding the door at his back, had
the prosaic thought that he was glad he was not walking alone on the cliff path back from Boskenna, let alone on a ship far
out at sea.
Alfred started the poem at a whisper, very slowly, allowing the beat of the long lines to weave its spell. Each mesmeric line
lulled you, as if you were coming out of or going in to sleep and unsure which was which. Each line was delivered with just
the right emphasis to hold the crowded room:
‘Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping—’
And at that very second, as true as Gilbert was standing there, there
was
a tapping at the door, a tapping which seemed to go right through Gilbert’s shoulder
walking in the Black Mountains, the faces of men whistling their dogs to round up distant sheep, faces full of native cunning.
No, Gilbert thought, I’ve got it, it’s not a shepherd’s face, not quite, it’s the face of an outside half in rugger, that’s
it, the face of a man who lives on his wits, who relies on natural physique and instinct to see him through whatever defences
are lined up against him.
As for Alfred’s clothes, the clothes Laura first noticed in the lane – well, they changed as regularly as his moods. How many
wardrobes did he have? (Looking round, Gilbert could see none.) Tonight the centre of attention wore a check suit with a black
velvet collar, black velvet cuffs and pocket flaps, with broad black braiding trimminghis trousers. Everything had a distinct, raffish cut. The man, Gilbert admitted to himself as he stood by the door in his
wet socks, had style.
There was something else, too, about Munnings which Gilbert, as a soldier, had spotted quite early on, less obvious than his
clothes and less obvious than his clipped tones but possibly more central: the way Alfred looked at you. If Alfred looked
at you, really looked at you, you did not forget it. More often than not, with his Panama modishly tilted, he did not engage
your eyes, but when the piercing glance came you needed courage (as Gilbert had) to look steadily back.
‘All right, you buggers,’ Alfred said at last, ‘you win.’
Far from being troubled by this abuse, his semi-circular audience seated on the floor glowed, drinking punch and expectation,
sensing the plot was afoot, and sensing the game was going to be very good. His erratic mood was over, the storm had passed
from his eyes; once again he felt he was the main artery.
‘You’ve run me to ground,’ he went on, looking at Laura and then Joey (squeezed tight between Dolly and Prudence), ‘and I
don’t mind telling you I feel as cornered as a fox … we cornered a fox yesterday, but that’s another story, another time,
and I feel as baited as … as John Clare’s Badger, with the whole village baying for his blood. So I must turn to keep the
dogs at bay … I … I’m … I feel like Macbeth … you remember the final bit … bearlike I must stand the course … but if I fail
you won’t chop my head off, eh, you won’t be Macduffs?’
‘No’ and ‘Yes’ came in equal measure as they encouraged Alfred the Fox, Alfred the Badger and Alfred the Scottish Hero-Villain.
Sensing their readiness, he tilted back his head, his bloodshot eyes squinting open, and raised his hand. He wagged a finger
for the final depth of calculated,concentrated silence, a conductor holding them before the opening chords were sounded, a mower before he brought down his
scythe.
On the fire Laura could hear the lemon slice hissing.
‘“The Raven”’ he said into the silence, ‘by Edgar Allan Poe.’
It was, of course, not silence. The silence merely brought out the strength of the wind, the power of the rain, and the unappeasable
storm off West Cornwall that night. Before Alfred began the poem Gilbert, with the storm pounding the door at his back, had
the prosaic thought that he was glad he was not walking alone on the cliff path back from Boskenna, let alone on a ship far
out at sea.
Alfred started the poem at a whisper, very slowly, allowing the beat of the long lines to weave its spell. Each mesmeric line
lulled you, as if you were coming out of or going in to sleep and unsure which was which. Each line was delivered with just
the right emphasis to hold the crowded room:
‘Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping—’
And at that very second, as true as Gilbert was standing there, there
was
a tapping at the door, a tapping which seemed to go right through Gilbert’s shoulder
Similar Books
