about experience – you don’t go. He
knows King Lear
, even if he hasn’t read it.”
“I bet I know my Bible better.”
“I bet you do,” said Stephanie. “But whether that’s a point in your favour or his, I’ll leave him to say. Please forgive us, Mr Orton.”
“So you’ll talk to me at some more sensible time,” said Daniel to Stephanie. He, like the Potters, was obsessively single-minded.
“I promise nothing.”
“But you’ll talk.”
“I admire your work very much, Mr Orton,” stiffly.
“Right. Now I’ll go.”
Alexander looked at his watch again and announced that he was going too. They came out together onto the bare street and stood for a moment in a more or less companionable silence.
“The man must be mad,” said Daniel Orton. “I hadn’t done anything.”
“The irony is that he’s a believer and popular preacher born out of his time. In revolt against his upbringing.”
“Ay. Well, so am I, the other way. I ought to sympathise. I can’t say I do. It’s not of much importance. I’m not much of a preacher myself. Words, words.”
“Words are his work.”
“Let him stick to it, then. He lacks grace.” There was no clue in his tone as to whether he meant this criticism to be theological, aesthetic, or in some quite different area. He offered Alexander a large hand and walked away, by no means gracefully, sturdy and rolling towards the town. Alexander set off in a great hurry in the other direction. Like all people over-anxious to keep an appointment without the terrors of being early, he had made himself late. He began to run.
3. The Castle Mound
On the outskirts of Blesford, where pre-fabs and ragged allotments pushed out into real fields, Alexander, still running, came to the Castle Mound. The Castle, which had briefly housed the defeated Richard II, was now a stone shell encircling mown humps and hillocks with the ambivalently bursting appearance of grave-mounds: iron labels indicated the sites of dried well, vanished defences, foundations of bedchambers.
Outside this trim anonymity was a piece of wasteland, once an Officers’ Training Camp, where there was a semi-circle of battered Nissen huts on splitting tarmac; through long cracks in the surface willow-herb and groundsel poked weak, tenacious stems. There was no flagpole in the concrete slot: no cars in the designated car park: the place appeared, not recently, to have undergone a successful siege. The huts let out, through dangling doors, a strong smell of stale urine. In one, a long row of basins and urinals had been deliberately shattered and fouled. The regulars, Alexander saw, were there. A circle of grubby boys lifted their headsfrom the cupped glow of matches as he passed. In a doorway a gaggle of girls whispered and shrilled, leaning together, arm in arm. The largest, skinny and provocative, thirteen maybe, stared boldly. She wore a drooping flowered dress in artificial silk, and a startling red latticed snood. A cigarette stub glowed and faded in one corner of her pointed mouth. Alexander made a rushed and incompetent gesture of salutation. He imagined they knew very well why he, why anyone, went there.
Over a wire fence he saw her, walking briskly away from him across the only field, through thistles and cowpats. She had her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of a raincoat, whose blue skirts stood out in a stiff cone above tiny ankles and feet. Her head, gallant in a red cotton square, was down. He was terribly moved; he went after her; under the trees of the little wood, over the stile, he caught up with her and kissed her.
“My love,” said Alexander. “My love.”
“Look,” she said in a rush, “I really can’t stay, I’ve left Thomas sleeping, I shouldn’t take such risks, I must go home …”
“Darling,” said Alexander. “I was late. I get so afraid of being early and losing my nerve, I make myself late …”
“Yes, well, it’s as well one of us isn’t. Isn’t afraid, I
knows King Lear
, even if he hasn’t read it.”
“I bet I know my Bible better.”
“I bet you do,” said Stephanie. “But whether that’s a point in your favour or his, I’ll leave him to say. Please forgive us, Mr Orton.”
“So you’ll talk to me at some more sensible time,” said Daniel to Stephanie. He, like the Potters, was obsessively single-minded.
“I promise nothing.”
“But you’ll talk.”
“I admire your work very much, Mr Orton,” stiffly.
“Right. Now I’ll go.”
Alexander looked at his watch again and announced that he was going too. They came out together onto the bare street and stood for a moment in a more or less companionable silence.
“The man must be mad,” said Daniel Orton. “I hadn’t done anything.”
“The irony is that he’s a believer and popular preacher born out of his time. In revolt against his upbringing.”
“Ay. Well, so am I, the other way. I ought to sympathise. I can’t say I do. It’s not of much importance. I’m not much of a preacher myself. Words, words.”
“Words are his work.”
“Let him stick to it, then. He lacks grace.” There was no clue in his tone as to whether he meant this criticism to be theological, aesthetic, or in some quite different area. He offered Alexander a large hand and walked away, by no means gracefully, sturdy and rolling towards the town. Alexander set off in a great hurry in the other direction. Like all people over-anxious to keep an appointment without the terrors of being early, he had made himself late. He began to run.
3. The Castle Mound
On the outskirts of Blesford, where pre-fabs and ragged allotments pushed out into real fields, Alexander, still running, came to the Castle Mound. The Castle, which had briefly housed the defeated Richard II, was now a stone shell encircling mown humps and hillocks with the ambivalently bursting appearance of grave-mounds: iron labels indicated the sites of dried well, vanished defences, foundations of bedchambers.
Outside this trim anonymity was a piece of wasteland, once an Officers’ Training Camp, where there was a semi-circle of battered Nissen huts on splitting tarmac; through long cracks in the surface willow-herb and groundsel poked weak, tenacious stems. There was no flagpole in the concrete slot: no cars in the designated car park: the place appeared, not recently, to have undergone a successful siege. The huts let out, through dangling doors, a strong smell of stale urine. In one, a long row of basins and urinals had been deliberately shattered and fouled. The regulars, Alexander saw, were there. A circle of grubby boys lifted their headsfrom the cupped glow of matches as he passed. In a doorway a gaggle of girls whispered and shrilled, leaning together, arm in arm. The largest, skinny and provocative, thirteen maybe, stared boldly. She wore a drooping flowered dress in artificial silk, and a startling red latticed snood. A cigarette stub glowed and faded in one corner of her pointed mouth. Alexander made a rushed and incompetent gesture of salutation. He imagined they knew very well why he, why anyone, went there.
Over a wire fence he saw her, walking briskly away from him across the only field, through thistles and cowpats. She had her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of a raincoat, whose blue skirts stood out in a stiff cone above tiny ankles and feet. Her head, gallant in a red cotton square, was down. He was terribly moved; he went after her; under the trees of the little wood, over the stile, he caught up with her and kissed her.
“My love,” said Alexander. “My love.”
“Look,” she said in a rush, “I really can’t stay, I’ve left Thomas sleeping, I shouldn’t take such risks, I must go home …”
“Darling,” said Alexander. “I was late. I get so afraid of being early and losing my nerve, I make myself late …”
“Yes, well, it’s as well one of us isn’t. Isn’t afraid, I
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