Chatterton Page 8

  They walked over to the wall, which was indeed all that remained: there were four windows with a door, freshly painted, and the wall itself was about six inches thick; it vibrated as the traffic passed. ‘A house of cards, no doubt,’ Charles said cheerfully as he entered the garden which had been laid out behind this solitary front. There was a sundial here, and Charles bent down to read out the verse which had been inscribed around its base: Had restless Time whose harvest is each hour Made but a pause to view this poet’s flower, In pity he’d have turned his scythe away And left it blooming to a future day.

  ‘What bad poetry. I hate morbid couplets.’ Then he added: ‘Let us make haste towards the train. Or else we won’t be seen again. We’ll find our way to Paddington. And then we’ll decode Chatterton.’

  O lovely Delusion

  ‘Thomas Chatterton was born in Pile Street, only a few yards from the parish church of St Mary Redcliffe.’ Philip was reading from the pamphlet which he had bought from the old man, stopping only to glance up at the dark red Bovril factory as the train drew out of Bristol Station. ‘His father had been a chorister there but he died three months before Thomas was born.’

  ‘That is a pity.’ Charles had taken all the material from the plastic bags, and was sorting out the typewritten sheets, old letters and loose papers on the orange plastic table in front of him. ‘Is that why they could only afford one wall for their house?’

  Philip looked despondently at an abandoned viaduct before continuing. Thomas attended the famous Colston’s School in Bristol –’

  ‘Of course, Colston’s Yard. I think I met his old gym mistress.’

  ‘– but he largely educated himself in the muniment room above the north porch of the church. It was here, in two old wooden coffers, that he discovered certain medieval documents relating the history of Bristol and the construction of St Mary Redcliffe itself. Fired by this knowledge and by his love of the past, he began composing his own medieval poetry. These poems, known as the “Rowley Sequence” after his invention of a medieval monk by the name of Thomas Rowley, heralded the Romantic Movement in England and, although in later years they were discovered to be forgeries contrived by Chatterton, they established the foundations of his everlasting fame.’

  Charles snatched the pamphlet from Philip. ‘I hate that phrase, everlasting fame.’ He raised his voice. ‘It’s such a cliché.’ In fact it depressed him. ‘Is there anything new in this?’ He turned rapidly to the last page and read out the final sentence of the pamphlet: ‘Chatterton knew that original genius consists in forming new and happy combinations, rather than in searching after thoughts and ideas which had never occurred before.’

  ‘True,’ murmured Philip gloomily.

  ‘And this,’ Charles went on, ‘was the foundation of his everlasting fame.’

  With a grimace he flung the pamphlet at Philip; then he tore another strip from a page of Great Expectations, rolled it into a ball and popped it into his mouth. He settled back into his warm seat and murmured to himself, with increasing cheerfulness, ‘New and happy combinations. New and happy combinations. Does that mean,’ he asked as he chewed, ‘that we just need to switch around the words?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Philip was reading the pamphlet and had not heard the question. ‘What was the name?’ He sounded very grave.

  ‘Legion?’

  ‘What was the name of the man who owns these?’ Philip gestured towards the pile of papers which Charles had dumped upon the table.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that he owned them exactly. Nobody can own the past –’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Joynson.’

  Philip took Great Expectations out of Charles’s hands before reading out loud from the pamphlet again. ‘The boy Chatterton was a great lover of old books, and he became well known among the booksellers of Bristol. In particular he became acquainted with a certain Joynson –’ Philip gave the surname an emphasis which was almost melancholy in its detachment – ‘who owned a bookshop in Crickle Street; there were many stories of how Chatterton would spend all morning among the dusty shelves of this place, eagerly absorbing all the books which Joynson could show to him. He and the bookseller would often discuss his reading; it has been said, indeed, that Joynson was his true schoolmaster since it was he who apparently introduced the boy to the work of Milton, Cowper, Dyer and many other poets. He was well rewarded for his efforts, however, since Joynson has the distinction of being Chatterton’s first publisher. Twenty years after the poet’s suicide (this sad young man killed himself at the age of seventeen) –’ at this point Philip’s voice dived even lower than before – ‘twenty years after this suicide, it was Joynson who edited and printed the first collection of Chatterton’s poetry.’

  Charles stared out of the window. ‘But he had the painting. He knew that Chatterton didn’t kill himself. He knew that he was still alive!’

  ‘So that was their secret,’ Philip said very softly. There was a jolt as the train came suddenly to a halt and he went on, more cheerfully, ‘Signal failure. We must be stuck at the points.’ In his early youth he had been an avid ‘spotter’ of trains, and had never lost his enthusiasm for the arcana of railway procedure. ‘We could be here for a long time.’ He was grinning.

  Charles was still looking out of the window. ‘But why was it their secret? What was the point of pretending that Chatterton was dead?’ With more eagerness now he went back to the papers he had taken from Bramble House: the sudden lurch of the compartment had scattered them across the table, and for the first time Charles noticed a large brown envelope with the word ‘Fragile’ written in red crayon on the side. He ripped it open, in his haste cutting the side of his thumb against its sharp edge, and then removed some sheets of paper. They were of coarse manufacture, stained and darkened at the edges, and some of the papers were spotted with yellow circles like small scorch marks.

  Charles put them up to his face in order to smell them. ‘Dusty,’ he said to Philip, who was watching him curiously. ‘I would like to eat a bit of this. ‘ Across each sheet there were many lines of cramped handwriting in brown ink; they had the appearance of having been written at great speed or under the influence of some overpowering emotion, since extra lines had been written vertically down the margin of each page. It was as if the unknown writer had felt compelled to put everything down in the smallest possible space. ‘It’s difficult,’ Charles said, ‘I’ll need a magnifying glass. ‘ He turned to the last page, and could not keep the excitement from his voice when he read out ‘T. C.’

  ‘Oh.’ The train had started again, and Philip was momentarily distracted. ‘Say it again.’

  ‘The signature at the bottom is T. C.’ He noticed a line of blood down the edge of the paper, issuing from his cut, and gingerly he handed the papers over to Philip while he sucked his thumb. And then Philip, leafing through them, read out this: ‘like the blind prophet led by the boy, so was antiquity given over to my care. I sold my Verses to the booksellers, also, and though I met with some success in London, for the most part the fame of Thomas Rowley was bruited through Bristol and the trade in my work was very brisk. There was one bookseller who suspected the truth, viz that these were verses of my own –’ Philip broke off. ‘I can’t read that word. It might be despair. Or desire.’

  Charles was still sucking his thumb, occasionally taking it out of his mouth to inspect the small cut. ‘Put them back in the envelope. I can’t look at them now.’ But already, in his imagination, he had solved the secret of Thomas Chatterton and was enjoying the admiration of the world. Carefully he wrapped a piece of Kleenex around his thumb, but then he let the tissue fall to the floor as he picked up another sheet of paper. ‘Here it is again!’ he said. ‘It’s the same handwriting.’ And then he read out: ‘Arise now from thy Past, as from the Dust that environs thee. When Los heard this he rose weeping, uttering the original groan as Enitharmon fell towards dark Confusion.’

  ‘Blake.’ Philip looked at the vacant seat beside him
, as if someone had just moved into it. ‘That’s William Blake.’

  ‘I know that. ‘ Charles was suddenly very calm. ‘But then why is it signed T. C.?’ And as the train took them homewards Charles read out, in mounting excitement, another line from the same page. ‘Craving & devouring; but my Eyes are always upon thee, O lovely Delusion.’

  5

  INSTINCTIVELY FINDING her way through the rushing crowd, Vivien Wychwood walked down New Chester Street towards Cumberland and Maitland. In the morning light the world was new again; everything seemed to be freshly painted, gleaming like the sides of salmon already on sale at the Royalty fishmonger on the corner of the street. But she was thinking of Charles and across the bright day was imprinted the image of him, sick and shaking, two nights before. On Saturday evening he had returned from Bristol with Philip; in his enthusiasm he had draped the two plastic bags around Edward’s neck and the boy had looked inside them, wrinkling his nose. ‘Where did you get this rubbish? It smells dead.’

  ‘Not dead, Edward the Inedible, very much alive. This will make your poor Dad very famous.’ But he gazed thoughtfully at his son as soon as he had said this, feeling once more the stirrings of some distant pain within his head.

  Vivien came into the room and Philip put up his arm to greet her, blushing as he did so. ‘What’s all this?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘More rubbish!’ Edward shouted gleefully, and squeezed the bags with both arms.

  Charles took them away from him. ‘These are the Chatterton papers,’ he said, solemnly. ‘I discovered them.’

  Vivien, perplexed, looked across at Philip for confirmation of this news but he was staring thoughtfully at Edward’s shoes. ‘Just like that?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, just like that.’ With a sudden furious enthusiasm which alarmed Vivien, he took the bags and emptied their contents onto the sofa. He walked around it, muttering, ‘Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!’ And Edward joined him, shouting, ‘After Eight mints! After Eight mints!’ Then Charles heard a balloon bursting beneath his skull and, suddenly feeling nauseous, he sat down heavily upon the sofa.

  Vivien saw how pale he had become and, brushing aside the papers, sat down next to him in order to soothe him. ‘Don’t touch the documents,’ Charles said. ‘Don’t damage them. They’re very fragile.’ And for a few moments he sat with his head bowed as Philip, at a gesture from Vivien, picked up Edward and carried him out of the room.

  ‘What’s the matter with Dad?’ the boy asked very loudly.

  Charles looked up at him. ‘It’s the curse of Chatterton,’ he said gently; he tried to smile but his face did not seem to be moving.

  Vivien put her hand against his cold cheek. ‘You must see the doctor again,’ she said. ‘I’m so worried now.’

  ‘I can’t see doctors all the time. I have all this to do.’ This was at least what he wanted to say as he gestured towards the papers, but the murmured words which Vivien heard were ‘Ejis doxon. Fistula don.’ He tried to stand up but he could not do so, and a few minutes later Vivien had to lead him towards their bed. ‘He’s not himself,’ she said to Philip. ‘He needs rest.’

  But by the following morning he seemed to have recovered and, when Vivien tried to explain how alarmed she had become, he merely patted her cheek and laughed. There were times when she thought her husband to be strangely insensitive, but she realised that the insensitivity was principally directed towards himself. Just as in the past he had always seemed able to ignore their poverty, now he was trying to ignore his own sickness. the dream unfolds ‘He was the greatest artist of the Forties, of course, with the possible exception of Joan Crawford. I don’t mean her acting, I mean her hair. It was heroic, if wood can be heroic. Good morning, Vivienne.’ Cumberland had been talking to Maitland as Vivien entered the gallery. ‘Lovely to see you in a solid colour at last. How the pendulum swings.’ He was wearing a thinly striped shirt, fastened so tightly that it seemed to hold his neck like a noose; and, when he greeted Vivien, he turned his head very slowly so that he could conceal for as long as possible the large wart which thrust upwards from his thin, pale face. ‘But when I see that dress I worry about the human cost of abstract art. Was this the price we all had to pay?’ Vivien returned his greeting with no more than a smile; her other employer, Maitland, nodded and said nothing. ‘Was that a smile, Vivienne?’ Cumberland had turned full circle, so that his wart was invisible to her once more. ‘Or did a red creature run quickly across your face?’ He fluttered his fingers at her, as if in a form of blessing, and then resumed his conversation with the silent Maitland. ‘Anyway, the auctioneer might have come from Dickins and Jones. A brown suit looks so calculating on a man, don’t you think? One always suspects that he must have knitted it himself. Still, I could not resist those Seymours.’

  Vivien, smiling persistently despite the fact that neither man was now paying any attention to her, passed through the gallery towards her small office at the back. She always enjoyed this walk: the gallery was so cool, so pale, so translucent (the paintings seemed to glow on the light grey walls) that it was as if her own feelings were slowly being bleached out of her until she reached her desk as the efficient secretary of Mr Cumberland and Mr Maitland.

  This morning, a rather plump young woman was already sitting there. She was filing her nails but, as soon as she saw Vivien, she dropped the file back into her bright red handbag. ‘Sorry, old thing,’ she said, ‘I’m in your saddle, aren’t I?’ She slid off the desk, and snapped her handbag shut.

  ‘Good morning, Claire.’ Vivien had already acquired something of her usual office briskness.

  The Head’s very excited, and so’s the Deputy.’ She was referring to Cumberland and Maitland. They’ve scrumped three Seymours. Three rudies.’ Vivien knew that, by this term, Claire meant three nudes; she was accustomed to her colleague’s girlish world. The other school is furious.’

  ‘Which school is that?’

  ‘Seymour’s old dealer, Sadleir. The Head says he was spitting at the auction.’

  At this point Cumberland’s wart put in an appearance around the door. There used to be a substance called coffee, Claire, which was considered to be good in emergencies. It had a terrifying effect upon the poor, and caused a revolution in South America.’

  Claire positively bounced towards him. ‘Yes sir! Can do.’ And she vanished from the room, leaving only the faintest odour of face-powder behind.

  ‘She couldn’t be nicer, could she, Vivienne? Not even if she tried.’ Vivien said nothing; she always felt somewhat uneasy when she was alone with Cumberland, and so she began busily to rearrange the letters and invoices upon her desk. It was a peculiarity of her temperament that, although she considered herself to be very much part of the gallery when she was absent from it, she felt something of an interloper – even an outsider – when she was actually there. ‘You look so Edwardian when you’re busy, Vivienne. Quite a charming little study, actually. It’s just so tragic that you’re in the wrong period.’

  Vivien was used to her employer’s manner, and knew that he expected her to respond in kind; it was almost as if he insulted others only to enjoy being insulted in return, ‘Would you like to hang me in the gallery?’ she asked him.

  ‘Oh no, nothing so professional. Just drawn.’

  ‘And quartered?’

  ‘Let’s say halved, just to be on the safe side.’ Their complicity in this macabre scene made them both laugh. ‘Actually, Vivienne, your country needs you. Someone has a problem.’ This was his name for Maitland, and they were both about to walk through to him when Claire returned with the coffee. Cumberland looked down at it in horror. This is so black, Claire, I don’t know whether to drink it or give it a grant.’

  They walked into the gallery, to find Maitland standing against one wall, holding one of the Seymour paintings above his head; he was a short, fat man and his arms reached only a certain way before coming to what seemed an abrupt halt. Vivien did not know how long he had been in that position, b
ut there was a line of sweat across his forehead.

  Cumberland saw this, too. ‘Quite the noble savage. If I were Vivienne, I would already be dizzy with lust.’ Maitland blushed but said nothing and his partner, tiptoeing up to him, moved his arms by an inch or so. ‘Vivienne, dare to be learned, dare to be blue. Is someone in the right position now? He will not necessarily be standing there for ever, you understand. Although I suppose we could put a vase on his head and pretend he was a Maenad. The critics would never know.’

  Vivien looked at the painting, of a nude upon a beach, as Maitland steadily grew more red in the face. He seemed to be panting slightly. ‘It’s too small,’ she said. ‘It’s too small for that part of the wall.’

  ‘Oh, Maitland. She says it’s too small. It’s no good holding it up, if it’s too small,’ Maitland leaned against the wall, dejected.

  ‘I think perhaps two beside each other…’ Vivien went on to say.

  ‘Could someone be too good for this world and hold up two oils together?’ With a sigh Maitland took one painting in each hand, and held them over his head. The strain of doing so made him slightly pop-eyed, an effect which Cumberland was quick to notice. ‘Speak, Vivienne, before someone turns you to stone. He is becoming quite legendary now.’

  She saw how his short arms were trembling beneath the weight. That’s exactly right,’ she said quickly.

  Maitland, the sweat now pouring off his forehead, looked anxiously at his partner for confirmation of this decision. Cumberland considered the matter, gently stroking his wart as he did so. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I think she has done wonderfully.’ It was as if he were valiantly trying to defend Vivien against a generally hostile world.

  Claire clapped her hands. ‘Top marks, head girl. Go to the front of the class.’

  Maitland slid down the wall, carefully putting both paintings onto the light grey carpet before collapsing. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when the telephone rang in Vivien’s office and Claire ran towards it, giggling with excitement at the thought of being the first to reach it. She returned a moment later. ‘It’s for you, Vivie. It’s a man.’ Cumberland closed his eyes for a moment and gave a hollow laugh. ‘He wouldn’t give any name.’