Christopher Priest: The Space Machine

In the centre of the little town I passed the church as the congregation was leaving, walking out into the sunlight, the gentlemen calm and formal in their suits, the ladies gay in bright clothes and carrying sunshades. I walked on until I reached Richmond Bridge, and here I stepped out over the Thames, looking down at the boats plying between the wooded banks.

It was all such a contrast from the bustle and smells of London; much as I liked to live in the metropolis, the ever present press of people, the racket of the traffic and the dampening grey of the industrial pall that drifted over the rooftops all made for an unconscionable pressure on one’s mind. It was reassuring to find a place like this, such a short journey from the centre of London, that enjoyed an elegance that too often I found easy to forget still existed.

I continued my stroll along one of the riverside walks, then turned round and headed back into the town. Here I found a restaurant open, and ordered myself a substantial lunch. With this finished, I returned to the station, having previously forgotten to find out the times of the trains returning to London in the evening.

At last it was time to set out for Richmond Hill, and I walked back through the town, following The Quadrant until I came to the junction with the road which led down to Richmond Bridge. Here I followed a smaller road which forked to the left, climbing the Hill. All along my left-hand side there were buildings; at first, near the bottom of the Hill, the houses were terraced, with one or two shops. At the end of the terrace there was a public house—The Queen Victoria, as I recall—and beyond this the style and class of house changed noticeably.

Several were set a long way back from the road, almost invisible behind the thickly growing trees. To my right there was parkland and more trees, and as I climbed higher I saw the sweeping curve of the Thames through the meadows by Twickenham. It was a most beautiful and peaceful place.

At the top of the Hill the road became a pitted cart-track, leading through Richmond Gate into the Park itself, and the pavement ceased to exist altogether. At this point there was a narrower track, leading more directly up the slope of the Hill, and I walked this way. Shortly along this track I saw a gateway with Reynolds House carved into the sandstone posts, and I knew I had come to the right place.

The driveway was short, but described a sharp S, so that the house was not visible from the gate. I followed the drive, remarking to myself on the way in which the trees and shrubbery had been allowed to grow unhindered. In several places the growths were so wild that the drive was barely wide enough to allow passage of a carriage.

In a moment the house came into sight, and I was at once impressed by its size. The main part of the house seemed, to my untrained eye, to be about one hundred years old, but two large and more modern wings had been added at each end, and a part of the courtyard so produced had been roofed over with a wooden-framed glass structure, rather like a greenhouse.

In the immediate vicinity of the house the shrubbery had been cut back, and a well-kept lawn lay to one side of the house, stretching round to the far side.

I saw that the main entrance was partially concealed behind a part of the glasshouse—at first glance I had not noticed it—and walked in that direction. There seemed to be no one about; the house and grounds were silent, and there was no movement at any of the windows.

As I walked past the windows of the conservatory-like extension, there was a sudden scream of metal upon metal, accompanied by a blaze of yellow light. For an instant I saw the shape of a man, hunched forward, and silhouetted by a blaze of sparks. Then the grinding ceased, and again all became dim within.

I pressed the electrical bell-push by the door, and after a few moments the door was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman in a black dress and white apron. I removed my hat.

“I should like to see Miss Fitzgibbon,” I said, as I stepped into the hall. “I believe I am expected.”

“Do you have a card, sir?”

I was about to produce my regular business-card, supplied by Mr Westerman, but then recalled that this was more of a personal visit. “No, but if you would say it is Mr Edward Turnbull.”

“Will you wait?”

She showed me into a reception-room, and closed the doors behind me.

I must have walked a little too energetically up the Hill, for I found that I was hot and flushed, and my face was damp with perspiration. I mopped my face with my kerchief as quickly as possible, then, to calm myself, I glanced around the room, hoping that an appraisal of its furniture would gain me an insight into Sir William’s tastes. In fact, the room was ill furnished to the point of bareness. A small octagonal table stood before the fireplace, and beside it were two faded easy chairs, but these, apart from the curtains and a threadbare carpet, were all that were there.

Presently, the servant returned.

“Would you please come this way, Mr Turnbull?” she said. “You may leave your case here in the hallway.”

I followed her along a corridor, then turned to the left and came into a comfortable drawing-room, which opened onto the garden by way of a french window. The servant indicated that I should pass through, and as I did so I saw Amelia sitting at a white, wrought-iron table placed beneath two apple trees on the lawn.

“Mr Turnbull, ma’am,” said the woman, and Amelia set aside the book she had been reading.

“Edward,” she said. “You’re earlier than I expected. That’s wonderful it’s such a lovely day for a ride!”

I sat down on the opposite side of the little table I was aware that the servant was still standing by the french window.

“Mrs Watchets, will you bring us some lemonade?” Amelia said to her, then turned to me. “’You must be thirsty from your walk up the Hill. We’ll have just one glass each, then set off at once.”

It was delightful to be with her again, and such a pleasant surprise that she was as lovely as I had remembered her. She was wearing a most pleasing combination of white blouse and dark blue silk skirt, and on her head she had a flowered raffia bonnet. Her long auburn hair, finely brushed and held behind her ears with a clip, fell neatly down her back. She was sitting so that the sunlight fell across her face, and as the branches of the apple trees moved in the gentle breeze, their shadows seemed to stroke the skin of her face. Her profile was presented to me: she was beautiful in many ways, not least that her fine features were exquisitely framed by the style of hair. I admired the graceful way she sat, the delicacy of her fair skin, the candour of her eyes.

“I haven’t brought a bicycle with me,” I said. “I wasn’t—”

“We have plenty here, and you may use one of those. I’m delighted you could come today, Edward. There are so many things I have to tell you.”

“I’m terribly sorry if I got you into trouble,” I said, wanting to get off my chest the one matter that had been preoccupying me. “Mrs Anson was in no doubt as to my presence in your room.”

“I understand you were shown the door.”

“Directly after breakfast,” I said. “I didn’t see Mrs Anson…

At that moment Mrs Watchets reappeared, bearing a tray with a glass jug and two tumblers, and I allowed my sentence to go unfinished. While Mrs Watchets poured out the drinks, Amelia pointed out to me a rare South American shrub growing in the garden (Sir William had brought it back with him from one of his overseas journeys), and I expressed the greatest interest in it.

When we were once more alone, Amelia said: “Let us talk of those matters while we are riding. I’m sure Mrs Watchets would be as scandalized as Mrs Anson to hear of our nocturnal liaisons.”