Benjamin Wood - The Ecliptic

‘An advertisement.’ I hit the last full stop and lifted out the paper, handing it to her. ‘Leave it to me. We’ll start rehearsals after lunch.’

ADDENDUM TO PREVIOUS

I AM PLEASED TO CONFIRM THAT, SUBSEQUENT TO FURTHER DISCUSSION WITH MACKINNEY, A STAGED READING FROM HER NEW PLAY WILL NOW FOLLOW THIS EVENING’S DINNER. PLEASE ASSEMBLE QUIETLY IN THE LOUNGE. FRESH SALEP WILL BE SERVED.

— PROVOST

Quickman had a very particular way of eating a pomegranate. He would slice an opening into its base with a sharp knife, score its rind into eight simple sections, then wrestle the whole fruit over a bowl, working out every wine-dark seed with his fingers, until all that remained was a limp carcass. The complete procedure took less time than it took the rest of us to peel an orange. And when pomegranate season came round each summer, I would sit and watch him honing this technique every morning, aware that I was gleaning something of the workings of his brain. It occurred to me that he approached conversations the same way: nimbly separating all the vital pips and casting aside the worthless dregs while you were speaking.

He took in the news of MacKinney’s departure with an attitude of calm, leaning on his fists as he read the provost’s notice. The mess hall was nearly full, the rain’s attack upon the windows like the crackle of a phonograph. He did not question the facts of the message, just thanked me for showing it to him. Then he said, ‘She kept that pretty quiet. I had no idea she was so close to finishing.’ I told him that I had known about it for a few days; I was not sure that he believed me. ‘The provost’s quote is a bit puzzling, though,’ he said. ‘Not his usual syrupy fare, is it?’ He gave the note back to me. ‘Still, it accounts for her gruffness lately. All that bud-dying up to the Spaniard. Hah. The whole thing’s starting to make sense.’ He grazed his fingernails across his cheeks. ‘Well, no point feeling sorry for ourselves, I suppose. I’m proud of her. She’s bloody well earned it.’

‘This place without Mac, though,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t seem right.’

‘Best to focus on the positives.’

‘I’m trying. It’s not easy.’

‘Does Tif know yet?’

‘He’s still in his studio.’

‘We ought to wake him up. He won’t want to hear this from someone else. Let me finish eating and we’ll go.’

I decided I should have something in my stomach, too, given my odd vision in Mac’s room. I sat and drank two glasses of whole milk while Q ate the last of his eggs. When I explained my plan to stage a reading, he was surprisingly enthusiastic; I did not even have to tell him about the cigarettes. ‘Count me in,’ he said, ‘provided I can stay in my chair for the duration. Proper acting is beyond me, but I think I can handle reading aloud.’

‘I thought I’d have to bully you into it.’

‘You know I’d give Mac a kidney if I had to. And besides, I’m dying to see what she’s been working on. Are we going to give Tif a part?’

‘I think she had someone quieter in mind.’

‘Shame. He’ll be keen.’

‘That’s sort of the problem.’

‘Oh, let him try at least. Exuberance is no bad thing. It’s Mac’s farewell — he’ll want to be involved.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Come on then. Drink up.’

We borrowed the provost’s umbrella. Quickman and I were of similar height, and although the lime-green canopy covered us evenly, the puddles on the path were almost ankle-deep and our trousers were soon drenched.

Pettifer’s lodging stood some fifty or sixty yards from mine, behind the southernmost face of the mansion, in a clutch of slightly larger studio huts the provost reserved for architects and print-makers. Only two of these studios were presently occupied (Crozier had the other), and Pettifer’s was on the downward slope towards the boundary fence, which made for a slippery descent. The jutting roots of lindens nearly tripped us twice. The waist-high scrub nicked our hands as we brushed through it. By the time we reached Pettifer’s walkway, we were in the foulest mood.

Quickman thudded his fist on the door and it swung back. He called, ‘Tif, you big lump, we’re coming in! We’re soaked!’ and went right inside, collapsing the umbrella and tossing it to the floor. He marched through the studio with the self-assurance of a man in his own household, going straight up to the dresser to fetch me a towel. I took off my shoes, wrung out my socks, rolled up the hems of my trousers. He did the same, then went to put more coke in the stove — it appeared to have been quite recently ignited. There was a very welcome warmth about the studio, in fact: lamps were glowing in every corner, the walls were covered in sketches and charts, and the spread of unwashed clothes about the room was so profuse that I felt completely enveloped.

Pettifer was just a snoring shape under the blankets. He slept on his front, as though strapped to a knife-thrower’s wheel, his arms stretched out, his feet hooked over the mattress. The rise and fall of his breaths was both pacific and unpleasant. Quickman went to bring him round, slapping his toes. ‘Rise and shine. We’ve got some news for you.’

I put my shoes and socks beside the stove.

Pettifer groaned. ‘This better be an emergency. Can’t you see I’m working?’

His drafting table was set up under the window but there was nothing on it. I assumed that he had placed it there so he could take inspiration from the view into the woods. He always said that it was the job of an architect to absorb and reinterpret nature. ‘The truest measure of a building,’ he once told me, ‘is how quietly it recedes into the past. And nothing is quieter than a tree, or a mountain, or a mulberry bush, or — you get the point.’ The adjacent wall was loosely collaged with pencil drawings. All of them depicted a doorway of some kind. There were too many shapes and sizes to count; some were basic, some more ornamented; there was one, drawn deftly on a slip of elephant paper, that looked like a portcullis, and another, rendered in ink, that showed two squat pillars with the structure of pine cones. I rarely called on Pettifer at his lodging because the extent of his productivity always left me feeling insecure. But I could see now that most of the drawings on the wall had been there a very long time. The only project that had developed since my last visit was the model ship he had started building last winter. It was now a fully formed vessel with balsa masts and fabric sails and even a tiny crow’s nest. He kept it dry-docked on the top of his plan chest on a precarious wooden stand, which led me to suspect the drawers below were not in use.

‘You’d work all day if we let you,’ Quickman said.

Pettifer did not open his eyes. He spoke into the pillow: ‘Go away.’

‘MacKinney’s leaving tomorrow.’

‘Piss off, Q. I need my sleep.’

‘Did you hear what I said? Mac is leaving. ’

‘I heard you. Ha bloody ha.’

‘Tell him, Knell.’

The coke was crackling nicely in the stove. I warmed my feet against the grate. ‘He’s not kidding. She’s taking the ferry, first thing.’

Pettifer was quiet. After a moment, he levered himself upright, yawning. ‘If I find out this is a joke, I’ll skin the bloody pair of you.’

I brought over the provost’s notice and he snatched at it, screwing up his face as he read. He lay on his side, still holding the message. ‘Well, isn’t this just a perfect way to start the day.’

‘Be happy for her,’ Quickman said. ‘It’s a huge achievement.’

‘I’m elated.’

‘Clearly.’

‘I’m so elated I’m distraught.’

I went and sat on the bed. ‘Chin up, Tif, you’re not the only one who’s going to miss her. We’re putting on a reading tonight. I was hoping you’d help out.’