Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

Welcome, welcome! I had been gone too long, the opium-master said.

And so, bowing low, he led me through the kitchen, dark and vaporous, to a truckle-bed set against a greasy, dripping wall in the far room, where, curling myself up, I laid my head on a filthy bolster whilst the master, with many soothing words, plied me speedily with my means of transportation.

In Bluegate-fields I had a dream. And in my dream I lay on a cold mountain, with only the stars above me; but I could not move, for I was held down fast with heavy chains, about my legs and feet, around my chest and arms, and in a great loop around my neck. And I cried out for ease – from the bitter cold and from the pressing, suffocative weight of the chains – but no help came, and no voice returned my call, until at last I seemed to faint away.

A sleep within a sleep. A dream within a dream. I awake – from what? And my heart leaps, for now I stand in sunshine, warm and vivifying, in a secluded courtyard, where water plays and birds sing. ‘Is she here?’ I ask. ‘She is,’ comes the reply. And so I turn and see her, standing by the fountain, and smiling so sweetly that I think my heart will burst. In black mourning no more, but in a comely robe of dazzling white samite, with her dark hair flowing free, she holds out her hand to me: ‘Will you come?’

She leads me through an arched door into a deserted candlelit ballroom; faint echoes of a strange music reach us from some unimaginable distance. She turns to me. ‘Have you met Mr Verdant?’ And then a sudden wind extinguishes all the lights, and I hear water lapping at my feet.

‘I do apologize,’ I hear her saying from somewhere in the darkness. ‘But I have forgotten your name.’ She laughs. ‘A liar needs a good memory.’ And then she is gone, and I am left alone on a drear and lonely shore. I look out to see a heaving black ocean, with a pale-yellow light suffusing the horizon. In the distance, something is bobbing on the waves. I strain my eyes; and then, with a fearful pang, I see what it is.

A blackbird, stiff and dead, its wings outstretched, drifting into eternity.

The carriage-clock that stood on the mantel-piece struck half past five. It was now Sunday morning, and I had spent a second profitless night seeking oblivion in the company of my demons, returning home feeling sick and tired, and falling asleep in my chair in my coat and boots.

When I awoke, the room was cold, and had a strangely desolate air about it, though it was full of familiar things: my mother’s work-table, covered in papers as usual; next to it, the cabinet with its little drawers, overflowing with the notes I had made on the documents and journals she left behind; the curtained-off area at one end containing cameras and other photographic necessaries; the faded Turkey rug; the rows of books, each one a well-remembered old friend; the tripod-table on which I kept my travelling copy of Donne’s sermons; the portrait of my mother, which used to hang over the fireplace in the best parlour at Sandchurch; and, on the mantel-piece, next to the clock, the rosewood box that had once held ‘Miss Lamb’s’ two hundred sovereigns.

I sat staring into the empty hearth, exhausted in body, and troubled in spirit. What was happening to me? I had no happiness, no contentment, only restiveness and agitation. I was adrift on an ocean of mystery, like the blackbird in my dream – powerless, frozen. What dark creatures inhabited the unseen deeps beneath me? What landfall awaited me? Or was this my fate, to be forever pushed and pulled, now this way, now that, by the winds and currents of circumstance, without respite? The goal that I had once had constantly before me – simple and supreme – of proving my claim to be the lawfully begotten son of Lord Tansor, seemed to have become dismembered and dispersed, like a great imperial galleon full of treasure dashed to pieces on a rocky shore.

There was a piece of paper lying on the tripod-table beside me, a stub of pencil with it. Seizing both, I began to compose a hasty memorandum to myself, outlining the problems confronting me that were now demanding resolution.

I read over what I had written, three, four, five times, in mounting despair. These disjoined and yet, it seemed, intertwined and co-essential conundrums swirled and chattered and roared around my head like Satan’s legions, refusing utterly to coagulate into a single reasoned conclusion, until I could stand it no more.

As I stood up to throw off my great-coat, something fell out of the pocket, and landed on the hearth-rug. Looking down, I saw that it was the package containing the proofs of Dr Daunt’s translation of Iamblichus, handed to me by the servant from the George as I was about to take train from Stamford. It was impossible to bend my mind to such work at present, and so I threw the package on my work-table, intending to open it when my mind was clearer.

I dozed for an hour or so. When I awoke, the idea of a chop and some hot coffee suddenly thrust itself forward for my consideration. I examined the proposal and found it excellent in every way. It was still early, but I knew of a place.

I stood up, rather shakily reaching for my great-coat, which was lying on the floor. Whoa there!

And then the floor-boards seemed to fall away beneath me and I was tumbling through the air, spinning round and round, descending ever deeper into a great yawning, roaring void.

I came round to find Mrs Grainger dabbing my face with a wet napkin.

‘Lord, sir,’ she said, ‘I thought you was dead. Can you stand, sir? There now, a little more. I ’ave you, sir, don’t you worry. Dorrie ’ere’ll help. Look sharp, dear. Take Mr Glapthorn’s arm. Gentle does it. That’s it. All’s well now.’

I had never heard her say so many words to me. Sitting back in my chair, with the wet napkin tied round my forehead, I was also surprised to see her daughter standing by her side. Then, to my complete astonishment, I learned that it was Monday morning, and that I had slept the clock round.

After I had recovered a little, I thanked them both, and asked the girl how she was.

‘I am well, thank you, sir.’

‘As you see, Mr Glapthorn,’ said her mother, smiling weakly, ‘she goes on very well. A good girl still, sir.’

Dorrie herself said nothing, but seemed, indeed, in fine fettle, with a bright expression on her face, dressed in a neat little outfit that showed off her figure extremely well, and altogether looking winsome and contented.

I said I was glad to hear, and to see for myself, that Dorrie appeared to be prospering, and felt not a little satisfaction that I had done some good by the simple expedient of employing her mother, and sending a little money to Dorrie every now and again.

‘Prospering?’ exclaimed Mrs Grainger, with a sly look at her daughter. ‘Why, you may say so, sir. Go on, Dorrie, spill it.’

I looked quizzically at the girl, who blushed slightly before speaking.

‘We have come to tell you, sir, that I am to be married, and to thank you for all you have done for us.’

She bobbed sweetly, giving me such a fond and modest look as she did so, that it fair made my heart melt.

‘And who is your husband to be, Dorrie?’ I asked.

‘If you please, sir, his name is Martlemass, Geoffrey Martlemass.’

‘A most excellent name. Mrs Geoffrey Martlemass. So far, so good. And what sort of a man is Mr Martlemass?’

‘A good and kind man, sir,’ she replied, unable to hold back a smile.

‘Better yet. And what does good and kind Mr Geoffrey Martlemass do?’

‘He is a clerk, sir, to Mr Gillory Piggott, of Gray’s-Inn.’

‘A legal gentleman! Mr Martlemass holds a pretty full hand, I see. Well, I congratulate you, Dorrie, on your good fortune in finding good, kind Mr Martlemass. But you must tell him that I shall expect no nonsense from him, and that if he does not love you as you deserve, he shall have me to answer to.’