The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

When he had reached the rust-coloured rug he sat quite still a few feet from Mrs Slagg and scrutinized the old lady’s shoe, his elbow on his knee and his chin sunk in his hand, an attitude startlingly adult and inappropriate in a child of less than eighteen months.

‘Oh, my poor heart! how he does look,’ came Mrs Slagg’s thin voice. ‘As though I haven’t loved him and toiled to make him joyous. Worn myself out to the marrow for his little Lordship, I have, day after day, night after night, with this after this and that after that piling ag’ny on ag’ny until you’d think he would be glad of love; but he just goes on as though he’s wiser than his old Nannie, who knows all about the vacancies of babies,’ (‘vagaries’, she must have meant), ‘and all I get is naughtiness from his sister – oh, my weak heart, naughtiness and spleen.’

Fuchsia raised herself on her elbow and gazed at the brooding conifers on the far side of the lake. Her eyes were not red from crying: she had cried so much lately that she had drained herself of salt for a little. They had the look of eyes in which hosts of tears had been fought back and had triumphed.

‘What did you say?’

‘That’s it! that’s it!’ Mrs Slagg became petulant. ‘Never listens. Too wise now to listen, I suppose, to an old woman who hasn’t long to live.’

I didn’t hear you,’ said Fuchsia.

‘You never try,’ replied Nannie. ‘That’s what it is – you never try. I might as well not be here.’

Fuchsia had grown tired of the old nurse’s querulous and tearful admonishments. She shifted her gaze from the pines to her brother, who had begun to struggle with the buckle of one of her shoes, ‘Well, there’s a lovely breeze, anyway,’ she said.

The old nurse, who had forgotten she was in the middle of chastening Fuchsia, jerked her wizened face toward the girl in a startled way. ‘What, my caution dear?’ she said. And then remembering that her ‘caution’ had been in her disfavour for some reason which she had forgotten, she pursed her face up with a ridiculous and puny haughtiness, as much as to say: ‘I may have called you “my caution dear”, but that doesn’t mean that we’re on speaking terms.’

Fuchsia gazed at her in a sullen sadness. ‘I said there’s a lovely breeze,’ she repeated.

Mrs Slagg could never keep up her sham dignity for long, and she smacked out at Fuchsia, as a final gesture, and misjudging the distance, her blow fell short and she toppled over on her side. Fuchsia, leaning across the rug, re-established the midget as though she were setting an ornament and left her arm purposely within range, for she knew her old nurse. Sure enough, once Nannie Slagg had recovered and had smoothed out her skirt in front of her and reset her hat with the glass-grapes, she delivered a weak blow at Fuchsia’s arm.

‘What did you say about the breezes, dear? Nothing worth hearing, I expect, as usual.’

‘I said they were lovely,’ said Fuchsia.

‘Yes, they are,’ said Nannie, after reflection. ‘Yes, they are, my only – but they don’t make me any younger. They just go round the edge of me and make my skin feel nicer.’

‘Well, that’s better than nothing, I suppose,’ said Fuchsia.

‘But it’s not enough, you argumentary thing. It’s not enough when there’s so much to do. What with your big mother being so cross with me as though I could help your poor father’s disappearance and all the trouble of the food in the kitchen; as though I could help.’

At the mention of her father Fuchsia closed her eyes.

She had herself searched – searched. She had grown far older during the last few weeks – older in that her heart had been taxed by greater strains of passion than it had ever felt before. Fear of the unearthly, the ghastly – for she had been face to face with it – the fear of madness and of a violence she suspected. It had made her older, stiller, more apprehensive. She had known pain – the pain of desolation – of having been forsaken and of losing what little love there was. She had begun to fight back within herself and had stiffened, and she began to be conscious of a vague pride; of an awakening realization of her heritage. Her father in disappearing had completed a link in the immemorial chain. She grieved his loss, her breast heavy and aching with the pain of it; but beyond it and at her back she felt for the first time, the mountain-range of the Groans, and that she was no longer free, no longer just Fuchsia, but of the blood. All this was cloud in her. Ominous, magnificent and indeterminate. Something she did not understand. Something which she recoiled from – so incomprehensible in her were its workings. Suddenly she had ceased to be a girl in all save in habits of speech and action. Her mind and heart were older and all things, once so clear, were filled with mist – all was tangled. Nannie repeated again, her dim eyes gazing over the lake: ‘As though I could help all the troubles and the badnesses of people here and there doing what they shouldn’t. Oh, my weak heart! as though it were all my fault.’

‘No one says it’s your fault,’ said Fuchsia. ‘You think people are thinking what they don’t. It hasn’t been anything to do with you.’

‘It hasn’t, has it – oh, my caution dear, it hasn’t, has it?’ Then her eyes became focused again (as far as they were able). ‘What hasn’t, darling?’

‘Never mind,’ said Fuchsia. ‘Look at Titus.’

Nannie turned her head, disapproving of Fuchsia’s answer as she did so, and saw the little creature in his yellow shift rise to his feet and walk solemnly away, from the great rust-coloured rug and over the hot drab sand, his hands clasped before him.

‘Don’t you go and leave us, too!’ cried Nannie Slagg. ‘We can do without that horrid, fat Mr Swelter, but we can’t do without our little Lordship. We can do without Mr Flay and –’

Fuchsia rose to her knees, ‘we can’t! we can’t! Don’t talk like that – so horribly. Don’t talk of it – you never must. Dear Flay and – but you don’t understand; it’s no good. Oh, what has happened to them?’ She sank back on her heels, her lower lip quivering, knowing that she must not let the old nurse’s thoughtless remarks touch on her open wounds.

As Mrs Slagg stared open-eyed, both she and Fuchsia were startled by a voice, and turning they saw two tall figures approaching them through the trees – a man – and, could it be? – yes, it was – a woman. It had a parasol. Not that there would have been anything masculine about this second figure, even were it to have left the parasol