The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

Perch-Prism’s pug-baby features expressed a certain condescension, as though he understood how Mr Fluke felt, but was nevertheless surprised and mildly irritated by the coarseness in his colleague’s make-up.

It was Perch-Prism’s saving grace that in spite of his old-maidishness, his clipped and irritatingly academic delivery and his general aura of omniscience, yet he had a strongly developed sense of the ridiculous and was often forced to laugh when his brain and pride wished otherwise.

‘And the Headmaster,’ he said, turning to the noble figure at his side, whose jaw still hung open like the mouth of a sepulchre, ‘what does he think, I wonder? What does our Headmaster think about it all?’

Bellgrove came to with a start. He looked about him with the melancholy grandeur of a sick lion. Then he found his mouth was open, so he closed it gradually, for he would not have them think that he would hurry himself for anyone.

He turned his vacant lion’s eye to Perch-Prism, who stood there perkily looking up at him and tapping his shiny invitation card against his polished thumbnail.

‘My dear Perch-Prism,’ said Bellgrove, ‘why on earth should you be interested in my reaction to what is, after all, not a very extraordinary thing in my life? It is possible, you know,’ he continued laboriously, ‘it is just possible that when I was a younger man I received more invitations to various kinds of functions than you have ever received, or can ever hope to receive, during the course of your life.’

‘But exactly!’ said Perch-Prism. ‘And that is why we want his opinion. That is why our Headmaster alone can help us. What could be more enlightening than to have it straight from the horse’s mouth?’

For neatness’ sake he could not help wishing that he were addressing Opus Fluke, for Bellgrove’s mouth, though hardly hyper-human, was nothing like a horse’s.

‘Prism,’ he said, ‘compared with me you are a young man. But you are not so young as to be ignorant of the elements of decent conduct. Be good enough in your puff-adder attitude to life to find room for one delicacy at least; and that is to address me, if you must, in a manner less calculated to offend. I will not be talked across. My staff must realize this from the outset. I will not be the third person singular. I am old, I admit it. But I am nevertheless here. Here,’ he roared; ‘and standing on the selfsame pavement with you, Master ’Prism; and I exist, by hell! in my full conversational and vocative rights.’

He coughed and shook his leonine head. ‘Change your idiom, my young friend, or change your tense, and lend me a handkerchief to put over my head – these sunbeams are giving me a headache.’ Perch-Prism produced a blue silk handkerchief at once and draped it over the peeved and noble head.

‘Poor old “prickles” Bellgrove, poor old fangs,’ he mused, whispering the words into the old man’s ears as he tied the corners of the blue handkerchief into little knots, where it hung over the elder’s head. ‘It’ll be just the thing for him, so it will – a wild party at the Doctor’s, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’

Bellgrove opened his rather weak mouth and grinned. He could never keep his sham dignity up for long; but then he remembered his position again and in a voice of sepulchral authority –

‘Watch your step, sir,’ he said. ‘You have twisted my tail for long enough.’

‘What a peculiar business this Prunesquallor affair is, my dear Flannelcat,’ said Mr Crust. ‘I rather doubt whether I can afford to go. I wonder whether you could possibly – er – lend me …’

But Flannelcat interrupted. ‘They’ve asked me, too,’ he said, his invitation card shaking in his hand. ‘It is a long time since …’

‘It is a long time since our evenings were disturbed from the Outside like this,’ interrupted Perch-Prism. ‘You gentlemen will have to brush yourselves up a bit. How long is it since you have seen a lady, Mr Fluke?’

‘Not half long enough,’ said Opus Fluke, drawing noisily at his pipe. ‘Never care for hens. Irritated me. May be wrong – quite possible – that’s another point. But for me – no. Spoilt the day completely.’

‘But you will accept, of course, won’t you, my dear fellow?’ said Perch-Prism, inclining his shiny round head to one side.

Opus Fluke yawned and then stretched himself before he replied.

‘When is it, friend?’ he asked (as though it made any difference to him when his every evening was an identical yawn).

‘Next Friday evening, at seven o’clock – R.S.V.P. it is,’ panted Flannelcat.

‘If dear old bloody Bellgrove goes,’ said Mr Fluke, after a long pause, ‘I couldn’t stay away – not if I was paid. It’ll be as good as a play to watch him.’

Bellgrove bared his irregular teeth in a leonine snarl and then he took out a small notebook, with his eyes on Mr Fluke, made a note. Approaching his taunter, ‘Red Ink,’ he whispered, and then began to laugh uncontrollably. Mr Fluke was stupefied.

‘Well … well … well …’ he said at last.

‘It is far from “well”, Mr Fluke,’ said Bellgrove, recovering his composure; ‘and it will not be well until you learn to speak to your Headmaster like a gentleman.’

Said Shrivell to Shred: ‘As for Irma Prunesquallor, it’s a plain case of mirror-madness, brought on by enlargement of the terror-duct – but not altogether.’

Said Shred to Shrivell: ‘I disagree. It is the Doctor’s shadow cast upon the shorn and naked soul of his sister, which shadow she takes to be destiny – and here I agree with you that the terror-duct comes into play, for the length of her neck and the general frustration have driven her subconscious into a general craving for males – a substitute, of course, for gollywogs.’

Said Shrivell to Shred: ‘Perhaps we are both right in our different ways.’ He beamed at his friend. ‘Let us leave it at that, shall we? We will know more when we see her.’

‘Oh, shut up! you bloody old woman,’ said Mulefire, with a deadly scowl.