The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

my dear, on one heel! La! La! Significant form, that’s what she is! And to think the same blood batters in our veins! It’s quite embarrassing.’

‘What do you mean, Alfred? I thought you were praising me.’ (There was a catch in her voice.)

‘And so I was, and so I was! – but tell me sister, what is it, apart from your luminous, un-sheltered eyes – and your general dalliance – what is it that’s altered you – that has, as it were … aha … aha … H’m … I’ve got it – O dear me … quite so, by all that’s pneumatic, how silly of me – you’ve got a bosom, my love, or haven’t you?’

‘Alfred! It is not for you to prove.’

‘God forbid, my love.’

‘But if you must know …’

‘No, no, Irma, no no! I am content to leave everything to your judgement.’

‘So you won’t listen to me …’ (Irma was almost in tears).

‘O but I will. Tell me all.’

‘Alfred dear – you liked the look of me. You said you did.’

‘And I still do. Enormously. It was only that, well, I’ve known you a long time and …’

‘I’m told,’ said Irma, breaking in breathlessly, ‘that busts are … well …’

‘… that busts are what you make them?’ queried her brother standing on his toes.

‘Exactly! Exactly!’ his sister shouted. ‘And I’ve made one, Alfred, and it gives me pride of bearing. It’s a hot water bottle, Alfred; an expensive one.’

There was a long and deathly silence. When at last Prunesquallor had reassembled the fragments of his shattered poise he opened his eyes.

‘When do you expect them, my love?’

‘You know as well as I do. At nine o’clock, Alfred. Shall we call in the Chef.’

‘What for?’

‘For final instructions, of course.’

‘What again?’

‘One can’t be too final, dear.’

‘Irma,’ said the Doctor, ‘perhaps you have stumbled on a truth of the first water. And talking of water – is the fountain playing?’

‘Darling!’ said Irma, fingering her brother’s arm. ‘It’s playing its heart out,’ and she gave him a pinch.

The doctor felt the blushes spreading all over his body, in little rushes like red Indians leaping from ambush, to ambush, now here, now there.

‘And now, Alfred, since it’s nearly nine o’clock, I am going to give you a surprise. You haven’t seen anything yet. This sumptuous dress. Those jewels at my ears, these flashing stones about my white throat –’ (her brother winced) ‘… and the fancy knot-work of my silvery coiff – all this is but a setting, Alfred, a mere setting. Can you bear to wait, Alfred, or shall I tell you? Or still more better – O yes! Yes, still more better, dear, I’ll show you NOW –’

And away she went. The Doctor had no idea she could travel so fast. A swish of ‘nightmare blue’ and she was gone, leaving behind her the faint smell of almond icing.

‘I wonder if I’m getting old?’ thought the doctor, and he put his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. When he opened them she was there again – but O creeping hell! what had she done.

What faced him was not merely the fantastically upholstered and bedizened image of his sister to whose temperament and posturing he had long been immune, but something else, which turned her from a vain, nervous, frustrated, outlandish, excitable and prickly spinster which was bearable enough, into an exhibit. The crude inner workings of her mind were thrust nakedly before him by reason of the long flower-trimmed veil that she now wore over her face. Only her eyes were to be seen, above the thick black netting, very weak, and rather small. She turned them to left and right to show her brother the principle of the thing. Her nose was hidden, and in itself that was excellent, but in no way could it offset the blatancy, the terrible soul-revealing blatancy of the underlying idea.

For the second time that evening Prunesquallor blushed. He had never seen anything so openly, ridiculously, predatory in his life. Heaven knew she would say the wrong thing at the wrong time, but above all she must not be allowed to expose her intention in that palpable way.

But what he said was Aha! H’m. What a flair you have. Irma! What a consummate flair. Who else would have thought of it?’

‘O Alfred, I knew you’d love it …’ she swivelled her eyes again, but her attempt at roguery was heart- breaking.

‘Now what is it I keep thinking of as I stand and admire you,’ her brother trilled, tapping his forehead with his finger – ‘tut … tut … tut, what is it … something I read in one of your journals, I do believe – ah yes, I’ve almost got it – there … it’s slipped away again … how irritating … wait … wait … here it comes like a fish to the bait of my poor old memory … ah, I almost had it … I’ve got it, O yes indeed … but, oh dear me, No … that wouldn’t do at all … I mustn’t tell you that …’

‘What is it, Alfred? … what are you frowning about? How irritating you are just when you were studying me – I said how irritating you are.’

‘You would be most unhappy if I told you, my dear. It affects you deeply.’