The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

At the far end of the bath one of his feet emerged from the depths. He watched it quizzically with his head cocked so far upon one side that his left ear filled with water. ‘Sweet foot,’ he cried. ‘Five toes to boot and what-not in the beetroot shoot!’ He raised himself and shook the hot water gaily from his ear and began swishing the water on either side of his body.

The eyes closed and the mouth opened and all the teeth were there shining through the steam. Taking a great breath, or rather, a deep breath, for his chest was too narrow for a great one, and with a smile of dreadful bliss irradiating his pink face, the Doctor emitted a whinny of so piercing a quality, that Irma, seated at her boudoir table, shot to her feet, scattering hairpins across the carpet. She had been at her toilet for the last three hours, excluding the preliminary hour and a half spent in her bath – and now, as she swished her way to the bedroom door, a frown disturbing the powder on her brow, she had, in common with her brother, more the appearance of having been plucked or peeled, than of cleanliness, though clean she was, scrupulously clean, in the sense of a rasher of bacon.

‘What on earth is the matter with you; I said, what on earth is the matter with you, Bernard?’ she shouted through the bathroom keyhole.

‘Is that you my love? Is that you?’ her brother’s voice came thinly from behind the door.

‘Who else would it be: I said, who else would it be,’ she yelled back, bending herself into a stiff satin right angle in order to get her mouth to the keyhole.

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,’ came her brother’s shrill, unbearable laughter. ‘Who else indeed? Well, well, let us think, let us think. It might be the moon goddess, but that’s improbable, ha, ha ha; or it might be a sword swallower approaching me in my professional capacity, ha, ha, that is less improbable – in fact, my dear taproot, have you by any chance been swallowing swords for years on end without ever telling me, ha, ha? Or haven’t you?’ His voice rose: ‘Years on end, and swords on end – where will it end, if our ears unbend – what shall I spend on a wrinkled friend in a pair of tights like a bunch of lights?’

Irma who had been straining her ears cried out at last in her irritation: ‘I suppose you know you’ll be late – I said: “I suppose you –”’

‘A merry plague upon you, O blood of my blood,’ the shrill voice broke in. ‘What is Time, O sister of similar features, that you speak of it so subserviently? Are we to be the slaves of the sun, that second-hand, overrated knob of gilt, or of his sister, that fatuous circle of silver paper? A curse upon their ridiculous dictatorship! What say you, Irma, my Irma, wrapped in rumour, Irma, of the incandescent tumour?’ he trilled happily. And his sister rose rustling to her full height, arching her nostrils as she did so, as though they itched with pedigree. Her brother annoyed her, and as she seated herself again before the mirror in her boudoir she made noises like a lady as she applied the powder-puff for the hundredth time to her spotless length of neck.

‘Sourdust will be there, too,’ said Mrs Slagg, ‘because he knows all about things. He knows what order you do things in, precious, and when you must start doing them, and when you ought to stop.’

‘Is that everyone?’ asked Fuchsia.

‘Don’t hurry me,’ replied the old nurse, pursing her lips into a prune of wrinkles. ‘Can’t you wait a minute? Yes, that makes five, and you make six, and his little Lordship makes seven …

‘And you make eight,’ said Fuchsia. ‘So you make the most.’

‘Make the most what, my caution?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fuchsia.

While, in various parts of the Castle, these eight persons were getting ready for the Gathering the twins were sitting bolt upright on the couch watching Steerpike drawing the cork out of a slim, dusty bottle. He held it securely between his feet and bending over with the corkscrew firmly embedded was easing the cork from the long black cormorant throat.

Having unwound the corkscrew and placed the undamaged cork on the mantelpiece, he emptied a little of the wine into a glass and tasted it with a critical expression on his pale face.

The aunts leaned forward, their hands on their knees, watching every movement.

Steerpike took one of the Doctor’s silk handkerchiefs from his pocket and wiped his mouth. Then he held the wineglass up to the light for a long time and studied its translucence.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Clarice slowly.

‘Is it poisoned?’ said Cora.

‘Who poisoned it?’ echoed Clarice.

‘Gertrude,’ said Cora. ‘She’d kill us if she could.’

‘But she can’t,’ said Clarice.

‘And that’s why we’re going to be powerful.’

‘And proud,’ added Clarice.

‘Yes, because of today.’

‘Because of today.’

They joined their hands.

‘It is a good vintage, your Ladyship. A very adequate vintage. I selected it myself. You will, I know, appreciate it fully. It is not poisoned, my dear women. Gertrude, though she has poisoned your lives, has not, as it so happens, poisoned this particular bottle of wine. May I pour you out a glassful each, and we will drink a toast to the business of the day?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Cora. ‘Do it now.’

Steerpike filled their glasses.

‘Stand up,’ he said.