spent a short lifetime calculating how savage his father’s mood might be. His lip muscles were relaxed. Geraint looked from his father to Prosper Cain. He thought: I do not love my father. I have never loved my father. I wish I had a different father—a man like Cain who protects people, a man like Basil Wellwood who understands that I’m clever and ambitious. Benedict Fludd had loved his daughters in some odd way. But he rarely acknowledged the existence of his son.
“Imogen will be here,” Geraint said. “Imogen will be giving classes in silver-working. You really should make the effort to come to London and see The Silver Nutmeg. We sold two of your Janus vessels. It’s going well.”
Fludd had been making two-faced vessels, benign and calm on one side, possessed by rage, or grief, or pain on the other. They were in dark ruddy earthenware, decorated with black, in the hair and beards. Geraint did not like them, but the cognoscenti appeared to.
“Imogen does not come here. She has left us.”
“She will be here for
Philip said he didn’t mind directing beginners on how to wedge clay and how to centre pots and so on. But what was needed was a talk by Benedict Fludd, about the whole history of working with clay, about Palissy and majolica, porcelain and slipware …
“I might think about it. If the time was right—”
“And people could come—not every day, but once or twice—to see where you work—” said Geraint.
“I don’t want people prying or messing.”
“Imogen and Philip will make sure they do neither.”
Fludd said neither no nor yes to this, which was more than could be hoped for.
The summer drew nearer. Geraint worked with those other organisers, Patty Dace, Frank Mallett, Arthur Dobbin and Marian Oakeshott, who said there should be someone to teach healthy exercises, and there should be drama of some kind. There should be theatre classes. This plan, too, burgeoned. Geraint was despatched to speak to August Steyning, who said that he had a master puppet-maker staying with him, who might be induced—he and his son— into giving classes on puppets and marionettes. And he himself might put on a performance—he had always wanted to make a hybrid work, with marionettes and fallible human actors.
And so it advanced, day by day. The Fabians and the Theosophists, the Anglicans and the craftsmen’s guilds put up notices and offered services of hammer and chisel, teapot and cake, stage and workshop, healthy drill and movement classes. The original campers were rather put out—there was a lack of intimacy, a lack of spontaneity, an absence of the pagan and the sun-worshipping. But Geraint said persuasively it wasn’t
Imogen acquiesced in all these plans on her behalf, but made no suggestions, either for activities, or for organisation. Florence Cain said she had no handicraft talents of any kind, but would stay in a hotel and drop in on the campers from time to time. She didn’t want to be prancing about in gym slips and knickers, either, thank you. Geraint was briefly mortified—he had imagined her playing some unspecified role. He said Imogen would be disappointed. Florence said “I don’t think so. I really don’t.”
A few days before the campers arrived, Prosper Cain went in a cab, one summer evening, to Clerkenwell, to collect Imogen Fludd and her tools. It was a very hot summer. The early evening light, though full of particles and floating debris, was gold in the grey. Prosper stood outside The Silver Nutmeg, and looked in. The tree shone with its perpetual fruit. The shelves were bright with precious metals and subtle glazes. Enamel work and threaded beads hung from ceramic branches on miniature ring-trees at either end of the long table. Between these trees was a pale mass, tawny hair, spread shoulders in a grey, Quakerish shirt. She had got tired of waiting—he was late, the streets were crowded—and had gone to sleep, he thought, looking with pleasure at the abandon of her limbs, usually so inhibited. He had done well, he thought—for the last time, as it turned out—to take her in, this companion for Florence, his motherless daughter.
He went into the shop. The pretty brass bell over the door trilled, and Imogen started. She did not lift her head. Prosper stepped across the room and touched her shoulder. He said he was sorry he was late, and did she need help, getting things together?
She raised her face to him. It was, briefly, the face of a madwoman, staring, puffed up, blotched with crimson stains. Her eyes were wet, and her face was wet, and even the collar of her shirt was damp. She caught her breath, heaving, and tried to say she was sorry.
“My dear—” said Prosper. He took two steps backwards, drew up the only other chair in the room, and sat down beside her. What was the matter? What had so distressed her?
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t…”
She wept. Prosper offered his own perfectly folded handkerchief. “What can you not do?” he asked.
“I can’t go there. I can’t go back there.” She paused and sobbed, and was more explicit.
“I can’t sleep in that house. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
Prosper Cain did not ask why she could not. He drew back from the answer, which he thought it was better for her not to give. He said
“Then you must not. We will make other arrangements.”
Imogen murmured desperate liquid things about Geraint—and betraying Pomona—and dirt, dirt on the carpets, dirt in the kitchen. She began to wave her hands, agitatedly, and Major Cain caught them, and held them down, wet and hot, in his own.
“It must be possible for you to join the other young women, in the encampment? Or to remain with Florence and me in a comfortable hotel?”
“You don’t know—”
“I don’t need to know. You are part of my family. I care for you. I shall take care of you.”
“There is no reason. No need, not—not—not really.”
