The Children's Book

with the army tents, his imaginative ordering of events. Julian said it was always oddly disturbing to find one was living inside works of art, rather than observing them in museums. Seraphita made one of her rare contributions to say dreamily that life would be better if it were all artful. Florence observed that the word “artful” had a curious double entendre. Seraphita cast her look down at her plate, and speared a decorative shrimp, with some difficulty.

When they had eaten, Prosper ordered champagne to be brought. Everyone was given a glass. Prosper rose to his feet.

“At the end of the successful cooperation that made such a success of this camp—the meeting of art, craft, art teaching, practice and criticism—I should like to drink to Geraint Fludd, who had such good ideas, and put them into effect.” They drank. Prosper did not sit down, though Geraint was stirring to reply.

“I am sorry my old friend Benedict Fludd is absent. I should nevertheless like you to drink to the happiness of Imogen, who has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife. I have already asked her father for her hand and I believe we have his approval.”

This announcement caused consternation. The first person to drink was Imogen herself, perhaps to fortify herself. She was white. Seraphita took a large mouthful, and could be heard to be murmuring either “My dear” or “Oh dear…”

Julian raised his glass and said “Of course we all wish you well. Long life and happiness!” he said awkwardly, and then flushed darkly. Imogen nodded at him, looking overwhelmed. Florence stood up.

“As it happens, we have not had time to ask my father, but I also should like to tell you all that I am engaged to be married. I have agreed to marry Geraint. I am telling you myself because I asked him to say nothing. But now, you all need to know, I think. The relationships of the people round this table have suddenly become very confused.”

She gave a sharp little laugh. She went on, staring darkly at her father across the silver and white.

“So Imogen is to become at once my sister and my mother. It is like a Greek myth. Or those things in the Prayer Book you aren’t supposed to do.”

Pomona put down her champagne glass, and broke it. Her fingers were bleeding—not very much, but blood was on the white damask. A waiter came with a silver brush and miniature dustpan and moved round her, clearing the splinters. Geraint said, pacifically and practically, “We are all surprised by suddenness, I should think. But most of you must know that my feeling for Florence is not sudden. You must all have seen that I have loved her for many years, from boy to man. We didn’t mean to say anything yet. I am not in a position to support a wife and household, and I mean to do it well. I cannot tell all of you how happy her consent has made me.” He paused. “Imogen’s engagement is—to me at least—very sudden. But for my part, I know just how many good things Major Cain has brought into her life already. He has already made her happy.” He raised his glass. “I wish them well.” He bowed to Prosper, and to Imogen, with an awkward grace, and sat down again.

Prosper Cain stood and faced his daughter, who had not sat down. Her face was full of energy and her eyes glittered. She had been, since she was born, the creature he loved most in the world, and he was partly angry that he had noticed no change in her, no softening or excitement that might suggest she was in love. He felt full of energy. He was a military man, faced with a difficult situation, out of which he must extricate everyone with no losses. He looked from his daughter to his beloved, who was looking at the tablecloth. He loved Imogen, he wanted Imogen. That was a source of power. He loved Florence, he would find what was best for her, which might or might not be Geraint Fludd, and because he loved her, he would find a way to open a path for her. It came to him, as he stood there, that he must marry Imogen very soon, as Imogen’s position was anomalous. This delighted him. He raised his glass to Florence, and included Geraint in the gesture.

“I wish you both every happiness. We have much to talk of and think about. Now, if you are all in agreement, I think we should do as we planned, and make our way to the Firing. It is possible that my old friend Benedict is already at Purchase House.”

And he more or less swept them all out of the parlour, and into the traps and dog carts that were waiting to take them to Purchase House.

The sun was setting. Over the wide, flat expanse of the Marsh, the sky was red and seething with brightness. There was a red light on the salty grass, and a strange fiery liquid dancing over the slate-dark liquid of the sewers and ponds they passed as they drove. They went past Rye golf course, where the players were silhouetted against the hot ball, black and two-dimensional, waving a club, trundling a buggy. Flocks of plovers wheeled and re-formed, and wheeled again. The few strips of cloud were purple, and violet, and mauve, and shifting in the light. Everything had a metallic sheen, like a lustre glaze. Even the fat sheep had radiant rosy patinas on their creamy fleeces.

The Firing was going, as far as Philip could see, smoothly. He had been steadily baiting the fire, controlling as best he could the amount of smoke and the evenness of the flames. He peered in through various spy-holes at the roaring scarlet holocaust, the odd swirl and spatter of flame, the brilliance, the dull edges. He had willing helpers with the baiting but he had to oversee what was fed into the fireholes. Ware irregularly fired, or fired with impure fuels, could become sulphured, discoloured, gloomy and dulled. Too much oxygen meant sulphur vapour; so did too little. He was keeping back the best wood for the finish. An enthusiastic helper was Tom Wellwood, who had carried many of the crates and boxes which had made up the Dark Tower in the play, and thrust them in at the fireholes. He had also brought his army of puppet-scarecrows—”They can go in at the end, into the fiery furnace” said Tom. Philip checked them for components that would contaminate the flame, or make it burn unevenly. Dorothy was there—it was the weekend, she was not studying—with Griselda and the Germans, who were helping to carry wood. Everyone was remembering the tale of Palissy, thrusting his own furniture into a firehole to complete the trial burning and testing of the new white glaze. The sun went down further, and the sky grew dark. Inside the chimney, light and heat sang and danced.

Frank Mallett was sitting with Arthur Dobbin, drinking a glass of ale and chewing homemade bread and crumbling cheese. A young man in fishermen’s boots and a heavy jacket came and pulled him by the sleeve. Frank listened, shook his head as if to clear it, stood up and looked at the gathering. Seraphita was sitting in a glow of firelight from a bonfire on which potatoes were baking. She looked dazed, which was not unusual. Frank continued to look around, and saw Prosper Cain, who was bending over Imogen Fludd. Frank walked over to them, not too urgently, smiling at parishioners as he passed them.

“Major Cain. May I have a quiet word with you?”

They moved to the edge of the gathering, out of the light.

“I have just had a message from Barker Twomey. He’s one of those line-fishermen, at Dungeness. He caught a boot. Hadn’t been in the water long. He thinks it’s Mr. Fludd’s boot. Barker Twomey thinks someone should look at the boot.”

“What are you suggesting, Mr. Mallett?”

“I have been disturbed by the absence—now the prolonged absence—of Mr. Fludd.”