Hawksmoor (35 page)

He descended at Fenchurch Street, expecting to glimpse the spire of the church somewhere above him, but here were only the burnished towers of office-blocks which gleamed in the winter light. A seller of hot chestnuts stood on the corner of Gracechurch Street, and for a moment Hawksmoor watched the coals of his brazier as they brightened and then dimmed with the passage of the wind down the crowded thoroughfares; he went up to him saying, 'Little St Hugh?' and the man, not pausing in his cries, pointed up Lime Street. And his refrain of Hot chestnuts! Hot chestnuts! was taken up by another calling Woe! Woe! and then by a third who cried out Paper! Paper! These were the calls he had known all his life and Hawksmoor grew melancholy as he walked up Lime Street into St Mary Axe. He passed a record shop from which came the loud sounds of a popular song, and when he glanced inside he saw a young man at the counter beating time with his finger. But as he watched him he missed his footing on the pavement, and jumped back as a car swerved to avoid him. 'What time is it?' he asked an old woman who walked beside him, but she stared through him as if he had become invisible. He continued down Bishopsgate, carried by the movement of the crowd, and asked a stall-holder for the direction of the church: 'Follow the wall,' the man said and turned slowly to point down Wormwood Street, 'Follow the wall'. And as he came close to London Wall he sensed a smell like that of mown grass or cut flowers, so unusual a scent for the middle of winter that it must have sprung from the moss sprinkled upon the old stones. And from London Wall he passed into Moorfields where in the middle of the road a mad woman cried out, her words lost in the roar of the traffic. And as the pavement shook beneath his feet he hurried down Long Alley: some children in blue caps and blazers passed him laughing, and their motion turned him round so that now he saw ahead of him Black Step Lane. So still did he stand that a young man in a fur cap passed him and then looked back in astonishment, as Hawksmoor now walked towards Little St Hugh.

It stood at the back of a deserted square; weeds and long grass had sprung up between the cobblestones inside this square, and the flagstones against the walls of the church were cracked and pitted.

When he looked up at the front of Little St Hugh he saw how its large stones were eroded also, and one area had a blackened surface as if the darkness had been painted upon it. There was a circular window above the porch, like an eye, and the reflection of the weak sun glittered upon it as Hawksmoor walked forward. He mounted the steps slowly and then paused in the shadow of a stone effigy which crouched above him. He could hear no noise coming from within. He noticed a rusted metal chain which hung from some old brick; he looked up suddenly and saw a cloud which for a moment possessed the features of a human face. Then he opened the door and crossed the threshold. He paused again within the porch so that his eyes might become accustomed to the gloom and there, above the wooden doors which led to the nave of the church, had been placed the painting of a young boy lying inside a pit; it was covered with dust' but he could just make out the inscription beneath it, 'I Have Endured All These Troubles For Thy Sake'. There was a smell of dampness, and Hawksmoor bowed his head before entering the body of the church.

Which seemed to spring to life around him, for the creaking of the doors and the sound of his footsteps upon the stone echoed through the interior. He was in a great square room; above him a plaster ceiling, curved like a shallow dish and lit by circular windows of plain glass; as he stood in the nave, he was surrounded on three sides by galleries which were supported by thick columns of old stone; the altar was covered with a canopy of dark wood, and the rails in front of it were made of iron. Hawksmoor looked for relief from the darkness of wood, stone and metal but he could find none; and the silence of the church had once again descended as he sat down upon a small chair and covered his face. And he allowed it to grow dark.

And his own Image was sitting beside him, pondering deeply and sighing, and when he put out his hand and touched him he shuddered.

But do not say that he touched him, say that they touched him.

And when they looked at the space between them, they wept. The church trembled as the sun rose and fell, and the half-light was strewn across the floor like rushes. They were face to face, and yet they looked past one another at the pattern which they cast upon the stone; for when there was a shape there was a reflection, and when there was a light there was a shadow, and when there was a sound there was an echo, and who could say where one had ended and the other had begun? And when they spoke they spoke with one voice: and I must have slept, for all these figures greeted me as if they were in a dream. The light behind them effaced their features and I could see only the way they turned their heads, both to left and to right. The dust covered their feet and I could see only the direction of their dance, both backwards and forwards. And when I went among them, they touched fingers and formed a circle around me; and, as we came closer, all the while we moved further apart. Their words were my own but not my own, and I found myself on a winding path of smooth stones. And when I looked back, they were watching one another silently.

And then in my dream I looked down at myself and saw in what rags I stood; and I am a child again, begging on the threshold of eternity.

Any relation to real people, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental. I have employed many sources in the preparation of Hawksmoor, but this version of history is my own invention. I would like to express my obligation to Iain Sinclair's poem, Lud Heat, which first directed my attention to the stranger characteristics of the London churches.

Peter Ackroyd was born in London in 1949 and was educated at Cambridge and Yale universities. He was literary editor of the Spectator for several years and chief book reviewer for The Times. He has published several volumes of poetry, including The Diversions of Purley. He is the author of The Great Fire of London; The Last Testament of Oscar Wilde (Somerset Maugham Prize, 1984); Hawksmoor (Whitbread Award and Guardian Fiction Prize, 1985); Chatterton; First Light; English Music; The House of Dr Dee; Dan Lena and the Limehouse Golem; and Milton in America.

His highly acclaimed biographies include T. S. Eliot: A Life (Whitbread and Heinemann Awards, 1984), Dickens, William Blake and London: The Biography. Many of his books are published by Penguin.

Document ID: fbd-01ddfe-66ea-ad4a-9090-fe60-1651-a981c5

Document version: 1

Document creation date: 19.10.2008

Created using: Fiction Book Designer software

This book was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.0.35.0.

Эта книга создана при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.0.35.0 написанного Lord KiRon