What I Tell You In the Dark (14 page)

I'm about to put a quick
maybe next time
end to this when she pipes up with a stoically cheerful, ‘Of course, that would be lovely.' And then, warming to it, ‘An impromptu guest – what fun!'

‘Great – I'll head over now, then. How do I …?'

‘Oh just tell your taxi driver it's the first left after the Hollyside farm shop in Grouville. The name of the house is
La Fin de Chasse
.'

‘Lovely. Thanks very much.'

‘I'm afraid it will just be a simple tea,' she tells me before hanging up.

Her mention of tea makes me realise how thirsty and hungry I am. As I'm walking, looking out for someone who can give me directions, I feel the hunger gently shifting in my gut, a creature quietly dreaming in there.

A man sweeping leaves in his driveway for a fire I can smell but cannot see tells me that the Hollyside farm shop is just up
the way, on the corner with the main road. With the sweet acridity of burning leaves still clinging to my hair and clothes, I continue walking, realising that I may in fact be on the right road already. I start looking at the names of the houses. There are long intervals between them, with hard rutted fields and sparse hedgerow filling the gaps. At one point the road narrows to a lane and I am forced to climb up on to the bank so that a tractor is able to pass. The driver looks at me, in my suit, ankle deep in grass and nettles, without thanks or curiosity.

Sure enough, I eventually come to a wooden sign that says
La Fin de Chasse
. It announces the beginning of a muddy driveway lined with mature chestnut trees, many of which have been pollarded down to little more than hefty stumps. In a dip, about two hundred metres away, I can see the roof and upper storey of a house. A thick ribbon of smoke is rising up from the chimney, suggesting a fresh load of coal has just been tipped on the fire. As I get closer, I can smell that it has. All this burning in the countryside – man's proof that he is here, making known his Promethean arts.

The door is answered by a lady whose face and attire perfectly match the voice I heard on the phone.

‘Oh dear,' she says, looking first at my nose and then down at my shoes – following her eyes, I see they are covered in mud. ‘You ought to have told the driver to come right to the door.'

She insists on taking them from me so she can clean them up. She tells me to wait where I am, that she'll be back in a second with some slippers for me. As I am standing there in my stockinged feet, a figure emerges from the dimness at the end of the hallway.

‘Is that Will?' He has a gentle, mellifluous way of speaking, as if he's reciting a poem to himself.

It is a dark, long corridor of closed doors, so it's only as he gets near to me that I am able to see him properly. His eyebrows
and hair are a pure white, and his long limbs seem frail as twigs. But there's a brightness to him, in his step, in his eyes particularly. He grips me by both shoulders and holds me out before him, frowning, as if at a possession he can't quite place.

‘Will,' he says, ‘how the devil are you?'

‘I'm well, thanks,' although it must be patently obvious that I am anything but – my own body seems only marginally sturdier than his.

Before either of us can say more, Mrs Lemprière returns with the slippers.

‘Rosie is bossing you around already, I see.' He says this to her, rather than to me, but with great affection in his voice. And her face, when she smiles back at him, is transformed into an expression of almost girlish adoration. I see now that she is a good many years younger than him.

‘You get back to the fire,' she says. ‘I'll bring you some tea in a while.'

‘Molly-coddled is what I've become, Will,' he sighs happily as I follow him back down the hallway into the gloom.

He leads me into a study lit by a couple of lamps and the light from an open fire. It is nearing dusk and the curtains are not yet drawn. A desk next to the window overlooks a wide lawn that sweeps down to yet more chestnut trees. Black pools of shadow are beginning to form at the foot of the trees. My own reflection is cast faintly on the glass of the window as I look out, a suited figure, ghosted and indistinct as a daguerreotype, but not out of place here in this room among the musty books and the pictures, many and lopsided, with their peeling gilt frames. The mantel clock ticks softly behind the hisses and cracks of the fire, not officiously like that smashed watch, but with a fuller, more melodic tone. There is wisdom in its faded ivory face, as if it knows some larger secret about the hours it sees passing.

‘Have a seat.' The chair he is pointing to is one of two angled towards the fire. The material on its arms and back has been worn to a lighter colour by the many others who have rested there.

For a few seconds we both seem content to look into the fire and forget the other is there. The bright caverns between the fused lumps of coal burrow off into a world where no living thing can follow. Resting above them is a log, blackened and just on the edge of being consumed. Licks of flame are up the back and round the side of it. Just a moment ago, as I stood by the window, it was hissing, making a kind
feeesh
sound as the last of it moisture was forced out into the open; now it has accepted its fate and lies still, in charred resignation. The silent glory of no return.

‘So to what do I owe this pleasure, Will?' It's not a challenging question. He says it with a look of wry curiosity, as if this is perhaps not the first time Will has turned up announced at house. His eyes, though, are not to be fooled. They notice everything.

‘I had a few hours to kill after a meeting, and …' I decide to venture a little more guesswork ‘… I was sorry to have missed your retirement party. I wanted to catch up.'

‘Yes, yes of course.' He returns his gaze to the fire. Still watching the flames, he asks, ‘So what business brings you to Jersey? The last I heard from you, you were off on your travels.'

‘I work for a firm in London now – public relations, that sort of thing. We have a client here. It's not very interesting.'

‘So why, I wonder,' and now he does turn to look at me, ‘would you be doing it?

I shrug. ‘Good question.'

‘Simple question,' he corrects me.

‘The good ones always are.'

I smile at him, wishing we could go back to our comfortable silence staring. But he's not going to be fobbed off.

‘How are you, Will?'

A
how are you?
at this stage in a conversation is not a nicety, it is intended very much as this one was said, to find what is wrong.

There's something about him that makes me want to tell the truth, so I do.

‘I've been through a pretty hard time recently, but I'm on the mend. Better than that, actually. I'm moving towards some kind of understanding, I think.'

‘An understanding? Oh dear,' he says, reaching across and patting my arm with his liver-spotted hand. ‘Oh dear me. It's worse than I thought.'

Behind us, the door opens and the tinkling of crockery announces the entrance of his wife. She places the tea tray on the small table between us. There is a plate piled high with fruit scones, a bowl of strawberry jam, and a block of rich yellow butter. The teapot and cups have a faded design, washed away by decades of use. I can just make out the lines of horses hitched to a chariot.

He sees me looking at it. ‘Phaethon,' he says, his eyes shining in the firelight. ‘Take note.'

His wife pours the tea, putting a little milk in mine and a slice of lemon in his, for which she uses a tiny set of silver tongs that were resting on top of the sugar bowl.

‘The jam is from last year,' she says. ‘We had more strawberries than we knew what to do with – such a long, dry summer, they ripened beautifully.'

She rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment, as if sharing the warmth of that memory.

‘Thank you,' I say, but she doesn't seem to hear me. Neither of them does.

When she has left the room, the suspension of our conversation continues as he sips his tea and I demolish three scones in
a row. The power of suggestion perhaps, but I fancy I can taste the sun-clotted blood of that summer still swollen in the fruit. And the deeper notes too, of dust and hay, the earthy dankness of dewfall.

‘Still with us?'

I realise I have been chewing with my eyes closed.

‘This is exquisite jam. Are you sure you won't …?'

‘I'm getting too old for afternoon snacks. It's satisfaction enough to watch you make such short work of it. Rosie will be pleased,' he chuckles.

The tea is delicate, some kind of China blend. It has a sharpness in the aftertaste that makes you feel parched for more. It reminds me of rue, a flavour that cropped up a lot during my JC tour of duty. As I lean forward to put my cup back on the table I notice just how many books there are on his desk, several of them with little paper markers sticking out. There are pages and pages of notes too, in ad hoc little piles.

‘Looks like you're working on something.'

He waves the suggestion away. ‘I'm more interested in this “understanding” of yours. Tell me about that. And tell me exactly how you came to be working in a job that is not very interesting. You,' he adds, ‘of all people.'

And so I tell him everything I know, using whatever words I have to hand that might straddle where I have come from and where I find myself now, in the soft collision of this young man's mercurial sprint and my own granite-faced marathon.

He thinks about it for a long time afterwards. His expression is hard to read. Eventually he says, ‘And your health? I say this as one whose prostate has swollen to the size of an onion and whose skin hangs about him like a loose-fitting garment, but Will, my boy, you do not look well.'

‘I could do with a little more sleep, that's certainly true. But –'

He doesn't want to hear my buts. ‘Are they the same worries as before? As when yours and my paths first crossed?'

I'd like to hear more about that. This occupation of Will has left me with a kind of vested interest in his past, as the new owner of a house might want to hear tales from the neighbours of how that line of fresh slates on the roof was because of a lightning-struck tree or how the hatch door to the cellar was boarded up after a farmhand fell down there and broke his back.

‘Why, is that how I seem? What was I like then? I can't even remember.'

He finds this amusing. ‘The hurry of youth,' he says. ‘So busy reinventing yourselves you can't remember who you were just five minutes ago. But trust me, you haven't changed as much as you might think.'

The day has vanished, unnoticed, as we have been talking, and now blackness is pressing on the windows. I feel safe folded away here in this pocket of stillness, with nature's dead growth burning at my feet and our two hearts, one nearer to death than the other, still beating in our chests.

‘I have never known of a student to switch to Mathematics in Part II of the Tripos, Will. I am fairly sure it has never happened, except in your own, very particular case. I remember the day you came to see me – I had been told simply that an undergraduate student from the faculty of Divinity was asking to speak with me. I assumed you had some crackpot bible code you wanted to discuss, and then you showed it to me,' he smiles, shaking his head, ‘that vast body of work you had already completed, on the Riemann hypothesis, no less – some of the modelling there …' Again he shakes his head. ‘You have an extraordinary gift.'

He laughs quickly, at another memory, just coming to him. ‘Do you remember what you said to me?' Fortunately he leaves
no time for a reply. ‘I asked you if this had been part of your guided study and you said to me, “I've been doing it for reasons of my own”. Reasons of my own, that phrase always stuck with me.' And yet something about the phrase also burns off the genial atmosphere of reminiscence. When he speaks again it is with none of the humour of before. ‘But you always were a troubled boy, Will. And those reasons of your own worry me a little. It worries me that whatever made you turn your back on mathematics and the tremendous opportunities that were there for you is also the same thing that sent you off bumming around for all those years and then into this job about which you care so little, and perhaps even brought you here today.'

He pushes himself up out of his chair, his elbows shaking slightly under the strain, and fishes another log out of the basket. There is a small shower of sparks when he tosses it into the grate.

‘Forgive me,' he says. ‘I have spoken out of turn.' The poetry has gone from his voice, he just sounds weary now.

He walks slowly over to his desk and brings a handful of papers back to where we are sitting. He hands them to me before lowering himself into his chair.

‘It's a biography of Turing,' he mutters. ‘Something I always meant to get around to, but research was always in the way. Now, though, I have the luxury of leaving it to others to clear the way for the future.' He doesn't look as though he considers it a luxury.

The papers are numbered typed sheets, seemingly the first few chapters of his manuscript, with what I assume to be his spidery handwriting in the margins, adding in, striking through, correcting these initial thoughts in irritable bursts.
A genius of such violent intensity that it was to shape the thinking of a future generation
is one phrase that I read. This strikes me as an old man's undertaking, something drawn from the embers.

‘I look forward to reading it,' I lie. ‘When's it going to be published?'

‘When I find the energy to finish it. That's the trouble with tenure – you only leave when you're too tired to carry on. Which is when you realise you're too tired for anything.'

‘You didn't speak out of turn,' I tell him, to his slight surprise. He probably thought we were done with the serious part of our chat, but there's something I want to say to him. It feels important. ‘You were right, in many ways. I did turn my back on Divinity – but the answer wasn't in numbers either. They are descriptors, and that is all. There is no understanding of God's design through numbers, merely a description of it.'