visible: BIRTHDAY HONOURS. BATTLE IN THE SUDAN . Six massively moustached porters stand at ease, barring all bogus claimants from the Third Class Waiting Room.
Joblard and I, subdued, retreated; by bulwark and counter-scarp, through
fausse-braye
and
cunette
, to the Dead House. We passed out by the Landport Gate and turned towards the hope of the Worldâs End. On the far shore of the outer moat was the dark tangle of a wild orchard: the gentle flicker of candlelight behind shaded windows. Shrill laughter on the evening air.
VIII
When does a victim realize that he is the chosen one? When does a âfall guyâ receive the first intimations of vertigo?
Arthur Singleton, his whites held in place by a knotted Kingston Park tie, stood queasy and distempered, leaning breathless against the brass line of zero longitude. A pale stripe of virtue ran away from his navel and down Maze Hill, between the twin domes of Greenwich Hospital, across the river, and far around the red-splashed globe: to pierce, on its return, his psychic body. A shocking, but unremarked, jolt in the lower spine. He had completed his preparation. He did not salute the bullet-pocked plinth of General James Wolfe, abseiler-extraordinary, and exporter of âhigh degreeâ Freemasonry to the North American continent. He walked, head bowed, along the broad avenue towards the heath. He was bent to his fate, tapping his bat on the ground at every third stride.
Singleton felt a tingling in his palms; the sympathy pains of martyrdom that presaged an heroic contest. He could sense the stigmata sweating blood into his white gloves. Today would be exceptional. He rested and fed all his doubts into a giant oak. The tree was a metaphor for the innings he would play. The roots were laid in the vision of the city, seen from the hill. The trunk was the slow build-up of confidence: âseeingâ the ball, before it left the bowlerâs hand. And then the branching out, the flowering. The strokes all round the wicket, sketching the treeâs shape into the ground for ever. He had only a necessary fear of the opposition, coupled with the still greater fear of losing âfaceâ among his fellows; the cramming masters, curates, and medical men of Blackheath who would this afternoon meet Lord Harrisâs eleven in a charity match, for the benefit of the dependants of the drowned, in the tragedy of the sinking of the paddle-steamer, the
Princess Alice
. The sky was bruised and purple, racing, livid with threat and prophecy.
Dr Grace, the Hon. Alfred Lyttleton, Lockwood: names set into the earth like pillars of a temple. Arthur was at the wicket and taking guard with no memory of the preliminary courtesies; the introductions, the toss, the early collapse of the local men. He was wholly detached from the scene, which could have been an engraving in the
London Illustrated News
. His foot moved towards the first delivery â short on the leg side â and the spectators were applauding a boundary.
The heath was enclosed in a bell jar of wild light, high clouds chased and harried. He was standing on the worldâs curve â and he stood erect, shaping each drive, timing each cut, chipping wide of the stolidly planted fielders. Dr Grace was shaking him by the hand. His voice was unexpectedly high in pitch. Arthur could not understand what he was saying. He walked off. The fever-drained grass stretched into an endless plain. The dark houses slid from his sight. âSingleton, well done! Capital display, sir! Fine knock, Arthur!â
He forced a passage through the press of friends and strangers: the ladies, their parasols, their billowing dresses. Soaked. Dripping on to the ground. Shadows that could drown him. Uncovered bodies. Did they need to bring them here? Hair shapeless and obscuring their faces. No eyes. Tongues like slaughtered animals. White mud.
Donât touch
. Their cold hands scorch his arm. The dead ones block him. Their
Joblard and I, subdued, retreated; by bulwark and counter-scarp, through
fausse-braye
and
cunette
, to the Dead House. We passed out by the Landport Gate and turned towards the hope of the Worldâs End. On the far shore of the outer moat was the dark tangle of a wild orchard: the gentle flicker of candlelight behind shaded windows. Shrill laughter on the evening air.
VIII
When does a victim realize that he is the chosen one? When does a âfall guyâ receive the first intimations of vertigo?
Arthur Singleton, his whites held in place by a knotted Kingston Park tie, stood queasy and distempered, leaning breathless against the brass line of zero longitude. A pale stripe of virtue ran away from his navel and down Maze Hill, between the twin domes of Greenwich Hospital, across the river, and far around the red-splashed globe: to pierce, on its return, his psychic body. A shocking, but unremarked, jolt in the lower spine. He had completed his preparation. He did not salute the bullet-pocked plinth of General James Wolfe, abseiler-extraordinary, and exporter of âhigh degreeâ Freemasonry to the North American continent. He walked, head bowed, along the broad avenue towards the heath. He was bent to his fate, tapping his bat on the ground at every third stride.
Singleton felt a tingling in his palms; the sympathy pains of martyrdom that presaged an heroic contest. He could sense the stigmata sweating blood into his white gloves. Today would be exceptional. He rested and fed all his doubts into a giant oak. The tree was a metaphor for the innings he would play. The roots were laid in the vision of the city, seen from the hill. The trunk was the slow build-up of confidence: âseeingâ the ball, before it left the bowlerâs hand. And then the branching out, the flowering. The strokes all round the wicket, sketching the treeâs shape into the ground for ever. He had only a necessary fear of the opposition, coupled with the still greater fear of losing âfaceâ among his fellows; the cramming masters, curates, and medical men of Blackheath who would this afternoon meet Lord Harrisâs eleven in a charity match, for the benefit of the dependants of the drowned, in the tragedy of the sinking of the paddle-steamer, the
Princess Alice
. The sky was bruised and purple, racing, livid with threat and prophecy.
Dr Grace, the Hon. Alfred Lyttleton, Lockwood: names set into the earth like pillars of a temple. Arthur was at the wicket and taking guard with no memory of the preliminary courtesies; the introductions, the toss, the early collapse of the local men. He was wholly detached from the scene, which could have been an engraving in the
London Illustrated News
. His foot moved towards the first delivery â short on the leg side â and the spectators were applauding a boundary.
The heath was enclosed in a bell jar of wild light, high clouds chased and harried. He was standing on the worldâs curve â and he stood erect, shaping each drive, timing each cut, chipping wide of the stolidly planted fielders. Dr Grace was shaking him by the hand. His voice was unexpectedly high in pitch. Arthur could not understand what he was saying. He walked off. The fever-drained grass stretched into an endless plain. The dark houses slid from his sight. âSingleton, well done! Capital display, sir! Fine knock, Arthur!â
He forced a passage through the press of friends and strangers: the ladies, their parasols, their billowing dresses. Soaked. Dripping on to the ground. Shadows that could drown him. Uncovered bodies. Did they need to bring them here? Hair shapeless and obscuring their faces. No eyes. Tongues like slaughtered animals. White mud.
Donât touch
. Their cold hands scorch his arm. The dead ones block him. Their
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