The Revolutions (6 page)

Mr Arthur Archibald Shaw (Guest)

Miss Josephine Bradman (Officer; Minutes)

Josephine excelled at shorthand, thanks to the Breckenridge School of Typewriting and Stenography. If she chose she could let her mind wander while her hand worked, as if she were in a trance.

THE MATRON called the meeting to order at half past eight.

MRS HARE blessed the proceedings, and commanded that all ill-wishers reveal themselves or be bound eternally to silence.

MR FRAYN remarked upon the absence of many close friends from the proceedings, in particular MR and MRS GODALMING, who were recovering from injuries sustained in the Storm.

MISS SHALE opined that the Storm had been of supernatural origin, and MR HARE and MR PARK agreed.

THE MATRON reminded all present that mere superstition is the bane of true psychical research.

MR HARE noted rumours concerning the death of the late Duke of Sussex, and suggested that in these troubling times all spiritualists might be in danger of being falsely considered radicals or revolutionaries, and sought proposals as to how best to allay the suspicion of the unenlightened.

THE MATRON observed that an Age in which spiritual science had been a matter of interest at the highest pinnacle of the British State had come to an end, and called upon all present to pray that the true science would not fade away in the coming years, but would rise to new and greater heights.

MR SHAW (GUEST) rose to observe that the press, and those who make their fortune by their pen, have a weighty duty in these times, this perilous and confusing modern age in which a scrupulous love of truth is the highest calling, to neither strangle a revolution in thought in its crib, nor spread falsehoods through laziness or corruption. He also thanked all those present for their kindness in inviting a mere ink-stained wretch such as himself to their august gathering.

THE HIEROPHANT called for prayers for the Duke’s soul, and for the speedy capture of the guilty party, should there be one; and the members prayed accordingly.

MR PARK observed that three persons (who would remain nameless) had failed to pay their dues for the month of February.

DR VARLEY presented his astrological observations. It was his opinion that in the wake of the Storm there had been a great disruption among the Spheres, such that the Austral signs had taken on an unseasonable declining aspect, and the House of Mercury now encroached upon the House of Venus, while the House of Saturn was in ascendancy. MR PARK challenged DR VARLEY’s conclusions. Consensus was not obtained, and THE MATRON proposed that the discussion be adjourned.

MISS SHALE announced that she felt an Outside Intelligence taking hold of her. She sang, and danced. MR HARE played the piano.

MR CHATTERJI presented his photographs of Indian temples.

Mr Chatterji and Mr Atwood were both new to the meetings of the Ordo V.V. 341. Chatterji was tall and rather imposing; a lawyer, of exalted caste and aristocratic bearing; just recently arrived in London from India, or so Josephine had heard, and already a much-desired guest. Arthur applauded each one of his photographs, which were all intended to elucidate some point regarding Indian spiritualism, the architecture of temples, and the stars. Arthur had an interest in amateur photography, albeit a mostly theoretical one. Chatterji answered Arthur’s questions about lenses, collodio-chloride, and other such arcana with aplomb, and corrected various misconceptions about India with great patience.

Martin Atwood was handsome and well-dressed; perhaps twenty-five or at most thirty, small and slight and rather boyish. He wore a black frock coat of an athletic cut, and a loose black tie. His hair was fair, and he had a neat pointed beard. He smiled at everyone, politely but vacantly. Without ever quite stooping to rudeness, he gave the impression that he had found himself in Kensington by mistake on his way to somewhere infinitely more fashionable and important, but intended to make the best of his evening now that he was here. He dozed through Miss Shale’s dance. He leaned forward to peer at Chatterji’s photographs. He met Josephine’s eye once, and winked at her; she wasn’t sure what he meant to convey.

MR INNES blessed the conclusion of the proceedings, and closed the circle against evil.

When the blessings were done, Mr Innes lit the lamps, waking several dozers. Chatterji gathered up his photographs in a leather briefcase; then he left without making conversation. Preserving the aura of mystery, Josephine supposed. Servants brought out wine and coffee. Miss Shale, who had fainted, was examined by Doctor Varley. Josephine tucked her notes away, collected her fee from Treasurer Park, and went in search of Arthur. She found him on the other side of the room, sharing a drink with Mr Hare and Mr Innes and comparing stories about the storm.

Mrs Sedgley waved to her. “Josephine, my dear! A moment of your time?”

“Of course, Matron.”

Mr Atwood stood at Mrs Sedgley’s side, smiling. “Miss Bradman,” he said. “I’m really the one who should be begging your pardon; I’m the one who’s taking your time. I wanted to make your acquaintance.”

Mrs Sedgley raised her eyebrows and attempted to wordlessly communicate that Atwood was a man of importance, and that Josephine should indulge whatever odd whim he had in mind.

“Miss Bradman; may I ask what you were writing?”

“Of course, Mr Atwood. Nothing of great interest: it’s my duty to keep the minutes of the Order’s proceedings.”

“Ah. Very wise. Let nothing of the great work be lost.”

“Quite,” Mrs Sedgley said.

“The preservation of learning,” Atwood said.

“Yes,” Josephine said, feeling that she was expected to say something.

“A vital task. When one thinks how much learning has been lost to the world by the inadequate taking of minutes! Who is that, I said, who was taking such assiduous notes, and the Matron told me your name and a bell rang in my head—Bradman, Bradman, Josephine Bradman … I’m certain, I said, that I remember that name … such an awful lot of clutter in the attic, such an awful lot of empty space, too, but also all sorts of interesting people—have you read Bruno on the art of memory? No? I expect the Matron is familiar with the technique. I’m not half as good at it as I would like to be. Think, Atwood, think, I said; then light dawned. A bright star in the great infinite darkness of my own foolish head. The poetess!”

Josephine couldn’t conceal her surprise. She wasn’t used to being recognised for her poetry, which had been sparingly published, and so far as she knew, quickly forgotten.

“Hah!” Atwood clapped. “I thought as much.”

“I’m very flattered, Mr Atwood.”

“I’m relieved. My head is still of some use.”

Arthur appeared, drink in hand.

“Fascinating,” Arthur said. “Fascinating. The whole thing. I’m sorry there wasn’t a séance, though. I think I may have put my card in, so to speak, for membership. It’s hard to say. Mr Hare has an awfully indirect way of speaking. Mystical, I suppose.”

He turned to Atwood and introduced himself.

“Atwood,” Atwood said. “We were discussing Miss Bradman’s poetry.”

“Splendid stuff. Are you a poet, Mr Atwood?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Josephine,” Mrs Sedgley said, “is a treasure; simply a treasure. Poetry is
so
very important; indeed, I believe that poets are our truest guides to the spiritual realm; poets are waking dreamers, awakened spirits—”

“Quite,” Atwood said.

“Are you a member of this club, Mr Atwood?”

“A guest, Mr Shaw.”

“Same boat, Mr Atwood. Same boat.”

“I should never have expected to meet the poetess Josephine Bradman here. But London is a very small place, sometimes, isn’t it? I expect Josephine’s quite tired of people talking to her about her poetry.”

“It happens infrequently,” Josephine said.

There was something oddly unnerving about Mr Atwood. He smiled too much.

Astonishingly, he began to recite. “Oh moon! Halt not thy ceaseless roll—oh sun, astride thy golden wheel—oh wake, oh wake thou sleeping soul—oh something something something stars … Oh, Mr Hare, are you leaving? Well, good-bye, good-bye, my best wishes to your wife. Miss Bradman, do I have those lines right? Please say I do.”

“Close enough, Mr Atwood.”

“‘Dream Verse,’ I think you called it.”

“Oh, probably. One never knows what to call things.”

“Well done.” Arthur clapped Atwood on the shoulder. “Well done indeed.”

Atwood looked down at his shoulder with curiosity, as if a butterfly had suddenly landed on it.

Mr Park and the Varleys had stopped to listen.

“Atwood,” Arthur said. “What do you do, if you’re not a poet?”

“Nothing in particular. I understand you’re a journalist, Mr Shaw?”

“That’s right. I write for the
Mammoth
.”

“I’ve heard that the
Mammoth
is no more.”

“That’s true, too. News travels quickly.”

“London is a
very
small place.” He turned back to Josephine. “Miss Bradman, was it?”

“Was it what, Mr Atwood?”

“Composed in a dream?”

“No. I wrote that poem over the course of a long, cold winter’s worth of evenings in Cambridge.”

“Miss Bradman, would you possibly—would you mind reading the poem for me?”

“Oh, no—I couldn’t. I don’t think—”

“Oh,” Mrs Sedgley said, “I’m sure there’s no harm in it—and she
does
have a very fine reading voice.”

“Hear, hear
,”
Doctor Varley said.

She couldn’t reasonably or graciously refuse. Nor could she quite say why she felt like refusing—like running away, in fact. There was something excessive and unseemly in Atwood’s curiosity.

“Now, steady on,” Arthur said. “Bit late in the evening for poetry, isn’t it? I know I’m a little tired—head full of India and Saturn and Mercury and all that. Perhaps another time.”

Atwood glanced at Arthur, appearing to fully take in his presence for the first time. Then he produced a pen and a card from his pocket, and swiftly wrote something down.

“An address, Shaw. I gather that you’re out of work?”

“Between engagements, Atwood.”

“Well. I leave it in your hands. They may be able to use you.”

Atwood turned to Josephine then, as if Arthur was simply of no further relevance.

“Miss Bradman—if I may?”

Atwood held out an arm, almost touching her hand. Then he swiftly and gracefully interposed himself between Arthur and Josephine—so that when Arthur said, “Hold on a moment, Atwood,” he found himself suddenly face to face with Dr Varley; while Josephine, without quite meaning to, or even recalling taking a step, found herself by the wall, at the back of the room, under a large ugly gilt-edged mirror, with Atwood standing quite close. Someone seemed to have dimmed the lights.

“Miss Bradman,” he said, very seriously. “Please.”

The words of the poem rose unbidden to her lips.
Awake, awake
, and
et cetera et cetera
.
Whirling wheels
of this and that. The subject of the poem was the doctrine of reincarnation: the journey of the soul up through the various heavens towards God, and down again into the body; through the House of Venus, with its bright hot gardens, through the silent Caverns of the Moon. It had been written under the influence of a great deal of Greek philosophy, and some long conversations with a friend—born to parents in the civil service—about the doctrines of the Hindus. It was all rather overheated. The fact was that she was rather embarrassed by it now; it had been published in a small Cambridge magazine and it had never crossed her mind that it might surface again. She looked for Arthur—he’d somehow entirely lost sight of her, and was peering around with his wine-glass still in his hand, but in entirely the wrong direction, over towards the
chaise longue
in the corner, where Miss Florence Shale was now much recovered, and was earnestly holding Miss Roberta Blaylock’s hands and instructing her in something or other. Mrs Sedgley was bustling over, waggling her eyebrows to communicate who-knows-what vitally important message.

She wasn’t more than five lines into the poem before Atwood’s smile vanished. He glanced over her shoulder in sudden alarm.

“A-ha. I apologise, Miss Bradman—I do apologise. I’ve been rude.”

“No,” Mrs Sedgley insisted, “not at all!”

“I have. I’m sorry. Miss Bradman.” He flashed a forced smile. His eyes didn’t meet hers.

Josephine glanced over her shoulder to see what could have upset Mr Atwood so. Nothing but the mirror, in which she saw the reflection of her own face; and Mr Atwood—who was now rather theatrically checking his watch and announcing that it was time to leave; and behind him Arthur, approaching at last, looking cross; and behind Arthur the arched entrance of Mrs Sedgley’s hall, Mr Hare in the distance, taking his umbrella from the stand by the open door, and Mrs Sedgley’s cat Gautama jumping down from his sleeping-place on the table and dashing off.

“Well,” Atwood said. “I do hope we meet again, Miss, ah, Bradman. I’m afraid I have to run.”

He left. He very nearly
did
run, glancing back over his shoulder as if pursued; brushing past Arthur without a word and nearly knocking Dr Varley’s wine-glass out of his hand.