The Quickening Maze by Adam Foulds

Author:Adam Foulds
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: v
ISBN: 9780143117797
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2010-06-29T07:40:17.058383+00:00

Hannah walked and recited the remarkable facts to herself - a poet, tall, handsome, strong, dark - and out of her thoughts he appeared. Under the bell of her skirt she stumbled, seeing him, but continued forwards, calm, preparing her smile.What would happen? In her mind, the apex of their next encounter was, outrageously, a kiss, his large arms around her and the fierce kiss kindling where their lips touched. He craned his head forward to identify the approaching girl, then lifted his wide hat.

‘Miss Allen, is it not? I recognise the form.’

‘Do you? It is. That is to say, I am. Good morning.’

He approached near enough to see her clearly and talk without effort of his voice. Hannah caught the sharp reek of his body as he did so.

‘You’re carrying a book,’ he told her.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘And what book is it, if I may ask?’

‘Certainly you may. It’s . . .’ she lifted it and read the spine as though she had forgotten. ‘It’s Dryden, Dryden’s poems.’

‘You don’t find him too dry, then?’ He laughed at his own joke, appealing to her to do so also. She tried to and did, perhaps a little vehemently, to reward his friendly intent.

‘And may I ask,’ she said into the amicable silence,

‘what you are reading at present?’

‘You may, you may. Also poems, though with less pleasure, I imagine. My own. I’m preparing a volume.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’

‘Is it? I don’t expect the critics will agree with you. If I ever publish it, I expect they will treat it no more kindly than my previous efforts.’

‘Critics, they’re . . .’ She had no strong idea of what they were, so raised her arms disparagingly. ‘They’re critics. They aren’t poets. And I certainly look forward to reading it. Perhaps you might inscribe a copy for me. It’s very exciting to have a poet here, aside from Mr Clare, that is.’

‘Mr Clare?’

‘John Clare. He’s a patient of my father’s.’

‘John Clare, the peasant poet? I see. That’s . . .’ Tennyson frowned. As he did so a small cloud slid away from the face of the sun. Colours deepened. The little pebbles glinted in the path. A breeze lifted the branches.

‘That’s better,’ Hannah said.

‘Hmm. I can do that, you know. Would you like to see?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Stand still and watch.’

Tennyson approached even closer so that Hannah was inside his sharp smell. Was this it? What was he about to do - kiss her? Hannah stood absolutely still and closed her eyes also to receive the pressure of his lips. But it didn’t come. She opened her eyes again to see Tennyson with his eyes and mouth firmly closed, pursed shut. So he hadn’t seen her close her eyes.That horror of humiliation had not happened. She breathed deeply.Tennyson stayed as he was for a moment.Then, very gradually, he relaxed the muscles of his face until it was as expressionless as a death mask. He continued the outward movement, slowly opening his eyes and mouth, and opening them more, until his eyes were startlingly wide open and he smiled broadly with his eyebrows raised.

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