Incident at Grantley Manor

Seven o’clock, the time set in his mind Like herbs displayed in aspic, as the chimes Were striking. Then the squeaking of his shoes’ Black leather tread, pacing those measures down The first-floor hall, where sunset’s apricot Was oozing nectar through the open doors. Her voice, conspiratorial and astonished, Called him across the bedroom’s drowning cube Towards the window. How well Miss Waterson Remembers it: “Please come and look at this, Mr Devine;” the clock on the mantelpiece Rehearsing for the hour of seven. She pointed Down. There, a moving picture on the lawn, His father, like a patient whose long months Of immobility meant learning afresh The art of walking, climbing the light’s green slope Towards the summer house, looking intently As though for a cuff link or a signature. That evening he still thinks of, lying now, No longer needing lessons for his legs, How he cast back his glance and saw the windows Blazing like cats’ eyes on his uselessness, And in that golden mirror, two gold figures Recording him, two shadows of dark gold— Miss Waterson (was it?) and another one— And then took out his watch on which the hands Were so meticulously assembling seven. Young Emily, appointed just the week Before, came rushing to the stairs—she’d seen Him stumble—to advise Mr Devine About his father’s fall. And so, almost Immobilized herself in that clinging syrup, She observed the hall clock’s quaint rendition of Seven, the time set clearly in his mind Like summer herbs in aspic, as the chimes Were striking. Then the squeaking of his shoes’ Black leather tread, pacing those measures down The corridor, where sunset’s apricot Was oozing nectar through the open doors. Her voice, companionable but astonished, Floated across the bedroom’s drowning cube As he descended. How well Miss Waterson Remembers it: “Please come and look at this;” And Emily, who had just been taken on That week, came rushing to the window. She pointed Down, smartly on the stroke of seven. There, A moving picture on the lawn, was old Mr Devine, like a patient whose long months Of immobility meant learning afresh The art of walking, climbing the light’s green slope Abstractedly towards the rose garden. That evening he still thinks of, lying now, No longer needing lessons for his legs, How he cast back his glance and saw the windows Glaring like cats’ eyes on his helplessness, And in that golden mirror, two gold figures Gesticulating, two shadows of dark gold— The new girl (was it?) and another one— And then took out his watch on which the hands Were so laboriously assembling seven. Miss Waterson, with Emily behind her In a panic, dashed to the stairs to find Mr Devine, anxious to let him know About his father’s fall. And there they saw him, Almost immobile in that clinging syrup, And heard the hall clock’s muffled tolling of Seven, the time set firmly in his mind . . .