Post by Hideous Dwarf on Aug 12, 2008 17:52:08 GMT
Aquila heliaca and George
“George….. GEORGE! I know you can hear me in there. Now open this door at once.”
The hammer blows of Beatrice Morton’s ham-like fists upon the door shook the little ship-lap shed to its foundations, raised a cloud of ancient dust to dance in the flickering sunbeams and very nearly deprived her husband of one or several of his toes. George reached down to retrieve the broad paring chisel which, true to both its name and purpose, had pared a slither of rubber from his boot before embedding itself in the workshop floor.
“Coming, Dear,” he sighed, examining the cutting edge of the precious tool for damage. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
“You just see you are, George Morton. You know very well I’ve got my sister coming tomorrow and the house is in a dreadful state. Her Arthur doesn’t waste his time messing about with silly bits of wood. Oh no, Arthur helps about the house does Arthur, like a husband’s supposed to when his wife is up to her eyes in it. Why can’t you be a bit more like Arthur, George? Are you listening to me, George? GEORGE!
“Yes, Dear, I’m listening.” George had been listening for so long and knew the arguments do well that the need to listen had long since passed. In its place were two ears deafened and a mind dulled by constant assault. “I’ll be along in a minute, Dear. Just tidying up a bit.”
“Well, make it quick, George. I want the house spic-and-span before Agnes comes; you know how house-proud Agnes is. And see you take off those filthy boots before you walk in. I don’t want mud spread all over my nice clean floors. D’you hear me, George?”
“Yes, Dear….. Coming, Dear.”
George breathed a heavy sigh and carefully replaced the paring chisel in the rack. Peering through the cobweb curtains and the dusty glass he could see the cotton draped vastness of his wife’s hind quarters moving away towards the house – and he smiled a cheerless smile.
“I’m coming, Beatrice,” he mumbled, caressing the savage lines and softer curves of the great carving with fingers that were gnarled with age and cramped by the first distortions of arthritis.
Aquila heliaca. The Latin name was as familiar to George as the imperial eagle of common usage, as was every feature of the magnificent bird, from the cruel hook of that imposing beak to the destructive menace of the talons. This was the dream of forty odd years spent as a purchasing clerk in the dreary offices of Fenwick & Sons, and the longed for work of his retirement years. Begun on the day he dumped his presentation clock in the dustbin as he strolled out through the company gate for the very last time, it was to be the first of the Morton Collection – Birds of Prey of the British Isles and Europe, and the imperial eagle, aquila heliaca, was very close to completion.
Draping a cover of Hessian sacking over the bird, George stepped out of the little shed, locking the door securely behind him before turning his feet towards the house – and Beatrice.
“There you are, George. You took your time, didn’t you? It’s all right for you, George Morton, slipping off to your silly shed whenever there’s work to be done, but the house doesn’t keep itself clean, you know. Meals don’t cook themselves, George. Are you listening to me, George?
“Yes, Dear,” said George.
“Yes, Dear; yes, Dear,” Mrs Morton mimicked. “That’s all you can say for yourself, isn’t it, George? Yes Dear! You exasperate me, George. You know very well Agnes and Arthur are coming tomorrow and I’ve got everything to do. The carpets to hoover, tops to be dusted, baking to be done, and I haven’t even done the weekend shopping yet. And what help are you to me, George? Eh?
George withdrew to the kitchen, donned his flower-patterned apron (a birthday present from Beatrice) and said nothing. When Beatrice was firing from the hip it was better to keep the target as small as possible. Instead, he turned his hand to the washing-up, and his mind to aquila heliaca.
“No help at all - that’s what, George. I sometimes wonder just why I married you. You were always the same when the children were at home. As soon as there was any work to be done you were off to your silly shed or fishing. I’ve only ever been a skivvy to you, George…”
“Yes, Dear.” The eagle was so close now, the elm log a thing of distant memory after eight months of patient work. He must work on the eyes again. Countless hours spent in thought and study, followed by the most careful cutting with the flute and veiner had not yet given life to those sinister eyes wherein must lie the living soul of his creation. Fail with the eyes, George knew, and all would be failure.
A teacup slipped from George’s failing fingers and his own eyes closed in anticipation of the splintering crash on the stone floor and the ear-splitting shriek that would be his wife’s response.
“GEORGE!” It came like the howl of the banshee from some dark recess of 22 Acacia Drive, and was followed by the thunderous pounding of slippered feet on linoleum as Beatrice approached. “What have you broken now, George? Oh no, not the Doulton! I don’t know what it is with you, George. I leave you to do a simple job and now look; a piece of my best Royal Doulton; how could you, George? What on earth am I going to do tomorrow when Agnes comes?
George did not know what she was going to do so he stopped listening and stooped to pick up the broken pieces. He had never liked receiving visitors, if only because it meant his half-pint mug being locked away and replaced by the delicate little patterned cups with their half-mouthful of tea. He tried to imagine Agnes holding a half-pint mug with her little finger properly cocked, but the picture was shattered by a further assault of Beatrice’s voice upon his ear.
“Did you hear me, George? I’m off to the shops now, and I want to see this lot cleared up when I get back. Then you can hoover the lounge and for goodness sake, George, get that front garden weeded and the lawn cut. You know what a keen gardener Arthur is. And you’d better sort out the best crystal glasses ready for tomorrow in case Arthur brings some of his home-made wine. But do be careful with them! You know they were my mother’s and…..”
And Beatrice rumbled on. That voice that had once been the petal-soft murmur of a shy young girl now rasped in George’s ear like a gate swung on rusty hinges. It never relented except when its owner slept and even that small respite was lost on George who, feeling the weariness of his advancing years, could never stay awake long enough to enjoy it. It brought the eternal presence of Beatrice ever closer and it brought now the evil prospect of Arthur’s home-made wine to dampen whatever small spark of spirit remained in poor old George.
“Goodbye, Dear,” he mumbled, but Beatrice was well gone upon her errand, perhaps drawing strange looks from passers-by as she mercilessly pounded the innocent flagstones, berating George with every footfall. It was hard for him to imagine her in any circumstance when the lashing tongue would lie still.
Removing the flower-patterned apron, George Morton paused to consider the wisdom of going AWOL in view of the very small likelihood of Mrs Morton meeting with some accident that might prevent her return. He even felt a little ashamed of the thought until he realised that no accident would dare befall Beatrice. Reasoning that the sting of that forked tongue was unlikely to be diminished by his conforming to orders, George slipped away to the workshed and aquila heliaca.
It was a full two hours before the mailed fist hammered once again upon the ill-used door. Two hours during which the old man’s delicate touch at last brought the craved effect to the eagle’s eyes, and George was unnerved by to result of his labour. As all life and consciousness flow from the eyes, so the eagle appeared to take on an identity far removed from the elm log from which it was cut. What had been merely seen, was now seeing, aware of its own existence, and George found it hard to avoid the searching stare of the eagle.
Backing away a single pace, all that the tiny shed allowed, George gasped as a bolt of pain racked his chest in spasm and was as quickly gone, leaving him weak and breathless under the daunting eye of the bird.
“George. GEORGE!”
“ I think I’ll change my name,” said George to himself, breathing a little heavily still and fingering the ache in his left arm and shoulder. “Farquharson. Yes, that’s it! Farquharson J. Morton. That should give her something to think about.” George covered the bird and emerged into the sunshine.
“I despair of you, George Morton, I really do. You’re worse, sometimes, than a child to have around the place. The moment my back’s turned you’re off to your silly shed, leaving me to do all the housework, and Agnes and Arthur coming tomorrow. I’ve spent my whole life slaving for you, George. But do you appreciate it? Course you don’t. It beats me what you find to do in that shed of yours all day. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’ve got a pile of those filthy girlie magazines stashed away in there. Is that it, George?
“No, Dear.” George made a mental note for future consideration.
“Well, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. They say men of a certain age start getting funny ideas about….. about that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing, Dear?”
“Don’t be disgusting, George Morton. You know perfectly well what I was referring to, and you’d better watch it, George! If I get an inkling there’s any of that sort of thing going on in there I’ll put a match to that shed of yours. Oh yes I will, George!”
The look of sublime indifference, perfected over the years of submission to the will of Beatrice Morton, slowly dissolved from George’s face and a new look came into the sad, grey eyes. “Don’t say that, Beatrice. Don’t even think it,” he said, very quietly.
Beatrice saw the look and returned to the house without another word.
Back behind the flower-patterned apron George resumed his domestic duties with a patient, if not willing heart. Experience had taught him that diligence and industry were the best ploys for keeping his wife’s nagging down to an acceptable decibel level. It had never occurred to him when he was younger that he might one day welcome the advent of deafness.
Through the remainder of the afternoon, whilst George longed to return to the garden shed, he cleaned and dusted, scrubbed and polished, under the critical eye of his partner-for-life, and he reflected upon the good fortunes of rapists and murderers that they never received so long a sentence. Even the tops of the pelmets had to be cleaned as though Agnes might shin up the curtains to inspect them. Furniture moved, cleaned behind and replaced, curtains washed, pressed and re-hung until it was a weary George who dragged the heavy roller mower from the corrugated iron lock-up behind the shed.
He pictured vast herds of wildebeest sweeping down off the compost heap on their great southward trek to the honeysuckle trellis as he pushed the obstinate mower through the undergrowth, cutting and re-cutting the grass until Beatrice nodded her grudging approval.
“And see you clean the mower properly this time, George. It’s hard enough trying to make ends meet on your pitiful pension without having to fork out on having the mower seen to because you’ve let it go rusty. And wipe your feet before you come in.”
A moment later she was out again, summoned by the resounding crash of the mower landing back in the lock-up amongst the accumulated junk of a lifetime. George turned to face the wrath that was Beatrice defied, but faced instead the upward rush of the concrete path as the small world of George Morton spun in dizzy circles about his head.
“George! What’s the matter? GEORGE!”
A giant hand seemed to grip his chest, drawing from him a deep sigh before that stabbing, rasping pain once again seared through his body. It came like white fire, burned and died in a few agonising seconds, leaving in its wake the clammy discomfort of cold sweat, the breathlessness, and that nagging, aching pain high up in the left arm.
“Answer me, George. What’s the matter with you? Do you need a doctor?”
He rose to his feet, trembling slightly and not yet convinced that the world was quite still. “It’s nothing, Dear,” he said between deep breaths. “Bit of a pain, that’s all. ‘Spect I’m getting old.”
“It’s indigestion, that’s what that is, George. I’ve told you before about wolfing your food. It’s always the same – you scoff your meals down just so you can sneak out to that useless shed of yours. It’s your own fault.” Beatrice turned towards the house. “Come inside, George I’ll get you something for it.”
“Beatrice!”
“Yes, George?”
For a brief moment it seemed that the traditional rock of dominance and servitude that was the Mortons might shatter and crumble in the face of rebellion, but whatever spark had been kindled in George quickly died before the Gorgon’s stone cold stare.
“Nothing, Dear,” he said.
George ate, or rather toyed with his evening meal in silence. The indigestion had left him with little appetite for the heaped plate of steak-and-kidney pudding, mashed potatoes and greens boiled into limp submission under the culinary assault of Beatrice. He would have preferred a lighter meal - salad perhaps, or a little scrambled egg, but he knew better than to suggest it. Friday was pudding, always had been. Sunday was salad.
He managed to down enough of it to avoid inciting Beatrice to more harsh words, but the mere sight of suet pud wallowing helplessly in thick custard was more than even George could stomach after a lifetime’s practice in the art of appeasement. He waited until his spouse’s face was suitable gagged by an ample spoonful of the stuff before rising from the table and departing for the shed. By fleet of foot he was through the door and half way up the garden path before Beatrice had swallowed sufficient of the obstruction to voice dissent.
Once safely inside the tiny workshop, with the bolt slid home, George set all thoughts of world and wife to the back of his mind and gave all of his attention to aquila heliaca. Removing the Hessian cloth, he was startled once again at the sight of the eagle, so close to completion and so real. It was good. He knew it was good, and he felt all the while that the eagle knew that it came from the hands of a craftsman.
Hours of work still lay ahead, though the chisels and gouges had done most of their work. What came now were the scraping tools, the filed steel plate and the ground edge of glass, the patient application of sanding sheets and the final wax and polish.
Despite the discomforts of the day, George felt no tiredness as he worked steadily into the evening and on into the night. He lost count of the times the heavy hand of Beatrice Morton rattled the ship-lap door, nor did he hear the admonishing grind of her tedious voice demanding his subservience to her powerful will. The discomforts of the day had been sufficient unto the day and he claimed what was left of it for his own.
At midnight George laid down the last tattered piece of fine sandpaper and examined and re-examined the bird for the slightest trace of a scratch or mark that would require more attention. There were none. Aquila heliaca was complete and ready for that precious moment when he could apply the wax. When the bland, dusty look left by the sanding would give way to the finished splendour of the imperial eagle as the wax brought out the grain and colour of the elm.
He spent what seemed and age spreading the wax over his hands and working it until it was soft and warm before applying it to the wood, easing his fingers into every cut and crevice. After the wax, the soft cotton clothes, one to each hand. Then more wax and more polishing until, as his watch bleeped two o’clock, he replaced the Hessian cover and retired indoors to his bed. The first work of the Morton Collection was finished.
Dawn was long past the break before George opened his eyes upon a damp and drizzly day. Nor was it the first aching misery of Beatrice Morton’s voice that woke him from his slumber.
At first he was unsure what it was that made that waking so different from any other, and he lay in bed examining the sights , the sounds and smells of the day. The daylight flickered gently on the flowered wallpaper and he could hear the soft patter of rain against the window pane. From below the slightly pungent smell of cooking reached his nostrils though it was not a pleasant, inviting odour, more a burning… The patter of rain... No. A crackling…
George was out of the bed and on the stairs in an instant, racing, leaping three, four at a time. Through the hall, the kitchen, and there was Beatrice, entering by the back door.
“That’s put an end to your little game, George Morton, staying up half the night when all decent folks are in their beds where the good Lord intended they should be. Now perhaps I’ll get a bit of help...”
George suddenly seized his wife by the throat, staring menacingly into the cold, uncaring eyes. Beatrice screamed, but George could not here a sound. Dragging her roughly from the doorway, he threw her to the floor and rushed out, racing towards the little garden shed, now well lighted and roaring, flames licking twenty, thirty feet into the air. Without a pause for thought he leapt at the locked door and passed straight through into the heart of the inferno as the flimsy structure cracked and splintered into fragments about him.
When he emerged seconds later, hair singed grotesquely from the side and back of his head and the striped cotton pyjamas hanging from his body in tattered, smouldering shreds, he carried, hugged close to his chest, a hessian wrapped bundle that appeared to have escaped the ravages of the fire.
A moment later George was on his knees in the middle of the lawn, a small, bedraggled figure in the light of the blazing shed. Gently, lovingly, he peeled away the Hessian and examined the sculpture, exploring it for signs of scorching or damage and quite oblivious to the blistering burns to his own face and shoulders.
Aquila heliaca was safe and nothing else mattered to George.
The gripping hand returned and the pain, worse now than before. He cried out for help but their was none, just the terrible, crushing agony of white-hot steel stabbing deep into his chest, ripping through his frail body like the tortures of hell and George was frightened, terrified beyond belief.
And through the dreadful pain he saw the head of aquila heliaca turn; saw the eye blink and felt the great wings begin to stir. He trembled as the bird began to stretch, as though awaking from a thousand years of dreamless sleep entrapped within the ancient elm from which it had come. The wings flexed and flapped, slowly at first, then vigorously and with such power that George was pressed to maintain his hold on the beautiful creature.
Still again, the great wings furled, the eagle turned again to eye its creator. And as the eyes of the bird met those of the old man, George felt the pain drain away from his chest leaving him weak and light, but free of every hurt and misery he had suffered over the years. “Yes, I’m ready,” he said, very quietly.
The great wings stretched and shuddered, reaching out across the lawn to hide the man in their awesome shadow. They flapped once more and George felt the ground slip away from under him. They rose slowly, the eagle and the man, lifting high over the garden and away over the rooftops of Acacia Drive. Looking down, George could see the portly form of his wife emerging from the kitchen doorway into the stark light of the flaming shed, and then she was far away as the bird and its passenger climbed on into another light, brighter than George had ever seen.
And above the thunder of the beating wings George heard another sound. A sweet sound like all the music of the earth and all the heavenly choirs of legend and dream combined to carry him to a new world free of the cares of the old. He felt the blistering burns to his face and body soothed away, the pain of his laboured years slip quietly into oblivion, and George was happy as he had never believed he could be.
*****
Beatrice Morton took a few moments to remember where she was as she lay in an unsightly heap on the kitchen floor. A crash of collapsing timberwork jogged her memory and she ran out onto the garden lawn where something she trod on cracked and splintered under her considerable weight. She glanced down at what appeared to be a wooden bird with a broken wing lying half pressed into the mud. Dismissing it from her thoughts, she crossed the lawn to the ragged, charred bundle that lay so still beneath the gentle rain.
“George! Get up, George. You’ll catch your death lying there on the wet grass. George. Can you hear me, George? GEORGE!”