us to the earth, as a lodestone draws and holds metal? And since knowledge gives rise to more and we can sometimes build as an arch from one part of knowledge to another by taking thought, then I think theory may be of good use when purified in the fire of practice.’
‘Ingenious boy. What do you to that Dr Gilbert?’
‘I think I may stick upon the wisdom of her majesty’s counsel rather than a mere boy. When were you at the university Master Boston?’
‘Never sir. My tutoring was all from my father. He too believed in the virtues of experiment, like Mr Bacon, as you say sir.’
‘And how came he to know her majesty’s physician?’
‘I believe they met sir at the Royal College of Physicians when my father had gone there about some business while Dr Gilbard, as he often writ his name, was treasurer. And he was often also wont to seek my father’s opinion, saying that he was uncorrupted by the court or the quest for money or position.’
‘Yet he looked to turn base metal into gold.’
‘He looked only for the truth sir not for private gain. He would have made his knowledge available to all the world had he come by it, and not hoarded it like a miser.’
‘So he may have said but we do not know how his resolution would have kept.’
I was silent then for I knew from my father that Dr Gilbert’s pursuit of truth had been often directed towards gain and the filling of his own pockets as in his brother’s settling of Newfoundland and quest for the Northwest Passage, in which Dr Gilbert was a mover but not to the hazarding his own person.
When he had left us the countess said: ‘Now child I must to Cardiff to see to my affairs there and I shall take my ladies with me, and in special Mistress Griffiths to visit her friends but you will return to Ramsbury where you will be safe until my return. Meanwhile you will not be idle for I shall give all my works in the laboratory and the curing the sick into your hands.’
Joel rings to say he has post for me and he will drop it in on his way to see a client. I offer him a cup of coffee but he declines ‘your instant filth’. The traffic’s all snarled up and he’s running late. We make a date to meet in Finch’s, one of the last unmade-over pubs in London. I settle back when he’s gone and open the info pack for Wessex: glossy brochures, application forms, CD-ROM, courses, credentials, fees, minimum qualifications for enrolment in the various subjects. I see that whereas they’re obviously keen to attract as many students as possible with all kinds of subjects including Open University home study-type options, the theology department is a closed shop. You have to be studying for acceptance into the Temple for an ordinary diploma course and be already received for the full-blown degree. It looks as if they’re teaching a very selective kind of theology here.
How do I get in without revealing something of my hand? Assume a completely false identity? A birth certificate would do. And some fake academic documents. By the time they got round to checking them, if they did, it should be all over. University exam verification offices are notoriously slow. Now I come to think of it I’ve already got an alternative birth certificate from a previous job. An Aussie girl about my age who needed to prove her nationality, or at least her parents’, for a work permit. I had two copies made in case one went astray. The second should still be in my file. Her name, let’s see, was Lucinda Jane Cowell, Lucy to her mates. I could become her. Her parents had emigrated when she was one year old and had become naturalised Roos but none of that showed on her birth certificate.
Suppose they tracked her down wherever she is now? But that was eighteen months ago. She’s probably long gone backpacking round the world, enjoying Thailand on her way home. ‘Nothing venture, Jade,’ Mam would say. It’s strange that Wessex doesn’t encourage its would-be students to go through UCAS. Is that another sign that we’re dealing with something different here?
I can’t see myself signing up to the Temple just to get on the theology course. Who knows what you might be letting yourself in for? Maybe though I can show an interest enough to suss it out. Or rather Lucy Cowell can show an interest. Nobody is what they seem. Dr Adrian Gilbert turns out to be Dr Alastair Galton, if that really is his name, Amyntas is Amaryllis and I’m becoming Lucy. It’s a kind of virtual shapechanging. These days everything is ephemeral, smoke drifting into different forms, gone in a minute while we long for stability, certainty and look back to what seems a more solid world of truly visceral pain and passion, Mam and Dad’s world. But who’d really go back if they could? No. Yet if only we could carry the best on with us. Some sense of belonging, even of being. Maybe that’s what the Temple of the Latent Christ offers believers: the passion we’ve lost. Or is it just you, Jade, who’s fallen into limbo?
Even my love for Helen Chalmers that seemed so searing at the time became, after that first flood of anger, betrayal and absence, a dull ache, a long drawn-out mourning. ‘Men have died and worms have eaten them but not for love.’ You don’t die, not as a rule, but something dies in you. ‘I die daily,’ as the man said. The body goes on, the cells rejuvenate until even they get tired of it and only mad cancer cells go on and on, endlessly multiplying until they consume their host like a parasitic wasp.
Gloomy thoughts, Jade. Click on delete. They’ll still be there though, the spectral texts that a clever anorak can always flush out again. Nothing need ever die that we create now except the creators. But then that’s not new. Our best has outlived us for thousands of years. Now the worst can outlive us too. Only the means to get at it may be lost with the built-in obsolescence of our technologies. Secrets, works of genius even, locked up on hard disks in landfill sites all over the world. What would Marlowe have done with email and the internet? Sat in his office like me or pulled on his hat and raincoat and gone out into the mist?
I make myself get up and go to the filing cabinet. Find Lucy Cowell’s file neatly under ‘C’. Something a bit anal in the way you keep your files, Jade. Still it works, so don’t knock it. Now a little desktop publishing to produce some convincing qualifications. ‘A’ levels and a BA so that Lucy can get into an MA or PHD course. She needs a subject and a title for a thesis. The psychology of cross-dressing in Elizabethan theatre. Amyntas should come in handy there. Back to my first love before I decided to make a living out of the law’s delays.
I make perfect digital copies of my own certificates, white out my name, recopy. Fill in with Lucinda Jane Cowell. There: Jade Green’s deleted. ‘Do you really want to delete Jade Green?’ Only for now. ‘If you select “Yes” this file will be deleted.’ Death by a thousand clicks. Death by a mouse byte. But I have the original. I am the original. ‘Prick us. Do we not bleed?’ Fill in the forms. Joel’s address. My mobile phone number. My second email address, the one that’s only a number I use for anonymity. Availability for interview. ‘When do you wish your course to start?’ As soon as possible. A handy US-style summer school where you can knock up some points. Only Lucy Cowell will never finish her thesis; never kneel down for her master’s hood to be draped around her shoulders. I pin the false evidence to the application form with a paper clip, fold the documents in three and put them into a self-sealing envelope I’ve already addressed, go down my iron and concrete staircase and open the door.
I stand there blinking like a bat that’s got up too early, struck a blow by the sunlight and the din and stink of the city. Astronauts must feel like this, stepping out of their space capsule after wheeling in silence through time above the earth, with the stars for company and the moon rising and setting its several cycles a day. The escalator carries me up into the station where I can do or buy everything I want or don’t, post my letter, get a Guardian and egg salad baguette in a paper sleeve for my lunch, queue for the cash point, pick up a bottle of wine, a pack of new floppies for the computer, drink a cup of cappuccino. The only thing I don’t do is buy a ticket and travel. Get away from it all. Instead I turn back, squirrelling away with my hoard to my silent lair. That’s enough of the world for now.
Living and working alone you become a hermit: Simeon Stylites on the top of his pillar in the desert; Diogenes in his tub, or follow the rule for anchoresses. ‘The nuns may keep no beast but a cat. They may make pleasing gestures from the window