She sighed and prepared once more to leave him. 'Well have a nice time, Mr Hawksmoor.' Then she winked at him. 'Once you know where you're going, that is.'
He traced his name in the dust along the window-sill and then erased it. He turned on the radio but he could hear the voices whispering, 'What wind blew you here? What wind blew you here?' As he sat in the middle of the room sometimes he could see moving shapes, just out of the corner of his eye, but they were as indistinct as shadows on water and when he turned his head to look at them they were gone.
And as dusk fell he recited one of the verses inscribed in the white notebook: I saw a door which opened on a fire I saw a pit which rose up even higher I saw a child who danced round and round I saw a house which stood beneath the ground I saw a man who is not, nor ever could he be, Hold up your hand and look, for you are he.
And as Hawksmoor's voice reverberated around the room, some coins fell off the mantelpiece. There were more verses beneath these but, since the poem seemed to go on for ever, he lost interest. And he switched on the television set, craning forward eagerly when he saw the image of a man with his back turned towards him. He turned up the contrast, and then the brightness, but the image became no more distinct. And Hawksmoor stared at the screen, as time passed.
Now a morning service was being transmitted, and he knew that it was a Sunday. The priest was raised above his congregation: 'So you may say how complicated and perilous modern life is, and how dark the future seems, and how distant our ancestors. But I will tell you this, my good friends, that each age has found itself to be dark and perilous, and each age has feared for its future, and each age has lost its forefathers. And so they have turned to God, thinking to themselves, if there are shadows there must also be light! And beyond the years, my friends, there is an eternity which we may see with the help of God's grace. And what is so wonderful is that this eternity intersects with time, just as in this church -' Hawksmoor's attention wandered to a fly which was trying to find a way out of the closed window, and when he looked at his television again the priest had moved on -'when a mother glances at a child with love, the light from her eyes soothes and nourishes the infant; the voices we raise in this church can also be instruments of light, banishing shadow; you must learn to see this light, my friends, and you must move forward towards it for this light is a reflection of the Light of God.'
Hawksmoor seemed to recognise the interior of the church as an image of the hushed congregation appeared on the screen; and then the exterior of the church was shown as the camera moved downwards from the bell tower to the steps, lingering on the sign beyond the porch which read 'Christ Church, Spitalfields. Erected by Nicholas Dyer, 1713'. And the time before had been a dream for he knew now: he was looking down at the body in front of St Mary Woolnoth and once again noticing the sign which read, 'Founded in the Saxon Age and Last Rebuilt by Nicholas Dyer, 1714'. There had been such a name upon the board by the Greenwich church, and he recognised what a symmetry this was.
He allowed the knowledge of the pattern to enclose him, as the picture on the television screen began to revolve very quickly and then to break up into a number of different images. Where before the churches had been for him a source of anxiety and of rage, now he contemplated each one in turn with a beneficent wonder as he saw how mightily they had done their work: the great stones of Christ Church, the blackened walls of St Anne's, the twin towers of St George's-in-the-East, the silence of St Mary Woolnoth, the unbroken façade of St Alfege's, the white pillar of St George's Bloomsbury, all now took on a larger life as Hawksmoor contemplated them and the crimes which had been committed in their name. And yet he sensed that the pattern was incomplete, and it was for this that he waited almost joyfully.
It had grown colder when he left the house the next morning, and the frost obscured the windows of the public library when he took down the encyclopaedia and turned to the entry for DYER Nicholas.
And this is what he read: '1654 -c.
1715. English architect; was the most important pupil of Sir Christopher Wren, and a colleague both of Wren and Sir John Vannbrugghe in the Office of Works at Scotland Yard. Dyer was born in London in 1654; although his parentage is obscure, it seems that he was first apprenticed as a mason before becoming Wren's personal clerk; he later held several official posts under Wren including that of surveyor at St Paul's. His most important independent work was completed as a result of his becoming the principal architect to the 1711 Commission for New London Churches; his was the only work to be completed for that Commission, and Dyer was able to realise seven of his own designs: Christ Church Spitalfields, St George's-in-the-East Wapping, St Anne's Limehouse, St Alfege's in Greenwich, St Mary Woolnoth in Lombard Street, St George's Bloomsbury and, finest of all, the church of Little St Hugh beside Moorfields. These edifices show most clearly his ability to handle large abstract shapes and his sensitive (almost romantic) lines of mass and shadow. But he seems to have had no pupils or disciples in his lifetime, and changes in architectural taste meant that his work has had little influence and few admirers. He died in London in the winter of 1715, it is thought of the gout, although the records of his death and burial have been lost.' Hawksmoor stared at the page, trying to imagine the past which these words represented, but he saw nothing in front of him except darkness.
The streets were already filled with people when he left the library and returned to Grape Street. Despite the intense cold he was sweat ing as he took down the pages from the white notebook, placed them carefully in order, and then with a gesture of impatience stuffed them in his pocket. He tried to concentrate on what he should do next, but his mind wavered and fell away into the shadows of the unseen church of Little St Hugh. He had come to the end by chance, not knowing that it was the end, and this unanticipated and uncertain climax might yet rob him of his triumph: his will was emptied, replaced by the shape of moving things as he sat in his dark coat and watched the sun rolling across the roof-tops. Then he shook his head and stood up with an urgency which suggested that he wished to forestall, at least, another death. But as soon as he stepped into the street he felt afraid; someone knocked against him and he might have turned back at this moment, if the bus which travelled between Bloomsbury and Fenchurch Street had not arrived and if Hawksmoor had not entered it without thought. He sat huddled in his seat while in front of him an infant lay asleep with its chin upon its breast: and that, Hawksmoor thought, is how you will sleep when you are old. His forehead burned; he pressed it against the window and gazed at the mist which rose from the mouths of the people as they hurried through the streets of the city.
He descended at Fenchurch Street, expecting to glimpse the spire of the church somewhere above him, but here were only the burnished towers of office-blocks which gleamed in the winter light. A seller of hot chestnuts stood on the corner of Gracechurch Street, and for a moment Hawksmoor watched the coals of his brazier as they brightened and then dimmed with the passage of the wind down the crowded thoroughfares; he went up to him saying, 'Little St Hugh?' and the man, not pausing in his cries, pointed up Lime Street. And his refrain of Hot chestnuts! Hot chestnuts! was taken up by another calling Woe! Woe! and then by a third who cried out Paper! Paper! These were the calls he had known all his life and Hawksmoor grew melancholy as he walked up Lime Street into St Mary Axe. He passed a record shop from which came the loud sounds of a popular song, and when he glanced inside he saw a young man at the counter beating time with his finger. But as he watched him he missed his footing on the pavement, and jumped back as a car swerved to avoid him. 'What time is it?' he asked an old woman who walked beside him, but she stared through him as if he had become invisible. He continued down Bishopsgate, carried by the movement of the crowd, and asked a stall-holder for the direction of the church: 'Follow the wall,' the man said and turned slowly to point down Wormwood Street, 'Follow the wall'. And as he came close to London Wall he sensed a smell like that of mown grass or cut flowers, so unusual a scent for the middle of winter that it must have sprung from the moss sprinkled upon the old stones. And from London Wall he passed into Moorfields where in the middle of the road a mad woman cried out, her words lost in the roar of the traffic. And as the pavement shook beneath his feet he hurried down Long Alley: some children in blue caps and blazers passed him laughing, and their motion turned him round so that now he saw ahead of him Black Step Lane. So still did he stand that a young man in a fur cap passed him and then looked back in astonishment, as Hawksmoor now walked towards Little St Hugh.