smile and a whisper in her ear, he shoved her forward into the path of the hobby-horse. She stumbled, and suddenly the broad black skirt sailed over her head to engulf her. But as it happened, she was not ensnared in the fertility rite. No sooner was she obscured by the fabric than some mischance— perhaps an unseen broken bottle, or some other sharp thing, caused the actor to yelp aloud and throw off his costume, to reveal a dash of his blood on the ground.
Well, Davey lost sight of them shortly afterwards, but now Artemisia was firmly centred in his thoughts. I won’t say he fell in love with her at once, but he was certainly stocked with fuel enough for the effort— and love, being a fall unlike any other, burning energy in the falling, requires as much fuel as a man can muster. Davey had some high notions of what love ought to be— what his own was worth, and what return he expected for it; and although he was new in town, the fame of these opinions preceded him. He had raised enough hopes, and blighted them again, for his name to have spread through the county, and though it might be easy, at a casual glance, to put him down as a common-or-garden heartbreaker, merely careless of his affections, the truth was rather more galling to his jilted lovers. He was, in fact, extremely exacting, and demanded such deep emotion that he had no qualms about casting off any woman who proved too shallow. Once, he had even gone so far as to turn down a fiancée at the very altar, on realising that she would never do. Well, you may imagine that these tales of his conquests merely made him the more desirable, as it seems that only the very worst reputations fail to flatter a man, if he is handsome enough.
So as I say, he was on the lookout for love, and was ready to make the attempt should it show itself— which, indeed, it appeared to do in the person of Artemisia Parnell.
That evening he made a point of drinking at the Red Ship inn; but since the landlord and his wife did not appear, he was disappointed of a second look at the captivating lady. Nevertheless, he was fully determined to catch another glimpse of her, and to that end propped himself up at the bar every ensuing night that week. On the bank-holiday Monday, Tom Parnell was there, talking loudly and jovially, swaggering from one pump to the next to serve his customers— but Artemisia was absent, and remained so. Davey saw the husband on each subsequent visit, and even exchanged a few muttered words with him, but the wife was never seen, and this (as he discovered from another punter) was quite usual: although the couple lived above the premises, she never came down, and was a rare sight out of doors altogether.
To Davey’s mind, the fact lent credence to the notion that she was incarcerated in the domestic rooms upstairs, and his suspicions were confirmed by Tom Parnell’s attitude when his spouse was mentioned. The landlord, a true inspiration to his guests, drank prodigiously, and as he did so, the sound of his voice grew more and more imposing, so that there was no ignoring what he had to say in his own place. On one occasion, Davey watched as a regular nudged a companion, and wryly asked the merry host how his wife was doing? The very mention of her sent Tom into a rage, and Davey soon heard for himself a sample of those dreadful threats that had become so famous about the town: ‘If any man, ever, lays so much as a fingertip upon her,’ he roared, without reference to the question he had been asked, ‘I’ll throttle him! I’ll tear him apart!’
This pronouncement was so familiar to the locals that it was always greeted with an amused cheer— presumably to commend his folly, rather than condone his words— and such encouragement would lead the man on from his first to the whole series of his curses— that if she ever left him, he would find her, wherever she went; that no man could love her like he did, and he would prove it to them with his fists, and so on and on. From all this, Davey reasonably concluded that keeping his wife a prisoner in her own home was quite within the tyrant’s range; therefore he became more and more impatient, and anxious for her safety, as he made what enquiries he could without rousing the suspicions of her terrible husband.
By the next weekend, however, he knew nothing more of Artemisia than her sorry plight, and besides had no clue how to dodge her keeper and introduce himself. Consequently he felt very glum, and sat in a secluded corner of the Red Ship’s saloon with a half-finished pint and a heavy frown. As the gruff tones of Tom Parnell’s voice rolled into earshot he would sigh, and in pity of Artemisia speak her name quietly. He was startled out of this reverie, however, by another voice, nearer by, which said to him interestedly: ‘So you’re the man, then!’
He turned, surprised, to look at the person who had addressed him. She was just sitting down at the next table, and in passing had heard the name he uttered. Her face was rather lined and past its best, though she was only some decade or so older than Davey, but in spite of it he traced in her features a faint similarity to those of Artemisia— so he immediately asked what she meant.
‘Well, you are new in town, aren’t you? You were at the festival last Saturday?’ she replied, archly. He hurriedly answered yes to all this. ‘And you have taken to drinking here every night— I’ve noticed that for myself. So I suppose, from your sighing, you must be him.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he pressed. ‘What do you gather from me sighing?’
‘Sighing all week, my love— I’ve heard you, loud enough. And my poor Artemisia’s been sighing just as sadly.’
‘Your Artemisia!’ Davey exclaimed, instantly moving to her table and drawing the chair in close. ‘You know her, then?’
‘Better than anybody— she’s my only niece— and I’m her only family. Apart from him.’ She nodded sideways towards the large figure behind the bar.
Davey followed her glance for a moment with a furtive scowl, before pursuing breathlessly: ‘And he makes her miserable— that’s why she sighs?’
‘Oh! No doubt about that, my love— who could be happy with him? She’s been wretched from the day she was married. But you don’t imagine she’s spent the last three years sighing her heart out every day, do you? A little of that is very wearing. No, the sighs have only started up again this week.’
‘Because—’ his mouth was dry— ‘because she saw someone at the festival— a man?’ He scrutinised her face with intense hope.
‘You’ve a fine opinion of yourself!’ she chuckled. ‘But after all, why not, since you’re right? She did see someone— across a crowd— very fleeting it was, she says— but she’s had no peace since.’
‘She saw me,’ he urged excitedly, clutching the aunt’s be-bangled wrist. ‘She saw me, and can’t forget me— I know it, because I’m the same: I haven’t stopped thinking of her.’
‘No? You’ve nothing better to do?’ she asked, with a raised eyebrow.
‘I can’t concentrate on anything else,’ he complained, ‘and there’s only one way to resolve it— I must see her again.’
‘Must you!’
‘Yes— and you must help me.’
‘Must I! My, my, you’re a pushy boy!’
‘I’ve asked around for a way to meet her, but they say she hardly ever goes out, and no-one visits her—’
‘I do,’ she interjected.
‘That’s why you have to help! Help her, if not me— you say she’s been unhappy for years, so don’t you want to change that? I can do it— I’ll make her smile again.’
‘Help her!’ she laughed, by way of reply. ‘Help you, you mean! It’s no help to a sadly-married woman to be introduced to a handsome young man— you can only make her regret what she hasn’t got, and resent what she has.’
‘Surely she resents her husband already,’ he argued, ‘and if she noticed me, and thinks of me, she must regret that she has no freedom— so I can hardly harm her.’
‘How do I know that?’ protested the aunt, turning away slightly. ‘How do I know what your intentions are? How do I even know if you’re the man Artemisia’s been pining about?’
He seized her arm again. ‘You don’t know— only she can tell whether I’m the one, by seeing me again. If she takes one more look at me, that’ll decide it: if I’m the man, you can tell her h
ow I feel— if not, I’ll never bother you or her again.’
The aunt was dubious, which increased his agitation.
‘Maybe you don’t want to help her, though,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe you side with him.’ —another surly gesture towards the bar.
‘Don’t make me angry!’ she chided, in return. ‘I would never take his part! I’m only civil to him so that he’ll let me see her. If I was able to speak my mind— well— one day I may have my say. But as it stands, I must keep him peaceful, for her sake, and that makes it tricky.’
‘But not impossible, surely?’ he probed, reassured of her allegiance. ‘Is there no chance I can reach her?’
‘Judge for yourself. There are two ways to get to the apartment upstairs— one is through that door behind the bar, and to pass that, you must pass Tom, or one of his cronies. The second is through the street door, and guess who has the key, and keeps it locked? The lord and master of all he surveys, over there. So that’s it.’
‘Can’t she look out of a window?’ Davey tried, exasperated. ‘All she needs is to see my face— when she knows me, she’ll have hope, and then we’ll find a way.’
‘That’s very sweet,’ she observed dryly, ‘but it happens that the rooms overlooking the street are let out. Her windows open seaward.’
This
The Sleight of Heart: a modern folk tale Page 2