Amber looked at him with disgust. "Devil take him!" she muttered. "The blasted old fool! There's trouble enough without that caterwauling!"
And then one night, at the end of July, she heard another and far more terrible cry. There came a rumbling of cartwheels over the cobblestones, the sound of a hand-bell, and a man's deep voice calling: "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!"
She looked swiftly at Spong, for Bruce was asleep, and then she rushed to the window. Spong waddled after her, crowding up close. Below they saw a cart, moving slowly, one man in the driver's seat and another ringing the hand-bell and walking beside it. In the light from the torch carried by a third they could see that the cart was half-filled with bodies, piled indiscriminately, flung one on top of another. Arms and legs stuck out at weird angles; one corpse hung over the side, her long hair pouring half-way to the ground.
"Holy Virgin Mary!" breathed Amber, and then she turned away with a shudder, sick at her stomach, cold and wet.
Spong's teeth were chattering. "Oh, Jesu! To be dumped in like that, helter-skelter, with every Jack Noakes and Tom Styles! Oh, Lud! It's more than flesh can bear!"
"Stop your blubbering!" muttered Amber impatiently. "There's nothing the matter with you!"
"Aye, mam," agreed Spong gloomily. "There's nothin' the matter with either of us today. But who's to tell? Tomorrow we may both be—"
"Shut up, will you!" cried Amber suddenly, whirling around, and then, as the old woman gave a startled jump, she added crossly, somewhat ashamed of her nervous ill-temper: "You're as melancholy as a bawd in Bridewell. Why don't you go out in the kitchen and get a bottle to drink?"
Spong went, gratefully, but Amber could not push the picture of the dead-cart from her mind. The sick men and women she had seen, the dead bodies in the streets, the constant tolling of the bells, the stench from the graves, the city's unnatural quiet, the news (given by the guard) that two thousand had died of plague that past week—the cumulative effect of those things were beginning to overpower her. She had held off fear and despair during the time that Bruce had been most hopelessly sick, for then she had not had time to think. But now a kind of superstitious dread was beginning to work in her mind.
Why should I still be well and alive when all these others are dying? What have I done to deserve to live if they must die? And she knew that she deserved life no more than anyone else.
Fear was as contagious as the plague, and it spread as the plague spread. The well expected to be sick; hope of escape was small. Death was everywhere now. You might inhale it with a breath; you might take it up with a bundle of food; you might pass it in the street and bring it walking home beside you. Death was democratic. It made no choice between the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the young and the old.
One morning in mid-August Bruce told her that he thought they would be able to leave London within another fortnight. She was spreading up his bed, and though she answered him as casually as she could she had been worrying about it for some time.
"No one is allowed to leave the city now, whether they have a certificate-of-health or not."
"We'll go anyway. I've been thinking about it and I believe I know a way we can get out."
"There's nothing I'd like more. This city—God, it's a nightmare!" She changed the subject quickly, smiling at him. "How would you like a shave? I'm a mighty good barber—"
Bruce ran his hand across the five-weeks growth of beard on his chin. "I'd like it. I feel like a fishmonger."
She went out to the kitchen for a basin of warm water and found Spong sitting morosely, a half-eaten bowl of soup in her lap. "Well!" said Amber merrily. "Don't tell me that you've got enough to eat at last!" She swung the crane out from the fire and poured some water into the pewter basin, testing it with her finger.
Spong gave a heavy discouraged sigh. "Lord, mam. Seems like I'm off the hooks today. Don't feel so good."
Amber straightened, looking at her sharply. If that old bawd's going to be sick now, she thought, I'll put her out in a trice and the parish-clerk be damned!
But she was eager to get back to Bruce and returned to the bedroom where she laid her implements on a table, wrapped a great white linen towel about his chest, and sat down beside him. Both of them enjoyed the operation, and were much amused by it. Amber felt a deep current of joy running through her and once, as she leaned close to him, she saw his eyes on her breasts. Her heart gave a beat and she was aware of a slow creeping warmth.
"You must be feeling much better," she said softly.
"Well, enough," he agreed, "to wish I felt much better than I do."
When at last his face was clean again, but for the mustache he had always worn and which she left, it was easy to see how sick he had been, and how sick he still was. The smooth brown colour of his skin, habitually tanned before, had faded to a light pallor, his cheeks were lean and drawn and new faint lines showed at his eyes and mouth; all his body was much thinner. But to Amber he seemed as handsome as ever.
She began to pick up after herself, dumping the water out the window, gathering towels and scissors and razor. "In a few days," she said, "I think you can have a bath."
"God, I hope so! I must stink like Bedlam!"
He lay down then and presently fell asleep, for he was still so weak that a very small exertion was fatiguing. Amber took up her hood, locked the bedroom door so that Spong could not go in during her absence, and went out through the kitchen. The old woman was wandering aimlessly, a stupid staring look in her eyes. She reminded Amber of the long-snouted rats which sometimes came out of their holes and stood dazedly, or squeaked with distraction when she went after them with a broom, sick creatures with patches of fur fallen out of their blue-black coats.
"Are you feeling worse?" Amber was tying on her hood, watching the nurse in the mirror.
Spong answered her with a whine. "Not much, mam. But don't it seem cold in here to you?"
"No, it doesn't. It's hot. But go sit by the fire in the kitchen."
Amber was annoyed, thinking that if Spong was sick she would have to throw away all the food she had in the house and fumigate the rooms. And she felt, as she had not when Bruce was sick, resentful on her own behalf, afraid that she would be exposed herself. When I get back, she thought, if she's worse I'll tell her to leave.
Spong met Amber at the door as she came in. She was winding her hands in her skirt and her expression was worried and depressed, almost comically self-pitying. "Lud, mam," she began immediately, whining again, "I'm feelin' mighty bad."
Amber looked at her, her eyes narrowed. Spong's face was red, her eyes blood-shot, and as she talked it was possible to see that her tongue was heavily coated with a white fuzz, the tip and edges bright red. It's plague, right enough, thought Amber, and turned away so as not to get the woman's breath in her face. She put the basket onto a table and began to unpack the food, transferring it immediately to the food-hutch so that Spong could not touch it.
"If you want to leave," said Amber, as casually as she could, "I'll give you five pound."
"Leave, mam? Where could I go? I got no place to go, mam. And how can I leave? I'm the nurse." She leaned heavily against the wall. "Oh, Lord! I never felt like this before."
Amber swung around. "Of course you haven't! And you know why—you've got the plague! Oh, there's no use pretending you haven't it, is there? It won't make you well again. Look here, Mrs. Spong, if you'll leave and go to a pest-house I'll give you ten pound. You'll be taken care of there. But I warn you, if you stay here I won't raise a hand to help you. I'll get the money now—wait here."
She started out of the room, but Spong stopped her.
"It's no use, mam. I won't go to a pest-house. Lord, I've got no mind to die if I can help it. A body might as well go to a burial-pit as the pest-house. You're a cruel-hearted woman, to want to turn a poor sick old lady out of your house after she helped you nurse his Lordship back to life. You ain't a Christian, mam—" She shook her head we
arily.
Amber gave her a glare, full of disgust and hatred. But she had already decided that when night came she would force the old woman out if she had to do it at the point of a knife. Now, it was only two o'clock, and time to prepare another light meal for Bruce. Spong wandered back into the parlour, uninterested in food for once, and Amber began to set his tray.
As she carried it into the bedroom she passed Spong who lay on a couch before the long range of windows, mumbling beneath her breath and shivering convulsively. She reached out a hand to her. "Mam—I'm sick. Please, mam—"
Amber went by her without a glance, her jaw muscles setting, and took the key from her apron to unlock the bedroom door. The old woman started to get up and in a sudden panic of terror Amber rattled the key, flung the door open and rushed inside, slamming it again and turning the lock swiftly. She heard Spong collapse back onto the couch, whining some unintelligible words.
Amber blew a sigh of relief, thoroughly scared, for she had heard the tales of those sick from plague who roamed the streets, grabbing others into their arms and kissing them. She looked over to find Bruce propped upon his elbow, watching her with a strange expression of puzzlement and suspicion. "What's the matter?"
"Oh. It's nothing." She gave him a quick smile and came forward with the tray. She did not want him to know that Spong was sick, for she was afraid that it would worry him, and he was not strong enough for worry or any other exhausting emotion. "Spong's drunk again, and I thought she was going to come in here and trouble you." She was setting down the dishes and now she gave a nervous little laugh. "Listen to her! She's drunk as David's sow!"
He did not say anything more, but Amber thought that he had guessed it was not drunkenness but the plague. She ate with him but neither of them talked very much or with any gaiety, and Amber was relieved when he fell asleep again. But she dared not go out and stayed there, occupied with changing his bandage and cleaning the room—her ears were constantly alert for sounds from the parlour, and again and again she tiptoed to the door to listen.
She could hear her moving restlessly about, groaning, calling for her, and at last, late in the afternoon, she heard a heavy thud and knew that she had fallen to the floor. By her cursing she was evidently struggling to get up again but could not do so. Amber felt discouraged and frightened and she watched Bruce constantly, but he was sleeping soundly.
What can I do? How can I get her out? she thought. Oh, damn her, the filthy old fustiluggs!
She stood looking out at a bright setting sun that lighted the trees with red and orange patches and struck a window-pane down the street so that it gave back a blinding reflection. Then, rather slowly, she began to be conscious of a strange new sound and for a few moments she listened curiously, wondering what it was and where it came from. She realized, finally, that it was coming from the other room. It was a sort of bubbling rattle. As she listened it stopped and then, just when she had begun to think her own imagination was playing tricks, it began again. It filled her with pure terror, for it was an evil eerie sound, but she was impelled almost against her will to cross the room and—very softly—turn the lock and open the door, just a crack, to look out.
Mrs. Spong lay on her back on the floor, arms and legs flung wide. Her mouth was open and a thick bloody mucus poured out of it, bubbling from her nose as she breathed, coming out in a gush with each collapsing rattle of her throat muscles. Amber stared, chill with horror, stiff and motionless. Then she closed the door again, more loudly than she had intended, and sank back against it. The sound evidently attracted Spong's attention for Amber heard a choked, gurgling noise as though the old woman was trying to call her—and with a whimper of terror she rushed into the nursery, her hands over her ears, and banged the door.
It was several minutes before she could force herself to return to the bedroom. There she found that Bruce was awake. "I wondered where you were. Where's Spong? Is she worse?"
The room had darkened and as yet she had lighted no candles, so that he could not see her face. She waited for a moment, listening, but as she heard no sound she decided that the nurse must be dead. "Spong's gone," she said, trying to sound unconcerned. "I sent her away—she went to a pest-house." She picked up a candle. "I'll light this from the kitchen-fire."
In the semi-darkness of the parlour she could see the bulk of Spong's body but she went by without stopping, lighted the candle, and then returned. Spong was dead.
Amber picked up her skirts with an automatic gesture of revulsion, and walked back into the bedroom to light the candles. Her face was white and she had an intense desire to vomit, but she went about her tasks, determined that Bruce should not guess. And yet she could feel him watching her and she dared not meet his eyes, for if he should speak she felt that she could not trust herself. She seemed to be hanging on the ragged edge of hysteria but knew that she must keep herself in control, for when the dead-cart came by she would have to get the woman down the stairs and outside.
A pale velvety blueness still lingered in streaks in the sky when she heard the first call, from a distance: "Bring out your dead!"
Amber stiffened, like an animal listening, and then she seized a pewter candle-holder. "I'll get your supper ready," she said, and before he could speak she went out of the room.
Without looking at Spong she set the candle on a table and went to open the doors leading through the ante-room. The call came again, nearer now. She paused there a moment and then with sudden violent resolution she came back, flung up her skirts, unfastened her petticoat and stepped out of it. Wrapping it about her hands she bent and took hold of Spong by her thick swollen ankles, and slowly she began to drag her toward the door. The old woman's wig came off and her flesh slid and squeaked over the bare floor.
By the time Amber reached the head of the stairs she was sick and wet with sweat and her ears were ringing. She reached backward with one foot for the step, found it and sought the next; it was perfectly dark in the stair-well but she could hear the nurse's skull thump on each carpeted stair. She reached the bottom at last and knocked at the door. The guard opened it
"The nurse is dead," she said faintly. Her face looked out at him, white as chalk in the twilight, and the linen petticoat trailed from one hand.
There was the sound of the dead-cart rattling over the cobblestones, the clop-clop of the horses' hoofs, and then the unexpected cry: "Faggots! Faggots for six-pence!"
It seemed strange to her that anyone should be selling faggots in this weather, and at this hour. But at that moment the dead-cart drew up before the house. A link-man came first, carrying his smoky torch, and he was followed by the dead-cart, beside which walked a man ringing a bell and chanting: "Bring out your dead!" In the driver's seat sat another man, and now Amber saw he was holding the naked corpse of a little boy, no more than three years old, by the legs.
It was he who shouted, "Faggots for six-pence!"
While Amber stared at him with incredulous horror he turned, flung the child back into the cart, and climbed down. He and the bell-man started forward to get Spong.
"Now," he said, grinning at Amber, "what've we got here?"
Both men bent over to pick Spong up. Suddenly he seized the bodice of her gown and ripped it down the front, exposing the old woman's gross and flabby body. From neck to thighs she was covered with small blue-circled spots—the plague tokens. He made a noise of disgust, hawked up a glob of saliva and spat it onto the corpse.
"Bah!" he muttered. "What a firkin of foul stuff she is!"
Neither of the other men seemed surprised at his behaviour; they paid him no attention at all, and obviously were accustomed to it. Now they picked Spong up, gave a heave and dumped her into the cart. The link-man started on, the bellman took up his bell again, and the driver climbed back into his seat. From there he turned and surveyed Amber.
"Tomorrow night we'll come back for you. And I doubt not you'll make a finer corpse than that stinking old whore."
Amber slammed the door
shut and started slowly up the stairs, so weak and sick that she had to hold onto the railing as she went.
She entered the kitchen and began the preparation of Bruce's supper, thinking that as soon as that was done she must take hot water and a mop and clean the parlour floor. For the first time she felt resentful that there was so much work to do, such an endless number of tasks reaching before her. She wished only that she might lie down and sleep and wake up some place far away. All at once responsibility seemed an unbearable burden.
And the driver of the dead-cart was still with her. She could not get rid of him, no matter what she tried to think of. It did not seem that she was there in the kitchen, but still downstairs, standing in the doorway watching him—but it was not Spong whose gown he tore open, and it was not Spong he thrust into the dead-cart. It was herself.
Holy Jesus! she thought wildly. I think I'm stark raving mad! Another day and I'll be ready for Bedlam!
As she went about her work, mixing the syllabub, setting the tray, her movements were slow and clumsy and finally she dropped an egg onto the floor. She scowled wearily but took a cloth and bent to wipe it up, and as she did so there was a sudden splitting pain in her forehead and she was seized by a swirl of dizziness. She straightened again, slowly, and to her amazement she staggered and might have fallen but that she grabbed the side of a table to brace herself.
For a moment she stood and stared at the floor, and then she turned and walked into the parlour. No, she thought, shoving away the idea that had suddenly come to her. It can't be that. Of course it can't—
She took the candle-holder, carried it to the little writing-table and set it there. Then she placed the palms of her hands flat onto the table-top and leaned forward to look at herself in the small round gilt mirror which hung on the wall. The candle-flame cast stark shadows up onto her face. It showed the deep hollows beneath her eyes, flung pointed reflections of her lashes up onto her lids, heightened the wide staring horror of her eyes. At last she put out her tongue. It was coated with a yellowish fur but the tip and edges were clean and shiny, unnaturally pink. Her eyes closed and the room seemed to sway and rock.
Forever Amber Page 57