The Dandelion Seed

by Lena Kennedy

  Merlin still pottered about. He had a sort of glass observatory upstairs but came down often to tell Abe of the amazing happenings going on in the heavens. But Abe scarcely listened. Both of them were missing Annabelle. Her gay bright serene presence had ruled them for so long that they were lost without her. At the moment she was on a tour of the royal houses of the kingdom with the Duchess Frances and her weak mamby pamby husband, the Duke of Somerset, the King’s favourite. They had been away for several weeks now.

  This very cold evening as Abe coughed over the fire, Merlin left his cold attic and crept down to crouch beside him at the fireside. The veins on his long thin hands stood out like little blue hillocks, and he rubbed his hands together as he stared thoughtfully into the fire.

  Watching him, Abe wondered, as he often did, what he did to his hands. The backs of them had a score or more of small pia pricks as though he plunged needles into himself. He could have been such a clever doctor, Abe thought, he had been given the education. It was such a pity that Merlin had lost his wits when he did. Abe’s thoughts went back to those ten years he and Merlin had shared. He supposed he should be jealous of Merlin, really, since he had been originally his wife’s lover. It was strange how time heals everything. Annabelle loved neither of them now. Many lovers had replaced them, though the chief one was her passion for her mistress Frances. Now, as the only two lonely inhabitants of this gloomy empty house, Abe and Merlin seemed to grow closer. Tonight it seemed that Merlin wanted to confide in Abe about something.

  Merlin’s hair hung untidily over his head. It was stained in many colours, as he was forever absent-mindedly wiping his hands over his head after some experiment. His eyes were very bright, as usual, as he looked at Abe, and in a jerky tone of voice he announced: ‘I’ve discovered the reason for it.’

  Abe, had recently acquired a taste for smoking, a new habit that was all the rage, though rather expensive. He now puffed on the clay pipe which was almost his one interest these days.

  ‘That will kill you,’ said Merlin, gazing at Abe reflectively.

  ‘A pleasant way to die,’ replied Abe, puffing more vigorously.

  ‘Rots the lungs,’ said Merlin, then he went very silent again. He scratched his long hair and put his hands on his thin ankles. He always liked to sit in this awkward position like a monkey.

  ‘Want some ale?’ asked Abe.

  Merlin shook his head. ‘No, I want to go out into the city. You will come with me, Abe. My memory fails me and I might not remember the way.’

  Abe stared at him aghast. ‘You know I can’t do that, Merlin, I promised Annabelle to look after you.’

  ‘We will return. It is important to find Mr Harvey. He is at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.’

  Abe shook his head. ‘No chance, sorry, mate.’ He was adamant. He could not let Merlin loose in the streets.

  When they had first come to London, Merlin had escaped and pinched a little puppy. He had run back to the house with angry Londoners chasing after him. Those same citizens had lingered outside the house for days, throwing stones and calling for the mad man to come out. No thanks! Abe was not going to let Merlin out of his sight any more until Annabelle came home.

  Merlin came closer, his hot breath fanning Abe’s face. He seemed very excited tonight. Abe looked at him with a worried expression in his eyes. He hoped that Merlin would not get violent, as he used to, because he was sure that he had not the strength to manage him now.

  ‘Listen, Abe, it’s nearly over for us,’ said Merlin. ‘A planet is travelling to earth. It will soon be over. The world will end.’

  ‘Well, what you worrying over?’ said Abe stoically. ‘If it ends, it ends.’

  ‘No, it must be written down, the knowledge I have. There may still be time. I want to see Harvey.’

  Realising how earnest Merlin was, Abe relented. ‘All right, I’ll go to the hospital for you in the morning. I don’t promise that Harvey will come. He might have forgotten you by now, you know.’

  Merlin immediately relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and write a letter.’

  Abe sat up late, still puffing his pipe and thinking of what Merlin had been talking about. He could not make head or tail of it, but he would take the letter to Dr Harvey at St Bartholomews’s Hospital in the morning. It was a terrible place, that hospital, where all the sick and needy gathered. But this poor creature Merlin, as mad as he was now, had once been one of its most brilliant medical students and Dr Harvey had been his mentor. He puffed at his pipe thinking of Merlin’s words. ‘It’s all in a circle. It goes round and round, just like the world.’

  Abe was confused. Whatever had he meant?

  True to his word, Abe took the letter, which was written in Latin, to the hospital to be given to Dr Harvey. Within days, three very distinguished looking men were secreted upstairs by Merlin. Then towards evening they emerged looking rather pleased with themselves. They took with them a large sheaf of parchment and talked together earnestly as they entered their carriage.

  Abe went upstairs to see if Merlin was all right, and found him fast asleep on his little trestle bed, flat on his back like a contented baby.

  Merlin had handed over the information about the circulation of the blood, the greatest discovery of the age, to his old master.

  12

  The Predicament of Chalky

  Chalky was in his element, and very pleased with his latest accomplishments. Out in the courtyard under two glowing candle lamps and the silvery moonlight, Katy served the satisfied customers with wooden bowls filled with jellied eels or some other tasty fish. All the while Chalky was trotting in and out. ‘Nice plate of lobster with your ale, sir?’ he would enquire. ‘It goes down lovely, it does.’ And so he touted for more trade, with one eye on Katy and the amorous gentlemen who hung about the stall half-drunk. A real businessman was Chalky.

  Katy’s hair was piled high and held in place with jewelled combs. She sold the fishy goods laughing and giggling as the male customers reached forward trying to catch a look down the low neck of her blouse.

  Then every night shortly after closing, Chalky and Katy would go off to the day bed in the sitting room to make love before Katy’s big brother came to collect her and find them at it.

  It was a very profitable, exciting life for Chalky, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. There was only one faint shadow on his horizon, and that was poor old Betsy upstairs. So far her legs had not improved, and the apothecary was not too hopeful about her overall condition. The apothecary was a dried-up little man who was much better at attending horses than humans. He had taken off the heavy splints from Betsy’s legs and found that she was still in great pain and her legs still quite stiff. In fact, she could not move her knees at all.

  ‘Made a fine bloody mess of her legs,’ complained Chalky to the apothecary. ‘I’ve a good mind not to pay you.’

  ‘It will take a bit of time, these jobs always do,’ replied the apothecary.

  ‘She can’t stay in bed for bloody ever,’ moaned Chalky. ‘She can’t even get downstairs, and we’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘Don’t let her eat and drink so much,’ returned the apothecary. ‘She might be able to keep her balance if she were not so fat.’

  ‘Get out!’ said Chalky, putting his money back into his pocket. ‘Get back to them poor bloody horses. Starve the poor cow? Blimey, even horses have to have their oats.’ So with his homespun philosophy, Chalky chased the apothecary out of his house and saved himself a lot of expense. From then on he tended Betsy himself.

  Chalky was genuinely sorry for Betsy, and was most sympathetic and kind. ‘Poor cow,’ he would say as he helped her on and off the commode. Betsy had really become very fat during her illness. The rich food she ate and the sweet wine she was so fond of, all helped to increase her weight. Under her tousled mass of blonde hair, her face was as white as death. She reminded Chalky of a big white cabbage slug when she tried with desperate slowness to get around her room on her two
very stiff legs.

  Occasionally, Betsy lifted her stained nightdress, smelling of wine and body odour, and said, ‘Come and cuddle me like you used to, Chalky.’

  Chalky would look at her horrified but then he would say in a kind voice: ‘All right, won’t be a tick. Just got a job to do first.’ Then he would dart, like a rabbit to its burrow, downstairs to mix up a drink of poppy seeds and wine which would put Betsy out like a light.

  It certainly was not much of an existence for poor Betsy, but what could he do about it? After all, he thought, she would have done the dirty on him if he had allowed it and besides, they did knock off his old man, she and that daft brother of hers. So Chalky went on his busy way consoling his conscience and planning his wedding which, according to Katy, was to be a rather big affair.

  ‘Can’t we just pop over to the parson and get signed up, Katy?’ Chalky pleaded.

  ‘Not on your sweet life,’ replied Katy. ‘We always have a big do. I’ve got a big family, I have.’

  ‘Gor blimey!’ exclaimed Chalky, but then shrugged his shoulders. It was not worth arguing about, and anything for a quiet life. Besides, she was a smashing bit of goods, was his Katy.

  The days passed and soon it was springtime. The evenings got longer and Betsy managed to pull herself to the window and disconsolately look down the road. The first time Betsy saw Katy at the stall she was so incensed that she nearly toppled out of the window. ‘Chalky!’ she screamed and banged on the floor with a stick.

  Chalky came running from the cellar, red faced and perspiring. ‘Gawd, what’s up, Betsy? I thought you’d done it in the bed.’

  Betsy pointed out of the window at Katy down at the stall. ‘Who’s that?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s the new barmaid. I got to have a girl about, you know. The gentlemen come in when they see a pretty girl; it’s good for business.’

  Betsy stared out of the window suspiciously. ‘I don’t like the look of her. She looks like a whore to me.’

  Chalky breathed a sigh and looked sorry for himself. ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll send her away. Here I am, slaving me fingers to the bone to keep this bloody place running and what thanks do I get?’

  Betsy looked affectionately at him and then relented. ‘Let her alone, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll watch her and see what she gets up to.’

  So it was that part of Betsy’s day was spent sitting at the window keeping an eye on Katy and occasionally shouting out at her. Sometimes Katy and Betsy would hiss and spit at each other much to the amusement of the gentlemen customers who loved to see two women fighting.

  It was on one of these afternoons when Betsy was stationed in her usual spot at the window that she saw Marcelle. She spied the little figure walking slowly towards the inn, her head bent, a black shawl about her shoulders, and she could hear the clip-clop of the little wooden clogs as she walked. The sight of Marcelle’s tired-looking figure, brought back memories of the day she and Rolly had walked out of London to avoid the plague. The little figure drew near the inn and just stood looking so forlorn and bewildered at the window from where Betsy watched. The nut-brown hair shone in the sun, the head hung a little to one side. But Betsy recognised her. ‘Marci! It’s little Marci!’ Her shrill voice rang out. ‘Marci, look up! It’s me, Betsy!’

  But the sound of Betsy’s voice had terrified the little figure so much that she turned and trotted off in the direction of London.

  Betsy was astounded. She yelled and rattled at the window, shouting for Chalky, to come up as she watched Marcelle disappear into the distance.

  Exhausted, Betsy plonked herself into a chair. ‘Damn me, if that wasn’t little Marcelle,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m sure of it, and she looked so sad. Blast these bloody legs of mine. Why could I not go down to her?’ Then she started to cry, blubbering like a child and all the while pouring herself drinks until she dropped into a befuddled sleep.

  Returning from a visit to his future father-in-law that evening, Chalky helped Betsy into bed. ‘There’s a bloke down in the bar asked for you, Betsy,’ he said. ‘He won’t tell me his business and it’s the second time he’s been here.’

  ‘What’d he look like?’ Betsy felt scared, for you never knew when your past might creep up on you.

  ‘He looks like a toff. He’s a sort of a parson in a dark grey suit with an old-fashioned ruff.’

  ‘Better let him come up,’ said Betsy. ‘It might be the bailiff from Brook House. They own all the land around here.’

  ‘No, it ain’t him. I knows him,’ argued Chalky.

  ‘Well, for Christ’s sake, send him up,’ retorted Betsy. ‘If I am going to see him at all, I’d rather get it over with.’

  The neat tidy little man sniffed and coughed a bit as he entered Betsy’s bedroom. He was the rather fastidious Mr Spenser the Clerk from the Inns of Court. He had been to the inn many times to try and deliver this letter from his client, Thomas Mayhew, who was currently in the New Colony. ‘To Miss Betsy, surname unknown, who resides at the Duke’s Head Inn in Hackney.’ At last he had accomplished his task. The sight of this poor creature who was obviously bedridden and slightly drunk was very disturbing, but he was fairly used to handling these unhappy matters, and he just had to get it over quickly. The smell in the room was vile, but with a brisk little bow he handed the big parchment to Betsy.

  She sat in bed looking at the misive, her eyes wide with astonishment. After a moment, she looked away. ‘I can’t read,’ she whispered in embarrassment.

  ‘In that case, madam, it will be my pleasure to read it for you,’ Mr Spenser said kindly. He closed the door so that Chalky, hiding in the corridor, had to move forward and press his ear to the key hole in order to hear.

  Taking up a dramatic pose that might have done credit to Will Shakespeare’s players, Mr Spenser started to read aloud:

  Dear Madam,

  You will no doubt recall the night I called at the Duke’s Head more than two years ago, and took Marcelle away with me. She has since done me the honour to be my wife.

  However, it is of more intimate things I write to you. I bring you good news of your brother Rolly whom, no doubt, you have given up for dead. He is alive and well and serves me in the most devoted manner, having been pressed to sea and being fortunate enough to end up on board my ship sailing for the New World. He sends his regards and tells me he will bring home rich presents.

  When, and if, you get my letter it will be a long time ahead, as news is hard to transfer, but he will return safe, I do assure you.

  Best wishes.

  From Thomas Mayhew and

  your loving brother, Rolly

  Betsy’s pallid face glowed red for a minute and she was too overcome to speak. Out in the corridor Chalky was feeling shocked too, but felt better when he heard the bit about the New World. Not many returned from there, he thought.

  Betsy called out to him: ‘Come in, Chalky, something wonderful has happened. Rolly is alive! Oh, thank God, my little Rolly’s coming home again.’

  Chalky came in and made the appropriate delighted noises while he buzzed about getting a chair and a glass of ale for Mr Spenser.

  Betsy stared at Thomas’ letter in wonder. All those lovely signs, strange signs which had brought her such happiness.

  ‘I can’t write back, but can I send a message . . .’ Betsy looked hopefully at Mr Spenser.

  ‘I will call tomorrow when you have had time to think what you want to say, and then write a return letter for you,’ Mr Spenser promised. He left hurriedly without finishing his drink. The smell in Betsy’s room had become too overpowering.

  After he had gone, Betsy lay back and dreamed of Rolly as a swashbuckling hero coming home from the sea and bringing caskets of gold and jewels to lay at her feet. Poor Betsy was happier than she had been for a long time.

  As she lay there, her thoughts settled on Marcelle. Did not Thomas say that she was his wife? If so, then it could not have been Marcelle she had seen, after all. She would not have
been tramping the road if she were married to Thomas. He was a squire to royalty. No, it could not have been Marci, even though that woman had looked much like her. She would not bother to mention the incident in her return letter. But what could she mention? She lay turning over in her mind what she would say. It was an important event to send a letter, and Betsy had never done anything like that before.

  When Mr Spenser came the next day, the whole afternoon disappeared while Betsy chopped and changed her mind about what news to send Rolly and Thomas. However, by the evening the letter had been written and a very fatigued Mr Spenser was eager to go home to his dinner. Betsy, however, wanted Chalky to see this important manuscript and asked if she could hold on to it for one night.

  Anxious to get going, Mr Spenser suggested that he leave the letter behind and that Chalky bring it to his office the next day.

  A beautiful smile crossed Betsy’s bloated features. ‘You don’t mind?’ she said gratefully. ‘I’d like him to read it; he can read, you know,’ she said proudly.

  The busy clerk left at last, pleased to get out in the cool fresh air after the stench of Betsy’s bedroom.