by Alix Nathan
‘Catherine Croft, I believe you have more intelligence and more sense than anyone in the house. Please sit here and listen with care to what I say.
‘I am leaving and do not intend to return. I cannot live in this house and shall close it up shortly when everyone has left. If it falls into ruin that will be a suitable memorial to my life.’
Catherine looked up at Powyss standing by his desk. He’d said that with a kind of pride that riled her.
‘But it is your house, sir, where you were born and brought up. All your things, your beautiful things, your books!’
Powyss felt a ring of pain around the inside of his skull. Too much calm clear-sightedness. It had expanded like hot metal till he wished his head would split and cast its contents into oblivion.
‘I cannot live here!’ His voice was strangely high, contorted.
‘It is right that you should be distressed, sir.’
‘Distressed! I would die if I could. But I don’t deserve such a reward. I must live. Live and repent each day that’s left to me, each minute, each second.
‘I have ruined their lives! Hannah is dead because of me. No, don’t object. Hear me. There can be no argument. There is only one side to the matter and it’s this: I have ruined Warlow’s life. Fox once asked me who it was all for. But the question is what was it all for. I’ll tell you. For idle ambition, for a feeble desire to be acknowledged by those I admire. And I have killed Hannah and her child.’
‘Your child, sir,’ Catherine said quietly.
He looked away.
‘John Warlow it was who did kill her.’
‘I am to blame. He would not have done it otherwise.’
‘He did beat her and the children. Did you know it, Mr Powyss, sir?’
‘That is worthless talk. Now the children are motherless. Warlow was made mad by his existence underground. He has become a deranged creature, and it is I who have made him this!’
‘Mr Powyss, I could…’
‘Ah, you anticipate me. I knew you had more goodness in you than the rest of them. Catherine, will you act as a mother to the Warlow children? The oldest, Margaret, will surely help. Will you do this?’
‘It was my thought.’
‘Price has gone, you can live in his cottage. Of course I understand there might be some unpleasantness for you in that, but I shall arrange for it to be painted, the furniture thrown out and sufficient pieces from this house to be moved in. I shall also arrange a monthly payment to you to cover all that you might need.’
‘Sir, I…’
‘Please do not hesitate! Do it please, for Hannah, if not for me.’
‘I shall.’
‘Thank you, Catherine. And I should like you to know of my other request, though it does not affect you directly.
‘It would be quite wrong to hang or even imprison Warlow. Indeed he should not be tried at all, though no doubt that cannot be avoided. I have written a letter to the magistrate in full explanation, to Valentine Tharpe that is, and left money for a good defence lawyer. I am also leaving money for his care in some suitable refuge. Please will you support my case as far as you are able, to ensure that no harm comes to the man?’
‘I shall. Oh sir, where will you go?’
‘That I need not say.’
There was a pause. In anguish, barely audible, Powyss said: ‘I might have saved her. See this. Samuel returned it to me.’
Catherine read: Hannah, please come. Herbert
‘I wrote it, gave it to Samuel and asked him to deliver it the following morning! Why did I not send it then, immediately! But in any case it should have been written days before, weeks, months before. Finally, when pulled from my sickening lethargy by you, Catherine, I sent it too late. I have failed utterly, utterly. My endeavours were worse than worthless.
‘There’s a Latin phrase. You may not know it. Ratio quique reddenda. It means, each man must give an account of himself. Imagine mine! The very words would turn me to ash.’
‘Oh, sir, you do torment yourself.’
‘There is only torment.’
* * *
—
THE HOUSE WAS IN TURMOIL as Cook, Jenkins, Annie and Samuel rushed about, alternately packing their belongings and complaining. Jenkins was assured of a position, having sent off enquiries regularly for some time. He had to hire a carter to carry the enormous store of sherry which he intended to sell to a vintner in Hereford before arriving in his new post, financially superior to all the other servants there. Samuel sat on his packed box in the blacking room, staring into space, too shocked to chew. His own room. He had nowhere to go. Mrs Rentfree was unsure how angry to be while at the same time struggling in her mind to convert Mr Powyss’s sizable parting purse into bottles of gin. Annie wept continuously, believing rescue could come only through marriage to Samuel, the offer of which was still not forthcoming.
Catherine found a quiet place and a pen and paper. She’d been moved by Powyss, honoured to take up his plan, though it wouldn’t be easy. She thought she owed him more than just her spoken word and as soon as she could she handed him this note:
18 May 1798
Dear Mr Powyss,
I am honoured and grateful, sir, that you have asked me to look after the children of John and Hannah Warlow.
I shall do this as well as I can. I shall see they do go to school, too.
I will also tell the magistrate that you are right about John Warlow.
They do say that God is our only judge. May he protect you.
Please, Mr Powyss, do not despair.
Your faithful servant,
Catherine Croft
The other servants left, the house was locked up, and soon after, Powyss had gone.
PART III
11
IT WERE THE WOMAN. CATHERINE.
He sits bolt up in his bed. Dawn buzzes at the shutters. Shan’t light a candle. Never lights candles.
Her voice it were. Yes! It were her did speak at the table. Must have brought the food. Lot of food. Meat. Her did always bring his food when he lived, when he lived. When he lived in the dark. His place.
Them say it were years afore. But them do say things.
He strokes the cat nesting in the folds of his blanket. Sleeping to his warmth.
Her were kind. Not Mary, no. It were not Mary. Her did die, that he knows. He won’t think of her end, no.
This one. Catherine. Them did get him out of his place (Light! Hit him like an axe! Split his skull in half!). Did get him out. It were his place. Where her used to come. Never wanted to go out. Never wanted to. Catherine’ll bring me my food, I said. He struggles to remember more, but it’s all black. Sometimes figures rush through his mind, rush like bats, right close, nearly touch him, but he beats them away, waves his arms like flails, whack! whack! punches them out of his head.
Now he’s here. This place. Where I lives now. With these people talkin and talkin. Can’t understand them. And rules. Rules to get up in the mornin, go to bed. Can’t sleep in my clothes. Wash! Have to wash. Rules when you eat. Not eat till others be served. Not eat food with my hands. Rules when you do use a hoe, when a rake, a spade. When you stop. Have to think of rules all the time.
And now her’s here again. Come back. That’s good.
He gets out of bed. The cat stirs, purrs, doesn’t open an eye. No fire, not till night. He pours water from the jug into the basin, dips his face in it, rubs his hands over his shaven cheeks and chin, his close-cut hair. Rule. No breakfast unless you’re clean and dressed.
Pulls off the nightshirt, pulls on black breeches, white shirt, waistcoat, black coat. New boots. Used to wear clogs once. Morning light now, but he doesn’t open the shutters. Never opens them.
No bread yet, he’s up too early. Always wakes at dawn. When he feels it’s come. House qu
iet, no one talking. He tiptoes out of his room. Breaking a rule. Hearing’s so good he hears breathing through doors. He’ll hear if someone hears him.
Puts on the spectacles while it’s still dark in the house. Hooks them over his ears. Master in school did wear spectacles. He feels a bit grand.
Will he meet her in the garden? Later, maybe. Will he see her through the dark lenses? Will he know it’s her? What’s her look like? He’s no picture in his head. Once he wanted to. Once he wanted to put his arms round her, once, afore, in the dark. Did he? Yes. Oh he did, yes. That’s how he’ll know it’s her.
He takes a hoe and barrow from the building against the wall. Pushes down the path to the vegetable beds. Waves away birds with his hoe, small birds not crows.
Sometimes he longs for a field, not this garden. For a horse. He can feel sacking at the tips of his fingers. Feel himself take it off the horse’s back, reach down harness, leather straps in brass buckles, coaxing him into the ploughshafts. Breath warm on his hands and face. Smell of hide.
‘Next year, Warlow,’ the master says. Grew he’s called. ‘You’ve done well so far. We’ll see how you do nearer to the house first. Wouldn’t want to be shut in again, would you?’
He hoes among parsnips and leeks, carrots. Earth is dry, hard. Big empty onion bed waiting for barrows of muck from the stable. A few long beans remain. Pea plants are furred with mould.
I’ll give her a handful of beans, he thinks. When I see her. Her’ll like beans.
* * *
—
IT WILL BE A WHILE yet till sunset. The climb is steep up Yarston bank, beyond the Cold Hill ridge, especially hauling hawthorn. Powyss piles branches onto others waiting to be cut, sits on the ground to rest, his back against the wall of the shack, which in any case he’d rather not look at, preferring hills fading into further hills, the enormity of sky diminishing him, diminishing everything.
His father’s ludicrous rustic cottage. When he inherited the estate, he made it doorless and windowless, suitable for sheep. A low stone building with a thatched roof, a fantasy, elaborately curved, now grass-infested, rain-worn, where he sleeps, in a corner roughly cleared of mud and muck. On winter nights he heaves the door back into its frame, fills window gaps with their sentimentally decorative shutters, never intended for use.
He’s been there two winters since fleeing Moreham House, understands now why people measure time in winters. From his childhood on, he always took to the hills when running away from some person, some situation. As he had after Warlow destroyed his rooms, when he and Hannah walked in the garden and, Oh God, let him not remember!
But this is not the same as any of those times, for he’ll never return.
At first he thought to go abroad, but even the briefest reflection told of absurd luxury, the Grand Tour all over again, money, trunks, arrangements, utterly inappropriate. Yet he had to get out, away, couldn’t bear to be in the house. Hastily grabbing clothes, blankets and random scraps from the pantry, the servants having virtually emptied it, he climbed all day, well beyond his usual retreat to the further hill and the sheep shelter.
Soon after his arrival he thought he saw distant smoke rising from the direction of the house. Imagined sounds of riot, the air stirring with hostility. But having brought neither brandy nor the opiate, he’d already begun descent into the predictable horror he’d not troubled to anticipate. How long it lasted he didn’t know, his fob watch not wound. Eventually emerging from hideous visions, he recalled his acknowledgement that the experiment had turned Warlow into an animal, so he, too, should live an animal’s life. Warmed by May sun, mocked by the burgeoning life about him, he tried a little stale food, was sick, but sufficiently recovered to look about, think how to live.
He eked out the last supplies then lived off berries from the whins, plant leaves that didn’t scorch his mouth, unripe cobnuts, spring water, was perpetually famished, weak. In late summer, severe rains, which elsewhere caused rivers to swell and burst, drowned countless animals, swept away bridges and roads, here, high above those disasters, nevertheless soaked him to the skin. He trod an unexpected marsh: foetid slime clothed his feet and legs. Wet sank into his bones. He caught a chill, sweated, shivered, moaned once more.
Suddenly a man appeared. Aaron, Bloor’s shepherd, come to check the sheep after the storms. Stock still, aghast, his dog bounding and yelping until he silenced him with an inarticulate shout.
Both men were astonished.
‘Aaron!’
The man was grievously shy, barely acquainted with speech. He opened his mouth and closed it. Must be Powyss.
‘You must tell no one I’m here, Aaron. Please.’
The man stared, immobile.
‘I’ll pay you to say nothing. I’ve no money with me here, but one day…’ He tailed off. ‘One day I shall. I promise you. Will you promise me to say nothing?’
The shepherd nodded.
‘Tell nobody!’
Nodded, grunted.
‘I shall not return to Moreham, you understand me? The elements will punish me, for I have done much harm. Much harm.’
Aaron considered this. Urgency flashed in his eyes.
‘Winter. Cold.’
‘Of course, yes. But I’ve a roof, look. There’s plenty of wood lower down the hill.’
‘ ’Ow ye cut ’im?’
‘It’s true I’ve only my clasp knife, but I’ll make do with branches I can break myself. And I don’t mind the sheep being here. Do you understand? Only don’t tell Bloor.’
Aaron nodded again. But was still troubled.
‘Eat.’
‘Oh well, maybe I’ll snare a rabbit sometimes,’ Powyss said vaguely, by now exhausted by this conversation.
A day later Aaron appeared again, this time with a sack. His dog ran up to Powyss, poked him with his nose as his master laid the sack at Powyss’s feet, turned and walked away rapidly. The sack contained a saw, axe, rope, snaring wire, tinderbox, large loaf and several pounds of windfall apples.
Powyss was touched, grateful, burdened by kindness from a man who owed him nothing. There could be no doubt these objects were all Aaron’s, brought from his hovel which most certainly he rented from Bloor. With an apple tree in a perch of garden.
He wants nothing that he ever owned. Has left everything behind to rot, will think only of Hannah and his failure. His utter failure.
* * *
—
AT NIGHT HE SITS BY THE FIRE. Like he did afore in his place. This is not his place. Them pictures on the walls, strange pots on the mantel. Curtains, candlesticks. He smashed it all once. Did he?
The master said: ‘Here is your room, Warlow.’ Not true. A lie. It’s his, master’s room, master’s house. ‘I shan’t lock you in. It’s not a prison.’ What’s he say that for? But him come in when him do feel like it. In my place I were safe.
But no! There were a devil. Devil did come in, she-devil. I did hide away under. Got under…A weight bears down on him. Squeezed under my bed! Voices shouting at him John John.
Beats his head. Look at the flames. Look at the flames and them’ll go. Beat, beat. Beat out! There, them’s gone.
Fire’s good. None o’ them people in here. Them in the garden, talkin, talkin, them in the house. Talk. Talk. Not to him them don’t. Them don’t speak to him. Speak to theirselves. Mad. Them’s mad people all o’ them ’cept the master.
Madman said, ‘murder murder murder murder murder murder’ right up close in my ear wouldn’t stop. Hit ’im with a spade. Master shut me in the cellar a day. ‘We must punish you, John Warlow.’
Dark’s nothin!
Madmen!
Something moves at his feet in the flames’ light. Frog? I’ll put it in…I’ll catch it, put it…The cat jumps onto his knees. He scratches her under her ear, tries to remember when he caught frogs.
Nobody have a wife in this place. All men, one old woman. Master’s no wife. No childer. Better no childer. Cooks, serving-men, no wife.
Young woman do come for vegetables in the morning. In the garden. I likes her. Plump she is. Round bubbies. I could. I’d. He feels a stirring. I’d fuck. ‘John,’ the man said, ‘he do fuck your wife.’ Who were that? Where’s she? Where’s all o’ them? Out! Out!
He takes up the poker, jabs the coals hard, hard till sparks fly out onto the hearth and the lumps collapse. What more can I? Jab, smash, something what’d splinter nicely. Once afore I…Did I? Looks around to see what there is but it’s too dark and then he’s dizzy. He knuckles his head, beats it, beats it to get it all out.
‘Good night, John Warlow!’ Master going about.
‘Night.’ Rule: always reply.
Rule: wash before you get into bed. Kicks off his boots. Drops the jacket on the floor. Wrestles off breeches and stockings, pulls nightshirt over his head. Nightshirt! Like a woman, he thinks.
The bed is warm, soft, the cat settles on the pillow. I’ll look for her, find her. The woman Catherine.
* * *
—
POWYSS SURVIVES two winters protected by a bucket of goose fat smeared in a layer under his vest, brought by Aaron, similarly clad. He is wholly occupied finding sustenance and fuel: snared rabbits and moor birds, nuts cracked between stones, bitter sloes that gripe his gut, rowan berries, sorrel, and when snaring fails he pokes his fingers into his clothes, sucks fat from his fingers; in the scraped-out bucket he collects water or snow to melt; dead wood and gorse, dry enough to burn immediately, less dry to store. Sawing dense oak, hawthorn and holly warms him. Sisyphus-like he lugs logs to the pile at one end of the shack. His limbs ache, his hands are calloused, cut, wrapped in blood-staunching strips of shirt tail. Always thin, he becomes thinner. His eyes sink into their sockets, buried with grief and remorse; he loses teeth, his hair, what is left straggles over his shoulders; his beard is long and scanty. Washing is out of the question. Fastidiousness has gone, velvet and silk are filthy, muddied like sheep, his companions. He shits in holes he digs with his hands. Is driven by hunger to sleep for hours. He stinks.