I had halted before she did, when I saw the words Guild Hall. The only one for miles around Tetton was in Tetton Green itself, which was by far the largest and most prosperous village. It seemed that Joan did not come ‘from near there’ but from the place itself, and certainly she spoke like its inhabitants – which would explain why, after the theft of the ring, she and Tamar had not been whipped on their way. They were Tetton Green’s very own filth. Every human society throws off such, just as every human body voids its urine, faeces, sweat and so on.
But this made no sense at all considered alongside the rest. Here was a young woman steeped in sin, certainly, but of respectable birth and breeding, a woman who could read and write, who could play music, whose sister had been rich enough to attract a handsome (if corrupt) husband and maintain him in comfort. Her people kept servants; they employed a doctor instead of making do with the wise woman.
Do not mistake me. I was not such a fool as not to know that sin – yes, even a man lying with his wife’s sister – infects the most solid citizens along with beggars and thieves. Were not those hypocrites, the Parliamentarians, riddled through and through with the first and most devilish of all sins, Pride? And where Pride is, you may be sure other sins will follow. But – and this was my difficulty – families finding such sin in their midst punish severely, as is right, but also under cover, to protect their other children. Else, blasted by shame and scandal, how would these more innocent ones find husbands and wives?
Papists are said to banish their soiled daughters to convents. Our Protestant gentry send them away, if there be a lying-in to get over, and then bring them back as from a cousinly visit. Or, if matters are not so far advanced, they shut them up in the house like bitches on heat, and then marry them off as fast as may be.
All this I knew, but I had yet to hear of an established, respected family in which the erring woman had been launched on a life of beggary. Perhaps, in the heat of the moment, her half-sister would gladly have scratched out her eyes and thrown her on the street, but – living in a wood! Catching birds with a string! And then the whining for money, and the rest. Joan’s kin must surely be dead; how else could they face down the spectacle of their own flesh and blood mired in such disgrace?
Unless the entire history were lies. I had allowed myself to be moved by this woman’s words, when by her own admission she and her daughter were thieves and worse than thieves. Pity is one thing; but in weighing a man’s opinions, we should weigh along with the words the character of the speaker. A writer is always an unknown quantity, never more so than when the writer is a woman. It is a deceitful sex.
Still, I would have given much to find out these people of whom Joan had written. My mother was busy seeking a bride for my consideration; a fine thing, if through ignorance I married into that tribe of outcasts, and we found ourselves kissing-cousins to Tamar and Joan!
*
I now had to turn my mind away from all this, in order to finish off my work at home and elsewhere. I could go no further with Joan’s letter, nor with Robin and my nightmares, until I could get back to Tetton Green, and that I could not do until my aunt’s late crop was ready to be pressed in January. Until I had reason to return there, my aunt, I was sure, would not afford me board and lodging.
All this time, I was dogged by the cart dream. It never changed in form, its events unravelling in the same dreary order each night, and I was now able to get through it without the sweating terror it had first occasioned. From constant repetition I had at last reached that stage of dreaming in which the dreamer is aware that the dream will end. Even as the pale figure stretched his arm towards me and I whipped the horse forward, I knew that I should wake up and find myself at home. This, I suspect, is why my mother no longer came into my room to ask why I was making such a noise: familiarity had taken off much of the fear.
But not all of it. I still dreaded long drives during misty weather; I had a suspicion that if I kept away too long, Robin would break from my dreams and find another way to come after me.
* * *
It was now nearly Christmas and my parents’ plans to marry me off, or purchase a horse, or both, were abandoned so that my mother and Alice could get beforehand with the festive eating and drinking. During this season our plain-living household considered it a sign of right thinking, a rebuff to the sour, spiteful Puritan ways, to celebrate with traditional plenty, with goose and pork and the well-loved cakes and puddings that filled the kitchen with tantalising perfumes. All day I heard my mother shouting directions as she ran to rescue a burning pastry case or a curdling sauce and even Alice, calm and experienced as she was, had a tight-lipped way with her. Nor was my father idle during this time, though without doubt the women had the worst of it.
As a boy I was envious of friends whose houses, at Christmas, were filled with kin. Not that I was an especially loving child, or addicted to company; no, what I coveted was the great variety of dishes on a table where so many sat down together. My aunt’s Christmas would of course be full of pomp and splendour; I wondered if she would dine alone during the entire Twelve Days, and what Rose would find to serve her. I even toyed with the notion of asking my parents to invite her to our home, supposedly in a spirit of goodwill but in reality so that I could accompany her home afterwards – ‘I cannot let you travel with just a servant, Aunt’ – and so arrive early at Tetton Green. Since, however, her presence would have ruined the feast for all of us, I soon gave up this fancy. Nor do I think my father would have permitted it.
9
Concerning That Broad Highway, The Road to Hell
Sir, we are suspected for the blankets you brought us, also the paper & pens. Of your goodness pray bear witness these were your gift. Tamar has been taken up by the constable.
J
That was all. I crumpled the tng and put it in my pocket, Dunne observing me closely.
‘Who brought this, Simon?’
‘One of the village lads. What is it, then?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ I frowned to warn him off but he chose not to be warned.
‘Don’t say “nothing”, not to your old friend Simon.’
‘It isn’t my business to tell.’
‘Course it is, your name’s on it.’ He added importantly, ‘Mine, too.’
I was tempted to smile at this. His name was the only thing Simon could read; whoever brought the letter must have told him who it was meant for.
He said, ‘I could get into trouble.’
I had been about to bid him a good day but those words fixed me. I turned the letter over: the seal was broken now, of course, and I had not checked it before reading. I held it under Simon’s nose.
‘Did you open this?’
I regretted the words at once but it was too late to call them back. Simon flushed a dark red.
‘I’ve the right, if I’m to be mixed up with your …’ He could not find a word, or perhaps held back the one that came to him. ‘I’m a plain man. I don’t like dishonest dealings.’
What I didn’t like was his manner; I would have told him so, but in the nick of time I remembered I would need the horse and must therefore humble myself. ‘Forgive me, Simon. I never asked this person to write to you.’
‘Then tell her to stop. If she was up to any good, she’d send to your father’s house.’
‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’
He gave an infuriating smirk.
‘This letter concerns some blankets I gave to a beggar,’ I said. ‘She writes to say she stands accused of stealing them.’
‘Beggars writing letters,’ he murmured, flushing again. ‘D’you take me for a fool?’
Really, the sooner my parents bought a horse of their own, the better.
‘No fool, Simon. She’s a gentlewoman, ruined by the wars. I’ll tell her not to write to you again.’
Simon snorted.
‘But I’ll need Bully,’ I finished hopefully. ‘Can I come for him in an hour?’
‘�
��Tisn’t convenient just now, it’ll cost a penny extra. Mind you tell her, though. Next one I get goes in the fire.’
And off he trotted, mightily pleased with himself, his virtue and his bargain.
*
Having got through this awkward brush with Simon I must now think how to reconcile my parents to my journey, for I was sure they would not like my leaving home at Christmas and certainly not for such a reason. Rack my brains as I might, however, I could find no lie that would serve, and so was forced to fall back on the truth, or something like it.
Simon had called on me just after breakfast, a period of the day when my father was often in a good mood. I therefore went to him without further loss of time, and found him looking over his accounts. I both liked and disliked the room where he carried out this task, which is to say I relished the quiet of it, and the ancient paper-leather smell of the books, and the fennel, blooming outside the window, which brightened its panes in summer. What I disliked was the air of neglected duty which for me pervaded its walls like a creeping damp. My father had not found me a willing pupil and I still considered book-keeping a tedious business; I inclined to the view that only the man who wastes his money need track it so patiently.
Not so my father, who loved figures and ciphers and greeted me, as I entered, with a smile of happiness.
‘What do you think, Jon? We needn’t wait to buy the horse!’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ I replied, and indeed after my talk with Simon Dunne I was become as keen as Father himself. ‘Didn’t you say as much last night?’
‘Yes; but I find we can afford it even if you marry. Your mother’s managed, I’ve managed –’
‘Now, Father,’ I said, ‘beware Pride.’
My father said, laughing, ‘I hope I do. So, Jon, what did you want?’
‘I have to go away. I’ve been sent for – friends in distress.’
His laughter stopped at once. ‘It’s that girl! Isn’t it?’
‘I’ve done no wrong, Father. But I performed an act of charity which has turned sour.’
‘Turned sour? How –’
‘I’m not in trouble. Before I came here last time, before the girl was dismissed,’ (here I bent the truth a little) ‘I took pity on her and on her mother and I made them some gifts.’
‘That was wrong of you. I said so at the time.’
‘Not the log, Father. Nothing to do with Aunt Harriet. And not what you may imagine, not rings, trinkets, nothing of that sort. I gave them blankets to keep off the cold, out of my own money, I mean. And then the old woman begged pen and paper –’ I faltered here, recalling that I had taken those from End House, so it was not quite true that they had nothing to do with Aunt Harriet; but then I had left money in payment.
‘I askut I find u to be honest with me, Jon.’ Oh, the sadness of my father’s face! ‘Why did you never tell me of this?’
‘I feared you would misinterpret.’
Up until now I had remained standing. Father silently waved his arm towards a chair, inviting me to sit by him.
‘Very well,’ he said as I did so. ‘How could this act of charity, as you call it, turn sour?’
‘They stand accused of stealing the goods I gave them. The daughter is taken before the constable and her mother writes pleading with me to go and bear witness.’
My father’s eyes seemed to have gone inward. At last he said slowly, ‘We’ve had many a vagabond here in Spadboro, yet I never knew you give one a blanket. Your charity was tainted, and so God does not prosper it.’
For an instant I was reminded of Joan’s ‘ingenious punishment’ formed of a blessing. However, this was something quite otherwise. I had done good; it was another man’s suspicion and cruelty that had caused the harm.
‘A constable has torn the blankets from two paupers,’ I said. ‘Is that God’s justice?’
‘How did the woman write to you? I saw no letter here.’
I cringed. ‘Through Simon Dunne.’
‘Why to him?’ asked my father at once.
‘Not on my instructions! Her daughter and I spoke of Simon, and of my hiring the horse. I suppose she feared to write here, and remembered Simon’s name.’
My father said no more but held out his hand. I watched him read, his face exchanging one perplexity for another. I thought he must at least see that nothing in it cast me as the girl’s lover; it seemed he did grasp that, for when he next spoke it was more gently.
‘This agrees, up to a point, with what you say. But consider, child, how could a beggar write even such a short letter as this? She’s bought it of a forger, and his payment is the pen and paper; this is but a ruse, and as soon as you get there she’ll want something else. You’re too honest to deal with such people.’
I blushed at his undeserved faith in me. ‘She can write, Father.’
Father pounced. ‘You’ve seen her do it?’
I hung my head as it came home to me that I had not; I did not even know Joan’s surname. But then, her secrecy might argue that her kin were not dead after all. Perhaps they could be found and prevailed upon; perhaps, after all, it was not too late. I strove not to betray my excitement.
‘No beggar wrote this,’ my father repeated, looking sadly at me. ‘They’ll wind you in. There’ll be more to do for them, and more and more.’
At least he hadn’t forbidden me to go. I took a deep breath.
‘I’m not such a fool as you think, Father. I’ll be away two days. As a Christian I can do no less.’
‘Your mother won’t like it,’ said Father, and I knew he had given way. I took his hand and kissed it, and started away in tears – not for Tamar or Joan, but for his goodness.
* * *
The lock-up resembled an animal pen with a roof to it. It was intended to cool off drunkards overnight; the constable informed me that Tamar had been there, on bread and water, for three days. Unlocking the door, he waved his hand as if to say I might enter but for himself he preferred the air outside.
It was dark within, with a reek of urine and the peculiar chill that comes off stone in winter. When my eyes cleared I perceived Tamar slumped on the earthen floor, her back propped against the wall. She was wearing her old satin gown, her feet drawn up under it in a hopeless attempt to keep warm, her head sunk on her breast. She paid no heed as I entered, taking me, I suppose, for the constable.
‘Tamar.’
She looked up like one stupefied.
‘Sir?’
This one little word brought on a fit of coughing. The lock-up was colder than the cave, and she had no blankets and no one to huddle against. I shuddered at the sight of her bare arms and neck.
‘How can you live?’ I exclaimed.
Tamar smiled bitterly and began to cough again. When she had caught her breath she said in a voice like a creaking hinge, ‘If you brought a coat they’d take it off me.’
I cursed myself for not having brought one anyway. Squatting down next to her, I said, ‘I’ve given evidence. You can leave.’
She did not move.
‘Come on.’ I rose and held out my hand to her. ‘Tamar, you can go. Get up.’
She grasped my hand and tried to pull herself upright but fell back grimacing.
‘What is it?’
‘My feet, Sir – I can’t feel them to stand on.’
‘Try again. You don’t want to stay here, do you?’
At this she stood, though with much wincing and with tears in her eyes. From the doorway, the constable looked on unmoved. I said, ‘This is a barbarous way to treat a prisoner – freezing her to death!’
His lips twisted into an insolent smile. ‘She knows how to earn a blanket, Sir.’
‘The blankets,’ I said, remembering, ‘are my property. Fetch them here.’
He was unwilling to do so. He was obliged, however, to give them up, so they were brought, wet and dirty like everything in that place, and we took them with us.
*
With help Tamar was able
to step up into the cart and seat herself next to me. I put one of the blankets round her shoulders and arranged the other over her feet. I could well believe she was unable to feel them; they were so cold to my touch, and so discoloured, that I wondered how they would ever return to warm, flexible flesh. Her hands were little better, purplish and covered with bloody scratches.
The wretchedness of the lock-up, the brutality of the constable and the pitiable condition in which I had discovered her persuaded me against taking Tamar straight back to the cave as I had originally intended. Shivering in the bitter air (which made me wonder anew: how could she bear it?) I clicked to Bully and drove him out onto the road.
It was some time before Tamar understood what was happening. When she did her eyes grew wide.
‘Where are we going, Master Jonathan?’
‘Away from Tetton Green. We’re going to get you some clothes.’
My father had said the women would draw me in and there would be more and more to do for them. You were wrong, I answered him in my heart, she asks for nothing.
‘Away – yes,’ she murmured.
In a nearby village where I pressed cider for the cottagers, there was a dealer in worn clothes, and it was for her house we were headed. Tamar travelled mostly in silence. From time to time tears slid down her face. She wiped them away listlessly, making ugly smears on her skin.
When we reached the place she was too weary to climb down off the cart, so the clothes-seller came out into the road to judge her size.
The Wilding Page 11