Jem (and Sam)

by Ferdinand Mount

  There was a married woman in Drury Lane that had given the clap to another woman’s husband, a neighbour of hers. Well, this neighbour complained to her neighbours and they decided to take their revenge, viz. to give her a good whipping and shave all the hair off her you-know-what, well, the offending part as you might say. And Mrs Radford’s mother was one of the five women-barbers and proud of it.

  You’re a firm young man, very firm, Jeremiah, that’s too much of a mouthful for me, what do they call you for short?

  Jem, I said spitting the word through my teeth, for her ministrations had begun to work their effect upon me, and it was a severe discipline to control my unruly part.

  That’s strange, she said, Jem is mostly short for James, is it not?

  I know, I gasped.

  Her fingers were dextrous and her odours prepotent. Then she gently, as though by chance, touched me in that region and gave a little start like a partridge flushed. Yet I suspected this start to be feigned, for she must have already seen the evidence of my agitation.

  I’m sorry for this.

  Upon my faith, there is nothing there for which you should be sorry, she said. In fact, I think you are standing somewhat proud.

  That was the most glorious half-hour of my life. As we set to amid the bales of cloth with all the perfumes of the Orient assaulting my nostrils from the other side of the curtain, I wondered that none of her assistants interrupted us, for though we tried as best we could to conceal our movements she did not prevent a gasp of delight when our duet reached its excelsitude. She kissed me on the face and on the nape of my neck as she clung about me and clucked: Oh Jem, you’re well suited now, aren’t you? And I freely gave my assent to this proposition, for I had to own myself a satisfied customer.

  Do you give credit, madam?

  Oh no, sir, I must be paid on the nail.

  And so you shall be, madam, as often as I can manage it.

  Thank you, sir.

  She plumped her skirts and made shift to tidy her hair, which had the aspect of last year’s bird’s-nest. When I looked at her now that our passion was spent, I perceived once more that she was no beauty such as a Dutch master might yearn to paint, but a full-hearted woman worthy of any honest man’s love and her lips had a cherry colour of rare quality. Moreover, she was expert in the ars amatoria. How she clipped me. Poor Emm seemed but a beginner by retrospect.

  Mr Radford is very often away at this season, he has much business to conduct with the Turkey merchants.

  May I wait upon you then and keep you company? I’m a bookseller by trade, but anxious to broaden my experience of commerce.

  That you shall, Jem, I promise you. Here, take this pomander as a keepsake. I like every gentleman to leave my shop sweetly scented.

  I took the perfumed ball from her and carried it off in my pocket. All day long my fingers felt the rough cloves which studded it and remembered the pleasures of her body.

  It was autumn by the calendar but the sun was still shining and it was my own springtime. I would stroll and take my wine with the map-makers of Tower Hill or the wits of Covent Garden before proceeding to my rendez-vous with Nan. At the back of the Three Spanish Gypsies there was a door with a gold Turk’s-head knocker. I was to knock four times upon the Turk, and she would appear at the upper window and throw down the key. But she did not always hear at once if she was busy, and so I would wait and repeat the knocking. But it was a pleasant trysting place. She had planted the court with red and yellow flowers on either side of the path, for she loved fragrances of all kinds, albeit she was disorderly in her person (her enemies called her Dirty Nan). And it was pleasant to stand there and shuffle my shoes upon the gravel and think of the pleasures that were to come in the narrow bedchamber (for we had graduated from the fitting-room where we had made havoc among the bales of silk and calico).

  But the time was fast approaching when I must return to Dover. I had purchased sufficient stock to last my uncle through the winter and my own supplies were depleted, for I had determined to live like a young dog and not to stint myself. My purpose was to avoid enrolment in the militia and I kept my eye open for some grizzled agent of the Parliament faction, so that if one should say: You seem a fair young fellow, I wonder you are not enrolled, I would reply instanter how greatly I regretted my absence from the battlefield but I was engaged on work of supreme military import, I was not at liberty to describe its exact nature, but if he wished I might confide a clue to him, and as the grizzled sergeant bent lower, I would whisper Charts – Admiralty Business into his hairy ear, and he would nod as much as to say I know the game and offer me a pint of ale to seal our alliance.

  But before I took ship for Dover (for I had resolved to travel leisurely), I had to take my leave of Nan. It was a sad parting for me, but I had not reckoned how sad it would be for her. She threw her arms about my neck and wailed Oh, Jemmy, Jemmy, it’s the end of life, I’ll be an old woman when you come back, you will come back won’t you, you’ll come back to your Nan, even if she is an ancient hag, I can’t live with Radford, that can’t be my destiny, I was made for you, Jemmy, my Jem, etc., etc.

  I was caught betwixt tears and tedium. In truth I was heartily sorry to leave her, but, as the poet says, methinks she did protest too much. I could not have been the first customer she had served so and I would not be the last. But this is the bravado of retrospect. For the most part I was very sorrowful and heavy.

  I was still more sorrowful when I was returned to my uncle’s, for he was old and gouty and yet more parsimonious than before. There was no merry company to be had, not for one such as I, who had tasted the superior delights of the Metropole. The sea-captains were coarse and the shopkeepers low Dissenters of my uncle’s sort. When I had disposed of my charts, I wandered on the hills behind Dover and became a veritable melancholy Jaques. There is many an oak and ash tree in those sylvan glades that still bears the name of Nan cut by her solitary lover. I wrote her letters in which I poured out my heart but answer came there none. I formed the unworthy thought that she could not write, but then I remembered that I had seen her hand upon a mercer’s bill. Perhaps she was ill of the plague. I put this thought out of my mind, for it was intolerable to me. All I had to comfort me was a dry pomander.

  And as my solitude bore harder upon me, so my impatience mounted and the gloom of my uncle’s house more damnably inspissated. He had become sleepy in his dotage. The floorboards in his house were so ill joined that from my attic I could hear his stertor in the afternoon. This was hell in Kent.

  My captain’s chest was so heavy now that I could scarce lift it. The secret compartment contained the grand sum of £176. I did not wish to depart without having established a headquarters for my manoeuvres, for I had experience already of how quickly London could swallow up a fool’s gold. I must display my talents in a greater arena, but first I needed friends and connections to further my business.

  I soon saw that my uncle was equally resolved to be rid of me. For there is no gratitude in this wicked world, and he was envious of my trade and could not understand how I had sailed through where his rickety barque had been dashed upon the rocks. He also suspected that I was cheating him, though he knew not how, for he was making more money per annum than he had before my advent. He did not like me. I do not know why. When he was forced to congratulate me – Jeremiah, thou art an honest lad – he had to force the words through his cracked lips.

  The opportunity came for both of us when Fluffy Ralph paid a visit to Dover. Lord! how gingerly he greeted me. Did he know that I had thrown suspicion upon him in the matter of Mr Hignell’s scrolls? Perhaps he misliked my reputation with the fair sex, he being timid in that respect.

  But our uncle was determined that we should be friends, for he hoped that Ralph would take me away up to London where he was bound apprentice to a bookseller on Tower Hill. Ralph knew nothing of this and began a tale of woe, how he was overworked beyond endurance, for his fellow apprentice had taken a skinful of liquor an
d fallen into a ditch and drowned, yet his master would not take on a new apprentice because he was close-fisted, and how Ralph did not care for London and wished only to return to Kent and step into his father’s shoes.

  My uncle saw his chance: Take Jem, he is an honest lad and will work hard and he is cheap.

  Fluffy Ralph hummed and hawed, but I melted him with flattery and sweetened him with honeyed phrases, so that, before the day was out, he was explaining how we could share out the work printing and selling and where I would lodge in the house.

  Never did two persons take their leave of each other more cheerfully than Uncle and I. We had sucked one another dry and it was time to try another stall.

  London ho! I said to Fluffy Ralph as we set off. He gave me a wan smile such as you might give to greet a stranger at a funeral.

  This chest is very heavy, he said, as he helped me put my sea-chest upon the cart.

  Oh it’s our books, I said, greatly hoping that the velvet would keep the money from chinking.

  Books? said Fluff, much impressed.

  Thus I came to the Metropole for the second time but upon this latter journey I was vexed by Fluffy Ralph’s chatter. He was that sort of preacher who delights to tell you either what you know already or what you do not care to know, and interrupts his discourse with exclamations at his own ingenuity. Thus: Maidstone is the second city in Kent, yet it hath fewer booksellers than Dover, is not that extraordinary? Or they do not grow the old pippins in these parts now, a sad thing for I am fond of them, but they do not keep so well as the French apples, at this rate there will be no English apples left in the Garden of England, is that not an astonishing thought? Astonishing, I answered, but my thoughts were upon my projected reunion with Nan. Would she love me still? I was bold enough to think she would, for I had an ample estimate of my worth and my youth would supply any deficiencies. Would I still love her? There was the rub. Youth and age were fickle allies and she had a dozen years’ start of me. Yet I was in a fever of impatience. As we rode over the North Downs (for Fluffy Ralph had insisted that we take horse), in my mind’s eye I saw myself knocking on the Turk, and her face at the window with her cap skewed by the window frame, crying: Wait a minute, Jem, and I’ll be down.

  When we came to Mr Fisher’s house on Tower Hill, I was already thinking of the route I should follow on the morrow to the Exchange: should I go via the Minories and Cornhill or along Eastcheap? My mind was so set upon this campaign that I greeted Mr Fisher in an absent manner that must have made a disagreeable impression. When I realised this, I sought to repair the damage by waxing fulsome at supper: Mr Fisher’s house was a fine mansion, Mr Fisher’s hangings were worthy of the Grand Duke of Florence, Miss Fisher’s gown – there were no words to describe its elegance, and so on. Simul Fluffy Ralph was regaling the company with his astonishing observations upon the relative sizes of London and other cities of his acquaintance, upon the ups and downs of the book trade in these troublous times, upon the expense of paper, leather, ink and all other commodities necessary to the said trade, upon the vicissitudes of finance in the said troublous times. Between us we made such a noise that Mr Fisher and his daughter looked like hares startled by the threshers. When Mr Fisher proposed that we retire to bed, being fatigued with our journey, we renewed our duetto fortissimo. Is it not remarkable, said Fluffy Ralph, that in Kent we retire at such-and-such o’clock, whereas I have heard that in Cornwall – upon which I broke in: I had but snatched a glimpse of our bedchamber but I was most exquisitely satisfied, never had I seen such a bed, nor such a prospect from a bed-window, for though it was dark I could see the masts of the ships at anchor and it was a noble sight, etc. At length they got us up the stairs and I fancied I heard Mr Fisher exhale a sigh of relief after he closed the door behind us.

  Fluffy Ralph snored.

  The next day was the Lord’s Day and we must attend at Mr Fisher’s church of St Katharine by the Tower and listen to the longest sermon that ever was preached and then go walking with my master while he discoursed at length upon the sights of the City, at such length indeed that Ralph began to seem a miracle of brevity. And on the Monday, we were introduced to the mysteries of the bookseller’s art, the dealings with the printers and binders and the wholesale merchants for ink and paper and glue and the like. It was near evening before I was released and trotted up Eastcheap on Cupid’s errand.

  The door of the Three Spanish Gypsies was open, and through it I could see a small dull man walking to and fro. I recognised him as Mr Radford, for though I had not seen him before, a portrait of him by a Dutch limner hung in their parlour. Behind him the sewing-girls were still at work. But of my Nan there was no sign.

  I did not like to go in and inquire for her, for to make myself conspicuous were the tactics of a novice. So I skulked in the shadow of the shop. It was raining and after an hour of vigil I was as wet as a water-rat. But finally a girl came out and I caught her arm.

  Oh, sir, let me go. Please, I said, can you tell me where is your mistress, Nan, Mrs Radford, is she away, is she ill? Why, ’tis Long Charlie, I never thought we should see you again. Why do you call me Charlie? My name is Jeremiah. Oh, sir, we called you thus because you look the image of the Prince and we called you long because . . . And then she collapsed and began to giggle. No matter, I said, not displeased, but where is your mistress?

  Oh sir, haven’t you heard? She is gone to the Tower. To the Tower, oh calamity, by whose order? I hadn’t thought she was one to meddle in politics. No, sir, nor does she, she’s not imprisoned. Well then, what does she there? Oh sir, she sews and . . . performs other services upon request. The girl laughed again and then took on a serious mien. But, sir, we are strictly advised that she does not wish for any visitors whatever. So it is no use to go there, for you will not be admitted.

  Not admitted? No, they won’t let you in. Are you sure of this? Quite sure, sir. Not even Mr Radford? Mr Radford is dead, sir, dead this past year. He went away and then he died, Mr Clarges told us.

  But then who was that gentleman walking the shop floor but an hour ago? That was Mr Clarges, sir, Dirty Nan’s brother – beg your pardon, Mrs Radford’s brother – he is an apothecary and he has the management of the shop while she is away.

  Here was a strange pickle, and one that was sour to the taste. Nan imprisoned in the Tower, and yet not imprisoned. Seeing no one and yet seeing someone, for there must be some corporeal being to fill the clothes she sewed. And performing services – oh what services – for this Nemo, yet performing none such for me. And widowed, having lost this Radford who was not the Radford I had thought, though surely she had told me that the man in the portrait was her husband. These were mysteries which I could not fathom and, having thought myself a strong swimmer in the currents of the world, I was now beyond my depth.

  And Dame Fortune had dealt me yet another cruel trick, for when I went to the little window of the attic I shared with Ralph, it was not the masts of the ships at anchor that I saw. In the distance I had mistook the spires and pinnacles of the Tower of London for a fleet of ships, just as that poor Spanish knight Don Quixote tilted at windmills mistaking them for giants. Now I must stand at the window shivering in the cold of a morning and wonder in which tower my Nan was immured (or had immured herself), whose buttons she was sewing and what other services she might at that moment be performing for him. I was not well pleased when Fluffy Ralph, already dressed and washed, came to my side and began to point out the monuments and curiosities of the Tower together with choice details of who had been imprisoned in which tower and for how long, when released or beheaded and other such superfluity of information. I thought only of my Nan. Surely she could not be there by her own free will, some vile fellow must have compelled her to it, for I had warned her by letter that I was to come to London again. And yet I had to admit even to my lover’s heart that she was not an easy woman to compel. She lived as she pleased, and would not be bridled without resistance.

  You may be sure that I
lost no time in knocking upon the door of the Tower, the door that is beyond the causeway over the moat, near the Lion Tower where they keep the wild animals which roar at night (it is a strange fancy to imprison wild animals alongside wild men, as though all Nature wanted penning up). I inquired of one of the warders of the Guard whether Mrs Radford was within. He knew no one by that name. Mrs Clarges then? He knew no one by that name neither, and he had other fish to fry than to call the register of all the women of London. A handsome woman, tall and with a fine head of reddish hair? At which the impudent Beefeater laughed in my face and told me if I had a woman like that I should take better care of her. Yet I suspected that even he knew more than he would admit, just as the sewing-girl seemed to have some ulterior particulars which she would not confide to me.

  But mixed in with their laughter, there was fear, for these were times of doubt and strife, when a man might sit upon a throne one day and sit in a prison cell the next, when pros and cons were all jumbled up and sauve qui peut and devil take the hindmost were the wise man’s mottoes. Therefore I began to train myself in that most excellent art, viz. that of keeping my head below the parapet.

  I reasoned thus: that if Nan did not come looking for me, then she did not wish to see me. And if she did not wish to see me, she must have good cause. Had she perhaps murdered Radford and taken refuge in the Tower with some protector that she might escape justice? It would be an odd course to hide from the executioner in the executioner’s lair, but therein might lie the very cunning of the ruse. Such weird fancies filled my head and made my brain ache. But I was young and without influence or friends. It was not three years earlier that the giddy multitude had stood in Whitehall and gaped to see the traitor’s head topple from its perch (I mean that of King Charles the Martyr, for I write this retrospect in kinder times when the earlier passions are quite forgot). And from that misfortune I deduced a supplementary. lesson: that he who thrusts himself forward will make a fine neck for the axe, a maxim which is as true for a bookseller’s apprentice as for a king.