Death be Not Proud

by C F Dunn

  But a day later, a single entry:

  At eventide did he wake and spake with his father, all Hev’n be praised beyond reason for there be none.

  So, five or so weeks after being stabbed through the heart, Matthew Lynes woke up and spoke to his father. Miracles happen and Richardson obviously thought this was Divine intervention, yet I detected an element in the words he used to record Matthew’s recovery that made me wonder if he thought otherwise. I sat back against the hard vertical ribs of the iron bedstead and assessed the information gleaned so far.

  OK, so I had almost come to terms with the fact that the Matthew Lynes I met in the States was the same Matthew Lynes recorded as cheating death almost 400 years earlier. I found it a bit of a struggle to get my head around it, but there you go, so be it. Whatever had happened to allow this freak of nature to occur, I couldn’t begin to pretend this was normal – although I shied away from using the term “freak” in relation to the man I loved. It would appear that what happened must have been the result of the life-threatening injury he received at the hands of his uncle. The question being, what? I mean, what had happened – physically – to have altered his state? At this point it would have been to my advantage to have been a scientist rather than a historian. Then again, that was exactly what Matthew was, and that – patently – was no coincidence.

  I yelped as cramp shot through my right leg and I leapt up, tipping my plate over on the bed, strewing cake and crumbs with it. I took it as a sign that my body required some exercise to pump oxygen into my blood, so I took to striding around the confines of my bedroom. The heart circulates blood around the body. Cut the body and it will bleed. It has to bleed, or the heart has stopped and it is no longer living. Matthew didn’t bleed, but nor was he dead. What did that make him then – alive?

  I did a few star jumps, trying not to shake the floor too much – although, as my watch read a quarter to three in the morning, I hoped my parents wouldn’t be awake to hear the floorboards squeak under the pressure of my pounding feet. I stopped as my ribs protested, and took to flexing each leg in turn instead. A sudden creak from behind had me spinning around in horror. I stifled a scream as the door opened, already beginning to cower as Staahl’s grey form stood in the doorway of my mind’s eye. But nothing appeared except the cat, sublimely oblivious to the rank terror he had momentarily caused. He jumped onto my bed, making directly for the upturned plate.

  “No you don’t, Tibs, you piglet,” I said affectionately, distracting him by stroking his long back while I rescued the plate. I nibbled the tart Dundee cake. I never understood why Dad favoured it; it must be something to do with growing old – an acquired taste, as Nanna would say. I pictured my father sitting alone in the potting shed in his own dark world, drifting, and ached for him – for the unrecognized sacrifice he had made for his daughter, and for her rejection of him. Tiberius rolled onto his back in a portly streak of contentment, catching the warm air from the fan-heater. I pulled myself back from reality and faced the past again for fear the present would engulf me.

  I turned the next few pages. A gap in the entries covered a number of months, then there were a few concerning a minor dispute over a field boundary in late October, and finally there was one in November, which intrigued me:

  The south barn did burst afire when the lad did up set the flame he carried thence to affix the doors agin the great wind. And though the fire would have taken his life, yet Master Matthew did save the boy by throwing him hence from the roof to the men below. And yet his flesh be burned, he is marked not and is whole.

  I read the entry again, slowly this time, but there could be no mistaking what Richardson had written. I remembered seeing Matthew pick up the ember in his bare hand when he thought I slept. What reason did he give the watching men when he emerged, unscathed, from the burning barn? Mrs Seaton said the stories told of how Matthew increasingly put himself in danger. But it had also been said that he challenged God, and that his survival was more to do with being the servant of the devil than the child of the Almighty. I read on, nervously.

  The following spring, Nathaniel recounted a series of events:

  In Lenten time did the river rise up and flood the land taking many ewes… but the Master with the Grace of God, pulled all but one from the spate and did save them thereof and though he is but one man he had the strength of many.

  So here I found a reference to Matthew’s strength. Richardson used the term “Master” rather than “young Master”. I wondered whether that reflected a change in the way he regarded Matthew, or whether Matthew had indeed taken on a more prominent role in the running of the estate, or whether perhaps – more simply – Nathaniel made a mistake. Next:

  Widow Harries yet she has not the use of her legs, was seen to cast berries of the yew upon Browne’s field whereupon his cattle grew lesions of pox upon their feet and their tongues did swell to the delight of Satan. And it is of his work she stands accused though the young Master will not have it thus and would look to the sickness of the soil for answer. Yet is she taken by the magistrate and stands trial thereof, though my Master pleadeth for her life and his father beg’d him cease for fear that he be acus’d with her.

  I shuddered, the pattern of persecution so familiar that I could have written it myself. I wondered what happened to the poor woman, what happened to Matthew himself? I didn’t need to read much further to find out. After a gap of a few weeks, an entry brought me to the brink of tears:

  When Matthew did enter the church upon Easter tide, the old gossips did cross themselves thrice like Papists in Queen Mary’s time. E’en the young maids who oft before would look upon his fair countenance and sigh turn’d their backs on him. The old Master spake full fierce to them that would treat his son thus, who was ever their good and dutiful lord, but Matthew would not have them chid and left the church with sorrow heavy upon him. Daily doth he prey God for deliverance.

  The final mention of Matthew came one full year after William had betrayed the family so irrevocably:

  This day the young Master fell from life, ’though he liveth yet and I know not where he be but that his father seeks him daily and will not have him lost. In him had I the truest friend.

  Gut instinct – it worked every time.

  The answer was so blindingly obvious as to be untrue. That it might be true, inconceivable. The evidence lay before me in the pages of the journal I had searched for, and my grandfather had sought before me. Two unrelated matters: one of the head, one of the heart, drawn together in time and space by an anomaly – by a freak of nature – the very existence of whom ran contrary to all known laws of science. At what point would I wake from this protracted dream? When would I wake up to reality? When would I reject the reality presented to me? When would I run?

  I put the journal down and hung my head, slow tears seeping through my closed eyes as I felt the burden of loss in the relentless beating of my heart. I bent my legs, cradling them in my arms. I did not know what Richardson meant by “fell from life” – whether he spoke metaphorically or physically – but I definitely knew how I would react if someone I loved as much as I did Matthew had been lost to me.

  I stared blankly towards the side of the room where the plain ceiling met the palely sprigged wallpaper at the edge of the eaves. My desk sat under the eaves, and under my desk, a printer.

  The first photograph that fed through the printer showed the monument to the Lynes family; the second, the memorial window. Thrumming my fingers on the desk, I surveyed them critically, then selected the second one. Barely hesitating, I dragged my chair over to the corner cupboard, feeling around the top shelf with a blind hand and stitches pulling, until I found the shoebox in which I kept my odds and ends. Among the Mickey Mouse key ring my best friend had given me when we were seven, and the school report I kept hidden from my father and told him was lost, I found a partly used pack of greetings cards in their flimsy plastic film. The front of each card bore an identical picture of St Mary’s Chu
rch, its towering spire piercing an intensely blue sky. I checked the back of the card: “St Mary’s Church, Stamford, Lincolnshire.” Plenty enough information. The photograph of the Lynes window just fitted inside and I carefully glued it in place, but I didn’t know what to write; I didn’t know how I could put into words what I knew. Whatever I wanted to say sounded vapid.

  “I need some help here,” I said to the ether. From where he lay on the bed like an elongated sausage, Tiberius purred, a deep affirming noise that made his whole body vibrate. I arranged Matthew’s scarf as a narrow shawl around my shoulders. My hand slipped to the familiar shape of the cross on its gold chain and I pulled it free of my jumper, mumbling it between my lips, the metal warm and comforting.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, as the wind found a way into my room and with it, the words I would use.

  From the list of quotes I had extracted from the journal, I copied part of one onto the blank side of the card, hoping my cold, stiff fingers wouldn’t render it illegible:

  This day the young Master fell from life, ’though he liveth yet…

  Nathaniel Richardson, July 1644

  Primary evidence. Were anyone else to read the card, it would be meaningless; only Matthew would understand the reference. I waited for the ink to dry before closing it, kissing it once and placing it in its envelope. On the front I wrote:

  Dr Matthew Lynes,

  Hesitating, I realized that I didn’t know how to address him properly. In Britain, as a surgeon, he would have been plain “Mr”; then I thought that, given what I had written inside, in all likelihood he wouldn’t care.

  I finished addressing the envelope and fished in my bag for some stamps, sticking on a half-dozen to make sure it would get there and not get stuck in some forsaken corner of a post office for lack of postage. I flipped the card against the back of my hand before deciding that I couldn’t risk waiting to post it in case – in the cold light of day – I changed my mind.

  At 5.40 in the morning, the streets of Stamford were just beginning to hum with the first commuters. The freshening wind blew away the fumes of the few vehicles, lifting the clean, green scent of the Meadows from the riverbank. I took a deep breath as I stood in front of the narrow mouth of the red metal post box, touching my lips to his name on the envelope before quickly posting it and hearing its hollow echo as it hit the base of the empty box.

  The house was as quiet on my return as when I left it, bar the rhythmic resonance of the clock marking time by the stairs. I reached the broad landing of the first floor when I noticed my father. He stood in the doorway to their bedroom, his thick, dark-red dressing-gown a zone of colour against the white-painted door.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “I was already awake and I…” he stopped, his hesitancy uncharacteristic, “… and I didn’t want you coming home to a dark house.”

  I expected him to ask me where I’d been, but he just turned and went back into his room. He shut the door quietly before I had time to thank him for turning on the light.

  My mother woke me with a cup of tea at eight. I had managed to kick off my shoes as I crawled into bed, and I slept in my coat with my blue rug pulled around me. I felt revolting and probably looked worse.

  “I’m not going to ask you why you’re sleeping in your clothes, as I’m sure you have a perfectly logical explanation; however, I don’t want you to miss your appointment at the hospital, which I know you haven’t forgotten.”

  I managed a bleary, blank look and she tutted.

  “It’s ‘C’ day, Emma, remember?”

  “Umm…”

  “Your cast, darling, it’s being removed. And your stitches. Your appointment’s at ten.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I moved my hand protectively over my stitched arm; whatever the reason for them, it had been Matthew who put them there, a tangible link to him sewn into me – a part of him I felt suddenly reluctant to let go. My mother squeezed my hand.

  “I’m sure it won’t hurt, darling; it’s routine to them – you’ll be fine.”

  I played along with her misconception. “I know I will.” I smiled as brightly as my face would allow. “I’ll get ready.”

  Whatever my misgivings, it would be a blessed relief to be rid of the trappings of my injuries once and for all, and have the luxury of a long, hot, wallowing bath. Or shower – I would settle for a shower as long as I could soak every pore of my skin and shake off the ravages that the sleepless night had wreaked upon my hapless brain.

  The hospital seemed quieter than the last time I’d been there, and the doctor looked even younger. He slid off the counter in reception where he had been reading the sports pages of the local rag.

  “Hello there, again; come back to keep me busy or couldn’t keep away from the place? Must be my magnetic personality, or something.” He grinned, dropping another five years or so; they were taking them young at med school these days.

  I smiled back. “Oh, definitely something,” I agreed.

  I followed him to one of the cubicles and sat on the edge of the bed. A nurse, who looked no older than he did, poked her head around the door and waved a thin brown file at him. “These what you’re after?”

  He took them from her proffered hand, checking the details on the cover. “Cheers, I owe you one.”

  “Six-thirty at the Red Lion?” she suggested.

  “Sorry, busy tonight.” Still reading my notes, he didn’t see her pout at him before she left rather abruptly. I wondered if Megan had redoubled her efforts in Matthew’s direction if she sensed me off the scene. Megan – with her long blue hair and blonde eyes… I shook my head to get rid of the unholy image. “Christmas, I must be tired,” I thought.

  “What’s it to be first: cast, strapping or stitches?”

  I answered without needing to think. “Strapping definitely, then the cast, please.”

  “Righty-ho, I’ll get a nurse…”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “Can’t we just get on with it?” Then seeing the look on his face, I couldn’t resist adding, “Your virtue is perfectly safe where I’m concerned; I won’t lay a finger on you.”

  He stood with his hands on his hips.

  “Blimey, you’re feeling better, aren’t you? I wish more of my patients were like you. Most would no sooner look at me than try to sue the pants off me.” I smiled at his use of the American term, but he thought I reacted to his legal reference. “Not that any of my patients have had grounds to sue me, you understand – not yet, anyway.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I asserted.

  He removed the strapping without further ado, and I felt my lungs expand without constraint for the first time in weeks.

  “Better?”

  “Much.”

  “Cast next?”

  “Yup.”

  He picked up a lethal-looking implement and switched it on, wielding it with the air of a man with a brand-new hand tool. I flinched back, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “Do you need training to use one of those things?”

  “It would probably help.” He cut through the cast with a degree of care that belied his nonchalant appearance. “I must say that I was surprised when I had a look at your most recent X-ray. Either you heal quickly or you’ve lost a couple of weeks somewhere. You say this happened at the end of October? Could you be wrong about that?”

  It was hardly a date I could forget. I shook my head.

  “Oh, well, just goes to show the limitations of scientific knowledge and all that…”

  “Mmm,” I agreed. The cast fell off with a satisfying thunk. I flexed my hand weakly.

  “Two down, one to go. Ready?” The young doctor washed his hands and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. He took the dressing off my arm, exposing the stitches, and examined the long scar carefully.

  “Yeah, this has healed really well too, but these’ll have to come out. Pity, though – they’re a work of art.” I shared his se
nse of regret. “Tell me if it hurts – it might sting a bit.”

  It did, but I didn’t say so. The young man lacked Matthew’s finesse but he did his best to be gentle, and I used the discomfort to distract myself from what he was taking away.

  The rattling clang of the surgical tweezers hitting the metal dish told me he had finished before he asked – somewhat anxiously – whether it had hurt.

  “I hardly noticed a thing,” I reassured him.

  He seemed pleased. “You’re going to need to be careful with the new scar tissue for a few weeks, and you can have some physio for your other arm if you want, but they’ll both mend fine if you give them time. Last time I saw you, your dad asked about possible nerve damage to your left hand. That’s not my field, but I can refer you to a neurosurgeon if you like?”

  “No, it’s OK, thanks – I’ll get it checked out if it bothers me; otherwise…” I shrugged.

  “OK, but I did tell him I’d find out, so…”

  “I’ll let him know, thanks.”

  I should have been elated, or at least relieved, but instead I felt bleak. I inched off the bed and stood up, decidedly sombre. The doctor stripped off the surgical gloves, looking at me sideways.

  “Feels a bit strange now, does it? Now that it’s all off.”

  I nodded. “Just a bit.”

  He opened the door, revealing the corridor beyond, pausing.

  “You know,” he said wistfully, “I’d really like to meet the man who did that stitch job for you.”

  I had to laugh at that. “So would I,” I said.

  Propped up on pillows and with the back of the bed raised, Nanna looked so much more alert. The corner of her mouth lifted when she saw me. I told her some of what I had been up to, touching on my visit to Beth – mostly the positive bits, about Archie and the twins and how we were going to meet up; and then at length on my visit to Martinsthorpe and her old friend Mrs Seaton. I described the house and the tennis party where my parents had met. Nanna had been there, of course – I could see it in the way her eyes became exuberant and she chortled in the back of her throat. She closed her eyes then, and I thought that she needed to rest. I gazed out at the courtyard garden, prettier now that the sun shone, and I remembered the sunlight through the window in the church, making Matthew’s hair glow impossibly gold. I sighed. A slight touch on my hand brought me back to the present; Nanna observed me keenly, and I smiled self-consciously.