by Janet Ellis
‘Ha!’ He sounds as if he’s laughing, but he’s just getting his breath back. He wipes his hands where leaves still cling on his jacket, then begins to take it off. I stand transfixed as if I had just conjured him or he was a ghost made flesh. The unpredictable movements as he strains his arms from his sleeves hypnotise me. He sits heavily on the bed then bends over to remove his boots.
‘I have been listening so hard for you my head hurts,’ I whisper. He looks up, one boot in his hand. He pretends he will drop it and I gasp, looking round as if I am fearful that there is a crowd outside waiting for just such a sound. He pats the bed beside him and I sit there; the mattress bucks and rocks beneath us as he pulls his foot free. We sit side by side. I have my hands clasped in front of me, awkward as a spinster. Fub kneels up, then he swings his legs open, one over the bed and the other around my waist so that he pins me, his legs wide and I between them. It is entirely right that I place my hands where his legs part.
‘Little beast,’ he says to me, his hands on my thighs. ‘Here are your flanks, all plump and sweet.’ And then, sliding his hand over my hips to my waist: ‘Your rump, your loins. But you need flaying.’ He tugs at my ribbons.
‘Clothes are foolish! Curse the snake in Eden that put them there!’ I laugh as I speak; he stops me with his mouth. We struggle from our garments, half helping, half fighting the cloth and the challenge of sleeves and buttons. And when there is nothing there, his arms replace them and his fingers go all about me. When his hand goes to my breasts, my feet are envious. I slide my hands down his back, all along his spine, rutted with bone like mud ridges in a dry field, to the audacious swell below. His finger is inside me, his thumb circling, and I spill like grain from a bucket. He is panting, still running his race. I laugh at the incongruous size of him, sticking to his stomach and escaping from the springing hair below. All the while, we stifle our noise and whisper like a church congregation during the sermon. He pinches my lips when I yelp, I shove my fingers in his mouth when he opens it to howl.
‘Anne,’ he says, stopping and looking down at me. I am pinned like wet washing with his peg. ‘Till now, I thought the sweetest sound I could ever hear was cows chewing grass. But this is better.’ He sways and we listen to the soft suck at the exact place we meet. Then I move and put all thoughts of livestock out of his head.
* * *
As from below the waterline, we surface. We breathe heavily, beached, adjusting to air. There is a fish smell too, as if the tide had just gone out. I half expect to pick shrimps from my hair or find oysters between my toes. The chill in the room raises the hair on my arms and legs and pricks at my flesh. Where Fub’s leg lies across mine, it might be dead meat – it is as inert as anything on a butcher’s slab. My leg begins to throb with the beginnings of a cramp. I test my strength, trying the muscle in my limb to see if I can pull free. I cannot move. He does not stir. I raise myself as much as I can, on one arm, and whisper ‘Fub!’ at him, but this only seems to deepen his sleep.
I have been happily turned and held and stroked this past evening (how long were we about this? An hour? Three? I cannot say), but now I am trapped like a prisoner. The pain that begins in my thigh spreads along my calf and upwards to my hips. Perhaps my blood will cease to flow as he unwittingly cauterises my veins and I’ll have to hobble or use a wooden stump to get about.
‘Fub!’ More urgent now and, although he still closes his eyes, he moves and sets me free. At once, an incessant painful tingling, both sharp and dull, courses from my knee to my foot. I have to rub at it hard to soothe it away.
The clock downstairs chimes. How have the others here in the house spent their time tonight? They are all made up of skin and bones as we are, have the same muscles, organs and hair, all as capable as I am of using their bodies for pleasure, but instead they are only flaccid and desiccated and flatulent. Fub’s ripe skin gleams in the faint light from the window, where the lamps are still lit. He lies on his back, his arms stretched wide. He reaches from one side of my narrow bed to the other. He is spread out as if he’s a map of himself. I examine him carefully. Like an explorer, I stake my claim to his broad shoulders. I am the new owner of his wrists and thighs. I have negotiated the little thickets of hair on his chest and below his belly and got to the clearing to plant my triumphant flag. All his territories are mine now and I will have investigated each one so thoroughly that before too long I’ll be able to chart his exact topography blindfold.
I trace the thick line that runs down his neck, where the muscles flex. He raises himself and looks down, examining my body as if I were on the slab. ‘Prime flesh?’ I say watching him. He brushes my breasts and stomach with his fingertips and touches a thin smear of blood on one thigh. ‘Am I hurt?’ I ask.
‘Are you?’ He smiles. ‘It’s from the raddling stick,’ he says. ‘Better not let anyone see how many times you were tupped.’
‘Fub?’ I turn his face to me, holding his cheeks, making him meet my eyes. ‘Would you kill for me?’
He pulls his head away from me, like a colt shying from the halter. ‘I kill every day, don’t I?’ He smoothes my hair then gathers it together into a knot at the nape of my neck. ‘I kill every day,’ he says again. ‘Shall I dedicate each death to you, then?’
‘Shall I be a butcher, too?’ I say lightly, but I want his proper answer.
‘Is that what you’d choose to be?’ he says. ‘It doesn’t suit everyone.’
‘It would suit me,’ I say softly.
He gets up, gathering his strewn clothes. ‘Where is my keepsake?’ I say, watching him dress. Now I know what his skin feels like under his britches, how his feet are roughened at the heel inside his boots. ‘To remember me by?’ he says. He searches all the pockets of his jacket in turn, then brings out a leather purse. When he opens it, something catches the light. ‘Fit for purpose,’ he says. It is a little knife, the blade is only a thumb-width across and the handle is short. The tip of it is honed to an elongated point. ‘It’s a dainty one,’ Fub turns it in the air, describing a figure of eight. ‘I use it for little calves’ vells. You need a knife both nimble and sharp for that. Like this one.’
I take the knife from him. I make a tentative stabbing movement with it, but falter as I pierce empty air and my arm falls limp.
Fub is buckling his boots. ‘You might practise on a cushion, perhaps. It is a hard skill to master at once,’ and it’s as if he talks about an embroidery stitch that I found difficult. He stops for a moment, and stares at me, his expression solemn. ‘It is for playing our games, Anne. A gift, nothing more.’
‘You should have tied a ribbon to it, then.’ I look at the blade, lying innocent and clean in my hand.
‘You don’t need ribbons,’ he says and climbs out of the window. As I watch him go, I hold the knife above my heart, like a lover’s token. Which, after all, it is.
The room is empty without him. The air rushes noisily into the space he left. I lie on the bed; the covers are still warm but there’s no comfort in that. I go to my little glass to see if a woman’s eyes are different from a girl’s. I inspect my face carefully but I would seem to look the same as I did before. Perhaps my pupils are wider, but that may just be because of the darkness of the hour. I have the taste of him in my mouth. It reminds me of chalk and marrowbone.
I thought he had left me satisfied, but I am hungry again. That is another new sensation.
Chapter 18
There are many hours left until I can send word to Dr Edwards. The long reach of the night is a fertile field and I can usefully sow my plans there. I should discover a meeting place for us first, somewhere where we can be unobserved. Sitting bolt upright, I remember a church near the pleasure gardens that stands at the edge where the town gives way to open ground. I shouldn’t want to meet at the church itself, where at the very least a random worshipper might spot us, but the empty fields beyond would seem ideal. I will choose some landmar
k there as our trysting spot! I will mark it for him with a favour! This notion is so enticing that I leap up to dress, almost forgetting how bereft I was a moment since when my lover left. I pull several lengths of ribbon from my dressing chest. They leap and twist in my hands as if they are as excited as I am at their new purpose.
There’s a chinking sound as I close the lid. I feel to the bottom of the chest and my fingers close round two pennies. They must have fallen from my stolen haul. I tuck them into my pocket, though I have no plans to spend them.
I am hurrying so quickly across the landing that I do not see her at first, but Grace is there. She is holding the baby, walking to and fro and rocking it in her arms. Everything is in motion to soothe the child.
‘Mistress Anne! Can you not sleep either? Your sister cannot settle.’ She smiles at the soft blankets she holds. The infant must be awake, for when Grace’s eyes meet hers, she mews. A stink of milk and vanilla hangs round them both.
‘Now, now,’ Grace murmurs, ‘don’t fret, little one.’ She brings the child’s face close to hers, then kisses it softly. There must be so few thoughts in either head, they mostly share one: Grace wants the baby sleeping and her little charge asks for nothing else, either. Even for herself, Grace needs very little: a household to live in and a steady wage for her labours. She walks along a straight path while I am negotiating a maze. I am tired, all of a sudden, and in this instant would like nothing more than to be cradled in Grace’s arms, while her low voice croons to comfort me. She seems to have forgotten I’m there, she is so intent on pacifying the baby. At last, she succeeds. All is quiet.
‘She sleeps, unless I speak too soon,’ she whispers, still swaying her arms. ‘She’s close to waking, though. I think she has a colic. Where do you go?’ She has finally noticed that I am dressed for the outside world.
‘My head aches. I thought I would walk to clear it.’ I think if everyone who knew me swapped their stories with each other, they would surely decide I must be the most beleaguered and chronic invalid, so often do I cite my ill-health to explain my behaviour.
‘Be careful where you go,’ she advises me like a mother would, despite her position. ‘It is hardly light yet.’
‘Mind you keep rocking, she stirs.’ The baby begins to mewl again, a weak cry that weaves upwards like a thin trail of smoke from a small fire.
‘Would you like to hold her?’ Grace offers the blankets to me.
I recoil. ‘I most certainly would not.’ I relish her surprise. ‘I doubt that I shall ever be a mother but, if I am made to be, I shall have enough nurses to mind my children constantly, so that I can be completely free of them.’ I look at Grace defiantly, waiting for her shocked response.
Instead, she says, ‘You cannot imagine being a mother till you have your own child, that’s all. I am the third of nine children. In our house there were always babies around me and I never had to learn their care, it was all I knew from a little girl. It is different for you, Mistress.’ She smiles, convinced it is a kindness to explain this to me.
If I let her continue in this vein, she will begin to think I am to be pitied. ‘It is your misfortune to have been born in such a crowd, Grace. It obviously left you little time to be taught about anything else. At least you have put your unsolicited learning to good use.’
She looks unhappy at last, her little smile fades. ‘I did not intend you to think that,’ she says, softly. Then she mutters something else to the baby that I cannot catch, but I suspect it’s about me.
‘What did you say? Do you address me?’ I speak quietly, but she can hear the threat.
‘I whispered to your sister that she should stay asleep.’ She frowns at the infant, looking as if the child is going to speak out against her. No doubt she will bring the mite up to mistrust me. I would do the same, in her stead.
‘Haven’t you work to be getting on with, or will you converse all morning? You seem to like the sound of your own voice, but I prefer silence.’
My words hit her hard as a slap. She flinches then blinks. Her features collapse at my unkindness, crumpling from her forehead to her chin. ‘Did you read the book that was burned, Mistress?’ Her plump lips purse. There is a challenge in her tone. She is standing up to me. We might be children about to slap and pinch each other. ‘You needn’t say the words aloud, so that’ll be a quiet occupation for you.’
I push her backwards. I touch the massy, dense bundle instead of her arms and she stumbles, clutching the banister with one hand, trying to stay upright and not drop the baby. At this sudden jerking movement, it starts and cries.
Before she can consider the folly of her tart manner, she speaks sharply. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’
‘How dare you speak like that to me.’ She falls silent and looks afraid. I almost wish I could turn on my heel and leave, but I can’t ignore her rudeness and she would not expect me to. We cannot retreat from this or undo it. I sigh. ‘Go to your room, I shall speak to my father in the morning about what must be done.’
She looks frightened, hugging the sleeping child to her like a shield. ‘Please, Mistress. I didn’t mean—’
‘It doesn’t matter what you didn’t mean, does it?’ I feel as if I walk across a bog, my feet dragging down and my skirts heavy with clinging mud. ‘And I’m sorry you must go back to your numerous family. But you were very—’
Grace tilts her head to one side, her chin forward. Her eyes flash with a new thought. ‘And perhaps you should tell him about the boy?’ She squares her shoulders.
‘What boy?’ I ask, although there is no doubt who she means.
‘I’m sure your father would be interested to hear about your lessons at Levener’s.’ She touches on the word lightly, as if she jumps on to it on tiptoe. Was the whole of London full of watching eyes when I walked there? I hardly looked to left or right each time, so intent on my path and mindful of my feet. But plenty who know me must have seen me, then told another who passed it on. The news would have been back home before I was. How stupid of me to think I was invisible. Even if I could offer a defence or an excuse, I could not predict that my father would not take the word of this servant over mine. Little barbs of fear prick at my skin and beads of sweat pool at my armpits and brow.
‘Go to your room, Grace. You’re very tired. That baby cries so often that you must hardly know what day it is, or what hour will strike next. I am prepared to overlook your foolish outburst. But if it should happen again, I cannot promise to be so lenient.’
She stands stock still. I suspect she is planning another assault but the baby begins to unspool another tiny cry. She cannot resist the sound for long, it twists and burrows in her ears until it’s all she can hear.
Her head bends over the child. Fine twists of yellow hair fall from her cap and the infant’s fingers clutch and grab at them. I seize the chance to leave.
There is a cold, sticky wetness at the top of my legs that catches my petticoat and I am puzzled until I remember how it got there. I feel a childish sense of triumph: This is what the boy means, Grace. I open the door wide. This is why I go through the house, silent as a thief, while the others sleep. I pull it to behind me, careful and slow.
And there is a knife under my pillow, Grace.
Chapter 19
The church is as I pictured it: in the dawn light it is sleepy and quiet and its overgrown graves suggest it is not attended much. Even the path to the door is only one person wide and bordered by bracken. There is a tree with a thin trunk in the meadow beyond, its branches close to the ground. Holding my ribbons, I circle the tree with my arms in a strange embrace and tie a knot at the end, then slide it low so that it’s not visible until you are close. I have hardly flattened the grass where I walked through it; it has sprung up again, long and dense. It has not rained in days.
At Dr Edwards’ lodgings, I knock for a good long while before anyone answers. A small boy, perha
ps nine or ten, his hair tangled at the back of his head in a fuzzy mass like a baby’s after sleep, opens a window above me.
‘What is it?’ His voice is surprisingly deep; if I couldn’t see him, I might imagine him twenty years older.
‘I have a note for Dr Edwards,’ I shout up to him. ‘Is he there?’
He frowns, an expression which wrinkles his entire face in pique. ‘He sleeps,’ he answers, as if that were obvious and I am stupid to even ask. Of course, it is hardly morning. The boy must have only just woken when he heard me. While I have lived through several lifetimes, the rest of the city slept.
‘Can you fetch him, then?’
The boy grins. ‘Throw up a penny, first.’
Children have got very mercenary, haven’t they, although his price is low. How fortuitous that I am armed. I get a coin, then throw it up. My aim is poor and it doesn’t reach him, forcing me to scramble where it fell then scrabble in the dirt to retrieve it. The boy leans his forearms on the sill, watching this sport. He seems to regard me as a sorry adult specimen. After four attempts he’s able to catch it. He makes a great show of polishing it clean, breathing on it then rubbing it with his shirt several times.
‘Dr Edwards you’re wanting, is it?’ He has the manner of a man as well as the larynx.
‘Yes!’ I am exasperated by how long this is taking. My little would-be messenger knows this very well. After raising his eyebrows and more shining of his loot, he retreats. I stare at the window where his little head was. He could have played me for a fool, and be a penny up on the deal. But Dr Edwards stands in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and with his sparse, wiry hair curling round his head in a mockery of a halo.
‘Anne!’ When his vision clears, he sees me and he is delighted. ‘Adam said there was a girl, but I didn’t think—’