Fair Fight (26 page)

We only stared at each other. The rain had stopped, bringing a clean, grassy air that chilled the face. Behind him I could see his horse, nosing through the drifts of leaves along the hedge. It was one of the queerest moments of my life. I’d been alone so long I’d near stopped believing other folk real. Then I’d thought to call upon Old Pious and there he was, brought to my door as if called by my mind, his thin cheeks reddened by cold. I stood and gazed at him like a noddy. I had half an urge to simply shut the door again and make as though he wasn’t there.

His look as he got over his surprise and let his eyes drift over me brought me back to myself. I saw him take in my uncombed hair, Tom’s old coat – which I still wore, though I’d taken off my cloak – the pot of night soil at my feet. I’ve always been stirred up by haughtiness and when he looked at me it was as if I came back into my own head, from somewhere else entire. I glared at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon,’ he tipped his head in the smallest way. His voice was thin and a little from the nose. He was all dressed up stiff in his coat with polished buttons.

I tilted my head back at him.

‘Move aside,’ I said, ‘if you’d not like piss upon your breeches.’

I bent and picked up the thunder pot and made to move past him. I was watching my hands, the yellow liquid licking the rim and sending trickles over the edge, so I didn’t see his mug. The shape of him blocking the doorway dithered and then leapt back as I moved toward him, as if I meant to heave it at him. I’d have liked to, but I only kept walking steadily, staring into the foul mess as if it could tell my fortune. I poured it against the hedge. His horse looked up, flared its nostrils and bent its head again to the leaves.

I’d forgotten entirely that I’d meant to beg this man for help. Even out-at-heels as I was, the moment he stood before me with that frost in his eye, my head lowered to charge and I couldn’t have spoken a nice word for a cartload of bread.

He stood beside the door, straight as a post. When I drew near him he did his little head tilt again and said, ‘Good afternoon’, quite as if he’d not already seen me with a full piss-pot in my hands.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said, as haughty as I could. I carried the thunder pot before me like a shield. Once I reached the step I turned and stood upon it as though I’d just opened the door. I bent to place the pot upon the flags beside my feet and when I came back up I felt light-headed.

‘Mrs Webber, I must confess myself surprised to find you returned. It was only when I received a letter, from your husband –’

Little stars seemed to pop in my sight like black snow.

‘My husband can’t write a line,’ I said.

‘Nevertheless, I have word here,’ he reached inside his jacket, ‘directed to Mrs Webber, at the gatehouse. My master wrote to me himself and included a letter from Mr Webber, addressed to you.’

I reached out to clutch at the doorframe.

‘Mrs Webber? Are you unwell?’

‘It’s only the surprise of it,’ I said, so soft I wasn’t sure he heard.

Then his hand was under my elbow and he was saying something I didn’t follow. My eyes were quite swimming with dark specks, soot upon the wind. He set me in Tom’s chair and I bent over my own knees, sure for a moment that I’d empty my guts. I could hear Dora in my mind saying, ‘Have you a padlock on your arse, that you’ve to shit through your teeth?’ which was what she always did say, when any miss lost her dinner.

At last I felt clearer and lifted my head.

Old Pious was standing beside the chair I’d called mine, straight as ever, with as much of the cold fish about him as before, but his voice was kind when he asked me if I felt recovered.

I said I thought I did.

‘I hadn’t realised the news would shock you,’ he said, ‘or I should have been more gentle in delivering it.’

I just shook my head. I tried to sit up as straight as I could but my body was grown limp and useless. I couldn’t help but sit wilted, soft as my last turnip.

Old Pious held a paper in his hand. Now he stepped forward and placed it in mine. I held it in my lap and looked at it stupidly. It was folded in three and had writing upon it. Had they taught Tom to write? I couldn’t stomach it; would he come home so changed, or not come home at all? The curls of ink were blue and the paper so clean that my fingers upon it looked black. I suddenly feared I’d make fingerprints and drew my hands away quickly. The paper lay in my lap, looking at me with its tightly curled ink.

‘Will you read it?’ Old Pious said.

I didn’t reply.

‘Should you like me to read it to you?’

My belly clenched. I didn’t want to know what the paper said. Good news never was delivered in a paper to people like me. Still I watched my dirty hand pick it up and hold it out to him. His face was grown quite soft and unlike itself.

This is Christian charity
, I thought, and tried to make the thought hard. I felt like a child. There was much rustling. I stared at my hands and my spotted apron.

‘My Ruth,’ he read, ‘Mr Bowden has joined us here and has kindly agreed to write a word to you. He tells me it will reach you in two days, by which time I will have fought again. I wish you to know that I am well. I have been beating every man they bring me and eating beef for near every meal,’ here I felt myself bite my lip, ‘and every drop of blood I spill here is in your name, my wife. Mr Dryer is best pleased and says he will make me Champion yet. You would be amazed at the places I have been and the number of fine gentlemen who wish to shake my hand. I am sending you a piece of fine muslin I have chosen for you with all affection. I hope you will fashion a gown, to wear when you come to London to see me fight for my title, which I have reason to hope will happen soon enough. They tell me I must best six of London’s heavyweights and I have taken three. Be well and remember me fondly as I think of you, your Tom.’

I could feel myself shaking my head, though I couldn’t have said what I meant. Old Pious stepped forward again and put a parcel wrapped in paper into my hands. It was soft. How like Tom to send me muslin when I’d no bread to eat.

‘Shall you like to keep the letter, Mrs Webber?’

I was still struck dumb.

Old Pious placed it on the table. He looked cold again; he’d determined me run mad, or simple. He inclined his head again.

‘Good day, then. I shall inform Mrs Bell of your return,’ he said, and stepped toward the door.

‘Wait,’ I cried, and stood so quickly that I grew faint again, ‘please.’

He turned and regarded me with a look that said he’d indeed decided me simple.

‘Please,’ I said, holding the chair to keep my feet, ‘I ain’t returned. I’ve been left. I’ve not had a crumb to eat for days. They’ve left me here.’ Hearing the words out loud brought me to weeping. The shame of it, begging and weepish in front of a starched bastard like him, only made me cry the harder.

‘Please,’ I said again.

I sat carefully, feeling the muscles of the horse’s broad back moving beneath my legs. I held on with both hands. The saddle was of the wrong kind for sitting side-saddle, but Old Pious had fussed when I went to throw my leg over, and I was too weary and brought down to argue. I held on and felt every moment that I’d tumble to the ground. Old Pious and the horse plodded together up the lane, he holding its bridle in his gloved hand.

We were walking up Mr Dryer’s road, bare winter fields on either side of us, and beyond, a stream. A bird on a stump, a spreading tree, a herd of sheep with dirty wool. We began to ascend a hill. The journey took longer than I ever would’ve credited it. If I’d been on foot I’d have been disheartened and turned back, or fallen by the roadside in despair. The movement of the horse made me feel sickly and the sweat was like ice on my skin. I badly wished to lie down.

The house was the grandest thing I’d ever seen. I’d not known that buildings came so large; in Bristol there were fine houses enough, but they were neat, standing in fancy rows up Park Street, or the busy halls, with columns and curly bits, all along Corn Street. This house was a monster. It looked as though it’d eaten a street of houses and grown fat upon them. It had wings, stretching out to catch me up. I had plenty of time to take this in, for we rode around the whole of it. I’d never have approached it, had I taken Mr Dryer’s road on foot. I’d have turned and run. I’d have had no idea where to knock. At last we came to a part of the house that seemed less grand and awful, a cobbled yard with a good layer of mud across it and enough boot prints that I knew this was a well-used place. A door stood open here, steam wisping from within. As we approached, a dumpy maid came out of this door and stood still to see us, a copper pot in her hands. It looked to be heavy from the way she held it. A voice behind her cried out something, scolding her to move I’d warrant, for she started then and came outside, carrying her pot across the yard a little way to another building, smaller and with sheets hung on lines outside it, high up to keep them from the mud. She kept turning to watch us as she walked. She looked simple enough to begin drooling.

I shouldn’t be here
, I thought,
I should never have let Old Pious put me on this horse, I should’ve run from him
. I didn’t know what I was doing there. Everything about that place was unfamiliar and wrong. It wasn’t a place for me.

The Henry boy who’d brought our food turned up, and took the horse’s bridle from Old Pious. Old Pious came as if to help me down and seeing this, I slid as quick as I could to the ground. I didn’t want to take his hand. My pins could barely hold me when I landed on them; my knees sagged and I thought,
I couldn’t have run from him. I can’t now run anywhere.
The horror of that thought bolstered me up and made it a lie; I felt my knees grow firmer. I’d always run if I needed.

Old Pious took my elbow firmly.

‘Come now, let us get you some soup.’

I let him lead me toward the open door. Even with the promise of soup I felt as if I were being led off to be shot. The pain in my belly had returned like a sharp-nailed hand squeezing me inside.

The moment we stepped into that steaming room I grew so dizzy that I could barely see. Firm hands led me to a seat; it was hot as Old Nick himself would have it. The air sat upon my chest like a solid thing, and from somewhere a steady clopping sound beat upon my ears. I shut my eyes; I could feel the seat sturdy beneath me but I was pitching and rolling like a ship.

‘But we thought her in London! You can’t mean to say, Mr Horton, that all this time . . .?’ a woman’s voice from somewhere.

Old Pious I could hear muttering urgently, and the woman’s replies, softer now.

Another voice, a girl, cried out, ‘Oh, for shame,’ and was shushed.

I opened my eyes a slit and peeked out. My head was tipped back upon the chair, devilish uncomfortable upon my neck. At first all I could see were winking lights and sparks, but as my vision cleared I saw that the walls were hung with brass and copper pans, all of them reflecting the light from the great hearth. Against this glittering wall I could see Old Pious and a woman, thin as a cane and wearing a cook’s apron.

Never trust a thin cook
, came into my head, unbidden.

The two of them were talking together at the other end of a long table, at which I now saw I sat. It was bigger even than our table in the convent kitchen. Old Pious leaned close to the cook’s ear, she all the time chopping something, her arms moving so fast they seemed separate from her body.
This was the clopping sound, the knife upon the wood. Behind them was the fireplace, taking up most of the wall. Iron spits ran across it and a huge pan on three legs sat upon the flames and sent up clouds of steam. The whole room was copper pans, table, hearth and steam.

Old Pious looked over and saw my eyes upon him. I thought of closing them again, lest he think me spying, but he still looked quite soft and called out, ‘Wait only a moment, Mrs Webber, and I will bring you soup.’

‘I don’t have soup I can spare, Mr Horton,’ the thin cook said. ‘Don’t promise the poor mite things we can’t deliver. I’ve porridge here and an egg, perhaps. Shall you like an egg, my dear?’

She raised her voice to speak to me as though I were old.

‘Thank you,’ I said, though I found my voice too soft again.

The porridge arrived in front of me. It was far better than the pitiful gruel I’d been feeding myself on, swimming in milk and with a spoon of preserves atop it. The scent of it made my belly cry out and grit itself together like teeth. I grew dizzy again and the blob of red jam spread and swirled in my vision.

‘Why, you haven’t given the girl a spoon,’ the cook said.

A spoon was put in my hand and gripping the warm wood of its handle, I grew calm. I watched my hand move and dip and bring porridge to my lips. The sweetness of it swept over me as though I’d dropped my face into the bowl. My throat could barely close over it; I’d forgotten, somehow, how eating was to be done. Slowly I spooned and swallowed. I couldn’t eat half what I’d have liked to before I began to sweat and grow sick. I laid the spoon down and closed my eyes. The steam and the food together were suffocating. I felt as though I’d sleep sitting there, and in sleeping slip into death. Time went by; I couldn’t say how long. I kept my eyes closed.

Another woman was in the room. I could hear Old Pious muttering once more, joined this time by the thin cook, who cried out, ‘She’s half starved, look at her,’ though she looked near enough starved herself, to my eyes.

I must’ve been falling asleep, because when the other woman spoke, close to my face, I’d no notion that anyone had come near. Even so, I was so dozy then that my surprise was a far-off thing, dulled by steam.

‘Mrs Webber,’ the voice said, and it wasn’t soft, ‘open your eyes, if you please.’

She was crouching in front of me but that was the only thing gentle about her. She was all in black and bracket-faced. Her voice could’ve sawed logs in two.

‘Mr Horton says you have told him a sorry tale,’ she said. She didn’t sound as though she was sorry, at all.