Gates of Paradise (13 page)

‘Oi thought 'twas you, when Oi seen 'ee from the pathway,' Jem said as he arrived beside his nephew. ‘Tha's a fair ol' toide a-runnin'. Bring the bass in a treat that will. Lissen to it takin' the shingle away. That'll all be scoured out lovely by mornin'.'

Johnnie listened to the rattle of the shingle and gave a grunt of agreement. ‘They say ol' Boney's got his army on the other side, a-waitin' to invade us,' he said. ‘D'you reckon they're right?'

‘Couldn't say,' Jem said, calmly watching the sea. ‘Tha's possible Oi s'ppose. No use worrittin' our ol' heads about it. If he's a-comin' he'll come, an' that's all there is to that. Might be hereabouts, might be further along the coast. Our worrittin' won't influence ‘im one way or t'other. Won't be on a night like this though. Oi can tell 'ee that. He'll have to wait for toime an' toide same as the rest of us. Won't be on a low toide neither on account of
that'ud be too risky what with sinkin' sands an' all. That ol' Channel'll give him plenty to think about, that Oi
do
know. Howsomever, like Oi said, there aren't a thing we can do about it. Whereas bass can be caught. 'Twill be a good day for the bass tomorrow. Oi shall come down with my kettle net midday an' see what sort a' catch Oi can get. Tell your Mrs Beke Oi shall ‘ave a treat for ‘er, by afternoon, an' maybe she'll let you come along a' me, like she done last year.'

Johnnie thought about it. He enjoyed fishing with Jem. It was unpredictable and dangerous and made a pleasant change from endless toil in the garden. And as Mr Hayley was off visiting somewhere and Mrs Beke was always more agreeable when he was away, she might agree to it. ‘I'll ask her,' he said.

‘Be there one o'clock, prompt,' his uncle advised. ‘Oi shan't wait for 'ee.'

‘One o'clock prompt,' Johnnie agreed and set out to walk back to Turret House, much cheered by his uncle's good sense. The light was still burning in Mr Blake's window. He do work hard, he thought, as he passed. I wonder what he's a-doin'.

He was engraving a white horse – and a noble animal it was. Later he would add a woman, standing her ground before it and facing it down while her child cowered behind her, weeping in fear, since that was the subject of Mr Hayley's latest ballad, but for the moment the horse dominated the
page and his attention. It had taken the best part of the evening to draw it to his satisfaction and now he was weary and ink-stained and ached to sleep. If he could summon up the energy he would work on, for the engraving had to be completed by Friday, which was only three days away. Mr Hayley was due back from Bristol on Thursday evening, and intended to ride to Lavant the next morning to take breakfast with Miss Poole. And after that he planned to ride on into Chichester to see Mr Seagrave the printer, for this was the start of an ambitious undertaking and he was full of enthusiasm for it. He was going to write a new ballad and have it illustrated and printed every month for the next fifteen months, each one about a different animal. He would sell them in the first instance to friends like Mr Flaxman, Miss Poole and Lady Hesketh at half a crown a time, and eventually he would gather them all together, publish them as a quarto volume and offer them to the public at large. Two, ‘The Dog' and ‘The Eagle', were already finished and if everything went according to plan, so he said, he and Blake could make a handsome profit. But to Blake it was laborious work and, what was worse, it ate into the time he could spend on his own epic poem, which was roaring in his head.

He'd been in a state of simmering dissatisfaction for the last ten days and the weather was making things worse. The cottage was damp, chill winds blew knives under the door by day and roared like lions over the thatch at night, and his dear
Catherine was ill again. She'd had three head colds one after the other and her knees seemed to have taken the cold too, just as they'd done in the winter, and were swollen and sore. She rarely complained but it hurt him to see how painfully she was hobbling about. And now, this morning, he'd had a letter from his sister Catherine to say that she was coming down to stay with them for a week or two ‘to help about the house', and giving him orders to meet her on the afternoon coach at Lavant tomorrow, just when he could least afford the time. My poor Catherine, he thought, as he picked up his tools again, living here is hard for you. Perhaps we should return to London. There would be less work there and we would have to live on very little but at least I would have liberty to write my epic and you would not be so plagued with pain.

Catherine was in the kitchen, scouring the supper dishes and praying that the horse would be finished by Friday. She was keeping out of the way, providing food and drink at regular intervals but otherwise limping about her business in the rest of the house. When he set his own painting and writing aside and worked on a commission, he was very short-tempered and she knew better than to do anything to provoke him. Sometimes genius could be a prickly bedfellow and especially when it was put under pressure. There were so many commissions – twelve more ballads to illustrate, nine more poetic heads, a water colour of Jacob's ladder for dear Mr Butts, to say nothing of the
painting for Lord Egremont, which Miss Poole had arranged. That was a very important commission, which certainly couldn't be refused, for Lord Egremont had a reputation as a connoisseur of painting and a country seat at Petworth, what's more, which was quite close by and near enough to make other commissions a possibility. She knew it was kind of Mr Hayley and Miss Poole to find so much work for him and it was a relief that he was earning his living so well, but, even so, how would he ever find time for the real work he wanted to be doing when they made such endless demands on him? My poor William, she thought, no wonder you're thinking of going back to London. It might be the best thing to do, especially if there's to be an invasion, like they all keep on a-saying.

While Mr Blake laboured, her father grew raucous with drink and her lover contemplated the sea, Betsy sat opposite Mrs Beke in her quiet parlour darning her woollen stockings while the housekeeper totted up the accounts. She held her work close to the candle so that she could see what she was doing, for Mrs Beke was very particular about neat stitching, but for all her peaceful appearance, she was thoroughly unhappy and her brain was spinning.

Quarrelling with Johnnie had upset her terribly. It wasn't like them to quarrel. They never quarrelled. But what could she do? It would be wrong to say yes. She knew that as well as she knew
anything. She might fall for a baby or get a reputation. Anything might happen. And yet, she couldn't go on sayin' no forever. 'Twould be against human nature when he loves me so much. She'd have to say yes sooner or later. If only there was someone she could ask. Someone who'd know what she ought to do for the best. Because she
did
love him. In a perverse way, the quarrel had shown her that, if it had done nothing else.

There was a rush of feet in the corridor, a rap on the door, and as if she had conjured him up by thinking about him, there he was, standing on the threshold, his face flushed and eager, asking for ‘Mrs Beke, ma'am'.

‘My uncle sends compliments,' he said. ‘And to tell you there's a good strong tide a-bringin' the bass in and he'll have some fine ones ready for you tomorrow one o'clock.'

The housekeeper took one look at his glowing face and understood the situation at once. ‘And you want to work with him, as you did last time, is that the size of it?' she said.

If she was agreeable.

Mrs Beke was in a benevolent mood. ‘'Twill make good eating for Mr Hayley when he comes home a' Thursday,' she said. ‘He's partial to bass. Very well. Tell Mr Hosier I'm agreeable to you going and be sure you set aside six of the very best for me. Betsy can collect them, can't you Betsy.'

Oh, she could indeed.

‘That's settled then,' Mrs Beke said and she
smiled quite kindly at her young lovers. 'Twas good to indulge them when she could. They were only billing and cooing when all was said and done and there was no harm in that. Besides, fresh caught bass would make a tasty dish.

The wind had dropped by noon the next day, swung round and become a gentle south-west breeze. The rain had passed, the sky was summer blue and heaped with clouds whipped into a froth like white of egg, the air was salty fresh, the tide high. There was still a heavy sea running with waves strong enough to drag a man down if he wasn't careful, but that was all part of the fun when there was bass to be caught, so there was quite a crowd on the beach come to buy the catch and to see how the two Bonifaces would fare. Betsy arrived with her pail even before they took the nets out, and sat on the pebbles where she would have a good view. And after a few minutes her friend Mrs Blake came limping across the shingle to join her.

‘They got a good day for it,' she said.

‘They have, ma'am,' Betsy agreed. Johnnie was removing his waistcoat and taking off his shoes and stockings ready to push the boat out and the sight of such careless undressing was making her feel amorous, just as if he was kissing her. Oh, their quarrel
was
over, wasn't it? She did hope so. Then he looked up, saw her, and came leaping up the beach, to drop his discarded clothes at her feet.

‘Look after them for me,' he said, smiled into her
eyes just long enough to make her breathless, and ran back.

‘Isn't that your young man?' Mrs Blake asked.

Betsy went on watching him, as he and Jem began to push their dinghy into the waves. The first wave it met made it rear like a horse and it took both of them to hold it steady. ‘Yes, ma'am,' she said breathlessly. ‘He is.'

‘He's very handsome.'

He was also very wet, for the wave had slapped against the side of the boat and broken all over him. Now his shirt clung to his chest like skin and his breeches were soaked and it was making her tremble to look at him. Oh, Johnnie, she thought, my dear, darling Johnnie. You're right. I can't keep saying no to 'ee.

The dinghy was launched at last and the two men rowed out until they were about a hundred yards offshore, took their bearings from the white mill and Turret House, turned the boat around and dropped the net. Then Johnnie rowed back through the choppy waves while his uncle paid it out and secured it in the shallows. It had taken less than a quarter of an hour.

‘They're quick,' Catherine said. ‘Now what happens?'

‘We wait,' Betsy told her.

Which they did, along with everyone else on the beach. But not for long. It seemed no time at all before Jem began to pull in the net and a matter of seconds before they saw what a fine catch he'd
made. The two women could see the fish wriggling, silver-blue in the sunlight, and watched as the two fishermen disentangled them from the meshes, working carefully out of respect for their sharp fins. And at last, Jem looked up and called, ‘Bass for sale' and there was a rush to the water's edge.

Betsy took six large bass and a handful of smaller ones and added a few herrings to make weight, Catherine asked for a bass large enough to feed three and was given a fine fat one for which she paid fourpence and which she declared a bargain, and Johnnie was so excited by the thrill of the catch and the freedom of the open air that he caught Betsy up in his arms and gave her a long damp kiss, right there on the beach with everyone looking. Oh, they certainly weren't quarrelling now.

She tried to remonstrate with him. ‘Johnnie put me down for pity's sake do. What are you a-thinkin' of?' but it was all play and her shining eyes and happy smile gave the lie to the words: How
can
I deny him, she thought, when I love him so dearly? It aren't natural. Oh, my dear, darling Johnnie!

A love match, Catherine thought, admiring them. How quick and tender they are with one another. And she remembered the moment when she'd first seen her dear William, standing before her in the half-light of her father's impoverished room in Battersea and how she'd listened as he told her how shabbily he'd been treated by some heartless girl. She'd known even then that she loved him and would love him for ever. ‘Do you pity me?' he'd
asked. And she'd answered ‘Yes, indeed I do.' How well she remembered it. And he'd looked straight at her and said, ‘Then I love you.' She'd run from the room for fear of fainting because she was so happy. And now here was this girl, with the same flush on her cheeks and her blue eyes shining, caught in the same passion, loving and being loved in return. How rich our lives can be.

She picked up her pail with its writhing burden and they walked together towards the cottage, thinking much and saying little. ‘He's a fine young man,' she said at last, ‘and loves you truly, if I'm any judge.'

Betsy was surprised to be spoken to so openly but she agreed that Johnnie
was
a good man and that, yes, he did love her. ‘Or so he says, ma'am, and I got no reason to doubt it for he's been larnin' me to read, an' it's not many men would have done that.'

‘William taught me to read,' Catherine confided, ‘and to write. When we married I could do neither and had to sign the book with a cross. 'Tis a great blessing to be able to read, as you will discover.'

They'd reached the wicket gate and Catherine had already turned towards it ready to enter her garden. Was another confidence possible? Betsy wondered. And decided that it was. ‘I hopes you won't think me forrard if I tells 'ee something, Mrs Blake,' she said.

‘If you tell the truth,' Catherine said, ‘you cannot be forward and I believe you are a girl who would tell the truth no matter what might come of it.'

‘Yes, ma'am. I believe I am.'

‘Well then?'

It was time to confess. ‘I'm a-larnin' to read, ma'am,' Betsy said, ‘so's I can read some of Mr Blake's poetry. I been larnin' ever since I seen 'em on his table that time when I brought you the pie.'