Gates of Paradise (15 page)

Johnnie was so given over to sensation that he could barely talk and he certainly wasn't thinking. He lay with his mouth in her neck, breathing in the
warm, musky scent of her skin as he fondled her pretty titties, or lifted a hand to twist his fingers in the tangle of her thick hair, watching with fascination as the sunshine touched it with tiny strands of wine red and shining gold. From time to time he raised his head to kiss her, but kissing was both acute pleasure and acute pain, and he was soon straining with frustration and had to stop to regain his breath and his control. For once he wasn't begging her to let him go further. It was enough – or almost enough – to be here with her and to enjoy those liberties he had. He loved her too dearly to distress her. It puzzled him that she was lying beside him with her eyes shut and only opened them to look at him when his kissing stopped but they were the most loving looks and that was what mattered. She returned his kisses, her body was welcoming. It was enough. Or almost enough.

In fact, even as she kissed him back, Betsy's mind was spinning like a top, round and round over the same unmoving ground. She'd been thinking all afternoon, turning that poem over and over in her mind, remembering what Mrs Blake had said, trying to decide what it was she truly believed. After seventeen years of Sundays at St Mary's, she could hardly be unaware of what the Reverend Church thought about such things and, until Johnnie kissed her, she'd agreed with what he said, in a vague sort of way and without thinking about it very much. Yet, standing in Mr Blake's workroom with that extraordinary poem under her fingers, she'd been
quite sure she agreed with him too, and she couldn't believe two opposite things at once. ‘Tweren't possible. Either the vicar had the right of it and what she was doing was fornication and sinful, or Mr Blake was right and ‘tweren't sinful at all but loving and natural. His words sang in her head. ‘
Love! Sweet love! was thought a crime' ‘And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, and binding with briars my joys and desires
.' No matter what the vicar said,
that
felt true, lying here in the warm hay with Johnnie's lips rousing her to such pleasure. But she was remembering other things too, that it might hurt, the way Molly said, or that she might fall for a baby like Sarah Perkins. And what her mother would say if that happened she simply couldn't bear to imagine. Look how she'd gone on about the cloak. Cross as two sticks. And then she remembered the sight of his long white legs on the beach, so white when his face and forearms were so brown. He was so loving and so handsome and she loved him so much. Her dear, dear Johnnie. Oh what
was
she going to do?

He turned towards her again, brushing her mouth with his lips, teasing her into pleasure, and she put her hands on either side of his head to draw him into greater and better pressure. ‘Dear, dear Johnnie,' she said. And he groaned.

The little involuntary sound made her heart swell in her breast. She could feel it changing, enlarging, full of pity and heavy with love for him. The decision was made, there and then, and
instinctively. ‘Tweren't right to keep him waiting so long, when he loved her so much and had been so patient. ‘Yes,' she said, gazing straight into his ardent eyes. ‘Yes. Go on my dear, dear Johnnie. I wants 'ee to.'

It was a clumsy fumbling affair, for they were both virgins and neither of them had much idea about what should go where, but after several ignominiously stabbing attempts it was finally managed. There was little pleasure in it for Betsy. The sheer strangeness of it saw to that. But at least it didn't hurt her and she could see just by looking at him that it had made Johnnie supremely happy. He lay panting beside her, head thrown back, eyes closed, sweat filming his wide forehead and smiled like a seraph. ‘I shall love 'ee for ever,' he said. ‘You're mine now an' I shall love 'ee for ever.'

I've sided with the poet, Betsy thought. An' 'twas the right thing to do. Wasn't it?

The Fox Inn Felpham, Wednesday 21
^st
April

My dear Annie
,

I have been here for six days now and I have to admit I am beginning to feel a little disheartened. It is bitterly cold, the wind is blowing a gale, the reporter in Chichester has yet to answer my letter although I have written to him twice, and although I have heard a variety of stories about our Mr Blake no one has a word to say about his trial and I am no nearer to unravelling the mystery of Johnnie Boniface than I was at the beginning. It is very frustrating. There must be somebody hereabouts who can tell me what I want to know. It is not as if I am asking for anything other than a little information. You will tell me that a biographer must needs be patient and that it takes time to winkle out the truth, even in a court of law, all of which is true, as I know from education and experience, but my impatience grows notwithstanding
.

This morning I visited Turret House. It is an elegant building and stands in large well-kept grounds with a covered walkway leading to the house, a fine lawn, a shrubbery and several neat gravel paths curving prettily between the trees, but the visit was a disappointment. Blake's portrait
heads are all gone and the present owner knows nothing of Mr Hayley and less of William Blake. All she said when I tried to tell her about them was
‘Fancy that.'
I was so cross.
Fancy that.
What a foolish thing to say. I suppose I must have revealed my feelings, although I did all I could to control them, for she suddenly changed her expression and offered that her gardener was an old man and might know something. So even though I felt she was offering me a consolation prize, which made me crosser than ever, I set off into the grounds to find him
.

He turned out to be a very old man, with the most weathered skin you ever saw, brown as a gypsy and with a shock of wild white hair, but friendly and forthcoming. He greeted me by name and seemed to know exactly what I'd come to ask him.
‘You're the lawyer feller what's been askin'
after Mr Blake,' he said. And when I told him I was surprised by how well-informed he was, he said nothing went on in ‘a village our size' without the world and his wife knowing about it. So naturally I asked him about Blake and the trial. This, as far as I can remember, is what he told me
.

First of all, he said he'd been a stable lad at The George and Dragon when Blake lived in the village.
‘Turn a' the century so 'twas,' he said. ‘He come here around September time in the year eighteen hundred. They was terrible times. Mr Gilchrist sir. Terrible. We had ol' Boney Part a-sittin' on the other side a' the Channel, ready for to invade us – which he would
have done if it hadn't been for Lord Nelson – an' soldiers everywhere you looked, an' three bad summers in a row, rain, rain, rain all the time, and the crops so poor you wouldn't believe. He chose a bad time to come a-visitin'.'

‘
But the villagers thought well of him, I believe,' I prompted
.

‘He was a good man,'
he said.
‘Mad a' course. But he couldn't help that.'

I pressed him to tell me more, asking him what evidence he had for saying the man was mad, for truly I find the constant repetition of this myth more and more disturbing. He was perfectly at ease about it
. ‘Oh, he was mad right enough, Mr Gilchrist, sir.'
he said
. ‘Never made no secret of it. We all knew he was mad. Used to see things you see. Angels an' fairies an' prophets an' such, large as life and twice as handsome, walkin' about in the garden so he said. But he was a good man, like I said, despite the angels. Honest you see, sir. Worked as hard as any man in the village, paid his bills regular, allus gave you the time a' day, a good neighbour. Must ha' been or we wouldn't have stood up for him the way we did.'

At that point I truly felt that I was on the edge of discovery. ‘Would this have been when he was brought to trial?' I asked
.

His expression changed at once. It really is quite extraordinary how mention of that trial makes them close their mouths
. ‘Well, as to that sir,'
he said
, ‘I couldn't say.'

I was annoyed with him by then and pressed him
to tell me whether he meant that he couldn't say or whether it would be more accurate to tell me that he wouldn't say
.

His face was still closed but he thought about it for a while and then said
. ‘There's some things 'tis best not to talk about, an' specially to a lawyer.'

‘
You have a poor opinion of us I fear,' I said
.

‘Not of you personal, sir,' he said ‘Just lawyers in general so to speak. That was the root a' the trouble last time, talkin' to lawyers. To tell 'ee true, there's times I wish I didn't know what I knows.'

That was too good a lead not to be followed. ‘And what do you know?' I asked
.

But he wouldn't be drawn
. ‘Well, as to that Mr Gilchrist sir. I couldn't say. I'll tell 'ee one thing though. What happened to Mr Blake was on account of that soldier an' his bad mouth.'

‘
But what of the trial?' I said. ‘What do you know of the trial
?'

‘If you wants to know about that,' he said, ‘the best person to ask is Harry Boniface. His brother Johnnie was very thick with the Blakes one time. Him an' Betsy both. She was on visitin' terms, or so they say. Many's the time I seen her a-talkin' to Mrs Blake. Ask old Harry. He'll tell you. Now I got to get on or the tatties won't get planted. You'll excuse me, sir.'

I had to let him go for I could see that was all I was going to get out of him. But halfway down the path he turned back and called out to me
. ‘I'll tell 'ee one thing, sir. He was a brave man, your Mr Blake. He could ha' gone back to Lonnon when 'twas all talk of
invasion, but he never did. He stuck it out with the rest of us.'

I could not bring myself to answer him. To offer me a snippet I could have worked out for myself when he knew very well how much I wanted to hear about the trial was truly annoying. Is it not the most aggravating situation for a biographer to be in? Now I suppose I shall have to try another approach to the reluctant Harry
.

This from your most loving but undeniably angry husband
,

Alexander
.

William Blake was putting the finishing touches to his engraving of the horse and the defiant mother, while his wife and sister worked in the kitchen, scouring the dishes. It had been an excellent meal and the two Catherines had talked to one another quite amiably so he was feeling easier than he'd done for several days. Making a decision had settled his mind. Even the need to produce a set of illustrations every month for the next year didn't seem so much of a burden now. And tomorrow he would be visiting Miss Poole again. I shall take her ‘The Garden of Love' he decided. 'Twas a risky poem to choose but he believed she would understand it even if she might not agree with his
opinions. Despite the rain and the damp this was a good place to live and if he applied himself for two more years he could earn sufficient to keep him in London for long enough to write a good deal of his own poem. He'd started it that very evening, while his wife and sister were setting the table for supper, and he knew that what little he'd done was good. Now, he thought, as he contemplated his finished engraving, tomorrow morning I shall test Mr Seagrave's opinion of this.

Will Smith the ostler was grooming a pretty pair of carriage horses when he passed the stable yard the next morning. ‘Mornin' Mr Blake,' he called. ‘You got a good day for it.'

‘Yes,' William agreed. ‘Indeed I have.' The rain was over, the sun was warm, his work was going well, and in an hour or so he would be taking breakfast with his dear Miss Poole. All
was
well with the world. ‘That's a fine pair of horses.'

‘Pair a' beauties,' the ostler agreed. ‘Goin' home this afternoon though, more's the pity of it.'

‘You will miss them.'

‘I shall miss my earnin's more like,' the ostler said ruefully. ‘These two's the onny hosses I've had this season. People don't come a-visitin' when there's talk of invasion. An' if
they
don't visit, I don't earn.'

Blake considered. The ostler was a hard-working man and it was miserable to be short of earnings, as he knew only too well, and here I am, he thought, too busy to do the digging and, for once in my life, earning enough to hire a gardener for an hour or
two. ‘Should you ever have need of an extra job,' he said, ‘you might consider working for me. There's a deal of work to be done in my garden and I haven't the time for it.'

The ostler's face was instantly wrinkled with smiles. ‘Thank 'ee kindly Mr Blake, sir,' he said. ‘When would you like me to start?'