Taking Liberties (12 page)

Lord Edgcumbe overrode him: ‘By the by, Lady Edgcumbe was wonderin' if she should bring in some goodies for the prisoners when Howard comes, like she did last year. Show the fella we ain't heartless. Only this mornin' Lady Stacpoole expressed a wish to accompany her, didn't you, your ladyship? Thinks the son of one of her old servants is among the Yankees.'

It had taken considerable and subtle manoeuvring to allow both Lord and Lady Edgcumbe to adopt the idea of a prison visit as their own. At no stage had Diana actually said Martha Grayle was once a servant, she'd merely allowed the Admiral to infer it; her set understood
noblesse oblige
better than some more intimate interest. She rebuked herself; she
was
acting from
noblesse oblige
.

‘Servant emigrated to America,' the Admiral went on. ‘Wrote to her ladyship—was her boy bein' treated properly by the naughty British? I said you'd produce the lad for her ladyship's inspection. That's all right, ain't it?'

The Dowager shrugged deprecatingly; such a lot of trouble, but if Captain Luscombe would not mind . . .

‘Dear lady, of
course
.' Luscombe was delighted; she should see the prison along with the fella Howard and they'd produce the young man for her. What was the name? Grayle, as in Holy, yes, he'd remember that.

There was a little teasing: nice for Luscombe to have someone wanting to get into his prison rather than get out. The ladies joined in with mild anxiety on her behalf—was she strong enough? Very well, then soak her handkerchief in vinegar against infection like Lady Edgcumbe had only last Christmas when she'd delivered warm clothing to Millbay's inmates.

It was done, accepted without amazement. So easy. There had hardly been need for guile. Diana felt warmly for the normality of these people, their openness, and at the same time regret that the years of her marriage had warped her own character away from the straightforward.

I have lived too long with duplicity, she thought.

Then, once more, she thought:
Caretaker?

JOHN Beasley appeared at the head of the Prince George's stairs. He'd found a wooden leg and a crutch from somewhere; the first was strapped to his bent left knee inside his breeches, the second tucked under his left armpit. He was defiant. ‘Either of you going to help me down these bloody stairs?'

It was Makepeace who guided him down—Sanders was helpless, holding on to the newel post, almost sobbing.

‘What you do?' she asked, grimly. ‘Trip up a Chelsea Pensioner?'

‘I ain't being pressed for you or anybody. The landlord got 'em for me.'

‘Fat lot of help you'll be,' she said. But she was touched; she hadn't realized how frightened of impressment he'd been, probably rightly. He was a good friend. Ridiculous, but a good friend. And his grunts as he hopped across the Halfpenny Bridge to Dock—the man on the tollgate was most concerned—made her laugh for the first time in two weeks.

Dock, however, was not amusing. It was vast. Since the first spades dug the first foundations of William III's Royal Dockyard, it had sprouted wet docks, dry docks and slipways around which had sprung up warehouses for rigging, sails and stores, rope-walks and mast-yards, all in turn giving rise to houses for men to run them. It was now bigger than Plymouth, as if a monstrous oedema had outgrown the body on which it was an accretion.

Their landlord had warned them. ‘Over two hundred inns, they do say, if so be you can name 'em such.'

From the vantage of the bridge they could see spacious, tree-lined streets but tucked in alleys behind them, like stuffing coming through the back of an otherwise elegant chaise-longue, were lath and plaster tenements spreading in a mazed conglomeration as far as the eye could see.

‘Bugger,' Beasley said, looking at it.

It was a landscape Makepeace knew. Her dockside tavern in Boston had been a clean, hospitable model of respectability but it had stood, a Canute-like island, against an encroaching sea of gambling hells, gin parlours, brothels, the tideline of filth that marked every port in the world.

She was well acquainted with Dock without setting foot in it. And she knew something else; her daughter was dead.

Whatever the circumstances, Philippa would have escaped from the wasteland of flesh and spirit that was here. However naive, the girl was intelligent; even penniless she'd have found some official, some charity, to send word to her mother on her behalf.

It was something Makepeace had known from the first but it had taken recognition of this view, this seagulled, mast-prickled, rowdy, ragged-roofed agglomeration of chaos and order, vitality and disease, this other Boston, to drive it into her solar plexus with the force of a mallet.

She kept walking forward, but as an automaton in which the clockwork had yet to run down.

There was a quayside with bollards. Beasley sank onto one, complaining of his knee rubbing raw. Makepeace walked stiffly on, past a pleasant, open-windowed inn and into the mouth of an alley behind it.

Yes, here it was. Her old enemy. Unraked muck, runnels of sewage. A door swung open to spill out an unsteady woman smelling of gin. Further along, some girls in an upper window were shrilly encouraging a man who headed for the door below them, already unbuttoning his fly.

Suppose, argued Makepeace's Puritan upbringing desperately, suppose she's too ashamed, too ruined, to come home?

Howay to that, answered the older Makepeace, she knows I love her regardless . . .

Does
she know that? What does she know of me these last years except from the letters I've sent her? What do I know of her, except from the dutiful replies?

She felt a tug on her skirt. A waif, sitting in the gutter, its sex indistinguishable by its rags, reached out a filthy, fine-boned small hand. ‘Penny for bub and grub, lady, penny for bub and grub.'

It gave a funny little cough, much like Philippa had always done when she was nervous, so that Makepeace cupped its face in her hands and turned it towards her. Perhaps, perhaps . . .

But, of course, it wasn't Philippa; she'd known it wasn't—the child was far too young. She began to say: ‘Have you seen . . . ?' but the sentence she'd repeated and repeated these last days died in her mouth, as this child would die, as Philippa had already died. Her knees folded suddenly and for a moment she crouched in the alley, the fingers of one hand on its cobbles to steady herself.

Andra, I need you now. Take me home, let me hold my little girls and keep them safe forever and ever. I've lost her, Andra. I've lost Philip's child that I never understood
because
I never understood her. I can't bear the pain on my own. Where are you?

The small beggar watched incuriously as Makepeace dragged herself upright and, fumbling for her handkerchief to wipe off the dirt, found some coins, dropped them into the waiting claw and went back the way she had come.

John Beasley was twisting frantically round on his bollard. Catching sight of her he raised the crutch, pointing with it to an old man sitting on a neighbouring bollard. ‘He's seen her. He saw her.'

For a moment she didn't believe him.
Don't let me hope again
. Then she ran forward.

‘Tell her,' Beasley said. ‘He saw the
Riposte
come in, didn't you? Tell her.'

‘That I did,' the old man said.

Boston had these, too: palsied old mariners, more sea water than blood in their veins and nothing to do but watch, with the superciliousness of experts, the comings and goings of other sailors, other ships.

‘Saw the prisoners brought ashore, didn't you? June it was. Stood on this very quay, they did. Tell her.' Beasley looked round the stone setts as if Christ's sandalled foot had touched them. ‘Same bloody quay.'

‘Very same quay,' the old man agreed.

‘A girl round about ten or eleven, he says. And a boy.'

‘Powder monkey, I reckon. Always tell a powder monkey. Black hands.'

Beasley couldn't wait. He'd heard it already, in slow Devonian. ‘They were put to one side while the militia came for the prisoners. An officer told them to wait where they were 'til he'd finished seeing to the men. Nobody paid them attention, did they? And the boy slipped off.'

The old man nodded. ‘Diddun want no more o' the navy, I reckon.'

‘But what did the girl do? Tell her what the girl did.' In an aside to Makepeace, he said: ‘His name's Packer. Able Seaman Packer.'

The old man snickered. ‘Like I said, she were wunnerful fond of one of the prisoners. Blackie, he was. Black as the Earl of Hell's weskit. Kept hollerin' to 'un she did and he were hollerin' back.'

‘But what did she
do
?' insisted Beasley. ‘Tell her what she did.'

‘Prisoners was lined up,' Able Seaman Packer said, slowly. ‘Job lot, Yankees mostly. Hunnerd or more. Militia got 'em into long-boats and made 'em pull down the Narrows, round Stonehouse towards Millbay. And the liddle maid, she ran along the bank after they, far as she could 'til she come to the watter, so then she makes for the bridge, still hollerin' to the nigger, tryin' to follow him, like.'

‘But she came back, didn't she?'

A nod. ‘She come back. Liddle while later, that was. Girnin' fit to bust.'

‘Crying,' translated Beasley. ‘She was crying.'

‘Wouldn't let her over the bridge, see. Hadn't got a ha'penny, see.' Satisfaction bared teeth like lichened tombstones. ‘Right and proper, too. Comin' over here, usin' our bridges for free when a honest man as served his country has to pay.'

‘She couldn't pay the halfpenny toll,' Beasley said. ‘She was trapped in Dock. She couldn't get in to Plymouth proper. She's here somewhere, don't you see?'

She
was
seeing it. Philippa. No Susan, just Philippa. Who was the black man? Someone who'd been kind to her, perhaps, now being taken away from her. She was running along this very quay, desperate not to lose, among terrifying officialdom, one person who'd shown her humanity.

‘What did she do then? Where did she go? Have you seen her since?' begged Makepeace.

Faded little crocodile eyes looked at her briefly but the answer was made to Beasley. ‘Didn't see her after that day.'

She fell on her knees to the old man. ‘Where would you look? If you were me, where'd you look for her?'

‘Been near two month,' he said. Again it was Beasley whom Packer addressed. Makepeace realized that he thought he was talking to a fellow war veteran. If it had been her sitting on the bollard, she'd still be in ignorance. ‘If so be she were a maid then, she bain't now.'

She wanted to kill him.
Mind your own business, you old devil
. But if he minded his business, she wouldn't find Philippa. She got out her purse and extracted a guinea from it, waving it like a titbit to a dog.

He took off his cap and laid it casually across his knees. She dropped the guinea into it. ‘Please.'

‘You come back yere four bells this evening,' he told Beasley, ‘you might . . .' He paused, searching for the phrase, and found it triumphantly. ‘. . . might see something as is to your advantage.'

‘If you know something, tell us,' Makepeace pleaded. ‘I'll pay whatever you want.'

‘Pay us at four bells.' Further than that, he refused to budge. Here was drama to enliven his old age, better than gold; they were to return, the second act must be played out.

Beasley reverted to his accustomed gloom, as if ashamed that he'd shown excitement. Hopping back over the bridge, he said: ‘Four bells?'

‘Six o'clock,' Makepeace said. ‘Second dog watch.' She hadn't run an inn on the edge of the Atlantic for nothing.

Back at the inn, Makepeace forced herself to eat—a matter of fuelling for whatever lay ahead. Beasley urged her to get some sleep and she tried that, too, but kept getting up. She ordered a basket of food in case Philippa should be hungry when they found her.

She knew they wouldn't find her, the old man was playing games with them for the excitement. Then she added a cloak to the basket because Philippa's own clothes would be rags by now.

She buried her child again—what possible advantage could the old bugger on the bollard promise her? Then she put her medicine case into the basket . . . She was worn out by the time they crossed the Halfpenny Bridge again.

The clang for four bells sounding on the anchored ships skipped across the Hamoaze like uncoordinated bouncing pebbles, none quite simultaneous with the others, summoning new watches and releasing the old. The flurry on the river increased as off-duty officers were rowed ashore, hailing their replacements in passing.

It was nearly as hot as it had been at noon; the setts of the quay threw back the heat they had absorbed all day. John Beasley, lowering himself gratefully onto his bollard, rose again sharply as its iron threatened to scorch his backside.

Able Seaman Packer was still on his. Fused to it, Makepeace thought feverishly, like a desiccated mushroom. ‘Well?' she demanded.

‘Missed 'em,' he said. ‘Should've been here earlier.'

‘Missed who?'

‘The whores.' He nodded to a flotilla of rowing boats with wakes that were diverging outwards as they approached the fleet anchored in the middle of the river. At this distance, they seemed full of gaudy flowers.

‘Don't hit him!' John Beasley caught Makepeace's arm before it connected with the old man's head in a haymaker that would have toppled him onto the quay. Balancing awkwardly, he pushed her behind him. ‘Tell us, will you, or I'll let her at you. Is our girl on one of those boats?'